Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  Why?

  You know why, Nash. BJ is nice and smart and talented and compassionate and beautiful and hardworking—just to name a few of her attributes. She’s the whole package. You might never have bothered to catalog the traits you’d want in a spouse, but she has all the ones that would end up on your list.

  He kicked at a loose rock. Yeah. That was true. And in another time and place, BJ might have been the one for him.

  But letting things progress, and expecting her to upend her life again to follow him wherever he ended up if they got serious, was unfair.

  And staying in Hope Harbor wasn’t an option if he wanted to pursue the career he’d carefully plotted.

  What a mess.

  As if to confirm that conclusion, Casper let loose with another loud belch.

  Eric swiveled toward the island. With a doleful look in his direction, the seal wriggled clumsily toward the rock ledge and dived into the water. A few moments later, he bobbed to the surface, frolicking with ease.

  Funny how seals could be awkward on land, yet nimble and graceful once they were in an environment that played to their strengths.

  Kind of like people.

  Shoving his hands in his pockets, Eric trudged toward his car. It was a nice analogy—except unlike seals, who simply followed their natural instincts, people had to figure out where they belonged.

  And he thought he had.

  Yet as he slid behind the wheel of the BMW, he couldn’t help wondering if the goal he’d pursued with such single-minded determination was the path God would have chosen for him if he’d asked.

  In terms of what that meant for his future . . . he had no idea.

  All he knew with absolute certainty was that this visit home, intended to be a relaxing chance to regroup before charging back into the fray of a big-firm partnership track, was beginning to nudge him in a different direction.

  One that didn’t fit the blueprint he’d laid out for his life.

  Fingers not quite steady, he inserted the key, backed out of BJ’s driveway, and sent a silent plea heavenward as he rolled down Sea Rose Lane.

  I have no idea what you want from me, Lord, so a clue or two would be appreciated. Because for the first time in my life, I’m confused about where I’m supposed to be going.

  Not the most eloquent prayer he’d ever said—but it had come straight from his heart.

  And he hoped he got an answer.

  Soon.

  Before he made choices about his future he could live to regret.

  15

  The worst might be over.

  He hoped.

  Luis groaned as he tried in vain to find a more comfortable position in the lumpy bed. How long had it been since he’d been this sick? Maybe . . . ten years? Yes. After working back-to-back shifts in the ER during the island flu epidemic, subsisting on snack foods grabbed on the fly and relying on adrenaline to keep him going, he’d succumbed himself. He’d felt so bad he’d wanted to die.

  This bout had been a close second.

  Whatever virus BJ had passed on to him was wicked—or else it had hit him harder because he was in his forties instead of his thirties. A decade could make a difference in how a person’s body reacted to illness, as could stress . . . and grief.

  On a positive note, however, his fever was gone.

  He twisted his head toward the nightstand and reached for the glass of water.

  Empty.

  Again.

  He exhaled. That meant he had to get up if he wanted more—and he needed fluids.

  His gaze lingered on Elena’s photo. She would have taken care of him if she were here. Her nurturing heart had always gone out to those in need . . . especially family members.

  Throat clogging, he swung his feet to the floor. It served no purpose to belabor what was lost—and dwelling on the past was dangerous. It might tempt him to take another walk to the cliff.

  Not today, though. He could barely totter to the bathroom, let alone hike to the other side of town. And with his motorbike parked at John’s house, he was stuck here for now.

  Down the road, however? The cliff was still a possibility.

  He stood, groping for the chair to steady himself. Once his shaky legs stabilized, he dragged himself toward the sink, refilled his glass, and downed the water in several long gulps.

  Better.

  Now he needed to eat.

  He took a quick inventory of the lean pickings in his small refrigerator. Three eggs, some cheese, apples, leftover quiche from a dish John had made a couple of days ago. Nothing appealed. Nor did the tomato soup or can of beans in the pantry whet his appetite.

  What he wouldn’t give for a bowl of Elena’s asopao criollo de pollo!

  He closed his eyes, calling up the taste of the rich gumbo, the sauce redolent of green peppers and garlic, the tangy smoked ham adding a burst of extra flavor to the chicken.

  His stomach rumbled in misguided anticipation . . . but it would have to settle for John’s offering. Quiche might not be a traditional dish from his homeland, but the man was a first-rate cook, and it would be a shame to waste the . . .

  A knock sounded, and he arched an eyebrow. Only one person had ever visited him here . . . and there was no reason for Eric to return.

  He trudged to the window beside the door and cracked the blinds.

  Huh.

  It was Eric—holding a large brown bag and a six-pack of the Coke he always chose at John’s if someone offered him a drink.

  Scrubbing a hand down his unshaven face, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

  The other man gave him a quick head-to-toe. “How are you feeling?”

  “Not too bad.” He waved a hand to the room behind him. “I would ask you in, but I do not want my germs to catch you.”

  “I’ve already been exposed. I stopped by BJ’s house last night.”

  “She is doing better?”

  “Yes.” Eric held out the bag. “With your motorbike at my dad’s, I assumed you were stranded out here and might need a few provisions.”

  The man had made a special trip out here to deliver food?

