Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  “Are you thinking we should sell out to a bigger grower who’s all about economies of scale and mechanization?” His tone remained conversational, but his nostrils flared.

  She tugged at a renegade runner from one of the plants. “That’s one option. But I’d like to keep it as a last resort.”

  “I won’t argue with that. These seventy acres are my life.” He scanned the fields around them. “I can’t imagine letting some big, faceless operation take over. Your grandfather and grandmother sweated blood sixty years ago to plant their first eight beds—and the next four weren’t any easier. All I ever knew growing up was cranberries. Even as kids, your father and I weeded in the spring and summer and harvested in the fall. You did the same.” He shook his head. “It’d be a shame to let that legacy die.”

  “I agree.” She smoothed a finger along the dog-eared edge of the file she’d been working on late into the night for the past few days. “But the numbers don’t lie and there’s nowhere to cut. We already run a bare-bones operation, and our equipment is getting old.”

  “Aren’t we all. Much as I hate to admit it, the work seems harder with every new growing season.” Uncle Bud sighed and surveyed the blossoming beds around them. “You know, maybe we should let this place go. I don’t want to saddle you with a losing proposition—plus a boatload of debt. You’re young and smart and well educated. There’s a whole world out there that could offer you an easier, better life.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve sampled that world. It might be easier financially, but it’s not better. This is where I belong, Uncle Bud. My heart is here. It always has been and it always will be. There has to be a solution.”

  “I could pick up some more hours at the golf course. They’d be glad to have me, with the shortage of reliable workers around here for groundskeeping work.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but I hate the thought of your already long days getting longer.” She yanked at a tenacious dandelion.

  “I’ve never been afraid of hard work, honey. And Nancy was saying the other night that much as she loves me”—he paused to wink—“she misses the gals she worked with at the café. I believe she was hinting that she wouldn’t mind going back for two or three shifts a week.”

  That wouldn’t add a whole lot to their coffers . . . but every contribution helped.

  She squeezed the weed in her hand, then tossed it aside. “There are a few new businesses in town. I could pay them a visit, see if they need the services of a CPA.”

  “How much outside income would we have to generate this season to not only break even but build a little cushion?”

  She opened the file, did some quick mental calculations, and gave him a number.

  “With all of us taking on some extra work, we should be able to hit that, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. This year.”

  “Then let’s go with that plan. We can regroup in the fall and decide on next steps. No sense worrying about it all summer. Let’s do our best and leave the outcome to God.” He rose. “Now you go on up to the house and get yourself a treat. Nancy would love the company.”

  “Why don’t you join us?” She stood too, trying not to wince.

  “I may do that—after I take care of a few things out here.”

  That meant it would be just her and Nancy sharing coffee and dessert. Some chore would distract her uncle, as usual, and he’d end up staying in the beds until dinner.

  But perhaps today he also needed some breathing space to absorb her bad news—and try to come to grips with it.

  “Okay. I’ll see you soon.” She gave him a cautious hug.

  “You take care of those bumps and scrapes.”

  “Will do.” With a wave, she returned to the road, tucked the file in the basket, and pedaled toward the house.

  When she looked back, he was already in the middle of the cranberry plants, bending down to examine a blossom, immersed in the only world he’d ever known. A world they both loved and would do anything to preserve.

  But as she guided her bike down the gravel road, she had a sinking feeling that no matter how hard they all worked, they were merely pushing off the inevitable.

  The truth was, it would take a miracle to save Harbor Point Cranberries.

  And miracles were few and far between.

  This was crazy.

  Frowning, Michael slowed his car as he turned onto Anna Williams’s street.

  Why in the world would he consider accepting an offer of housing from a stranger whose references he hadn’t bothered to check? Back home, his decision-making routine always included thorough research and analysis.

  But Hope Harbor wasn’t Chicago. Nor was it the quiet, peaceful destination he’d expected to find at the end of his long journey. Instead, he’d been greeted with an unwelcome surprise at the motel, a near calamity with a bicyclist, a free lunch from a philanthropic taco maker, and a lodging proposition from a stranger.

  No wonder he was feeling off balance.

  He dug in his shirt pocket for the slip of paper with Anna’s street number but pulled out the cryptic message from Charley instead. Easing to the side of the road, he flipped it open with one hand and reread the Bible citation.

  Job 14:7–9.

  Strange. The man hadn’t struck him as the religious type during their chat.

  Curiosity piqued, he pulled out his phone. Might be interesting to see what that passage was all about while he dithered over Anna Williams’s offer.

  Once the chapter opened, he scrolled down and read the verses Charley had called out.

  “For a tree there is hope; if it is cut down, it will sprout again, its tender shoots will not cease. Even though its root grow old in the earth and its stump die in the dust, yet at the first whiff of water it sprouts and puts forth branches like a young plant.”

  Michael skimmed the unfamiliar passage again, his grip tightening on his cell. How had the taco man discerned that a stranger on a bench was nursing a withered heart and spirit?

