Heron′s Landing
Heron's Landing
JoAnn Ross
There’s no place to fall in love like the place you left your heart Welcome to Honeymoon Harbor, the brand-new, long-awaited series by beloved New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross, where unforgettable characters come face-to-face with the kind of love that grabs your heart and never lets go.Working as a Las Vegas concierge, Brianna Mannion is an expert at making other people’s wishes come true. It’s satisfying work, but a visit home to scenic Honeymoon Harbor turns into a permanent stay when she's reminded of everything she’s missing: the idyllic small-town charm, the old Victorian house she’d always coveted, and Seth Harper, her best friend’s widower and the neighborhood boy she once crushed on—hard. After years spent serving others, maybe Brianna’s finally ready to chase dreams of her own.Since losing his wife, Seth has kept busy running the Harper family’s renovation business and flying way under the social radar. But when Brianna hires him to convert her aging dream home into a romantic B&B, working together presents a heart-stopping temptation Seth never saw coming. With guilt and grief his only companions for so long, he’ll have to step out of the past long enough to recognize the beautiful life they could build together.
There’s no place to fall in love like the place you left your heart
Welcome to Honeymoon Harbor, the brand-new, long-awaited series by beloved New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross, where unforgettable characters come face-to-face with the kind of love that grabs your heart and never lets go.
Working as a Las Vegas concierge, Brianna Mannion is an expert at making other people’s wishes come true. It’s satisfying work, but a visit home to scenic Honeymoon Harbor turns into a permanent stay when she’s reminded of everything she’s missing: the idyllic small-town charm; the old Victorian house she’d always coveted; and Seth Harper, her best friend’s widower and the neighborhood boy she once crushed on—hard. After years spent serving others, maybe Brianna’s finally ready to chase dreams of her own.
Since losing his wife, Seth has kept busy running the Harper family’s renovation business and flying way under the social radar. But when Brianna hires him to convert her aging dream home into a romantic B and B, working together presents a heart-stopping temptation Seth never saw coming. With guilt and grief his only companions for so long, he’ll have to step out of the past long enough to recognize the beautiful life Brianna and he could build together.
Also By JoAnn Ross (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
Honeymoon Harbor
HOME TO HONEYMOON HARBOR (novella)
LEGACY OF LIES
CONFESSIONS
SOUTHERN COMFORTS
NO REGRETS
A WOMAN’S HEART
For a complete list of books by JoAnn Ross,
visit www.joannross.com (http://www.joannross.com).
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Herons Landing
JoAnn Ross
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08327-0
HERONS LANDING
© 2018 JoAnn Ross
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Select Praise for JoAnn Ross
“Ross’s Shelter Bay series spotlights her talent for blending vibrant characters, congenial small-town settings, and pressing social issues in a heartwarming contemporary romance.”
—Booklist
“Beautifully descriptive and gently paced, this heartwarmer captures coastal small town flavor perfectly.”
—Library Journal on Seaglass Winter
“It isn’t often readers find characters they’re willing to spend a weekend with. However that’s exactly what Ross accomplishes…enveloping the reader in the lives of two endearing, albeit flawed, characters.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Homecoming
“Ross is in top form…plenty of sex and secrets to keep readers captivated.”
—Publishers Weekly on Blue Bayou
“Skillful and satisfying… With its emotional depth, [River Road] will appeal to Nora Roberts fans.”
—Booklist
“A fast-paced novel about romantic relationships [and] parent-child relationships.… The narrative voice has a humor and rhythm that is fun to read…witty, kind, and meaningful.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Seaglass Winter
Again, to Jay, for all the years.
