But what was there to say?
So rather than respond, he held her close, dipping his head to brush his cheek over her hair and inhale the sweet scent that was all Katherine.
Much too soon, she eased back and hurried up the path in the waning daylight.
Despite a powerful temptation to go after her and give her a proper good-night kiss, he let her go.
Because really, wasn’t that the only way to hold on to someone? A person had to choose to stay—or return—without coercion or they could never be truly yours.
He waited until she disappeared from view, then finished the steep ascent to his house.
At the top of the bluff, he paused and surveyed the darkening sea. Nearby, a yellow-rumped warbler welcomed the evening with its distinctive, tweeting song. The boughs of the trees swayed in the gentle wind.
All was peaceful.
And he had much to be grateful for on this day. His dad’s operation had been a success, and the wall between them had been breached.
It seemed selfish to want more.
Yet as he wandered toward his house, he did want more.
He wanted a chance with Katherine.
But could a man who ran a coffee shop in a tiny town on the Oregon coast possibly offer enough incentive for her to stay . . . or return?
God alone knew.
And as the last lingering taste of blackberries and chocolate on his tongue faded, he could only hope that if Katherine chose to make the movie, her memories of her stay in Hope Harbor—and of him—wouldn’t do the same.
25
Give it up, Katherine. You’re done sleeping for the night.
As if to verify that, her cell on the nightstand beside the bed began to vibrate.
Expelling a breath, she pushed herself into a sitting position and pulled the phone out of the charger.
Simon’s name flashed on the screen.
She groaned—but pressed the talk button. No sense avoiding the inevitable.
“What are you doing up at”—she angled her watch toward the pale light seeping in around the drapes—“six forty-five? You never get out of bed in LA until after nine.”
“I’m not in LA, and there’s nothing to do in this town on a Wednesday night. I went to bed at ten. Let’s have breakfast.”
“I’m still in bed.”
“Get up and get dressed. I left you alone yesterday, but—”
“No, you didn’t. You called three times.”
“But I didn’t show up on your doorstep. I gave you space. Today, we’re going to talk. In person. Either you meet me for breakfast, or I’ll pick up coffee and bagels and come there.”
She swung her legs to the floor and pushed her hair back. “I don’t have anything to talk about yet. It’s only Thursday.”
“What time should I be there?”
He wasn’t backing down.
Fine. She’d talk to him.
But not here. This was her haven, and his frenzied presence always disrupted the calm vibe.
She stood and began to pace. “I’ll meet you in town—but not for breakfast. I didn’t sleep well last night, and it will take me a while to get in gear. Let’s have lunch at the Myrtle Café in town.”
“When?”
“Eleven thirty.”
“I’ll see you there.”
He ended the call without a good-bye.
Typical bad-mood Simon.
She set the phone on the nightstand and glanced at the bed.
That little inner voice had been right. There would be no more sleep for her this morning. Not after Simon’s brusque phone call—and the conversation with Zach last evening that had kept replaying in her mind through the long, dark hours while she’d tossed and turned.
Shoulders drooping, she scrubbed a hand down her face.
God, where can I find the answer to my dilemma?
As she sent that silent, angst-ridden question heavenward, a sunbeam infiltrated a crack in the blinds and cast a thin line of bright light on the hardwood floor. It traversed the room, climbed the opposite wall—and illuminated the simple cross that had been there when she arrived.
Odd timing—though not all that helpful.
After bending the Almighty’s ear about her predicament for weeks, she was no closer to knowing what she wanted to do with the rest of her life than she’d been the day she arrived.
While her priorities had clarified, she was still at a loss how to juggle them.
And meeting Zach had complicated the situation.
Big-time.
She studied the cross again.
Should she give prayer one more shot? Perhaps somewhere different? It was possible a new setting could offer her a fresh perspective.
All at once, the perfect place came to mind. A spot designed for the very kind of communion with God she was seeking.
The meditation garden at St. Francis church.
Reverend Baker had sung its praises last week as they’d chatted after the Sunday service, and she’d been meaning to stop in. With several hours to fill until her lunch with Simon, this was an ideal opportunity.
Picking up her pace, she showered, dressed, ate a piece of toast—and within forty-five minutes was pulling into St. Francis.
At this early hour, a few cars were parked near the main entrance to the church, but back by the garden, the lot was empty.
She swung into a spot close to a rose-covered arbor, where a sign proclaimed “All are welcome.” Leaving the car behind, she passed beneath the arch of fragrant pink flowers and strolled down the circular stone path. It wound through a garden as lovingly tended as Reverend Baker had promised, silent except for the soft tinkle of a water fountain in the center.
As she drank in the soothing ambiance and beautiful flowers interspersed with greenery, the tight knot of tension in her shoulders began to dissipate. Perhaps here, in the serene solitude of this tiny, tucked-away sanctuary, the elusive answers she’d been seeking—
She came to an abrupt halt as she rounded a rhododendron.
Well, shoot.
She wasn’t alone.
Reverend Baker was seated on a wooden bench up ahead—and she wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
Could she retrace her steps and—
As if sensing her presence, he turned toward her, smiled, and raised a hand in greeting.
So much for escaping.
Resigned to a brief, polite exchange, she continued down the path.
He rose as she approached. “Good morning, Kat. I must have done an excellent sell job on this place last Sunday when we chatted.”
“You did paint an appealing picture.”
“Was I exaggerating?”
“No. It’s beautiful.”
“I always come early for my Thursday golf game with Kevin—Father Murphy—to sit here and absorb the peace.” His eyes began to twinkle. “You’d understand why if you’d ever played golf with Hope Harbor’s padre. He has a right hook that brings him no end of grief, and his putting is a constant source of frustration—which he isn’t shy about expressing.”
“I thought golf was supposed to be fun.”
“It is. And it gives us both the opportunity to practice patience and humility. To tell you the truth, I could improve my game in a few areas too.” He winked. “What brings you here at such an early hour?”
“It seemed like an ideal place to sort through the jumbled thoughts I’m wrestling with. But I can come back later. I don’t want to disturb your peace—or contemplation.”