by Irene Hannon
He closed the lid, set the box on one of the new benches that lined the walkway, and took her hand. “I’ll love you even if you have raccoon eyes.” He handed her his handkerchief.
“That’ll look great in the photos.” She dabbed around her lashes as Rachel stepped out of the tent and waved to them.
“That must be the cue for our first dance.” Ben acknowledged the other woman with a lift of his hand. “It will be fun to see which comes first with her—the baby or her degree. I predict a photo finish.”
“That’s what Greg says—with a big grin every time he mentions the subject. I’m happy for both of them.”
“So am I. But today is about us.” Ben took both her hands. “And I have one other item on my agenda before we rejoin the festivities.”
He started to bend down, but she leaned back.
“Wait. I need to say . . . Your letter is . . . The box was so . . .” She blew out a breath. “You know, despite the fact that I work with words every day . . . and as fast as my emotions can bubble to the surface . . . and as easy as it is to trigger my temper . . . I’m not very good at sappy stuff.”
“That’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I know what’s in your heart.”
He leaned down again to claim his kiss.
Once more, she held him off, her expression as earnest—and determined—as he’d ever seen it. “No. I want to say this.” She gripped his hands tightly. “You, Ben Garrison, are my light in the storm. You brighten my days, and even when it’s cloudy, my life glows because of you. You’re as stalwart and dependable and solid as this lighthouse, and if I live to be a hundred I’ll never stop thanking God for sending you my way. Priscilla may have married a fine man—but I married the best man.”
As the horizon behind Marci blurred, Ben somehow managed to choke out a response. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Her reply was soft, her face luminous.
“Do you think we could have that kiss now?”
“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and rose up on tiptoe. “You’re on, Dr. Garrison.”
He dipped his head, and the two seagulls behind his bride fluttered into the air and glided away, leaving them alone in each other’s arms.
And as their lips melded . . . as he held her close beneath Pelican Point light . . . as the setting sun unfurled a gilded ribbon across the sea and turned the sky into an impressionistic canvas of gold and pink and purple . . . Ben telegraphed a silent message of thanks to the grandfather he’d loved.
For always knowing what he needed most.
For standing with him through life’s storms.
And for an unexpected legacy that had brought him home to Hope Harbor . . . and led him to a woman whose sweet love would enrich all his tomorrows.
A Monastery Near Al Hafar, Syria
Why was a light burning in the workshop at midnight?
Suppressing a shiver, Brother Michael Bennett peered at the sliver of illumination seeping under the bottom of the heavy wooden door at the end of the long, vaulted passageway.
There could be only one explanation.
The monk who’d closed up the shop for the day had forgotten to turn it off.
He wiped a hand down his face and leaned a shoulder against the rough stone wall. That wouldn’t have happened on his watch. Last chore before he left each night, he flipped the switch.
Eyeing the door, he gauged the distance. Could his legs handle the detour? Questionable. The bug that had felled him at noon had left his muscles wobbly as Jell-O. If his parched throat wasn’t screaming for some chipped ice, he wouldn’t be making this taxing trek to the kitchen.
Fuel for the workshop generator, however, was expensive.
And they had better uses for the funds entrusted to their care.
Shoring up his waning strength, he pushed off from the wall and trudged down the drafty passage, the February chill creeping into his Florida-born-and-bred bones . . . as it always did in winter.
Yet not once in the past ten years had he regretted his decision to join this simple religious community in the shadow of the Qalamoun Mountains. Christianity had flourished amid the harsh beauty of this high desert for centuries, and it was an honor and privilege to make a contribution to that tradition . . . no matter how small or insignificant.
Life might not be easy here—but it was good.
Tonight, however, he could have done with a few luxuries.
Like room service.
And heated hallways.
Another shiver rolled through him. It wasn’t as cold in here as it was outside, where the temperature was probably hovering near freezing—but it couldn’t be much above fifty.
Then again, no one was supposed to be wandering the halls at this hour.
He picked up his pace.
At the door to the workshop, he paused to catch his breath. All he had to do was flick off the lights, continue to the kitchen for his ice, and return to his warm bed.
The sooner the better.
He twisted the knob . . . pushed the door open . . . and froze.
A dark-haired man was hunched over a workbench against the far wall, a high-pitched whine abrading the midnight stillness. It was impossible to identify him from behind.
But whoever he was, he shouldn’t be here.
A prickle of unease skittered through him, and he gripped the edge of the door to steady himself. “Hello?”
His raspy greeting was no more than a hoarse whisper.
He raised his voice and tried again, wincing as the words scraped past his raw throat.
The whirring noise stopped abruptly, and the man spun around.
“Khalil?” Brother Michael stared at the refugee who’d arrived on their doorstep two years ago, one of the many desperate souls who’d lost everything in this war-ravaged land. He switched to Arabic. “What are you doing here?”