Contents
Cover (#u45649b8a-1b82-5e71-af15-22f4bbf830e0)
Back Cover Text (#u1c4f3159-72a2-5874-8120-3088413f3f8f)
Booklist (#uc4063137-0cc2-5414-b57c-935a0fe28abf)
Title Page (#uba29db9a-af6b-5140-bc91-c8fb82740c43)
Copyright (#ub9293891-dc9f-563b-beef-c823dc729e20)
Praise (#u36c4bcd4-2a23-5e83-a23a-2d0d573aa6dc)
Dedication (#uac39e284-6bbe-50b9-84e1-542734c7b9ac)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua4f9f1d9-efa7-581e-810f-f99f1aeded9e)
CHAPTER TWO (#u52c255b9-4383-5c27-8943-3db0878e3671)
CHAPTER THREE (#ucaa83958-659e-5fa1-a710-c3bbe9066ff4)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u9bbaa643-c283-56a0-b792-8871c7891280)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u3d02186e-1c21-59a5-8eba-1301d54b3a0a)
CHAPTER SIX (#u587ad504-0248-5d72-b146-c6f850153210)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ua6b5b3a8-da9b-5905-a9cc-dcc7b216b6aa)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u750c28a4-9662-53f5-8ae7-541ddb441db9)
CHAPTER NINE (#u6725d9c1-36d7-51e1-88ca-f25f6fb8c813)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Home to Honeymoon Harbor (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
SETH HARPER WAS spending a Sunday spring afternoon detailing his wife’s Rallye Red Honda Civic when he learned that she’d been killed by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan.
Despite the Pacific Northwest’s reputation for unrelenting rain, the sun was shining so brightly that the Army notification officers—a man and a woman in dark blue uniforms and black shoes spit-shined to a mirror gloss—had been wearing shades. Or maybe, Seth considered, as they’d approached the driveway in what appeared to be slow motion, they would’ve worn them anyway. Like armor, providing emotional distance from the poor bastard whose life they were about to blow to smithereens.
At the one survivor grief meeting he’d later attended (only to get his fretting mother off his back), he’d heard stories from other spouses who’d experienced a sudden, painful jolt of loss before their official notice. Seth hadn’t received any advance warning. Which was why, at first, the officers’ words had been an incomprehensible buzz in his ears. Like distant radio static.
Zoe couldn’t be dead. His wife wasn’t a combat soldier. She was an Army surgical nurse, working in a heavily protected military base hospital, who’d be returning to civilian life in two weeks. Seth still had a bunch of stuff on his homecoming punch list to do. After buffing the wax off the Civic’s hood and shining up the chrome wheels, his next project was to paint the walls white in the nursery he’d added on to their Folk Victorian cottage for the baby they’d be making.
She’d begun talking a lot about baby stuff early in her deployment. Although Seth was as clueless as the average guy about a woman’s mind, it didn’t take Dr. Phil to realize that she was using the plan to start a family as a touchstone. Something to hang on to during their separation.
In hours of Skype calls between Honeymoon Harbor and Kabul, they’d discussed the pros and cons of the various names on a list that had grown longer each time they’d talked. While the names remained up in the air, she had decided that whatever their baby’s gender, the nursery should be a bright white to counter the Olympic Peninsula’s gray skies.
She’d also sent him links that he’d dutifully followed to Pinterest pages showing bright crib bedding, mobiles and wooden name letters in primary crayon shades of blue, green, yellow and red. Even as Seth had lobbied for Seattle Seahawk navy and action green, he’d known that he’d end up giving his wife whatever she wanted.
The same as he’d been doing since the day he fell head over heels in love with her back in middle school.
Meanwhile, planning to get started on that baby making as soon as she got back to Honeymoon Harbor, he’d built the nursery as a welcome-home surprise.
Then Zoe had arrived at Sea-Tac airport in a flag-draped casket.
And two years after the worst day of his life, the room remained unpainted behind a closed door Seth had never opened since.
MANNION’S PUB & BREWERY was located on the street floor of a faded redbrick building next to Honeymoon Harbor’s ferry landing. The former salmon cannery had been one of many buildings constructed after the devastating 1893 fire that had swept along the waterfront, burning down the original wood buildings. One of Seth’s ancestors, Jacob Harper, had built the replacement in 1894 for the town’s mayor and pub owner, Finn Mannion. Despite the inability of Washington authorities to keep Canadian alcohol from flooding into the state, the pub had been shuttered during Prohibition in the 1930s, effectively putting the Mannions out of the pub business until Quinn Mannion had returned home from Seattle and hired Harper Construction to reclaim the abandoned space.
Although the old Victorian seaport town wouldn’t swing into full tourist mode until Memorial Day, nearly every table was filled when Seth dropped in at the end of the day. He’d no sooner slid onto a stool at the end of the long wooden bar when Quinn, who’d been washing glasses in a sink, stuck a bottle of Shipwreck CDA in front of him.
“Double cheddar bacon or stuffed blue cheese?” he asked.
