Driftwood Bay (Hope Harbor #5) - Irene Hannon Page 0,7

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.

Despite all the months that had passed, it was hard to believe he and dozens of others had been buried beneath the rubble on that horrible Sunday morning at the church she’d attended for all of her fifty-three years.

A church that was only a distant memory now, like the life she’d once known—when being a Christian in Syria had been tolerated.

When she and Yesoph had shared laughter-filled dinners every night with their two young sons while the aroma of her grilled kufta kebabs, the lamb redolent with garlic, and her dawood basha, the meatballs tender in her secret tomato-herb sauce, whetted everyone’s appetite.

When bombs hadn’t been a constant threat and they could attend