Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  No matter. He’d just move his lips and keep peeking at BJ.

  Halfway through the hymn, almost as if she could sense his scrutiny, she looked over her shoulder.

  A sizzle of electricity zipped between them, supercharging the air.

  Her eyes widened . . . and her head whipped back to the front.

  Eric’s fingers crimped the edge of the hymnal.

  Wow.

  Potent was the only word to describe that searing whoosh of attraction.

  And that was not an appropriate thought during Sunday service.

  Exerting every ounce of his willpower, he transferred his attention to the sanctuary—and for the next hour and fifteen minutes tried as hard as he could to pay attention to the Scripture readings, Reverend Baker’s sermon, and the music.

  It was a monumental struggle.

  So once the organ finally launched into the last chorus of the closing hymn, he conceded the fight and moved on to his next priority—figuring out how to finagle a few minutes in the company of this spit-and-polished BJ.

  As it turned out, no finagling was necessary. She approached them as his father joined him in the aisle.

  “Morning, BJ.” His dad smiled at the architect.

  “Good morning.” She transferred her attention to Eric. “I was hoping to talk with you, if you can spare five minutes.”

  His dad looked between the two of them. “No problem from my end. It’s doughnut Sunday, and I’m in the mood for a sugared jelly. You can find me in the church hall, Eric.” Without waiting for a response, he dived into the throng surging toward the door.

  “Let’s get out of the line of traffic.” Eric gestured to an empty pew.

  She eased past, close enough for him to catch a whiff of some fresh, pleasing fragrance.

  He wrapped his fingers around the edge of the pew and held on tight.

  “This won’t take long.” She sat, leaving a large gap between them.

  “No problem. The sole item on my afternoon agenda is a motorbike repair.” He claimed the corner of the pew. “Is this about Luis?” Maybe she had a few more pieces of information to add to the story she’d shared during their impromptu lunch. Why else would she waylay him?

  “No.”

  So much for that theory.

  She smoothed a hand down the silky fabric of her dress. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Moistened her lips.

  His gaze dropped to them . . . and got stuck.

  Look up, Nash. Forget her mouth.

  Right.

  He shifted his attention higher—to the cute sprinkling of freckles spanning the bridge of her nose—and waited for her to continue.

  “I hate to bother you with this . . . but I need a favor.” She did the lip thing again.

  He wedged himself into the corner of the pew to put a bit more distance between them.

  It didn’t help much.

  “Shoot.” The word came out rough, and he cleared his throat.

  “Do you know anything about Helping Hands?”

  “No.”

  “It’s an organization that does what the name says—offers a helping hand to anyone in the community who has a need. It began about six years ago as a joint effort between Grace Christian and St. Francis. Tracy’s husband is the director, but everyone else is a volunteer.”

  “Including you?”

  She lifted one shoulder, rippling the silky fabric of her dress. “I help a little. Right now I’m in charge of sets and scenery for a musical being staged as a fundraiser for the organization. Building the sets is easy. Unfortunately, I have no talent for painting scenery. Charley promised to handle the backdrop, but with his wrist out of commission, he suggested I ask you to take on the job.”

  Eric tuned in fully to the conversation. “Charley’s hurt? What happened to him?”

  “I have no idea. I stopped for an order of tacos yesterday around noon, and his wrist was bandaged.”

  Only a couple of hours after he’d dropped by the studio.

  Suspicious.

  Was this an attempt by the painter to get him to pick up a brush again, since he’d refused the man’s offer to take some supplies?

  “Listen, I’m sorry to impose. I know you’re dealing with a lot of other challenges and—”

  “No.” He touched her arm. “Don’t apologize for asking someone to help out in a pinch when you’re doing charitable work.” As far as the legitimacy of Charley’s injury was concerned . . . who cared? If he wanted a chance to get better acquainted with the woman beside him, the taco maker had given him the perfect opportunity. “Tell me what’s involved. I haven’t done any painting in years.”

