The Hero (Thunder Point #3)(30)

“How do you manage that?” Devon asked.

“Well, you give the Coast Guard ten years, accumulate a lot of leave, fall in love with Cooper and marry him.” At that precise moment he appeared at her side, handing her a glass of white wine. Sarah laughed. “He promises to serve me and pamper me for the rest of my life.”

Cooper disappeared again and Devon said, “I’d marry him for that.”

“Watch it, now, I saw him first.”

“And when is all this going to happen?” Devon asked.

“It’s beginning to happen right now. I’m moving in with Cooper. Spencer is vacating the RV and taking my rental house in town. Landon is taking over the RV as his bachelor pad, under the watchful eye of his diligent and suspicious sister—I even have a new pair of binoculars. And a week from Saturday we’re having a wedding, right here, on the beach. Will you come?”

“Oh, my gosh, seriously?”

She nodded. “It’s going to be very laid-back, just like my Cooper. By the way, I’m getting rid of a couch. Interested?”

“Sure,” she said, sitting straighter. “Are you selling it?”

“No,” Sarah said, smiling. “Hopefully I’m moving it down the street to your house where it will find a good home.”

Three days later Sarah’s couch appeared in her living room along with two side tables and some lamps. A couple of days later she noticed a moving truck pulled up in front of Sarah’s house—Spencer was moving in. He had a dinette set he didn’t need anymore moved into her kitchen. Then Sarah offered her two beds. “Not like you got them off craigslist,” she said. “They’re almost new and I’ll give you the mattress protector to go with them. And some linens I can’t use anymore.” Spencer gave her a dresser and chest that had been in his last guest room and, just like that, her little house was ready to move in to. Then Sarah and Spencer had a huge yard sale and Devon went, picking up a few extra items—kitchen things, a set of old dishes that looked fine to her, even a couple of things to hang on the wall.

She ordered a few towels, a couple of blankets, pillows and some flatware online.

When she embraced Rawley at the front door of her little house, she said, “We will see you almost every day.”

“Yes, you will. If you don’t come by Cooper’s, I’ll check on you here so don’t go thinkin’ you’re done with me. Me and Mercy, we bonded.”

* * *

Rawley went to the Farmers’ Market in Myrtle Creek one afternoon. He just roamed around, looking at the crafts and produce stands, taking his good old time, observing. He felt like a man in a foreign country, checking out the status of things. And then he saw what he was looking for—a produce stand run by a couple of farm girls with long single braids. They were selling strawberries, early pears, root vegetables such as carrots, onions, red potatoes and scallions. There was leaf lettuce, butter lettuce, beets, peppers, small, early hook squash, little zucchini and green beans. They had small cucumbers for pickling and some fine looking tomatoes. He gave a tomato a gentle squeeze—soft and meaty yet firm. “What fertilizer you use on these?” he asked one of the girls.

“We have livestock, so we make our own blend—all organic, all clean,” the smiling girl said.

“Wish I could get my hands on some of your fertilizer. I got me a couple tomato plants—they’re healthy and strong and still don’t produce like this. Where does all this come from?” he asked. “You grow it yourselves, right?”

“We have some property down the river. In two weeks we’ll have larger squash and in late summer the melons will start coming in. Plus apples and the tomatoes will keep coming as long as the weather holds.”

He had never paid much attention to these ladies before, but now he was looking at them in a whole new way. The three young women did the selling and behind them, in the back of their booth, looking as if they were there to do heavy lifting, were two large men in jeans and boots. They looked friendly, but they didn’t chat with any of the customers. They stood back, arms crossed over their chests, wearing half smiles, talking only to each other.

On their display stand they had big jars— old-fashioned pickle jars with hand-lettered labels: Veterans, UNICEF, Save The Children, Police and Firefighters Fund, St. Jude’s Hospital. Well, covered their bases, didn’t they? Rawley thought to himself. He tried to remember if these were the same charities they had been supporting the last time he stumbled on them. He took out a couple of dollars for the Veterans jar and asked, “Does any of the money you earn go to charity?”

“If there’s anything left after we pay the bills we donate,” the young woman said. “The Fellowship supports a number of worthy causes.”

“The Fellowship, yeah, that’s right. You have a produce stand on the road back by the river, don’t you?” he asked.

“Not open every day, sir. We don’t get a lot of traffic back there so we’re only open about four afternoons a week and always on the weekend in the summer.”

“Gimme a couple of big bags of these tomatoes,” Rawley said. “And a bag of them green beans. You ladies do a right fine job.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And you weave them things?” he asked, pointing to a display of shawls and throws.