Sweet Tomorrows

Dear Friends,

Well, here it is, the fifth and final book in the Rose Harbor Inn series. I've loved writing these stories and I hope you've enjoyed reading them. When Mark Taylor first showed up on the page, I wasn't sure he was the right man for Jo Marie. But like he did with my heroine, Mark grew on me and I came to love him, too.

As it happens with any series, it's always hard to say good-bye, but new projects are calling out to me…Stay tuned.

This book is dedicated to Margo Day. A few words in a dedication say so little. Margo is a phenomenal woman and it's an honor to call her my friend. While in Kenya she rescued—yes, rescued—thirty-four young women who had run away to avoid female mutilation and early marriage. In order to get them housing and into school, she took a year's leave of absence from her job. Working with World Vision, she personally raised enough money to give these girls a home, an education, and a future. Several have now gone on to college. But she provided more than an education; Margo loved them. Margo is the one who inspired my husband and me to travel to Kenya ourselves, where we met these young women and heard their stories.

I also need to give a shout-out to Wayne Ashby in appreciation for his service to our country. Wayne served four tours of duty in Iraq and was instrumental in helping me with the details in Mark's adventures there. Thanks, Wayne. And Laura (his wife!).

When I say I love hearing from my readers, I'm sincere. I read every piece of mail that comes into my office or through my website. Your comments have guided my career and I appreciate what you tell me, so thank you in advance for voicing your opinions. They're important to me.

You can reach me through my website,
DebbieMacomber.com
, or my Facebook page, on Twitter, and on Instagram, or by writing to me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

So take off your shoes, put up your feet, and settle down with a nice cold glass of iced tea. Jo Marie and Mark are waiting.

Warmest regards,

Sweet Tomorrows
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2016 by Debbie Macomber

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

B
ALLANTINE
and the H
OUSE
colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

L
IBRARY OF
C
ONGRESS
C
ATALOGING-IN-
P
UBLICATION
D
ATA

Names: Macomber, Debbie, author.

Title: Sweet tomorrows : a Rose Harbor novel / Debbie Macomber.

Description: New York : Ballantine Books, [2016]

Identifiers: LCCN 2016013646 (print) | LCCN 2016020713 (ebook) | ISBN

9780553391831 (hardcover : acid-free paper) | ISBN 9780553391848 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Hotelkeepers—Fiction. | Female friendship—Fiction. |

Interpersonal relations—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance /

Contemporary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. |

FICTION / Sagas. | GSAFD: Love stories.

Classification: LCC PS3563.A2364 S94 2016 (print) |

LCC PS3563.A2364 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2016013646

ebook ISBN 9780553391848

randomhousebooks.com

Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for ebook

Cover design: Belina Huey

Cover illustration: Stephen Youll

v4.1

ep

Life is filled with the unexpected. I know that sounds rather dramatic—sort of like:
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Trust me, I've been through both, but then I suspect everyone who breathes in oxygen has experienced this.

I started my career as a bank teller and eventually worked my way into the corporate office, taking on more and more responsibility. I liked my job and advanced quickly, but that driving ambition to succeed came with a price. I got so wrapped up and focused on my career I didn't have time for relationships. Oh, I had a few close friends, but when it came to dating and true love, I blew it off, thinking there would be time for all of that later.

Then one day I woke up and discovered the majority of my friends were married and raising families. When I did become interested in finding my soulmate, the men I dated, well, suffice it to say, and I'm being as kind as I can be, were a sorry disappointment.

Then I met Paul Rose and I fell head over heels in love. Within the first week I knew he was the one. He was career military and hadn't married, either. It felt like a miracle that I would meet this wonderful man when I'd given up hope of ever finding anyone.

Just like the lyrics of a country western song, we got married in a fever. Paul was an Airborne Ranger and a few months after he placed a diamond ring on my finger he shipped off to Afghanistan, then died in a helicopter crash.

It was as if life had hit me with an atom bomb.

My husband, whom I'd loved so briefly, was forever gone from me. I've read books that talk about the different stages of grief. They were filled with good advice, most of which I ignored. I was in so much emotional pain that I could barely function. It took every ounce of energy I could muster to force myself out of bed. Overnight everything, and I do mean everything, that I'd once considered important—my career, my home, my lifestyle, my hopes and dreams of one day having a family with Paul—was gone in the blink of an eye.

