His Last Chance: His Last Hope Series, #3

By M. A. Malcolm

From M. A. Malcolm, author of award-winning Christian fiction, comes the third STANDALONE novel in the His Last Hope Series.

For decades, not only has retired U.S. Army Captain Isaiah Hendricks ignored the voice of God, but he's denounced any faith he may have had. Now serving as security manager for a luxury hotel in scenic Negril, Jamaica, Isaiah believes he's amassed what he needs without God: an enviable existence in which he answers to no one. But when he pays for the purchases of a beautiful acquaintance at a convenience store, Isaiah has no idea how his life is about to change.

 

Not long ago, Zoë-Grace Goodluck's father—a prominent deacon in the local church—died under questionable circumstances, creating ripples in his staunch Christian community and causing Zoë-Grace to doubt everything she thought she knew. When her "perfect" life implodes in the aftermath, actuary-turned-reluctant-professor Zoë-Grace must return home to support an emotionally distant mother whose love she barely feels. Desperate for creative ways to pique her math students' interest, Zoë-Grace silences her aversion to gambling and heads out to buy lottery tickets—which handsome Isaiah insists on purchasing.

 

When they win big, Zoë-Grace and Isaiah clash on how to handle not only their ideological differences concerning the jackpot, but the growing attraction between them, as well. Can Aunt Ruby's godly wisdom help them figure things out? And when the unthinkable separates them, will Isaiah and Zoë-Grace find each other again? Or will life's hills and valleys keep them away from God and each other?

Each book in the His Last Hope Series is a standalone novel. They can be read in any order, although years pass between the stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. A. Malcolm
• Release date: Oct 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9789769673120

Book preview

Chapter One

In theory, Zoë-Grace Goodluck loved the northwest coast of her island home—Jamaica. Although much of the country had become commercialized, there were still places that boasted unspoiled beauty, and traveling the part of the North Coast Highway that linked the popular resort areas of Montego Bay and Negril allowed her to experience verdant green fields on one side and the aquamarine Caribbean Sea on the other for a part of the journey. In theory, this part of the island was the perfect place to live. But only in theory.

She geared down in her compact hatchback—the most economical vehicle her teacher’s budget could accommodate these days—to take a particularly deep bend in the road. As she rounded the curve, she was just in time to see a truck in the oncoming lane swerve and hit into the side railing before overturning. Parking on the soft shoulder on her side of the highway, she noticed a small herd of goats heading away from the commotion, unconcerned with the damage they had surely caused.

Anyone could deduce what had happened. It was a pity that the residents of the informal settlements on one side of the highway felt the need to cut holes in the chain-link fence so they could easily access the streets and the rocky shores on the other side. It was also a pity that the owners of many goats and a few cows probably didn’t actually own land where they could graze. Zoë-Grace knew that many small farmers and householders would tie the animals near their homes at night and release them in nearby bushes during the daytime. Why more of the goats weren’t stolen had always been a mystery to Zoë-Grace. It would be fairly easy for someone with a large vehicle to simply stop and grab one or two of the animals.

Cell phone in hand, she made a quick call to the Lucea Fire Station, which also housed the town’s EMTs, and then called the last police station she had passed. Thank goodness there was mobile data service on this section of the highway so she could find the numbers.

By the time she got to the cab of the overturned vehicle, which was lying on the driver’s side, three men had climbed out through the passenger door.

Everybody OK? she asked, out of breath from hurrying towards the scene while talking on the phone.

The men stretched their bodies this way and that as if testing their joints and muscles before the tallest of the three responded, We will live, as he headed toward the back of the truck to assess the damage there.

She noticed one of them grimacing while holding on to his upper arm, so she informed them, The police and an ambulance should be on their way.

Tanks, Miss. And tanks for stoppin’. The man looked ruefully at a taxi that had slowed down, its passengers gawking at them, before speeding up again. Zoë-Grace heaved a sigh of relief that no camera phones had appeared to record what had happened. Lately, it seemed everyone with a social media account had turned into a reporter, with each person always eager to be the one who ‘scooped’ the latest news story. She had no doubt that if there had been bodies strewn across the highway, people would have gathered not to help the injured, but to capture their images for immediate launching into cyberspace.

