Half Moon Harbor (7 page)

“Oh, but you have to get him to pop in. Surely you'll want him to see the property firsthand. How is it that you know him? Have you worked with him before?”

Grace knew Langston deVry because she'd been the lawyer who had handled the probate when Langston's wife had died suddenly in a car accident shortly after their quickie wedding, and unfortunately before they'd had the chance to sort through all of the his-and-hers details of their personal holdings. As she'd been his fourth wife and a good twenty years his junior, Grace had been surprised to find Langston sincerely and truly devastated by his sudden loss. He'd been in no shape to deal with his late wife's family, who'd all crawled out of the woodwork to see what, if anything, they could lay claim to in her name.

For all that Langston was a very wealthy, highly celebrated, and respected architect who ran a successful firm that operated on more than one continent, with offices on both coasts in the U.S., as well as London and Tokyo, Grace had ended up feeling very protective of him during the long, drawn-out proceedings. It was something she wouldn't have thought he'd take notice of, assuming he expected nothing less from those who worked on his behalf. But notice her he had.

That had been five years ago. He was the nearest thing she had to family. Of course, the path to their friendship had been . . . interesting, to say the least, but with Langston, there could be no other way. His approach to his work mirrored his approach to life, meaning it wasn't exactly linear. He'd even made a move on her at one point, a year or so after his wife's death, despite being almost thirty years her senior. She'd politely declined, which had actually been a turning point—it was rare anyone said no to him, most particularly women—and her independence had served to strengthen what had gone on to become a very trusting and loyal friendship.

She would never categorize him as being particularly fatherly, or even avuncular. He was far too flamboyant and charismatic for that—worldly genius mentor-slash-BFF was more like it, a cross-generational duality only Langston could truly embody. But that hadn't stopped him from trying to match her up with every up-and-comer he could con her into meeting. She was wise to his games and usually managed to sidestep his Cupid maneuvers.

Whatever the label that best described their relationship, she trusted him more than anyone else in her life and often sought his counsel. More in business matters than personal ones, though that didn't stop him from butting in on both. When she'd finally shared her crazy, impossible, totally nutso idea about the big life change she was contemplating, he'd immediately tried to talk her out of it. Normally, that would have been that. She trusted him. He'd done, seen, experienced, so much more than she had. Instead, it perversely made her more determined . . . as if she had to show him she was right.

In typical Langston fashion, once he'd realized he couldn't change her mind, he'd tried to commandeer and orchestrate her big move, but it was something she was determined to do on her own. Though she'd wrestled control of her life back, mostly because he was far too busy to meddle consistently from long distance—he did that particularly well when he put his mind to it—one thing had remained irrevocable. Whatever place she found, whatever property she chose, he was doing the renovation and remodel. No questions, no buts, no nothing.

There was no way she could explain any of that to Cami Weathersby, nor would she have tried. “We were business acquaintances a few years back,” was all Grace said.

Cami made appreciative noises. “Working your contacts. Good for you! Well, please feel free to name-drop Daddy if it will help your cause. Brooks Winstock. We'd love to have Langston to dinner,” she said brightly. After a pause, she added, “With you, too, of course.”

In the privacy of her room, Grace rolled her eyes.

“Well,” Cami said, her voice hitting that wince-worthy note again, “this is turning out to be just all kinds of fun! I know you're busy as the proverbial bee, as am I, but I'm so glad we could have this little chat. As always, you can turn to me for anything. Professional or personal. We girls—”

“Stick together,” Grace finished, her jaw aching along with her head. “I appreciate it. I'll let you go. Thanks again.” She clicked off before so much as another chirp could come through her earpiece. She immediately tossed the Bluetooth device on the bed, then slumped down next to it.

Whomper leaped up on the bed, gave her cheek a quick swipe, then settled next to her as she flopped onto her back, propping his chin on her arm. She glanced down into soulful brown eyes that seemed to say, “I understand. I'm here for you.”

She sighed and scratched him behind his ears. Whomper wriggled closer, nudging her hand again to keep her scratching and petting him. She smiled and shook her head. “Clearly I'm helpless against the charms of sparkly-eyed males.” Whomper's quick bark, as if in complete agreement, made her laugh out loud. “What have we gotten ourselves into, my furry little friend, huh?”

