Haven Creek (6 page)

Morgan knew she still had time to look for Mr. Right and settle down with a couple of children, but doubted whether she’d ever find a husband on Cavanaugh Island. The hurtful comments from the boys about her height and weight wreaked havoc on her emotional stability, and the result was an inability to feel completely confident with men.

When she updated her wish list for the second time, she never could have imagined her involvement in restoring Angels Landing Plantation to its original magnificence.

Once again her love life would take a backseat to her career.

Wednesday morning, Nate punched in the code on the keypad at the entrance to Shaw Woodworking. Ironically, he hadn’t realized how shabby the wooden building looked until after he’d built the barn less than a thousand feet away from the structure that had become a Haven Creek landmark.

His great-grandfather had built the one-room cabin after his wife complained about the noise coming from the shed behind their home. Elias Shaw was rarely seen in public because he’d spend most of his waking hours sawing and hammering tables, chests, headboards and footboards, chairs and servers. Elias and succeeding generations had continued the tradition of date-stamping and signing each piece.

He opened the door, inhaling the smell of raw wood, which was like life-giving oxygen to him, and chided himself for staying away so long. Returning to the Creek had healed him inside and out. He’d reconnected with his family and his roots.

Roots.
The word reminded him of Morgan. It’d been her sole reason for not leaving the Creek, and it was the reason he’d returned. Nate wasn’t certain how long he would’ve continued to live in L.A. if it hadn’t been for his father’s health crisis or Bryce’s involvement with the law. His marriage had ended in divorce, the housing market had gone belly-up, and except for an occasional job building movie sets, his days and nights were usually spent walking along the beach.

The telephone call from Odessa telling him that Bryce was in jail and Lucas had been transported to a hospital after he’d suffered a mild stroke had galvanized Nate into action. He told his landlady he was giving up his apartment, then wrote her a check for the remaining months on his lease. He also paid her to pack up his personal items and ship them to Cavanaugh Island. Hours later he was on a nonstop flight from LAX to Charleston International. He’d taken a taxi directly from the airport to the hospital. He was relieved that his father hadn’t suffered any lasting effects from the stroke, but the doctor had issued a stern directive that Lucas had to lower his cholesterol and blood pressure. He’d also advised Lucas to work fewer hours and exercise more. It all translated into semiretirement.

Nate checked the dehumidifier that ran around the clock to prolong the life and preserve the quality of the planks of wood stored on built-in shelves in the cabin. He’d gotten up early to work on the doors to an armoire. The client had requested a replica of an ei
ghteent
h-ce
ntu
ry French piece made of cherrywood. Lucas had spent countless hours sanding the padauk until it felt like satin under his fingertips. The wood was difficult to work with because of its interlocking grain. But with patience and perseverance it’d become a beautiful, rich, deep red with dark streaks shimmering over the surface. His father had promised to deliver the armoire the week after Labor Day, and Nate knew he had to finish carving the door-panel inlay to complete the piece by the due date. Working on the barn had taken up most of his spare time, but now that the roof was installed he would shift his attention to commissioned pieces.

Flipping a switch, Nate turned on the track lighting that illuminated the space. He had been true to his word when he told Bryce that he could join the family business. Bryce’s probation officer had mandated that he have full-time employment, and working at Shaw Woodworking fulfilled that requirement. But Nate’s reaction to seeing Bryce carve wood was one of astonishment. His brother was to wood as Michelangelo was to marble. He was an artistic genius.

Nate had just placed a bag containing food that Sharon had prepared for him in the refrigerator when the door opened. Peering over his shoulder, he saw Lucas walk in with Bryce. “What jolted you two out of bed so early this morning?” he said teasingly.

Bryce scratched his chest, which was covered by a white T-shirt. “I made a mistake and set my clock for five instead of six.”

Nate nodded. “If you come in early, then that means you can leave early. I’m glad you’re here because I’d like to discuss something with both of you before we start working.”

Lucas straddled a seat at the bench where they normally took their meals. “Why do you sound so ominous?”

Smiling, Nate sat opposite his father. “Trust me, Dad. It’s hardly ominous.” He turned to stare at Bryce. “If you’re making coffee, then I’ll take a cup.”

