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The Women of Bayberry Cove
Cynthia Thomason


Louise Duncan has been passed over for a promotion because–according to her boss–she's too intimidating. A useful quality in court, he admits, but she scares her own clients. "Take some time off to work on your people skills" is his advice.Louise heads for Bayberry Cove, North Carolina, and a visit with her best friend. Just as she begins to relax–thanks in part to the intriguing Navy commander who's living in the cottage she wants to rent–she meets a group of women who need her legal expertise and her take-no-prisoners attitude. So Attorney Louise Duncan gets ready to fight for justice.Unfortunately, the commander is on the opposing team. And he's about to see a different side of Louise.









“I deserved that promotion. I worked hard for it.”


Still holding the glossy portrait of her parents, Louise crossed the imported-tile floor of her fourteenth-story grossly mortgaged condominium. “You need to mellow out and become one of the good guys,” her boss had told her when she’d questioned why her promotion had gone to someone else. A bark of bitter laughter came from her throat at the inanity of his advice. Louise was a powerhouse in the courtroom. Aggressive, unyielding. Wasn’t that what a lawyer was supposed to be?

If not, maybe she’d chosen the wrong profession. But she loved the law. She couldn’t give it up now. So where could she go to learn to be a nice, people-person kind of lawyer?

Suddenly she had the answer. Bayberry Cove. The homey little burg on the edge of Currituck Sound near the Outer Banks where her best friend lived.

Louise walked toward the phone. “If Bayberry Cove can’t turn you from a lioness into a pussycat,” she told herself, “I don’t know any place that can.”


Dear Reader,

I have always admired and been a little bit envious of strong women. I am awed by females who enter politics or bravely insinuate themselves into occupations that traditionally have been considered a man’s venue. Admittedly I’m from the generation that had to learn through experience that women could achieve whatever they wanted, be whomever they chose. Now I do believe it, wholeheartedly, and if I’d had a daughter instead of my dear son, I would have told her to strive for whatever her heart desired.

But since I didn’t have that daughter, I created Louise, a woman you may have met in The Husband She Never Knew, and who now has her own story in this book. Strong, independent and bold, Louise stands for all that is good about being a woman in the twenty-first century. But more important, she also has a soft center, a pure heart that makes her compassionate, caring and vulnerable in the ways of love. I hope you enjoy Louise’s journey to her heart’s desire.

Cynthia Thomason

P.S. I love hearing from readers. You can write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, Fl 33355 or e-mail me at Cynthoma@aol.com.




The Women of Bayberry Cove

Cynthia Thomason





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to the memory of Amanda Sue Brackett. Dear sister, sweet angel, your flame still burns brightly in my heart.


And a special thank-you to Florida attorney Adam Chotiner, writer Zelda Benjamin’s son-in-law, whose expertise in the field of labor law kept me on the right track.

Any mistakes are entirely mine and not his.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


LOUISE DUNCAN, who regularly apologized to friends and business associates for being late, was fifteen minutes early this morning. The Fort Lauderdale legal firm of Oppenheimer Straus and Baker didn’t officially open until nine, but when Roger Oppenheimer had called her at home the previous evening and told her to be in his office at eight, Louise knew she’d be on time. She’d been waiting ten years for this call.

She exited the elevator on the top floor of the Moroccan-style building that had graced Las Olas Boulevard since the 1940s. Continuing down a wide hallway flanked with offices, Louise stopped outside Mr. Oppenheimer’s door. She knocked lightly and responding to Roger’s request, stepped inside.

He turned from the bank of windows and smiled at her. “Right on time, I see, Louise.” He gestured for her to take a seat in a deep-tufted green leather chair, and he sat in a similar one on the other side of a mahogany coffee table. He lifted a chrome serving pitcher from a silver tray. “Coffee?”

Louise smiled back at him, growing even more confident in the cordial atmosphere. “I don’t know. Did you make it yourself?”

Roger chuckled and poured a cup for himself and one for Louise. “Yes, I did.” He set his mug on a coaster and molded his thick fingers over the edges of the chair arms.

Louise peered at him over the rim of her mug. It wasn’t her imagination. The good humor of the last moments was fading from his features. His eyes had narrowed, the lines around his mouth deepened. The time for small talk was over. That was fine with Louise. She was ready to hear the good news.

“Perhaps you know why I called you to the office so early, Louise,” he said.

She set down her mug. “I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“I wanted to speak to you in privacy, without the interruptions of normal business hours.”

And so the others who have been considered for the promotion wouldn’t be around when you tell me I’m the one who got it. Louise allowed herself a bit of mental gloating. “I think that was a good idea, Roger.”

He moved his hands to his knees and leaned slightly forward. “As you know, since Harker Pen-wright left, the firm has been considering moving someone from inside the organization to his position of junior partner.”

She nodded. Oh, yes, she knew. The promotion had been the subject of whispered comments at the water cooler and murmured predictions during happy hours. Two days ago, Louise had gotten wind of what she believed was the true inside scoop from her secretary, who’d heard from Oppenheimer’s own assistant. The promotion was going to Louise.

“We all knew that a decision was forthcoming,” she said.

Roger cleared his throat. “Right. And that decision was reached last night. It probably comes as no surprise to you that you, Ed Bennett and Arthur Blackstone were the principal candidates for the promotion.”

Louise folded her hands in her lap and connected her gaze with Roger’s in that direct way she was famous for in the courtroom. “I had assumed as much, yes.” Oh, this was going to be so sweet.

Roger looked away from her penetrating stare and seemed to find something fascinating in the weave of the green-and-tan carpet. The first hint of unease prickled along Louise’s spine.

After a moment, he looked up. “There’s no easy way to say this, Louise. Especially since I am fond of you on a personal level. And of course I admire you on a professional one.”

Louise turned cold to the tips of her fingers. She held her breath.

“We’ve decided to give the position to Ed,” Roger stated with agonizing blandness.

Louise shook her head, replayed the stunning announcement in her mind several times to be sure she’d got it right. She leaned forward and stared at Roger’s face, at the capillaries expanding and reddening in his plump cheeks. “You what?”

“I’m sorry, Louise, but in the end, all three of us agreed that this decision was best for the firm.”

Uncharacteristically, words failed her. She blew out a long breath, blinked several times and finally uttered, “Roger, I have seniority over Ed by more than a year.”

“I know, and we took that into consideration. Unfortunately, there were other factors that weighed more heavily in our decision.”

“Other factors? May I ask what they were?”

“Louise, I don’t want to go into this…”

“Roger, you owe me an explanation. You know you do.”

He sighed heavily. “All right. Basically we feel that Ed projects a more appropriate image for the firm. He’s wonderful with the clients. They like his give-and-take attitude with regard to decision making. He oozes confidence, Louise….”

“And I don’t?” Good God, if there was one trait that clearly defined Louise Duncan, it was confidence, not pretended or fleeting, but real, no-nonsense confidence that Ed Bennett could only dream about.

Roger remained calm, his tone of voice even. “You do, of course, and for the most part your work in the courtroom is exemplary, but…” He rolled one shoulder, resettled his bulk in the chair. “Frankly, Louise, we’ve had complaints. You come across as somewhat intimidating, forceful.”

“I’m an attorney, Roger. It’s my job to be forceful.”

“To an extent, yes. But you shouldn’t necessarily act that way toward our own clients. Ed is dignified, solid, almost courtly. He’s stable and reliable, the picture of old-company trust. In the field of corporate law, Louise, his demeanor is most impressive.”

“You’re saying I’m not stable?”

He had the nerve to smile. “I’m certainly not suggesting you need psychiatric help, but to a client who’s contemplating putting the future of his empire in our hands, you come on a little strong.” He threaded his fingers together, resting his hands in his lap. “Let me put it this way. Ed Bennett bonds with the clients. He’s both compassionate and capable. And while there’s no doubt that you’re a top-notch litigator, Louise, you do have a tendency to bully everyone around you.”

Louise couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Ed Bennett was a complete toady in his perfectly tailored black suits, and shirts starched to such gleaming stiffness that he crackled when he swung his arms. And he was getting this promotion over her. Her pride was wounded beyond repair. Her dreams were shattering like old crystal. And so she heard herself utter words of self-betrayal and corporate capitulation. “I can change,” she said. “I can listen to stories about backyard barbecues, and kids’ educations, and family vacations to Aspen. That’s what Ed does. I can do that, too. I can be nice.”

“Of course you can, Louise, but not by nine o’clock this morning.” He stood, effectively dismissing her. “I hate to cut this short, but Arthur Blackstone is due at eight-thirty, and I have to do this one more time. It’s not something I enjoy, I assure you.”

She stood up. “If you expect me to sympathize with you, Roger, you’re going to be disappointed.”

He chuckled a little. “I don’t expect that at all. But please consider some advice. Take a break from the firm, a vacation. A couple of months. You’ve earned a mountain of personal days over the years. Sanders and Martin can take over your workload for a while.”

“You’re suggesting I run off to some Caribbean island and sun myself for weeks?” The thought was ludicrous.

Apparently oblivious to the absurdity of his idea, Roger said, “Yes, that’s a great plan. We want you on board, Louise. But take some time for yourself. Come back refreshed, renewed.”

And more in tune with Oppenheimer Straus and Baker, Stepford attorneys. “Fine,” she said, opening the door to the hallway. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, Roger.”

She passed Arthur Blackstone midway down the hall. He stopped her with a light touch to her elbow. “Did you just come from Oppenheimer’s office?” he asked.

“I did.” A worried frown tugged at his lips. “Don’t worry, Art,” she said, empathizing with his soon-to-be-victim status. “It’s not me.”

He exhaled. “Sorry, Louise, but if not you, then who…”

“Just one word of warning. If Roger offers you coffee, you might want to lace it with a shot of bourbon.”



AT NINE O’CLOCK that night Louise polished off a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, licked the carton lid and tossed the empty container across the room into the wastebasket. Then she leaned forward on her sofa and reached for a cardboard box on her coffee table. Roger Oppenheimer had made it clear that her job wasn’t in jeopardy, but she’d thought it advisable to clear her desktop of personal effects, since she might be gone for a couple of months.

She felt around in the box until her fingers grasped a chrome picture frame. Pulling it from the box, she stared at the portrait of her parents, both of them dressed in the white coats of their medical profession. Linda and Fritz Duncan had wanted their daughter to study medicine and join their successful OB/GYN practice. Louise had staunchly refused, and followed her heart into law. Her parents had supported her decision and had always remained proud of her accomplishments.