“Double cheddar bacon.” As he answered the question, it crossed Seth’s mind that his life—what little he had outside his work of restoring the town’s Victorian buildings constructed by an earlier generation of Harpers—had possibly slid downhill beyond routine to boringly predictable. “And don’t bother boxing it up. I’ll be eating it here,” he added.
Quinn lifted a dark brow. “I didn’t see that coming.”
Meaning that, by having dinner here at the pub six nights a week, the seventh being with Zoe’s parents—where they’d recount old memories, and look through scrapbooks of photos that continued to cause an ache deep in his heart—he’d undoubtedly landed in the predictable zone. So, what was wrong with that? Predictability was an underrated concept. By definition, it meant a lack of out-of-the-blue surprises that might destroy life as you knew it. Some people might like change. Seth was not one of them. Which was why he always ordered takeout with his first beer of the night.
The second beer he drank at home with his burger and fries. While other guys in his position might have escaped reality by hitting the bottle, Seth always stuck to a limit of two bottles, beginning with that long, lonely dark night after burying his wife. Because, although he’d never had a problem with alcohol, he harbored a secret fear that if he gave in to the temptation to begin seriously drinking, he might never stop.
The same way if he ever gave in to the anger, the unfairness of what the hell had happened, he’d have to patch a lot more walls in his house than he had those first few months after the notification officers’ arrival.
There’d been times when he’d decided that someone in the Army had made a mistake. That Zoe hadn’t died at all. Maybe she’d been captured during a melee and no one knew enough to go out searching for her. Or perhaps she was lying in some other hospital bed, her face all bandaged, maybe with amnesia, or even in a coma, and some lab tech had mixed up blood samples with another soldier who’d died. That could happen, right?
But as days slid into weeks, then weeks into months, he’d come to accept that his wife really was gone. Most of the time. Except when he’d see her, from behind, strolling down the street, window-shopping or walking onto the ferry, her dark curls blowing into a frothy tangle. He’d embarrassed himself a couple times by calling out her name. Now he never saw her at all. And worse yet, less and less in his memory. Zoe was fading away. Like that ghost who reputedly haunted Herons Landing, the old Victorian mansion up on the bluff overlooking the harbor.
“I’m having dinner with Mom tonight.” And had been dreading it all the damn day. Fortunately, his dad hadn’t heard about it yet. But since news traveled at the speed of sound in Honeymoon Harbor, he undoubtedly soon would.
“You sure you don’t want to wait to order until she gets here?”
“She’s not eating here. It’s a command-performance dinner,” he said. “To have dinner with her and the guy who may be her new boyfriend. Instead of eating at her new apartment, she decided that it’d be better to meet on neutral ground.”
“Meaning somewhere other than a brewpub owned and operated by a Mannion,” Quinn said. “Especially given the rumors that said new boyfriend just happens to be my uncle Mike.”
“That does make the situation stickier.” Seth took a long pull on the Cascadian Dark Ale and wished it was something stronger.
The feud between the Harpers and Mannions dated back to the early 1900s. After having experienced a boom during the end of the end of the nineteenth century, the once-bustling seaport town had fallen on hard times during a national financial depression.
Although the population declined drastically, those dreamers who’d remained were handed a stroke of luck in 1910 when the newlywed king and queen of Montacroix added the town to their honeymoon tour of America. The couple had learned of this lush green region from the king’s friend Theodore Roosevelt, who’d set aside national land for the Mount Olympus Monument.
As a way of honoring the royals, and hoping that the national and European press following them across the country might bring more attention to the town, residents had voted nearly unanimously to change the name to Honeymoon Harbor. Seth’s ancestor Nathaniel Harper had been the lone holdout, creating acrimony on both sides that continued to linger among some but not all of the citizens. Quinn’s father, after all, was a Mannion, his mother a Harper. But Ben Harper, Seth’s father, tended to nurse his grudges. Even century-old ones that had nothing to do with him. Or at least hadn’t. Until lately.
“And it gets worse,” he said.
“Okay.”
One of the things that made Quinn such a good bartender was that he listened a lot more than he talked. Which made Seth wonder how he’d managed to spend all those years as a big-bucks corporate lawyer in Seattle before returning home to open this pub and microbrewery.
“The neutral location she chose is Leaf.”
