Sweet Tomorrows (4 page)

Relaxed as I was, I smiled. “Do you know of any homes for sale in the area that aren't listed with agents?” Not all buyers choose to use real estate companies.

“Not that I know of, but my friend Dana is a real estate agent and she might. What are you looking for?”

I told her, describing the home I'd built up in my mind. If I could find something even close to that I'd be happy.

“That sounds like…” Jo Marie said, shook her head, and then hesitated. “The house you described sounds just like the one that's about three blocks from here. It's an older home and is currently being renovated. I don't know anything about it or the owner.”

“Do you have the address?”

“No, but it's close enough that I can give you directions. It's on Bethel Street; you won't be able to miss it.”

I'd make a point of checking it out on my morning run.

We chatted for several minutes, not about anything personal, but revisiting some of her expectations with an extended-stay guest and some of mine as well. Instead of buying my own food, we agreed to share food costs and take turns cooking dinner. I wouldn't join in the breakfasts with the guests, which suited me fine. I made my own protein drink following my morning run. I generally ate a light lunch of a sandwich or salad, and Jo Marie did the same. We agreed to see to our own midday meal and then share dinner.

Jo Marie was flexible and easygoing and it seemed we were going to be a good match. It was almost like being back in college and learning the give and take of having a roommate.

The weekends were the busiest time for the inn, and I agreed to help Jo Marie as much as she needed or wanted.

When we finished our talk, she showed me the room she'd set aside for me and it was lovely. She called it the Lavender Room and I understood why the moment I walked inside. The walls were painted a lovely shade of lavender. A border of white and lavender flowers circled the edge of the ceiling. The white comforter on the queen-size bed was decorated with, yup, you guessed it, lavender-colored pillows. What caught my eye, however, was the balcony with French doors that looked out over the front of the property. Unfortunately, I didn't have a view of the cove, and while that was something of a disappointment, I didn't mind.

I slept well except for one small distraction. At about three I heard a noise below in the yard. I'd opened the door off the balcony and had gone to investigate and thought I saw a man and a dog. How strange was that? I didn't get a good look at him, but I could see that the dog was large, perhaps a German shepherd. I decided to mention it to Jo Marie in the morning and returned to bed.

I woke with my alarm at six. The sun was already up and the day looked to be glorious. From the app on my phone, I saw that the predicted temperature for the day was going to be in the high seventies. Perfect, just perfect, and an unexpected treat for June in the Pacific Northwest.

Sitting up in bed, I reached for my journal and wrote. I'd kept a journal for most of my life. Afterward, I did a bit of reading before changing out of my pajamas and into my running shorts and sleeveless top.

On the porch I did a few stretching exercises and then headed out, starting slowly and then increasing my pace. I wasn't going to win any medals, but when it came to running, I wasn't interested in competing. I ran for a number of reasons, the most important being that I enjoyed it. The best advice I'd gotten was from a college physical education class—in order to make exercise a habit, do what brings you pleasure. For me that was running, especially cross-country.

With the house Jo Marie had mentioned in mind, I started toward Bethel Street. She didn't know the precise address, but she was certain I wouldn't be able to miss it and she was right. The instant I saw the two-story house, I realized this must be the one.

Just as she'd said, it was older, probably built around the fifties or sixties, and looked to have been neglected for quite some time. Most of the outside had been ignored. The porch was uneven, as if part of the foundation had crumbled, and the flower beds were overgrown with weeds.

The lawn was in sorry shape and consisted of dry yellow grass. The only green visible was weeds, and they seemed to be flourishing. The yard didn't look to have been watered in months. Yet with all that was wrong I found myself strongly drawn to the home. Maybe because I, too, felt beaten down, ignored, and discarded.

I could see that at one time this house had been cherished and appreciated. If whoever was doing the repairs had a sense of this, then they would see it restored to the beauty it had once been.

Someone had taken on the task. That much was obvious by the amount of wood stacked in the front, along with sawhorses and other woodworking equipment.

I paused to study the house, and right away I felt a deep sense that this was it, the house I could see for me and the future I planned to make for myself. Sight unseen—well, the inside, at any rate—I knew this was it, and I was keenly interested.

It was large, much bigger than I currently needed. I speculated it probably had four or more bedrooms, which was perfect. What also attracted me was the large yard and small orchard. As far as I could see, there was no indication that whoever was currently residing there had any intention to sell. It was speculation on my part; all I could do was ask.