“You should see me now, folks,” Louise said to the glossy image. “I deserved that promotion. I worked hard for it.” Through a hiccuped sob, she added, “And now I think I might be just a little bit drunk.” With her bare toe she rolled an empty wine bottle across the floor.

Still holding the photo, she stood up, crossed the imported-tile floor of her fourteenth-story condominium and went out on the balcony. A breeze from the ocean, less than a half mile away, washed over her. Revived, she looked across the rooftops of nearby buildings and settled her gaze on the silvery black sea, rippling to shore from the distant horizon. “Damn it. What the hell am I supposed to do for two months? Where am I supposed to go? I already live in a freaking paradise.

“Where do people go when they are told to mellow out and become one of the good guys?” A bark of bitter laughter came from her throat at the inanity of Roger Oppenheimer’s advice. Louise was a powerhouse in the courtroom. Aggressive, unyielding. Wasn’t that what a lawyer was supposed to be?

If not, maybe she’d chosen the wrong profession. But she loved the law. She couldn’t give it up now. So where did a person go to learn to be a nice, people-person kind of lawyer?

And suddenly she had the answer. She’d go to that little town in North Carolina where her best friend lived. What was the name? She struggled to remember it through a haze of muddled thinking. Bayberry Cove. That was it. A homey little burg on the edge of Currituck Sound near the Outer Banks. Vicki had moved there six months ago and now, deliriously in love and pregnant, she hated to leave the town, even to check on her antiques store in Fort Lauderdale. Endlessly praising the quiet virtues of the place, Vicki had repeatedly invited Louise to come for a visit, but Louise never had time.

She turned away from her grossly mortgaged view and went into the apartment to call Vicki. You’ve got plenty of time now, honey, she told herself. And if Bayberry Cove can’t turn you from a lioness into a pussycat, I don’t know of any place that can.



TWO DAYS LATER, on a spectacular May afternoon, Louise drove her black BMW down Main Street, Bayberry Cove, North Carolina. To her right was a row of two-story buildings with granite cornerstones proclaiming each of them to be over a hundred years old. To her left, a typical town square with ancient trees dripping shade over brick sidewalks and cast-iron benches. A perfect place for people to stop and enjoy the simple pleasure of a picnic lunch or lazy afternoon chat.

The only problem was that while Louise could admire the pastoral solitude of a leafy town green, she wasn’t a picnicker, and she wasn’t much for small talk. She was a woman to whom every minute was precious and not meant to be squandered. She pulled into a parking space and approached an elderly man seated on the nearest bench.

As she came closer, he shielded his eyes from the sun and grinned with obvious interest. Accustomed to such blatantly admiring looks, Louise settled her ball cap low on her forehead and flipped her long black ponytail through the opening at the back. Then, since she could plainly determine the focus of the old guy’s attention, she tugged her halter top so it covered the slash of midriff above the waistband of her Liz Claiborne stretch capris.

“Hi there,” she said, flashing the man a sincere smile. “Can you tell me where I might find Pintail Point, the home of Jamie Malone?”

He looked her up and down with appreciative scrutiny, murmured directions and gestured into the distance with a gnarled finger.

Louise thanked him and headed out of town to a two-lane road he’d identified as Sandy Ridge. She turned right and in three miles spotted the causeway that would lead her to where Vicki lived with her husband.

The tires crunched on loose gravel as she drove across the narrow spit of land. Dust settled on the wax on her car. When she parked at the end of the point, she got out and walked toward a neat little houseboat with geraniums in the window boxes. She heard a welcoming squeal before she actually saw her best friend.

“Oh, my God, you actually came!” Vicki crossed the wooden bridge from the boat and ran toward Louise.

“It’s me,” Louise stated unnecessarily. “Now slow down or you’ll pop that baby out four months ahead of schedule.”

Vicki threw herself into Louise’s arms. “Don’t worry about him. He—or she—is as protected as the gold in Fort Knox, and not going anywhere.” Keeping her hands on Louise’s shoulders, Vicki stepped back and fired questions. “How was your trip? How long can you stay?” She darted a glance over her shoulder where her husband, the totally gorgeous and charmingly Irish Jamie Malone, was approaching at a leisurely pace with his odd-looking dog beside him.

“Cover your ears, Beasley,” Jamie said to the dog. “All this squealin’ and squawkin’ is typical womenfolk jabber.”

He placed his hands on his hips and grinned at Louise. “Well, well, Miz Lady Attorney. Fancy seeing you on Pintail Point.”

She sent him a smug look. They’d had their disagreements in the past, especially about the divorce Vicki had claimed she wanted from the virtual stranger she’d married thirteen years before when he’d needed a green card and she’d needed money. Thinking she was doing her friend a favor, Louise had had the mysterious Mr. Malone investigated and subtly intimidated—until Vicki had fallen head over heels in love with him and shredded the divorce papers once and for all.

Louise took a step toward him. “Come on, Jamie. I know you’re glad to see me.” She angled her cheek toward his face. “Give us a wee kiss now.”

He laughed and obliged her.

“So this is the love nest?” she said, walking to the boat. “The famous Bucket O’ Luck I’ve heard so much about.”

“This is it,” Vicki said, keeping pace with her. She stopped and pointed across Currituck Sound to a hill rising next to Sandy Ridge Road. “And that’s going to take her place in a few months when it’s finished.”

A partially completed house crested the hill, its bare timbers rising toward the afternoon sun. “Very nice.”

“It will be. But for now, it’s the Bucket or nothing.” She opened the door and waited for Louise to precede her inside. “So talk, Lulu. What’s the real reason you’re here? You were very vague on the phone. I never thought you’d come.”

Like the true friend she was, Vicki listened to Louise’s tale and sighed at the injustice of it. “What are you going to do now?” she asked when Louise finished her story.

“Well, this looks like a nice place,” Louise said. “I’ll probably stay here for a while. Maybe Oppenheimer is right. Maybe I do need some downtime.”

Vicki shot a glance in Jamie’s direction. He hunched his shoulder in male confusion. Louise laughed. “I don’t mean here here,” she said. “I’m not moving in with you, for heaven’s sake. I meant here in Bayberry Cove.”

Relief washed over both faces. “Oh, well…” Vicki said. “If our house was ready, there’d be no problem, but we only have one bedroom on the Bucket and…”

Louise waved her hand to dismiss her friend’s concern. “Enough, Vic. I don’t want to stay with you two any more than you want me to. Just direct me to a motel. Anything in town will do.”

Vicki shook her head. “That’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“There are no places to stay in Bayberry Cove.”

“What? Nothing?”

“Nope.” Vicki looked to Jamie for a suggestion.

He thought a moment and finally said, “There’s always Buttercup Cottage. I could ask Haywood if he’d rent it.”

“There you go,” Louise said. “Of course, I’ve never churned butter or made my own candles….”

Vicki laughed. “It’s not like that. It has indoor plumbing and electricity.”

“Good. Show me the dotted line I sign on.”

“You’ll have to talk to Haywood Fletcher,” Jamie said. “His family owns the place. I think you probably recognize his name.”

Louise winced. “How could I forget the attorney who claimed he’d found flaws in that perfectly executed divorce decree I wrote for Vicki?”

Jamie laughed. “Don’t blame Haywood for that. It was a stall tactic I used to buy time until Vicki admitted she loved me. Haywood will treat you fairly, but there might be one problem.”

“What now?”

“My mother used to work for Haywood. She told me that his son is coming home sometime soon. He’s a semi-retired commander from the navy, and there’s a chance he might want to move into the cottage.”

Vicki groaned. “Oh, no. That place would be perfect for you, Lulu. When is Wesley due to arrive?” she asked Jamie.

“Ma didn’t say. Probably not for a while. And anyway, he’ll most likely stay at the mansion in town with his father.”

“So, where is this cottage?” Louise asked. “I’m going to check it out so I know it’s worth grappling with the town’s only attorney over a lease agreement.”

“That’s the best part,” Vicki said. “It’s right next to us, just a mile farther down Sandy Ridge. You can’t miss it. It’s stained a delightful color, like—”

“Don’t tell me,” Louise said. “Buttercups.”



TEN MINUTES LATER, Louise drove onto the pebble driveway of Buttercup Cottage. Besides the identifying color, a wooden placard above the front door confirmed that she was at the right place.

She stopped in front of the entrance and got out of her car. “This looks fine,” she said, imagining the hypnotic effect of raindrops on the sloping tin roof, lightning bugs twinkling outside the double casement windows. The sound of waves lapping the shoreline behind the house reminded her that she was only steps away from the protected bay.

Louise walked around the side of the house. “I suppose I could look through the windows. No one’s living here now.”

She peered into a bedroom. A double bed covered by a bright quilt looked cozy. The ceiling fan, dormant now, would stir up a nice breeze on warm evenings.

The next window provided a view of a compact bathroom with a porcelain vanity under a small medicine cabinet. “Adequate,” she said, and proceeded to the back of the house.

Pleased to see that the rear door had a window in the upper half, she walked up to get a look at what was no doubt the kitchen. She was just leaning into the glass when a man appeared in her view, and the door swung open. Louise jumped back a step, but not far enough. Without warning, she was doused from chest to ankles with the grimy contents of a large pan.

She hollered, swore a little and shook her hands free of water mixed with unidentified substances. Then she watched in horror as rivers of rust permeated her new white capris. She stared at the open door where a man in a cap emblazoned with a gold insignia stood with the now-empty pan dangling from his hands. Plucking her halter away from her chest, she glared into bright aqua eyes and snapped, “Look what you’ve done.”




CHAPTER TWO


HE STOOD THERE gawking at her as if she’d descended out of the sky. “Wow, look at you,” he finally said. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t see you out here.”

She glanced down at her pants again. “That’s comforting. It’s nice to know you weren’t lying in wait….”

He disappeared into the house. Gone.

She leaned across the open doorway. “Hey!”

He came back with a roll of slightly soggy paper towels. “Here. Dry yourself.”

She unwound about a dozen squares and began patting her clothes. When she swiped along her arms, she jerked her face away. “This stuff stinks. What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s been in the pipes for something like five, six years. I can’t remember when somebody last stayed here.” He ran a sympathetic look down her legs. “I’d say it contains a good bit of rust, though.”

