*
* *
An hour later with the inn's dismal financial figures still
in his head, Trace climbed on his bike and took a drive to see the property. He
was hoping he'd find something—
anything
—to convince him to let the loan
stand. He needed arguments he could take to the board and his father with total
confidence.
Winding along the coastal road, he breathed in the salty air and relaxed as the
sun beat down on his shoulders. It was late spring, but there was still the
scent of lilacs on the breeze as he rounded the curve by the Finch property.
Widow Marjorie Finch, who'd been bent and wizened when he was a boy, loved her
lilacs. They'd been allowed to grow and spread until they formed a hedge all
along the road. When honeysuckle had grown up in the bushes, she'd attacked it
as if it were an alien invader. Her loving attention had paid off. The bushes
were heavy with fragrant, delicate blossoms.
To his right, along the narrow strip of land that ran along the beach, ospreys
were building their nests back in the same bare branches where they'd built
them for years. To his amusement, one intrepid osprey was constructing an
elaborate configuration of branches, bits of string and even a strand of yellow
police tape on a post at the end of someone's dock. The owner was going to be
ticked as hell to discover that his dock would be off-limits for the rest of
summer while the birds of prey took up residence.
Eventually he reached the turnoff to the inn, converted from what had once been
a sprawling Victorian home on a pinnacle of land overlooking the bay. The last
time he'd been here, the place had been badly in need of paint, its boards weathered
by the sea air and harsh winter winds. The Adirondack chairs and rockers on the
porch had been in an equally sad state of disrepair. The once perfectly
manicured lawn had gone mostly to crabgrass, the gardens to weeds. The
Pattersons hadn't put a dime into the place for years, and the neglect had
shown.
Now, though, there was plenty of evidence that Jess had been hard at work
remodeling the inn. The exterior was a soft white that seemed to reflect a hint
of blue from the nearby water. Shutters were a bold red. The grass wasn't as
lush as it had once been, but it was green and well-trimmed. The azaleas and
lilacs were in bloom, and one overgrown purple rhododendron spilled its huge
blooms over a porch railing at the back of the house. The inn's sign had been
freshly painted and hung from brass hooks on a new pole at the edge of the
driveway. It looked to him as if the place was ready to make a comeback.
Jess's payment record, however, told a different story. Since taking out the
loan a year earlier, she already had a history of late payments, had missed
several altogether. She'd spent every penny of her small-business loan, and no
opening date for the inn had been set. Her cash flow was nonexistent. She'd
already had a couple of formal warnings from the bank. Ever since the credit
disaster in the mortgage industry, banks were getting jittery about loans that
looked as if they were going bad. On paper, it appeared the bank had no choice
except to issue a foreclosure notice. Trace cringed at the prospect.
Even as he sat on his bike in the driveway, the door opened and Jess stepped
outside. She caught sight of him and frowned.
"What are you doing here, Trace?" she asked.
Scowl in place, she crossed the lawn, hands on hips, her feet shoved into a
pair of rubberized, all-weather clogs from one of the big outdoor apparel
companies. Her jeans and T-shirt were splattered with paint—white, plus
something close to Williamsburg blue, if he remembered his color palette
correctly.
When she was standing practically toe-to-toe with him, her defiant gaze locked
with his, she reminded him of another O'Brien with a fiery Irish temper.
"Well?" she challenged.
"Just looking things over."
"For your father, no doubt."
"For the bank," Trace corrected.
"I thought you'd left town years ago, that you wanted no part of the
bank."
"I don't. I'm just filling in for a few months."
"Long enough to make my life hell?"
He grinned at that. "Maybe longer." He made a sweeping gesture toward
the house and grounds. "You've been busy."
"It's taken a lot of work. I've done most of it myself to save
money," she said, her chin lifted with pride and a hint of belligerence.
"Might have made more sense to hire people and get it done sooner, so you
could open."
"I didn't see it that way."
"Obviously not."
"Do you want to take a look around inside?" she asked, her expression
hopeful, her tone filled with enthusiasm. "Maybe once you've seen how
great it looks, you'll be able to go back and tell your father to be
patient."
