by Irene Hannon
Seconds after the older woman disappeared, the hammering outside stopped.
Less than a minute later, both of them joined her in the living room.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why we asked you to come here today.” A flush rose on Eleanor’s cheeks as she lowered herself into her recliner.
“Yes.” The word hitched slightly.
Eleanor looked over at Luis, who perched on the edge of a chair and gestured for her to continue.
“Well . . .” She folded her hands in her lap. “As anyone in town will tell you, I’m not an impulsive person. And as Luis and I have discussed, he isn’t, either. But during dinner last night, we both agreed our first week together has far surpassed our expectations. He has been a great blessing in my life already.”
“And Eleanor in mine.” Luis gave the older woman a gentle smile. “She has made me feel very welcome . . . and needed.”
His hostess’s color deepened. “I’ve felt needed too . . . for the first time in a very long while. So we wanted you to know that even though we’ve only been at this a week, we’d like to adjust the legal agreement to make our arrangement permanent—or as permanent as anything can be when one of the parties is eighty-eight years old.”
Methuselah lifted his head and gave a loud meow that sounded like a protest.
“I will win him over yet.” Luis rose to stroke the grumpy feline’s back.
“I have no doubt of that. You won me over by day two.” A twinkle sparked in Eleanor’s blue irises. “So what do you think, BJ?”
Think?
She was still trying to come to grips with this unexpected turn of events. Best case, she’d hoped they’d agree to an extension at the end of four weeks. The Helping Hands board wouldn’t be satisfied with a model that didn’t last several months, since the companion arrangements weren’t intended to be short-term.
But this . . . this was a gift from heaven.
“I think . . . I don’t know what to think. I’m stunned—but also thrilled. This has worked out better than I could ever have imagined.”
“We feel the same, don’t we, Luis?”
“Yes. God has been good.”
Eleanor pulled her walker close and stood. “I think this calls for a celebration. BJ, will you stay and have some fudge cake—or pastelitos—or both?”
“Both.” She rose too. No counting calories today.
Half an hour later, after sharing laughter and hugs, she said her good-byes, patted a still-sulking Methuselah, and retraced her route down the pristine pathway to her truck.
Yet as she climbed behind the wheel and waved to the two people in the doorway who’d found renewed purpose in life, a wave of melancholy washed over her.
This had been a day of surprises.
Some good.
Some bad.
But she wasn’t going to let the bad dim her joy for Eleanor and Luis. Their story appeared to be on track for a happy ending.
Even if hers wasn’t.
25
Man, was he beat.
Rotating his shoulders, Eric exited the high-rise Seattle office building where he’d just spent six intense hours. All he wanted to do after the grueling day of back-to-back interviews was return to Portland as fast as possible and crash at his condo.
Instead, he was stuck here for two more nights.
Clenching the handle of the overnight bag he’d retrieved from his car in the underground parking garage, he moved toward the curb. What could he have done except agree when one of the senior partners asked him to stay in town and meet with the head honcho over dinner tomorrow night, after the man returned from meetings on the East Coast?
As it was now, best case, he’d pull into Hope Harbor Wednesday afternoon—unless he wanted to drive straight through for eight hours after the dinner.
Not a smart idea.
He peered through the fog, searching for a cab as he tried to get a handle on his unsettled emotions. He should be elated. Exhilarated. Euphoric. The request to extend his stay meant he’d aced the interview.
But disappointment trumped all those positive emotions—for one simple reason.
He didn’t want to delay his return to Hope Harbor . . . and BJ.
A cab emerged from the mist, veering to the curb after he lifted his hand. He slid into the backseat, gave the address of the nearby hotel where the firm was putting him up, and leaned back against the cushions to check his messages. Maybe doing a routine chore would take the edge off his frustration.
There were only two texts. One from his dad, and one from BJ, sent midafternoon.
Pulse picking up, he clicked on hers.
I miss you. A lot.
His throat tightened. In light of her recent withdrawal—and reticence—those five words spoke volumes.
Mood brightening, he tapped in a reply.
Ditto. Home Wednesday.
Finger poised over the send button, he zoomed in on the word home. An interesting choice. He could have said back. Or will return. Or see you on. But he’d instinctively chosen home.
Telling.
And food for thought.
The cab braked, and he braced himself as the car stopped inches short of clipping a bus that was pulling out from the curb.
Close call.
And the very reason he’d left his car in the office building garage instead of trying to drive through pea soup in an unfamiliar town.
While the cabbie muttered under his breath, swerved around the bus, and picked up speed, Eric leaned back again.
Brakes were a valuable asset—on cars and in life.
Was it time to put the brakes on a career that had taken on a life of its own, leading him to a destination that no longer held the appeal it once had?
Perhaps.
Being plunged back into the frenetic world of high-stakes law for even one day had been a potent reminder of what awaited him if he was offered—and took—this job. Was that how he wanted to spend his days . . . and evenings . . . and weekends . . . and holidays for the foreseeable future?
