Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  “Oh, shut up.” She ripped off flecks of tissue that had stuck to her fingers, trying to stifle the annoying little voice in her head.

  “Did you say something, dear?” Eleanor’s query wafted in from the kitchen.

  “Just . . . uh . . . talking to myself.”

  “You’re too young for that. I’ll be back in a jiffy. I’m trying to clean up Methuselah, who isn’t inclined to cooperate.”

  Hooking a piece of wayward hair behind her ear, BJ slumped back against the doorframe and faced the truth. Much as she might want to blame her agitated state on the accident, the little voice in her head was right. The BMW owner—and her visceral reaction to him—was the culprit. Like it or not, the instant her gaze had connected with those brown eyes, a bolt of electricity had sizzled through her.

  The very kind of ill-advised attraction that could lead a woman astray if she followed her heart instead of prudently listening to her brain.

  And she wasn’t making that mistake again.

  Still . . . it hadn’t been fair to jump all over the guy because she was annoyed at herself. He had apologized. Offered to make restitution. His eyes had held sincere remorse . . . plus some other emotion, now that she thought about it. Melancholy, perhaps? Dejection? Despondency? Hard to pinpoint. But there had been a sadness in them that seemed unrelated to the accident. As if his day had gone down the tubes long before their unpleasant encounter . . . and he hadn’t needed any more grief.

  She blew out a breath.

  Wonderful.

  Now she could add a heaping serving of guilt to whatever she had time to scarf down for lunch.

  “Here you go. Let me know if you need more.” Eleanor pushed the walker down the hall and thrust a handful of paper towels at her while Methuselah kept a wary distance.

  “This should do it.” She used half of the towels to wipe the globs of glue off the tile, then dampened the rest and swiped up the residue.

  “Do you want me to get rid of those?” Eleanor held out her hand again.

  “Thanks.” She passed them over. “I’ll fill the last couple of holes while you do that.”

  BJ finished up as fast as she could, packed away her tools, and waited for Eleanor near the front door.

  When the older woman reappeared, a foil-wrapped bundle rested on the tray of her walker. “Thank you again for coming to my rescue.”

  “No problem. And I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day, after the glue is dry, to reset those screws. Could you leave the bathroom door open until I finish the job?”

  “Certainly. I only close it out of habit. It isn’t as if there’s anyone here to disturb me, other than Methuselah—and at his age, he spends most of the day sleeping in the sun.” Her smile drooped for a moment, then brightened again as she picked up the plate and held it out. “A little thank-you treat.”

  “That’s not necessary, Eleanor.”

  “I disagree. Besides, I like to bake—and I know you’re partial to my fudge cake. Have it for dessert after lunch.”

  At this point, with the clock ticking, it might be lunch—not that she needed to share that with Eleanor.

  “I’ll do that—and enjoy every bite.” BJ took the offering. “I’ll call before I swing by to finish the job.”

  “No need. I’m always here. You won’t be interrupting anything.”

  The older woman’s tone was upbeat, as usual, yet a faint thread of loneliness wound through her words.

  Most people would miss that subtle undercurrent.

  Not BJ, though. She was tuned in to such nuances these days—which did not help restore her peace of mind.

  “Is everything all right, dear?”

  “Yes.” She switched gears and hefted the plate. “I’m looking forward to this.”

  “Enjoy, sweet child. And don’t work too hard.”

  She let that pass as she left the house. Working too hard was part of her DNA . . . but if she couldn’t dial back her work ethic, at least the work she did in Hope Harbor—on and off the clock—was worthwhile and satisfying.

  And it might become even more so if the plan she was formulating came to fruition.

  After carefully stowing the cake on the seat beside her, BJ glanced back toward Eleanor’s planter-filled porch. With a final wave, the older woman picked up a watering can and began tending her abundant container garden.

  BJ put the truck in reverse and checked the clock on the dash. No time for a swing by Charley’s. But her appetite had disappeared anyway, thanks to the unsettling conversation with Eleanor about romance . . . and a disturbing encounter with a good-looking stranger.

  Which was dumb.

  She was not in the market for a relationship, especially with someone of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.

  Maybe someday—some very distant day, far down the road—she’d entertain the notion of love again.

  Maybe.

  But for now, her quiet, simple, peaceful—uncomplicated—life suited her just fine.

  And she had no intention of changing it.

  2

  His childhood home was a construction site.

  As his BMW limped toward the two-story hybrid Victorian/Craftsman hilltop house where he’d spent his youth, Eric gawked at the sawhorses, stacks of lumber, and . . . a toilet? . . . strewn over the front yard.

  What in the world was going on?

  He parked on the street, opened the door—and was greeted by the muffled banging of hammers.

  A moment later, the grinding, high-pitched whine of a buzz saw sliced through the air.

  Seconds after that, the snarl of ripping wood further sullied what should have been a tranquil summer day in Hope Harbor.

  It sounded like the guts were being wrenched out of the one place he’d thought would never change.

  The saw kicked back in, and his stomach twisted.

  Apparently his career wasn’t the only thing in a shambles these days.

