by Irene Hannon
“I was having some trouble with the copper spray and had to duck into the equipment shed. I saw you in the distance.”
“Mmm.” She speared the meat with the tines of her fork, trying to come up with a way to frame the encounter that would keep her uncle from charging full-tilt into matchmaking mode. “Did you get the spray issue worked out?”
“Yes.” His eyes began to twinkle. “So who was that young man? You two appeared to be having a very intense discussion. And what were you eating?”
She squinted at him. “How did you see all that from the equipment shed?”
Now it was his turn to busy himself with the food on his plate. “I started to come over to talk to you, but once I got close I decided it might be better not to interrupt.”
Nancy looked back and forth between them. “I seem to have missed out on some very interesting activity happening right under my nose. Tell me more.”
“You know as much as I do.” Uncle Bud swirled a piece of meat in the rich gravy with his fork. “Tracy will have to fill us in on the rest.”
She gathered her carrots into a nice, neat pile, thinking fast. The best plan might be to give them the basics and try to play down the whole thing.
“His name is Michael Hunter, and he’s the man to blame for this.” She held up her healing palm. “He stopped by to apologize.”
“Very thoughtful—but how did he find you?” Uncle Bud poured himself another glass of iced tea.
“I think Anna Williams told him who I was. He’s staying in her annex.”
Nancy’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. He says she found him sitting on a bench by the wharf and offered him lodging.”
Nancy set her fork down. “In the five years I’ve lived in this town, Anna has never so much as said hello to me. I always smile and greet her when our paths cross, but the most I get is a stiff nod.”
“That’s all anyone gets. I don’t know what’s going on, either—and apparently, neither does Michael.” Tracy took a sip of her water.
“Very intriguing.” Uncle Bud rested his elbows on the table, his own meal forgotten. “The man must be quite a charmer if he can win over Anna Williams.”
By sheer force of will, Tracy kept her blush in check. “He’s very pleasant.”
“Did you find out why he’s in town?” Nancy went back to eating.
She gave them a brief overview of his background. Very brief.
As she finished, Uncle Bud took another slice of pot roast. “Sounds like a very upstanding man. You don’t pursue a career in the nonprofit arena unless you have a heart for helping people.”
“I suppose that’s true. Anyway, to make amends for the mishap on Thursday, he agreed to give us some assistance with Helping Hands.”
“How old is he?” This from Nancy.
When Tracy hesitated, her uncle stepped in. “Mid-to-late thirties. One of those men you and your lady friends would call a hunk.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Really? Too bad I didn’t get a gander at him. Is he married?”
Tracy squirmed in her seat as they both looked at her. “He’s a widower.”
Sympathy flashed across both their faces, but she didn’t miss the subtle gleam in her uncle’s blue irises.
Wonderful.
Balling her napkin in her lap, she sent him a warning scowl. “Don’t get any ideas, Uncle Bud.”
“About what?” He winked and slid an amused glance toward Nancy.
“Look, he’s only passing through.” She emphasized each word. “At most, he’ll be here a few weeks.”
“A lot can happen in a few weeks. Pass the rolls again, would you, Nance?” Her uncle held out his hand for the basket, keeping one eye on his niece.
Debate the point or let it go?
Let it go. Remember the line in Shakespeare about protesting too much.
Right.
Besides, it wasn’t likely she’d see Michael all that much. Perhaps a meeting or two about Helping Hands, one of which would involve all the board members. Their interactions would be professional and straightforward. And once he offered his recommendations and analysis, he’d go back to doing whatever he came out here to do and leave her in peace to come up with a plan to keep Harbor Point Cranberries afloat.
Until then, she needed to make certain her uncle stayed focused on the work at hand, not the stranger in town.
“Have all the fertilizers come in? I took a quick inventory over the weekend, and the potash hadn’t shown up yet. Should I call the supplier again?” She finished off her potatoes, doing her best to maintain a neutral expression.
Since his eyes continued to twinkle, she suspected he’d already figured out her strategy—but he gave her a reprieve on personal topics and moved on to business issues for the remainder of lunch.
By the time the meal ended and they headed back to work in the beds until the dipping sun forced them to call it a day, Tracy was beginning to think she might have convinced her uncle and his wife that her earlier encounter with Hope Harbor’s Chicago visitor was inconsequential.
But Uncle Bud’s comment as they parted at the equipment shed deflated those hopes.
“You never did tell me what you were eating while the two of you talked.”
She grabbed the weed eater, her aching shoulder sending out a loud protest. “A cinnamon roll. The one I bought at the bakery last Thursday got squashed in the bike incident.”
“A sweet treat delivered by a handsome man.” He waggled his eyebrows. “No wonder you weren’t too hungry at lunch.”
With that, he ambled off, insecticide in hand.
Tracy watched him leave, letting out a sigh. Uncle Bud didn’t miss much, the old softie.
However, even if Michael Hunter was handsome enough to not only drive all thoughts of food from her mind but also activate long-dormant hormones, their relationship would never progress beyond casual acquaintances.
She wouldn’t let it.
