The Inn At Rose Harbor Part 2

"Same old Richard." Josh knew his stepfather must have put up quite a fight to remain in his own home. He couldn't fault Richard for that-he would have done the same.

"Same old Richard," Mich.e.l.le echoed.

"What about hospice?"

Mich.e.l.le lifted one slender shoulder. "He's refused to discuss it. He told me he doesn't want a bunch of people drooling sympathy, hanging around waiting for him to die."

Josh shook his head. He'd expected that Richard would be difficult even though he was close to death. Why change now?

He took one last sip of his coffee and set the mug on the counter. "No need to keep putting this off, let's go on over." He couldn't help thinking that the shock of seeing him might be enough to cause Richard to keel over. He felt slightly guilty for being so negative and was surprised by his own att.i.tude, especially since it felt a bit like wishful thinking on his part.

Over the years Josh had worked hard not to resent his stepfather. Yet he hadn't been in town for more than a few hours and he found himself reverting back to the same negative feelings he'd harbored when he'd left as a teenager. It was as if no time had pa.s.sed whatsoever, and he was eighteen all over again-proud, immature, and angry.

"I'll grab my coat and be right back," Mich.e.l.le said, setting her mug down as she left the room.

Josh stuffed his fingertips into his jean pockets. "I appreciate you going over with me."

"No problem." Mich.e.l.le's words echoed from the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

When she returned, she was wearing a bright red jacket and a white knit scarf was draped around her neck. Outside, Josh was again struck by the cold winter wind cutting through him. Thankfully, the two houses were close together. The Nelsons had lived next door to his family ever since his mother had married Richard.

"Anything special I should know before I see him?" Josh asked, wis.h.i.+ng he'd thought to ask sooner.

Mich.e.l.le's steps matched his as they walked side by side in the drizzling rain. "He looks much older than his actual age. I first noticed the difference about six months after Dylan died. I don't think he's ever been the same since burying his son."

To his surprise Josh experienced a twinge of sympathy. Richard had lost two wives and his only son. His last remaining relative was a stepson he'd never liked. Everyone who had ever been important to him was gone. And after Dylan's death, Richard had no legacy to pa.s.s on to the next generation.

They climbed the steps onto the house's small porch. The carefully tended flower beds that his mother had pampered had been completely crowded out by the encroaching lawn. Josh had done his best to keep the beds weeded while his mother had battled breast cancer, and after she'd died, too. He'd been the only one to care. He looked away, refusing to allow something like a neglected flower bed to undo him.

"Mr. Lambert keeps the door locked most of the time." Mich.e.l.le reached into the mailbox and extracted a house key. She unlocked the door and then replaced the key. It landed with a ping when it hit the bottom of the metal box.

"Yoo-hoo," Mich.e.l.le called as she opened the front door. "Anyone home?"

"Who is it?" Richard asked in a voice that Josh found only vaguely familiar. His stepfather sounded as if he were in the family room off the kitchen.

"It's Mich.e.l.le."

"I'm fine. I don't need anything."

"Good," she called back, leading the way. "Because I didn't bring you anything." She laughed and it was clear she was good at letting Richard's grouchiness run off her back.

They entered the room and Josh's gaze immediately went to the old man sitting up in the recliner. It was the same one Richard had favored when Josh had lived with him.

The old man looked small and frail in the chair, and he had a blanket over his lap. He'd never been a robust man. By the time Josh was sixteen he had stood six feet, two inches taller than his stepfather, and he had grown another inch the following year.

What he lacked in height, Richard made up for in bravado. He'd never gotten overly physical with Josh, but the verbal abuse had been nonstop. It had gotten much worse after his mother's death.

Richard looked up and when he saw Josh, shock registered in his eyes. For just an instant his gaze seemed to soften, but any indication that he was pleased to see his stepson swiftly vanished.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded.

Josh stiffened, surprised that a dying man still had the power to intimidate him. "I came to see how you're doing and to get a few of my things."

"What things? You will take nothing, do you understand? Nothing."

Josh bristled and bit back an angry response, amazed at how quickly Richard could rile him up.

Mich.e.l.le placed a restraining hand on Josh's arm. "Can I get you anything, Mr. Lambert?"

"No," Richard barked. He tossed aside the blanket and attempted to get out of the chair.

