LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      DRIVING OVER TO Herons Landing, Seth passed two kids, about nine years old, racing their bikes down the quiet street lined with bright pink flowering plum trees and waved back at Otto and Alma Karlsson, who were sitting in rockers on their front porch. They’d celebrated their sixtieth anniversary in the town hall this past Valentine’s Day. The party had originally been planned to take place in the friendship hall of the Swedish Seamen’s Lutheran church, but when so many townspeople wanted to join in the celebration, it had been moved to the larger venue.

      Turning left on Mountain View, the sight of Mellie and Jake Johnson pushing their two toddlers in a double stroller had him rubbing his chest. If he and Zoe had been successful in their baby-making plan, their child would be about the same age as the Johnson’s twins. It also occurred to him that, in a space of less than three minutes, he’d witnessed a circle of life. From the babies and their parents, to the preteens, to the elderly Karlssons.

      Although she might have arrived in Honeymoon Harbor from Astoria, Zoe’s father’s family, like Seth’s own and the Mannions, were early settlers. From time to time he’d be dragged into pioneer celebrations, which he’d always enjoyed growing up, but the last few times had only made him all too aware that Zoe wasn’t there with him.

      Putting that thought away in the mental lockbox, where he kept all things Zoe, he made another turn that took him past the high wrought iron gates of the cemetery, and along the water to the house in question.

      The Queen Anne–era Victorian boasted three stories, four fireplaces, a turret and a curved porch with a view of both water and mountains. Back when it had been built by a timber baron in the late 1800s, at least two of the five acres it sat on had been gardens, which had long ago gone to weed.

      He was standing on temporary gravel that had been planned to be a stone paver driveway, hands on his hips, looking up at the new slate roof that had cost an arm and leg but was historically accurate, when Brianna pulled up behind his truck.

      The first thing he noticed when she climbed out of the snazzy red convertible, which wasn’t all that practical for the rainy Pacific Northwest, was how long her legs were. Why hadn’t he ever noticed that before? She was wearing a pair of cropped skinny jeans and a shirt blooming with hibiscus blossoms open over a white tank top. Her turquoise flats had little bows on the toes like the ones he remembered on Zoe’s ballet slippers during those years her mother had made her take dance lessons. Hopefully, Zoe had complained, with a roll of her expressive dark eyes, to make her more girly so she’d give up any idea of being a soldier.

      Which, duh, hadn’t worked all that well since once Zoe Robinson got an idea in her head, it was impossible to shake it out. Still, those pale pink slippers with the lace-up ribbons and scuffed-up soles she was always having to clean were why those combat boots he’d last seen his wife wearing at her deployment ceremony at JBLM had always seemed so out of place.

      Seeing his new best human friend again, Bandit loped over and jumped up, putting his paws on Brianna’s shoulders. At the same time a cloud overhead started spitting rain, making her colorful Las Vegas–style outfit all the more impractical. Which, even as he yelled at his dog to get down, had Seth wondering if it would really be possible for a woman who’d harbored such glamorous, big-city dreams to come home again.

      The sudden cloudburst had soaked her, revealing a lacy bra beneath the white tank clinging to her lean body. It had been nearly three years since he’d seen a woman’s bra that wasn’t on a commercial for the Victoria’s Secret fashion show that’d pop up every year on ESPN. As an unbidden and entirely unwelcome feeling stirred, he snagged one of the emergency slickers he kept on hand for clients—usually Californians who didn’t understand the concept of weather changing on a dime—from his truck’s club cab back seat and held it out to her.

      “Thanks.” She shrugged into it, covering up that see-through tank. “I remembered to put the top up on the car when I crossed the border into Oregon, but forgot the cardinal rule of never being without a rain jacket.” The sleeves fell nearly over her hands, which were tipped in coral lacquered nails that matched the flowers on her shirt. Each ring fingernail had a tiny white blossom with rhinestone centers painted on it, which was something he couldn’t remember ever seeing in Honeymoon Harbor.

      “You probably didn’t need a slicker all that much in Vegas,” he said.

      “That would be true. I know people up here dream of retiring to the desert, and a lot do, if all those gray-, blue-and purple-haired elderly ladies who’d camp out at the slots were any indication, but I never got the appeal. Natives would say there were two seasons: hot and hotter. I always thought there were three: hot, pizza oven hot and hell.” She lifted those colorful fingertips to her cheek. “And the lack of humidity, while good for hair, was horrible on the skin.”

      Her skin looked just fine to him. When he found himself wondering if her smooth cheek felt as silky as it looked, the resultant stab of guilt jerked his mind back to their reason for being here.

      “The color leaves a lot to be desired,” she said, looking up at what Seth personally considered an abomination, but the previous buyers had been adamant about wanting their very own painted lady.

      “It’s undoubtedly visible from space,” he said.

      “I would’ve gone with blue, to echo the water. Or perhaps yellow, to brighten the winter days. With crisp white trim.”

      “Both of which I suggested.”

      “Great minds.” She flashed him a smile that was like a ray of sun shining from the quilted gray sky and momentarily warmed some cold, dark place inside him.

      “You sure you don’t want to come back another day? When it’s drier?”

      “The roof’s new, right?” She glanced up at the randomly placed multicolored tiles in shades of blue and gray.

      “It is. And not the fake stuff, but real slate formed by hand right here on the peninsula in Port Angeles. It’ll last another hundred years.”

      “Then it won’t leak on us.”

      “Not even during a downpour.” Which this wasn’t.

      “So there’s nothing stopping us from going in.”

      “It’s a mess.”

      “I

Скачать книгу