“Me, too,” Lucas called out.

“No coffee for you,” the brothers said in unison.

“Dr. Monroe said I could have one cup a day as long as it’s decaf.”

“You know this ain’t decaf, Dad,” Bryce said.

Nate reached across the table and patted his father’s hand. “I’ll pick up some decaf when I go to the store later on today.” He glanced away rather than watch Lucas’s crestfallen expression. He couldn’t imagine not being able to eat or drink whatever he wanted. “Thanks,” he said when Bryce handed him a mug of steaming black coffee. Bryce had added milk to his own.

“What do you want to talk about?” Bryce asked as he straddled the bench seat.

“I’d like to restructure the business,” Nate said after he’d taken a sip of the hot brew.

Lucas angled his head and narrowed his eyes. “Restructure how?”

Nate stared into a pair of eyes much like his own. “It’s time we incorporate.”

Pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his coveralls, Lucas dabbed his shaved pate. “Why didn’t you do this a long time ago?”

“Remember, Dad, I was never involved in the company.”

“Wrong, Nate. You’ve worked with me since you were a boy.”

“I assisted you when I was a boy,” he countered. “What’s different now is that I’ve invested in this company, and that means I’m involved. I’ve underwritten the cost for a new building and machinery, and I bought a new truck. Incorporating will protect you against personal loss. If anyone were to sue you you’d lose everything, including your home and land. It’s different when someone sues a company—all you’d lose is the company’s assets.”

“What’s your stake in this?” Bryce asked Nate.

“The same stake you’ll have once you’re off probation.”

Lucas and Bryce listened intently when Nate told them that he planned to move all the supplies, machinery, and unfinished pieces of furniture into the barn. He told them he had an appointment with the family attorney, who was in the process of drawing up incorporation papers that would change the name of the company from Shaw Woodworking to Shaw & Sons Woodworking, Inc. Lucas would be listed as president and Nate as treasurer. Nate would also assume the responsibility of meeting and negotiating with potential clients. Lucas’s work hours would decrease to four hours a day, any three days of the week he chose. Bryce had also been placed on the payroll. He was expected to serve a yearlong apprenticeship, and upon completion would become an equal partner in the corporation. Nate was resolute when he told his brother that he was expected to arrive on time and be ready to work.

Shaw & Sons Woodworking, Inc. It’d taken him less than two minutes to come up with the name for what locals considered a mom-and-pop establishment. As the descendant of highly skilled furniture makers whose reputation was legendary throughout the Lowcountry, Nate sought to bring the family-owned business and name into the twenty-first century.

Nodding and smiling, Bryce said, “I like it.”

“So do I,” Lucas said in agreement.

Nate’s smile matched theirs. “The projected reorganization will not only benefit the company but the entire family.”

“How much will I be paid?” Bryce asked Nate.

“That will be Dad’s decision.”

Lucas stared at his younger son. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“What’s there to think about?”

“Don’t push me, Bryce,” Lucas retorted. “I told you I have to think about it.”

Bryce’s hands tightened around his mug. “I hope it’s above minimum wage.”

“That’s enough, Bryce,” Nate warned softly. He held up a hand when his brother opened his mouth to continue to challenge their father. “That topic is not open for discussion. However, there’s something else I want you to know about.” He told them about Morgan’s restoration project.

Lucas shook his head. “That’s a lot to ask from you, son. Don’t you think it may be too much responsibility for you now that I’m semiretired?”

“No. I have three to five years to re-create the slave village. I’ll also hire several assistants to complete it, so there’ll be no cost overruns.”

“I just don’t want you to end up like me, Nate, working longer and harder than necessary to provide for the family.”

Nate gave Lucas a reassuring smile. “You’ve done well, Dad.” What he wanted to say is that he wouldn’t have had to work so hard if Odessa didn’t spend her
and
his money as if it grew on trees. As a nurse she was required to wear a uniform when at the hospital, but it was her need to have a new outfit for services every Sunday that threatened to bankrupt her husband. If Odessa didn’t see a designer label on a dress, suit, pair of shoes, handbag, or piece of jewelry, then she avoided it like the plague.

