The Inn at Rose Harbor

by Debbie Macomber

  He hesitated and then told her. “My mother’s Bible. In the last days of her life, she kept it at her side twenty-four/seven. I don’t have anything that was hers and I’d like to have that Bible.”

  “A Bible,” she repeated. Michelle glanced around the room. “Where do you think Richard would have put it?”

  If Josh had any idea, he’d be looking there now. “I don’t have a clue.”

  “Check the top shelf in the closet,” Michelle suggested.

  Josh slid open the door only to discover the closet was jammed full of clothes, extra blankets, and a multitude of … stuff. If Richard had tucked the Bible in there, it would take all day to uncover it.

  Discouraged, he shook his head.

  “You could just ask Richard for it,” Michelle offered.

  Josh turned to face her. Apparently she hadn’t learned anything from his shredded jacket and yearbook. “Do you honestly think he’d tell me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? It was your mother’s Bible. You have every right to it.”

  “Don’t you understand?” he said, nearly losing his patience. “If Richard learns I want that Bible, he’ll do everything within his power to make sure I never get it. He’d see that it was destroyed before he’d give it to me.”

  Michelle opened her mouth as though to argue and then abruptly snapped it closed, conceding the point.

  “You’re right,” she whispered. She turned to him and slipped her arms around his waist and hugged him, the side of her face pressed against his chest. She twisted her head to look up at him and their eyes met and held. For an extended moment they simply stared at each other. Josh didn’t breathe and he was fairly certain Michelle didn’t either. The air between them seemed charged with awareness and need. Need to comfort. Need to console.

  Plain, raw need.

  After what seemed like years, Josh closed his eyes and lowered his mouth to hers, no longer able to resist. The kiss started off gentle; gradually it became something else, something more. Something deeper. Josh wound his fingers into Michelle’s hair, bringing her tighter against him as he ground his mouth over hers, wanting to claim as much of her as he could, giving, taking.

  When he broke off the kiss, they were both breathless and panting, their shoulders heaving.

  Josh wanted to say something, but words refused to formulate in his mind. What crowded his thoughts was how he’d never meant for this to happen, and at the same time, how right it’d felt to have her in his arms. The contradictory feelings canceled each other out, leaving him speechless and bewildered.

  She stuffed her fingers in the back hip pockets of her jeans. “Oh boy,” she whispered, and walked away. She took a moment, apparently to compose herself and then turned back to face him.

  “I still think I should approach Richard about the Bible,” she said, picking up the conversation as if there had been no interlude. No kiss. No urgency between them.

  “Michelle …”

  She raised her hand, stopping him. “I won’t come out and ask him directly.”

  Okay, fine. If she wanted to pretend nothing had happened then that was fine by him; easier all the way around. And if she had a plan on how to get his mother’s Bible then Josh was eager to hear it. “Okay, what’s your idea?”

  “I’ll be subtle about it. I’ll … I’ll ask him if he’d like me to bring him a Bible. He knows he’s dying and he might want one.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “I … I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead. One step at a time, Josh. I’ve dealt with situations like this before. We’ll get you your mother’s Bible one way or another.”

  While Josh appreciated her efforts, he wasn’t willing to suspend his search. “Maybe he’s already felt the need to read the Bible,” he said and walked around to the other side of the bed, to Richard’s nightstand. Opening the drawer he discovered a bunch of loose coins and a couple of paperback novels.

  No Bible.

  He headed for the chest of drawers next, convinced Richard had purposely hidden the Bible in an effort to thwart him. The top drawer was filled with what looked to be dirty laundry. The second one down proved equally unfruitful.

  Michelle stopped him by setting her hand on his shoulder. “Josh, give me a chance,” she whispered.

  As much as he wanted to believe her, he had legitimate doubts. Richard had made it plain earlier that Michelle had a choice to make. It was either side with him against Josh, or never enter this house again.

  She must have read the hesitation in him because she raised her hand to his face, cupping the side of his jaw. “Josh.”

