by Irene Hannon
He moved to the window. “One order.”
“Tracy isn’t joining you tonight?” Charley began assembling the tacos with his usual smooth efficiency.
“No. She’s crunching numbers for some accounting clients.”
“She works hard.”
“Too hard.”
“The cranberry business is tough. It’s hard to make a living as a grower these days.”
“So I’ve discovered.”
Charley sprinkled what looked like shredded cabbage on three tortillas and added a dollop of . . . something. “You still helping out at Harbor Point?”
“Yes—and working on a new project that could give the farm a financial boost. The trouble is, I’m scheduled to leave soon.”
“Schedules can change.”
“But jobs don’t stay in limbo forever. I pushed the limits to get two months off.”
“You ready to go back?” He flipped the fish he’d placed on the grill.
“Not even close.”
“Hope Harbor has a lot to offer.” Charley dropped onto a stool behind the counter, giving him his full attention while the fillets finished cooking.
Michael swallowed. “It also has a lot of baggage.”
The artist’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve been here before?”
“No. But my late wife . . . her family used to vacation here when she was a child. She always wanted me to visit with her, but other things kept taking precedence.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m afraid the town might always be a reminder of my messed-up priorities.”
As the admission hung in the air between them, he froze. Baring his soul even to friends and family wasn’t his usual modus operandi, let alone spilling his guts to a casual acquaintance.
“I see your point. What was your wife’s name?”
He was in too deep to get out. “Julie.”
“And she would have been a summer visitor here . . . what? Twenty, twenty-five years ago?”
“That sounds about right.”
“Can you describe her as a little girl?”
Michael tried to call up her image from the childhood photos she’d shown him, many of which had been taken on the Hope Harbor beach. “She was a skinny little thing. Long, wavy blonde hair and big blue eyes with the most amazing sparkle.”
“Did she have a pink ‘I love Hope Harbor’ T-shirt? One of those with a heart instead of the word?”
Michael squinted at the man. “Yeah, she did.” She’d been wearing it in one of the photos he’d found among her keepsakes when he’d gone through her things.
Charley rose, tossed a handful of chopped tomatoes on the tacos, gave the fish a final turn, and moved to the wall papered with children’s artwork. He dug through the layers, pulled one drawing free, and set it on the counter.
“I think this was from her. She and her family were regulars, and she gave it to me her last day here on one of their trips.”
While Charley assembled the tacos and wrapped them in parchment paper, Michael stared at the crude crayon drawing. A stick figure blonde-haired girl was in the center, standing on the beach with the sea stacks behind her, arms outstretched, a huge smile on her face. The artist had written the words “Be Happy!!!” in big letters across the cloudless blue sky at the top.
It could have been done by any child.
Except this girl was wearing a pink “I ♥ Hope Harbor” T-shirt.
And it was dated and signed at the bottom.
To Charley, the world’s best taco maker. Love, Julie.
The signature might be childish, but it was his wife’s. Same slant, same large caps, same curlicues on the end of her e’s.
She’d drawn this when she was ten.
“You think that’s her?” Charley slid the tacos into a bag.
“I know it is. How did you . . . why do you . . . this is from twenty years ago.”
“What can I say?” He shrugged. “I like art—especially children’s art. And how do you throw away a gift from the heart like this?” He tapped the drawing that had yellowed through the decades and collected more than a few grease spots. “I don’t display all the pictures my young customers have given me; some are in boxes at the studio. But my favorites are here.”
Michael groped for his wallet and set a ten-dollar bill on the counter, struggling to come to grips with the latest curve Hope Harbor had thrown him.
“I like the message, don’t you?” The man counted out his change and tapped the words “Be Happy.” “It’s timeless.”
Yeah, it was—and it captured Julie’s personality perfectly. The woman he’d loved had radiated joy, and she’d wanted all those she cared about to share it.
It seemed she’d always been that way.
Hand trembling, Michael ran his fingertips over the decades-old drawing.
“You can take that with you, if you like.” Charley straightened out a bent corner. “I have a feeling I was only the caretaker.”
“Thanks.” The single word was all he could manage.
Julie’s drawing in one hand, bag in the other, Michael returned to his car. When he looked back at the taco stand, a new batch of customers had descended.
Odd how no one had disturbed them while he’d been at the window on a busy Saturday night. It was like . . . fate.
Or some force even more powerful.
Michael fitted the key in the ignition, put the car in gear, and headed for the beach to eat his dinner, take a long walk . . . and do some serious thinking.
After hanging a left at the end of Dockside Drive, he began the ascent to the bluffs. But his previous thought keep strobing through his mind.
Some force even more powerful.
Like . . . God?
All these weeks, he’d wondered if the Almighty was hearing his desperate pleas for guidance and direction. There’d been no bolt from the blue, no writing in the sky . . . not so much as a subtle hint.
Yet in hindsight, it seemed God had been consistently nudging him along. Every single thing that had happened since his arrival in Hope Harbor had been transforming his life. Opening new doors. Taking him down paths he’d never expected to travel.
