Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  Perhaps.

  He turned the corner to enter the homestretch toward Anna’s—and as he pulled out his key to unlock the door to the annex, he made his decision.

  Come Sunday, he’d reopen the lines of communication with the Almighty . . . and ask for help finding the elusive answers to his many questions.

  16

  “Is that sprinkler head still causing trouble? I thought I fixed it.”

  Tracy swiveled around, crossed her arms, and pinned her uncle with a stern look. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Trying to preserve my sanity. I’m going stir-crazy in that house.”

  “Does Nancy know you escaped?”

  “No.” He stuck his hands in the pockets of jeans sitting too low on his hips. He’d lost weight during his siege with the flu. “She had to work at the café this afternoon. The second-Thursday-of-the-month bridge club was meeting, and they were shorthanded.”

  “You should go back to bed.”

  “I will, after I get some fresh air for a few minutes. Where’s your helper today?” He scanned the beds around them from his perch on top of the dike. “Nancy says he’s been a godsend.”

  True enough—but if her uncle didn’t appear utterly drawn and worn out, Tracy would be tempted to accuse him of prolonging his recovery to create more opportunity for her and Michael to be together.

  “He drove Anna to a physical therapy appointment in Coos Bay this afternoon.”

  “Is that right?” He gave an approving nod. “I like that boy. Helpful, considerate—and good-looking too.” Uncle Bud grinned at her. “For the record, that last is Nancy’s take. What do you think?”

  “I think you should go back to the house and let me focus on work.”

  “I mean about what I said.”

  “I agree that Michael is very helpful and considerate.” She angled away and fiddled with the sprinkler head.

  “I meant the good-looking part.”

  Of course he did.

  She busied herself with a wrench. “Depends on your taste, I guess.”

  “What does?”

  As the man under discussion spoke, warmth flooded her face and she stifled a groan. He would have to show up now. How much had he heard?

  Uncle Bud grinned. “We were talking about . . .”

  “Your trip to Coos Bay.” Tracy gave her uncle a warning glare as she cut him off. “How did it go?”

  “Faster than expected. Anna isn’t one to suffer fools gladly, and she wasted no time with the therapist. Show me the exercises, make certain I’m doing them right, and let me out of here.”

  “A woman after my own heart,” Uncle Bud chimed in. “I don’t take to those medical types, either.”

  “She more or less said the same thing—to the therapist herself. I thought Grace was going to sink through the floor in embarrassment.”

  “Nice of her to take the girl in. Tracy told me all about it. Nice of you to arrange it too.”

  Michael shrugged. “It was logical. You-scratch-my-back-I’ll-scratch-yours deals are almost always a win-win.” He gave the older man a once-over. “You’re looking much better than you did when Tracy introduced us on Monday.”

  Folding her arms, Tracy shot her uncle the same dark look she’d directed his way three days ago after he’d traipsed out to the field on some lame excuse when all he really wanted to do was size up the guy who was offering them free labor.

  Thank goodness Nancy had come after him, muttering about mule-headed patients as she dragged him back inside.

  “Thanks. I’m improving.”

  “But you’re not fully recovered yet. Go back in or I’ll tell Nancy on you.” Tracy arched an eyebrow at him.

  “Are you trying to scare me?” He arched one right back at her.

  “Yes.”

  “It worked. I’m leaving.” He refocused on Michael. “A pleasure to see you again, young man. And don’t let Tracy work you too hard. She can be a slave driver when it comes to cranberries. Bossy too.”

  “Uncle Bud . . .”

  “But she has a wonderful heart—and a fun-loving side we don’t see much of anymore.” He ignored her exasperated sputter. “Now if you could get her to relax a little, maybe take a drive up to the gardens at Shore Acres State Park, you’d find out—”

  “Uncle Bud.” She fisted her hands on her hips, sharpening her tone. “I need to get back to work and you need to go to bed. Now.”

  “See what I mean? Bossy.” Her uncle gave a long-suffering sigh, but there was a twinkle in his eyes.

  He must be feeling better.

  “She does know how to crack the whip.” Michael grinned, playing along. “Even though I’ve been here sunup till sundown every day this week, I was afraid she’d dock me if I took a few hours off to drive Anna to Coos Bay. The only compensation for all my effort has been your wife’s great cooking.”

  “The only compensation, huh?” Uncle Bud slid another glance her direction. “I might have to have a long talk with—”

  “Michael . . .” Enough was enough. “I’m about done here. If you came out to work, you can help me spot-spray some weeds.”

  “I came out to work. Anna’s settled at home and I have no other commitments for the day.”

  “Since three’s a crowd, I’ll leave you two to carry on.” Eyes still twinkling, Uncle Bud strolled back toward the house, pausing only to pet the collies that raced up to greet him.

  “I like him.” Michael watched him mosey off.

  “In case you couldn’t tell, the feeling is mutual.” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “Are you sure you aren’t getting tired of working out here?”

  He turned back to her. In spite of the long hours on the farm, he looked more relaxed every day. The intermittent sun was bronzing his skin, and the lines of strain around his mouth and eyes were diminishing. Outdoor work appeared to agree with him—in the short term, anyway.

