Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

“Yeah. I’ll be up in a minute.”

  He waited while his father ascended the stairs, then grabbed a stray rag from a pile in the corner and dusted off the easel, his hands busy cleaning up one mess while his mind wrestled with a bunch of others.

  Why had almost every conversation since he’d arrived home left him with more questions than answers?

  How had he managed to get himself so involved in the life of this town—and the lives of several of its citizens—in less than ten days?

  What was he supposed to do about BJ and his growing feelings for her?

  Should he let all that had happened on this trip sway him from the path he’d laid out during his senior year of high school?

  Why, after all these years, were those sixty-plus-hour weeks beginning to lose their appeal?

  He wadded up the grimy rag and hurled it back into the corner as the questions strobed across his brain.

  Flexing his fingers, he forced the taut muscles in his shoulders to relax.

  Chill, Nash. You’re getting too worked up about this. There’s no rush here. No lives—or major court cases—are hanging in the balance.

  All that was true. He’d allotted himself three weeks of downtime before diving into an intensive job search, and he wasn’t even at the halfway point of that.

  So why not take one day at a time and pray the answers he needed would come?

  Preferably sooner rather than later.

  BJ swung the hammer, secured a nail in the smokehouse set, and glanced toward the scene shop door.

  Again.

  Of all nights for Eric to be late.

  Huffing out a breath, she picked up another nail. Ever since her visit to that cruddy apartment complex this morning, she’d been chomping at the bit to talk to him about Luis. How frustrating to sit right across from him at breakfast and have to remain mute on the subject. But with Luis on her left, there’d been no other option. Besides, Eric had seemed distracted—and once the meal wrapped up, he’d disappeared for the entire day. There’d been no opportunity for a discreet discussion.

  Her only direct communication from him had been a text message telling her he’d be here tonight.

  But he wasn’t—yet.

  If he’d been delayed, or was going to cancel, why hadn’t he . . .

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  She swiveled around as he pushed through the doorway, relief coursing through her. “I was about to give up on you.”

  “No excuses. I lost track of time this afternoon and got home late for dinner.” He picked up the other hammer from the bench and canvassed the set. “You’ve made some progress without me.”

  “A little. You must have been seriously distracted if you forgot about dinner.”

  “Yeah. What would you like me to tackle here?”

  He didn’t want to discuss his day.

  Fine.

  She had other subjects to talk about, anyway.

  “We’re down to the details. I need that stuff over there tacked to the inside walls. The director left a diagram of where it all should go. But first, I have a question. Have you been inside Luis’s apartment?”

  “Yes. Why?” He picked up the diagram.

  “Is it as bad inside as it is outside?”

  He hiked up an eyebrow. “Haven’t you ever been there?”

  “No. I’ve never had a reason to drop by. The outside is awful.”

  Eric’s face grew grim. “The inside’s no better.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” She shoved the nail back in the pouch on her tool belt and exhaled. “He can’t stay there.”

  “Are there any other nearby options that offer better value for the price?”

  “I doubt it. I called the manager today to ask about the rent. It’s dirt cheap—validating the old adage that you get what you pay for.”

  “If that’s the least expensive housing around, how do you propose we get him to move?”

  “I don’t know.” She began to pace, tapping the hammer against her palm. “But he deserves better.”

  Eric set the layout down. “Did you discuss this with him?”

  “I tried—but he wasn’t receptive. He said the place was acceptable. I suggested he apply for government assistance, but that went over like a lead balloon.”

  “Do you think Father Kevin might be able to intercede?”

  “He’s already tried. The problem is, Luis is adamant about not taking anything he views as charity. I have a feeling he won’t even let me pay him for the sick days he . . .” Her phone began to vibrate, and she pulled it out. Skimmed the screen. “Give me a minute.” She tapped the talk button and walked a few feet away. “Hi, Eleanor.”

  “Hello, dear. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “Nothing that can’t wait a few minutes. Eric and I are working on the set for the Helping Hands benefit.”

  “How nice! He’s a delightful young man. We had a nice conversation when he dropped by while you were sick. I gave him some fudge cake . . . and I sent some to your friend, Luis, too. Eric told me he’d caught the same bug you had. I wanted to see how you both were doing.”

  BJ stared at the nest of hungry hatchlings Eric had painted in the willow tree, so in need of loving care, her mind whirring as several seemingly unrelated pieces of information began to connect.

  Eleanor needed someone to help her with daily chores.

  Luis needed to escape from the rat hole he called home.

  They were both alone—and lonely.

  And she needed a test case for Helping Hands before the board would approve her companion program.

  It was a heaven-sent opportunity—but could she convince both parties to give it a shot?

  “BJ? Are you there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m here.” She tried to tamp down her growing excitement. “Luis and I are both much better. How are you doing?”

  “Fine. None the worse for wear after my silly tumble. I won’t keep you from your work, my dear—or from that fine young man. If you want to stop by in the next day or two, I saved you a piece of fudge cake. Methuselah and I are always happy to see you.”

  “I may do that.”

