Love Letters: A Rose Harbor Novel (13 page)

The inn was empty and silent. My guests were out for the evening and the house felt cavernous. I felt a bit lost and out of sorts with nothing pressing to occupy my time. The incident with Paul’s sweatshirt lingered in my mind. As if that wasn’t enough, I realized I’d forgotten what Paul’s voice sounded like.
No. Not that, too
. Determined to try, I closed my eyes and strained to remember, yet as hard as I tried I couldn’t pull the memory of his voice back into my head. His scent was gone, and his voice was no longer part of my memory. It hit me then as strongly as the moment I got word that my husband’s helicopter had gone down in a fiery crash: I had lost Paul. He was gone from me. Never again would he be a part of my life, this side of heaven.

I was accustomed to living without my husband. When he was deployed we communicated every day. Although he was literally
half a world away, we were together in spirit and in heart. His death had come as a harsh blow, nearly crippling me with grief and heartache. I clung to each memory, to every detail, treasuring each one, holding onto them, clenching them in my fist, determined to keep them as close as I could, and now they were slipping away despite all my efforts.

As the months progressed, I’d found a fragile peace with my husband’s death. But now I realized it was a lost cause. His sweatshirt, the sound of his voice. This was more than I could bear, more than I dared let my mind dwell on—otherwise, I’d break into tears.

As I did most evenings, I walked through my small flower garden, checking on my roses. I needed the distraction more than ever. I clipped a few and arranged them in a vase for the inn’s foyer. When I finished, I watered my vegetable patch. My tomatoes were coming along nicely, and the pumpkins, although green, showed promise for later in the fall. The snap peas and green beans were coming into their own. Both the spinach and leaf lettuce grew in profusion. I thoroughly enjoyed my small garden space along the south side of the house.

I had Mark to thank for it. He was the one who’d turned up the earth for me. It’d been no small task, especially with his leg in a cast. It’d taken several days and patience on both our parts.

I found a few ready-to-eat tomatoes, so I picked those, plus a large batch of spinach, and brought both vegetables into the kitchen. I hadn’t eaten dinner and decided to make a batch of Italian wedding soup. I had most of the ingredients on hand, and what I couldn’t find I’d substitute with something else.

Thirty minutes later I added the small meatballs I’d made and frozen weeks earlier into the simmering soup. The chicken broth had come from the freezer as well. I preferred to make my own. Seeing how well it was simmering, I placed a lid on the soup, and I decided to sit on the porch, giving the ingredients and flavors time to meld.

In other circumstances, I would have shared the bounty with
Mark. When he’d worked on preparing my vegetable garden, I’d promised that I’d give him a portion of whatever the land yielded.

The sad fact was, I wasn’t sure Mark would appreciate seeing me for a while. After he’d delivered the lumber for the gazebo, he’d conveniently disappeared. Not that I blamed him.

If past history was anything to go by, I might not see him again for a week or more. Mark generally stayed away for a few days when I got emotional about Paul or when I drilled him for information about himself. One of the things I appreciated most about Mark was the fact that he didn’t hold onto hard feelings for long.

Rover let out a bark and then raced down the porch steps, running to the very edge of the property.

“Rover,” I shouted after him. For the most part, my rescue dog stayed close by my side. After losing him that one afternoon not so long ago, I kept close watch over him.

It wasn’t long before I realized what had gotten Rover’s attention. His tail started to wag and Mark Taylor rounded the corner of my property. He looked disgruntled, his face marred by a barely disguised frown.

“Hey, what’s up?” I asked him.

“I’ll tell you in two words: Peter McConnell.”

I’d forgotten the other man was making himself at home at Mark’s place for the night. I’d been surprised when Mark had made the offer to house Peter, seeing how protective Mark was of his privacy. Even now I wasn’t entirely sure what had prompted the generosity. One thing was evident: My handyman didn’t consider Peter a friend. My guess was that Mark had been looking to protect me, and I suspected it was from more than the other man’s inability to pay for the night’s stay.

I was surprised to see him and at the same time grateful. I hadn’t been looking forward to spending the evening alone. “I thought you told me you didn’t know where Peter had gone.”

“I didn’t,” he grumbled.

“I take it he’s returned.”

Mark snickered loudly, making his feelings clear. “He settled right down in my favorite chair, reached for the television remote, and ate his way through the contents of my refrigerator.”

“In other words, he drove you out of your own house.”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?” Clearly, more had taken place that Mark wasn’t telling me.

“Okay, if you must know, I left because otherwise I was going to punch him. He had the gall to tell me I should go buy him a six-pack. As far as I’m concerned, he’s lucky he’s in full possession of his teeth. The man doesn’t lack for nerve.”

I hid a smile and changed the subject. “I’ve got a kettle of soup on. Most everything in it came from the garden. Are you interested?”

“You serving anything else with that soup?”

“Like what? A sandwich? Cookies?”

“No, interrogation?”

I smiled, wanting to reassure him. “You’re free to enjoy your soup without me hounding you with questions.”

He studied me skeptically, as if he wasn’t sure he should believe me. “What kind of soup is it?”

“Your favorite.”

Again, he frowned. “How do you know? I like more than one kind of soup.”

“You told me.”

“When?”

“I don’t remember. Good grief, talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

He broke into a rare wide smile, his eyes twinkling.

I didn’t know what his game was. “Do you want the soup or not?”

The smile made him look almost boyish. “Guess you don’t like being hounded by questions any more than I do.”

He’d made his point. “Touché.”

