by Irene Hannon
“Well, Floyd and Gladys will keep you company.” He waved a spatula toward two seagulls perched on the boulders that sloped down to the water.
She peered at the two birds. As near as she could tell, they were identical to the dozen others in the vicinity.
But if he said so . . .
“I think I’ll take the food home and enjoy it on my patio.”
“Not a bad idea. Maybe Casper will join you.”
She blinked. Had she ever mentioned Casper during their chats? Not that she recalled . . . but it could have slipped out somewhere along the way. How else would he know her pet name for the companionable seal on Little Gull Island?
“He might.”
“Did you get Luis set up in his new digs at Eleanor’s?”
“You heard about that already?”
He flashed his white teeth. “You wouldn’t believe how much I hear—and see—from this counter.”
“I don’t doubt that. I bet you could write a book.”
“Not on my bucket list. Now Luis, he could write a book.”
“Yeah. I hope this arrangement works out for both of them.”
“I have a feeling it will. Those two will be good for each other.” He gave a pan of onions and peppers a shake. “What’s Eric up to, now that he’s done with the backdrop?”
She dipped her chin and pulled some bills out of her pocket. “I haven’t seen a lot of him since then.”
“I heard he’s taken on some legal work.” He flipped the fish and began to line up the corn tortillas.
“Yes.” But not enough to account for his long absences from the house.
If he was making himself scarce, however, she had no one to blame but herself. He was simply respecting the boundaries she’d set.
“It would be nice if he stayed on in Hope Harbor.” Charley sprinkled some kind of seasoning on the sizzling vegetables in the pan.
Wouldn’t it, though?
“I don’t think that’s in his plans.”
“Might be, if there was sufficient motivation.” He piled the tortillas high with filling, added a dollop of sauce to each, and deftly folded them over.
“Like what?” She laid her money on the counter and sent him a wary look.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He wrapped the tacos in white paper and slipped them in a brown bag. “I suppose it would help if he had a personal reason to stay.” He met her gaze as he slid the bag across the counter and picked up the money.
Sheesh.
Now Charley was playing matchmaker.
Should she pretend she didn’t know what he meant . . . or take advantage of the man’s counsel, which had proven wise in the past?
She checked over her shoulder. For once there was no line behind her.
Why not see what he had to say?
“I tried to give him one.” She kept her voice low, in case someone appeared. “But I don’t want to put too much pressure on him. I’d rather he make his decision based on what he wants rather than what I want.”
“Do you think he’s clear about what you want, though?”
She opened her mouth to reply in the affirmative.
Closed it.
Maybe not.
Yes, she’d been upfront about her attraction to him, but she’d never admitted that the notion of marriage had begun to creep into her thoughts—assuming all continued to go well.
Nor had she admitted it to herself . . . until now. Marriage was a gigantic step—and it was much too soon to suggest to him that was where she hoped they might be heading.
Besides, you could scare a man off by bringing up the M word this early in a relationship.
“Because a man would have to have a powerful reason to rethink the dream of his youth. And there’s nothing as powerful as a human connection.” Charley picked up on his previous comment as if there’d been no gap in the conversation, then eased sideways to greet some new arrivals. “Be with you in a minute, folks.”
BJ grabbed the bag and her change and took a step back. “Thanks for the food . . . and the food for thought.”
He offered her a mock salute, his grin back in place. “No charge for the latter.”
Bag in hand, BJ wandered back to her truck and swung up into the driver’s seat. A lot of what Charley had said made sense—but what if she told Eric she was thinking long term about them, he changed his life for her . . . and the relationship fell apart?
That would add to the boatload of guilt she already carried.
Dodging the traffic on Dockside Drive, she kept a firm grip on the wheel—and her emotions. She needed to make the correct call on this . . . whatever that turned out to be.
And since she was clueless about how to proceed, she’d better put some heavy-duty prayer at the top of her priority list until she got the direction she needed.
23
“What’s going on with you and BJ?”
Eric set his laptop on the kitchen table and plugged it in while he responded to his father. “What do you mean?”
“She’s skipped out on my breakfasts three days in a row.” He pushed a button on the dishwasher, folded his arms, and leaned back against the counter. “I don’t think my culinary skills are the culprit. Luis and Stone haven’t had a problem polishing off any of the food I’ve made.”
“Why do you think it has anything to do with me? I haven’t even seen her for five days.” Eric busied himself powering up the laptop.
Silence.
When he slid a glance toward the sink, his father was watching him with the let’s-cut-the-bull look he’d employed whenever his wayward son had tried to finagle out of responsibility for some transgression. The look that said he knew exactly what was going on whether Eric admitted it or not.
Not.
He turned his attention to his email. “After I finish with this, I’m going to go over to . . .”
His phone began to vibrate.
Saved by the buzz!
He pulled out the cell . . . hesitated over the unfamiliar name on the screen . . . pressed talk. Better to converse with a stranger than play bob-and-weave with his dad.
