Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  Wouldn’t it be amazing if they actually reconnected?

  That would never happen, though, if she let fear paralyze her. Yes, it was possible he’d ignore her attempt at reconciliation. And yes, it would be difficult to bear a final rejection. Yet she’d be no more alone than she was now.

  And alone wasn’t working for her anymore.

  Taking a deep breath, Anna opened the card, picked up a pen, and began to write.

  “Ouch!”

  At Tracy’s exclamation, Michael shaded his eyes and squinted farther down the deer fence. “What’s wrong?”

  “Bee sting.”

  He dropped his shovel and strode toward her. The spot on her forearm was already turning red beneath the stinger protruding from her skin. “How can I help?”

  “You can’t. Once you’re stung, you’re stung. I just need to get the stinger out ASAP.” She tugged off her work gloves, then dragged her fingernail across the stinger, pulling it free. “She was a mean one.”

  “She?”

  “Only female honeybees can sting—and this one packed quite a punch.” She displayed the stinger on her fingertip.

  “I thought they were supposed to be calm?”

  “They are—unless you rest an arm right on them.”

  He winced, leaning closer to examine the stinger. “What’s the thing on the end?”

  “An efficient little pump that continues to push poison into the wound after you get stung. Very clever design.” She flicked off the stinger and dug a small tube of toothpaste out of her pocket. After squeezing some on her finger, she spread it over the inflamed area.

  “Home remedy?”

  “It works.”

  “Shouldn’t you wash the area first?”

  She gave him a teasing look. “You are a city boy. Here in the country, we just carry on. I’m good to go unless this swells.”

  Michael frowned. When had he last been stung by a bee? The school picnic in fifth grade, maybe? The date might be fuzzy, but he had no problem recalling how it had throbbed like the dickens.

  “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Yep.” She resettled her baseball cap and waved off another bee. “But bee stings are one of the hazards of cranberry growing. I’ve been stung too many times to count. The toothpaste will take care of the pain in a few minutes. If it swells, I’ll ice it.” She gestured to a shady spot beside the dike. “Why don’t we take a break, though? I could use some water.”

  “Works for me.”

  He followed her to the tractor. She pulled two bottles from the small cooler she’d brought along and handed him one.

  Michael twisted off the cap and took a long pull while she did the same.

  “Let’s take advantage of that shade.” Without waiting for a reply, she led the way to the dappled patch of ground and dropped down, sitting cross-legged as she removed her baseball cap.

  After joining her, he pulled his legs up and rested his forearms on his knees, letting the peace and quiet seep into his soul. The kinks that had knotted his neck and shoulders since Julie died loosened another notch—as they’d done each day he spent in the fresh air doing physical labor . . . with Tracy nearby.

  He turned his head—and caught her watching him. Her expression was . . . what? Nervous? Unsettled? Cautious? Whatever emotion it reflected, his antennas went up.

  “You look like a lady who has something on her mind.”

  “A few things.” She lifted the bottle and took a long sip, her slender throat working as she swallowed. “One of them concerns you—and your plans.”

  Ah. Now he could identify the emotion.

  It was worry.

  “I’ve been praying about that. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any blinding flashes of insight.”

  “Does that mean a move out here is still a possibility?”

  “I haven’t ruled it out.” He dangled the bottle from his fingers, between his knees. Should he mention his mixed feelings about relocating to a town his wife had cherished? Or his nagging feelings of guilt about moving on to a new love after failing Julie so badly? Or his fear that maybe he hadn’t learned his lesson about priorities and could end up hurting a woman who’d already known more than her share of hurts?

  No.

  Those were issues he needed to work through on his own. Tracy had too much on her plate already.

  When the silence lengthened, she spoke again. “In that case, I want to tell you about a conversation I had with our local clergy today.”

  He listened as she recounted her meeting with the priest and minister, along with their query about his interest.

  “In the end, I told them you were scheduled to leave in less than three weeks. I didn’t create any expectations on their end. But if you’re leaning toward staying and have any interest in taking on the leadership role part-time, they’d be thrilled to have you. The whole board would—if you could handle being unpaid for the first few months.” She lifted her bottle and finished off the water.

  He did the same, buying himself a few moments to think. A ready-made job that played to his strengths was appealing—especially the part-time aspect. That should make it easier to keep work from dominating his life. And once he got Helping Hands organized and secured more consistent funding, he could cede the position to a qualified candidate if he chose.

  It was ideal in many ways—though it would require him to accelerate his decision about his life in Chicago.

  Tracy looked over at him in silence, waiting for his reaction.

  “I could manage the finances.” Best to start with the straightforward part. “Anna’s rent is reasonable, and she might sweeten the deal for an extended stay. My day-to-day expenses are minimal, and even after investing in the cranberry project, I’ll have some reserves. It’s an appealing offer on a lot of levels. What do you think about it?”

  She shifted her focus to the cranberry beds, the breeze playing with a few soft wisps of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Faint creases marred her forehead, and when she spoke, he had a feeling she was choosing her words with care. “This has to be your decision, Michael. I’d hate myself if I tried to influence you and you ended up having regrets.”

