by Irene Hannon
“Um, BJ told me—but I’d appreciate it if you’d keep that to yourself. It was shared in confidence.”
“Is that right?” His dad filled his own mug, eyes glinting with interest. “I didn’t know you two had gotten chummy enough to be sharing confidences.”
Backpedal, Nash.
“We haven’t. I wanted some history on Luis, and she provided it.”
“You’re not still stuck in that green card rut, are you?” His dad’s tone suggested he better not be.
“No. I had another reason for wanting to know.” He busied himself diluting his coffee with the half-and-half. “How did you find out about Luis’s background?”
“He told me. I ran into him in town one Saturday and introduced him to Charley’s tacos. We had a long chat on a bench by the wharf. He’s had some tough breaks.”
“I know.”
“It appears BJ told you quite a lot about our Cuban friend.”
He passed the half-and-half to his dad. “Enough to know he’s been through a lot.” Time to get this conversation back on track. “Speaking of Charley . . . I dropped by the studio yesterday.”
“I didn’t think it would take you long to wander out there. Are you planning to do any painting while you’re here—other than the backdrop?”
“No. What’s the point?”
“You have talent—and you enjoy it.”
“Once I connect with a new law firm, I’ll be back on the sixty-hour-a-week schedule. No sense starting something I can’t continue.”
His dad added a smidgen of sugar to his coffee. “How do you feel about returning to that grind?”
He shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Eric mulled over the question while he took a sip from his mug. He’d never thought much about his brutal schedule. Long hours were expected, so he clocked them.
Yet all at once, the notion of diving back into a whirlwind of activity that left no time for anything . . . or anyone . . . didn’t hold a lot of appeal.
Not an insight he was ready to admit to his father—or perhaps even to himself.
“It is what it is, Dad. Law is what I do.”
“It doesn’t have to be all-consuming, does it?”
“If I want to be a partner somewhere, yes—and I’ve been working toward that goal since the day I entered law school.”
“A goal is different than a dream.”
“Dreams don’t put food on the table.”
“Always practical and prudent.” His dad gave him a gentle smile. “You know, sometimes you sound just like your mother.”
“Is that bad?”
“Not at all. The world needs practical, prudent people to balance the dreamers—as does every marriage.”
“Are you suggesting Mom was the practical one in your marriage?”
“Without question.”
“What about that nine-to-five job you had in Coos Bay for thirty-five years, directing HR for a very stable company? The one that gave you a regular paycheck, generous benefits, and a nice retirement? You never did anything that was impractical or risky.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.” His father sat at the kitchen table.
Eric gripped his mug with both hands and joined him. This trip home continued to be fraught with surprises. How could he not know this about the man he’d shared a house with for eighteen years?
“What are you talking about?”
“I had dreams, Eric.”
“And Mom didn’t let you follow them?”
“No—that’s not what I meant. Don’t ever think I held one smidgen of resentment toward your mom. She was a wonderful woman, with the biggest heart of anyone I ever met. The love we shared was . . .” His voice choked, and he swallowed. “All I can say is, I hope someday you’re blessed enough to find someone who will fill your life with joy the way your mother filled mine.”
“Then what did you mean about having dreams?”
His father leaned back, cradling the mug in his hands, his expression wistful. “Many years ago, when you were eight or nine, a piece of property came on the market that I’d been eyeing for years. I wanted to buy it and build a small inn. The hospitality industry had always appealed to me. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my workday than creating happy memories for guests, and I was certain I could make a go of it.”
“Mom didn’t share your optimism?”
“She liked the idea, but her impoverished background made her risk averse. Security was important to her. To pull off my dream, we would have had to cash in the nest egg we’d been building as a cushion for our retirement. She was afraid to take such a speculative chance—and she was right. I had a wife and young son and a mortgage and bills to pay. Those needed to be my first priorities. The dream was fine; the timing was wrong.”
But now it wasn’t.
Suddenly, the impetus behind the B&B project became clear.
“I’m glad you’re finally getting to realize a piece of it.”
His dad smiled. “So am I.” He finished his coffee and stood. “And since the work crew will be here bright and early to continue bringing that dream to life, I’m going to turn in.”
“I won’t be far behind you.”
“You want me to rinse out the pot, or would you like another cup?”
“I’ll finish it off. You always did make great coffee.”
His father moved to the sink and washed out his mug. “Let’s hope my future B&B guests agree.”
“They will.”
After a quick inventory of the fridge, his dad crossed to the door of the new addition that housed his bedroom and office. At the threshold, he stopped. “I know this has been a rough week for you, son . . . but it’s possible what happened isn’t the disaster it first appeared to be. In fact, it might be a gift. I have every confidence that with your credentials, another partner-track spot will open up for you—if that’s what you want. But if you have any desire to alter your course, you’ve been given the opportunity to consider that. Don’t waste it.”