She scowled at him. “Obviously you’re a chemistry wiz.”

He almost smiled. “Hardly. Unfortunately, I’m not much of a plumber, either. The pipes under the kitchen sink are winning this battle.”

“Look, while you’re joking about skirmishes with copper pipes, I’m fighting real germ warfare. Do you think I could come in and use the universal antidote to all this grime?”

“What’s that?”

“Soap, Mr. Chemist. Plain old bacteria-eating soap. There is soap in this place, right?”

He moved aside. “Oh, sure. Plenty of soap.”

She stepped through the door while digging her car keys out of her pocket. Her first look at the interior of the small kitchen confirmed the plumber’s story. Sections of old pipe and numerous tools stood in puddles of murky water on the floor in front of an open cabinet, along with various lengths of shiny new PVC tubes waiting to replace their worn-out predecessors.

Louise picked her way across the disaster area and turned around. “Can you do me a favor? My car’s out front. Would you bring in the smaller of the two suitcases from the trunk?”

“Bring in a suitcase?”

She almost laughed at the expression on his face. “Don’t panic. I won’t disturb your work. I’m not moving in this minute. I haven’t even signed a lease yet. But I do need to change clothes.” She tossed the keys, and he snatched them in midair. “Good reflexes, chemist. I’ll be in the bathroom.”



WESLEY FLETCHER DIDN’T like chaos in his life. He’d spent years eliminating as much of it as possible from his daily routines. He started every day with the same rituals. He ate his meals at the same times. He hardly ever watched a new show on television, preferring a select number of tried and true ones.

That’s why he was determined to fix the pipes in Buttercup Cottage before it was time to prepare dinner. He glanced at his watch as he walked around the side of the house. He had only two hours left to accomplish the task, or after eating his thick, juicy T-bone, he’d be cleaning the broiler in the bathroom sink. This day would have gone so much better if the one plumber in Bayberry Cove hadn’t told him it would be forty-eight hours before he could make a house call.

And now Wesley was carting a suitcase weighing at least twenty pounds back to his home, where a half-crazy lady was occupying his bathroom and making claims about moving in. That was chaos of a sort that could turn his already cockeyed day upside down.

It wasn’t that he didn’t owe her a favor. He did. Nearly drowning her in liquid muck was a pretty nasty thing to do to a woman. A woman whose clothes and demeanor indicated she was not from around here. And that was the biggest mystery of all. Who was she and where had she come from?

He entered the house and set the suitcase by the bathroom door. Tapping lightly to get her attention, he realized he didn’t even know her name. “Ma’am?”

She opened the door about ten inches and, now hatless, presented him a view of a face that could rival any movie star’s. “Call me ma’am one more time, chemist, and I may have to slug you. The name’s Louise.”

Through the opening he saw her reflection in the small mirror over the bathroom sink. For the last twenty years he’d lived by a code that, had this particular situation actually been in the books, would surely have demanded that he look away. But he didn’t. His gaze was riveted to a smooth ivory spine that curved delicately to what was no doubt a well-proportioned posterior. Unfortunately, verification of that hypothesis was impossible, since that body part was abruptly cut off by the end of the mirror.

“So what’s yours?” she asked him.

He snapped his attention back to her face. “My what?”

“Name,” she coaxed. “I should at least know who to send the bill for my new pants.”

Maybe she wasn’t kidding. He couldn’t tell. Maybe he should buy her new pants. He didn’t know the protocol for this circumstance. But he did know his name, and he told her. “Wesley Fletcher.”

“Okay, then, Wesley. Move away from the door so I can open it and get my case inside.”

He went back to the kitchen and scowled at the sink. His first day back in Bayberry Cove was certainly not going according to plan.



LOUISE TWISTED THE TAILS of her floral print blouse into a knot at her waist and zipped up her peach-colored shorts. She brushed her hair, gathered it at her crown and whipped the mass through a thick elastic band. In her mind she listed all the details she should consider before contacting Haywood Fletcher about renting the cottage. “Obviously some repairs are needed,” she mumbled to herself, and then froze with her hand on the doorknob.

“Haywood Fletcher!” she said aloud. “The guy just said his name was Wesley Fletcher. He’s no clumsy, blue-eyed plumber. He’s Haywood’s son, the navy man who Jamie said might have his sights set on my cottage.”

She left the bathroom prepared to negotiate for Buttercup Cottage. Finding her adversary flat on his back under the sink, she tapped the sole of his sneaker with her big toe. He pushed himself out and sat up, leaving his cap behind collecting drops of water from the faucet above.

Draping well-muscled arms over bent knees, he looked at her for a second and then ran tapered fingers over close-cropped, wheat-colored hair.

“Damn.” He groped under the sink and retrieved his cap. The gold insignia had taken on the same rusty hue as Louise’s capris, and he frowned at the ruined embroidery.

“Looks pretty bad,” Louise said, allowing herself a little smile. “I know how you feel.”

“I have others.”

“Navy officer issue, right?”

He nodded and stood up. “You look better.”

“I think I washed off anything that might enter my bloodstream and communicate a fatal disease.”

He smiled. “I apologize again. I really didn’t see you. The back door was just the easiest way to dump the corroded water, and I never expected anyone to be outside.”

“Isn’t this the type of town where folks just pop up on their neighbors’ doorsteps for a piece of apple pie?”

He smiled again, revealing even, straight teeth. “In town I suppose that’s true, but out here on the sound, visitors are pretty rare. Besides, nobody knows I’m here. This place has been vacant for so long there’s not a soul who would have a reason to stop.”

“Except for me, you mean.”

“I guess except for you, and I’m a little curious about why you’re here.” He went to an old wooden kitchen table and lifted the lid on a red cooler. He pulled a can of Coke from a pool of melting ice and held it out to her.

She sat on one of the four spindle-back chairs—the one with all its spindles—and popped the top. “I wouldn’t have snuck up on you except I didn’t see a car when I drove up.”

He opened a can for himself, sat across from her and nodded toward the backyard. “My Jeep’s in the shed. I put it there because the salt in the air can be rough on the paint.”

They each took a few sips of soda before Wesley spoke again. “So…why are you here? And even more important, I suppose, who are you?”

She set her Coke down and folded her hands. “My name’s Louise Duncan. I’m a friend of Vicki Soren—” She stopped when she realized she was about to give Vicki’s maiden name, the one she’d used until six months ago. “Make that Vicki Malone.”

“Malone?” He nodded in recognition. “Jamie’s wife? The one who married him so he could get a green card all those years ago?”

“That’s the one.”

“My dad told me those two found each other after something like thirteen years. He said he had a hand in keeping them together after all that time.”

Louise scoffed. “I guess you could say that. I was Vicki’s lawyer, and I drafted the faultless divorce settlement she presented to Jamie. And then your daddy took it upon himself to concoct a number of loopholes. No offense to your father, but he’s a crafty old buzzard.”

Wesley chuckled. “None taken. In the Fletcher family, that’s a compliment.” He eyed her over the top of his can as he took a long swallow. “So you’re a lawyer?”

“That’s right.” She looked directly at him. “And I’ve heard every shark and bottom-feeding joke you can think of, so you can keep them to yourself.”

He affected an innocent shrug. “Believe me, I wasn’t going to make any cracks.”

She relaxed. “Okay then. Now as for why I’m here in Bayberry Cove, I’m on vacation, sort of.” Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, she announced, “And I’ve come to Buttercup Cottage because I want to rent it for a couple of months.”

He set the can down with a metallic thump. “Sorry. It’s not available.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m living in it.”

“But you could live anywhere.”

“So could you.”

She took a deep breath. Engaging in a war of words with Wesley Fletcher was not likely to get her anywhere, especially since the cottage she now obsessively wanted to rent was in his family’s name. “Look, I might consider renting something else, but my friend told me there is nothing available in Bayberry Cove—no motels, no seasonal places even.”

“That’s true, but you could point that BMW down Sandy Ridge Road, and in ten or fifteen miles you’ll hit some quaint little towns with enough gingerbread bed-and-breakfasts to make your mouth water.” He picked up his can and pointed it in a direction roughly behind him. “Or head to Morgan City and get a room at the Comfort Inn. They have a free continental breakfast.”

“That’s almost twenty miles away.” His answering shrug was impassive, and Louise had to struggle to control her temper. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop and watched for any sign of capitulation. Nothing.

“I think we can reach an agreement here,” she finally said. “I’m only in your town for one reason. My friend lives a mile from this cottage and I want to spend time with her.”

“That makes sense.”

“And I know that your father lives in a big house in town. Jamie Malone told me. Couldn’t you stay there for a couple of months? Then when I leave, you could move back to this place.”

He shook his head. “I’d rather not. It’s really not convenient.”

Logic wasn’t working, and now Louise wanted to rent Buttercup Cottage with a craving that was almost scary. She changed tactics. “I’ll pay you, of course. And I know this time of year demands higher rates. Would you say a thousand dollars a month is a fair price?”

He barked with amusement. “For this little water-front gem?” He leaned toward her across the table. “Here’s what I think is a fair price. Assuming I can get the pipes fixed…” he glanced around the small kitchen “…and assuming these old appliances are in working order, which I haven’t tested yet since you stopped by and interrupted me. And assuming that when I get up on the roof and walk around I won’t find any leaks…then I’d say a fair price might be about four hundred a month.”

Now they were getting somewhere. In fact, Wesley was turning out to be a decent guy. “You’d do all these repairs and only charge me four hundred a month?”

“No. I said that would be a fair price. Actually, I’m not going to charge you anything because I’m not renting you this house.”

She stood up, sending her chair scooting along the worn linoleum floor. “I see what’s happening here,” she said.

“You do?”

“Absolutely. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He looked at his wristwatch. “Can I at least move back to the sink? I’m behind schedule already.”

She glared at him, then picked up her keys from where he’d left them on the counter, and stomped through the kitchen to a parlor, where a few old pieces of furniture were haphazardly arranged. She picked her way through a clutter of old magazines and knickknacks and stepped out the front door to her car. Opening the passenger door of the BMW, she snatched her purse from the front seat. When she went back to the kitchen, Wesley was under the sink again.

“Excuse me,” she said.

He scooted out and stood up.

Louise moved to within inches of him and waved her checkbook in front of his eyes. “How much? Name your price.”

