Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  Eric spoke at last. “Will you make me another promise?”

  “Breakfast tomorrow?” Somehow Luis managed a small smile.

  “No—but you’re welcome if my dad is cooking. I just want you to promise that if you decide to . . . to do anything more than think . . . you’ll talk to Father Kevin.”

  The same advice Elena would offer if she were here.

  But talking to a priest . . . that would be difficult. He was not a man who shared his emotions with other people.

  Except Elena.

  “I do not know if I can promise that.”

  The clipped beep of a horn sounded outside, and a flash of panic whipped across Eric’s face. “That’s my dad. Look . . . if you won’t call Father Kevin, call me, okay?” He found a pen in his pocket, pulled out a scrap of paper, and jotted down some numbers. “We’ll go out for coffee or . . . or something. Anytime, day or night. I could use a friendly ear myself after losing my job.”

  Luis stared at him. “I did not know that.”

  “I’ll work it out. I’m more worried about . . . other things.”

  Like the Cuban refugee toiling in his father’s house.

  In light of that, how could Luis refuse the man’s request?

  “I will call.”

  Relief chased the tension from Eric’s features. He rose and held out his hand. “Thank you. If the bike gives you any more trouble, let me know.”

  “I will. And thank you.” He grasped the man’s fingers and returned his firm shake.

  At the door, Eric stopped. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes. I will be there.”

  After one more quick appraisal, he dipped his chin and plunged into the foul weather.

  Luis remained where he was until a car door slammed. Then he walked over to the blinds and lifted a slat. John Nash’s car had reached the end of the drive and was accelerating onto the main road. A few moments later, it disappeared in the mist.

  He let the slat fall.

  There would be no walk to the cliff in his immediate future, after all.

  He wandered back to the bed and sat again. Funny how an unwanted visit from a man he hadn’t known a week ago could alter his plans so dramatically—and stir up the embers of warmth in his heart once again.

  And for some strange reason, he had a feeling that maybe, just maybe, the warmth might linger this time.

  9

  This was ridiculous.

  Huffing out a breath, BJ jammed the lid back on the lipstick and shoved the tube in the pocket of her jeans. She never wore makeup while working on a construction project.

  And she wasn’t going to start today.

  Jaw set, she grabbed her hammer. If Eric hadn’t promised to stop by the high school this afternoon to check out the flats, she wouldn’t even have brought the stupid lipstick—a mistake from the get-go. Impressing the out-of-work attorney was not on her agenda.

  Even if he’d turned out to be nicer than she’d expected after their first less-than-cordial encounter.

  Even if he’d bailed her out on the backdrop for the show and fixed Luis’s motorbike.

  Even if sparks had been flying this morning in that pew faster than a puffin diving for dinner.

  Not all tall, dark, and handsome men were cast from the same mold as her LA beau, of course—but it was too early in the game to be certain about Eric. And an ace attorney who’d been on a partner track wasn’t going to hang around a town the size of Hope Harbor long enough for her to get a solid read on his character.

  Yet another reason to walk a wide circle around him.

  Getting involved with someone who was just passing through would be a disaster.

  And she was done with disasters.

  She pounded a nail into the farmhouse façade—and kept pounding until she heard the door behind her open fifteen minutes later.

  Her hammer missed its mark . . . and barely missed her thumb.

  Squeezing the handle, she kept her back to the door and closed her eyes.

  Chill out, BJ. Play it cool. In five or ten minutes, he’ll be out of here and you can get back to work without any distractions.

  But when she swiveled around, one honking big distraction wearing worn jeans, a chest-hugging T-shirt, and a killer smile was walking her way.

  Oh, mercy!

  She restrained the urge to fan herself.

  “Hi.” He skirted some sawhorses, dodged an unpainted set of shutters, circled a crude table and stool that were destined for one of the set pieces, and stopped a few feet away.

  “Hi.” Her greeting came out in a squeak, and she swiveled around to wave toward the flats for the backdrop—and hide the surge of warmth on her cheeks. “There’s your canvas.”

  “I knew the dimensions, but seeing it in person is . . . intimidating.” He strolled over to the blank backdrop.

  She stayed where she was.

  Distance was good.

  “A backdrop doesn’t have to have a lot of fine detail. No one in the audience will be closer to it than twenty, twenty-five feet.” She wiped the damp palm of her free hand down her jeans. “If you’ll put together a list of supplies, I’ll pick them up for you. The high school said we could use the drama department’s tarps to protect the floor.”

  “I can get what I need.” He continued to examine the expanse of white, his back to her.

  “Okay—but keep your receipts. Helping Hands will reimburse you.”

  “Paint and brushes don’t cost a lot. Consider it my contribution.”

  “Your contribution is your talent.”

  “Are you handing in all your receipts?” He pivoted toward her.

  He would ask that.

  “I have lots of spare stuff from jobs.”

  “That’s what I figured.” He ambled over to inspect her work-in-progress. “What are you building?”

