Being Known Read online

  Praise for

  Being Known

  “Fun and full of wisdom, Being Known will engage you on every page. Robin Jones Gunn is an amazing storyteller. While Joel and Jennalyn may not be where you are in life, the struggles they face and boldly overcome are a reflection of God’s grace. The next installment of the Haven Maker series is one for your permanent bookshelf.”

  —RACHEL HAUCK, New York Times bestselling author

  “Robin captures the complexities of friendship, longing, and marriage relationships so realistically. Reading this book was like sitting down with a best friend for a much-needed conversation. I came away inspired and heartened.”

  —JENNY SNOW, host of The Book Club Life YouTube channel

  “The kind of fluid dialogue that only Robin Jones Gunn could write, along with complex but lovable characters, make Being Known an exceptional treat. Warm, inviting, humorous, but with a serious edge that challenges our modern sensibilities, Being Known isn’t just a good book; it’s an important book.”

  —TESSA AFSHAR, award-winning author of Daughter of Rome

  “Robin Jones Gunn’s novels overflow with truth and grace, and Being Known is no exception. I felt as if these characters walked right off the page and into my home. I wish every young mom had a group of haven makers in their lives, but for those who don’t, I’m glad Robin tells these stories.”

  —KAREN BARNETT, author of the Vintage National Parks Novels

  “Each of us encounters passages where we feel unappreciated and alone, even when in a seemingly happy marriage. Temptation then beckons us to plant affection in the soft soil of If Only instead of cultivating the more challenging garden of What Is. When Jennalyn faces such a temptation, will her lifelong band of sisters help her overcome? Or might they, too, be distracted by temptations of their own? Being Known is deep, real, complex, and compelling—just what each of us most desires in a book and in life.”

  —SANDRA BYRD, author of Lady of a Thousand Treasures

  “Being Known is a literary walk through the trials of marriage, through the throes of becoming roommates instead of lovers, through the heartaches of interrupted romance, and through the necessity of sisterhood that breathes life into otherwise dying hearts. I was blessed, challenged, and oh so thankful for the truth and love that binds all relationships planted in the Father. This novel will not only entertain, but it will encourage and revitalize hope within a tired and weary soul.”

  —JAIME JO WRIGHT, author of Echoes Among the Stones and the Christy Award–winning novel The House on Foster Hill

  “Robin Jones Gunn makes us a family right here at the heart of Being Known, a story sure to envelope you in community, encouragement, and belonging and which delves deep into themes of friendship, marriage, hope, and redemption. Her compassionately woven tale will leave you with a lingering desire to bridge what’s found on the page into real life: to pick up the phone and invite a friend out; to set down the screen and really see the beautiful lives around you; and to root deep into the heart of the Creator who loves abundantly, unconditionally, and forever.”

  —AMANDA DYKES, critically acclaimed author of Set the Stars Alight

  BEING KNOWN

  Scripture quotations and paraphrases are taken from the following versions: Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007, 2013, 2015 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  Trade Paperback ISBN 9780735290778

  Ebook ISBN 9780735290785

  Copyright © 2020 by Robin’s Nest Productions Inc.

  Cover design: Kelly L. Howard

  Cover photograph: © Getty

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in the United States by Multnomah, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

  MULTNOMAH® and its mountain colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Gunn, Robin Jones, 1955– author.

  Title: Being known : a novel / Robin Jones Gunn.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Multnomah, [2020] | Series: The haven makers

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019035342 | ISBN 9780735290778 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780735290785 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3557.U4866 B45 2020 | DDC 813/.54—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2019035342

  ep_prh_5.5.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Dedication

  Books by Robin Jones Gunn

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Whenever I close my eyes and think of my mother, I see her red toenails. Her perfectly manicured toes flaunting her signature nail-polish color, Oh My, Cherry Pie.

  I saw her toes in my mind’s eye when I stopped at 19th and Harbor on my way home on an ordinary Thursday. The January sun was hitting the traffic light just right, intensifying the red, scorching my thoughts with visions of cherry red toenails.

  In an instant, everything went from feeling normal to a sensation that my heart was being squeezed. Strangled might be a better word, as if all the breath, joy, and hope of my life were being choked out by an angry, invisible hand.

  I suddenly felt so alone.

  The impression surprised me because I was not alone. Rarely am I by myself long enough to even take a decent shower. In the back seat of the car my four-year-old daughter, Eden, was singing one of her sweet and silly songs. In the rearview mirror I could see that her thirteen-month-old brother was enthralled, as always. Alex was rewarding Eden for her performance by kicking his feet and bobbing his head from side to side.

