Sweet Tomorrows

by Debbie Macomber

  Thankfully, the inn was booked solid for weekends from June through August. Unfortunately, the weekdays were so-so, depending on what was happening in the area. I’d taken a chance and decided to accept a resident over the summer, renting on a week-to-week basis.

  Emily Gaffney was due to arrive later this month, as soon as the Seattle schools let out for the summer. We’d talked briefly on the phone months ago and a few times since then. Emily had accepted a teaching position in Cedar Cove. Up to this point she’d lived in Seattle, renting an apartment. She’d been able to sublease her apartment to someone she knew and trusted. However, her friend needed to have the apartment starting in the middle of June.

  To sum it up, Emily needed someplace to move and fast—like now would be convenient. She wanted to possibly buy a home in Cedar Cove, but she didn’t want to be rushed into making a hasty decision. That was why she contacted me. She found my name online and called to inquire about renting week to week, possibly as long as a month or two, depending on the housing market.

  I’d never considered taking in a boarder, and basically that was what Emily would be. It wasn’t what I’d had in mind when I purchased the inn. But the truth was I was lonely and looked forward to having someone on hand. Rover was good company, but I needed human companionship. Even after nine months I hadn’t gotten used to life without Mark. Some days it felt as if a huge void threatened to open up and swallow me whole.

  Emily was due to arrive soon, and I looked forward to meeting her.

  Checking my watch, I saw that it was time to leave for my mid-afternoon spin class. I’d always enjoyed exercise. Not necessarily while I was involved in it, mind you. I didn’t like pumping my legs on a stationary bicycle to the point that my buttocks went completely numb and my legs felt like they were about to fall off. What I liked was the aftereffects. The emotional high and all those endorphins coursing through my body, giving me both a mental and physical lift.

  “I’m leaving now,” I told Rover as I moved toward the door. I wore my tight exercise pants and a sleeveless shell, plus a white-and-black polka-dot headband.

  Rover refused to look at me. He considered it his right to follow me wherever I went, but I couldn’t take him to spin class. He lay on his stomach, his chin on his paws, and purposely turned his head away from me. This was my punishment.

  “Stand guard,” I muttered and closed the door, locking it behind me.

  Dana was already at our assigned bikes. After all this time one would assume my butt would have molded itself to this narrow seat. Not so. Most of the time I climbed off that bike with my legs bowed out like an eighty-year-old rancher who’d spent the majority of his life on a horse. What I needed, I decided, was a more comfortable seat. Something the size of one on a tractor.

  “You having a good day?” Dana asked. She had her hair up in a ponytail and was already atop the bike, arms raised, flexing her shoulders, raring to start. I, on the other hand, looked at the bike and tried with everything in me to come up with an excuse to leave.

  “Jo Marie?” Dana pressed.

  “I’ve had better.”

  I didn’t state the obvious—that my thoughts were wrapped around Mark. The night before I’d gone to the movies with a guy named Ralph. He was nice, divorced, but there wasn’t any spark. There wasn’t even a book of matches. I thought going out would be good for me, but the truth was I came home feeling depressed and out of sorts. I don’t know what I was looking for. What I did know was that I wasn’t going to find it in Ralph. The evening ended on a sour note when Ralph asked me out again. When I refused, I was then obliged to tell him why. Were all men this dense? Really?

  I felt Dana’s eyes on me, and from her look I could see that she was debating if she should say anything or not. Frankly, I didn’t want to talk about Ralph or Mark or anyone else. I helped her decide by getting on the bike, leaning forward to brace my forearms against the handlebars, and said, “You ready to get this show on the road?”

  “Ready,” Dana returned.

  And so was the rest of the class.

  We were off, wheels spinning, heads and shoulders forward, intent on working our hearts to the point of imploding in order to stay healthy and live longer. It didn’t make sense to me, but what do I know? I did it. I had a love/hate relationship with it, and afterward I was glad I’d made the effort.

  I wiped the sweat off my face with a towel and let out a deep sigh.