Have mercy! The man who had gone behind the truck blurted out as he ran back towards them.

What happen? The one with the injury wanted to know.

The back door fly open. Almost every suitcase lyin’ down in the govament road. His language was a cross between Jamaican Creole—popularly known as Patwa or Patois—mixed with English, the latter perhaps for the benefit of Zoë-Grace, whose mode of dress would have indicated to the men that she was some kind of professional. Is trouble this!

Wi better get dem quick-quick, before di people roun’ here come help themselves. Lawd, I hope wi don’t lose wi job over this. The gentleman speaking now looked a bit like a shorter version of singer-turned-actor Tyrese Gibson, but with a pot belly.

Lose wi job? The injured one repeated. "Lose wi job? How could I know di goat dem woulda’ jus’ run ’cross di road like that? Wi lucky wi never lose wi life! Dis truck is a piece o’ iron. My life not replaceable. Mi have my woman an’ my kids to go home to. Di truck alright."

Yes, but yuh know management not going to see it like dat. Management firs’ concern goin’ to be di luggage. The tall one advised.

Zoë-Grace felt it was time to intervene. Is there somebody I can call for you?

Yes, please. The Tyrese lookalike retrieved a wallet from his back pocket and fished around in it until he came up with a tattered business card. Just call di general manager office. The number is on this. Mi readin’ glasses... er... get damaged.

The driver scoffed, then grimaced and held his arm a bit more gingerly. Zoë-Grace knew that in Jamaica, many people who were either illiterate or barely literate often blamed their inability to read something on not having their reading glasses with them. She couldn’t tell how many times she’d ended up filling in forms at government offices and airports for people who had supposedly left their glasses at home.

The business card bore the insignia of a chain of hotels Zoë-Grace would love to visit someday if her budget ever allowed. It was only as she dialed that she noticed all three men were wearing uniforms with shirts boasting the hotel’s name—Nizani Negril—as well as name tags. The tall one was Jeffrey, the Tyrese lookalike was actually Carl, and the driver was Andy.

She quickly apprised the manager’s secretary of the situation as Jeffrey and Carl moved to secure what they could of the luggage. As she disconnected the call, she assured Andy that someone from the hotel was on their way.

Listen, miss, he began, showing more emotion now that the other two men were out of earshot, I really want to tank you for stopping. In this day an’ age, people so afraid of ebrybody an’ ebry-ting that they is afraid to do a good deed. An’ to tell you the truth, I think I dislocate my shoulther, so I glad you call the ambrulance.

Zoë-Grace tried not to smile at his mispronunciations. No problem, Andy. In response to his raised eyebrows, she lifted her chin in the direction of his name tag. He smiled and nodded while she continued, concerned about his arm. I’ll just wait with you until police and ambulance get here.

The mid-week movie she had been planning to see in Montego Bay could wait.

__________

Nizani Negril’s security manager, Captain Isaiah Hendricks, had barely taken his first bite from the to-go plate he’d picked up at the hotel’s Asian restaurant when the cell phone that was never far away started to ring. He chewed slowly, eying the phone and willing it to stop ringing. It seemed he hardly ever got the chance to enjoy the all-inclusive hotel’s award-winning cuisine, even though it was supposedly one of the perks of the job. Something was always happening to get between him and the epicurean delights.

It had to be an emergency. No one who valued their job would call him during his time off if it weren’t. He suppressed a sigh as he recognized the number of the manager on duty. Why did it seem like emergencies only took place when he was supposed to be resting? He swallowed the succulent satay chicken and tried not to sound too annoyed.

Hendricks.

Cap’n? I’m afraid we have a problem that needs your immediate attention.

And which problem doesn’t? he wondered silently. The manager took her cue when he didn’t respond.

One of our small trucks was transporting luggage from the airport and there was an accident. A bad one.