  But why hadn’t his father mentioned during one of their frequent phone conversations that he was having work done on the house?

  It didn’t make sense.

  The modicum of calm he’d achieved during his walk on the beach evaporated.

  Was there anything in his life he could count on to remain the same?

  Psyching himself up for whatever chaos lay inside, he circled the car. Ironic that he’d been worried about surprising his dad, when John Nash obviously had surprises of his own to—

  Eric froze as a dirty pickup truck turned the corner.

  A familiar dirty pickup truck.

  It rattled down the street and swung into his dad’s driveway while he stood rooted in place.

  The truck door opened and the same jeans-clad legs he’d admired earlier appeared. No loose, flowing hair this time, however. The blonde’s long tresses had been secured in a ponytail and tucked through the back of a baseball cap. She gave him a quick, cool perusal, folded her arms, leaned against the door . . . and waited.

  As if she was daring him to approach.

  Eric drew himself up to his full six-foot-one height. The two of them might not have gotten off to the best start, but he’d apologized and her truck hadn’t sustained any apparent damage. There was no reason they couldn’t be civil.

  Besides, this was his house. Or his dad’s. He wasn’t the outsider here, even if she did have some role in whatever destruction was taking place inside.

  He strolled toward her, stopping six feet away. “We meet again.”

  All at once, recognition dawned in her eyes. “You’re John’s son, aren’t you?”

  Dad and this woman were on a first-name basis?

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” She gave him another quick appraisal. “He’s got family pictures around the house—mostly from your younger days. You’ve changed a lot, but I see the resemblance now.” She pushed off from the truck and began to walk away.

  “Hey!”

  She paused and looked over her shoulder.

  “What’s goin
g on here?” He waved a hand toward the house.

  One of her eyebrows rose. “Your dad didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “Huh.” A few uncomfortable beats ticked by. “Anyone passing by can see construction is in progress.” She gave him another scan. “Then again, I guess you haven’t passed by lately.”

  At the hint of censure in her tone, he stiffened. “I’m sure my father mentioned I’m an attorney—and the practice of law is very demanding. But I talk to him often.”

  “Funny he didn’t tell you about this, then.”

  No kidding.

  “So you want to enlighten me?”

  Before she could respond, his dad appeared in the doorway. Did a double take. “Eric?” He hurried down the steps, his expression morphing from surprise to concern.

  “I think I’ll let the two of you work that out.” The woman moved aside as his father strode toward them and pulled him into a hug.

  “What are you doing here in the middle of the week?”

  “Long story.” Eric returned the hug, then swept a hand around the yard. “What’s going on?”

  “Also a long story.” His father smiled at the blonde. “Have you two met?”

  “Not officially.” The woman cast a wry glance at his dinged-up car.

  “Then let me do the introductions. BJ, my son, Eric. Eric, meet BJ Stevens, the best architect, contractor, and construction manager in the state of Oregon.”

  After an infinitesimal hesitation, she stuck out her hand.

  Eric closed the distance between them, assimilating this new information. With all those titles, this woman wasn’t just involved in his dad’s project; she was in charge of it.

  However, once he gripped her slender fingers, once he got an up-close view of her intelligent green eyes and the faint freckles dusting her pert nose, assimilation gave way to admiration.

  BJ Stevens might not be the warmest or friendliest female he’d ever met, but she was the prettiest, hands down—even if her palms were callused, her nails unpolished, and her face free of makeup. There was something intriguing about her, some compelling quality he couldn’t quite identify, that sucked him in. Strength . . . character . . . integrity . . . whatever it was, it scored high on his appeal meter.

  Her lips parted slightly as he continued to hold her hand, and a flash of . . . fire? . . . sparked in those emerald-color irises.

  One second ticked by.

  Two.

  Three.

  All at once, a sizzle of electricity zipped through the air, so strong it—

  “BJ! We have a question.”

  At the summons from some guy in shadows inside the front door, she jerked her gaze from his and tugged her hand free. “I’ll be right t-there.” Clearing her throat, she spoke to his dad. “If you have an hour or two, we ought to visit the showroom later this afternoon to pick out hardware and lighting fixtures. The plumber wants me to place the bathroom order this week, if possible.”

  “That works.”

  With a dip of her head, she took off toward the porch.

  Eric watched her until she disappeared through the door.

  “Nice woman. Talented too. I was lucky to get her for this job. Smart and pretty is a winning combination, don’t you think?”

  He turned to find his father watching him with amusement, and his neck warmed. Instead of responding, he asked a question of his own. “What job would that be?”

  His father transferred his weight from one foot to the other, a distinct uneasiness replacing his amusement. “You’re not going to like it.”

  Uh-oh.

  Eric shoved his hands in his pockets and clenched his fists. “Go ahead and lay it on me.”

  “I’m converting the four bedrooms upstairs into two suites.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to open a B&B.”

  “A B&B.” He tried to wrap his mind around the notion as he said the words. “As in . . . bed and breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “But . . . but why do you want to let strangers stay in our house?”