Because no matter how hard Uncle Bud pushed, she had no intention of falling for anyone ever again.
End of story.
6
Michael paused in the doorway of the annex to shake the sand from his shoes, eyeing the patio table with the solitary chair. Nice spot to sit and soak up some of the sun that had peeked out as he finished his daily walk on the beach—and far more appealing than the annex for reading the next few chapters of his mystery novel.
He slid his feet back into his deck shoes and inspected Anna’s side of the house. Closed up tight as the sea anemones that coiled into a protective tuck if he got too close during his beach walks. She hadn’t said his rent included use of the patio—but why would she mind? As far as he could tell, she never came into the backyard. The lawn service that had been here yesterday saw to the maintenance.
Decision made, he grabbed his book and a soft drink and crossed the yard to the table and chair. He’d stay for an hour or until the capricious sun disappeared, whichever came first.
Thirty minutes later, he heard the sliding door open behind him.
Uh-oh.
Psyching himself up to be reprimanded and banished to the four hundred square feet he’d rented, he removed his sunglasses, stood, and faced the house.
Instead of scolding him, however, Anna walked over and set a plate of plastic-wrap-covered cookies on the table. Pecan chocolate chip, as best he could tell—the ones she’d pilfered from Reverend Baker’s batch?
“I’ve had these sitting on my counter for you since last night. I tried knocking a few times, but you were out.”
“Thank you. They look great.” He motioned to the table and chair. “I hope you don’t mind me using your patio. It’s a nice, quiet spot to enjoy the sun and a good book—but I don’t want to infringe on your privacy.”
“You aren’t.” She scanned the yard, a hint of melancholy whispering at the edges of her voice. “I used to sit out here quite often, but it got to be too quiet.” Her words hitched, and she turned away. “You
’re welcome to use the patio anytime.”
“I’m sure you have a lot to do, but would you like to share a cookie or two with me first?” The spontaneous invitation spewed out before he could stop it.
Weird.
Why would he want to hang out with his unsociable landlady?
Yet he had been hoping for an opportunity to ask her more about Tracy—and he was almost as intrigued by this mystery woman as he was by the appealing cranberry farmer . . . for very different reasons.
No matter his motivation, however, it didn’t appear his curiosity was going to be satisfied today. She fiddled with her apron and withdrew a few steps. “Why?”
Not the response he’d expected.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to spend time with me?”
“Well . . .” His mind raced, trying to come up with a plausible but vague answer. “Eating by yourself is lonely. And it is pretty quiet out here, as you said.”
She flicked a hand toward his book as she continued to edge toward the house. “You have that to keep you company.”
He ran his thumb across the page, a sudden pang of sadness welling up from deep inside him. “To tell you the truth, it’s more distraction than company. Sometimes it’s easier to put off thinking about the hard stuff.”
As his admission hung in the air between them, he frowned. What had prompted that revealing comment?
Nevertheless, it halted her retreat.
“I read a lot too.”
He studied her guarded face. Was that an overture for more discussion—or merely a polite reply?
Only one way to find out.
“Getting lost in someone else’s story can be a great escape.” He closed the book. Perhaps a few more candid disclosures would draw her out. “My own story hasn’t been too upbeat these past few months. I lost my wife eighteen months ago—and I’m still dealing with a lot of regrets.”
A shadow passed over her eyes. “Regrets have a habit of lingering, sometimes a lot longer than eighteen months. Especially if they involve people we love.”
Did her regrets involve the young man in that picture frame he’d knocked over? Her husband? Both?
“I expect that’s true. If you have any advice about how to deal with them, I’m open to suggestions.”
She gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You’re asking the wrong person. Maybe Tracy Campbell can offer you some guidance.”
What was that supposed to mean?
“I met with her yesterday, but . . . I’m not sure I understand your suggestion.”
Anna shrugged. “I expect she has a few regrets . . . yet she seems to be carrying on fine. She must know a secret we don’t.”
“What kind of regrets?”
Anna’s shoulders stiffened, and dismay tightened her features. “That’s for her to share, if she chooses. I’ve said too much already. I’m not one to talk about other people’s troubles behind their backs. I can’t imagine what’s gotten into me.” She clasped her hands in a tight knot in front of her.
Michael hesitated. Curious as he was, if he pressed her about Tracy, she’d shut down. Better for the moment to focus on the mystery of the woman standing a few feet away.
“I can tell you’re the kind of person who respects other people’s privacy—and values your own. I admire that.” He searched for a benign topic to keep the conversation going. “Um . . . how’s the rabbit doing?”
Her posture relaxed a bit. “None the worse for wear.”
“Glad to hear it—though the same can’t be said of your picture frame.” He did his best to maintain a casual tone. “I’d be happy to replace the glass, since I broke it while in hot pursuit of our furry friend.”
“I already took care of it.” She smoothed her palms down her apron. Picked off a dried crumb. “In case you were wondering, that’s my son’s senior picture from high school. I’m sure you noticed he looks a lot like you.”
“Yes.” If she was willing to talk about the photo, they must be making progress. “The resemblance is uncanny. Does he live in the area?”