Before he could open his mouth, she continued, None of the staff got hurt—not seriously, at least—and no other vehicles were involved, but the luggage was apparently thrown from the vehicle all over the highway and there are only three of them on-site. We need to get them to the hospital, and we need extra security over there pronto. I’ve already coordinated a replacement luggage truck and a couple of security personnel from the Montego Bay property since it’s closer, but I knew you’d want to know.

She was right. Isaiah liked to be completely aware of any disruptions to the regular routine of the resort. He took his responsibilities seriously—some even said too seriously, but Isaiah didn’t know what that looked like. It might not be written in black and white on his one-year contract, but as far as he was concerned, it was his job to stay on top of—or ahead of—everything. He liked to analyze minute bits of information, weigh all the options, foresee potential issues and security breaches, and prevent them from materializing.

Isaiah noted the location of the accident and made a few phone calls before jumping into his company-issued four-wheel drive pickup truck. He didn’t bother to take the time to bring up a map or plug the address into his GPS. There was only one major thoroughfare between Negril and the international airport in Montego Bay, so he knew he would have no difficulty finding the site. All he had to do was drive till he saw it.

As he turned onto the main road and floored the gas pedal, the minivan with several security personnel had difficulty keeping up with him. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw that they were lagging behind, but he didn’t slow down. Although he knew the staff from the Montego Bay resort would get there before he did, he wanted to be on the scene as soon as possible. The last thing he needed was for the luxury hotel chain to experience a high-level security crisis on his watch.

__________

Zoë-Grace was still on the scene of the accident half an hour later when the police finally arrived. She was still there when paramedics re-set Andy’s dislocated shoulder on the spot. She was still there when a pickup truck belonging to the hotel screeched to a halt and the driver unfolded himself from the vehicle. The tall man with what she could only describe from afar as a military bearing took immediate control of the scene. He looked around quickly before zeroing in on Andy and striding purposefully in his direction. The police personnel on the site stopped working to listen to his clipped interrogation.

What the heck happened here, Andy? The inflection in the man’s voice indicated immediately that he was either not Jamaican or hadn’t spent many of his years—which Zoë-Grace quickly assessed to be around forty—on the island.

Andy jumped from his position leaning against Zoë-Grace’s hatchback and stood at attention like a soldier caught falling asleep on his watch. For a moment, Zoë-Grace was sure he was about to raise his hand in salute.

It, it w-w-w-was the goats them, s-s-s-sir. In another context, Zoë-Grace would have found his attempt at English combined with his suddenly acquired American accent laughable. Having done a few linguistics courses during her undergraduate days, she knew Andy was attempting to speak like the person he considered most powerful in the situation.

What goats?! The newcomer, who was not in uniform and not wearing a name tag, almost bellowed.

W-w-w-well, s-s-s-sir, I don’t really know where them gone, sir.

Are you sure there were goats, Andy? He narrowed his eyes and Zoë-Grace could almost see Andy’s testosterone evaporating in waves off his body.

W-w-w-well....

Before Andy could finish, the man stepped within two feet of him and started sniffing the air near Andy’s mouth. Zoë-Grace could hardly believe what she was seeing. She thought of Andy’s family—the common-law wife and three children they had been talking about when the stranger arrived—and felt led to say something.

Excuse me.

The man’s head swiveled toward her, and she got the impression it was the first time he was really noticing her. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question. He seemed to be attempting to spear her with his piercing deep brown gaze, and she fought the urge to look anywhere but directly at him. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest and drew herself up to her full five feet seven inches of height so that she wouldn’t have to throw her head back too far in order to maintain eye contact. He had to be almost six inches taller.

I can attest to the fact that there were goats on the road. They were over there. She waved towards the area where she had seen them. Of course, over half an hour had passed and now they were nowhere to be seen.

Before he could say anything, she spoke again. I’ve been here this entire time. She didn’t think it would gain any points for Andy if she admitted that she was the one who had called the police and the resort, so she skipped over that information and continued speaking in the driver’s defense. Not only has this man been completely coherent, but that policewoman over there gave him a breathalyzer and I’m sure she will verify that he was not drinking at all. He was just the victim of the stray animals that are always wandering around in this area. In fact, if you’d had the common decency to ask this man how he is, he would tell you that he had to be treated by the paramedics for a dislocated shoulder.