He stared at her and slowly shook his head. “Are you crazy?”

“I want to rent this place, Wesley Fletcher. And I mean to have it. I’ve played games with your father in the past, but I’d rather not play games with you. Can’t we just settle this here and now?”

His blue eyes turned flint-gray, and Louise took a step back. Be nice, Lulu, she said to herself. Be compassionate and caring like Roger says. Don’t intimidate. She took a deep breath. “Please, Wesley. I’ll pay whatever you say.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with serious intent. After a moment he turned his hands palms up. Louise experienced a gratifying rush of victory at the obvious gesture of surrender.

And then he said, “The place isn’t for rent. That’s final.”

His was as resolute a face as she’d ever seen in her life. It was a granite and steel countenance that would be perfect at a peacemaking summit between world powers. Or above the green felt of a high-stakes poker table. And it was a face that wasn’t going to change.

Louise marched into the bathroom, stuffed her soiled clothes into her suitcase and her feet into her ruined sandals and wheeled the bag back to the kitchen. Wesley was under the sink again, but his shadowed gaze snapped from the gaping pipes and remained fixed on her face.

“I suggest you let the local postman know you’re living here, Wesley,” she said. “The bill for my clothes will arrive in the mail. Since I don’t have an address, you may send your check in care of the Malones.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in an odd little grin that might have been endearing on a young boy, but was simply maddening on Wesley. “Aye, aye, Counselor,” he said.

She stepped to the sink, carefully avoiding contact with his bent knee, and gave the old enamel spigot one quick flick of her wrist. The rewarding squeal and shimmy of old copper tubing filled her with satisfaction. Water spurted through the pipes, hitting Wesley Fletcher square in the middle of his smug face. Louise smiled down at him, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and exited Buttercup Cottage.




CHAPTER THREE


WESLEY DROVE HIS Jeep Wrangler onto the gravel road leading to Pintail Point, the home of his long-time friend and Bayberry Cove’s resident artist, Jamie Malone. Wes had been home less than twenty-four hours and there were plenty of people he needed to see, but on this picture-perfect morning with the sun shimmering off the blue water of the sound, it was Jamie he wanted to talk to.

After he determined that Louise Duncan’s black BMW wasn’t anywhere in sight, Wes parked under a couple of tall, sweeping sea pines. He walked toward the houseboat, scanning the yard until he was convinced Louise wasn’t there. Then he fixed his gaze on the picnic table where Jamie’s dog, Beasley, was napping. The long-legged beast opened his golden eyes, crawled out from under the table and emitted a low-pitched bark of welcome. Then he plopped down at Wesley’s feet.

Wesley scratched behind one of the animal’s floppy ears. “Hey, Beas, how are you? Energetic as ever, I see.”

Jamie burst out the door of the Bucket O’ Luck and strode toward them. “Wes Fletcher, I heard you were home.” He held out his hand. “Good to see you.”

“Same here.” Wes resumed a reconnaissance of the property while answering Jamie’s questions about his retirement.

After a few minutes of conversation, Jamie snapped his fingers to get Wes’s attention. “She’s not here, buddy.”

Wes was forced to focus on Jamie’s face. “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The heck you don’t. I’m talking about Louise Duncan, who stopped by here yesterday after you doused her with what she described as some sort of sewage.”

Wes scrunched up his face. “It wasn’t sewage. It was rusty water from the kitchen pipes. And did she mention that she gave as good as she got?”

Jamie smiled. “Oh, yeah. That was the part of the story she enjoyed telling most.”

Wes shook his head. “She’s one strange woman. Bossy, pushy, demanding…”

“Don’t forget drop-dead gorgeous,” Jamie added.

Wes laughed. “I guess that’s true, too. And determined. She wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to renting the cottage.”

“We heard. Frankly, my wife, whom you haven’t met, but who is the sweetest woman on this green earth, is a little ticked at you. She was hoping you’d move in with your dad.”

Wes shrugged. “I’ve been given a grant from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration to fund a project on marine ecology. I need to be on the water.”

“Why didn’t you tell Louise that? She might have understood why living at the cottage was so important to you.”

“She didn’t seem interested in anyone’s motives but her own. And have you ever tried to get a word in with her?”

Jamie chuckled. “A few times. Your point’s well taken.”

“So where are the women now?”

“You just missed Vicki. She drove into Bayberry Cove to meet Louise at the Kettle. She stayed at a motel in Morgan City last night, but she’s determined to find a place in town to rent for a couple of months so she can just sort of kick back.”

Wes pictured the Bayberry Cove Kettle at eight-thirty on a Saturday morning. The restaurant would be packed, and he had no doubt who in the crowd would be the center of attention.



LOUISE TURNED ONTO Main Street and looked at the digital clock on her dashboard. Already ten minutes late, she reluctantly slowed to a frustrating, but law-abiding, thirty-five miles an hour and scanned the street for available parking. She settled for a spot two blocks away from the Bayberry Cove Kettle, got out of her car and walked briskly to the entrance.

She threaded her way through the crowded restaurant to where her friend was seated. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, hanging her purse over the back of the chair and sitting down.

“Don’t apologize. I only got here five minutes ago. I took my time, since I remembered it was you I was meeting.”

“Funny.” A pleasant-looking waitress came to the table. “What’s good here?” Louise asked Vicki.

“Everything’s great, isn’t that right, Bobbi Lee?” Vicki said.

Louise gave Vicki a knowing look. So this well-rounded waitress in the red-checkered dress was the notorious Bobbi Lee Blanchard she’d heard so much about, the woman who’d lusted after Jamie Malone for years.

“Not a bad choice on the whole menu,” Bobbi confirmed.

“In that case,” Louise said, “I’ll have two eggs over light, hash browns, wheat toast and a side of bacon. And, of course, coffee—large.”

Vicki ordered scrambled eggs and an English muffin and waited until Bobbi Lee had gone to place the order before she said, “What happened to yogurt and fresh fruit?”

Louise shrugged. “I’m in the country now. Fresh air makes me hungry.” She pointed to Vicki’s bulging belly. “It could be worse. Look what it did to you.”

They chatted about Vicki’s store in Fort Lauderdale, her new house, the wood carvings Jamie was sending to a Boston gallery for a summer showing. “Enough about my life,” Vicki said when they’d finished their meal and were sipping coffee. “Be honest, Lulu. How are you going to stay in Bayberry Cove for two months? You’re going to die of boredom.”

“No, I won’t. I like this town. It’s cute and cozy. With the exception of Wesley Fletcher, the people seem nice. I’ll find things to do. Maybe I’ll help you shop for baby stuff.”

Vicki’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “You? Baby shopping? One trip to Infants ’R Us in Morgan City and you’ll be begging for mercy.”

Louise nodded. “Maybe. But I’d like to give the town a try—if I can find a place to stay. I’m not driving nearly twenty miles each way to the motel.”

Vicki set her mug on the table. “Sorry things didn’t work out for Buttercup Cottage. And even sorrier that Wes gave you such a hard time. I’ve never met him, but Jamie’s always told me what a super guy he is.”

Louise arched one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Believe me, Vic, there are things about him that definitely fall into the super category.”

“Ah…so what Bobbi Lee just told me is true. Commander Fletcher is a hunk.”

Louise smiled. “Close enough. He’s way too clean-cut for my taste, but with a little roughing up, he could be the mountain man of my dreams.”

“Somehow I can’t see a career navy guy turning into Grizzly Adams.”

Louise was about to respond when Bobbi Lee returned. “Can I get you anything else, ladies?”

Louise grabbed the check just as a customer approached the table demanding Bobbi’s attention.

“Hi, Earnest,” she said. “You want the usual?”

“That’ll be fine, Bobbi Lee. Just wrap it up and I’ll take it back upstairs to my apartment. I’ve got a whole day’s worth of bookkeeping ahead of me.”

Louise stared at the man’s balding pate as he walked behind Bobbi Lee toward the counter. “Vicki, did you hear what that man said?”

Vicki tucked a strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear. “Something about a take-out order.”

“Right. An order he can take up to his apartment.” She pointed to the ceiling. “His apartment upstairs.”

Vicki was clearly baffled. “So?”

“This street is lined with two-story buildings. There must be living quarters on the second floor of most of them. All I have to do is find one that’s empty.”

“What are you going to do?” Vicki asked. “Check every building on the street?”

“If I have to.”

“Would you like me to help? I promised Jamie I’d work with him on his exhibit today, but he’ll understand.”

“No. Go on home to that gorgeous husband of yours. I’ll wait and pay the check.” As Vicki stood to leave, Louise looked out the window to the park across the street and grinned. “I won’t need your help anyway, Vic. I know just who to ask.”



WES WAS LUCKY. He pulled into a parking place right in front of the Bayberry Cove Kettle just after a customer backed out. Glancing around at the spots nearest him, he confirmed the absence of a black BMW and couldn’t decide if he felt relief or disappointment.

He opened the door to the restaurant, and Louise breezed through it wearing a midthigh sundress splashed with sunflowers and held up with inch-wide shoulder straps. A flurry of gastric activity began in Wes’s stomach that made him forget his earlier cravings for pancakes and bacon.

She stopped in front of him and locked her mesmerizing pale lavender eyes with his. A shock of recognition—no doubt as profound as Wes’s own—shimmered in her gaze for mere seconds before mutating to an amused familiarity. Nothing seemed to faze this woman for long.

“Well, well, Commander.” She placed a fist on her hip and gave him a self-assured grin. “You clean up pretty darn well.”

His fingers twitched at his side. He resisted the ridiculous urge to salute. He literally was a commander, but he didn’t feel in charge of this encounter. “Good morning, Louise,” he said, reassured by the commanding tone of his voice, at least.

“You look refreshed, Wesley,” she said. “I assume you slept well in your seaside retreat.”

“Very well, thank you.” That was a lie. The window air conditioner in the master bedroom had cranked and hissed in competition with the twenty-year-old compressor in the refrigerator. But outdated appliances weren’t all that had kept him awake most of the night. He was staring at the main reason for his restlessness. “And you?”

“Like a top,” she said. “The motel you so generously recommended had all the amenities of, well…a motel.” She flipped a shimmering column of black hair over her shoulder. “But you’ll be glad to know that I may have solved the problem of my living quarters.”

“Oh?”

