Half Moon Harbor (14 page)

He barked out a laugh. “And that's the other reason I love you.” He held out a hand, beckoning her in for a hug.

Grace went willingly, not realizing how much she needed one of his patented bear hugs until she was wrapped up against his big, lumberjack-sized chest. “I'm really glad you came up.”

Langston laughed again, squeezed her a bit, then set her back. “Well, perhaps you might have wished I'd had Scotty plot a slightly later flight plan.” A devilish gleam livened his eyes. “Say, tomorrow morning? After breakfast in bed?”

She swatted at him. “I'll never live that down, and okay—maybe it's deserved. Although I will submit that I was in my own boathouse where I had at least some expectation of privacy. You could have knocked.”

“Darling, the hounds of hell could have been howling and you'd never have heard them. Besides, you're renovating one of the most historic buildings in town, and the panel door is wide open. Don't tell me half the town hasn't trooped in and out of here on a regular basis since you showed up.”

“Oh, sure. Be logical.” But she grinned as she said it.

He lifted her hand, pressed a gallant kiss on the back of it, then gave her his most brilliant smile. “There's nothing logical about a passion like that, my dear.” He winked. “That's often the best part.”

Grace laughed and tugged her hand free. “Says the guy who's been married five times.”

His smile spread to a broad grin, completely unabashed. “It beats being lonely and alone.”

Langston had married a fifth time about eighteen months after his wife Ava's death, which was about six months after Grace had turned down his advances. He'd even acknowledged at the time that it was a rebound and probably a very bad idea, yet he had no regrets then, or nine months later when she'd demanded a divorce, unable to deal with the knowledge that she would never measure up to his lost love. Of course, from all accounts, former wife number five was quite happy with her very generous divorce settlement and was already dating an Italian count or some such, last Langston had mentioned. So who was Grace to judge? It was more shocking he hadn't married again in the three years since.

The closest she'd come to marriage was when Barney in accounting had gotten drunk at the annual Christmas party and blurted out his undying love for her. Fortunately, she'd caught him by the elbow before he'd gotten down on one knee.

Grace wasn't opposed to marriage or to being married, though she'd grown up without any role model for a good one. She'd dated, and like any normal person, she had general hopes of someday walking down the aisle. She guessed.

She'd spent so much of her life trying to figure out what family meant to her, what it should mean, and what she wanted it to mean, that she'd long since given up on forcing any kind of traditional boundaries or definitions. Ford was her family. And Langston factored in there. More recently, she had Whomper counting on her. That was about as nontraditional as it got. And yet, it was family all the same.

She wanted to have a partner, children, to spend the latter part of her life creating and enjoying the kind of family she'd so wished she'd had in the first half of her life. Beyond that, it didn't much matter how it was framed. She supposed she'd always assumed when someone came along who made her think in the long term, she'd decide how she felt about saying the
I do
part and go from there. That her thoughts strayed immediately to a brash, green-eyed, sexy Irishman did little to help clarify the issue.

Grace lifted an eyebrow. “You do know you don't have to marry them to not be alone, right?”

Langston lifted a beefy shoulder. “I'm an eternal optimist. Sue me. When I said my vows, I believed in them with my whole heart. What life chooses to do after that, it does. If you sit around waiting for a guarantee, you're going to do a lot of sitting and no living.” His smile shifted, grew less teasing, more tender. Approval and admiration were in his gaze as he took a shrewd, assessing look at the building around them.

She wasn't ashamed to admit that both of those meant the world to her.

“But then,” he said, his gaze resting fondly back on hers. “I don't have to tell you that any longer, now do I?”

“No,” she said, grinning with delight. “Not anymore.”

“That's my girl.” He clapped his hands together. “So, let's play with your new toy, shall we?”

I'd love to, but my new toy is in his boathouse,
she thought, then looked away when her face went hot all over again. How long was it going to take before she didn't have Brodie on the brain? Okay, Brodie and sex. Preferably together.