Bryce drained his mug. “I could help you out whenever I’m not working here.”

“I’d love to have you, brother. Now let’s get to work so we can finish this wooden sarcophagus.”

Throwing back his head, Lucas laughed loudly. “It
is
large enough to hide at least two bodies.”

N
ate walked into the kitchen, smiling when he saw his niece and nephew sitting on stools at the cooking island. They were watching their mother as she cut strips of dough for a lattice-top pie. He patted his seven-year-old nephew’s head and then dropped a kiss on his five-year-old niece’s neatly braided hair.

“Mama’s making pie for dessert,” the children chorused.

Nate gave them a warm smile. “Watch your mama carefully so you can learn to cook as well as she does.”

Gabrielle patted her hair. “Mama and me have the same hair,” she said proudly. Her hair was styled with a profusion of braids that were pinned into a knot on the crown of her head.

Sharon Shaw Mills winked at Nate. “She’s been bugging me to braid her hair, so now that school is out, I decided to oblige Miss Thang and take her to the Beauty Box with me.”

Whenever he looked at his sister, it was a constant reminder of what their mother had looked like at that age. Sharon had inherited her mother’s petite frame, café au lait complexion, and coal-black curly hair, physical characteristics she’d passed along to her own offspring.

“You girls look beautiful,” Nate crooned.

“Momma’s not a girl, Uncle Nate,” Gregory piped up, correcting his uncle. “She says she’s a woe-man.”

Nate turned his head to hide the grin that had spread across his face. Living with his sister had taught him one important rule: Edit everything before you say it, because her children had minds like steel traps. They remembered everyone and everything.

“Thank you for reminding me, Gregory,” he said in apology. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Aren’t you staying for supper?” Sharon asked.

“No. I have to go to the Cove.”

“Do you want me to leave a plate for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll grab something at Jack’s Fish House.”

Nate was anxious to see what Morgan was proposing. He’d spent all day Sunday, Monday, and early Tuesday morning putting shingles on the roof of the barn. It’d taken him five months to put up the framework, including the roof and all-around overhangs, the exterior and interior walls, and the floors, windows, and doors. The structure could’ve been completed in under a month if he’d hired a crew to assist him. But for Nate it was a test of endurance. He’d used every waking hour for the project, dividing his time between working with his father in the one-room cabin that had served as the workshop for Shaw Woodworking for nearly a century and working on the barn site itself.

He got into his truck, started the engine, and headed for Sanctuary Cove. The paved road connecting Angels Landing to Sanctuary Cove cut down on the travel time. Cavanaugh Island had changed slightly during his absence, only adding to the island’s charm.

The Creek had Happy Hour, a club catering to the under-forty crowd. It was the only bar on the island. Then there was Panini Café, another gathering spot in the Creek for the younger crowd. Both establishments were popular with local and mainland residents. Nate maneuvered slowly along the two-lane road lined on both sides with towering pine trees. He barely glanced at the sign indicating the number of miles to Angels Landing and Sanctuary Cove.

Angels Landing appeared to have been caught in suspended animation. Totally residential, it nevertheless had no new homes or subdivisions. There were the “haves,” who lived in scaled-down replicas of antebellum mansions, and the “have-nots,” who lived in one-story structures built on pilings off the ground. Many of these houses were in need of a fresh coat of paint as well as new windows and screens. He chuckled softly. The years he’d spent working for a West Coast developer had perfected his observational skills. He could now apply what he’d learned to his hometown.

The paved road wound through a swampland where few had ventured in the past because of quicksand, alligators, and poisonous reptiles. His gaze followed the flight of a pair of snow-white egrets who had been perched on a fallen branch resting in the murky water.

Fifteen minutes later he entered the town limits of Sanctuary Cove. Having been accustomed to speeding on California freeways, Nate had to reprogram his brain to drive less than twenty miles per hour. There were no streetlights, except in the Cove and Creek business districts, no posted speed limits, and no stop signs on the island.