  The way she whispered his name—the soft pleading quality of her voice—gave him pause. His eyes searched hers.

  Then, as though to prove her intent, she raised up on the tips of her toes and kissed him again. Josh had yet to recover from the first kiss. He’d wanted to think this through before anything else happened.

  Well, it had, and here he was caught in the flow of an emotional stream with a current so swift he feared he would be knocked off his feet. With every ounce of resolve he possessed, Josh broke off the kiss.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “What?” she asked, her eyes burning into his. “Us kissing?”

  He nodded.

  “Okay.” She started to turn away, but not before Josh saw the disappointment and hurt reflected in her eyes.

  “Wait …” He caught her by the shoulder and brought her back into his arms. If the first exchange of kisses had been hot, this second round was strong enough to scorch his senses. He felt a powerful surge of desire and need so strong, he feared he was about to crush Michelle with his bare arms.

  Thankfully, before it got out of hand they were interrupted by the doorbell.

  They broke apart like guilty teenagers caught making out. Josh stared accusingly at the partially closed bedroom door.

  “Who could that be?” Michelle asked.

  Josh already knew. “Hospice.”

  “Right, hospice,” she repeated. “I forgot they were coming.”

  Josh pulled himself together first and walked out of the bedroom. Michelle wasn’t far behind him.

  When he opened the door a professional-looking woman smiled back at them. “Hello, my name is Ginger Cochran. I’m with hospice.”

  “Come in, please,” Josh said, holding open the door for her.

  As soon as she was inside the house, he closed the door to keep the cold air at bay. Richard was awake now, Josh noted, the old man’s eyes fluttering as he struggled to focus.

  “Who are you?” Richard asked.

  “My name is Ginger. I was just telling your—”

  “Stepson,” Josh inserted. They hadn’t had a chance to introduce themselves yet. “And this is Michelle Nelson, Richard’s next-door neighbor. She and her family have been looking in on him for the last several months.”

  “I know why you’re here, but I’m telling you right now you made an unnecessary trip,” Richard told Ginger, ignoring Josh and Michelle. “You can leave.”

  “Mr. Lambert,” Michelle protested.

  “I said you can go now,” he repeated with surprising strength. “I don’t want you here.” He pointed a shaky finger at Josh. “Take him with you. He intends to rob me … he isn’t even waiting ’til I’m dead. He’s already started rifling through my things.”

  “Mr. Lambert,” Michelle stated calmly. “That isn’t true.”

  “You think I didn’t notice that you two just came out of my bedroom?”

  Josh laughed and slowly shook his head.

  “I’m not here to upset you,” Ginger Cochran said as she reached for her purse. “I came to make you as comfortable as possible. If you want me to leave, I will.”

  “Good. Leave.”

  “Mr. Lambert,” Michelle protested again.

  “I told you earlier, I want to die in peace. My house has become like Grand Central Terminal with people coming and going. Get out of
here. All of you. Just leave me alone. What does a man have to do around here to die in peace?”

  “I’m sorry,” Michelle whispered to Ginger as she turned to leave.

  Josh stood back as Michelle escorted the other woman to the front door.

  Richard’s gaze narrowed as he pointed at the walker. “Where did that come from?” he demanded. Josh had brought it into the room and set it by the chair.

  “I don’t have a clue,” Josh said.

  “It wasn’t here when I got back from the hospital.”

  “I don’t recall if it was or wasn’t. Perhaps Santa brought it … a delayed Christmas gift. You know how slow the mail can get at this time of year.”

  What might have been a smile briefly flitted across Richard’s face, but it disappeared so fast that Josh doubted what he’d seen. His stepfather closed his eyes again, blocking them all out.

  Stubborn old fool, Josh mused. They were both far too stubborn for their own good.

  Chapter 17

  This had been by far one of the most perplexing days of my life. Spenser, a man I barely remembered, had shown up unexpectedly at my front door. I hadn’t thought to ask him how he’d found me, which left yet another question unanswered.