Beads of sweat broke out on the twenty-six-year-old’s forehead. “I’m working.”
“At midnight?”
“I wanted to finish a . . . task.”
God knew the small contingent of brothers needed all the help they could get to keep the place running, and Khalil was a hard worker. That was one of the reasons he’d been allowed to stay on as a volunteer in exchange for room and board.
But no one expected him to toil at the expense of sleep.
“You don’t have to put in nighttime hours. You more than earn your keep as it is.” Brother Michael leaned against the doorframe. Ever since he’d pled Khalil’s case with the abbot and other monks, he’d taken the refugee under his wing. “This can wait until tomorrow.”
“As you wish. I’ll just clean up before I leave.” The man gave a slight bow, his back brushing against the workbench.
A flutter of shavings drifted to the floor.
Too many, given the nature of the work they did here.
Odd.
And what had produced that whine he’d heard when he’d opened the door?
Certainly none of their usual equipment.
Brother Michael’s pulse quickened.
Something wasn’t right.
He needed to check that workbench.
“I’ll help you with the cleanup.” He forced himself to walk toward the bench, each step a supreme effort.
“No.” The sweat on the man’s forehead glistened in the overhead light. “You’re sick. I’ll take care of it.”
“I insist.” The workshop was his responsibility. Khalil was his responsibility. If the man was using the space for questionable purposes after hours, the issue needed to be addressed.
He continued toward the bench, stopping a few feet away, waiting for his protégé to give him access.
For several seconds they locked gazes. A parade of emotions darted through the younger man’s eyes. Panic . . . fear . . . resignation. And then resolve.
Without a word, Khalil moved toward him, stepping aside as they exchanged places.
Now that he had a clear view of the benc
h, Brother Michael scanned the items on the wooden surface. Added them up. Gripped the edge of the worktable.
Dear God!
How could he have made such a terrible mistake?
Khalil wasn’t here to support their mission.
He was here to—
A shattering pain exploded in the back of his head.
Brother Michael staggered.
Groped for the edge of the bench.
Missed.
Legs crumpling, he slumped to the stone floor.
And in the scant few moments before the darkness swirling around him snuffed out the light, he sent a silent, desperate plea to the Almighty.
Please, God, let someone—somewhere—discover the truth and put a stop to the evil deception that is defiling this holy place.
Six Weeks Later
Brother Michael was dead.
Kristin Dane gripped the edge of the corrugated, travel-worn shipping carton that had logged more than six thousand miles on its journey from Syria to St. Louis, blinked to clear her vision, and forced herself to reread the letter.
Dear Ms. Dane:
I am pleased to send you the 50 pillar candles you ordered from our humble workshop here in the cradle of Christianity. We are grateful for your willingness to support our humanitarian work by selling the labor of our hands in your shop. As you know, every dollar we receive is used to help victims of the terrible violence here, Christians and Muslims alike. We continue to be amazed at the resilience and strength of the remarkable Syrian people, who have suffered so much.
And now I must pass on some sad news. Brother Michael has, quite suddenly, gone home to God. On February 16, he grew ill and took to his bed. The next morning, we found him on the floor in the workshop. We believe he rose during the night and went to the shop for some reason. It appears he tripped, or perhaps grew dizzy, and fell backward, hitting his head on the corner of a workbench.
I know this will be a shock to you, as it was to all of us. Our American brother spoke often of your kindness to him when you met two years ago while he was visiting your city.
Here at the monastery, we are already missing his selfless work and the deep spirituality and trust with which he lived his life. And we grieve the shortness of his days. Forty-four seems far too young to die.
Please pray for the repose of his soul, as we will continue to do here in the land he adopted—and loved.
With gratitude in Christ,
Abbot Jacques Gagnon
“Kristin?”
From a distance, a voice penetrated her shock.
Refolding the single sheet of paper, she lifted her chin. Susan Collier was standing in the doorway between WorldCraft’s stockroom and the retail section of the shop.
“Are you okay?” The woman took a step toward her.
“No. I’m trying to . . . to absorb some bad news.” She relayed the contents of the letter to her part-time clerk.
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy deepened the lines at the corners of the other woman’s eyes. “From everything you’ve told me, he was a fine man.”
“The best. A saint among us.” Kristin traced a finger over the hand-lettered label on the box. “Meeting him was an amazing experience. He had an incredible ability to draw people in.”
“Some men are very charismatic.”
At the hint of bitterness in her words, Kristin looked at her. “I meant that in a positive, spiritual sense. Brother Michael exuded holiness. Not all men are like your ex.”