If I’d had the.... The man’s eyebrows inched toward his hairline. He gave his head a quick shake from side to side, as if trying to banish an unwelcome thought. I’m the security manager at Nizani Negril... who did you say you were? Some kind of ambulance chaser? The man’s tone softened just a hint, but his face remained serious.

Ambulance chaser? She would have laughed if the man weren’t so stone-faced. "We could hardly have those here in Jamaica, where there are so few ambulances to begin with! On top of that, we aren’t as litigious as you North Americans. We don’t sue for every little thing... or every big thing, for that matter. Money isn’t everything.

In any event, my name is Zoë-Grace Goodluck, and I just happened to be the first on the scene. I just wanted to stay and make sure everything was OK. I was coming from the opposite direction and there was definitely a herd of goats.

Thank you. He wrinkled his brow and looked her up and down. For a moment, she thought he was going to chew her out for interfering, so his next words came as quite a surprise, as did the fact that he seemed to relax just a little, his broad shoulders softening from their previously rigid stance. In fact, I speak for the management and staff of Nizani Negril when I say that we truly appreciate your efforts. However—Mrs. Goodluck, was it?—everything is under control now. If you’ll just let me have your telephone number, I’m sure the general manager would like to be in touch to offer you some kind of token—

"It’s Miss Goodluck, actually— she corrected him automatically, —and that won’t be necessary, I’m sure. I don’t need a reward for doing the decent thing. She turned away from him and toward the injured driver. Andy, I’m glad it was just a dislocation and nothing worse. It was good talking with you, and I wish you all the best."

Thanks, Miss Zoë-Grace. Ah truly appreciade it. His accent had gone Southern now, whereas before it was more metropolitan. Zoë-Grace suppressed a smile as she opened the door and stepped into her car to continue her journey. Maybe if she’d stuck around, Andy’s accent would have turned Bostonian. That would’ve been something to hear!

She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the man standing on the side of the road with Andy, his hands on his hips causing his buttoned white shirt to stretch across his chest, leaving no doubt that he worked out. She hoped he’d cut the men some slack; the situation could have been a lot worse.

She checked the time on her watch and decided that even though she’d miss the movie, she would head to Montego Bay any-way and spend some time browsing stores before stopping at her favorite Chinese takeout restaurant. She sighed deeply as she passed the cinema, her fantasy of immersing herself in someone else’s life for a couple of hours dissolving. She’d have no choice but to return home to face what—and who—awaited her there.

Chapter Two

Isaiah stood on the soft shoulder of the highway watching as Miss Zoë-Grace Goodluck drove away in a vehicle so small it reminded him of a clown car.

He had seen the young lady wearing dark grey slacks and a lightweight blue and white striped blouse the moment he had driven up to the scene of the accident but had dismissed her as a non-threat. His initial glance at her may have lasted only a second, but he could have picked her—or most people on the scene—out of a police identification parade if he’d needed to. Even fifteen feet away, he could tell that she was in her late twenties to early thirties, stood at just over five and a half feet tall, and weighed no more than a hundred and twenty pounds. Her golden-brown skin was a couple of shades lighter than his, her hair a deep mahogany.

He wouldn’t have minded having a longer chat with her, if only to see if she would continue to stand up to him in a way few he’d met since his arrival in Jamaica dared. But he was here to work and that was what he would do. He turned around to deal with the matter at hand. He hadn’t even noticed that the bus with the security guards had arrived at some point after he did.

Waving Andy away, Isaiah turned to oversee the packing of the suitcases into the truck that had come from Montego Bay. When he’d pulled up, he was relieved to find that the luggage had already been neatly stacked by Andy’s colleagues and was awaiting transfer to the second vehicle. There were curious onlookers from the surrounding community, but the police were doing a good job keeping them at bay. He winced when he saw that almost everyone was holding a smartphone, camera aimed at the luggage packing operation.

