Driftwood Bay

by Irene Hannon

  Not what she wanted to hear.

  Jeannette dredged up a smile. “I’m not surprised your tacos are disappearing.”

  “Thank you. And your shortbread is also a hit. The little girl from the family we’re sponsoring has taken several pieces.” He touched the brim of his Ducks cap. “See you when I get back with my next batch of tacos.”

  No, he wouldn’t. She intended to be long gone before he returned.

  But she didn’t bother to correct him as he moseyed toward the wharf.

  Psyching herself up for the crush of people inside, she pushed through the door.

  Based on the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, it seemed every single person in Hope Harbor had turned out to welcome the Shabo family.

  And that worked to her advantage.

  She could edge through the clusters of people, find the guests of honor, say her piece, and slip away without anyone noticing.

  Tucking her purse against her, Jeannette began to weave through the mob toward the food tables near the front of the room, where she assumed the family was stationed.

  Less than ten feet from her destination, a hush fell over the crowd.

  Pausing, she rose on tiptoe.

  Drat.

  Father Murphy and Reverend Baker had separated from the crowd and were ushering the small family toward the stage.

  Apparently she’d arrived just in time for the official welcome.

  Jeannette cast a longing glance behind her.

  The crowd had surged forward, closing up all of the gaps. Trying to backtrack now would draw too much attention.

  She was stuck.

  Resigned, she refocused on the elevated platform at the end of the room.

  Reverend Baker took the mike first, offered a brief welcome, and handed the program over to Father Murphy.

  In his usual effusive manner, the padre seconded the welcome, offered a prayer, and introduced the family.

  As he talked, Jeannette studied the Shabos, matching up the bios she’d read in the church bulletin to the real people.

  Mariam, the matriarch, was fifty-three . . . but with her gray-streaked hair, lined face, and slightly stooped posture, Jeannette would have put her closer to seventy.

  Understandable, given all she’d been through. The horrors—and losses—she’d endured would exact a huge physical toll on anyone.

  The strain was evident in her son Thomma too. Like his mother, he appeared to be older than his age. The twenty-nine-year-old was far too thin and had a somewhat shell-shocked appearance. He acknowledged his intro with a slight dip of his chin, but unlike his mother, didn’t offer a smile.

  Again, understandable. There hadn’t been much happiness in his life in the past couple of years.

  As she turned her attention to his daughter, Jeannette’s lips curved up. Holding tight to a Raggedy Ann doll and her grandmother’s hand, Elisa was taking everything in with wide eyes.

  Jeannette squinted, scrutinizing the child as an odd sense of déjà vu swept over her.

  She’d never seen the girl before, yet Elisa reminded her of someone . . .

  Wait.

  It was Molly.

  The two children didn’t resemble each other in the least, but both had the same sad, somewhat lost demeanor.

  A sudden burst of applause jolted Jeannette back to reality, and she joined in the hearty welcome the town was giving the family.

  They huddled a bit closer to each other during the ovation, as if they were uncomfortable being in the spotlight. Father Murphy must have sensed that too, because he wrapped up the formalities quickly and let the family blend back into the crowd.

  This was her opportunity to say hello and exit.

  Jeannette worked her way through the crowd, returning greetings but maintaining a steady forward pace.

  As it happened, her timing was ideal. When she broke through the throng, the family was alone except for a fortyish blonde woman she didn’t recognize and Father Murphy.

  “Jeannette! Nice to see you.” The priest beamed at her and moved forward to clasp her hand between his. “Marci said you might come. I’ve already sampled your shortbread—twice—and our guests have had a taste too. Have you met them yet?”

  “No. I was hoping to now.”

  “Come, let me introduce you.” He drew her forward, mentioning that she’d baked the shortbread as he did the formalities. The blonde woman translated as he spoke.

  “Happy to meet you.” Mariam spoke in heavily accented English. “Alkukiz . . .” She looked to the woman the priest had introduced as Susan and raised her eyebrows.

  “The cookies.”

  Mariam nodded. “The cookies good. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Thomma extended his hand too. “Thank you.” The man struggled even with that simple phrase.

  Reverend Baker’s warning to the congregation that the family’s English was rudimentary hadn’t been an exaggeration.

  “My pleasure.” She dropped to one knee, smiled at the girl, and pointed to herself. “Jeannette.” Then she rested her hand on the child’s arm. “Elisa.”

  Elisa’s mouth bowed slightly, and the girl leaned forward to touch her cheek. “Pretty.”

  Warmth radiated through Jeannette. “Thank you.” She gave the child’s fingers a gentle squeeze and stood.

  “There you are!” Marci materialized at her elbow, camera in hand. “I’ve been trying to get photos of everyone who contributed to the Taste of Hope Harbor table. Do you mind if I take a quick shot of you with the family?”

  “No . . . I suppose not.” A photo shouldn’t delay her departure too much.

  Marci took several and zipped off again.

  “She’s a dynamo, isn’t she?” Father Murphy grinned as he watched the redhead plunge back into the crowd.

  “That’s an understatement. Well . . .” Jeannette pulled out her keys. “I was sold out today, and I have another full house tomorrow. I’m ready to call it a night.”