She quickly gestured to the huge, open space. “So,” she said, perhaps a tad overly brightly, “what do you think? Will your plans work? I loved, loved them. I can't believe you made my general loft concept work. It was really just a whim.”

“The best things are, my dear.”

Oh, if you only knew.
The whole idea of building and running an inn had, at best, been conceived on a whim.
Apparently it's like a virus, and it's spreading. I seem to be doing a lot of things on a whim these days.

After seeing the loft design and the open lower area that Brodie had done in his boathouse, Grace had wondered aloud to Langston if there was some way to incorporate that open-air, loft-type feel with the rooms in her inn. To her delight he'd been captivated by the idea. But even knowing how brilliant he was, Grace had been blown away by the rough sketches he'd scanned and e-mailed her a few days later.

He'd designed a series of cantilevered loft spaces, layered around the perimeter of the boathouse interior in a sort of circular pattern, angling upward from the floor all the way to the open ceiling area. Each loft would look down over an open hearth floor plan on the ground floor in the center of the boathouse, designed to bring a homey feel to the place, while creating a tucked away, aerie-nest feeling for each of the individual rooms. He'd designed each loft with angled screened louvered walls made of a special kind of fabric that would imitate the feel of nautical boat sails, and could be made transparent or opaque from the inside by sliding them over one another in layers, though they were always opaque from outside view.

The angle and design of the room allowed for complete privacy in the bed and bath area. Depending on which side of the building, porthole windows or bigger were to be on the exterior walls, all with at least some view of the water. Because of the way the boathouse was situated all the rooms encompassed at least one corner of the building. He'd also created an open balcony feel at the front of each loft, where out by the railing there would be a low, intimate table and comfortable chairs for dining, reading, and conversation.

On the ground floor, in the rear of the space, would be her personal rooms, a small office, and a kitchen for preparing breakfasts and small tray foods for afternoon snacks, evening aperitifs, and the like. He'd even sketched out a plan to include tables on the deck out front, looking out over the docks, so guests could snack or sip wine there, or inside at the small, intimate groupings of chairs and low tables arranged around the central woodstove hearth.

He'd also suggested a theme for the rooms that would echo a high-end stateroom or captain's quarters, such as one might have found on a historic ocean liner or passenger ship. Updated, of course, with modern amenities. Grace had loved all of it, and only hoped his vision worked with the reality of the place. She envisioned a sort of crisp, New England elegance with touches of nautical, seashore whimsy. She wanted each room to have the latest comforts in bed and bath, but imbue it all with a warm, inviting spirit.

The whole thing was definitely high concept, and not inexpensive to deliver, but if they could pull it off, it would make for a very unique travel experience for her guests and set her place apart from the gazillion other inns that dotted the lengthy Maine coastline. She hoped that would be the key to enticing folks to come a bit farther north than they might have otherwise decided to travel.

She found herself wondering what Brodie would think of it, if he'd be upset that she'd played off the same basic theme he'd gone with, or be happy she'd found a way to take his personal vision and expand on it.

“Speaking of whims and whimsy,” Langston said, pulling her away from fantasizing about her future inn. “Have you been to that fabulous antique store a few blocks up? It's utterly enchanting.”

Grace didn't have to ask which antique shop. There seemed to be more antique shops in Maine than people, but in Blueberry Cove, there was only one. And it was a doozy. “I meant to tell you about Mossy Cup. I knew you'd be fascinated by the tree.”

The shop was yet another historic place. Dating back to the town's origins, it had been in business, uninterrupted, since the 1700s. If that alone weren't enough of a draw, the building was constructed around an actual mossy cup oak tree, which grew straight up through the middle, with its leafy branches extending directly through the roof and creating an umbrella over the place. It was like a life-sized shop for those cookie-baking elves.

