Starfish pier, p.1
Starfish Pier, page 1
Praise for the Driftwood Bay
“Ranging in tone from harrowing to heartwarming, Driftwood Bay is character-driven, thought-provoking, and highly recommended for connoisseurs of the genre.”
Midwest Book Review
“Readers will delight in this pleasant romance. Hannon’s take on loss and survival is simpatico with Debbie Macomber’s Blossom Street series.”
Booklist
“Full of faith and characters that readers will want to root for until the end.”
Publishers Weekly
“Driftwood Bay is beautifully layered. It’s the kind of story that becomes better and better with each turning page.”
Interviews and Reviews
“Rambunctious beagle alert!!!!! Perfect for comic relief, exasperating interruptions, and copious warm fuzzies! But there’s so much more to this divinely magical story (the whole series, really) that elevates it to the absolute top of my everyone-in-the-world-should-read this-book-NOW list.”
Best Reads (2010–2019)
Books by Irene Hannon
HEROES OF QUANTICO
Against All Odds
An Eye for an Eye
In Harm’s Way
GUARDIANS OF JUSTICE
Fatal Judgment
Deadly Pursuit
Lethal Legacy
PRIVATE JUSTICE
Vanished
Trapped
Deceived
MEN OF VALOR
Buried Secrets
Thin Ice
Tangled Webs
CODE OF HONOR
Dangerous Illusions
Hidden Peril
Dark Ambitions
That Certain Summer
One Perfect Spring
Hope Harbor
Sea Rose Lane
Sandpiper Cove
Pelican Point
Driftwood Bay
Starfish Pier
© 2020 by Irene Hannon
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
PO Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2020
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-2117-6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
To my niece, Catherine Hannon,
as you graduate from high school.
I am so proud of the young woman you’ve become.
Wherever the road ahead may take you,
hold fast to your dreams and values—
and may all your tomorrows
be filled with joy and love.
Contents
Cover
Praise for the Driftwood Bay
Books by Irene Hannon
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Sneak Peek of a New Series
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Maybe coming back to Oregon had been a mistake.
Expelling a breath, Steven Roark moved to the stern of the twenty-two-foot fishing boat where he spent his days and double-checked the cleat hitch knot on the mooring line.
Secure.
Which was more than he could say for his place in the world—or in Hope Harbor.
He ducked into the foldaway canvas enclosure that offered a modicum of protection to charter clients on blustery, cold days—like this late March Saturday—and dropped into a deck chair, massaging his forehead.
From a business standpoint, the day had been productive. For this early in the spring, steelheads had been running better than usual on the river at the north end of town, and his customers had left satisfied with their catches. One of them had even hooked a twenty-pounder.
On the personal front, however, the day was a total bust.
Steven leaned forward, flipped the latch on a storage compartment, and retrieved the envelope he’d found in his mailbox yesterday, the address penned in Cindy’s fluid, curvy handwriting.
He pulled out the card, reread the printed verse, and skimmed the best wishes jotted inside by his sister-in-law under a crudely drawn smile icon that had to be his nephew’s handiwork.
His brother hadn’t bothered to sign his own name. Cindy had done the honors for both of them.
Stomach kinking, Steven shoved the card back in the envelope and hunched forward, elbows on knees.
Some birthday.
No one but fish, a couple of pesky seagulls, and three taciturn customers for company. No cake or festive dinner shared with friends or family. No recognition of the day by his kid brother—nor any progress in their relationship.
And if he hadn’t made any inroads with Patrick after almost a year, there wasn’t much chance his sibling would come around in the future unless the status quo changed.
Steven sighed.
While mustering out of the army had seemed like the right decision twelve months ago after Cindy’s disturbing letter arrived in the Middle East, in hindsight—
“Hello? Is anyone on board?”
Steven jerked upright and squinted through the isinglass window.
A slender, thirtysomething woman stood on the dock beside his boat, a folder clutched against her chest. As the gusty wind whipped strands of her longish, light brown hair across her face, she brushed them aside and peered into the deck enclosure.
Given the shadowed interior on this gray day—plus the fog that had rolled in—she might not be able to make out his form.
That left him two options.
He could sink lower and ignore her . . . or give himself a birthday treat and chat with an attractive woman for a few minutes.
No contest, in light of the solitary evening that loomed ahead—providing she wasn’t here on some sort of bothersome business.
He set the card down, pushed aside the canvas that covered the opening, and emerged into the stern.