  And that was just the beginning. Mark, a man I had only recently met, had stormed into my house like a raging bull and escorted Spenser outside, and they’d both left without another word. It’d all been so strange, so odd. So shocking.

  I was determined to find out what had happened and the only person I could ask was Mark. I dug out the business card he’d given me and walked over to the phone. I held the receiver for several moments while I figured out what I wanted to say, then dialed his number.

  To my disappointment, it rang four times and then went to voice mail. I listened to the recorded message and waited for the beep, which seemed to take forever.

  “Mark, this is Jo Marie Rose, could you please call me back?” I hesitated before replacing the receiver, hoping that Mark would somehow pick up. My curiosity over his behavior was like the itch of a pesky mosquito bite. I simply couldn’t ignore what had happened.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have long to wait. No more than ten minutes later the phone rang.

  “Rose Harbor Inn,” I said.

  “It’s Mark. Sorry I missed your call; I had the buzz saw running.”

  All at once I decided I didn’t want to have this conversation over the phone. He’d made it plain earlier that he hated talking on the phone. And I wanted to see Mark’s face when we talked. Over the phone it might be too easy to put me off and I had the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to explain himself. Otherwise he wouldn’t have run off the way he had without offering any explanation.

  “Would it be all right if I stopped by this afternoon?” I asked.

  “Here?”

  “At your shop, yes.”

  “My shop is part of my home and I’m not much for company.” He sounded hesitant.

  “Would you rather stop by the inn … again?” I couldn’t help adding that last part.

  “No; I’m busy.”

  “Then I’ll come to you.”

  Mark exhaled audibly and when he spoke there was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “I don’t have time for coffee and cookies.”

  “I won’t stay long … I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

  He hesitated and seemed to realize I wasn’t going to drop this easily. “Fine … come over.”

  I’d certainly had more enthusiastic invitations, but in this instance I would take what I could get. His business card had only listed his mailing address, which was a post office box. “I need your street address.”

  “Oh, right.” He gave it to me. “It’s just a couple of blocks from the inn. You can drive but I recommend walking—there isn’t always parking close by.”

  “Oh? Why’s that?” Cedar Cove wasn’t exactly a bustling metropolis. I’d heard parking spaces on the waterfront were limited, but not in local neighborhoods, at least in my experience so far.

  “I live by the courthouse,” he explained, sounding impatient to get off the phone.

  “This will only take a few minutes,” I promised again.

  “Whatever.”

  I bristled but held my tongue. It would be easy to take offense at his brusque manner, but I tried not to let my irritation show.

  I docked the phone, grabbed my coat, scarf, and gloves, and within a couple of minutes of our conversation, I was out the door.

  Tucking Mark’s address in my coat pocket, I headed up the hill in the direction of the courthouse. It was a steep climb and it wasn’t long before I was winded. I kept my head down and my shoulders hunched forward. I paused to drag in a deep breath when a vehicle whizzed past me. It looked just like Spenser’s car. His speed seemed excessive, as if he was eager to leave town. He drove in the opposite direction of the inn, toward Tremont Street, which led to the freeway. I wasn’t sure that it was Paul’s friend, but intuitively I thought it might have been. Apparently he’d hung around town for a bit longer, but I could only speculate as to why.

  Spenser had claimed that he and Paul were as close as brothers. I didn’t know if I should believe that, although to be fair, it wasn’t completely implausible. Still, it seemed that if the two of them had been as tight as Spenser had indicated, Paul would have mentioned him more often. My husband had talked about several men under his command, but not Spenser, at least not since he’d been shipped to Afghanistan.

  I should know. I’d read my husband’s letters and emails, which I’d printed out, so often I’d practically memorized each word. These notes were my connection with Paul, the one tangible link I still had to him.

