by Irene Hannon
Neither did Charley.
As he drove away with a wave, she closed the door and wandered back through the house. For the rest of today, she’d stick close to her digs. Visit the beach as usual, perhaps read awhile.
But come tomorrow, if she still felt confident in Charley’s assurance that her anonymity was secure, she might venture into town for shopping, another round of tacos—and a piece of that fudge cake Zach had mentioned at The Perfect Blend.
9
“This is an impressive turnout.” Stephanie surveyed the crowd gathered in the Grace Christian fellowship hall for the Helping Hands meeting.
Gentleman that her nephew was, Zach took her arm and guided her through the throng. “The people of this town never cease to inspire me. They’re always willing to step in if there’s a need. Not long ago, there was an outpouring of support for a refugee family from Syria.”
“It must be wonderful to live in a place where everyone’s so caring.”
“That was one of the main draws.” He lifted a hand in response to a wave from Frank, who wove through the crush toward them.
“Did you tell him I was coming?” Stephanie dropped her voice as she watched the silver-haired man approach. While Zach’s part-time barista was technically a senior citizen, from his jaunty gait to his trim physique and sparkling eyes, he radiated youthful enthusiasm.
“Yes—and he was watching for us, in case you didn’t notice.”
Oh, she’d noticed.
Because she’d been watching for him.
“Welcome.” The man joined them and held out his hand to her. “I’m glad you came.”
As he gave her a warm smile, her pulse picked up.
Good grief.
What a ridiculous reaction for a sophisticated executive with six decades of living behind her.
She did her best to summon up the professional poise that was suddenly playing hard-to-get. “It seems like a worthwhile cause—and I didn’t want Zach to miss it to keep me company. As I told him, I can take care of myself.”
“I have no doubt of that. You strike me as a very capable woman.”
Heat crept up her neck.
Mercy.
The man had an intensity and focus that could take a person’s breath away—and a knack for infusing the most innocent phrase with deeper meaning.
A woman up front waved in Frank’s direction, and Stephanie motioned toward her. “I think someone’s trying to get your attention.”
He gave her a quick glance. “I have to get back up there. Will you stay for a few minutes afterward?”
“Unless Zach has other plans.”
“My Tuesday evening is all yours after the meeting.” Zach seemed amused by their exchange.
“Wonderful. I’ll talk to you both later. I think we’re about ready to roll.” Frank strode back toward the first row, where the board must be seated.
Stephanie commandeered Zach’s arm before he could comment on her conversation with his employee. “It’s filling up. Let’s find seats.”
He didn’t protest.
As they claimed chairs, the director of Helping Hands took the mic, introduced himself, and called the meeting to order.
For the next fifteen minutes, she gave him her full attention as he filled the attendees in on the latest developments with the Hope House project—mostly because she couldn’t see Frank from where they were sitting.
That would have been a major distraction.
But even if she’d been able to spot him, the subject of the meeting did interest her, and it wasn’t difficult to tune in to Steven Roark.
“If we decide to proceed, there’s money in the budget for a down payment, but we’ll have to come up with the balance. Fundraisers are an option. We also want to be certain there are sufficient volunteers to handle necessary repairs and updates—which, after visiting the house, I can tell you are significant. Not much has been done in terms of remodeling for two decades, and maintenance issues have been neglected.”
As he went on to list the more serious items that would have to be addressed, Stephanie leaned closer to Zach. “Does a town this size have people with the skills to deal with all of the issues he’s identified?”
“You’d be surprised at the talent that comes out of the woodwork. But if there’s anything someone here can’t fix, we’ll have to hire a pro.”
“This is a big project for a small town to undertake.”
“I know. That’s why it may not fly.”
She leaned back. Too bad if it didn’t. The cause was more than worthwhile.
Steven looked up from his notes. “All of those nuts-and-bolts issues aside, the biggest challenge will be finding a couple to live in Hope House and care for the children. Adam’s research indicates that can make or break a program. Adam . . . would you give us a few more details about what sort of qualifications and background we’d want?”
A dark-haired man with a lean, muscular build rose and took the mic, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. In light of his background, it must have taken a boatload of courage for him to stand up in front of a group like this—attesting to his passion for the cause.
“Thanks, Steven.” He cleared his throat. “Finding houseparents isn’t an immediate concern, since we have quite a bit to do first. In addition to the physical work on the house, there’s a ton of paperwork to fill out for the state in order to get certified for the foster program. What we wanted to do tonight was lay out the parameters for the couple so if anyone is interested, or knows of someone who is, we can begin to consider candidates.” He reshuffled his papers.
Stephanie leaned over to Zach again. “Do Adam and his wife have children?”
“Yes. One from her first marriage and one soon to arrive. Her mother also lives with them. Were you wondering if they’d be interested in the job?”
“Yes—but I’m guessing they already have their hands full.”
“They do. Plus, his background could prevent them from being approved by the state.”
