"Sometimes you need to let someone in even if it's scary"
Reviewed by Sharon Salituro
Posted August 23, 2016
Romance Contemporary | Inspirational Romance
Eric was on his way to becoming a partner in a big law
firm until one day they let him go. So Eric decides to
take some time off and go home to Sea Rose Lane as no
matter where he goes, Sea Rose Lane will always be his
home. When Eric returns home, he finds his dad is
remodeling their home to become a bed and breakfast. His
dad always had a passion for cooking but Eric has a lot of
questions about some of the people that are working for
his dad. One of the people that he has the most questions
about is BJ, the female who is the owner of the
remodeling company. BJ keeps very much to herself and Eric
is curious about what she might be hiding. BJ is not hiding anything, she has been burned before in
romance, so she just wants to stay clear of men. BJ just
wants to focus on her business and her pet project. She
would love to open up a business where young people stay
with the elders in exchange for rent, they would help out
with things that some of the elders just can't do. BJ was
raised by her grandmother and has always felt bad that
when
her grandmother was older, she couldn't get home enough
to help her. The sparks are flying, as Eric and BJ start to get close,
but will the fact that Eric could move on to another law
firm change their relationship? Can BJ learn to give her
heart to someone who may leave? Only
time will tell. SEA ROSE LANE is a delightful story line written by Irene
Shannon.
I really enjoyed this book. Ms. Hannon shows how
people can judge people when they first met them and find
out how wrong they are. It also shows how, yes, if you
meet the right person, you can open up your heart again.
Both of the main characters had a lot to overcome, in
the end, do they? SEA ROSE LANE is also the story of how a little
town comes together to help each other out. There are
some underlining story lines that come out in SEA ROSE
LANE.
For instance there is Luis, who came to America to make
a better life for himself and his wife. However, his
wife died before they arrived but this didn't stop Luis.
Hopefully
there will a book on Luis, as he needs his own book. SEA
ROSE LANE shows how if you try hard enough, anything
can be what you always wanted.
SUMMARY
Three-Time RITA Winner Invites Readers Back to the
Captivating Coastal Town of Hope Harbor After a devastating layoff, attorney Eric Nash heads back
to
the town where he grew up--only to discover that his
childhood home is being transformed into a bed &
breakfast. Instead of plotting his next career move in
peace, he's constantly distracted by noise, chaos--and BJ
Stevens, the attractive but prickly blonde architect and
construction chief who's invaded the house with her
motley crew. As for BJ, her client's son might be handsome, but after
a
disastrous romance, dating isn't high on her agenda. Yet
when they join forces to create a program for Hope Harbor
seniors, might they also find healing, hope, and a new
beginning themselves? Three-time RITA Award winner Irene Hannon takes readers
back
to Hope Harbor for a new season of charm, romance, and
second chances.
ExcerptHe was going to hit that pickup truck. As the vehicle in front of him screeched to a halt, Eric
Nash
flung his cell toward the passenger seat, clenched the
wheel,
and jammed the BMW’s brake to the floor. Too late. A bone-jarring thud reverberated through his body,
accompanied
by the crunch of compressing metal and the explosive
tinkle of shattering glass. This was so not the way he’d envisioned his arrival in
Hope
Harbor. Before his car even stopped shuddering, the driver-side
door
of the truck flew open. Shapely legs clad in snug denim
swung
out. In one smooth, lithe motion, a slender woman slid
out of
the cab, the coastal Oregon wind tossing her mane of
blonde
hair. Nice . . . except for her stormy expression and taut
posture. Better forget her appearance and focus on an apology. She paused to give the back of her pickup a cursory
sweep, then marched to his door and glared at him through the
window, fists jammed on her hips. Oh, brother. This was not going to be pretty. Bracing himself, he pushed his door open and stood. “Sorry about that.” He tipped his head toward her truck. She slammed her arms across her chest, leaned sideways,
and homed in on the phone resting on his front passenger
seat.
