Love Letters: A Rose Harbor Novel

by Debbie Macomber

  I glanced up and blinked.

  “Bob said Mark was our man. He gave us an excellent price, did the work in record time, and as they say, the rest is history.”

  Mark might work efficiently for others, but that hadn’t been my experience with him. Thankfully, I didn’t pay him by the hour.

  “He’s a great guy,” Corrie said. “I know he’s done quite a bit of work for you.”

  “He has,” I agreed.

  Corrie frowned and once more her look grew thoughtful. “Something else …”

  “Yes?” I probably shouldn’t be this openly curious.

  Corrie looked uncertain if she should say it or not, but apparently decided she should. “I think he might have served in the military.”

  That was an interesting observation. “What makes you think that?” I’d never heard Mark make any reference to having been in the service, but that wasn’t unusual.

  “A while back,” Corrie said, “I ordered a bookcase made in Scandinavia, and when it arrived the instructions were in Swedish. The kit came with pictures, but it was impossible for either Roy or me to follow the illustrations without understanding the written instructions. I was utterly frustrated, and after several tries, Roy was, too. Exasperated, he contacted Mark and asked if he could assemble the project. We were both shocked at how quickly Mark managed to build that bookcase. He had it together in no time. And the thing is, I swear he could read the language.”

  “It’s a leap to assume he’d been military, don’t you think?” I said, wondering how Corrie had made the connection.

  “Perhaps, but I had that impression a couple other times as well. Roy, too, and my husband has a talent for sensing things about people. He knows a bit of German, and when he asked Mark a question in the language, Mark answered him back in German. It came so easily to him that I have to believe he must be a linguist.”

  “Mark?” This was an entirely different side of him that I had never seen. It troubled me that I could consider Mark a close friend and know so little about his background.

  “I know you said you weren’t all that interested in digging up information about Mark,” Corrie said, and tapped her index finger against her lips as if mulling over a thought. “But if you change your mind, Roy could help.”

  I knew Corrie’s husband was a retired Seattle policeman turned part-time private eye, but hiring him to investigate Mark was above and beyond anything I would ever consider. Before I could assure her I wasn’t interested, Corrie continued.

  “Roy knows people who know people who could dig up everything there is to know about Mark Taylor. If you want, I could ask him to find out what he can.”

  I immediately shook my head. “I appreciate the offer, but no thanks.” What I wanted, I realized, was for Mark to trust me enough to voluntarily share his personal history with me. Since moving to Cedar Cove, all the days he’d worked at the inn and we’d shared coffee on the deck or in my kitchen, I was fairly certain he knew practically everything there was to know about me. It stung my pride that I considered him a better friend than he apparently did me.

  By now Rover had grown restless and was tugging against the leash, eager to visit his friends. I bid Corrie a good afternoon and then finished my rounds at the market.

  By the time we left, my arms were loaded down with clams, salmon, blueberries, fresh ripe tomatoes, French bread, and a bouquet of huge pink dahlias.

  Rover wasn’t being the least bit cooperative as I headed up the hill. He seemed to feel it was his obligation to mark every blade of grass along the way.

  “Come on, Rover,” I urged. “This stuff is getting heavy.”

  “Looks like you could use an extra hand.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and discovered Mark, walking at a clipped pace directly behind me. Right away I feared he’d overheard me talking to Corrie McAfee … about him.

  “Hi,” I managed.

  “Would you like some help with that?”

  My cheeks felt hot, and I was convinced they’d filled with color. It would be embarrassing in the extreme if he had overheard us.

  “You feeling all right?” he asked, frowning at me.

  “Ah … why shouldn’t I feel okay?” I said, and immediately wanted to bite back the words, knowing they came off a bit gruff and defensive.

  Mark did a double take. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “Nothing to tell you,” I said.

  “Do you want help or not?”

  My arms ached to the point my upper arm muscles quivered. By this point, Rover was half dragging me up the hill.

