Rose Harbor in Bloom

by Debbie Macomber

  “Of course. Unfortunately, there are precious few newborns who come through the system.”

  “How old is the child they’re adopting?”

  “Three. He’s the sweetest little boy you’re likely to meet.”

  “What convinced them to adopt a three-year-old?” I asked, as I handed Michelle a steaming mug of coffee. I motioned toward the sugar bowl and she shook her head.

  “I take it black, thanks.” She sipped the coffee and then answered my question. “I told her about the boy and convinced her to take him as a foster child.”

  “The family fell in love with him?”

  “I knew they would. This precious little boy is getting a family, and this husband and wife are seeing their dream of being parents become a reality. No wonder I love my job.” Her eyes fairly sparkled. “I have a little girl in mind for them, too, but that’s several months down the road.”

  Michelle was a little devil. Her smile was as big as any I’ve seen.

  I decided the best way to learn about her and Josh was to ask her outright. Otherwise, I might never hear what was happening in his life.

  “Tell me,” I said, hoping to sound casual and nonchalant. “When was the last time you heard from Josh?”

  I’d assumed her smile couldn’t get any bigger, but it did. Her eyes brightened, and she quickly looked down at her coffee. “If you must know, we talk every day.”

  “Every day?” This was an interesting piece of news.

  “He’s involved in a huge construction project in North Dakota. It’s demanding and exhausting, but he finds time for us to connect no matter what is happening on the site.”

  As I recalled, Josh was a project manager. When he’d come to the inn he’d just finished overseeing the construction of a strip mall, although for the life of me I couldn’t remember in what state. I was sure he’d told me at one point or another.

  “I’m glad to hear the two of you are staying in touch.”

  Michelle glanced up and met my gaze. “He recently asked me to marry him.”

  “Michelle, that’s wonderful.” I noticed right away that she hadn’t said she’d accepted his proposal. “And what did you say?”

  “I love Josh and I want to be his wife, but Cedar Cove is my home. I love living here. I have a job that’s meaningful, and I don’t want to give that up.”

  “Couldn’t Josh move here?”

  “He offered to do that, but his job takes him all over the country. He enjoys what he does and he’s good at it, really good.”

  “Does this mean the two of you are deadlocked?”

  Michelle shrugged. “You know that saying: Where there’s a will there’s a way?”

  “I know it well.”

  “Josh and I have been negotiating back and forth. I think some union leaders could learn tricks from him. When he wants something, he makes it impossible to say no.”

  “And he wants you?”

  Michelle blushed and nodded. “He talked to his company and got the CEO to agree to give him work somewhere in western Washington. That means he’ll be working primarily in the Seattle/Tacoma area. He gets first choice on those projects, and if there isn’t a job site, then he’ll take the ones that would require him staying away only two or three nights in a row.”

  “Did that satisfy you?”

  “It did.”

  “So when’s the wedding?”

  “August, after this current project is finished, but then he’s starting another one as soon as we’re back from our honeymoon.”

  “A job close to home?”

  “Very close. It’s in Cedar Cove.”

  I frowned. I wasn’t aware of any big construction project about to take place in the area. Surely the Chamber of Commerce and other local businesses would have been in the loop.

  “It’s a little ironic, really. Josh’s stepfather put his house on the market with instructions that the funds be given to charity.”

  I’d heard that and felt bad for Josh, thinking as Richard’s only surviving relative he should have inherited the house. Apparently not.

  “Josh bought the house when it went on the market.”

  “His stepfather’s house?”

  “Yes. It’s right next to my parents’ home. He’s going to do a major remodeling project on it, add a couple of bedrooms, and completely renovate the kitchen. Basically, it’s going to be a brand-new house.”

  This was great news. “That’s wonderful.”

  “We want to start a family, and Mom and Dad travel a lot and need someone close who can look after the house. It will be ideal for us all. Mom and Dad will give us our space and we’ll be able to help them when they need it.”

