Love Letters: A Rose Harbor Novel (10 page)

“Oh great.” What I needed was his middle name and his date of
birth—otherwise, I’d be spending copious amounts of time and money shuffling through the lengthy list. And even then it would be little more than guesswork. I needed a lot more details if I was going to uncover anything of importance. And, really, was it worth all the time and hassle? That was the real question. I could always go back to my spring cleaning. I’d been meaning to check out what was up in the attic for some time.

I heard a car door slam and Rover was instantly on his feet. Fearing he might bark and wake Maggie Porter, I hurried to the front door. To my surprise, I found Mark parked outside. The bed of his pickup truck was loaded down with lumber.

The man never ceased to astonish me. It’d taken him weeks to get started on the rose garden.
Weeks
. Yet only that morning I’d given him the go-ahead on the gazebo. Already he’d purchased the lumber and seemed set on unloading it in the yard.

He had a long two-by-four balanced on his shoulder, and carted it from the bed of his truck to the lawn before he noticed me and Rover standing on the top step. He hesitated. “What is that look about?” he asked.

“What look?”

“The one you’re giving me.”

I had no idea he could read me that easily. “I’m surprised is all.”

“About what?” He set the piece of lumber down and then removed his gloves.

“You’re starting on the gazebo?”

His gaze narrowed. “I thought that was what you wanted.”

“I do.”

“Then how come you’ve got the look of a mounted bass?”

I wasn’t keen on the analogy but let it pass. “I thought I’d need to wait.”

“For what?”

He was being thickheaded. “For you to get started. By the way, where’s Peter McConnell?”

“Don’t know and I don’t care.” He didn’t explain, and while I was curious as to what had happened to the other man, I had more pressing subjects on my mind.

“Do you want me to come back later?” he demanded.

“No, no, don’t let me stop you.”

He put his gloves back on and then shook his head as if to say he found me impossible to understand. “It sounds to me like you’re complaining because I’m starting the job. Last time around you were upset because I delayed planting the garden.”

“I’m not complaining,” I shouted, louder than I intended.

“Women,” he muttered, just loud enough for me to hear. He returned to his truck, shook his head, and reached for a second piece of lumber.

“I said I’m not complaining,” I repeated.

“That’s your mad voice.”

“I am not mad,” I insisted again, calmer this time, for fear of waking my guest. “I’m amazed. And pleased,” I added.

“You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“It’s a good thing.” Rover went down the stairs and parked himself halfway between the two of us, lying in the grass with his legs spread out, soaking in the coolness of the lawn.

“When’s your birthday?” I asked.

He set the board down next to the first one. Either he didn’t hear me or he chose to ignore the question.

“Your birthday,” I repeated, coming down the steps.

“What about it?” he asked gruffly. He was on his third trip back from the truck, another long board balanced on top of his shoulder.

“You have one, don’t you?”

“Most folks do.”

“Mine’s in February.”

He shook his head as if to say it was none of his concern. “You expected me to buy you a birthday gift?”

“No.” He twisted everything around. “When is yours?”

“My what?”

“Birthday!” I was fast losing my patience. He was purposely being obtuse in hope of exasperating me, and he was succeeding.

He stopped and planted his hands on his hips and glared at me as if I’d asked him if he had a prison record. “What do you want to know for?” he demanded, his words as hard as the lumber he’d carried.

That was a tricky question. To admit I’d been online seeking information about him was more than I wanted him to know. “I don’t know … maybe I want to throw you a surprise party.”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.”

“I’d invite Peggy and Bob and …”

“You aren’t throwing me a surprise birthday party, and we both know it.”

He frustrated me to no end. “Okay, fine. Forget the birthday party.”

“Gladly.” He was sweating hard now; hauling heavy lumber was strenuous labor. He paused and wiped his forearm across his brow. A dark strand fell across his forehead.

“You could use a haircut.”

The look he sent me would have melted kryptonite. “Are we married?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you my mother?”

“No. Okay, fine. I apologize.” He was long overdue for a haircut, but far be it from me to mention it. I didn’t know what was the matter with me. It was like I was going out of my way to irk him into an argument.

“You’re getting on my nerves, Jo Marie.”

I could tell. Seeing how badly I’d bungled this, I returned to the house and brewed him a fresh glass of iced tea and then carried it outside. “Here,” I said, holding out the icy-cold drink for him to take. “It’s a peace offering.”

He hesitated and stared at the glass for a good five-second count before he deigned to reach for it. He made it seem like he was doing
me a favor by accepting. Once he took the glass out of my hand, he drank down the tea in several large gulps and then returned it to me. The ice made clinking sounds against the side of the glass as I took it back.

Thinking I should make casual conversation, I mentioned Maggie Porter was feeling sickly.

“That’s a shame. Flu?”

“Don’t know. I hope not, for both their sakes.”

He braced his hands against his hips. “I’ve got another load.”

“You must be exhausted. Sit with me for a while.”

He cast me a suspicious look. “Why?”

“So you can relax, unwind.”

“Are you going to hound me with more questions?” he asked.

“No.” Not because I wasn’t curious, though. Getting Mark to admit to anything was like chasing after a dog with a bone. It was clear to me that I was going to need to be a whole lot more subtle if I was going to dig up information. I would have to trick him into giving me what I needed to know.

I poured another glass of iced tea for him and one for myself. We sat side by side on the top step of the porch with Rover resting between us.

We were silent for several moments, each lost in our own thoughts, I assumed. My musings went straight to Paul, as they often did, although I made an effort to remember the good times we’d had. I’d never laughed as much with anyone as I had with Paul.

I looked up and noticed Mark studying me. When I caught his eye, he frowned and asked, “You okay?”

