by Irene Hannon
Yes and yes.
He grabbed his jacket. A relaxing, early-evening walk on the beach, that’s what he needed.
And he would not think about Tracy. He’d focus on his future.
Yet as he slipped through the door and locked it behind him, he had a feeling it was going to be difficult to think about his future without thinking of Tracy.
Someone was knocking on her door.
Bleary-eyed, Tracy looked up from her laptop. The room was dark now, except for the glow from her screen. No surprise, considering she’d eked out every last watt of fading daylight at the farm before calling it a night and heading home.
Another knock sounded, and she peered at the time on the bottom of the screen.
Who would come calling at nine o’clock?
Using the kitchen table for leverage, she pushed herself to her feet, padded across the cottage floor in her socks, and peeked through the peephole.
Her heart stumbled.
Michael?
She took a rapid step back. Based on his cordial but cool parting yesterday at the farm, the ball for any further contact had appeared to be in her court. Not that she intended to lob it back. The peace-offering loaf of cranberry nut cake sitting on her kitchen table was only there on the unlikely chance she decided to reach out to him.
A third knock sounded, and she jerked.
Apparently the decision had been taken out of her hands.
Fingers trembling, she flipped the lock and opened the door.
“Hi.” One side of Michael’s mouth lifted. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“No. I was, uh, reading over your Helping Hands recommendations. This is the first chance I had to get to it.”
“Hard day at the farm?”
“Busy, anyway.”
A few seconds passed while she tried to think of something else to say, the silence broken only by the distant crash of the surf at the base of the bluff.
He saved her the trouble. “I was taking an evening stroll on the beach. With the full moon there was plenty of light, and the tide’s out. I thought it might be relaxing before I turned in—although I slept like a log last night.”
“Fresh air and manual labor are a great cure for insomnia.”
“Then you must never have a problem falling asleep.”
She managed to hold on to her smile. “Bees aside, working on the farm does have its benefits.”
If he noticed her evasive response, he gave no indication. “I got a feel for that yesterday. In any case, I decided to take the shortcut back to town over the bluff, and since I was passing by I thought I’d stop in and say hello.” He offered her another smile, this one more tentative. As if he, too, was questioning the wisdom of further contact and was second-guessing his decision.
But now that he was inches away, her own analytical powers deserted her. How could she think straight when the light beside the front door was casting a golden glow over his strong-boned face, accentuating the end-of-day stubble on his firm jaw and deepening the blue of his irises to cobalt? Add in those worn but well-fitting jeans and hair tousled from the wind . . . whew. The man radiated an almost illegal amount of testosterone.
Tracy gripped the edge of the door to steady herself. She ought to send this two-legged temptation on his way . . . except this was her chance to make up for her pathetic response to his story yesterday. And she owed him that.
She’d just have to ignore the little tingles buzzing through her nerve endings.
“Would you like to, uh, come in for a few minutes? I have soda or coffee. I brewed a fresh pot not long ago.”
He twisted his wrist and raised an eyebrow. “A new pot of coffee at nine o’clock?”
“I’ll be up awhile yet. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
He hesitated. “I should keep moving, then. I don’t want to delay your bedtime any longer than necessary.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind some company. Other than a quick bite with Nancy at lunch and a few visits from Shep and Ziggy, I’ve been by myself all day. I love those collies, but our conversations tend to be one-sided. Besides, as long as you’re here, I’d, uh, like to talk through a few of your Helping Hands recommendations.”
After studying her, he nodded. “Okay. For a few minutes.”
He followed her to the kitchen table, and she ushered him into the seat he’d occupied on his last visit. “Coffee or soda?”
“Decaf anything is fine.” He shrugged out of his windbreaker and tossed it on an empty chair.
“Not coffee, then.” She rummaged around in her refrigerator and found him a Sprite. “My brew is always the high-octane stuff.” She rejoined him at the table and slid the soda toward him.
“Thanks.” He popped the top. “So what would you like to discuss?”
My dismal response yesterday to all the confidences you shared.
Better to start with Helping Hands, however, and hope there’d be a natural opening to introduce more personal topics.
She scrolled through the document he’d sent until she came to the recommendations section, scrambling to come up with questions. Since all of his suggestions were straightforward, there wasn’t a whole lot of ambiguity that needed clarifying.
“These ideas all have merit.” Think, Tracy, think! “So, um, if you were the one making the decision, which direction would you go?”
He played with his soda can. “I wouldn’t want to prejudice a decision by offering my opinion. The board members are the ones who know the group and its dynamics best, and they’re also the ones who will have to implement any changes. It should be a full-board decision.”
“I agree—but I’d still value your opinion. You have a lot more experience than all of us combined.”
