Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  His gaze lingered on the luminous orb.

  Elena had loved the moon.

  Pressure built behind his eyes, and the distant, dark horizon blurred.

  Yet no tears came.

  He had none left to shed.

  Curling his fingers around the rosary he’d carried since the day he set out on the hope-filled journey that ended in tragedy, he fingered the familiar beads. Praying had always been part of his life—but it was hard now. The words were dry. Empty. Rote. Often it felt as if the Lord had tuned him out, leaving him to fend for himself in this foreign place.

  Like today.

  Despite BJ’s assurances that there was no reason to worry, the lawyer’s suspicion said otherwise. Although he’d seemed embarrassed about creating a scene, it was clear he had doubts about having a Cuban working under his father’s roof—and men like him had power.

  Luis’s fingers sought the crucifix that dangled at the end of the rosary. Held on tight. Despite the green card bearing his name, one misstep and he’d be sent back to the land he’d paid such a steep price to escape. Even if this man didn’t cause him trouble, others might.

  And he was tired of living in fear.

  Tired of living in a place where he didn’t feel welcome.

  Tired of living alone.

  Gripping the cross, he dropped his head into his hands. Father Murphy wouldn’t approve of what he was about to do—but the priest had no idea what it was like to be a stranger in a strange land, with a burden of grief that sucked the life out of you day after day.

  There was nothing for him here.

  He needed to be with Elena again.

  And if this was a sin, as his faith taught, he’d have to trust that God, in his mercy and wisdom, would understand and forgive a desperate choice driven by desolation and loneliness and despair.

  Luis folded his hands into the classic position of supplication, rosary twined through his fingers. Raised his face toward the heavens. And began his final prayer.

  Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee . . .

  5

  Taking a cliff-top walk at eleven-thirty at night while the moon played hide-and-seek with the clouds wasn’t his most brilliant idea.

  But after tossing for an hour on the sleeper sofa in the living room, it had been worth a shot to see if some fresh air would unscramble his brain and chase away his tension.

  Eric shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

  So far, the trek was a bust.

  In fact, listening to the thunderous waves booming in the blackness below was more unsettling than relaxing—as was the litany of messes from this disaster of a day that continued to loop through his mind.

  The estimate on the BMW repair, an expense that would eat up the entire high deductible he’d taken a chance on after compiling a flawless driving record that was now toast.

  His father’s annoyance. The elder Nash hadn’t brought up this morning’s incident again before heading to some church committee meeting tonight, but he’d left Eric to forage through the fridge for his dinner. Meaning he remained miffed.

  The evil eye BJ had directed his way every time their paths crossed.

  Stone’s animosity. The guy had looked as if he’d like to use a crowbar to administer some corporal punishment as payback for hurting his buddy’s feelings.

  A brisk breeze whipped past, and Eric flipped up the collar on his jacket.

  Tomorrow had to be better—because if he got much lower, he’d be down there with the worms in his father’s garden.

  An analogy he suspected BJ would deem apt.

  A movement to his left caught his eye, and he slowed. Angled toward the horizon. Was that . . . ?

  Yes. It was a person. Standing close to the edge of the cliff.

  Too close.

  He veered off onto the spur path that led toward the edge of the rocky outcropping high above the sea, gaze riveted on the figure.

  The person’s jacket flapped in the wind again, but the body remained deathly still.

  Eric suppressed a shiver.

  No one should be standing alone on the brink of an abyss this late at night.

  Pulse picking up, he followed the path for a couple dozen yards. Though the person was turned away, the build suggested it was a man. His head was tilted back, his hands clasped, his body rigid.

  When he dipped his chin and swayed toward the void, the air whooshed out of Eric’s lungs. Every angle of the man’s posture, every vibe radiating from him, telegraphed his intent.

  He was planning to jump.

  Eric lurched forward again, erasing the distance between them as fast as he could—and the closer he got, the more certain he was that he hadn’t misread the situation.

  The man teetering on the edge of the cliff didn’t intend to see another day.

  Eric continued forward, any noise from his footfalls masked by the crash of the waves below.

  Ten feet away, he halted. Now what? If he got close enough to make a grab for the guy before he spoke, he might frighten him. The man could lose his balance, fall over the edge. Yet if he stayed back, quietly alerted him to his presence, the guy might jump anyway.

  If only there was time to call 911! Those people were trained to handle situations like this.

  The man lowered his hands . . . swayed toward the cliff . . . and Eric knew he had mere seconds to act.

  Panic short-circuiting his lungs, he sought help from the only available source.

  God, please give me the words that will keep this son of yours safe.

  The moon came out from behind a cloud, bathing the landscape in an ethereal silver light. The jumper noticed it too. He lifted his face toward the glow, offering a clear view of his profile.

  Dear Lord!

  It was the Cuban guy on BJ’s crew.

  Eric sucked in a breath. The man had been upset this morning by the green card incident, but surely . . . surely that wouldn’t have driven him to this. There had to be more to his story.

  But perhaps that incident had been the proverbial last straw.

  Eric’s gut clenched. If that was the case, he shared some of the blame for whatever had driven the man to a cliff high above the churning sea in the black of night.

