Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  “Could be . . . but I suspect Anna had even more influence.”

  “Why?”

  “I think she and Grace bonded.”

  Tracy shook her head. “Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  And one of the biggest of all was sitting right next to him.

  He left that unsaid as they finished their impromptu meal, but once he dropped her off at the cottage and was on his way back to the annex, her last comment replayed in his mind.

  Life wasn’t the only thing full of surprises.

  Hope Harbor was overflowing with them.

  And he had a feeling more were on the way.

  Gripping the top of the flat bag, Anna shaded her eyes and scanned the parking lot for Michael’s Focus. Congenial as he was, the man’s patience was going to be taxed to the limit if she had to tap him for too many more trips to Coos Bay—not to mention extra stops like this. Fortunately she was mending well, according to the specialist who’d examined her shoulder.

  A Focus backed out of a spot a few rows down, and less than sixty seconds later Michael pulled up in front of the store. Leaving the engine idling, he circled around to help her with the door and seat belt.

  “Your mother taught you excellent manners.”

  He grinned. “I’ll tell her you said that. There were times in my youth I think she despaired of me. I’ll never forget the Sunday I snuck a frog into church in my pocket . . . which managed to get loose and hop up to the pulpit during the sermon. She never forgot it, either.”

  “I expect she didn’t.” Anna tried without much success to sound stern.

  “And that was just one of the many scrapes I got into as a kid.”

  After taking his place behind the wheel again, he picked up the conversation as he maneuvered the car through the traffic, toward 101. “I think most little boys have a daredevil gene that can get them into trouble.”

  “I suppose so.” Though truth be told, while John and she might have clashed on a multitude of issues, he’d never gotten into any real mischief.

  Until after George died.

  The car fell silent as they merged onto the highway and Michael accelerated toward Hope Harbor. She sensed him casting a few glances her direction, and an odd vibe wafted her way. Kind of like the one she’d felt the day he’d suggested she take Grace in.

  Something was up.

  Narrowing her eyes, she shifted toward him. No sense beating around the bush. “What’s on your mind?”

  He passed a slow-moving truck and sent her an amused glance. “I think you’re beginning to know me too well.”

  “I used to be decent at reading moods.”

  “It seems you still are. I do want to ask a favor.”

  “You don’t have another young woman who needs refuge, do you?”

  “No. But I have a young woman who could benefit from your culinary expertise.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “I’m not a culinary expert.”

  “You ran the high school cafeteria for years. You cook for both of the clergymen in town. I’d say that qualifies you as an expert.”

  “I don’t have any formal training.”

  “You have a better credential—experience. Interested?”

  “I might be.” Especially if this project made her feel alive again, like helping the Lewis family had. “Who’s the woman and what kind of culinary assistance does she need?”

  Michael pulled a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his windbreaker and handed it over. “Tracy Campbell. Harbor Point Cranberries is having financial problems, and I came up with an idea that might help them generate some income. You’re holding it.”

  She opened the slip of paper and skimmed it. “This is a recipe.”

  “I’m hoping it can be a profitable business.”

  As he filled her in on the background and fleshed out his idea, Anna gave the recipe a more thorough read . . . and tried to contain the sudden zip of excitement that raced through her veins.

  A project like this would be a lot of hard work, but it could also be satisfying—and perhaps even fun.

  Now there was a word that hadn’t been in her vocabulary for a while.

  “I know the cake is good.” Michael flipped on his lights as they turned a corner and went from sun to fog. “I scarfed down a whole loaf of it last week. So I have no worries about whether it would sell. The question is whether the recipe can work on a commercial scale. That’s where your expertise comes in.”

  “I don’t see why not. It might need some fine-tuning, but I’m used to translating recipes for large-batch preparation. Those ginger cookies I gave you were a particular favorite at the high school, and they started with a family-sized recipe.” She lowered the sheet to her lap. “Who’s going to run this operation, and where do you intend to bake these cakes?”

  “None of those details have been worked out. There’s also an issue of funding. We’re in the early stages.”

  “We?”

  Michael’s complexion reddened slightly. “I’m helping Tracy out.”

  Also walking hand in hand on the beach with her.

  Romance appeared to be in the air along with the quest to save the cranberry farm.

  “Well, if you need someone to coordinate the baking, I might be interested—and the high school kitchen would be ideal. I have connections there, and it’s not used at night or on the weekends—or in the summer. That would give us plenty of time to bake cakes, at least in the early stages of this project. I suspect if the school was offered a small portion of the proceeds they’d be happy to cooperate. The sports programs are always underfunded.”

  Michael looked over at her. “Did you ever work in the business world?”

  “No.”

  “You missed your calling. Those are all great ideas.”

  “I’m sure I can come up with more after I think through this for a day or two. In terms of funding . . .” She took a deep breath. There was more than enough in her portfolio to provide a comfortable living for the rest of her life, thanks to the wise investments she and George had made. Why not use a portion of the excess to give someone else a boost?

  “I have one investor in mind already.” Michael flashed her a grin. “Me.”

  The man was putting his own money behind this?

  Definitely romance in the air.