He closed the door behind him, leaving Eric alone in the silent kitchen—more confused than he’d been in years.
Could his dad be right? Was this an opportunity rather than a disaster?
And if it was, what was he supposed to do with it? Prudence and practicality had led him to law, and that career was an excellent fit for his skills. He’d never second-guessed his choice.
But truth be told, he’d never had the same passion for law that he’d had for painting. It was interesting, and he was proficient at it, but the excitement he’d felt in the scene shop this afternoon as he’d faced that blank canvas . . . there was nothing like creative energy to juice the joy and make a person feel fully alive.
The coffeepot sputtered, and he rose to refill his mug, emptying the pot.
Too bad he couldn’t channel that creative energy into a career.
And too bad he didn’t have his father’s adventurous spirit. The mere thought of taking a leap in a brand-new, untried direction scared him silly.
Still . . . other people did it.
Like BJ.
After shutting off the coffeemaker, he wandered back to the table. What had compelled her to give up a position with an architectural firm in LA and move to a tiny town to launch her own business? That must have required a huge leap of faith.
He sat, set the mug beside him, and googled her name. The web might offer some answers.
A scroll through the meager hits did give him some new information—the name of her boutique firm, which worked with an impressive array of prestigious clients; a promotion notice in a business column; a press release about her winning an award from the local American Institute of Architects chapter.
But none of those explained why she’d left.
He leaned back and steepled his fingers. It took a lot of years and a lot of hard work to become an accredited architect. Based on the information on his screen, BJ had been on
a career track similar to his, rising through the ranks in her profession toward a top slot.
Had she been downsized, like him? Pushed out?
Possible—but not likely. From all indications, her firm was thriving.
Meaning she must have chosen to leave.
He tapped his index fingers together. Might her reasons for making that choice help him sort through his own situation?
Maybe—but would she share them if he asked?
Downing the last of his coffee, Eric sat forward again. From what he’d observed, BJ was a very private person. Getting her to open up about her past could be a major challenge.
But perhaps during the hours they’d be spending together in the scene shop, she’d loosen up—especially if he did a stellar job on that backdrop.
His next order of business.
He googled the subject, prepared to prep for this project as diligently as he’d prepped for any of the cases that had landed on his desk in Portland. Winning BJ’s favor was a goal worth pursuing with singular focus.
For reasons that were both professional . . . and personal.
10
BJ picked up the last piece of gingerbread trim for the porch of the farmhouse, positioned it in place, and felt around in the pouch on her belt for another screw.
Empty.
Expelling a breath, she clumped down the ladder and scrounged around in her toolbox. This had not been her most productive session—thanks to the man on the other side of the set piece, who was roughing in the scene he was going to paint on the flats.
It should have been easy to forget about the charming attorney. She couldn’t see him. She couldn’t hear him. She couldn’t smell that sophisticated aftershave he wore, with its subtle hint of sandalwood.
But boy, could she sense his presence. It was almost palpable—and heady enough to be illegal.
Her fingers closed over a screw, and she stood, resisting the urge to check on his progress. Getting an eyeful of him would only rattle her more.
Instead, she ascended the ladder and squeezed the trigger on her screw gun to secure the trim.
Done.
At least one unit was ready for painting.
And if all went well in the next couple of hours, she’d make decent headway on the smokehouse before this Monday ended.
She descended the ladder and eased toward the edge of the house. Could she cross the open territory between here and the other unit without Eric noticing her and flashing that killer dimple of his?
Better get the lay of the land before sneaking out, even at the risk of elevating her heart rate.
She peeked around the farmhouse.
Hmm.
Not bad for a first foray into backdrop painting.
In the two hours since they’d arrived, he’d roughed in about half the scene.
As for him noticing her . . . unlikely. He appeared to be engrossed in his work.
She gathered up a few tools and tiptoed toward the smokehouse—only to have her phone trill halfway across the expanse.
Drat.
Eric turned toward her at once.
Double drat.
“Sorry to disturb your concentration.” She set the tools on the floor and pulled out her cell.
Michael Hunter’s name was on her screen.
Could this be a verdict from the Helping Hands board already?
Pulse accelerating, she strode toward the far corner of the scene shop and put the phone to her ear as they exchanged greetings.
Please, God, let this be good news.
Michael got straight to business. “I heard from all of the board members about your proposal. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.” She rested a hand on the edge of the faux stone bridge that had been used in the high school’s production of Brigadoon—and prayed her dream wasn’t about to vanish like that mythical Scottish town.
“Everyone liked the concept and agreed it has a lot of merit. We all know a number of seniors in town who might be interested in a program like this.”
The words were positive; the subtle undercurrent wasn’t.
Her stomach kinked, and she squeezed the cell. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”
“There were some concerns.”
