Cooper (The Family Simon Book 6) (4 page)

M
organ arrived
at the old McLaren estate exactly five minutes before nine in the morning. With only a few days until spring, winter still clung to the area, but even she had to admit there were signs that the changing of seasons was upon them. The snow was beginning to melt, leaving wide swaths of mud and dirt, while small buds were beginning to appear on the trees. Patches of color sprouted where the sun hit, and she spied a robin swooping low over the house.

Not exactly sure what was expected of her, she’d brought along her cleaning things, but Morgan decided to investigate a bit before hauling everything up to the attic.

She cut the engine and peered at the house, her gaze slowly sweeping upward until it rested on the stained glass windows that adorned each side of the upper level. This place had been in the McLaren family for over one hundred years and, as far as Morgan knew, had stood empty for at least the last twenty. Before Cooper Simon, that is.

Seemed a shame that it had fallen into the hands of an outsider.

And that was exactly what he was—an outsider. He didn’t belong in Fisherman’s Landing any more than the humpback whale who’d made a home in the harbour a few years back did. So why was he here? What was he doing?

“Why do I care?” she murmured, sliding from the car.

It was still cool this time of morning, and she shivered as she ran up the steps leading to the porch. The damn twinge in her leg was back, and she winced, taking a moment before she reached for the door. There was a note pinned to it, and she grabbed the piece of paper, glancing around before taking a few moments to read it. The penmanship was clean with bold strokes, and relief flooded her as she scanned the message.

S
he didn’t know
she’d been holding her breath until it fell out of her in a rush. Feeling more than a little silly, she glanced around one last time and then let herself inside. The house was silent, and she quickly doffed her boots and hung up her jacket.

“Hello?” She waited a couple of heartbeats and then, satisfied she was alone, headed for the stairs. The door to the attic was at the far end of the hall, and it was open. She passed Cooper’s bedroom, noting the unmade bed, an open suitcase propped against the wall, and a stack of books beside a dresser.

She wondered what kind of books a man like Cooper Simon would read and then, with a shrug, headed for the narrow stairs that led to the attic. Once she reached the top, she paused, hand on the railing as she drank in a sight that would be an antique lover’s dream. Mouth slightly open, she took a step forward and turned in a full circle.

The space was huge, encompassing the entire breadth of the house, and while there was some open space, most of the area was filled top to bottom. Furniture. Antiques. Paintings. Piles of books. Boxes and trunks. Dishes. Was that a sewing machine?

And there was dust. Lord, but there was dust. She sneezed and shuddered, shaking off a weird sensation as a cold draft blew through the attic.

She wandered among the McLaren belongings, slowly making her way to the far side, and peeked out one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sun that filtered through was warm on her face, and she glanced down below. There was an outbuilding, most likely Cooper’s workplace and—was that a face in the window?

She stepped back quickly, nearly falling over a large wooden crate, glad there was no one around to witness her dumb-ass move. What the hell was wrong with her?

“Jesus, Morgan,” she muttered. “Where’s that damn ledger?”

She spied it almost immediately, back near the door, set aside on a small table that also held a compact stereo. Scooping up yet another note left behind in Cooper’s unmistakable penmanship, she quickly read it and turned on the machine.

His iPod was already hooked up, and after selecting one of his playlists—’70’s and ’80’s classics—she smiled as The Eagles filled the silence around her.

Okay. So he had good taste in music. She shrugged and scooped up the ledger. “Whatever.”

Morgan decided the best way to organize the space was to start to her immediate right and work her way around the room. There were several large paintings, a couple from well-known artists (considering she recognized the names, they had to be), and after she gave them a proper dusting with one of the cloths Cooper had left for her, she carried them to the cleared space and propped them against the wall. She decided to gather up all the framed art and pictures she could find and keep them together.