Quinn’s quick laugh caused two women who were drinking wine at a table looking out over the water to glance up with interest. Which wasn’t surprising. Quinn’s brother Wall Street wizard Gabe Mannion might be richer, New York City pro quarterback Burke Mannion flashier, and, last time he’d seen him, which had admittedly been a while, Marine-turned-LA-cop Aiden Mannion had still carried that bad-boy vibe that had gotten him in trouble a lot while they’d been growing up together. But Quinn’s superpower had always been the ability to draw the attention of females—from bald babies in strollers to blue-haired elderly women in walkers—without seeming to do a thing.
After turning in the burger order, and helping out his waitress by delivering meals to two of the tables, Quinn returned to the bar and began hanging up the glasses.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You ordered the burger as an appetizer before you go off to a vegetarian restaurant to dine on alfalfa sprouts and pretty flowers.”
“It’s a matter of survival. I spent the entire day until I walked in here taking down a wall, adding a new reinforcing beam and framing out a bathroom. A guy needs sustenance. Not a plate of arugula and pansies.”
“Since I run a place that specializes in pub grub, you’re not going to get any argument from me on that plan. Do you still want the burger to go for the mutt?”
Bandit, a black Lab/boxer mix so named for his penchant for stealing food from Seth’s construction sites back in his stray days—including once gnawing through a canvas ice chest—usually waited patiently in the truck for his burger. Tonight Seth had dropped him off at the house on his way over here, meaning the dog would have to wait a little longer for his dinner. Not that he hadn’t mooched enough from the framers already today. If the vet hadn’t explained strays’ tendencies for overeating because they didn’t know where their next meal might be coming from, Seth might have suspected the street-scarred dog he’d rescued of having a tapeworm.
They shot the breeze while Quinn served up drinks, which in this place ran more to the craft beer he brewed in the building next door. A few minutes later, the swinging door to the kitchen opened and out came two layers of prime beef topped with melted local cheddar cheese, bacon and caramelized grilled onions, with a slice of tomato and iceberg-lettuce leaf tossed in as an apparent nod to the food pyramid, all piled between the halves of an oversize toasted kaiser bun. Taking up the rest of the heated metal platter was a mountain of spicy french fries.
Next to the platter was a take-out box of plain burger. It wouldn’t stay warm, but having first seen the dog scrounging from a garbage can on the waterfront, Seth figured Bandit didn’t care about the temperature of his dinner.
“So, you’re eating in tonight,” a bearded giant wearing a T-shirt with Embrace the Lard on the front said in a deep foghorn voice. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Everyone’s a damn joker,” Seth muttered, even as the aroma of grilled beef and melted cheese drew him in. He took a bite and nearly moaned. The Norwegian, who’d given up cooking on fishing boats when he’d gotten tired of freezing his ass off during winter crabbing season, might be a sarcastic smart-ass, but the guy sure as hell could cook.
“He’s got a dinner date tonight at Leaf.” Quinn, for some damn reason, chose this moment to decide to get chatty. “This is an appetizer.”
Jarle Bjornstad snorted. “I tried going vegan,” he said. “I’d hooked up with a woman in Anchorage who wouldn’t even wear leather. It didn’t work out.”
“Mine’s not that kind of date.” Seth wondered how much arugula, kale and flowers it would take to fill up the man with shoulders as wide as a redwood trunk and arms like huge steel bands. His full-sleeve tattoo boasted a butcher’s chart of a cow. Which might explain his ability to turn a beef patty into something close to nirvana. “And there probably aren’t enough vegetables on the planet to sustain you.”
During the remodeling, Seth had taken out four rows of bricks in the wall leading to the kitchen to allow the six-foot-seven-inch-tall cook to go back and forth without having to duck his head to keep from hitting the doorjamb every trip.
“On our first date, she cited all this damn research claiming vegans lived nine years longer than meat eaters.” Jarle’s teeth flashed in a grin in his flaming red beard. “After a week of grazing, I decided that her statistics might be true, but that extra time would be nine horrible baconless years.”
That said, he turned and stomped back into the kitchen.
“He’s got a point,” Quinn said.
“Amen to that.” Having learned firsthand how treacherous and unpredictable death could be, with his current family situation on the verge of possibly exploding, Seth decided to worry about his arteries later and took another huge bite of beef-and-cheese heaven.