She raised her eyes to scan the tops of the buildings on Main Street. “I can’t imagine that there isn’t a room to let above one of these Bayberry Cove establishments. I can be quite comfortable here in the middle of everything that goes on in your little town.”

“That is an interesting solution, Louise. I’m sure you’ll find the nightlife in town quite stimulating. Have you checked with any of the shopkeepers yet about vacancies?”

“I don’t need to go door-to-door,” she answered smartly. “I’ve already made one friend in Bayberry Cove who will be helpful.” She pointed to the park across the street, where an old man sat on a bench.

Wes smiled when he recognized the familiar figure who had occupied that particular bench for most of the last five years.

“He was kind enough to give me directions to Pintail Point yesterday,” Louise continued. “I’m sure he’ll help me find a vacancy. I’ll bet he sees everything from that vantage point. And I’ll bet he knows everyone in town.”

“That’s probably a good bet,” Wes said.

Louise inclined her head toward the restaurant door. “You enjoy your breakfast, Commander. By the time you’ve finished, I’ll have signed a two-month lease, and we’ll practically be neighbors.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Wes glanced at the old-timer in the park. Mason was a tough cookie in most of his dealings, but if anyone could talk him into the lease deal of the century, it was Louise. “Why don’t we meet back here in, say, forty-five minutes, and you can let me know how you made out,” Wes suggested. “I’ll even spring for coffee and promise not to pour any on you.”

Amazingly, she seemed to like the idea. “Forty-five minutes it is.” She gave him a grin and left.



“HI. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?” Louise said to the old man sitting under the sprawling oak tree.

He looked at her with surprisingly clear blue eyes that were still apparently capable of appreciating her obvious attributes. Sliding over to give her room on the bench, he motioned for her to sit. “I may be old,” he said, “but my memory’s as fresh as last night’s dew for things that catch my fancy. Did you find your way to Pintail Point yesterday?”

She sat, then angled toward him with her elbow on the back of the bench. “I did. Your directions were perfect. I’m counting on you knowing every little thing about this town. That’s why I’ve come back for your help today.”

He layered his hands over a thick wooden walking stick and appraised her with an intensity that suddenly seemed strangely familiar. “What is it you need, young lady?”

Louise squirmed on the bench seat just a little, suppressing the feeling that she knew this man as more than just a passing acquaintance from the previous day. It was more than his eyes. Though his skin was creased with wrinkles and slack on his face, she detected a once-square jawline, punctuated by a strong chin that thrust forward with authority.

She told him about her search for living quarters and that she was hoping an apartment might be available in town. He nodded, asked her a few questions about her intended length of stay and her reason for being in Bayberry Cove.

She answered truthfully, and when she’d finished, he thought a moment and then replied. “There’s a small house out on the sound about four miles from here,” he said. “Has a sign above the door that says Buttercup Cottage. I think you’d like it there.”

Louise laughed. “I would indeed, but it seems someone beat me to it. A man is already living there….”

His scraggly white eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Do you know his name?”

“Wesley Fletcher,” she said.

The beginning of a smile curled the man’s thin lips. “So, the boy’s come home,” he said. “I wondered when I caught a glimpse of him going into the Kettle.”

“He has. I tried to bargain with him—”

“Oh, you can’t bargain with Wesley. He’s as stubborn as his father.”

Louise nodded. “So I’ve experienced.”

The old man chuckled. “You’d best leave the cottage to him.” He pointed across the street. “Now, then, see that furniture store? McCorkle’s New and Used?”

Louise nodded again.

“You try that place. I know the upstairs is vacant, and I think it’s in pretty good shape. ’Course, all these buildings are showing signs of age. But I expect that one will do.”

“And who should I see about renting it?” Louise asked.

“Ask for Suzie or Evan McCorkle. They run the place. You tell them that Mason told you to inquire.” He winked at her. “You’ll get the apartment. I guarantee it. Just have Suzie draw up a simple agreement saying you’ll pay three hundred a month for the next two months. Tell her to give you a copy and that’ll be that.”

“Really? It’s that easy?”

“You run along and get your suitcase. It’ll be that easy,” he assured her.

And it almost was. Evan McCorkle, gray-haired, well-fed and a living, breathing folk-art archetype of middle-class virtues, was at first reluctant to rent to Louise. She determined from what she deciphered from snatches of his whispered debate with his wife that Evan thought Louise might play loud music or entertain guests at odd hours.

But Suzie McCorkle argued that she had a good feeling about Miss Duncan, and couldn’t she always trust her feelings? In the end, it was Suzie’s intuition and the mention of Mason’s name that clinched the deal. By the time Louise entered the Bayberry Cove Kettle to meet Wesley Fletcher for coffee, she had a signed lease in her hand. “The place is a bit dusty,” she explained to Wes, “but I can fix it up. And I bought a few pieces of furniture from the McCorkles. I’ll be very comfortable there.”

Truthfully, it would take her a good two days to even make the place livable. The furniture needed sprucing up. The cobwebs alone would fill up a trash can, and the grime on the windows all but obliterated the view of Main Street. But Louise wasn’t about to admit to Wes that any of those details were more than a passing inconvenience.

“Sounds like everything worked out for you even without Buttercup Cottage,” he said, while filling her coffee mug.

“Absolutely.” She stirred her coffee and let a smug grin convey her feeling of self-satisfaction. “And the best part is I got a great deal, and don’t have to write any rent checks to the Fletchers.”

He smiled down into his own cup before leveling a serious gaze on her face. “That’s not necessarily so, Louise. If you look at that document carefully, you’ll see that your rent payments should be made out to Mason D. Fletcher Enterprises.”

Louise darted a glance out the window at the old man in the park. “His name is Mason Fletcher?”

“’Fraid so,” Wes acknowledged. “Your landlord is my grandfather.” When he noticed the puzzled look on her face, he added, “Mason Delroy Fletcher owns these entire three blocks of Bayberry Cove, Louise. So no matter what second-story apartment you chose, you would be supporting the Fletchers.”

He took a long sip of coffee. “And we certainly do appreciate your patronage.”




CHAPTER FOUR


VICKI MALONE CAREFULLY removed a china dinner plate from the packing box. She stacked it on top of others on an old wrought-iron and glass table in the kitchen section of Louise’s apartment. “These dishes are really pretty, Lulu,” she said. “I love the cherry blossom design.”

“The best the Morgan City Wal-Mart had to offer,” Louise responded. “And within the limits of the dollar amount I set to furnish this place.”

Vicki swiped her finger through a layer of dust on the single kitchen counter. “Are you really going to sleep here tonight?”

Louise snapped plastic gloves onto her hands and dipped a cleaning rag into a solution of vinegar and water. “Absolutely. Two nights in a motel is enough for me. I’m looking forward to all the…” she paused, glanced around the room at the work that still needed to be done, and gave Vicki a rueful smile “…comforts of home. Have I mentioned how grateful I am to you two for your help?”

Jamie Malone, intent on turning an old oak bureau into a utilitarian work of art, shrugged off the comment. “Forget about it. What are friends for?”

“Besides, you’ve mentioned it about a hundred times,” Vicki said. “With the three of us working, we actually might have this place in order by this afternoon. It’s going to be lovely,” she added. “The curtains and linens and pillows you bought are adorable and will add a lot of charm to this room.”

Louise stared at her dearest friend. Vicki loved pottery and flowers and chintz, so Louise allowed her to use words like adorable and charm. Louise’s viewpoint was that a person needed towels. So what if they had a little lacy trim on the hem? So what if a plate had a cluster of cherries painted in the center? It would still hold a microwave dinner. “That’s the look I’m going for,” she said with a grin.

When she finished unpacking dishes, Vicki picked up a candle that had been sitting on the table, and examined it closely. “I didn’t know you were into these things. Did you buy this at the Bayberry Cove Candle Company?”

“Hardly, since I’ve never heard of the place. The truth is, I didn’t buy it at all. It was outside my door this morning when I got here.”

“It’s a beautiful shade of blue,” Vicki said. “Did you read the tag taped to the side?”

“Tag? No. I didn’t know there was a tag.”

“It says, ‘Look to the sky and look to sea for this tranquil shade of blue. Light it tonight and it will bring comfort to your home and you.’”

Louise walked over to the table and took the candle from Vicki. “Very touching,” she said, “if not exactly poet laureate material.”

“If you didn’t buy it,” Vicki said, “I wonder where it came from.”

Jamie turned off the power to his electric sander and set the tool on top of the bureau. “I’d guess that Suzie McCorkle left it,” he said. “She’s interested in that kind of stuff. Candles, crystals, things like that. It’s probably her way of wishing you domestic harmony.”

Louise pictured the mousy woman with the shoulder-length gray hair neatly pinned back from her forehead with two barrettes. A New Age lady? Well, why not? Louise looked at the mattress and box springs and the “nearly new” plaid sofa she had bought from Suzie’s shop the day before, and another explanation came to mind. “Maybe she’s just thanking me for buying a few things.”

Jamie ran his hand over the surface of the dresser and picked up the sander again. “Maybe. She would do something like that—quietly leave a candle without expecting recognition. She’s a nice woman.”

The origin of the candle solved, Louise returned to her struggle with the first of three windows that looked over Main Street. After scrubbing for ten minutes with the vinegar solution and following up with industrial strength glass cleaner, she was finally able to see the sun dappling the sidewalks in the square across the street. She yanked another batch of paper towels from a roll and feverishly wiped the stubborn glass with a circular motion. “Just have to eliminate a few more streaks,” she huffed, “and then a bird with a bad case of cataracts might actually knock himself silly trying to fly into this place.”

“For the love of Saint Pat, Louise,” Jamie said above the steady whirr of his sander, “you’d better quit now before you rub a hole in the glass.”

“Jamie’s right, Lulu. You’re taking out your frustration on the window.”

Louise laid her forehead against the nearly clean pane and sighed. “You’re right. I still can’t believe I didn’t notice the name Fletcher on that lease. Four days ago, if I’d had a client who’d done something as stupid as sign a document without reading it carefully, I’d have seriously considered not representing him.”

Jamie looked at Vicki and was unsuccessful at hiding a grin. “And what difference does it really make now? You have a place to stay at a reasonable rent—the only place available, as I see it. Why do you care who owns the building?”

“But they’re so smug,” she said. “Wesley practically crowed when he told me that his family owns this building.”