It took a while—there were thirty-one in total—and once she entered them into the ledger, she spied a large steam trunk, partially hidden by an old red velvet throw. Upon closer inspection, she realized the throw was, in fact, drapery, and she folded the fabric, placing it on the floor beside the trunk, sneezing several times as she did so.

The trunk itself was a beautiful piece, the color of burnt tobacco, with an intricate silver inlay, in bad need of a polish, with the inscription
McLaren
. It took a bit for her to get it open, and only after major effort did the hinges release and squeak open. Kneeling in front of it, she carefully peeled back several layers of delicate, aged doilies, and then sat there in silence for several long moments. The gentle strains of “Tequila Sunrise” and Glenn Frey’s voice colored the air, but the contents of the trunk held her interest.

There were books—old books from the looks of them—and vintage photos and jewelry and silverware and…

She reached inside and carefully picked up what looked like a small leather-bound portfolio, but when she opened it, Morgan realized it was a journal. The handwriting was delicate and feminine—somewhat girly—and with a wince, she sank back to her haunches and settled into a more comfortable position. The pages were yellowed, discolored with age, but the ink, though faded, was legible. She couldn’t help herself and began to read.

J
uly 4
^th
, 1951

Daddy says I can’t go to the Independence parade on account I was sassing Mother. I’m so mad at him, I swear smoke is coming out of my ears. He knows Thomas will be there, and I’m sure that’s the real reason he won’t let me go. I mean, really, all I did was tell Mother I needed an extra five minutes and then I’d help her peel the potatoes. Anyway, he doesn’t know that I plan on meeting up with Thomas after the fireworks. Right down by the rail ties. I can’t wait. I think I’m in love.

V.P.

M
organ fingered
the page and chuckled at that. There were several little hearts drawn around the entry, and with a soft smile curving her lips, she continued to read.

J
uly 5
^th
, 1951

I don’t think anymore. I know I’m in love. I met Thomas down near the rail ties, and he held my hand all the way to the river. He told me that no one had hair like the color of mine and that I had the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen on a girl. My heart keeps fluttering just thinking about how he made me feel. I swear I can hardly get this down on paper except to say that I’m in love with a boy, and I think he’s in love with me. He asked me to next Saturday’s social at the church, and I swear to God, I’m going. Even if it means I have to sew my mouth shut to keep from sassing anyone. I’m going to the social with Thomas McLaren, and I hope he holds my hand again. I especially hope that he kisses me. I get a weird feeling just thinking about it. Wish me luck.

V.P.

M
organ read several more entries
—enough to know that the young girl had indeed kept herself from sassing either one of her parents—and that she’d gone to the social. Not only that, but Thomas McLaren had kissed her for so long and so sweetly, she’d “darn near passed out.”

She would have kept reading, but her leg was cramping something fierce, and Morgan supposed she should get back to it. She was just about to get up when a creak on the stairs told her she wasn’t alone. She froze and gulped down a strangled breath when Cooper appeared with a tray of food.

“Thought you might be ready for lunch.” Cooper’s deep voice was warm, and those eyes of his found her immediately.

He wore a pair of old, worn jeans, a white T-shirt, and a red-and-black-plaid button-down shirt. His hair was rumpled, and he’d not shaved since she last saw him. Their gazes connected, and for a moment, it felt as if all the sound had been sucked from the room, leaving her slightly off-balance.

Not liking the sensation, Morgan shook her head and winced as the music filtered back in. No longer The Eagles, the heavy guitars of AC/DC filled her ears.

He gestured toward the small table to his left, the one that had held the ledger, and she scrambled to her feet when he moved the stereo so there was room for the tray.

Embarrassed at being caught goofing off on the job, she knew her face was pink when he turned back to her, but she walked toward him and tried like hell to ignore the heat. She pasted a practiced smile on her face but faltered when she noticed there were two bowls of soup as well as several warm biscuits.

“You went to town?” she asked carefully. The chowder was from the diner—she’d know that delicious scent anywhere.

“I did.” He winked. “Apparently, I’m not to feed you beer or yogurt.”