  “Your choice,” Mark said, and hightailed it past me as if I stood still.

  “Okay,” I called after him. “Please.”

  He turned back and grinned as if he’d won a verbal battle. “You’re in a quirky mood this afternoon.”

  “Sorry.”

  He took the heaviest packages, leaving me with the blueberries and the French bread.

  We started up the steepest part of the hill. I grew winded faster than Mark, who barely breathed hard. Last winter, after a snowfall, the street had been closed to traffic because it was so steep and dangerously slippery. I had to admit walking up it was good exercise.

  “I saw you chatting with Corrie McAfee,” Mark mentioned casually. “You both seemed pretty intense.”

  I swallowed hard. This was what I was afraid would happen. He seemed to be waiting for me to fill him in on my conversation, but, by heaven, if he could keep secrets, then so could I. My mouth was firmly closed. I said nothing, which is what he generally did when I asked him a question he didn’t want to answer.

  “Everything good with Corrie and Roy?” he asked.

  “I assume so.” He’d need to torture anything more out of me.

  “They’re a nice couple.”

  “I think so, too,” I said, eager to agree with him. “Did you know Roy is a retired Seattle detective?” I asked.

  “I heard as part of his services he does background checks.” Mark looked straight ahead as he spoke.

  I swear my vocal cords went numb for two or three seconds. “Oh?”

  “You knew that, Jo Marie, admit it.”

  I pretended indifference and shrugged.

  “Are you tempted to hire him?”

  “Do I need anyone investigated?” I asked, preferring not to answer his question.

  Mark laughed, he actually laughed, and I had the distinct feeling he was toying with me.

  It seemed the best approach was a more direct one. “What are you hiding, Mark?”

  “Hiding?” he repeated. “Do you honestly think I’m purposely hiding? From what? From whom?”

  “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “You mean there’s nothing you want to tell.”

  His eyes grew dark and serious. “You’re right. There’s nothing I want to tell. Leave it at that, Jo Marie.”

  Chapter 22

  Maggie had trouble keeping her eyes open as Roy drove south on I-5 toward Tacoma and the car museum. Two or three times she’d drifted off to sleep only to abruptly shake herself awake.

  “My goodness, you’re a sleepyhead,” Roy commented, taking his eyes off the road to glance her way. He seemed to find her inability to stay awake amusing.

  “It’s the warm car and the chill music,” she said, in an effort to distract him from the real reason.

  “Maybe I should change to a heavy-metal station,” her husband teased.

  “Not a bad idea.” She managed a smile and hit the scan button on the radio until they landed on a station that played classic rock, which they both enjoyed. The loud beat filled the car, music that they’d listened to while dating.

  “You’re being a good sport about this car thing,” Roy said, and reached across the seat to gently squeeze her hand.

  “You’re a car freak.” She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. He’d been wonderfully patient w
hen she’d searched out antique buttons. It felt good to give him this small pleasure. She hoped he would remember this later and think kindly of her.

  He hadn’t said a word when they’d passed the classic car museum next to the Tacoma Dome just off the interstate on the trip over from Yakima. He couldn’t help but notice it. At the time, she remembered, they’d barely been speaking. His eyes had lit up when Jo Marie mentioned it, too. Maggie wasn’t that keen on motorized vehicles. As long as they got her to and from where she needed to go and the car was safe for her children, she was content.

  Not so with Roy. When shopping for their last family car, Roy had a detailed list of features as long as Jaxon and Collin’s letters to Santa. All she requested was that the new car be blue. They ended up with a white vehicle, because that was the only one in a three-state area that offered all the amenities Roy required. Maggie was fine with the color, although she would have preferred blue.

  “Do you remember what I said to you shortly after Collin was born?” Roy said, chuckling.

