Silver Linings is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Debbie Macomber
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Macomber, Debbie.
Silver linings : a Rose Harbor novel / Debbie Macomber.
ISBN 978-0-553-39179-4 (hardcover : acid-free paper)
ISBN 978-0-553-39180-0 (ebook)
1. Hotelkeepers—Fiction. 2. Interpersonal relations—Fiction.
3. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.A2364S53 2015
813'.54—dc23
2015022654
eBook ISBN 9780553391800
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for eBook
Cover design: Belina Huey
Cover illustration: Tom Hallman, based on a photograph © Emanuele Capoferri/age fotostock
v4.1
ep
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
A Note from the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Dedication
Ballantine Books from Debbie Macomber
About the Author
Dear Friends,
Welcome back to Rose Harbor! Jo Marie, the owner of the Inn at Rose Harbor, is eager to greet her newest guests, and she’s badly in need of a distraction. Nothing is working out the way she wants, though isn’t that life? We seldom get what we want, but we almost always get what we need. And at this juncture in hers, Jo Marie has plenty of needs and wants…most of which involve Mark Taylor, her handyman.
As for those guests: The teenage years have always intrigued me, especially the angst and torment of falling in love for the first time. After reading several wonderful young adult novels recently, I found my mind conjuring up a story of young love.
You’re about to meet Coco and Katie, who are returning to Cedar Cove for their ten-year high school reunion. They each have a specific reason for attending: an agenda to right wrongs and mend the wounds incurred by their first high school loves. And naturally they plan to stay at the Inn at Rose Harbor.
My hope is that you enjoy this next installment in the Rose Harbor Inn series and that your own mind will wander back to those high school days, when every emotion was so new and intense.
Hearing from my readers brings me great joy. I personally read every letter and post and thank you for your comments. What you’ve shared over the years has had a serious impact on my career. You can reach me at my website, DebbieMacomber.com, or on Facebook. Letters are welcome as well, mailed to P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.
Thank you for your ongoing support and encouragement.
Warmest regards,
The first year of being a widow was by far the most difficult. When I got the news that my husband had been killed in a helicopter crash in Afghanistan, it felt like an atomic bomb had gone off inside my head. My entire life, my body, my heart felt as if I’d gone into a free fall. For weeks I was reeling with pain and loss, stumbling from one day to the next. It felt wrong that the world would continue when it had come to a complete halt for me.
With no other choice, I struggled to make sense of this new reality that was mine. Only a few months after I received word of Paul’s death, against everyone’s advice, I left the corporate world and purchased a bed-and-breakfast. I moved from Seattle to a quaint community called Cedar Cove on the Kitsap Peninsula.
The first night I spent as the inn’s new proprietor I felt Paul’s presence as keenly and profoundly as if he were sitting by my side and speaking to me. He told me I would heal at this inn and all who came to stay would find a harbor of healing as well. It was for that reason that I named my bed-and-breakfast the Inn at Rose Harbor. Rose for my husband, Paul Rose, and Harbor for the promise he had given me.
Over the last eighteen months, I have seen that promise come to fruition and witnessed it with many of my guests as well. Slowly, one day at a time, I forged a new life for myself, a life without Paul. Recently I read the last letter my husband had written to me—a love letter he’d penned in case he didn’t return. It took a long time to find the courage to absorb what he had to say, mainly because I didn’t want to accept the fact he was really gone. As I knew he would, Paul wrote that he loved me and that he would always be with me. He asked that I live a good life for the both of us.
I’d taken Paul’s words to heart and built a new life without him as best I could. As he’d foretold, the inn became the focus of the new me. Every day was a learning opportunity, a season of personal and professional growth. For one, I became far more proficient in the kitchen, creating tasty breakfasts for my guests. I also made friends in the community—good friends. I adopted a dog from the local animal shelter, Rover, who’d been named that because when he was found, it looked as if he’d been roaming on his own for quite some time. Rover had become my constant companion, my comforter, and my guard. I found it uncanny how well he sensed and reacted to my moods. It was almost as if Paul had directed Rover into my life.
One of the strongest friendships I forged was with my handyman, Mark Taylor. Mark can be prickly and mysterious, and while I considered him a friend, he could irritate me faster than anyone I’d ever known. I like to think of myself as even-tempered and not easily riled. Not so with Mark. Only a few words from him could drive me up the wall. At times he can be so unreasonable and demanding.
