Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  “I’m already set.” He pulled open the passenger door, waited while she slid in, and circled around to take his place behind the wheel. “You know, I could leave my car in long-term parking and save you the solitary drive back. You must be tired after all the Fourth of July festivities yesterday.”

  “I’m not a bit tired—and we’ve been through this already. Given all the weekend commuting I did during college, I could navigate this route in my sleep. Besides, it gives us three more hours together.”

  “Sold.” He started the engine and pulled out of the driveway. “By the way, I enjoyed the fireworks last night.”

  Giving him a flirty smile, she wiggled her eyebrows. “Which ones?”

  He tried to keep a straight face as he responded. “The ones that formed geometric shapes were pretty spectacular.”

  “Very funny.” She gave him a playful jab on the shoulder.

  “Actually . . . I think my favorite was . . .” He slowed to peer at the driver of the SUV that passed them.

  “What’s wrong?” Tracy checked the rearview mirror as the other vehicle receded.

  “I think . . . I’m almost certain that was Anna’s son.”

  “You’re kidding!” Tracy twisted around, trying to keep the SUV in sight.

  “I only got a quick glimpse, but he sure looked like an older version of the picture in her den—and a lot like me.”

  “Wow.” Tracy settled back into her seat. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if the two of them got back together?”

  “Yeah. But you know what?” He smiled at the woman who was transforming his world, tugging her close for a stolen kiss while keeping one eye on the road. “I have a feeling that in Hope Harbor, anything is possible.”

  Anna stacked the plates in the sink, covered the one remaining piece of cranberry nut cake with plastic wrap, and finished off her cup of coffee.

  How different—and better—today had been than her typical quiet Saturday morning with just her critters for company.

  She surveyed the empty space at the far end of the kitchen. All the cages and boxes had been stowed in the basement, with Michael’s help. Not that she’d turn a blind eye to a creature in need if their paths happened to cross, but she wasn’t going to seek them out anymore. She had too many other items on her agenda. Like a business to help launch—and a future filled with purpose instead of one where she simply marked the passage of days.

  Only one thing was missing from her life now.

  At the sudden downturn in her spirits, she clamped her jaw and shoved the stopper in the sink. After all the blessings God had showered on her these past weeks, she should be grateful instead of laboring over the one thing that hadn’t gone her way. Expecting a simple birthday card to change John’s heart overnight was foolish. Perhaps someday he might reconsider, but for now she’d have to leave it in the Lord’s hands.

  Squaring her shoulders, she turned on the tap and squirted some detergent into the sink. This was not a time to dwell on the past. There were plans to make for the new business and grocery shopping to do for her clergy clients and church to attend tomorrow . . .

  The doorbell pealed, and she wiped her hands on the dish towel, a trill of anticipation zinging through her. Another recent—and positive—change. Not long ago, a caller would have rattled—and annoyed—her. The few people who’d come to her door over the past two decades had been strangers soliciting donations for an organization she didn’t support or proselytizing for a religion she didn’t believe in or selling a product she didn’t need.

  Now?

  Well, it could be someone from church or one of the neighbors or Joyce stopping by to see if she wanted to take a drive to Sweet Dreams for a Saturday cinnamon roll splurge, like they used to do.

  And she just might indulge.

  It was time to start living again.

  Dish towel in hand, she hurried toward the front door, pulled it open—and froze.

  For the tiniest instant, she thought Michael had come back. But in less than the millisecond that often marked the difference between Olympic medalists and those whose dreams had died, she realized it wasn’t her tenant.

  And once her visitor spoke, the timbre of his voice so long absent from this house—plus his greeting—confirmed his identity.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She lifted a hand to her chest.

  Tried to speak.

  Failed.

  John shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I considered calling ahead . . . but in the end I decided not to. I guess I should have. I didn’t mean to shock you.”

  Shock?

  That didn’t begin to describe the kaleidoscope of emotions swirling through her.

  She swallowed. Reached out a shaky hand. “John.” His name came out a mere whisper.

  He took it, his touch warming her cold fingers.

  Once more she tried to find her voice. “Come in.” Giving him a gentle tug, she backed into the house.

  He followed—crossing the threshold he’d stormed out of more than nineteen long years ago.

  When she made no move to shut the front door, he took the initiative. “I got your card. It . . . surprised me.” As the lock clicked, he turned to her.

  She squeezed the towel in her fingers. “Some . . . interesting . . . things happened this summer. They helped me realize I-I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life with regrets.”

  “Your card did the same for me. That, and some nudges from my wife and daughter. I appreciate how hard it must have been for you to . . .” He stopped. Cocked his ear. “Is water running somewhere?”

  The sink!

  With a startled exclamation, Anna hurried toward the kitchen. The basin was on the verge of overflowing, but she twisted off the tap in the nick of time.

  “Close call—and my fault . . . again.”

  She swiveled toward him, gripping the edge of the counter behind her as the clock wound back several decades. “I’m surprised you remember that. You were only five.”

  “It’s kind of hard to forget getting your head stuck behind the couch.”