  His vision misted. “You did not have to go to such trouble.”

  “It was no trouble. And everyone contributed. Dad sent along part of today’s breakfast casserole and some orange juice for tomorrow morning. Stone threw in a few of the granola bars he said you like. I ran by Eleanor’s at BJ’s request, and when I told her you were sick, she added some fudge cake. My last stop was the café. Soup was a hit last night with your boss, so I figured you might like some too. They didn’t have chicken noodle today, but the turkey rice sounded like an acceptable alternative.”

  He took the bag. “You are all very kind.”

  “I told you . . . this is how things work in Hope Harbor. You have friends here, Luis. Some you’ve met, and a lot more you haven’t. Give the town a chance. You won’t be sorry.” Eric laid a hand on his shoulder.

  He froze. Since the day he’d lost Elena, no one had touched him with warmth or friendship or caring.

  Amazing how a simple physical connection could help steady a world.

  “I will try.” He choked out the words.

  “You won’t be sorry.” Eric tapped the edge of the bag. “The soup’s hot, so I won’t keep you from it. Do you need anything else before I leave? Would you like me to pick up your mail?”

  Mail! There would be two days’ worth in the small box by now.

  But he never got much, and most of it would be advertisements that could wait until tomorrow.

  “It is fine. I cannot ask you to do more.”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered. Are the boxes down by the office?”

  “Yes.” He hesitated. If Eric was willing, why not let him retrieve it? The walk wasn’t far, but even if he waited until tomorrow, he might not have the energy to make it. “Let me get the key.”

  He retreated to the small counter next to the sink, deposited the bag, and took the key off the peg.
r />   Back at the door, he held it out. “Box five.”

  “Got it. I’ll be right back.”

  Luis leaned against the frame while he waited. He needed to sit . . . or lie down . . . fast. Just the simple back and forth in the tiny apartment had worn him out.

  First, though, he’d have some of the soup Eric had brought.

  The man returned faster than he’d expected, clutching a handful of mail that included a bulky envelope.

  “I’m glad I checked. The box was crammed. I had to yank to get the big envelope out.” He handed it over.

  A touch of curiosity in Eric’s expression put him on alert, and he examined the package.

  The return address said Central Community College.

  Luis frowned. This had to be a mistake. He’d had no contact with any college.

  Yet it was addressed to him—and the envelope was emblazoned with the words Requested Material.

  “This is strange.” He hefted the bulky packet. “I did not ask them to send me anything.”

  “Could be a mistake, I guess. Odd that they had your name and address, though.”

  Very.

  While he puzzled over the peculiar parcel, Eric checked his watch. “I need to run. I’m meeting BJ at the scene shop tonight to work on sets for the show. She says she feels better, but I want to get there first or she’ll tackle the heavy stuff without me—and I doubt she’s got the energy for that.”

  “Yes. She pushes on herself too hard. Thank you again for the food.”

  “No problem. Take care, and let me know if you need anything else.” He lifted a hand in farewell and jogged back to his car.

  Luis waited until the BMW picked up speed, then closed the door. Curious as he was about the contents of the envelope, he needed food first.

  Once he stowed the breakfast casserole and juice in the fridge, he took the soup to the small café table and dived in.

  Halfway through, as his energy began to rebound, he opened the envelope from the college and tipped the contents onto the table.

  Information about the school’s emergency medical services program spilled out.

  What in the world . . . ?

  He fingered the brochures. Who could have asked the college to send him this?

  The list of potential candidates was small. He’d told only John, Stone, BJ, and Father Murphy about his medical background. Perhaps Eric knew too, now that he and BJ had become friends. But the man had appeared to be as surprised by the envelope as he was.

  Besides, none of those people were the type to resort to clandestine suggestions.

  He continued to sip his soup, skimming through the material while he ate. His English reading vocabulary was limited, but he could pick up the gist—and as he read, a tingle of excitement zipped through him. Being an EMT or paramedic wasn’t what he’d hoped for in America, but given the certification hurdles Cuban doctors faced, there was no chance he’d ever practice medicine here. As a paramedic, though, he’d be able to use the skills he’d spent years honing.

  His enthusiasm continued to build—until he got to the sheet detailing the cost.

  The instant the numbers registered, his budding hope withered.

  While the sum wasn’t astronomical, it was more than he would be able to accumulate. What extra funds he had went back to Cuba. Even if the time came when Elena’s father didn’t need the money, he had to work full time to pay his living expenses. He couldn’t afford the time or money to be a student.

  Spirits sinking, Luis gathered up the material and slid it back in the envelope. Why would someone send him this when he didn’t have the funds to take advantage of the program?

  The whole thing was beginning to feel like a cruel prank.

  He pushed himself to his feet, picked up the envelope, and walked over to the trash can next to the counter. Grasping the lid, he glanced at the bag of food sent by Hope Harbor residents and delivered by a man he’d initially thought might be an enemy.

  He’d been wrong about Eric. Instead of ruining what was left of his life, John’s son had saved it—and seemed committed to watching over him and bolstering his spirits. Give the town a chance, he’d advised today. And on Sunday, here in this room, he’d promised life would get better. Had suggested Hope Harbor would live up to its name.

