Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  But after wrestling with his conscience most of the night over Helping Hands and finally conceding the battle, he needed the bicyclist’s name. He could track down the minister at her church and explain the whole thing—but if Anna knew who she was, that would be a whole lot easier. In view of his hostess’s reticence, she wasn’t likely to give him the third degree about why he needed that information, as the minister might.

  Halfway to the front porch, however, he paused. She’d told him to knock on the back door if he needed to talk with her, and it might be prudent to abide by the rules if he wanted his unofficial lease renewed after his two-week trial period was up.

  Altering his route, he circled back to her patio and rapped on the sliding door.

  Thirty seconds passed.

  Forty-five.

  A minute.

  Just when he’d decided she was going to ignore him, the slats on the vertical blinds pivoted and slid to the left. Anna stepped into view, flipped the lock, and opened the door a mere twelve inches.

  He gave her his friendliest smile. “Sorry to bother you, but I wanted to return this and say thank you. The cookies were great.”

  She took the plate he held out, lips flat. “Father Murphy is partial to that recipe. I bake him some every week, and I didn’t think he’d miss a few.” She reached for the door to slide it shut.

  No invitation for further conversation.

  He might have to ask the minister for the bicyclist’s name after all.

  “Well, if he does, tell him they went to a worthy cause.” He tried once more, ramping his smile up a notch.

  Didn’t work.

  The woman’s sour demeanor seemed set in stone.

  “He won’t notice. Counting cookies isn’t—”

  A sudden crash from inside the house cut her off.

  She swung around, hand still on the door.

  In the murky depths behind her, Michael detected a movement on the floor. Peered into the shadows.

  “Is that a . . . rabbit?”

  She looked down. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. I must not have latched the cage properly.”

  Leaving the door cracked, she crossed to the small, quivering cottontail. But as she approached, it hopped out of her reach.

  She tried again, with the same result.

  “Why don’t we try tag teaming this?” Michael opened the door another few inches, squeezed through, and approached the rabbit from the other side.

  The little critter cowered . . . then lunged for the open slider.

  Michael dropped down to one knee. “Not so fast, Thumper.”

  The rabbit veered behind an end table as he grabbed for it, tangling itself in a cord. The lamp on the table rocked, and Michael grasped it with one hand. Somehow he managed to capture the rabbit with the other—but he lost his grip on the fur ball as he lifted it. The lamp steadied, but while he fumbled the squirming rabbit, a framed photo fell off the table. Glass shattered . . . and the little guy wriggled free.

  Michael dove after it and finally snagged the nimble creature.

  Quiet descended.

  After taking a moment to catch his breath, he rose from his prone position, keeping a firm but gentle hold on the bunny. “What this guy lacks in size he makes up for in speed.”

  Anna moved behind him, closed the door, and reached for the rabbit. He released his hold, and she cradled the quivering mass of fur against her chest. “There, there, you’re okay.” She stroked the frightened bunny, her voice soft and comforting. “You’ll feel much better after you see the treat I got you at the grocery store.”

  Michael stared at the woman. The stern planes of her face, the hard line of her mouth, her no-nonsense manner were gone, replaced with softness, warmth, and affection.

  Was this the woman she’d once been?

  And if so, what had happened to steal all the joy and tenderness from her life?

  “I appreciate your help.” She transferred her attention from the rabbit to him, and while some of the usual aloofness was back in her tone, a touch of warmth lingered. Enough for him to broach the subject of the bicyclist?

  “No problem.” The rabbit began to squirm again, and he tipped his head toward it. “He might be happier in his cage until he calms down.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  While she was gone, he straightened the lamp, untangled the cord, and carefully collected the broken glass. Holding the shards in his palm, he picked up the frame, intending to set it back on the table.

  Instead, he did a slow blink.

  The young man in the photo could have been him twenty years ago.

  “He’s back in his cage, and I locked the . . .”

  As Anna spoke, he turned.

  Her gaze dropped from his face to the photo in his hand, and her voice trailed off.

  He waited for her to continue. To explain. Surely she’d noticed the uncanny resemblance, would comment on it.

  Yet the silence between them lengthened.

  At last he set the frame back on the table and held up his handful of broken glass. “Is there somewhere I can get rid of this?”

  “The trash can . . . in the kitchen.” She twisted her hands in front of her, then angled toward the door behind her, giving him access.

  He edged past her, into a clean but dated room with Formica countertops and avocado appliances.

  “It’s on the right, over there.” She led him to a plastic trash can beside the counter.

  As he deposited the glass, he took a quick inventory of what had once been a breakfast room. Now it was filled with assorted cages and boxes for birds and animals. In addition to Thumper, who was now watching the proceedings from behind bars, Anna’s menagerie included a small bird and a baby raccoon.

  All at once, a bright red splotch dropped onto the tile floor by his shoe.

  “You must have cut yourself.” Anna leaned closer to examine his hand.

  Despite his caution, one of the pieces of glass had managed to slice his index finger.

  “It’s no big deal. A small bandage will take care of it.”

  “I have plenty of those.”