Poof,
destroyed.

Still reeling from the loss, I did the opposite of what everyone told me:
Don't make an important decision the first year after the death of someone close.
On a complete whim, I quit my corporate job and purchased a bed-and-breakfast and named it after my deceased husband. It became known as the Rose Harbor Inn.
Rose,
naturally, for Paul. And
harbor
because I'd gambled that this next unexpected curve in the roadway of my life would become a harbor of healing for me. And, thankfully, it has. As a bonus, it seems the inn has the power to help others heal as well.

I seldom mention this insight to people for fear they'll suggest I consider counseling. Even now, almost four years later, I sometimes wonder if I'd imagined that first night I spent after moving in. I'd been half asleep…it might have been a dream. You know the kind where you aren't really asleep but not fully awake, either? Paul came to me in that dreamlike state, so real I was afraid to breathe for fear he would disappear. It felt as if all I had to do was reach out and touch him, but I knew I dared not.

While it was enough that he stood next to me, and I could see him and feel his love for me, as a bonus he spoke. Not that I heard the words out loud; they were spoken inside of me, in my heart.

I know it's hard to believe, but I swear that's what happened. He told me as plain as anything that I would heal here and all those who came to stay would find solace and healing of their own. Authentic or not, I've held on to that promise, clung to it with both hands, desperately wanting it to be true. Desperately needed hope, a reason to continue.

When Paul told me I'd heal, the last thing in my mind and certainly in my heart was the possibility of falling in love again. Finding Paul was miracle enough; I certainly didn't expect I could be so lucky again. But discovering love a second time was even more of a surprise than it was the first time. Certainly my relationship with Mark Taylor didn't start out as a lovefest, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

After my husband was killed, I retreated from life, which in retrospect is perfectly understandable. For three years I lived in a shell. I took up knitting and gardening, adopted a dog named Rover. All of these were things I'd never have considered in my previous life.

The one constant the first three years I owned the inn was Mark Taylor, my handyman. He was grumpy, noncommunicative, and sometimes downright unpleasant. But as time progressed, Mark became a friend. I still found him irritating, but in a comforting sort of way. I suppose that doesn't make much sense, but it's the best way I can think to describe my feelings. In truth, it's hard to explain.

Mark was around the inn a lot, mainly because I hired him to do a variety of projects and odd jobs. After a while, despite our clashes and differences of opinion, we grudgingly became friends. We argued, but our disagreements weren't serious. I enjoyed teasing him. He loved my home-baked cookies, and I found I could get him to do most anything with the promise of hot-from-the-oven sweets.

The first time I laughed after learning about Paul was with Mark. He'd been painting, and when climbing down the ladder he stuck his foot into a five-gallon paint bucket. I thought it was hilarious and laughed until tears rained down my cheeks. Mark, however, wasn't amused.

Over the years he took on a number of projects I wanted done around the inn, which included building a rose garden and gazebo. I saw him nearly every day, and often more than once. Spending time with Mark became part of my daily routine. Even when he worked elsewhere he would invariably stop by the inn for coffee. We routinely sat on the porch and chatted about our day. There were times when we said nothing at all. We didn't seem to need words to communicate. Certainly there was no hint of romance; he was a friend and that was what I preferred. I was completely oblivious to the fact he might have come to care for me as more than that.

Just as I was coming out of my self-enclosed shell, Mark let me know that he'd fallen in love with me. His words shook me as powerfully as the 2001 Seattle earthquake. And then it hit me…and when I say that, I mean the shock of it turned me upside down. I discovered Mark had become more than a friend to me, too. Bottom line: I'd fallen in love with him. It'd been gradual—so gradual, in fact, that I wasn't even aware of the subtle shift of my feelings for him. This was so utterly different from falling in love with Paul that I remained oblivious to what had happened until Mark revealed his love for me.

No sooner did I come to accept that my heart was open and ready for Mark's love when he hit me with another shock. This one even bigger than the first. He announced he was leaving Cedar Cove, with no intention of returning.

What?

I didn't have a clue what that was about. He made no sense.

“I love you, Jo Marie. Sorry, but I'm leaving and I won't be back.”

