Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  He needed to protect her too—by maintaining the just-friends status quo until he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

  “I guess I’ll be going.” He rose.

  “Eleanor sent you some fudge cake. Let me get it for you.”

  She stood, skirted the far side of the patio table, and disappeared into the house. Fifteen seconds later, she was back, a plastic-wrapped wedge in hand.

  “Thanks.” He took it from her.

  “I’m only the delivery person. You need to thank the baker.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Behind him, a loud belch sounded.

  “Casper’s back.” BJ folded her arms tight against her chest, her smile strained around the edges as she turned toward Little Gull Island. “He may not be polite, but he’s predictable. The little guy never fails to show up when I need to see a friendly face.”

  “I have a friendly face too.”

  She angled back toward him, no trace of humor in her demeanor now. And though her words were soft, they packed a punch. “But you might not always show up. I can’t take that risk, Eric.”

  It wasn’t an ultimatum. BJ wasn’t the type to resort to that. She was simply stating a fact.

  But ultimatum or not, he knew as he said good-bye that they would share no more hugs unless he found a long-term-potential way to incorporate her into his life.

  20

  The persistent ring of the phone pulled Eleanor from sleep, and as her location registered, her jaw dropped.

  Good heavens—she’d spent the night in her recliner!

  The phone trilled again, and she fumbled in the pocket of her slacks while Methuselah gave her a puzzled look. As if he couldn’t figure out why she’d never gone to bed.

  “Because I was up late thinking about BJ’s visit, if you must know, and fell asleep in my chair.”

  The cat yawned . . . stretched . . . and moseyed out to the kitchen—in search of breakfast, no doubt.

  She finally put the phone to her ear and said hello.

  “Good morning, Eleanor. How are you today?” Rose’s cheery voice came over the line. The woman sounded awake and alert, as if she’d been up for hours.

  What time was it anyway?

  Eleanor peered at her watch. Eight o’clock. Past her usual rising time.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.” She smothered a yawn with her free hand.

  “Oh dear . . . I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “You know I never sleep late, Rose.” A true statement—even if today happened to be an exception to that rule.

  “I know. That’s why I didn’t think you’d mind an early call. I heard you had a fall, and I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “It wasn’t a fall. It was a . . . misstep. And how did you find out about it?”

  “I happened to overhear Charley ask that nice BJ about you at the taco stand last evening. I wasn’t eavesdropping, mind you.”

  No, that wouldn’t be Rose’s style. They’d been friends too long for her to doubt the other woman’s honesty or genuine concern.

  “I’m right as rain. Nothing more than a bruise or two.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Falls can be serious for these old bones of ours. Did you hear about Martha?”

  “Martha who?”

  “Atwood. I believe you’ve met her at a few church functions. She lives in Coos Bay but has a number of friends in town who invite her to special events.”

  A vague image formed in her mind of a tall, thin woman with silver hair.

  “I think I know who you mean.”

  “I’m sure you’d recognize her if you saw her. To make a long story short, she fell off a step stool in her kitchen while changing a lightbulb. Broke her pelvis and arm and a couple of ribs.” Rose tut-tutted. “Now she’s in rehab and has had all kinds of complications. She lives alone, so there’s some doubt about whether she’ll be able to return home. It’s such a shame.”

  “Yes, it is.” A cloud of doom settled over her. That could be her future someday.

  “Well, on to cheerier subjects. Besides checking on you, I was hoping to convince you to have lunch with me at the café tomorrow. We haven’t done that in ages. And afterward, if you’re up to it, we could stop in at the grocery store. I’d be happy to get anything you need, but I know you enjoy trips to the market.”

  Her spirits took an uptick. “That would be lovely. I was beginning to get cabin fever.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll pick you up about eleven. Take care.”

  Methuselah wandered back in as she ended the call. After sitting on his haunches, he gave her an annoyed stare.

  “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

  He meowed.

  “So am I.” She set her Bible on the table, juggled her walker into position, and hoisted herself to her feet. “Let’s see what we can round up for breakfast.”

  The tabby rose too and did a U-turn toward the kitchen.

  She followed, slowing as she passed the bulging rack of cookbooks. In the old days, she’d been a whiz in the kitchen. Stan had liked to brag about her skills to his friends. At least in that one area of her life, she’d been bold and adventuresome.

  Resting one hand on the walker, she skimmed her fingers over the spines of the books. When had she last made any of these recipes? Her final Christmas open house, perhaps—several years ago. The layer of dust on top told the story.

  She started to move on . . . but stopped as one title caught her eye.

  International Favorites Made Easy.

  That had been a fun book to page through—and Stan had enjoyed the recipes she’d tried from it. He’d always said the dishes made him feel like he was dining in exotic locations without ever leaving the comforts of his home.

  She touched the book as an idea began to take shape in her mind.

  Hmm.

  She pulled it out, continued toward the table, and set it down. Reading material for breakfast.

  And potentially something more.

  “Come on in out of the rain, Eric.”

