Blackberry Beach

by Irene Hannon

  The corners of her lips rose a hair. “You know, in many ways you remind me of Richard.”

  That wasn’t the most flattering comparison he’d ever received.

  “So what’ll it be? Spill the news, or face the inquisition?”

  “Put like that . . .” She lowered herself to the arm of the couch. “It’s about your dad.”

  His instincts were batting a thousand.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s having health issues.”

  Zach schooled his features, doing his best to maintain a dispassionate expression despite the knot forming in his stomach. “What kind?”

  “Shortness of breath during the few days I was there—and other symptoms as well, I expect, though he didn’t share those. I insisted he visit his doctor. He got the verdict a few days ago. There’s blockage in his heart that has to be addressed. He’s having bypass surgery on Monday.”

  Zach’s lungs stalled.

  His father was having a major operation in five days?

  And he hadn’t bothered to mention that during their unexpected phone conversation on Sunday?

  A stab of hurt knifed through him.

  “Are you going back?” Somehow he managed to rasp out the question.

  “No. He finagled a promise from me not to let his news disrupt my vacation. He said he’s given everyone my number in case there’s an emergency, but he’s convinced he’ll sail through and be back to normal after rehab.”

  “What do you think?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not a doctor. That type of surgery has a high success rate—but there are always risks. It seems to me a family member ought to be standing by.”

  And if she’d promised to remain in Hope Harbor, there was only one other candidate for that job.

  “You think I should go to Atlanta?”

  “It’s your decision, Zach.”

  He forked his fingers through his hair. “Did he ask you not to tell me about this?”

  “Yes . . . but I didn’t make any promises.”

  “Given the state of our relationship, I can’t imagine he’d appreciate me showing up at his hospital bed. He’d probably tell me to mind my own business, that he didn’t need my help, and to go back to my little coffee shop hobby.” Despite his attempt to maintain an even tone, he couldn’t hide his bitterness.

  Stephanie rose, crossed to him, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. “The stoic front he presents to the world is more show than reality, Zach.”

  “No, it’s not.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I lived with him until I was eighteen. It’s reality. As is his conviction that his opinion is always right. It’s not easy to have a relationship with someone like that.”

  “I hear you.” She retracted her hand but remained beside him. “However—despite his reputation as the hard-nosed, take-no-prisoners type, I remember Richard as a little boy who wore his heart on his sleeve . . . and often got hurt as a result.”

  Dad, wearing his heart on his sleeve?

  In what alternate universe had that taken place?

  “I don’t think we’re talking about the same person.”

  “I won’t argue with that—but you’re not the same person you were five years ago either. Neither am I. We’re all shaped by the events of our past. If they’re traumatic enough, we can change direction—as you did. Or we can develop defense mechanisms. Hide behind walls. Learn to present an image to the world that masks who we really are, deep inside. Like your dad did.”

  He narrowed his eyes as a niggling suspicion began to take root. “Are you referring to a specific trauma in Dad’s past—other than the bankruptcy your father went through when you were kids?”

  “Yes.”

  They were going to be very late for their Hope House commitment—but this conversation was too important to defer. “Let’s sit for a minute.” He motioned toward the couch and followed her over. Angled toward her after he sat. “Tell me about the trauma.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Appraised him. “Did you know he was fired from his first job?”

  A shock wave ricocheted through Zach. “No. I thought he . . . that he’d been with his current firm his whole career.”

  “He’s been there for most of it. But after law school, he got a job clerking for a respected judge. The man took him under his wing, gave him plum assignments. Your dad was on top of the world. The two of them became friends, and Richard trusted the man implicitly. Until he was indicted for accepting bribes and tried to set your dad up to take the fall.”

  He sucked in a breath.

  How could he not have known about an incident of this magnitude in his father’s past?

  “Dad never said a word about that. Neither did Mom.”

  “The whole family was under a gag order from your dad after you and your brother were born. He wanted to put the incident behind him. But he never forgot it. He lived in the shadow of disgrace for two years while the investigation dragged on. He took menial jobs that didn’t pay squat. Our father offered to help him out financially, but he wouldn’t take a dime. In the end, the truth came out and the judge took the full rap, but after that incident Richard closed himself in, doled out trust like a miser, and made security his priority.”

  In the silence that followed Stephanie’s story, Zach attempted to digest the implications of this startling chapter in his dad’s life.

  A trauma like that could explain a lot.

  Including his father’s anger when both sons walked away from careers—or potential careers—he viewed as their tickets to financial security.

  He wiped a hand down his face.

  “That’s a boatload of stuff to deal with in one fell swoop.”

  “I know. I’ve been debating how much to say ever since I talked to Richard. Getting in the middle of a father-son debate is tricky, and I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize my relationship with either of you.”

  “That’s not a concern from my end. And I appreciate the insights.”

  “So what are you going to do about Atlanta? Richard tried to downplay the situation on the phone with me, but I heard concern in his voice.”

  He had too, during their brief, unplanned conversation. The tremor he’d picked up had been subtle but unmistakable.