  “Like I could forget.” Exhausted from the long labor, Maggie had fallen into an elated sleep. After their newborn son had been bathed, weighed, and measured, and the grandparents notified of the latest addition to their family, Roy had settled down in the hospital room with Maggie. While she slept he read his car magazines and talked about one day teaching his sons to drive. It was his way of telling her how pleased he was to have two sons.

  “I remember all too well.”

  “The museum’s not far now,” Roy said, as they drove through a community known as Fife.

  Maggie could see the Tacoma Dome in the distance and would be grateful to get out of the car. Although she’d barely touched her lunch, her stomach had a queasy feeling that left her feeling sick and light-headed. It was all due to nerves, she suspected. Sweat broke out across her brow, and she pressed her hand against her stomach and prayed her discomfort wasn’t obvious.

  They exited the freeway, and after driving around a bit, found the museum and a parking spot. Maggie climbed out of the car and took in deep breaths of fresh air, hoping that would help hide her discomfort. One glance in their car’s sideview mirror showed her face to be ghastly pale. Her cheeks were devoid of color, and she looked dreadful. Her one hope was that Roy would be paying more attention to the exhibits than he was to her.

  If he noticed she was unwell, he thankfully didn’t comment.

  Roy paid the entrance fee to the museum and they went inside. Her husband’s eyes widened with appreciation for the variety of vehicles on display.

  “I think I’ll find a ladies’ room,” Maggie said, striving to sound as casual as possible.

  “Do you want me to wait for you?”

  “No, no, I might be a few minutes. I’ll find you.”

  “Okay.” He was eager to explore, and for that Maggie was thankful.

  She located the restroom area and hurried inside, nearly stumbling in her eagerness to get into the stall. Almost immediately she lost what little lunch she’d eaten. When she’d finished vomiting, she leaned her shoulder against the cubicle wall, letting it support her. She continued to feel light-headed and dreadfully ill.

  “Are you okay?” a woman asked from behind her.

  Maggie hadn’t taken the time to close the stall door. She turned around to find an older, grandmotherly woman behind her. “I’m fine, thank you.” Maggie pressed her hand against her forehead.

  “You don’t look it, dear. Do you need to sit down?”

  “I’ll be okay,” Maggie insisted. She didn’t want anyone making a fuss over her for fear it would bring unwanted attention. Grabbing a handful of toilet tissue, she wadded it up and wiped her mouth clean.

  “Let me see if I can get you some water,” the older woman offered.

  “Thank you,” Maggie whispered. She needed to rinse out her mouth, and longingly dreamed of a nice soft bed that she could crawl into and curl up in a fetal position.

  The woman returned with a paper cup and another woman who worked for the museum.

  “Can I get you anything?” the second woman asked.

  “Please, I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “It’s no bother,” the museum employee insisted. “Shall I call someone for you?”

  “No, no, my husband is here and I don’t want to ruin this for him.”

  “I understand,” the older woman said. “Henry loves these classic cars. My goodness, he dragged me all the way from Olympia just so we could stop by this car museum.”

  “There’s a nice comfortable chair by the entrance, if you feel you need to sit down,” the attendant told her, and seeing that there wasn’t anything more she could do, she left.

  The older woman studied Maggie. “I had the same problem when I was pregnant,” she said, lowering her voice. “The first three months were dreadful for me. I couldn’t keep a single thing down.”

  Maggie wasn’t about to confirm her condition to this stranger. It would be just her luck to run into the woman later when Roy was close enough to hear and have her spout off something about the pregnancy.

  “I think it was something that disagreed with me at lunch,” Maggie offered, hoping to turn the woman’s suspicions elsewhere.

  The woman frowned. “My dear, I’ve worked as a nurse for a GYN for nearly thirty years. I know the look, and you’ve got it in spades. If you don’t believe me, make an appointment with your doctor or buy one of those pregnancy tests.”

  Maggie pretended surprise. “Maybe I will,” she murmured, not meeting the other woman’s gaze. “I … I better find my husband,” she said, eager to escape.