Now this.
He glanced over at the drawing on the seat beside him—a final gift from the woman he’d loved.
Be Happy!!!
That was about as close to writing in the sky as you could get.
Now all he had to do was define exactly what it would take for him to achieve the goal Julie had penned two decades ago.
The red “new message” light was blinking.
Heart pounding, Anna set the quilted casserole carrier on the counter, wiped her damp palm down her slacks, and edged toward the answering machine.
It wasn’t John. It couldn’t be. One card wouldn’t wipe out nineteen years’ worth of hurt. Not this fast, anyway.
Could it?
Please, God, let it be him!
She lifted her hand and pressed a shaky finger against the play button.
“Mrs. Williams, this is Ellen Lewis. We’re planning to attend services tomorrow at the church you and Grace went to last week, and we wondered if you’d like us to pick you up. Just give me a call. And thank you again for all your help. Things here are so much better. Talk to you soon.”
There were no more messages.
Swallowing past her foolish disappointment, Anna turned away from the machine.
Of course John wouldn’t call this fast. Maybe, after thinking for a few days about what she’d written, he might consider getting in touch—assuming he’d opened the card. For all she knew, it had hit the trash seconds after it landed in his hands.
Trudging over to the sink, she unzipped the carrier—or tried to. It took three attempts, thanks to the tremors running through her fingers. Also foolish. She was too old, with too many hard miles on her odometer, to get carried away with impossible dreams. Those were for the young who hadn’t yet been tainted by the harsh realities of life. She should be grateful Joyce had
given her a second chance instead of wishing for the moon.
She put the casserole in the sink and twisted on the hot water tap to soften the potato residue that had hardened on the interior.
There were other things to be grateful for today too. The Lewises were back together, and the event tonight had gone far better than she’d expected, thanks to Joyce’s intervention. The welcome she received might have been cautious, but no one had snubbed her. She could become part of this community again if she made the effort. Plus, there was a baking business to launch, giving her a new purpose and—
The phone jangled, and she jerked, her uninjured hand flying to her chest, hope swelling again despite her best effort to contain it.
Wiping her hand on a towel, she hurried across the room and snatched up the receiver with a breathless greeting.
“Anna? Joyce. You sound winded.”
She closed her eyes and sagged against the counter. “I, uh, had to hustle to pick up before the call rolled to the machine.”
“Oh. Well, I wanted to let you know I found your wallet on the passenger seat floor after I got home. It must have fallen out of your purse. Shall I run it back over?”
Her lungs kicked back in. “No need. I won’t be going anywhere tonight.”
“I’ll give it to you when I stop by tomorrow to pick you up for church, then.”
“That would be fine. And Joyce . . . it was really nice chatting with you tonight. It brought back a lot of happy memories.”
“For me too.” The woman’s last word came out choked, and when she continued, her voice was shaky. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Once they said their good-byes, Anna placed a quick call to Ellen Lewis to decline her offer of a ride, then wandered back to the sink. The crusty potato remnants had loosened, and in short order she’d cleaned the dish until it was like new despite her one-handed scrubbing.
Perhaps her relationship with John could sparkle again—if he’d opened her card.
With a rueful shake of her head, she stowed the spotless dish. At this stage of her life, she should have learned that in general, happy endings were confined to books.
Yet try as she might, she couldn’t quite snuff out the tiny flicker of hope that burned deep in her heart.
22
“Here you go, Eleanor.” Tracy handed the older woman the small grocery bag containing baking powder and chocolate chips.
“Thank you, my dear. I’m sorry to bother you with this on a Sunday afternoon. I’d completely forgotten about signing up to make dessert for Reverend Baker this weekend until Margie from the food committee reminded me after the service.” She leaned sideways and peered down the front walk. “Did you bring Michael with you again? You two made quite the handsome couple at church this morning.”
With an effort, Tracy held on to her smile. Michael might have been with her in body, but his mind had been far away.
Something was up.
“No. He’s out at the farm, helping Uncle Bud finish a fence repair that couldn’t wait. Shep and Ziggy can’t stand guard against the deer 24/7. I’m on my way to join them now.”
“Pitching in at the farm, is he?” The older woman gave an approving nod. “I like a man who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”
That made two of them.
But Tracy wasn’t about to discuss her preferences in men with Eleanor. Not after the unsettling vibes she’d gotten this morning from the very man she preferred.
She eased away from the door. “I better get moving. There’s a lot of work to be done today.”
“You fit in some fun too—preferably with that nice young man. I have a feeling he knows how to show a lady a memorable time.”
She was out of here.
“Talk to you soon.” With a wave, she jogged down the path, mounted her bike, and took off, pedaling at double speed—the sooner to see that nice young man and try to get a read on his earlier distraction.
But when she pulled into Harbor Point Cranberries less than fifteen minutes later, his Focus wasn’t there.
“You got here fast.” Uncle Bud strolled out of the equipment shed, staple gun in hand.
“Where’s Michael?”