“It's really incredible, isn't it? Did you go inside?” She smiled. “I hear the owner, Eula March, is really something. I haven't had the pleasure as yet, but the word is she's a bit cantankerous, and something of a mystic or . . . well, I'm not sure entirely. You'd probably love her.”

“I did stop, yes. There was a sign on the door, however. Closed till after lunch. But I got out and walked around the place. From what I could see of the pieces in the window, she does impeccable restoration work. And you're right, I have to get inside and see how they built the place around that gorgeous tree. It makes the mind spin.”

She could all but see the wheels turning. It made her smile. She knew the feeling. It was how she felt every time she looked around the boathouse and tried to imagine what it would look like when his drawings were realized.

“Perhaps we should come back and take a stroll there after dinner,” he said. “See what she has that might work in here.”

She laughed. “Oh, we're a long, long way from picking out furniture.” But she had to admit, she was dying to start planning that part. Now that the general theme had been established, she could really let herself begin to think about it. “Besides, if I let you in there, I'll lose you for days, I can already tell.”

“Quite true.” He winked at her, completely unrepentant. “When I got the photos you sent, I did do some tweaking on the plans I sent you. I brought the updated version with me for you to look over.” At her glance around and behind him, he lifted empty hands. “I left them back at the house.”

“House? What house? You've already checked in somewhere?”

“I leased a place out by the Point, on the bay. Lovely view of the old lighthouse. Marnie found it. A real gem.”

“You . . . leased a house? Already? Are you staying then?” She knew what his schedule was like, so she was sure there was no way he could be doing that.

He pretended to look offended. “You don't want me around and underfoot? Well, I suppose given the greeting I received, I can understand that.” He was the only man she knew who could give an aggrieved sigh and a naughty wink at the same time, and make both of them work.

“Oh, stop with the sad violins already. I would love it if you were around and underfoot, and you know it,” she said dryly, making him grin like a mischievous child who had just gotten what he wanted. “But I'm aware what your life is like, so we both know that's not going to happen.”

“True, but I do plan to make it up here during the construction phase whenever I can, and of course I'll be coming to visit once the place is done. After all, if my favorite person insists on living in Maine, then I suppose I'll have to come to Maine to see her.”

“Your favorite person will be running an inn. What, you can't stay in my place? You're designing it.”

“You know I like my privacy. And loads of space. I'd have to rent out the whole thing.” He smiled and let the ego that was always simmering just below the surface rise to the top. “Besides, a Langston deVry inn will always be booked. Folks will be lining up to see what I've done with this place. I've already let the word drop to a few of the architectural digests.”

“You—did?” Grace's eyes popped wide. “Langston, that's—thank you!”

“Darling, you didn't think I was doing this exclusively for you, did you? It will be a new kind of feather in my cap. We'll both reap the rewards. Now, let's go swing by wherever it is you're staying and get your things so we can move you out to the house.” He pulled two sets of keys from his pants pocket. “Here. It's yours for the duration. Longer if you need an escape once you're living here.”

“You can't just buy me a house.”

“I didn't buy you a house.” He grinned. “I leased one. If you like it, though, just tell me and . . . merry Christmas to you.”

Grace tried to stare him down, knowing it was fruitless.

For all that Langston was a polished, worldly sophisticate with his prestigious Ivy League degree and offices on more than one continent . . . he was still, at heart, a big kid who happened to be able to play in a very big sandbox while simultaneously owning—or leasing—all the candy stores he wanted. He got so passionate about things that he sometimes forgot that not everyone appreciated or even wanted him bulldozing in and simply making his visions for them happen.

She thought that was probably a large part of his marriage and divorce record.

He jangled the keys. “Come now, don't waste time. Let's go have dinner and make plans for this place, shall we?”

Most times when he got a little—or a lot—out of line, he'd back down, grudgingly, if she really put her foot down. Today, however, was not one of those times. He leveled at her his big-time-boss-man-architect gaze, reminding her why he was also a huge global business success.