The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  “Have you opened it yet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Would you like to?”

  Rosie shook her head.

  With a finger, he traced over the curves of the letters S–P–E–R–O.

  “What does it mean?” she asked, sounding more teary than she wished.

  Jonas eased the pad of his thumb over the etching. He looked to her, holding her gaze as he spoke. “It’s Latin. It means ‘hope.’ ”

  Her mouth silently formed the word—hope. Then she glanced down at the carved word that looked centuries old. “How do you know?”

  “I had to study a lot of Latin and Greek for university.” He wet his lips then spoke a phrase she didn’t understand.

  She tried to repeat it. “Dum Spero…what?”

  “Dum Spiro Spero. While I breathe, I hope.”

  The breeze stirred her hair, and Rosie clutched her arms about her waist, trying to block the night’s deepening chill. “Do you have hope, Jonas?”

  He seemed to notice that she was cold. He moved forward, settling in front of her, blocking the breeze some. She had a perfect view of his profile this way. A perfect view of his face as he tilted it down and said that he was trying to.

  “What do you mean?”

  He wet his lips again and smiled softly. Then he peered over at her. “This is going to sound really stupid.”

  “My standards are very low right now.”

  After a soft chuckle, he gave her another glance. “Haystacks.”

  “What?”

  “Hope.”

  “You hope in haystacks?” It slipped out drier than she’d meant and he chuckled again.

  “I thought you had low standards.”

  She rolled her hand forward. “Keep explaining….”

  Smirking, he angled to face her better and seemed to ponder what he wanted to say. “I’m thinking of that phrase…when you can’t find something, how it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  She nodded slowly.

  “For each of us, our problems seem really big. But in reality, we’re all just a needle in a haystack.”

  Rosie squinted at him.

  “My problems and worries feel rather large. As do yours. As do the next person’s.

  We’re each a needle, but really we’re surrounded by a lot of straw.”

  “I thought it was hay.”

  “Close enough.” He grinned. “We can spend a lot of time and energy worrying about our tiny sliver of the world. But if we look around ourselves, think beyond our fears and worries…”

  “We’re not alone,” she whispered.

  “Exactly.” He pursed his lips, looking regretful. “I confess this isn’t something I’ve been thinking about until you prompted me to look outside myself.” He motioned up the beach where they had walked, hunting treasures together.

  “You told me the other day that I would be in your prayers. Rosie, you’ve been in mine. And that’s not something that comes easy.”

  Humbled, overwhelmed, she simply looked at him. He smiled softly, and she could see his depth of gratitude. She’d prompted him to think that way? She swallowed hard, awash by that. Then she sifted over his words again, his metaphor.

  Everyone hurt in their own way.

  She peered at Jonas, wondering what his hurts were. Wondering what he wasn’t saying. What he’d been sparing her. He’d heard much of her story, but had she asked much of his? He always seemed so brave and so strong, but she feared that something more tender, more acute was resting just below the surface.

  When he glanced back out to sea, his voice blended with the murmuring tide. “We all want hope to hold on to.”

  Bottle still in hand, he held it out to her, a needle in the haystack just as they were. Rosie held the bottle up to the moonlight, wondering how many people had touched it, held it. Growing was the desire to cast it out and pray it found a heart in need of comfort.

  Dr. Brooke’s face flashed through her mind, and Rosie swallowed hard. She thought on his expression when he’d spoken to her. The tender way he’d always been with her. His offer to help. To be her friend.

  To be hope.

  Rosie’s throat thickened, but then Jonas was smoothing the back of his hand over her own. The lighting of the great lantern on the point could not have felt any brighter than that touch. Rosie’s breath caught. He turned his wrist and covered her hand with his own. She thought of the way he gripped the oars as those calluses pressed a warm, perfect comfort against her skin.

  When she looked up to his face, he was watching her mouth.

  Before she could make sense of that, he was leaning closer.

  “It would be best if you didn’t kiss me,” she whispered. Was that the right way to say it? She didn’t know how to do this—let alone how to walk away from all the yearning she had for Jonas.

