Hope Harbor

by Irene Hannon

  Adrenaline surging, she scooted closer, lifted her arms and—

  Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap.

  Groaning, she dropped her head.

  “Let me guess. Floyd wants another handout.”

  “Yes. Talk about bad timing.” She shot a disgruntled look toward the back door.

  “We could ignore him.”

  Rap, rap, rap, rap, rap.

  Michael chuckled. “Or not.”

  At least he was being a good sport about the interruption.

  She rose and jogged into the kitchen, pulled some lunch scraps out of the fridge, and crossed to the back door. “He’ll stop knocking if I feed him.”

  “You save stuff for him?”

  “Not always.” True . . . but barely. She kind of liked having Floyd around—most of the time. “Besides, he’s a great garbage disposal. I never have to . . .” She flipped the lock on the back door and pulled it open. “Well, look at that. Floyd’s found himself a new girlfriend.”

  Michael came up behind her to inspect the pair of gulls on her doorstep, his breath a delectable puff of warmth on her neck. “I thought you said they mated for life.”

  “They do.” She set the food on the porch, then drew back as the two gulls dived in. “But after gulls finish grieving, they often find a new mate.”

  “Seems like there’s a lesson to be learned there.” Michael very deliberately shut the door and turned her to face him. “If Floyd can give love a second go, maybe we can too.”

  She put her arms around his neck. “I like the sound of that—but I still think the slow and easy plan is wise.”

  “Fine with me . . . as long as we keep moving forward.”

  She burrowed her fingers into the soft hair at the base of his neck and tried to keep the left side of her brain engaged. “You don’t think we’ll have any problems mixing business and pleasure, do you? I mean, you’re putting money into this cranberry nut cake business. That makes us business partners.”

  “Oh, I think our partnership is going to be a whole lot more complex than that.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “Down the road, of course.” He slid his arms around her waist. “And my financial investment is small potatoes compared to the investment I plan to make on a much more important level. Starting now—unless you have any objections?”

  Objections?

  Was he kidding?

  From within the circle of his arms, Tracy smiled up at him. “None at all. But don’t we have cranberry business to discuss first?”

  “The cranberries can wait. Because you, Tracy Campbell, are my top priority.”

  Without wasting any more words, he bent to claim her lips.

  And as she gave thanks for this man who’d replaced the dark clouds in her world with an enduring sunshine no gray skies could ever chase away, Tracy did her best to make Hope Harbor’s newest citizen feel very, very welcome.

  “Could you use a cup of coffee?”

  John shifted around in his seat as the patio door opened and Denise appeared on the threshold, hefting a mug.

  “Yes. Thanks. It’s cooling down out here.”

  She exited the house and joined him at the table, setting a basket and a pair of garden clippers on the ground beside her before handing him the steaming brew.

  “Your roses are spectacular this year.”

  She surveyed the garden, one level down on the terraced property that led into the woods. “Yes, they are. It’s such a joy to grow roses here after struggling with them in the Kansas heat while I was growing up.”

  “You ever miss your hometown?”

  Her mouth curved up. “Home is more about being with the people you love than living in a certain place. When I think of home, two images come to mind—you beside me, and my parents in the Kansas farmhouse where I grew up.” Her gaze flicked to the unopened card sitting in the middle of the table.

  “I’m still thinking about it.” She didn’t need to ask her question for him to hear it. Not after sixteen years of marriage. “That’s why I brought it out here.” He took a sip of the coffee she’d doctored the way he liked it—a hint of sugar, a healthy splash of half-and-half, a couple shakes of vanilla powder.

  Kind of like the way his mom had always known just how much brown sugar and milk to put in his oatmeal when he was a kid.

  Denise leaned her head back to soak up the last rays of the setting sun. “It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?”

  Usually.

  “I’m not feeling it much at the moment.”

  She turned, the empathy in her expression warming him like the cups of hot chocolate his mom used to welcome him home from school with on rainy, blustery winter days.