  “I might be interested in investing a little too. You seem to have a clear-thinking mind and a solid work ethic, and I know Tracy does. If you’re both committed to this, I expect it will fly. The three of us should sit down and talk about it—if you want me to get involved, that is.”

  “I’ll run it by Tracy later today, but I think you’d be a tremendous asset to the team.”

  Throat closing, Anna turned aside on the pretense of adjusting her seat belt. When was the last time anyone had viewed her as an asset? Or the member of a team? Oh, the clergymen missed her cooking . . . but anyone could make meat loaf. Besides, that was a solo occupation. This challenging project would involve a team effort—and she could contribute. George had always praised her head for business, and she knew her way around a commercial kitchen.

  Wouldn’t it be amazing if this was the beginning of a whole new chapter for her? All thanks to the man beside her—a stranger who’d walked into her life a month ago and ended up transforming it.

  He might be paying her to live in the annex, but after all he’d done for her, she should be paying him.

  Too bad he couldn’t also help her resolve her deepest sorrow.

  That, however, was hers alone to muddle through. And while hard work and an infusion of capital might solve the problem at Harbor Point Cranberries, neither of those would resolve her issues with John.

  A recipe, however, might. One that contained hefty portions of humility, remorse, understanding, empathy . . . and love.

  But even if she could whip up all those ingredients, the finished product would be a whole lot harder sell than a tasty cranberry nut cake.r />
  20

  Michael was amazing.

  As Tracy pedaled into town on autopilot, psyching herself up to whip through the errands she’d deferred from two days ago, she replayed their morning meeting with Anna.

  He’d run the discussion like the executive he was. Efficient, on-topic, cutting to the chase on every issue. They’d reviewed some package-design quotes he’d already gotten from vendors he knew, listened to Anna’s comments on the recipe and the positive response she’d received from the high school, and reviewed the very preliminary cost revenue analysis she herself had done based on limited information and a lot of guesswork.

  As for the older woman’s willingness to put money into the venture—mind-blowing.

  Bottom line, it appeared Michael’s idea had legs.

  Who could ever have guessed that an old family recipe might—

  “Tracy!”

  At the summons, she braked, balancing herself with one foot on the pavement.

  Father Kevin and Reverend Baker waved at her from across the street, each carrying a brown bag from Charley’s. After dodging the cars on Dockside Drive, they joined her.

  “Good morning.” Or was it? She checked her watch. Sheesh. Twelve-fifteen already. “Sorry. Afternoon.”

  “That’s okay. I often lose track of the days, let alone the mornings and afternoons.” Father Kevin grinned at her. “Do you have a minute? Paul and I have an idea we wanted to run by you.”

  Another one? Her brain was already on overload from this morning.

  Squelching a sigh, she shoved the baking project to a mental back burner. “Sure.”

  “We’ve reviewed Michael’s report, and Paul and I believe that if we want Helping Hands to be as effective as possible, a paid director would be the best option.”

  “I agree—but there’s no money for that. Not even seed money to fund the job for a few months until a director could get some fund-raising efforts rolling. Michael and I talked about it, and I don’t think anyone would take a job like that on spec. People do have to eat.”

  “Of course.” Reverend Baker transferred his bag from one hand to the other, sending a tantalizing aroma wafting her way. Somehow breakfast had slipped through the cracks in her busy schedule. “But we think perhaps this job could be a part-time position, at least in the beginning. In fact, if the person we hired was experienced, it might be able to remain part time . . .”

  “Because a professional would be able to accomplish a lot more much faster than we do, with our well-meaning but amateur piecemeal efforts.” Father Kevin finished his friend’s thought.

  “Yes, and if it was part time, this person could also work another job. That should tide them over until there was money in the till to begin paying a salary at Helping Hands.”

  Tracy pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “It won’t be easy to find someone in this area with the kind of high-level skills you’re talking about, and I can’t think of any supplemental part-time work around Hope Harbor that would adequately compensate a person with that kind of background.”

  The two clergymen exchanged a look, and Reverend Baker spoke. “Unless we could find someone who might have the resources—and willingness—to do this for free until it’s up and running. Like . . . Michael.”

  Tracy stared at them. “Michael?”

  “He has the credentials, and he’s already up to speed on the organization.” Father Kevin rocked forward on his toes, radiating enthusiasm. “We were reluctant to put him on the spot, so since you two seem to have become good friends, we decided to get your take first. It wouldn’t have to be a long-term arrangement. We just need someone to get the thing rolling and put us on the right track. Naturally, it all depends on how long he’s planning to stay.”

  “Not long enough. He has to be back on the job in Chicago July 14.”

  Both of their faces fell.

  “I guess our idea wasn’t as inspired as we thought.” Father Kevin exhaled and dropped back on his heels.

  “I’m glad we talked with you before mentioning it at the next board meeting.” Reverend Baker gave her a resigned smile. “Sorry to delay you, my dear. And please give Michael our best. Will the two of you be coming to services again on Sunday?”

  “We haven’t discussed it yet, but I think so.”

