by Irene Hannon
“That would be great. Thank you again for the treat from Charley’s—plus the gutter job.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m always glad to lend a hand if help is needed.”
“An admirable trait.”
His mouth flattened. “Not always.”
What did that mean?
But he was striding toward his car before she could figure out a diplomatic way to phrase that question.
Thirty seconds later, he pulled past her with a wave and disappeared into the mist, leaving her to puzzle over his odd comment.
How could helping others ever be a less-than-admirable trait?
As she slowly slid behind the wheel of her car and fitted the key in the ignition, their earlier conversation about mysteries flitted through her mind. Anna’s uncharacteristic behavior—as well as the story behind her son’s disappearance—were big ones.
But so was the woman’s new tenant.
However, given his comments minutes ago, Tracy had a feeling her curiosity about his background—and his enigmatic statement—wasn’t likely to be satisfied. Those kinds of confidences were only shared with very close, trusted friends . . . or a romantic interest . . . and he’d been very clear that wasn’t where their relationship was headed.
The exact conclusion she’d already come to herself.
How lucky was that? Now she wouldn’t have to worry about things getting messy or complicated.
Straightening her shoulders, she put the car in gear and pulled away from Eleanor’s curb.
Yet as the house receded along with the older woman’s romanticism . . . why did she suddenly feel bereft instead of relieved?
Helping Hands board meeting set for Thursday at 7 PM. Please advise if this is acceptable.
Michael skimmed the email message from Tracy again. It was professional. Businesslike. To the point.
And as lukewarm as the cooling cup of coffee he’d picked up in town while grocery shopping.
But what else should he expect after their strained parting at Eleanor’s two days ago?
Sighing, he put his coffee in the microwave to rewarm, typed in his assent, and punched send.
Perhaps he should have been a bit more diplomatic in his response to her stammering rejection on Sunday.
Wait.
Rejection was too strong a word.
She’d simply been trying to clarify that despite Eleanor’s insinuations, she had no interest in romance with anyone. It hadn’t been personal. And he was of the same mind-set. Romance wasn’t on his agenda, either.
So why had he felt miffed when she’d set clear boundaries for their relationship?
And why had he overreacted by setting those boundaries in concrete with his I’m-a-solo-act-from-now-on speech?
He propped a hip against the counter as the turntable in the microwave continued to rotate. Rehashing their exchange was nuts. He’d be out of here in a few weeks, Hope Harbor and its quirky residents left far behind. Her sudden aloofness didn’t matter in the big scheme of things.
Except she’d looked sort of sucker-punched after his little tirade.
He closed his eyes, trying to erase the image of her pinched face.
It refused to budge.
Get over it, Hunter. You’ll never see her again once you go back to Chicago. In fact, you might never see her again after Thursday’s board meeting.
True.
So why didn’t that make him feel any better?
The microwave pinged, and he removed the cup. Took a sip. Waited for the caffeine to perk him up.
It didn’t.
Instead, the weariness and desolation he’d hoped to leave behind in Chicago seeped more deeply into his bones. How could he trek two thousand miles in search of answers only to end up with more questions?
The coffee sloshed, and he discovered his hands were trembling—concrete evidence his trip to Hope Harbor was a bust.
Beating back another wave of melancholy, Michael grabbed his book. Maybe if he lost himself in his mystery for an hour or so, his mind would clear and he could untangle his muddled thoughts.
Book in one hand, coffee in the other, he shouldered through the back door and started across the lawn.
Halfway to the patio, he stopped.
When had that second chair been added to the table?
He frowned. It hadn’t been there yesterday, when he’d come out to read for an hour. And it hadn’t been there this morning when he’d left for his walk on the beach, he was certain of it.
Could Anna be expecting company?
No. That didn’t fit with the image he—and everyone else in Hope Harbor—had of her.
But what else could it mean?
No matter. She’d told him he could use the patio. Why not claim one of the chairs until he was asked to vacate?
Less than five minutes later, just as he was beginning to escape into the sinister world of espionage and an epic, world-threatening plot, the sliding door rumbled open behind him.
So much for his reprieve from reality.
Stifling his disappointment, he closed the book, picked up his coffee, and turned.
Anna approached with a plate of what appeared to be brownies, a mug, and a handful of napkins. “No need to get up.”
He hesitated, halfway out of his chair. “Are you certain? I don’t want to infringe on your privacy.”
“I have plenty of privacy in there.” She tipped her head toward the house as she set the plate on the table and placed the napkins beside it, keeping her face averted as she fussed with them. “I thought I might sit out here awhile, if you don’t mind. We could share some of my marble brownies.”
She was asking him to sit with her? Reciprocating the invitation he’d given her a few days ago?
Amazing.
He sank back into his chair, trying to hide his astonishment. “I’d like that.”
With a dip of her chin, she claimed the second chair. “Help yourself.”
He took a brownie and bit into it while she picked up one for herself.
“These are great.” He tried to identify the subtle yet distinctive taste tickling his tongue. Failed.
