Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  “Are you saying he stole your ideas?” Shock rippled through him.

  “Yes—but I didn’t catch on to his scheme for months. Not until my firm was asked to bid on a high-profile job. It was a huge opportunity for us. We were more of a boutique house, and this would have significantly raised our visibility. My boss—the owner—was super excited. We all worked our tails off. As I discovered later, Todd’s firm was on the bid list too—and Todd was the lead person on the project. Night after night, I talked to him about our design over those cozy dinners at my place . . . and he borrowed all the elements he liked.”

  Outrage kicked his pulse up another notch. “But . . . but that’s unethical—not to mention illegal. There are intellectual property rights at stake. And copyright infringement issues. Your firm could have sued him.”

  “The design his firm presented wasn’t an exact copy of ours.”

  “Doesn’t matter. In a case like that, infringement is based on the presence of substantial similarities. Plus, you’d have had no problem proving he had access to your plans and specifications.”

  “I know. That’s what our firm’s attorney said after I told my boss what happened. But she also warned that we could be dealing with a long, expensive court battle. In the end, my boss decided to cut his losses and let it go.”

  “I assume you figured out Todd’s role once you learned who got the job?”

  “Yes. After our presentation, the client called my boss to tell him they were going with Todd’s firm. That while our ideas were strikingly similar, they felt more comfortable using a larger, more established company. When my boss gathered us together in the conference room to give us the bad news, I almost threw up.”

  “Did you contact Todd?”

  “The minute the meeting ended. He didn’t admit to stealing, just made some flippant comment about great minds thinking alike. I hung up on him, went to the ladies’ room, and lost my lunch. It was all revoltingly obvious in hindsight. I’d won awards for my innovative designs, and he needed ideas. He looked me over, deduced I was easy prey, and launched his campaign. He used me—and I was too naïve and gullible to realize I was being duped. Needless to say, my shaky self-esteem went straight down the toilet with my lunch.”

  “Did you get fired because of this?” Eric narrowed his eyes.

  “No. Considering the whole mess was my fault, my boss was very gracious. But I’d been rethinking my priorities anyway. After Gram died, the lure of making a name for myself as a big-city architect faded. I’d visited Tracy here and liked Hope Harbor, so I decided to make a fresh start and aim for a better quality of life.”

  “Did you ever hear from Todd after your phone call?”

  “Yes. He sent me an expensive bracelet and a note a few days later, inviting me to dinner to, in his words, ‘smooth out the waters.’ As if money could fix the problem.” Disgust flattened her mouth.

  Almost the same words she’d used after his cavalier comment about insurance the day of their fender bender.

  Given her history, no wonder she’d been ticked off by his dismissive attitude.

  “What did you do with the bracelet?”

  “I sold it on eBay and donated the proceeds to Helping Hands after I got here. I like that the gift ended up benefiting a worthy cause.”

  “Have you ever had any regrets about upending your life and changing direction?”

  The tension melted from her features. “Not a one. I love my life here. I like the work, the people, the pace. The circumstances that led me to this decision might not have been pleasant, but I do see God’s hand in the outcome. This is where I was meant to be.”

  Her conviction was indisputable. “I’m sorry for all you went through—with Todd and the guy in high school, not to mention your grandmother’s illness—but I envy your contentment . . . and your certainty about your place in the world.”

  “I thought you were certain about yours too.”

  “So did I.” The chair squeaked again as he shifted position. “But everything’s been topsy-turvy since I got home.”

  “Maybe you just need some time to unwind from that high-stress job of yours.”

  “Maybe.”

  A yawn snuck up on her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. We ought to close up shop so you can go home and get some rest. You must be exhausted.”

  “You know, it’s kind of weird. I always assumed sharing that story would be draining, but I actually feel better.”

  At least one of them did.

  “Sometimes talking things through can help clarify and add perspective.”

  “Assuming you do it with the right person—and I did.” She stifled another yawn, inched her chair back, and stood. “If you’ll get the lights, I’ll grab my tools and meet you at the door.” She hurried toward the smokehouse without giving him a chance to respond.

  He rose more slowly and wandered toward the door. When she joined him thirty seconds later, he was still trying to sort through everything she’d told him . . . his own feelings . . . and the ramifications of both.

  After locking up, she scanned the western sky, where banks of clouds were massing on the horizon. “I have a feeling we’re in for a beautiful sunset.”

  “Yeah.” And any other time, he’d like nothing better than to share it with the woman beside him, sitting on a cozy bench on the wharf, boats bobbing in the foreground, Floyd and Gladys pecking at scraps of food around their feet.

  But not tonight. She might have found her confession cathartic, but it had left him with a myriad of disconcerting emotions and questions.

  “You seem deep in thought.” She looked over as they strolled toward their vehicles.

  “You gave me a lot to think about.”

  “Too much?”

  “No.” His reply was immediate—and emphatic. He did not want her to regret baring her heart. “But it makes me feel guilty. I haven’t faced nearly as many challenges as you—and people like Luis—have.”