  I could see that Josh had found the family he had always wanted with Michelle.

  “I hope you’ll make sure I get a wedding invitation.”

  “Not to worry; your name is already on the list.”

  “Give Josh my best when you speak with him later.”

  “I will.” Michelle took one last sip of her coffee, stood, and set her mug in the sink. “Sorry to run off like this …”

  “No problem. You’ve got important work to do.” I followed her to the front door, and Rover did, too. The two of us stood in the doorway and watched Michelle leave. It’d been a good visit.

  So Josh would be moving back to Cedar Cove. That was welcome news, and I was pleased for Michelle. We’d gotten to know each other a bit. I liked her and wished to know her better. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t willing to settle for second best. I admired that about her.

  As she left I was reminded anew of the dream I’d had the first night I took over the inn, when Paul had come to me. He’d assured me this inn would be a healing place, for me and for others. I had seen the evidence of that twice over in the last couple of days. First with the wedding invitation from Abby Kincaid and now with Josh, finding love and a family.

  I returned to the kitchen and had set the coffee mugs in the dishwasher when the phone rang.

  “Rose Harbor Inn.”

  “This is Ms. Eleanor Reynolds. I’m inquiring about a room.” Her voice was clipped and a bit stern. She asked about space for a weekend in late August and about the availability of a room for a few extra days if necessary after that specific weekend.

  “As it happens, I have those days free,” I assured her.

  “Good. I’d like to place a reservation for that Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. I might stay on to Monday … and Tuesday. I just don’t know yet.”

  “Certainly. Is it for a special occasion?”

  “Yes. Well, we’ll see if it is or not.” She didn’t elaborate.

  I didn’t inquire further. If she didn’t want to volunteer the information, then I wasn’t about to pry. Business had picked up considerably, with bookings for nearly every day starting in June. The cove was a popular boating area, and the farmers’ market drew a crowd on the weekends. Weddings were big business, too, and if all went well my rose garden and gazebo would be completed by the end of summer.

  “I have you down,” I told her, repeating the August dates.

  Rover barked, and I realized I had neglected to fill his water dish.

  “You have animals?” She sounded quite prissy, as if she wasn’t accustomed to being around animals.

  “A dog,” I told her. “I hope that isn’t a problem.” I knew some people were allergic. It was a risk I took bringing Rover into my business.

  “I’m a cat person myself. I haven’t been around dogs that much … I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Not to worry. Rover’s friendly.”

  “I’m sure he must be.” Her tone defied her words.

  I could see that my poor Rover had his work cut out for him, if he intended on winning Ms. Reynolds over.

  Although I hadn’t owned the inn long, I’d gotten quite good at making assumptions about guests when they booked their rooms. It surprised me how often I was right or nearly so. Time would tell with Ms. Eleanor
Reynolds.

  “I’ll look forward to your visit, Ms. Reynolds.”

  “As I will to meeting you.” After a brief farewell, she ended the call.

  Prim and proper, a cat woman … Hmm, I was left to wonder. Possibly a librarian in her late forties or early fifties. In town for a special occasion? It certainly left me to ponder her story.

  For whatever reason my eyes fell to the reservation book and on the two latest entries. Eleanor Reynolds and a young couple: Maggie and Roy Porter. Maggie had called a few days earlier to book a room for the same weekend as Eleanor. She sounded so young, as if she was barely out of her teens. She’d been talkative, telling me this was a getaway weekend she’d planned for her and her husband without the kids.

  I would give anything to have issues to work out with Paul. Anything.

  I continued about my morning, doing my best to follow my husband’s advice and get on with life. I kept my cell phone in my pocket, and it thrummed, indicating I had a text. I reached for it and saw that the message was from Mark. Well, well, this was something new. Half the time he didn’t even know where his cell phone was. Technology annoyed him. It appeared not having his cell phone with him when the table collapsed on his leg had taught him a lesson.