“They own Buttercup Cottage, too,” Vicki pointed out. “And that didn’t bother you when you thought you could rent it.”

“That was yesterday, before I knew them.” She gestured out the window, where people in the square were now visible through the sparkling glass. “And that old guy over there…Mason Fletcher. Now that I think about it, he was smug, too. And I can just imagine Haywood. He’s probably more smug than the rest of them.”

Jamie hunched a shoulder in a sign of agreement. “Smug, clever…there’s a fine line between the two if you ask me. You have to be clever first in order to justify being smug. And as for your signing the lease, my advice is to forget about it. You’re on vacation from lawyering, so you might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” He walked to the middle window and with his fist cleared a three-inch circle through the grime so he could see the street below. “Bayberry Cove is a really nice little town.”

Louise let out a long breath and followed his gaze. It was Sunday morning, and families had gathered on the square. Fathers pushed children on swings and women chatted on benches.

“Yes, it is,” she admitted. “And you’re right. I’m going to relax just as soon as I get this place clean. And right after you tell me how old man Fletcher got all his money.”

Jamie went back to the bureau, picked up a piece of sandpaper and began smoothing the edges by hand. “That’s an interesting story,” he said, his words a soothing accompaniment to the rasp of the paper. “Mason was in his early twenties when he took a small inheritance his father left him and traveled from Bayberry Cove to Arizona. He invested in a silver mine out there with some other fellas, and as luck would have it, they uncovered a rich vein that gave them each a good stake for their futures.”

Louise dipped her rag again and attacked the middle window. “So he came back to North Carolina and bought Bayberry Cove?”

Jamie chuckled. “Not all at once. He made his real fortune in patents. Sold one to Henry Ford that revolutionized the assembly line process. And then, bit by bit, he started buying up property around here and dabbling in various ventures. He built Buttercup Cottage in 1935 for the love of his life, the woman he married.”

Louise stared down at the old man under the oak tree. She wasn’t surprised to learn a romantic soul lurked behind his knowing blue eyes. Smugness aside, Mason Fletcher had a soft spot. “Who was she?”

“An Arizona gal. He married her out there and took her away from all that soaring rock and desert and brought her to the sea. They say she loved being on Currituck Sound, and Buttercup Cottage was his gift to her on their second anniversary.” He stopped sanding and looked first at Louise and then at Vicki. “He called her Buttercup. He was a man very much in love, apparently. Still is, twenty-some years after her death.”

“Haywood was their only child?” Louise asked.

“The only one who survived the polio epidemic of the late forties,” Jamie answered. “Haywood had two younger sisters, twins. They both died.”

Louise watched as Mason Fletcher rolled a colorful plastic ball toward a group of children in the square. “That’s sad.”

“And Haywood only had one child—Wesley.” Jamie blew a film of sawdust from the top of the bureau. “Can’t say he didn’t try for more, though. He’s been married four times—which is why he shies away from wedded bliss today,” Jamie added with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Louise resumed scrubbing. “So Haywood is quite the ladies’ man as well as a renowned legal mind. I can’t wait to meet this paragon of Bayberry Cove society.”

“You will meet him,” Vicki said. “The only woman in his life now is Jamie’s mother, Kate.”

“But didn’t you tell me that Jamie’s mother works for Haywood?” Louise asked.

“We said ‘used to,’ as in she used to be his housekeeper. Now she’s a bit more to him than that.”

“Yeah, but not his wife,” Jamie said with that same edge of rancor in his tone.

Louise spritzed a generous amount of cleaner on the window and began rubbing it dry. As the solution evaporated, a group of men standing on the sidewalk in front of the Bayberry Cove Kettle came into her view. There was no mistaking the tall, lean figure waving goodbye to the others and heading across the street. She quickly cleaned a larger section and watched Wesley Fletcher walk toward his grandfather. “Speaking of the Fletchers, the youngest one just appeared on the square.”

Vicki levered her pregnant body off the chair. She stood beside Louise at the window. “Is that him? Is that Wesley?”

“In the flesh.” Louise admired the stretch of a snug T-shirt over his chest and his muscled thighs extending from a pair of gray jersey shorts. “Or the next best thing to it, anyway.”

“Ohh…” Vicki’s one syllable rolled into several seconds of blatant admiration.

“Don’t stare at the poor man, ladies,” Jamie said from the middle of the room. “You couldn’t be more obvious.”

Vicki laughed. “You’re just jealous because there’s someone in Bayberry Cove who is nearly as good-looking as you are.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But Wes is a good friend. And he’s the town’s favorite son. He was born and raised here and all the locals followed his exploits through the naval academy and beyond. I’m content to stand in his shadow as the adopted son.”

Louise drummed her nails against the pane. “I wonder why he’s not married.”

“He was, once,” Jamie said. “To a girl he met while he was at Annapolis. She was a journalist in Washington, a couple of years older than him.”

“What happened?”

“She went her way, covering stories around the world, and he went his, to wherever the navy sent him. Tough to make a marriage work under those circumstances. They divorced after a few years.”

Louise drew her friend’s attention back to the window. “Look, he’s a runner.”

Both women watched as Wesley stretched his legs and arms. He jogged in place a moment before taking off around the perimeter of the square.

“He runs a few times a week when he’s in town,” Jamie said, adding that he started the regimen at precisely the same time each day. “Now get away from the window and give the man his privacy.”

“No way,” Louise scoffed. “He doesn’t want privacy. He’s running in the middle of the town square!” Determined to raise the window, which probably hadn’t been opened in a decade at least, she struggled until old paint finally cracked and the glass slid upward with a stubborn hiss. She waited for Wesley to sprint around to the street side again and then leaned out the window. “Ahoy, Commander,” she yelled. “Good morning.”

He looked up, shielded his eyes. “Good morning to you, Louise,” he called. “How are the new digs?”

“Couldn’t be better,” she said, propping the window up with a yardstick.

He tossed her an offhand wave and jogged around the corner. Louise continued to watch. His legs churned with nearly effortless grace. His arms pumped rhythmically at his sides. He was all fluid, powerful motion, an image of focused elegance. She nudged her friend. “So, what do you think?”

“Oh, you’re right, Lulu. I’ve never seen a man more outrageously…” Vicki fumbled for the right word and glanced over her shoulder at her husband “…sinfully smug in my life!”

Louise hooted with laughter. “See? I told you. But on him it does look good.”



LOUISE’S APPROACH TO LIFE in Bayberry Cove was characterized by good intentions. First, she intended to take Jamie’s advice. Once the apartment was in good shape, she’d kick back, relax, read a few good books. She’d definitely brightened the day of the owner of Books by the Bay when she’d walked out of the shop Monday morning with ten novels.

Second, she intended to stay a little bit angry with Wesley Fletcher. It was the safest way to combat a growing attraction to the good-looking ex–naval officer who seemed to be popping into her thoughts with alarming regularity. A man who lived his life according to regimens and schedules wouldn’t complement Louise’s more flamboyant style. More importantly, she wasn’t staying in Bayberry Cove for long. Two months in this town was the only interlude she meant to have from her real life.

And last, she definitely intended to avoid legal matters of any kind. She was in the South, where everybody understood that the livin’ was easy, and she was going to return to Oppenheimer Straus and Baker bathed in an aura of mint-julep cool if it killed her.

Unfortunately, each of these good intentions was blown all to hell on Tuesday evening.

Just two days after she moved into her little apartment, an unexpected event made her ignore every promise she’d made to herself.

Tired of reading, bored with dusting and totally disinterested in popping a frozen dinner into her microwave, Louise wandered down to the Kettle, where she’d eaten most of her meals the last couple of days. There was a good supper crowd gathered in the diner, but she found a small table and sat down.

After a few minutes Bobbi Lee came to take her order. “Hey, girl, how’s it going?” she said, her red lips curving into a welcoming grin. “How’s that place of yours working out?”

“Just fine, Bobbi Lee,” Louise said. She and Bobbi had established a friendly relationship. In fact, Louise was now beginning to worry about how this steadily increasing bond with the waitress might translate into fat grams.

“What’ll it be tonight?” Bobbi asked.

Louise folded the menu so she couldn’t see the words sausage gravy. “Just a salad.”

Bobbi sauntered off to place the order and Louise sat back and watched the people around her. Four women at a nearby table caught and held her attention. Each lady had a full bottle of Budweiser in front of her. Twice the number of empties sat waiting for the busboy to take them away.

Occasionally the women’s conversation was interrupted by boisterous laughter. But without fail, they quickly resumed a serious discussion once the joviality passed. Other sounds of the restaurant faded as curiosity made Louise tune in their voices. The ladies were obviously close acquaintances even though there was a wide range in their ages.

“All I know is that I couldn’t afford to give up another day’s wages at the factory to stay home with my son,” a young, olive-skinned Hispanic woman said. “Thank goodness he was well enough to go back to the baby-sitter today.”

“Did you tell Justin why you needed to stay home?” an older woman with a long gray ponytail asked.

“I did, hoping he’d be sympathetic. He said, ‘Go ahead, Miranda. Take all the time you need, but come payday—’”

“Wait, don’t tell us,” a slim woman with short blond hair interrupted. “He said, ‘Come payday, your check might be a little less than you expected.’”

Empathetic laughter erupted around the table until the older woman lifted her bottle into the air. “Let’s drink one to Justin Beauclaire, in honor of his unending compassion for his employees and his sense of fair play,” she said.

Something of an expert herself in the subtle deployment of sarcasm, Louise appreciated the old gal’s admirable use of it. She smiled and raised her glass of iced tea in silent commiseration.

Four bottles met and clinked above the center of the table, and each woman took a long swallow of beer. The older woman set down her bottle, wiped suds from her mouth with a napkin and gave her friend a serious look. “You know, Miranda, you could have brought Lorenzo to my house yesterday. It was my day off, and I would have watched him.”

Miranda smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Bessie, but you’ve got enough to handle just taking care of your husband. Besides, who knows what germs Lorenzo could have brought into your house? If Pete had caught something from him, his emphysema might have gotten worse.”

“How’s Pete doing, anyway?” a woman with coffee-brown skin asked.

“Not too well, Yvonne,” Bessie said, “but thanks for asking.”

“You’ve got to get some help,” Yvonne said. “Between work and Pete, you’re wearing yourself out.”

“Without health insurance, I can’t afford to get outside help,” Bessie said. “Even if I could afford insurance, I doubt I could get coverage for Pete at this stage of his illness.”