  “The façade of a farmhouse. Also the interior of a smokehouse.” She motioned toward another large set piece.

  “Are you doing this alone?”

  “Stone stops by if I need extra muscle. Other than that, it’s a one-person job—and I enjoy working by myself.”

  “Mmm.” He held up a sketch pad she hadn’t noticed until now. “I might be inspired if I sit in front of that vast empty expanse for a few minutes. I don’t want to disturb you, but would it be okay if I hung around for a while and did some doodling?”

  Having him nearby would disturb her plenty—but that wasn’t a thought she cared to share. And there was no other reason to deny his request.

  “As long as hammering and sawing won’t bother you.”

  “I’m getting used to that, after living in a construction zone.” An engaging dimple dented his cheek, spiking her pulse again.

  She took a step back and swept a hand toward the flats. “Then have at it. There are some folding chairs stacked in the corner if you want to sit.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  With that, he retreated to the canvas and dropped onto the floor to sit cross-legged.

  BJ watched him for a moment, then continued assembling the porch on the front of the farmhouse—although twice in the next five minutes she gave him a quick peek over her shoulder. Both times his head was bent, his arm moving.

  At least one of them was engaged in the job at hand.

  To eliminate the temptation to steal any more glimpses, she released the brakes on the rolling scenery wagon and rotated it, blocking her view of the man on the floor.

  Better.

  She reset the brakes and went back to work.

  Forty-five minutes later, he peeked around the side of the house. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  She pushed her safety goggles to the top of her head. “I, uh, swivel sometimes to get the best light.” True . . . but not in this case.

  “Want to see what I have?” He held up the sketch pad.

  “Sure.” She stowed her drill under a sawhorse.

  “I set up two folding chairs by the flats.” Without waiting for
her to respond, he disappeared around the farmhouse.

  She held back. A cozy tête-à-tête sitting shoulder to shoulder might give her legs a break, but it was going to play havoc with her respiration.

  Still, what choice did she have?

  Bracing herself, she followed. He’d already reached the chairs and picked up a can of soda. There was one resting on the seat of the other chair too.

  “Where’d you get these?” She bent and picked up a Diet Sprite.

  “A machine in the cafeteria. They must keep it stocked through the summer. I hope that’s all right.” He tapped the side of her soda. “I noticed you always seem to have some of these on hand at Dad’s.”

  The man paid attention to her preferences?

  Another mark in his positive column. Todd had never been able to remember from date to date whether she liked her lattes with or without whip, and he . . .

  She frowned.

  That was peculiar.

  For months, she’d been blocking the jerk’s name from her mind. Why had it popped up now . . . and with nary a blip on her stress meter?

  “If you’d prefer a different kind, I can—”

  “No. This is fine.” She released the tab. “Thank you.”

  “Then on to the unveiling.” He circled his own chair while she sat. “First requirement, though—if these sketches stink, you have to tell me straight up. Agreed?”

  Her lips twitched at his bluntness. “I doubt they’re going to stink.”

  “They might. And you won’t hurt my feelings. I’ve been away from art for years, and I’ll be happy to start over if these aren’t what you envisioned.”

  “Are you happy with what you have?”

  He lifted one shoulder. “Artists aren’t always the best judge of their own work. I think these are on the right track—but they’re rough.”

  “So are those.” She lifted her can toward the three-dimensional set pieces. “I don’t mind rough. I may not be able to draw, but I can visualize.”

  “An aptitude that will come in handy with these.” He jiggled the pad, a twinkle sparking in his coffee-colored eyes as he sat.

  Whew.

  This guy was seriously hot.

  She wrapped her fingers around the cold can, hoping she didn’t overheat the contents. “I have a feeling you’re underselling your skills.”

  “Don’t bet on that.” He set his soda on the floor, flipped back the cover of the sketch pad, and positioned the page so both of them could see it.

  At first glance, she concurred with his assessment. The drawing was rough. But it did contain all the requisite elements they’d discussed—the willow, the suggestion of a haze, the fields of tall corn.

  The closer she examined it, however, the more she saw. A weathered, split-rail fence; fluffy clouds; a small pond in the distance; some grazing cattle; the hint of another outbuilding. All his enhancements added to the charm of the scene. And despite the sketchiness of the drawing, it was clear the man had talent. The perspective, scale, shadows . . . all were spot-on.

  “It’s not what you were expecting, is it?” Eric’s teasing tone was at odds with the hint of uncertainty rippling through his words.

  Her stand-in backdrop painter honestly didn’t realize how talented he was.

  BJ turned to him. “No—it’s a thousand percent better. Don’t tell Charley I said this, but no way could he have beat this. I love all the extra elements you added.”

  “Would you like to see a few more? I roughed in some detail sketches too. A lot of audience members won’t catch the smaller touches, but those who do will get a kick out of them.”

  “Absolutely.”