The cab pulled up in front of the hotel six blocks from the law offices. After paying the bill, he stepped into the swirling fog that hid the tops of the high-rises around him and reduced street visibility. It was impossible to see very far ahead.
He could relate.
But that was no excuse for procrastination. Life didn’t guarantee outcomes. In the end, you had to make your choices based on the information at hand . . . and trust your heart.
Ducking inside, he crossed the elegant lobby toward the registration desk, fingered the cell containing BJ’s message—and made a decision.
No matter the outcome of tomorrow’s dinner, before he returned to Hope Harbor on Wednesday he was going to sweep away the fog hanging over his future.
And by the time he passed the welcome sign at the edge of town, he would know exactly what road he intended to follow in the days—and years—to come.
Still no message from Eric.
His three-word response to her text two days ago had been reassuring, but she’d hoped for more.
Quashing her disappointment, BJ tucked her phone back in her pocket and descended the stairs in John’s house.
Her client met her at the bottom.
“I peeked into the suites while you were loading some stuff in your truck. They look ready to decorate.”
“Close. We’ll be out of your hair by the end of the week, taking our mess with us.”
“The mess has been worth the payoff. And to tell you the truth, I’m going to miss you and the crew. You livened things up around here.”
“We’ll miss you too—not to mention your gourmet breakfasts. That was a great perk.”
“You have an open invitation to drop by for breakfast any morning.”
“Thanks.” She fiddled with a hammer on her tool belt. Would John have any idea about the timing of Eric’s return today? His son was staying here, after all—and the day was winding down. “Um . . . I guess it’s bee
n quiet around the house, with Eric gone.” Not the smoothest transition—but it was the best she could come up with.
“Yes . . . after you all leave for the day, anyway.” He grinned. “But I’ve gotten used to being on my own. Besides, I don’t expect he’ll be around much longer.”
So they were on the same page in their assumptions: Eric would be offered—and accept—the position in Seattle.
No need for further discussion.
“Well . . .” She pulled out her keys. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Eggs Florentine are on the menu. Don’t be late.”
“I won’t. See you then.”
She pushed through the front door into a heavy gray overcast that was a perfect match for her mood.
But letting the weather get her down was ridiculous. Had she really expected her five-word message to change Eric’s mind? Maybe the three-word message she’d been tempted to write would have had an impact . . . but it was too soon to throw the L word around—no matter what Charley might think.
Once behind the wheel, she switched on the wipers . . . for all the good they did in this soup. Visibility maxed out at fifty feet, with or without them. Fortunately, she didn’t have far to go. And once she got home, she was going to put on some mellow music, change into her sweats, and try to chill.
At the main intersection in town, however, she hesitated. Her cupboards needed restocking, and she wasn’t in the mood to grocery shop or prepare a meal. Tacos would be tasty—but there wasn’t much chance Charley’s would be open. The man was a literal fair-weather chef; if the sun didn’t shine, he didn’t cook.
She continued straight on, toward home. A can of soup or a scrambled egg would have to suffice—and either would satisfy her meager appetite . . . fallout from Eric’s voicemail Saturday about the interview.
Eight minutes later, after pulling onto Sea Rose Lane, she slowed as she guided the truck through the thick fog. This was the biggest downside to her seaside cottage; it might be sunny half a mile inland, but shore property tended to catch all the clouds.
On the flip side, there was nowhere else she’d rather be on a sunny day—and the fog often passed over quickly. In another few minutes it might—
She jammed on her brakes.
Why was there a car in the driveway of the vacant house next to hers?
And why did it remind her of Eric’s BMW?
Hard as she tried, she couldn’t get a clear read on the car through the swirling mist. No way could it be his, however. If he’d come to see her, his car would be parked at her house.
She accelerated again and pulled into her driveway, the house and car next door vanishing into the mist. The owner of the house must have finally found someone to . . .
All at once, a person cradling a huge bouquet of red roses in one arm and gripping a white shopping bag in his other hand materialized out of the fog.
It was Eric.
Ten feet from the truck, he stopped and smiled.
Heart racing, she fumbled with the handle, pushed the door open, and slid to the ground, clinging to the edge for support.
“Hi.” His smiled broadened.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet your new neighbor?”
Her voice deserted her.
“A ‘welcome to Sea Rose Lane’ would be nice.”
“You . . .” The word wobbled, and she tried again. “You rented that house?” She waved toward the structure, one corner of which was now visible through the evaporating mist.
“Uh-huh.”
“Why?”
“I like the location. It has excellent proximity.”
“To what?”
“You.” He closed the distance between them and held out the vase of flowers. “If I’m going to court the most beautiful woman in Hope Harbor, I figured I’d keep the commute short.”
She stared into the mass of perfect crimson buds, trying to digest his news.
“The florist removed the thorns. You won’t get hurt if you take them. I promise.”
A ray of sun peeked through the mist, illuminating the bouquet as she looked at him across the velvet expanse.
His husky promise was for more than roses.