  “Are we to Paris yet?” I asked. As incentive, Dana and I had been adding our miles up for the last six months, mentally biking our way to Europe. Dana, who was naturally athletic, was miles ahead of me. I was no quitter, and while she might make it to Paris before me, I preferred to laze away in the imaginary French countryside, sampling freshly baked bread with cheese and a lovely bottle of red wine.

  “We’re almost there,” Dana assured me.

  I didn’t believe her for a minute. “See you Wednesday,” I said on my way out the door.

  “Wednesday,” she called after me. “If not before.”

  When she got a free minute, which wasn’t often, Dana stopped by the inn for tea and talk. I enjoyed her visits and was glad to have a friend who understood me.

  I looked forward to my shower and sitting on the porch. We’d been having a beautiful spring to this point. The weather was unusually warm and sunny for Seattle. My mind was occupied with what I would make for dinner. I tended to eat a lot of salads, mainly because they were fast and easy.

  On the way into the house I stopped at the mailbox. Inside were a couple flyers, a food magazine—I’d taken to reading those like novels—and naturally a couple bills. I laid the mail down on the kitchen countertop and went in for my shower.

  Rover had forgiven me now that I was back. He cocked his head and stared at me.

  “You’ve already had your walk for the day,” I reminded him. I spoiled him terribly, and he appeared to have our roles reversed. I had to remind him every now and again that I was the one in charge, not him. Okay, I’ll admit it, I hadn’t been all that successful.

  After my shower I felt worlds better, and seeing that it was a bit early for dinner, I decided to take my food magazine out on the porch, bask in the sunshine, and relax. After the workout I’d just had, I needed it.

  I poured myself a glass of iced tea and took it outside with me. Plopping myself down on a white wicker chair, I set my feet on the ottoman. Because I sat in exactly this same spot so often, I nearly overlooked appreciating the view. The cove stretched out below, the marina thick with boats of every size bobbing on the surface. The peaks of the Olympic mountain range poked against a radiant blue sky. After I let myself be mesmerized by the view, I flipped open my magazine.

  That’s when it happened.

  A postcard with a foreign stamp fell out from between the pages.

  Not just any postcard.

  Although he didn’t sign his name, I knew it was from Mark.

  Enjoying Jeddah Beach Swim Reef.

  Bad connection. No ANDC

  Lost suitcase okay, but mine is badly damaged, making its way home.

  Love you.

  I’m not the suave muscle-bound hero romance novels are written about. I’ve always been on the lean side. In high school I was known as String Bean, for obvious reasons. I bulked up in my twenties but remained tall and thin. As far as I can tell from careful study of my mirrored reflection, I’m not handsome. Not that I pay all that close attention to my looks. I am who I am. I don’t mean to be crass or anything, but I never gave a flying donkey’s butt what anyone thought.

  That is, until I met Jo Marie.

  Without ever meaning it to happen, I cared what she thought of me enough to risk my fool neck in order to be worthy of her. She’s the sole reason I’m buried deep inside of ISIS-held territory in Iraq just outside of Syria. We’re in heat so oppressive it sucks a man’s strength out of him like air out of a balloon. Every day the temperatures hover around 115 degrees, and that’s just past noon. If the blaz
ing sun wasn’t uncomfortable enough, try adding layers of extra clothes to the mix. After nearly a year in Iraq I look more Iraqi than Hussein ever did.

  My mission was to find my friend and former informant, Ibrahim, and bring him; his wife, Shatha; and their two children safely out of the country. I had help from the U.S. government getting into the country, but that came with obligations and responsibilities, a mission they needed me to accomplish while in the country. That mission should have been completed before now, and unfortunately hasn’t been. Locating Ibrahim, who was hiding with relatives in northern Iraq, was the difficult part, and once that was accomplished, getting out should have been easy. But then nothing ever goes according to plan, does it? Not in my life, anyway. For the last four months we’ve been surrounded by men who would like nothing better than to see us all dead. Admittedly, there’d been plenty of enemies who did their best to make that happen when I was stationed here with the army. Now that same territory is ISIS-held. I went into Iraq knowing it would be a miracle if I survived.

