“If you’re in the mood for chocolate, I have another idea. Give me a sec.” She hurried into the kitchen, put four blackberry truffles on a plate, and returned. “This should satisfy our sweet tooth. I made a batch for a . . . thank-you gift, and I had a few left over.”
Charley remained standing but took one and bit into it. Chewed slowly. “Mmm. Another taste of heaven.” He popped the rest into his mouth. “It’s amazing how many small glimpses of paradise we can get here on earth if we take the time and make the effort to notice them.” He indicated a second truffle. “May I?”
“Please.”
He picked it up and started for the door. “I’ve delayed your beach walk long enough—and my muse is becoming impatient.”
She trailed behind him through the house. “Thank you again for stopping by.”
“My pleasure.” He exited, but paused on the porch. “I hope you’ll come to the truck for lunch soon. You won’t have to worry about being recognized. LA is a different world—and removed from Hope Harbor by far more than distance.”
“People here do watch TV, though.”
“Your disguise will hold. Trust me.”
There was no way he could guarantee that—yet he spoke with such conviction it was impossible to doubt him.
“I may venture out more often, now that we’ve talked. You were my biggest risk.”
“Consider me a friend, not a risk. I won’t give you away. And do come to town. Hope Harbor has much to offer.” He pulled his Ducks cap out of his pocket and snugged it on. “See you soon.” With a jaunty salute, he strolled over to the ’57 silver Thunderbird he kept in mint condition. It didn’t seem a day older than it had six years ago.
Neither did Charley.
As he drove away with a wave, she closed the door and wandered back through the house. For the rest of today, she’d stick close to her digs. Visit the beach as usual, perhaps read awhile.
But come tomorrow, if she still felt confident in Charley’s assurance that her anonymity was secure, she might venture into town for shopping, another round of tacos—and a piece of that fudge cake Zach had mentioned at The Perfect Blend.
9
“This is an impressive turnout.” Stephanie surveyed the crowd gathered in the Grace Christian fellowship hall for the Helping Hands meeting.
Gentleman that her nephew was, Zach took her arm and guided her through the throng. “The people of this town never cease to inspire me. They’re always willing to step in if there’s a need. Not long ago, there was an outpouring of support for a refugee family from Syria.”
“It must be wonderful to live in a place where everyone’s so caring.”
“That was one of the main draws.” He lifted a hand in response to a wave from Frank, who wove through the crush toward them.
“Did you tell him I was coming?” Stephanie dropped her voice as she watched the silver-haired man approach. While Zach’s part-time barista was technically a senior citizen, from his jaunty gait to his trim physique and sparkling eyes, he radiated youthful enthusiasm.
“Yes—and he was watching for us, in case you didn’t notice.”
Oh, she’d noticed.
Because she’d been watching for him.
“Welcome.” The man joined them and held out his hand to her. “I’m glad you came.”
As he gave her a warm smile, her pulse picked up.
Good grief.
What a ridiculous reaction for a sophisticated executive with six decades of living behind her.
She did her best to summon up the professional poise that was suddenly playing hard-to-get. “It seems like a worthwhile cause—and I didn’t want Zach to miss it to keep me company. As I told him, I can take care of myself.”
“I have no doubt of that. You strike me as a very capable woman.”
Heat crept up her neck.
Mercy.
The man had an intensity and focus that could take a person’s breath away—and a knack for infusing the most innocent phrase with deeper meaning.
A woman up front waved in Frank’s direction, and Stephanie motioned toward her. “I think someone’s trying to get your attention.”
He gave her a quick glance. “I have to get back up there. Will you stay for a few minutes afterward?”
“Unless Zach has other plans.”
“My Tuesday evening is all yours after the meeting.” Zach seemed amused by their exchange.
“Wonderful. I’ll talk to you both later. I think we’re about ready to roll.” Frank strode back toward the first row, where the board must be seated.
Stephanie commandeered Zach’s arm before he could comment on her conversation with his employee. “It’s filling up. Let’s find seats.”
He didn’t protest.
As they claimed chairs, the director of Helping Hands took the mic, introduced himself, and called the meeting to order.
For the next fifteen minutes, she gave him her full attention as he filled the attendees in on the latest developments with the Hope House project—mostly because she couldn’t see Frank from where they were sitting.
That would have been a major distraction.
But even if she’d been able to spot him, the subject of the meeting did interest her, and it wasn’t difficult to tune in to Steven Roark.
“If we decide to proceed, there’s money in the budget for a down payment, but we’ll have to come up with the balance. Fundraisers are an option. We also want to be certain there are sufficient volunteers to handle necessary repairs and updates—which, after visiting the house, I can tell you are significant. Not much has been done in terms of remodeling for two decades, and maintenance issues have been neglected.”
As he went on to list the more serious items that would have to be addressed, Stephanie leaned closer to Zach. “Does a town this size have people with the skills to deal with all of the issues he’s identified?”
“You’d be surprised at the talent that comes out of the woodwork. But if there’s anything someone here can’t fix, we’ll have to hire a pro.”
“This is a big project for a small town to undertake.”
“I know. That’s why it may not fly.”
She leaned back. Too bad if it didn’t. The cause was more than worthwhile.
Steven looked up from his notes. “All of those nuts-and-bolts issues aside, the biggest challenge will be finding a couple to live in Hope House and care for the children. Adam’s research indicates that can make or break a program. Adam . . . would you give us a few more details about what sort of qualifications and background we’d want?”
A dark-haired man with a lean, muscular build rose and took the mic, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. In light of his background, it must have taken a boatload of courage for him to stand up in front of a group like this—attesting to his passion for the cause.
“Thanks, Steven.” He cleared his throat. “Finding houseparents isn’t an immediate concern, since we have quite a bit to do first. In addition to the physical work on the house, there’s a ton of paperwork to fill out for the state in order to get certified for the foster program. What we wanted to do tonight was lay out the parameters for the couple so if anyone is interested, or knows of someone who is, we can begin to consider candidates.” He reshuffled his papers.