I decided to investigate the orchard, which looked to have about fifty trees. As soon as I entered the property, I noticed an overgrown trail winding its way through the orchard.

The shade cooled me after my short run. The trail was perfect, as I preferred vegetation over concrete for my workouts. The grass was ankle-high, but it was easy to see where the path had been. I followed it without a problem and noticed that several of the trees were apple. The others looked to be pear and plum trees. The budding fruit filled the branches and I ambled along, stopping several times to examine them. Already my mind conjured up jars of apple butter, plum jelly, and canned pears.

Halfway through the orchard I heard a low growl coming from behind me. My heart immediately sped with fear. Being cautious, I slowly turned around to find a large German shepherd not more than five feet away from me. His teeth were bared as if he was prepared to attack with the least provocation. His eyes were dark and menacing. I immediately sensed that he was a guard dog whose job was to ward off trespassers.

“Hello, boy,” I said slowly, carefully, fearing that if I made an abrupt move the canine might take it upon himself to bite a chunk out of my leg. I froze and carefully looked around for his owner, but unfortunately I saw no one.

We were at a standoff. I didn't move and neither did the dog. Then he cocked his head as if questioning my presence in the orchard.

“I'm friendly,” I said in low tones, being extra-careful, in case he decided to go for my jugular. “Are
you
friendly? You look like you could be.” I hated that my voice trembled. Animals could sense fear, and while I was putting on a good front, I couldn't disguise my initial reaction.

I'm not sure how to explain what happened next. The dog continued to study me. Somehow, some way, he seemed to sense that I wasn't a threat. He held my gaze and then did something completely unexpected.

He wagged his tail.

My relief was instantaneous and I felt my body relax. I hadn't realized how tense I'd gotten. We both got a little closer and I got down on one knee to carefully, slowly, pet his head. He had a collar with a silver circle attached with his name.
Elvis
.

“So you're a love-me-tender breed of dog, are you?” I asked, feeling more relaxed. He might look like a big, bad beast, but he seemed to accept my presence as if he knew I wasn't a threat to him or his owner.

“What can you tell me about this house and who lives here?” I asked and then smiled, thinking anyone who overheard me would think I had marbles for brains, expecting a dog to fill me in on what to anticipate.

Looking around, I couldn't see anyone, so I finished my run, determined to return the following day and inquire about the house.

Jo Marie was up and busy in the kitchen when I returned.

“Did you get a good workout?” she asked, sliding the cookie sheet into the oven.

“I did,” I said, reaching inside the refrigerator for a bottle of cold water. I removed the top and took a large swallow. “I stopped by the house you mentioned.”

“What'd you think?”

“I liked it. I'd hoped to meet up with whoever is doing the renovation work, but I didn't see anyone. I'll try again tomorrow.” I had a meeting with the school administrator later in the afternoon.

“Dana, the real estate agent I mentioned, lives close to there. I'll see her later at spin class; she might have some additional information. I can ask her if you'd like.”

“Please do.” I left Jo Marie then and jogged up the stairs to take a shower. I'd been in Cedar Cove less than twenty-four hours, and already it felt like home.

Emily had been with me about a week and we'd settled into a routine of sorts. We rose about the same time, I noticed. While I prepared breakfast for my guests, Emily went out for her morning run. She arrived back at the inn about the time I'd finished with breakfast and had cleared the table. While I cleaned off the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, Emily cooled down and whipped together her morning protein drink. I had to admire her healthy eating habits. She'd made a shake for me one morning and it was great. It'd become my habit to skip breakfast. It'd never been my favorite meal, but I appreciated her balanced approach to eating.

When Emily didn't have any luck talking to whoever was doing the renovations, Dana promised to find out what she could about the house on Bethel. As of yet, neither woman had success in talking to the owner. I found Emily's fascination with the particular property rather curious. Because she mentioned it so often I'd made a point of checking it out while taking Rover for his walk. It was a run-down monstrosity, and I couldn't imagine why it appealed to her so strongly. When I walked past, a German shepherd had raced up to the fence, growling and barking frantically. Rover glared back at him and barked; he seemed insulted to be treated so shabbily, and frankly, I didn't blame him. Clearly we weren't about to trespass on the property.