  “Not at all. And despite what I told your uncle, there have been other compensations besides Nancy’s cooking.”

  Her sunglasses allowed her to scrutinize him without being too blatant. Did he mean fresh air and exercise—or her?

  “I mean exactly what you think I mean.” His blue eyes smiled down at her, warm and personal.

  “Um, Michael . . .”

  “I know, I know. Slow and cautious. But I’m a planner, and I like to think ahead. Lay the groundwork. See some progress. Any objections?” The question was lighthearted . . . but it had a serious undertone.

  “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  She bent down to pet Ziggy as he bounded up. Michael hadn’t said what he planned to do after his leave from St. Joseph Center was up—and letting herself get carried away by a man who might be gone in three weeks wouldn’t be wise.

  Even if she was beginning to believe maybe, just maybe, she’d learned her lesson and would be a better wife the second time around.

  Even if her heart urged her to take the plunge.

  Even if Michael seemed like a man worthy of her trust and love.

  Since they’d been candid with each other up until now, why not lay her concern on the table?

  After a final adjustment to the sprinkler head, she crossed to the dike, scrambling up the steep grade. He reached out and gave her an assist with the last foot.

  Once they were on the same level, she pushed up her sunglasses and met his gaze. “I’m worried about geography.”

  He considered her. “If that wasn’t an issue, would you be okay with some groundwork?”

  The moment of truth.

  She swatted a bee away, focusing on the St. Joseph Center logo in the center of the snug T-shirt that covered his broad chest. “Are you saying you’d be willing to give up your job and relocate?”

  “I wouldn’t rule that out, depending on how things develop between us. But unless we let them develop, we’ll never know what the potential is.”

  Hard to argue with that logic.

  “Even if we . . .
if we ratchet things up, I don’t think we’ll know each other well enough by the end of your stay to make that determination. And I’d never ask you to give up your job based on speculation. It would be too risky.”

  “I agree with you in theory—but you know what? Standing here with you right now, it doesn’t feel risky at all.”

  He didn’t touch her. Not with his hands. But his eyes . . . they were like a tender caress.

  She could fall in love with this man.

  Perhaps she already had.

  And letting him walk away without exploring the electricity between them was no longer an option.

  “Okay.”

  He cocked his head. “Okay what?”

  “It’s probably time to test the waters.”

  An endearing dimple appeared in his cheek.

  Why had she never noticed it before?

  But her fixation on his dimple dissolved when he stepped close. Very close.

  “Is there any chance anyone could be watching us?” His low, husky question sent a delicious tingle up her spine.

  “Not here.” Had her voice actually squeaked? How adolescent!

  “Good.” He lifted his hand to play with a wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail and gave her a slow smile. “Mmm. Mystery solved. It is as soft as it looks.” He continued to toy with the strands as she fought the sudden urge to lean into him. “You never answered your uncle’s question.”

  “What question?”

  “About whether my looks are to your taste.”

  Drat her tendency to blush.

  “So you did overhear our conversation.”

  “Only the last part. It was very interesting.”

  “Uncle Bud is a romantic.”

  “You’re evading the question. So I’ll go first.” He released her hair and dropped his hand to her shoulder, the steady weight of it solid and reassuring. “My answer is yes . . . very much. Your eyes are the color of polished jade, and I’ve always been partial to jade. I like how the sun brings out the glints of gold in your hair. I like the shape of your mouth and the curve of your neck and your crazy-long eyelashes. You’re a beautiful woman—and what I like best is that the inside matches the outside.”

  Oh.

  My.

  Word.

  Michael had just taken a quantum leap from friendship to . . . way more than friendship.

  Hope bubbled up and spilled over in her heart—and even though the sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, her day got a whole lot brighter.

  Also scarier.

  “Too much?” Michael scrutinized her. He was still smiling, but there was a note of concern in his tone. As if he was afraid he’d gone too far and she might flee.

  “Words like that could turn a girl’s head.”

  “I’m more interested in touching her heart.”

  If this kept up, she was going to melt into a gooey little puddle at his feet.

  “Mission accomplished.” At least her voice wasn’t squeaking anymore. “I guess it’s my turn.”

  “No details necessary. I’m not fishing for compliments. A simple yes or no would be sufficient.”

  “Yes. I like your looks.”

  “Then we’re done talking.”

  He lifted his hand again, his touch gentle as he cupped her face. His other hand moved to her back, urging her close. Then he dipped his head, until his mouth was inches from hers. “Nice and easy.”

  A reminder to himself—or a reassurance to her? Impossible to tell. And once his lips brushed hers, she didn’t care.

  Tracy let her eyelashes flutter down, blocking out everything but the kiss. It was slow and sweet—but by no means tentative. Her hands snuck around his neck as he molded her closer to him . . . tasting, touching, exploring. His arms were strong, his chest solid, his touch sure as he held her tight and told her in a language far more articulate than words his hopes for the future and how much he had come to care for her.

  It was everything a first kiss should be.

