by Irene Hannon
It didn’t take a genius to figure out her strategy. Shadows masked expressions and emotions. She didn’t want him to have a clear view of her face—and perhaps she was afraid to see his. Fearful, as he had been, of finding rejection.
But she wouldn’t. He couldn’t imagine anything she might say that would undercut his high opinion of her.
Circling around the couch, he sat beside her, leaving a healthy amount of personal space between them.
She took a sip of coffee, clutching the mug with both hands. “Have you heard any stories about my husband since you’ve been here?”
Not the opening he’d expected.
“Only what you told me—that he died two years ago.”
“I’m surprised. There aren’t many secrets in Hope Harbor.”
“I guess visitors aren’t privy to the grapevine. The only people I’ve spoken with at any length besides you are Charley and Anna—and neither of them are gossips.” No need to mention his landlady’s suggestion that he ask Tracy for advice about how to deal with regrets.
“Then I’ll start with some history.” She set her coffee down and picked up one of the throw pillows, hugging it against her chest. “Even though I’ve always loved the cranberry farm and was convinced that’s where I wanted to spend my life, Uncle Bud and Aunt Carol thought it was important for me to get a first-class education. They wanted me to have a career to fall back on if things ever went south with the business. Seems prophetic now . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she swallowed.
Michael fought the temptation to twine his fingers with hers. Not appropriate. At least not yet.
After a few moments, she resumed the story. “So I went to business school at the University of Oregon in Eugene. During those years, Uncle Bud hired out when he needed an extra pair of hands, but I came home most weekends during the busy season to help too. My original post-college plan was to do what I’m doing now—work on the farm and take on some accounting clients. But my aunt and uncle also wanted me to experience a world beyond Hope Harbor. To know what I was giving up if I decided to stay here. When I got a great job offer in Phoenix during my senior year, they urged me to take it.”
“You left Hope Harbor?” It was hard to imagine Tracy anywhere but here, in this place that suited her so well.
“Yes—but only after they pushed. As it turns out, in some ways it was a positive move. I earned an excellent salary, and the money came in handy after falling cranberry prices began to eat into the farm’s bottom line. It also proved to me that Hope Harbor was where I wanted to be.”
“How long were you in Arizona?”
Tracy picked at the cording on the pillow. “Seven years—far longer than I’d planned. The farm needed the money . . . and I met my husband, who was a Phoenix native. He knew I eventually wanted to come back here, though, and he was fine with that. So three years ago, after our accountant retired to Florida and money was too tight to hire farm help on a regular basis, we relocated. Craig was the regional manager for a chain of restaurants, and he was able to arrange a transfer to the Coos Bay office.”
Until now, Tracy had relayed her story in a straightforward tone. But when she picked up her coffee again, the quivers in her hand were a better barometer of her emotional state. And after she took a sip using a two-handed grip, then set it carefully back down, her voice was less steady.
He braced.
The tough part was coming.
“Life was busy after we moved here. I was reacclimating to the farm and getting up to speed on the books, and Uncle Bud and I were gearing up for the new growing season. Craig was on the road more than usual, familiarizing himself with his new territory. We had the house on the farm to ourselves when he was home, though. Uncle Bud insisted on getting an apartment in town. He said we needed some space to settle in. Except we never did. Less than a year after we relocated, Craig was gone.”
She paused to fish a tissue from the pocket of her jeans.
“Was it . . . an accident?”
“No.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Have you ever heard of Seasonal Affective Disorder?”
“SAD. Yes, I’ve read about it.” He scrolled through his memory. “Isn’t it a type of depression that occurs every year at the same time, usually in winter?”
“Yes. In hindsight, I think that was what Craig had—and moving to Hope Harbor made it a whole lot worse because a lot of days year-round are overcast or foggy. He’d get a little blue and moody in Phoenix on the rare occasions we had a few consecutive gray days, but since it was mostly sunny there it never occurred to me—or to him, I think—that he had a serious condition requiring medical attention.”
A niggle of unease slithered up Michael’s spine as he began to suspect where this might be heading.
“Once we moved out here, the blues became depression.” Tracy hugged the cushion tighter against her chest and pulled her legs up into a protective tuck. “But I was busy with the farm, and he was traveling a lot, so I never realized how severe it was. Until the night I came home after a growers’ meeting and found him in the garage with the door closed and the car engine r-running.”
As her voice broke, Michael’s suspicion morphed into shocking reality.
Tracy’s husband had committed suicide.
Gut twisting, he forced himself to keep breathing. Tragic as his own loss had been, he couldn’t begin to fathom the impact on a loved one from a desperate act like that.
He reached for her hand, but she shrank farther into the corner of the couch, the sadness in her eyes rending his heart. “Think about what I’ve told you, Michael. By convincing Craig to move here, I put him in the situation that caused his death. And if I’d paid more attention to him once we were here I would have realized he wasn’t simply having difficulty adjusting to a new home and new territory. I would have done some research, urged him to get help, maybe been able to prevent him from taking that final, tragic step. So you’re wrong about me having my priorities straight. I put the farm first.” She swallowed, her chin quivering. “Bottom line, I was a terrible wife.”