“I suppose it’s hard to escape the stigma of prison time.”
“In terms of government agencies, yes—but it doesn’t matter to anyone in town.”
“Nice to hear. If a person has paid his debt to society, he ought to be able to live his life without constant reminders of his mistakes.”
She settled back in her seat as Adam continued.
“The parents don’t have to have college degrees, but we do want high school graduates. One of them should also have a steady job. A solid credit rating, and a demonstrated ability to manage a household budget, is important. Most of all, we want people who will love the children in their care as their own, with appropriate discipline and rules. A couple without children, or a couple with one or two children, would work. I think that’s it.”
Steven retook the microphone. “We have printed material on this subject for anyone who wants further information. You can see me or any of the board members afterward if you’d like a packet. Now let’s open the floor to comments and questions.”
Several people lined up at the mic situated in the center aisle, and as the session progressed, it seemed as if the town was behind the project 100 percent. A number of fundraising ideas were also put forward.
After the last person spoke, Steven confirmed Stephanie’s conclusion.
“Given the large turnout tonight and the expressions of support, I believe this project may be one Helping Hands can tackle. But I’d ask anyone who’s willing to pitch in to check out the lists of tasks in the back and sign up for any that match your expertise or interests. There’s also a sheet for fundraising ideas. The board will review the volunteer response and determine whether it’s sufficient to justify moving forward. Thank you all for coming.”
A murmur of conversation broke out around them as people began to stand and meander toward the sign-up sheets.
Stephanie rose, as did Zach.
“You weren’t bore
d, were you?” He edged back to let a woman exit the row.
“Not in the least. This was far more interesting than any of my meetings in the corporate world. Are you going to sign up?” She motioned toward the back of the room, where groups of people were already congregating around the worksheets.
“Yes. I’m not the handiest person, but I wield a mean paintbrush.”
“Evening, Zach.” A man in a clerical collar stopped beside them.
“Reverend Baker. Thanks for the loan of your fellowship hall tonight.”
“It’s always available for a worthy cause.” He turned to her. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Paul Baker. I’m the pastor here.” He held out his hand.
Stephanie took it and introduced herself.
As another clergyman approached, Zach greeted him with a nod. “Nice to see you, Father Murphy. Since I’ve been tardy in the introduction department, let me take the lead on this one.” He did the honors.
The jovial priest pumped her hand and offered a megawatt smile. “Welcome to Hope Harbor. I see you’ve already met my colleague here. A word of warning—if you spot him on the golf course, duck.”
Her nephew covered a chuckle with a cough and offered an explanation. “Our two clerics have a standing Thursday golf date.”
“And for the record, I’m currently up two games.” The minister sent the padre a disgruntled look.
“Enjoy the lead while it lasts.” The priest gave a dismissive wave. “Are you signing up for any of the work crews?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Of course.”
“Avoid anything to do with plumbing.”
The priest huffed out a breath. “You’re never going to let me forget my unfortunate blunder with your sink, are you?”
“No.” Reverend Baker transferred his attention to her. “I had a minor leak he claimed he could fix. After he tinkered with it, I ended up with a small version of Niagara Falls in my kitchen—and a major plumbing bill.”
“What I did should have worked. It was how I fixed the leak in the rectory.”
“That must have been blind luck rather than expertise. Why don’t you see if they’re assembling a landscaping crew?”
“That’s a great idea,” Zach chimed in. “Father Murphy created a beautiful meditation garden behind St. Francis.”
“Thank you for the compliment.” The priest gave a slight bow. “I’ll see if those skills are on the list. I also want to add an idea for a fundraiser. I was thinking we could hold a Taste of Hope Harbor gathering, like we did to welcome our refugee family, except charge for tickets and add a raffle.”
“Seeing how you filch our donuts after Sunday service, why am I not surprised you proposed a food-related event?” Reverend Baker surveyed the padre’s slightly thick midsection—but his eyes were twinkling.
Father Murphy sniffed. “I only eat your donuts if we have business to discuss on Sunday. The St. Francis homemade version is far superior. Getting back to the subject at hand—what do you think of my idea?”
“It has possibilities—but this project can’t live on bread alone.”
The priest groaned. “Stop with the biblical analogies.”
“Just saying. It will take more than a Taste of Hope Harbor event to fund this project.”
“I agree—but it would give us an opportunity to eat our food with gladness, for God approves of what we’re doing.”
Reverend Baker squinted at him. “That phrasing is familiar . . . but I can’t place it.”
“Ha. Gotcha.” The priest grinned and gave the minister a good-natured elbow nudge. “It’s from Ecclesiastes.” He licked his index finger and drew a swipe in the air.
Stephanie slanted a glance at Zach. Her nephew was obviously amused by the amiable jibing of the town clerics—and she had to admit it was a hoot.
In fact, it had been entertaining enough to make her momentarily forget that Frank had asked them to wait after the meeting.
Until she spotted Zach’s part-time employee winding through the crowd in their direction.