  Before he could protest, she opened a floor-to-ceiling cabinet beside him. In addition to peel-and-stick bandages for humans, it contained assorted varieties of birdseed, eye droppers, heavy gloves, rolls of gauze, water bowls of different sizes—everything she’d need to care for injured or abandoned animals.

  “You can wash it off in the sink.” She motioned behind him.

  He did as instructed, drying the cut on a paper towel she provided.

  “This is an antibiotic cream.” She squeezed some onto a bandage, then secured the sterile covering around his finger. “Sorry you got dragged into this. I’ve never had an animal escape.”

  “I hope he didn’t do too much damage, other than the broken glass in the picture frame.”

  She ignored the opening he gave her to talk about the young man in the photo.

  “Nothing that mattered. I had some flowers on my hearth, but the vase had no sentimental value. Nothing else broke.”

  Except the picture frame.

  An off-limits topic, it seemed.

  “You have quite a collection here.” He gestured to the animal hospital.

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to ignore a creature in need—especially the babies. All of these were abandoned in the woods where I walk every day.” She gave each of her three nonhuman tenants a brief glance. “I take them in until they’re old enough to survive on their own. I have plenty of room. It’s a big house for one person.”

  “Have you lived here alone for a long time?” Short of asking her directly if she was a widow, he didn’t know how else to get that information—or why it mattered. Except he was curious about this taciturn, reserved woman who had let her guard down for a few brief moments with the rabbit. What lay under the aloof façade she presented to the world?

  “A lifetime.” The words quivered, and she turned away to clos
e the supply cabinet. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its usual no-nonsense timbre. “Almost twenty years, to be more precise. Thank you again for your help with the rabbit.”

  He was being dismissed—and he hadn’t yet broached the subject that had brought him over here in the first place.

  “Glad to be of assistance.” He walked through the small den to the sliding glass door, where he stopped. Better spit out his question. Who knew when he’d see her again? “I did have another reason for stopping by. I know you’ve lived in Hope Harbor for decades, and I thought you might be able to give me the name of a woman I need to contact here. I spoke with her after church on Sunday. She volunteers with an organization called Helping Hands.”

  “I know all about that group—but they have dozens of volunteers. What does she look like?”

  He described her. “She also said she was on the board.”

  “That would have to be Tracy Sheldon . . . no, Campbell now. Most of the other female board members are much older.”

  “Do you know how I could get in touch with her?”

  “She moved into town a couple of years ago, but she spends most of her time out at the farm.”

  “Farm?”

  “Harbor Point Cranberries, about two miles south of town. There’s a sign on the highway. It’s a family business—for now, anyway.” She sent a pointed glance toward the clock on the wall. “I need to make a batch of cookies for Reverend Baker.”

  No subtleties about this woman—but no need for him to linger, either. He had the information he needed.

  “I have things to do too.” Like take a drive to a certain cranberry farm. He crossed the threshold but stopped on the other side to flash her a grin. “What kind of cookies does the reverend like?”

  Her lips gave a slight twitch, as if they wanted to turn up but had forgotten how. “Pecan chocolate chip—and he doesn’t count his cookies, either, if you’d like a few.”

  “I never say no to cookies.”

  With a dip of her head, she shut the door, locked it, and closed the vertical blinds, once more insulating herself from the world.

  But as Michael returned to his room, pocketed his keys, and grabbed his jacket, he had a feeling her self-imposed isolation had nothing to do with animosity toward her fellow man and everything to do with some deep-seated hurt that had robbed the joy from her world.

  And while their lives might be very different in every other respect, that was one thing he and his landlady had in common.

  Tracy pulled the mower into its spot in the equipment shed, shut off the motor, and swiped her forehead on the sleeve of her T-shirt. Busy morning. She’d finished the tops of the dikes around all the beds, trimmed the grass growing in the center of the gravel road, and mowed around the equipment sheds and pump houses.

  Not bad for four hours’ work.

  Now came the fun part.

  She wrinkled her nose and took a swig from her water bottle.

  Swinging the weed eater back and forth on the sides of the dikes might not be on her top-ten list of favorite farm chores, but every bed she and Uncle Bud did themselves saved money—even if they only paid the teenagers they hired from the high school minimum wage.

  She stretched, took another guzzle of water, and recapped the bottle. In an hour or so she’d hunt down Uncle Bud and go see what Nancy had on the menu for lunch. First, however, she needed to weed whack.

  Picking up the weed eater, she weighed it in her hand. It wasn’t all that heavy, and once she got into the swinging rhythm she’d be able to cover a lot of ground—but there was no way to avoid the sore muscles she’d be nursing tomorrow thanks to her first grass gig of the season.

  After hoisting the tool over her shoulder, she exited the equipment shed and trekked toward the first bed, letting the soothing drone of the bees and the occasional call of a bird lull her. Could any place on earth be more peaceful?

  Or it was peaceful until the faint crunch of tires on gravel intruded on the serenity, followed by barks from Shep and Ziggy as they abandoned their bog-rat pursuit to investigate the intruder.

