The Inn at Rose Harbor

by Debbie Macomber

  Kitchen time with his mother had been special. She’d let him mix and stir and on rare occasions they had baked cookies together. Those good times with his mother were memories he’d clung to through the years. He remembered how she’d talked to him while they worked together; how she’d encouraged and praised him. According to his mother, Josh had a brilliant mind and was capable of achieving anything he wanted in life. But she’d never failed to add that he had to create his own opportunities.

  Those early years with her had been the happiest of his life.

  In the evenings they sat around the table together while he did his homework. She’d look over his work, and because she made him believe he was smart, he always did well in school. To his way of thinking, their lives had been idyllic, until she met Richard.

  When his mother and Richard had first started dating, it hadn’t been so bad. Josh and Dylan had gotten along well and Josh had thought it was super cool that he might have a brother one day. When Richard proposed, his mother had talked the decision over with Josh. He’d assumed everything would continue as it had been and they would become a regular family.

  “You’re looking thoughtful,” Michelle commented as she closed the dishwasher and pushed the button to start the wash cycle.

  “I was remembering my mother.” Even now he missed her and he knew Richard did, too. For all his faults, for all he lacked, Josh couldn’t fault his stepfather for one thing: Richard had loved his mother.

  “I remember Teresa.” Michelle pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, as if weighed down by sadness over Josh’s mother’s death. “She was always such a joyful, happy person. Even after she was diagnosed with cancer, she never failed to be upbeat and positive.”

  “She was an eternal optimist,” Josh recalled fondly. The sky was always blue and the sun was forever bright and shining in his mother’s eyes. Life was a gift to be treasured; each day an adventure.

  Josh and his mother had struggled financially before she married Richard, but Josh had never thought of himself as underprivileged or poor. He didn’t get all the toys he wanted, but the one or two wrapped gifts under the Christmas tree had been more than enough.

  “I’ll check on Richard,” Michelle said.

  “I’ll do it,” Josh offered, “I’m up.”

  Before he could go Michelle stopped him with a question. “Did you ever tell your mother about the way Richard treated you?”

  Josh shook his head. Really, he couldn’t see the point. For the first time in his life, Josh had known his mother was content. She loved Richard and worked hard to keep a comfortable home for her new husband and his son. She took pride in a clean house and in preparing healthy, appetizing meals.

  “No, I never did.”

  A frown marred her features. “Why didn’t you?”

  The temptation had been strong to run to his mother, especially in the early years of her second marriage. The problem was that the verbal put-downs had been hard to pinpoint, especially since Richard’s behavior was mostly passive-aggressive. Josh feared that he’d sound like a crybaby if he told his mother Richard had picked up Dylan after school, leaving Josh to walk home alone. If he were to complain, Richard would simply claim he hadn’t seen Josh, or make some other phony excuse.

  “Josh,” Michelle sighed. “I don’t understand you.”

  “What’s to understand?” he asked.

  After a time, the changes in his mother became even more apparent to Josh. She was genuinely happy. She loved Richard and Dylan, and most important, they loved her. Yes, it meant he had to share his mother with these two other people. While that might have been cause for concern, Josh didn’t mind because she deserved happiness.

  She hummed when she baked elaborate desserts, and she planted flowers and started knitting again, all the things she’d given up because of tight finances. Richard and Dylan had lived without a woman’s influence for several years, and the small female touches of gentleness Teresa brought into their lives made a difference, too. Josh recognized that and so he said nothing.

  “My mother was happy,” he said after a lengthy pause. “Richard made her happy.”

  Michelle appeared to look at him with fresh eyes. “You were wise and mature beyond your years, Josh.”

  If that was the case then Josh had his mother to thank. She was the one who’d raised and nurtured him, who’d instilled a sense of honor in him.

  Josh headed down the hallway to his stepfather’s bedroom. He made an effort to silence his steps as much as possible as he approached the older man’s room. After dinner, they’d given Richard his prescribed pain medication and he’d promptly gone to bed. Within minutes he’d fallen asleep.

  The master bedroom door creaked as Josh opened it. He hesitated for fear it would wake Richard.

  “I’m not dead yet, if that’s why you’re here.”

  Josh slipped into the bedroom and turned on the light. Richard lay half-prone, propped up by two pillows. “I figure you’ll live another ten years just to spite me,” Josh said.

  “I should.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. Do you need anything?”

  Richard sat up and glared across the room at Josh. “Nothing you can give me. Why are you here?”

  “I came to make sure you’re resting comfortably.”

  Richard snorted and shook his head. “You were looking to rob me blind, weren’t you? That was what you did before, so why should I trust you now?”

  For an instant the old resentments flared back to life and he retorted sharply. “You know as well as I do that I didn’t steal that money.”

  “You lied to me twelve years ago and you’re lying now,” Richard spat.

  Josh could see that the argument had quickly tired the older man. A pillow toppled from the bed and onto the carpet. Josh came all the way into the room and retrieved it from the floor.

  “Do you want it behind your back?” he asked.

  Richard hesitated and then nodded.

  Josh replaced the pillow and while he was there he straightened the blankets and smoothed the afghan his mother had knitted over the end of the bed.