I shrugged and then said the first thing I thought of, which in retrospect made no earthly sense. “Paul’s sweatshirt has lost his scent.”

“I beg your pardon.”

It stunned me that I’d blurt this out. “Never mind.”

“No,” he said, frowning, refusing to let this pass without comment. “So that’s it.”

I was embarrassed now. Earlier I’d been feeling depressed and lonely and I’d gone into my room and taken Paul’s sweatshirt out of the closet. I did that from time to time. I couldn’t explain why, other than that I gained some comfort in an old Seahawks sweatshirt of his. We’d met at a Seahawks game and he’d given it to me to keep for him when he’d been deployed. I wore it myself on occasion, mainly because I felt close to Paul when I had it on. After I learned he’d been killed, I kept it in a special spot in my closet and periodically held it against my face. Then I would breathe in the scent of him. That afternoon I noticed the fragrance that was uniquely my husband had faded. I felt as if I was losing this last bit of Paul, and I wasn’t ready to let him go, wasn’t ready to give this up when I’d had to surrender so much else.

“Jo Marie?” Mark eyed me curiously. “Are you okay?”

“Of course I am,” I blurted out, lost in my thoughts.

“You look like you’re about to break into tears.”

“I’m not, so don’t worry.” I leaped up off the step and rushed back into the house, and set the full glass of tea on the kitchen counter.

A few moments later, Mark followed me inside. He took his own sweet time setting his empty glass in the sink. “What’s this about wanting to know my birthday?” he asked.

“It’s nothing. I shouldn’t have asked.” I don’t know why I’d bothered to Google his name. Wanting to resolve this mystery around Mark was ridiculous. “If you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine.”

He started to walk out of the kitchen, hesitated, and turned back. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” I insisted.

Again he paused as if at a loss at what to think. “I was born May eighth.”

I stared back in surprise and blinked, hardly knowing what to say. I wouldn’t go back to my computer search. It felt wrong now. Mark had given me a small bit of trust, and to search out his background like a bloodhound hot on a trail felt like I’d be abusing his confidence.

Another hour passed and I found myself dealing with the same restlessness that had plagued me recently. I heard footsteps and looked up to find Ellie descending the staircase, one hand on the railing. The change in her appearance was dramatic. The haircut was perfect for her. She wore a lovely sleeveless floral dress with a wide black belt and carried a thin white cardigan over her arm. Her purse hung from her shoulder.

On seeing me, she said, “Tom is on his way.”

“You look fabulous,” I said, and I meant it.

A smile appeared. “Do you really think so?”

“I do.” She was going to knock Tom’s socks off.

Her cell phone dinged, and Ellie glanced at it and sighed.

“Tom?” I asked, seeing the look that came over her. If this young man was messing with Ellie’s tender heart, I swore I would find a way to make him suffer.

Ellie shook her head and ignored the call. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said, as she tossed the phone back inside her purse.

When Ellie heard Tom’s car pull into the driveway at Rose Harbor Inn, she froze. It felt like her entire body had shut down. This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for all these months.

With all her heart she had to believe that Tom was everything he claimed and that he wasn’t out to abuse or use her. She had to believe that their feelings for each other were genuine. Her heart told her he was sincere, and she needed to trust her heart and drown out her mother’s dire warnings.

The porch steps creaked as Tom approached the front door. Ellie stood a few feet away on the other side, her heart racing like she’d just finished running a marathon. Rover came and sat on his haunches at her side as though standing guard over her.

The doorbell chimed and Ellie inhaled a deep breath, slowly
counted to ten, and then, as casually as she could manage, stepped forward and opened the door.

Tom looked exactly like his picture. He was tall, about six-three, but then she was tall, too. Her mother claimed she got her height from her father. Tom’s eyes were a rich shade of brown as he steadily regarded her. It seemed they both held their breath. Ellie knew she did, waiting for she knew not what.

For the longest moment of her life, neither spoke.

Finally, Tom broke the silence. “Ellie?”

She nodded. “Tom?” Her voice squeaked.

He nodded and then whispered as if in awe. “You’re even more beautiful in person.” With anyone else that might have sounded like a well-practiced line. It didn’t with him. If anything, he looked as nervous as Ellie felt. He continued to stand on the other side of the door. Her manners, it seemed, had completely deserted her.

“Would you like to come inside?” she asked, once she found she could speak without sounding like a high-pitched pond frog.

He glanced at his wrist, reminding her that he’d made a dinner reservation.

“Perhaps later, if you don’t mind,” he said.

“I don’t mind at all,” she rushed to assure him. He took her elbow as they descended the porch steps. Then he hurried to her side of the car and held open the passenger door. One of the text messages from her mother had cautioned her that she should beware of men who were overly polite or well mannered. The warning rang in her ears now, but she refused to listen.

Tom waited until she was inside and then closed the door for her. He raced around to the driver’s side and slipped behind the steering wheel. Ellie couldn’t help but think it was a rare man who saw to such details. He was like her, an old-fashioned kind of person.

The car’s interior had been freshly detailed, she noticed. The dashboard gleamed and the seats felt slippery. It told Ellie that Tom wanted to make a good impression. Her mother had warned her
about that, too. Once more, Ellie refused to listen to her mother’s voice, no matter how loud Virginia Reynolds shouted in her ear.

“DD’s on the Cove is the best restaurant in town.”

“Jo Marie mentioned what a good restaurant it is,” Ellie said. “She’s the innkeeper. Do you know her?”

He started the engine and glanced over his shoulder while backing out of the driveway. Once he was on the road, he said, “I haven’t met Jo Marie, but I’ve heard nothing but good things about her and the inn. I thought you’d feel most at home there.”