  “Wonderful. Take care and stay well until I see you.”

  As Eleanor ended the call, BJ lowered the cell, mind racing. Were Eleanor and Luis the solution to her dilemma with Helping Hands, or was she grasping at straws? After all, she hadn’t envisioned the program catering to their exact situation. Nevertheless, why not . . .

  “What’s up?”

  She angled toward Eric. “That was Eleanor.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “While I was talking to her, I had an idea about my Helping Hands project.”

  “Yeah?” He set down his hammer. “What is it?”

  She gave him the gist in a few sentences. “I mean, it’s not exactly the scenario I envisioned. I assumed we’d pair up same-gender companions—but Luis and Eleanor would both benefit from the arrangement . . . and I can’t see why it wouldn’t work. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea.”

  His smile warmed her all the way to the tips of her toes.

  “The only question is, will they go for it? And will the Helping Hands board consider it a sufficient test case?” She began to pace.

  “That’s easy enough to check.”

  “Right.” She tried to keep a lid on her burgeoning hope. Rushing would be a mistake. There were details to work through, documents to draw up, feelers to put out. “Maybe I’ll corner Reverend Baker on Sunday after church and get a quick read from him before I take this any further.”

  “Not a bad idea. And if he’s receptive, you could run it past Michael too.” He propped a shoulder against the smokehouse and folded his arms. “I don’t want to barge in on your party, but if you’d like some moral support for any of those discussions, I’ll be happy to provide it. That, and whatever legal documents you need to make this happen.”

  “I accept on both counts,
with thanks.” She stopped in front of him. “Which reminds me—did you ever manage to contact that former colleague of yours from Coos Bay? We’ll need ongoing legal help if this pans out.”

  “As a matter of fact, he texted me today. I was going to let you know after we finished up here tonight. It seems he’s too busy with important work to forward a few names of attorneys there who might be willing to help out with your program.” Sarcasm scored Eric’s words. “However, I’m not giving up. I can reach out to some other contacts.”

  “Any help is gratefully accepted . . . and appreciated.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  All at once, his brown irises darkened, and a current of electricity sizzled between them.

  Mercy.

  Any second now he was going to pull her into another one of those delectable hugs.

  Instead, with an abrupt move, he pushed off from the smokehouse, breaking the connection between them. “I think we have a set to finish.”

  Whoops.

  She must have misread his cues.

  “Right.” She circled around him and got back to work.

  For the rest of the evening, loud hammering eliminated the possibility of extended conversation—but by the time they wound down, the set was done. And although her mind had kept wandering to the man working at her side, she’d also managed to put together a mental checklist of all the issues that needed to be addressed before she could launch her test case.

  “I think it’s a wrap.” Eric drew back a few feet from the smokehouse and sized it up. “Is this what you envisioned?”

  “Exactly.” She began to gather up her tools. “And I’m glad it’s over, aren’t you?”

  When he didn’t respond, she looked over at him.

  “To be honest, I kind of enjoyed working on it.”

  “I guess that makes sense from your perspective.” She went back to collecting her tools. “The project did give you a chance to use your artistic talent.”

  “True . . . but that’s not the only reason I enjoyed it.”

  She turned back to him—and her pulse stuttered at the appreciative gleam in his eyes.

  No question about it this time.

  The man was flirting with her.

  And if she responded to his cue, if he hugged her good-bye tonight, she had a feeling he’d have a lot more on his mind than a friendly squeeze.

  Scary thought, despite the delicious tingle that raced down her spine. Playful flirting was one thing; flirting with danger was another.

  Remember your rule, BJ—be cautious and prudent and measured. Your heart’s at stake here.

  Check.

  “So . . . I’ll meet you at the door, okay?” Her words came out shaky.

  He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

  She finished stowing her tools, keeping tabs on him in her peripheral vision. But he simply walked to the exit and waited.

  Getting to her car without a hug, however, could be tricky if he had a clinch on his mind—and if he did pull her into his arms, she wasn’t certain she’d have the willpower to resist.

  After easing aside to let her precede him out the door, he pulled it firmly shut behind them and tested the lock. It rattled but held.

  “Our work is safe and secure.” He dropped his hand from the knob.

  “Good. We wouldn’t want any scenery stealers to walk off with our masterpieces.” She gripped her car keys in her hand and started for her truck, trying with limited success to match his teasing manner.

  He fell in beside her. The sun had set, and vast swaths of intense color spanned the horizon. It was a beautiful evening. The kind featured in a lot of happy-ending-type books. The kind that was conducive to hand-holding . . . and hugs . . . and romance.

  Stay strong, BJ.

  She picked up her pace.

  Eric did too.

  “So what does BJ stand for?”

  At the out-of-the-blue question, her step faltered. “What?”

  “Your initials. What do they stand for?” His tone was relaxed, conversational, chitchatty.

  It was too dim to detect his expression, but from all indications he’d switched emotional gears.

  “Um . . . you won’t laugh, will you?”

  “Why would I laugh?”