“Thank you. I’ve had the recipe for years. It’s one of the few I make from the old days. John was very fond of them—and they were always a hit at the church potluck suppers, along with my scalloped potatoes.”
“They have a unique flavor.” Michael inspected what was left of his brownie. “It tastes like almonds . . . but the nuts look like pecans or walnuts.”
“They’re walnuts. The flavor is amaretto.”
Amaretto?
Who’d have guessed his straitlaced landlady kept liquor in the house, let alone used it in cooking?
“The brownies are spiked?”
“Don’t worry. They won’t make you tipsy.” A wry thread wove through her words. “There are just two tablespoons in the whole pan. Inebriation is only a problem for the cook, if she decides to take a few nips while she bakes—which I never do.”
Michael squinted at her. Was that a touch of . . . humor . . . in her eyes?
Could be.
“I don’t care what’s in them—they’re the best brownies I ever ate. May I?” He gestured toward the plate as he finished off his first square.
“That’s why I brought them out.”
They chewed in silence as Michael tried to think of conversational topics that might engage the woman, draw her out—but she saved him the trouble.
“So tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself since you arrived in Hope Harbor.”
No-nonsense Anna wanted to chitchat?
This day was full of surprises.
Following her lead, he gave her a rundown on his activities—his visit to the cranberry farm, his work with Helping Hands, daily walks on the beach, his frequent stops at Charley’s.
“You’ve done a lot in less than two weeks.”
“More than I expected, to be honest.”
“Yes.” She gave him a
n appraising scan. “I was under the impression you wanted privacy and downtime.”
“I did.” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s odd how life rarely turns out the way we plan, isn’t it? I tend to grumble about the unexpected twists and turns, but my wife always called it divine Providence.”
“So did my George.” She broke off a piece of her brownie. “Strange you’d bring up that subject. I had a similar discussion the other day with both Reverend Baker and Charley.” She pressed her fingers against a few loose crumbs on the table and deposited them in a neat pile on her napkin. “By the way, Charley thinks we were meant to be friends.”
Michael mulled that over as he finished his second brownie. “He could be right. Charley strikes me as a very perceptive soul. In fact, he gave me a Bible citation the day I arrived, though how he knew I needed those words is a mystery.” Another one in a growing list—but he kept that to himself.
“What was it?”
“It was from Job.” He set down his coffee, pulled the verse up on his phone, and handed it over.
She read it in silence. Scrolled through it again. Held the phone out to him. “I’m not familiar with that passage—but I’d like to think it’s true.”
“I would too. And I guess as long as people are alive, a new beginning is always possible. Only death can rob you of that opportunity.” His voice choked, and he wrapped his fingers around his mug as he stared into the dark depths.
A moment later, a hand with arthritic knuckles touched his forearm. “I’m not a churchgoer anymore, Michael. God and I aren’t on the best of terms.” Anna used the gentle tone she reserved for her rescued animals. “But I’m beginning to believe he brought you into my life for a reason, and that good will come of it for both of us.” With a pat on his shoulder, she stood. “I’ll leave you to your book now. Take the rest of the brownies back to the annex. And I want you to know that even though I haven’t prayed in a long while, I’ll be asking God to help you find whatever you’re seeking in Hope Harbor.”
He remained where he was while she walked back to the house, struggling to process this strange turn of events.
Anna Williams, the antisocial widow who spoke to as few people as possible and isolated herself from both God and the community, was going to pray for him.
And whether or not his own journey gave him the answers he sought, his trip had yielded at least this one small miracle.
“I think she’s dead, Tracy.” Uncle Bud stood and looked at her across the ailing tractor. “The transmission finally went belly-up—and considering old Bessie’s age and other ailments, it wouldn’t make sense to fork out thousands of dollars for a new part.”
Doing the mental math, Tracy fought back a wave of panic. They didn’t have enough idle money lying around in the farm account to replace Bessie even with a used model.
“Nancy and I can help out with the expense from our personal stash, honey.”
Pressure built behind her eyes. That was so like her uncle—always putting the farm first and his own needs last. The man didn’t have a selfish bone in his body.
“I don’t want you to raid your retirement fund. That magic sixty-five you’ve been targeting isn’t far down the road.” Tracy tried to remain calm, but a quiver ran through her voice.
“So I work an extra year or two. No big deal. Truth be told, I’m not certain retirement is all it’s cracked up to be. Besides, I’m not keen on leaving you saddled with this place by yourself. It’s too much for one person.”
Hard to argue with that—and there wasn’t much budget to hire any part-time help, either.
Make that no budget after this catastrophe.
But it wasn’t fair to ask Uncle Bud to lengthen his work life, either. He deserved some carefree years for the fishing and travel he’d always back-burnered—not to mention for his new wife.
“If we can get this place on its feet, I’ll be able to manage with some seasonal help—and that’s my top priority. I want you to have your retirement.” She nudged the recalcitrant tractor with her toe. “As for old Bessie, I guess we can’t complain too much. She’s served us well far beyond her normal life expectancy, thanks to your magic touch with all things mechanical. But I was hoping we could get through this season, buy ourselves a few months to come up with an idea that would bail us out.”
