by Irene Hannon
“You know where I stand, Reverend.”
“Yes. You were very clear about that early on—and I’ve respected your wishes. I must admit, though, I’ve always wondered what happened. I know you and your family were once active members of this church.” He held up a hand as she started to speak. “That was a comment, not a question. However, if you decide at some point you’d like to talk about it, my door’s always open. We’d love to have you back in the congregation.”
She swiped a final speck off the counter and twisted on the faucet to clean the pots too bulky to fit in the dishwasher. “I appreciate the thought, but I’m content with my life as it is.”
“Are you certain?”
She began banging the pots. “Yes.”
The stool scraped across the floor. “In case that changes, my invitation stands. And whether you choose to accept it or not, I believe your generosity was part of God’s plan. So my thank-you stands too.”
Footsteps sounded. Faded. Silence fell.
She washed two pots before casting a surreptitious peek over her shoulder.
The minister was gone—along with his God talk.
Good.
She plunged the brownie pan into the water, working on the crusty edges of batter stuck in the corners. She should have washed it earlier, before the batter hardened. It was always much easier to clean up messes when they were fresh.
A principle as applicable to relationships as to pots and pans.
Her hands stilled, and she drew in a long, slow breath. Too bad she hadn’t realized that years ago. Before it was too late. Before the chasm between her and John was so wide only God himself could bridge it.
But at this point, why should he? The Bible was full of verses that condemned hardness of heart, and her heart had hardened long ago—like the remnants of these brownies.
She scraped at a particularly stubborn piece of crust.
Stubborn.
That’s what she was. What she’d always been.
And it was a bad way to be.
Reverend Baker might think of her as a lost soul, but she knew her Bible. Knew what it said about hardened hearts, stiff-necked people, and pride . . . as well as judgment and forgiveness.
Knew also that on every single score, she’d failed—and that her failures had cost her her son.
Were still costing her her son.
Because even after all these years, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that maybe . . . just maybe . . . she’d been a little harsh. Not that she’d been wrong to condemn what John had done. No. Sin was sin, and he’d admitted his guilt.
Yet he’d done nothing to make amends.
Steam rose from the water, and Anna lifted her arm to wipe a bead of sweat off her forehead.
It wasn’t as if she’d cut him off cold, though. Hadn’t she hoped and prayed he’d have a change of heart, that he’d call and tell her he was not only sorry for what he’d done but willing to try to make things right?
Yet days went by. Weeks. Months. Years. And not a word from her son.
Was it possible he’d been waiting for her to apologize?
She shook her head. Why did life have to be so complicated?
The final piece of hard crust came loose at last, and she moved the pan under the running water to rinse it. Jerked back when the hot liquid burned her hand.
Twisting the faucet to cold, she slid the pan onto the counter and stuck her stinging hand under the cool stream. Better—but that red spot would be there for a day or two.
Getting burned was a hazard for cooks . . . and mothers.
While the water sluiced over her fingers, she watched through the window as two seagulls waged a turf battle with strident cries.
Again, like her and John.
With an exasperated sigh, she leaned over and turned off the water. It was time to leave all these unsettling thoughts behind and go home.
Except they followed her to the gas station, hovering in the air while she filled up her tank, and continued with her down Dockside Drive to Charley’s.
“Perfect timing, Anna. I was about to close up for the day.” Charley wiped his hands on a towel and gave her one of his genial grins. “Having a late lunch?”
Was she? It was past lunchtime . . . but she wasn’t hungry.
So why had she ended up here?
Too late to retreat now, though, with Charley leaning on the counter waiting for her order.
“I guess I am.”
“Coming right up.” He began cooking—but kept talking. “How are things working out with your tenant?”
“How did you know I had a tenant?”
“Michael asked about you when he came over to thank me for the tacos the other day. He said you’d offered to rent him the annex. I gave you a glowing recommendation.” His white teeth flashed.
“Yes, but how did you know he’d decided to accept?”
The man lifted his shoulders. “It was meant to be. Providence.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start with that. I just heard the same story from Reverend Baker.”
“Smart man.” He put a generous dollop of sauce onto each taco.
“That’s ridiculous.” Irritation sharpened her voice. “Everything that’s happened is nothing more than coincidence.”
“Ah.” As usual, Charley took no offense at a customer’s bad humor. Instead, his smile broadened. “You know what they say about coincidence—it’s God’s way of remaining anonymous.”
She remained silent as she studied the back wall of Charley’s kitchen, which was papered with layers of drawings Hope Harbor children had given him through the years. Was God’s hand in this?
Perhaps.
The admission was grudging, but there’d been too many coincidences to assume they were all random—especially Michael’s resemblance to John.
“Is your new tenant enjoying Hope Harbor?”
Anna pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her wallet. “I have no idea. We don’t talk much.”
“No? A pity. You two are very simpatico.”
The Hope Harbor taco chef was full of surprises today. “I hardly know the man, Charley.”
