by Irene Hannon
But without her by his side, the experience had been as flat as a glass of soda that had lost its fizz. The songs had been pleasant, the Scripture readings familiar, the sermon well organized and well delivered . . . but he felt emptier now than he had when he’d walked through the door.
Because attending church was supposed to uplift, not depress.
Next Sunday he was sleeping in.
Shuffling along with the crowd, he emerged into a day as gray as his mood. The coy Oregon sun might poke through at any moment and dispel the gloom, as it had yesterday, but nothing would brighten his world.
Spirits plummeting, he stepped out of the line of people waiting to greet the minister and zipped up his windbreaker. Small talk was even lower on his agenda than attending church.
A lot of the congregants were surging toward a table on the lawn, where coffee and donuts were being served, but he’d downed his morning allotment of caffeine while he shaved—and the thought of ingesting a sugar-coated lump of fried dough turned his stomach.
A walk on the beach sounded much more appealing.
As he prepared to make his escape, he glanced toward another table a few feet away from the coffee and bakery treats. The milling congregants blocked most of his view, but it must be the sign-up booth the minister had mentioned for some sort of charitable endeavor the church supported. Smart marketing, to put it close to the free donuts and . . .
The crowd parted for an instant, and he froze as he caught a quick glimpse of wavy, golden-brown hair.
The same color as the bicyclist’s.
Could that be her?
Although he leaned sideways to get a better view, the crowd didn’t cooperate.
Tucking his hands in the pockets of his jacket, he edged closer. If he was patient, a line of sight would eventually open up.
Less than thirty seconds later, he had the answer to his question.
Yes, it was the same woman.
She looked different today, though, with her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, her subtle makeup drawing attention to her large eyes and soft lips, her crisp green blouse and slim khaki slacks flattering her slender figure.
And if he’d had any lingering doubts about her identity, her bandaged hand—not to mention her slight wince when the other woman behind the table bumped her as she leaned across to retrieve some sort of brochure—chased them away.
Maybe his church attendance this morning hadn’t been a total loss after all. Now he could issue a better apology than the one he’d offered on the fly in the street on Thursday. Plus, he wouldn’t have to bother his reclusive landlady for an ID of the victim. All he had to do was stick around until the crowd thinned, then approach the woman.
While he waited for his opportunity, he leaned against a tree trunk and busied himself with his cell to discourage unwanted conversation.
Ten minutes later, as the churchgoers began to disperse, he made his move.
The woman was alone behind the table now, crouched down as she stowed some material in a box at her feet, most of her body hidden by the “Lend a Hand to Helping Hands” banner that hung in front of the table.
“Excuse me.”
Her chin jerked up, and as recognition dawned in her eyes, she tottered. An instant later she plopped onto the ground with a gasp, a flash of pain whipping across her face.
So much for making a better impression the second time around.
“I’m sorry—again. I didn’t mean to startle you. I actually came over to apologize for my first faux pas. Let me help you up.”
He started to circle the table, but she clambered to her feet and held up her damaged palm. “I think it’s safer if you keep your distance.”
Given the nature of their encounters to date, he couldn’t fault her caution.
“Okay.” He returned to his position across the table from her. “But I’d still like to apologize.”
“Accepted.” She steadied herself on the table, her fingers long and slender as they splayed in a graceful curve. Nice. But her short, unpolished nails were a disconnect. He would have pegged her as the type who went for manicures and—
“Did you need something else?”
At her pointed question, he yanked his focus back to her face. “Um . . . no. I just wish there was some way I could make more concrete amends for Thursday.”
She tipped her head, her expression speculative. “Are you a tourist?”
It took him a second to recover from the non sequitur. “Sort of—but on a longer-term basis.”
“How long?”
“I plan to be here for a few weeks.” Now it was his turn to be curious. “Why?”
“You could volunteer for Helping Hands.” She tapped the sign-up sheet on the table. “As you can see, we haven’t had a lot of takers.”
He skimmed the form. Too bad his mind had wandered while the minister talked about the organization.
“I, uh, don’t really know anything about it.”
“Then I’ll give you our spiel. Helping Hands is an all-volunteer organization that does what the name says—we offer a helping hand to anyone in the community who has a need. You name it, we do it—or we line up someone who can. It’s a joint effort between Grace Christian”—she indicated the steepled structure behind him—“and St. Francis on the other side of town. Both churches were doing similar community outreach, so about five years ago they combined resources. Any skill you have, we can use—even on a short-term basis.” She picked up the pen and held it out to him. “Can I recruit you?”
He eyed the writing implement. No way. This trip was about searching for answers and finding direction. It was not about making a commitment of any kind—especially one that would clutter up his mind with other people’s problems.
That’s what had gotten him into trouble in the first place.
Before he could formulate a diplomatic refusal, the woman retracted her hand, folded her arms, and skewered him with a shrewd look. “You’re trying to think of a polite way to say forget it, aren’t you?”