  “I don’t have a—”

  At a knock on the sliding door that led to his deck, he leaned sideways to see around Stephanie.

  She swiveled too—and dismay etched her features as she lowered her volume. “After I had tea with Kat, I told her to drop by anytime. I’m sorry. This isn’t an opportune moment.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  On the contrary. A quick chat with his neighbor could help defuse the stress of the past few minutes.

  He rose, crossed the room, and pulled the door open, doing his best to force up the stiff corners of his mouth. “Hi.”

  As Stephanie joined him, Katherine looked between the two of them. If he appeared as shell-shocked as he felt, she was probably regretting her impulsive visit, whatever the impetus.

  “I didn’t mean to intrude, but I decided to deliver this in person rather than drop it in the mail.” She leaned past him and held out an envelope to Stephanie.

  “You’re not intruding.” His aunt took it. “We’re getting ready to go work on the Hope House project I told you about while we were at tea. I see painting and wallpaper stripping in my immediate future.”

  “I won’t keep you, then.” She started to turn away.

  “If you’re not busy, why don’t you join us?”

  As Stephanie issued the invitation, Zach flashed her a silent drop it message. “I’m sure Kath—Kat—has more interesting things to do.”

  “Do you?” Stephanie ignored him as she directed the question to their visitor.

  “Um . . . I don’t know much about wallpaper stripping or painting.”

  “It’s easy. I learned everything I know from YouTube.” Stephanie gave her a bright smile. “Why don’t yo
u come along? It should be a companionable group, and you could pick up useful skills for the future. You’re already dressed for the job.”

  Zach gave his neighbor’s outfit a quick scan.

  That was true—but she wouldn’t want to expose herself to a group of strangers, in case someone recognized her . . . unlikely as that was in her present grub state.

  “Aunt Stephanie . . . I don’t think—”

  “If you could use another pair of hands—”

  As their comments overlapped, a soft flush bloomed on Katherine’s cheeks. “On the other hand, I’m not a Hope Harbor resident. Maybe I shouldn’t—”

  “I don’t live here either, and I’m volunteering.” His aunt waved the comment aside as she cut her off. “Many hands and all that. Right, Zach?”

  An elbow jab from Stephanie kicked his vocal cords into gear. “I don’t think anyone will complain if we bring along another helper.”

  “Of course they won’t.” Stephanie glanced between the two of them. “And donating a few hours to a charitable project is a perfect activity for a quiet Wednesday afternoon. Doing work with the hands often frees the brain to think.”

  “Are you leaving now?” Katherine took a tiny step back.

  “Yes. Zach’s driving.”

  She moved farther away. “I, uh, have a few chores to finish first. I could meet you later if I get them done. What’s the address?”

  Zach recited it.

  “I’ll do my best to come.” She turned and hurried back toward her house.

  Hands on hips, he watched her. If he was a betting man, he’d lay odds she’d never show. Whatever had prompted her to latch on to Stephanie’s invitation—loneliness, a sudden yearning to do a good deed, boredom—common sense would prevail in the end.

  Given her desire to remain under the radar, immersing herself in a bunch of strangers wouldn’t be smart.

  But as she disappeared from view, he couldn’t quell a surge of disappointment.

  After everything Stephanie had unloaded on him in the past fifteen minutes, he could use the distraction of female companionship—of the romantic variety—to take his mind off the decision looming in front of him.

  Should he go to Atlanta to be with his dad during the surgery and risk an abrupt and ungrateful dismissal—or stay here in Hope Harbor, where life was simpler and devoid of the tension and angst that would most certainly await him in the city of his youth?

  16

  Was that Stephanie?

  Frank set the brake on his car two doors down from Hope House and peered at the woman in safety goggles on the front lawn. Manning a miter saw, she motioned toward a piece of crown molding—as if she was instructing the people clustered around her how to cut it.

  Nah.

  It couldn’t be her.

  What were the chances a woman like Stephanie would know how to cut or install crown molding?

  Minuscule.

  But from this angle, it sure looked like her.

  He slid out from behind the wheel and approached the small group on the lawn, the woman’s voice drifting toward him.

  “Corners are the hardest to cut. Remember that for an inside corner, the bottom of the molding should be longer than the top. For an outside corner, the top will be longer. A coping saw is your best friend for corners.”

  It was Stephanie.

  Jaw dropping, he halted and gave her another scan as she proceeded to demonstrate how to use the saw.

  She was as dressed down as he’d ever seen her, in broken-in jeans, an untucked shirt, and sport shoes.

  Demonstration finished, she raised her head—and their gazes met.

  Surprise registered in her eyes . . . quickly followed by pleasure, unless his skills at reading body language weren’t as polished as he thought they were.

  The hesitant smile she sent him, however, confirmed his take.

  Close your mouth and stop staring, Frank.

  Following that sensible advice, he clamped his jaw shut and returned her smile.

  He waited until she finished fielding questions, then met her halfway as she walked toward him.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here today.” She brushed sawdust off her jeans and removed her safety goggles, mussing her stylish coiffure.