  I love my children. I love my husband. I love the house where we live. It’s a dream to be so close to the gorgeous Southern California coast. We have wonderful friends and generous in-laws who are both kind and doting. I love our life. Anyone looking in from the outside would say I have it all.

  But I don’t.

 
I don’t have my mother. And no one can bring her back to me.

  The traffic light changed to green, and the great chasm between what was and what is seemed to be closing. I drove into our neighborhood telling myself to breathe and be grateful for all the good things in my life. Choosing gratitude always helped to shrink the raw, gaping ache.

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Eden.”

  “Are we going to my dance class now?”

  “No, honey. We’ll go after nap time this afternoon.”

  “I don’t need a nap.”

  “I know.” I pulled into our driveway, turned off the engine, and looked at her in the mirror. My daughter’s dark eyes were so much like mine. “But Alex needs a nap. And so does Mommy.”

  Eden giggled and put her hand over her mouth. The gesture was new, and I wasn’t sure where she picked it up. “That’s silly. Mommies don’t take naps.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I muttered.

  That evening as Joel and I were driving to our friends’ house for dinner, we stopped at a red light, and I wanted to tell my husband about the way grief had snuck up on me earlier that day. I wanted to hear all the comforting words he had given me over the past six years whenever I talked about how much I missed my mom. I wanted him to know what I was feeling, and most of all, I wanted him to somehow enter the hazy place of loss with me.

  But my handsome, always efficient husband was on the speakerphone. He was setting up the training schedule for the new assistant chef who was starting on Saturday. Joel was part owner at the Blue Ginger restaurant in Corona del Mar, and he was also the head chef. The dual roles were ambitious, but then, so was Joel. The only reason he had this rare Thursday night off was because a new stove had been installed that afternoon, followed by a series of spot safety checks.

  The light turned green. Joel glanced at me and seemed to notice for the first time that I’d been facing him, waiting for my turn to get his attention. I reached over and smoothed back his dark hair that was growing too long in the front. His clean-shaven face, with his straight nose and intense, amber-flecked eyes, reflected all the best of his Italian heritage. He looked as handsome to me tonight as when I’d first met him nine years ago. I could wait for his attention. Joel was always worth the wait.

  Turning away, I looked out the window and quietly watched the familiar sights as we rolled into our old neighborhood. The rows of beach houses lined up like mismatched vintage toys on a shelf.

  Coming up on the right was the cottage we rented when we first moved to Newport Beach. Joel and I had packed a lot of good memories into that 950-square-foot, two-bed, one-bath bungalow with the sapphire-blue door. I noticed that the garden boxes Joel had set up still lined the narrow space at the front of the house. They were now filled with what looked like lemongrass.

  I smiled, remembering how happy we were when we brought Eden home to her lovingly prepared nursery. I wondered if the hand-painted morning glories still curved up her bedroom wall, or if the new tenant had painted over my handiwork.

  Joel had tried out dozens of recipes in that tiny, inefficient kitchen. I sat for hours, watching from the oval table where I painted and practiced calligraphy on dozens—maybe hundreds—of cards and plaques. We hosted many small get-togethers with new friends as well as lively, crowded dinners with Joel’s extended family.

  Life was simpler then. Joel and I were just becoming “us.” We had only been married for a couple of years when we moved to Newport Beach. Our love was new, and we were intent on crafting our careers and starting a family.

  I look back now and realize that our happiness and fresh, young love probably had cocooned me from feeling the full impact of the sudden loss of my mom right before we moved. Joel and I had each other, and in that season, I guess I thought that was enough. We were shoulder to shoulder in our quest for courageous endeavors and new beginnings.

  Now, in a little more than half a decade, we had accomplished and acquired everything we had only dreamed of back then. Joel owned his restaurant; we had a daughter and a son. We lived in a two-story, newly renovated house with an exceptional kitchen, and I had the space and freedom to pursue my love of watercolor painting and entertaining to my heart’s content.

  The only problem was, I couldn’t think of anything my husband and I were shoulder to shoulder on anymore.

  Joel wedged our Lexus into a rare open space by the curb just down the street from our memory-soaked cottage. I got out and softly closed my door. He was still on his call and, from the sound of it, might be for a while longer. Using both hands, I carried the large, heavy wicker basket to Christy and Todd’s front door and pressed the doorbell with my elbow.