  His voice was just as low. “Why is that?” He slid a hand behind her neck, and his bottom lip nearly brushed her own while flashing through her mind were pages upon pages of Dr. Brooke’s notes on her. The codes and riddles that all amounted to the same thing. She was daft.

  Rosie lifted her chin slightly and turned her head. The hint of Jonas’s kiss fell away.

  Embarrassment tinted the air between them as he straightened and cleared his throat. Feeling wretched, Rosie went to stand. She couldn’t look at him as she did.

  “I thank you for your kindness, Mr. McIntosh, but…” Swelling tears thickened her throat, and she took a step away, not bothering to fetch the bottle that sat beside him. “If you’ll excuse me.” Vision already blurring, she started off, leaving both her heart and hope sitting in the sand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jonas finished lifting the quad onto its rack with his teammates. One of his oars slipped out of place, and he shoved it back into the rowlock. He shoved another in as well, and Oakes stopped stretching his arms from side to side to slant a sharp look.

  “Easy, Jonas.”

  Jonas reached for a dry rag and wiped the bow of the boat.

  “Why are you acting like that was my fault?” Oakes asked.

  “I’m not acting like it was anyone’s fault.”

  “A wad of Benjamins nearly sinking to the bottom of the bay? I’d be upset, too,” Dexter said, reaching for a rag all his own. “Still can’t believe we almost sank.”

  Oliver leaned against a nearby windowsill, observing them all.

  Oakes flung a hand toward Jonas. “Well if we almost sank it’s because—”

  Fresh light split the boathouse, and a sturdy figure entered. They all fell quiet. Jonas went back to drying the quad, assuming the visitor another seaman looking for gear.

  But the man strode nearer, pulled off an old sailor’s hat. At least seventy, his stance was uneven, but steady. Abner Graham. “I saw you boys turn back.”

  Frustrations mounting afresh, Jonas wiped two more boards then draped the rag over the frame.

  Clad in shades of faded brown and black, Abner adjusted his stance, settling his weight on what seemed his better leg. “Didn’t get very far this morning.”

  “Not exactly,” came Oliver’s easy reply.

  “Had some troubles with the water,” Dexter said.

  “And our leadership,” Oakes grumbled.

  Jonas ducked his head—not contesting that. Rubbing fingers and thumb against his forehead, he tried to wipe the memory of Rosie and the night before from his mind.

  With amusement in his wrinkled face, Abner glanced among them. “Came in early to have breakfast with my granddaughter. And now that I’m here, I think I might show you all a thing or two before I head back.”

  Jonas glanced to his teammates.

  But Abner was looking only at him. “How about a little trip across the bay.” He pointed the way he’d come. “And I mean in my boat.”

  “That old dinghy?” Oakes quipped.

  The man smirked. “That old dinghy has traveled those waters more times than this little beauty.” He smooth
ed a hand along the four-man scull, his gray eyes lit with clear admiration for its craftsmanship despite his jest.

  “The water’s too choppy today,” Jonas countered.

  Abner nudged one of the seats forward on its metal tracks then pushed it back to a resting position. He seemed to have never seen a racing shell. “You afraid of a little chop?”

  Chop, wakes, and everything in between. It didn’t take much to capsize a scull. This angry, churning sea was not going to think twice about dragging something under. “Do you see those waves?” Jonas motioned toward the window. “We’d never get past the break.”

  Abner stepped out and Jonas followed. All the way onto the dock where Jonas looked around for Abner’s rowboat. The two-man dinghy with splintered wood and old fishermen’s nets in the bottom. But he didn’t see it. All he saw was a larger vessel resting in the sand. One with gray and blue peeling paint. The name ESTHER still legible on the bow, looking freshly touched up.

  “Is this a skiff?” Oliver asked, circling around the boat that had to be more than twenty feet in length.

  Abner answered with clear pride in his voice. “Fourern, 1837. Clinker constructed—fashioned after the ships of old…from Norway.”

  “Norway?” Oakes asked.