“In case you didn’t know, it’s illegal to use a cell
while driving
in Oregon.” Of course he knew that. He’d know it even if he wasn’t an
attorney. The controversial law had received a serious
amount
of press. But he was almost at his destination, and Hope Harbor
wasn’t
exactly Portland. The only real traXc here was at
lunchtime—if
Charley’s was open and if there was a run on his fish
tacos. However . . . it wasn’t yet noon and he wasn’t anywhere
near
the wharf-side stand. “I’m aware of the law. But making a quick call on a quiet
backstreet should have been safe.” “It wasn’t.” “Look, I said I was sorry. My insurance will cover any
damage.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Money doesn’t fix every problem.” Sheesh. Talk about attitude with a capital A. “It will fix your truck.” He surveyed the muddy vehicle.
“Not that it will be easy to tell what damage I caused
versus
what might already be under the dirt.” If she could be
nasty,
so could he. She bristled, and tiny pieces of . . . something . . .
drifted
out of her hair. Squinting, he shaded his eyes against
the late-
morning sun high in the sky on this early July day. Was
that
. . . sawdust? “It rains a lot here, okay? I have better uses for my
time than
washing a vehicle that will be muddy again tomorrow. And
not
that it’s any of your business, but I prefer to spend my
money
on more important things than a hunk of metal.” “Obviously.” He gave the truck another dubious once-over. “Hmph.” With that pithy retort, she stalked back to the front of
his car. He trailed after her. “Why did you stop so suddenly,
anyway?” “A dog ran in front of me.” “I didn’t see a dog.” “You didn’t see me brake, either. If you’d kept a few car
lengths between us—and been paying more attention to the
road—you could have stopped in time.” She bent to inspect
her truck again. “Lucky for me, this baby’s sturdy. I
don’t see
any serious damage.” She shifted her attention to his
car. “Your
wheels, however, are going to need some work.” For the first time, he gave the BMW his full attention.
The left
front fender was crinkled, the broken glass from the
headlight
glinting on the pavement. Great. Wasn’t it enough that his career was in shambles and his
future in limbo without adding a smashed-up car to his
list
of woes? He wiped a hand down his face. Some homecoming this was
turning out to be. “There’s a body shop in Bandon.” At least the woman’s tone was a shade less hostile now. “Yeah. I know. Marv’s.” “So . . . you want me to call the police, file an
accident report?
The chief can get here fast. I passed her a few blocks
back.” And have Lexie read him the riot act, maybe even cite him
for using his cell while driving? Not a chance. “Why don’t we just exchange contact information?” “I don’t need yours. I won’t be calling my insurance
company.
But ah’ll give you mine.” She rummaged through her
pockets,
the faint hint of a southern accent lingering in the air.
“I thought
I had some business cards with me . . . but this will
work.” She
pulled out a dog-eared receipt and scribbled on the back
with
the stub of a pencil. Eric skimmed the slip after she handed it over. No name.
Just a phone number—with a local area code. “I take it
you
live around here?” “Yeah.” She retreated a step and tucked her fingers in
her
front pockets. “You want to see if your car is drivable
before
I leave?” He examined the BMW again. It wasn’t listing, and the
tire
was holding air. “I think the damage is mostly cosmetic.
I don’t
have far to go. I’ll be fine.” “Suit yourself.” She strode back to the cab of her truck,
stopping
at the door to skewer him with one final scowl. “And do
yourself a favor. Ditch the cell while you’re driving.” Without waiting for a response, she swung up behind the
wheel, started the engine, and drove o, spewing noxious
fumes
in her wake. Eric turned away from the billow of reeking exhaust,
shoved
the slip of paper with her number in the pocket of his
jeans,
and sighed. After psyching himself up during the five-
hour drive
from Portland to share the bad news with his father, he’d
been
as ready as possible for that conversation when he drove
past
the Welcome to Hope Harbor sign. Had even tried to call
his
dad seconds before the fender bender to alert him of his
approach.
