Ultimate Cedar Cove Collection. Debbie Macomber
The wind howled and rain pounded the house as Bob and Peggy Beldon prepared for bed. The winter months were slow at the bed-and-breakfast. It was three days since their last guest had departed. This business was their retirement project, but right now Bob didn’t object to the scarcity of paying guests. It gave Peggy and him a welcome break and the opportunity to enjoy their home and each other.
The wind rattled the winter-bare branches against the windows as Bob turned off the television after watching the eleven o’clock news. The lights flickered. “Looks like we’re in for quite a night,” he said. “Better have some flashlights handy.”
Peggy nodded, picking up their coffee mugs and moving into the kitchen.
Bob was about to head up the back stairs when he noticed a pair of headlights. A car had turned into their driveway. “We aren’t expecting any guests, are we?” Although he knew the answer, he asked in case Peggy had booked someone and then forgotten to mention it.
“Not until the weekend.” Peggy stuck the two mugs in the dishwasher.
“Looks like someone might be coming.”
His wife parted the drape and stared out the window over the sink. “It isn’t anyone we know, is it?”
“Hard to tell in this rain, but I don’t recognize the car.” Bob was halfway to the front door when the bell rang. He turned on the porch light and unfastened the lock. A man stood on the other side, wearing a raincoat and slouch hat. He held a small suitcase in one hand. His head was lowered, shadowed, making it impossible to see his face clearly.
“I saw the sign from the road. Do you have a room available for the night?” he asked in a low, husky voice.
“We do,” Bob told him and took a moment to size up the stranger. The man was in his mid-fifties, he guessed, but it was difficult to be sure. He kept his shoulders hunched forward as he stepped into the house. Yet Bob thought he looked vaguely familiar.
Always warm and welcoming, Peggy ushered their guest into the kitchen, where the registration forms were kept. The man glanced at the form Peggy handed him. “I’ll pay you now,” he said, withdrawing cash from his pocket.
“We need you to fill out the information card,” Bob said. He had a funny feeling about this guy, although he couldn’t place him.
“I’m Bob Beldon,” he said. “This might seem like an odd question, but have we ever met?”
The stranger didn’t answer.
“Honey, don’t delay our guest with questions,” Peggy whispered.
Irritated, Bob frowned slightly. He couldn’t help wondering why the stranger had chosen a relatively remote bed-and-breakfast rather than one of the more convenient motels off the freeway.
“Can I get you something warm to drink?” Peggy asked.
“No, thanks.” His response was gruff, almost unfriendly.
“What brings you out here on a night like this?” Bob pressed. “We aren’t exactly on the beaten path.”
“None of that’s important just now,” Peggy said, glaring at Bob. He could tell she was annoyed by his attitude, but he definitely felt a little uneasy.
The stranger ignored his question. “If you’d show me to my room, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course.” Peggy led the way down the long hallway off the kitchen. “You have your choice. We have the Goldfinch room and the—”
“The first one is fine.” He seemed impatient to be about his business, whatever that might be. “I’ll have the registration card filled out for you in the morning.” He opened the door and set his case inside, then with his back to them, said, “I hope you won’t mind if I turn in. It’s been a long day.”
Bob was about to tell him the paperwork had to be completed first, but Peggy cut him off. “Breakfast is served between eight and ten. Sleep well.”
“Thank you.” He closed the door hard and they heard the lock snap into place.
Bob waited until they were upstairs before he spoke. “I don’t like the looks of him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Peggy said as she went into the master bathroom to remove her makeup. “He’s a paying guest. You don’t have to like him. My guess is he’ll be gone early in the morning and that’ll be the end of it.”
“Maybe,” Bob muttered, but he had the sinking feeling that wouldn’t be the case.
The storm continued to rage, and Bob stood at the bedroom window that overlooked the inky waters of the Cove. The lighthouse on the point could be seen in the distance, warning ships of danger ahead. An eerie sensation came over him. More than once, he’d wondered about this business of allowing strangers into their home. He didn’t like the man in the room downstairs, although he couldn’t say exactly why. All he knew was that his gut instinct told him the stranger was trouble.
Peggy was such a warmhearted soul that all she saw was the plight of someone caught in a storm, looking for shelter from the night. Bob wished he felt the same.
“Are you coming to bed?” his wife asked, turning down the comforter and sliding between the crisp, clean sheets.
Maybe Peggy was right. She generally was. The man downstairs was just someone passing through. In the morning he’d be on his way and they’d never see him again. The stranger had already paid in full, and if he was reluctant to fill out the information card, well, that was his prerogative.
The following morning, Bob was awakened by the sun. He jerked into sudden wakefulness, surprised to see that it was light outside. Peggy had already gone downstairs; he could hear her singing along to the radio as she baked blueberry muffins. They were her specialty, and the blueberries came from their own small patch next to Peggy’s pride, her herb garden. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted up the stairs.
Bob rubbed his hand down his face, recalling remnants of a familiar nightmare. Not images so much as feelings, impressions, and they hadn’t been pleasant. After he’d climbed into bed, he’d fallen into a light, restless slumber, followed by a deeper sleep. Try as he might, though, he could remember nothing of the dreams he’d had.
Normally he was up before Peggy and made the coffee. Feeling guilty for sleeping so late, he hurriedly dressed. As an afterthought, he walked quickly to the window. Sure enough, the white Ford was still parked below. So their guest hadn’t sneaked out as Bob had half suspected—and half hoped—he might. Perhaps this morning the stranger would be a bit friendlier than he’d been the night before, and Bob could discover what it was about him that had struck a familiar chord.
Peggy smiled when she saw him. “Good morning, hon. It’s ages since you slept this late.”
“I know. I don’t understand why.”
His wife hesitated. “You had another of your nightmares.”
“I don’t really remember….”
“Are you all right this morning?” Her face creased with worry lines as she studied him.
“I’m fine,” he murmured. “I didn’t get up—did I?” Twice over the years, Bob had awakened somewhere outside their bedroom. The only explanation had been sleepwalking.
“You were in bed when you woke, weren’t you?” she teased.
He nodded and was instantly relieved. He hugged his wife, then poured himself a cup of coffee. Taking his Alcoholics Anonymous “Big Book,” he walked into the sunroom and settled in his recliner to read. He had twenty years of sobriety behind him, but he still lived one day at a time. He was a drunk who was one shot glass away from ruin, and he didn’t allow a day to go by without reminding himself of that. Twenty minutes later, Peggy took the muffins out of the oven.
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