He shifted his weight. “It’s just that I don’t think I could do a whole lot in the short time I’ll be here. Besides, I don’t have any talents to offer.” He skimmed the sheet on the table, where volunteers had listed their expertise. “I have no skill at plumbing or carpentry or painting, I don’t have any medical training, no one would want to eat any meal I cooked . . .” He extended his hands, palms up.
“What do you do for a living?”
The lady was either obtuse or very tenacious.
Based on her intelligent green eyes, his money was on the latter.
He should have kept on walking after church and gone directly to the beach.
“Nothing at the moment. I’m on a leave of absence.”
“What did you do?”
An ache began to throb in his temples. “Look, I didn’t come over here to get the third degree. All I wanted to do was apologize.” Irritation sharpened his voice despite his attempt to rein it in.
His annoyance didn’t daunt the woman across from him one iota. “You also said you wished there was some way you could make amends for Thursday. I’m offering you one.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of replacing your damaged groceries or . . . or taking you out to lunch.”
She blinked at him, clearly as surprised by the out-of-the-blue invitation as he was.
Posture stiffening, she bent her head and gathered up the papers on the table. “Neither of those is necessary.” As she leaned down to tuck the items in a tote bag at her feet, her hair fell forward, hiding her face.
But her wedding ring was on full display as she gripped the table.
Michael stifled a groan. Great. She probably thought he was trying to pick her up—and a churchgoer like her wouldn’t be too enamored with a cad who asked a married woman for a date.
He needed to fix that misperception. Fast.
“For the record, I didn’t notice your ring until now. I wouldn’t have m
entioned lunch if I’d seen it sooner.”
Straightening up, she sent him a puzzled look. “What?”
“Your ring.” He motioned toward her left hand.
She glanced down. “Oh. No, that wasn’t . . .” She stopped. Rubbed her uninjured palm down her slacks. “Listen, I’m sorry I put you on the spot about Helping Hands. The need is great, and we don’t have enough volunteers to handle the volume, but you don’t even live here. Forget I asked.”
As she slung her tote bag over her shoulder and began removing the tape that held the banner to the front of the table, a niggle of guilt tugged at his conscience.
“It’s not that I’m unsympathetic.” He moved to the opposite end of the table and pulled off some tape too. “It sounds like a very worthwhile endeavor.”
“It is. I’ve been involved for two years as a volunteer, but joining the board last year was eye-opening. Even though Reverend Baker and Father Kevin—Father Murphy—do their best to provide oversight and coordination, they have a lot of other responsibilities and rely on the lay board to handle most of the day-to-day operation. Frankly, with the requests accelerating, I think we’re in over our heads. None of us can give the organization more than a few hours a week, and that’s not cutting it.”
They met at the middle of the table. She removed the last piece of tape, lifted her chin . . . and his heart stammered.
Her green eyes might be troubled, but they were also gorgeous.
Another tug of guilt yanked at his conscience, the source entirely different than the first one. He hadn’t traveled two thousand miles to admire another woman, no matter how attractive she was. Nor ask her to lunch. There was no room in his heart for anyone except Julie. Merely noticing another woman felt wrong.
Dipping her chin, she retreated a few steps. “If you’ll hold your end, I’ll roll this up.”
“Sure.” His response came out scratchy and not quite steady.
He remained where he was, feeding her the banner in silence.
“Thanks.” She tapped the edge of the roll against the table, secured it with a rubber band, and turned back to him, leaving a gap between them. “I hope you have a pleasant stay here. Hope Harbor has a lot to offer.”
Without giving him a chance to respond . . . or introduce himself . . . or apologize again . . . she did a one-eighty and crossed to the minister. Within seconds they were deep in conversation.
Get out of here, Hunter.
Turning on his heel, he headed the other direction, toward the beach that had already become part of his daily routine. If he was lucky, he’d have the long stretch of sand to himself again today while he strolled, the sea stacks silent sentinels as he stopped to examine an agate or a chunk of driftwood or a piece of kelp. It was a perfect place to relax . . . think . . . clear his mind.
Except this morning he had a feeling his mind would be occupied with thoughts of the nameless woman from the bicycle incident. The nameless married woman who would be off-limits even if he was interested in getting to know her better . . . which he wasn’t.
It would be best to forget about her. He’d offered an apology, and she’d accepted it. That should be sufficient to put the matter to rest, even if he’d rather make more tangible amends.
You still can—by volunteering for Helping Hands.
Picking up his pace, he ignored the prod from his conscience. Not happening. That was the very kind of thing he’d come out here to avoid.
It doesn’t have to be a huge commitment. Helping with one small task for a few hours might alleviate your guilt about the accident—and erase some of the worry from those green eyes.
He started up the hill that led to the bluff overlooking the beach, trying to eradicate that suggestion from his brain.
It refused to budge.
Expelling a breath, he increased his speed. Why had he been born with a conscience that cut him no slack—especially one that always gave him sound guidance? He could ignore it, as he’d done on occasion . . . but that usually left him with regrets.
And he had enough of those to last a lifetime.
The alternative was to do as the woman had asked and pitch in with Helping Hands.