  “Good. Kevin and I sent him a thank-you note for all his work, but I’d like to express my gratitude in person.”

  “Or you could come to the ten-thirty Mass instead. We’re always glad to have new parishioners.” Father Kevin winked at her.

  “Trying to steal my congregation again, I see.” Reverend Baker pretended to bristle.

  “Miracles do happen, you know.”

  “Ha! If I were you, I’d stick to working on my golf game. Getting your score under par would be miracle enough.”

  Tracy smothered a grin. The two of them might indulge in verbal sparring and nurture a friendly rivalry, but Father Kevin’s welcome gift of a box of Titleist high-end balls and an invitation to the links had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

  “Well, if you two don’t need anything else . . .”

  “No. We’ve delayed you too long already. Besides, our lunch is getting cold.” Father Kevin crinkled the bag in his fingers. “Have a blessed day.”

  Lifting their lunches in unison, the two men recrossed the street and strolled toward the pocket park tucked between the wharf and the river, next to Charley’s.

  Tracy continued to Sweet Dreams for one of the coffee cakes Nancy enjoyed—but her mind wasn’t on her bakery visit. It was too busy pondering the idea broached by the clergymen.

  Michael as the part-time director of Helping Hands.

  Was it possible that idea, too, might have legs—if Michael decided to stay?

  Even if he did, though, could he afford to take on a job that wouldn’t offer any financial compensation for the first few months? He obviously had some money in reserve or he wouldn’t be willing to invest in the Harbor Point baking venture—but that bout of generosity might have taxed his resources to the limit.

  Besides, if he was thinking about making a big change in his life, nonprofit work might no longer hold any appeal. Based on his history, it was very possible he’d want to find a different kind of job.

  Tracy handed the money for the coffee cake to the clerk with a distracted thank-you and returned to her bike. Stewing about those issues was useless. Why not ask him about his plans? After all, if they wanted to deepen their relationship, open, honest communication was important.

  Even if honesty didn’t always produce the hoped-for answer.

  Anna filled the seed holder and slid it into position in the cage, leaning close to inspect the chickadee.

  “Well, my friend, your stay with me is about up. And you’ll be glad to leave, won’t you, now that Thumper and your raccoon buddy are gone?”

  After letting out a soft whistle, the bird went back to eating with gusto.

  The phone rang, and Anna sent it an annoyed glance. Another charitable solicitation, no doubt. Or one of those calls about reducing credit card debt. She ought to get rid of the landline. Why waste the money? Her bare-bones cell was sufficient for the few calls she placed.

  Except . . . John knew this number.

  Huffing out a breath, Anna resealed the bag of seed and plunked it on a shelf as the machine rolled to voice mail. How pathetic was that? Like he’d actually pick up the phone one day out of the blue and . . .

  “Anna? It’s Joyce.”

  Her lungs froze, and she groped for the edge of the counter.

  “I . . . I wasn’t sure if this number was still good, but I . . . I guess it is. I wanted to let you know we’re having a potluck at church on Saturday night. You might have seen the notice in the bulletin.” The woman sounded as if she’d been running, her words choppy and breathless. “Anyway, your scalloped potatoes used to be a favorite, and if you want to come . . . well, I’ll be there too. I could . . . I could save you a place.
” Silence for a moment. “Also . . . I didn’t get a chance to ask about your sling on Sunday, but if you . . . if you need any help, let me know. Take care.”

  The line went dead.

  For a full sixty seconds, Anna didn’t move. When had she last gotten a personal call on her home phone?

  Too many years to count.

  Now this from Joyce—all because she’d made a simple, cordial overture.

  Pressure built behind her eyes. Despite all the years that had passed, her old friend was willing to offer her a second chance—like the father in the prodigal son story.

  Her gaze slid to the flat beige envelope lying on the kitchen counter, where it had rested since her trip to Coos Bay on Monday. A spur-of-the-moment purchase she’d almost thrown out the same night.

  Slowly she crossed to it. Fingered the top. Pulled out the card and read the cover.

  Happy 40th Birthday to a Special Son.

  Hard to believe John would be forty on Saturday.

  Card in hand, she moved into the living room, pausing beside the piano where he’d practiced with singular focus and determination to master the difficult, challenging pieces his teacher assigned.

  She stroked a hand over the music stand, ran her fingers across the keys. The instrument was in perfect tune, as usual. Another unnecessary expense. The only one with any musical talent in the family had been John. Gracious, she hardly knew a treble from a bass clef.

  Yet here the piano had sat, taking up space, for almost two decades—a part of John she’d never been able to let go.

  Because he’d added such beautiful music to her life . . . in so many ways.

  She returned to the kitchen, stopping as she passed to touch the outdated answering machine that held Joyce’s message. Proof that reaching out could have positive results—even in the case of very old hurts.

  Her fingers clenched around the card. Might a similar olive branch work with John?

  Yet if it didn’t . . . that door would be shut forever.

  Lowering herself into the chair at the small built-in desk, Anna brushed a finger over the lettering for the word son. The embossed design gave the card dimension—the very thing missing from her life for almost two decades, after her world flattened the day John walked out.