She needed to call Langston and let him know about his Blueberry Cove connection. For all she knew, he'd be delighted to be reunited with his old college buddy, but forewarned is forearmed. Something neither she nor Brodie had had the luxury of being. She thought about the boathouse. Staring at the ceiling, she tried to clear everything out of her mind, take a step back from what she wanted, and truly consider whether or not it would be the wiser thing to work out some kind of deal where she sold it to Brodie. “Who clearly would have paid the taxes himself if he had the money, so yeah.” Not really a solution.

While her investments had held up reasonably well despite economic fluctuations, buying another property outright was beyond her, because it would mean taking on a mortgage in addition to the business loan she'd already gotten. Plus, it might put her business loan in jeopardy if she suddenly became fickle and hopscotched properties.

Even if those realities weren't in play, she'd seen most of the properties on Cami's list before checking out the boathouse, and none of them had been the right fit. There was no second runner-up that had caught her eye or any part of her heart. Certainly nothing had captivated her the way the boathouse had. Going outside the Cove was not really a viable alternative, and not simply because she wanted to be as close to Ford as possible.

She was presently staying at the only inn anywhere near the Cove, and it wasn't even close to the water. She'd booked there to avoid small-town speculation while she looked at properties, which was sort of humorous, since she had confirmation that Cami had spread the word the moment she'd taken interest in the Monaghan property. But Blueberry Cove was tucked along the shores of Pelican Bay, which was located in the Acadia region of Maine. Down East, as the locals called it, was a nautical term—down east referred to the winds and currents used by boat captains out on the water—and was not a geographic term. Pelican Bay was really up north.

The coastal region in that part of Maine was far more rural and sparsely populated than places like Bar Harbor and other points south along the mid-coast region, heading down toward Boothbay and Portland. She was taking a pretty big risk establishing an inn in the more remote region, so moving away from the Pelican Bay area would more or less doom her already narrow window for success. She'd been banking on her family connection in Blueberry Cove to gain the trust and support of the community as she launched her business. Elsewhere, she'd be what the locals called a PFA—Person From Away—and unlikely to gain any such support. As it was, there was no guarantee she'd get support in Blueberry Cove. She was still a PFA, but she'd hoped family would count for something.

Of course, for all she knew, Ford had alienated himself from the locals just as he had from everyone else who cared about him. But he was still in the Cove, that much she knew. The fact that he'd been a resident for more than a decade had to count for something.

She thought about Brodie, whose family stretched back seven generations to the very founding of the town, and how he'd still been screwed over. She smirked in self-deprecation over thinking that her brother's residence of a whopping decade was going to be some kind of insurance.

She scratched Whomper's ears and gave him a little pat. “We are so screwed, little man.” She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. A smart person would give the property to the Irishman and run, cutting her losses and being thankful the hard lesson hadn't been more costly.

She opened her eyes and tilted her chin, giving the scruffy mutt a sideways glance. “But where has playing it smart gotten me really, eh?”

Sink or swim, she had a connection there, estranged though it might be. Ford had to realize she was serious and understand she was also permanent. In Blueberry Cove . . . and if he'd let her, in his life.

She thought about the questions that had led her to Blueberry Cove and Half Moon Harbor. For the past eight years she'd watched as countless families contended with and found answers to those very same questions. When she died, what was it she'd look back on with the greatest sense of pride? What would she recall with the most tender, the most profound emotions? Would it be a person, a place, a thing? And most important, how would she measure her life? What would be considered a success? A failure? How would she measure the role she'd played in what she'd achieved? Or what she hadn't?

All she knew was that the life she'd been living, the person she'd been content to become, had no decent answer to any of those questions. Not one she could be happy or satisfied with, at any rate. And that, she'd realized, wasn't the kind of someone she wanted to be.

“Well, one thing that won't be an answer to any of those questions is my inn, unless I get up and start making it happen.”

Whomper thumped his stubby tail and gave a quick bark.