The woman hugged the folder tighter and gave him a wary once-over.
Understandable, given his disheveled state after a full day on the water and the coarse stubble that would be darkening his jaw by now.
“Can I help you?” Taking into account her poised-to-flee posture, he remained where he was.
“Steven Roark?”
“Guilty.”
“My name is Holly Miller. May I speak with you for a few minutes?”
“Depends.”
Faint creases dented her brow. “On what?”
“On the reason for your visit. I’m not in the mood for a sales pitch.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
“Then we can talk.” For as long as she liked, since he had nothing more exciting to do.
How pathetic that the bright spot of his birthday was a visit from a nervous woman who looked as if she couldn’t wait to escape.
But it beat going home to an empty apartment.
“Um . . .” She surveyed the marina. “Could we sit somewhere? Like . . . back there?” She motioned toward crescent-shaped Dockside Drive, where benches and planters were placed along the sidewalk at the top of the sloping pile of boulders that led to the water.
“I have a few chores to finish here before I leave. Why don’t you come on board?”
She gave the craft a dubious sweep. “My sea legs aren’t the best.”
“There isn’t much motion in the marina.” Extending a hand, he moved toward her, toning down his usual take-charge manner. Based on her rigid stance, that sort of approach could frighten her off. “She’s easy to board, and we can sit there.” He indicated the unprotected bench seats along the edge of the stern.
It would be warmer—and far less windy—inside the portable enclosure he’d erected for today’s charter trip, but despite the windows it was safer to stay in the open. With all the misconduct allegations flying around these days, why take chances?
“Okay.” She swallowed . . . grasped his hand . . . and eased one foot onto the gunwale.
The craft gave an almost imperceptible bob as she transferred her weight, and she gasped. Tightened her grip.
“You’re fine. I’ve got you. Just step down.”
She followed his instructions, but the maneuver was downright clumsy, and the instant both her feet were on the deck she groped for the seat and collapsed onto it in an awkward sprawl.
Pretty as his visitor was, she seemed to have been shortchanged in the gracefulness department.
And the pink hue that crept over her cheeks suggested she knew that.
He took a seat at the far end of the stern, leaving plenty of space between them. “You have the floor . . . or the deck.” He hiked up one side of his mouth. Holly Miller appeared to be wound up tight as the ubiquitous black turban snails that clung to the rocks on Oregon beaches. Perhaps a touch of humor would help her chill.
Didn’t work.
Her lips remained flat—and taut—as she set the folder in her lap, picked a speck of lint off her jeans, and zipped up her windbreaker as far as it would go. “Are you familiar with the Helping Hands volunteer organization here in town?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m on a committee that’s putting together a dinner auction to raise funds for a new pro-life initiative. Everyone involved is soliciting auction items. Reverend Baker at Grace Christian mentioned you as a potential donor. That’s why I’m here.”
Steven stifled a groan.
This was the thanks he got for letting Cindy not only pressure him into helping with the holiday food drive at a church to which he didn’t even belong, but allowing her to drag him across the room for an introduction to the minister.
Proving the truth of the old adage that no good deed went unpunished.
Worse yet, of all the causes his visitor could be soliciting for, why did it have to be this one?
When the silence lengthened, she cleared her throat. “I was, uh, hoping you’d consider donating a charter fishing trip for two—or four, if possible. Everyone we’ve contacted has been very generous. I spoke this morning with the owner of the Seabird Inn B&B, and he offered a weekend romance package for one of his rooms.”
If she was hoping to guilt him into donating, it wasn’t going to work.
“What will the money you raise be used for?” He could guess, but the stall tactic would buy him a few seconds to figure out how to decline without coming across as a heartless jerk.
She opened the folder on her lap, withdrew a sheet of paper, and held it out to him. “This explains the effort in detail, but topline, we’ll establish a fund to support efforts that protect life in all its stages. One example would be providing financial assistance to abortion alternatives, like paying expenses for women who agree to carry their babies to term and linking them with adoption agencies. We may also get involved in issues like capital punishment.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What’s your beef with capital punishment?”
She met his gaze square on. “Killing is killing.”
“Putting a guilty person to death is called justice. And it keeps that person from taking other innocent lives.”
“A lifetime prison sentence does too.”
“At a huge expense to taxpayers.”
“How do you put a price on a life?”
“There are practical considerations.”
“Also ethical ones.”