  She didn’t appear to notice—or care.

  “That goes both ways. Zach didn’t mention you’d signed on for the painting crew—although it appears you’ve been commandeered for a different job.” He motioned to the saw and crown molding.

  “A temporary reassignment. The guy who was supposed to lead the woodworking team got hung up. I was doing a basic introduction to get them started until he arrives.”

  “How did you acquire a skill like that?”

  “YouTube.” She grinned. “I renovated my whole apartment in New York on my staycations.”

  “You stayed home and rehabbed on your vacations?” He tried to wrap his mind around that piece of news.

  “Yes. I have a long-term lease, and the landlord was more than happy to let tenants make agreed-upon improvements. After all my travel, it was bliss to sleep in my own bed during my brief—and infrequent—days off.”

  A gust of wind whipped several strands of hair across her face, and she lifted a hand to brush them aside.

  Three things registered.

  Her fingers were long and graceful.

  The nail polish on her pinkie was chipped.

  And he had a sudden, strong urge to tuck her flyaway hair behind her ear.

  The latter was totally inappropriate.

  To corral that renegade impulse, he motioned to her hand and stuck his fingers in his pockets in case they decided to misbehave. “Your manual labor has already done a fair amount of damage.”

  She examined the chipped polish and shrugged. “The manicure was on its last legs anyway. And hurrying the process along is more than worth the fun I’m having.”

  Stephanie thought rehabbing was fun?

  Another point of difference between her and Jo Ann.

  His wife had been more than happy to pitch in on most jobs around the house, but she’d walked a wide circle around saws and drills—or any semidangerous tools.

  Zach’s aunt was full of surprises.

  “Could you use another set of hands with the crown molding?” The offer was out before he could stop it—surprising him as much as it seemed to surprise her.

  What had happened to the quick, impromptu walk-around he’d planned to do en route to the grocery store—and the quiet dinner on his patio to unwind after his busy Wednesday volunteer shift at the lighthouse?

  One answer sprang to mind—but he shoved it into a shadowy corner.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Are you on the list for today? Zach didn’t mention seeing your name.”

  “No. This was an unplanned stop. But I put up crown molding at our house in Coos Bay. If you’re short of experienced people, I could stay for a while.”

  “That would be terrific. Let’s go take measurements.”

  Without waiting for a response—or giving him an opportunity to rethink his offer—she strode toward the house.

  He followed.

  Slowly.

  This could be a mistake.

  After turning down her invitation to the national parks lecture, he ought to keep his distance.

  She hadn’t said anything about that, though—nor did she appear to hold his refusal against him.

  Maybe she’d simply accepted it for what it had been—an I-like-you-but-have-no-interest-in-romance message—and moved on. Her demeanor today suggested she was willing to be friends, with no expectation their relationship would ever progress beyond that.

  He should be relieved.

  So what was with the sudden pang of disappointment in the pit of his stomach?

  You know the answer to that, Frank.

  He sighed.

  Yeah, he did.

  It was easy to like Stephanie Garrett—and getting easier with every encounter.

  Bu
t if that trend continued . . . if liking suddenly began morphing into an emotion much deeper . . . it would open another can of worms.

  Several cans.

  Like, how could he have loved Jo Ann as much as he had, yet find himself attracted to someone new?

  And what would he do if he began to care too much for a woman whose life was on the East Coast, in an apartment with a long-term lease?

  He trailed after her—waving at Zach, who brandished a wallpaper scraper at him from one of the bedrooms as he passed the doorway.

  No answers to those questions came to mind.

  But if his changing perceptions of Stephanie continued to break down his defenses, he’d have to get himself in gear and nail them down.

  Otherwise, he could find himself falling for her—and putting his heart at risk of a very hard landing.

  Of course the wallpaper didn’t come off in long strips, despite the soaking he’d given it.

  And of course Katherine hadn’t shown.

  Zach attacked another piece of the stubborn floral paper that refused to relinquish its grip on the drywall, scraping with more force than necessary.

  With all the information Stephanie had dumped on him earlier, Katherine would have been a welcome distraction.

  Instead, his mind was in overdrive trying to reconcile the background she’d given him with what he knew about his father—and debating whether a trip to Atlanta should be in his immediate future.

  Funny how you could think you knew everything there was to know about a person, only to discover there were gaping holes in your data.

  Too bad they hadn’t been filled in years ago.

  If he and Josh had had a fuller understanding of their father’s history, it was possible they could have avoided the falling-out that had created a world of angst for all of them.

  As for the trip to Atlanta—who knew how his father would react if he showed up? What if having his older son appear at his bedside precipitated the very heart attack the surgery was designed to prevent?

  But if he didn’t go, and there were complications . . . if his father ended up—

  He couldn’t bring himself to form that thought.

  His dad couldn’t die.

  Not with so much unresolved between them.

  His father may have been a hard taskmaster during his growing-up years, but he’d also been supportive, encouraging, and proud of all his older son had accomplished.