Evenings were my favorite part of the day. Emily and I took turns cooking dinner. I will say it was a treat to have someone else cook a meal for me. Most of my guests were out in the evenings, as I didn't provide meals beyond breakfast. My boarder proved to be an excellent cook. She used fresh ingredients and frowned upon processed food. I did, too, but when cooking for one it was often more expedient to toss a frozen entrée into the microwave. I didn't want to put a lot of effort into dinner for just me. If it wasn't a frozen entrée, I'd throw some lettuce together, but I grew bored with salads and had gotten into the habit of cardboard meals. With two of us there was more of a reason to make an effort to prepare real food.

After dinner Emily and I sat on the veranda, looking out over the cove. We were both silent, caught up in our individual thoughts. As always, despite my best efforts, my head was full of Mark. I didn't want to think about him and had made a gallant effort to put him out of my mind, not that I'd succeeded, mind you. And now, after I'd gotten that postcard, the task had become a lost cause. The date on the card was weeks old. Reading between the lines seemed to suggest Ibrahim was injured. If not Ibrahim, then maybe one of his family members.

“If only I knew where Mark was.”

“Mark?” Emily asked, turning to study me. “Who's Mark?”

I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud. “Sorry…” It felt awkward dragging his name out of the blue like that. “He's a friend,” I said, answering her question, and then immediately felt the need to correct myself. “Well, actually, he's more than a friend.”

“He's away?” she asked.

That, I suppose, was the next logical question. “In Iraq,” I said, without explanation.

“He's military?”

“He used to be. He went back of his own accord to find a friend, an Iraqi national who worked with the Americans as an informant. Mark's company was ordered out and…” I paused when I realized I was giving her far more information than necessary. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dump all this on you.”

“No, please, I'd like to hear what happened.”

And so I told her, condensing a lot of the story, giving her basic elements.

“Are you in love with him?” she asked.

Emily certainly didn't have a problem getting to the heart of the matter. I had no clue that my feelings could so easily be read by a woman who barely knew me.

“Yes, I care about him…very much so. He's been gone almost a year. A year,” I repeated, and my voice cracked. The longest year of my life. Even longer than when I'd waited to learn Paul's fate.

“I don't know if Mark is dead or alive,” I continued. “Just before you arrived I got a postcard that didn't make sense and then it sort of did. Now I don't know what to think.”

“What did the card say?”

I repeated it verbatim, having memorized the few short lines.

“ ‘Lost suitcase okay, but mine is badly damaged, making its way home,' ” Emily repeated, and sipped her coffee, holding on to the mug with both hands. “In his handwriting?”

“Yes…I think so, but it was jerky, as if he was writing it while riding over a bumpy road.”

“Or weak?” she mumbled, carefully studying me.

“Or weak,” I repeated, and closed my eyes. I'd assumed that the damaged luggage referred to Ibrahim or Shatha…not Mark himself. How could I have been so blind? “It's Mark,” I whispered as the truth hit me. “It must be him. He's the one who is hurt. That's…that's why I had such trouble reading the card.” All at once it felt as if a concrete block was pressed against my chest, the weight of it nearly unbearable.

“Like you said, he could have been attempting to write while traveling,” Emily said, seeming to sense my anxiety. “Or it could be one of the other people you mentioned. Didn't you say he would be traveling with an Iraqi man and his family?”

“No, it's Mark who's injured,” I said with certainty. “It has to be Mark.” I pressed my fingertips to my mouth. In that instant I knew beyond a doubt it was him. He'd been gravely hurt and…this was his way of telling me he was in bad shape. He'd mailed the card in order to make sure I'd follow through on my promise.

Emily reached across the space between our two chairs and gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell me about him.”

It took me a few moments to pull myself out of the dread that weighed down my heart. I couldn't think of Mark injured and in terrible pain, otherwise I'd quietly go insane.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, still struggling within myself.

“What would you like to tell me?”

I had to think how best to describe our relationship, and I briefly closed my eyes. “Do you remember the first day you arrived and I told you the inn was a place of healing?”

“Yes.”

I heard the hesitation in her voice, as if she expected me to pry into her personal life. That wasn't my intention.

“I know this from personal experience. I believe I told you I purchased the inn only a few months after my husband was killed in Afghanistan.”

“It must have been a terrible time for you.”