Squelching the temptation to continue the debate, he skimmed the sheet she’d handed him. This wasn’t a subject on which they were going to agree, so why argue on his birthday . . . or extend an encounter that was going south? This day had been depressing enough.
“Let me think about it.” He folded the sheet into a small square, tucked it in the pocket of his jacket, and stood.
She gave a slow blink at his abrupt dismissal—but after a slight hesitation she rose too.
And almost lost her balance.
Again.
He took her arm in a firm grip. “Steady.”
“Sorry. I’m a landlubber through and through.” She flashed him a shaky smile.
That could be true—but it didn’t explain her equilibrium issues.
The same kind Patrick had on occasion.
Yet this woman, with her clear hazel eyes, didn’t strike him as the type who would struggle with his brother’s problem.
Appearances could be deceiving, though. That’s why you had to fact find, then make decisions using the evidence you uncovered . . . always keeping the greater good in mind.
At least that’s how he’d justified some of his choices in the past.
As Holly tugged free of his hold and turned to disembark, he shifted gears. “Let me go first.”
Without waiting for a reply, he hopped onto the dock and held out a hand.
After a nanosecond’s hesitation, she took it and climbed up onto the seat. Swayed. Stabilized after he tightened his grip.
“One more step.” Steven gave a little pull, and she heaved herself up.
He maintained a firm grip until she was on the dock beside him and wiggled her fingers free.
Although the lady still didn’t appear to be all that sure-footed, he relinquished his hold—but stayed close.
She tucked the folder tight against her chest again. “I appreciate your time today. If you decide to donate, you can contact Helping Hands at the number on the sheet I gave you.”
“Could I call you instead?”
The instant the words spilled out, he frowned. Where in blazes had that come from? Why would he want to have any further contact with a woman who’d run the other direction if she knew his history?
Her raised eyebrows indicated she was as surprised by the query as he was. “I, uh, suppose I could give you my phone number and email.”
No backtracking now.
He pulled out his cell. “Ready whenever you are.”
As she recited them, he tapped in the phone digits and the professional rather than personal email address. “You work for the school district?”
“Yes.”
She offered nothing more.
Fair enough. He was a stranger, and she was smart to be cautious.
But he was no threat to her.
Nor was there much chance she’d ever hear from him again. Willing as he was to support charitable causes, this particular endeavor didn’t fit with his history.
He motioned toward Dockside Drive. “I’ll walk you to solid ground.”
“No.” She edged away, leaving a faint, pleasing floral scent in her wake. “I’ve delayed you from your chores too long already.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Thank you, but I can manage on my own.” Her chin rose a notch. “I may not have perfect balance, but I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing on your boat.”
With that, she pivoted and wobbled down the dock toward Dockside Drive.
Steven folded his arms, reining in the urge to follow along behind her in case she started to tumble. The lady had made it clear she didn’t want an arm to hold.
All she wanted was a donation.
Too bad he couldn’t accommodate her.
But after everything he’d done, God might smite him with a bolt of lightning if he tried to contribute to a pro-life cause.
Don’t fall! Don’t fall! Don’t fall!
Holly concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other as she traversed the wooden planks.
While walking on firm surfaces posed few problems, a slightly undulating platform could be dicey.
Despite all the falls she’d taken in her life, for some reason doing a face-plant with Steven Roark watching would be the ultimate humiliation.
And the man was definitely watching her. That intent gaze of his was drilling a hole in her back.
Just a few more feet, Holly, and you’ll be on terra firma. You can make it.
She focused on her destination, exhaling in relief as the soles of her shoes made contact with the concrete sidewalk.
From here, getting to her car was a stroll in the park.
She picked up her pace, furrowing her brow at a sudden urge to glance over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the charter fisherman.
What was that all about? Why would she want to see Steven Roark again?
It wasn’t as if he’d gone out of his way to be charming, after all. Yeah, he had decent manners—but he’d gotten downright argumentative during their brief exchange about capital punishment.
That was a hot-button issue for many people, though—and both sides had compelling arguments.
Given his abrupt end to their conversation, however, he wasn’t open to continuing the debate. He couldn’t have hustled her off his boat any faster.
No wonder she was flustered—and unsettled.
On top of all that, Steven Roark was nothing like she’d expected. There wasn’t a lick of similarity between the taciturn man and his amicable six-year-old nephew. Nor did he resemble—in appearance or manner—the boy’s sandy-haired, low-key father who’d come to the recent first-grade parent-teacher conference with his wife.