Nate decelerated, maneuvering through the downtown. He’d become a sightseer: He passed Jack’s Fish House, then the town square, where groups of teenagers used to gather around the fountain and the marble statue of patriot militiaman General Francis Marion atop a stallion. He stared at the Cove Inn, the town’s boardinghouse. It, too, needed a fresh coat of white paint. It suddenly hit him as if he’d been jolted by electricity. This was the first time he’d been to the Cove since his return. Jesse had accused him of hiding, Bryce had asked him if he knew how to have fun, and Morgan had talked about him not getting out enough. It was apparent they were right, because he felt more like a tourist than a native.

Since his return, his routine was always the same: up at sunrise, retire to bed at midnight, which left him with little or no time for himself. And if he didn’t share Sunday dinner with his family or go to the lumberyard on the mainland, Nate would’ve lived a monastic existence. He hoped that would change now that the barn was nearing completion.

Nate turned down a side street and drove into an area set aside for business district parking. He managed to find an empty space between a rusty pickup and a late-model roadster. The Memorial Day weekend signaled the official start of the summer season, and that meant the island’s population increased appreciably, with an influx of tourists and college students. Walking out of the parking lot, he made his way down Moss Alley. Ageless oak trees draped in Spanish moss had given the iconic narrow cobblestone street its name.

Moving back to Cavanaugh Island had been a shot in the arm for Nate. Here there was no manufacturing to pollute the air and water; no traffic jams, no exhaust fumes; no fast-food restaurants, big-box stores, or strip malls. When the local kids didn’t go to Charleston, they’d hang out in the town square or on the beach. There had never been a record of a vehicular fatality or a hit-and-run accident. Anyone caught driving under the influence was harshly dealt with by local law enforcement.

He strolled along Main Street, peering into storefronts. He smiled when he saw the piano in the Parlor Bookstore. The shingle above a nearby storefront read
ASA MONROE, MD, CRITICAL CARE FAMILY PRACTICE.
Dr. Monroe had become his father’s primary physician. It was good the island now had a resident doctor and a bookstore.

Nate glanced at the clock above the building housing the
Sanctuary Chronicle.
It was 6:20. Morgan had mentioned she could be found in her office most nights, so he turned on his heels and headed back toward Moss Alley.

The sound of the doorbell chiming like Big Ben echoed throughout the space where Morgan had set up M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design. She saved what she’d typed, then walked to the front door. Peering through the beveled glass, she saw the figure of a man, then his face. Nate. Unlocking the door, she stared up at him. Her breath caught in her throat, making breathing difficult. The stubble on his jaw, and his black T-shirt, relaxed jeans, and work boots, served to enhance his blatant virility.

“You came.”

Staring at her under lowered lids, Nate smiled. “I told you I would. Do you always keep the door locked?”

“I do when I’m here alone and working in the back.” She opened the door wider. “Please come in.” Nate walked in, the subtle scent of sandalwood aftershave wafting to her nose.
Why does he have to look and smell so delicious?
her inner voice asked. Morgan knew that if she wasn’t careful, old feelings were certain to resurface, making it hard for her to maintain a professional demeanor when interacting with him. Closing and locking the door, she turned to find him glancing around the outer office.

“I like what you’ve done here,” Nate said, staring at a trio of framed Jonathan Green prints.

Two side chairs upholstered in natural Haitian cotton flanked a low table topped with a vase of fresh flowers and succulents in small decorative pots. Twin Tiffany-style floor lamps matched one on another table, which doubled as a desk. Recessed lighting, prerecorded music flowing from speakers concealed in the ceiling, and the cool colors of blue, gray, and white created a calming effect.

Nate ran his fingers over a wall covered with blue-gray fabric. “Fiberglass?”

Morgan nodded. “You’re good. How did you know?”

“I’ve installed panels like these in a number of houses.”

“I thought you only work with wood,” Morgan said, slightly taken aback by Nate’s revelation.

“I spent about fifteen years working for a builder, and during that time I learned a lot about the construction business.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he studied the decorative marquetry inlay and contrasting veneers on the desk in the reception area. “Where did you get this table?”

She took a step, standing close to him. “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”

“Is it signed and dated?”

“The underside is stamped: Shaw 1898.”

Nate gave Morgan a quick glance. “How many pieces do you own that were made by my ancestors?”

“Come with me and I’ll show you.”

