Child of Grace

by Hannon, Irene

  Her hand hovered over the gun. “You lived here once, right?”

  “Briefly.” He surveyed the store. “This place hasn’t changed much in twenty-five years.”

  “It hasn’t changed much since my grandfather opened it in 1936. We like it that way.”

  At her defensive tone, he swung back toward her. “I wasn’t being critical. It’s reassuring to know some things stay the same.”

  “Very few.” She withdrew her hand from her security cache—but left the drawer open. “Are you passing through?”

  “No.” He moved closer, fingers still in pockets. “I’ll be around awhile. I stopped here for food and to see if I could get a recommendation for a place to stay.”

  “If you’re looking for work, there isn’t much to be had except at the fishing camps, and as far as I know, neither of them are hiring. Tourism in Northern California has been down all season.”

  “I didn’t come here for a job.”

  Then what did you come for?

  The question hung between them, unasked and unanswered.

  When the silence lengthened, she gave him another survey. No pricey accommodations for this guy. “There’s a low-key bed and breakfast a couple of streets over. Or the Orchid Motel, on the north end of town. I expect there are a few houses and apartments available by the month too. Depends on how long you’re planning to stay.”

  “I have no idea—but I don’t want to commit to a monthly rental, and I’m not a B&B kind of guy. Is the motel clean?”

  “Eat-off-the-floor. Two older sisters from Georgia bought it about a dozen years ago, and they hate dirt. The attached café is excellent too. They’re both terrific cooks.”

  “Sold.” He smiled, and as the angular lines of his face softened, an odd—and unwelcome—tingle zipped up her spine.

  She broke eye contact on the pretext of checking her watch. “You might want to get a snack to tide you over. The café won’t be open again until five. For future reference, breakfast is seven to nine. Lunch, eleven to one. Dinner, five to seven. Closed on Sundays. Like clockwork.”

  “Thanks. I’ll remember.”

  He ambled over to the refrigerated case, inspected the dis-play, and pulled out a can of soda and a prepackaged deli sandwich.

  As he walked back to the counter, he snagged a cellophane-wrapped brownie from a shelf—but held it back as she rang up his purchases. “Are those homemade?” He nodded to a plate of chocolate chip cookies under a clear plastic dome beside the register.

  “Yes. This morning.”

  “Did you make them?”

  She shifted under his scrutiny. “Yes.”

  “From your mother’s recipe?”

  She stared at him.

  His lips lifted again, creating a fan of lines at the corners of his eyes. “One of my happiest memories of this town is eating your mother’s chocolate chip cookies while we watched for whales from The Point.”

  She gaped at him. She’d sat with the junior version of this man, eating cookies and watching for whales?

  A fuzzy, fleeting memory surfaced, of a long-ago summer day at The Point. Ice cream had been involved. But the vague recollection was gone before she could catch hold of it.

  Again, a flicker of what appeared to be disappointment flashed in his eyes as he motioned toward the cookies and opened his wallet. “I’ll take two.”

  In silence, Lindsey rang them up and slid them into a white deli bag. On impulse, she added a third one.

  “Hey…that’s too many. I only paid for two.”

  She crimped the top of the bag and handed it to him. “For old time’s sake.”

  Why she felt compelled to make amends for forgetting him was beyond her—but the tiny glimmer of gratitude in his blue irises vindicated her impulsive gesture.

  “Thanks.” He picked up his purchases. “I’ll see you around.”

  With that he exited, the bell announcing his departure as it had marked his arrival.

  Lindsey tucked herself into the late-afternoon shadows beside the window so she could see without being seen. The only car in the lot besides her six-year-old Camry was a newer model Acura—not an old jalopy or motorcycle, as she’d expected.

  Huh.

  The man had some bucks after all.

  She watched as he slid into the driver’s seat, all six-foot-plus of him. Instead of leaving, though, he dipped his chin. His shoulders flexed. Then he lifted a chocolate chip cookie, bit into it, and closed his eyes as he chewed.

  Was he relishing the taste—or the memories it stirred up?

  He ate the whole cookie like that, his expression pensive. After he finished, he popped the top on the soda can, took a swig, and started the engine.