  “Don’t even put me in the same category as Luis. Next to what he’s gone through, my life’s been a cakewalk.” She stopped beside her car. “Thanks for listening tonight.”

  “Thanks for trusting me with the story.”

  There was nothing more to say, but walking away with a casual “see you around” didn’t feel right, either. Not after she’d shared so many intimate details about her life.

  Would she be receptive to what his instincts were urging him to do?

  Only one way to find out.

  He conjured up a smile. “You know, after our little hand-holding session in the scene shop, don’t you think we ought to say good-bye with a hug?”

  She crossed her arms.

  Not a positive sign.

  “Like the one you gave the chief?”

  He squinted at her. What did Lexie have to do with this? Unless . . . did BJ think he had feelings for the chief?

  Better clear that up. Pronto. “You mean the one she gave me?”

  “It looked pretty consensual to me.” Her teasing inflection sounded forced.

  “Let me set the record straight. My high school crush on Lexie ended long ago. She’s a great gal, but our lives went very different directions. I expect we’ll always be friends—but that’s it. So . . . about that hug.”

  She slowly uncrossed her arms. “I guess that would be okay—as long as it’s a just-friends hug.”

  “I’m good with that.”

  For now.

  Scrubbing her hands on her thighs, she stepped toward him.

  He met her halfway.

  Keep it simple . . . supportive . . . straightforward.

  He let that mantra loop through his mind—but when she lifted her chin to look up at him, the air whooshed out of his lungs. Her jade irises, that faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose, the graceful curve of her cheek, those lush, perfectly shaped lips . . .

  Her breath hitched.

  Uh-oh.

  She must have
realized he didn’t have friendship on his mind.

  Watch it, Nash, or you’re going to blow this.

  Before she could back off, he pulled her into his arms.

  She stiffened—but when he did nothing more than hold her, she began to relax, her soft curves melting against him.

  He gave her a tentative squeeze . . . and she squeezed back, the silky strands of hair that had worked free of her soft braid brushing his jaw.

  She felt perfect in his arms. So perfect he wished he could hold her for hours, until the sun set over the sea and stars lit the night sky.

  But the instant she made a move to pull back, he let her go.

  “Well . . .” Her respiration seemed as ragged as his while she groped for her keys. Dropped them.

  He bent to retrieve them, but she beat him. After scooping them up, she turned aside to open the truck door, hiding her face from his view. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess.”

  “Count on it. I can pick up Luis in the morning, if he’s planning to come to work.”

  “He is . . . but you’ve done enough. I’ll swing by and get him.” She put on a pair of sunglasses she didn’t need and climbed behind the wheel.

  He waited while she put the truck in gear and pulled away with a final wave, then meandered back to his car.

  If BJ had felt so right in his arms during a mere hug, what would it be like to . . .

  No.

  He’d promised her friendship, and he’d keep that promise—unless both of them decided to venture into deeper waters, no matter the compromises that might entail.

  However . . . he, for one, wasn’t there yet.

  Keys in hand, he slid behind the wheel of the BMW. It was possible BJ might be thinking about exploring more than friendship too—but even if she gave him the green light, he needed to make some decisions about his future before he got in too deep. He was not going to hurt this woman who’d already endured more than her share of trauma. She didn’t need another broken romance, and he didn’t need a broken heart.

  Which was exactly what he’d get if he let himself fall for the lovely architect, only to leave Hope Harbor—and her—behind in the end.

  17

  Oh. My. Word.

  This was where Luis lived?

  BJ gaped at the dilapidated motel-turned-apartment-complex, her stomach roiling as she maneuvered around a rut in the crumbling asphalt drive. No one had told her the place was a dump—and she’d had no occasion to drive down this road. The well-maintained sign on 101 certainly offered no hint of the disrepair beyond.

  They ought to change the name from Sea Haven to Sea Hovel.

  Why in heaven’s name hadn’t the town or the county condemned this place long ago?

  And why had Luis chosen to live here? She paid him enough to afford better accommodations.

  Except if he upgraded his lodgings, he wouldn’t be able to send as much money back to Cuba.

  Of course he’d apply the frugal rationale that guided his choices on all necessities—food, transportation, clothing—to his living quarters too.

  But this wasn’t right.

  Scanning the faded numbers on the doors, she spotted unit five just as Luis emerged. He lifted a hand in greeting, twisted the key in the lock, and crossed to the truck.

  “Thank you for picking me up.” He slid in and buckled up.

  “No problem. How are you feeling?”

  “Much better.”

  That might be true—but he looked as if he’d lost ten shades of color and several pounds while battling the nasty bug.

  “If you need another day to recuperate, that’s not a problem. I don’t dock employees for being sick.”

  “I will be fine. I am stronger today—and I do not take money for work I have not done.”

  The very opening she needed.

  “Luis . . .” Her fingers contracted on the wheel. Be careful, BJ. Don’t offend him. “Look, this is my first visit here.” She swept a hand down the length of the apartment units. “It isn’t a . . . uh . . . great place.”