  If not for Shatha’s medical skills I would be six feet under right now. Guess that’s what a bullet will do to a body. It’s taken me nearly three months to be strong enough to travel again, and so we’re back on the road, easing our way across the entire country toward the border of Saudi Arabia to meet up with our exit team.

  When I first arrived in Iraq it took me weeks to get a line on Ibrahim. The two of us had worked together when American forces were stationed in the country. I spoke fluent Farsi and Arabic; Ibrahim was my informant. Overnight, without any indication this was about to happen, my unit was ordered to pack up and move out.

  The abruptness of our new assignment shocked me. Within a matter of hours the entire complex was dismantled and we were gone, almost as if we’d never been in Iraq in the first place. I didn’t get the opportunity to square matters with Ibrahim. I couldn’t tell him I was leaving or help him in any way. As protocol, the army collected all weapons from our informants whenever they came on base, but when we were ordered out, their weapons weren’t returned. In other words, our abrupt departure left our informants completely vulnerable and defenseless. I tried to explain to my commanding officer that the consequences of leaving Ibrahim behind were in essence a death sentence, but he could do nothing. He had his orders and that was it. When I insisted we were as good as murdering these men who had become our friends, it didn’t make one iota of difference.

  The experience soured me on the military. As soon as my time expired, I declined reenlistment. It might sound like a small thing, but in my family, in my life, this was huge. I was an army brat. I grew up in a family that had served our country from the time of the Second World War. My grandfather marched with Patton and my father was a Vietnam vet. They each earned medals for valor and honor.

  In a fit of righteous anger and bitterness, I turned my back on what I had always assumed would be my future. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was the fact that my father wasn’t alive to witness what I’d done. Although the truth of it was he probably would have agreed with me.

  At loose ends, I settled in Cedar Cove, and because I was good with my hands, I became a jack-of-all-trades. Thankfully, I didn’t need money. My parents were both gone and my father had invested wisely, and I’d inherited an amount that would last me my lifetime with careful planning. I didn’t need friends. My one friend, the man I would trust with my very life, was Ibrahim, and I’d deserted him to an unknown fate that would likely include torture. He, along with Shatha and two small, innocent children, were as good as dead. Knowing this, I found it difficult to live with myself.

  Not long after I settled in Cedar Cove I met Jo Marie, a war widow. Her husband had died a hero and I was anything but. I’ve never been in love before, never realized what loving a woman did to a man’s soul. It was as if she became a living, breathing part of me. She was constantly on my mind and, even more compellingly, in my heart. Walking away from her was the hardest thing I’d ever done. It would have been less painful to cut off an arm or a leg. Even now, with a bullet wound in my side, I’m convinced the only reason I’m still drawing breath is because of Jo Marie.

  After I was shot and the fever raged, all I thought about was getting back to her. Shatha claimed that while delirious I carried on lengthy conversations with Jo Marie, little of which I remember other than her sweet voice begging me to stay alive. I swear I could hear Jo Marie talking to me, encouraging me not to give up, to make it home to her. She is my sole purpose for continuing this journey, despite the pain and weakness.

  When I first met Jo Marie, Paul had been gone less than a year and she was neck-deep in grief. I appreciated the sacrifice Paul had made, and Jo Marie’s, too. For the first year or so I did what I could to help her with the inn. Gradually, I found myself spending more and more time with her. She was smart and funny and opinionated. You have no idea how opinionated. I loved riling her, getting a strong reaction out of her. I think it helped her feel alive again and dwell on something other than her loss.

  I don’t suppose it should have come as a shock when I realized I’d fallen in love with her. Not having ever experienced this strong of an attraction, I was never sure how best to handle these emotions. Furthermore, the last thing Jo Marie needed was me playing a lovesick fool. I thought it best to keep how I felt under wraps, so I carefully bided my time. I kept a close watch on her, loving her from a distance and doing my best not to let her know how deep my feelings ran.