  “You know . . . putting it off won’t make it any easier. Worry about the unknown is more stressful than dealing with facts.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Williams. Send me your bill in the morning.” He tried for a teasing tone, but a sour note crept in.

  Instead of taking offense, she leaned over and touched the back of the fist he’d rested on the table beside the card. “I work cheap—especially for people I love.”

  A surge of shame engulfed him. “I’m sorry. That didn’t come out the way I intended. I do appreciate your input.”

  “And I appreciate your struggle. We all have our hot buttons. But here’s the thing—you’re in control no matter what’s in that card. Your mother put the ball in your court, and my guess is she’ll leave the next move to you. But you can’t make that decision until you see what she has to say.”

  “Assuming I open the card.”

  “You will.”

  “How do you know?”

  Winking, she stood and circled behind his chair to hug his neck. “Because I know you. You’re not a man who backs away from the hard stuff. You might not open it tonight . . . but you will eventually. And in case you’re interested in my professional opinion—if your mom is offering you the opportunity to heal the rift that’s caused you a lot of pain for a lot of years, take it. Now I’m off to get a fresh bouquet for our table.”

  After picking up her basket and clippers, she started toward the stone steps that led to the terrace below.

  John watched her descend toward the garden. His mom liked flowers too. Not roses so much, but the annual ones she grew along the edges of the fence. There had often been a vase of them on the kitchen table of his youth.

  Denise and his mom would enjoy talking about gardening.

  Slowly he shifted his focus to the beige envelope on the patio table. His wife was right. In the end, he’d open it. Why not save himself a lot of angst and do it now?

  Pulse quickening, he took one more sip of coffee, set the mug down, and picked up the envelope.

  It didn’t weigh much more than the card itself. Nor was it bulked up, as if a long note had been tucked inside.

  That would be like Mom. She never had been long-winded. More the don’t-waste-words-and-get-to-the-point type.

  The same type he was.

  Only words that spilled out in anger had come easily—for both of them.

  At least he’d conquered that curse in the past two decades. Learned to rein in his tongue until cooler thoughts prevailed. To be more like Dad.

  Lord, how he missed that man, and his wise and gentle counsel. Even after twenty years.

  Blinking to clear his vision, he slipped an unsteady finger under the flap of the envelope, pulled it open, and extracted a card.

  The colorful impressionistic scene on the front of the card took him back to Hope Harbor in a heartbeat. The wharf pictured was very similar to the one that had been the playground of his childhood, flowering planters lining the edge, boats bobbing in the harbor, a bench in the foreground—like the one that used to be near Charley’s.

  He read the birthday greeting, tripping a little over the last two words. She still regarded him as a special son?

  Hard to believe, after all the rancor and years of bitter estrangement.

  Bracing himself, he
opened the card.

  The printed message was short and simple.

  The day you were born, God blessed us with the greatest gift we ever received. May you be as happy in the years ahead as we were the day you first graced our lives.

  Us. We. Our lives.

  Interesting that she’d chosen a card meant to be from both father and mother.

  Her handwritten note began on the opposite side, across from the printed message, and continued on the back.

  Dear John,

  No, I’m not at death’s door.

  I’m sure that was your first thought when you received this. What else could motivate your stubborn, self-righteous mother to get in touch after all these years?

  As it turns out, a number of eye-opening things have happened recently that prompted me to reevaluate this long rift of ours—and to acknowledge how sorry I am it ever happened. If I could rewind the clock to that terrible day, I’d do and say things very differently. You needed understanding and empathy, not accusations and insults. I’m sorry I drove you away with my harsh judgment and even harsher words.

  I chose this card because it expresses so well what both your father and I always felt. What I still feel.

