by Irene Hannon
Weariness weighing him down, he sank back onto the bed. Pulled up the sheet. Stared at the water spots on the ceiling as he considered all that had happened this night.
John’s son might not have spoken about what he’d observed, but he was a smart man. You had to possess solid instincts and sound insights to become a respected attorney. He’d understood what was happening out there on the cliff.
Yet he hadn’t said a word about it or probed for explanations.
For a man who seemed to like answers, that was surprising.
Even more unexpected, though, was his remorse—and humility. He’d appeared to be genuinely sorry about causing a scene and inflicting distress. And he’d prolonged his departure as much as possible, as if he was worried the poor lost soul who worked for BJ might wander back out to that cliff as soon as he left. Eliciting a promise to show up tomorrow had been an obvious ploy to try and guarantee a certain Cuban immigrant was still around in the morning.
A crack of thunder boomed overhead, rattling the windows and heralding the rain Eric had predicted. A storm was coming.
Yet thanks to the young attorney, he’d escaped a different kind of storm tonight.
Funny how help sometimes came from people you’d least expect.
The kindness of Father Chaviano in San Antonio and Father Murphy here in Hope Harbor, who’d worked together to help him find a job far from the Mexican border, hadn’t surprised him. Clergy were supposed to aid the downtrodden and those in distress.
But Stone owed him nothing—yet in his own rough-around-the-edges way, he, too, had shown compassion and benevolence.
As for BJ, she’d made the biggest leap of all, taking a chance on a man she didn’t know and doing everything she could to make him feel welcome and needed.
It was a short list of good Samaritans. But that was understandable. After all, he kept to himself . . . and it was difficult for people to befriend someone who didn’t speak their language.
His English had improved a lot, however. He was becoming less self-conscious about engaging in conversation. Soon it would be much easier to communicate and connect—if he had the heart for it.
And that was a big if.
Because his heart was cold and empty these days.
Eric’s kindness and compassion tonight might have warmed a tiny corner of it—as had the kind gestures of BJ and the priests and Stone—but the warmth always faded.
Spirits sinking, he leaned over and clicked the light off as depression once again shrouded him.
No matter how he felt in the morning, though, he’d show up for breakfast, as promised. Put in a full day’s work for BJ.
After that—hard to say. Looking ahead was too disheartening. It was better to take life hour by hour.
But if the days to come were as bereft of laughter and love and hope as the ones he’d already endured in this new country, the cliff remained a very real option.
6
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.
At the earsplitting, staccato wake-up call, Eric jerked his eyelids open, bolted upright on the sleeper sofa, and tried to read the numbers on his watch.
Hard to do after five hours of twitchy slumber.
But if BJ and her crew were at work, it had to be seven o’clock.
However . . . was all that racket being produced by two people—or three?
He dressed as fast as he could, shoved his feet into his shoes, and pulled the French doors open.
His father smiled at him from the dining room on the other side of the foyer. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” At least his dad wasn’t still holding yesterday’s faux pas against him. “The crew all here?”
His father pulled a small glass pitcher out of the china cabinet. “Far as I know. BJ has a key. They let themselves in. I was in the kitchen long before the noise began. By the way, when did you leave that note on the counter? It wasn’t there last evening.”
“Late.”
“Must have been. How did you manage to invite everyone to breakfast?”
“I . . . uh . . . ran into Luis last night. I thought it might help smooth things out after yesterday’s . . . incident.”
“Works for me. For the record, though, the crew is always welcome for breakfast. Lunch, too, if I’m testing brunch recipes. It’s a standing invitation on days I cook.”
“Nice gesture.”
“More on their part than mine.” His father grinned and closed the cabinet door. “They’re my guinea pigs—and they’ve paid the price with a few of my less-successful culinary experiments. Would you run up and tell them the food will be on the table in about ten minutes?”
The perfect excuse to do a head count.
“Sure.”
While his father moved toward the kitchen, Eric ascended the stairs two at a time, pausing at the top to take in the unfamiliar view. It was hard to believe this was the same house he’d called home for his first eighteen years.
But he had to admit the new layout was nice. Two large suites with sitting areas and posh bathrooms now flanked a spacious center hall, where wainscoting and intricate crown molding were being installed.
He peeked into the suite on the right. Empty. The hammering that had jolted him awake must have come from the room on the left.
As he strode toward the door to the second suite at the far end of the hall, BJ’s voice met him halfway.
“Let’s get this sheet of drywall set. You want to grab the other end?”
A man’s deep rumble responded, too muted to identify.
Eric arrived at the door as BJ and Stone hefted the drywall into position and began to screw it in place.
He shoved the plastic drape in the doorway aside and scanned the rest of the room.
No one else was there.
His pulse skittered.
“Where’s Luis?” The question echoed loudly in the empty room, ricocheting off the bare walls as he pushed through the plastic.
Both screw guns fell silent, and BJ and Stone turned toward him.