“How much do we have in the farm account?”
She gave him the paltry total. “I also have some second-quarter billings out. That money should be coming in over the next couple of weeks. If we pool all our resources, we can survive this. And I did round up a new customer. That will help down the road—but this will wipe out our current reserves. If any other unexpected expense comes up . . .” She rubbed her temple, where a dull ache was beginning to throb.
“Let’s not look for trouble, okay?” Uncle Bud circled the tractor and put his arm around her, his grip strong and steady and comforting, as always. “We said we’d leave things in God’s hands this year. I vote we stick with that plan.”
“He doesn’t seem to be helping us out much at the moment.”
“Second-guessing the big man, huh?” He gave her a reassuring squeeze.
“Don’t you sometimes wonder why bad things happen?” She searched his kindly, weathered eyes, the crinkles at the corners due as much to his ready smile as to his life in the fields.
“Of course. I’m human. But at the end of the day, I give it back to God. Trying to understand his ways is an exercise in futility. All we can do is our best and then trust that whatever happens, he’s present and in charge.”
That had been her philosophy too, once upon a time—before tragedy and grief and guilt had undermined her confidence in the Almighty.
She leaned into him, finding comfort in his solid, lean strength. “Well, let’s get the current crisis taken care of and pray the rest of the season is smooth sailing.”
“Amen to that.” Uncle Bud gave her shoulder a final squeeze and moved over to his workbench. “Since Bessie’s out of commission, you want to spot-spray weeds? I can join you as soon as I unclog a couple of sprinkler heads. We’ll have to water tomorrow if it doesn’t rain.”
“Sure.” She grabbed her work gloves and walked over to the shelf holding their two five-gallon backpack sprayers. “I’ll make some calls to our neighbors tonight and see if anyone has an older model tractor they’re willing to sell. If that doesn’t pan out, I’ll do some digging online.”
“I bet we’ll find one nearby, with the economy what it is and more farms going belly-up every day.” He started to turn away. Stopped. “Almost forgot. Nancy wanted me to ask you to dinner tomorrow night.”
“Tell her thanks, but we have a special board meeting for Helping Hands. I’ll barely have a chance to squeeze in a quick shower after we finish here.”
“What’s up?”
She pulled one of the sprayers off the shelf. “Michael Hunter’s going to come by for some discussion before he prepares his final report. He had a number of questions I couldn’t answer.”
Uncle Bud stopped fiddling with whatever had occupied him on the workbench and gave her his full attention. “So you’ve talked to him since that day he came by here?”
She busied herself with the herbicide prep. “Once. Most of our communication has been by email and very businesslike.” No need to tell him they’d shared an impromptu taco dinner in her cottage.
“He might be worth getting to know better. Sounds like a nice man.”
“Forget it, Uncle Bud. He made it very clear he has no interest in romance.”
“Is that right?” He folded his arms and propped a hip against the workbench. “Seems to me like you two must have talked about a lot more than business.”
She’d walked headfirst into that one.
Backpedal, Tracy.
Feigning nonchalance, she lifted one shoulder. “He mentioned his wife, whom he still loves very much. End of story.” She slipped her arms through the straps on the backpack, shrugged it into place,
and walked toward the door.
“I loved your aunt very much too, but meeting Nancy made me realize that sometimes God offers us unexpected second chances.”
Her step slowed. At the doorway, she paused and pivoted slowly back. “I think it’s possible to move on from grief. Guilt is a different story. It never goes away.” Her words hitched, and she swallowed. She’d never admitted that to anyone, but based on the compassion that softened her uncle’s eyes, he already knew about the burden weighing her down.
“It can . . . if it’s misplaced.”
“Mine isn’t.”
“Maybe it would help if you—”
“I need to get busy or I’ll be at this till dark.” She might have finally admitted her feelings of guilt, but she wasn’t ready for discussion. Or platitudes. Or advice. “I’ll see you later.”
He let her go without another word.
Once in the fresh air, she blinked to clear her vision and hurried toward the tranquil fields that had always offered her solace, focusing on the somnolent drone of the bees. The cheery call of the chickadees. The faint echo of Shep and Ziggy’s distant, playful barks. All the normal, everyday sounds that never failed to calm and comfort her.
Yet today she couldn’t shake the nervous energy coursing through her.
Why, oh why, had she spoken of her feelings to Uncle Bud and opened that whole can of worms? Keeping them inside was best. Had always been best. Now her uncle would take her side and reassure her she wasn’t at fault—and it would be so very easy to accept that. To let him convince her she was blameless.
But she knew better.
As did God.
And no amount of talking would change that . . . even if a certain Chicago nonprofit executive made her wish it could.
9
Stupid, stupid, stupid!
Swallowing past her disgust, Anna glared across the kitchen floor at Thumper—as Michael had dubbed him—who was regarding her at eye level from several feet away.
“This is . . . all . . . your fault . . . you know.”
He responded with a twitch of his whiskers, almost like he was holding in a laugh.