  “It is okay. The door has a lock and the roof does not leak.” He flashed her a quick, dismissive smile.

  This was going to be a tough sell.

  “I understand the need to have lower expectations in a new country—and I know money can be tight when you’re starting over—but government assistance is available to Cuban immigrants. Why don’t you apply for some . . . just until you get your feet under you?”

  He was shaking his head even before she finished. “No. America . . . she has given me safeness and freedom. It is enough. I cannot take more.”

  The same thing he’d told Father Kevin. Almost verbatim, based on the conversation the St. Francis priest had shared with her.

  “I admire your attitude—but it wouldn’t be forever. And other refugees take the aid.”

  “That is their choice. How is the work going?”

  Subject closed.

  If she was going to win this argument, she’d have to come up with another strategy.

  BJ put the truck back in gear, and as they trundled over the rough pavement toward 101, she filled him in on what had taken place at the job site in his absence.

  But she wasn’t letting this go. If the decaying apartment complex was half as bad on the inside as it was on the outside, the place wasn’t fit for human habitation . . . and she had a feeling it might be worse.

  At least she had a source for that information. Eric had surely been inside—or gotten a peek—during one of his visits. At the first opportunity, she’d corner him and ask some questions.

  And if the accommodations were as bad as she expected, she was going to get Luis out of here.

  Fast.

  Whatever it took.

  Because a man who’d left everything he knew behind, who’d endured a harrowing sea voyage, who’d watched the woman he loved die a tragic death, and who’d traded his skilled career as a doctor for a life of freedom as a carpenter deserved—at the very least—a decent place to rest his head at night.

  It was still here.

  Eric gripped the easel, gave it a yank . . . and released a cloud of dust from the pile of stuff stacked under the basement stairs.

  A sneeze tickled his nose, and he waved a hand in front of his face to clear the air. Obviously his dad hadn’t rummaged around down here in a while.

  He braced the pile with one hand and tugged the easel again with the other. It came out on his second attempt—along with a bunch of other junk that clattered to the floor.

  Muttering a few choice words, Eric propped the easel against the wall and began to gather up the old TV trays, unmarked boxes sealed shut with yellowed tape, and almost-empty paint cans.

  “Everything okay down there?”

  As his father’s voice echoed down the stairs, he accelerated his pace. “Fine. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  “You need some help?” His father began to descend the stairs.

  “I’ve got it.” A thread of desperation wove through his reply.

  “Another set of hands can’t hurt.” His father clumped closer.

  He picked up the last TV tray and shoved it into place as his father rounded the bottom of the stairs.

  “You were making as much commotion as my rehab crew.” His dad swatted at the dust motes floating through the air. “Guess I ought to clean up down here every year or two.”

  “Couldn’t hurt.” Eric shifted in front of the easel and leaned against the steps.

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Nothing. I was . . . uh . . . poking around.” Not a lie. He hadn’t been looking for the easel; he’d known exactly where he’d left it.

  “Oh.” His father leaned sideways. “I thought you might be pulling your easel out of mothballs.”

  So much for his clandestine mission. He’d never been able to get anything past his father as a kid; why should that change now?

  “Okay. Guilty as charged.” He turned and pulled out the dusty easel. “I wa
sn’t certain it would still be here.”

  “No reason to move it—or get rid of it. I always hoped you’d take up painting again one day.”

  “Listen, Dad.” It was important to be clear about his intentions up front. “I’m just fooling around with this while I’m here. Don’t get the wrong idea.”

  “Which would be . . . ?”

  “That I’m going to start painting again.”

  “You’re already doing that—at the high school.”

  “A one-time project is different. This kind of painting”—he tapped the easel—“is more serious.”

  “It doesn’t have to be. Some people paint for fun. As a hobby.”

  “I don’t have time for hobbies. When I leave Hope Harbor, the easel will stay here. Doing that backdrop simply gave me the itch to work on a real painting. That’s all.”

  “Besides, what’s wrong with being serious about painting?”

  Eric narrowed his eyes. Had his dad heard a word he’d said?

  “Painting isn’t a reliable occupation.”

  “Who said anything about making it an occupation? You can be serious about painting and have another career too.”

  “Not if the other career is the partner track at a law firm.”

  “You still set on going back to that?”

  “Haven’t I said that all along?”

  “Yes. But I thought being back in Hope Harbor might change your perspective. That, and meeting BJ.” His father grinned. “You two seem very chummy.”

  Warmth crept up his neck. “She’s a nice woman.”

  “At the very least.”

  “She’s also building a business here.”

  “True.”

  “Long-distance relationships are problematic—assuming I was interested.”

  “Also true. I wouldn’t recommend it . . . assuming you were interested.”

  He frowned. “Then what are you saying?”

  “Just throwing out ideas.” He eyed the stuff piled in the stairwell. “It appears you took care of the landslide down here without me. Guess I’ll head back up. Breakfast is ready. Sounds like the whole crew will be here today. You joining us?”