Blackberry Beach

by Irene Hannon

  “I feel the same way. That’s why I came back too.”

  “You’ve been here before?” That was news.

  “I spent several weeks in the area once for work.”

  He waited, but she didn’t offer more.

  “Where is home now?”

  Instead of dodging the question as he’d half expected, she surprised him by answering. “LA.” But then she put the spotlight back on him. “I expect your dad was disappointed about your decision to leave the rat race behind.”

  A muscle ticced in his cheek. “That’s an understatement. We rarely communicate these days.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He gave a stiff shrug. “I’ve learned to cope. I’m sure he has too. What about you? Any close family connections?” Other than telling him she had no siblings, she’d evaded that question the day he’d delivered the cobbler—but it didn’t hurt to try again.

  “No. My mom died when I was a freshman in college.”

  No mention of her father—which must mean the man was out of the picture.

  Sad.

  While he and his dad were on the outs, in a pinch the older man would come to his assistance.

  He also had his aunt—and after renewing their acquaintance, he didn’t intend to let her be a stranger going forward.

  Unless his instincts were failing him, the woman sitting across from him had no family connections at all.

  But friends could fill the gap—and he’d be happy to step into the latter category, if she gave him the tiniest opening.

  He broached that subject with caution. “It’s tough not to have much family—but a close-knit community helps . . . or a group of friends.”

  “True friends aren’t easy to come by—and it can be hard to distinguish sincerity from selfishness.” She forked a bite of cake with more force than necessary, put it in her mouth, and chewed. “Mmm. You weren’t exaggerating. This is to die for.”

  He tamped down a surge of frustration.

  The personal discussion was over.

  Whatever her issues . . . however much she might need a friend . . . Kat wasn’t taking the hand he was extending, despite his repeated attempts to breach the wall Charley had mentioned and his own soul-baring today.

  It could be time to throw in the towel.

  He followed her breezy conversational lead as they ate their cake and drank their coffee, and then he walked her to the wharf, said good-bye, and watched her drive away.

  As her car turned the corner and disappeared from view, he shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered back toward the shop to fetch his Jeep.

  He ought to forget about Kat Morgan—or whatever her name was. Instead of wasting his energies on a woman who appeared to have zero interest in the kind of mutual sharing necessary to lay the groundwork for a relationship of any kind, he should focus on finding female companionship in more appropriate places. Like a reputable dating site. Lots of people paired up through—

  “Zach! Hold up a minute.”

  As Charley’s voice rang across the wharf, he swiveled around.

  The man hurried toward him. “I’m glad I caught you. Could you do me a favor?”

  “Sure.”

  “I miscalculated with Kat’s taco order. I gave her change for a ten instead of a twenty. I’m surprised she didn’t notice. Since you live next door, I wondered if you’d mind passing this on.” He held up a flat, taped-up packet made from the white butcher paper he used for tacos, a dollar amount written on the outside.

  Zach smothered a sigh as his plans to avoid his neighbor disintegrated.

  “No problem.” He extended his hand.

  “Thanks.” Charley passed it over. “You two enjoy your cake?”

  Zach narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Eyes twinkling, Charley pointed to his hand. “The evidence speaks for itself.”

  Zach examined his thumb. A tiny smudge of chocolate icing clung to the nail.

  Sheesh.

  Another example of Charley’s powers of observation and deductive reasoning.

  “The cake was excellent. Kat enjoyed it.”

  “Your brother was partial to it too.”

  He squinted at him.

  Why would Charley bring up Josh today of all days? Especially in light of the fact that they’d only talked about him once, not long after Zach had put down roots in town.

  “How do you know that?”

  “He liked to hang out in Hope Harbor. I think he’d have moved here one day if the Lord hadn’t called him home at such a young age. I shared a piece of Eleanor’s cake with him on several occasions, sitting on the very bench where you and Kat had lunch.”

  “How come you never told me that?”

  Charley adjusted his Ducks cap. “I didn’t get the feeling you wanted to talk about him.”

  “Why do you think that’s changed?” Yes, he’d shared Josh’s story with Kat today—but Charley couldn’t know that.

  “Call it intuition.” A drop of rain splattered on the pavement, and Charley gave the sky a sweep. “We appear to be in for unsettled weather. I’ll let you get home. But as long as we’re talking about Josh—you might want to know he found great strength in prayer.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” His brother’s faith had always been strong.

  “I think he’d be pleased with the outcome of his appeals to the Almighty.”

  A hard, cold knot formed in Zach’s stomach. “He died, Charley. That’s not a positive outcome.”

  The man’s demeanor—and tone—gentled. “He didn’t pray for himself, Zach. He prayed for you. Those prayers could be why you’re here.”

  Zach clamped his jaw shut.

  No.

  Prayer had nothing to do with his decision to move to Hope Harbor.

  He was here because after his own desperate pleas to God to save his brother had gone unanswered, grief had forced him to rethink his life.

  But Charley, with his indefatigable optimism and rock-solid faith, wasn’t likely to be receptive to that line of thinking.