"It's not that simple, Jess. I know he's warned you that you're getting
too far behind. The bank looks at the bottom line, not at whether or not you're
doing a good job with a paintbrush."
"When did you turn into a hard-ass, by-the-numbers guy like your dad? You
weren't that way when you were seeing my sister." She gave him a
considering look. "Or were you? Is that why the two of you split up?"
Trace stiffened. "You really don't want to go there," he warned.
"Abby has nothing to do with this."
"Doesn't she? For all I know, you're absolutely thrilled by the prospect
of payback for whatever she did to you. She was the one who broke it off,
wasn't she?"
The comment was not only intrusive, it was insulting. "Dammit, Jess, you
don't know a thing about what happened back then and you sure as hell don't
know anything about me if you think I'd use you to get even with your
sister."
"Really?" she said, her expression innocent. "She's coming back,
you know. She'll be here tomorrow."
Trace tried not to let his immediate and unsteady reaction to the news show.
"Tell her I said hey," he said mildly. He started his bike. "See
you around, Jess."
Her show of defiance faltered. "What are you going to tell your father,
Trace?"
"I have no idea," he said candidly. He looked into her eyes.
"But I will promise you this, it won't have anything at all to do with
Abby."
She nodded slowly. "I'll take you at your word about that."
As he rode off toward town, though, he couldn't help wondering if she should.
When it came to his conflicted feelings for Abby O'Brien, his word might not be
entirely trustworthy.
2
"W
here are we going, Mommy? Tell us again," Caitlyn
commanded.
"When are we gonna get there?" Carrie whined. "We've been
driving and driving forever. I wanna go home."
"It's barely been a half hour since we left the airport," Abby told
Carrie, her patience already frayed by the long security line at the airport in
New York and the even more tedious wait at the car-rental counter in Baltimore.
The flight itself, less than an hour from LaGuardia to BWI in Baltimore, had
gone smoothly. The girls had been excited to be on a plane, but now they were
tired and cranky and completely uninterested in the scenery as they drove south
toward Chesapeake Shores. They might have been pacified by a stop for ice cream
or some other treat, but Abby was determined not to reward them for bad
behavior just to get a few minutes of peace.
"Why don't you try to take a little nap?" she pleaded, glancing in
the rearview mirror for a glimpse of them in their car seats. "When you
wake up, you'll be at Gram's, and I know she's going to have sugar cookies and
milk for you. Remember how much you loved those when she baked them for you
last time she visited us in New York?"
"I like chocolate chip better," Carrie grumbled, clearly determined
to be displeased about everything.
"Well, I
love
sugar cookies," Caitlyn countered. "So I'll
eat them all."
"No, you won't!" Carrie screamed. "Mommy, tell her she can't
have all the cookies. Some are mine."
Abby bit back a groan. "I'm sure there will be plenty of cookies for both
of you. Now close your eyes. If you're this impossible when we get there, you
can forget about getting any treats. You'll be going straight to bed."
The girls fell silent, but another glance in the mirror revealed them making
faces at each other. Abby let it pass. She needed to focus all of her attention
on the traffic, which had increased at least tenfold since the last time she'd
driven home. She could hardly wait to turn onto some of Maryland's less-traveled
roads.
Unfortunately, the traffic never completely let up. It seemed everyone had the
same idea about heading to one of Maryland's many seaside communities on a
Friday night. Once, the only traffic nightmare had been getting to Ocean City
or the other beaches along the Atlantic coast, but now it seemed people had
discovered the smaller towns on the western shores of the bay, as well.
She pulled out her cell phone and hit Jess's number on speed dial.
"The traffic is awful," she said when her sister answered. "At
this rate, it's going to be another hour before we get there."
"I'll let Gram know," Jess said. "I'm on my way over there now.
Take a deep breath. I'm picking up crabs and I'll have wine waiting."
"Thank you, thank you," Abby said. "See you soon."
It turned out to be an hour and ten minutes before she could make the turn into
the community of Chesapeake Shores. At last, though, the traffic had eased. She
debated going straight to the house, but since the girls were finally asleep,
she wound through downtown, getting reacquainted with the Main Street
businesses that lined a four-block stretch from the waterfront up to the town
square.
