by Irene Hannon
“I thought you told me yesterday you were going to take today off.”
“From farm work.”
“Hmph. Did you go to church?”
“Of course.”
“Any news there? I feel like I’ve been out of the loop for a year instead of a couple of weeks.”
“You’ll never guess who attended—Anna Williams, with that teen she took in.”
“Anna was at church?” His eyebrows rose. “Wait’ll I tell Nancy. The old girl must be softening.”
“Michael was surprised to see her there too.” The instant the words left her mouth she cringed. Uncle Bud would be all over that slip.
“Michael was at church?”
If nothing else, Bud Sheldon was predictable.
“Yes. Do you want carrots or string beans with your chicken?”
“I like ’em both. Did you get a chance to talk to him long?”
So much for her feeble attempt at a diversion.
However, a sounding board might be helpful—and it wasn’t as if she had any close girlfriends in town to confide in. Who had time to nurture those kinds of relationships?
“To tell you the truth, we sat together during the service—and we took a walk on the beach afterward. That’s where I was when you called.”
No response.
She peeked over her shoulder to find him frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“Now I’m doubly sorry I interrupted your day. You don’t often have a chance to socialize, much less with an eligible man.”
She turned the chicken in the sauté pan. Poked at the boiling potatoes. Got the vegetables started. Then she swiveled toward him.
He held up his hands. “I know, I know. Stop playing matchmaker.”
Wiping her hands on a dish towel, she leaned back against the counter. “As a matter of fact, I could use some advice.”
At her serious tone, he folded his hands on the table and gave her his full attention. Just as he used to do during her growing-up years when she came to him about a friend who’d hurt her feelings or a party she hadn’t been invited to or a date that hadn’t gone well. And he said the exact same thing now that he’d said in her youth.
“Tell me how I can help.”
“I’m not sure you can. No one can predict the future, and that’s kind of what I need.”
“Should I assume this is about Michael?”
“Yes. We’ve gotten to be . . . friends.”
“More than that, based on how you looked the other day out by the equipment shed.”
A caution bell rang in her mind. “What do you mean?”
“You looked like you’d been kissed.”
Chalk one up for the man from Chicago.
“No comment.”
“None needed. Anyway, I’m guessing the distance is a problem.” Her uncle scrutinized her.
“Yeah—and he’s leaving in three weeks.”
“How does he feel about Hope Harbor?”
“He seems to like it—and he enjoys being at the farm.” She twisted the dish towel in her hands. “The thing is, it feels comforting to have him in the fields with me, even when we’re working in different areas. Just knowing he’s close by gives me this sense of . . . peace, I guess.” Pressure built behind her eyes. “But he has a great career in Chicago. And a life there.”
“Then why did he take a leave and come to Hope Harbor?” Uncle Bud held up a hand. “Rhetorical question. I’m not prying into the man’s business. My point is, maybe that job and that life aren’t what he wants anymore. Could be he’s ready to think about a change.”
“Even if that’s true, I can’t offer him any promises this early in our relationship—and what if things go south? What if he upends everything, moves here . . . and the romance fizzles? I don’t need any more guilt in my life.”
He tapped a finger on the table. “Did he ask for any kind of commitment?”
“No.”
“Then if he decides to stay, it’s his choice. Now, putting logic aside for the moment, what does your heart tell you?”
She played with a piece of the zesty green onion that was clinging to her hand. “That Michael Hunter could be my second chance.”
“And how do you think he feels?”
“The same.”
Her uncle refolded his hands. “I can’t tell you what to do, honey. People have to make their own choices. But I can give you my two cents. Neither of you is a hormone-crazed teenager. Not that there aren’t sparks, but they haven’t short-circuited your brain cells. That’s a plus. At the same time, while prudence is a virtue, don’t let logic or fear or doubts or bad experiences deafen you to the voice of your heart. Feelings do count. And if the two of you feel half as much for each other as I suspect you do, it seems to me it would be worth giving this thing a shot.”
She crossed her arms and studied him. “How do you always manage to get to the core of an issue so fast and come up with such sound advice?”
“Just call me Dr. Phil.” He winked. “But when you get down to it, most things . . .” He sniffed. “What’s burning?”
With a muttered exclamation, she spun around. The pan with the chicken was smoking—and a quick peek confirmed they’d be eating a slightly charred entree for Sunday dinner.
But burned chicken she could handle.
A burned heart—different story.
Yet as Uncle Bud offered a simple blessing over their food a few minutes later that included a request for guidance for his niece, Tracy felt more at peace than she had since Michael had entered her life.
Because her uncle was right.
Michael hadn’t asked for any guarantees or promises. If he chose to stay, it would mean he believed—as she did—that they had great potential.
And if he didn’t stay?
Well . . . long-distance courtships worked in books.
Maybe they could in real life too.
19
“I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to call it a day.”
Michael stopped refilling the fuel tank on the riding mower and turned. Tracy was silhouetted in the doorway of the equipment shed, the setting sun behind her outlining her slender figure and sparking the gold highlights in her hair.