  He wrote: I’m bored.

  My fingers flew across the small keyboard. Read a book.

  Very funny.

  It isn’t a joke. You need to stay off that leg.

  Easy for you to say.

  I grinned. Do you want me to bring you lunch?

  What ya got?

  Hey, this isn’t a catering service. You take what you get and don’t complain.

  I don’t have much choice, do I?

  No choice whatsoever. I’ll be by around noon. Count your blessings and show some gratitude.

  Yes, ma’am.

  Despite the news I had gotten earlier in the day, I glanced down at my phone and smiled.

  I filled Rover’s water dish and then made Mark lunch. Together Rover and I would personally deliver it to the prickly handyman who had become our friend.

  To

  Peter and Maureen Kleinknecht,

  our fun Florida friends

  Here’s to wine, golf, yarn, and friendship.

  BALLANTINE BOOKS BY DEBBIE MACOMBER

  Rose Harbor in Bloom

  Starting Now

  Angels at the Table

  The Inn at Rose Harbor

  For a complete list of books by Debbie Macomber, visit her website at www.debbiemacomber.com.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEBBIE MACOMBER, the author of Starting Now, The Inn at Rose Harbor, Angels at the Table, A Turn in the Road, 1105 Yakima Street, Hannah’s List, and Twenty Wishes, is a leading voice in women’s fiction. Seven of her novels have hit #1 on the New York Times bestseller list, with three debuting at #1 on the New York Times, USA Today, and Publishers Weekly lists. In 2009 and 2010, Mrs. Miracle and Call Me Mrs. Miracle were Hallmark Channel’s top-watched movies for the year. Debbie Macomber has more than 160 million copies of her books in print worldwide.

  www.debbiemacomber.com

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  the new novel from #1 New York Times

  and USA Today bestselling author

  DEBBIE MACOMBER

  Filled with all the comforts and joys of Christmastime, Starry Night is a delightful novel of finding love and happiness in the most surprising places.

  www.DebbieMacomber.com

  Find Debbie on Facebook

  A Ballantine Books hardcover and eBook

  Also available in audio editions

  Chapter One

  Carrie Slayton’s feet were killing her. She’d spent the last ninety minutes standing in two-inch heels at a charity art auction in a swanky studio in downtown Chicago. She couldn’t understand how shoes that matched her black dress so beautifully could be this painful. Vanity, thy name is fashion.

  “My name is spelled with two l’s,” the middle-aged woman, dripping in diamonds, reminded her.

  “That’s Michelle, with two l’s.”

  “Got it.” Carrie underlined the correct spelling.

  Michelle, spelled with two l’s, had just spent thirty thousand dollars for the most ridiculous piece of art Carrie had ever seen. True, it was for a good cause, but now she seemed to feel her name needed to be mentioned in the news article Carrie would write for the next edition of the Chicago Sun-Times.

  “It would be wonderful to have my husband’s and my picture to go along with your article,” Michelle added. “Perhaps you should take it in front of the painting.”

  Carrie looked over her shoulder at Harry, the photographer who’d accompanied her from the newspaper.

  “Of course, Lloyd and I would want approval of any photograph you choose to publish.”

  “Of course,” Carrie said, doing her best to keep a smile in place. If she didn’t get out of these shoes soon, her feet would be permanently deformed. She wiggled her toes, hoping for relief. Instead they ached even worse.

  Harry, bless his heart, dutifully stepped forward, camera in hand, and flashed two or three photos of the couple posing in front of what might have been a red flower or a painting of a squished tomato or possibly the aftermath of a murder scene. Carrie had yet to decide which. The title of the work didn’t offer a clue. Red. Yes, the painting was in that color, but exactly what it depicted remained a mystery.

  “Isn’t it stunning?” Michelle asked when she noticed Carrie staring at the canvas.

  Carrie tilted her head one way and then another, looking for some clue as to its possible significance. Then, noticing that Michelle, spelled with two l’s, was waiting for her response, she said, “Oh yes, it’s amazing.”