  “Thank you.”

  At first Josh was sure he’d misunderstood. Richard had actually thanked him. “You’re welcome,” he said.

  Richard exhaled slowly, as though he found it difficult to breathe.

  Josh started to leave and was about to ask if Richard wanted the light on or off. Instead he stood near the foot of the bed. “Michelle and I were talking just now and, well, it doesn’t really matter what led to this, but I want to tell you something.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Richard barked. “I’m tired, leave me alone. Now get out of here before I—”

  Josh ignored the tirade and spoke over his stepfather. “I wanted to thank you for making my mother happy.”

  “Oh I’ll—” Richard abruptly stopped speaking. “What did you just say?”

  Josh was fairly certain the old man had heard him. “My mother was happy when she was married to you … perhaps for the first time since she’d had me. You made her happy.”

  Richard glared back as if unwilling to trust what he’d heard.

  Undeterred, Josh continued. “I wanted to thank you for giving her that small piece of joy. God knows she deserved it.”

  “Your mother was a good woman.”

  “You were good to her,” Josh admitted, “especially toward the end of her life.” Richard had taken good care of Teresa and for that Josh would always be grateful. His stepfather had encouraged and supported her, and in the last days of her life, he had simply sat by her bedside and held her hand. Josh had been there, too—on the other side of the bed. He’d wanted to be as close to her as possible, and was afraid of what would happen to him after she was gone.

  To his amazement Richard’s eyes clouded with tears. “I loved Teresa.”

  “I know you did.”

  “She was the best thing that ever happened to Dylan and me.”

  �
�And to me, too,” Josh added.

  Moisture slipped from the corner of the old man’s face. “You … you looked like your mother,” Richard whispered. “I couldn’t look at you without being reminded of what I’d lost.”

  It had never occurred to Josh that seeing him had been, for his stepfather, a constant reminder of all he had lost.

  “When she died …” Richard was unable to continue. “I thought … and then I lost Dylan, too.”

  “I know,” Josh whispered.

  “No, you don’t,” he countered sharply. “You couldn’t possibly know what that kind of grief does to a man.”

  Richard was probably right. Josh had no idea what it was like to lose a child. He didn’t think God ever asked more of a parent than to claim one of their children. Richard had lost two wives and his only son; he was bitter and angry, but he was entitled to both emotions.

  “I don’t want to live any longer,” his stepfather whispered.

  Josh struggled to make out the words.

  “I have nothing to live for.”

  “I’m sorry,” Josh told him.

  “No you’re not. This couldn’t have worked out better for you. Well, I have news for you. You’ll get nothing from me. Not one single penny. You stole that money and that was the day I wrote you out of my will. I refuse to leave anything to a thieving stepson.”

  “That’s perfectly fine by me,” Josh assured him.

  He left then, keeping the bedroom door ajar.

  “Get back here. I’m not finished telling you what I think,” Richard called, his voice pitifully weak.

  Josh pretended not to hear. He started toward the kitchen when Michelle stopped him. “You okay?”

  He nodded.

  “He doesn’t mean the things he says,” Michelle assured him.

  “I know.” And Josh did. “Richard’s lost everything that ever mattered to him.”

  “And he’s turned his back on what’s left because he’s afraid of losing that, too.”

  Josh would like to believe Richard actually cared about him, but past evidence proved otherwise.

  Michelle pressed a comforting hand on his arm, and Josh reached for her and brought her close. She was warm and soft and after confronting his stepfather’s grief and bitterness, he needed her gentleness and her beauty to wipe away the old man’s hate.

  She raised her lips to his, and unable to resist, Josh kissed her again and again, accepting the sweetness and reassurance she offered.

  Chapter 20

  I took up knitting after I heard the news about Paul. A friend, Judith Knight, told me it would help me with the grieving process. At the time I’d been so desperate I was willing to try anything that would soften the horrendous pain. If learning to knit would do this, then I’d stand on my head in the middle of the street in order to learn. On the way home from work late one afternoon, I stopped at a downtown Seattle yarn store and signed up for a beginner’s class.

  Hurting as I was, my frustration level was about ten times higher than normal. I wanted to quit, to throw in the towel—if you’ll pardon the cliché—any number of times, but with Judith and my instructor’s encouragement I stuck with it. I’m grateful I did. Although I’d been knitting for less than a year, I was fearless in choosing my projects, willing to tackle just about any pattern. I’d knit a pair of socks, a hat, taken a Fair Isle class, and I had recently bought yarn for a lace shawl.

  What I found amazing was that knitting did help me. I’d been so busy with the move, transitioning from my Seattle home to Cedar Cove, that I hadn’t picked up my needles in weeks. That was unlike me; I’d become addicted to knitting. Addicted to the small comfort I felt when I centered myself and concentrated on creating something beautiful.

  The repetitive action of weaving the yarn around a needle, one stitch at a time, brought me solace in a way that’s difficult to explain. When I sat down to knit I discovered that I could divert my thoughts from the emptiness I experienced after I lost Paul. And yet … and yet many a night tears blurred my eyes, and all I could think about was Paul. Nevertheless, I discovered that comfort came with each stitch.

