by Irene Hannon
On the other hand, he’d never asked a favor of her before—and it was hard to fault a kind gesture.
Resigned, she continued toward the bench, giving the man a once-over. He was still sitting with his head in his hands, a few flecks of silver glinting in his dark brown hair. Not one of the vagrants who occasionally passed through town, though. His jeans might be worn enough to put him in that category, but his shoes were polished leather. She shook her head. The way people dressed these days. This guy could be a yuppie—or whatever they called those upwardly mobile younger folks who liked to defy convention and do things their way. For all she knew, he was some Silicon Valley start-up executive who’d taken a road trip up the coast to bemoan the loss of a million-dollar deal.
No reason to feel sorry for someone like that.
Straightening her shoulders, she cleared her throat to get his attention. “Excuse me.”
The man didn’t respond.
“Sir? Excuse me.”
At her more forceful tone, he lowered his hands and twisted around to face her.
Instantly the air whooshed out of her lungs.
Was that . . . ?
She dropped the extra order of tacos on the seat of the bench and groped for the back to steady herself.
“Ma’am?” The man rose, concern creasing his brow. “Are you all right? Would you like to sit down?”
She focused on his eyes. Blue, not brown.
It wasn’t John.
Of course it wasn’t.
John hadn’t set foot in this town for almost twenty years—nor was he likely to ever again.
But if, by chance, their paths ever did cross, she’d recognize him, thanks to today’s wired world. And except for the eyes, this stranger could be his double. Same color hair, same build, same mid- to late-thirties age, same six-foot-twoish height.
What a bizarre coincidence.
“Ma’am?”
She sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m fine. You just . . . you remind me of someone I haven’t seen in quite a while.”
“Why don’t you sit for a minute?” He picked up the order of tacos she’d dropped, making room on the bench.
Easing back, she started to shake her head. She’d be fine as soon as her heart stopped pounding. There was no reason to linger.
Yet looking at this man . . . The resemblance was uncanny. It would be easy to pretend he was John.
A powerful yearning crashed over her, stalling her lungs again—but she quashed it at once. Wishing wouldn’t change a thing. It was too late for such nonsense. What was done was done.
Still . . . what harm could there be in indulging her little fantasy for a few minutes?
“I believe I will.” She lowered herself to the bench, perching on the edge.
The man retook his seat and held out the order of tacos.
She waved it aside. “Those are for you. Compliments of the chef.” She hooked a thumb toward the food truck.
Surprise flattened his features, and he turned toward Charley, who touched the brim of his Oregon Ducks baseball cap in salute.
“Why?” Her bench partner examined the package.
“He put a message inside . . . there.” Anna flicked the corner of the folded piece of paper.
The man removed it, read the words, and sent Charley a speculative look. Then he tucked the small slip of paper in his shirt pocket without offering to share the message.
Despite her curiosity, Anna curbed the urge to ask him about it. Sticking your nose in other people’s business only led to trouble.
When the silence lengthened, she opened her bag, pulled out her own parchment-wrapped bundle, and pointed to his. “Go ahead, dive in. Best fish tacos on the West Coast.” As long as she was sitting here, why not eat her own while they were hot and fresh instead of lugging them home, as usual?
Besides, eating would give her an excuse to extend their encounter.
Slowly the man unwrapped the paper. “They smell great.”
“Charley’s got a magic touch.”
The man bit into a taco, the tension fading from his features as he chewed. “This is amazing.” He wolfed down two while she worked on her first, slowing only as he picked up the last one.
“You must have been hungry.” She swiped up a glob of sauce that had dropped onto the parchment in her lap. Why did good things always have to be messy?
“More than I realized. I’ve been on the road for two and a half very long days and didn’t stop too often for food.”
“Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
“That is a long drive. You just passing through?”
A shadow passed over his face. “I might be now. I’d intended to stay for a few weeks, but the motel is closed. They’re trying to line up another place in Bandon or Coos Bay, but Hope Harbor was my destination. It won’t be the same if I stay somewhere else.”
I, I, I. No mention of a wife, though he wore a ring.
Interesting.
“You’ve been here before?”
His eyes shuttered and he went back to eating. “No.”
In the sudden silence, his “back off” message came through loud and clear.
Fine. People had a right to privacy, especially about painful subjects. They didn’t need to be poked and prodded and questioned by nosy strangers . . . or by well-meaning friends. And pain radiated from this man’s pores—pain that was somehow related to Hope Harbor.
He finished his last taco, wadded up the paper, and tossed it in the small trash receptacle beside the bench. “Thank you for delivering my lunch. I’ll stop by and give my compliments to the chef too. If I end up staying around, he’s got himself a new . . .” He stopped, pulled his phone off his belt, and checked the screen. “The manager from the Gull Motel. I guess they found me a place to stay. Excuse me.”
As he angled away on the seat, Anna finished her second taco and tuned in to his side of the conversation.
“Are you sure there wasn’t anything in Bandon? . . . When does it end? . . . But that would mean packing up again Monday . . . Yeah, I suppose.” He sighed and dug through his pockets for a pen and paper. “Go ahead and give me the details.”