The architect’s eyes narrowed, and her chin rose. “Why?”
No problem interpreting her body language. She thought he was here to cause more trouble.
But that wasn’t on his agenda today—or in the future.
“Look, just tell me where he is, okay?”
Faint puckers appeared on her brow as she assessed him. It was obvious she was trying to decipher his mood . . . and his intent.
He couldn’t discuss either, however. Luis’s late-night trip to the cliff was the man’s secret to share, if he chose to.
At last BJ relented. “He’s not here yet.”
“Why not?”
“I have no idea. He doesn’t own a cell. Something must have delayed him.” She lifted her chin. “For your information, he’s a very responsible—”
“Is he late often?”
She blinked at the terse interruption. “Never.”
Not what he wanted to hear.
A flicker of apprehension flared in her eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He backed toward the door, already digging for his car keys, mentally outlining his game plan. He’d try the man’s apartment first. Hope he’d overslept. If he wasn’t there, he’d drive back out to the cliff and . . .
The faint sputter of a motorbike in need of a tune-up rattled in through the open windows.
“That’s him now.” BJ waved her drill toward the front of the house, expression wary. Like she was still expecting more trouble.
He edged toward the door. “Dad wanted me to let you know breakfast will be ready in about ten minutes.” He fled into the hall.
The front door opened, and before he could escape, feet clattered up the stairs.
He and Luis met in the center of the hall.
The man gave him an apologetic look. “My bike . . . she did not want to begin this morning.”
Eric shoved his trembling fingers into his pockets. “I’m just glad you’re here.”
/>
Luis’s gaze never wavered from his. “I do not break promises.”
“I can see that.” Eric managed to coax up the corners of his mouth. “The waffles are almost ready.”
“I will enjoy.”
Eric shifted aside to let Luis pass—and found BJ watching the scene from the doorway of the suite.
She arched an eyebrow at him.
He ignored it and continued down the hall. If she wanted to give her tardy employee the third degree, that was up to her. His lips were sealed.
The important thing was that Luis had shown up.
But the man hadn’t promised anything beyond today—and that was worrisome.
Big time.
Frowning, Eric descended the steps while the screw guns whirred back to life. It was going to be difficult to stop Luis from taking another late-night cliff walk unless he could figure out what had prompted the first one.
He needed more information.
Unfortunately, Luis didn’t seem inclined to enlighten him.
But BJ might know some details about his background. She’d come to his defense yesterday, hadn’t she? He worked for her, had earned her loyalty. If the man was going to share his story with anyone, she was the obvious choice.
Not that she’d pass it on to her client’s son, though, given their combative relationship to date.
Nevertheless, it couldn’t hurt to ask.
So as soon as he could maneuver it, he’d corner her for a little chat.
BJ pulled the knife along the drywall tape she’d secured to the seam, smoothing it out from the center, going through the familiar routine by rote as she pondered the question that had been on her mind all morning.
What was up with Eric?
He’d turned on the charm at breakfast, even managing to coax a smile from taciturn Stone.
Then he’d offered to tinker with Luis’s motorbike, see if he could get it running better. And he might succeed, despite its decrepit state. According to his dad, he’d always had a knack for mechanics.
Finally, he and Luis appeared to have made their peace, though when that might have occurred she couldn’t fathom.
In any case, this was not the same man who’d blundered into town two days ago.
She finished her seam, closed up the joint compound, and checked on her crew. Across the room, Luis was concentrating on his own drywall seam, Stone assisting. “Lunch break.”
“Is John cooking today?” Stone gave her a hopeful look.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
“Bummer.”
She grinned and dropped her drywall knife into a bucket of water. “Hey, we hit the jackpot on this job with food. Count your blessings.” She picked up a damp cloth. “I have to run to the hardware store over lunch. You guys want me to pick up some food for you?”
“No, thanks.” Stone took a swig of the sludge he lugged to work from home every day, which he claimed was coffee. “I brought lunch.”
“Luis?”
“No. The waffles, they full me up.”
Meaning he was going to skip the noonday meal again—because every spare dime he could eke out went back to his ailing father-in-law in Cuba.
“You can have my extra sandwich, Luis.” Stone finished his coffee. “No way I can eat two after that breakfast, and I don’t want to throw it out.”
She telegraphed him a silent thank-you. They both knew how tight money was for their co-worker, but Luis refused to take anything he deemed charity—even the government assistance that was available to Cuban refugees.
“Wasting food is bad. If you cannot eat, I will take it.”
“You’ll be doing me a favor.”
BJ wiped her hands on the rag. “Now that we’ve settled our lunch plans, I’m off. I’ll see you guys in about an hour.” She pulled off her baseball cap, tossed it next to the bucket, and headed out.
Her errand at the hardware store went faster than she’d expected, and she tooled around the block to see if Charley’s was open.
No luck today. The window was rolled down.