  “I’ll see that Kat gets this.” He lifted the packet.

  “I appreciate that.” Charley pulled out the keys to his car. “Tell her I expect to see her at the stand again soon. If she gets out and about more, she may begin to realize good can often come from bad.” With that, he struck off down the wharf.

  The rain intensified in the wake of his departure, and Zach jogged the opposite direction, tucking Kat’s change into the inside pocket of his jacket—and mulling over Charley’s parting comment.

  It was hard to argue with the idea that good could come from bad. He was proof of it. If Josh hadn’t died, he’d be in Chicago today, caught up in the corporate survival of the fittest battle—and married to a woman who was all wrong for him.

  But the price for his escape from that fate had been too high. He’d rather still be a rat in the race and have Josh in his life.

  As for what good could come from the bad situation Kat faced—who knew? If Charley was privy to details of her dilemma, he wasn’t sharing them . . . and neither was she.

  If ever a person could benefit from divine guidance, however, it was her.

  And since none of his attempts to extend the hand of friendship had worked, it couldn’t hurt to give prayer another shot on her behalf.

  And hope the Almighty took more pity on her than he had on Josh.

  12

  “Whatever we’re having for dinner smells divine.” Stephanie sniffed the delicious aroma wafting through Zach’s house as she entered and followed the scent to the kitchen, where her nephew was stirring the contents of a large pot.

  “Welcome back. Did you have fun exploring today?” He called the question over his shoulder.

  “Fantastic. Your corner of the world has much to recommend it.”

  “I think so—and I’m glad you agree. What’s all that?” He indicated the two overstuffed grocery bags she hefted onto the counter.

  “A few provisi
ons. If you’re going to cook for me, I intend to provide some of the ingredients—plus a few extras.” She dug through the bag and extracted a wedge of cheese. “I found a wonderful gourmet food shop in Coos Bay, and they had one of my favorite treats—Cotswold cheddar with chives. Have you ever tried it?”

  “No.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve been missing. Trust me—you’ll love it.” She began emptying the sacks.

  “What did you do, buy out the store?” He watched as she removed fillets, pork tenderloin, crackers, veggies, and assorted other items.

  “Not quite—but I will be going back. I also found a fabulous hair salon . . . and I splurged on this.” She wiggled her fingers his direction to display her fresh manicure.

  “Nice.”

  At the disconnect between his compliment and his expression, Stephanie cocked her head. “What does that look mean?”

  He shifted his attention back to the pot. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about your that-reminds-me-of-a-subject-we-should-talk-about-but-I-don’t-know-how-to-bring-it-up look.”

  He snickered. “You have a vivid imagination.”

  “Uh-huh.” She let the subject rest while she stowed the perishables, then leaned back against the counter, folded her arms, and tackled it again. “Okay. Spill it. You have something on your mind. Are you trying to figure out how to unload your houseguest? Am I beginning to stink, like Ben Franklin’s fish?”

  That earned her a grin. “You don’t stink, and you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. You liven up the place.”

  “Thank you—I think. But that doesn’t explain your look.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he stirred more vigorously. “I, uh, had an interesting conversation with Frank this morning.”

  Huffing, she rolled her eyes. “You’re not back in matchmaking mode, are you? We had that discussion already.”

  “I know, and I’ve hung up my cupid bow and arrow. As you made clear after the Hope House meeting, I stink at that.”

  “I don’t recall being quite that blunt.”

  “Nevertheless, I got the message. But your name did come up while Frank and I were shutting down for the day.”

  “In what context?”

  “I mentioned you might be willing to help paint at Hope House, and he was a bit taken aback.”

  Not what she’d expected.

  “Why would that surprise him?”

  Zach put the lid on the pot and faced her. “Can I be honest?”

  “By all means. It’s easier to tackle situations if all the data is on the table.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, as if he was uncomfortable. “I don’t want to butt in here, but I’m pretty certain he likes you. Problem is . . . he thinks you’re out of his league.”

  Stephanie did her best to maintain an impassive expression as Zach gave her his take on Frank’s concerns—including the man’s manicure comment—along with a smattering of personal background that helped explain them.

  After he finished, she examined her freshly polished nails. “He’s wrong about me, you know. I’m not averse to rolling up my sleeves and getting dirty. In fact, I did most of the renovations in my apartment myself.”

  Zach’s eyebrows rose. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. After the mental gyrations I went through in my job, I found working with my hands relaxing.”

  “Can I be honest again? You’ve never struck me as the prima donna type, but I can’t quite envision you dressed in overalls and brandishing a wrench.”

  “Let’s not get carried away. I don’t gut bathrooms or fool with major electrical issues. Those are out of my league. But I’m a whiz at drywall mudding and taping, I wield a mean paintbrush, and I know how to use a miter saw and install crown molding.”

  “I’m impressed—and Frank would be too.” He gave the contents of the pot another stir. “The issue he has may go beyond what he said, though. A fair number of men can be intimidated by high-powered, successful women.”