  “Yes . . . I imagine it is.” She set the towel on the counter, letting all the old, sweet memories swirl back. “You were always a curious child, wanting to see what was in every closet, behind every piece of furniture, and up every tree. You fell out of the apple tree in the backyard so often your father was on the verge of cutting it down. We were worried sick you were going to break your neck.”

  “Lucky thing I wasn’t a cat, or I’d have used up my nine lives before I was ten.”

  A rush of pleasure swept over her. Despite all the curves life had surely thrown him, he’d retained his dry sense of humor.

  He propped his shoulder against the wall. “As I recall from the day of the sofa incident, you and Dad were so busy trying to extricate me without crushing my skull you both forgot about the water running in the sink.”

  “Yes. I remember the lake on the kitchen floor.”

  “And I remember sitting on the infamous blue detention chair for what felt like a lifetime.”

  “I still have that chair.”

  He grimaced. “I can’t say I’m happy to hear that.” He studied the empty space in the eating area and shoved his hands into his pockets. “But the table’s gone.”

  “It was too big—and lonely.” She motioned toward the living room. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Yeah. I would.”

  She followed as he led the way, drinking in every detail of his appearance. He’d filled out over the years, lost the skinniness of youth, but he was trim in his knife-creased khaki slacks and a knit sport shirt that drew attention to his broad shoulders. The crinkles around his eyes and faint grooves at the corners of his mouth were new, as were the sprinkles of silver in his dark brown hair . . . but oh my, he looked wonderful!

  He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway to the living room. “You still have the piano.”

  “Yes.”

  After a moment, h
e walked over to it and ran his fingers lightly across the keys. “It’s in tune.”

  “Always.”

  He turned back to her, his expression curious.

  “It was a part of you I couldn’t give up. Keeping it in tune . . .” She shrugged and twisted her hands together. “I know it sounds weird—and I often told myself it was a waste of money—but somehow keeping it ready to play gave me hope.”

  He didn’t comment on that. Instead, he walked a circle around the blue chair and claimed the understated recliner George had always favored.

  Once seated, he ran his hands over the arms. “This may sound weird too, but sitting here . . . I almost feel like Dad is with us.”

  “I feel the same. That’s why I kept it.”

  She perched on the edge of the couch, as close to him as possible. Close enough to grab him if he tried to walk away. She was never, ever letting that happen again. “I’m glad you came, John. I was . . . I was afraid you’d throw my card away.”

  He met her gaze. “To be honest, I thought about it. But in the end, I couldn’t. Because even though I went on with my life, even though I have a wonderful wife and daughter and a great career, there was always something missing. I could never put my finger on what it was . . . or maybe I didn’t want to dig too deep. But after your card came, I had to admit the truth. The missing piece was you.”

  The cold, dark spot deep in her heart—the place that had always belonged only to John—was suddenly suffused with warmth and light.

  Pressure built behind Anna’s eyes, and she blinked to clear her vision. “That’s how I felt. I said it in the card, but I’ll say it again to your face. I’m sorry for how I acted the day you told me your news. I should have listened to what you had to say with love and empathy. I should have been understanding and compassionate. And I’m sorry I left you to deal with that traumatic situation on your own. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult that was.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “There was fault on both sides. I said some terrible things that day too. Things that can still make me cringe. I didn’t think you’d ever be able to forgive me.”

  “I couldn’t. Not for a long while. But time has a way of softening harsh memories. And there were extenuating circumstances. Each of us was grieving and distraught, trying to come to grips with your father’s death in our own way—and our short fuses were shorter than usual.”

  “Still—I deserved a lot of the things you said. What I did was wrong. You and Dad raised me to be better than that, to hold to higher moral standards. I felt guilty and ashamed. I knew you’d be disappointed in me . . . as you had every right to be. I guess I was hoping you’d understand—but I should have cut you some slack. Reined in my own temper.”

  Anna sighed. “Should haves won’t change the past for either of us—but I do understand now how people can make bad mistakes, especially if they’re distraught. The good Lord knows I’ve made plenty of my own.”

  He leaned forward and clasped his hands, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I’d like to start fresh, if we can. Clear the air between us. Bring you up to speed on my life and hear about yours.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal. “The story of my life since you left could fit on one page. I shut down, became the town recluse. All I did was go to work and tend to this house. That changed this summer, however . . . for a lot of reasons.”

  “Will you tell me about them?”

  “Yes. But we don’t have to catch up all in one day.”

  “We can cover a lot of ground, though. I’d like to tell you about what happened after I left that day—then introduce you to my wife and daughter. They’re chomping at the bit to meet you.”

  “Are they here?” Her lungs locked.

  “We’re staying at a hotel in Coos Bay. We’ll be driving back to Seattle tomorrow. That’s where I live.”

  “I know.” She smoothed out a crease in her slacks. “Google is . . . it’s a wonderful thing.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You kept up with me?”

  “As much as I could. There was never a lot on the internet.” She swallowed. “I have to admit, I’ve often wondered what happened to the girl and that baby—my first grandchild.” Her voice caught, and she clasped her hands in her lap.

