Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  He removed his safety goggles and gave the woman’s hand a firm shake. Tracy wasn’t in sight, but based on the faint thrum of the sprayer’s motor, she wasn’t far away. “I can try, but she strikes me as a woman who knows her own mind.”

  “That she does—and more’s the pity sometimes.” Leaving that enigmatic statement hanging in the air, Nancy indicated the direction from which she’d come. “I put some drinks and a snack on the bench under the willow tree. She can show you where it is. And if you can’t convince her to join you, sit for a while yourself. With Bud out of commission, we’re very grateful for your assistance. We may not be able to pay you, but we can feed you.”

  “I’ll enjoy the treat. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure. Well . . .” The woman looked him up and down with a smile he couldn’t interpret. “I best get back to the invalid. Tracy warned me he’d be a difficult patient, and she was right. Keeping that man horizontal is a challenge.” With a flutter of fingers, she retraced her steps.

  Michael turned the other direction and followed the pattern of dikes that enclosed the terraced beds until he spotted Tracy. She was intent on her work, moving at a steady clip, maneuvering the sprayer like the pro she was.

  He observed her for a couple of minutes, analyzing her pattern. She appeared to be finishing up this bed, traveling his direction. No need to interrupt her until she was done. Whatever treat Nancy had delivered could wait.

  For now, enjoying the sight of Tracy was treat enough.

  Dropping down to sit on the dike, he watched her execute a turn at the end of the bed, in total control of the odd-looking machine with narrow wheels and a boom on both sides that extended about twelve feet. Either the contraption wasn’t as unwieldy as it seemed, or she was just making the whole thing look easy.

  He had a feeling it was the latter.

  As she reached the far end of the bed, she glanced over her shoulder to check something behind her and caught sight of him.

  The sprayer veered slightly off course, but her quick jerk on the wheel pulled it back in line. Keeping one hand on the helm, she held up a single finger and maintained a steady course.

  Three minutes later, after finishing the bed, she pulled to the edge and shut off the motor—but stayed in the seat.

  Maybe he’d be taking his break alone after all.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt until you were at a stopping place.” He drew up his feet and rested his forearms on his knees.

  “Stopping places are hard to find.” She shaded her eyes as she tipped her chin up toward him. “Are your shoulders giving out?”

  “Not quite—but I’m feeling them.”

  “Wait until tomorrow.” Her tone was wry, her expression sympathetic. “After my first weed-eating session of the season, I can hardly move them for a few days.”

  “Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “You could switch to the riding mower—or call it a day, if you want.”

  “I still have a few swings left in me. But I wouldn’t object to a break, and your aunt tempted me with a snack. She said it’s under the willow.”

  Two parallel dents appeared above her nose. “Nancy came out to find you?”

  “Yes.” He cocked his head. “Is that surprising?”

  “Yeah. She usually stays close to the house until the bees are gone.”

  “You mean they leave? As in . . . migrate?”

  “No. We have a rental agreement with a beekeeper who brings in two or three hives per acre in May to pollinate the cranberries. He takes them back in July.”

  He swatted at one buzzing his ear. “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. They’re a nuisance.”

  “Actually, they’re quite calm. These are European honeybees, and in general they won’t bother you if you don’t bother them. Yellow jackets and hornets . . . different story. The honeybees do like those dandelions you’re sitting next to, though.”

  He shifted away from the clump of weeds. “Since your aunt braved the bees to track me down, why not take a break with me? Besides, I could use a guide to the willow.”

  She shifted in her seat. “It’s not hard to find. From the equipment shed, you can see the house. Walk toward it, and you’ll find the willow along the way. There’s a bench underneath.”

  Not the response he’d hoped for.

  “Does that mean you’re not coming?”

  She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she was going to change her mind.

  But she didn’t. “I can’t stop. There’s too much to do and not enough daylight hours.”

  “Will fifteen minutes make that much difference?”

  Again, she hesitated.

  “Come on, Tracy.” He gave her his most persuasive smile. “It’s no fun to eat alone.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Rubbed a palm on the denim covering her thigh. Jiggled her foot.

  He waited her out.

  But in the end, she held fast. “I’m sorry. I need to keep going. I’m getting a lot done, and I don’t want to slow the momentum. Plus, I had a big lunch—as Nancy knows, since she provided it. But you should go see what she left. She’s a great cook.”

  His powers of persuasion must be getting rusty.

  Using one hand for leverage, he pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the protest from his shoulder. “Well, at least I can tell her I tried.”

  Despite the twelve feet separating them, he could hear her huff. “She sent you after me?”

  Must be a touchy subject for some reason—but he couldn’t lie. “She suggested I try to persuade you.”

  Tracy’s shoulders stiffened and she yanked her baseball cap farther down over her forehead. “Enjoy your treat.”

  With that, she started the motor again and rolled away.

  For a full sixty seconds, Michael remained where he was, wrestling down his disappointment—even though her decision to continue working was probably for the best. Neither of them wanted things to heat up.

  Besides, if Tracy ever got involved with anyone again, she should pick a man she could count on to be there for her—and his track record on that score was dismal.

