Sea Rose Lane Page 3

  That was possible—but there wasn’t much chance any great opportunities would find him here. For all its charms, Hope Harbor didn’t offer many career options for those with ambitious aspirations.

  Nevertheless, hanging around for two or three weeks couldn’t hurt. With six months’ severance and benefits, he could afford to chill a bit.

  “You certain you have room for me in that construction zone?” He swept a hand toward the house.

  “There’ll always be room for you here. I can’t offer you the plushest accommodations yet, but the sleeper sofa isn’t bad. And I’ll whip you up some gourmet breakfasts to compensate for the makeshift bed. I’ve been honing my skills on the very appreciative work crew. You might be surprised what your old man can do with a few eggs and assorted other ingredients these days.”

  “Sold. I’ll grab my bags from the car.”

  He started to turn away, only to have his father once again take his arm.

  “Can I tell you one more thing?”

  “Sure.”

  “When I spotted you out here a few minutes ago, I was terrified. This is where your mom stood the day she came home with a fistful of orders for all kinds of tests after what we assumed was a routine doctor’s visit. You know the rest of that story.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I realize this is a blow, but it’s not the end of the world. You’ll find another job; you can’t find another life.”

  Leave it to Dad to restore his perspective. Dark as the past thirty-six hours had been, there were bigger tragedies than losing a job. They’d both lived through one as they’d watched cancer consume his mom, leaving an empty shell of the vibrant woman whose sunny smile had brightened their days.

  “Thanks for the reality check.”

  “Part of a father’s job description.” His dad patted his shoulder. “Now go get your bags and let’s get you settled in.”

  Eric returned to his car and popped the trunk, their conversation replaying in his mind. Was it possible good would come of his career disaster? Would a stay in Hope Harbor give him clarity and new direction? Did God have a better path in store for him?

  Suitcase and laptop in hand, he closed the trunk and approached the childhood home that looked the same as always from the outside but was undergoing a transformation inside. Finding a new purpose.

  If his father was right, maybe the same would happen to him while he was here. Maybe the job debacle would lead to unexpected opportunities. Maybe Hope Harbor would live up to its name and steer him in a new, better direction.

  But for a man who preferred definites to maybes and facts to fancies, leaving tomorrow to the whim of fate—or God—was downright scary.

  “I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” Eleanor spread a spoon of tuna salad on a piece of toast while Methuselah fixed his amber eyes on the bowl of chunks she’d set aside.

  He meowed, whiskers twitching.

  “My sandwich will be ready in a minute, then we can eat together. How’s that?”

  Another meow—except this one sounded a bit cross.

  “Patience isn’t your strong suit, my friend. You’re becoming a grumpy old cat.”

  He swished his tail and lifted his nose in the air.

  “See what I mean? But who am I to point fingers? I’m becoming an eccentric old woman who talks to cats.”

  She finished making her sandwich, placed it and the tuna chunks on the tray of her walker, and shuffled over to the table. After setting her plate beside a glass of milk, she lowered the tabby’s dish to the bench seat beside her that ran the length of the table.

  Methuselah gave her a doleful look.

  “Sorry, my friend. My bending-down-to-the-floor days are over.”

  With a resigned snuffle, he slowly climbed up on the box she’d put there for his use and hauled himself up to the bench.

  His old, arthritic joints must be as stiff as hers today.

  She lowered herself into her seat and twined her fingers together. “Thank you, Lord, for this food, for the flowers that brighten my days, and for my feline friend here. Thank you, too, for the kindness of people like BJ. Please keep me healthy enough to stay in this house until you call me home. Amen.”

  As usual, Methuselah was halfway through his lunch by the time she finished the simple prayer. She knew the drill by now. Once he scarfed down the last morsel, he’d pad into the living room and claim his usual spot in the circle of afternoon sun streaming through the front window, leaving her alone to finish her meal.