  He flipped through the next few pages in silence, and BJ found herself smiling at his whimsical embellishments. A scarecrow in the distance wearing a Helping Hands T-shirt stuffed with straw. A nest in the willow filled with hatchlings, their beaks open and awaiting the next meal. A cat sleeping on a sunny rock, a butterfly perched on his nose. Saddlebags hanging on the fencepost, the leg from a pair of long johns trailing out.

  Every sketch was amusing and fanciful—and not at all what she’d expected from a high-end attorney who spent his days litigating on behalf of international corporate clients.

  Eric closed the tablet. “That’s a first pass, anyway.”

  “First and final. I wouldn’t change a thing.”

  “Nice to hear. My ego thanks you. Do you need to get approval from anyone else on these?”

  “No, but I’d like to share them with the director. I know he’ll be as thrilled as I am. May I keep them until tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” He handed her the sketchbook. “And speaking of tomorrow, you don’t need to pick up Luis in the morning. I finished his motorbike and delivered it this afternoon.”

  Another nice gesture.

  The man was full of surprises these past few days.

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I didn’t mind. It’s not far.” He stood. “I better let you get back to work. Assuming your director doesn’t have any issues with my sketches, I’d like to dive into the flats tomorrow evening. Will you be here?”

  “That’s the plan.” She stood too. “The cast needs the set pieces for dress rehearsal week, so I’ll be here every night until they’re finished.”

  “What time?”

  “No later than seven, unless I get delayed. I can verify that tomorrow before I leave your dad’s.”

  “That works. In the meantime, I’ll round up some supplies. Finished with that?” He reached for her can.

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  “Good luck with those.” He tipped his head toward the two large set pieces. “Better you than me on that project. I might be able to simulate three dimensions on canvas, but creating real three dimensions? Not my talent.”

  “In that case, we should make a great team.”

  His eyes warmed. Darkened. “I think you might be right.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. He was talking about creating theatrical sets—wasn’t he?

  Of course he was. They’d only met five days ago, for crying out loud. And they were both too old to allow a little electricity to short-circuit common sense.

  “Well . . .” She eased away. “Back to work for me.”

  “Until tomorrow.” He hefted one of the empty cans in salute and headed for the exit.

  She waited until he disappeared, then sagged against the smokehouse. It shifted behind her, and she scrambled to maintain her balance. Her own fault. She must have forgotten to set the brake on the wagon.

  And that was a prudent reminder.

  Because unless she put the brakes on the magnetic attraction she felt for Eric Nash, she could very well lose her balance and fall flat on her face.

  Again.

  Squaring her shoulders, she leaned down and locked the brakes on the wagon with more force than necessary. There would be no more starry-eyed disasters for her. If she ever decided to dip her toes in the waters of romance again, she would take it slow and cautious.

  So until she got a better handle on the real Eric Nash—and his plans for the future—she’d stay a safe distance away from the appealing attorney.

  Strange how quickly a person could be forgotten.

  Eric rested his elbow on the kitchen table and scanned the screen on his laptop. Not a single new email. True, it was Sunday . . . yet in Portland, dozens of messages had come in each day—including Christmas. For partner-track attorneys, every day was a workday.

  But he wasn’t a partner-track attorney anymore.

  Tamping down a surge of melancholy, he closed his email and googled scenic backdrops. Perhaps some research would distract him and chase away the blues.

  “Am I interrupting anything?” His dad entered and retrieved a mug from the cabinet.

  “Nope. I’m just googling. Before that, I was checking email.”

  “I bet that takes awhile.” His dad shook some coffee into a filter.

  “Not anymore. My in
box was empty, which is different. I used to be drowning in messages—90 percent of them tagged urgent.”

  “Were they?”

  “Depends on your perspective, I guess.”

  His dad held up the bag of coffee. “Want me to add some for you? It’s decaf, if you’re worried about sleeping.”

  “Sure.” He rose and got a mug for himself.

  “How’s your perspective now that you’ve been home for a few days?” His father poured water into the coffeemaker.

  “I’m still too wired to give that a fair answer.”

  “I expect it will take some time for you to decompress.” His father leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “You know, I have to confess I’ve been worried about you these past couple of years. You’ve been so intent on making partner I was afraid the rest of life was passing you by.”

  Eric opened the fridge and removed the half-and-half. “It was—but that’s par for the course if you’re on the partner track.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll have a chance to do a few different things while you’re here. Broaden your perspective.”

  “Funny you should say that. I’ve already been sucked into a painting project, thanks to your architect. I was researching it when you came in.” He gave his dad a quick overview.

  “Now that sounds like fun—and right up your alley. You’ve loved art since you were a tyke. I thought you might even pursue it as a career. You sure spent a lot of hours in Charley’s studio as a teen.”

  “For fun, not to pay the bills. Law is a much more stable career . . . or so I assumed.”

  The coffee began to sputter, and his dad held out a hand for his mug. “It should have been. But medicine should be too—and look where Luis ended up. I don’t know that it’s common knowledge, but he was a doctor in Cuba.”

  “I heard.”

  “From who?” His dad filled the mug and gave it back, curiosity etched on his features.

  Uh-oh.