  Luis fingered the envelope. Perhaps Eric was right about this town. In time, it was possible he’d make friends, build a new life, find—if not happiness—at least a sense of peace.

  But putting his medical skills into practice? That was too much to hope for.

  He lifted the lid of the trash can and positioned the bulky envelope over it.

  Let it go, Luis. This is a dream that can never come true.

  Sensible advice.

  Yet try as he might, he couldn’t unclench his fingers from around the envelope.

  For a full thirty seconds, he vacillated . . . but in the end—much to his disgust—he gave up and retracted his hand. Keeping the material was foolish. It would be a continual source of heartache.

  And of hope, Luis. Don’t forget hope.

  No. He shook his head to dislodge that idea. This was not an outcome he could allow himself to wish for. It was possible whoever had requested the college to send the material had good intentions, but it was like dangling a lifeline inches away from the grasp of a drowning man. It tantalized, built up hope—but it didn’t change the end result.

  Luis opened the door of a bottom cabinet he never used and tucked the envelope out of sight. One day soon he’d throw it away.

  But not just yet.

  Wow.

  BJ came to a dead stop in the doorway of the scene shop.

  The backdrop was done—and it was spectacular. All the elements Eric had sketched out leapt from the canvas in life-size, living color. The finished product was even more striking than she’d anticipated.

  “What do you think?” He emerged from behind the farmhouse set, wiping his hands on a rag.

  “I think you missed your calling.” She approached the flats slowly, soaking up the pastoral peace of the scene and his touches of whimsy. “I can almost feel the breeze, smell the fresh air. You’ve captured the ‘Oh What A Beautiful Morning’ mood perfectly.” She stopped fifteen feet away and propped her hands on her hips. “The audience is going to love it.”

  He grinned and tossed the rag onto a folding chair. “I have to admit, it turned out better than I expected. I have a few finishing touches to add, but I can wrap it up in an hour or two tomorrow. Tonight, let’s work on the smokehouse. Assuming you’re game for that.”

  “Game or not, the clock is ticking. But I do feel better. Staying home today helped.” She angled toward him. “I called Luis before I came and told him to do the same tomorrow. He said you dropped off some food. That was very thoughtful.”

  He shrugged off her compliment. “He doesn’t have anyone else—and I still feel bad about jumping all over him the first day. So . . . if you’re ready to direct me, I’m ready to wield a hammer and saw.”

  A man who didn’t like to dwell on his good deeds.

  Another checkmark in his positive column.

  “I’m not an invalid. I can do my share.” She started forward, only to have Eric snag her arm as she tried to pass.

  “Let me do most of the heavy lifting tonight, okay? If you’re planning to put in a full day at the house tomorrow, wearing yourself out tonight could jinx that.”

  He was right—again.

  “Fine. I’ll direct and do some of the less strenuous tasks. Let’s get rolling.”

  For the next hour, the sound of hammering and sawing filled the scene shop. Eric took direction well, and with both of them working, they made significant progress. One more night like this, and she’d have only a few final details to deal with on Saturday.

  However . . . despite the fact that Eric was doing the bulk of the manual labor, she was beginning to fade.

  “Ready for a soda?” He descended the ladder, set his hammer on one o
f the rungs, and scrutinized her. “Or, on second thought, why don’t we call it a night? You’ve lost some color.”

  “I’m fine—but I won’t veto a short break.”

  He hesitated, as if debating whether to push for an early evening, then capitulated. “I’ll run over to the vending machine and—”

  “Welcome home, stranger.”

  At the female voice, they both turned.

  Lexie Graham stood silhouetted in the doorway, the setting sun adding a luster to her dark hair. Even the genderless police uniform couldn’t disguise her womanly curves.

  BJ sneaked a peek at Eric. Based on the appreciative perusal he was giving the new arrival, he’d noticed her attributes.

  “Hey, Lexie.” He gave her a warm, welcoming smile. “What brings you here?”

  “I heard you were working on the backdrop for the show. I was passing by on patrol and decided to drop in and say hello since you haven’t bothered to come by the station.” She strolled toward them.

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “I can see that.” The woman’s lips twitched, and BJ shifted her weight as Lexie flicked her a glance. “Anyway, it’s nice to have you back.”

  She crossed to Eric and gave him a hug—which he returned with enthusiasm.

  A strange little twinge of some nebulous emotion rippled through BJ.

  Could it be . . . jealousy?

  “. . . know each other?”

  She tuned back into the conversation and found Eric watching her. Waiting for an answer to his question.

  “Uh, no. That is, we’ve never met formally.” She wiped her palm on her jeans and held out her hand. “BJ Stevens. Nice to meet you.”

  The woman took her hand in a strong grip. “Lexie Graham.”

  “Also known as the chief of police. Who’d have guessed that’s where you’d end up back in our days of playing cops and robbers as kids?” Eric grinned at her.

  “Yeah. Funny how our lives can take directions we never expected.” A shadow flitted across her eyes, so fast BJ couldn’t be certain if it had been real or a mere play of light. “I heard about your job. I’m sorry.”