Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  And for breaking the news to BJ about the interview.

  He couldn’t put it off any longer.

  Perhaps he could catch her at the house before she closed up shop for the day.

  But by the time he cleaned up at the studio and got home, her truck was already gone from the street in front. So was Stone’s rattletrap car. He did manage to snag Luis as the man was climbing on his motorbike.

  “Hey, Luis!” He opened his window and waved at him as he pulled up.

  “Hello, Eric.” He left the bike and crossed to the car.

  “How’s it going?” Based on appearances, Eric could guess the answer. In the week he’d been at Eleanor’s, Luis’s eyes had lost some of their sadness. He’d also been upbeat in the exchanges Eric had initiated every couple of days.

  “Things are . . . better.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Not unexpected—but it was reassuring to have it affirmed. “I take it everyone’s gone for the day?” He motioned toward the house.

  “Yes—but I forget my wallet and had to come back.” He patted his back pocket. “I think BJ had someplace to go. She said we should all get an early start on our weekend.”

  That was out-of-pattern behavior. As far as he could tell on the days he’d been around at quitting time, she was always the last one out the door.

  “Thanks. Tell Eleanor I said hello.”

  “I will be happy to.” With a wave, he hurried back to his motorbike.

  Resting his hands on the steering wheel, Eric watched Luis rev the engine and roll down the street. Why not swing by BJ’s, see if he could catch her at home? She might have stopped there before setting out for wherever she was going this evening—and the news he had was best delivered in person.

  He put the car in gear and wove through the town toward Sea Rose Lane . . . but a hundred yards down her street he slowed.

  Her truck wasn’t in the driveway.

  She must already be gone . . . or might she have swung by Charley’s for dinner?

  Reversing direction, he returned to the center of town and drove down Dockside Drive, scanning the parked vehicles.

  BJ’s truck wasn’t among them.

  As he passed the taco stand, the aroma of grilling fish wafted into the car, and his stomach rumbled. No surprise, since he’d painted through lunch instead of stopping to eat.

  But he wasn’t up for another go-round with Charley, much as he loved the man’s tacos.

  Too bad his dad was meeting a friend for dinner. Otherwise, the two of them could have shared a pizza.

  He turned the corner and accelerated toward Main Street. The café wasn’t a bad option for solo dining. After he grabbed a bite, he’d swing by BJ’s again.

  Unfortunately, when he once again rolled down Sea Rose Lane an hour later, there was still no sign of her truck.

  He pulled into her driveway, letting the engine idle while he tapped her number into his cell. If he could find out when she’d be home, they might be able to . . .

  The call rolled to voicemail.

  It figured.

  “BJ, it’s Eric. I’d like to see you tonight . . . or first thing in the morning. Let me know which would work better for you.”

  Message sent, he pocketed the phone, backed out of her driveway, and steered the BMW toward home. Only if they couldn’t connect before he left town would he resort to passing on his news by phone.

  But he’d rather see her face, touch her hand, reassure her that . . . what? He wasn’t getting ready to leave Hope Harbor behind?

  Frowning, he stopped at the end of the street, verified there was no traffic either direction, and pulled out. What was he going to tell her, beyond the fact that he’d scheduled a promising interview? That was no reassurance. She’d made her position clear. The life he was pursuing was the kind of life she’d left behind and no longer wanted.

  Nor did she want to get involved with a man who did.

  However, this whole trip north could be a bust, no matter what his dad or Charley thought. He might have excellent credentials, but it was a given that everyone else Carol Richter had tapped for interviews did too. It was possible he’d be back in a few days with nothing on his agenda except finishing up the legal work he’d taken on and completing the painting waiting for him in Charley’s studio.

  And that was fine with him.

  While the job in Seattle sounded perfect, the timing wasn’t. If his hand hadn’t been forced, he’d have taken another week or two to think about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. To weigh his options. So no matter what happened in the next few days, this was not a done deal. He still had decisions to make.

  All of which he needed to tell BJ before he left—or he had a feeling one of the options he was weighing might no longer exist.

  24

  Getting away for twenty-four hours had been an inspired idea.

  BJ stepped out of the yurt she’d managed to snag in Sunset Bay State Park thanks to a last-minute cancellation and lifted her face to the sunny blue sky above. The small, domed, canvas-wrapped structure might be spartan, but how better to disconnect from the world and clear the clutter from your mind than to spend a peaceful night nestled among old-growth forest?

  She strolled down the short path from the campground to a sandy beach protected by towering sea cliffs, energy bar in one hand, bottle of water in the other. One last look at the view and she’d be ready to dive back into the real world.

  But her day off the grid had been profitable.

  With no electronics or house chores or work obligations or calls from Helping Hands to field, she’d had plenty of uninterrupted hours to think . . . and pray . . . and reflect on what Charley had said to her last Saturday about Eric.

  And the counsel of Hope Harbor’s resident sage had been wise, as always.

  If a certain handsome attorney was searching for a compelling reason to stay, why not give him one?