CHAPTER TWO (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
THE BRIDE WAS BEAUTIFUL, as all brides are. It was, of course, easier when you had unlimited funds at your disposal. The white couture gown, flown in especially for the event from Paris, was a cloud of diamond-white tulle, embroidered with seed pearls and Swarovski crystals. The Belgian lace veil was attached to a diamond tiara that was a duplicate of the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
As chief concierge of the butler floor at the Las Vegas Midas Resort Hotel and Casino, Brianna Mannion had arranged for a stylist to ensure perfect hair and nails for the bride and her seven attendants, all in poufy pastel taffeta gowns that would never be worn again.
The groom, while not as flamboyantly attired, nevertheless was handsome in a black tux. His concession to glitz was the crystal-studded bow tie designed to coordinate with the bride’s gown. There’d originally been plans for him to wear a top hat, but when he’d steadfastly objected, the bride’s harried mother had thrown up her hands in defeat.
“Well, I did want our princess to marry an alpha male,” she’d said to the bride’s father. Who, Brianna noted with a bit of trepidation, was pouring his third Scotch since arriving at the wedding preparation suite. Typically the suite was a women-only zone, but this was far from a typical wedding and since the bride’s mother (who had a strong alpha streak herself) had insisted her husband be there for the preparations, he’d apparently caved rather than risk a scene.
Because the Midas prided itself on the extreme level of privacy afforded to its guests, this particular suite had its own high-speed elevator that opened onto the ballroom booked for the event. Although it took four trips, Brianna managed to herd the party down the sixty-five floors to the ballroom, which took some logistics when a trio of bridesmaids, having lost patience during their styling, had begun nipping at each other. Fortunately, she was able to calm things down before the pink, yellow and aqua taffeta started getting ripped apart.
The ceremony, presided over by the top Elvis impersonator in the country—no mere local Elvises (Elvi?) need apply—amazingly went off without a hitch. And although the reception might have gotten a little rowdy, both the wedding party and the guests invited to this special occasion all seemed to enjoy the tiered white wonder of a wedding cake created by the Cordon Bleu–trained top chef. But it was the gilt doggie bags filled with a variety of gourmet dog biscuits dusted with edible twenty-four-karat gold that proved the hit of the party.
After escorting the happy couple up to their honeymoon penthouse suite that adjoined that of the bride’s parents, Brianna finally blew out a long breath of relief.
The good news was that the wedding of the tech mogul and his wife’s award-winning King Charles spaniel to a male belonging to a distant member of the British royal family (the first high-end dog ceremony Brianna had arranged) had gone off without a hitch. The bad news was that if word got out of its success, it might not be her last.
She’d just returned to her desk, which, like everything else in Midas, was heavily gilded, when a guest she recalled from yesterday came marching toward her. Unfortunately, the man’s lobster-red complexion, furious scowl and steam she could practically envision coming from his ears were not encouraging signs.
“I have a complaint,” he bellowed as he approached the desk. Like she couldn’t hear him from three feet away?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brianna pasted on her most conciliatory, caring smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The concierge from yesterday was terrible. I want her fired.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”
“Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”
He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”
“Bombay Spice.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.
“It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.
Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.
“I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,” she said with measured calm.
“Well, dammit to hell, I expected them to serve some meat dishes. None of the five-star reviews my wife read online said anything about them not at least having a damn rib eye steak.” His color rose to a hue that had her prepared to call 911 in case he keeled over from a blood pressure spike.
“I suspect the reviews didn’t mention the lack of meat because online diners were reviewing the restaurant’s vegetarian dishes.”
Brianna wished she had a dollar for every time a guest came up to her with a list of restaurants in hand, asking her to recommend one. The problem with online review sites was that they reflected only the experience of the person writing the reviews. She’d spent her first six months in Las Vegas eating at as many restaurants as she could, meeting the owners and managers, in order to get firsthand knowledge. Some guests might like a noisy, busy brasserie, while others might prefer a quiet, romantic dining experience. Some might like bright lights. Others might go for candles on the table. Her job was to ask questions to determine what restaurant might work for that particular guest. Which she’d tried to do with this agitated man yesterday.
“You shouldn’t send people there.”
“I did recommend two steak houses,” she reminded him, practically having to bite her tongue at this point.
“But Bombay Spice had great reviews,” he insisted. “Which is why my wife wanted to go there. She was determined to try the gobhi mattar masala with truffle rice because it had all five stars. But if a restaurant doesn’t have meat, you should warn people! You ruined our anniversary dinner!”