“I know.” Susan’s features relaxed a hair. “I keep reminding myself of that. Brother Michael sounded like one of the good guys.” She motioned toward the box. “Do you want me to put those on the display for you? I know you usually like to do it yourself, but you’re already cutting it close for the wedding.”
Shifting gears, Kristin checked her watch.
Her clerk was right.
In less than three hours, the bride would be walking down the aisle. And since she was one of the two people standing up for the groom, she couldn’t be late.
Letting Colin down wasn’t an option.
“Yes, thanks.” Kristin set the letter from the abbot on the desk wedged into one corner of the stockroom. “If you need me for anything later today or Monday while I’m at the small business seminar, call or text.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know.” She summoned up a smile. “In the year you’ve been with me, I’ve come to rely on you for much more than clerking duties. You’ve been a huge asset to WorldCraft.”
Cheeks pinkening, the mid-fortyish brunette smoothed a renegade strand of hair back into the sleek chignon at her nape. “Thanks. I appreciate you giving me the job. If it hadn’t been for you and Kate Marshall, I don’t know where I’d be.”
Kate Marshall . . . Kate Marshall. Oh, right. The director of New Start, the agency where Susan had gone for career counseling after she had finally walked away from her abusive marriage.
“You would have been fine. With your background in retail, someone would have snapped you up.”
“I don’t think so. My skills were rusty after being on hold for two decades.”
“Not true. Your volunteer work with the handicraft co-op kept them fresh—and dealing with that kind of merchandise was perfect background for the fair trade goods I sell here.” She retrieved her purse from the desk drawer. “Now I’m off to be best woman.”
“You earned that title in my book the day you hired me.”
“Don’t give me so much credit.” She squeezed the woman’s arm. “I just recognized talent when I saw it. Thanks again for working extra hours on Monday to cover for me.”
“No problem. Have fun at the wedding.”
“I’ll give it my best shot.”
But as she left by the rear door and crossed to her Sentra, even the sunny skies on this second day of April couldn’t chase away the pall hanging over her.
Brother Michael was dead.
Not from militant bullets or bombs or blades as she’d always feared, but from a tragic accident.
Why would God take a man who’d left behind everything he knew to do desperately needed work in a dangerous land?
It didn’t make sense.
And it felt all wrong.
But as Colin always reminded her when she raised such questions, trying to understand the mind of God was an exercise in futility. You had to trust in his goodness and accept that he saw the bigger picture, even if your own lens was murky.
Bottom line, at some point you had to let questions like this go.
Depressing the autolock on her keychain, she closed the distance to her car in a few long strides, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine.
This was one of those times—at least for the next few hours. She couldn’t allow her gloom and grief to ruin the biggest day of Colin’s life. She and Rick owed their best bud 100 percent of their support and focus.
So she’d fix her hair, do her makeup, slip into the knockout black dress she’d splurged on for this event, and smile for the world.
Even if her heart was aching.
Author’s Note
Welcome back to Hope Harbor—where hearts heal . . . and love blooms.
When I wrote the first book in this series, I wasn’t certain it would be a series. I hoped readers would fall in love with my special little town on the Oregon coast, but until the numbers came in, I had no idea if there were more Hope Harbor stories in my future.
As it turned out, readers embraced this charming town and its wonderful residents. So much so that every book to date has been a bestseller. Translation? There are more Hope Harbor books in the works!
I’d like to thank all the people who have played such an integral role in my writing journey. I couldn’t have hit—and passed—the fifty-book milestone without their support and assistance.
My husband, Tom, who believes in me even on days when I’m certain I’ll never think of another compelling plot, and who does so much to smooth out the bumps
in our life so I can concentrate on the stories in my head.
My parents, James and Dorothy Hannon, who have been in my corner from day one—my ever-faithful cheering section. Dad’s still out there rooting, and even though Mom’s gone now, her unwavering support and the joy she always took in my achievements are sweet memories that will sustain me all the days of my life.
My publishing partners at Revell, especially Dwight Baker, Kristin Kornoelje, Jennifer Leep, Michele Misiak, Karen Steele, and Cheryl Van Andel. I am honored to call you colleagues and friends.
And finally, all the readers who choose my books. Your support has allowed me to build a career telling the stories of my heart.
I hope you’ll return with me to Hope Harbor in April 2019, when a woman who runs a lavender farm/tearoom crosses paths with a man who’s in over his head juggling a new life, a grieving little girl, and a rambunctious dog who happens to like digging up lavender plants.
In the meantime, if you like romantic suspense, please watch for book 2 in my Code of Honor series, Hidden Peril, coming in October 2018. I guarantee it will keep you turning the pages late into the night!
Irene Hannon is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than fifty 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 is 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 Reviewers’ 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.
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 theater productions and is also a soloist at her church. She and her husband enjoy traveling, long hikes, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.