Softening the surprise of this unexpected visit with a
few
minutes’ warning had seemed like the considerate thing to
do. But since his dad hadn’t answered, and since the accident
had totally unpsyched him, why not take a walk on the
beach,
past the soaring sea stacks, before he headed home? The
salt
air and sea breeze had always given him a lift . . .
helped clear
his mind . . . calmed him . . . when he needed it most. And he could use some calm about now. Trudging back to the driver-side door, he tried to look
on the
bright side. His life might be a wreck, but the car was
fixable
and no one had been hurt. There was one other plus too. This day couldn’t get any worse.
BJ Stevens flicked on her left-turn signal, swung onto
Eleanor
Cooper’s street, and tuned out the rumble in her stomach.
Fixing a stuck door hadn’t been on her lunchtime agenda—
but
what could you do when a kindly eighty-eight-year-old
woman
called to say she couldn’t get out of her bathroom? As she pulled into the driveway of Eleanor’s Cape Cod–
style
house, BJ scrutinized the modest structure. The paint was
flaking
on the shutters. The stepping-stones winding toward the
front door were rippling. The edge of one of the wooden
steps
leading to the small front porch showed signs of rot. This house needed help. A lot of it. But so did the houses owned by many of the older Hope
Harbor residents. Upkeep had simply become too much for
them. Yet none wanted to leave the place they’d called
home
for most of their lives. Understandable—as she well knew. A pang echoed in her heart . . . followed by a surge of
alltoo-
familiar guilt. Gripping the wheel with one hand, she jerked the
gearshift
into park with the other. This was not the time to dwell
on the
past . . . or on regrets. She needed to rescue Eleanor
from the
bathroom and fix that recalcitrant door. After grabbing her toolbox, she followed the uneven
pavers
to the porch and felt around under the wicker planter of
geraniums until her fingers encountered the key Eleanor
had
promised would be there. Ten seconds later, she cracked
the
door and peeked in, scanning the shadows in case
Methuselah
was crouched on the other side, waiting for a chance to
escape. No sign of the cantankerous cat. She slipped inside and moved toward the hall bath. “I’m
here,
Eleanor.” Her raised voice bounced o the walls. “I’ll
have you
out of there in a minute.” “Oh, bless you, sweet child!” Relief infused the older
woman’s
mu_ed words. “I’m sorry to bother you during the
workday.” “Don’t worry about it. I was on my lunch hour.” BJ set
her toolbox on the carpet beside the gold-and-black-
striped
feline who’d taken up sentry duty outside the bathroom
door.
“Hi, Methuselah.” She stroked his soft fur, earning her a
mellow
meow. “How long has the door been giving you trouble,
Eleanor?” “Six or eight weeks, I imagine. It’s been getting worse—
but
I never thought it would trap me inside. A firm tug has
always
done the trick if it gets stubborn.” BJ tested the door. Definitely stuck. “Let me give it a push. Can you back away from the door?” “Yes. I’m tucking myself into the corner now . . . all
set.” BJ positioned her shoulder against the wood and shoved.
The door shimmied but didn’t release its hold on the
frame.
She tried again, putting more muscle into the eort. This
time
it gave way. Instantly Methuselah wove around her legs and disappeared
into the bathroom. Once the door swung open, she turned her attention to
Eleanor.
The older woman’s trademark neat chignon had loosened,
releasing wisps of soft white hair. Her cheeks were
flushed, and
there was a bruise forming on the back of the hand she
lifted
to smooth down the wayward tendrils. “How long were you stuck in here?” BJ edged back to let
Eleanor escape the confined space, Methuselah meowing at
her heels. “About an hour. I tugged on the door, rested a bit,
tugged
on it some more. Thank goodness I had my phone with me.
I thought about calling 911, but that seemed extreme.”
She
paused in the hall to adjust her glasses and fuss with
her hair,
gripping her walker with one hand. “I imagine I look a
sight.” “No, but you do have a nasty bruise on your hand.” BJ
gently
touched the aging skin. Eleanor flexed her fingers and studied the black-and-blue
splotch. “I lost my grip on the knob during one attempt
and
banged my hand against the vanity. No harm done, though.
