If she opened it—and the others—it was possible they could convince her his remorse was real and pave the way to a reconciliation. That was the upside.

The downside? If she let go of her anger, what would shield her from the debilitating grief that had sucked her into an abyss after Jonathan died? An anger that had been her salvation by giving her the strength to walk away, find a new purpose in life with Eye of the Beholder. That business had required her singular focus and devotion, forcing her to put her grief on the back burner, especially with wildfires tamping down tourism and eroding her bottom line.

Perhaps she should wait until—

Ding-dong.

As her doorbell chimed, she frowned.

Could Christi have returned?

Unlikely.

But who else would come calling on a Sunday afternoon? Solicitors were few and far between on this dead-end road.

The chime sounded again, and she reached for her crutches. It was possible one of her friends from Coos Bay had decided to drop in.

As she approached the front door, a third chime echoed through the apartment.

Whoever was on the other side was determined to see her.

She paused by the door and peeked through the peephole. Sucked in a breath. Jerked back.

What on earth was Steve doing here?

“Beth?” His muffled voice came through the wood panels. “I saw you pass by the sidelight. I know you’re there. Please open the door.”

Pulse racing, she gripped the crutches tighter.

How strange was it that he’d appeared on her doorstep after all these months just as she was considering reading his notes and cards?

“Please, Beth.”

Oh my.

That beseeching tone was not typical for her husband.

From the first day they’d met, he’d presented a strong front to the world. His job demanded it, and that had carried over into his personal life. Rarely had she seen him cry—the last time at the cemetery, as they’d each placed a white rose on Jonathan’s casket before it was lowered into the ground.

But unless she was mistaken, her indomitable husband was on the verge of tears.

Without second-guessing her decision, she flipped the lock, twisted the knob, and pulled the door open.

He looked good . . . so good . . . despite the dark half moons beneath his lower lashes, the new lines that creased his face, and his obvious weight loss. But his eyes, though tempered by sadness, were as blue as always—and the ever-present five-o’clock shadow she loved, which he claimed was the bane of his existence, was in evidence.

For a moment, he seemed surprised she’d complied with his request. Then he gave her a slow sweep, the hunger in his eyes matching the yearning deep inside her that refused to be throttled.

When he didn’t speak, she managed to activate her vocal cords. “What are you doing here?”