  The tick of the old-fashioned clock over the sink was loud in the quiet house as she tackled her lunch. Perhaps this afternoon she’d give Rose or Anna a call and have a chat. Or invite them to stop by and share a piece of fudge cake.

  No. That wouldn’t work. Anna was busy with that cranberry cake business she’d gotten involved in, and since it was Wednesday, Rose would be tending the flowers in the planters along the wharf with her crew of volunteers.

  A crew Eleanor had been part of until her knees gave out.

  The bite of sandwich lodged in her windpipe, and she took a long swallow of milk . . . but she couldn’t dislodge the feeling of uselessness that plagued her these days.

  Methuselah finished the last of his tuna, licked his lips, and stretched.

  “I see you beat me again.”

  In response, he hunkered down and slid to the floor, his leaping days long past—as were hers. All she could do was hobble along in an old-lady shuffle behind that obnoxious walker. But after the dire warning her doctor had issued about broken hips following her little tumble in April, refusing to use it would have been foolish.

  Her crotchety companion disappeared through the door into the living room, and she pushed her plate aside, a wave of melancholy sweeping over her. Lord knew she tried to keep up a happy front in public. Complaining about your lot in life, dragging others down, was wrong. And she did an excellent job presenting a cheery facade to the world. Not a soul in Hope Harbor would guess that sweet old Eleanor Cooper, with her perennially sunny smile, waged a fight against darkness every day.

  One that grew harder to win with every passing week.

  It was the evil one at work, no doubt about it. He was always on the lookout for weaknesses to exploit.

  This, however, was one battle he wouldn’t win. Her faith was strong. She might not see much purpose in her life anymore, but God must or he’d have called her home long ago. Hadn’t Reverend Baker said last Sunday it was easy to row a boat toward shore in calm water but much more difficult to stay the course when seas got rough?

  No one knew that better than her.

  Shoulders slumping, she pushed herself to her feet. Waited until her unreliable body adjusted to the new position. Trundled the walker over to the fridge and slid her half-eaten sandwich inside.

  Once it was stowed, she lingered over the photos secured to the door with magnets. Most were old and yellow now, crinkled around the edges, showing signs of their age—just as she was.

  But the memories they brought back were still sweet and fresh.

  Stan and her at the Eiffel Tower on their twenty-fifth anniversary. The two of them stacking canned goods in the food pantry at church. On stage at the awards banquet where she’d been honored for her behind-the-scenes volunteer work with Birthright. Hosting a party for friends from church who were leaving for Africa on a mission trip.

  If there were no children in the photos—well, that had been God’s design too. But he’d blessed them in many other ways, mitigating that deep sadness.

  She reset the magnet on a photo that was slipping. No, she had no complaints about her past. For the most part, her days had been happy—and rewarding. She’d made a difference. Her life had mattered.

  Not anymore, though. Now she was a taker instead of a giver. Relying on the kindness of others to keep her in her house, get her to church, do her grocery shopping . . . even liberate her from her own bathroom.

  A film of moisture further blurred her diminished vision. Maybe it was time to
admit defeat and move to that senior living center in Coos Bay. She’d had the brochure for months, and they called on a regular basis. A friendly young woman had even picked her up, taken her on a tour, and treated her to lunch in the dining room. It was a pleasant place.

  But it wasn’t home.

  She examined the cozy kitchen. This might not be the house near the harbor where she’d been raised. Or the spacious two-story she and Stan had shared in Seattle for most of the thirty-nine years of marriage God had granted them. But it had been home for the twenty-three years since she’d returned to the town that held all her cherished early memories. How could she leave?

  Hope Harbor—and this house—were her world.

  Her knees began to ache, and she turned away from the photos. Better get to her recliner before one of the joints gave out.

  Methuselah was in his favorite spot in the living room, curled up in a sunbeam, satisfied and happy, when she plodded past.

  Too bad she couldn’t find contentment as easily.

