Where Promises Remain

Hannah Martin thought she was about to have an empty nest . . . until the illegitimate daughter of her late husband shows up on her doorstep.

Five years after her husband’s death, Hannah Martin runs a successful inn and serves the needy in her community. Despite a house full of guests, she’s worried about the loneliness that will come with an empty nest. Now that no one needs her for anything other than serving her famous five-course breakfasts and retrieving fresh towels, she throws herself into winning Camden’s Hospitality Grant. With the help of the grant, the bed and breakfast will bring in even more customers and Hannah won’t have time to think about what she’s missing.

But when a handsome lumberjack named Kevin moves in next door, Hannah’s attraction to the widowed bachelor knocks her off-kilter. Just as she begins to think about dating again, a young woman arrives at the bed and breakfast claiming to be the illegitimate daughter of Hannah’s late husband.

When the Orchard House’s chances at the Hospitality grant is threatened, Hannah's children oppose her new daughter moving in, and Kevin’s problems start to bleed over into her own, she must decide what matters most—before she loses the grant, the bed and breakfast’s reputation, and perhaps, her second chance at love.

1

There was nothing like a new project to distract from self-pitying thoughts, and the email I received this morning might be just the ticket to accomplish the task.

I got up from my seat at the kitchen bar and walked with hurried steps through the butler’s pantry into the guest living quarters where my oldest daughter Maggie worked at the bed and breakfast’s front desk. What would she think of the email?

Maggie, did you see— I stopped short. A burly man with a close-cropped beard and hair graying at the temples stood with his finger hovering over the bell on the desk. He wore a button-down flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms covered in tattoos. I glimpsed the intricate ink of a compass and a rope.

I tore my gaze off him to scan the room but my daughter wasn’t behind the desk, or anywhere in sight, for that matter. I’m sorry. I thought my daughter was here. Welcome to Orchard House. Can I help you?

He smiled, and it was a nice smile. A little worn and rugged around the edges, but warm and genuine, spreading all the way up to his eyes which crinkled at the corners. He held his hand out to me. Hello. My name’s Kevin. Kevin Williams. I just moved in next door.

Oh! I placed my hand in his, the large warm fingers enveloping mine. I’m Hannah. It’s nice to meet you. The Perry home had sold only a few weeks ago. If I’d known our new neighbors were moving in so quickly, I would have planned to reach out—at least bring over a coffee cake. Then again, with Amie and August’s wedding fast approaching and my increase in volunteer hours at Amos’s mission, I’d been a bit out of sorts. Not at the top of my planning game.

He squeezed my hand and a flush worked over my body. Huh. Now that was new. Unless it was simply a hot flash. Those certainly were becoming more and more commonplace.

I released his hand. How are you enjoying Camden?

Great town. I’m looking forward to the fishing.

Be sure to try Penobscot River. It’s famous for its landlocked salmon. The best I’ve ever had.

His eyebrows raised. You a fisherwoman?

I laughed. Good grief, no. But I try to know a little bit about everything to help our guests find their adventures.

He nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. A woman who knows a little bit about everything. I’ll keep that in mind.

His gaze didn’t leave me, and although I’d received my fair share of admiring glances from the opposite sex in my fifty-two years, this one served to rattle me in an altogether different way. Not an entirely unpleasant way.

I blinked, breaking the connection, and walked behind the desk. I shuffled papers in an attempt to hide my blush—ahem, hot flash. I glanced at his left hand. No ring. What was I doing? Why did it matter if he was married or not?

Must be my hormones or the fact that the last of my children was about to fly the nest.

I’d never been alone—not in my entire life. For goodness sakes, even Aunt Pris had up and left Orchard House—the only home she’d ever known—last year when she’d married her longtime love, Ed Colton.

And I was happy. Happy for Aunt Pris and for Amie. Happy that Maggie and Josie had built families with the men they loved. Happy Lizzie had found Asher and was trying to have a baby. Happy that my only son, Bronson, had also married the love of his life this past New Year’s Eve.

Yes, my children were all finding their way. In love, in their careers, and in faith. Nothing could bring me more joy. Why then, did this impending dread fill me when I woke each morning at the thought of being on my own?

I cleared my throat. It’s wonderful to meet you, Kevin. If you ever need anything—a cup of sugar, restaurant recommendations, a book to borrow, please don’t hesitate to call on us.