“Eric Nash?”
“Yes.”
“Carol Richter.”
As she named the company she represented, his eyebrows rose. Everyone in the legal business had heard of that top-notch recruiting firm.
“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to discuss an opportunity with you. I spoke with an attorney at your previous firm who wasn’t interested in making a move, but he gave me your name and number.”
“Yes. I have time.” He checked on his father, who’d gone back to puttering around the kitchen.
He listened as she described a partner-track position at one of the premier law firms in Seattle. A firm larger and more prestigious than the one he’d been affiliated with in Portland.
“Only top-tier candidates are being considered. I can tell you that the salary and benefits are commensurate with or better than those at your previous firm—and this is a fast-track position. The expectation is that whoever is put in this job will be made partner in six to twelve months.”
As she concluded, Eric leaned back in his chair, nerves thrumming. This was exactly what he’d worked to achieve all these years. “I’m interested.”
“Excellent. I’ll email you some additional information. They’d like to fill this ASAP. Assuming you find the material to your liking, would you be available to interview on Monday?”
That was fast.
But he had no commitments that would prevent him from taking a trip to Seattle.
“Yes.”
“Good. Expect my email in the next twenty minutes. If you could get back to me by noon tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”
“No problem.”
After they said their good-byes, Eric slipped the phone back in his pocket.
“That was a very one-sided conversation.”
Keeping his face averted, Eric tapped a finger against the polished oak table. Unless the info
rmation the woman sent contained some unacceptable fine print, he was going on this interview. Since his dad would soon find that out anyway, why keep it a secret?
He swiveled around. “It was a recruiter.”
“Ah.” His father strolled over, mug of coffee in hand, and took a seat. “I’m not surprised. Someone with your experience and skill wasn’t going to languish for long. Is the job a fit?”
“Yeah.” He told him about the firm and the fast track to partner.
“Sounds like everything you always wanted.” His father sipped his coffee, watching him with that discerning gaze of his.
Eric tried not to squirm. His dad was right about this job dovetailing perfectly with his goals, but now that the initial ego-boost excitement was dissipating, he wasn’t as thrilled as he should be. As he wanted to be.
Which was more than a little disconcerting.
“I think it has potential.” He tried to inject a healthy dose of enthusiasm into his response.
“I guess you’ll be doing the interview.”
“Yes—unless I find a deal breaker in the material she’s sending, which is doubtful.”
“Well . . .” His father rose. “It’s been nice having you around, even if the visit was shorter than I hoped.”
“I haven’t been offered the job yet.”
“You will be. They’d be crazy not to grab you—and that’s not just your father talking. You’re smart and practical and articulate, you have excellent credentials and experience, and your work ethic is second to none. My guess is, by this time next week you’ll have an offer.”
“That might be ambitious.”
“I don’t think so.” He smiled, but there was a touch of melancholy in it. “At least Seattle isn’t as far away as New York or Chicago, where you could have ended up. Maybe you can get home a little more often in the future. There will always be a room for you at Seabird Inn.”
“Dad . . . it’s not a done deal.” He fought back an odd surge of panic.
“Only a matter of time.” He rinsed his mug and set it in the sink. “I need to run a few errands. Will you be home this afternoon?”
“No.” If his stay here was coming to a close, he needed to put as many hours as possible into his painting or he wouldn’t finish it before he left.
“I’ll see you later this evening, then.” His father headed for the attached garage.
Once he left, silence descended in the house . . . until the usual commotion began upstairs.
No wonder his dad ran a lot of errands during the day.
He powered down his laptop, closed the lid, and carried it toward the living room to stow with the rest of his stuff.
At the foot of the stairs, however, he paused. BJ would be up there by now. Should he tell her about the call?
No. Why not wait until he reviewed the material the recruiter sent . . . in case this fell through?
Fat chance, Nash.
Yeah, yeah. He knew that.
Nevertheless, he continued to the living room, grabbed his jacket, and ducked out to spend the day painting. Later, after the house was quiet and BJ was gone, he’d tackle some of the legal work he’d taken on and review the material the recruiter was sending. He could tell BJ about the interview in a day or two.
Coward.
He slid behind the wheel of the BMW and jabbed the key in the ignition.
Okay, fine. He didn’t want to have a discussion that would prove her fears were valid . . . and cause her to back off even farther. Besides, a lot of pieces had to fall into place before he walked away from Hope Harbor. An excellent interview. A firm offer on the table. Agreeable terms, including a definitive timeline for partner. Only then would he have to make a decision about whether to accept the job.
And until that moment arrived, he wanted to hold on to the pipe dream that he could have it all.
No matter how foolish or unrealistic that was.
“Let’s call it a wrap for today, guys.” BJ pulled off her baseball cap and swiped the sleeve of her T-shirt across her forehead. It was downright stuffy in John’s upstairs—and she had places to go on this sunny Friday afternoon.
