Love Letters: A Rose Harbor Novel (21 page)

“Here in Cedar Cove?”

Ellie nodded. “He’s Tom’s father.”

Jo Marie tried to swallow a gasp but didn’t quite succeed. “Tom’s your half-brother?”

“No, Tom is my father’s stepson. He raised Tom and his brother, Earl, as if they were his sons. The only reason Tom …” She paused, hardly able to say the words. “He wanted to reunite me and my father,” Ellie finally managed.

“Oh, Ellie, I don’t think that’s the only reason.”

Tom had said as much, but Ellie didn’t know what to believe.

“I saw the way he looked at you this morning,” Jo Marie said gently. “Tom’s crazy about you.”

Ellie shook her head, dismissing the other woman’s words of reassurance. “My father didn’t know what Tom was doing any more than I did. He could barely look at me … Tom said my father had tried to contact me through the years but my mother and grandparents intervened and wouldn’t allow it … but he could have gone through the courts. If he’d really wanted me in his life, he would have moved heaven and earth to make it happen.”

“Yes,” Jo Marie agreed, as she settled into the chair beside Ellie. “We all have regrets, though, don’t we?” she asked. “I imagine you would have welcomed the opportunity to know your father.”

“As a kid, I would have done anything to hear from him, to talk to him. I needed my father and he wasn’t available. I was an inconvenience.”

Jo Marie sipped her tea. “What’s so different now?” she asked.

Ellie turned to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“He’s here now. It must have taken a great deal of courage to meet you, after all this time, knowing how deeply he’s failed you.”

Tom had said basically the same thing. He’d gone so far as to claim if she turned her back on her father now she would always regret it.

“Don’t you think you should give him a chance?” Jo Marie asked.

“But Tom …”

“Deal with Tom later,” the innkeeper urged.

“My mother warned me about him … she told me I shouldn’t trust him.”

“Oh, Ellie, your mother’s been hurt, badly hurt, and while her intentions are good, she’s tainted your view of men and life. I don’t mean to bad-mouth her, and I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn.”

What Jo Marie said was true, and Ellie immediately recognized it.

“You’re right,” she whispered. “I should at least give my father a chance to explain … we should talk.”

“I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

Ellie reached for her phone and sent Tom a text message.
I’d like to talk to my father. Tell me where I should meet him. But you need to stay away.

Poor Ellie. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her it would all work out in the end. Mostly I wanted to give Tom a piece of my mind for pulling this trick on her. It didn’t take me long to forgive him, though. After Ellie and I talked a bit and I returned to the kitchen I was less perturbed with him. Instinctively, I knew he meant well, although I questioned his methods.

It was apparent Tom cared deeply for his stepfather. After meeting Tom and seeing him with Ellie, I had to believe he held some deep affection for her. I said as much, which I think helped Ellie.

What was that saying?
Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive
. I was fairly certain it went something like that. My guess was that Tom had gotten himself in deeper than he’d ever intended.

I noticed Mark wasn’t working on the gazebo, and I suspected
I’d chased him off with my invitation to Sunday dinner. It seemed most every effort I made to get to know him better backfired. Clearly, meeting my family put him on edge. I wanted Mark to realize that I considered him a good friend, a prickly one, but still my friend. Even more, I hoped that he’d consider the invitation to meet my family as a roundabout way of showing him I genuinely wanted us to know each other better.

Until that morning, I didn’t realize how close I felt to Mark. Not in a romantic way but as a friend. Why else would I have told him that I felt I was losing my grip on my memories of my dead husband?

The oddest look had come over Mark, and, really, who could blame him? It embarrassed me that I’d chosen to blurt it out. One look at him told me how uncomfortable the information had made him.

He wasn’t someone who shared confidences, and it appeared he didn’t know how to deal with it when others did.

Mark was on my mind a good deal lately, and that made me uncomfortable. Mostly he frustrated me, and at the same time he was my friend. We saw each other nearly every day, especially if he was working on a project at the inn. I’d come to rely on him, probably more than I should.

The door off the porch opened and Ellie came in carrying the teacup and saucer.

“Are you feeling better?” I asked, taking the china from her and placing it on the kitchen countertop.

She nodded. “Much better. Thank you for listening, Jo Marie.”

“Anytime.” I resisted the urge to hug her. She’d endured a shock, and while my tendency was to comfort and mother her, that wasn’t what she wanted. From what I knew about her, Ellie had been nearly mothered to death. She had to reach this decision about her father and Tom all on her own. I didn’t want to influence her one way or the other.

“I’m going to my room,” Ellie said. “I can feel a headache coming on, and I think I’ll feel better if I lie down for a few minutes.”

“Call me if you need anything,” I told her, wanting to be helpful but at the same time give her the space she needed.

“I will, and again, thank you.” Ellie headed toward the stairs leading to the second floor.

Once more I felt the urge to do something physical and decided I needed to check out the attic, which was accessible from the third floor. It’d been on my to-do list for quite some time and I kept putting it off. First the cupboards, now this. I’d straightened out my drawers the night before, burying Paul’s sweatshirt in the bottom of my dresser. If it wasn’t going to comfort me as it had so often in the past, then I’d put it where it was out of the way.

I’d never explored the attic. When I purchased the inn from the Frelingers, they’d mentioned that they’d stored a number of small pieces of furniture and other items there. I wanted to take an inventory in case I decided to have a garage sale. I might put the items I didn’t need on consignment, too. Of course, it depended on what was stashed up there.

I made my way up to the third floor, where three of the smaller bedrooms were. A rope dangling from the ceiling pulled down a ladder that granted me access to the upper area. I’d stuck my head into the attic to look one time but hadn’t given it more than a cursory inspection. It was long past time I did.

