Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  As she concluded, he turned toward the window. The somber haze hid the beauty of the landscape, but the splendor was there nonetheless, ready to emerge as soon as the sun returned.

  Was this his chance to brighten his own world, while brightening others’ as well?

  Perhaps.

  Moisture clouded his vision as the potential impact of her request began to compute, and he swiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

  “You don’t have to commit to anything now except dinner.” Tension wove through BJ’s words.

  “I would be happy to eat with Eleanor.”

  Her face went blank again, as if she was shocked by his answer. Finally she exhaled . . . and the strain in her features eased. “Excellent. I’ll let her know you’re coming.” She reached over and touched his arm. “Thank you for considering this, Luis. The program means a lot to me.”

  “It could mean a lot to many people. And I should thank you. Eleanor seems like a nice woman, and her house would be a fine place to live.”

  “Well, let’s hope you feel the same after sharing dinner with her tomorrow night.” She put the truck in gear and pulled back onto the highway just as a ray of sun managed to peek through the obfuscating fog swirling around them.

  And as they continued along the winding road, he hoped that was a positive omen for the future . . . beginning with dinner tomorrow.

  21

  Luis having dinner w/El 2morrow nite. Fingers XXed. BJ

  Propping one elbow on the mattress of his sofa-sleeper bed, Eric reread the text that had been sent late yesterday afternoon. Funny. In his old life he’d checked his messages constantly. Here, he often forgot about the phone.

  And he’d sure forgotten about it at the studio. Once Charley had left to go open the taco stand for a few hours, he’d lost track of time. Only the dimming light had finally pushed him out. He’d gone straight home, foraged for dinner in the fridge, and crashed—as exhausted as if he’d spent a full day in court.

  It had been a better type of exhaustion, though. The kind that comes from pouring your soul into your passion.

  But he should have skimmed his messages once he got home. BJ must be wondering why he hadn’t responded.

  He also owed his potential client a response, based on the follow-up email the man had sent pressing for an answer.

  The banging overhead that had awakened him started up again. He could respond to BJ in person. An email acceptance would suffice for the client.

  At least his conversation with Charley had clarified that decision. He did have time for both art and law in his present circumstances, and the two might balance each other. He couldn’t paint intensely sixteen hours a day or he would end up like Van Gogh. Yesterday’s marathon had been invigorating—but draining.

  He tapped in a response to the client, pulled on his jeans, ran a comb through his hair, and left his makeshift living room suite to track down BJ.

  “We missed you at breakfast.” His father turned from the dining room table across the foyer, where he was sorting through what looked like Mom’s collection of napkin rings.

  “Sorry. I slept like a rock until the noise kicked in.” He strolled toward his father. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought I’d pull these out of mothballs and put them to use. I think the guests will enjoy them, don’t you?” He held up one ring with an enameled hummingbird attached and another fashioned from a seashell.

  “The women will.”

  “Since they’re the ones who usually choose this kind of place, their approval is what matters. One of the lessons I’ve learned through the years is that as long as you keep the ladies happy, it’s smooth sailing.”

  Speaking of ladies . . .

  “I hear you. Have fun with that.” Eric waved a hand toward the collection. “I’m going to run up and talk to BJ for a minute.”

  “She’s not here.”

  He halted and swung back. Not the news he wanted to hear. “Where is she?”

  “On her way to Coos Bay. It seems the plumbing subcontractor is dragging his feet. She said she was going to light a fire under him—and based on the fire in her eyes, I expect she’ll succeed. Hey . . . remember this one?” His father held up a seagull made of feathers.

  He grimaced. “How could I forget? Mom almost scalped me after I used those for target practice in the backyard the year you guys gave me the BB gun for my birthday. I didn’t know there were any survivors.”

  “This one must have escaped the firing squad.” His dad chuckled. “Want it as a souvenir?”

  “I’ll pass. It does not evoke happy memories.”

  “I bet my guests will appreciate it, though—and the story behind it.”

  “Going for laughs at my expense, huh?”

  “Anything to keep my patrons entertained.” His dad winked and put the ring back in the pile. “There’s a message from Rose Marshall on the kitchen counter for you. She wants to know if you’ll review her personal documents—will, power of attorney, that sort of thing—to ensure they’re up-to-date. Apparently some acquaintance just had a major accident, and she wants to get her house in order.”

  Good grief. Clients were coming out of the woodwork.

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That I’d pass on the message. I didn’t make any promises. What did you decide to do about our friend from church?”

  “I’m going to take the job. I could do it in my sleep, and the pay rate is higher than I expected for small-town legal work.”

  “High enough to tempt you?”

  “To do what?”

  “Stay.”

  Eric shoved his hands in his pockets. “That’s not in my plan, Dad.”

  “Plans can change.”

  “I’ve put a lot of years into mine. It’s not easy to alter your course midstream.”

  “No one ever said life was easy. Besides, taking the easy route doesn’t always lead to the best views.”

  “That sounds like something Charley would say.”

  “I’m flattered. He’s a smart man.” He gingerly picked up a froufrou woodland fairy napkin ring and dangled it from his finger at arm’s length. “What’s your verdict on this one?”