  I waited nearly two years for her to work out her grief. She’d built a wall around herself and it took that long for her to start to dismantle it. Little by little, I eased myself into her everyday life. Whatever projects she needed done around the inn became my priority, for the simple reason I got to spend time with her. She thought I stopped by the inn at odd times of the day or early evening for her homemade cookies. Not that I’m discounting the appeal of her baking, but I wasn’t there for peanut-butter cookies.

  It was Jo Marie. It was always Jo Marie.

  I wasn’t exactly sure when I made the decision to rescue Ibrahim and his family. What I did know was that I wasn’t comfortable moving forward in a relationship with this woman I loved when I felt like I had let down a man I cared for as a brother. It didn’t help that Paul Rose was a friggin’ hero. Until I righted this wrong, I didn’t feel I was worthy of this woman.

  “Sadeqy.” Ibrahim whispered friend in Arabic. “You’re awake?”

  I looked up at him and blinked. It demanded effort to smile.

  “Drink,” Ibrahim urged, and, tucking his arm beneath my neck, he elevated my head enough to press a bottle to my lips. Water dribbled down my chin. I drank what I could. More times than I could remember, I urged Ibrahim to leave me behind. I was responsible for holding them up. If not for me, we would have reached our rendezvous point weeks ago. The army had scheduled sites, dates, and times for evacuation. Because of my injuries, we’d already missed three.

  Still, Ibrahim refused to leave me.

  That cut. I’d abandoned him to an unknown fate, but he wouldn’t consider doing the same to me, despite the danger traveling with me placed him and his family under. He was that kind of man. That kind of friend. That kind of brother.

  “Time to go?” I asked, praying I could find the strength to move.

  We traveled mostly by night, under the cover of darkness. Once we got to a town of any size, we separated. Shatha went ahead with the two children while Ibrahim stayed behind with me. Wherever we went, there’d been unprecedented security. Danger surrounded us. We couldn’t trust anyone, and it was safer by far to separate whenever we were in a populated area.

  Staying long in any one place heightened the risk. At the rate we’d progressed, as best I could calculate, we’d be fortunate to reach our rendezvous point in two weeks, a distance that would normally take less than a quarter that time under normal circumstances.

  “Sleep,” Ibrahim insisted when I managed to rise up and balance on one elbow.<
br />
  I shook my head. “No, we need to move.”

  “You’re too weak.”

  I forced myself to sit all the way up, shocked at how much effort that demanded. The world started to spin and pain shot through my side. I gasped and fell back on the bed Shatha had made for me, my breathing labored.

  “Rest, my friend,” Ibrahim said again, more moderate this time, his voice a whisper as he gently pressed me against the makeshift bed. “We’ll travel tomorrow.”

  Amin joined his father and studied me with concern in his six-year-old eyes. Ibrahim had named his firstborn son with the name that, loosely translated, meant honorable—a trustworthy man. He explained that there was no word for Mark in Arabic, but he chose this name for his son in honor of his dear friend because I was a man of honor. He viewed me as a man of integrity and his brother.

  “You okay, Scout?” I asked him in Arabic.

  Amin grinned. I called him Scout because he had an uncanny ability to see what often escaped both Ibrahim’s and my notice.

  “Me okay, you okay?” Amin asked in English, and got a warning look from his father.

  I squeezed his small hand, assuring him I was fine. I wasn’t, and although I hated to admit it, I feared I was growing weaker every hour. If we didn’t move soon we’d miss our last chance for evacuation and all would be lost.

  We were too close to give up now.

  “No, we move.” My gaze held that of my friend. “We have no choice.”

  “You need to heal first.”

  “No time.”

  Ibrahim sighed, well aware of the urgency.

  “Either we move or you leave me behind.” I saw the hesitation and doubt cloud Ibrahim’s face. I reached out and gripped his hand, surprised at the strength of my hold. “We have no choice,” I reiterated.

  After what seemed like a long time, Ibrahim nodded. “We move,” he agreed.

  Amin leaped to his feet and ran to tell his little sister and mother.