Bummer, as Stone would say.
Takeout from the café around the corner would have to do . . . but chowing down on The Myrtle’s Friday stir-fry special wouldn’t be a hardship. For a tiny town, Hope Harbor had more than its share of excellent culinary options.
She circled the block, pulled into an empty parking place, and slid out from behind the driver’s seat.
A Nissan Sentra pulled in behind her, and she gave it no more than a passing glance—until the driver emerged.
Eric Nash?
Very suspicious.
She crossed her arms tight over her chest. “Did you follow me?”
“Yes. Are you eating here?” He motioned toward the café.
“I’m getting takeout. What’s with the tail?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Sheesh. Did all attorneys have a third-degree gene—or just him?
“About what?”
“Not here. After you get your food, would you meet me back at the wharf? I spotted a couple of empty benches as we passed. I won’t delay you long, but it’s important.”
Must be, if he’d been following her around town.
The notion of sharing a bench with him again set off a red alert—but the intensity in his brown irises overrode it.
“Fine. Give me ten minutes. Takeouts usually come up fast.”
“I’ll save a bench.” He retreated to his car.
BJ propped her hands on her hips and watched his taillights disappear down the street.
What could he possibly want to talk with her about?
Hard as she wracked her brain, not a single topic came to mind.
But for sure she’d have to watch her step around this kinder, gentler Eric.
Because the new and improved version could be very, very dangerous.
Had she stood him up?
From the wharf-side bench he’d claimed, Eric watched the corner where BJ’s truck should have appeared. She ought to be here by now.
Considering the stupid stunts he’d pulled since his arrival, though, he couldn’t blame her if she’d hightailed it in the opposite direction.
But he hoped she showed. He needed information.
Another minute ticked by.
Two.
Three.
This wasn’t promising.
As two seagulls waddled over in search of a handout, Eric stood. No sense lingering. BJ had said ten minutes; twenty had passed. She wasn’t coming.
The birds edged closer.
“Sorry, guys. No food today.”
He started to circle the bench . . . and all at once, the two gulls rose into the air, squawking and flapping their wings. Like Floyd and Gladys had done the other day.
Could these be the same two gulls?
Hard to tell. They all looked alike to him.
He tried again to circle around them.
Feathers flew, driving him back toward the bench.
This was ridiculous.
Jaw clenched, he glared at the gulls. He was not going to be held prisoner by two wacko birds.
He feinted toward them, then dodged around the other side of the bench toward freedom . . . just as BJ’s truck came around the corner.
The birds fluttered back onto the pavement and wandered away.
Odd.
Eric glanced toward the taco stand. No sign of Charley—but the man’s seagull friends had saved his bench for him the other day. Today, it was as if they’d been trying to delay him so he wouldn’t miss . . .
He cut off that line of thought. How nuts was that?
Besides, he had more important issues to deal with.
BJ nosed into a spot directly across from the bench, in front of Sweet Dreams Bakery, and emerged from the cab a few seconds later carrying a large plastic carryout container and a white bag.
“Sorry I’m late.” She called out the apology as she sized up the traffic, then rushed across the str
eet, a becoming flush pinkening her cheeks. “They had some kind of disaster in the kitchen that delayed all the orders. I thought you might leave.”
“I tried to, but I was . . . forcibly detained.”
“Huh?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. Can I take one of those?” He reached for the large white bag.
After giving the area one more puzzled inspection, she relinquished it. “That’s yours anyway.”
“What do you mean?” He sat beside her after she claimed a spot on the bench.
“Did you have lunch yet?”
“No.”
“That should hold you until dinner. Since I didn’t know if you were a fan of stir-fry, I went the safe route—The Myrtle club. Unless you’re a vegetarian?”
“Never have been, never will be.” He dug out the sandwich and two bottles of water, passing one to her. “You didn’t need to do this. I had a big breakfast.”
“You treated me to tacos. I always repay my debts. And you only ate half a waffle this morning. The other guys chowed down two apiece—plus a cinnamon roll.”
“I had a lot on my mind.” He unwrapped the sandwich.
“Understandable.”
He gave her a guarded look. Had Luis told her about their encounter last night?
“What do you mean?” Better not to make assumptions. It was bad policy in law—and in life.
Dropping her gaze, she made a project out of extracting her plastic fork from its wrapper. “I heard about your job. I’m sorry.”
Oh.
He’d forgotten how fast news traveled around here. The only person he’d told was Rose—after she cornered him on the street.
But if BJ knew about it, of course she’d think that was front and center in his mind. Losing a partner-track position was a big deal.
Yet after last night, his problem seemed petty in comparison to the ones Luis must be facing.
“Thanks. But to be honest, that’s not why I was distracted. I was thinking about Luis.”
She stabbed a bite of chicken in her stir-fry but didn’t eat it. “Why?”
“It’s . . . complicated.”
“In other words, butt out.”
