The kind produced by the type of low-hanging gray clouds massing on the horizon that suggested some rough weather could blow into town in the not-too-distant future.
“Hi, Jeannette. May I join you for a moment to admire the view?”
Stifling her disquieting thoughts, she angled toward Charley Lopez.
Behind him, the wharfside stand was shuttered.
Drat.
She’d missed her opportunity for a taco lunch.
“Of course—although I have to admit my taste buds were clamoring for fish tacos. Can I cajole you into reopening for one more customer?”
“No cajoling necessary.” Hefting a brown sack, he gave her his trademark smile, his gleaming white teeth a contrast to his sun-burnished, weathered skin. “I saw you over here and assumed you were coming my way.”
“You’re the best.” She opened her purse to dig for her wallet.
“We can settle up on your next visit. The cash box is closed for the day.”
After a brief hesitation, she re-zipped her purse. This was another thing she loved about Hope Harbor. Everyone trusted everyone else.
“Thanks.” She took the bag he held out.
“My pleasure. Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong—and I could see you were desperate for a taco fix.” He winked at her, adjusted the Ducks cap over the long gray hair that was pulled back into a ponytail, and shifted toward the sea to give it a long, slow sweep.
Jeannette slanted a look at him. Was that comment about ignoring obvious needs referring to more than tacos? Was he suggesting she should do her part for the immigrant family?
Crimping the top of the bag in her fingers, she rolled her eyes.
What a ridiculous stretch.
From his perch in the taco truck, there was no chance Charley could have overheard her conversation with Marci.
Her conscience was just working overtime.
Charley picked up the conversation. “I never get tired of this view. It’s a balm for the soul.”
She studied the scene again.
Yes, it was—most days.
But this afternoon, it did nothing to mitigate the subtle unease that had been gnawing at her since her encounter with her neighbor yesterday.
“Don’t you think so?” Charley focused on her with those keen, dark eyes that seemed to have an uncanny ability to delve beneath the surface.
She had to scramble to recall his last comment.
View . . . balm . . . soul. That was it.
“I love this vista too. Although I have to admit it’s not working its usual soothing magic on me today.”
“I wonder why?”
She was saved from having to respond by two seagulls that waddled over and settled at Charley’s feet with a few squawks.
“Friends of yours?” She indicated the pair.
“Yes. Floyd and Gladys.”
“Seriously? You name the seagulls?”
“These two are special. We go way back.”
They let loose with a few more squawks.
“I think they’re trying to talk to you.”
“A distinct possibility.” His expression grew speculative. “Curious that they’d show up now.”
“How so?”
“Long story.” After giving the scene another scan, he transferred his attention to her, his usual placid, pleasant demeanor back in place. “Better go eat those tacos or they’ll get cold. And have some of your delicious lavender shortbread for dessert.” With a jaunty salute, he ambled off.
She stared after him.
Why had he mentioned the shortbread so close on the heels of Marci’s request that she provide her trademark tea pastry for the Taste of Hope Harbor table at the welcome party?
“Ignoring an obvious need would be wrong.”
Turning her back on his retreating figure, she continued toward her car.
This was nuts.
Yes, Charley was an insightful man.
Yes, he’d earned his reputation as the town sage.
Yes, his comments were always thought-provoking and spot-on.
But to think his remarks had been veiled advice about the immigrant family was downright silly.
Still . . . no matter Charley’s intent, as she pressed the autolock button and picked up her pace, her conscience began prickling again.
Maybe baking some shortbread for the gathering wasn’t enough.
Maybe she ought to be there in person.
After all, if everyone in town dropped off their contributions and disappeared, there would be no one on hand to greet the new arrivals.
So why not show up at the last minute? She could introduce herself to the family, welcome them, and slip out before anyone cornered her—as Marci had today—and tried to extend the hand of friendship.
A very real possibility if she lingered, given the warmth of everyone she’d encountered in town.
And therein lay the problem.
She crossed Dockside Drive and slid behind the wheel.
It would be easy to establish ties in Hope Harbor, make friends, get involved in other people’s lives.
But that would require opening her heart and letting herself care.
In other words, she’d have to take a risk.
And she wasn’t anywhere close to making that leap yet.
Nor might she ever be.
After setting the bag of tacos on the passenger seat, she took one last look at the wharf as she started the engine.
The scene was tranquil and unchanging, peaceful and predictable.
A fair description of her life these days.
And she intended to keep it that way as long as—
A familiar yipping intruded on her thoughts, and she twisted her head toward the sidewalk.
Her new neighbor was tying the leash for his dog to the bike stand in front of Sweet Dreams bakery a few doors down—and attempting to shush the animal, based on his body language. The little girl was there too, clutching the same tattered blanket.
Finally the doctor gave up trying to silence the dog, took the child’s hand, and disappeared inside.
The beagle began to yowl, ruining the usual wharfside serenity.
She was out of here.
Jeannette put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, jacking up the volume on the classical radio station to drown out the dog’s faint wails.
At the corner, she checked her rearview mirror as she hung a right.
The pup was straining at the leash—and loudly communicating his displeasure at being abandoned, based on his baying posture.
Yet another disturbing note in her day.
It was time to go home, close herself up in her workshop, and assemble some lavender sachets to supplement her stock for the opening day of the farmer’s market.
And hope the relaxing scent and quiet ambiance of the farm would soothe her sudden, inexplicable apprehension that the quiet, solitary oasis she’d created in Hope Harbor was about to be disrupted.
3
This was a miracle.
Mariam Shabo smoothed out the pristine comforter on the twin bed she’d just slept in. Fingered the edge of the crisp sheet. Stroked the soft pillow.
She had a clean, safe place to live. There was a plentiful supply of food in the kitchen. They had a toilet. Running water. Electricity.
Even their pastor, Father Karam—who’d always used the term miracle sparingly—would have to agree it was accurate in this case.
Or he would have, if he was still alive.
A wave of sadness engulfed her, knotting her stomach and sucking the air from her lungs.