This
old skin bruises if you breathe on it. I’ll be fine. Now
what do
you suppose is wrong with that door—aside from humidity?” BJ gave the hardware on the doorframe a quick inspection.
“Humidity doesn’t help, but some of the screws in the
hinges are
also loose. That can cause a door to sag.” She pulled out
a screwdriver
and tried tightening a couple, but they were stripped. Of course. A simple fix would be too easy. She rooted among her tools, found a longer screw, and
replaced
the one closest to the center of the jamb, tightening
until
it dug into fresh wood. “Let’s see if this helps.” She straightened up and tried
the
door. It opened . . . but under protest. “That’s a big improvement.” Eleanor patted her arm
encouragingly. “Not big enough. I don’t want you getting stuck again.”
Once more she dug around in her toolbox, withdrawing a
few
toothpicks and some wood glue. “What are you doing now?” Eleanor leaned closer to watch
while Methuselah nosed into the box. “I’m going to coat the toothpicks with glue and shove
them
into the screw holes. Once they dry, it will be like new
wood
and I can reset the screws. That should fix the problem—
but
if not, I’ll try shimming one or two of the hinge
mortises.” “My. You certainly know your stuff.” BJ grinned. “You’re easy to impress.” “Not at all. I just recognize talent. LA’s loss was Hope
Harbor’s
gain when you moved here last year.” “It was a positive change for me too.” BJ continued to
work
with quick eXciency as she spoke. If she finished fast,
she might
still be able to swing by Charley’s and grab an order of
tacos
on her way back to the job site. “You know, there’s one thing I can’t understand.”
Eleanor’s
tone grew thoughtful. “What’s that?” If the older woman wanted a lesson in
carpentry,
BJ was happy to oblige. “With all your talent and beauty—plus your kind, caring
heart—I can’t believe some smart, handsome man hasn’t
wooed
and won you by now.” BJ’s fingers spasmed on the glue bottle. A spurt of white
paste shot out, coating the toothpick and her fingers
before
dripping onto the tile floor . . . and Methuselah. The cat yowled and sprang back. “Oh, mercy!” Eleanor’s hand flew to her chest. “I must
have
distracted you. Let me grab some paper towels.” While she trundled down the hall as fast as her arthritic
knees allowed, Methuselah in her wake, BJ stared at the
sticky
mess on her fingers. Sticky mess. Yeah, that about summed up the state of her LA romance. But she had a new life now. One that was calm, fulfilling
—and
blessedly romance-free. If she hadn’t been on edge from
the
accident, she wouldn’t have overreacted to Eleanor’s
comment. BJ secured the cap on the wood glue with more force than
necessary. She should have called the police and let them
throw
the book at that guy in the BMW. Maybe a ticket would
have
taught him not to drive with his cell pasted to his ear,
paying
more attention to conversation than the road. Although—in fairness—he had been contrite. Not to mention good-looking. Oh, for pity’s sake! She grabbed a wad of toilet paper as more glue leaked
through
her fingers onto the floor. You’d think she’d be immune
to the
stereotypical charms of tall, dark, and handsome after— No! She was not going to even think his name. He wasn’t worth it. She wiped her fingers as best she could with the flimsy
tissue
and took a calming breath. That fender bender had really
done
a number on her peace of mind. But it shouldn’t have, BJ. Your truck emerged unscathed.
The
other guy’s the one who has to deal with repair hassles.