  Harry didn’t bother to hide his smile, knowing that all Carrie really wanted was to get out of those ridiculous shoes. And to think she’d gotten her journalism degree for this!

  Carrie knew she was fortunate to have a job with such a prestigious newspaper. A professor had pulled a favor and gotten her the interview. Carrie had been stunned when she’d been hired. Surprised and overjoyed.

  Two years later, she was less so. Her assignment was the society page. When she was hired, she’d been told that eventually she’d be able to write meatier pieces, do interviews and human-interest stories. To this point, it hadn’t happened. Carrie felt trapped, frustrated, and under appreciated. She felt her talent was being wasted.

  To make matters worse, her entire family lived in the Pacific Northwest. Carrie had left everything she knew and loved behind, including Steve, her college sweetheart. He’d married less than six months after she took the position in Chicago. It hadn’t taken him long, she noted. The worst part was that Carrie was far too busy reporting on social events to have time for much of a social life herself. She dated occasionally, but she hadn’t found anyone who made her heart race. Dave Schneider, the man she’d been seeing most recently, was more of a friend than a love interest. She supposed after Steve she was a bit hesitant to get involved again. Maybe once she left the Sun-Times and moved home to write for a newspaper in the Seattle area, like she planned, things would be different.

  Back inside her condo, Carrie gingerly removed her shoes and sighed with relief. This was it. She was done. First thing in the morning she would hand in her two-week notice, sub let her condo, and take her chances in the job market in Seattle. If the managing editor, Nash Jorgen, refused to give her the opportunity to prove she had what it took, then why stay? She refused to be pigeonholed.

  That decided, Carrie limped into her bedroom and fell into bed, tired, frustrated, and determined to make a change.

  “You can’t be serious,” argued Sophie Peterson, her closest friend at the newspaper, when Carrie told her of her decision.

  “I’m totally serious,” she said as she hobbled to her desk.

  “What’s wrong with your foot?” Sophie asked, tagging behind her.

  “Stupidity. This gorgeous pair of shoes was only available i
n a half-size smaller than what I normally wear. They were so perfect, and they were buy one pair, get the second half off. I couldn’t resist, but now I’m paying for it.”

  “Carrie, don’t do it.”

  “Don’t worry, I have no intention of wearing those heels again. I tossed them in a bag for charity.”

  “Not that,” Sophie argued. “Don’t hand in your notice! You’re needed here.”

  “Not as a reporter,” Carrie assured her, dumping her purse in her bottom drawer and shucking off her thick winter coat. “Sorry, my mind is made up. You and I both know Nash will never give me a decent assignment.”

  “You’re your own worst enemy.” Sophie leaned against the wall that separated their two cubicles and crossed her arms and ankles.

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, for one thing, you’re the perfect fit for the society page. You’re drop-dead gorgeous, tall and thin. It doesn’t hurt that you look fabulous in a slinky black dress and a pair of spike heels. Even if I could get my hair to grow that thick, long, and curly without perming the living daylights out of it, Nash would never consider someone like me. It isn’t any wonder he wants you on the job. Give the guy a little credit, will you? He knows what he’s doing.”

  “If looks are the only criteria—”

  “There’s more,” Sophie said, cutting her off. “You’re great with people. All you need to do is bat those baby blues at them and strangers open up to you. It’s a gift, I tell you, a real gift.”

  “Okay, I’m friendly, but this isn’t the kind of writing I want to do. I’ve got my heart set on being a reporter, a real reporter, writing about real news and interesting people.” In the beginning, Carrie had been flattered by the way people went out of their way to introduce themselves at the events she covered. It didn’t take long for her to recognize that they were looking for her to mention their names in print. What shocked her was the extent people were willing to go in order to be noticed. She was quickly becoming jaded, and this bothered her even more than Nash’s lack of faith in her abilities.