  “They won’t be strangers once I meet them.” His dad flashed him a quick smile, then grew more serious. “It’s a big house, Eric. Too big for me. But you and your mom and I made a lot of great memories here, and I didn’t want to leave. So I figured, why not let other people make great memories here too? Plus, this will give me a chance to put to use those culinary courses I took in Coos Bay after I retired. I’m going to call it Seabird Inn. Great name, don’t you think?”

  The question registered on only a peripheral level as Eric tried to picture his dad—a man who’d never prepared a full meal until his wife died six years ago—cooking a gourmet breakfast for strangers every morning.

  It wouldn’t compute.

  “I thought you . . . that you valued your privacy. You always said that much as you loved people, your home was your sanctuary.”

  “It still will be. I added a small extension to the family room, and the whole back of the first floor will be innkeeper’s quarters. My private domain if I want to escape my guests—but I plan to mingle a lot.” He clasped his hands behind his back, and his tone grew melancholy. “The truth is, since I retired it’s been a little lonesome around here. And too quiet. It would be nice to hear laughter ring through the rooms again.”

  A sharp jab prodded Eric’s conscience. If he’d carved time out of his schedule to come home more often, maybe his father wouldn’t have decided to shake the foundations of his life—literally.

  He exhaled. “You wouldn’t have done this if I’d been around more, would you?”

  “Hey.” His dad gripped his arm. “I’m not trying to lay a guilt trip on you. You call me more than most kids check in with their parents, despite your busy life. I know that job of yours keeps you hopping. Which brings me back to my original question. What are you doing here in the middle of the week?”

  The hammering picked up in the house—and in his heart. So much for his plan to share the news over cups of coffee around the table in the quiet, homey kitchen where most of the important events in his life had been discussed.

  Finally his father spoke again. “You want to ride down to the beach, take a walk?”

  At the gentle prompt, Eric shook his head. “I already did that.”

  “Then I’m guessing this is serious.”

  “Yeah.” Retirement hadn’t dulled his dad’s keen intuitive abilities one speck.

  Silence fell between them as his father gave him space, waiting until he was ready to share his news.

  But he’d never be ready—and postponing the inevitable was pointless.

  Summoning up his courage, Eric spit out the foul-tasting words. “I don’t have a job anymore.”

  His father stared at him. “They . . . they fired you?”

  “Not according to my boss. That term isn’t PC these days.” Despite Eric’s attempt to coax up the corners of his mouth, they refused to budge. “He said we were being laid off as part of a strategic repositioning in a difficult economy. But a rose by any other name . . .”

  “I can’t believe it.” His father seemed as stunned as Eric had been yesterday afternoon when his boss dropped the bomb.

  “Me neither. I knew a lot of law firms were struggling, that the market for high-end legal services was shrinking. Corporate clients are beefing up their in-house legal staffs, outsourcing routine work to less-expensive contract lawyers, sending legal research overseas, and capping fees . . . but I thought we were doing okay.”

  “You should have been. Your firm is one of the largest in Portland. They have offices all over the country . . . all over the world.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” A touch of bitterness etched his words. “I always assumed going with a large, established firm was a guarantee of job security. I guess the joke’s on me.”

  His father laid a hand on his shoulder, compassion softening his features. “I don’t know what to say. Your whole life, you did every
thing right. You knew what you wanted, and you went after it with single-minded determination.”

  Yeah, he had. He’d excelled in high school; been accepted by a great college; attended a prestigious law school; graduated at the top of his class; and landed a job in a solid firm where he’d planned to become a partner and stay until he retired.

  And now, instead of realizing that dream, he was unemployed, his well-plotted career in ruins.

  Pressure built in his throat, and he blinked to clear his vision. “Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “Not even close.” His father drew in a lungful of air. Let it out. “Days like this can make you wonder what the good Lord is thinking.”

  “That’s an understatement. In fact, I . . .” Eric stopped. Someone with a rock-solid faith, who prayed daily, wouldn’t take kindly to negative comments about the Almighty.

  “Don’t be mad at God, son.” His father’s tone was gentle.

  Mad? Hardly. He’d been too fixated on building his career to give God more than a passing thought over the past decade. Truth be told, the Almighty was so far off his radar he hadn’t connected this whole fiasco with him until his father mentioned it.

  “I’m not.” It was an honest answer, if incomplete.

  “Glad to hear it. Because bad as this whole situation smells now, I’m guessing he has a new direction in mind for you. That a better path lies ahead.”

  “It would be nice if he let me in on it.” Eric didn’t try to mask his skepticism.

  “He will—in his own time. And you’ve come to the perfect place to hear his voice. There’s nowhere better than Hope Harbor for clearing the mind. How long has it been since you had a real vacation . . . and I don’t mean a long weekend?”

  “I can’t remember.” When had he had a spare minute, let alone a week? Billable hours were the key to a partner slot . . . and you could never log enough of them.

  Not that all those sixty-plus-hour weeks had helped him in the end.

  “Then you need to stay awhile. Unless you have other plans?”

  “I don’t have any plans, period.” Which felt weird. He’d always operated from a meticulous game plan.

  “You know, that might be for the best.” His father’s demeanor grew pensive. “Sometimes good things come our way when we’re open to new opportunities.”