  I know your hurt runs deep. I know your life has moved on, away from Hope Harbor. But age and experience bring perspective and some degree of wisdom—even for someone as old as me. I don’t want to live the rest of my life with regrets. Perhaps you don’t either. I know George would encourage us to mend our fences. That’s what I want too—if you can find it in your heart to consider a reconciliation.

  Whatever you decide, may your birthday be filled with love. I’m sending mine from here—as I always have.

  Mom

  A muscle in John’s jaw twitched . . . and then he reread the words his mother had penned in a shaky hand. The writing was hers without question . . . but the contrite tone? Not her usual style—and certainly not the tone she’d used the day he’d walked out.

  Apparently his mom had mellowed.

  And she wanted him back in her life.

  The words blurred, and he swiped his knuckles across his lashes. Never in a million years would he have expected Anna Williams to swallow her pride, admit her mistakes, and reach out to him.

  Lifting his head, he found Denise sitting at the top of the stone steps, watching him.

  “I didn’t want to disturb you in the middle of that.” She gestured toward the card.

  “It packed quite a punch.”

  “I can tell.”

  “You want to read it?”

  She rose, basket of roses in hand, and joined him. After setting the flowers on the table, she pulled a chair beside him, rested one hand on his knee, and took the card.

  John watched her as she scanned the note, taking in every subtle nuance as the aroma of roses sweetened the air. The softening of her features, the slight quiver in her lips, the tremulous cadence of her breathing.

  At last, eyes shimmering, she looked up. “It took a lot of courage to write this.”

  “Yeah.”

  She didn’t press him about what he was going to do. That wasn’t her way. She trusted him to take the high road and make the right choice.

  And that choice was obvious. His mother was right. Age and experience did bring perspective . . . and a certain degree of wisdom. Not enough wisdom—or courage—on his part to take the leap his mother had by sending a note and initiating contact, but enough to recognize he’d been given a remarkable birthday gift.

  He took the card from Denise, skimming the words again as he spoke. “Do we have any set-in-stone plans for the Fourth of July weekend?”

  “No. A picnic on the coast and fireworks in the evening, as usual.”

  “I’m thinking we might want to take a road trip.” He tightened his grip on the card. “Hope Harbor is a seven, eight-hour drive. If we went down on the Fourth, I could pay my mom a visit on Saturday—and if that goes well, maybe the four of us could go to dinner.”

  Smiling, Denise leaned close and gave him a hug. “Sounds like a plan. And you know what? I have a feeling this is going to be the beginning of a whole new chapter in our lives.”

  He did too.

  But as he held her in his arms, drawing strength from the love that had sustained him for more than sixteen years, he hoped his next chapter in Hope Harbor would be a lot happier than the last one.

  24

  “Since it’s a holiday weekend—and I have a plane to catch—shall we wrap up this meeting?”

  As he asked the question, Michael looked around Anna’s patio table. Bud was eating his third piece of the cake Anna had baked from the high-volume recipe she’d been experimenting with in the high school kitchen. His landlady was inspecting a packaging comp from one of the three designers he’d contacted. Tracy was scrutinizing the legal profit-sharing agreement she’d insisted he and Anna sign in formal recognition of their investments.

  “I’ll second that.” Bud polished off the cake. “Great job, Anna. Tastes just like the original—maybe better.”

  “It wasn’t hard to adjust the recipe. I enjoyed tinkering with it.”

  “Bud’s right. It’s great.” Michael gathered up the crumbs on his plate too.

  “I appreciate the kind words—but I’ll be interested to hear what your father has to say. He sounds like an expert on this sort of cake . . . from the consumer standpoint.”

  Michael nodded. “He is. And I saved the best news for last. He called me this morning to say the sample cake I sent arrived yesterday and it’s already half gone. He wants to know when he can place an order. I think those monks he patronizes are about to get some serious competition.”

  “He really liked it?” Tracy shifted her attention from the legal documents to him.