“I’m sorry you had a less than satisfactory experience.” The cauliflower/green peas/cumin/ginger/cashews dish was one of Brianna’s personal favorites. But she did find the truffle rice a bit rich for her taste.
“Less than satisfactory? It sucked! Of course we left the place, but by then it was impossible to get a table anywhere decent, so we just came back to the hotel.”
“We have several fine restaurants in the hotel,” she pointed out in her most cordial, professional voice. “All which have received excellent reviews by both critics and diners alike. I, or the night concierge, would have been more than happy to arrange for you to have dinner on us if you’d only let us know you were dissatisfied.”
“My wife had lost her appetite by the time we got back here and just wanted to go to bed.” He ripped off his black-framed glasses. If fiery glares could kill, Brianna would have burst into flames on the spot. “Which is why you owe me fifty fucking thousand dollars.”
That got Brianna’s full attention. “Excuse me?”
“My wife went to bed. Alone,” he stressed in the event Brianna hadn’t gotten his meaning. “Since our anniversary night was toast, I decided, what the hell, I might as well go down to the tables.”
Where he’d lost fifty thousand dollars. Brianna restrained herself from suggesting he Google the meaning of gambling.
“I’m thinking of reporting this place to the state gambling commission for rigging the games.”
“That’s certainly your right. But I can assure you that nothing at the Midas is rigged.”
Her roots may be Irish, from a many-times-great-grandfather who’d arrived in the Pacific Northwest where he’d gotten the dangerous job of driving the dynamite wagon for the construction of the railroad, but somehow Brianna must have been busy meeting and greeting people when God had handed out tempers, because she hadn’t inherited the trait. Still, this man was beginning to test her limits.
“I’ve never lost that much in any casino in two fucking hours.”
Wow. He’d really been tossing down the high dollar chips. And, from the red veins crisscrossing his eyes like lines on a Nevada roadmap, he hadn’t turned down any of the free drinks handed out to high rollers.
“I’m sorry for your bad luck.” Having never dropped as much as a dollar in a slot machine, Brianna didn’t comprehend why anyone would want to risk hard-earned money when everyone knew that in the end, the house always eventually won, but enough people seemed to feel different to allow her to be paid a very lucrative salary with benefits and generous tips from happy guests. Especially those who’d walked away after a winning streak. “But it certainly wasn’t due to any rigging.”
He shoved the glasses back on his face. “I’m going to report you to the manager.”
“Again, that’s your right.”
Having received not only high marks, but a bonus at her annual review, Brianna wasn’t concerned about her job being in jeopardy. Usually before a guest arrived on the butler’s floor, she’d wade through her files of past likes and dislikes to ensure a stay tailored to that particular party. But because this man and his wife were first-timers, there was no previous record. And unfortunately, he’d added nothing to the comments section in the online reservation form. Such as his intense dislike of vegetarian meals.
“And after I report you, I’m going to write the worst goddamn review ever published on Yelp.” He spun on a heel and stomped off toward the gold-embossed elevator.
“I hope you have a safe and uneventful trip back home, sir,” she called after him. It was the same thing she told all the guests as they’d leave.
“I intend to, since you won’t be the one doing the planning. And quit calling me sir, bitch,” he roared back over his shoulder. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon, dammit!”
“Doctor Dick,” Brianna murmured under her breath, reminding herself that although this might not be her most fulfilling day, she was exactly where she’d always dreamed of being.
Working at the family tree farm had taught her she enjoyed working with people, helping each family find the perfect tree just for them. Watching Gilmore Girls, she’d always identified with Lorelai’s dream of creating a warm and caring environment in her very own inn, rather than working for someone else. And she’d even had a specific house in mind.
Then, while earning her degree in hospitality and hotel management, classmates and professors had tried to convince her that she’d be wasting her talents on a small town of seven thousand plus, stuck out on the Washington peninsula, where guests would have to travel by ferry or a long car ride over twisting mountain roads to visit. No, she’d been born for more important things, she’d been told. All she needed to do was give up those childish dreams of creating a life in the Pacific Northwest’s version of Star Hollow, and dream bigger. Bolder. Brighter.
It was during summer break between her sophomore and junior years, with more time to watch TV, that she’d become hooked on the Travel Channel, drinking in the splendor of the world’s grand hotels. By the time she returned to UW, she’d changed her focus, and after graduation and playing maid of honor at her best friend Zoe’s wedding to Seth Harper, she’d begun her gypsy life of traveling the country, working her way up to this gilded desk.