She led the way to the back of the shop, where she’d set up her private office. She’d divided the expansive area in half, to accommodate a lounge. “The credenza is a Shaw, and so is the drop-leaf table.” Morgan stared at Nate when he touched the credenza as if it were a priceless relic.

“Was this a part of a dining room set?”

“Yes. My grandfather gave away the table, chairs, and china closet when he married my grandmother. She came to their marriage with her own furniture, so he agreed to part with everything but the tables and credenza. When his mother heard what her daughter-in-law had done she never spoke to her again.”

Nate crossed muscular arms over his chest and angled his head. “I’ve heard of families falling out over money, but rarely furniture.”

Morgan stared into his clear brown eyes, which seemed not to look at her but through her. It was the same look she remembered when they’d shared a booth at Perry’s, which now seemed eons ago. Had he recognized her longing gazes? Or had he thought her a silly, awestruck girl all too eager for an upperclassman to acknowledge her?

“We Danes are reluctant to let go of our past, lest we forget where we’ve come from.”

Bending slightly, Nate peered closely at the photographs atop the credenza. “Living here makes it almost impossible to forget where we’ve come from. Your grandfather made certain to preserve history when he took those pictures.” There were black-and-white photographs of couples walking to church in their Sunday best, a group of men sitting on the back of a pickup truck filled with watermelons, a young man in a zoot suit, and girls jumping rope.

“Grandpa was known as the Lowcountry James Van Der Zee.”

He stood up straight. “Are these photos originals?”

Morgan shook her head. “No. When Grandpa passed away he left me all his photographs, camera equipment, and negatives. Some of his originals are exhibited in museums and many are in private collections.”

“You’ve done an incredible job decorating this place.”

She curbed the urge to curtsy. “Thank you.”

“Now that I see this place, I’d like to hire you to decorate my barn.”

Morgan went completely still. “You want me to decorate a barn?”

“It’s not what you think. I built a two-bedroom apartment in the loft.”

“How large is the apartment?” she asked.

“It’s about twenty-one hundred square feet.”

“That’s larger than some of the houses on the island.”

A rumble of laughter came from Nate’s broad chest. “Well, it is in a barn. Will you come by and look at it?”

There was a pregnant pause before Morgan said, “Sure. But I can’t come for at least two weeks. I’m currently interviewing brick masons and landscapers while attempting to complete a research project. Is that okay with you?”

He nodded. “It’s fine.”

“Now that we’ve got that settled, would you like to see the rest of the office?”

“Sure.”

She opened the door to the lounge, revealing four yellow leather chairs pushed under a round glass-top table and bookcases filled with books on subjects ranging from art, African-American history, architecture, castles, gardens, and handicrafts to decorating and interior design. A wall-mounted flat-screen TV and an orange leather reclining love seat had turned it into the perfect place to unwind and relax. Open louvered mahogany doors exposed a utility kitchen with overhead cabinets, a refrigerator, microwave, and dishwasher.

“This is the office lounge. The door in the corner is a bathroom.”

“Was all this here when you rented the space?” Nate asked.

“No. It was an open space with a minuscule bathroom. I had the bathroom expanded and a plumber put in a shower stall, but I can’t use it because the retractable showerhead sprays water everywhere.”

“Did you tell the plumber?”

“Yes, but he’s on a job in Myrtle Beach. He says as soon as he’s finished he’ll come and adjust it.”

Nate brushed past her and entered the bathroom. Sliding back the frosted doors, he looked at the showerhead. “It’s probably the diverter valve. I’ll come by tomorrow night and fix it for you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Turning, he approached her, she taking a step backward when he stopped less than a foot away. He was too close for comfort. His eyes glittered like yellow citrines in a face deeply tanned from working outdoors in the hot sun.

“If I’m going to work for you, then you’re going to have to loosen up.”

Nate knew he’d shocked Morgan when her jaw dropped. He stared at her parted lips, wondering how she would react if he kissed her—a real kiss this time. It was his turn to be shocked by his thoughts. He’d never been impulsive, especially when it came to women, but there was something about Morgan that made him react differently. He knew it had nothing to do with her looks, because he’d dated his share of beautiful women. In fact, he’d married one.