  Another cloud shrouded the moon, plunging the world back into darkness . . . and Eric knew his time had run out.

  He had to act.

  Now.

  “Amazing view, isn’t it?” He didn’t quite pull off his attempt at a conversational, shoot-the-breeze tone. How could he when fear had a choke hold on his windpipe?

  Luis spun around—and Eric’s muscles coiled, ready to spring into action if the man tottered and lost his balance.

  He didn’t.

  “Sorry to startle you.” Eric prepared to lunge for the man if necessary. “I like night walks myself.” He extended his hand, praying the guy would take it. “We met this morning, but we haven’t been formally introduced. Eric Nash.”

  An eternity ticked by while the Cuban immigrant studied Eric’s fingers.

  Please, God . . . if you give me his hand, I promise I won’t let it go.

  At last, shoulders slumping, the construction worker stepped toward him—away from the edge—and took his hand. “Luis Dominguez.”

  Eric gripped his hand and moved a few feet back toward a flat rock, drawing Luis with him. He motioned toward it. “I was going to sit for a few minutes. Want to join me?”

  “It is late.” The man’s heavily accented words were tinged with a soul-deep weariness.

  “Yeah, I guess it is. But I couldn’t sleep, and I thought a walk by the sea might relax me.”

  “The sea, she is . . .” Luis seemed to search for a word, resorting in the end to Spanish. “Potente.”

  Powerful.

  Eric knew enough of the language to recognize the term—but he couldn’t tell whether the man’s comment was positive or negative.

  No matter. He had another priority at the moment.

 
“Would you like to walk back up to the main path together? Safety in numbers and all that.”

  Silence once more stretched between them.

  Eric waited him out. If Luis refused, he’d find some excuse to stick close. No way was he leaving him here alone, steps away from a very bad—and very final—decision.

  After what felt like an eon, Luis dipped his head. “I will walk with you.”

  Thank you, God!

  Eric started up the path, and Luis fell in beside him.

  As they left the precipice behind, Eric gave voice to the regret that had plagued him all day. “I’m glad I ran into you tonight, Luis. I wanted to apologize for making an issue of the green card.” He felt the man glance over at him but kept talking. “I should have known my father would verify everything was legal. It was none of my business. I’m sorry for embarrassing you.”

  Eric thought he heard Luis sigh, but he couldn’t be certain in the brisk wind.

  “You did only what many others have done.” There was a world of hurt and pain in his words, of resignation and deep sadness. “Bad things happen. They are part of life.”

  Yes, they were—but bad was too mild a word for what this man must have endured if it had propelled him to the edge of a cliff.

  Whatever the reasons for that decision, however, the key goal now was to ensure he didn’t follow through on it later.

  When the spur trail intersected the main path, Eric stopped. “Did you park around here somewhere?”

  “No. I walked.”

  “Do you live close?”

  “Not far. Outside of town.” He mentioned the area.

  Eric frowned. That was on the other side of town—a very long walk.

  Though maybe not so long if you weren’t planning to make a return trip.

  “Look, why don’t I give you a lift home? I parked in the lot at the top of the hill.”

  The man eased back. “Thank you, but I can walk.”

  Perhaps back out to the cliff.

  Not happening on his watch.

  “I have a feeling it might rain any minute. You’ll be soaked before you get home.” That was no lie. On the Oregon coast, sudden rain was always a possibility.

  “I do not mind getting wet.” The man turned and began to walk away.

  “Luis.” There was a hint of desperation in his voice—but he didn’t care.

  The man halted. Angled back.

  “Please let me do this. Consider it an apology for what happened this morning.”

  Luis hesitated. Cast one final look at the cliff top. Exhaled. “A ride would be welcome, if it does not trouble you.”

  The knot in his stomach loosened. “It’s no trouble at all.”

  They hiked to the car in silence, and despite Eric’s attempts to draw the man out with a few questions during the short drive, Luis offered little more than directions.

  After a while, Eric stopped trying. If his passenger didn’t want to talk, that was his prerogative. At least he was safe. For now.

  Once on the other side of town, Eric followed the rutted drive Luis directed him to and pulled up in front of an apartment building that had once been a low-end motel. The one-story kind, with access to the units through flimsy exterior doors. The kind where rooms had often been rented by the hour rather than the night.

  It was hard to tell, given the lack of exterior lighting, but unless the place had been seriously spruced up since he’d last ventured down this road a few years ago, it was a total dump. Why the county hadn’t condemned the eyesore long ago was beyond him.

  Living in a rathole like this would almost be sufficient reason in itself to take desperate action.

  “Thank you for the ride.” Luis reached for the door handle as Eric slowed across from the entrance to the original motel office.

  “Do you want me to drop you in front of your unit?”

  “No. It is near.” He waved a hand to his right and opened the door.

  “Wait.”

  Luis shifted back toward him.

  What to say now? The truth—that he was afraid to abandon him in such an awful place, where the shadow of desperation would no doubt swallow him up again—wouldn’t do.

  “Will you . . . uh . . . be at the house tomorrow?”

  Inane—but it was the first thing that popped into his mind.

  “Yes. There is much work left to do.”

