The Inn at Rose Harbor (2 page)

I signed the offer for the inn the next day and not for an instant did my resolve waver. The Frelingers, who owned the B&B, gratefully accepted my offer, and within a matter of weeks—just before the holidays—we gathered together at the title company and signed all the tedious, necessary paperwork. I handed them the cashier’s check, and accepted the keys to the inn. The Frelingers had taken no reservations for the last couple of weeks in December as they intended to spend time with their children.

Leaving the title company, I took a short detour to the courthouse and applied for a name change for the inn, christening it with its new name, The Rose Harbor Inn.

I returned to Seattle and the next day I gave Columbia Bank my notice. I spent the Christmas holiday packing up my Seattle condo and preparing for the move across Puget Sound. While I was only moving a few miles away, I might as well have been going halfway across the country. Cedar Cove was a whole other world—a quaint town on the Kitsap Peninsula away from the hectic world of the big city.

I knew my parents were disappointed that I didn’t spend much of the holidays with them in Hawaii, a family tradition. But I had so much to do to get ready for the move, including sorting through my things and Paul’s, packing, and selling my furniture. I needed to keep occupied—busywork helped keep my mind off this first Christmas without Paul.

I officially moved into the house on the Monday following New Year’s Day. Thankfully the Frelingers had sold the inn as a turnkey business. So all I needed to bring with me were a couple of chairs, a lamp that had belonged to my grandmother, and my personal items. Unpacking took only a few hours. I chose as my room the main floor bedroom suite the Frelingers had set aside as their own area; it had a fireplace and a small alcove that included a window seat overlooking the cove. The room was large enough for a bedroom
set, as well as a small sofa that sat close to the fireplace. I particularly enjoyed the wallpaper, which was covered in white and lavender hydrangeas.

By the time night descended on the inn, I was exhausted. At eight, as rain pelted against the windows and the wind whistled through the tall evergreens that covered one side of the property, I made my way into the master bedroom on the main floor. The wild weather made it feel even cozier with a fire flickering in the fireplace. I experienced none of the strangeness of settling into a new place. I’d felt welcomed by this home from the moment I’d set foot in the front door.

The sheets were crisp and clean as I climbed into bed. I don’t remember falling asleep, but what so readily comes to mind is that dream of Paul, so vivid and real.

In grief counseling, I’d learned that dreams are important to the healing process. The counselor described two distinct types of dreams. The first and probably the most common are dreams about our loved ones—memories that come alive again.

The second type are called visitation dreams, when the loved one actually crosses the chasm between life and death to visit those he or she has left behind. We were told these are generally dreams of reassurance: the one who has passed reassures the living that he or she is happy and at peace.

It’d been eight months since I’d received word that Paul had been killed in a helicopter crash in the Hindu Kush, the mountain range that stretches between the center of Afghanistan and northern Pakistan. The army helicopter had been brought down by al-Qaeda or one of their Taliban allies; Paul and five of his fellow Airborne Rangers had been killed instantly. Because of the location of the crash it was impossible to recover their bodies. The news of his death was difficult enough, but to be deprived of burying his remains was even more cruel.

For days after I got the news, hope crowded my heart that Paul might have actually survived. I was convinced that somehow my husband would find a way back to me. That was not to be. Aerial photographs of the crash site soon confirmed that no one could have possibly survived. In the end, all that really mattered was that the man I loved and married was gone. He would never return to me, and as the weeks and months progressed I came to accept the news.

It’d taken me a long time to fall in love. Most of my friends had married in their twenties, and by the time they were in their mid-thirties, the majority had already started their families. I was a godmother six times over.

On the other hand, I had remained single well into my thirties. I had a busy, happy life and was involved in both my career and family. I’d never felt the need to rush into marriage or listen to my mother, who insisted I find a good man and quit being so picky. I dated plenty but there was never anyone I felt I could love for the rest of my life until I met Paul Rose.