  “Only if they’re insecure—in which case they’re not worth my time. I don’t think Frank falls into that category. I get the feeling he’s comfortable in his skin and with his place in the world.”

  “That’s a fair assessment.”

  “Factoring in everything you’ve told me, I suspect he has a couple of concerns. First, he’s afraid I’m a high-maintenance woman who expects to be waited on hand and foot, and second, he’s worried our different backgrounds and experiences are incompatible.”

  “I’d say that’s spot-on.”

  “Well, it’s garbage.” She propped her fists on her hips, her delivery growing more impassioned as she warmed to the subject. “I don’t believe the world revolves around me, nor do I have to run every show. And as long as two people are in sync on the levels that matter—intellectual, emotional, spiritual, philosophical—background and experience are secondary.”

  “Hey—don’t kill the messenger.” Zach grinned at her. “If you can toss a smidgen of that sass in this pot, I won’t have to add any hot sauce.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  But he was right.

  She was getting too riled up.

  And for a woman who’d held on to her cool in every conceivable corporate situation, from hostile clients to tense negotiations to unwanted personal advances, this was out-of-pattern behavior.

  She needed to calm down.

  “Personally, I like a feisty woman.” Zach’s tone was tinged with humor.

  “I prefer the term spirited.” She managed to conjure up a smile. “And I do appreciate the insights on Frank.”

  “I thought it was only fair for you to know the obstacles he’s put in the path—assuming you’re also interested.” He stopped stirring and looked over at her. “And now I’m fading into the background and letting you take it from here. Or not. We’re eating in half an hour.”

  “Works for me. What are we having?”

  “Cioppino, featuring shellfish and halibut straight off the wharf. I picked up the ingredients after the boats came in.”

  “I’m glad I had a light lunch. Give me a few minutes to freshen up and I’ll set the table.” She grabbed her purse and escaped to the guest room.

  Once behind her closed door, she walked over to the bed, dropped onto the edge, and took a slow, calming breath.

  This was nuts.

  She was getting all worked up about a man she barely knew. Acting like an adolescent schoolgirl in the throes of her first crush.

  But she wasn’t an adolescent—and neither was Frank. If they were attracted to each other, they should behave like mature adults and address the situation.

  Scratch if.

  She was definitely attracted to Frank—and she’d be willing to bet a hefty chunk of her lump-sum retirement package the feeling was mutual.

  Yet so far, neither of them were handling this in a way that reflected their age and experience. Frank was backing off due to incorrect assumptions—and she was letting him.

  That wasn’t her style.

  After all her years in the business world, she’d learned how to take control of a situation and get results. If she wanted to test the waters with Frank, she ought to dive in. Make the first move.

  The real question was whether that was wise.

  She flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  If she did pursue Frank, what would be the point? A brief vacation romance held no appeal, and the geographic challenges to a longer-term relationship were formidable. Frank had found his niche in Hope Harbor, and after living in small towns for most of his life and enjoying the wide-open spaces of national parks on vacations, a move to New York wasn’t likely in his future.

  Meaning she’d be the one who’d have to upend her life to accommodate a relationship.

  Hope Harbor was terrific, and the Oregon coast was magnificent, but living here? That would require major alterations to the plans she’d laid out for retirement and a seismic
shift in mindset.

  Nevertheless . . . it seemed foolish to pass up what felt like a heaven-sent opportunity without doing due diligence. Men like Frank didn’t come along every day. And while she’d long ago written off romance, perhaps God hadn’t.

  Was it possible he’d been saving it for a stage in her life when she had the time to give a man her full attention?

  She rose and began to pace as she pondered that question—and tried to come up with an action plan.

  Strange how she’d been so definitive in the business world but couldn’t decide what to do about Frank.

  Best strategy?

  Do what she’d done during her executive career while dealing with an especially thorny dilemma.

  Give it a few days. Sleep on it. Let the pros and cons percolate in her mind.

  And hope an answer came to her before she wore out her welcome with Zach and had to return to New York, leaving Hope Harbor—and Frank—behind.

  Perfect.

  Katherine gave a satisfied nod as she examined the tray of blackberry truffles. This batch was even more professional-looking than the first. And now that FedEx had delivered her candy molds, she could begin experimenting with the recipe she’d found for caramel-filled sea salt chocolates.

  She assembled her ingredients and equipment, but just as she was preparing to dive in, the doorbell rang.

  Could it be Charley again, stopping by on his way home with another taco delivery?

  Not likely at three thirty on a Friday afternoon. Too late for lunch, too early for dinner.

  Besides, on his last visit he’d announced his arrival with a knock, not by pressing the doorbell.

  And it wouldn’t be Zach—much as that possibility appealed to her after their cozy tête-à-tête at the coffee shop yesterday. The back door was more his style.

  She snagged a dish towel and wiped her hands as the bell rang again.

  Probably another FedEx delivery with more of her favorite West African chocolate.

  But when she peeked through the peephole, her lungs locked.

  Simon was here?

  Good heavens.

  What on earth could have compelled him to leave his LA comfort zone behind and venture into the wilds of Oregon?