  I suspected Spenser had exaggerated their relationship as a ploy to get me to loan him money. If Spenser thought he could guilt me into a loan then he was mistaken. And anyway, I’d invested nearly all of the insurance money I’d collected as Paul’s beneficiary in purchasing the inn. Thankfully I had my own healthy savings account as a cushion—funds I’d put aside from every paycheck for a number of years.

  Standing outside Mark’s residence I was impressed by how well maintained his home and yard were. The house itself looked to have been built in the 1950s, and wide concrete steps led to its large front porch. The porch columns appeared to be constructed of river rock.

  A buzz saw could be heard in the distance. Perhaps Mark’s shop was in the basement. I walked up the steps to the front door, thinking I’d wait to ring the doorbell until there was a pause in the noise. However, when I approached the front door I saw a small sign posted there.

  IF YOU’RE HERE SELLING ANYTHING, I’M NOT HOME, it read. Directly below that line was another: IF YOU’RE HERE ON BUSINESS, COME AROUND TO THE SHOP IN THE BACK BY THE ALLEY.

  I followed his instructions and took the stone pathway around the side of the house. As I came around the corner I saw a small outbuilding. It looked as if it must have been a garage at one time, although there wasn’t a driveway that led to it.

  The building’s door was open and Mark was inside, at work at a table saw, with his back to me. Thinking it might not be a good idea to distract him, I waited until he turned off the machine. The silence was almost deafening. Mark seemed to know I’d arrived because he removed his protective eye gear before he even turned to face me.

  “I see you found me,” he muttered, frowning.

  “I just followed the noise,” I said, feeling completely out of my element. “I realize this isn’t the best time and I apologize, but it shouldn’t take long.”

  He didn’t agree or disagree. Instead he picked up the piece of plywood he’d cut and carted it over to his workbench.

  Undeterred, I followed him into his work area. “How long have you known Spenser?” I’d introduced the two men—or attempted to at any rate—before Mark had interrupted me.

  “Never met him before in my life,” he mumbled, reaching for a planer. He ran it over the wood a couple of times and then set it as
ide.

  I had trouble not showing my surprise. That didn’t make the least bit of sense. Okay, fine, I’d try a different angle.

  “Why did you stop by the inn?” I asked.

  He shrugged.

  “That’s no answer. You must have had a purpose.” Considering how busy he seemed now, whatever had brought him to the house must have been important.

  “No reason.”

  “No reason,” I repeated, all the more perplexed.

  “Okay, if you must know, I had just started work when this niggling feeling came to me and wouldn’t go away.”

  “About me?”

  “Yeah. And I wasn’t happy about it.”

  I’d already guessed as much. “What kind of feeling?”

  He paused then, and turned to confront me. He wore a thick frown. “If I could explain it, I would. But I can’t. This feeling … this nagging sensation … kept telling me that you needed help.”

  I was as stumped as Mark appeared to be. “That I needed you? But you barely know me.”

  “That’s the point, don’t you think?” he snapped, and then seemed to regret his outburst. “I was working and all at once you popped into my brain. That happens sometimes after I’ve accepted a job. An idea will come to me and I’ll stop what I’m doing and jot it down.”

  “An idea about me?”

  “About the job. You wanted me to design a new sign for the inn, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and I’m anxious to get it. But this feeling you had didn’t have anything to do with the sign, did it?” I could tell from his stance and his body language that he didn’t want to answer the question.

  “No … I kept thinking you were in some kind of trouble.”

  “Trouble?”

  “Listen, I’m no knight looking to rescue a damsel in distress. I tried to ignore the feeling, but the harder I tried, the stronger the impression came back until it was either get over to the inn or knock my head against the wall.”

  “I wasn’t in any danger,” I insisted.

  “Maybe not, but whoever that man was, he had less than honorable intentions toward you.”

  “How do you know that?” While Mark might assume I was defending Spenser, I wasn’t. Mark hadn’t been privy to our conversation, nor could he have known Spenser’s reasons for stopping by the inn. He couldn’t have known Paul’s friend had sought me out looking for a loan.