  Another bee buzzed her, and she lifted a hand to wave it away—giving him a front-and-center view of her forearm. Despite the application of toothpaste, it was clear the sting had swollen.

  He reached over and captured her hand. “I think this needs ice.” He laid a gentle finger beside the reddened skin.

  She spared it no more than a cursory scan. “I’ll give it another half hour.” She tried to retract her hand, but he held fast.

  “Can I tell you something?”

  She searched his face. “Sure. I guess.”

  “If I followed my instincts, I’d resign from St. Joseph Center tomorrow, take the job with Helping Hands, pitch in at the farm—and focus on wooing you.”

  Her features softened, yet her gaze remained steady. “But . . . ?”

  “But given our histories, I think it’s prudent not to rush a decision that could affect the rest of our lives.”

  “I gave the same answer to Uncle Bud not long ago when he asked me how things were going with us. He didn’t diss prudence . . . but he did caution me not to let logic or fear or doubts or bad experiences deafen me to the voice of my heart. In his opinion, feelings do count.”

  “Smart man.”

  “Yes, he is—and his advice is generally sound. So I think you should take your time . . .”

  “But also listen to my heart.”

  “That’s what Uncle Bud would counsel.”

  He swiveled toward her and scooted closer, twining his fingers with hers. “Do you know what my heart is saying at this moment?”

  “I think I can guess—and it’s not very prudent.”

  No, it wasn’t. Especially since he wasn’t the only one with a lot at stake here. Until he got a better handle on how to proceed, it wasn’t fair to Tracy to create an emotional connection that would leave her bruised
and hurting if he ended up going back to Chicago for good.

  Yet here, under a cloudless blue sky, with the tang of salt in the air and the lilting song of birds scoring the scene and her delicate hand in his, being with this woman seemed not only right, but meant to be.

  For always.

  And whether or not that came to pass, he wanted a kiss.

  Now.

  Lifting his hand, he leaned closer and cupped her nape, exerting gentle pressure to pull her toward him.

  She came without resistance, her arms circling his neck as she took the lead with a depth of passion . . . with an urgency and need . . . that shot his pulse into the stratosphere.

  This was not the simple melding of lips he’d intended.

  This was her way of telling him, without ever uttering a word, how much he’d come to mean to her.

  And it blew him away even as he pressed her close, returning as much as she gave, letting his heart have its say.

  When the kiss ended, Tracy leaned her forehead against his, her breathing ragged.

  Or was that his breathing?

  Didn’t matter. The next instant she wiggled free of his arms, grabbed her cap, and jumped to her feet.

  “Race you back to the fence.”

  Before he could reply, she was off, a lithe figure on the run.

  To the fence . . . or away from the tumultuous emotions the kiss had clearly stirred up in both of them?

  He rose with far less haste, giving his blood pressure a chance to drop back somewhere in the vicinity of normal range. If he was a betting man, he’d lay money on the latter. She was running away—and running scared.

  As any prudent woman would.

  After grabbing the staple gun he’d been using to secure the wire fencing to the cedar posts they’d installed, he followed her back to the bed. He wasn’t sorry about that kiss . . . but what it revealed was a wake-up call.

  Tracy was falling fast—and so was he.

  So to save them both another dose of heartache, he needed to make some decisions about his future.

  And he needed to do it soon.

  21

  “Hey, Dad, check this out! A birthday card from someone in your hometown.” Kelsey Williams bounded into the den, clutching a bunch of mail in one hand and waving a beige envelope in the other.

  Frowning, John looked up from his laptop.

  A card from Hope Harbor? How weird was that? He hadn’t kept in touch with a single person from his youth.

  Kelsey plopped beside him on the couch, as usual a bottomless bundle of energy, and held out the envelope.

  His heart stammered.

  No need to read the return address or open the card to know who it was from. Even after a gap of nineteen-plus years, he knew his mother’s handwriting.

  Beside him, Kelsey went still. “Is this from my grandmother?”

  For a fourteen-year-old, his daughter had an uncanny ability to tune in to moods.

  He forced his lungs to reengage. “Yes.”

  “Epic!”

  Not the word he would have chosen.

  “What’s epic?” His wife entered the room, carrying a huge bowl of popcorn along with the old movie he’d chosen as a lead-in to his birthday dinner.

  Kelsey waved the beige envelope. “He got a birthday card from his mom.”

  As Denise set the bowl on the coffee table, her startled gaze connected with his—a more appropriate reaction than Kelsey’s.

  But Denise was the only one who knew the full story of the estrangement.

  “You okay?” Her question was quiet, her touch on his arm gentle.

  “Yeah.”

  Kelsey held out the card again. “Don’t you want to open it?”

  “Later.” Maybe. “Put it on the table with the rest of the mail for now.”

  His daughter gave a theatrical sigh but complied. “I can’t believe you don’t want to see what it says.”

  “Whatever the message, it will keep.” He powered down his laptop and closed the lid. “Right now I want to watch a movie with my two favorite people in the world.”