  Eric pretended to gag.

  “Yeah. I’m with you. What was your mother thinking?” He shook his head and set it down. “I left some quiche in the oven for you. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks.”

  Eric wandered into the kitchen and picked up the message his dad had left on the counter. If work like this kept falling into his lap, it would almost be a job.

  Almost.

  But even if there was sufficient work to sustain him, practicing law in Hope Harbor wouldn’t lead to the kind of success he’d envisioned. Only a big-city partner track job would do that.

  Hope Harbor, however, would provide a better quality of life—and allow him to deepen his relationship with BJ.

  Too bad the two options were mutually exclusive.

  While he retrieved his breakfast from the oven, the hammering upstairs resumed at full force.

  Fitting.

  It matched the sudden pounding in his head as he struggled with the choices before him.

  Because the direction he chose in the coming days could change his life forever.

  Was that . . . ?

  Luis stopped on Eleanor’s front porch and sniffed the aroma wafting through the open windows.

  No.

  It couldn’t be moros y christianos.

  Could it?

  He sniffed again, the distinctive aroma transporting him back to the land of his birth. To happy times spent with family and friends.

  But how would Eleanor know about that?

  And where would she have learned to cook such a dish?

  All at once, the door opened—as if she’d been watching for him through the sidelight windows.

  “Good evening, Luis.” She gave him a tentative smile. “Please come in.”

  “Good evening.” He ste
pped inside, skirting Methuselah as he held out the small box of chocolate truffles he’d purchased. “For you.”

  “My.” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “What a thoughtful gesture. These are my favorites.” She took the box.

  “I know. I asked BJ what you might like.”

  “You didn’t have to do this. They’re very pricey—a special-occasion splurge.”

  “A guest always brings a gift. My mother taught me this when I was a young boy.”

  “She must have had admirable manners.”

  “Yes. We were not rich, but she was a lady.”

  “Well . . .” She motioned him toward the back of the house. “Why don’t we visit in the kitchen while I finish dinner?” After setting the box of candy on the tray attached to the front of her walker, she led the way.

  He followed, pausing on the threshold of the room. A bright yellow cloth draped the table, which had been set with china, cloth napkins, and gleaming silver. Cut-crystal glasses filled with water were at each place, and fresh flowers overflowed from a vase in the center.

  His throat tightened. “You have gone to much trouble.”

  “Not at all.” She waved a hand and continued toward the stove. “I like to cook. Your visit gave me an excuse to prepare a real meal again. I hope you like black beans and rice.”

  Bendiga mi alma!

  That aroma was moros y christianos!

  “It is one of my favored foods.” He choked out the words, steadying himself on the back of a chair.

  “I’ve never made it until today, but I understand it’s a popular dish in your country. I hope it’s edible.” She smoothed a hand down her slacks. “If it’s not, I also have . . . pulpeta Cubana. With hard-boiled eggs and olives.”

  Her pronunciation was off, but Luis had no problem understanding what she’d said.

  “I also like meatloaf. My mother cooked it on special days. You are very kind.”

  A flush rose on her cheeks. “I try to please my guests. If you’ll help me set out the food, we’re ready to eat.”

  Luis carried the dishes to the table under Eleanor’s direction, then assisted her as she took her seat.

  Once he was in his chair, she folded her hands. “I know we come from different religious backgrounds, but I always pray before meals.”

  “It is good to give thanks. And while we do not go to the same church, we honor the same God. I do not think he will mind if we share a simple prayer.” He bowed his head and made the sign of the cross.

  After a moment, Eleanor spoke. “Thank you, Lord, for this food and this opportunity for Luis and me to get acquainted. Open our hearts to your will and help us make the right decision about BJ’s proposal. Please bless us with health and abundant grace. Amen.”

  “Amen.” Luis echoed her as he crossed himself again.

  “Help yourself. Don’t be shy. There’s enough here to feed an army.” Eleanor swept a hand over the food and took a slice of meatloaf. “So tell me how you’re liking Hope Harbor now that you’ve been here a few months.”

  “It is a beautiful place, and I have been shown much kindness.” He spooned out a hearty helping of the black beans and rice, inhaling the savory scent of garlic.

  “It must be very different than your homeland.”

  “The weather and plants and customs are different, yes. But I am . . . adopting.” He frowned. “That is the proper word?”

  “I think you mean adapting.”

  “Yes. I am adapting.” He shoveled in a mouthful of rice and beans, the salty flavor of ham, the kick of onions and green peppers, the earthy tang of cumin exploding on his tongue.

  He closed his eyes, savoring the taste of home.

  “Is it good?”

  At the anxious note in Eleanor’s voice, he met her gaze. “It is better than good. It is . . . maravilloso.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” She took a helping herself. “BJ told me about your medical background and the barriers to practicing medicine here. I’m sorry. That must be a disappointment.”

  It was . . . but even that heartache couldn’t ruin his enjoyment of this wonderful meal.

  “I miss medicine, yes. I studied very long to help the sick. But I see the need for passing many tests to get a license. I was lucky to have another skill to earn money.”