Before he could do anything to injure himself, Mich.e.l.le rushed forward. "Mr. Lambert, please."

Richard eased back into a sitting position. He'd gone pale and he looked as if he were about to pa.s.s out. The sound of his deep, staggering breaths filled the room.

Josh felt terrible. He hadn't meant to bait him. He hadn't realized how fragile his stepfather was.

"I won't take anything without your approval," Josh a.s.sured him.

"You're nothing but a vulture," Richard said once he'd regained enough breath to speak. Even then it wobbled and was wispy. He pressed his hand over his chest. "You've come to circle overhead, just waiting for me to die so you can steal from me the same way you did when you were a teenager."

"I don't want anything from you," Josh insisted. Five minutes with his stepfather and his blood was boiling.

"If you're looking for a handout, then-"

"I want nothing from you," Josh insisted, cutting him off.

"You'll get nothing."

"Do you honestly think I would want anything of yours?" Josh asked. "Do I look that desperate?"

"You were desperate enough to steal two hundred dollars from me. You don't get much lower than that."

Josh knotted his fists. If he didn't leave now, he would do or say something he'd regret. Turning on his heel, Josh slammed out of the house and paced on the sidewalk as he struggled to deal with his outrage.

Mich.e.l.le followed a few minutes later. By then Josh had regained his composure.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Josh ignored the question. "How is he?"

"Weak, but okay."

Josh exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. "I don't think that could have gone much worse."

"Mr. Lambert isn't himself."

Josh snorted. "You're wrong. He hated me as a teenager and his feelings haven't changed." It must tighten the old man's jaw to realize that Josh was his only living relative.

"What's this about two hundred dollars?" Mich.e.l.le asked.

"I didn't take the money," he answered vehemently.

"The missing money was the reason he kicked you out of the house, isn't it?"

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and nodded.

"Who took it?" Not waiting for a response, she answered herself. "Dylan?"

"He must have. I can only a.s.sume he intended to return it, but Richard discovered it was missing before he got the chance."

"And Mr. Lambert naturally a.s.sumed it was you."

It wasn't a question but a statement of fact. Josh doubted that he'd ever forget that scene. Dylan had been in the kitchen when his father had stormed into the family room where Josh was studying. Shouting and cursing, Richard had grabbed Josh by the collar. Dylan had stood frozen with terror, shocked speechless while Richard literally kicked Josh out of the house.

Although Josh and his stepfather had never gotten along, Richard had never manhandled him before.

Later, Dylan had come to him. Josh knew that Dylan had taken the money, and Dylan knew that Josh knew. But he told his stepbrother that it was time for him to leave anyway, and that they should let things lie. Even if Dylan had confessed, it wouldn't have mattered. The missing money was just the excuse his stepfather had been waiting for.

What Richard didn't know was that Josh had already enlisted at the army recruiter's office. He was due to leave for basic training within a week of his high school graduation. He'd never planned on returning anyway, so clearing up the issue hadn't seemed important.

Mich.e.l.le placed her hand on his sleeve. "Are you okay?"

Josh wasn't sure how to respond. Was he? "I'm surprised, is all. Surprised that Richard still has the power to rile me and shocked that he still has this much control over my emotions."

"What can I do to help?" she asked.

Even if he knew, Josh doubted he could answer. Even more shocking than the anger that had consumed him was the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him.

In his own way, Josh had made peace with his past. He didn't ever expect to be bosom buddies with his stepfather. Yet deep down, a part of him had hoped-had antic.i.p.ated-that perhaps there was a chance they could finally come to terms. He didn't hate Richard; he never really had. The old man was at the end of his life and even now, even with only weeks to live, it seemed unlikely that he would be open to settling their differences.

"Josh?" Mich.e.l.le asked again.

"Nothing, thanks. I'm grateful you were there."

"I think it might be best if I was with you next time you see Richard, too," she offered.

Josh concurred with a nod. "That's probably a good idea."

"Have you been to the Pancake Palace yet?" she asked, after a pause.

The question seemed to come from out of the blue. "I beg your pardon?" The Pancake Palace, which served a wide variety of food, but specialized in breakfast, had been the gathering place for teens following high school football games, but he hadn't thought about it in years.