No doubt instigated by that grump who’d been such a naysayer the day she’d made her presentation.
“Serious ones?”
“Serious enough. There was general concern about liability for the organization if Helping Hands facilitates a match that goes south. What happens if there’s a theft, for example? Or an accident with injuries?”
“Background checks would have to be part of the screening process, as I noted in my proposal—and both parties would have to verify their insurance policies were up to date.”
“I agree background checks would be mandatory—but unfortunately, they don’t guarantee a person’s character. In terms of liability issues . . . insurance, as well as the contract you recommended, could cover some of those. But the board also raised issues of administrative time and costs, including legal fees.”
She couldn’t argue with the admin issue. The program would require management.
As for costs—background checks were inexpensive, but if the board wanted an attorney to not only develop the basic contract but review the section that would be personalized for each pairing, that could get pricey.
Unless . . .
“We might be able to find a lawyer who would be willing to develop the boilerplate contract and review individual contracts gratis.” She sent a speculative glance toward Eric—and found him watching her.
He turned away immediately and went back to work.
She swiveled around too. What a dumb idea. The man was a short-timer in town.
“Did you have someone in mind?” Michael sounded hopeful.
If only.
“No.”
“No one on the board could come up with a candidate, either. Rick Jenson was a competent lawyer, and he might have been willing to volunteer for the job if he hadn’t gone to live with his daughter in Utah after he retired. The closest attorneys now are in Coos Bay, and they have no vested interest in Hope Harbor. It may be hard to find a volunteer unless they have a connection to the town.”
She gave her scene-shop neighbor another surreptitious scan. Even if he might be willing to help while he was here, they needed someone who would commit long term. Who knew how long he’d hang around—or where he’d end up? He might accept a job with a firm on the other side of the country. A task like this could be managed long-distance—but it didn’t sound like the sort of work he did allowed much, if any, free time.
He was not a solution to this problem.
Turning aside, she responded to Michael’s comment. “I could make some cold calls. I might be able to round up someone who’d be willing to donate a few hours a month. Once the boilerplate contract is developed, the customized section for each new arrangement is all that would have to be reviewed . . . and it isn’t as if we’ll be doing a dozen of these a year.”
“That’s true—and cold calls might be worth a try. But there was one other concern that’s a bit more difficult to overcome.”
BJ braced. This was the biggest stumbling block; she could feel it in her bones.
“I know you searched for examples of programs similar to the one you’re proposing, and there don’t appear to be any. A number of board members aren’t comfortable implementing a project that has no track record anywhere, especially in light of the other issues that were brought up.”
BJ rubbed her forehead, where an ache was beginning to throb. “If everyone felt like that, nothing new would ever be tried.”
“I agree—and I personally think your idea is worth pursuing. If you’d like to talk with the board members again after you think about their feedback, I’ll be happy to put you on our agenda.”
What was the point? She had nothing new to offer that might convince them to give the program a chance.
�
�Let me think about that.”
“Consider it a standing invitation. And I want you to know your efforts on behalf of Helping Hands are much appreciated. Every single board member asked me to express their thanks for all you do for the organization.”
“I’m happy to help where I can. The group does wonderful work.”
“And we’re always open to suggestions for new opportunities to serve. That’s why I’m not letting go of your idea yet. I intend to give the whole notion a lot more thought—and I hope you will too. There has to be a way to put some legs under the concept.”
At least Michael wasn’t writing it off.
Too bad the rest of the board had.
And getting the foot-dragging members to change their minds could be an insurmountable challenge.
After they said their good-byes, BJ remained in the corner of the scene shop, her back to the room. All those hours of thinking and research, of developing a program that would benefit some of Hope Harbor’s longest-term residents—with nothing to show for it.
The wall in front of her blurred, and she leaned against the bridge. The program could work. She was certain of it. Yes, there was some risk despite all the screening she’d suggested, but that shouldn’t be a deal breaker. There was risk in everything.
If only she could convince the board of that—or better yet, find a similar program somewhere with a demonstrated track record.
Neither of those seemed likely, however.
Meaning that unless she was hit with a blinding bolt of inspiration, her idea was dead in the water.
It looked like her call was over—and BJ was not a happy camper.
Eric roughed in another stalk of corn, keeping one eye on the architect. Gone was the feisty woman who’d confronted him the day he’d hit her truck, and who’d taken him to task for badgering Luis. On those occasions, sparks and spunk had been pinging off her. Now, every angle of her wilted posture suggested defeat.
Whatever news she’d received must have been very bad.
He added some leaves to the stalk with a few long strokes, keeping her in sight. Should he ignore her obvious distress—or step in and risk a rebuff?
As he debated that question, she turned toward him . . . and once he caught the shimmer in her eyes, the decision was a no-brainer.