  While she might not be able to offer any guarantees their friendship would blossom into something deeper, every instinct in her body told her it was headed that direction. He needed to factor her conviction into his decision . . . assuming he returned her feelings.

  Given the warmth that filled his sable brown eyes whenever they were together, plus that comment he’d made about her heart not being the only one at risk, she was confident he did.

  Emerging onto the beach, she scanned the expanse of sea and sky and forest, letting the tranquility seep into her. She’d promised Eric honesty, and she’d keep that promise, trusting that if they were meant to be together, God would pave the way.

  After soaking up the calm for a few minutes and washing down the energy bar with her water, she returned to her yurt, packed up her sleeping bag and the few other items she’d brought, and pointed her car toward home . . . and Eric . . . feeling more relaxed than she had in weeks.

  Unfortunately, her newfound serenity was short-lived.

  Less than five minutes after she drove out of the park and powered up her cell, it rang—and a quick glance at the screen on the passenger seat goosed her pulse.

  Why was Eleanor calling?

  She let the call roll to voicemail as she maneuvered a curve on the two-lane road. Should she return the call now or wait until she got home?

  Now.

  If there was an issue with her prototype companion arrangement, better to deal with it than worry for the whole drive.

  As soon as she found a spot to pull off, she called Eleanor, who gave her a cheery greeting.

  That was a positive sign.

  She hoped.

  “Hi, Eleanor. What’s up?”

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  “No. I was out of town last night, but I’m on my way back now. What can I do for you?”

  “Luis and I were wondering if you might have a few minutes to stop by this afternoon. We have a matter to discuss with you.”

  Her stomach clenched. “Is there a problem?”

  “I
don’t think so . . . but we’d like to talk with you in person.”

  That wasn’t too comforting.

  “I should be back in town in about forty minutes. Why don’t I swing by your place before I go home?”

  “That would be perfect. We’ll see you then.”

  The line went dead.

  BJ blew out a breath.

  So much for her peace of mind.

  And since it was evaporating as rapidly as the cloud of billowing mist that had enveloped her car a few moments ago, she might as well check the rest of her voicemails in case anything else urgent had come up.

  When she tapped the icon, half a dozen messages popped up.

  Four of them were from Eric.

  The knot in her stomach tightened. Why had he been trying so hard to reach her?

  More negative vibes began to swirl around her as she listened to the first message.

  He’d wanted to see her last night . . . or first thing this morning.

  The next two messages, one left much later last night, one early this morning, were similar.

  The fourth message explained the reason for his calls.

  He’d left this morning for a job interview in Seattle. Not one he’d sought, but the position met every criteria he’d hoped to find at a new firm.

  And no matter how much he’d downplayed his chances in the message, no matter his assurance he’d be back soon, he was going to get the job.

  Meaning his return to Hope Harbor would be brief.

  She gripped the top of the steering wheel, rested her forehead against her knuckles, and slowly exhaled. This was the outcome she’d expected all along. It was what he’d said from the beginning he was going to do. Hope Harbor’s many charms might have caused him to waffle a bit while he was home, but the fact that he’d bolted for Seattle the instant he had a made-to-order opportunity told her everything she needed to know about his priorities.

  Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she sent him a quick text, tossed the phone back on the seat, and tried to prepare for whatever crisis awaited her at Eleanor’s.

  Just got your messages. Good luck.

  Eric toweled his hair dry and frowned at the cryptic text from BJ that had come in while he was in the shower. Why hadn’t she seen his messages until now—almost twenty-four hours after he’d sent the first one?

  Whatever the reason, they needed to talk, not exchange texts.

  Pressing his lips together, he called her number.

  It rolled to voicemail—again.

  Was she tied up . . . or avoiding him?

  Cell in hand, he prowled barefoot through the condo, eyeing the beige-toned contemporary furnishings that had once seemed stylish but now struck him as bland and anonymous. There wasn’t one item in this place that reflected his personality—perhaps because he’d spent too little time here to ever put his stamp on it.

  He crossed the granite and steel kitchen, the tile chilling his bare feet as he set his cell on the counter. Nothing in this room was warm or welcoming, either. It was night and day from BJ’s kitchen, with its geometric art prints, framed prayer of St. Francis, and warm gray-blue walls that coordinated with the view of the sea out the window. Nor was it anything like the house where he’d grown up, filled with touches that reflected the people who lived there . . . like woodland fairy napkin rings.

  If he got the job in Seattle, he’d be leaving this place—but not the lifestyle it represented—behind.

  Was that what he wanted?

  Sighing, he grasped the handle of the refrigerator, where he’d stowed the takeout meal he’d picked up from his favorite . . .

  His phone began to vibrate against the granite on the countertop across the room.

  Another text from BJ?

  He raced over . . . snatched it up . . . and stared at the name of the sender.

  Charley was texting him?

  The man who eschewed all modern electronics?

  Major disconnect.

  Last he’d heard, the Hope Harbor artist was still using one of those throwaway, pay-by-the-minute cell phones. Archaic—but consistent with his preference for face-to-face social interactions.

  If he’d resorted to texting, the message must be important.