He wrapped up her lunch, slid it in a bag, and handed it through the window, along with her change. “I have a feeling you and he will get to know each other much better.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get to know him.”
“What we want and what God sends our way are often two different things—but he always has our best interest at heart. Remember that, sí? And now I’m closing up shop for the day.”
Without waiting for her to respond, he rolled down the aluminum window.
Anna stood for a moment, inspecting the bench she and Michael had shared five days ago, when her world was steady and her state of mind resigned, as they’d been for almost two decades.
Now . . . now there was a subtle tension in the air. A disconcerting sense that things were about to change. That the quiet, isolated life she’d grown accustomed to was poised to undergo a radical transformation.
All of which was nonsense, of course. She’d given Charley’s fanciful comments far too much credence. What did he know about her, anyway? Or Michael, either. Certainly not enough to jump to the kind of conclusions he’d shared with her.
Yet as she slid behind the wheel of her car, the spicy aroma of the tacos tickling her nose, she had the oddest feeling that the spice in her life wasn’t going to be confined to Charley’s cooking anymore.
And while she pulled away from the taco stand with a tingle of apprehension thrumming through her nerve endings, a healthy dose of anticipation seasoned the trepidation—along with an emotion she hadn’t experienced in a very long time.
Hope.
7
Michael Hunter was fast—and good.
Leaning back from her laptop, Tracy tapped a finger on the kitchen table and reread the final paragraph of the Helping Hands comments he’d attached to his email.
Insightful, concise, thoughtful�
�and his preliminary ideas, along with his questions, were smart and practical.
Plus, he’d managed to put this analysis together in a day and a half—far less time than it had taken her to get the board together for a special session to discuss their goals for his review.
She scanned his questions again. Some would require board input, preferably with him present—but why not tackle the ones she could handle right now? Uncle Bud wasn’t likely to bend his no-work-on-Sundays-except-during-harvest rule, and the two second-quarter tax estimates she needed to complete for clients could wait until after dinner.
Besides, it would be nice to hear Michael’s voice.
A twinge of guilt tugged at her conscience—but hiding from the truth, much as she was tempted to do so, wouldn’t change it. The fact was, she liked Hope Harbor’s newest temporary resident. He was considerate, kind, compassionate, handsome . . . and single.
That last item was the problem.
She shouldn’t want to hang around any man, especially one who was unattached and much too appealing. It could only lead to trouble. She didn’t need—or want—romance in her life. She might have failed Craig in a lot of ways, but she could at least be true to his memory.
Rising, she shoved her fingers into the pockets of her jeans and wandered over to the window that framed the sea. Fog swirled about, reducing visibility and obscuring most of the view—but the relentless, restless waves were out there, surging against the sea stacks . . . just as guilt and grief surged against her conscience.
More so since Michael Hunter had entered her life.
A shiver rippled through her, and she freed her hands to rub her arms. She was letting the gray weather stir up unhappy memories. Unnerve her.
And that was foolish.
She straightened her shoulders. Michael didn’t have to be a problem. Her contact with him wasn’t personal, after all. It was business. As long as she remembered that, there was no need to worry.
Suppressing a niggle of doubt about that conclusion, she returned to the table, double-checked his email for the phone number he’d provided, and tapped it into her cell.
He answered on the second ring, though his voice was faint.
“Michael? It’s Tracy Campbell.” Much to her relief, her greeting came out composed and professional, despite the tremor in her fingers. “I’ve read your initial report and wanted to try to answer some of the questions you raised. Is this a convenient time?”
“Yes. I was planning to . . .” The next words were garbled. “. . . if that’s all right with you. It shouldn’t . . .” His voice faded out.
“Michael?” She pressed the phone closer to her ear. “I can’t hear half of what you’re saying.”
“Sorry. My reception . . . and spotty here. I’m in town, so . . . in person?”
She missed a lot of his words—but she got the gist.
He wanted to get together.
Her pulse took a slight uptick. Not the best idea.
On the other hand, the man was doing them a favor—and given his phone issues, it would be easier to communicate face-to-face.
She’d just have to deal with it.
“That’s fine. Where would you like to meet?”
“Why don’t I drop by your place?”
That comment came through loud and clear.
Her hand tightened on the phone. Michael Hunter here, in her cottage? That could be a problem.
Say no, Tracy.
“Um . . . okay.”
What in the . . . ?
“I’ve got my pen in hand. Go ahead and give me your address.”
Her heart began to hammer. Trying to back out now would be embarrassing. And what excuse could she use? I find you attractive, and that scares me?
Right.
Better to let things ride and focus on keeping their meeting impersonal and efficient.
She recited the address and gave him directions. “It’s at the south edge of town, on the bluff. I’m in the guest cottage behind the main house.”
“Got it. I’ll be there in less than ten minutes.” The line went dead.
For a long moment she remained unmoving, phone in hand.
A visit from a handsome man was so not in her Sunday plans.
She scanned the cottage. Her bedroom might be on the messy side, but the main living room/kitchen space was tidy.