Getting up the ladder wasn’t a problem, and, luckily, I wasn’t a tall woman. As it was, I had to hunch over in order to move about. If I ran into rodents or saw evidence of their presence I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it.

Thankfully, the Frelingers kept everything in an orderly fashion. I found a couple of oak nightstands; a few lamps; a chest, which turned out to be empty; and three or four oil paintings. The artwork was actually pretty good.

I remembered Mrs. Frelinger mentioning that she’d taken an art
class and wondered if these paintings were her own work. Although the light, a single bulb that dangled from the rafters, wasn’t great, when I picked up one of the paintings I saw that it wasn’t her name on the seascape.

None of the items I found were of any use to me. While a garage sale was a good idea, I didn’t have enough goods to warrant all the effort that would entail.

My gaze skirted back to the seascape. It wasn’t all that bad. The walls of the inn were full of artwork, mostly from local artists. The Frelingers had started the collection, and I’d added to it until there wasn’t a single wall for this seascape unless I moved something else. It was a shame, because it really was quite lovely and deserved to be hung prominently.

Then, out of the blue, an idea came to me.

The walls in Mark’s home were barren, bereft of anything personal, as if he didn’t want to encumber himself with anything or anyone.

To me, however, artwork was important. A single painting could change the entire feel of a room. With that in mind, I decided I would offer this painting to him. Friend to friend, no strings attached.

Getting the framed oil painting out of the attic proved to be something of a challenge. I managed with difficulty. When I came down the ladder, Rover was patiently waiting for me. He’d lain on the floor at the bottom of the steep ladder and cocked his head up at me. When he saw the painting, he moved away and barked, letting me know he wasn’t pleased with my disappearing into that hole in the ceiling.

“The painting is for Mark,” I explained.

Right away, Rover raced down the stairs. By the time I joined him, he sat at the door next to where I kept his leash. He seemed to understand that I intended to walk to Mark’s place.

Instead of hauling the picture all the way to Mark’s only to discover he wasn’t home, I phoned first.

The handyman answered on the fourth ring, just before his cell went to voice mail. “Hi,” he said, “and before you ask, I haven’t changed my mind about dinner on Sunday.”

“Okay, fine. No problem. I didn’t call about that. I had another reason entirely.”

“Which is?”

“I have something for you.”

He hesitated. “You’re okay with me not meeting your family?” He sounded like he didn’t believe me and had anticipated an argument.

“I’m fine with it,” I assured him, doing my best to sound ever so understanding. If my voice was any sweeter, he’d be swimming in a bowl of honey.

He hesitated again. “Then what did you want?”

While he dawdled when it came to getting a job finished, he was far more direct with phone calls. “I already told you. I have something for you,” I said, a bit annoyed by his attitude. The least he could do was be more gracious.

“What?” The question was filled with suspicion.

“An oil painting I found in the attic.” I was about to describe it for him when he cut me off.

“A what?”

“Honestly, Mark, is something wrong with your hearing?” He was doing this on purpose and it annoyed me. The honey was quickly melting away.

“Why do I need a painting?”

“Because you don’t have one,” I snapped.

“I don’t want one.”

“It’s a gift,” I insisted, growing more agitated by the moment. You’d think I was the unreasonable one by offering him a very nice piece of artwork. To hear his tone of voice, I should be dragged out of town to be tarred and feathered.

He went quiet, as if deciding if he wanted to be troubled or not.

“Fine, whatever,” I said. “If you don’t want the painting, it isn’t
going to hurt my feelings.” Well, to be accurate, it was going to irritate me, but I wouldn’t tell him that.

The line went silent and seemed to hum as if we didn’t have a good connection, only I knew we did.

“What’s the painting of, anyway?”

I’d have happily explained earlier, if I’d been able to get a word in between his protests and accusations. “It’s a seascape.”

“Hmm …”

“What does that mean?” I demanded.

Rover grew impatient waiting at the door. His chin was raised, looking toward the leash, eager to get going on our walk.

“Listen,” I said, doing my best to hide my frustration, “I’m taking Rover for a walk and I’ll swing by your place and you can take a look at it. If you want it, fine, it’s yours free of charge, and if not, no biggie, I’ll bring it back to the house.”

“How big is it?” he asked.

“Not big, and it isn’t that heavy. Will you be around?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Great, then Rover and I will see you in a few minutes.” By now I was more than eager to get off the phone. Blast the man, but he was difficult.

“It isn’t necessary, you know.”

I’d been about to disconnect. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” I said, gritting my teeth. I should have pretended not to hear him and hung up.

He exhaled. “I wanted to be sure you understood that I wasn’t going to change my mind about that dinner …”

“Mark, honestly, I found the painting in the attic and thought you’d like it. This isn’t about dinner, my family, or anything else.”

“How’d you get it down from the attic?” he asked, sounding deceptively calm.

I wasn’t fooled. Mark had a thing about me climbing ladders. “I brought it down. I’m safe; don’t worry about it.” I made sure my voice cooled considerably.

“Okay, fine.”

A couple minutes later, I started out of the inn, hauling the painting. It wasn’t heavy, but no more than a block away I wished I’d driven my car instead of carrying it myself. Rover was accustomed to walking faster and didn’t take kindly to the slower pace. He tugged at his leash, pulling me with him.

“Slow down,” I muttered, as I shifted my weight. Holding on to the painting and the leash made for a cumbersome walk.

I went a few more steps, and once again I was forced to stop for fear I was about to drop the artwork. The leash had wrapped itself around my fingers, squeezing off the blood flow.

“Jo Marie …”

I peeked around the top of the frame to find Mark walking toward me at a clipped pace. “What in the name of heaven are you doing carrying this?”