  Eric scrolled through the short paragraph.

  I sent a photo of your work-in-progress to one of my galleries yesterday. They’d like to see the piece when (if) it’s finished. They get big bucks for paintings.

  Eric’s jaw dropped.

  A high-end gallery wanted to see—and attempt to sell—his painting?

  He read Charley’s note again to verify his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him.

  They hadn’t.

  Wow.

  He stood there open-mouthed until the cold permeating the bottom of his feet became uncomfortable. Setting the phone on the counter, he snapped his jaw closed and gave the room a blank scan. Why had he come out to the kitchen again?

  Oh yeah.

  He was going to nuke the takeout he’d picked up at his favorite Chinese place and prep for Monday’s interview while he ate.

  But he wasn’t hungry anymore.

  After grabbing his laptop, he moved into the living room, dropped into the leather chair in front of the TV where he reviewed case files during the rare waking hours he wasn’t in the office, and powered up.

  He needed to forget about Charley’s text and focus on the interview.

  Except no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t.

  A high-end gallery wanted to see his painting—if he finished it, as Charley had been quick to point out.

  Wouldn’t it be a kick if they offered to display it?

  And if they liked this one . . . if they sold it . . . might they be interested in others?

  He entered his password at the prompt and went back to daydreaming.

  An appropriate term.

  Because that’s all this was. Selling art was a hit-or-miss proposition. There was zero security in it . . . even for an accomplished and respected artist like Charley, if the confidences his mentor had shared about his income were true. He might make enough from his painting to provide the kind of life he wanted, but he had the taco stand to supplement those earnings, and that business was steady and reliable.

  A law practice in Hope Harbor could be too.

  Eric tapped a finger against the keyboard as that thought flashed through his mind.

  Could it?

  Perhaps.

  If the gallery did take his paintings and made an occasional sale, there might be sufficient legal work in Hope Harbor to pick up the slack in income. Not that any of the jobs he’d done in his hometown had generated the kind of money he was used to—but if he had enough of them, the revenue could add up to a tidy sum.

  Plus, according to Steve Davis, the town’s previous attorney had been on retainer with the city. It was possible he could negotiate a similar arrangement. A few of the law firms in Coos Bay and Eugene might be interested in sending overflow jobs to an attorney with his credentials too.

  It would be a balancing act, but it might work.

  There wouldn’t be any high-profile cases or huge settlements in a Hope Harbor practice, but working one-on-one with the residents these past couple of weeks had been a lot more enjoyable than most of what he’d done in the world of corporate law.

  The cursor blinked at him, and he summoned up all of his powers of concentration. Despite the intriguing dual-career option beginning to take shape in his mind, he was going on the interview. A life-altering decision like this shouldn’t be made on the fly.

  Besides, the whole gallery thing could fall through. They might hate the finished piece. Or they could take it, only to have it languish.

  Yet if that happened, there were other galleries—and life in Hope Harbor had a lot to recommend it.

  Not the least of which was a lovely architect who was fast stealing his heart.

  Luis had been busy.

  After shutting off the engine of her tr
uck, BJ examined the walkway leading to Eleanor’s front door.

  The once-rippling stepping-stones had been reset to provide a flat path for visitors instead of an ankle-threatening obstacle course. There was some new wood on the front steps too, where rotted boards had been replaced.

  And if the sound of hammering in the back was any indication, Luis was busy on another project this Saturday afternoon.

  She climbed out of the car, dusting off some grains of sand clinging to the hem of her jeans. It would have been better to detour to the house first and shower, but waiting any longer to find out what was going on wasn’t an option. Another half hour would have pushed her blood pressure into the danger zone.

  Pulse picking up, she climbed the refurbished steps and sent a silent plea heavenward.

  Please, Lord, if this is a glitch, help me find a way to smooth it out.

  It took two rings to summon Eleanor, who cracked the door a mere three inches.

  “Hello, my dear. Methuselah is being a nuisance today, and I’m afraid if I open the door any farther he’ll scoot out. Hang on while I divert his attention.” She shut the door.

  Half a minute later, her muffled voice came through the wood. “The coast is clear, but make it fast.”

  BJ inched open the door, sidled through, and clicked it shut behind her.

  Somehow Eleanor had herded the headstrong cat into the living room, and when BJ entered, he arched his back and gave her an indignant glare.

  “Sorry, Methuselah.” BJ bent down to ruffle his ear. “But we can’t have you roaming the streets.”

  The cat turned his back, padded to his favorite rug in the sun, and coiled into a ball.

  “Goodness. What rude behavior. He’s been out of sorts all week. I think he’s miffed about having to share me with Luis.”

  “Is that a problem?” Eleanor couldn’t be rethinking the agreement based on her cat’s disposition—could she?

  “Maybe for him. Not for me. Have a seat and I’ll let Luis know you’re here. He’s building a ramp from the back door to the patio so I can get out there more easily with my walker. He’s a treasure.”

  BJ’s spirits lifted. If the arrangement wasn’t working out, Eleanor wouldn’t be praising the man—would she?