  “You passed many tests in Cuba to be a doctor, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” But they meant nothing here.

  “I hope someday you can practice medicine again.”

  “No. Being a doctor here . . . it is too hard. But there is a paramedic program at the college, and . . .” Luis pressed his lips together. Why had he brought that up? No one but Eric—and whoever had requested the material—knew about the information he’d received. Talking about unrealistic dreams was foolish.

  “Go on.” Eleanor leaned forward encouragingly.

  “No.” He pushed it from his mind and took another helping of beans and rice. “It will not be possible for many years—and only if it is in God’s plan. Now I work in construction.” He lifted his heaping fork in salute. “The food is delicioso.”

  Taking his cue, she let the subject drop.

  She did ask many more questions during the meal, though—and he asked a few of his own. By the time she retrieved a plate of homemade pastelitos for dessert, he had no qualms about signing on for the pilot program BJ wanted to run.

  Yet as he bit into one of the flaky, jam-filled turnover pastries, he was less certain about Eleanor. She’d gone above and beyond in her efforts to welcome him to her home, and she couldn’t have been more hospitable during the meal.

  But there was a certain . . . restraint . . . in her manner that suggested she harbored doubts.

  That did not bode well for the outcome.

  When they finished, however, she surprised him.

  “While I load the dishwasher, why don’t you go upstairs and take a look at the two rooms that would be yours if we decide to pursue BJ’s proposal? I haven’t been up there since I’ve been saddled with that nuisance”—she flicked a hand at the walker, an expression of disgust contorting her face—“so ignore the dust.”

  “I will help you first.”

  “No. You’re a guest tonight. There are many chores I can’t do these days, but kitchen duties aren’t a problem. Besides, I enjoy puttering around out here, especially when I have the chance to cook a real meal. Go on up and poke around. No need to hurry. This will take me a few minutes. I’ll meet you in the living room once I finish.”

  He acquiesced with a nod. Although he’d prefer to help with the cleanup, it was also important to respect turf—and preserve pride.

  After making his way back through the living room, he ascended the stairs to the second floor of the cozy Cape Cod house. The two rooms off the small landing were each about nine-by-twelve. There was also a full bath. Both rooms were furnished, one featuring a queen-sized bed, the other a couch. All the furniture was covered with sheets, and while the rooms were as dusty as Eleanor had warned, this was a palace compared to Sea Haven Apartments.

  No matter what Eleanor expected of him in return, no matter how much maintenance and caregiving work she required, he was ready to sign on the dotted line.

  But was she?

  He lingered in the rooms, as she’d requested, trying to figure out which way this might go.

  In the end, however, all he could do was put the outcome in God’s hands—and hope for the best.

  He was every bit as nice as BJ had said he was.

  Eleanor stacked the dishes in the dishwasher, rinsing by rote as she tried without success to find one negative about the man who’d shared her table. As far as she could see, he would be a dream companion. He was considerate, respectful, polite, articulate, and imbued with a quiet dignity.

  She finished loading the dishes and ran a finger over the small box of truffles on the counter. Based on the frugal life BJ said he led, this had been a huge extravagance.

  He must be very interested in mo
ving in with her.

  And who could blame him, based on the dismal, bare-bones accommodations BJ had described? Anything would be a step up from that. He would reap huge benefits from this arrangement.

  But she would too.

  She gave the room a critical sweep. A piece of wallpaper was beginning to peel in the corner, and the baseboards could do with a fresh coat of paint. Another door had begun to stick. The outside needed work too. Old houses required constant attention—and more energy than she had these days. The place was getting away from her. But with Luis’s assistance, she ought to be able to stay on top of things.

  Plus, having someone on hand to fetch and carry and run errands would be a godsend. You could only impose on friends so long before the friendship began to wear thin. Rose was an angel—but she had other obligations too.

  Best of all, though? If Luis were here, she would no longer have to eat dinner alone, with just Methuselah for company. He was a great cat—but not much of a conversationalist.

  Eleanor gripped her walker, shifted it toward the living room, and pushed toward her chair, decision made.

  As she settled in, Luis appeared in the doorway.

  “The rooms are nice.”

  “Have a seat.” She waved him toward the couch at a right angle to her chair.

  In silence, he crossed the room, perched on the edge of the sofa—and waited.

  “If we can come to an agreement about expectations, duties, and responsibilities, I’m willing to give this a try. What do you think?”

  The emotions parading across his face weren’t difficult to read—disbelief . . . relief . . . gratitude . . . and hope.

  “I think . . .” His words scraped out, and he swallowed. “I think I would like to try this too.”

  “You realize I’ll expect help with household chores, maintenance, errands—those kinds of duties?”

  “Yes. BJ told me how it would work. I would be happy to do all those things for a nice place to live and home-cooked meals.”

  “I can provide both of those.” She played with a loose thread on the arm of her chair, debating how much more to say. How much risk to take. But in the end, she spoke what was in her heart. “I can also provide friendship, Luis, if all of this works out as I hope. Living a solitary life can be lonely.”