"Have you had lunch?" she asked pointedly. "I'm always grumpy and easily upset on an empty tummy."

"Lunch?" he repeated, still caught in the throes of the confrontation with Richard. "I guess I haven't."

"Me either, and I'm famished. Join me?"

She seemed to a.s.sume his answer was yes because she wrapped her hand around his elbow and led him toward his truck. "It's after three already and I haven't eaten since early this morning," she said.

Josh doubted that he could down a single bite, but he needed to get away from Richard and the thought of returning to the bed-and-breakfast and sitting in his room held little appeal.

"Pancake Palace, it is," he said, opening the pa.s.senger door for Mich.e.l.le and helping her inside.

He walked around the car and joined her. When he went to insert the key in the ignition, her hand stopped him. "That must have been difficult. I'm so sorry, Josh, so sorry."

He appreciated the gentle touch of her hand on his and the tenderness of her gaze. He found himself mesmerized by the changes in her. Not just the physical-although they were dramatic-but what struck him was her wisdom and maturity, neither of which came without dealing with some deep emotional pain.

Josh had his own issues, his own scars. Richard seemed determined to leave matters as they were between them and to die alone. If that was what his stepfather wanted, then far be it from Josh to stand in his way.

Chapter 4.

I got everything situated with the bank so that I could accept credit card payment from my guests. I'd meant to take care of that earlier, but had put it off because so many other things required my attention.

I was back at the inn within a couple of hours after one quick stop at the grocery store. I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing the breakfast I intended to serve the next morning.

My one guest, Joshua Weaver, didn't return that afternoon, but he'd left his things in the guest suite, so I a.s.sumed he would show up in due course. Because I was new to all this I wasn't quite sure how much or how little I would be expected to entertain.

According to the reservation book the Frelingers had left me, a second guest was scheduled to arrive at some point this afternoon or evening. Abby Kincaid. I readied a second room, fluffed up the pillows, and made sure everything was prepared. If I were to stay at a B&B, this was exactly the type of room I would choose for myself. I found the lavender walls inviting and comforting. The room had a queen-size canopy bed with lots of embroidered pillows, and at the foot of the bed was what my grandmother would have called a hope chest. I'd already checked inside and found extra blankets. The window seat was similar to the one in my own room, overlooking the cove with an excellent view of the marina where the watercraft gently bobbed in the slate-green waters.

Satisfied, I walked down the stairs just in time to see a vehicle pull into the parking area reserved for guests. Several minutes pa.s.sed but no one came to the front door. Glancing out the window, I saw that my visitor was still seated in her car. My guess was that she was uncertain she had the right address. I was half-tempted to venture outside and rea.s.sure her she was at the right house.

If it hadn't been raining, I might have done just that. However, I wasn't eager to get wet and the afternoon was quickly growing dark. I turned on the gas fireplace and returned to the kitchen and slipped on my ap.r.o.n. I'd decided to bake a chicken potpie for dinner. While at the grocery store I'd picked up a roasting chicken, which I deboned, setting the meat aside.

After making a white sauce, I added poultry seasoning, chicken broth, plus several fresh veggies before stirring in the meat and leaving it on the stovetop to simmer. I was just getting ready to measure out the flour for the pie crust when the doorbell rang.

After quickly rinsing my hands, I hurried for the front entrance.

A woman who looked to be in her early thirties stood on the other side of the threshold, a suitcase by her side. Her dark hair was sopping wet, as if she'd been standing in the rain, which I couldn't understand because it was a short walk from the parking area to the porch.

"h.e.l.lo," I greeted warmly. "You must be Abby Kincaid."

She nodded and offered me a weak smile.

"Come in, come in," I urged, ushering her in from the porch and out of the rain.

Abby walked into the foyer and glanced around, her gaze darting from one area to another. "I was here once, years ago," she explained. "That was before the Frelingers bought the house and turned it into a B and B."

"Oh, you must tell me what it was like," I said, eager to learn what I could about the history of the house. I knew that it'd once belonged to a prominent Cedar Cove family headed by a banker, which was somewhat ironic since I had given up my position at a bank to take over the house. The house had fallen into disrepair and the Frelingers had purchased it, refurbis.h.i.+ng it from the bas.e.m.e.nt to the attic and then turning it into a B&B. That, however, was the extent of my knowledge.