To Monsignor John Leykam

(aka Father Sean Murphy Lynch Leykam)—

Thank you for all your kindness to my father

through the years.

Your esteem and affection warmed his heart—

and it was mutual.

And to Margie Meyers—

With gratitude for your many

thoughtful gestures and the gracious hospitality

that fed not only his body but his soul.

Dad was blessed by the gift of both your friendships—

as am I.

1

Asking for help from a man who hated you was hard.

Really hard.

But she was out of options.

Jack Colby was her last resort.

Despite the cool Oregon breeze tripping along Dockside Drive, a bead of sweat trickled down Christi Reece’s temple as Jack completed his purchase at the stand on the wharf. Prying one white-knuckled hand off the steering wheel, she inhaled a lungful of the briny Hope Harbor air and swiped away the external evidence of her nervousness. Thankfully she alone was privy to the pretzel twist in her stomach and the erratic lurch of her heart.

A savory aroma wafted toward her from the white truck that had been Jack’s destination on this sunny end-of-April afternoon, setting off a rumble in her stomach. But eating was low priority—even if her last meal hours ago had consisted of a stale bagel and gas station coffee.

The man she’d driven thirty-plus hours to see lingered to exchange a few words with the cook, who adjusted the baseball cap over his long gray ponytail as the two shared a laugh.

Still smiling, Jack lifted a hand in farewell, picked up the brown bag containing his order, and strolled her direction.

Unless time had softened his heart, however, he wouldn’t be smiling for long.

Pulse pounding, Christi fumbled with the handle on the older-model Nissan that had carried her more than two thousand miles. Pushed the door open. Swung her shaky legs to the pavement, praying they wouldn’t fold.

Jack gave her a casual glance as she slid from behind the wheel and stood. The kind you bestowed on a stranger who happened to catch your momentary attention.

No hint of recognition flickered in his eyes.

A twinge of disappointment nipped at her—but that was foolish. Eleven years had passed. Her once-long hair had been cropped to shoulder length, and she didn’t lighten the dark blond hue anymore. Oversized sunglasses hid most of her face. And life had taken a toll. The frothy twenty-year-old college student he’d known—and loved—was long gone.

Jack’s pace slowed, as if he’d realized there was more to this encounter than chance.

Her cue to move forward.

Squeezing her fingers into tight fists, she approached him. Unlike her, he’d benefitted from the passage of time. The handsome twenty-three-year-old who’d brightened that carefree summer had filled out. Matured. Acquired an intriguing aura of worldliness that enhanced the considerable appeal she’d once found difficult to resist.