The Inn at Eagle Point (2 page)

1

15 years later
B
eing an overachiever sucked, Abby O'Brien Winters concluded
as she crawled into bed after midnight, mentally and physically exhausted after
a roller-coaster day on Wall Street. She'd managed about twenty minutes of
quality time with her twin daughters before they'd fallen asleep barely into
the opening paragraph of
The Velveteen Rabbit.
She'd eaten warmed-over
Chinese takeout for the third straight night, then pulled out a half-dozen
voluminous market analysts' reports she needed to absorb before the stock exchange
opened in the morning. Her bedtime reading was a lot more challenging than what
Caitlyn and Carrie chose.
She was good at her job as a portfolio manager for a major brokerage company,
but so far it had cost her a marriage to a great guy, who'd tired of playing
second fiddle to her career, and more sleep than she could possibly calculate.
Though she shared custody of the twins with Wes, she often felt as if she was
barely acquainted with her five-year old daughters. It sometimes seemed as if
they spent more time with the nanny—and even her ex-husband—than they did with
her. She'd long since lost sight of exactly what she was trying to prove and to
whom.
When the phone rang, Abby glanced at the clock and groaned. At this hour, it
could only be an emergency. Heart thudding, she reached for the receiver.
"Abby, it's me," her sister Jessica announced. Jess was the youngest
of the five O'Brien siblings and the real night owl among them. Abby stayed up
late because it was the only way to cram enough work into a twenty-four-hour
day. Jess did it because she was just starting to hit her stride when the moon
and stars came out. "I called earlier, but the nanny said you weren't home
yet. Then I got distracted with a project I'm working on. I hope it's not too
late. I know you're usually up till all hours."
"It's fine," Abby assured her. "Is everything okay? You sound
stressed. Is something going on with Gram? Or Dad?"
"Gram's amazing. She'll outlive us all. And Dad is off someplace building
something. I can't keep track of him."
"He was in California last week," Abby recalled.
"Then I guess he's still there. You know he has to oversee every single
detail when one of his projects is being built. Of course, then he loses
interest, just the way he did with Chesapeake Shores."
There was an unsurprising note of bitterness in Jess's voice. As the youngest
of five, she, more than the rest of them, had missed spending time with their
dad. Mick O'Brien had already been making a name for himself as an architect
and urban planner when he'd designed and built Chesapeake Shores, a now-famous
seaside community on the Chesapeake Bay. He'd done it in partnership with his
brothers—one a builder, the other an environmentalist. The town had been built
around land that had been farmed by Colin O'Brien, a great-great uncle and the
first of the O'Briens to arrive from Ireland in the late 1800s. It was to be
the crown jewel in Mick's body of work and the idyllic place his family would
call home. It hadn't turned out that way.
Mick and his brothers had fought over the construction, battled over
environmental issues and even over the preservation of the few falling-down
historic buildings on some of the property. Eventually they'd dissolved the
partnership. Now, even though they all coexisted in or near Chesapeake Shores,
they seldom spoke except on holidays, when Gram insisted on a pretense of
family harmony.
Abby's mother, Megan, had lived in New York since she and Mick had divorced
fifteen years ago. Though the plan had been for all of the children to move to
New York with her, for reasons Abby had never understood, that hadn't happened.
They'd stayed in Chesapeake Shores with their mostly absent dad and Gram. In
recent years, one by one they had drifted away, except for Jess, who seemed to
have a love-hate relationship with the town and with Mick.
Since moving to New York herself after college, Abby had reestablished a strong
bond with her mother, but none of the others had done the same. And not just
Jess, but all five of them had an uneasy relationship with their father. It was
Gram—who'd been only a girl when her family had followed their O'Brien
predecessors to Maryland—with her fading red hair, twinkling blue eyes, ready
smile and the lingering lilt of Ireland in her voice, who held them together
and made them a family.
"Did you call to complain about Dad, or is something else on your
mind?" Abby asked her sister.
"Oh, I can always find something to complain about with Dad," Jess
admitted, "but actually I called because I need your help."