  He listened as she described how the backdrop needed to capture the mood and geography of Oklahoma, with a weeping willow, a golden haze on the meadow, and corn as high as an elephant’s eye.

  “How big are we talking?”

  She gave him the dimensions.

  “Whoa.” He did a slow blink. “I’ve never painted anything bigger than a sixteen-by-twenty canvas.”

  “According to Charley, it’s the same principle but on a larger scale. He’s never done a backdrop, either. I know he planned to rough in the scene on the flats before he started painting.”

  “Did he do any preliminary sketches?”

  “Not that he shared with me, but I doubt it. I think he likes to go with the flow.”

  That sounded like their resident taco chef.

  “What’s your time frame?”

  “The show’s later this month. I already built the flats, mounted them on wheels, and prepped them, so they’re ready to be painted. They’re in the scene shop at the high school. I’m there most evenings building the sets, but we could arrange to give you access during the day if you decide to take this on and prefer to work then.”

  “Evenings are fine for me.” Especially if that’s when she was there.

  “Does that mean . . . is that a yes?”

  Was it?

  Eric glanced toward the sanctuary. He’d come to Hope Harbor to regroup and chart a new course for his law career—not to paint sets for a show . . . or paint, period. Nor had he planned to get involved with a despondent Cuban immigrant. Or meet a beautiful, intriguing woman.

  Nothing on this trip had gone as he’d expected.

  Yet what had his father said the day he’d arrived? Some trite phrase about good things coming your way if you were open to new opportunities.

  Given all that had happened in the past few days, perhaps the saying was more true than trite.

  And since he didn’t exactly have a packed agenda, why not lend a hand? If he researched backdrop painting techniques, he ought to be able to pull this off—while clocking some one-on-one time with the woman beside him.

  If there was a downside to the scenario, it eluded him.

  He turned back to her. “It’s a yes—but I’m no Charley. Don’t expect miracles.”

  “It’s miracle enough there’s someone else in town who’s willing—and able—to tackle this job.” Her eyes lit up, illuminating her face and enhancing her already considerable beauty. “And I trust Charley. He wouldn’t have recommended you if he didn’t think you could handle the job.”

  “Let’s hope he’s right.” The church had grown quiet, and he swept a hand around the empty pews. “We appear to be the laggards here.”

  “Everyone else made a beeline for the doughnuts.”

  “Can I interest you in one?”

  “No thanks. I have some errands to run—and I try to avoid high-fat food. It’s bad for the arteries . . . and the waistline.”

  He gave her a swift perusal. “You don’t look as if you need to worry about the latter.”

  “That’s because I do.” She rose—leaving him no choice but to do the same.

  “I’d like to see the flats ASAP, get a visual sense of the scale.”

  “No problem. I’ll be diving back into the sets this afternoon about two, if you want to swing by.”

  “That works.
”

  She followed him out of the pew and struck off for the back door.

  Hard as he tried, he couldn’t think of a single reason to delay her departure.

  “I’ll see you this afternoon.” She kept walking as they emerged to a fine mist and a sky more gray than blue. It seemed the clouds had won in their earlier game of hide-and-seek with the sun.

  “Count on it.”

  After flashing him a quick smile, she hurried down the steps and veered off toward the parking lot.

  Once she disappeared from view, Eric wandered toward the church hall. There might be a few of the sugared confections left. He was in the mood for a sweet treat.

  Of course, that would be waiting for him later at the high school if he missed out here.

  Grinning, he ducked back inside to escape the mist, pretty certain BJ would not appreciate that thought.

  As for the ambitious project he’d agreed to take on . . . his grin faded and his pace slowed. The town’s resident artist might think he could pull off a backdrop, but he doubted the finished product would be up to the professional standards of a Charley original. Whatever talent he might once have had could have decayed from years of neglect.

  Too late now to back out, however.

  He stopped by the door to the sanctuary . . . debated for a moment . . . then slipped back inside to ask the Almighty for a little assistance.