  “It’s a very southern and old-fashioned name. My mom’s choice. But it never fit. It seemed to belong to someone slender and graceful, who’d look great wearing a hoop skirt—and that wasn’t me.”

  “It is now.”

  “Thank you for that. However, I hated the name. After I went to live with Gram and Gramps, I asked them to call me BJ instead—and it stuck.”

  “Instead of what?”

  He wasn’t going to let her off the hook.

  She sighed. “Belinda June.”

  “Belinda June.” He said the name slowly, giving it a musical cadence. “Pretty. I like it.”

  “Sorry. I’m BJ now . . . and for always.” She stopped beside her truck. “Will I . . . uh . . . see you at church Sunday?”

  “Yep. Dad and I will be there. I’ll join you afterward and we’ll corner Reverend Baker.” He pulled her door open for her. “Drive safe.”

  It appeared all her worries about a hug had been for naught.

  Quashing an inappropriate pang of disappointment, she slid behind the wheel. “Have a nice Saturday—and thanks for lending your talent to the scenery and sets.”

  “My pleasure.” He shut her door and stepped back.

  Well.

  That, apparently, was that.

  BJ rammed the key into the lock, started the engine, and drove away. When she glanced in the rearview mirror, he was already striding toward his own car.

  Had she imagined those romantic vibes wafting around the scene shop—or had he picked up her nervousness and gallantly backed off?

  Not that it mattered. The result had been what she’d sought—a clean escape, with no emotional entanglements.

  Yet hard as she tried to suppress it, all at once she foolishly wished she’d sent the tempting, dark-eyed attorney a whole different set of signals.

  18

  The waves lapped gently against the sand in the sheltered cove, while seals frolicked on the sea stack a hundred yards offshore and the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky.

  Best of all, he had a paintbrush in his hand and hours to kill.

  Eric gave a contented sigh.

  It was a perfect Saturday.

  Or as perfect as it could be when you were out of a job, trying to decide what to do with the rest of your life . . . and fantasizing about a beautiful architect who’d kept you tossing half the night.

  He rolled his shoulders and let out a slow breath. He’d come close yesterday at the scene shop to breaking every rule he’d made about BJ. If she hadn’t started telegraphing some serious anxiety signals he’d have given her another parting hug.

  One that could easily have morphed into an embrace that went way beyond friendship.

  Taking a break today, removing himself from temptation, had been wise—even if he’d have preferred to spend the day in her company.

  But he’d see her in church tomorrow . . . and until then, a whole glorious day of painting stretched before him.

  From his spot beside the sheer rock face, in the shadow of majestic fir trees, he surveyed the deserted cove that had been his favorite fair-weather painting spot since the day he’d found it as a teen. Although the small, crescent-shaped beach was accessible from Shore Acres State Park, few visitors bothered to hike down and explore it—or dip their toes in the turquoise water.

  Their loss.

  Shifting his attention to the easel, he examined the composition he’d roughed in yesterday with diluted burnt umber paint. The scene had nothing to do with this cove, which served as studio, not subject—and it was very sketchy. Yet he could see the finished piece in his mind.

  A small, placid river. A bright summer day. A woman knee-deep in the water, holding the s
ide of a rowboat with one hand, the other extended in a silent, tempting invitation toward the viewer. But what lay ahead, beyond the gentle curve of the river? Were there beautiful vistas and smooth sailing—or rough water and dangerous rapids? Would the trip be fun . . . or frightening?

  The finished painting would offer no answer to those questions. Viewers would have to decide whether to accept the invitation to adventure based on their own tolerance for risk and their life experience.

  It was a piece that would make people think about more than a simple excursion on a river . . . he hoped.

  “That could have some potential.”

  Eric jerked and spun around.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Charley strolled toward him across the sand.

  “How did you . . . what are you doing here?”

  “I like to visit the gardens in the park. The roses are always spectacular in July. I often swing by this cove while I’m here. Pretty spot.” He gave it a leisurely sweep. “As I recall, you used to be partial to it.”

  “Yeah.” But why had Charley picked today of all days to pay this off-the-beaten-path a visit?

  What a bizarre coincidence.

  “Nice to see you at an easel again.” Charley slipped his fingers in the back pockets of his jeans as he perused the canvas. “I was at the high school yesterday and peeked into the scene shop. Great work on the backdrop.”

  “Thanks—but you would have done a better job if you hadn’t hurt your . . .” Eric stopped.

  The bandage was gone.

  He folded his arms. “How’s the wrist?”

  “Much better.”

  Convenient.

  “Nice ploy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m beginning to think you faked an injury so I’d take on the backdrop—and you hoped that would nudge me back into this kind of painting.” He tapped the edge of the canvas.

  “You always did have a vivid imagination. I expect that’s why you excelled at art. When did you start that?” He inclined his head toward the roughed-in canvas.

  “You’re dodging my question.”

  “I didn’t hear one—but I did ask one.”

  Charley could be as slippery as a slime eel when it suited him . . . and trying to pin him down if he didn’t want to answer a question was an exercise in futility.