Nice.
Even nicer?
The notion of spending a free evening with her.
“I like that plan.”
“Good.” She strolled into the shed, shoulders sagging, faint shadows beneath her lower lashes. “I need a hot bath and some shut-eye—after I take care of a few things on my non-cranberry to-do list.”
Oh, well. A free evening together would have been nice if she wasn’t so worn out, didn’t have books to work on, wasn’t running errands for her sick relatives, or didn’t have a Helping Hands board meeting, church commitment, or one of a dozen other obligations that were always clamoring for her attention.
But he did have a topic to discuss with her, and laying off earlier than usual might give him the opportunity to broach it—if he could claim half an hour of her time.
And he knew the perfect bait to dangle.
“Before you do all that, would you like to grab some tacos at Charley’s?”
She deposited her sprayer on a shelf. “I could be persuaded. I cooked ahead for Uncle Bud and Nancy when I came out after our interrupted walk yesterday afternoon, and tacos would save me having to fix dinner for myself. You want to clean up first?”
“Not unless you do.” He recapped the fuel tank, wiped his hands on a rag, and brushed some dust off his jeans. “I’m hungry.”
“The citizens of Hope Harbor have seen me dressed far worse than this. I say we go for it—if Charley is serving at this hour.”
“We’ll grab a bite somewhere else if he’s not.” He pulled out his car keys, grabbed her hand, and tugged her toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“I guess you weren’t kidding about being hungry.”
“I never kid about food.”
Ten minutes later
, as he claimed a parking spot on the wharf, Tracy grinned. “We’re in luck. He’s still open.”
“Well, let’s not push it. That window could crank closed any second.”
She was already out of the car by the time he circled it. Taking her hand again, he picked up his pace until she had to break into a slow trot to keep up.
“Hey! This girl is tired. He won’t shut the window in our faces.” She waved at the proprietor.
He waved back.
“Sorry.” Michael slowed. “With my advanced state of hunger, the aroma of those tacos is like a dandelion to a honeybee.”
She chuckled. “A cranberry analogy, huh? I may make a grower out of you yet.”
When they drew up at the window, Charley leaned his forearms on the counter and smiled. “I almost closed up ten minutes ago, but a little voice told me to stay open for a while. Now I see why. You two look hungry.”
“Working in the cranberry beds all day will do that to you. We’ll have two full orders of the taco du jour.” Didn’t matter what it was. After a dozen visits, Michael trusted Charley to give him a great meal.
“You’re helping out at the farm?” Charley pulled some fish fillets from a cooler and set them on the grill, then began chopping up an avocado.
“Yes. Since last week,” Tracy answered for him. “With Uncle Bud felled by the flu, I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t offered. It was providential.”
“That’s an apt word for it.” Charley added some red onions to the mix. “How’s the water situation at the farm? Been pretty dry lately.”
“Yeah. We’re irrigating a couple hours every other day. You’d think all this overcast weather would produce some rain, wouldn’t you?” Tracy surveyed the cloud-studded sky. “But the cranberries don’t care where the moisture comes from.”
“No.” Charley lined up some squares of paper on the counter and set a soft corn tortilla on each. “And it’s amazing what a touch of water will do for a parched plant, isn’t it?” The Mexican artist sent him a knowing look.
Michael reached into the pocket of his jeans and fingered the slip of paper with the citation from Job. Like the tree that had been cut down and left to wither and die, he, too, was sprouting tender new branches—thanks to the woman beside him.
Of course, Charley couldn’t have had any idea how things would develop the day he’d sent over that complimentary order of tacos. He’d just sensed a stranger’s sadness and passed on the quote to offer a generic touch of hope.
Hadn’t he?
“Here you go.” Charley added a dollop of some mystery sauce to each taco, wrapped them up, and put them in a bag.
Michael dug out his money clip.
“I can pay for my own.” Tracy started to pull some bills from her jeans.
He stopped her with a touch. “This is on me. Consider it a business expense. I have a cranberry-related topic to discuss with you.”
“What kind of topic?”
“You want to get the waters?” He gestured to the two bottles Charley had set on the counter as he picked up the bag.
“What kind of topic?” She grabbed the bottles.
“We’ll talk about it in the boardroom.” He motioned toward the bench where he’d met Anna. “Thanks, Charley. These smell great.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy.”
Before they were halfway to the bench, the window on Charley’s truck had been rolled closed.
“Whew. That was close.” The aroma from the bag set off a rumble in Michael’s stomach.
“Not really. He was waiting for us. You heard him.”
He didn’t try to hide his skepticism. “How could he know we were coming? We didn’t know until twenty minutes ago.”
“Maybe he wasn’t certain it would be us, but like he said, his instincts told him someone was coming—and I’ve learned never to discount Charley’s instincts.” She sat and held out her hand for the bag. “I’ll divvy those up while you tell me about this topic you want to discuss.”