  Craning her neck, she watched until his car disappeared in the direction of the Orchid Motel.

  Who was that guy?

  And more important, why had he come back?

  * * *

  Nate had no trouble finding the Orchid Motel. It was perched on the edge of Highway 101, just past the five-block-long main street. A gaudy purple orchid decorated the hand-painted sign above the door of the café.

  As he pulled into the small parking lot, he surveyed the low, white building with eight numbered doors to the right. The paint was fresh, the windows clean, and a planter overflowing with flowers in all their August splendor stood beside each door. If the inside was as well maintained, the place should be fine.

  And it was far better than most of the rat holes he’d bunked in during his stint in Afghanistan.

  Stifling those memories, he set the brake, finished off his soda in three long gulps, and slid out of the car. A trip to The Point was high on his priority list, but it might be wise to secure a room and exorcise the road grunge first. The Point had waited twenty-five years for his return. It could wait another hour or two.

  A Closed sign in the door of the café directed motel guests to ring the adjacent bell, and he followed the instructions. A muffled musical peal sounded in the recesses of the dim building.

  As he waited for someone to answer the summons, he filled his lungs with the clean, salt-tanged air. It was good to be home. Or the only place he’d ever thought of as home, despite his brief sojourn here. Finding the Mercantile largely unchanged had been a balm to his soul, even if Lindsey had forgotten him.

  But being disappointed about that was foolish. While she’d been a central figure in the best few months of his childhood, he’d been nothing more than a blip in her life.

  The friendly little girl with the golden-haired ponytail and vibrant brown eyes had grown into a beautiful woman, though. Tall and slender, she’d retained the innate kindness that had drawn him as a child. Her cookie gift was clear evidence of that.

  Yet there were changes too. Her hair, while still touched with gold, had darkened a few shades—and the enthusiasm that had once animated her had been tempered. By life, no doubt.

  He could relate.

  A blur of motion on the other side of the door caught his attention, and he summoned up a smile as a white-haired woman fiddled with the lock. Based on Lindsey’s skeptical perusal earlier, his disheveled state wasn’t making the best impression. But a nonstop cross-country drive wasn’t conducive to a spit-and-polish appearance.

  Until he had a chance to freshen up, all he could do to counter his off-putting appearance was be extra friendly—even if that taxed his rusty social skills to the limit.

  There hadn’t been much occasion for niceties on the battlefield.

  When the door was at last pulled open, the savory aroma of herbs and roasting meat wafted out, setting off a rumble in his stomach.

  The woman on the other side adjusted her glasses and tut-tutted. “Sorry for the delay, young man. You’d think I’d have mastered this lock by now. We had it installed six months ago. Come in, come in. How can I help you?”

  Nate stepped past her. “I’m hoping you have a vacancy.”

  “We have plenty of space.” She shut the door and led him to a sto
ol-lined counter that doubled as the motel check-in desk. “It’s been a slow summer. Not that we’ve ever been the most bustling place around.” She grinned at him and pulled out a bulging registration book, with corners of envelopes, letters, and brochures sticking out on three sides. “Mostly we get fishermen and redwood gawkers. Which camp do you fall into?”

  “Neither.”

  She peered at him over the top of her glasses. “Not much else to do around here. You passing through for the night?”

  “No. I’ll be here at least a week.”

  “In that case, I can give you the weekly rate.” She beamed at him and named a price that was more than reasonable. “So…are you visiting family or friends?” She dug a pen out of a drawer beside a decades-old cash register.

  “Small towns are all alike. Everyone always wants to know your business.”

  His father’s complaint, long dormant in Nate’s memory, abruptly resurfaced. It had been a constant refrain in Chuck Garrison’s litany of grievances—and one of his standard excuses whenever they’d moved. Excuse being the operative word. He’d never been able to face the real reason they’d had to lead a nomadic life.

  But as Nate had learned, not all questions were prompted by nosiness. Sometimes people’s interest was sincere.

  “No. I lived here for a few months as a child. This place holds happy memories for me.”