"Anything," Abby said at once. "Just tell me what you
need." She was close to all her siblings, but Jess held a special place in
her heart, perhaps because of the big difference in their ages and her
awareness of how their mother's departure and their father's frequent absences
had affected her. Abby had been stepping in to fill that gap in Jess's life
since the day Megan had left.
"Could you come home?" Jess pleaded. "It's a little too
complicated to get into on the phone."
"Oh, sweetie, I don't know," Abby began, hesitating. "Work is
crazy."
"Work is always crazy, which is exactly why you need to come home. It's
been ages. Before the girls came along, you used work as an excuse. Then it was
the twins. Now it's work
and
the twins."
Abby winced. It was true. She had been making excuses for years now. She'd
eased her conscience with the fact that every member of her family loved
visiting New York and came up frequently. As long as she saw them all often, it
didn't seem to matter that it was almost always on her turf rather than
Chesapeake Shores. She'd never stopped to analyze why it had been so easy to
stay away. Maybe it was because it really hadn't felt like home after her
mother had left.
Before she could reply, Jess added, "Come on, Abby. When was the last time
you took a real vacation? Your honeymoon, I'll bet. You know you could use a
break, and the girls would love being here. They should spend some quality time
in the town their grandfather built and where you grew up. Gram could spoil them
rotten for a couple of weeks. Please. I wouldn't ask if it weren't
important."
"Life-or-death important?" Abby asked. It was an old exchange, used
to rank whether any crisis was truly monumental or only a temporary blip in
their lives.
"It could be," Jess said seriously. "At least in the sense that
my whole future's at stake. I think you're the only one who can fix this, or at
least the only one I'm willing to ask for help."
Struck by the somber tone in her voice, Abby said, "Maybe you'd better
tell me right now."
"You need to be here to understand. If you can't stay for a couple of
weeks, then at least come for a few days. Please."
There was something in her sister's voice that Abby had never heard before, an
urgency that suggested she wasn't exaggerating her claim that her future was at
stake. Since Jess was the only one of the five siblings who'd been floundering
for a focus since reaching adulthood, Abby knew she couldn't turn her back on
her. And admittedly a break would do Abby herself a world of good. Hadn't she
just been bemoaning her workaholic tendencies earlier tonight?
She smiled, thinking about how wonderful it would be to breathe the salty
Chesapeake Bay air again. Even better, she would have uninterrupted time with
her girls in a place where they could swing on the playground her father had
designed for the town park, build sand castles on the beach and run barefoot
through the chilly waters of the bay.
"I'll work something out tomorrow and be down there by the weekend,"
she promised, giving in. She glanced at her jam-packed schedule and grimaced.
"I can only make it for a couple of days, okay?"
"A week," Jess pleaded. "I don't think this can be fixed in a
day or two."
Abby sighed. "I'll see what I can work out."
"Whatever you can arrange," Jess said at once, seizing the
compromise. "Let me know when your flight's getting in and I'll pick you
up."
"I'll rent a car," Abby said.
"After all these years in New York, do you actually remember how to
drive?" Jess teased. "Or even how to get home?"
"My memory's not that bad," Abby responded. "See you soon,
sweetie."
"I'll call Gram and let her know you're coming."
"Tell her not to go to any trouble, okay?" Abby said, knowing it
would be a waste of breath. "We'll go out to eat. I've been dying for some
Maryland crabs."
"No way," her sister countered. "It's a little early in the
season, but if you want steamed crabs, I'll find 'em somewhere and pick them up
for Friday-night dinner. We can eat on the porch, but I'm not about to stop
Gram from cooking up a storm. I say let the baking begin."
Abby laughed at her enthusiasm. Gram's baking—pies, tarts, cookies, scones,
cakes—was pretty amazing. There'd been a time in her life when Abby had wanted
to learn all those traditional family recipes and open a bakery, but that was
before she'd discovered an interest in and aptitude for the financial world.
That had been her ticket out of Chesapeake Shores.
Now, after more than ten hectic years away—years spent climbing a treacherous
corporate ladder, marrying, giving birth to twins and divorcing—she was going
home for a real visit, something longer than a rushed weekend with barely time
to relax before it was time to fly back to New York. She couldn't help
wondering, based on the dire tone in Jess's voice, if that was a good thing or
not.