He tapped a finger on the table, then folded his hands. “As I noted in the report, Helping Hands is a victim of its own success. The growing demand is forcing you to stretch resources too thin. That will eventually lead to burnout and loss of volunteers—which will exacerbate the problem. The best way to maintain the level of service is to have a point person who can not only devote a lot more time to running the organization than any of the current board members can but also develop and coordinate a broader network of resources. That would be my choice.”
“You’re talking about a paid staff member.”
“Yes.”
“You saw our budget. There’s no money for that.”
“There could be, if fund-raising was also part of this person’s job. An initial commitment of dollars for salary would be required upfront, but if you got the right person, the position should pay for itself after that.”
“Coming up with the seed money for the position is the issue. We could solicit from the two congregations, but it’s much easier for people to volunteer services than cash. Times are tough for a lot of us. And I doubt we could recruit anyone for the job without guaranteeing salary for a year, at minimum.”
“True. That’s why I included a number of other suggestions.” He finished off his soda.
Tracy skimmed them again. Most involved restricting the scope of services and/or the populations served or simply turning away requests when the organization became overwhelmed. He’d also included a list of fund-raising ideas, since the Helping Hands coffers were always running on fumes.
“None of these other ideas will get us where we want to be, though. Like Father Kevin said in the board meeting, how do you say no to people who ask for your help?”
His empty soda can crinkled. “If I knew the answer to that, I wouldn’t be in Hope Harbor.”
The perfect opening for her apology. And perhaps he’d be receptive. Didn’t his impromptu visit suggest he wasn’t holding her lack of empathy yesterday against her?
Fingers wrapped around her coffee mug, Tracy took a sip of the potent brew and sent a silent appeal heavenward.
Lord, help me find the words that will comfort and heal without misleading him about my interest.
Taking a deep breath, s
he slowly set the cup down and laid her hand over the fist he’d clenched beside the crushed can.
His gaze flicked from her fingers to her face, his expression wary.
She swallowed. “As long as we’re on that subject, can we revisit our discussion under the willow?”
“I don’t have a whole lot more to say.”
“But I do.” A skitter of nerves tempted her to remove her hand, as she’d done yesterday, but she wrestled them into submission. There would be no overt signs of rejection today. “First of all, I want to thank you for sharing your story with me. That can’t have been easy.”
“No. It wasn’t. In fact, while I’m close to my parents and sister, even they aren’t privy to the skeletons in my closet with Julie.”
Yet he’d shared them with her.
So much for keeping things impersonal.
He continued as if he hadn’t expected a response. “Everyone thought I was an ideal husband—which goes to show how deceiving looks can be. Things that appear rosy on the surface aren’t always as perfect as they seem.”
A burning arrow of pain pierced her heart, extinguishing any lurking romantic fancies, and her hand jerked.
Michael narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay?”
No.
How could she be, when those words could have been spoken about the sham of her perfect marriage?
“Tracy?”
She tried to smile, grasping at the first excuse that came to mind. “Sorry. You’re not the only one with overused muscles, I guess.” She rolled her shoulders and rotated her neck. “I did some weed eating myself for the last couple of hours today.”
“I know just where you’re hurting, then.”
Before she realized his intent, he was on his feet and standing behind her, his lean, firm fingers on her shoulders.
Her heart began to bang against her rib cage. “W-what are you doing?”
“Trying to help those sore muscles.” He began to gently knead. “Better?”
Better? With the heat from his hands seeping through her T-shirt?
Ha.
“I can feel the tension. Try to relax.” His fingers continued to work her taut muscles.
How could she relax—or think straight—with all that blood rushing to her head?
But she had to focus on her goals for this conversation: empathize with his guilt about his wife, try to convince him he was being too hard on himself, and sympathize with his fear that he might repeat that mistake in a future relationship—all the while sidestepping his hint that a relationship with her might be on his radar screen, if she was interested.
Good thing she wasn’t hooked up to a heart monitor or the latter objective would be toast.
“Um . . . Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for not holding my insensitive reaction yesterday against me. I was just . . . overwhelmed.”
“Understandable. I dumped a lot on you.” His hands continued their steady ministrations. “To be honest, your reaction was what I expected—and deserved. Any caring person would be shocked by my story.”
“Actually, I was more shocked by the tragedy of your wife’s sudden death than your problem with priorities. It’s easy to see how someone in a career like yours could be caught between a rock and a hard place trying to balance personal and job commitments. But after what happened, I’m sure you’d be much more careful in the future about overextending yourself on the job front.”
“I wish I had your confidence.”
“You should. Any smart person learns from an experience like that, and you’re smart. You’re also kind and caring and conscientious. The truth is, I . . . admire you a lot. Your story didn’t change that.”
Mission accomplished . . . and admire had been an inspired word to use. Complimentary but not overly personal—and safe. It was perfect.
She waited for Michael to respond.
Instead, after an infinitesimal hesitation, he kept working on her shoulders in silence.