But that didn’t feel comfortable, either.
Why not think about it today, sleep on it tonight? Hope Harbor appeared to be a town filled with surprises. Nothing had gone as expected so far. Who knew what tomorrow might hold?
Perhaps even a reprieve from Helping Hands.
Uncle Bud made one final adjustment to the mower and straightened up. “She should be ready to roll. I tuned her up over the weekend. You sure you’re up to this?”
Tracy pulled on her baseball cap. With her sore hip, jolting around on the mower over the tops of the dikes wouldn’t be her first choice of chores on this Monday morning, but the grass needed cutting and her uncle was a lot faster at insecticide application than she was. Nevertheless, they’d both be hard at it until sundown.
“I’m fine.” She pulled a pair of work gloves out of the back pocket of her jeans and tugged them on.
“By the way, I talked to the golf course. No problem on the extra hours, starting later this week. And the café was more than happy to put Nancy back on the schedule.”
Tracy sent him a dismayed look. “I feel like a slacker. A Helping Hands issue came up on Friday, so I didn’t get a chance to contact the new businesses in town about accounting work. I’ll give it top priority tomorrow.”
Her uncle cocked his head. “Let me guess. Eleanor Cooper ran out of milk or eggs or butter again, then talked your ear off when you delivered whatever she needed.”
“What can I say?” She gave him a sheepish shrug. “The woman’s eighty-seven and mostly housebound. She gets lonely. And no one else on the volunteer list was available.”
“Or willing to give up a chunk of their day.”
She dismissed his comment with a wave. “They’re all good people. They were just busy.”
“You are too.” Uncle Bud propped his fists on his lean hips. “You know I admire your commitment to that group, but I also worry you’re stretched too thin. Your charitable work and this farm can take over your life if you let them.”
“So?” She gave him a teasing nudge with her shoulder. “I can’t think of any better way to spend my days.”
“I can. Or one that’s at least as satisfying.”
Uh-oh. She knew where this was heading.
Somehow she managed to hold on to her smile. “You’ve become quite the romantic since you met Nancy.”
“Romance is good for the soul.”
She leaned over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “It can be—and I’m very happy for you. Nancy’s a wonderful woman, and you deserve another chance at love. I, however, am content with my current status. Cross my heart.” She drew an X on her chest. “So I vote we table this discussion. Besides, I have grass to cut.” She climbed onto the mower.
“I know you think you’re happy, but—”
She started the engine, shutting him out with a grin.
He narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear a word he said.
Perfect.
Pointing to her ear, she hiked up her shoulders, put the mower in gear, and rumbled away.
When she risked a peek back, Uncle Bud was still watching her—and his determined stance told her this topic would come up again.
Drat.
Keeping one hand on the wheel, she swatted at an annoying bee. He meant well, of course. Her whole life, he’d always had her best interest at heart. But he was off base with this crusade. Marriage wasn’t in her game plan.
Besides, there weren’t a whole lot of single men in her age bracket in Hope Harbor, anyway. Even the guy who was responsible for the throbbing bruise on her hip had worn a ring. Odd that he’d been alone both times she’d seen him, though—and he’d always said I, not we, while discussing his visit and his plans. Plus, he’d asked her out to lunch. None of that jibed with th
e ring.
Still, what did it matter? On the slim chance he was available, she wasn’t interested.
As for that annoying tingle in her nerve endings when she pictured his deep blue eyes, strong jaw, and trim, athletic physique . . . well, any woman would notice—and appreciate—a handsome man. That was normal.
But it would go no further.
Flicking away another troublesome bee, she revved up the engine and started down the first dike.
Uncle Bud might think she deserved a second chance at romance, but he was wrong.
Craig was proof of that.
A tsunami of guilt crashed over her, the harsh memories stealing her breath, the regret and angst more intense than they had been in months.
Clenching the wheel, she gritted her teeth. Reliving the past was an exercise in futility. She couldn’t change what had happened. All she could do was move on—and never forget the painful truth she’d learned from that traumatic experience.
Tracy Sheldon Campbell wasn’t wife material.
4
Had his landlady disappeared off the face of the earth?
Empty cookie plate in hand, Michael surveyed the sliding door that led from her house to her patio, the vertical blinds closed tight. In fact, all the blinds and shades in the house were closed. Did she ever let the sunlight in? Or come out to enjoy the well-groomed yard or patio? The small table with the single chair hadn’t been occupied once in the four days he’d been here. Nor had he caught so much as a glimpse of Anna Williams.
Yet if the woman was as reclusive as she seemed, why had she offered him a place to stay?
Baffled, he started back toward the annex. Stopped at the sound of an electric garage door opening.
Anna was either coming or going.
Picking up his pace, he circled around to the front of the Cape Cod . . . just in time to watch her car disappear into the garage. The door began to descend almost before her rear bumper cleared the safety beam, closing her into the shuttered house that shouted “keep out.”
He juggled the plate in his hands. If he left it on the table in his room with a thank-you note, she’d find it Saturday when she cleaned.