Not an individual policy, Louise agreed to herself. But it would have been nice if you’d had family coverage provided by your employer when you started working.

Yvonne, the African-American woman, shook her head slowly. “That’s a shame. My sister’s husband over in Raleigh got coverage for the whole family when he went to work for the paper mill….”

Louise nodded. Right. That’s the way it should be.

“…and tight ol’ Justin Beauclaire won’t even provide coverage for his employees,” the woman continued.

The blonde, the youngest by several years, downed the rest of her beer in one long gulp and curled her lips into a catlike grin. “Yeah, but we get all the candles we can steal,” she said.

Candles? These women must work for the Bayberry Cove Candle Company, which Vicki had mentioned a couple of days ago. The factory was the town’s largest employer.

The young woman unzipped a huge canvas purse sitting on the floor beside her chair and pulled out an eight-inch pillar candle. “I figure this pretty one will set the mood when Luke and I are alone at his place later.”

“Shame on you, Darlene Jackson,” Bessie said. “You took that from work?”

Darlene shrugged. “Why not? I haven’t had a raise in three years. I figure the company owes me.”

Bessie sighed. “The last thing I want to see when I leave the factory every day is another candle.”

“Yes, girl,” Yvonne said, and then shook a finger at Darlene. “Especially when you’re wasting it on Luke Plunkett. When are you gonna wise up and find yourself a nice fella?”

Darlene stuffed the candle back in her purse and frowned. “As soon as Justin Beauclaire pays me a wage that allows me to put a little away each week so’s I can walk outta that factory for good. And you all know that’s not likely to happen.” She set her elbows on the table and cradled her chin in her hands. “Until I can afford to get outta here, Luke is about all I got to look forward to each night.” She gazed at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with her friends. “Besides, he can be nice.”

Yvonne stared at Bessie and said in a conspiratorial voice, “Is it snowing in hell, Bess?”

Darlene stood up, dug into the pocket of a pair of skin-tight jeans and tossed a few bills onto the table. “I heard that, Yvonne,” she said. “But even you’ve got to admit that a girl can’t sit home with her momma and daddy every night on a big, lonely farm. And like I said, Luke can be nice.”

She draped the purse strap over her shoulder and pushed in her chair. “I’m off to the Brew and Bowl. Luke will be wondering where I am.” She straightened her spine defiantly and lifted her chin. “See you all next Tuesday night, I guess. And tomorrow at work.”

Louise munched on the last of her salad and watched with the three other women as Darlene strutted from the restaurant.

“I don’t know what will become of that girl if she stays with Luke,” Bessie said with a shake of her coarse gray ponytail. “She’s got a big heart, but I don’t think that boy will ever appreciate the goodness in her.”

Miranda ran a hand through her long dark curls and sighed. “I worry that Luke will get drunk and really hurt her. Deputy Blackwell has broken up a couple of fights between them, but one day Darlene won’t be so lucky. She needs to get away from that devil before it’s too late.”

Yvonne smirked. “Not much chance of that as long as she’s working for Beauclaire and earning minimum wage. She can’t afford a place of her own.”

Louise had heard enough. The problems at the candle factory were issues she understood well in her capacity as a corporate lawyer, though she’d never really studied them from the employees’ point of view. Her promise to avoid work-related entanglements abruptly abandoned, Louise stood up and went to the table.

“Pardon me, ladies,” she said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m Louise Duncan, attorney. Do you mind if I sit down?”

None of the women spoke, apparently too surprised to respond. Finally, Bessie pressed her booted foot on the leg of the chair Darlene had just vacated, and pushed it away from the table. “It’s a free country,” she said.

Miranda narrowed her dark eyes suspiciously. “Not to an attorney it isn’t.”

Louise dropped onto the chair and scooted close. She waved off the Hispanic woman’s comment with a flutter of her hand. “Don’t concern yourself with what you’ve heard about lawyer fees,” she said. “If you ladies and I come to an agreement about some things, and I decide that I can help you, I’ll take on this project strictly for the experience—and the fun of it.” She smiled at the women.

“I know a little about corporate law, ladies,” she continued. “And a thing or two about labor regulations.” She looked at each woman. “If you three have a little more time this evening, I’d like you to tell me all about the factory and your employer, Justin Beauclaire.”

The two younger women looked to Bessie, who chewed her bottom lip a moment and finally said, “Girls, I can’t see as it would hurt to talk to her.”




CHAPTER FIVE


WESLEY CAME AROUND the third corner of the town square jogging path and slowed to an easy trot, just as he’d done the last two mornings. He looked up at the three windows above McCorkle’s New and Used Furniture Store on Main Street—just as he’d done the last two mornings. He knew his actions must be conspicuous, and he felt like a fool. If Louise were looking out one of the windows, she’d surely notice that he altered his pace each time he passed this particular part of the track.

She wasn’t there. In fact, she hadn’t shown her face since Sunday when, in front of half the population of Bayberry Cove, she’d hollered a greeting from her window and cheerfully wished him a good morning. And now it was Wednesday, and he hadn’t felt nearly as cheery since. He waved at his grandfather, seated, as always, on a bench, and picked up his speed, heading into his second lap. “Forget about her, Wes,” he puffed to himself on short, choppy bursts of air exploding from his laboring lungs. “Louise Duncan is the last woman on earth you should be interested in.”

At the next corner, he ran faster. Louise was still in town. He’d heard that from several sources, including Jamie Malone. In fact, Jamie couldn’t seem to talk about her without aiming a knowing grin at Wes.

Surely Jamie didn’t think he was interested in Louise. She was about as alien to Bayberry Cove as nouveau cuisine was to the Kettle. If Wes ever did settle down with one woman again, it wouldn’t be with an independent, wisecracking, sexy-as-hell city girl like Louise Duncan.

Jamie wasn’t the only one in town who’d taken a liking to Louise. Bobbi Lee referred to her as “the princess” without the slightest hint of malice in her voice. Lots of folks in town seemed to like her. Wes wasn’t at all sure how he felt about her, but as each day passed, he found himself wishing the warning bells in his head would cease their clamor so he could have the opportunity to decide how he did.

And then opportunity knocked—or dashed—right smack into his exercise regimen. In the middle of the long section of track opposite Main Street, Louise suddenly appeared next to him, jogging with all the vigor he had begun to lose. Long, lean legs extended from clinging midthigh shorts and ended in sparkling white running shoes. A form-fitting tank top revealed a slash of creamy abdomen each time her fists pumped away from her body. The material stretched tightly across her breasts, permitting just enough of a subtle bob to make his throat feel as if it were stuffed with cotton. A brazen red baseball cap completed her outfit. She wore it low on her forehead, and a swath of raven hair swung from the opening at the back, reminding him of the tail of a Thoroughbred twitching at the starting gate.

“Nice day for a run, isn’t it, Wesley?” she said, her voice even and controlled, and irritatingly unlabored.

He huffed out an answer. “A beautiful morning, Louise. I haven’t seen you run before.”

“I’ve indulged in entirely too much Southern cooking at the Kettle,” she said, patting a tummy which, now that he looked, might be straining her zippers a little. “I run three days a week at home.” She smiled at him. “Can’t let myself go just because I’m on vacation.”

Ordinarily Wes might have slowed as he approached the third curve for the second time. But he wasn’t about to exhibit a lack of endurance in front of Louise. He sucked in his diaphragm, straightened his back and kept up the pace that somehow in the last minute he’d let her establish. “So how’s that vacation thing working out for you?” he asked.

“Fine, but I’m counting on you to help make it better.”

He stumbled on absolutely nothing. In disciplined military fashion, he covered his blunder and kept running. But he knew from the quick upturn of her lips that she’d seen him falter. “Oh?” It was all he could manage to say.

“I figured, who better to show me the sights than one of the town’s most respected citizens.” She cast him a sideways glance. “And from all I’ve heard, that’s you, Commander.”

The sun glinted off a silver medallion that bounced against her chest above the scooped neckline of her top. Wes couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Her voice jolted him back from a dangerous place. “Wes? Are you interested?”

He snapped his eyes to hers. “Well, okay. Where would you like to go?”

“I thought we’d start with the candle factory.”

The candle factory? He’d expected…deep down he’d hoped she would request a boat ride on Currituck Sound. In fact, he could picture her in his speedboat or the lively little skiff he’d brought out of dry dock and kept by the shore at the cottage. Or he thought she’d ask to see Bayberry Park with its thirty-foot waterfall, an anomaly in an area that boasted few attractions above sea level. But no, she wanted to see the candle factory.

As if sensing his confusion, she elaborated. “I love candles. I have dozens in my condo in Florida. What about this afternoon? I want to see the factory from the inside out, how candles are mass-produced, all the details I wouldn’t get if I didn’t go with someone who knows the territory.”

Of course he could accommodate her. His father and the candle factory president, Justin Beauclaire, had been friends, fishing buddies and poker-playing rivals for years. The factory was certainly a safe place to take the bewildering Miss Duncan, but Wes’s thoughts kept returning to a vision of a more intimate afternoon at the park or skimming over the crystal water of the sound. “Okay, the candle factory it is,” he said, trying to hide a disappointment that surprised him with its intensity. “I’ll pick you up behind the furniture store at two?”

They’d reached the path by Main Street again, and Louise veered off toward her apartment. “Great. See you then.”

As soon as Wes was certain she couldn’t see him, he stopped running, bent his knees and placed his hands on his thighs. He expelled a long, exhausted breath and heard his grandfather chuckling. Wes looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just sympathizing with you, boy,” Mason said. “That woman can knock the wind right out of you.”



HER LEGS ACHING, her heart pounding and her breathing as ragged as if she’d climbed a hundred steps instead of eighteen, Louise flung open the door to her apartment, grabbed a bottle of water from her small refrigerator and collapsed onto her sofa. “You idiot,” she said. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Running a mile-long track around the square was nothing like hitting the treadmill for fifteen minutes at her Fort Lauderdale gym before getting a smoothie and a massage. She gulped the water and lay on her back, propping her head on the arm of the couch. Her gaze connected immediately with her coffee table and the single item sitting there, the blue candle.

“I just love candles,” she said in a sing-song voice that mimicked her previous comment to Wes. “I have dozens in my condo.” She flung her ball cap and hit the candle dead center, hiding it from view. “Candles, my ass,” she groaned.