Grace laughed and scooped him up as she curled herself back upright. “Maybe you'll turn out to be my goodwill ambassador,” she said, holding him up so they were nose to nose, leaving his rear legs dangling. “You can go guy bond with Brodie while I try not to destroy the man's heritage in an effort to begin one of my own.” She set Whomper on the floor and grabbed her Bluetooth and her phone, punching the speed-dial button for Langston. “Ready or not, Brodie, Ford, the entire town of Blueberry Cove, and the whole rest of my life . . . here I come.”

“H
ere barely a fortnight, and she's already turned my life upside down. Women, eh?” Brodie ran the pine plank through the surface planer, careful not to let his frustration add weight to the pressure he was exerting on the wood. “Man can't live without them and be truly happy. Or at least not be horny. But living with them? Och. It's almost not worth the happy parts, now is it?” He straightened and looked at the plank with a critical eye. “Of course, what would you know? Confirmed bachelor, I'm guessing. Here I'd been feeling sorry for ye, left out of all the summer shenanigans going on and about. You might have the right of it, after all. Find a nice private spot, make a home, leave all the craziness to the others.” Brodie glanced over at Auld Eán. “No words of wisdom, then?”

In response, the large brown pelican tipped his ungainly beak downward, preened at a few feathers along his wing, took his time settling his weight, tucking beak into wing, and finally pulled up one leg as he settled in for a nice morning nap.

“Sleep on it, ye say.” Brodie grinned at the snoozing bird, shook his head, and walked over to his tool bench. “Easier said, old man. Especially when I close my eyes, picture that wild hair, and the front of my old T-shirt she was wearing. Add in the way her eyebrow cocks when she's callin' ye out, the dry smile that follows.” He walked back over to the measurements marked on the floor, then went back and examined the laminations he'd built up against the false nosepiece. Satisfied, he set about fastening them, taking care to keep the screws clear of where he'd have to shape the wood. Once that was done, he ran his gaze over the edge and toe of the pattern, then collected a drawknife, planes, and his wood rasp to start on the contouring.

He enjoyed the rhythm of the work, that every piece required a different set of eyes, formed a different part, and had a separate function. As he started in with his drawknife, he could appreciate the workmanship—the patience along with the skills he'd worked so hard to achieve—that would go into shaping every piece, then fitting them together to create the larger section, then adding on to that. But his mind was really on running his hands along something even smoother, and a lot softer. “And the laugh. Honest, sexy, uninhibited. Och, mate. The laugh will haunt you every time now, won't it? More provocative than a signature scent is that unique sound.”

Brodie focused back on the task at hand. Normally the rhythms of working with his hands while analyzing, sorting, calculating with his mind smoothed out whatever rough edges there might be inside himself. Hours passed, sometimes a full day, and his heart was so into his work, into bringing the spirit of the vessel to life, that he didn't notice much else, didn't think of much else. If his drawing board was the place where he dreamed and let his imagination soar, the balance of time in the workshop was a retreat for the mind and body and a sanctuary for the soul. It was the one place he'd always be welcome, the only place he'd always felt truly at home.

Of late, it hadn't provided much solace or brought him the much-needed balance he sought. His heart was in the work, that was a constant. But his mind . . . his thoughts, aye, those were elsewhere. A very specific elsewhere. He wrote off the distraction as unavoidable, what with her just several piers down, and all the noise coming from that direction. How could he not be distracted by the very idea that someone other than a Monaghan was putting a hand to what had always been under Monaghan rule?

Except it hasn't been under any rule for a good long spell, has it, lad?
his little voice prodded. Close to thirty years it had sat untended, almost the entirety of his lifetime. It was a miracle of fate and whatever else a man might believe in that the property was still lawfully in Monaghan hands at all. And barely that, apparently. “The illusion of ownership is all it is. Or was.”

“Your burden was lightened a bit. I thought you'd be happy.”

At the first sound of a woman's voice, Brodie was forced to admit his heart had actually skipped a full beat.
That's how far down the slope you've gone sliding, boy-o.