  It took Maggie only a few minutes to locate Roy, who had his eyes on a classic 1936 Mercedes-Benz 540K. He walked all the way around the vehicle with his hands in his pockets as if he was half afraid he would reach out and touch the car like a priceless piece of artwork.

  For a few minutes he didn’t seem to notice Maggie was beside him. “It’s in mint condition,” he said, keeping his voice low and reverent, as though speaking in church.

  Maggie followed Roy while he admired a number of other vehicles, but she could feel herself growing tired and weak. “Would you mind if I sat down for a bit?” she asked, hoping to downplay her almost desperate need to rest.

  She shouldn’t have asked, because Roy, who’d bent over to inspect the inside of a 1960 bright yellow Chevy Corvette, straightened and then focused his attention on her.

  “Maggie, are you feeling all right?”

  “Of course,” she said, almost flippantly. “These shoes are a bit tight, and we’ve done a lot of walking today. I thought I’d take a load off my feet.”

  “Do you want to go back to the inn?” he asked, as he continued to study her, his eyes filled with concern.

  “Not in the least.” So she lied. “I’ll be by the entrance. I saw a chair there earlier.”

  Roy hesitated. “I’ll hurry through the rest of the museum.”

  “Please don’t. Not on my account. I’m perfectly content to sit for a while. Enjoy yourself and take as much time as you want.”

  He studied her as if he wasn’t sure he should believe her. “This isn’t like you.”

  “What isn’t?” she asked, and forced a small laugh.

  “Being this patient.”

  “Roy, that’s completely unfair. Even if it was true, don’t you think you should take advantage of my generosity and count your blessings?”

  “Okay, okay, you’re right. Go make yourself comfortable and I’ll finish going through the museum.”

  “Take however long you want.”

  Again his look told her he was mildly suspicious.

  Grateful to leave her husband, Maggie returned to the spot the museum attendant had mentioned earlier. She sank into the padded chair, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. It felt incredibly good to be off her feet. Almost right away she felt better than she had all day.

  She didn’t know how long she remained in the chair befor
e Roy came to get her.

  “This collection is amazing,” he said, and sounded as excited and pleased as their son Jaxon after spending an hour in the park climbing on the playground equipment. “Thanks, honey,” Roy said.

  “You’re most welcome.” She was pleased they were able to do something he enjoyed.

  “The next time you want to drag me to a chick movie, I promise not to complain.”

  “That’s a fair trade,” she said, with a grin, and looped her arm around his.

  They started out the exit and were joined by the older woman Maggie had met in the ladies’ restroom. With everything in her she silently pleaded with the other woman not to mention their first meeting or her suspicions.

  “Hello again,” the woman said, and either she hadn’t seen or ignored Maggie’s plea.

  “Hello,” Maggie said casually, letting it be known with the lack of warmth in her reply that she wasn’t interested in exchanging chitchat.

  “Are you feeling better?” the woman asked, hurrying to catch up with Maggie and Roy.

  “Much, thank you.” She nearly collapsed with relief when the couple headed in the opposite direction once they left the museum.

  “You weren’t feeling well again?” Roy asked.

  “I’m feeling great.” Which was a small exaggeration, but Maggie had discovered she was beginning to get better with this subterfuge. “You don’t look it, Maggie. In fact, you look a bit pale.”

  They reached their car and Maggie made a show of looking in the sideview mirror once again. “I am?”

  “Don’t you see it?”

  “Maybe I have a touch of the flu,” she said, hoping Roy would accept the excuse and leave it at that.

  “Do you want me to find one of those walk-in medical clinics?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, and laughed off his suggestion.

  “I hate the thought of you being sick.”

  “I feel better already.”

  He frowned in her direction, and it was apparent he didn’t believe her. “Shall we return to the inn?” he asked.

  “I suppose,” she said, as if it was of little difference to her. “Unless there’s some place else you’d like to explore.”