Uh-oh.
Maybe her word choice hadn’t been so perfect. Maybe it had been too impersonal.
Say something else, Tracy!
“If . . . if it makes you feel any better, you aren’t the only one with regrets—or the only one who’s made mistakes in a relationship.” As the words tumbled out, a wave of horror swept over her.
That was not a subject she wanted to discuss.
Again, Michael’s hands stilled . . . then picked up the rhythm again. “I think some regret is normal when a spouse dies young. No relationship is perfect, and there are things all of us would change given a second chance. But I’m willing to bet you had your priorities straight.”
She gritted her teeth, fighting against the sudden pressure behind her eyes and in her throat.
Don’t cry! Don’t cry! Don’t cry!
Tracy repeated that mantra over and over and over—but it didn’t help. A tear spilled out. Another followed. And another. She swiped them away as surreptitiously as she could, choking back the sob threatening to erupt, trying to keep her shoulders from heaving, willing herself to—
“Tracy?” Michael’s hands froze, and she turned her head slightly.
Wonderful.
There was a damp splotch on the back of one of his fingers.
A wave of panic rocked her as he began to circle around to the front of the chair. Before he could get a glimpse of her face, she jumped to her feet and bolted for the safety of the bathroom.
“I’ll be back in a m-minute.” She tossed the ragged words over her shoulder, locked the door behind her—and rested her forehead against the smooth wood.
What a disaster!
The tears continued to flow, and she fumbled for the hand towel. It had been months since she’d broken down over Craig. She’d accepted her culpability and moved on with her life. What else could she do? Tears didn’t change anything . . . and she’d already cried two lifetimes’ worth.
Yet one comment from Michael, and wham! The spigot was wide open again.
It didn’t make sense.
Unless . . .
Sniffling, she stared at her red-rimmed eyes in the mirror and faced the truth.
Unless she was falling for a temporary visitor from Chicago who carried plenty of his own baggage and didn’t like cloudy weather.
No!
She couldn’t let that happen!
Because even if he happened to feel the same and they could work through all of his issues, she wasn’t wife material. He might think he was carrying a boatload of guilt, but she had enough to fill the Titanic. She’d failed Craig far worse than he’d failed Julie.
No way would a kind, caring man like him be able to overlook her past.
But if he is as kind and caring as he seems, maybe he could. And this time, you might be a better wife. Didn’t you just tell him that people can learn from their mistakes?
Tracy bit her lip. Was that little voice in her head spouting wishful thinking . . . or speaking the truth?
The former, surely.
Yet despite her best efforts to contain it, a tiny ember of hope flickered to life in her heart.
“Tracy?” Michael’s muffled, single word was taut with worry.
She gripped the edge of the vanity. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
After a few moments, his footsteps retreated.
Slowly she released the breath she’d been holding. At the most, she could hide in here another few minutes. Meaning she needed to pull herself together. Fast.
She also needed to make a potentially life-changing decision.
Yesterday, Michael had taken a risk by sharing the heartaches and regrets from his marriage. It had been an honest and courageous confession that spoke to his integrity—and his feelings for her. He wanted no secrets between them if romance entered the picture.
If she felt the same, she owed him no less.
But did she have the courage to reciprocate?
And if she did, would her tiny spark of hope glo
w more brightly—or be snuffed out forever?
15
Michael prowled around Tracy’s cottage, casting frequent glances toward the closed bathroom door.
What was going on?
Her out-of-character tears—and flight—didn’t fit. She was a strong woman who dealt with the difficulties life handed her straight up. It would take a lot to make her cry or run away.
Conclusion? The mistakes and regrets she’d alluded to were devastating.
But if she could accept and forgive his faults, he could surely return the favor—assuming she trusted him enough to share them.
The handle of the bathroom door rattled, and a moment later she emerged. Her eyes were still red and puffy, but the tears were gone.
“Sorry about that.” She hovered close to the door, as if poised to dash back inside at the slightest provocation. “I haven’t fallen apart like that in more than a year.”
“Grief has a way of sneaking up on you—and sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint the reason.”
The shallow and rapid rise and fall of her chest spelled stress in capital letters as she crossed her arms, fingers clenching her elbows. “I know exactly why it happened.”
He kept his stance open and receptive. “Do you want to tell me?”
“No—but I think I need to. Unless you’d rather not deal with a lot of unpleasant emotional junk.”
“I deal with unpleasant emotional junk in my job every day. If I can do that for strangers, I can definitely do it for you.”
The sheen returned to her eyes, but she blinked it away and gave a jerky nod. “Do you need . . . would you like another soda?”
“No. Let’s just sit.” He gestured to the couch in the living room. “That might be more comfortable.”
Instead of responding, she turned off all the kitchen lights except the one over the stove, grabbed her coffee, and claimed the far end of the couch.