Seeing that it’d taken me thirty-seven years to meet my match, I didn’t expect love to come to me twice. Frankly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to fall in love again. Paul Rose was everything I’d ever hoped to find in a husband … and so much more.

We’d met at a Seahawks football game. The bank had given me tickets and I had brought along one of our more prominent clients and his wife. As we took our seats, I’d noticed two men with military haircuts sitting next to me. As the game progressed, Paul introduced himself and his army buddy and struck up a conversation. Paul told me he was stationed at Fort Lewis. Like me, he enjoyed football. My parents were keen Seahawks fans, and I’d grown up in Spokane watching the games on television after church on Sundays with them and my younger brother, Todd.

Paul asked me to have a beer with him as we left the game that
afternoon, and we saw each other nearly every day after. We learned we shared much more than a love of football: we shared the same political inclinations, read many of the same authors, and loved Italian food. We even had a Sudoku addiction in common. We could talk for hours and often did. Two months after we met, he shipped out to Germany, but being separated did little to slow our budding relationship. Not a day passed that we weren’t in contact in one way or another—we emailed, texted, Skyped, tweeted, and used every other available means we could to stay in touch. Yes, we even wrote actual letters with pen and paper. I’d heard about people claiming to have experienced “love at first sight” and I had scoffed. I can’t say it was like that for Paul and me, but it was darn close. I knew a week after we met that he was the man I would marry. Paul said he felt the same way about me, although he claimed all it took was one date.

I will admit this: love changed me. I was happier than I could ever remember being. And everyone noticed.

At Christmastime a year ago, Paul flew back to Seattle on leave and asked me to be his wife. He even talked to my parents first. We were crazy in love. I’d waited a long time and when I gave him my heart, it was for forever.

Right after our wedding in January, Paul got orders for Afghanistan. The helicopter went down on April 27, and my world imploded.

I’d never experienced this kind of grief and I fear I handled it poorly. My parents and brother worried for me. It was my mother who suggested grief counseling. Because I was desperate to find a means to ease my pain, I agreed. In the end I was glad I attended the sessions. Doing so helped me understand my dreams, especially the one I had that first night at the inn.

Contrary to what I’d been told about visitation dreams, Paul did nothing to reassure me he was at peace. Instead, he stood before me in full military gear. He was surrounded by a light that was
so bright it was hard to look at him. Even so, I found it impossible to turn away.

I wanted to run to him but was afraid that if I moved, he would disappear. I couldn’t bear to lose him again even if this was only an apparition.

At first he didn’t speak. I didn’t either, unsure of what I could or should say. I remember that emotion filled my eyes with tears and I covered my mouth for fear I would cry out.

He joined me then and took me in his arms, holding me close and running his hand down the back of my head, comforting me. I clung to him, unwilling to let him go. Over and over he whispered gentle words of love.

When the lump in my throat eased I looked up at him and our eyes met. It felt as though he was alive and we needed to catch up after a long absence. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I wanted him to explain. The fact that he’d had such a large life insurance policy had come as a shock. At first I’d felt guilty about accepting such a large amount of cash. Shouldn’t that money go to his family? But his mother was dead, and his father had remarried and lived in Australia. They had never been especially close. The lawyer told me Paul had been clear in his instructions.

In my dream I wanted to tell Paul that I’d used the money to buy this bed-and-breakfast and that I’d named it after him. One of the first improvements I wanted to make was to plant a rose garden with a bench and an arbor. But in the dream, I said none of that because it seemed like he already knew.

He brushed the hair from my forehead and kissed me there ever so gently.

“You’ve chosen well,” he whispered, his eyes warm with love. “In time you’ll know joy again.”

Joy? I wanted to argue with him. It didn’t seem likely or even possible. One doesn’t heal from this kind of pain. I remembered
how my family and friends had struggled to find the right words to comfort me. But there are no words … there simply are no words.

And yet I didn’t argue with him. I wanted the dream to last and I feared that if I questioned him he would leave, and I wanted him to stay with me. A peaceful feeling had come to me, and my heart, which had carried this heavy burden, felt just a little lighter.