He could lay blame on the noise coming from the far pier and boathouse, but the distraction was the woman herself. Brodie took a brief moment to gather himself. He set the plane down and brushed his hands off on his pant legs before turning to face his uninvited guest. “Perhaps if you'd taken the time to question me directly, I could have cleared up your unfortunate misunderstanding in that regard.”

Cami Weathersby stepped into the boathouse, slipping the thin gold chain strap of her fuchsia-colored, hand-tooled leather messenger bag farther up on the shoulder of her precisely tailored fawn suit. She tucked in her elbows and picked her way across the wood-shaving-strewn floor, clearly unaccustomed to allowing any part of her expensive, overly designed, matching fuchsia heels to come into contact with anything that wasn't, well . . . equally expensive.

“Careful there. Wouldn't want to scuff the red soles on those party shoes of yours on something as common as pier planking.”

Her carefully tweezed and perfectly penciled brows lifted ever so slightly, careful not to actually crease the smooth skin of her forehead. If she wondered how he knew she was sporting Christian Louboutins on her dainty feet, she didn't come out and ask.

Six sisters, four nieces, and countless aunties back in Ireland, each with an addiction to one high fashion magazine or another, would have been the answer. But he didn't like to spend too much time thinking about the extended family he'd left behind and he sure as hell wasn't going to share anything about them with this woman.

“Yes, well, perhaps if you'd returned any of my calls, we could have sorted out so many things without my being forced to risk my favorite footwear in your”—she broke off and looked around the interior of the almost century-old boathouse which had been built into the end of the main pier, unable to disguise her complete lack of appreciation for its history and even less for its location—“place of business.” She said the last word with just enough of a dubious tone to make it clear she questioned whether or not he truly understood the meaning or the concept.

That boathouse was the fifth such one built on that very spot, starting back with the shipyard's inception. It was actually meant to be used as a toolshed and above-water repair depot for boats already in the water and was not particularly practical for building them because all the materials had to be hauled down the docks. When he was able to complete renovation on the largest boathouse and get the business up and fully operational, that would be the main workshop.

The smaller place had tugged at him when he'd first arrived and docked his boat just outside. It had been convenient back then, since he'd lived on his boat leading up to that first winter, and he'd grown used to it. He liked it—the peace and solitude of being as close to the water as he could get.

“You didn't seem to have any qualms about risking your fancy footwear when you were down here hawking my boathouses to the highest bidder. Perhaps you should have dropped by right then and this terrible inconvenience would never have come to pass.”

He thought about how similarly out of place he'd imagined Grace to be on first seeing her on the docks, expensive heels caught up in the old ropes, fancy coat and clothes ruined, completely inappropriate for that environment. And yet, in truth, she'd proven herself to be quite comfortable and at home in that setting. He'd spied her often enough out on the dock that extended from the boathouse on the end—her boathouse now—sitting out on the end of the pier with a morning cup of coffee and more times than not again at sunset. Apparently, it drew her for the same reasons being out over the water drew him. She was a rower. He wondered if she missed being on the water as much as he did. He wondered what else she thought about while she sat out there.

Brodie looked at Cami, who truly was out of her element. While there were any number of tumultuous emotions swimming through his mind and swamping his heart regarding the sale of his family's property, he knew he couldn't let her see a one. After all, that had been the entire purpose of her little stunt. To make him pay. He'd be damned if he'd give her even a hint of satisfaction.

Sliding her bag in front of her, likely to keep it from rubbing against anything filthy, but which also turned it into a handy shield, she moved over to the large, multi-paned window that faced the harbor with a view of the bay in the distance. “I'm here now,” she said, glancing out at the water.

Her gaze paused briefly on his sailboat, which was once again docked just outside, then down at the floor as she took another careful step, then another, before finally lifting her gaze to look directly at him. She was nothing if not a master at making an entrance, then posing appropriately while delivering whatever carefully constructed verbal slap lay on the tip of her tongue. Of course, where he was concerned, words of an entirely different sort had rolled off that very tongue, not three months past.

He'd underestimated her then. He wouldn't make that mistake again.