  “That’s true.” He gripped the wheel. “Listen . . . is this place . . . are you okay here?”

  Luis gave the ramshackle structure a slow scan. “It is not what I hoped for in America—but I have slept in much worse spaces. Good night, Mr. Nash.”

  “It’s Eric. I’ll feel old if you call me Mr. Nash.”

  “If you wish.” He swung one leg out of the car.

  Again, Eric stopped him. “You know, I think my dad is planning to make cranberry waffles in the morning. I saw the recipe on the counter. Will you join us?”

  Trying to coerce Luis into a commitment for breakfast was stupid. Even if he accepted the invitation, he could hustle straight back to the cliff the minute the car disappeared down the drive.

  But Eric had no other ideas, short of tethering himself to the man for the night.

  “Your father . . . he is a good cook.”

  “Does that mean you’ll come?” Eric’s knuckles whitened on the wheel.

  The man hesitated too long to suit him. “Yes.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  You’re pushing, Nash.

  Tough.

  “Will you be there?” Luis’s features were shadowed in the dim light.

  “Not if you don’t want me to be.”

  “It is your house.”

  “It’s my father’s house. And I can eat later if you prefer.”

  “No. It is not a problem. I will eat John’s waffles. It is a promise. And . . . thank you for tonight.” He slid from the car, closed the door, and walked away.

  Eric waited until he stopped three units down, fitted a key in the lock, and disappeared inside. A few seconds later, a light illuminated the dingy shade in the window.

  The man was safe . . . for the moment.

  And he’d promised to show up tomorrow morning.

  But as Eric put the car in gear and maneuvered around the potholes in the drive, he wasn’t convinced that promise would be kept.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror. The light in Luis’s room was visible from here. Why not pull off to the side and wait until it went off? Be certain the man wasn’t planning to venture out again tonight? Anyone leaving the sleazy apartments had to pass this way. If the light went off—and stayed off—for half an hour with no further activity, it should be safe to go home.

  Besides, given the late hour, what difference did another forty or fifty minutes make? He wasn’t going to clock a lot of sleep this night, anyway.

  And he’d get even less shut-eye if he didn’t make sure Luis stayed put.

  Why was he still alive?

  Luis examined the bleary-eyed stranger in the cracked bathroom mirror, face lined far beyond his years, wings of silver streaking his black hair.

  Had God had a hand in tonight’s aborted plan—or was it simply due to three freak, back-to-back coincidences?

  A motorbike that wouldn’t start, forcing him to walk to the site he’d chosen. Giving him a chance to reconsider.

  The song blaring from the radio of a passing car as he’d trudged along, its lyrics about hope and brighter tomorrows following him down the dark road.

  Eric Nash wandering by at the pivotal moment, appearing out of the blue in that wild, deserted area late at night.

  One of those might be a fluke—but three in a row?

  Hard to believe they were all due to chance.

  He turned away from the mirror, wandered over to the lumpy bed in the furnished unit, and sat. The place was a dive—yet he and Elena hadn’t expected five-star accommodations. They’d been too old for starry-eyed dreams, had known it would be a struggle to get
established, to learn the language and the ways of this country. But freedom and opportunity . . . those were worth every sacrifice and hardship. Hand in hand, they’d been ready to face whatever challenges their new life threw at them.

  Facing those challenges alone, however? Much more difficult.

  Too difficult.

  Eyes stinging, he pulled the dog-eared photo from his shirt pocket and tilted it toward the light on the nicked bedside stand.

  Elena smiled back at him, innate goodness and sweetness radiating from her. The juxtaposition of softness and strength in her features, of humor and compassion and conviction, had captivated him from the instant they met. Theirs had truly been a match made in heaven, as his grandmother had predicted early on in their relationship.

  But she’d left him too soon.

  And he bore much of the blame.

  Luis squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the pain. They could have waited to undertake the journey. In time, they might have found the money for a safer option.

  Yet . . . they had waited. Far longer than expected. So long that their dream of creating a family had begun to crumble. Thirty-eight wasn’t too late for Elena to have children—but the risk grew exponentially after forty.

  So in the end, they’d decided to put their trust in God, pray for his protection, and take the next chance at freedom that came along.

  Except God hadn’t protected Elena, despite their prayers.

  Ah, Luis, my dear one . . . do not blame God.

  The gentle admonition echoed in his heart, hard as he tried to shut it out.

  “But he did not protect you, mi amor.” His whispered reply came out hoarse. Broken.

  There was no response.

  Yet he knew what she’d say if she were here.

  What happened might not have been our plan, Luis, but it was God’s. He brought you safely to this land, gave you the opportunity and freedom we were seeking. You are here for a reason—and that is why God intervened tonight. He is offering you a second chance to do what you are meant to do.

  Could that be true?

  And if so, what was he meant to do?

  It was hard to discern the truth these days, with grief and despair muddling his mind.

  He heaved himself to his feet, stripped off his sweatshirt, and pulled back the covers on his bed. Perhaps Elena was right; perhaps not. Either way, he wasn’t going back to the cliff tonight. He’d promised Eric Nash he’d show up for breakfast, and he never broke his word.