  “It was kind of you to stop by after working all day. And much appreciated. I know the large turnout will help the family feel welcome.”

  “I hope so. After everything they’ve been through, they deserve all the support and compassion we can muster.”

  “I agree. I’m glad God gave us the opportunity to serve him in this way.”

  Reverend Baker beckoned the priest, and Jeannette said a fast good-bye.

  After plowing through the crowd again, she made a beeline for the exit, stopping at the door to give the room one final sweep.

  It was difficult to see much, but if she stood on tiptoes she could catch a glimpse of Thomma. No doubt Mariam and Elisa were close by. They’d stayed tight while she talked to them too, which wasn’t surprising. The three of them were the only survivors in their family—and after enduring a significant loss, it was normal to stick close to the people you had left.

  If you had any left.

  A pang echoed in her heart, and Jeannette pushed through the door, into the fresh air.

  Mariam and Thomma and Elisa had faced many challenges—and would certainly face many more as they adjusted to their new life in Hope Harbor—but at least they had each other to lean on. They weren’t venturing into an unknown future alone.

  That was a huge gift.

  Her vision blurred, and Jeannette clenched her teeth, blinking away the film of moisture.

  She would not get maudlin.

  Tonight wasn’t about her. It was about a family in desperate need of some TLC. And she’d done her share.

  Sort of.

  It didn’t take much effort to bake a few dozen shortbread cookies and drop by to say hello.

  But plenty of people had signed up to assist the family on an ongoing basis. They’d be well taken care of.

  And now that she’d done her duty, she could slip back into her safe, quiet—solitary—life and the comforting routine that ordered her days. No further involvement with the immigrant family who now called Hope Harbor home . . .
or a neighbor who seemed in over his head with a woebegone little girl and mischievous dog . . . was necessary.

  From this moment on, she would retreat back into her solo world—and shore up the walls around her heart to keep any insidious emotions lurking around the edges from breaching her defenses.

  7

  What was that delicious scent?

  As Logan drove down Dockside Drive after church on Sunday, the tantalizing aroma wafting through his window set off a rumble in his stomach.

  He should have eaten a real breakfast, but getting Molly dressed, feeding her, and corralling Toby in the empty bedroom where he could do as little damage as possible during their absence had taken far longer than he’d expected.

  And the untoasted bagel he’d grabbed as they left the house and scarfed down in the car was long gone.

  “Are you hungry, sweetie?” He tossed the question over his shoulder, watching Molly in the rearview mirror.

  She sniffed and peered through her window toward the wharf. “Yes.”

  He slowed as he approached the end of the street and identified the source of the appetizing aroma—the white truck he’d noticed on previous trips to town, the word Charley’s emblazoned in colorful letters above the serving window.

  On his past drive-bys, the window had been shuttered.

  Today it was open.

  And whatever Charley was cooking, he wanted some of it.

  “Let’s stop and see what that smell is.” He eased back further on the gas pedal and scanned the wharf for a parking spot.

  There wasn’t a space to be had in front of the row of shops facing the marina—but as he circled around at the end of the street, a car pulled out of one of the few angled parking spots by the tiny park with the white gazebo.

  “This must be our lucky day.” He swung in, and two minutes later he had Molly free of her restraints.

  Taking her hand, he led her to the line in front of the truck.

  She rose on tiptoe, trying to see the serving counter, but he had the height advantage—and a clear line of sight to a ponytailed man who appeared to be Mexican working behind the counter.

  Logan sniffed again.

  The aroma wasn’t a perfect match for Mexican food—but some of the same spices were being used.

  Uh-oh.

  Given how picky Molly was, spicy Mexican fare wasn’t likely to appeal to her taste buds.

  Maybe the guy would have some plain chicken for her.

  “I bet this will be good.” He gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.

  “It is good.” The woman in front of him smiled down at Molly. “If you’ve never been to Charley’s, you’re in for a treat. He makes the best fish tacos on the West Coast.”

  Logan smothered a groan.

  No way would Molly touch a taco, let alone one with fish in it.

  He’d have to fix her a sandwich once they got back to the house.

  As the woman resumed her conversation with her companion, Molly wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like fish.”

  “I know. I’ll give you lunch at home.” But he wasn’t leaving here without some tacos for himself.

  And if the guy made other versions besides fish, some plain chicken could still be an option.

  While they waited their turn, Molly amused herself by watching the antics of two seagulls who were strutting around like they owned the place.

  Despite the line and the relaxed conversation the cook had with every single patron, in less than ten minutes they were at the window.

  Since there wasn’t a menu posted on the side of the truck, he surveyed the wall behind the man.

  No bill of fare there either. Instead, the space was covered with layers of pictures—all drawn by children, based on the crayoned stick figures that peopled them.

  The man with the gray ponytail gave them a megawatt smile. “Good day, folks. Welcome to Charley’s. You two must be hungry for tacos.”

  “I am.” Logan nodded to Molly. “Some of us aren’t partial to fish. Do you have a chicken version?”