“Does this mean . . . are you staying?”
“Yes.”
Joy bubbled up inside her, so intense her heart began to ache.
She took the flowers, burying her face in the sweet fragrance, trying to stem the tears brimming on her lower lashes.
“Hey.” He nudged aside the blossoms and lifted her chin with a gentle finger. “I didn’t intend to make you cry.”
“Th-they’re happy tears.” More wisps of fog dissipated, and a few patches of blue sky appeared as she swiped her eyes on the sleeve of her T-shirt. “When did you . . . what made you decide?”
“Aside from the text you sent, about missing me?”
She blinked. “You mean . . . that’s part of the reason?”
“A big part. I’ve gotten pretty proficient at reading between the lines during my legal career, and it wasn’t hard to translate your message. But there are other reasons.” He scanned the rapidly clearing sky. “Why don’t we continue this on the patio? I picked up a picnic dinner for us at a gourmet shop in Coos Bay on my way in. I can’t think of a better place to enjoy it.” Without waiting for her to respond, he took her hand, closed the truck door, and led her around the side of the house.
“Everything will be wet from the mist.”
He stopped beside the table, pulled a huge handful of paper napkins from the bag, and dried the table and chairs.
The man had thought of everything.
She sat, placing the bouquet on the far side of the table as he scooted his chair closer to hers and set the bag beside him.
“Would you like to eat or talk? I know you put in a full day of physical labor, and I’m sure you’re starving.”
Was he kidding?
Food was at the bottom of her priority list.
“I can wait to eat. Tell me . . . everything.”
“Okay . . . but I’ll start with the most important thing.” He wove his fingers through hers, his touch strong but gentle. “After a lot of thought and prayer—and more sleepless nights than I care to count—I realized that losing my job was a blessing, not a disaster. It brought me back to this town, to the roots and values that shaped me. It showed me how messed up my priorities had become, and reminded me of all I’ve given up in pursuit of my career goals. Most importantly, it led me to you.”
“But . . .” BJ took a steadying breath and forced herself to voice her greatest fear. “What if we . . . if we fizzle? Will you still be happy here? Will you regret changing course?”
“I have great confidence our future will be rosy—but if I happen to be wrong, I’m not leaving. I was overdue for a course correction . . . and this is where I belong.”
She scrutinized him, searching for any sign of uncertainty, but his eyes were steady and filled with conviction.
The kink in her stomach loosened. “So you’re going to practice law here?”
“Yes.”
She listened as he outlined his plans for expanding the scope of his legal work beyond Hope Harbor.
“And the best part about my new law career is that it will leave me time for my passion. Correction . . . my other passion.” He winked at her. “I haven’t told anyone except my dad and Charley, but I started painting again after I came back. I have one piece almost finished—and Charley took it upon himself to send a photo of it to a gallery that handles some of his work. They’re interested.”
Joy bubbled up inside her. “That’s wonderful, Eric!”
“Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”
“So what will you do if the firm in Seattle offers you the position?”
“I turned it down.”
Past tense?
“You mean . . . they already made a decision?”
“The recruiter called on the drive down here toda
y. I didn’t expect it to happen that fast, but I’d already made up my mind. Saying no was so easy I knew it was the right decision. But here’s the thing, BJ.” He angled toward her and took both her hands, his expression solemn. “I’m not going to be making big bucks anymore. I have a nest egg from my years in Portland, but I’ll be living a modest life from now on. No glamour or glitz. And unless my art takes off, I’ll never be rich or have the kind of financial security I once had.”
She squeezed his hands and met his gaze. “If I’d been after glamour or glitz or wealth, I’d have stayed in a big city. A nice little cottage to call home . . . work that feeds my soul . . . and someone to love is all the security I need.”
“Then I may be your man.” He rose, pulling her to her feet—and into his arms. “Now that I’m back in town, I’m going to try and adopt the slower-paced Hope Harbor vibe. But there’s one part of my life I want to rev into high gear—if the lady’s willing.”
The last tendrils of mist evaporated, and the sun warmed her face as she lifted it to smile at him. “She’s very willing.”
He tightened his grip and bent down.
Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she rose on tiptoe.
Just as his lips touched hers, a loud belch echoed across the water.
Oh, for pity’s sake!
Eric rested his forehead against hers, a chuckle rumbling deep in his chest. “Casper needs to work on his timing.”
“I’ll say.” This was so not funny.
At least Eric was being a good sport about it.
He backed off slightly until he could look down at her. “Since we’re going to be doing a lot of this on your patio, I guess we’d better get used to his rude interruptions.”
“It’s not a problem for me if I’m distracted.” She snuggled closer and draped her arms around his neck.
“In that case . . . get ready for some serious distracting.”
Once more, Eric bent to claim her lips—and the instant he did, the rest of the world faded away. If Casper was still trying to ruin their moment, he was getting nowhere.
For here in Eric’s arms, nothing mattered except them—and the bright and shining future they would create together here in Hope Harbor.