  She lowered herself into her chair and picked up the large-print book BJ had retrieved for her from the library. The suspense novel by one of her favorite authors would help her pass a few hours of the long, empty afternoon stretching ahead. Perhaps she’d nap a bit, too, like Methuselah.

  And pray that God would give her the strength to endure until he called her home.

  3

  “Hey, stranger! Long time no see.”

  Shading her eyes against the sun, BJ pulled the nozzle out of her gas tank as an older-model Civic drew up at the pump across from her. Tracy Campbell—no, Hunter now—waved at her through the driver-side window.

  Oops.

  “I know I owe you an update on the house plans, but a few delays with the B&B project put me a little behind schedule on your job.” She stuck the nozzle back in the pump while Tracy climbed out of her car.

  “That, plus doing home repairs for lots of the older folks in town who call Helping Hands for assistance. And that’s not counting all you do for Eleanor.”

  “I don’t mind volunteering my skills for charity.” Of course Tracy would know about the stuff she did through Helping Hands. Her husband was director of the charitable organization and she was active in the group herself when cranberry farm duties allowed. But who’d clued her in about Methuselah’s owner? “As for Eleanor—I don’t do that much for her.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  “From who?”

  Tracy swiped her credit card in the pump and grinned. “It’s a small town, remember? Everybody knows everything and is only too happy to share news. However, in this case my scoop came from the source. I took her a loaf of cranberry nut cake last week, and she sang your praises during my visit. I’m feeling a tad displaced.”

  “Don’t be. Eleanor sings your praises to me too. But she told me she didn’t want to bother the blushing new bride. Her words.”

  “Mmm. I can’t say I mind having an extra hour or two a week to spend with Michael—though Helping Hands keeps him hopping. And speaking of that, he told me you’re on the agenda for Saturday’s board meeting.”

  BJ sidestepped the implied question. She wasn’t ready to share her proposal publicly. For all she knew, the board would shoot it down.

  “Um . . . yeah. I had an idea I wanted to run by them.”

  “Not talking, huh?”

  “It’s too early for that.”

  Tracy grinned. “Got it. I’m just giving you a hard time.” She lifted the nozzle from the pump and inserted it in her gas tank. “In terms of the house plans—no worries. We aren’t in any hurry. How’s the B&B project going?”

  “Great overall, aside from the few delays I mentioned. It’s fun to be the one turning blueprints into reality versus turning them over to a construction firm.”

  “So you’re liking your new gig in our little town?”

  “Loving it. No big city blues for me.”

  “Glad to hear it. I can’t wait to take a tour of Seabird Inn once you’re finished. By the way, I heard John’s son, Eric, is back in town.”

  Wow. Tracy hadn’t been kidding about word traveling fast around here.

  “How did you know that? I think he just arrived a couple of hours ago.”

  “I told you—it’s hard to keep a secret in this town. Bear that in mind if you ever plan to do anything scandalous.”

  BJ snorted. “Not my style.”

  “I know. I’ll never forget the night that guy tried to pick you up during one of our girls-only dinners while we lived in Phoenix. Man, you gave him an earful.” Chuckling, she coaxed a final gallon of gas into her tank and pulled out the nozzle. “So did you meet Eric yet?”

  “Uh . . . yeah.” And she did not want to discuss it. “Who told you he was back?” BJ tucked her credit card into her wallet.

  “No one. I passed him on the road to Bandon. The mashed fender and broken headlight were hard to miss. I wonder what happened to his car?”

  BJ rubbed at a speck of mud on her truck. She could let the rhetorical question pass—but if Tracy’s take on the small-town grapevine was accurate, everyone would find out about the accident sooner rather than later. Then her friend would wonder why she’d remained mute.

  Better not to raise any red flags.

  “Actually . . . he ran into my truck.”

  Tracy’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” She gave her the topline, leaving out the part about him being on his cell.

  “Huh.” Tracy folded her arms and leaned back against the car. “That doesn’t sound like him. He’s always been the careful, cautious, focused type. And it’s odd he’d visit midweek. According to his dad, he works horrendous hours at that big law firm he’s with in Portland. Did he say why he was here?”