Her lungs lost their rhythm again—and she curbed an eye roll.
You’d think she was a teen in the throes of her first crush—not that she knew much about teenage romance. Her father’s high academic expectations had ensured she’d been a nose-to-the-grindstone, head-in-the-books kind of girl.
“Thanks for waiting.” Frank joined them.
“Our clerics and I are going to check out the sign-up sheets.” Zach hooked a thumb toward the back of the room.
“Don’t let me delay you. The more people who volunteer, the higher the likelihood this project will get off the ground.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Zach touched her arm.
“No hurry on my end. I’m not the one who has to get up early for a job tomorrow.”
“Neither does Frank. He’s off on Wednesdays.” Grinning, Zach fell in behind the still-bantering clerics. “In fact, if you two want to extend the evening, feel free. I can find my way home alone.”
Stephanie stifled a groan.
She was going to have to have a serious talk later with her nephew.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Frank indicated a table off to the side. “It won’t come close to The Perfect Blend, but if you’re in the mood for java, it’s decent.”
“No, thanks. All coffee is off-limits for me this late in the evening—decaf included.”
“Shall we sit while we wait for Zach?”
Shoot.
Frank didn’t appear inclined to pick up on his employer’s less-than-subtle hint.
She refused to let her lips droop. “Why not?” After they claimed adjacent chairs, she angled toward him. “Zach tells me you’re retired from the postal service.”
“Yes. Up in Coos Bay. That’s where my wife grew up. I didn’t have any family of my own, so living there was fine with me. A job with the postal service wasn’t the most exciting career, but it was steady and gave us security.”
“Do you miss it?”
“No—but I miss her.” A shadow darkened his irises. “She passed away three years ago.”
“Zach mentioned that. I’m sorry. Do you have any other family?”
“No. We were never blessed with children, and her brother passed on two years ago. He never married.”
So Frank was even more alone than she was.
“That has to be hard.”
“Some days have been harder than others—but after I moved here and started working for Zach, I turned a corner. Life’s different now, but Hope Harbor is a wonderful place and Zach’s a terrific boss.”
“He’s also a fine nephew. We haven’t stayed in close touch—but I intend to remedy that in my retirement.”
“Tell me about your job.”
She gave him a brief overview of her career, touching on her extensive travel around the globe. “As I told someone recently, though, it’s more glamorous in the telling than in reality.”
“I expect living out of a suitcase would get old—but you’ve been to an impressive list of places.”
“Most of which I saw only through the windows of a taxi en route to and from meetings.”
“Bummer.”
“Amen to that. Have you traveled much?”
“My wife and I liked to camp, and we hit most of the national parks in the western half of the country.”
She tipped her head. “You know . . . for all my travels, I’ve never been to a national park.”
“I bet you’ve never camped either.”
“I did once, back in Girl Scouts. Sad to say, it wasn’t a positive experience. I got poison ivy and chigger bites.”
He winced. “Not fun. In fact, those less-than-pleasant aspects of camping helped convince my wife and me to graduate to B&Bs.”
“That would be more my style.”
Zach rejoined them, and Frank stood. She followed suit.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m ready to call it a day.” He waited, as if he exp
ected Frank to offer her a lift so they could continue their chat.
When the silence stretched too long, she quashed her foolish disappointment and summoned up a cheery smile. “I’m all set. Frank, it was a pleasure talking with you.” She held out her hand.
He took it in a firm grip—and held on a fraction of a second longer than protocol demanded.
Suggesting he didn’t want their evening to end either.
Yet he did nothing to prolong it.
“I enjoyed our conversation too.” He released her hand. “See you Thursday, Zach.”
With that he hastened toward the door.
Zach frowned after him. “I could have sworn he’d offer to drive you home.”
“Your romantic inclinations are working overtime.” She kept her tone cheerful as she tucked her arm in his. “Shall we?”
Without further comment, he guided her through the crowd and out to the car.
During the ride home, she kept the conversation focused on the meeting and the humorous exchange between the clerics—but once she was behind the closed door of her room, she sank onto the side of the bed. Exhaled.
What a strange twist this trip had taken.
She’d come here with two goals—renew her acquaintance with her nephew and begin to acclimate to her retiree status.
She had not expected to meet an attractive, available man who intrigued her.
How could this happen now, after she’d long ago sacrificed the possibility of marriage and family on the altar of corporate success?
With a sigh, she fell back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, hugging a decorative pillow to her chest.
She did not need this sort of complication at this stage of her life.
Nor was she in the market for romance. Not after her deliberate and reasoned decision decades ago to forgo love as she climbed the corporate ladder.
Women might talk about having it all, but theory didn’t translate very well to reality. Yes, a woman could have it all . . . but not all at the same time. Trying to juggle too many balls inevitably meant some got dropped and something—or someone—suffered. With a job that demanded constant travel and long hours, how could she have given adequate attention to a husband and children?