“He left ten minutes ago after he got a phone call. Said he had some urgent business to deal with. You want to help me finish up the corner post? I need another set of hands.”
“Sure.” She started toward the shed to get her gloves.
“Hey.”
She stopped and turned back.
“Cheer up.”
“I’m cheery.”
“Could have fooled me.”
Her uncle was way too observant.
She shrugged and toed a piece of gravel, shoving her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans. “Just wondering about Michael’s call. It must have been important for him to renege on his commitment to help out here today.”
“I expect it was.” Uncle Bud weighed the staple gun in his hand. “You’re worried he’s going to leave, aren’t you?”
Might as well admit the truth. “Yeah.”
“You know, while we were working today, he talked a fair amount about the cranberry nut cake project—and he used the word we a lot. If he was thinking of cutting out, seems to me he wouldn’t be doing that. Why don’t you ask him about his plans if you’re worried?”
“I did. Last time we talked about it, he was still trying to figure out what he should do.”
“It’s a big decision.”
“I know.” She brushed some stray strands of hair back from her forehead. “Let me grab my gloves.”
It took her less than thirty seconds to retrieve them, and when she exited the shed, her uncle was waiting where she’d left him.
“You been bending the Lord’s ear about this?”
“Some.”
“Keep it up—and I’ll join you. A man faced with a decision like that needs a lot of guidance. Best thing we can do is put it in God’s hands and let him handle the hard work.”
She pulled on one glove, shoulders slumping. “That sounds good in theory, anyway.”
“Don’t I know it.” He bent down to pet Ziggy as the collie bounded up. “Worry is tough to shake, no matter how strong a person’s faith is. Smart, capable, competent people like us”—he winked at her—“want to take charge and get answers now. Trouble is, our timeline isn’t always God’s. All we can do is pray Michael eventually makes the right decision—for everyone involved.”
She tugged on the other glove, trying for a casual tone. “So if he decides to stay, how would you feel about that?”
“You want the truth?”
Her stomach bottomed out. Uncle Bud was a superb judge of character, and if he had any reservations about Michael she’d have to give them serious consideration.
Maybe she shouldn’t have asked.
But burying your head in the sand didn’t make storms go away, as he’d always taught her.
She swallowed. “Yes.”
“From what I’ve seen, I think he’s a fine man. And you didn’t ask me about this, but I’ll tell you anyway—I also think you suit each other. I liked Craig, but after watching you with Michael, I think he’s a better match.”
“How can you know that already? He’s only been in town a month.”
“Doesn’t take me long to size up a person. I knew Nancy was special the first day we met. Of course, we took our time about getting serious—but my instincts about people are usually spot-on.” He hefted the staple gun. “You ready to fix fences?”
“Yes.”
She followed him toward the beds, stopping to give Shep a pat that set the collie’s tail wagging. Then the dog scampered off to join his buddy in another game of chase-the-bog-rats, yipping with enthusiasm.
If only human joy were that easy to find.
But her uncle was right about giving her worry to God. She’d already let Michael know in every way she could, short of actually saying the words, that she wanted him to stay. That her feelings for
him ran deep.
Now it was up to him—and God.
“Thank you both for seeing me on such short notice.” Michael shook hands with the two clergymen and took a seat at the table in Reverend Baker’s office.
“No problem at all. Your request got me out of an altar committee meeting.” Father Kevin grinned as he sat. “I don’t know what our purpose here is, but a discussion about anything is better than listening to the ladies debate the pros and cons of flowers and liturgical banners and whether the altar linens need to be starched.”
“I’m with Kevin.” Reverend Baker claimed a chair. “My Sunday afternoon would have included attending a monthly ministers’ conclave in Coos Bay, where the most important thing on the agenda is usually the Ducks. Nice bunch of people . . . but not a vital meeting. So what can we do for you?”
Michael folded his hands on the polished walnut. “Tracy told me about the conversation you three had regarding Helping Hands—and your interest in having me take on the part-time director job.”
After the two clerics exchanged a look, Father Kevin spoke. “I hope we didn’t offend you by discussing this behind your back, but we didn’t want to put you on the spot. It was an off-the-wall idea, after all—and Tracy explained you’ll be leaving soon. I suppose it would have been a miracle to find someone with strong credentials who would do the job without pay, even for a few months.”
Michael took a deep breath. This was where prayer had led him, but it was still a huge step. “Then you may be looking at one.”
Reverend Baker cocked his head. “But I thought . . . aren’t you planning to leave soon?”
“I was—but my plans changed.”
“This is fantastic!” The priest leaned forward, excitement sparking in his eyes. “With your expertise and under your leadership, Helping Hands could become a powerhouse of charitable works. It would be everything—and more—we envisioned at its inception.”
“My tenure with Helping Hands may be short-term, though.” He needed to rein them in before they got too carried away. “Perhaps just long enough to get the new model up and running, put some funding in place. I’m in the process of evaluating whether I want to stay in nonprofit work. However, if I decide to step down, I’d work with you to find a replacement.”