  The woman handed him the pen, angled the registration book toward him, and tapped an empty line. “Visits to the past don’t always turn out quite how we expect. I hope yours does.”

  “Thanks.” He signed on the line and gave the ancient cash register a doubtful survey. “Do you take credit cards?”

  She perused his signature. “Yes. We finally caved a while back. Nobody carries cash these days, and too many checks bounced.” She rummaged around under the counter and pulled out a manual credit-card machine. The kind that required carbon paper.

  It almost qualified as an antique.

  After paying for the full week, Nate slid the card back into his wallet.

  “Room six—my personal favorite. And we just put in a new TV.” She held out the key.

  “Any chance you have internet connections in the rooms?” He took the orchid-bedecked ring.

  Her cheer dimmed a few watts. “No. Sorry.” She indicated the cash register. “As you can see, we’re a bit behind the times. My sister has a computer in the office, and she’s quite the whiz at it—but she hasn’t convinced me to get one in here yet. The Mercantile is the place to go to use the internet. They added a coffee nook a few months ago, and I’ve seen people in there with laptops.”

  Odd that he hadn’t noticed it.

  Then again, he’d been more than a tad distracted by his encounter with Lindsey.

  “I’ll check it out. Thanks.”

  The woman extended her hand, once more upbeat. “By the way, I’m Genevieve Durham. If you need anything at all during your stay, don’t hesitate to let me or my sister, Lillian, know. We live upstairs.”

  Nate took her hand, and she gripped his fingers with surprising firmness. “Thank you—and I’ll be back for dinner. Whatever’s cooking smells amazing.”

  “Tonight’s special. Homemade pot roast. It’s been simmering all afternoon.” She gave him a playful wink. “If I do say so myself, I make the best pot roast in the county. Just be here by seven.”

  “I’ll be here at five.”

  Chuckling, she slid the registration book back under the counter. “Lillian baked blackberry cobbler for dessert too. It goes quick.”

  “Save me a piece, okay?” He returned the wink.

  Color spilled onto her cheeks. “I’ll do that. And if no one’s welcomed you back yet to Starfish Bay, let me be the first.”

  Lindsey had welcomed him—sort of—with that extra cookie. After she’d gotten past her obvious suspicion.

  He didn’t share that with this woman, however.

  “Thanks.” He walked to the door, but as he reached for the knob, she called after him.

  “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, Mr. Garrison.”

  He turned toward her. Genevieve Durham was one perceptive lady. “It’s Nate—and I hope I do too.”

  But as he left the café and returned to his car, he didn’t have much confidence that hope would be realized.

  Because truth be told, he wasn’t certain what had compelled him to make the marathon drive from Chicago to this tiny Pacific coast town. Nor did he know what he was seeking.

  All he knew was that in the wee hours of a cold, high-desert morning in Afghanistan several weeks ago, with the distant echo of bombs sending tremors through the ground beneath his ear, this idea had popped into his head. An idea his gut had told him to pursue.

  And he always listened to his gut.

  In general, that strategy had served him well—but whether that would prove to be the case in Starfish Bay remained to be seen.

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  About the Author

  © DeWeesePhotography.com

  Irene Hannon is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than sixty contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. She is also a three-time winner of the RITA Award—the “Oscar” of romance fiction—from Romance Writers of America, and a member of that organization’s elite Hall of Fame.

  Her many other awards include National Readers’ Choice, Daphne du Maurier, Retailers’ Choice, Booksellers’ Best, Carol, and Reviewer’s Choice from RT Book Reviews magazine, which also honored her with a Career Achievement Award for her entire body of work. In addition, she is a two-time Christy Award finalist.

  Millions of copies of her books have been sold worldwide, and her novels have been translated into multiple languages.

  Irene, who holds a BA in psychology and an MA in journalism, juggled two careers for many years until she gave up her executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company to write full-time. She is happy to say she has no regrets.

  A trained vocalist, Irene has sung the leading role in numerous community musical theater productions and is a soloist at her church. She and her husband enjoy traveling, hiking, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.

  To learn more about Irene and her books, visit www.irenehannon.com. She loves to interact with readers on Facebook, and is also active on Twitter and Instagram.