There. I was being neighborly, but I was also signaling the end to any possible flirtation—because I didn’t need more crazy emotions stirring up the hormones I was already battling.

Actually, I was hoping to talk to you about a shed I’m building.

Okay . . .

I’m considering cutting down a tree to make room for it. An old elm. It shows signs of rot, but still has plenty of foliage. I wanted to ask your thoughts on it.

My thoughts? Was he concerned I’d think the shed ugly? A distasteful addition to the neighborhood?

Well, I’m a tree-guy myself. Can’t live without my trees. I tend to get attached to them, particularly if they’ve been around for a while. I didn’t want to cut it down without your approval.

I squinted at him. Is the tree on my property? If so, why were we even having this conversation—the tree was not his to cut down. Then again, why would he plan to build a shed on our property?

No, ma’am.

I shook my head, bristling at the ma’am. Hannah.

He nodded, smiled. His eyes were the color of pine trees in midwinter. Hannah.

I’m sorry, Kevin, but if the tree is on your property, I don’t see as to how I have a say in the matter.

Well, like I said, trees are a big deal in my estimation, and you can see this tree from your back patio, maybe even get a little shade from it in late summer. If you’re attached to it . . .

Oh. Well, that was considerate. I moved to place my hand on his arm, but stopped myself. That is extremely thoughtful, but it’s your tree. If you want to cut it down, you should. I promise not to take any offense whatsoever.

He shifted from one foot to the other. I might sleep better tonight knowing you took a look at it with me.

This burly, tattoo-covered man would lose sleep over what a near stranger thought about him cutting down a tree on his own property? If I let him know I was more concerned about the aesthetics of his shed ruining my backyard view—he might never slumber again.

I smiled and started toward the door. Far be it from me to mess with a good night’s sleep.

He chuckled, scooting ahead to hold the door open for me. Side-by-side, we walked around the back of the Victorian toward the bookshop and the back patio. Kevin gestured to the orchards. Beautiful property.

I never get sick of it. It was my late husband’s great-aunt’s. We renovated the home and moved in four years ago. Aunt Pris had gifted the home and property to me for Christmas last year. I still found myself choking up at the gesture. Yes, I knew she intended to hand it over to me in her will, but the fact she would do so while she was still alive meant even more to me.

Ed’s home is my home now, Aunt Pris had told me. The Orchard House is thriving under your touch, Hannah. I want you to have it in every sense of the word.

Kevin’s voice broke into my remembrances. And you run the orchard and the bed and breakfast?

My son, Bronson, is in charge of the orchards. He and his wife run a summer camp here. They’ve done a wonderful job.

Busy place, then.

It is, but we try not to bother the neighbors. I gave him a sidelong glance.

No bother on my end. I love kids.

We strode past my herb gardens, the faint scent of basil reaching my nostrils. That reminded me, I needed to make pesto for the pasta tonight. Bronson wouldn’t eat pasta without . . .

I sucked in a small, short breath. Bronson wouldn’t be coming to dinner. Neither would any of my other children. Even Amie, who still lived at Orchard House, would likely be off with August planning last-minute wedding details.

It was fine, of course. More than fine. The entire crew came over every Saturday night for dinner, and I was grateful for that blessing.

I shook my head, focusing on the man beside me. Do you have any? Kids?

He raked a hand through his hair. No children, unfortunately. My wife had some medical issues in her teens that prevented her from having children. It was the one thing she regretted not being able to give me, but if I could do everything all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing.

We stopped in front of the ancient stone wall that divided our property. I mulled over Kevin’s comment. I wouldn’t change a thing. You lost your wife?

He nodded. Six years back, to cancer.

I couldn’t deny the sudden kinship I felt to this near stranger. I’d never gone to a grief support group, but perhaps I could have benefited from one. I’m sorry.

I’m sorry about your husband.

Thank you. I still missed Amos, the way his passion for life kept him immersed in new projects, the way he would come out of his study with an open book to discuss a new theory or thought, the tender way he treated each of our children on those rare occasions when he was fully present—teaching them to love deeply, to think wisely, to be curious about everything under the sun.

Strange how five years had, in some ways, flown by without him. Though I’d give anything for one more day with my husband, time had eased the sting of his absence. And while I still sometimes shed tears at night when I found the other side of the bed cold and empty, I also could honestly say Amos would be pleased with how I’d led our family these last five years.

Kevin pointed to the tree growing up from his side of the property about three feet from the stone wall. Tall and stately, it reached long arms over the wall and into Orchard House property, sending shade into a generous portion of our yard.