While he took notes, Anna rewrapped her third taco for an evening snack. Madeline must have told him about the antique car rally in Bandon this weekend. The way that annual event had grown, every hotel room was probably booked. Her bench mate was going to end up in Coos Bay—much farther away from Hope Harbor than he’d planned.
Unless . . .
The idea that popped into her mind was so startling—and out of character—she stopped breathing. Where on earth had that preposterous notion come from? Was she crazy? This man was a stranger. He might be a criminal. Or a deadbeat. Or one of those con men who cozied up to unsuspecting seniors, then took advantage of them.
No. Scratch that last item. She’d approached him, not vice versa.
Nevertheless . . . why would she even consider making such an offer?
Because he looks like John.
Her fingers crimped the edges of the package in her lap, the parchment crackling in protest. What a stupid reason to get all Good Samaritanish. Let him stay in Coos Bay and commute. The drive wasn’t that . . .
“It appears I have a room.” The man slid his phone back onto his belt and stood, his weary smile tinged with a soul-deep fatigue. “I’d better be on my way. Thank you again.” He extended his hand.
Say good-bye and good luck, Anna.
Still clutching her taco and the empty bag, she rose. “I live in town. I might be able to offer you a place to stay.” Her words came out stilted. Choppy.
His eyes widened slightly and he lowered his hand. “I beg your pardon?”
The man couldn’t be any more shocked than she was. That was not what she’d intended to say.
Yet for some strange reason, the offer felt right.
And in truth, what harm could there be? It wasn’t as if he’d be sharing her living space.
; Letting her instincts guide her, she slid her taco into the bag and rolled down the top as she spoke. “I have a small annex on my house, with its own entrance and a kitchenette. I used to rent it to tourists, but they came and went so quickly the whole thing was more trouble than it was worth. If you’re planning to stay for an extended time, though, I’d consider letting you use it. It would be far more economical than a motel.” She quoted him her old weekly price.
He was still staring at her as if she’d invited him to join her for a rocket ride to the moon. “But . . . you don’t even know my name.”
As the idea began to take hold, her usual cut-to-the-chase manner returned. “That’s easy to fix. I’ll start. Anna Williams. I’ve lived here since I came as a bride more than forty years ago. Worked in the high school kitchen most of my life. These days I cook for Father Murphy and Reverend Baker. Feel free to talk with them if you want references. Their churches are at opposite ends of town, but I expect they’re on the golf course today if they’re following their usual Thursday afternoon routine. You can also stop in at the police department and talk to the chief. I used to babysit her. And you are?”
“Michael Hunter.”
“Are you a wanted man?”
He blinked. “No. I, uh, took a leave of absence from my job in Chicago for . . . personal reasons.”
“Nothing related to alcohol or drugs, I hope.” She gave him the same stern look she’d used to intimidate the high school boys who tried to pilfer an extra cookie in the lunch line.
“No.” A glint of amusement sparked in his eyes, bringing them to life for a fleeting second. “You could have your sheriff check me out too, if you like.”
“I may do that.” She set her purse and taco on the seat of the bench, pulled out a notebook, and wrote down her address. “You can stop by in a couple of hours if you’d like to see the place. It’ll take me that long to put things in order.” She ripped out the sheet and handed it to him. “Are you interested? I don’t want to waste my afternoon cleaning if you’re not.”
He studied her, slowly nodding. “Yeah. I think so.” He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a business card. “Here’s a little more information about me for your sheriff to work with.”
She adjusted her glasses as he handed it over. Michael P. Hunter, chief executive officer of St. Joseph Center—“dedicated to dignity, self-sufficiency, and independence,” according to the tagline. Must be some sort of Christian-based charitable endeavor that helped get people on their feet and lead productive lives.
Impressive—assuming he was legit.
And her intuition told her he was.
She tucked the card in the pocket of her sweater and stuck out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hunter.”
His grip was warm and steady. “Likewise.” After a firm squeeze, he tipped his head toward the taco stand. “I’ll pay my respects to the chef. See you later this afternoon.”
With that, he strolled over to the truck and waited off to the side while Charley finished with a customer.
Anna walked the other direction, pausing at the corner. Charley was leaning on the counter, talking to Michael, and an echo of laughter drifted her way. Huh. The taco-stand owner had managed to inject some humor into her sober bench mate. Well, good for him. The man from Chicago seemed as if he could use a laugh.
Then again, who couldn’t?
The two men disappeared from view as she turned the corner . . . along with some of her confidence. For all she knew, the card Michael had given her was a fake. St. Joseph Center might not even exist—though that would be simple to verify on the net. Still—picking a man up off the street . . .
If he was having as many second thoughts as she was, however, he might not bother to show up. And that could be for the best.
But you’ll be disappointed.
Snuffing out the annoying little voice that was the bane of her existence, she picked up her pace. Fine. Maybe she did hope he’d follow through—but his resemblance to John had nothing to do with how she felt. The uncanny similarity might have drawn her to him at first, but the emptiness in his eyes had sucked her in. That young man had come here seeking relief from his pain. Searching for answers, perhaps, or resolution, or solutions. Why not help him if she could?
And if fate was kind, he might succeed far better than she had.