The same couldn’t be said of her, however. She inspected the worn jeans and faded T-shirt she’d changed into after church. It was attire much more suited to working on the farm than entertaining a handsome man.
You’re not entertaining him, Tracy. You’re consulting with him.
Check.
She stood. Tucked in her T-shirt. Smoothed her palms down her jeans. This outfit was fine. It suited her much more than the nicer clothes she wore for church and client meetings. You only primped for someone you were trying to impress.
And she wasn’t trying to impress Michael Hunter.
She wandered down the hall to the bathroom and surveyed her image in the mirror over the sink. Hair tangled from her earlier walk on the windy beach, face wiped clean of makeup by the mist hovering over the landscape, faint lines of weariness at the corners of her eyes thanks to her long hours at the farm yesterday.
Not a very attractive picture.
But again—it was her. If Uncle Bud and Nancy were stopping by, it wouldn’t even occur to her to primp.
The sound of crunching gravel came through the open window . . . and all at once one hand reached for the brush and the other groped in the drawer for her makeup bag.
Okay. Fine.
She’d smooth out her hair, put on a touch of lipstick and mascara, make herself a bit more presentable.
But she was absolutely not going to let their get-together run any longer than necessary or become anything more than a straightforward business meeting.
No matter what kind of tricks her heart might play on her.
The guest cottage behind the high-end, bluff-hugging vacation house was pleasant, if small—but why didn’t Tracy live on the cranberry farm she loved?
One more missing piece in the puzzle that was Tracy Campbell.
Michael maneuvered his car into a spot next to an older model Civic, picked up the bag beside him, and walked to the front door. If fate was kind, maybe he’d discover a few of those AWOL pieces today.
She answered his knock at once, cheeks slightly flushed. Had she been waiting on the other side, anxious to greet him?
Not that he cared, of course. He hadn’t come to Hope Harbor looking for attention from anyone, least of all an eligible woman.
Besides, someone with Tracy’s many attributes would have suitors lined up at the door if she was in the market—which she wasn’t, based on her distressed demeanor when she’d mentioned her deceased husband a few days ago.
At least they shared that much in common.
“Welcome. Did you have any problem finding the place?”
“No. Your directions were perfect.”
“Glad to hear it. I’ve gotten my uncle lost so many times I’ve been fired as his navigator. He claims I was born without the directional gene.” She flashed him a . . . nervous? . . . smile. “Come on in.” She backed up to give him access.
He edged past her, into a room about the size of Anna’s annex but with a more spacious feel, thanks to the vaulted ceiling and skylights above the open floor plan. “Nice.”
“I was lucky to find it.” She shut the door and joined him in the center of the room. “In exchange for keeping an eye on things for the owners, I get low rent and a great view.”
“Sounds like a deal—although I’m surprised you don’t live at the farm.” It couldn’t hurt to try to get a few of his questions answered. Worst case, she’d brush him off.
Instead, she offered a lot more information than he expected.
“I used to. My mom and dad and I lived there until they were killed in a small plane crash when I was ten. After that, my uncle and aunt move
d in and took over the job of raising me. Since they didn’t have any children, it worked out well all around. But I moved out a couple of years ago after . . .” She stopped. Sucked in a breath. Cleared her throat. “When my uncle got serious about Nancy. Two’s company and all that.”
“You must miss it.”
She lifted one shoulder. “I do. But someday, God willing, I’ll build my own place out there. I have a good friend from college who’s an architect in LA and would do a super job with the design. Best of all, BJ is planning to move here soon.” This time there was no restraint in her smile.
Michael’s antennas went up. Tracy had a male friend who was willing to trade big city architecture jobs for small Hope Harbor projects? There was only one reason he could think of for a decision like that . . . and it didn’t sit well.
He did his best to adopt a casual tone. “That will be quite a change. He’ll have some serious adjustments to make while he transitions from LA to small-town life.”
Her mouth twitched. “BJ is a woman—though she’s used to people making the assumption you did.” Then her humor vanished. “But she has her reasons for wanting to move. Good ones.” When she continued, her tone was brisk. “Why don’t we sit at the dinette table? I’ve got your email open on my laptop.”
That was all he was going to learn about her friend.
And it was enough, now that he knew her gender—for reasons he didn’t intend to dwell on.
Michael took a chair at a right angle to her and set the brown bag on the table. “I come bearing gifts.”
She surveyed his offering. “Based on that delectable aroma, I’m guessing you visited Charley’s.”
“I’m becoming a regular there. His tacos are now a staple of my diet. Since it’s almost dinnertime, I thought we could eat while we talk. Unless you have other meal plans.”
“Nope. My dinner was going to consist of leftover chicken from last night at the farm. Nancy’s a wonderful cook, but nothing compares to Charley’s fish tacos. They’re one of my splurges whenever I have some extra cash on hand. What would you like to drink?”
“Water or a soda would be fine.”
As she rose to get their beverages, Michael studied her. The fish tacos weren’t inexpensive, but even on his modest nonprofit salary, they hardly qualified as a splurge.