A good example of that happened last spring. I was washing the outside windows, balancing on a ladder. Out of the blue Mark insisted in the most unpleasant way that I climb off the ladder. I refused and he became so infuriated that he’d walked off the job. Really, he had no right to dictate what I do or don’t do. It took a while for us both to cool down and be reasonable.
Ever since I read Paul’s last letter my emotions have been on a roller coaster. I felt as if I was losing Paul. I’d stopped dreaming about him, and when I held his favorite sweatshirt, I could no longer smell the essence, the aroma, that had been my husband’s.
As I slowly let go of Paul, I distracted myself by trying to crack the mystery that was Mark. He’d always been secretive, and never talked about his past. He was hiding something and I knew it. I plied him with questions, which he either refused to answer or completely ignored. I quizzed people who knew him before I moved to Cedar Cove, all to no avail. I went so far as to invi
te him to join my parents and me for dinner one night about three weeks ago. My mother has a gift for getting people to talk about themselves, and if anyone could weasel information from Mark it would be my mother. He thwarted me once again by refusing the invitation.
When I realized I’d used my curiosity about him as a diversion from my fear that Paul was slipping away from me, I apologized to Mark. It was then that Mark had shocked me with a confession. He claimed he’d fallen in love with me.
Mark loved me? I still had trouble wrapping my mind around that fact. If that wasn’t shocking enough, what followed was even more eye-opening. Mark mentioned that he’d used every excuse imaginable in order to spend time with me. Until that very minute I’d been completely oblivious, but then everything came together like one giant thunderclap in my head. Although he declared his heartfelt feelings, he added that he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, allow the way he felt to develop into a long-lasting relationship. He intended to nip it in the bud.
As you can imagine, my thoughts started spinning like a windmill in a storm. It was then that Mark announced he was leaving Cedar Cove. Of course I objected; he was being ridiculous. I’ll never forget what he said—it’s burned into my memory.
A faraway look came over him and he refused to meet my eyes as he told me, “You were married to Paul Rose, and he was a hero. He gave his life in defense of our country. He’s everything I’m not. I’m the antithesis of a hero, make no mistake in that.” He went on to say that he was digging himself out of a black hole and that he should have been the one who died, not Paul.
Mark made it seem as if he felt guilty that he was alive and Paul was dead. I couldn’t believe he was serious about moving away from Cedar Cove. It was such a rash and unreasonable decision I could only assume he wasn’t serious, but I was wrong.
I suspected he would have packed up his bags that very night if I hadn’t convinced him to stay long enough to finish the gazebo I’d hired him to build. I was forced into reminding him that we had a contract, not one written in ink and legally binding, but a verbal one. If I knew anything about Mark—and really, when it came right down to it, I knew more than I realized—he was a man of his word. He’d already started the construction. I could tell he wasn’t happy to remain in town any longer than necessary, but he reluctantly agreed.
I’d hoped that given time I’d be able to convince him to stay. After his declaration of love, I needed to delve into my own feelings, and I couldn’t do that if he pulled a disappearing act.
The three weeks that followed proved to me exactly how serious Mark was about leaving Cedar Cove. About leaving me. Whereas before, any job I hired him to do took weeks—often months—he couldn’t seem to finish this latest project fast enough. He started work in the early mornings and then he worked well past dusk, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion, until it became impossible to see in the dark any longer.
When I’d originally hired Mark to build the gazebo, I guesstimated that it would take him three to four months to finish the project, thinking I’d be lucky if he finished before Christmas. Yet in just a matter of weeks he had it nearly completed. For Mark to finish anything in three weeks was unheard of.
In fact, I could hear him outside this morning. It was barely light and he was already at work. I’d been up for about a half hour and had breakfast in the oven for my guests. It was one of my favorite recipes, stuffed French toast, which I’d assembled the night before and placed in the refrigerator. The coffee was brewed and the table set.
Rover wanted out and so I carried my coffee outside and stood on the porch watching Mark work away. He knew I was there but didn’t acknowledge me. I wasn’t surprised. Ever since our talk he’d basically ignored me as much as possible. I grappled with him, unable to understand how it was that he could claim to love me in one breath and then pretend as if I were invisible. I’d always found Mark difficult, but this was crazy.
“Morning,” I called out cheerfully.
He nodded, without looking in my direction.
“Good morning,” I repeated, louder this time.
“Morning.” The greeting came grudgingly.
“You’re in a grand mood this fine day. What’s your problem?” He was often like this, taciturn and grumpy, but I was determined not to let it bother me.
As I knew he would, Mark ignored the question. I tried a different tactic. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“Can I get you anything? Cookies?” I swear the man was addicted to my baking, especially my cookies.