  “Like is too mild a word. To quote him, he’s been devouring it.” Michael flashed her a grin. “As far as I can see, we’re good to go here. Bud, you’re certain Nancy has enough frozen cranberries to get us through our public tasting sessions before this season’s crop comes in?”

  “She took an inventory last night. No problem. We’ve got a whole freezer full of them in the basement. I have no idea why she saved so many last season—but I’m glad she did.”

  “Okay.” Michael picked up the package design they all liked best. “I’ll notify this firm to proceed with bids for production.”

  Tracy combed her fingers through her hair, looking more than a little overwhelmed. “Now we just have a few small details to attend to . . . like selling and marketing and shipping and publicity and—”

  “Hey.” Michael laid his hand over hers. “We’ll get there. We have a lot of brainpower behind this venture—and a boatload of enthusiasm. Remember, we all agreed this is a trial run. If we break even and get a positive response this season, we’ll ramp up next year. Broaden the distribution, increase production, do some real advertising. Right?”

  She let out a slow breath and managed a smile. “Right.”

  After a squeeze, he released her fingers. “I need to run, but I’ll be in regular touch until I can wrap things up in Chicago and get back here. Anna, thanks for the samples and the great coffee.”

  “My pleasure.” She lifted her left arm and wiggled her fingers. “All that stirring and mixing were more helpful than the exercises the physical therapist gave me. If I never see another sling again it will be too soon.”

  “Don’t overdo it, though. We couldn’t manage this without you.” Tracy touched the woman’s arm.

  Anna patted her hand. “Don’t you worry about me. I’m in for the duration. And don’t worry about anything else, either. I have good feelings about this project. We’re going to make this a grand success.”

  As the woman’s eyes sparkled with excitement, Michael examined her animated face. What a change from his early days here, when dour and reclusive had better described his landlady.

  “With all this positive energy buzzing around, I’m getting hungry again.” Bud stood. “Think I’ll m
osey on home and see what Nancy’s got in mind for lunch.”

  “It’s only nine o’clock.” Tracy arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m playing catch-up from the weight I lost while I had the flu. You coming out to the farm later?”

  “If I get back from the airport early enough.”

  “Don’t rush on my account. With the extra help we’ve had these past few weeks, for once we’re caught up.” Bud held out his hand, and Michael stood to take it. “Thank you for everything, Michael—and come home soon.”

  Home.

  What a beautiful . . . and apt . . . description.

  Because while he might have come to Hope Harbor seeking answers, he’d also found home.

  As Bud disappeared around the side of the house toward his car, Tracy rose and began to clear the table.

  “Don’t you bother with that. Now that I’ve ditched my sling, I’ll have this cleaned up in a jiffy.” Anna rose and waved her off. “You need to get Michael to the airport.” She rubbed her palms down the fabric covering her hips and held out her hand to him. “We’ll miss you.”

  He shook his head. “After all these weeks, I think we can do better than that.” Stepping close, he pulled the older woman into a hearty hug.

  When he released her, her hand fluttered to her chest. “My. Hugs from Grace and her mother and Joyce and you . . . I’ve been hugged more in the past few weeks than I have been in years.”

  “Can I give you one too?” Tracy circled the table. “If you and Michael weren’t funding this project, our farm would be history. I’ll be forever grateful.”

  “It’s a pleasure, my dear. Having a project like this to work on has given new meaning to my days.” Anna gave Tracy a squeeze and patted her back. “Now you two get a move on. Planes don’t wait for latecomers.”

  Michael grabbed her hand. “That’s our cue. Talk to you soon, Anna.”

  “Safe travels.”

  Tracy glanced at her watch as they crossed to the annex. “You’re cutting this close, you know. It’s a three-hour drive to Eugene.”

  “We’ll make it. My luggage is already stowed in the trunk.”

  “We could take my car, if you’d rather.”

  And have her spend hard-earned money on gas? No way. Her finances were far too tight—but they wouldn’t be for long if this project took off the way he expected.