  “I’ll get it going.” Denise opened the DVD case. “Kelsey, why don’t you fix our drinks?”

  “I’m on it. The usual for everybody?”

  “Yes.” Denise sat beside him and took his hand as their daughter bounded out of the room. “What are you thinking?”

  He forced a smile. “That I’m lucky to be married to an eminent psychologist—because I might need to engage your professional services if I decide to open that.” He nodded to the card.

  “I’m asking as your wife, not as a psychologist.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her, this woman who’d anchored his life and given it new meaning during some of his darkest hours. The woman he loved more than life itself. “I’m thinking it’s surreal. She wrote me off long ago.”

  Denise pulled back slightly as the muffled sound of ice clinking into glasses filtered in from the kitchen. “I think you wrote each other off.”

  “True.” Distance had given him perspective if nothing else. There was fault on both sides for the estrangement—but more of it was on his mother’s. On that point he’d never wavered. “I wonder why she’d contact me after all these years?”

  Denise fingered the DVD, holding it by the edges, taking care not to damage the fragile disk. “Sometimes a life-changing event can prompt people to try to deal with unresolved issues in their past.”

  “Like a bad medical report.” It was the first thing that had come to his mind. Maybe his mother had been diagnosed with some terminal condition.

  Odd how that thought twisted his stomach when she hadn’t been part of his life for almost two decades.

  “That’s one possibility—but I wouldn’t jump to conclusions too fast.” She tipped her head toward the card. “There’s an easy way to find out.”

  “No. Not easy at all.” No matter what the card said, he wasn’t ready to read it.

  “I thought you were going to start the movie?” Kelsey reappeared in the doorway, balancing a tray holding three glasses, and crossed to the sofa.

  “Coming right up.” With a final squeeze of his hand, Denise rose and slid the disk into the player.

  A flash of lightning, followed by a window-rattling boom of thunder, raised the hair on his neck as the opening music for North by Northwest began to play. The turbulent weather was a perfect accompaniment for the classic Hitchcock suspense film.

  And also for the turmoil roiling in his gut.

  Denise nestled in beside him, and Kelsey dived into the popcorn on his other side. This was the best gift he could get for his fortieth birthday—a perfect afternoon and evening with the family that was the center of his world.

  Yet as the movie began, as Cary Grant found himself pulled out of his quiet, predictable life and thrust into the midst of danger and intrigue, John felt his pain—thanks to the slim beige envelope resting on a table three feet away.

  Because it might contain words that would change his world forever—if he found the courage to open it and read them.

  And that was a big if.

  “Are you certain I can’t convince you to join me? There’s always been plenty of food at the potlucks.” Anna took the arm Michael offered and slid from his car.

  He opened the back door and retrieved the casserole carrier from the seat. “No, thanks. I’m too tired from a full week at the farm to have the energy for socializing. Would you like me to carry this in for you?”

  “Thanks, but I’m used to toting food around.” She gripped the handle in her sling-free hand.

  “Remember, I’ll be happy to pick you up later if you like. All you have to do is call my cell.”

  “I may do that if I can’t get a ride. But an old friend is planning to be here, and she may be willing to drop me off. What are your plans for the evening?”

  “A quick stop at Charley’s, followed by a walk on the beach.”

  “Sounds p
leasant.” She took a deep breath and nodded toward the church hall. “Let’s hope everyone took Reverend Baker’s sermon to heart last Sunday. I have some fences to mend.”

  “There might be a few holdouts, but I have a feeling you’ll win them over.”

  “I hope you’re right. And I do have one ally. She might help pave the way. Well . . .” Anna straightened her shoulders. “Here goes nothing.”

  With that she marched toward the door of the church hall . . . and into the fray.

  The lady had pluck, he’d give her that. Walking into the unknown was always difficult, no matter your age . . . or circumstances.

  Heaving a sigh, Michael circled back to the driver’s seat and continued down Dockside Drive to join the queue at Charley’s. A family group and two couples were ahead of him, but the wait would be worth it—though the time would go much faster if he had company. Too bad Tracy’s backlog of accounting work had consigned him to a solo evening.

  In fairness, however, it wasn’t much of a Saturday night for her either.

  He tuned out the couple ahead of him that was debating the merits of a movie versus some club in Coos Bay, focusing instead on the boats in the marina that had found a safe haven in Hope Harbor. Would the town offer the same to him if he stayed—or would its connection to Julie fuel the deep, aching regret he couldn’t shake?

  And was it even fair to his late wife to come at last to the place she’d held dear, only to find love with a different woman? The notion that he’d honor her memory by creating a new and better life built on the lessons he’d learned from his mistakes sounded nice—but was it more rationalization than truth?

  Michael shoved his hands in his pockets, fisting them. He was no closer to finding those answers now than he’d been days ago—and in just over two weeks, he was scheduled to begin the long drive back to Chicago.

  “You’re up, Michael.”

  At the summons from Charley, he swiveled back to the taco truck. The other customers had wandered off, brown bags in hand, to claim benches or a picnic table in the pocket park.