It is beautiful, I said. But Bronson complains every autumn about the leaves he has to rake up. You said there’s signs of rot?

He pointed to a hanging branch about halfway up. Lots of missing leaves. Also, the bark is gray in spots instead of brown and it’s splitting from the main part of the tree. He pointed again. See there?

I nodded. If it falls, it could do some damage.

Normally, I’m not one for cutting down trees at the first sign of a little rot, but you’re right—it could hit your patio and your house the way it’s leaning. Not to mention, this seems to be the best place for my woodshed.

I turned to him. I heartily agree. I hope you can sleep better knowing we’ve discussed this.

He grinned, his green eyes sparkling. Thanks, Hannah. It was nice to meet you.

You too. And if you need a tree guy, I can ask my son-in-law for a recommendation. He’s in the construction business and knows some good people.

That’s mighty thoughtful, but there’s no need. I’m the tree guy.

Oh. Well then, be careful. I shook my head. Sorry, mother of five speaking—it’s a reflex. I’m sure you’re always careful.

I am.

I smiled. See you around, then.

I might be low on sugar soon. Could come knocking.

I waved and turned before another hot flash could be seen on my face. It had been a while, but was he flirting? More so, how did I feel about that? While I’d grown used to rebuffing the advances of Stuart Stanley, the unsavory owner of Stanley Construction who made a habit to race up to me when I passed his home on my walks, I wasn’t used to welcoming a flirtation.

If that’s what this even was. Had Amos and I ever flirted? He’d been so sincere and direct with his affection that I couldn’t remember if we ever had. Huh. Too bad. Maybe we’d missed out.

As I ducked back into the Orchard House, this time through our rear living quarters, I decided a call to my best friend Charlotte was in order. She’d likely be cleaning guest rooms in her own inn at this time, so I’d wait until later this evening. Now, I returned to the email I’d received.

An email that had the potential to bring new life—and profits—to The Orchard House Bed and Breakfast. The attempt would at least keep me busy—so busy I wouldn’t have time to dwell on the fact that very soon, I would be completely and utterly on my own.

2

Kevin watched his new neighbor walk toward the big Victorian home, half kicking himself for flirting so easily with her. He didn’t want her to think less of him. Truth be told, he didn’t make a habit of flirting with women, or even dating, since his Katherine died.

He sighed, looking down the hill through a small grove of pines and maples toward Camden Harbor. His wife would have loved this place. They’d talked about retiring here one day. After he’d sold the logging business, after she’d retired from teaching.

But God’s plans had been different. Plans Kevin couldn’t quite get on board with, even after six long years.

He peered up at the elm, looking forward to getting back in a tree. It’d been too long. But now was the time to do things again. Climb all the trees he wanted, take some hikes, fish, check out that little church down the hill, maybe do some camping . . . who knows, maybe he would end up borrowing some sugar from his pretty new neighbor.

His phone rang and he dug it out of his pocket, his heart speeding up at the sight of the Portland number. Hello?

Mr. Williams? This is Rita Bridges.

He swallowed around the grapevine-sized knot in his throat. The social worker had only conducted the home inspection yesterday.

Ms. Bridges. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon.

She cleared her throat and he imagined the stout middle-aged woman adjusting her thick glasses with the gesture. We’ve already conducted the home study and the background check. We only needed the inspection to complete your application.

One of the reasons he’d made a quick job of unpacking. He’d tidied the dickens out of his new home—a simple cape. He’d made up the guest bedroom to be as welcoming as possible. Considering he never had any kids, much less a teenager, he wasn’t sure he had passed the social worker’s sharp eye.

I’ve just signed off on the last of the paperwork, Mr. Williams. I’d love to bring Owen by this afternoon if that works for you.

His chest felt like it had been struck by the force of a falling oak. This afternoon?

Ms. Bridges tone softened. Owen’s been here in our office. There’s nowhere for him to go, as is often the case with teenagers. We’ve rushed your application, Mr. Williams. As I stated before, our hope is to reunite Owen with your sister. This is a temporary placement.

His sister. Deidra. His insides twisted. How had his little sister fallen so deep into drugs and prostitution? And how had he allowed their separation to go on for this long—so long that he hadn’t even known a sixteen-year-old nephew existed until Ms. Bridges had tracked him down two months ago?