  Knuckles poised over the studio door, Eric froze. Once again, Charley had somehow known not only that he had a visitor but who the visitor was.

  The man must have some kind of security system he kept under wraps.

  Eric lowered his hand, twisted the knob, and ducked in out of the soupy weather.

  Charley swiveled toward him on his painting stool as strains of Vivaldi filled the studio. “What brings you all the way out here on such a dreary day?”

  He gave the space a quick sweep. No visible security monitor—but that was meaningless. Knowing Charley’s aversion to all things electronic, he had it tucked in some unobtrusive—

  “Eric?”

  He snapped his head back to the artist. “I, uh, was hoping to get in some painting today, but my favorite spot is out of the question in this weather, and the house is noisy and dusty.” Besides, no one other than his dad and Charley knew he’d started painting again—and he wanted to keep it that way for now.

  “Your easel’s still in the closet.” Charley went back to his work-in-progress. “Help yourself and let me know if you need any other supplies.”

  The same greeting he used to give him in the old days.

  It was like rewinding the clock twenty years.

  After retrieving his painting gear from the car and getting situated, Eric went to work. Within minutes, he was lost in the creative process.

  Only when he paused to rotate the kinks out of his neck did Charley speak. “Want a soda?”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” He glanced at his watch. Blinked. Where had the past two hours gone?

  Charley sauntered over and handed him a Dr Pepper, swigging his Coke as he examined the painting that was beginning to come to life.

  As the artist took his sweet time perusing it, sweat began to bead on both the can and Eric’s forehead.

  When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he popped the tab and spoke. “Well?”

  “You
haven’t lost your talent.” Charley swirled his soda and scrutinized the painting. “I see you fixed the proportion on the woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Better. The hint of gray in the distant sky is a clever touch too. Adds to the subtle tension, the sense of the unknown. A dash of Permanent Violet Dark might enhance that mood. I have some if you need it.” He wandered over to the turntable and changed out Vivaldi for Gershwin.

  Eric stood and stretched. “You opening the taco stand today?”

  “Maybe later.” The strains of Rhapsody in Blue filled the room. “How’d your meeting at the diner go this morning?”

  Eric almost choked on his soda. “How did you know about that?”

  “I stopped in for an omelet and saw you.”

  “How come I didn’t see you?”

  “Guess you were too engrossed in that intense discussion you were having. Seemed serious.”

  Eric swigged his soda. It had been—and he had some decisions to make—but he’d forgotten all about them once he began painting.

  “It was. The guy I was with wants me to do some legal work for him while I’m here.”

  “You interested?” Charley wandered back to his easel.

  “I don’t know. It’s an easy job—and the pay’s not bad.” Better than he’d expected, actually, based on the fee schedules forwarded to him by his law school colleagues who’d gone into small-town practice.

  “Sounds like a no-brainer.”

  Eric retook his seat. “You want the truth? I’d rather paint while I’m here.”

  “A person can’t paint sixteen hours a day. Not without going crazy. Look what happened to poor Van Gogh. That’s why I have the taco stand. Variety is the spice of life. Too much of anything can warp your viewpoint.”

  “I practiced law sixteen hours a day in Portland.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “Very funny.”

  Charley drained his can of Coke and settled back on his stool. “That wasn’t a joke. How’s life been since you left those kinds of hours behind?”

  Better. Happier. More interesting.

  But he kept that to himself.

  “Different.”

  “You enjoying yourself?”

  “For the most part.”

  “Then why not work a little law back in? Sounds like this legal job would leave you plenty of time for other pursuits, and it would help keep your skills sharp.”

  “I’m considering it.”

  Charley picked up his paintbrush. “Makes sense to me.”

  As the other man went back to painting, Eric finished his own soda and set the empty can on the floor beside him. Charley’s advice—about painting and life—tended to be sound. Maybe he ought to take the job. If nothing else, it would ease him back into law so returning to the rat race wouldn’t be a total shock.

  Rat race.

  Bad choice of words.

  Partner track had a better ring to it.

  But as the driving beat of the Gershwin classic filled the room, he knew they were one and the same.

  And he was less and less certain that reaching the finish line he’d always planned to cross was going to bring him the kind of joy and satisfaction he’d expected.

  “Stone, would you grab that piece of crown molding and . . . hang on a sec.” Holding on to the ladder with one hand, BJ pulled her vibrating cell out of her pocket with the other and skimmed the screen.

  Eleanor.

  The woman must be ready to give her an answer . . . and BJ had a sinking feeling she knew what it was going to be.

  If her intuition was correct, she might have to take Eric up on his offer to accompany her while she paid the woman a second visit—even if it would be safer to walk a wide circle around him after their parting last night. Anything that gave her companion program a fighting chance would be worth some personal risk.

  The phone vibrated again, and she descended the ladder. “You guys can go ahead and put up that section of crown molding. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As Stone and Luis went to work, she exited the suite, moved down the upstairs hall of what would soon be the Seabird Inn, and greeted her caller.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Eleanor sounded a bit breathless.