And I don’t deserve a second chance to be one.
The words might be unspoken, but the message came through loud and clear.
She was wrong about that—but he couldn’t just brush off her claims of culpability. Perhaps if she’d been more tuned in to her husband, she might have detected some warning signs. Might have realized the seriousness of the situation and convinced him to get help. Suggesting otherwise would be disingenuous—and could shut her down.
So how should he address all she’d told him?
As if reading his mind, she spoke. “You don’t have to say anything. The truth is what it is—and Craig realized it too. On one of his really bad days not long before he . . . before he died . . . he accused me of loving the farm more than him. I thought he was being unreasonable—but in hindsight I guess he was right. I kept the farm alive better than I kept him alive.” Her voice choked and she bowed her head, a world of pain in her defeated posture.
Time to make his move.
Scooting closer, he gently tugged the pillow from her grasp.
She lifted her chin. Tears brimmed on her lower lids, and her jade irises were seared with anguish. “W-what are you doing?”
He tossed the pillow aside and reached for her. “I think we could both use a hug.”
“No.” She pressed her hands against his chest, keeping him at arm’s length, misery scoring her features. “Why would you want to hug me?”
“Because I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through. Because I understand how easy it is to get distracted and neglect a spouse, and how the guilt can weigh on your soul. Because I appreciate your willingness to trust me with your story. Because I like you—a lot.”
A quiver rippled through her. “Even after everything I told you?”
He retracted his arms. The hug would have to wait a few minutes. “We’ve both made mistakes we’re not proud of, Tracy. That doesn’t mean we’re bad people;
it means we’re human. And humans are flawed. I wish I could change my life with Julie, and I know you wish the same about your husband—but we can’t. Maybe the best way we can honor their memory is to learn from our mistakes and do better if we get a second chance.”
She studied him. “That sounds like something Charley would say.”
Yeah, it did. The philosophizing taco maker always had an interesting insight or two to pass along whenever Michael stopped for lunch after his beach walks—but this hadn’t been one of them.
“To tell you the truth, I don’t know where that came from. It’s a new notion for me too—but it does make some sense.”
“It’s also scary.” She fell silent as she traced the bold geometric pattern on the cushion in her lap. “You know, I thought I’d made peace with my life—and my choice to go it alone. But I’ve been confused . . . and unsettled . . . ever since you came to Hope Harbor.”
He fought back an urge to smooth the worry lines from her forehead. “Why?”
After a moment, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “Because there’s some pretty powerful chemistry between us. On my end, anyway.”
So the attraction wasn’t one way.
He exhaled, some of the tension in his shoulders evaporating. “It’s on both ends.”
A soft flush alleviated some of her pallor. “Even so, it’s too soon for . . . that.” She motioned toward the arms he’d extended. “We hardly know each other. Besides, there are obstacles. You’re leaving in a few weeks, and . . . and you don’t like cloudy weather.”
Cloudy weather?
Ah.
Now he understood why she’d turned tail and run yesterday on the beach after his negative remark about Hope Harbor’s climate. She was beginning to like a man who didn’t care for gloomy days—and she’d already fallen for one of those with disastrous results.
“Let me address your concerns in reverse order. First, gray skies can be a downer when you’re grieving—but I’m not prone to weather-related depression. Chicago and Kansas City can have long, cold winters without much sun, and I’ve never had an issue with that. So no worries there. Second, a lot can happen in a few weeks—including getting to know each other much better. Third, it’s never too soon for simple signs of affection between friends . . . and those don’t have to lead to anything else until we’re ready.”
She squinted at him in the dimness. “Are you always this logical and clear thinking?”
Logical? Clear thinking? With her sitting inches away, her breezy scent filling his nostrils and the golden-brown hair in her bedraggled ponytail itching for release?
“No.” He hadn’t even been certain his rebuttal was coherent. “But based on our histories, I agree that slow and cautious is a sound strategy.”
He felt her relax slightly. “I can live with that.”
“So what about that hug?”
She considered him. “A good-bye hug when you leave might be okay.”
Without a word he stood and held out his hand.
Grooves appeared on her brow. “What are you doing?”
“Leaving. You have things to do tonight, and I don’t want to cut into your beauty sleep too much. Besides, if leaving is the only way to get a hug, I’m out of here.”
She hesitated, then took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. “We’re going to keep this simple, right?”
“For now.” It was the best he could promise.
She scrubbed her palms down her jeans and started for the kitchen. “I have something for you first.”
He followed, slipping his arms into his windbreaker as she flipped on the light and picked up a loaf of cranberry nut cake.
“I sweet-talked Nancy out of this. After we shared that snack at the farm yesterday, I had a feeling you might not come around anymore. That if I wanted to see you again I’d have to take the first step. This was going to be my peace offering.” She held it out.
He took the dense loaf but kept his focus on her. “Does that mean you would have come looking for me if I hadn’t stopped by tonight?”