  She grew smaller as the sprayer moved further away, and he shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders drooping. Tracy was a sensible woman, and she was following the prudent course by keeping him at arm’s length. Why would she want to share a snack under the willow with a man who’d gone out of his way to make it clear he still loved his wife?

  He hadn’t lied about that, either. Julie’s place in his heart was secure.

  But might there be room for someone else too?

  Someone like Tracy?

  He toyed with that notion, approaching it with caution—and came to a tentative conclusion.

  Maybe.

  Assuming he could overcome the problem that had plagued his marriage.

  And assuming Tracy didn’t shut him out even more once she learned his story.

  Two very big assumptions—and the odds weren’t in his favor.

  Losing interest in the snack, he headed back to the weed eater . . . until a sudden growl in his stomach reminded him the energy provided by the can of soup he’d eaten at lunch was long expended. He did need food—and a little companionship under that willow would have been welcome.

  Tracy continued to move away, however, her back toward him.

  But if she had agreed to sit with him in this peaceful place that was so much a part of her, and if the opportunity had presented itself, perhaps he could have dug deep and found the courage to reveal what had prompted his two-thousand-mile trek west. To test the waters and find out sooner rather than later whether his history was a deal breaker.

  The two dogs bounded up, and he gave them a distracted pat as he pivoted toward the equipment shed and they fell in beside him. He’d find whatever Nancy had left, scarf it down, and get back to work.

  No reason to linger in the shade of a willow with only Shep and Ziggy for company.

  Was this her day for b
eing rude, or what?

  Tracy peeked over her shoulder in time to catch Michael disappearing over the dike toward the equipment shed, the collies bounding along at his heels. In light of all his kindnesses, would a fifteen- or twenty-minute delay really have held up her progress that much?

  No.

  Then again, her refusal hadn’t been about the farm.

  It had been about fear.

  Fingers gripped on the wheel, she exhaled. That was the truth of it, and trying to pretend otherwise was foolish.

  Letting the motor idle, she pulled off her cap and rubbed her forehead. It would be easy to attribute the dull ache to sun or engine noise or fatigue or a dozen other things—but none of them was the culprit.

  That honor belonged to Michael Hunter.

  Because in spite of her renewed resolve this morning to keep her distance, she wanted to spend more time with him.

  A lot more.

  Not going to happen, though. She wouldn’t let it. Being in the man’s presence for extended periods wouldn’t be wise.

  On the other hand . . . what harm would there be in a few minutes under the willow tree? She could have a quick drink, eat a few bites of whatever Nancy had left, and make certain he understood how much she appreciated his help today. The man had given up a large part of his Sunday; agreeing to sit with him while he had a snack was the least she could do to express her gratitude.

  Turning off the sprayer, she swung her feet to the ground, marched toward the willow, and tried to convince herself the churning in her stomach and the quiver in her nerve endings were due to hours on the vibrating sprayer and not the man she was about to join.

  Her lame theory disintegrated, however, when both intensified after he rose to greet her with a smile that seemed to boost the air temperature several degrees.

  “I decided I did need a break.” Her words came out breathless—but it was a bit of a hike from the beds.

  “Great. I was just getting started.” He hefted a half-eaten dollar-roll sandwich. “Your aunt said snack, but this is more like lunch.” He nodded to the bench, where the sandwiches, a plate of cheese and crackers, and dessert were arrayed.

  “That would be Nancy. She knows we expend a lot of calories out here.” Tracy moved to the other side of the bench, leaving the food between them, and sat.

  “I’m not usually a big chicken salad fan, but this is great.” He took another bite of his sandwich.

  “She adds green grapes and almonds.” Tracy popped the top on a soda from the small cooler at their feet, angling away from the house less than a hundred feet behind her. Considering how the master bedroom upstairs offered a perfect view of the bench and that Nancy had never served an afternoon snack here before, she figured her aunt and uncle were probably up there now, watching them.

  On the plus side, they weren’t within hearing range.

  Michael helped himself to a cracker and some cheese. “If you don’t dive in fast, I might finish all this stuff off before you get your share.”

  “I had a big lunch. I’m more thirsty than hungry.” She picked up a piece of cheese and nibbled on it.

  They ate in silence while Michael put a sizeable dent in the sandwiches and cheese, then moved on to the loaf cake.

  “This is good too.” He inspected the slice. “Sort of like fruitcake but better. Much better.”

  “It’s cranberry nut cake, an old family recipe my grandmother created after they started the farm here. Nancy’s the keeper of it, since I don’t have much chance to cook. She always has some on hand.” She took a piece too.

  “It has . . . zip.” He went back for seconds.

  “That would be the bourbon.”

  He arched an eyebrow, trying not to smile.

  “It’s not like we drink it or anything. And I think there’s only a fourth of a cup in the whole loaf. But thanks to the alcohol, it keeps for months. In fact, it gets better with age—up to a point.”

  “I’ll bet.” He took a third slice.

  “You must be really hungry.”

  “Weed eating is hard work. Isn’t there any easier—and faster—way to trim the dikes?”