  My thoughts were burdened following the events of that Friday afternoon. I recognized that knitting would help my mind make sense of what had transpired and give me a chance to catch my breath. I’d been busy from the moment I set my feet on the carpet that morning.

  I was grateful to have met Peggy Beldon and Corrie McAfee. Although I didn’t know either woman well, I had the feeling that given time both would become friends.

  Sitting in front of the fireplace, I reached for my current knitting project. I almost always had three going at the same time. The socks were easy projects to take with me, which was good because I found I fidgeted if my hands were idle for long.

  I have practically no patience. I didn’t used to be like this, but since I lost Paul I haven’t been able to sit still for long periods. It’s the waiting that disturbs me; I can’t stand stillness, the silence of inactivity. Knitting helps me deal with this completely unreasonable aspect of my personality. If the dentist is running late or if I’m obliged to sit for several minutes, having a small knitting project with me helps tremendously.

  The delicate lace shawl pattern demanded total concentration. I’d chosen a lovely light blue alpaca. At times it felt like I was knitting with a spider’s web. To this point it’d turned out beautifully. This evening I would work on the afghan.

  I was knitting one in shades of brown and orange and yellow for the foot of one of the guest room beds. This was a much larger, more complicated project. I’d long since memorized the ten row repeat pattern, and I could pick the afghan up at any time and work on it. Ten rows took about an hour, which was perfect. I knew if I sat down I would need at least a sixty-minute time frame.

  As I began to knit, my mind returned to the events of that afternoon. Mark Taylor was an enigma. Although I’d seen him three times now, I was still uncertain how I felt about him. He was brash, irreverent, and short-tempered. He couldn’t explain why he’d shown up when he did or why he’d taken such a keen and instant dislike to Spenser.

  My fingers tugged at the yarn, freeing it from the skein as I continued to work, my thoughts whirling as fast as my needles.

  Both my guests were out for the evening and I’d been told not to expect either for dinner. Not having to work in the kitchen had freed me. For my own dinner, I’d toasted a cheese sandwich and called it good. After all the errand running and walking I’d done that afternoon, I should have had more of an appetite, but I didn’t.

  I thought about my guests and was surprised that I hadn’t seen more of them. With Josh it was understandable; he’d briefly mentioned that he was in town because his stepfather was ailing. I hoped everything was going as well as could be expected.

  As for Abby, she’d told me she’d come to town for her brother’s wedding, but a wedding should be a happy occasion. That didn’t explain why she’d been in tears the afternoon she’d arrived.

  Both had come back to Cedar Cove, their former home, with burdens. For that matter, I carried more than a few of my own. Each one of us hauled rocks on our backs, some larger than others, I realized. Some people had grown so accustomed to the extra weight that they no longer seemed aware of the baggage. I felt an impulse to help my guests but I wasn’t sure if, or how, I could—or if I should even try. Or perhaps they had come to Rose Harbor Inn so they could help me.

  The afghan was about half-completed and the weight of it on my lap warmed me. The room was also being heated by the fireplace, and I was so comfortable and drowsy that I found myself shaking sleep off a couple of times. It’d be ridiculous to head to bed this early. The grandfather clock in the foyer said it was barely seven-thirty. Oh dear. For me to be this sleepy, this early, told me the day had been even more taxing than I’d realized.

  I finished knitting the row and let my hands rest in my lap as I decided to briefly close my eyes and rest … just for a few minutes … only a few
. Almost immediately I could feel myself drifting into a half-sleep.

  Then it happened for the second time since I’d moved to the inn.

  I felt Paul’s presence and was wrapped in the memories of the first time we met. It had been at a Seattle Seahawk football game. Paul was in the seat next to me, and the first thing I noticed about him was his smile. It didn’t come from his mouth as much as his eyes, which were a compelling shade of blue. Big blue eyes. Big smile.

  “You attend all the games?” he asked me as I passed him the beer he’d ordered from the attendant.

  “I wish,” I said, “but unfortunately no. I watch them on TV, though.”

  “Me, too.”

  Right away we bonded over football. Throughout the game we talked back and forth, cheered and groaned together. The couple with me, the Andersons, were keeping each other company. Without Paul, I would have felt odd man out.

  The Seahawks won the game. As we stood to exit the stands, the Andersons were thanking me profusely for bringing them along. I nodded and was about to exit the row myself, when Paul stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

  “Would you like to have a beer with me?” he suggested.

  I was tempted, really tempted, but for a split second I hesitated. After a number of painful disappointments, I’d mostly given up on relationships. To be blunt, I wasn’t sure I had the energy for this anymore. I’d already learned that Paul was in the military and only in the area for a brief time. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved in something that was destined to dead-end in quick order.

  In retrospect, even knowing that I would eventually lose him and my heart, I remain grateful that I told him yes that afternoon.

  We talked for three hours that first night. Three solid hours. Our connection had been strong from the very beginning. We were close to the same age, and neither of us had been married, each for different reasons. Paul had been married, in essence, to the military.

  My reasons were completely different. I’d dated plenty of men but I’d never fallen head over heels in love and I didn’t want to settle for comfortable.