“It was. I know it sounds theatrical to say Paul spoke to me that first night. Shortly after I'd hired Mark to build me the sign for the inn. I don't mind telling you he was a real pain, cantankerous and unfriendly. As time progressed, he became important to me for more than all the projects I'd hired him to do. Little by little, we found ourselves spending time together, becoming friends, although we often butted heads.”

Emily nodded, as if she understood the route our awkward relationship had taken.

“I believe Paul sent him to me in the same way he did Rover.”

My rescue dog was never far from my side. On hearing his name, Rover raised his head. I leaned over and scratched his ears.

“What happened?” Emily asked. “What made Mark decide to return to Iraq?”

I explained as best I could, and when I finished I added, “When Mark left me without giving me any details, I decided to consider him dead. For my own sanity, I had to.” I explained that I'd been left in limbo for a year before Paul's remains were found and identified. I refused to put myself through the hell of not knowing again.

Emily continued to study me. “There's got to be more to Mark getting into Iraq than you're telling me.”

Amazingly, I'd never asked myself that question. “How do you mean?”

“Well, for one thing, Mark can't simply bring Ibrahim and his family into the States without some sort of visa. That would need to have been arranged long before he left.”

“You're right.” It shocked me that I hadn't considered this earlier. I don't know where my head was. What Emily said only made sense; I'd been trapped in fear and hadn't allowed myself to think beyond the consequences of Mark risking his life.

“One or more government agencies must have been involved, whether he went rogue or not,” Emily continued.

I sat there stunned, wanting to slap myself for not considering this sooner. Clearly my emotions had clouded my thinking.

“Mark left the country of his own volition,” I explained. That was my understanding, although now that I thought about it, no one had specifically told me that. “As far as I know, the army didn't sanction any part of this.”

“They must know about it,” Emily insisted. “Come on, Jo Marie, think this through. Someone knows something. The army? The CIA? Your guess is as good as mine.”

Was that really possible? This was one of those epiphany moments. Of course, Mark had help. While he might have gone into Iraq completely alone, surely he'd gotten some form of government assistance.

Emily set her mug aside and leaned forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. “I can almost see your mind churning. What are you thinking?”

“I…I don't know what to think.”

“Isn't there someone you can ask? Some connection with the military. Your husband was army, right?”

“Airborne Ranger.” The first person to come to mind was Paul's commanding officer: Lieutenant Colonel Dennis Milford. Paul didn't have any family to speak of. His parents had divorced when he was young and Paul had seen his father only twice in his entire life. His mother had died young, when Paul was in his twenties. Paul's father lived in Australia and they had never been close. As a result, Paul had looked up to his commanding officer as both mentor and friend. The lieutenant colonel might be able to answer my questions. It certainly wouldn't hurt to ask.

“Why didn't I think of that sooner?” I said aloud, although I didn't expect a response.

“Love does that to us,” Emily told me in soft tones. “It clouds our thoughts, messes with our heads, makes us think and do irrational things.”

It sounded as if she was speaking from personal experience.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

She shrugged as if it was nothing. “Don't mention it.”

I waited until the next morning after my guests had left and I had stripped the beds. Emily was busy weeding my vegetable garden. I'd planted a much smaller garden this year, seeing that Mark hadn't been around to prepare the land and help with the upkeep.

While Emily was busy in the garden, I retreated into my office and closed the door.

Lieutenant Colonel Milford had given me his number and urged me to call with any questions or needs. I knew he felt a personal loss with Paul's death. He'd grieved with me. It went without saying that if I wanted or needed information, he would do whatever he could to help. I counted on that connection.

I dialed the number he gave me and was put through without a problem.

“Jo Marie,” he greeted me from the other end of the line. “What can I do for you?”

He, too, got right to the heart of the matter.

“I need information.”

“About?”

“A friend. A former army officer who is currently a civilian.”

“Is someone pestering you?” he asked, his voice sharpening. He remembered that shortly after I purchased the inn a soldier who identified himself as a good friend of Paul's had come to me, looking for a substantial loan. Milford had been angry when I'd relayed the event. I remembered that Mark was the one who'd sent the gold digger on his way in quick order, although I'd never learned how or why he'd showed up when he did.

“No, it's nothing like that. This is about Mark Taylor. Actually, his first name is Jeremy…he goes by Mark now. It was his father's name.”

“Army?”

“Yes.”