Because Hope Harbor had offered her none of those things for twenty long years.
2
Tracy Campbell turned into the drive for Harbor Point Cranberries, wincing as she bounced on the narrow bike seat. Who knew there were so many ruts and grooves on her two-mile route from town . . . or that she’d hit every one? And how could she only have noticed them today, after making this trip thousands of times?
Then again, she’d never been nursing a black and blue hip or a raw palm—all thanks to an oblivious pedestrian who didn’t have enough sense to stay out of traffic.
She huffed out a breath and tried to shift her anatomy into a more comfortable position.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t one.
At least she’d almost reached her destination.
Keeping one eye on the bumps in the gravel entry road, she surveyed the dike-enclosed cranberry beds on either side, the plants lush with new growth, their pale pink flowers creating a sea of color. Gorgeous. Her favorite season on the farm. Or it would be until fall, when dark red cranberries bobbed to the surface of the flooded beds, creating floating scarlet islands against the brilliant blue sky.
Truth be told, every season here had a beauty all its own.
For you, anyway.
As the stomach-knotting caveat echoed in her mind, she squeezed the handlebars. This wasn’t the time to dwell on the past. Not when she was about to share some news with Uncle Bud that had serious ramifications for their future.
She spotted him in the bed closest to the house she’d called home for most of her life. It had been sweet of her uncle and his new wife to invite her to move back after they married, but they hadn’t put up too much of a protest after she’d teased them that the small bungalow wasn’t big enough for her and a couple of honeymooners. Her small rented guest cottage at the edge of town was fine until she had the funds to build her own place here, on this land that had been worked by three generations of Sheldons.
If the land was still theirs by then.
As the kink in her stomach tightened, she raised a hand in response to her uncle’s wave. He walked over to join her while she stood her bike near one of the wild rhododendron bushes that dotted the farm.
“I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon—but unexpected pleasures are the best kind.” He pulled off his work gloves and gave her a hearty squeeze.
Sucking in a breath, she wiggled free.
“What?” He backed off to scrutinize her. “You don’t like your uncle’s hugs anymore?”
“I love them—but I had a close encounter with the pavement after dodging a pedestrian this morning while I was riding my bike home from the grocery store. It left me with assorted colorful souvenirs.” She patted her hip and held up her bandaged palm.
A shock of gray-streaked brown hair fell across his forehead as he cocooned her fingers between his work-roughened hands, lines of worry creasing his forehead. “You sure you’re okay? You didn’t hit your head, did you?”
Tenderness welled up inside her. From the day he and Aunt Carol had taken her in twenty-two years ago, they’d treated her like their own daughter. Her birth parents couldn’t have loved her more. “No. I’m fine.”
“The other victim anyone we know?”
“Nope. Some guy I’d never seen before. A tourist, probably. And he wasn’t a victim. He jumped back after I yelled at him and emerged unscathed—which is more than I can say for my eggs.”
“Hmm. I was going to ask if you wanted to help me with an insecticide application, but in light of your injuries, I’ll let you off the hook. The fireworms thank you.” He gave her a mock bow, his clear blue irise
s twinkling. “You going up to the house to see Nancy? I smelled some sweet treat baking at lunch that ought to be cooling by now.”
“I might do that . . . but I need to talk to you first.”
He gave her a keen look, his weathered face testament to the half century he’d spent tending these beds day in and day out, no matter the whims of Mother Nature. “We’re in serious trouble, aren’t we?”
At his quiet comment, she squinted at him. “How did you know what the topic was?”
The corners of his mouth lifted, but his eyes were sad. “I’ve never been a numbers guy, but I read the industry news. I may not know the exact dollar amount of our bottom line on a day-to-day basis—that’s your department—but I’ve seen the trend. The price of cranberries keeps falling, and costs keep going up. It doesn’t take Einstein to figure out that’s a big problem. More and more family-run cranberry farms like ours are disappearing every year.” He tightened his grip on his gloves. “How bad is it?”
She gestured to the dike. “Why don’t we sit?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Let’s just say I want to indulge my aching hip. Besides, I brought some financial statements. They’re in my bike basket.”
“We could go to the house if you’d rather.”
“No. Let’s stay here.” She gazed out over the terraced beds, the faint, droning buzz of the pollinating bees as familiar and comforting as the sea stacks off the beach and the smell of fish tacos at Charley’s. All constants in her life for as long as she could remember. None of them ever changed.
Too bad other things did.
“Here is fine by me.” He took a seat on the dike.
Refocusing on the present, she retrieved the folder and dropped down beside him.
He eyed the stuffed file. “Before you open that, go ahead and give me the bad news straight up. Then we can go into the details.”
Typical Uncle Bud, wanting to deal with the hard stuff upfront. He might love this place, but he was a realist. As he’d always told her, sticking your head in the sand to escape problems only worked if you were a sand crab.
“Even with both of us taking on extra part-time work to supplement our income, plus cutting operating costs to the bone, the farm has been losing ground for the past five years. If that trend continues, we’ll barely break even this year—and next year we’ll be in the red.” She rubbed her forehead. “I love this place as much as you do, but I don’t know how we can continue to operate on these margins.”