  The door opened, and my lovely friend Christy greeted me with a hug. “Jennalyn, hi! Come in.” Christy’s blue-green eyes looked down the street. “Is Joel with you?”

  “He’s finishing a call in the car. He’ll be here in a minute.”

  I made myself at home in the open downstairs of the beach home that had become so familiar over the past few years. Meeting Christy was one of the biggest blessings that came with the early years in our cottage by the sea. While placing the basket on the large kitchen counter, I noticed that Christy had set out only four of her white dinner plates.

  “Is it just the four of us?” My hair had been bugging me all day. I stepped into the small bathroom off the kitchen, pulled the long dark strands to the right side, and made a swiftly folded braid. “Is it okay if I use this hair tie on the counter?”

  “Yes and yes,” Christy called back from the kitchen. “Yes, it’s just us for dinner, and what’s mine is yours. Or I should say, what’s Hana’s is yours.”

  I turned on the faucet and ran my hands under the water, then smoothed back the sides of my thick straight hair. Rolling my shoulders back, I took one last look in the mirror and wished I had put on some jewelry or at least something other than the plain heather-gray V-neck sweater I had worn all day.

  Returning to the kitchen, I took note of how fresh Christy looked in her jeans and long-sleeved white top with the sleeves rolled up. She was also wearing one of the darling aprons she sews and sells online and in local shops. This one was made from a mix of pink, green, and blue fabric remnants, with a playful yellow ruffle across the top.

  “Sierra and Jordan said they might stop by after eight,” Christy said. “I kind of doubt they’ll make it, though. Emily called and said she and Trevor are coming down with colds.”

  “That’s too bad. What about Tess?” I reached for the two fresh baguettes in my basket, pulled a long knife from the block by the stove, and began slicing.

  “She said she was meeting someone. I asked if it was a client, and she said no, it was a guy.”

  “A guy?”

  Christy nodded and arranged the chunky baguette ovals on a cookie sheet.

  “What else did she say?” I asked.

  “That was it. She probably didn’t want to say much because, you know, she assumed I would tell you guys, and our group is always so…”

  “Caring?” I piped in.

  “I was going to say nosy.”

  “We’re only nosy because we care,” I said. “I think we do a pretty good job of looking out for each other.”

  “Yes, we do,” Christy agreed.

  A little more than a year ago, five of us friends unexpectedly formed a group and named ourselves “Daughters of Eve” or “DOEs.” We liked the connection to the way Aslan called Susan and Lucy “Daughters of Eve” in the Narnia tales. More than that, the name fit because we could all relate to Eve in some way. My connection was that Eve didn’t have a mother to help her figure out how to raise her children.

  Recently our group had migrated to another term we liked. It fit all of us, whether single or married. We called ourselves the Haven Makers because we saw ourselves as being a haven for each other.
/>   “I wish all the DOEs could have come tonight. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to invite our husbands.” I glanced around Christy’s quiet downstairs. “Speaking of which, where are Todd and your kids?”

  “They left almost an hour ago. When Todd heard Emily wasn’t coming and no one was bringing dessert, he decided we needed ice cream. Of course, as soon as the kids heard him say ice cream, they ran to the car.”

  I lifted one of the two large pans of lasagna from the basket and folded back the foil. “Do you think we should put this in the oven?”

  “Oh, that smells good.” Christy pulled back her long nutmeg-brown hair and leaned in for a sniff. “I feel bad that you and Joel made so much, and now it’s only the four of us.”

  “You won’t feel bad and neither will I when we have leftovers for days. This is GiGi’s recipe, so we had to make a lot. I don’t think any of my mother-in-law’s recipes come with ingredient proportions for under twelve people.”

  Just then the door to the garage opened, and Todd entered with Joel, along with seven-year-old Hana and four-year-old Cole. Cole had telltale signs of chocolate ice cream circling his contented smile.

  Hana, their affectionate little blond cutie, dashed over and gave me a big hug. “We got vanilla bean and chocolate chip for you guys.”

  “And what flavor did you get?” I asked Hana.

  “I got a strawberry cone, Cole got chocolate, and Daddy got a mango shake.”

  “Kids’ size all around,” Todd said before sliding two containers of ice cream into the freezer.

  I watched as he gave Christy a chin-up grin in response to being busted for treating the kids to dessert before dinner. Her response was to lower her chin and offer a close-lipped grin in return. If she was mad at him for his parenting choice, it didn’t show. I saw nothing but a field of love between the two of them.