“I don’t know.” She smoothed her fingertips over the curved back of a kitchen chair. “I got the feeling yesterday you might be interested in me in a . . . romantic . . . sense, and I didn’t think there was any future in that.”
“What do you think now?”
She let out a shaky breath. “I think I might have been wrong.”
“I’ll take it.” Not as definitive as he’d like—but great progress from an hour ago. “Walk me to the door?”
She eyed his outstretched hand. “I didn’t think holding hands was part of the bargain.”
“Consider it a prelude to the hug.”
After another brief hesitation, she linked her fingers with his.
And her hand was nothing like he expected.
Tracy might radiate strength and sturdiness and self-sufficiency, and her palms might be callused from daily manual labor, but her fingers were small and delicate and fragile—and very, very feminine.
“Michael?”
Her uncertain query jerked him back to the moment.
With a gentle squeeze of those beguiling fingers, he walked her the dozen steps toward the door—wishing they were strolling hand in hand on the endless beach instead.
He’d have to work on that idea.
At the entry, he set the cranberry nut cake on a small table beside the door. “I’m not settling for a one-handed hug.”
She shifted her weight as he faced her. “This feels a little . . . disloyal. You know?”
Yeah, he did. But he wasn’t backing off. Wallowing in grief and guilt had gotten him nowhere.
“Maybe a hug will help clarify things.”
“Or muddy the waters more.”
“Let’s be optimistic.” He released her fingers and rested his hands at her waist. “Ready?”
“No.”
“Set.”
“Michael . . .”
“Go.” He stepped closer, wrapped her in his arms—and discovered she was right.
The hug did muddy things up.
Not that there was anything sensuous in their embrace. It was simple, straightforward, friendly.
But she fit against him like she belonged there, filling the air with her fresh country scent, her soft hair tickling his chin, her heart beating close to his.
And he wanted more.
Tracy’s arms crept around him, her touch tentative as she returned the hug. And once she emitted a soft sigh, so faint he’d wondered if he’d imagined it except for the puff of warmth against his neck, every doubt, every worry, every hesitation about taking this step evaporated.
Lifting one hand to the back of her head, he pressed her cheek to his shoulder.
Also a perfect fit.
The seconds ticked by . . . how many, he had no idea. Only the whistle of wind around the corner of the cottage, the faint rattle of a shutter, the distant crash of the surf, intruded to mark the passage of time.
And Tracy made no move to end the embrace.
At last, calling on every reserve of his willpower, he eased back, capturing her hands in his before she could step away.
She looked up at him, eyes wide. Then she inhaled sharply, as if she’d been forgetting to breathe and needed to fill her lungs with air.
He could relate.
So much for a simple, innocuous hug.
“I should go.” He fumbled for the doorknob behind him. “But I’ll be happy to come out to the farm tomorrow if you’d like some help.”
She picked up the cranberry nut cake and held on tight with both hands, as if she needed some ballast to steady her. “You didn’t travel all the way to Hope Harbor to work on a cranberry farm.”
“True—but this trip hasn’t turned out anything like I expected, anyway. At this point, I think going with the flow is the best plan. And I do swing a wicked weed eater.”
She smiled, and his gaze dropped to her lips.
Don’t go there, Hunter.
He yanked his focus back up.
“. . . if that works for you.”
“Sorry. I got distracted. What did you say?”
“I said you could help me with some fence repairs, if you’re up for that.”
“Oh. Sure. That’s fine.” He pulled the door open. He needed out of here now, or his whole slow and cautious plan would be history. “What time do you start?”
“First light these days—but come whenever you get up.” She held out the loaf cake. “Don’t forget this. The walk home might make you hungry.”
He took the cake and stepped onto the porch. Fog had settled in, hiding the moon, and he zipped up his windbreaker. “I’ll save it for tomorrow. I’ve already had my treat for the night.” With a wink, he walked into the night, battling with each step the temptation to linger.
As he approached the road, he glanced back at the cottage. The scene was ghostly in the fog, but the warm light from the open cottage door glowed, silhouetting the slender woman who was fast laying claim to his heart.
How strange that his trek west in search of closure had led to romance.
But Tracy was right to be wary. In four short weeks he was scheduled to return to Chicago. It had been tough enough negotiating a two-month leave; there was no way he could extend it. Yet nurturing a budding relationship across two thousand miles would be a serious challenge.
On the other hand, walking away from his life in Chicago and starting over in Hope Harbor would be risky.
Blowing out a breath, Michael began to descend the hill that would take him back to town and his temporary home. Life could certainly be odd. He’d come out here seeking answers to one set of questions, only to end up with a batch of new ones. The whole thing was befuddling.
It wouldn’t have been to Julie, though. His wife had gone through life believing everything happened for a reason. God’s reason. Her implicit trust in the Almighty had been unshakable. Never once had she shown one iota of anger toward God, even when bad stuff happened.
The mist intensified, and he broke into a slow jog, tucking the cranberry nut cake inside his jacket as he passed the steepled church where Reverend Baker presided. His first visit there had been a bust . . . but should he follow Julie’s example and lay his concerns before the Lord, trusting that his experience in Hope Harbor was part of a greater plan?