He followed me into the kitchen, and when I removed the lid
from the kettle, he took an appreciative sniff. “It’s that spinach-and-meatball concoction you make, right?”

“Right. I picked the spinach just an hour ago, and it’s called Italian wedding soup.”

“I know; I just don’t happen to like the name.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“The soup’s good,” he assured me, “but the reference to weddings is enough to turn off most men.”

“Oh, for the love of heaven.” I shook my head and brought down two deep bowls. I had a loaf of Asiago cheese bread I’d picked up earlier in the day at the bakery when I met Peggy and planned to use for breakfast. It went really well with poached eggs, but even better with soup. I could easily change my breakfast menu to stuffed French toast, another favorite. I cut off a couple thick slices and set them aside.

“How about eating outside?” I suggested. Early in the summer, I’d purchased a small wicker table with two chairs for the deck. I ate out there most evenings. It was perfect to sit in the fading sunshine with a view of the water and the mountains and absorb the beauty and shadows of the setting sun, reflected on the water.

Mark regarded me as if I’d suggested we do something illegal. “What’s wrong with the kitchen table?”

“Nothing, but why eat inside when it’s such a lovely evening?”

His frown darkened. “Are you going to light a candle and put on music, too?”

“Hardly.” He couldn’t seriously believe I wanted to make this meal of soup and bread into some kind of romantic interlude.

Still, he hesitated.

“Fine, you eat in the kitchen, but I’m going onto the deck.” I picked up my bowl and bread and headed toward the porch. Faithful companion that he was, Rover followed me. I’d taken my seat and had reached for my spoon when Mark appeared.

“Don’t look so worried,” I chided. The truth was, I enjoyed teasing him. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

He grumbled under his breath, but whatever he said was indecipherable. After his first taste of the soup, he nodded appreciatively. “This is good.”

“Thank you.”

“It comes as a real surprise what a good cook you’ve turned out to be.”

“Oh?” He had the most backhanded way of giving a woman a compliment.

“You being a former banker and all,” he added.

It took restraint on my part not to roll my eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It only makes sense,” he argued. “Women in high-powered positions don’t have time to cook.”

“Mark,” I said, holding up my hand, “stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re only digging yourself in deeper.”

“Okay, fine, whatever.”

“Thank you.” It was times like these that I wondered how I could consider Mark a friend.

“Mary Smith,” he said.

I glanced up, uncertain I’d heard him correctly. “What about Mary Smith?” She’d been a guest earlier that spring.

He shrugged one shoulder. “She’s an example of a high-powered businesswoman. I knew the minute I met her that she’d be the type who couldn’t find her way around a kitchen with a road map.” He must have recognized the fire in my eyes, because he quickly added, “Just as an example. I’ve said my piece; I won’t say anything more.”

“That’s probably wise on your part.”

“What did you do the rest of the afternoon?” I asked Mark, making a determined effort to change the subject.

“You mean after I delivered the lumber?”

I nodded and tore off a bit of my bread to dip in the soup’s rich broth.

“We both know I couldn’t go in the house with Peter taking over
and eating everything in sight. A plague of locusts leaves more behind.”

“It might be a good idea to count the silverware tomorrow morning.” I was joking, but Mark took me seriously.

“I will.”

He’d already eaten the entire bowl of soup. “Mind if I help myself to seconds?”

“By all means.” Most of the time the leftovers got tossed anyway.

He excused himself. Rover lifted his head and watched him go but stayed at my side. Mark disappeared into the kitchen and returned in short order. “I could eat that entire kettle.”

“Take some home with you,” I offered.

He chuckled and shook his head. “Trust me, it would be gone by morning.”

I’d forgotten about Peter. “Right. I’ll save it for you.”

“I appreciate it.”

His attention centered on the soup and then out of the blue he said, “I worked on the cradle.”

Mark had completely lost me.

He must have read the question in my eyes, because he explained. “You asked me what I did this afternoon.”

“You and that cradle,” I muttered. The man remained a complete mystery. He had paying customers clamoring for his services, and yet he chose to work on a project no one had commissioned or paid him to build. He’d started on it shortly after we met and worked on it off and on whenever the spirit moved him.

He wagged his finger at me. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“That disapproving one when I say or do something you don’t agree with.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“Yes you do. You got it just now when I mentioned the cradle.”

“Okay, fine.” I wasn’t about to argue with him.

“It’s a big project and I’d like to get it finished.” He seemed to feel the need to justify how he spent his time to me, and he was right.

“But don’t you have other jobs, ones people are actually paying you for?” I argued.

“Yes.
So?
”

“
So
, people are waiting.”

“I’ll get to them all in good time. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“I wasn’t chastising you.”

“Yes you were. You might not have said anything, but you were thinking it.”

The man drove me to the edge. “So now you can read my mind?”

“In this instance, yes.”

If he wasn’t so right I might have argued further. I brushed off his comment and said, “Think what you want.”

He returned to his soup. “The cradle relaxes me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You might not have noticed, but I get uptight every now and again.”

“No way.” I made sure my tone mocked him.

“I’m not joking, Jo Marie. I don’t know what’ll happen to that cradle or where it will go, but I enjoy working on it.”

Over the months, I’d seen that cradle several times. Mark had designed it himself. The headboard was intricately carved and was sure to be a showpiece for whoever purchased it.

“Like I said, working on it settles my nerves, and there was a lot that needed settling after you started hounding me for information. Playing host to that bloodsucking Peter McConnell isn’t helping any, either.”

“You didn’t need to invite Peter to spend the night, you know.”

Again he muttered something I couldn’t understand.