  And pray he wasn’t getting in way over his head.

  It felt odd to skip Sunday Mass—and Elena would be disappointed in him.

  But how could a man who was still considering taking a walk off a cliff go to church . . . and face God?

  Luis lowered himself to the edge of the lumpy bed where he spent more nights tossing than sleeping. Wiped a hand down his face. He’d kept his promise to Eric Nash. Shown up for work on Friday, eaten the breakfast John had prepared. There was no reason he couldn’t follow through on his interrupted plans from Thursday night. He’d be undisturbed in rainy weather like this.

  Except—Eric had spent all day Friday . . . and probably a large part of his weekend . . . working on the motorbike. Going out of his way to atone for the green card incident, to show kindness to a stranger. If Luis followed through on his plan now, would the man wonder if the green card incident had been the catalyst for disaster?

  Perhaps.

  And guilt was a terrible burden to bear.

  Stomach twisting, he touched the photo of Elena he’d set on the nightstand. He knew all about guilt. Add in grief and despair and hopelessness . . . who could be expected to persevere in the face of all that?

  Even God seemed to have deserted him.

  Pressure built behind his eyes, and moisture seeped out the corners. Wrong as it might be, when only an empty future stretched before you, escape tempted with a seductive, powerful appeal.

  Swiping away the dampness with the back of his hand, he stood.

  It was time to take a walk.

  He grabbed his jacket off the foot of the bed, started for the door . . . and froze as the putt-putt-putt of a well-tuned motorbike seeped in through the sliver of open window.

  Jacket in hand, he crossed to the blinds and tipped one of the working slats.

  Eric was tooling up the drive on his motorbike.

  Frowning, Luis let the slat drop back into place. What was going on? The plan had been for him to retrieve his bike tomorrow at John’s, after work.

  A knock sounded on his door, but Luis didn’t move. He was not in the mood for company.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Luis.” Eric’s voice came across loud and clear through the hollow-core door. “I don’t mean to intrude, but the bike’s ready and I thought you might like to have it back today. I don’t want to leave the key in it.”

  He spoke as if he knew the apartment was occupied.

  And he probably did if he’d noticed the slat on the blinds opening and closing.

  Sighing, Luis raked his fingers through his hair. It was stupid to ignore the man. He could get rid of him fast. How long would it take to say thanks and accept the key?

  He trudged to the door, flipped the lock, and twisted the knob.

  “I apologize for showing up unannounced.” Eric smiled and held out the key. “I finished the bike and did a test run. I don’t think it will give you any more trouble. I was afraid it might be the carburetor or your fuel injection pump, but she just had a blown fuse and some fouled spark plugs. I cleaned all the plugs, replaced one of them, and put in a new fuse. You’re good to go.”

  Luis tried to follow the explanation but stumbled over all the unfamiliar words.

  One thing he did understand, though—this repair had cost some money. New parts weren’t free.

  He reached for his wallet. “Thank you. How much is the cost?”

  “No charge. I enjoyed tinkering with the bike, and the body shop that’s repairing my car gave me the parts I needed while I was there yesterday getting an update.”

  “They give you the parts?” Would a business be that generous?

  “For what my repair is costing, they can afford to throw in a few freebies.” A gust of wind whipped past, and he angled away from the billow of mist that enveloped him. “I’d suggest you take a spin, but given the weather, you might want to wait until later.”

  All at once, Eric’s damp state registered. A sheen of moisture had glossed his hair, and his T-shirt was clinging to his chest. “Did you ride here in the rain?”

  “It wasn’t raining when I left.” He shrugged, and one side of his mouth hiked up. “That’s the Oregon coast for you.”

  Luis scanned the deserted parking lot. “Are you walking back to town?”

  “No. My dad’s going to swing by in about ten minutes to pick me up.”

  A second wave of mist surged toward the door—and Eric. If this kept up, he’d be drenched long before John arrived.