  “I have a few minutes to spare.” Hammering began to reverberate in the empty room beside her, and she continued down the hall. It would be quieter on the first floor.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about your proposal ever since you stopped by yesterday. I have to admit the notion of having a stranger under my roof takes me outside my comfort zone. But after a lot of thought and prayer, I’ve decided to explore the possibility. I believe it might help me make a decision if I got to know Luis better.” The woman cleared her throat. “So if he’s interested in the idea, I’d like to invite him to have dinner with me here at the house tomorrow night.”

  BJ stopped halfway down the stairs. Sank onto a step. Leaned a shoulder against the wall.

  Eleanor hadn’t said no.

  “BJ . . . are you there?”

  “Yes.” She did her best to regroup. It appeared she didn’t need to muster any of the arguments she’d been marshalling. Nor did she need to tap into Eric’s powers of persuasion. At least not yet. “I’m here—and that’s great news. I’m glad you’re open to the idea.”

  “Why don’t you check with Luis, see what he says? I know you thought he might have some reservations too. If you could let me know by this evening whether I should expect him for dinner, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course. I’ll talk to him this afternoon and get back to you as soon as I have an answer.”

  “I’ll be waiting to hear, sweet child. Don’t work too hard, now.”

  Once they ended the call, BJ remained sitting on the steps while the hammering continued above her. One hurdle passed. Eleanor hadn’t said yes yet, but her willingness to explore the idea was heartening. And once she got to know Luis, she’d be impressed. The man was the perfect solution to all the problems she faced living alone—and she was the perfect solution for him too.

  Now all she had to do was convince Luis that her proposal had nothing to do with charity and everything to do with helping those in need—and that he could play a key role in making life better for older Hope Harbor residents.

  No small challenge.

  But if she succeeded, her Helping Hands companion program might get off the launching pad after all.

  BJ was nervous.

  Luis watched her surreptitiously as she guided the truck toward 101. The unplanned trip to the building supply store wasn’t all that unusual, but in general she didn’t take either him or Stone along. Even Stone had raised an eyebrow when she’d tagged Luis to accompany her.

  And her white-knuckled grip on the wheel was unsettling.

  It couldn’t have anything to do with his work, though. He put in a full day and never scrimped on effort. She’d complimented him often.

  Was it possible the green card issue had come up again?

  He fought back a sudden wave of panic. Tamed it. No. There was no reason to be afraid on that front. He was legal—and he’d done nothing to endanger his status here.

  That left just one possibility, as far as he could see . . . and it churned his stomach.

  She’d told him from the beginning that her business wasn’t yet able to support two permanent full-time workers, but that his place was secure until the Seabird Inn renovation was completed.

  That job, however, would be winding down in two weeks. Unless there was another big project in the offing, someone would have to be let go—and Stone had seniority.

  But how would he survive without a job?

  An image of the paramedic course materials arrayed on his table materialized in his mind, but he erased it. That would be a perfect job—but it wasn’t an option. Even if the tuition was free, he needed money to live on. He had to have a job now.

  Maybe Father Murphy could help him if . . .

&
nbsp; “. . . repercussions of that bug we had?”

  As the end of BJ’s question registered, he tuned back in. “I am sorry. I did not hear what you asked.”

  She shot him a quick, concerned glance. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Much better. The flu is gone.” That must be what she’d asked about.

  “No. I meant . . . you seem a little tense.”

  He seemed tense? Did she realize she was taut as a plumb line?

  Perhaps he should make this easy for her. She’d done more than enough for him as it was. He couldn’t expect her to keep him on the payroll if there wasn’t sufficient work—nor should she feel guilty if she had to let him go.

  “I was thinking that the job . . . it is almost finished. I understand if you do not need me after that.”

  Her face went blank for a moment . . . and then understanding dawned in her eyes.

  She muttered a few unintelligible words under her breath, checked her rearview mirror, and swung into one of the scenic pullouts that lined this picturesque stretch of highway. From here, on a clear afternoon, they’d have a panoramic vista of the ocean and the sea stacks that today were shrouded in gray mist.

  Like his heart.

  BJ shut off the engine and angled toward him. “I’m sorry, Luis. I didn’t mean to worry you. Your job with me is secure for the foreseeable future. I have some big projects coming up. Grace Christian wants us to remodel their offices as soon as we finish at John’s, and after that I’ll be doing a single-family home out at Harbor Point Cranberries.”

  “Then . . . why do you look worried?”

  “I’m not worried, exactly.” Her death grip on the wheel, however, said otherwise. “It’s just that a program that means a lot to me is . . . it’s hanging in the balance, and I need your help to make it happen.”

  If there was anything he could do for this woman who’d given him a job when he desperately needed one, he would. “Tell me how.”

  He listened as she laid out the proposal she’d presented to the Helping Hands board members, outlined their reservations, and described the model program she wanted him to participate in.

  “Eleanor thinks it would be helpful if you two got to know each other better before either of you commit, and she wanted me to extend an invitation from her for dinner tomorrow night at her house.”