Despite his gruff mannerism, which he considered one of the requirements of his job, he was grateful there had only been the one vehicle involved, and that no one was seriously hurt. He hadn’t forgotten that his sister Maya had been in a motor vehicle accident a couple of years earlier and had ended up in a coma. The hospital in Miami had been more than capable of handling her case, but here in Jamaica it might have been a different story. The island’s turquoise waters and white sand beaches might be a tourist’s dream, but health care for locals was another matter completely.

He turned his mind back to the situation at hand. He could only imagine the pandering the hotel would have to do to the owners of all this luggage in order to avoid the kind of bad publicity that could threaten the viability of lesser hotels. As one of the most successful all-inclusive resorts in the Caribbean, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for Nizani to offer some upgrades and free nights. It was a pity Miss Goodluck hadn’t given him her phone number; he was sure she could have ended up with a free day pass or two, at the very least. He chuckled to himself. That was one brave Jamaican woman.

__________

After leaving Montego Bay, where she had ended up spending an hour walking around her favorite pharmacy in order to delay her return home, Zoë-Grace tried to keep her focus on the road rather than her surroundings as she made her way through the town of Lucea.

Maybe if she kept her eyes trained on the brake lights of the vehicle in front of her, she wouldn’t have to see the store where it had happened. Perhaps if she drove a little above the speed limit, the brightly colored building could be a blur in her peripheral vision instead of a beacon that drew her attention as surely as if there were a neon arrow positioned on top of the roof flashing Focus here!

For what seemed like the millionth time in the last year or so, she wished this particular street wasn’t one-way. Logically, she knew it was too narrow to handle the increased traffic flowing in both directions now that the highway caused more people to drive through the coastal town. Emotionally, she wished they would create some kind of bypass to help her get from Montego Bay to her home in the suburbs on the far side of Lucea without having to pass through the heart of the town.

Most days, she managed to avoid Lucea completely. If she could only have her way, she would never visit it again. Ever. There were too many reminders, too many emotions associated with that place. She could easily spend the rest of her life on the eastern side of the island, lost in the hustle and bustle of the city of Kingston, instead of living like a reluctant big fish in the small pond that was Lucea, Hanover, Jamaica, West Indies. Make that the daughter of a big fish... or two.

She sped up, anxious to leave Lucea far behind her. As she went through the motions of driving, she frantically searched her mind for something pleasant to think about. When that failed, she decided to settle for something unpleasant... anything that would divert her attention from the vivid mental images—photographs of the body lying on the floor of the store she had just passed.

As her mind flitted from one thing to another, it landed on her plans for her class tomorrow. She sighed. If anyone had told her after graduating from university that she would end up back in a classroom, she would have scoffed at them. Yet that was exactly what had happened. After relocating to this part of the island, she had taken the first job that came along. Her friend Maxwell had been granted study leave and she had been the only applicant for the temporary post of Assistant Math Lecturer at the Lucea Community College. It hadn’t surprised her that she’d had no competition; Lucea was often a place professionals migrated from, not to.

She’d always excelled at math, but she would rather spend her days surrounded by digits and decimals instead of people with personalities. At least Maxwell had been thoughtful enough to leave detailed unit plans, class activities, and course work so she could teach the content without having to do a lot of research and preparation. Examination papers were the only things she’d had to come up with on her own, and she’d worked on those during the summer. Maxwell had really been a godsend, and it was ironic that now that she was back in their hometown, he had gone to study in Kingston. She treasured his friendship above all others. She had no doubt that if he were still here, she would have managed the transition much easier.

How she missed her office at the insurance company where she had worked as an actuary—one of relatively few females in the country to occupy such a post—for two years. She couldn’t deny that she also missed the salary package and benefits, as well as the new SUV and the comfortable one-bedroom apartment just outside the country’s financial center of New Kingston. Tonight, instead of parking her maroon SUV in the apartment complex’s secure underground garage and taking the elevator up to the third floor, she’d be parking her been-around-the-block hatchback in the driveway of her childhood home and settling down for the night in the same twin bed she had occupied as a teenager. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, she thought.