  “Can’t say I do, because I don’t. My specialty is fish tacos—a different version every day.” The man rested his forearms on the counter and leaned down, giving Molly his full attention. “Hello, little lady.”

  “Hello.” She studied him. “I have a ponytail too.”

  “I see that—and with a pretty ribbon. Purple’s one of my favorite colors.”

  “Mine too.”

  “I knew you were partial to purple the minute I saw you.” He winked. “Logan here says you don’t like fish. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I bet you’ll like mine. It’s different than any you’ve ever eaten. People say I have a magic touch.” He flexed the fingers of his empty hand, reached behind his ear, and withdrew a shiny penny. After inspecting it, he passed it to her. “Can’t imagine where that came from—but I think it’s a lucky coin meant for you. Would you like to try a bite of my fish?”

  She looked from him to the penny . . . and back again. “I-I don’t know.”

  “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t like it, you can spit it out on the sidewalk and Floyd or Gladys will eat it.” He motioned to the seagulls who were hovering nearby. “Right, you two?”

  Both gulls squawked. Like they were answering him.

  Logan stifled a grin.

  As if.

  Without waiting for a response, Charley moved to the grill, sprinkled some seasoning from a large unmarked container on the sizzling fish, and handed a small piece down to Molly on a napkin. “Tell me what you think of that.”

  She gave the offering a dubious scrutiny but finally picked off a section and nibbled at it.

  Her eyes widened. “This is real good.” She finished off the rest in a single bite. “Like those flower cookies the lady next door made.”

  “Two orders of tacos, coming right up.” Charley set more fish on the grill and tossed some onions and red peppers on the sizzling griddle. “You wouldn’t be talking about that tasty lavender shortbread Jeannette bakes, would you?”

  Logan frowned. “How do you know she’s our neighbor?”

  For that matter, how had this stranger known his name?

  Charley chuckled. “There’s only one lady in town I know of who bakes cookies with flowers.”

  Oh.

  There was that.

  As for knowing his name—it was possible he’d heard the new doctor in town had bought the place next to the lavender farm or read the brief article in the local paper.

  “Nice woman.” Charley went back to stirring the veggies, flipping the fish, and laying some corn tortillas on the grill. “I had a pleasant chat with her this morning as she was leaving the early service at Grace Christian.”

  So the taco chef knew his neighbor.

  Would the man be willing to share a few tidbits about her?

  “Seems to be. We’ve talked twice.” He kept his tone conversational. “Does she run the farm alone?”

  “Yes. Moved here about three years ago, cleared an acre of the property, built the beds, and planted every one of those lavender starts by herself. She puts a ton of TLC into that place.”

  No wonder she’d been upset by Toby’s destructive digging.

  “That’s a big job for one person to take on. She must not have much downtime.”

  “Could be that’s how she likes it.”

  Logan squinted at him.

  Why would a person want to be that busy . . . unless they had no other interests—or people—in their life?

  Is that what Charley was implying?

  Could he drill deeper without sounding nosy?

  “She must not have many personal obligations.” If there was a more discreet way to ask about the woman’s relationships, it eluded him.

  “If you mean family-type responsibilities, I believe that’s true.”

  “Sounds lonely.”

  “I expect it is.” Charley finished assembling the tacos, added some more of whatever seasoning
was in that container, and wrapped them in white paper. “But sometimes people need a nudge to realize what they’re missing. Here you go.” He slipped the order in a brown bag and slid it across the counter.

  “How much do I owe you?” He pulled out his credit card.

  “No charge. First order for newcomers is always on the house. But keep this in mind for future reference.” He tapped a small “cash only” sign that was taped on the side of the serving window.

  “Seriously? No plastic?”

  “There’s too much plastic in the world already. I like to keep things simple—and real.”

  Not a bad philosophy.

  Logan put his wallet away. “If these taste half as good as they smell, you’ll have two new regular customers. And thank you for the gratis dinner. This was a pleasant surprise.”

  “Happy to do it. As you’ll discover, this town is filled with unexpected blessings.” Charley flashed his white teeth again, and once more leaned on the counter to talk to Molly. “I hope to see you again soon. Maybe you can draw a picture for me to add to my collection.” He swept a hand over the wall behind him.

  “Would you put it up there?”

  “I’d be honored. What would you like to draw?”

  Her expression grew wistful. “A friend.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea. Sometimes if we draw what we wish for, the wish comes true.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Right, Floyd?” He addressed the seagulls again.

  One of them squawked, while the other cackled.

  “Can you talk to birds?” Molly gawked at the man, her fingers clenched around the shiny penny.

  “I talk to everyone.”

  “Do they talk back?”

  “If they’re in the mood to chat.”

  Logan’s lips twitched.

  This guy was a character.

  “You two enjoy those tacos.” Charley straightened up and spoke over Logan’s shoulder. “Be with you folks in a sec.”

  They must be holding up the line.

  Logan took Molly’s hand. “Thanks again for the lunch.”

  “Happy to do it. Welcome to Hope Harbor. I’ll be waiting for your picture, Molly.” With that, he shifted his attention to the next person in line.

  They walked back to the car in silence, Logan picking up the pace as the mouthwatering aroma set his taste buds tingling.