Love Letters: A Rose Harbor Novel (30 page)

She climbed the stairs one at a time; putting one foot in front of another was all she could manage. By the time she reached the top of the first flight, she was breathless. Grief weighed her down, but pride carried her toward their room.

Jo Marie stood at the bottom of the stairs, watching her, concern written on her face.

Maggie went into the room and closed the door. Her suitcase was in the closet. She took it out and packed her things, which took only a few minutes. What she needed, she decided, was to escape, to get away. But not like she had before.

It felt as if the walls were closing in around her, as if the room was growing smaller with every breath she inhaled, until she could bear it no longer.

Not knowing what to do or where she would go, Maggie stood, her legs wobbly. It came to her that she would need her purse. Funny the things that came into her mind. She opened it and removed the room key and placed it on the mattress. The key would no longer be necessary. Nor was her wedding band, which she removed and placed on the nightstand on top of the novel her husband had been reading.

Then there was the letter, the love letter Roy had written her while in college, the one that claimed he would always love her. No need for her to keep that any longer, either.

Removing the letter from the envelope, Maggie set it on the pillow and then went into the small bathroom and washed her face.

When she came out of the room, Jo Marie remained at the foot of the stairs.

“Maggie,” she said, her voice heavy with concern. “Is there anything I can do?”

She shook her head. “I’m pregnant,” she whispered.

Jo Marie hugged her. “I’m thinking this isn’t a happy discovery.”

“Not for my husband.”

Jo Marie held her look. “He drove off.”

“I thought he might … he’ll be back,” she assured the innkeeper.

Jo Marie followed her to the door. “Where are you going?” she asked. “What should I tell Roy?”

“Don’t tell him anything … I won’t be back.” Once again she managed a smile. “Thank you for everything … the inn is lovely, and so are you.” And that was all she had to say.

I felt sick at heart. Something was drastically wrong between Maggie and Roy for her to leave the way she had, dragging her suitcase, her shoulders slumped as if every step was a burden too heavy for one soul to carry. When I hurried after her to ask if she needed a ride, she shook her head. I persisted and asked if she knew where she was headed. She didn’t have an answer for me; she said she wasn’t sure where she would go. I tried to talk some sense into her, but it did no good. I followed her halfway up the driveway and realized I wasn’t going to be able to change her mind.

The worst part of it was that by the time she left, Roy had, too. He hadn’t returned, and the only phone number I had was Maggie’s cell, so I had no way of reaching him to explain what had happened to his wife.

Maggie was pregnant. Apparently, this was unwelcome news to
have caused such a drastic reaction. I wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure I could or if I should even try. This was the area of being an innkeeper that was most unfamiliar to me. I didn’t want to intrude or overstep my bounds, but at the same time I wanted to be helpful.

If what was happening to Maggie and Roy wasn’t enough of a concern, there was Ellie and her mother. Virginia had rented a room, and shortly thereafter Ellie and her mother had sat outside, talking intently. Their body language told me they wanted nothing more than to be left alone. I didn’t know who or what they were discussing but guessed this had something to do with Tom. My presence wasn’t appreciated, and so Rover and I left them to their own devices.

My first thought was to retreat to the covered area on the side yard, where I often sat in the cool of the evenings. The three-sided structure was part of an outbuilding from a homestead that dated back long before the inn was built. The Frelingers, the previous owners, had made it into a cozy retreat. Many a night I’d sat out there and started a fire in the fireplace. This spot held a special significance to me, as it was in that very place where I first felt Paul’s presence with me. It was cooler there, shaded from the sun by the shake roof, and would have been ideal if not for one thing.

Mark was back. He was in the yard where I wanted the gazebo built and was busy doing something there. I was fairly certain he didn’t see me, which was just as well. If I ventured out it was sure to invite conversation, and frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for company; to be exact, I wasn’t eager for Mark’s company. Our talk from earlier that afternoon weighed on my mind. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, he was right. I had been in a cleaning frenzy lately, rearranging cupboards, organizing my spices, sorting through my bedroom drawers. He was right about something else, too. This restlessness had to be connected to the desolation of accepting my husband’s death. I realized that I’d grown uncomfortable dealing with my grief and so I’d ignored it by pretending all was well. I’d gotten so good at it that it’d become second nature now. The cleaning
had become a distraction, as had my curiosity regarding Mark’s mysterious background. I’d been determined to dig up whatever I could find on him because if I concentrated on him then I wouldn’t have to think about what was really on my mind. And that was the death of my husband.