*
* *

"Couldn't you at least put on a tie?" Lawrence
Riley grumbled, scowling at his son. "If you're going to take over this
bank, you need to set a good example for the employees. You can't come in here
looking as if you just climbed off the back of a Harley."
Trace regarded his father with amusement. "That's exactly what I did. My
bike's in the parking lot."
His father's frown deepened. "I thought I told you to drive your mother's
car. You have an image to uphold now."
"What was Mother supposed to do?" Trace asked reasonably. "I
couldn't see her riding my Harley to her garden club meeting."
"She has a dozen different friends who would have been happy to pick her
up," his father countered.
"And apparently not a one of them had any desire to run all her errands
with her after the meeting," Trace responded.
"You have an answer for everything, don't you?" his father grumbled.
"This situation is never going to work if you don't take me or this job
seriously."
"I always take you seriously," Trace said. "As for the job, I
don't want to take it at all. I have a perfectly good career in New York. Just
because I don't have to wear a suit or use a calculator doesn't mean it's not
respectable." In fact, his career as a freelance design artist not only
paid well, enabling him to live and work in a large loft in SoHo, it didn't
require him to answer to his father. That was quite a perk in his book.
His father's scowl deepened. "So, what? I should let this community bank
get gobbled up by one of the big banking conglomerates?"
"Maybe so," Trace said, knowing his response would only push his
father's hot button. "That's the way the banking world is going."
"Well,
this
bank won't, not as long as I have any say about
it," his father said stubbornly. "Chesapeake Shores Community Bank
serves the people in this town in a way that one of those faceless, impersonal
behemoths never could."
Trace couldn't argue the point. He just didn't want any part of running the
place, family heritage or not. "Why not put Laila in charge?" he
asked, referring to his younger sister. He warmed to the topic. If he could
convince his father to put Laila in the job she'd always wanted, he could be on
the road back to New York by morning. All he had to do was sell his father on
the idea. "Think about it, Dad. She has a head for numbers. Her SAT math
scores were through the roof. She aced all of her college business courses. She
has a master's degree from the Wharton School of Business. She'd be a natural."
"I thought of that," his father admitted. "I even spoke to her
about it, but your sister told me to take a hike."
That was unexpected, Trace thought. "Why?"
His father shrugged. "She said she wasn't going to be anybody's second
choice, even mine."
Trace regarded him with bewilderment. "But you asked her first."
"When has your sister ever paid any attention to logic? She's convinced I
only asked her because I knew you wouldn't want the job."
"I don't suppose you tried to convince her she was wrong," Trace
said.
"How could I when she was right?"
"Do you think you two will ever learn to communicate?" Trace
grumbled. He and his dad might be at loggerheads ninety percent of the time,
but Lawrence Riley and Laila were rarely on the same page about anything, from
a choice as inane as breakfast cereal to a decision as critical as who ought to
run the bank. It had been that way from the moment she learned to talk.
"You mean communicate the way you and I do?" his father retorted
wryly.
"Yeah, at least that well," Trace responded. "Look, I'll talk to
her. I'll smooth things over between the two of you. Her pride's been hurt
because you've made it plain over the years that you want me back here, but
she'll come around."
His father hit his fist on the desk. "Dammit, you're the one who needs to
come around, Trace. What ever happened to family loyalty? A man works his whole
life to build up something good for his son, and you toss it aside without a
second thought."
"I've had a lifetime to think about it. You've never made a secret about
what you expected. I've given it a second thought and a third, for that matter,
ever since you called. Dad, come on, you know the whole nine-to-five drill
would never work for me. I like a job that's creative, a word that tends to
make bankers nervous as hell."
The faint hint of a smile finally touched his father's lips. "True
enough," he admitted. "How about this? We give it six months. If you
still hate it, you can take off again with my blessing. That's fair, isn't
it?"
As a respected and in-demand artist working freelance for several of New York's
top ad agencies, Trace had the flexibility to do as his father asked. He could
even keep up with a few accounts to keep himself from going totally stir-crazy
in Chesapeake Shores. If it would buy him his freedom permanently, surely he
could survive six months in a suit. He owed his father that much respect. And
in the long run that short-term display of loyalty would be wiser than causing
a family rift.
