Sea Rose Lane

by Irene Hannon

  He left the rental car behind and followed his nose toward the enticing aromas emanating from the small stand, a town fixture that had been grandfathered into its location on the wharf years ago.

  Charley Lopez greeted him with a smile, weathered skin creasing at the corners of his eyes, white teeth gleaming in his latte-colored face. The man didn’t appear in the least surprised to see him.

  “Hey, Eric. It’s about time you came home. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  Waiting for him?

  Odd.

  No one here had been waiting for him . . . even his dad. Everyone in town knew his life was in Portland.

  But Charley had always had a penchant for making inscrutable remarks.

  “I’m just here for a visit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Charley picked up a spatula. “The tacos are exceptional today, if I do say so myself. You still partial to avocado?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll put in extra.”

  “Thanks. How’s the painting career?” He leaned a shoulder against the truck as the man opened a Styrofoam cooler and pulled out a ziplock bag of chopped red onion.

  “No complaints.”

  His usual answer—and no doubt very true. Charley might dabble in tacos for fun and social interaction, but his real money came from art. The fortunate tourists who stumbled on his modest stand would never guess the best taco maker in the state—maybe on the West Coast—was also a respected artist whose work drew top dollar in prestigious galleries around the country.

  “Glad to hear things are going well.”

  “They usually do if you do what you love.”

  Not necessarily.

  Eric swallowed past the sudden thickness in his throat and remained silent.

  “The real challenge is discovering what that is.” Charley tossed a handful of the onions on the griddle. “Why don’t you stop by the studio soon? I’m working on some interesting pieces.”

  “I might do that.” Why not? He’d hung around there plenty during his teens, watching the man work. Dabbling at art himself. Those had been some of his happiest hours.

  But art paid the bills only for a very privileged few—and leisure pursuits were a luxury partner-track attorneys couldn’t afford.

  Turning aside, Eric scanned the curving sidewalk. The wharf was a popular spot this evening. Every bench was occupied except the one closest to the taco stand. “I’ll go toss my jacket over there to save my seat while you get my order ready.”

  “No need.” Charley dug some fish out of another cooler behind him. “Floyd and Gladys will guard it for you.”

  Eric looked again. No one was anywhere close to the bench.

  “The seagulls.” Charley slapped the fish onto the grill, eyes twinkling. “Nice couple. They hang around here a lot.”

  He checked again. Two nondescript gulls were pecking around the base of the bench.

  Another thing that hadn’t changed—Charley’s eccentricity.

  A middle-aged couple fifty feet away paused in their stroll down the wharf. The man spoke to the woman, gestured to the vacant bench, and they ambled toward it.

  No way was he giving up that seat.

  “I’ll be back in a minute, Charley.” He broke into a half jog. “I need to go grab that . . .”

  As the couple approached from the opposite side, the two seagulls rose a few feet into the sky and, with much wing-flapping and squawking, hovered over the bench.

  The pair stopped. Eyed the screeching birds and the flying feathers. Circled around the bench, giving it a wide berth, and continued on their way.

  “See? Your bench is secure.” Charley sprinkled some kind of spice on the sizzling fish.

  Eric returned to the serving window and gave the birds a cautious inspection. “What makes you think they’re going to let me sit there?”

  “Give it a try.” Hope Harbor’s taco chef began chopping an avocado. “You can come back for your tacos after you claim it.”

  Eric weighed his options. Continue the strange conversation with Charley or take his chances with the birds?

  The birds won. He wasn’t up for riddles today.

  As the aroma of grilling fish set off a rumble in his stomach, Eric warily approached the seagull sentries. They continued to hunt and peck for food scraps at the base of the bench until he drew close . . . then hopped aside with nary a peep.

  Weird.

  Eric laid his jacket across the seat while Charley grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

  He wasn’t even going to try and figure out what had just happened. Not with all the other stuff he had to sort through.

  Rather than make more confusing small talk with his personal chef for the evening, he stayed by the bench and checked his voicemail. Most days, keeping up with messages was a challenge. Now? He dispensed with the four that had come in during the course of the afternoon in two minutes.

  Charley waved at him, and he slid the cell into his pocket while he walked back to the window.

  “Here you go.” The man set a bulging brown bag on the ledge. “I put two waters in there. The tacos are on the spicy side today.”

  “I like spicy.” Eric pulled out his wallet. “I don’t suppose you’re taking credit cards now.”

  “Nope.”

  “You ever put in Wi-Fi at the house?”

  “Nope.”

  Eric counted out some bills. “Tell me you finally got cable.”

  “Nope. I’d rather watch live action from here. Hope Harbor has it all, you know—better than any TV show. Drama, comedy, joy, sorrow, laughter, tears . . . love. This town is full of stories.” He passed over some change.

  “If you say so.” Eric pocketed the coins and moved aside as another customer approached the window.

  “Enjoy—and come back soon.” Charley gave him a jaunty salute.

  The delicious smell wafting upward kick-started his salivary glands, and he hurried back toward the bench. Man, he was starving. Except for that bout he’d had with the flu two years ago, he’d never gone this long without a real meal.