  For the next half hour, she listened as he told her how the girl had wanted to arrange a closed adoption for the baby . . . how he’d initially argued against that in case the child someday wanted to locate his or her birth parents . . . and how he’d yielded to her wishes in the end. He talked of the jobs he got on nights and weekends to pay expenses not covered by his scholarship; about finishing at the top of his engineering class and receiving multiple job offers; of launching a successful career and meeting the woman who became his wife.

  As he spoke, Anna’s heart swelled with pride. Despite his mistakes and setbacks, despite her rejection, despite his struggle to survive on his own, her son had taken responsibility for his actions and become a fine man with a capacity for kindness big enough to forgive his mother’s terrible mistakes.

  “You did well, John. I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

  “Well, I’ve paid a lot of tuition in the school of experience, that’s for sure. Now tell me about your life here—and the events that persuaded you to contact me.”

  “How long do you have?”

  “My time is yours—until tonight, when I’d like to introduce you to Denise and Kelsey and take you all to dinner.”

  Joy bubbled up inside her. Could there be any nicer way to spend a Saturday?

  They talked for hours . . . through several pots of coffee, through a thrown-together lunch of soup and sandwiches on the patio, into the midafternoon, until finally he stood to collect his wife and daughter from their day exploring Hope Harbor and to get ready for dinner.

  Anna followed him back into the house, through the den, past the living room—where he paused.

  “I wonder how many hours I spent on that piano bench?”

  “Quite a lot—and on occasion under duress if your buddies were playing baseball. Do you still play?”

  “Yes. In fact, I fill in at church whenever our music director has a conflict.”

  Her spirits soared at that news. “I’m glad. You had an amazing talent.”

  “But you and Dad were smart to steer me to a more stable career. The unpredictable life of a musician wouldn’t have suited me.” He looked from the piano to her. “Would you like me to play a piece before I leave?”

  Oh, sweet mercy! Could this day get any better?

  “I’d love it.”

  He crossed the room and slid onto the bench, once more running his fingers over keys that had been silent too long. Then he launched into the opening strains of “Amazing Grace.”

  As the beautiful melody filled the house . . . and her heart . . . with music and hope, Anna closed her eyes and let the words of the hymn scroll through her mind.

  I once was lost but now am found, was blind, but now I see.

  How appropriate that her son had chosen this song. For despite the many dangers, toils, and snares they’d both faced, God had indeed led them home.

  And as she watched him play, back at this piano where he belonged, Anna gave thanks for the unexpected blessings of this amazing summer.

  Epilogue

  — Five Months Later —

  “From Hope Harbor, the home of Harbor Point Cranberry Nut Cake, I’m Lisa Nesbitt with this week’s edition of Made in Oregon.”

  As the TV personality from Portland lowered her mike and instructed the cameraman to get a final close-up of one of the cakes, Michael smiled. The national-network-affiliate program had statewide viewership—and potential coast-to-coast pickup from sister stations.

  He leaned a shoulder against the wall of the high school kitchen where they’d filmed the last scene of the in-depth interview. Cranberry nut cake sales might already be solid, but this kind of exposure was worth its weight in gold.

  Tracy and Anna shoo
k the reporter’s hand, and he gave them a thumbs-up as they walked over to join him. “You two did great.”

  Anna dismissed his praise with a flip of her hand. “Tracy’s the one with the stage presence and silver tongue. But I have to admit it was epic—as Kelsey would say—to be in the spotlight for a few minutes. I felt like a real celebrity. Wait till I tell her about this!”

  “It was a lot of fun, wasn’t it?” Tracy’s eyes were dancing with the same enthusiasm and excitement she’d radiated in every interview and tasting gig she’d done over the past four months. “But I don’t know if they get this program in Seattle.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll record a copy of it for them and we’ll have a private showing when I go up for Christmas.” Anna slipped off the pristine Harbor Point Cranberry Nut Cake apron she saved for photos and retrieved the flour-dusted version from a nearby counter. “Now it’s back to baking for me. We have lots of orders to fill in the next two weeks.”

  As she hustled away to supervise the part-time crew they’d hired to help during the crunch, the reporter said her good-byes and exited the building, the cameraman on her heels.

  “You really did do a great job.” Michael touched Tracy’s shoulder, redirecting her attention to him.

  “Thank you.” She covered his hand with her own, her features softening, then scanned the bustling operation that had occupied the cafeteria kitchen every weekend since harvest began—and during the frequent late-night baking sessions they’d scheduled during the week. “It’s hard to believe how this thing has taken off.”

  “Thanks in large part to you. You’ve done a terrific job telling your story to the public and the media. You win new cranberry nut cake fans with every appearance—as the backlog of orders proves.”

  “It’s easy to be enthusiastic about a product you believe in—and when the fate of your family farm hangs in the balance.”

  “I don’t think it’s hanging anymore.”

  “No.” If she glowed any brighter, they could turn off the lights in the kitchen. “I brought the books up to date last night. Despite the start-up expenses, we’re going to generate enough profit this year to keep us in the black and also let you and Anna recoup a significant part of your investment.”