“No. Seattle.”
“At least he’s not too far away. Do you get to see him often?”
Her face contorted. “No. We haven’t spoken in twenty years.”
She and her son had been estranged for two decades?
No wonder she wore such a heavy cloak of sadness.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.”
She angled away from him, toward the shuttered house, her manner once more brisk and impersonal. “It’s ancient history now. Life goes on. Enjoy the cookies.”
Before he could respond, she hurried back inside and closed the door.
Slowly Michael retook his seat and regarded the treat she’d given him. Anna might not have accepted his offer to share the cookies, but what she had shared was much more substantive.
What could have caused such a terrible rift between a son and a mother who obviously still loved him?
And her comment about Tracy was just as perplexing. What sort of regrets might the young widow harbor? Could they be anything like his?
No.
He picked up his soda. Took a long swallow. Tracy seemed like the kind of person who would have her priorities straight. Who would always put the people she loved first.
Perhaps her regrets had more to do with Anna’s earlier comment, about Harbor Point Cranberries being a family business—for now. Was the farm in financial trouble? Had Tracy made some operational mistakes that had put it in jeopardy, along with her and her uncle’s livelihood? That could certainly cause regrets.
Yet somehow he had a feeling hers were far more personal.
Could they be related to her deceased husband?
So many questions . . . so few answers.
Michael took another swig of soda, picked up his mystery novel again, and opened it to the page he’d been reading when Anna came out.
But even though the book had been lauded as riveting and spellbinding by prestigious reviewers, he couldn’t lose himself in it again.
Because the mysteries much closer to home were far more intriguing.
“May I interrupt—or will I be eating burned meat loaf if I do?”
Turning, Anna found Reverend Baker hovering on the threshold of the kitchen.
Hmm.
The minister rarely bothered her during her visits to prepare his dinners for the week and stock his fridge. Like all the other Hope Harbor residents, he’d long ago gotten the message she didn’t like chitchat and preferred to be left alone.
He must have a serious matter to discuss.
“You aren’t interrupting anything important. I’m in the cleanup phase.” She wiped her hands on her apron.
He strolled in. “Don’t let me delay you—I can talk while you wrap things up. I’ll even help, if you like.”
“No, thanks. I have a system.”
The man chuckled and slid onto a stool at the island. “You sound like my Esther, God rest her soul. She had the sweetest disposition of any woman I’ve ever met, but in the kitchen she was the commander in chief—and pity the poor soul who got in her way. Now and then she’d let me help with the dishes, but in general I tried to stay out of her way.”
Anna rested a hip against the countertop. “I have a feeling I would have liked her.”
“Everyone did. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone for eight years.” He pulled a grape off the bunch she’d deposited in the fruit basket earlier. “Moving here after she died, to a new town and a new church, was a wise choice, though. A change of scene can help put the past to rest and force you to forge ahead with life.”
The minister was certainly in a talkative mood today.
Kind of like she’d been earlier, with Michael on the patio—a lapse she didn’t intend to repeat twice in one day.
“I suppose that can be true.” She swiped up a speck of tomato sauce from the counter. “But there’s a lot to be said for staying in one place too—especially if it’s be
en your home for most of your life. Familiar territory has its pluses.”
“Also true. Leaving behind happy memories would be hard.”
Yes, it would.
As for the unhappy ones—not hard at all.
But those would have followed her wherever she went, anyway.
“So what did you need to talk with me about?” She kept scrubbing the counter. If she stayed busy, she could listen to what he had to say without a lot of eye contact or engagement.
“Not talk so much as say thank you.”
She stopped and glanced over at him. “For what?”
“For giving Michael Hunter a place to stay. Did you know he was the CEO of a charitable organization?”
“Yes.” She resumed scrubbing. “He gave me one of his cards the day we met.”
“Well, Tracy Campbell convinced him to review Helping Hands while he’s here and offer some recommendations—which we desperately need. Father Kevin and I had the best of intentions when we created the organization, but neither of us had a clue it would end up being so consuming. We’ve been at our wits’ end about how to deal with the demands. Now, thanks to your generosity, help has arrived. Without your kind gesture, our path might never have crossed Michael Hunter’s during his stay. It’s a gift from God—and the answer to a lot of prayers.”
She dismissed her role in the affair with a flip of her hand. It had nothing to do with generosity. The whole thing had started with his uncanny resemblance to John.
“You should thank Charley instead of me. If he hadn’t asked me to take a complimentary order of tacos over to the bench, I’d have walked right by. Besides, Michael was looking for Tracy anyway for some reason.”
“Yes. He caused her to have a slight bicycle accident and wanted to apologize.” The minister’s expression grew thoughtful. “You know, when you consider all the pieces that had to fit together to bring this about, the whole thing is remarkable. God does amazing work, doesn’t he?”
Anna sent him a skeptical look. He knew better than to dump a bunch of God talk on her. She and the Almighty had parted ways years ago—a fact she’d shared with Reverend Baker the first time he’d brought up the subject.
“Still holding out, I see.” The man chomped into the grape, his demeanor amused rather than reproving.