  “No. We . . . uh . . . didn’t have that kind of conversation.”

  “I guess not.” She pushed off from the fender. “From what I could tell through the windshield, he hasn’t lost his swoon-worthiness.”

  BJ tried for a nonchalant shrug. “If you like that type.”

  “Most of the girls in my high-school class did.”

  “I’m not a teenager anymore.” Stomach knotting, BJ snatched her receipt from the pump. “And I’m not interested in hot-looking guys who have no qualms about clawing their way up the corporate ladder, leaving carnage in their wake.”

  “Whoa!” Tracy held up her hands, palms out. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.”

  Of course she hadn’t. All she’d done was comment on the man’s appearance.

  BJ exhaled. The last thing she wanted to do was alienate her friend. “I’m the one who should apologize. It’s just been kind of a . . . strange day. First the fender bender, then Eleanor brings up my love life, and to make matters worse . . .” She stopped. Admitting her unwelcome reaction to the good looks Tracy had mentioned would open a big, messy can of worms.

  “To make matters worse . . . what?”

  “A story for another day.”

  Tracy cocked her head. “Why do I think it involves Eric?”

  “No comment.”

  “Hmm.” Tracy jingled her keys. “If you’re not talking, I’ll leave you with a comment of my own. I have no idea why he’s back. Whatever the reason, I doubt he’ll hang around long. But for the record, he’s a good guy. Reliable. Trustworthy. Hard working. Conscientious. Which proves that not all eye-candy men fit the same mold.” She opened her door. “Let me know when you’re ready to go over the house plans and I’ll corral Michael.”

  With that, she slid behind the wheel and drove off.

  BJ retrieved her own keys and watched the car recede in the distance. Maybe her friend was correct about Eric. Maybe not. But she wasn’t aiming to test that theory anytime soon.

  Swinging back up into the truck, she pushed Tracy’s comment to the back of her mind and gave a more urgent priority center stage. Food. Her stomach was not happy about the lunch she’d skipped—and scarfing down the fu
dge cake on the seat beside her instead of eating a healthy meal was a bad idea. She would not let a stressful incident or two resurrect bad habits. However, she did need a nutritious, filling dinner—fast—or she might end up succumbing to temptation.

  A little comfort food wouldn’t hurt, either, after the unsettling day she’d had.

  And she knew just the place to find it.

  Eric parallel-parked his rental car on Dockside Drive and did a slow sweep of the marina across the street. Boats bobbed in the gentle swells. A gull soared over the white gazebo that occupied the small park where the two-block-long, crescent-shaped frontage road dead-ended at the river. Colorful flowers spilled from planters that served as a buffer between the sidewalk and the sloping pile of boulders that led to the water.

  He let his gaze drift farther afield. Past the long jetty on the left and the pair of rocky islands on the right that tamed the turbulent waves and protected the boats in the marina. Across the cobalt water that sparkled as if strewn with diamonds. All the way to the indigo line where sky met sea.

  Peace seeped into his soul, and the tension ebbed from his tight muscles.

  He drew in a lungful of the fresh, tangy sea breeze, letting it chase out the drywall-dust-laced air he’d ingested at the house. Not that he’d lingered there after he’d stowed his stuff. The tour his father had offered could wait until the construction crew—and its chief—departed for the day, along with all their headache-inducing noise. Plus, he’d needed to get his car to Marv’s and deal with a different headache.

  Talk about a rough thirty-six hours.

  But a fish taco from Charley’s would help soften the edges.

  Ignoring the quaint row of shops adorned with bright awnings and overflowing flower boxes to his right, he homed in on the white truck perched at the edge of the tiny wharf-side park, near the gazebo.

  At least that hadn’t changed.

  The colorful letters spelling out “Charley’s,” the serving window on one side, and the man behind the counter with long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail—all were exactly the same as they’d been for as far back as he could remember.