Mark stayed only a few minutes. He seemed to find what he wanted and left. He didn’t give any indication that he had seen me, though I suspected that at some point he must have. Apparently, he realized I needed time to myself as well.

After a few minutes I retreated to my own room. Rover followed me inside my private quarters and settled down on the rug in front of the fireplace, which was one of his favorite spots. Early on, I’d decided to knit afghans for each one of the guest rooms, but it was much too hot to knit. I had other projects on needles, but knitting didn’t appeal to me at the moment. I felt at loose ends, ill at ease in my own home. The restlessness was back, and I found myself pacing the confines of my bedroom, rubbing my palms together, anxious and rattled.

Being agitated by Mark and then deeply concerned about my guests didn’t help matters. Desperate to find a way to distract myself, I reached for the novel I’d started earlier in the week and put my feet up, forcing my body to relax. It didn’t work. I did my best to get involved in the story, but after a few pages I gave up. My mind wandered like a nomad, traveling from one area of interest to another. I should unload the dishwasher, and then I remembered that I’d done that earlier. Wasn’t there wash that needed to be loaded into the machine? That, too, had been accomplished. I supposed I could bake something. I found comfort in baking, but why would I take on that task in the hottest part of the afternoon? My mind might as well have been playing hopscotch.

I must have slammed the book shut because Rover leaped to his feet, looking dazed and startled.

“Sorry, boy,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” It would be all too easy to blame Mark, and I considered it. Deep
down, I recognized it was more than Mark or even my guests’ troubles. What Mark claimed was eating at me like ants on honey.

Rover walked over to my side of the bed and remained there. He focused his gaze on me as if he was trying to tell me something important.

“What is it, Rover?” I asked, slightly impatient. He’d been outside earlier, so I knew that wasn’t it.

Obviously I didn’t expect him to answer, but the two of us had developed strong communication skills. As crazy as it seemed, I could usually figure out what he wanted to tell me.

After a couple minutes Rover turned his focus to my nightstand. That was odd; it wasn’t like I kept doggie treats in my bedroom. I couldn’t imagine what Rover would want from there.

I walked over to his side and sat on the edge of the bed; the mattress sank with my weight. Running my hand down his sleek back, I exhaled a deep breath and opened the drawer … and froze.

Inside was Paul’s last letter to me. The one he’d written in case of his death. A love letter that had come to me from the grave. I’d refused to read it when it first arrived because I hadn’t gotten final verification that my husband was dead. For more than a year I held on to the hope, the belief that when his helicopter went down in Afghanistan that somehow Paul had found a way to survive. It took a year for the remains to be located, and then, as fate would have it, not all the bodies were recovered. For a while I clung to the possibility, an irrational hope, that allowed me to believe my husband was alive.

That died a swift death when Paul’s remains were found and positively identified. Then and only then did I force myself to read the letter. Blind with grief, I can barely remember what he wrote. It was what I had expected him to say, I remembered that. Be happy for what we had, get on with your life, et cetera.

I read the letter only the one time and then immediately placed it in the drawer on my nightstand. For months I’d chosen to ignore it, to pretend it wasn’t there simply because reading his last words to me would bring me more pain than comfort.

I glanced at Rover and saw that he’d lain back down again. Paul’s letter was in my hand, and I looked down on the plain white envelope. My stomach muscles convulsed as I removed the handwritten sheets. I noticed that my hand shook, too. Emotion gripped my throat, and for a moment it was all I could do to continue breathing.

My dearest Jo Marie
, I read.

Paul had never called me his dearest before, and I paused to take in the significance of this, if there was any.

Soon after we married, Paul and I had talked about starting a family. We’d hoped I’d get pregnant right away, but it wasn’t meant
to be. With his death, that dream had died along with so many others.

I swallowed tightly and forced myself to continue reading.

I wiped the tears from my eyes and held my breath until I could control my emotions. Rover came to me and rested his chin on my thigh as though to soothe me. From the first, I believed Paul had sent me Rover. My rescue dog, but who had rescued whom? Rover was my constant companion, and as Grace had so recently suggested, he was my comfort dog.