Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  “A long, boring story. Short version? Accidents happen.” He handed her the napkins. “Would you like me to get you a plate from the kitchen? My tacos may be tasty—but they’re on the messy side.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

  While he was gone, she arranged several napkins in her lap as insurance. On more than one occasion in the past she’d come home from a trip to the stand wearing the sauce of the day.

  When he returned, he unwrapped one of the tacos and set it on the plate. “Enjoy.”

  She secured her lunch in her lap, took a bite of the taco . . . chewed slowly . . . aaahhh.

  Heaven.

  And that was the perfect word to describe Charley’s tacos. They were food worthy of celestial beings.

  “This is spectacular, Charley.”

  “I’m glad you like it. As I told BJ and Luis earlier, I tried a new mango salsa today.”

  “Did they tell you about my . . . incident?” That might explain his out-of-the-blue offer to come by—and his question about a key outside so she wouldn’t have to answer the door.

  “Only that Methuselah here caused a misstep.”

  The cat gave him the evil eye.

  “Well, it was your fault, you know.” Charley grinned and tweaked the tabby’s ear. “You should be more careful in the future.”

  In response, the cat lowered his head and covered his eyes with his paws—as if he was embarrassed.

  Eleanor’s lips twitched. How funny was that? As if Methuselah could understand one word Charley said.

  “Is that why you brought me lunch?” She took another large bite of the taco.

  “No. As I said, I had an order no one claimed. When BJ mentioned what happened, I knew these had your name on them. It’s been quite a while since you’ve been down to the stand.”

  “This thing . . .”—she kicked the walker with her toe—“slows me down—and the arthritis in my knees, plus vision that isn’t as sharp as it used to be, keep me close to home too.” She crumpled a napkin in her fingers and dabbed at some wayward sauce on her chin. “You want the truth? Getting old stinks.”

  Even as the words left her mouth, shock rippled through her. She never, ever complained to anyone about her lot in life. People didn’t want to hear about someone else’s problems; they all had plenty of their own. It was better to present a cheery front to the world.

  But if Charley was surprised by her out-of-character candor, he gave no indication.

  “You sound like my grandmother.” He gestured to the straight-backed side chair beside the couch. “May I?”

  Mercy! She hadn’t invited the man to sit! How rude.

  “Of course.”

  He repositioned the chair closer to her, folded his long, lean frame into it, and unwrapped another taco as she finished the first one. “My grandmother taught me to make these. The mango salsa is one of her recipes.”

  Eleanor bit into her second taco. In all the years she’d known Charley, he’d never mentioned his past. Curious that he’d bring it up today. “She must have been a wonderful cook.”

  “Yes—and a wonderful person. She raised me, you know. Leaving her behind was one of the hardest things I ever did.”

  “Why did you?”

  “Opportunity. There was nothing for me in the small town in Mexico where I grew up. She thought I had talent and encouraged me to pursue it. I took her advice, and that quest ultimately led me to Hope Harbor.”

  “Strange that you ended up here. Oregon is very different than Mexico.”

  “True—but people are the same everywhere. As my grandmother told me long ago, appearance and speech and customs may differ, but underneath all hearts feel the same emotions.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  “No question about it. My grandmother was a very wise woman. And on my last trip home, she used the same words you did about growing old. I’d had a sudden urge to go, and I’m glad I followed my instincts. That turned out to be our final visit.”

  “Was she ill?”

  “She had some health issues in her later years—but they never stopped her from living a full life. Until the day she died, she took in foster children. Nine-, ten-, eleven-year-olds who were in desperate need of love and affection . . . which she was happy to provide. In all honesty, though, I think she benefited from the experience as much as they did.”

  “I imagine so. Helping others, making a contribution . . . that’s the best medicine.” Eleanor swallowed the last bite of the taco and washed it down with a cold drink of the excellent lemonade. No need to get maudlin during Charley’s visit. She could save that indulgence for later, when she was alone—and lonely.

  “She used to say that too. You two would have found a lot of common ground.”

  “But not everyone is able to have such an impact on other people’s lives.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Look at me—a simple taco maker who plays with paint. But the smiles on the faces of my customers are worth more than gold. Changing a life for the better is a wonderful deed, but brightening someone’s day, adding a touch of joy when a person might need it most . . . that, too, has great merit. And everyone can do that.”

  Eleanor carefully wiped her fingers on one of the napkins. “Assuming you have contact with other people, that is.”

  “Or make contact.”

  She peeked at him. Was he suggesting she be proactive about changing her isolated life? But what was she supposed to do, with poor vision that kept her from driving and bad knees that wouldn’t carry her even as far as her neighbor’s house?

  “There’s another one in the bag.” Charley held up the sack. “Shall I unwrap it or put it in your fridge for a snack later?”

  “The fridge, thank you. I’m too full to eat another bite.”

  Silence fell while he retreated to the kitchen, and Methuselah climbed onto her lap—with an assist.

  Charley returned less than a minute later and paused in the middle of the room. “Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?”