As if on autopilot, she navigated her car through the narrow streets of the town until the two-story buildings were finally in her rearview mirror. The road widened slightly, and she relaxed again as she made her way to a residential development with modest two- and three-bedroom homes. She hoped her mother would be asleep, but she doubted it.

Her mother had an uncanny way of going to bed late and waking up early, and she always seemed to be everywhere in the house. If Zoë-Grace felt like making a cup of tea, her mother chose that same moment to make toast. If Zoë-Grace went out to the veranda to read, her mother would decide to sweep it. Zoë-Grace barely had any time to herself once she got home, and she had taken to spending longer hours at work just to avoid the woman. They had never really gotten along. Their personalities had been grating one against the other since Zoë-Grace entered puberty, and the fact that she had been a student at the same high school where her mother was vice principal and then principal certainly didn’t help.

It therefore didn’t surprise anyone that Zoë-Grace headed for Kingston the moment she graduated. She had already been accepted at the University of the West Indies, but even if she had nowhere specific to go and nothing specific to do, she would never have chosen to stay in Lucea. Not even for Daddy’s sake.

__________

Isaiah raised the footrest of the comfortable leather recliner in front of the television in an attempt to relax. He enjoyed his job but there were days he wondered just how many fires a man could put out and not develop blood pressure problems. It was a miracle he had managed to avoid them thus far.

After the fiasco with the overturned truck, he had returned to the hotel just in time to see a police car with flashing blue lights pulling up. What could possibly have warranted their presence? he’d wondered. He tapped his shirt pocket for his phone, but it wasn’t there. He checked the pockets of his pants. Nothing. When he pulled into a parking spot, he got out of the pickup truck and found the device lodged between the driver’s seat and the central console. Seven missed calls, all from the manager on duty. He’d only been gone for two hours.

Apparently, two hours was all it took for two guests, Justin and Carolette Hamlyn, to report that their suite had been burgled. He learned that the Canadian couple created quite a scene in the lobby, so much so that the manager was forced to offer upgrades to the three couples checking in at the time, who threatened to move to other resorts in the area. He couldn’t blame them; he wouldn’t want to stay in a place where he didn’t feel safe, either. And on this property, the buck for safety stopped with him.

He had convinced the police officers to allow him to be present when they took the guests’ report, and although the officers seemed to take everything the two visitors said at face value, he noticed some holes in their story and remained unconvinced. Despite the couple’s vocal demands, Isaiah explained the company policy of waiting until police investigations had been completed before making restitution for any items that were reported missing. It took a little while, but he and the manager on duty finally relocated the guests to the Nizani property in Montego Bay.

He’d discreetly taken a few photographs of the two complainants with his cell phone while they were talking with the police officers in the management suite. He had met the security managers for the major chains all along the north and west coasts of the island at a conference in Montego Bay soon after arriving in Jamaica. If this was some kind of scam, no doubt the Hamlyns would try this again somewhere else. The island’s police communication system might be lagging behind the first world, but the hotel chains knew their bread and butter. Despite the fact that all the chains were competing against each other, the other security managers had welcomed Isaiah into an informal network that benefited all the properties. If tourists thought there was any chance of being robbed in a particular area of the country, they avoided it, no matter what the hotel chains promised. In some cases, it was better for everyone if the properties collaborated instead of competing.

As Isaiah relaxed a little more into the plush recliner, he took a sip of the extra-large hot chocolate he had ordered in the hotel’s French-inspired café. Regardless of how challenging a day might be in Negril­­, he’d take this over combat any day. At least he didn’t spend his days wondering whether he was fighting somebody’s private war... whether he was going to end up dying that day... how many of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms would be going home in boxes and body bags, and when it might be his turn.

He was glad that even though his insomnia persisted, the nightmares had finally stopped. After completing months of therapy, he no longer woke up drenched in sweat, hearing weapons being fired right next to his ears. The hallucinations had stopped, too. It had been a long time since he had looked down and seen blood dripping from his hands. His friends’ blood. Blood from wounds he had tried to cover in order to stem the flow of life out of their bodies. He no longer closed his eyes and saw the face of those his country had paid him to kill.