  “Means it’s got lines like a Viking ship,” Jonas said.

  Abner nodded, looking pleased.

  Jonas strode around a long length of sweep-oar. The skiff boasted four of them—two starboard, two port. One to a man.

  Jaw open, Dexter stepped closer. “Vikings.”

  Lifting his cap, Abner adjusted it. “Been out in force-six winds. Four-foot waves. She’ll handle what you’re looking to do out there.”

  Crouching, Jonas touched the peeling paint. Saw the stories living in the grain of the exposed boards.

  “I suggest you get yourselves on in, young men.” Abner strode around to the cox seat and spoke without looking up. “Or are you still afraid of the break?” He glanced toward the frothy waves then to each of them in turn, finishing with Jonas. He smiled, and his expression sparked with adventure. “That was always Rosie’s favorite part.”

  Rosie turned on the electric lights of her room—the act still a novelty for a girl who grew up in a tiny cottage on the cliffs. Having finished her morning rounds in record time, she’d stolen up here for a few minutes before the staff meeting that was set for ten. There was something on her mind and heart that she couldn’t shake. Well, two things.

  First, the way Jonas had nearly kissed her last night and how she’d nearly let him. What was he thinking? He and her…It could never work.

  Still, she fought a twinge of remorse. A wish that she’d simply let him kiss her. Though society deemed otherwise, both of them were free to place their hearts where they wished. Regret coiled in her middle, and, overwhelmed with what to do on that matter, she switched her attentions to the second reason she’d come upstairs.

  Settling on the bed, she pulled Dr. Brooke’s book into her lap. Studied the dark brown cover. Ran a fingertip over the embossed title then to the spine that bore his name. She eyed the business card that peeked out from the center—right where he’d tucked it.

  With the slip of a finger, she opened the book to that spot and studied the small rectangle of card stock before setting it aside. She peered down at the open pages, and while a few words stood out to her, she meant not to read any. Yet something caught her eye. “While the brain is a fragile organ, the mind itself is a resilient part of the human makeup.”

  Resilient. Rosie squinted at the text and read on:

  I have found in this particular patient that, despite hurdles and handicaps, she maintains a depth of character that is both captivating and caring. That though certain understandings may be lost permanently, they’ve appeared a hindrance of inconsequential amount when weighed in the balance of the scope of desired traits.

  All functions which would be deemed important to the quality of life and the fruits of the spirit are there in the fullest capacity. This patient’s manner of being has been a continual striving within the very tenacity that supports life. In conclusion, it has been my finding to offer this study in support that we are both body and soul. And that united, they will triumph. It’s my privilege to declare that I am changed as both a professional and a person for having witnessed this.

  The chapter went on to list footnotes for his studies, but Rosie couldn’t read a thing, so blurry was her vision. She swiped at her eyes, blotting tears with the edge of a sleeve.

  She pulled nearer the small, wrapped gift the doctor had brought her, and peeling back the paper revealed a box that also needed opening. First she discovered a voucher for passage to the mainland. Below that was a wooden carving. A small, roughly carved boat with two spindly oars. Oh, Dr. Brooke. He’d been trying to help her remember what she’d lost. A love she’d once had. Sniffing and swiping more tears, Rosie pulled his book closer and began to read. This time in full.

  Exhausted from their afternoon of rowing amid the relentless break, Jonas and his friends made slow work of climbing the stairs from the resort courtyard to the third-floor landing. But when they finally made it into room 3323, they each settled in their respective spots.

  “Well?” Oakes asked solemnly from the edge of one of the beds.

  The cot Jonas was sitting on creaked when he shifted, and despite the fact that every part of him hurt, he allowed himself a small smile.

  Dexter full on grinned. “Graham knows that bay.”

  Agreeing, Jonas glanced out the window. Abner knew the way the water swelled. He seemed to know when and how the boat would crash over the waves. Every eddy and shift in the current. The lighthouse keeper knew the rocks of the bluffs and the way the tide moved at different times of the day.