  “No. You’ve done more than enough. I enjoyed your company as much as your food—and that’s saying a lot.”

  His eyes twinkled. “In that case, we might have to do this again soon. In the meantime, take care . . . and you, Methuselah, watch where you walk.” He strolled into the hall, and seconds later the door clicked shut behind him.

  Eleanor adjusted her recliner to raise her feet and settled back to watch a ray of sun peek through the blinds. Methuselah spotted it too. He wiggled off her lap and made a beeline for the beam of light on the floor, curling up in the warmth with a satisfied purr.

  She could relate. Warmth was a compelling draw for cats—and humans.

  But it had been missing from her life for a long while.

  Yet she’d felt a brief wave of it while Charley was here. Some of his comments might have been a bit unsettling, but there was an aura of . . . peace . . . about him. There always had been, from the first day she’d visited his stand twenty-three years ago. Being in his presence had always left her with a God’s-in-his-heaven-all’s-right-with-the-world feeling.

  Strange that she’d never thought to invite him to her home before. Friends had often picked up an order of tacos for her since she’d become less mobile, and she always asked about him. Why had it never occurred to her to simply invite the man for a visit?

  She puzzled over that for a few minutes, until her eyelids began to drift closed. A tasty meal, pleasant company, and a lingering feeling of contentment always had a relaxing effect on her. Why not sleep for an hour or two?

  And while she did, her subconscious could ponder Charley’s comment about adding meaning to life by offering touches of joy to the lives of others.

  Where was BJ?

  Eric rattled the door at the high school gym again, then propped his hands on his hips. She’d been at the house this afternoon when he’d left to retrieve his repaired BMW—and to run an errand he’d shared with no one. If there’d bee
n a change of plans for the evening, she would have told him.

  After more fruitless knocking, he dug out his cell, tapped in her number, and walked back to his car.

  On the third ring, it rolled to voicemail.

  Frowning, he weighed the phone in his hand. Might she be dealing with more problems at Eleanor’s? According to Luis, who’d given him the scoop after they’d met at the garbage can behind his dad’s house, BJ had planned to stop there on her way home.

  He scrolled through his memory, searching for the woman’s last name. Carson . . . Coolidge . . . Cooper? Yeah, that was it.

  A quick google search pulled up her number, and he put the call through.

  Eleanor answered at once, sounding hearty and chipper—suggesting she wasn’t the reason for BJ’s no-show at the scene shop.

  He introduced himself and explained the reason for the call. “I’m guessing she’s not still at your house.”

  “No. She wasn’t here more than a minute and stayed in the doorway of the living room. She said she was feeling under the weather—and she did look rather peaked. I assume she went home after that—but I can’t imagine why she isn’t answering her phone. It’s always glued to her hip. Do you think someone should check on her? I could give you her address if you’d like to run by.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’ll call once more, and if she doesn’t answer, I’ll pay her a quick visit.”

  He fished a pen and paper out of his pocket and jotted down the address as Eleanor recited it.

  “Will you let me know what you find out? That girl is such a treasure, taking care of anyone in town who needs help on a moment’s notice. I’d hate for her to be on the needing end with no one to come to the rescue.”

  “I’ll be happy to get back to you as soon as I know what’s going on. Talk to you soon.” Eric ended the call and tried BJ’s number again, sliding behind the wheel as the phone began to ring.

  Three rings in, just as he was expecting it to roll to voicemail, someone picked up—but the groggy greeting sounded nothing like the lovely architect.

  “BJ?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Eric. What’s wrong?”

  Silence.

  “BJ?”

  “Yes. I . . . I’m here. Is it . . . it’s after seven, isn’t it? You’re at the high school.” A tinge of panic colored her words.

  “I’m in the parking lot, but don’t worry about it. Eleanor said you were sick.”

  In the background, he could hear a squeak—like someone getting out of a bed. “You talked to Eleanor?”

  “Luis told me you were going to stop by there after work. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I must have picked up some kind of bug. I was hoping if I laid down for a few minutes I’d feel better.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it worked.”

  “No—and I slept for a lot longer than a few minutes, unless my watch picked up speed. I’m sorry. I can be there in—”

  “Forget it. I’ll swing by your place and get the key for the scene shop. Can I bring you anything?”

  “No, thanks.” Another creak, like she’d sat back on the bed, followed by a sigh. “Of all times to get some crummy virus. I have to finish the sets by Saturday or they won’t be ready for tech week.”

  “You need to get better first. We can deal with the rest later. While you’re out of commission, I’ll try to make some serious headway on the backdrop. Expect me in a few minutes.”

  “Don’t ring. I don’t want to pass on my germs. I’ll leave the key under the mat by the front door.”

  He wasn’t going to get even a glimpse of her?

  Bummer.

  “I don’t mind taking my chances with a few germs.”

  “Uh-uh. I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy, let alone . . .” Her words trailed off.

  His lips curved up. She might not be ready to say the words, but it didn’t take a genius to know where she’d been headed with that statement.

  “I’ll assume that was going to be a compliment.”