  And it ended far too soon.

  He kept his arms around her after he broke contact, tucking her close against him, his breathing as uneven as hers. “I’d say we’ve officially moved beyond friendship.”

  “Yeah.” It was all she could manage.

  “Scary, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” She pulled back slightly to examine his face. “So what do we do now?”

  He shifted into position beside her, a touch of humor glinting in his eyes as he slung an arm across her shoulders. “Spot-spray weeds?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know—but my answer stands. I propose we carry on as usual . . . with a few interludes like this thrown in. One kiss—one great kiss—is a beginning, not a conclusion. I think we should try for a slow build and see what happens.”

  “The voice of reason again.” She exhaled. “I’m glad one of us has retained some left-brain function.”

  “Barely. Thinking straight with you beside me is a challenge.” He motioned toward the equipment shed. “Duty calls.”

  Right.

  The weeds.

  She started toward the shed, and he strolled along beside her, keeping his arm around her shoulders.

  “How are you doing with your to-do list out here?” His fingers gently kneaded her overtaxed muscles.

  “Better than I expected, thanks to you. In fact, I might be able to take off on Sunday. From the farm, anyway. I have some accounting work to catch up on.”

  “I thought you were going to do that last night?”

  “Eleanor Cooper called. She needed a prescription picked up.”

  “You’re stretched too thin, Tracy.”

  She didn’t have to check out his expression to know he was frowning. She could hear it in his voice. “I didn’t stay long. She asked about you, by the way. You made quite an impression.”

  He dismissed that notion with a wave of his free hand. “She was just glad someone fixed her gutter.”

  “It was more than that. You ooze empathy, and your manner has a way of instilling . . . I don’t know. Confidence, maybe. That must be a great asset in your work. Growing cranberries is child’s play compared to what you have to deal with every day.”

  “Cranberry growing has plenty of its own challenges, as I’m finding out—and I’m not talking about sore muscles.” Shep bounded up to meet them as they approached the equipment shed, and Michael leaned down to pet him without breaking stride. “So what happens if you can’t keep the farm running?”

  The ever-present knot of worry in her stomach tightened. “I’ve tried not to dwell on that—but I do have a backup plan. I’ll keep a small part of the land and live here, build my clientele in Hope Harbor and the surrounding towns, and go back to accounting full-time.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  She swallowed. “I hope not, either—but I’m beginning to think it will take a miracle to save the place. Our reserves are . . .” She jolted to a stop as Uncle Bud exited the equipment shed. “What are you doing out here? I thought you were heading back to bed.”

  A guilty flush crept up his neck. “My next stop. I detoured in here for a minute to see how the insecticide supply was holding up. I don’t want any weevil damage this year.”

  “It’s fine. I’m on top of inventory.”

  “I expect you are.” His gaze lingered on Michael’s arm over her shoulder.

  She slipped out from under it, doing her best to hold back the blush fighting for release. “We’re going to spot-spray weeds.”

  “Smart plan.” He ambled past, still sizing her up. “You’re losing your ponytail.” He gave it a tug, smirking as he disappeared around the side of the structure.

  She felt around. The whole thing was askew.

  Great.

  Muttering a few choice words, she resecured it with a couple of quick twists of the elastic band.

  “I think he suspects there was some hanky-panky going on out there.” Michael motioned
toward the beds.

  “Then I’ll have to do some damage control. I can come up with some explanation for why your arm was around my shoulders, and my ponytail often comes undone while I’m in the beds.”

  “Won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “You can’t explain away how you look.”

  “What do you mean? How do I look?”

  “Like a woman who’s just been kissed.”

  She squinted at him. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “How does someone look like they’ve just been kissed?”

  “It’s hard to explain. I think it’s an intuitive guy thing. But however it works, I guarantee your uncle figured it out.”

  She huffed out a breath. “That means he’ll get carried away, jump to conclusions—and be disappointed if things don’t work out.”

  “He won’t be alone.” Michael leaned down for a quick kiss. “But for now, let’s put this in God’s hands and see where he leads us.”

  “I thought you were mad at God.”

  “I’m reopening the lines of communication. You want some company this week at Sunday services?”

  Once more, a surge of hope swept over her. “You’re going back to church?”

  “Yep—but first we need to spray weeds.”

  He grabbed her hand and steered her into the equipment shed, the subject of God closed for now.

  But his initiative on the faith front was a huge check mark in his plus column.

  And one more reason why Uncle Bud and Michael wouldn’t be the only ones disappointed if this budding romance fizzled.

  17

  “If there is one message we can take home from today’s Scripture story, it’s this: mistakes can be forgiven. Estrangements can be mended. Our heavenly Father is waiting to welcome us home if we but ask.”

  Reverend Baker scanned the congregation from the pulpit. “So here’s my challenge for you this week: follow that model. There are prodigal sons—and daughters—in many of our lives. Perhaps we’ve been one ourselves. Let us resolve today to reach out to those we’ve offended or those who have lost their way. As this story illustrates, it’s never too late to begin again. Now let us go forth in joy.”