  And how had he known the perfect passage to offer? It was far more uplifting than the oft-quoted verses from Psalms or Matthew that were typically cited when words of consolation or hope were needed.

  Weird.

  If every day in Hope Harbor was this unnerving, it might be best to move on after all.

  He tucked the slip of paper back in his pocket, pulled out the one Anna had given him, and tapped it against the steering wheel. Maybe he ought to chuck this whole thing and head for the place the woman from the Gull Motel had found for him.

  No. It would be rude to stand up a kind stranger who’d spent the past couple of hours cleaning. But he wasn’t obliged to rent the place. If he got any more strange vibes, he could—and would—walk away.

  Accelerating again, he continued down the street until he spotted the white-frame Cape Cod that matched the address she’d given him, the promised annex on the right side. Roses bloomed beside the columns supporting the small front porch, and the property was surrounded by a weathered picket fence. The street was quiet, and the place was tidy, well maintained, and within walking distance of the harbor.

  So far, so good.

  He set the parking brake, and as he slid from behind the wheel, a movement inside the front window caught his eye. Anna—or the husband indicated by the wedding ring she’d worn, no doubt wondering what had possessed his wife to recruit a lodger from a park bench. In her spouse’s place, he’d certainly be on his guard.

  Michael pushed through the gate and arrived at the porch in a few long strides.

  Anna answered on the first ring—but only opened the door halfway. “I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

  “I did have a few second thoughts.” Candor deserved candor.

  “Join the club.” She waved a hand toward the side of the house. “I’ll meet you by the entrance to the annex. It’s in the back.” She shut the door in his face. A moment later, the lock clicked.

  Huh.

  The woman was as cautious as he
was about this arrangement.

  Some of the tension in his shoulders slackened. If she was wary about him—a reasonable reaction by an honest, law-abiding citizen—she wasn’t some nutcase. And in this small seaside town where bicyclists injured in accidents didn’t threaten to sue and taco makers doled out free food along with a healthy helping of hope, an offer of hospitality from a kind but guarded stranger suddenly didn’t seem so odd.

  He turned, descended the steps, and circled the house.

  At the edge of the annex, he paused. The back of the Cape Cod was as well kept as the front. Grass neatly clipped, a table and solitary chair centered on an uncluttered patio, pruned bushes spaced around the yard.

  If the accommodations were as meticulous as the exterior of the house, he might just quash his big-city caution and go for it.

  Anna pushed open the sliding door at the back of the house, exited, and met him at the annex. After fitting a key in the lock, she opened the door and waved him in. “Take your time. When you make a decision, knock on the back door.”

  With that, she retraced her steps and disappeared into the house.

  One thing he wouldn’t have to worry about if he stayed was a talkative landlady—a strong selling point, since he hadn’t come here to meet people or make new friends or socialize.

  Snap decisions might not be his usual forte, but once he crossed the threshold of the annex, he was 95 percent certain this was the spot for him. The room was spacious, with a queen-sized bed in the rear separated from a couch and easy chair in the front by a folding screen. To the right was a tiny kitchenette equipped with a fridge, microwave, and two-burner stove, along with a café table for two. The cabinets were stocked with more dishes and pots and kitchen utensils than he’d use in two years, let alone two months. The bath had all the basics, and a shower was more his style than a Jacuzzi, anyway. Overall the place was far bigger than any motel room. It was also spotless.

  Sold.

  He exited, crossed to the sliding glass door that led from the patio to the main house, and knocked.

  When Anna pulled the door open, a mouth-watering, warm-from-the-oven scent wafted out, tickling his taste buds.

  “I’ll take it.” Michael pulled his checkbook out of his jacket. “This is much nicer than a motel.”

  The subtle tension in her features eased. “Okay. Good.” She wiped her flour-dusted hands on the towel draped over her shoulder and joined him on the patio. “You can write your check at that table.”

  Still no invitation to come inside, even though he’d be living on her premises for weeks. Wary as she was, she’d surely had her friend the police chief run some basic information—and knew he wasn’t some reprobate. Yet she didn’t want him in her house.

  Curious.

  He moved to the chair, sat, and flipped open the cover of the checkbook. “How much would you like upfront? I’m planning to stay about six weeks, give or take a few days.”

  “Let’s go two weeks out—in case one of us changes our mind.”

  A sensible suggestion . . . but he doubted any change of heart would be on his end.

  “Fair enough.” He wrote in the amount, signed the check, and handed it over. “Is it all right if I bring my stuff in before I run to the grocery store?”

  “Of course. You can park on the right side of the driveway while you’re here. Just leave room for me to get my car in and out of the garage. Oh . . . the rental also includes weekly housecleaning. On Saturday afternoons, unless that day is a problem.”

  An unexpected bonus. With most longer-term rentals, you were on your own for cleaning.

  “Saturday is fine.”

  She tucked the check in the pocket of her apron. “If you need anything while you’re here, knock on the back door. I also left my cell number in the left kitchen drawer in case I’m not home. Otherwise, I’ll respect your privacy.”

  No mention of a husband.