  But he’d had little interest in food after the termination news. Other than that half bag of potato chips he’d ingested during the long, sleepless hours last night while he’d prowled around his condo trying to recover from his shock, he hadn’t eaten a bite since noon yesterday.

  You couldn’t beat Charley’s tacos for a fast-breaker, though.

  He wolfed down the first one so fast he wasn’t certain he’d even stopped to breathe.

  Rummaging around in the bag for the next one, his fingers encountered three more wrapped bundles.

  Huh.

  Had four become the new standard order?

  He shifted sideways and peered at the price board. Three was still the magic number. Charley must have lost count while they chatted.

  Not surprising. Their conversation had certainly kept him off balance.

  Whatever the reason for the bonus taco, he needed to pay for it.

  Eric rose—just as Charley rolled down the aluminum window on the serving counter.

  He hustled over and caught Charley as he emerged from the door in the back. “You gave me one too many tacos, Charley. Let me pay you for the extra one.”

  The man dismissed the offer with a flip of his hand. “Consider it a welcome home present. Save it for later if you don’t want it now . . . or share it with someone.” The man began to walk away.

  “Are you closing already? It’s dinnertime.”

  “No, it’s painting time. My muse is calling.” He lifted a hand in farewell. “See you soon.”

  Shaking his head, Eric watched the tall, thin man fade into the distance. Same old Charley, letting the weather, the catch of the day, his mood, the current painting project in his studio—and who knew what else?—set the always unpredictable hours for the taco stand.

  Good thing he hadn’t dallied at the house or he’d have had to wait another day to get his taco fix.

  He settled back onto the bench,
dug out the second taco, and dived in.

  Halfway through, his hunger somewhat appeased, he slowed his pace and gave his surroundings some attention.

  The scene was nothing like his usual setting for dinner in Portland. There, he typically grabbed a to-go order from the café on the corner and ate dinner alone at his desk in the sleek, ultra-modern, glass-and-chrome environs of the high-end firm where he’d spent most waking hours.

  This quaint harbor, with weathered boats gently rocking in their slips and gulls cavorting on the rough boulders that sloped down to the water’s edge, was about as far from sleek and modern as you could get.

  He wasn’t alone, though. Floyd and Gladys continued to lurk nearby. They weren’t much on conversation, but their antics were amusing.

  Picking up his taco again, he took a deep breath. Exhaled. More tension seeped out of his wired body.

  Maybe his dad was right. Spending two or three weeks in Hope Harbor might be smart. If he gave himself a chance to clear his mind, relax, it was possible he . . .

  A familiar dark blue pickup truck swung onto Dockside Drive farther up the street.

  Oh no.

  Sinking down on the bench, he averted his head and angled away. BJ Stevens might be pretty and appealing and the kind of woman he’d like to get to know better under different circumstances, but given their rocky start, she wasn’t likely to be thrilled to cross paths with him again today—and he wasn’t up for another sparring match.

  After a minute, he risked a peek over his shoulder. If he was lucky, the truck would be gone.

  But luck wasn’t on his side today.

  Not only was the truck still on Dockside Drive—it was parked directly behind his rental car.

  Even worse, his father’s architect was dashing across the street toward Charley’s shuttered taco stand.

  As she drew closer, however, she slowed. Stopped. Shoulders drooping, she pulled off her baseball cap and massaged her forehead, her posture spelling disappointment in capital letters.

  The savory aroma of the taco in his hand tickled his nose . . . reminding him he had an extra one in the sack on his lap.

  Save it for later . . . or share it with someone.

  Charley’s words echoed in his brain, nudging his conscience.

  He crimped the bag closed and shut out the man’s voice. He was not going another round with the willowy blonde today.

  The breeze picked up, ruffling her ponytail, and she put her cap back on. After one last sweep of Charley’s stand, she turned away.

  Yes! He was safe.

  Yet as she trudged away, clearly tired and hungry and let down, unbidden words tumbled out of his mouth. “Would you like to share mine?”

  She halted and swung toward him, looking as surprised as he felt.

  A few silent seconds passed before she spoke.

  “Thanks, but I . . . I can’t take your dinner.”

  Reprieved! No matter what had prompted him to make that foolish offer, she’d refused. Now he could enjoy the rest of his meal in peace.

  “I have extra. Charley miscounted.”

  His fingers crumpled the edge of the bag again. What was he, a ventriloquist’s dummy? His lips were moving, but someone else seemed to be speaking.

  Again she hesitated.

  More alien words bubbled up and spilled out. “I have an extra water too. And there’s plenty of room on the bench, unless Floyd and Gladys claim the other half.”

  Faint furrows dented her brow as she glanced around the area and gave him a quizzical look.

  “The seagulls.” He indicated the two birds pecking away at crumbs a few yards away.

  “You have . . . pet seagulls?”

  “No. Charley introduced us earlier. They’re friends of his, apparently.”

  Her brow smoothed, and one side of her mouth quirked up. “That I can believe.” She wiped her palms down her jeans. “I did have my heart set on a fish taco, so if you’re sure . . .”

  He was in too deep to back out now.

  Resigned, he scooted over to give her extra room.