He released a long sigh. Of course. I’ll be home this afternoon. What time did you say you’d be by?

Three o’clock okay?

Yes, see you then. He hung up, shoving his phone deep in the pocket of his loose-fitting jeans. He glanced up at the elm and imagined the woodshed he’d build in the future. But not today. Today, he needed to go to the market and stock up on food fitting for a growing teenage boy. Not that he knew what that was—none of the many kinship or foster care books he’d read covered what to feed a sixteen-year-old boy. But he’d been one himself forty years ago. He’d figure it out.

He glanced over to the bed and breakfast, but his neighbor was nowhere in sight. He thought he’d have some time to settle in before Owen’s arrival. Cut down his tree, start his shed, do some fishing . . . but he hadn’t even had time to run out of sugar.

Everything would have to wait. As soon as he’d submitted the kinship care application, he’d vowed to make Owen a priority. In some ways, he credited God with the timing of it all. He’d just sold his business and, for the first time in his life, had spare time on his hands. Not that he’d planned to spend it taking care of his sister’s son, but he couldn’t live with himself if he’d turned the boy away.

No matter how far Deidra had fallen, she was family. Somewhere in her troubled spirit was the little girl he’d given piggyback rides to, the girl who grinned as wide as the heavens when he’d plunked extra marshmallows into her hot chocolate during Christmas.

Maybe Owen was the key to finding his way back into her life.

Kevin opened the door to his new home and grabbed his car keys and wallet off the counter. Tonight he’d grill hamburgers. What kid didn’t like hamburgers? He’d grab some chips and pickles and maybe some of those sugar cookies from the bakery. They’d eat outside on the picnic bench. Maybe they’d talk fishing. Or maybe Owen would want to help him plan his shed.

As he drove to the market, Kevin’s spirits lifted. Surely, this wouldn’t be so bad. Yes, some people had a hard time with foster and kinship care, but his sister’s kid would probably be grateful to be out of the DCYF office and in a real home with his uncle. What else did a teenage boy need besides good food, a warm bed, and some honest work to keep him occupied and out of trouble?

Hey, Mom. Amie breezed in the back door of the Orchard House.

I looked up from where I loaded the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher from this morning’s meal service. Fruit, coffee cake, avocado toast with cashew cream, yogurt with my homemade granola, and our guests’ choice of Snickerdoodle Crepes or Lobster Eggs Benedict with Lemon-Herb Butter—my personal favorite—both served with crispy bacon. Though I wasn’t one to boast, I took special pride in preparing the five-course breakfasts. The quaint location and the old Victorian, complete with author-themed guest rooms that included Louisa May Alcott, Henry David Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Robert Frost drew the first-timers, but my breakfast was what brought them back. Not to mention the regular referrals we enjoyed. I couldn’t imagine a more fulfilling job. Sure, it was sometimes exhausting, but that was a small price to pay for doing satisfying work.

Hey, honey. You’re home early.

Amie opened the fridge. A splatter of yellow paint marred her otherwise flawless cheek. She scrunched her nose. That’s right—I’d bought the sparkling waters in the plastic again instead of the glass bottles. She hated that.

She grabbed an orange. Half day today. We have a class coming in for a field trip tomorrow, so I might have to stay later.

Amie worked at a nonprofit art camp with a mission to provide community for those with autism and their families. She thoroughly enjoyed the work and had started painting again on the side, selling several on consignment at the shops downtown. Josie, my second oldest daughter, had even mentioned we’d sold one of Amie’s paintings in the gift shop yesterday.

She sat at the kitchen bar and peeled the orange over a napkin. Just caught the new neighbor pulling into his driveway. He’s kind of cute.

My head snapped up, seemingly of its own volition. Is he now?

She narrowed her eyes at me, the yellow paint on her cheek crinkling. You’ve noticed!

To my horror, my face heated again. Pretty sure this one wasn’t a hot flash. Quickly, I averted my eyes to squirt dishwashing liquid into the soap compartment. Good grief. Was I a schoolgirl?

He actually stopped by earlier today. My tone was breezy. Definitely breezy.

Amie wiggled in her seat. And?

And nothing. He wanted to ask me about a tree that’s close to our property line. He seems very nice.

Married?

I gave her the same look I used to give her when she’d ask me to buy more sculpting clay after buying her some the day before. Are you in the market for a new groom?

She slapped her hand on the counter. "Ew, gross, Mom. He’s, like . . . old. For me, anyway. I’m talking about