The only ones she’d ever bought in her life had been skinny little things to stick into birthday cakes, and those she’d bought for someone else. Louise was a firm believer in electric light—bright, soft, sexy, whatever. As long as it illuminated without threatening to set the house on fire. But what the heck? She was getting inside the candle factory, and she was going in on the arm of Wesley Fletcher.



BY TWO O’CLOCK that afternoon, Louise had showered, applied makeup and slipped into a coral shirt-waist dress with what she considered a respectable hemline. On impulse, as she went down the back staircase from her apartment, she popped open the top two buttons and spread the yoke of the dress just enough to distract Wesley from the questions she intended to ask.

He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tan knit shirt that fit his military-sculpted chest as if it had been molded to him at the factory. He leaned on the hood of an immaculate dark green Jeep.

“Nice car,” she said, figuring a compliment to his vehicle would go a long way with a guy like Wes.

He opened the passenger door, and she slid onto a spotless tan leather bucket seat. “It gets me where I need to go,” he said.

He bolted to the other side, got in and started the engine. With one wrist draped over the steering wheel, he turned to her and asked, “You sure about this? You really want to see the candle factory?”

She swiveled toward him so her knees were mere inches from his thigh, and stared at the handsome, rugged face that had invaded her thoughts for the last few hours. “I’ve been thinking about this excursion all day.” That was the truth. “I can’t wait to see how candles are made.” That was a lie. “I hope you can take me behind the scenes—you know, introduce me to the movers and shakers at the factory.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid the only moving and shaking you’ll see is when Justin Beauclaire walks across his office to the bar and shakes the martini pitcher.” He pulled out of the lot and headed down an alley. “But whatever your pleasure…”

The factory was located a couple of miles outside of town on a two-lane county road that curved past the Brew and Bowl Alley, a few blue-collar businesses and three trailer parks. Louise recognized the name of the mechanics garage where Miranda Lopez’s husband, Pedro, worked, as well as the Lazy Day Mobile Home community where the family lived.

Louise knew she might see the women she’d talked to the night before at the Kettle. They’d all agreed that if they encountered each other at the factory, they would pretend to be strangers. Their association would be public soon enough, but for now, Louise was concerned with getting information, and her guise of being a tourist interested in candles was the best way of doing that.

Wesley parked near the double doors of the two-story colonial offices. This part of the building resembled a modest but gracious Southern mansion. The rest of the business, the production area extending behind the offices, was a long, single-story metal building with windows along the roofline.

Wes and Louise entered a lobby furnished in Wedgwood-blue wing chairs, Queen Anne tables and peaceful pastoral prints. And of course, candles. A half-dozen mahogany shelves displayed the products, which came in many shapes and sizes. The receptionist, a middle-aged lady, gushed over Wesley while Louise scanned the racks, picking up samples. One fact was abundantly clear. This company didn’t miss a holiday sales opportunity or the chance to permeate the world with all sorts of intoxicating smells, from light floral to exotic spice.

After answering questions about where he’d been, how long he’d been home, and thanking the receptionist for expounding on what a handsome young man he’d become, Wes waved for Louise to follow him through a door that led from the lobby. “I called ahead,” he told her. “Justin Beauclaire, the CEO of the company, is expecting us.”

Louise walked beside him down a short hallway to an elevator. This was exactly what she’d hoped for. She whistled in appreciation. “Wow, are we getting a tour from the president?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’m impressed with your contacts, Wesley.”

“Don’t be. This is a small town. Justin and my dad go way back.”

They exited the elevator on the second floor and were met by a portly, balding man. He shook Wes’s hand and introduced himself to Louise as Justin Beauclaire. While he openly admired his visitor, Louise gave him her sweetest smile, slipped her hand into her shoulder bag and discreetly turned on her tape recorder.



BACK ON THE MAIN FLOOR, Justin Beauclaire took his guests past offices on either side of a long hallway. They ended at a metal door. “Through here lies the pulse and energy of the factory,” Justin said. “This is where tons of paraffin is turned into the beauties I hope you saw on display in the lobby.”

“I did indeed,” Louise responded. “I was truly amazed by the number and variety of candles produced here.”

“We’re trying new designs all the time,” Justin said. “We have a research department entirely devoted to market analysis, product testing and nationwide sales.” He opened the door and held it for Louise and Wes to precede him. “Ordinarily I don’t allow any visitors into this part of the business,” he explained. “Insurance issues, you understand.”

She stopped just inside the warehouse and waited for Justin to close the door.

“’Course, I don’t mind breaking the rules for old Wes, here,” he said. “Even if I do remember wiping his nose a few times when he was just a little sprout.”

Wes, clearly embarrassed, forced a snicker.

“We have a lot of expensive and sensitive machinery in here,” Justin added. “Plus nearly every employee inside this building is working with wax in one form or another. In the beginning stages of candle production, wax can be tricky to handle. We melt ours to one hundred eighty degrees.” He gave Louise a sly grin. “Can’t have any novices poking their pretty noses, or fingers, into a vat of hot wax, now can we?”

Louise tsked in sympathy. “Certainly not. I promise to stay safely away from any bubbling cauldrons.” She studied the huge metal tanks across the warehouse. Suspended above each were large circular racks, each holding dozens of taper candles of varying thicknesses. “Has anyone ever gotten badly burned?” she asked.

Justin waved off the question. “No. The wax isn’t hot enough to cause blisters. Just smarts a little if it gets on the skin. Besides, we have all the required safety measures in place.” He frowned. “Got no choice in the matter. We have government inspectors from OSHA breathin’ down our necks every time we turn around.” He clarified in case she didn’t understand. “That’s the Occupational Safety and Health Administration.”

Louise nodded. “I see.” She gestured toward one of the wheel racks that had just begun lowering its candles into a vat. “What’s happening there?” she asked.

“That’s one of our dipping wheels,” Justin explained. “We have six of them operating sixteen hours a day. Each candle is dipped fifty times and cooled in between each lowering.”

Louise remembered that Bessie referred to herself as a dipper. She’d worked in that position for fifteen years. As if to validate that thought, the older woman walked out from behind a wheel and glanced at the trio of onlookers. Louise gave her a hint of a smile. A hairpin held between her teeth, Bessie nodded at her behind a pretense of rewinding her long gray mane into a knot at the crown of her head.

Justin next took them to where wax was molded into various shapes. Several women poured the thick substance from large tubes into metal forms, reminiscent of cake decorating on a grand scale. When Justin had explained the procedure, Louise asked how many people the candle company employed.

“We’re the largest employer in the county,” he said proudly. “Got one hundred and thirty-three on the payroll. We’re just one big happy family here at Bayberry Cove Candle Company,” he added. He poked Wesley in the ribs. “Even had Wes working for us at one time. Remember the summers after your junior and senior years of high school, boy?”

The question produced an involuntary flinch, as if Wes was trying to erase the memory from his mind. “How could I forget?” he said. “I left here every afternoon smelling like a bouquet of roses.”

Justin hooted before explaining to Louise, “Wes worked in the scent department. He was a good employee. We could have made a junior chemist out of him if he’d stuck around.”

Louise cast a sideways grin at Wes. “You mean instead of the junior plumber he’s become?”

Wes rolled his eyes. “Never mind, both of you.”

“How many positions are there in the candle factory?” Louise asked.

Justin stared at the ceiling. “Let me see, now. We’ve got dippers and packers, cutters and polishers, dyers, mixers, machine operators…too many to list. And then, of course, we’ve got our office, research and sales force in the main building, where you first came in.”

As they’d walked the hall earlier, Louise had glanced into each office. “I noticed mostly men behind the desks,” she said. “Don’t you have any women in management positions?”

“Not really,” Justin answered unabashedly. “We mostly hire women for the production jobs.” He walked ahead of her to a rear entrance and turned around before leading the way outside. “Women seem to take to the repetitious tasks better than men. Guess it comes from all that diaper changing.”

Gratified to hear Wes blow out a breath of air in a quiet whistle, Louise bit her lip before answering. “Well, of course, all that diaper training is good preparation for employment.”

Justin held the door as she stepped into the paved lot of the factory’s loading area, the apparent end of the tour. “You’re right there, Miss Duncan. You got any young ’uns yourself?”

“No, not yet. Got to find me a good man first,” she said with a flippant tone she figured Justin wouldn’t notice even though his narrowed eyes were giving her a close scrutiny.

“From where I’m standing,” he said, “there’s probably a few fellas in this town who wouldn’t mind applying for that job. You staying here long?”

“As long as it takes,” she answered. “Now, if I can just ask you a few more questions…”



TWENTY MINUTES and at least as many questions later, Wesley walked around from the passenger side of the Jeep, climbed behind the wheel and slammed his door. He was angry. He’d been had. Duped. Plain and simple. This woman who’d professed with a saccharine smile to love candles had taken him on a merry chase.

He stared across the space between them and scowled. Fiddling with the contents of her shoulder bag, Louise pretended not to notice his emotional state. Or maybe she really didn’t notice, and that was probably worse. One thing was certain. This lady, with her sexy dress, her high-heeled sandals and a body that practically made him drool, cared as much about seeing candles made as she would digging oysters out of the muck of Currituck Sound.

He started the engine, thrust the gear shift into reverse and backed out of the parking space, spitting gravel from his rear tires. And then, because that was childish and stupid, he reined in his anger and put the Jeep through its gears until they were retracing their tracks to town at a safe speed.

But he’d gotten her attention. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her arch her eyebrows in question. “Something wrong, Commander?” she said.

He clenched his teeth, tightening his jaw muscles. “What were you doing back there?”

She concentrated on her purse again. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you grilled Beauclaire like he was in front of a congressional hearing.”

“I did no such thing,” she said. “I was merely trying to learn as much about candles—”

“Let’s cut through the scum and get to the clean water underneath,” he said. “What are you up to, Counselor? And why did you feel it was necessary to involve me?”

Her shoulders sagged as she sighed deeply. “You already are involved, Wesley,” she said. “You live here. You worked there. Nearly everyone in this town is involved to some degree.”

“In what, Louise? Do you see some sort of conspiracy that no one else has noticed in the last thirty years?”

“No, not a conspiracy.” She emitted a most unladylike snort. “That almost makes it worse. What’s happening at the candle factory is out in the open for all the world to see…and ignore!”




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