Who does that? And for the love of heaven, why? And then he was gone. Really gone. Sold-his-house gone. Gave-his-belongings-away gone. Simply gone.

Not until later did I learn the reason for his abrupt departure. At one time in the distant past Mark had been in the military, the very service that had claimed my husband's life. Mark had gotten out of the Middle East unscathed, but at a terrible price. He'd been forced to leave behind an Iraqi friend he'd worked with, an informant who'd become as close to him as a brother.

Even though the circumstances were beyond his control, Mark viewed himself as a coward for not doing everything humanly possible to save Ibrahim and his family. Mark had struggled with his conscience every day since returning to the States. The only way he felt he could properly love me was to go back and rescue the man who'd fed him vital information to help with their mission. But going back held life-threatening risks. He didn't bother to sugarcoat the danger. He let it be known that there was every likelihood he wouldn't return.

Now he was gone. I suspected he never really intended to let me know how deep his feelings were for me. Telling me was an accident. In retrospect, I realize he'd wanted to spare me the pain of dealing with another loss, the death of someone else who loved me.

If Mark thought that by leaving me he was doing me a kindness, he was wrong. I learned later that he couldn't tell me for fear I would talk him out of taking on this risky mission, and he was right. I would have done everything within my power to keep him in Cedar Cove. He had basically gone on a suicide mission.

When he left I told him, mainly because I was bitter and angry, that I wouldn't wait for him. I'd already cracked that protective shell in which I'd hidden for three long years, and I wasn't retreating. I was going on with my life. I would date again, and I had, although I hadn't met anyone who made me feel alive, at least not in the way Paul and Mark had. Still, I went out and had started to forge a new life for myself.

Mark has been gone almost nine months now, and I've heard from him only once. One time. It happened late in the night when I was woken out of a sound sleep by a phone call. It was Mark letting me know he was in Iraq and had found Ibrahim. The connection was bad and I was able to catch only part of the conversation, which upset me terribly. I hungered for every bit of information he could tell me, longing to hear the sound of his voice, which came in sporadic spurts. As best I could understand, he was making his way out of the country along with Ibrahim, his wife, and their two small children. Where exactly he intended to go and how he'd get there remained a mystery.

In our broken, frustrating conversation, Mark asked for my help. If he was able to get Ibrahim and his family out of Iraq, he needed to be sure I would help them settle in the United States. What he didn't say, or what I was unable to hear due to our faulty connection, was that he needed me to do this in case he didn't make it out of the country alive.

With no other option, I promised Mark I would do everything in my power to see to the needs of this family. How could I not when Mark had risked his life for their sake?

Like I said, that was nine months ago, and since that time I'd heard nothing more.

Nada.

Zilch.

Not a single word.

No letter. No phone call. No communication of any kind.

I could only believe that after this amount of time he'd failed, and Mark, like Paul, was forever lost to me.

It was June now, and I'd grown downright comfortable with avoidance. I chose not to think about Mark. Or at least I tried, but, frankly, I hadn't been successful. What I had managed to do was keep everyone else from talking about Mark. Mostly my mother, who took pains to remind me that she continued to pray for him and the success of this undertaking.

I didn't want to hope Mark was alive. It was easier to accept that he was dead. Harsh, I know, but you have to understand, Paul's remains weren't recovered and identified for a full year after the helicopter crash. Every single day of that year, every single minute I held on to the hope, clung to it like someone hanging off the ledge of a twenty-story apartment building that against all reason Paul had managed to survive.

I refused to do that a second time. For my own mental well-being I had to let go. I'd rather go down in a flaming free fall than continue to live on empty hope.

Peggy Beldon was someone else who refused to ignore my determined effort to move on. Peggy and Bob Beldon own Thyme and Tide, another B&B in town. After I bought the inn, they more or less took me under their wing and helped me figure out what I was doing. They're good friends, along with Grace Harding. Her husband died before I moved into town, and she fell in love and remarried. She understood what it meant to be a widow and shared some insights into this new stage of life I'd entered. I appreciated their friendship.

The one person who seemed to understand and appreciate my attitude was Dana Parson. She was a relatively new friend I met in my spin class. We were about the same age. She was married, with two small children, and worked part-time as a real estate agent. Her husband's job allowed him to telecommute, and that gave her an opportunity to take an exercise class when her two kids were down for a nap.