  “A sidearm mower would be great. Also expensive. It’s cheaper to pay a high school kid to do the work—when money’s available. The timing on old Bessie going belly-up wasn’t ideal.” She finished off the cake she no longer wanted and downed it with a few swallows of soda.

  “Sounds like things are tough in the cranberry business.”

  His comment was gentle. Cautious, almost. Like he was afraid she might get her dander up—again—and stalk off, as she had this morning.

  That wasn’t going to happen—but how best to respond?

  She looked down, playing with the edge of her napkin. His tactful phrasing would allow her to blow off the implied question without being rude—but could she be honest about their dire straits? Michael wasn’t the type to tell tales, and most of the locals had probably already guessed that Harbor Point Cranberries wasn’t on the best financial footing. None of the farms were.

  Besides, this man reeked integrity. She might not know him well, but her instincts told her he could be trusted with this confidence—and perhaps other secrets, if she ever found the courage to share them.

  She picked up a cranberry that had fallen onto her napkin and took the plunge. “They are—especially for smaller operations. The price per pound has fallen a lot in the past few years, and more and more of the family farms are disappearing. It was always hard for smaller growers to make a living, but it’s impossible now. All of us have other jobs. Even with that, it’s hard to survive.” She took a deep breath and gave voice to her greatest fear. “The truth is, unless we figure out a way to bump up revenues, we’re not going to last until next season.” The last few words rasped out.

  His hand reached over the food and rested on her arm, the warmth of his strong fingers seeping into her skin . . . and her heart. “I’m sorry to hear that. I had no idea the situation was that dire.”

  “I appreciate the empathy.” Pressure built behind her eyes, and she squeezed the cranberry between her fingers. “But I haven’t given up hope. Who knows? We could get a lucky break.” Not likely—but dwelling on negatives wasn’t productive. She bit into the cranberry and shifted the focus to him. “You must have financial challenges in your job too. It can’t be easy to keep a nonprofit solvent, either.”

  “No.” He retracted his hand, and she missed the contact at once. “Fund-raising is a big part of what I do, but I’ve always been the hands-on type too. I like to deal with the people we try to help as well as the numbers.” He paused. “That’s how I met my wife, in fact.”

  She studied his profile. Was that disclosure, tacked on almost as an afterthought, an invitation to ask more? Or would he shut down if she probed?

  Only one way to find out.

  “Sounds like an interesting story.” She held her breath, bracing for a rebuff.

  Instead, he opened up. “It is. Before I took the job with St. Joseph Center, I worked for a food outreach organization in Kansas City. In addition to a pantry, we had a soup kitchen that provided a hot meal every day. I coordinated the volunteer servers, and Julie was one of them. I never had much of a chance to talk with her until one Thanksgiving. We were always overloaded with volunteers on holidays, and there wasn’t a lot for either of us to do. We ended up sharing some turkey . . . discovered we had a lot in common . . . and six months later we got married.”

  “That sounds like a plot from a romance novel.”

  “Yeah. All but the happy ending.”

  At his hoarse reply, she was tempted to reciprocate his caring gesture, to reach out and touch him. But they were talking about his dead wife now, not a family farm. A much more heartbreaking loss.

  Better not to overstep.

  “How long were you married?”

  “Four years. We still had two pieces of our wedding cake in the freezer, waiting for our fifth anniversary.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. �
��One morning she went to work at the grade school where she taught and never came home. It was an aneurysm.”

  As the tragic tale lay heavy between them, Tracy’s stomach twisted.

  “I can’t even find the words to express how sorry I am.” She managed to choke out the trite platitude, wishing she could offer deeper consolation.

  “It’s okay. Words don’t help, anyway. Nothing does. I tried burying myself more deeply in my work, hoping that might keep the grief at bay, but I only succeeded in burning out—and running halfway across the country searching for answers.” He scrutinized her, as if he was trying to determine whether to say more. At last he spoke again. “I was also trying to escape the guilt.”

  The desolation in his eyes tore at her heart as she struggled to make sense of his words. “I don’t understand. An aneurysm isn’t a condition you can predict—or control.”

  “No, it isn’t. That was God’s doing, and I’m still angry at him about it—which is one of the reasons I don’t often attend church. But I’m also angry at myself for not being there for Julie during our marriage.”

  Once more, his self-recrimination didn’t compute. “That’s hard to believe. Everything you’ve done since you’ve been here tells me you’re kind and caring and generous—almost to a fault.”

  “Not almost. To a fault.” His shoulders drooped, and he wiped a hand down his face. “My nonprofit work has always consumed my life—to the point I end up neglecting other important things . . . and people. Julie rarely complained when I was called away on evenings or weekends or holidays, and she was even willing to accept an abbreviated honeymoon so I could be back for the launch of a new program for homeless veterans. But she deserved better.” Slowly he exhaled. “All she ever asked me to do was carve out a week to take a vacation with her to a place she’d loved as a child.”

  “Hope Harbor.” The answer at last to the why behind his visit.

  “Yes. We had it planned once, but I ended up canceling after another work issue arose. I promised to reschedule—but two months later, she was dead.” He closed his eyes, and a muscle ticced in his cheek. “And I wasn’t there for her then, either.”