Moreover, he could spend the time trying to convince his sister to forget about
her stupid pride and being second choice. She'd wanted this job since she'd
learned to count. She ought to grab it, rather than wasting her talent by
keeping the books for a few local businesses. Unfortunately she'd inherited
their father's stubbornness. It would probably take Trace every single day of
the allotted six months to make peace between the two of them.
"Okay, six months," Trace agreed. "Not one day longer."
His father beamed at him. "We'll see. You might discover you have an
aptitude for banking, after all."
"Or you'll realize I'm incompetent when it comes to math."
"I have your college test scores and grades that say otherwise." He
stood up and held out his hand. "Welcome aboard, son."
Trace shook his hand, then studied his father intently. There was a glint in
his eyes that suggested there was more to the negotiations than Trace had
realized. "What are you up to?" he asked warily.
"Up to?" Lawrence Riley had a lousy poker face. Half of his pals at
the country club would testify to that. For the past thirty years, they'd lined
their pockets with his losses.
"Don't even try to play innocent, Dad. You're up to something, and it has
nothing to do with me becoming your protégé around here."
"We've made a business deal, that's all," his father insisted.
"Now let me show you your office. It's fairly Spartan now, but if you
decide to stick around you can decorate it however you want. Meantime, I'll
have Raymond go through some loan folders with you. We have a meeting of the
loan committee first thing Tuesday morning. You'll need to have your
recommendations ready then."
Trace held up a hand. "Hold on a second. I don't know enough to make
recommendations on whether loan applications should be approved."
"Raymond will show you the ropes. He's been my right hand for years. And
they're not all loan applications. There's a possible foreclosure in there,
too."
Trace's stomach knotted. "You want me to decide whether or not someone's
home should be taken away and put up for auction?"
"It's a business, not a home. And you won't be deciding on your own, of
course. The board will have the final say, but we'd likely act on your
recommendation."
"No way," Trace said. Who was he to rip someone's dreams to shreds?
Businesses in Chesapeake Shores were small, family-owned operations. It would
be like taking the food right off someone's table, someone he knew, more than
likely. He wasn't sure he had the stomach to do that.
"You can't be softhearted, son. It's strictly business, a matter of
dollars and cents. You'll see once you've taken a look at the paperwork."
His father patted him on the back. "You start looking over those files and
I'll send Raymond in."
Trace scowled at his father's departing back, then turned to the stack of
folders sitting neatly in the middle of the huge mahogany desk that took up
most of the corner office. Right on top sat one with a large, ominous red
sticker pasted on the front.
He sat down in the leather chair behind the desk, his wary gaze on that folder.
Curiosity finally got the better of him, and he flipped open the file and
stared at the first page.
"Oh, hell," he murmured as he read it:
Possible notice of
foreclosure—The Inn at Eagle Point. Owner: Jessica O'Brien.
He knew Jess O'Brien, but it wasn't her image that immediately came to mind. It
was that of her older sister, Abigail, the woman who'd stolen his heart years
ago on a steamy summer night, then disappeared without even a goodbye. Over the
years he'd told himself it was ludicrous to cling to such an elusive memory.
He'd tried to chase it away with other relationships, most of them casual, but
even a couple that had promised a deeper intimacy. In the end, he hadn't been
able to shake his desire for someone with auburn hair, laughing eyes and a
daredevil spirit that matched his own.
Now he was supposed to decide the fate of her sister's inn? One thing he knew
about the O'Briens, they stuck together. If he took on Jess, he'd be taking on
the rest of them, Abby included. Was that what had put the gleam in his
father's eye earlier?
He shook off the possibility. His father couldn't know that he'd been carrying
a torch for her all these years. No one did.
Except Laila, he realized. His sister had been Abby's best friend. She'd even
covered for the two of them that amazing night they'd spent together in a
secluded cove on the beach. Could she and his father be conspiring?
Damn straight, he thought with a shudder. Maybe he was finally about to get his
wish and see Abby again. Or maybe he was about to land in a whole mess of
trouble. He wondered if, with Abby involved, he'd actually be able to tell the
difference.