Stone and Luis began to collect their tools and clean up while she evaluated the status of the job. All that remained were a few finishing touches. They ought to wrap up by the end of next week, assuming the plumber stuck to the schedule he’d laid out. The painters could move in after that, still allowing John ample time to decorate and furnish the rooms in advance of his projected opening.
“It’s coming along nice.” Stone gave the room a cursory sweep, picked up his lunch pail, and headed for the door.
“Yeah, it is.”
“See you Monday.” He lifted a hand in farewell.
She waited until his footsteps sounded on the stairs, then crossed to Luis. “Everything going okay at Eleanor’s?”
“So far, so well.” He twisted his wrist to check his watch. “Do you need me to do anything else?”
“No. We’re done. You in a hurry?”
“Eleanor . . . she is making arroz con pollo—rice and chicken—tonight. She goes to much trouble for our meals. I do not want to be late, and I promise to stop at the market on the way home. She needs groceries, and there is some medicine to pick up.”
It appeared they were both trying hard to make a success of their new living arrangement.
If the setup continued to work well, she should have no problem convincing the Helping Hands board that the companion program would be an excellent addition to the organization’s services.
“I won’t keep you. Go ahead and enjoy your dinner.”
“I am sure I will.”
He took off too, leaving her alone in the suite.
She wandered over to the window that offered a panoramic view of the harbor and distant horizon, thanks to the house’s hilltop location. John’s guests would enjoy their stay here. It was a perfect setting for relaxation, rejuvenation—and romance.
Sighing, she turned away from the picturesque vista.
As far as she could see, there was no romance on her horizon. She’d been clear about the kind of relationship she wanted—and didn’t want—and Eric had apparently decided the demanding partner track was more appealing than a less-stressful life in Hope Harbor . . . and an architect who called the town home.
On the other hand, she’d never told him directly about the depth of her feelings.
“A man would have to have a powerful reason to rethink the dream of his youth. And there’s nothing as powerful as a human connection.”
As Charley’s words echoed in her mind, she massaged the sudden throb above the bridge of her nose.
Maybe she ought to be honest. Tell him that despite their short acquaintance, she was falling in love with him. That she wanted to give their relationship a chance, to tap the potential she was certain it held.
But what if he gave up everything and the two of them fizzled?
She was back to square one.
Huffing out a breath, she flipped off the light in the suite and trudged down the corridor. Perhaps the brief, spur-of-the-moment getaway she’d planned would bring her some clarity—and help her build up the courage to bare her heart. Besides, why rush the process?
After all, what could happen to change the status quo in a mere handful of days?
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
At the out-of-the-blue question, Eric angled away from his easel to find Charley watching him, paintbrush in hand. He had a feeling the man had been observing him for a while. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been painting like you’re in some kind of race for the past two days. What gives?”
“What time is it?”
“Close to four-thirty. I’m getting ready to mosey over to the wharf and cook for the Friday night crowd. Where’s your watch?”
“I took it off last night and forgot to put it back on.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
�
��I have a lot on my mind.”
“I’m picking that up. I’ll repeat my earlier question. What gives?”
Steeling himself, he set his brush in the container of solvent beside him. He couldn’t put off telling Charley about his trip any longer.
“I have an interview Monday with a law firm in Seattle. I’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning, driving to my condo in Portland, and continuing to Seattle Sunday.”
“You apply for this job?”
“No.” He gave Charley a condensed version of how it had come about. “On paper, the position appears to be tailor-made. I was trying to finish this by today”—he tapped the edge of his canvas—“but I’m not going to make it.”
“Hmm.” His mentor twirled his brush between his fingers. “You planning to leave another unfinished painting to clutter up my studio?”
“I don’t have the job yet.”
“You will.”
“I wish I was as certain of that as you and my dad are.”
“Are you?”
He furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think about it.” He stood. “So are you going to finish that or not?” He waved toward the canvas.
“I hope so.”
“Me too.” He cleaned his brush in some solvent. “I’m going to take a shower and go feed some folks. If I don’t see you before you leave, have a safe trip.”
“Aren’t you going to wish me luck?”
Charley ambled over to the turntable and lifted the needle, shutting off the mellow jazz strains of Stan Getz. “Luck is an overrated commodity. I’ll wish you success at finding your destiny instead. Turn off the lights and lock up as usual when you leave.”
Without waiting for a reply, he walked out of the studio, closing the door with a soft click behind him.
Silence descended—and all at once the air in the studio felt flat, as if every volt of energy had been sucked out of the room.
Eric examined his painting again . . . picked up the brush . . . put it back. The motivation to finish was gone. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to manage that, no matter how late he worked tonight—and he had a lot of driving ahead of him in the next two days, plus some prep work for the Seattle meetings. Better reserve some stamina for that.