He claimed a spot on the bench and took the bundle of tacos she dug out for him. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your financial problems at the farm, and I had a conversation with my dad yesterday that spurred a revenue-generating idea I wanted to run by you.”
“I’m all for revenue generation.” She rounded up some wayward pieces of shredded cheese and tucked them back in the tortilla, but her attention was focused on him.
“Have you ever thought about selling your family’s cranberry nut cake on a commercial scale?”
Some sauce dripped out of her taco, onto the napkin on her lap.
She didn’t notice.
“You mean . . . start a bakery?”
“No. I’m talking about producing one item on a large scale. Like the monks do who bake this fruitcake my dad likes.” He relayed his conversation with his father, along with some of the information he’d gleaned from a web search, ending with the prices they charged and the volume they sold.
She gulped. “They get that much for each cake?”
“Yes. I don’t know what your cranberry production is, but I’m guessing a small portion of the crop would make a lot of cakes. The rest could be sold as usual. You could position it as a holiday offering in the beginning and expand if sales warrant.”
“But . . . I don’t know a thing about baking on that scale. And we’d need to design packages and develop shipping procedures and create a marketing campaign . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Don’t forget sampling and publicity.” Michael leaned closer. “But we can access some of that expertise without too much trouble. I have contacts with creative types, since we run all kinds of marketing campaigns for St. Joseph Center. My own background in nonprofit management would apply to marketing a product as well as an organization. And we both know someone who’s an expert on cooking and baking in large batches.”
“Who?” More sauce dripped out of her taco.
“You better eat that before any more of it lands on your lap.”
She looked down. After wadding up the soiled napkin and replacing it with a clean one, she took a bite.
“Anna Williams. She cooked at the high school for years.”
Tracy’s eyes widened, and she fumbled for her water bottle to wash down the bite of taco. “Why on earth would she want to get involved in this?”
“I don’t know that she would—but I do think she’s beginning to rejoin the human race. Consider the evidence. She gave me a place to stay, took in Grace, went back to church . . . and yesterday I noticed she’d opened all the shades in her house for the first time since I’ve been there.”
“Hmm.” She took another bite of her taco.
Michael could almost hear the gears whirring in her brain. She hadn’t jumped at the idea, but it was bold—and it would take her out of her comfort zone. Yet with her accounting and cranberry background and his management and marketing skills, he had no doubt they could pull this off.
If he decided to stick around long term.
Even if he didn’t, though, he could help her launch this. Line up some people to assist.
“It’s an interesting idea.” A flicker of excitement began to glimmer in her eyes. “I wonder if it would fly? I mean, I guess the recipe could be adapted for large-scale baking . . . but would people buy it?”
“They buy fruitcake. And having sampled the monk’s pride and joy as well as your family recipe, all I can say is . . . no contest. We just have to make certain we get lots of publicity—and there are a bunch of appealing angles, starting with berries grown on a three-generation family farm and cake made from an old family recipe. Consumers are hungry for that personal touch—pardon the pun—and so is the media.”
“That’s true.” Yet all at once her glimmer dimmed. “But the initial capital investment is a huge stumbling block.”
Of course money was a problem. That’s why he’d already thought it through.
“It may not be as costly as you think.”
“Small business loans are available, and you might find some potential investors. In fact, I happen to know a nonprofit executive from Chicago who would be interested in a piece of a venture like this.”
She stared at him. “I can’t take your money.”
“It’s not a gift; it’s an investment. One I suspect could return a lot more than the paltry rate CDs pay. Besides, I don’t think it would take that much to get this business up and running. But let’s not jump the gun. Why don’t I ask Anna first if she’d be willing to look at the recipe and offer an opinion about how difficult it would be to both adapt it to large-batch baking and produce it in big volumes?”
Tracy nibbled on her taco. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get her opinion—but let me run the idea by Uncle Bud first. He and I are in this together, and even though he keeps talking about retiring, for now we’re full partners. I want to be sure he’s comfortable talking about our financial situation with people outside the family. After we finish our dinner, I’ll drive out and discuss it with him.”
“I thought you had a long to-do list for this evening?”
“This is now top priority.” She caught another glob of sauce before it hit the napkin. Sucked it off her finger.
His gaze dropped to her mouth. Amazing how such a simple gesture could make his pulse skyrocket and—
“. . . think it has potential?”
Only her last few words registered.
Becoming distracted by her lips was getting to be a habit—one he wasn’t eager to break.
“I think it has great potential.” He might not have heard her entire question, but the gist was clear. He hoped. “If your uncle’s on board, why don’t you email me the recipe? I can feel Anna out tomorrow when I drive her up to Coos Bay for an orthopedic appointment.”
“Too long a trip for Grace to tackle at this stage of her driving career?”
“Probably—but that’s a moot point. Grace has reunited with her parents. She’s planning to come over a few hours a day to help Anna this week, but she went home yesterday.”
“No kidding.” Tracy finished off her second taco and moved on to the third, keeping pace with him. “I wonder if Reverend Baker’s sermon had anything to do with her change of heart?”