“You don’t have to feed me at all.”

Okay. That sounded rude, but Cooper didn’t seem to notice. He pulled out a box for her, and she sat down on it, accepting the warm chowder with a quick nod and watching him from beneath lowered lids as he pulled over another crate for himself.

“Hope you don’t mind. I thought I’d join you.”

She did mind, but Morgan wasn’t about to let him know that. “Suit yourself.”

After a few spoonsful of chowder, Morgan cleared her throat and took a shot at some sort of conversation. It was better than the god-awful silence and Cooper’s probing gaze.

“So what’s with the beer and yogurt?” she asked, nibbling at her biscuit and pulling on the edge of her sweatshirt. He followed the movement, and she immediately stopped.

Cooper swallowed a mouthful of chowder and shrugged. “Aside from a jar of pickles and a container of milk, it’s pretty much all there is in my fridge.” He paused. “Oh, and some sauerkraut.”

Her eyebrow shot up. “Sauerkraut?”

“I like it on eggs.”

“That’s the weirdest combination I’ve ever heard.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And you don’t have eggs.”

A sly smile his features. “This is true.”

She took another bite from her biscuit. “So you have a thing against real food?”

He swallowed another mouthful of soup, and she couldn’t help but notice his mouth. It was full, almost too full for a man, but his strong jaw and slightly crooked nose made it work. The man was attractive with a capital A—she’d have to be a nun not to notice—and she glanced away, suddenly aware of the disparity between them.

Cooper Simon was money, power, family, and fame. He had a penchant for married women and a taste for scandal; yes, she’d googled the guy. And Morgan? Something deflated inside her, and she tugged on the frayed edge of her sweatshirt again.

She forgot what it felt like to be something other than what she was. A nobody girl, stuck in a town she hated, weighed down with the memories of a life she missed so desperately, it hurt.

“I love food. Especially Thai. It’s the grocery stores. I hate them.”

His voice dragged her from her thoughts, and, suddenly queasy, she set her half-eaten bowl down.

Cooper grabbed another biscuit. “In fact, I hate pretty much any form of shopping that doesn’t involve using my computer.” He winked at her. “I guess, being a woman, you wouldn’t understand that sort of thing.”

Her back straightened. Did he just say that? “That’s a pretty stereotypical generalization.”

He looked surprised. “You don’t enjoy a good day of retail therapy?”

“No. I don’t.” Her voice was clipped, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. She was done with the pleasantries. Morgan preferred to be alone, and right now, Cooper Simon was in her space. She didn’t like it. Not one freaking bit.

“I guess that was a dumb-ass assumption on my part.”

Again with the smile. It was starting to get on her nerves. “You can stop that, you know.”

He cranked his head up. “Come again?”

“You don’t need to smile at me or bring me lunch. You don’t need to keep me company. You don’t owe me anything except a paycheck.”

But the smile that played around the corners of his mouth didn’t go away. In fact, it deepened. And she noticed a dimple on his right cheek. What was with this guy?

“You’re a real cranky-pants.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I bet you have.”

He was looking at her again. In that way of his that made her nervous and defensive and, well, plain old argumentative. Maybe she should have pondered that—why a man she barely knew made her feel that way—but at the moment, all she cared about was wiping that smile from his face.

“I’ve been called worse.” A pause. “By you.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

His smile faltered, and that made her feel good. “Morgan.” His voice was soft, cajoling even, but it didn’t matter. The anger in her was bubbling, and though it seemed it had come from nowhere, it was clearly here to stay.

“Let’s start with ‘charity case,’ shall we? Because that’s a good one.”

He set down his bowl, that smile of his completely gone. Score one for Morgan.

“Not fair.”

“Then I think the term ‘middle-aged’ was used.” She glared at him now, not bothering to hide her anger.

“Okay. That wasn’t exactly the smartest thing that’s ever come out of my mouth. And I didn’t mean anything by—”