  She approached him as cautiously as he’d approached the seagulls earlier and perched on the far edge of the bench.

  He passed her the extra bottle of water and one of the remaining butcher-paper-wrapped bundles from the bag. “They’re great tonight.”

  “Charley’s tacos are always amazing.” She set the water beside her and began unwrapping the white paper.

  “You eat here often?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Not into cooking?”

  “Not much time for it.”

  Silence fell between them. He took a few swigs of water while BJ put a healthy dent in her taco. “You must have been hungry.”

  “Yeah. I missed lunch.” She dived back into her taco.

  He joined her.

  As he polished his off, his taut muscles began to ease again. The woman beside him seemed more inclined to eat than snipe tonight.

  That could change once her stomach was full, however.

  He gave her a surreptitious glance. Some sauce leaked out of her taco, onto the corner of her mouth. His gaze strayed there—and got stuck on her full, soft lips.

  “. . . close for the night?”

  With an effort, he tuned back in to the conversation. “Sorry. I got distracted for a minute. Floyd and Gladys are . . . uh . . . leaving.” He motioned toward the two seagulls waddling away. Lame excuse, but it was the best he could do. “What did you ask me?”

  “When did Charley close for the night?”

  “Oh.” He pulled a napkin out of the bag. “A few minutes before you arrived.” He held out the white square and tapped the corner of his mouth with his free hand. Too risky to look at hers again. “Some of Charley’s secret sauce escaped.”

  She dabbed at it, then wiped her hands. Though she continued to hug the edge of the bench, her posture had relaxed a hair. “Thanks. That was perfect.”

  “Do you want to split the last one?”

  “You’re probably still hungry.” She gave the bag a covetous glance.

  Yeah, he was—but he could always raid his dad’s refrigerator later . . . and while he’d hoped at first to escape her notice, now he didn’t want her to leave.

  Go figure.

  “They’re pretty filling. Why don’t we share?” He dug out the last one and gave it to her. “I’ll let you do the splitting honors.”

  She took it, unwrapped it partway, and tore it in half.

  He took the section she held out and bit in.

  “So did you venture upstairs at the house yet?” She kept up with him bite for bite.

  “No. I thought I’d save that for tonight. How close are you to being finished?”

  “Barring any glitches, we should be done by the middle of August. Your dad wants to be open for the cranberry festival in September, so that will give him a chance to furnish and decorate.”

  “You have a large crew?” It might not hurt to find out a bit more about the architect his dad had hired. She wasn’t a Hope Harbor native, that was for sure.

  “Me, plus two full-time workers. I subcontract electrical and plumbing.”

  “Have you been in town long?”

  “A year.” She finished off her taco.

  “You’re from the South, aren’t you?”

  She hesitated. “Not originally, but I moved to Tennessee when I was eight. Most people don’t notice the slight southern drawl anymore.”

  “We had someone from Georgia in our firm. Her accent was similar to yours. You’re a long way from home.”

  “This is home now.” She wadded the white paper in her hand and stood abruptly. “Thanks for sharing your tacos.”

  “You don’t have to eat and run.” He adopted a teasing tone, but he wouldn’t mind if she stuck around for a few more minutes.

  “Yes, I do. I’ve got another commitment tonight. I’ll see you around your dad’s while you’re here, I guess.”

  “That would be a safe
bet.”

  “Well . . .” She squeezed the crumpled paper into a tight ball. “Have a nice evening.”

  Without waiting for him to respond, she swiveled around, tossed her trash in one of the receptacles along the wharf, and strode back to her truck.

  Prickly thing.

  And not too anxious to talk about personal stuff, apparently.

  Why?

  He watched her climb into her truck, put it in gear, and pull away.

  Who was BJ Stevens? Where had she lived before coming to Hope Harbor? What had brought her here? Why didn’t she want to talk about her past? And on a professional level, what kind of credentials did she have? There wasn’t a lot of work in a town this size for an architect. If she was licensed, she’d make a much better living in a larger city.

  Eric stuffed his trash in the empty brown bag. His dad might be able to answer some of his questions—but he’d have to be careful how he asked or the elder Nash might incorrectly assume he had a personal interest in the woman. Attractive as she was, and despite her intangible appeal, he couldn’t afford to be more than friends, at best. If she was new in town and in the process of building a business here, there wasn’t much chance she intended to leave anytime soon.

  And his stay was very temporary.

  He rose, tossed the bag into the trash container, and ambled toward his car, yawning. After his night of pacing, the long drive from Portland, and all the surprises this day had held, he might turn in with the sun tonight. A cup of coffee, two or three Milano cookies from the bag his dad always had on hand, a quick tour of the upstairs, and he’d be ready to call it a night.

  His fact-finding mission about a certain blonde builder could wait until tomorrow.

  But no matter what he discovered . . . no matter the sizzle of electricity that had zipped between them as they’d shaken hands . . . BJ Stevens was off-limits. She might be willing to settle for Hope Harbor—but with rare exception, if you wanted to earn enough money to provide the kind of security he was after, you had to leave the town behind.

  He pushed the autolock button as he approached the rental. No reason not to put his stay to profitable use, however. Lay out a game plan for his future.