  “So what does this mean?” Oliver asked. “What do we do?”

  “We’re going to make it around that point tomorrow,” Dexter answered.

  Jonas nodded, and he could see it in their faces. All lit up like they were fourteen years old again. But instead of scheming beneath a canvas tent with a lantern burning brightly between them, they were here in this hotel, both their past and their future crashing on the shore just beyond.

  “I think we’ll make it, too,” Oliver said with a grin.

  “But first we’re going to need that bigger boat,” Oakes added.

  Jonas smiled—hope rising inside him. “And then we’re going to need our new coxswain.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The line in the ferry house wasn’t long, and as Rosie waited, she smoothed the front of her powder-blue blouse. Her gray skirt shifted soundlessly as she stepped forward for her turn, and her boot heels clicked to a standstill in front of the ticket window. She presented the voucher that Dr. Brooke had given her. The one that would provide passage for the twenty-five-cent round trip across the bay to and from San Diego. A kindness he so graciously extended despite her doubts. Her unkindness.

  Finished, Rosie walked toward the windows and peered out over the water. Though dubbed an island, Coronado was in actuality a peninsula. A great many bays carved out its long, narrow shape that ran as a strip from north to south. The largest of those bays unfolded westward—where Jonas kept his dreams and where it drained out into the Pacific. A much smaller bay sat south of the hotel where boats harbored and Jonas and his friends had practiced. The body of water that spread eastward was what Rosie peered upon now. This was where the ferry scuttled passengers to and from the mainland of California. Even from this distance, Rosie could make out the shapes that made up the bustling city where Dr. Brooke worked and lived.

  She’d waited but fifteen minutes when the ferry arrived and then watched with other passengers as buggies and horses were unloaded from the hundred-foot-long steam yacht aptly named the Coronado. Red, white, and blue bunting trimmed the banisters in celebration of this Fourth of July, and Rosie had no doubt the ferry would hold many people tonight wanting a water’s view of the del’s fireworks display. B
ut for now, passengers filed aboard, and excitement buzzed in the air, particularly among the children. Little girls clutched ribboned hats to their heads, while boys scurried off to watch the embarking from the front deck.

  As the paddles churned the water, driving the yacht toward the mainland, Rosie found a bench to settle on below deck. Beside her sat a gentleman. He had a shock of white hair, a hat resting upon his knee, and a magazine open in his lap. Rosie tucked her reticule against the folds of her skirt and clasped her gloved hands. She fiddled idly with the white lace, nerves tumbling as she thought over what she might say to the doctor.

  The man next to her gave a soft chuckle. When he chuckled again, Rosie shifted a glance his way. “I think I might need to get one of those magazines.”

  He smirked, sending one side of his mustache upward. “It says here that the S in Ulysses S. Grant doesn’t really stand for anything at all. But that at one point, he asked his future wife to pick a name to go with the initial since he didn’t know what it stood for.”

  Rosie smiled. “This Mr. Grant, he is a friend of yours?”

  The man’s brows lifted. “He was…the…eighteenth president of the United States.”

  “Oh.” Cheeks warming, she slid her gaze away, and when the man went back to his reading, she freed her notebook. She jotted that down, and a sideways glance verified her spelling correct.

  The ferry ride was pleasant, and despite her embarrassment over the blunder—or maybe even because of it—the man beside her made friendly talk. When they reached San Diego, Rosie strode up the gangway with the rest of the passengers. With the business card in hand that bore Dr. Brooke’s address, she followed the notes of streets and turns that she’d written down on her pad of paper. The sun was high overhead when she finally reached the four-story townhome. A brass plaque near the door read, INLAND INSTITUTE OF PSYCHOLOGY, HEROLD P. BROOKE, M.D.

  Rosie drew a slow, steadying breath and let herself in. A small waiting room was cool and quiet. On one end of the room, three chairs were arranged near a window and, opposite those, a small desk. No one was in attendance, so Rosie gently tapped the bell on the desk’s corner. Voices came from above, and she wondered how many patients filled the rooms.