Love Letters: A Rose Harbor Novel

If someone had told me, as little as two years ago, that I’d own and operate a bed-and-breakfast in this tiny burg of a town called Cedar Cove, I would have laughed my head off. But then I never expected to be a widow at the age of thirty-six, either. If I’ve learned anything—and, trust me, life has been filled with several painful lessons—it’s that the future doesn’t come with a printed guarantee.

So here I am in ninety-five-degree heat, stripping beds, scrubbing toilets, and baking cookies. An even greater surprise is that I’m loving it. Well, maybe not the toilet-scrubbing part, but just about every other aspect of this new life I have carved out for myself.

It’s been two full years now since I got the news that my husband is dead. And while I never thought it would be possible, there are times when I can smile again, feel again, even laugh. All three are surprises. When I got word that Paul had been killed in a helicopter
crash on some unpronounceable mountainside in Afghanistan, it felt as if my entire world had imploded. I needed to hold on to something to keep from spiraling out of control, and that something turned out to be Rose Harbor Inn.

Nearly everyone advised against me buying the inn: my family, my friends, my employer. Again and again I heard that this was a drastic change, and I should wait a year. Give it twelve months, I was lectured. That’s the proverbial wisdom, and while I politely listened, I silently went about making my own plans. It was either do something different—all right, drastic—or slowly go insane.

Has it been easy? Hardly. Eking out a living by renting rooms, doing a good majority of the work myself, hasn’t helped build up my investment portfolio. I have yet to see a penny in profit, but I’m not going under, either. For the most part I’ve invested every cent back into the inn.

After I purchased the inn, I changed the name and had a new sign constructed and installed. I’d decided to call my new home Rose Harbor Inn. Rose is my surname, Paul’s name, and Harbor because I needed to find a protected environment in order to heal. And my sign hung proudly in front of the inn with my name, Jo Marie Rose, etched below.

In addition to the new sign, there were certain necessary repairs, some cosmetic and others unavoidable. Thankfully, friends introduced me to Mark Taylor, the local handyman.

Mark.

What an enigma he was. I’ve seen him nearly every day for the past year, sometimes two and three times a day, and I still know hardly anything about him other than his name and address. Okay, so he’s a great carpenter and he craves my peanut-butter cookies. Not knowing more felt like a pesky bug bite with a constant itch. My imagination ran wild. I wanted to uncover Mark’s secrets, conjuring up a dozen reasons he refused to talk about himself. Some of those scenarios were outrageous, and there were a few scary ones lurking in the back of my mind as well.

I’ve been on a mission to pry some small bit of personal information out of him. So far I’ve had little to no success. I might as well try chiseling marble with a marshmallow. The man is as tight-lipped as they come.

The washing machine beeped, indicating that the cycle had ended.

The Hendersons, who’d recently checked out, had been in town visiting their son, who was stationed at the Bremerton Navy base. He’d recently become engaged to a local woman, and the couple had flown in from Texas to meet their future daughter-in-law. Lois and Michael were a delightful couple and I’d enjoyed hosting them.

I had two names on the books for the upcoming weekend. Both would arrive sometime Friday afternoon. After a while, names become a blur in my memory. People come and go, but for whatever reason, I specifically remembered both parties who had booked this weekend.

The first was Eleanor Reynolds, and she’d sounded quite proper when we’d first spoken. I’d guesstimated that she was either an accountant or a middle-aged librarian. Since that time I’d changed my mind. I’d spoken to Ellie twice—she asked that I call her that—since our original phone call. Once when she canceled and then a third time when she rebooked. The woman couldn’t seem to make up her mind. Seeing that I hadn’t heard from her in the last few weeks, I had to assume she would keep the reservation and arrive sometime this afternoon.

By contrast, Maggie Porter had been a breath of fresh air, chatting and happy. This was a getaway weekend she was planning with her husband, Roy. Right before the Fourth of July, Maggie’s in-laws, who had apparently heard what Maggie was planning, had called and paid for the weekend as an anniversary gift for the young couple. I looked forward to meeting Maggie and her husband.

Rover barked, which told me someone was coming up the front walkway. I glanced at my watch, fearing I’d let time get away from me. This happened more frequently than I cared to admit. Rover,
my rescue dog and constant companion, raced to the door. I recognized Rover’s bark, which told me I had nothing to be anxious about. It wasn’t a guest arriving early; it was Mark Taylor.

Great
. I’d been hoping it was him. I fully intended to drill him and this time I wasn’t going to let him sidetrack me or sidestep my questions.

I held the door open for Mark. He’d broken his leg last May and it’d healed nicely. I couldn’t detect even a trace of a limp. I’d been upset with him for how long it’d taken him to plant my rose garden. What should have taken only a matter of a few days had stretched into weeks and weeks.