Blue Moon Bride. Renee Roszel
with speedboats, large and small, plus sailboats and little wave-runners, buzzing all over the lake like water-bound motorcycles. The cove wasn’t buoyed to warn boaters away. Swimmers venturing too far out onto the lake these days would be foolhardy.
Yet, with the buffering cove, a sense of privacy and sanctuary endured, just as it had in his boyhood. Around the bend, Roth knew where the water deepened enough for docks. His family never owned a motorboat, just a rowboat. So they had no use for a fancy dock. Wondering if anyone had put in a dock, he veered off the lawn into the woods, deciding to see for himself. He had a feeling no one had, or there would be a clearing through the heavy underbrush.
When he reached the spot and came out of the trees, he picked his way down a rocky slope toward the lake. The sunshine felt good; the air smelled fresh with the cool breeze coming off the water. He experienced a spark of exhilaration, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“What if…” He reached a rocky ledge and leaned against a huge old oak. He remembered this tree, and this ledge. As a youth he had dived into the deep water a thousand times from this very spot. He smiled at the recollection. After a time of quiet contemplation, his mind began to teem with hints, sketches of the potential for what might be a promising adventure. An adventure that would not only benefit him, but would put Joan Peterson’s financial troubles to rest for good and all.
His enthusiasm grew as his vision became more and more solid in his mind. This was exactly what he needed, the creative redemption of his soul. The very reason he came back to his childhood home.
He caught sight of a crane, its snowy wings spread wide as it circled above the calm, blue water. With a laugh, he shouted out, “Who says you can’t go home again?”
CHAPTER THREE
ROTH returned to the inn well into his mental blueprints. He knew this idea was right for him, because of the way it fell so readily into place. He would buy the inn and develop the lake property into a resort with a marina, dock rentals and a gated, lakeside community that included a high-rise condo. The lower floors with less grand views would provide midrange housing for families unable to afford the offered lakeshore lots. Upper floor plans would provide high-dollar dwellings for affluent couples not wanting the hassle of a yard, opting to pay a premium for lofty lake vistas.
Joan Peterson would never again have to worry about money. Though her home would have to be razed, he would provide her with a sleek, new condominium as part of the deal.
He found his hostess in the kitchen, tying on an apron, about to begin the preparations for their midday meal. He checked his watch. Only ten o’clock and already she had to begin the drudgery of meal preparation. Poor woman. How fortunate for her that his plan would put an end to the ceaseless grind of running the aging inn. She was getting too old to maintain the sort of pace it took to keep the place clean and put food on the table. He felt extremely benevolent about his plan. He hadn’t felt so at one with the universe in years. Joan Peterson had a wonderful surprise coming.
Thirty minutes later, Roth’s harmonious mood had darkened considerably.
“No, no, no, no!” Joan cried, though Roth had just explained, for the third time, how much his plans for her property benefited her. Miss Mischief, curled on an oval rag-rug in a corner, sat up and began to yap. Joan made a quelling motion toward the mutt, and it magically ceased its racket. “I will never sell my inn,” she said less piercingly, more to keep her dog quiet than a decline in her agitation. “It’s my home. How many times must I tell you, Mr. Johnson, I would never feel comfortable living in some highfalutin condominium.” She turned away and began to chop an onion, her gnarled hands amazingly adroit as she severed it on a wooden board so worn by years its center was a rough-hewn valley.
Roth was accustomed to Joan referring to him as Ross Johnson, and let it go. The important thing was to make her face facts. “Don’t you understand? If you lose the inn to the bank, it will go on the market. I could buy it then, at a bargain price. Why shouldn’t you benefit—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Her knife whacked the onion to bits. “The bank isn’t going to take my inn. Where did you get such an idea?”
He hadn’t eavesdropped on purpose, but he felt guilty anyway. He shook it off. “I overhead your conversation with Mona.”
Joan continued to chop the onion for another few seconds without comment. Finally she lay the knife aside and peered at him, her eyes magnified behind her spectacles. He saw pain glittering there. “I’m ashamed of you.”
He felt like he was being reprimanded by his own grandmother, long dead, but a kinder person he’d never known. He experienced another stab of guilt at his misconduct. “I apologize, but if you look at it another way, the incident was providential. Don’t you understand? I can help. By purchasing your property, I can take away your financial troubles forever.”
She blinked then shook her head. He watched moisture gather in her eyes and he feared she was near tears. “What you want to do is take away my home.”
“Only this old house. You’ll have a home. A wonderful, modern home without peeling paint and rusty pipes.”
She sniffed. Her lips lifted at the corners, the expression pitying. “This is my home, and it will be until I die. I’m sorry you find it so—so unpalatable.”
“That’s not what I meant to imply—”
She held up a halting hand. “No, hear me out,” she cut in. “I want you to understand.”
He didn’t like the turn of this conversation, but he nodded, knowing he had no choice. The best arguments could only be made when you knew the opposition inside out. “All right,” he said, but silently added, It doesn’t matter how poignant your life story is, the facts remain the same. Your inn is about to be taken away from you, no matter what you want or how many tears you shed.
“You see, I met my husband here.” She indicated the direction of the church ruins. “In that garden. I was twenty-one and quite the independent lass.” Her expression softened as she recalled the story. “I had been hiking and got so caught up in the beauty of the countryside, I got lost. It was long after dark by then, but a lovely, warm June night. Fifty years ago, northeastern Oklahoma wasn’t nearly as built-up as it is now. The Grand River dam was so new, I could have wandered for days without finding a human being.”
A faraway look came into her eyes; a genuine smile curved her lips as she relived a happier time. “Around midnight, I chanced on this private home where we now stand. Being very late, I didn’t want to disturb the family, so I rested on a stone bench among the church ruins. When I looked up to scan the heavens, to my amazement a full moon sat squarely in the center of an arched opening in the church wall. I was so transfixed, I didn’t hear a man approach. When he stood directly behind me, he spoke. I shall never forget what he said.
“‘That happens once in a blue moon,’ he said. His voice was soft and low, almost like an angel’s, if an angel spoke as a human man. I was startled but strangely unfearful. I turned toward him. There and then, I saw the face of my soul mate, Durham Peterson.” She grew still, swallowed several times, as though the memory stirred deep, poignant emotions.
“We were married within weeks,” she went on. “Soon afterward, Dur confessed a desire to travel the world. An adventurer myself, I gladly agreed. Dur had a comfortable inheritance, so for the next forty years we lived a charmed life. Then nine years ago, after Dur was taken from me in a tragic fall while we were mountain climbing in Nepal, I found my way back to the stone bench in that same garden. Being there comforted me. The property had changed hands a number of times in all those years and was abandoned, boarded up. With what remained of our money, I bought it.
“Repairing the house took more capital than I counted on, so in order to make ends meet, I decided to take in boarders, because…” She hesitated and looked away. After a moment, she once again trained her attention on him, her expression determined. “…because, Mr. Johnson, I knew I had come home for good. And since