  “It was—but I’m usually more circumspect about my feelings. I’ll attribute the lapse to this nasty bug.”

  “You could attribute it to my charm.”

  “I wouldn’t want to give you a swelled head.” Humor lurked in her voice . . . until she suddenly started coughing.

  Eric’s mouth flattened. “Go ahead and put the key out, then get back into bed—and stay there until you feel better. I’ll tell Dad you probably won’t be at the house tomorrow.”

  “Stone and Luis will be, though. They’re familiar with the plans and know what they’re supposed to do.”

  “Good. That means you can afford to take a day or two off and get better.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Cut yourself some slack, BJ.”

  “Not my style.”

  No kidding.

  “Well, change your style for the next couple of days. Besides, I doubt Stone or Luis—or my dad—would appreciate you filling the house with germs.”

  “That’s a hard argument to counter.” She coughed again.

  “Don’t try. I’ll be there soon.” He cut off the call so she wouldn’t have to attempt to converse between coughs.

  Once behind the wheel, he googled directions, and in short order he was turning down Sea Rose Lane.

  The street at the far edge of town wasn’t one he’d frequented during his growing-up years, and he scanned the small, slightly worn-around-the-edges cottages that lined the dead-end lane. Nothing impressive here—and BJ’s house was no exception. In fact, the white clapboard with the tiny front porch was the smallest house on the block.

  Odd that an architect with her credentials would choose to live in such a nondescript place.

  At least it was better than the squat bungalow on the left with a pitched corrugated roof, a porch suffering from scoliosis, and a For Rent sign stuck in the front yard.

  He pulled into the gravel driveway and parked behind her truck. The house she called home might not be much to look at, but the unobstructed view of the sea and Little Gull Island was world-class. Was that what had drawn her to this property?

  Tucking the question aside for another day, he strode to the porch and lifted all four corners of the mat.

  No key.

  He straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck. This was weird. He’d talked to her less than ten minutes ago—and she didn’t strike him as the unreliable type.

  Was it possible she hadn’t followed through because she was a lot sicker than she’d let on?

  Pulse accelerating, he knocked on the door. She might not want to see him—but he needed to see her.

  Besides, without the key, no work would get done on the backdrop.

  Fifteen seconds passed.

  He tried again.

  Finally a lock clicked on the other side.

  He drew a relieved breath . . . only to have it jam in his windpipe after she cracked the door and regarded him with bleary eyes, her usual neat braid askew, cheeks flushed, a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

  She was really sick.

  “Sorry.” The word scratched past her throat as she extended a key, grasping one end gingerly with a tissue. To protect him from germs, no doubt. “I must have fallen asleep again the instant we hung up.”

  “You look terrible.”

  He had a feeling the grimace she gave him was supposed to be a smile. “Gee, you sure know how to feed a girl’s ego.”

  “What’s your temperature?”

  “Higher than normal. You want to take the key?”

  No. If he did, she might close the door in his face.

  “How much higher?”

  She swallowed—an exercise that appeared to be painful. “A hundred and two. It’s just a bug—a twenty-four-hour one, I hope. I’ll rest and drink plenty of fluids and take aspirin. Do you want the key or not?”

  “I’ll take it as soon as you promise to call my cell if you get any worse or need anything before
morning.” He dug a card out of his wallet and held it out. “The number’s on here. Trade you.”

  “I won’t need anything. Besides, I’m used to being on my own.”

  He didn’t doubt that, with an absentee father and a brother who was no more than an acquaintance—and both a continent away.

  “I know that. But you don’t have to be while I’m around.”

  Her fingers tightened around the edge of the door, and her eyes got watery. From emotion—or the virus?

  “You don’t have to take responsibility for me.”

  No, he didn’t.

  But he wanted to.

  And he’d never felt like that about any other woman.

  Too soon to share that, though. He didn’t want to spook BJ, and based on the little he’d learned about her last romance, it would behoove him to tread carefully.

  “Friends take care of friends. Promise you’ll call if you need anything, then I’ll take the key. The longer we stand here talking, the less work I’ll get done on that backdrop.”

  She swiped her damp upper lip with the back of her wrist. “Fine. I promise.”

  He took the key; she held on to the tissue and took his card.

  “Go back to bed.”

  “That’s my plan. Thanks for coming by to get the key and for . . . for caring. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  She shut the door without giving him a chance to respond.

  And perhaps that was for the best.

  Because as he turned away, fragments of his part of last night’s conversation echoed in his mind.

  “I don’t want to barge into your life, make a connection—and leave.”

  “I don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

  “No matter where I end up, we’ll still be friends.”

  Had she lingered at the door, he might very well have been tempted to tell her just how much he’d come to care for her, despite their short acquaintance. And if their relationship heated up, he might not be able to honor the promise he’d made to her.

  So for now he’d keep his feelings to himself.

  Yet as he returned to his car and gave the tiny cottage one final glance before pulling onto the street, he knew two things with absolute clarity.

  He might be able to rein in his feelings enough to protect BJ from hurt if he left, but he wasn’t going to be able to protect himself.