He whispered a quick prayer for Americans still fighting across the world. He rarely prayed these days, but when he did, it was usually for them. He was no longer sure God paid attention, but Isaiah wanted to remind Him there were innocent lives at stake every day. And there were some days that the warriors didn’t even remember why they were fighting.

He opened his eyes and focused on the television. He had chosen the Weather Channel, not because he was particularly concerned about whether it was raining in São Paulo, Brazil, but because climatic conditions were unlikely to cause him to reflect on things he’d rather forget.

He hoped he would be able to sleep soundly tonight.

__________

Good evening, Mother, Zoë-Grace called out to the woman who was likely to be sitting in the small living room. Having entered the house through the side door and gone directly into the kitchen, she turned the light on and placed the bag with the food on the outdated countertop. With few Chinese takeout restaurants in Lucea, she always treated herself when she went to Montego Bay... when she could afford it.

Did you eat already? I brought you some dinner. She washed her hands and busied herself serving the beef chow mein onto two plates. She’d prefer to eat hers straight from the nifty takeout container, but she couldn’t risk setting her mother off. Joanna Goodluck believed all meals should be eaten at the table, with a knife and fork. She couldn’t stomach plastic utensils or disposables. They were for those with no class and, as many Jamaicans would say, ‘no home training.’

Dinner? At this hour? One would think that if one were planning to provide dinner for someone else, then one would be home at a decent hour.

Zoë-Grace waited for the ancient microwave oven to sound its familiar ding and then placed the second plate inside before going to serve her mother. She took a deep breath and silently prayed for patience.

As she stepped from the kitchen into the dining area, Zoë-Grace took a little bit of wicked pleasure in flipping the switch and flooding the room with light. Her mother, who had no doubt been sitting there for hours stewing over Zoë-Grace’s absence, flinched as if the light had physically assaulted her and turned her face away.

Sorry for being late, Mother. I told you I was going to Montego Bay, and it’s barely nine o’clock. She placed the plate of steaming food on the place mat in front of the woman, along with a stainless-steel knife and fork she had already checked for spots.

Her mother grunted as Zoë-Grace returned to the kitchen for a tray bearing her own meal and two glasses of water. She took her usual seat perpendicular to her mother at the rectangular table, said a silent blessing over her meal, and tried to pay attention as her mother criticized every bite she took of the food. She was used to it, but she hated the fact that her mother seemed to take pleasure in finding fault with everyone and everything except for herself. Anyone could be her target... at any time.

If she tasted someone’s sweet potato pudding, the texture wasn’t like the one she made. If she drank someone else’s eggnog at Christmas, it didn’t have enough nutmeg in it. Even if it were something she couldn’t actually make, like Chinese food, she would still find a way to tear it down. Tonight, there was too much water chestnut. Last time, there hadn’t been enough. Zoë-Grace couldn’t tell the difference.

She sighed. Living with her mother again was tough, but someone had to do it, and Zoë-Grace was the only one left. As far as she’d been concerned when she was growing up, her father was a saint, and no one had understood that but her.

She gently placed the fork beside her flatware. Her mother’s eyes wandered to it, and she immediately retrieved it and put it on the plate. The knife soon followed. She’d lost her appetite. Joanna hadn’t stopped complaining since the moment she had stepped through the door. Zoë-Grace glanced at her watch. It was 9:30. Late enough that she could plead tiredness and head to bed. Since her mother had apparently finished eating with almost half the food still on her plate, Zoë-Grace asked to be excused and stood.

May I take this? she asked, her hand hovering near her mother’s plate.

Joanna shrugged. May as well. I don’t think I could eat any more of that. Too crunchy. Next time you should go to that place out at Ironshore. They know what they’re doing.