There was one visible vacancy, but all the other shop windows were filled with
colorful displays. Barb's Baby Boutique was next to Ethel's Emporium, which
carried everything from souvenirs and penny candy to fancy hostess gifts and
locally produced jams and jellies. The Kitchen Store, which sold every gourmet
gadget imaginable, was next to Seaside Gifts, where all the items had a
nautical theme. There was a designer clothing store, which carried resort wear.
And all of the stores had pots overflowing with colorful pansies and trailing
vines by the doors and crisp blue-and-white awnings shading the windows. The
pansies would be exchanged for bright red geraniums once spring turned to
summer.
With her car window open, she drew in a deep breath of the familiar salt air,
then heard the soft refrains of an outdoor concert drifting up from the banks
of the bay. She'd forgotten about the tradition of free Friday-night
performances in the band shell during the late spring, summer and early fall
months when the weather drew crowds to the town. It was jazz tonight, a little
heavy on the sax, it seemed to her.
She smiled, thinking of the debates she'd once had with her father about the
appropriate mix of music for the early concerts. If it had been up to Mick and
Gram, every week would have featured Irish singers and dancers.
"Mommy, I hear music," Carrie murmured sleepily. "Are we going
to a party?"
"Nope, but we're almost home," Abby told her. "Five minutes and
we'll be there."
She turned away from downtown and took the shore road to the very end where it
began a winding climb up a gentle hill. At the top she made a left into the
long driveway that ended in back of a classic beachfront home with a wraparound
porch, lots of glass to take in the spectacular bay views and lights shining
from every window. Two figures, one spry, the other a bit more stooped, emerged
from the shadows on the porch as she pulled to a stop.
"Gram!" Caitlyn shouted, already struggling to free herself from the
car seat.
"And Aunt Jessie!" Carrie boomed, trying to get the door on her side
open. Abby released the child safety locks and Carrie sprang free, racing
across the lawn to fling herself at her favorite aunt.
Jess stumbled back, then caught her niece up in a massive hug, even as Caitlyn
reached up to her great-grandmother for a more demure embrace, as if she knew
instinctively to take more care with the older woman.
Abby took in the scene with a smile. Why hadn't she done this more often? Was
she truly so busy? Or had she been making excuses because of her mixed feelings
about home and the way she'd forced herself to walk away without looking back?
Until now she hadn't realized how much she missed being right here, with the
sea breeze rustling through the trees, the sound of waves lapping against the
shore and the promise of a whole pile of Maryland crabs and cold wine waiting
on the porch, along with whatever Gram had baked that day.
Her grandmother caught her eye and gave her a knowing smile. "It's good to
be home, is it not?"
"It's better than I expected," Abby admitted. "How are you,
Gram? You look good." She certainly didn't look her age, which was
somewhere near eighty by Abby's calculations, though her grandmother wouldn't
admit to it. Whenever any one of them had tried to pin her down, even for the
sake of genealogical research, the date of her birth shifted to suit her.
"I'm better with the three of you here for a bit," Gram said.
"Shall we feed the girls first, then have our own meal when it's
quieter?"
"That sounds perfect," Abby said.
"Why don't I take them inside and show them their room, then? I've put
them in Connor's since he has the twin beds in there. I can't get your brother
to take away a single one of his sports trophies and ribbons, though. It looks
as it did when he was still sleeping there himself."
Abby grinned. "Cluttered and messy, then," she said. "They'll love
it."
After the three of them had gone inside, she turned to her sister and gave her
a fierce hug. "Now then, are you ready to tell me why I'm here?"
Jess gave her a wry look. "Always eager to cut to the chase, aren't you?
Can't you even take five minutes to relax?"
"Not if you expect me to solve this problem, whatever it is, in a few
days."
"I think it can wait a little longer. I don't want to get into it until
after Gram's gone to bed. I don't want her worrying."
Abby frowned. "It's that serious?"
"I told you life or death, in a manner of speaking," Jess said
impatiently. "Come on. I need a glass of wine—maybe two—before we get into
all this."
Judging from her sister's mood, Abby had a feeling she might need a few glasses
of wine herself.