  Luis expelled a breath. He didn’t want to invite the man into his room, but what other choice did he have? After all Eric had done, it would be wrong to leave him standing in the rain.

  Stepping back, he pulled the door wide. “You can wait in here until he comes.”

  “Thanks.” Eric entered at once and moved to the center of the room, giving it a quick but thorough scrutiny.

  Although his expression remained neutral, Luis knew what he was thinking: the efficiency apartment might be neat and as clean as possible, but the place was a dump.

  And his unexpected visitor’s conclusion was spot on.

  Not that he had to live in a place like this. He could afford a slight upgrade if he didn’t send as much money to his father-in-law. But as long as there was breath in his body, he’d honor his promise to Elena. The one that had erased the final stumbling block to their escape.

  The one he now regretted making.

  Pressure built in his throat again. Perhaps if he’d balked at her request, she would have refused to leave. They might not have realized their dream of creating a new life in America, but they’d still have a life together.

  Reining in his emotions, he indicated the sole upholstered chair. “You will sit?”

  Eric eyed it, then crossed to the straight-backed chair beside the bed. “This is fine.” He dropped into it, glancing at the photo on the nightstand. He didn’t speak, but Luis heard the implied question.

  “That is . . . was . . . my wife, Elena.” He perched on the edge of the bed. “She die ten months ago. While we come to America.”

  “I’m sorry.” The words were rote, but they were laced with compassion.

  Luis gently picked up the photo and cradled it in his hand. “It has been hard.” His words rasped.

  “Too hard at times, I imagine.”

  At Eric’s soft comment, Luis sighed. No sense denying what they both knew. This man had stood beside him on the cliff. “Yes.”

  Eric clasped his hands together and leaned forward. “America is a great place, Luis. And Hope Harbor is special. People here care about one another. They watch out for e
ach other. You’ll make friends. Life will get better. Not every day will be gray and depressing, like this one.” He waved a hand toward the window.

  Ah. Now he understood why Eric had delivered the motorbike in such dicey weather instead of waiting until tomorrow. Their client’s son had been afraid today’s dreariness would induce BJ’s Cuban carpenter to finish the job he’d begun that night on the cliff.

  Luis looked down at his clasped hands. “Some days, I am not certain that is true.” The soft admission, never before spoken, hung heavy in the somber room.

  “I know.” It was clear they were both through pretending. “But I don’t want you to have any more of those days. Tell me how I can help.”

  Luis furrowed his brow, trying to fathom the man’s motivation. “Why do you care?”

  “Because I believe in the golden rule.”

  Based on the evidence, that was true—and it was commendable. Few people sought opportunities to get involved in someone else’s problems.

  “I am grateful for your offer.” He left it at that.

  After a few beats of silence ticked by, Eric spoke again. “But . . . ?”

  But there is nothing anyone can do.

  He watched the rain streak down the window. Elena was gone. His medical career was gone. He was a refugee in a foreign land, where he would live out what remained of his life alone—a doctor eking out a living as a simple carpenter who yearned for the woman he loved and a dream that could never be.

  This man, however, knew none of that. Nor was he likely to understand how dark the world could be for someone who’d risked everything—and lost.

  “Luis . . .” As Eric said his name, he shifted his attention back to his visitor. “Please let me help.”

  “It is enough that you offer. You cannot fix all the broken things in my life.”

  “I might be able to fix some of them.”

  The attorney had persistence—and determination. He didn’t seem inclined to leave without some assurance that a positive outcome was possible.

  “Let me think on this.” It was the best he could offer.

  Parallel grooves dented Eric’s forehead. It was clear he wanted to push—and also clear he didn’t want to provoke. Luis understood that dilemma. He’d dealt with many young doctors on ER rotations during his medical career who wanted answers to questions that had none. Who toiled for outcomes that were impossible to guarantee and beat themselves up if they failed, unwilling to accept that not every problem was fixable.