“I don’t know that I can live without you,” I told him, and it was true.

“You can and you will. In fact, you’ll have a long, full life,” Paul insisted. He sounded like the officer he’d been, giving out orders that were not to be questioned.

“You will feel joy again,” he repeated, “and much of it will come from owning Rose Harbor Inn.”

I frowned. I knew I was dreaming, but the dream was so vivid I wanted to believe it was real.

“But …” My mind filled with questions.

“This inn is my gift to you,” Paul continued. “Don’t doubt, my love. God will show you.” In the next instant he was gone.

I cried out, begging him to come back, and my own sharp cry woke me. My tears were real, and I could feel moisture on my cheeks and pillowcase.

For a long time afterward I sat upright in the dark wanting to hold on to the feeling of my husband’s presence. Eventually it faded and almost against my will I fell back asleep.

The next morning, I climbed out of bed and traipsed barefoot down the polished hardwood floor of the hallway to the small office off the kitchen. Turning on the desk lamp, I flipped through the pages of the reservation book the Frelingers had given me. I reviewed the names of the two guests due to arrive that week.

Joshua Weaver had made his reservation just the week before I took ownership. The former owners had mentioned it at the time we signed the final papers.

The second name on the list belonged to Abby Kincaid.

Two guests.

Paul had said this inn was his gift to me. I would do my best to make both guests comfortable; perhaps, in giving of myself, I would find the joy Paul had promised. And maybe, given time, it would be possible for me to find my way back to life.

Josh Weaver never thought he’d return to Cedar Cove. In the twelve years since his high school graduation he’d been back only once, and that was to attend the funeral of his stepbrother, Dylan. Even then he hadn’t spent the night in town. He’d caught a morning flight, rented a car, showed up at the funeral, and left directly afterward, arriving back in California at the job site the same day. He’d barely spoken to his stepfather.

For that matter, Richard hadn’t bothered to acknowledge him. It was exactly what Josh had expected. Although Dylan and Josh had been close, his stepfather hadn’t seen fit to ask Josh to be one of his son’s pallbearers. The slight had cut deep. He’d come anyway to pay his respects to his stepbrother.

Now Josh was back again and not out of any desire to spend
time in Cedar Cove. This town meant nothing to him other than the fact that it contained his mother’s grave site and Dylan’s.

Born just a year apart, Josh and Dylan had been tight. Dylan had always been a daredevil. Josh had marveled at Dylan’s complete lack of fear ever since they met. Still, it had come as a brutal shock when word reached him that Dylan had been killed in a motorcycle accident. That was five years ago now. Seven years after Richard Lambert had kicked him out of the house and forced Josh to find his own way in the world.

Now it seemed it was the old man’s turn to meet his Maker. The sole reason Josh was back in town was because the Nelsons, who lived next door to Richard, had contacted him. Michelle Nelson and Dylan had been in the same grade in school, with Josh a year ahead of them. Following graduation, gentle-natured Michelle had gone on to become a social worker. Josh remembered that she’d had a big crush on Dylan, but she was overweight and Dylan hadn’t returned the sentiment. In his mind, Josh linked her thoughtfulness in looking after Richard to her affection for Dylan.

“Richard is in a bad way,” Michelle had told him during their brief telephone conversation. “If you want to see him alive you’d better come—and make it soon.”

Josh had no desire to see the old man. None. They shared nothing other than a mutual dislike. Josh agreed to make the trip for two reasons. First, he was between job assignments as a construction manager. He had just finished one project and was waiting to hear about the next. Second, while he didn’t consider it important, or really hope it was possible, it’d be nice to make peace with the old man. Then, too, there were certain things he hoped to collect from his stepfather’s house. While he was in Cedar Cove, he wanted to retrieve a few personal possessions that his mother had brought into the marriage. Nothing less than what should rightfully be his and certainly nothing more.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can get away,” Josh had replied.