That’s
not why you’re tense. “Oh, shut up.” She ripped o flecks of tissue that had
stuck to
her fingers, trying to stifle the annoying little voice
in her head. “Did you say something, dear?” Eleanor’s query wafted in
from the kitchen. “Just . . . uh . . . talking to myself.” “You’re too young for that. I’ll be back in a jiy. I’m
trying
to clean up Methuselah, who isn’t inclined to cooperate.” Hooking a piece of wayward hair behind her ear, BJ
slumped
back against the doorframe and faced the truth. Much as
she
might want to blame her agitated state on the accident,
the
little voice in her head was right. The BMW owner—and her
visceral reaction to him—was the culprit. Like it or not,
the
instant her gaze had connected with those brown eyes, a
bolt
of electricity had sizzled through her. The very kind of ill-advised attraction that could lead a
woman astray if she followed her heart instead of
prudently
listening to her brain. And she wasn’t making that mistake again. Still . . . it hadn’t been fair to jump all over the guy
because
she was annoyed at herself. He had apologized. Oered to
make
restitution. His eyes had held sincere remorse . . . plus
some
other emotion, now that she thought about it. Melancholy,
perhaps? Dejection? Despondency? Hard to pinpoint. But
there
had been a sadness in them that seemed unrelated to the
accident.
As if his day had gone down the tubes long before their
unpleasant encounter . . . and he hadn’t needed any more
grief. She blew out a breath. Wonderful. Now she could add a heaping serving of guilt to whatever
she had time to scarf down for lunch. “Here you go. Let me know if you need more.” Eleanor
pushed the walker down the hall and thrust a handful of
paper
towels at her while Methuselah kept a wary distance. “This should do it.” She used half of the towels to wipe
the
globs of glue of the tile, then dampened the rest and
swiped
up the residue. “Do you want me to get rid of those?” Eleanor held out
her
hand again. “Thanks.” She passed them over. “I’ll fill the last
couple of
holes while you do that.” BJ finished up as fast as she could, packed away her
tools,
and waited for Eleanor near the front door. When the older woman reappeared, a foil-wrapped bundle
rested on the tray of her walker. “Thank you again for
coming
to my rescue.” “No problem. And I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day,
after the glue is dry, to reset those screws. Could you
leave the
bathroom door open until I finish the job?” “Certainly. I only close it out of habit. It isn’t as if
there’s
anyone here to disturb me, other than Methuselah—and at
his
age, he spends most of the day sleeping in the sun.” Her
smile
drooped for a moment, then brightened again as she picked
up
the plate and held it out. “A little thank-you treat.” “That’s not necessary, Eleanor.” “I disagree. Besides, I like to bake—and I know you’re
partial
to my fudge cake. Have it for dessert after lunch.” At this point, with the clock ticking, it might be lunch—
not
that she needed to share that with Eleanor. “I’ll do that—and enjoy every bite.” BJ took the oering.
“I’ll call before I swing by to finish the job.” “No need. I’m always here. You won’t be interrupting
anything.”
The older woman’s tone was upbeat, as usual, yet a faint
thread of loneliness wound through her words. Most people would miss that subtle undercurrent. Not BJ, though. She was tuned in to such nuances these
days—which did not help restore her peace of mind. “Is everything all right, dear?” “Yes.” She switched gears and hefted the plate. “I’m
looking
forward to this.” “Enjoy, sweet child. And don’t work too hard.” She let that pass as she left the house. Working too hard
was
part of her DNA . . . but if she couldn’t dial back her
work
ethic, at least the work she did in Hope Harbor—on and o
the clock—was worthwhile and satisfying. And it might become even more so if the plan she was
formulating
came to fruition. After carefully stowing the cake on the seat beside her,
BJ
glanced back toward Eleanor’s planter-filled porch. With
a final
wave, the older woman picked up a watering can and began
tending her abundant container garden. BJ put the truck in reverse and checked the clock on the
dash. No time for a swing by Charley’s. But her appetite
had
disappeared anyway, thanks to the unsettling conversation
with
Eleanor about romance . . . and a disturbing encounter
with a
good-looking stranger. Which was dumb. She was not in the market for a relationship, especially
with
someone of the tall, dark, and handsome variety. Maybe someday—some very distant day, far down the road—
she’d entertain the notion of love again. Maybe. But for now, her quiet, simple, peaceful—uncomplicated—
life suited her just fine. And she had no intention of changing it.
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