“The town leaders, the council, everyone is excited to see a bit of life brought back to the harbor. Grace's inn will turn what has been an eyesore for longer than most of us can recall into something beautiful and hopefully, profitable.” Cami glanced around again, making it clear the same could not be said about what he'd done with the property as yet. “In fact, that's why I'm here. Grace was a bit . . . unsettled, when she realized you were still on the property.”

Brodie had no idea where this little conversation was headed, but she'd caught him off guard, and he knew by the satisfied gleam that entered her dark brown eyes that she hadn't missed it, either.

“Sounds like she's someone who values transparency in her dealings, too. But then, you know I'm a big proponent of being open and aboveboard.” That was about as close as he could tread on the subject they were pretending didn't exist. He'd been raised not to call a woman a cheating whore. Even if it happened to be true.

From the way her eyes narrowed, she hadn't missed his underlying point.

Of course, it was no secret that Ted Weathersby liked to dip his wick, as it were, in places other than his wife. Whether it was an angry game of one-upmanship or they had some kind of open-marriage arrangement, Brodie didn't know, nor did he much care . . . as long as it didn't involve him. Cami had only taken exception to that last part. If her response to his polite refusals—it had taken three of them—was any indication, apparently she didn't hear
no
all that often.

As soon as Grace had mentioned Cami's name as the agent involved in the brokering of the boathouse sale, Brodie had had a pretty damn good idea why it had gone down as it had. But it wasn't the kind of thing he'd ever come out and say, in public or in private, to Cami or anyone else. The host of Monaghan women who had raised him had done a better job than that. There was also the part of him that refused to give her the pleasure of knowing just how deeply she'd plunged her dagger of retribution. Or how concerned he was that she'd do it again. And again. Before he could do a damn thing to stop her.

He simply turned his attention back to the job at hand, knowing the only thing that was going to stop Cami once and for all was the other kind of currency she was comfortable bartering with. Money—which meant he had a boat or three to build.

“If Grace has any concerns, she knows she can come and talk to me,” he said, laying down the plane, then making notes and marking off measurements in pencil directly on the wood. “Hell, she's down there tearing my boathouse apart, so I don't think she's really worried about what I think, much less hurting my feelings.”

“I didn't think it was possible to hurt a man who kept such a careful guard on his heart.”

Brodie could have told her it hadn't been his heart he'd been protecting when he'd turned down her indecent proposal. He could have told her that any man crazy enough to travel across an ocean to lay claim to a centuries-old property that hadn't been operational, much less turned a profit, for decades was a man who wore his heart so vividly on his sleeve that no one with eyes could mistake it.

“Oh, that's right,” she went on, injecting a note of faux surprise into her voice. “I forgot. That wall does have a few chinks in it after all. Chinks that Alex MacFarland all but tripped over and fell right into, poor dear, without even noticing. Or caring.”

As soon as she'd taken that dripping, calculated tone with him, he'd braced himself for her to volley whatever verbal arsenal she thought she had, and she hadn't disappointed. Hopefully his nonreaction had. Maybe for the first time, Brodie was truly and sincerely thankful that Alex was happily in a relationship with the town police chief, Logan McRae. McRae's family was one of only two whose ties to Blueberry Cove and Pelican Bay were older than the Winstocks, so Cami wouldn't dare take out her vengeful venom on Alex.

Of course, the other family was the Monaghans, but oh, the mighty had fallen and fallen far. And Cami had taken advantage. She was the type who never met an advantage she didn't like to press. Especially if that meant pressing her tight little curves directly against it.

“Poor Brodie.” She pursed her perfectly lined and colored lips and ran a lingering gaze along his body, trying for a dismissive smirk when her eyes reached his again, only her dilated pupils told another story.

He kept his amused smile to himself and let her have her moment onstage. Now that he understood her game, it was simply a matter of endurance. He'd never suffered a shortage of that. Another of the few benefits to growing up the only boy in a house full of women. Not that he'd ever admit as much to said women.

“I never would have pegged you for a fool, pining for what he can't have. You always struck me as a smart man who understood exactly what he could have and made good use of it.” Cami took another careful step toward him, somehow managing to step over wood pieces and make the movement appear serpentine all at the same time.