  She lifted her hand to shade her eyes against the midday sun. Unless Nancy was expecting a guest no one had mentioned, it was probably some tourist who’d seen their sign, thought Harbor Point Cranberries sounded quaint, and turned in hoping to see bright red berries floating in the bog and a homespun stand selling cranberry products.

  Her mouth twitched. This could be entertaining. The surprise on people’s faces when they realized the beds were dry most of the year and that this was a working farm with no tourist trappings was always comical.

  A dark gray Focus came into view, traveling slowly on the gravel road, and she continued toward it. Better to head the visitors off at the pass.

  The two large border collies bounded up beside her, still barking, and the car stopped.

  She reached down to give the dogs a pat. Her canine companions might sound and look intimidating, but only critters intent on pillaging the cranberry beds needed to fear them.

  She moved closer to the driver’s window, stopping a few feet away. Shep and Ziggy would probably come to her defense if she was threatened, but why put that theory to the test?

  The window rolled down—and despite the sunglasses that hid his blue eyes, she had no trouble identifying the driver as the man who’d caused her bicycle accident.

  Was the guy stalking her or what?

  “What are you doing here?” She raised her voice to be heard above the barking dogs.

  “Looking for you. I come bearing gifts—consider them a peace offering.” He lifted a styrofoam cup in one hand and a white bakery bag in the other. “Will I be risking life and limb if I get out of the car?” He eyed her yapping bookends.

  “Maybe.” She squinted at him. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I have my sources. Aren’t you curious about what’s in here?” He swung the bag back and forth.

  “No.”

  He studied her for a couple of seconds, sized up the dogs, and pushed the car door open.

  She took a step back.

  The two collies closed in on him, sniffed around, then muzzled their barks and plopped on their haunches while he gave them a pat.

  So much for her security shield.

  But there was no reason to be nervous. Uncle Bud was within shouting range, and she’d be willing to bet she could outrun this guy in his fancy leather shoes in spite of his longer legs. Besides, she also had a weed eater over her shoulder, and she could give it a pretty lethal swing if she had to.

  She lowered the piece of equipment, positioned it in front of her, and gripped it in both hands like a spear.

  Twin grooves creasing his forehead, the man set the cup on the hood of his car and removed his dark glasses. “I think I need to apologize again. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  She lifted her chin. “You didn’t.” Liar, liar! “We just don’t get many visitors out here.”

  “Actually, I’m here in the category of volunteer.”

  She furrowed her brow. “You want to work on the farm?”

  “No. I was talking about Helping Hands. After further consideration, I decided I’d offer my assistance for at least a few hours. Between that and this”—he held up the bag again—“I’m hoping I can finally make amends for last Thursday.”

  She loosened her grip on the weed eater and lowered it a hair. If the man was serious about volunteering, it would behoove her to be a bit more welcoming.

  “Why did you change your mind?” The question came out conversational rather than confrontational. Good.

  “It seemed like the right thing to do—not that I have many handy skills. But if you can find one you can use, I’m willing to sign up for a few hours.” He held out the bag. “We could talk about it while you eat this.”

  She lowered the weed eater to the ground, propped it against her hip, and took the peace offering. The dogs nosed in, but she nudged them back with her leg as she peek
ed in the bag.

  A cinnamon roll from Sweet Dreams Bakery—her favorite indulgence.

  “A replacement for the one that got crushed on Thursday.” He leaned back against his car. “I felt bad about the bread and the eggs too, but destroying your dessert—that definitely needed to be rectified.”

  No reason to tell him she’d eaten the smashed roll anyway.

  “Thanks.”

  He picked up the cup of coffee and held it out. “In case you want to eat it while we talk about Helping Hands.”

  Shep and Ziggy wandered back toward the cranberry beds, obviously more interested in chasing four-legged interlopers than listening to a human conversation.

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  He transferred the cup to his left hand and extended his right. “Michael Hunter, from Chicago. I’m staying in town with Anna Williams. I understand she cooks for your pastor.”

  She did a double take.

  This guy was staying with Anna Williams?!

  “How on earth did you manage that? She hasn’t rented out her annex in years.”

  “I have no idea. I was sitting on a park bench on the wharf, and she joined me. The offer of a place to stay came out of the blue.”

  Uh-uh. Not computing. The man might have charisma—not to mention a killer smile—but Anna wouldn’t be susceptible to either. Nor would she invite a stranger home.

  He lowered his hand. “You could call her if you want to check my story.”

  Warmth crept across her cheeks. Was she that easy to read?

  “I don’t blame you for being skeptical. I would be too, in your place. Anna’s not the most . . . gregarious person I’ve ever met. I’ll admit I was more than a little suspicious about her offer at first. In hindsight, however, I think it was providential.” Once more he offered his hand. “Shall we try again?”

  She wiped her palm on her jeans and took it. “Tracy Campbell.”

  His larger hand swallowed her fingers, his grip firm, warm—and somehow reassuring.

  “Is there somewhere we could sit while we talk about Helping Hands?” He glanced around.

  “The dike’s my usual spot.” She gestured to the earthen wall around the nearest bed and inspected his spotless jeans and crisp cotton shirt. “But you’re not dressed for sitting on the ground.”