  She must be divorced or widowed.

  “Thank you.”

  With a dip of her head, she took a step back. “I hope you have a beneficial stay.”

  He cocked his head. An interesting choice of word. Most people would have said enjoyable.

  Did everyone in this town have some sort of ESP?

  “Thanks.” He edged toward the side of the house. “I’ll let you get back to your baking while I bring my bags in.”

  She was gone when he returned with his paraphernalia, and he didn’t linger outside. Great as those tacos had been, lunch was long past. Stocking up on some basic food supplies and scrambling a few eggs were his priorities tonight.

  Eggs.

  He pushed through the door, eyes narrowing as an image of the slender woman on the bike flashed through his mind. She’d taken a hard fall. The scrape on her hand had been nasty—and what other less-visible trauma had she suffered? Was she still hurting?

  That notion didn’t sit well.

  Too bad he didn’t know who she was. At the very least, a note of apology seemed in order.

  He set his two cases beside the bed. Might his landlady be able to identify her from a description? Hope Harbor wasn’t all that big—three, four thousand people at the most—and Anna had lived here for decades. Maybe he’d ask her if the opportunity arose.

  But when he returned from his shopping expedition an hour later, she was nowhere to be seen—and knocking on her door the very first night might not be wise. If he made a pest of himself, she might throw him out after the two-week test run.

  Juggling his grocery sacks, he unlocked the door, nudged it open with his shoulder—and froze.The scent that had wafted out from Anna’s house earlier now filled the annex—and it took him no more than a second to spot the source.

  A plate of fresh-baked cookies rested in the center of the small café table.

  After dumping his groceries on the counter, he made a beeline for the treat . . . but pulled up short when he reached the table. They looked—and smelled—like his favorite soft ginger cookies.

  The ones Julie used to bake.

  He picked one up, the warmth from the oven seeping into his cold fingers as he took a careful bite and chewed.

  No.

  These weren’t exactly like Julie’s. There was a subtle flavor difference.

  But the taste was close enough to send a tiny quiver down his spine. It was almost as if his wife were welcoming him to the town she’d loved.

  Cookie cooling in his hand, Michael shook his head. Ridiculous. Signs . . . symbols . . . omens . . . they were all mumbo jumbo. A last resort for desperate people seeking reassurance or answers—and he wasn’t that desperate.

  Yet as he finished the cookie, it was hard to pass off all that had happened today as mere coincidence. Julie certainly wouldn’t have. She’d always seen God’s hand in everything. Like that day they’d gotten a flat tire in the middle of a torrential downpour during a long-overdue outing to the country for a picnic. To make matters worse, she’d left her cell phone at home and his had died. The icing on the cake? Their spare tire had been low on air.

  While he’d griped and grumbled, she’d patted his arm and reassured him it wasn’t the end of the world. The rain would stop eventually, and meanwhile, why not turn on the emergency flashers and enjoy their picnic in the car?

  She’d finally coaxed him back into a better humor, and as they’d started on dessert, the rain did taper off. A passing motorist stopped to see if they needed help, then called a road service for them.

  “This may have been your lucky day.” The older man had pocketed his phone as he spoke.

  Michael hadn’t tried to hide his skepticism. “I can’t see how a flat tire qualifies as lucky.”

  “Well, I don’t know where you folks were going, but there’s a bad accident about twelve, fourteen miles up the road. Real bad.” He grimaced, shaking his head the direction he’d come from. The way they were heading. “Multicar. It looked to me like there were fatalities. If nothing else, the flat kept you out of that traffic snarl—but
it might also have kept you out of the accident.”

  Julie hadn’t said a word, but in the silence that fell while they waited for the road service truck to arrive, he’d known she was thanking God for keeping them safe—and praying for those in the accident who hadn’t fared as well.

  And as he moved to the cabinets in Anna’s annex and began putting away his groceries, Michael knew exactly what she’d say to him if she were here now.

  “I’m sorry your visit has gotten off to a rough start, but give the place a chance. Everything happens for a reason. Trust in God and go with the flow.”

  He slid the eggs into the refrigerator, not certain the woman on the bike would agree with that sentiment as she nursed her bruises and scrapes.

  But for now, he was going to do his best to chill out, take this visit a day at a time—and give Hope Harbor a chance to live up to its name.

  3

  As the congregation launched into the refrain of the final song, Michael gave up any pretense of singing and stuck his hymnal in the slot on the pew in front of him.

  He didn’t belong here.

  Just because he’d spotted this small church while exploring the town over the past two days—and just because this was where he’d have been if Julie were with him—didn’t mean he should have come alone. Sunday services hadn’t been part of his life for the past eighteen months . . . nor had they been on his itinerary for this trip.

  The last resounding chords of the organ died away, and he fell in with the crowd exiting the pews. A few people gave him a polite nod and smile, but no one said more than a simple hello. Not a problem. He hadn’t come to church today to socialize. Nor, in all honesty, had he come to commune with God. He was only here because this was where Julie would have wanted him to be on his first Sunday in Hope Harbor.