Zoë-Grace didn’t bother to point out that not only would driving to Ironshore on the far side of Montego Bay and back add another forty minutes to her journey, and even more with rush-hour traffic, but the food there cost more than twice as much for portions half the size. Her budget was stretched tightly as it was. Gone were the days of ordering pricey lunch items from New Kingston delis and restaurants. Gone were the three or more nights per week having takeout with her then-boyfriend, Montel. Nowadays, Zoë-Grace had to scrimp and save for weeks before she could splurge on dinner. Dinner and a movie on the same night... well, that was almost unheard of! At least she had saved herself the cost of the movie ticket this time.

She sighed. She already knew what she would be having for lunch at the college tomorrow—beef chow mein. Taking leftovers to work had become par for the course. Based on the size of her paycheck and how depleted her accounts were, if they had one more emergency in the next few months, she would probably have to sell her car. Maybe even the house. Not that it was hers to sell, but Mother would have to be convinced if push came to shove. Zoë-Grace simply didn’t have any wiggle room left in her wallet.

She swallowed the bitterness that rose in her throat and took both plates into the kitchen. As she carefully scraped what was left into two containers—because no matter what Joanna said, she would expect leftovers tomorrow—she shook her head in dismay. She couldn’t believe her father had died and left them in such dire financial straits. He had earned good money in his work as an insurance salesman, topping sales in the island’s western region at least once every few years. That he could have spent so much of his life convincing his clients to make sound financial arrangements for their loved ones, only to die without having left enough for his own wife and daughter was more than ironic; it was depressing. Some days, Zoë-Grace felt like she could never forgive him for the position in which he had placed her, but most of the time, she was saddened by the fact that her daddy—her daddy—was gone, and she would never be Daddy’s little girl again.

Chapter Three

The next morning, Zoë-Grace stood at the door to the classroom and steeled herself. For what may have been the one thousandth time, she wished she were stepping into her office at the insurance company, instead of this classroom that felt more like a prison than anything else.

After all, if the reluctant assistant college professor felt like she would rather be doing almost anything other than explaining mathematical concepts, how could they—reluctant students of said mathematical concepts—be expected to feel? She imagined it was hard enough to teach some dense topics to students who chose math-based degrees, but for those taking compulsory classes they had to pass in order to graduate, it was no doubt much worse. In the almost three semesters since she’d started teaching, she’d lost count of the times she had been asked why students pursuing degrees in marketing, information technology, and food and beverage management needed to study algebra, calculus, and statistics. She’d tried to make the link between mathematics and critical thinking clear, but it seemed she kept failing to do so. Just like students kept failing the courses she was teaching. If not for the fact that none of her predecessors had better pass rates than she did, she probably wouldn’t still have the temporary job.

The Lucea Community College sat on the outskirts of Lucea, the capital of the parish of Hanover in northwestern Jamaica. The town itself was a bustling hub of activity, with low-rise commercial buildings on one side of a narrow two-lane highway and the sea on the other. Part of the commercial center sat below sea level, so a low wall had been built to keep the Caribbean Sea at bay. Although it was a small town, it was close enough to Jamaica’s second city, Montego Bay, to allow for a comfortable life. If Zoë-Grace wanted to go to the movies or a good restaurant, she could be in MoBay in half an hour or less. If she wanted to spend the day on seven miles of powdery white sand, the resort area of Negril was thirty minutes to Lucea’s southwest. Growing up, she certainly hadn’t planned on being in Lucea at this stage of her life, but she supposed that under the right circumstances, it could be a lovely place to live.

The college had been built on land once designated for agricultural use. Seated on a few acres of the lush green landscape that characterized Jamaica’s northwest coast, the campus itself consisted of the academic buildings, an auditorium, a multi-purpose activity court, and a canteen. It accommodated both full-time day and part-time evening classes.

Zoë-Grace stepped through the doorway and took a quick audit of the students already in the room. This was, thankfully, one of her smaller groups, with only twelve students to deal with. Since these students were pursuing an associate degree in the sciences, they had actually chosen to do Pure Mathematics. While they were less resistant than the business and hospitality students, only two or three of them were really interested in the content. She found herself constantly struggling to make the topics come alive for the students, showing them how they could apply the theories in practical ways that