“Nothing.”
The thanks was missing this time. He had a five-gallon container of white paint sitting on the lawn, which meant that he was about to start the last stages of the project. My stomach tightened.
“It’s going to be a busy weekend,” I said, sitting down on the top step and cupping my mug between my hands. The morning had a chill to it and the warmth from the coffee inched its way up my arm. Autumn was approaching and I could feel it in the air, with a light scent of pine and sunshine on the turning leaves. Rover sat down at my side, nestling close to me, almost as if he felt my anxiety.
Mark didn’t comment.
“Two women are due to arrive later this afternoon. They both live in Seattle, but it’s their ten-year class reunion. They said they didn’t want to worry about getting back to the city in case the parties went late and so they booked for both Friday and Saturday night.”
He answered with a halfhearted shrug.
The silence between us felt oppressive. I found it difficult to carry on a one-sided conversation. The air seemed to throb with tension. It went without saying that Mark didn’t want me anywhere close to him. He’d made it plain that he’d prefer to be just about anyplace I wasn’t. If he truly did have feelings for me, then why the avoidance? Questions filled my head until I thought it would explode, but it did no good to ask. I’d tried that countless times and it was like butting my head against a brick wall.
When I heard the buzzer go off in the kitchen, indicating the French toast was ready to come out of the oven, I was almost grateful for the excuse to break away. Just before I entered the house, I looked back and saw his shoulders relax as if he was relieved to see me go. It was almost as if being close to me made him uncomfortable, and that was so unlike what it had once been. I missed the man who was a friend, who used to sit with me in the late afternoons. The one who listened as I talked about my day. Yes, he challenged and irritated me at times, but for the most part he made me think. He made me feel again when my heart had gone numb. I could laugh with Mark.
My guests, a couple in town for their only granddaughter’s birthday celebration, lingered over breakfast and then checked out of the inn. They were headed to the airport. I went outside, stood on the porch, and waved them off, but I was more interested in Mark than I was in my departing guests. I looked for a way to break through that concrete wall he’d erected. At first I assumed he was embarrassed for confessing his feelings for me, but that didn’t appear to be the case. I’d tried several times to get him to talk about it, but time and again he’d rebuffed my efforts. He was having none of it.
“The gazebo is looking great,” I commented, trying yet again. I folded my arms around my middle. “You’ll be finished soon.” He’d done an amazing job with this latest project. The gazebo was exactly as I’d pictured it and big enough to use for weddings and small gatherings, just the way I’d hoped. I could easily picture couples standing in the very structure as they pledged their love and their lives to each other.
Up to this point the bed-and-breakfast was barely breaking even financially. I needed a way to generate additional income, and offering the facility as a wedding venue seemed like a good idea.
“I see you’ve got the paint.”
No comment.
His lack of response irritated me, so I returned to the house and grabbed a light sweater and Rover’s leash. Walking my dog would help burn off the frustration. If Mark
wanted to ignore me, then fine. I could give him all the breathing room he wanted and more.
When I returned with the leash, I found Rover lying on the grass close to where Mark worked. He rested his chin on his paws and kept close tabs on my handyman.
“You ready for a walk, Rover?” I asked. Generally, the instant he saw the leash Rover was on his feet, tail wagging energetically, eager to get going. Not this morning. Rover looked at me with dark brown eyes and then at Mark and then back again.
“Rover,” I said again, with a bit more emphasis. “Let’s take a walk.”
“Go on,” Mark said gruffly, nodding toward my dog.
“You talking to me or Rover?” I asked.
“Both of you.”
“Fine.” I walked over to Rover and attached his leash. He didn’t seem all that interested until I tugged a little. He stood and we headed out of the yard. Rover paused and looked back at Mark much the same way I had earlier.
As soon as we left the driveway, I walked at a clipped pace to work off my irritation. The way I was feeling now, I considered myself well rid of Mark Taylor. If he wanted to move away from Cedar Cove, then it was fine by me. Good riddance! He was moody, cantankerous, and a pain in the butt.
By the time I’d walked two or three blocks, all uphill, I was winded. I’d walked so fast that I’d probably set a personal best, time-wise. The one positive was that the irritation I felt when I left the house had lessened. I took in several deep breaths and slowed my pace. Rover seemed grateful.
For reasons I didn’t want to think about, I decided to walk past Mark’s house. I remembered the time I’d found him in his workshop. A table had collapsed and pinned him down. He’d broken his leg and must have been in horrific pain.
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