Dealing with demanding high rollers who expected their needs dealt with immediately, if not before they even realized they were going to want something, she’d honed her skills at making the impossible possible.
But while she might be near the pinnacle of her specialized hospitality world, there were times Brianna found herself missing those early days when she worked in less luxurious surroundings, dealing with more cordial families. Parents who’d appreciate a bowl of chicken noodle soup sent up to the room for a sick child, or honeymooners excited about something as simple as a bottle of house-labeled champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in their room. And later showing her that they’d put a photo on their wedding Facebook and Instagram pages.
Be careful what you wish for, she thought as she cleared the desk of her planner and files to make room for the night-shift concierge to take her place.
Although she’d been offered housing in a wing of the sprawling resort away from the casino, Brianna had opted to rent a studio apartment away from the noise and bustle of the strip. Along with the rise in income, each step up the hospitality ladder had brought additional responsibility and increased stress, but whenever she drove into the quiet, green environs of The Sanctuary with its sparkling blue pools and xeriscape, drought-resistant gardens that appealed to her inner environmentalist, the stress of her workday began to flow away.
But not tonight. She’d always been a positive person. Anyone who had a flash fire temper, or was even easily annoyed, would never succeed in her career. But as she reran the conversation with the doctor who wore his privilege the same way he undoubtedly wore his white hospital coat, a low, simmering irritation flowed through her. And had her thinking, yet again, of those happier early days. She considered going to the resort’s exercise room and working it off on the treadmill and elliptical, but opted instead for take-out pizza, a glass of wine and streaming a movie.
Another reason she’d chosen this apartment was that its white walls offered a blank canvas. As did the white furniture and white kitchen. A person could do anything they wanted to make it their own. But, she realized now, though it was a respite from the overexcessive gilt of Midas, it didn’t offer a single clue to the person who lived here. She hadn’t bought any posters, or paintings, or even colorful throw pillows. And although she’d practically grown up in her mother’s farm kitchen, she owned one frying pan, two pots, a teakettle, a coffee maker and a set of four white dishes and bowls she’d bought online. A nun’s room at a convent would undoubtedly have more personality.
Then again, she reminded herself as she kicked off her sensible black pumps, changed into yoga pants and an oversize Gotham Knights football jersey her brother Burke had sent her, she didn’t exactly live here. She ate takeout and slept. Her life was at Midas. Same as it had been at every other hotel she’d worked at over the years. Which was fine with her. Dedication to her career had paid off in escalating achievements and money. And although she experienced a sense of satisfaction when she waved her magic concierge wand and provided a magical happy outcome for guests, when was the last time she’d felt happy?
“You’re just in the dumps because of Doctor Dick,” she assured herself as she poured a glass of chardonnay. After calling in her take-out order, she sat down on the hard, snowy white couch, turned on her iPad and logged into the Honeymoon Harbor website, which she’d been doing more and more often since moving to the desert two years ago.
Clicking on the link to the town’s newspaper, the Honeymoon Harbor Herald, she scrolled through announcements of births, weddings, anniversaries and deaths, recognizing the names of people she’d known all of her life. People she’d grown up with. Harper Construction had renovated the old library, which had earned a national award for innovative green historical renovation. Seeing the photo of Seth Harper, appearing uncomfortable in a suit and tie, caused a twinge in Brianna’s heart.
She’d had a crush on him going back to first grade, when he’d shared his lunch box Ding Dong with her. Her mother was a farm-to-table cook who hadn’t allowed processed food in their home. Even now, looking back, Brianna wasn’t sure whether it was Seth’s dark-chocolate-brown eyes with their ridiculously long lashes or the sudden burst of sugar on her tongue that had caused her to fall.
Despite being a Harper, he’d been friends with her brothers, which had him around the farm a lot. During her elementary school years, whenever she’d play with her Barbies, she’d be bridal Barbie, and groom Ken had been renamed Seth. Unfortunately, he’d always viewed her as either his friend’s sister who’d insist on tagging along with them, or worse, one of the guys. By middle school, she still hadn’t caught his attention, but Brianna knew, with every fiber of her young, not-yet-budding body, that once they got to high school and her breasts grew larger than the puny little bumps sticking out from her chest and she got curves in other places—like maybe some hips that didn’t look like a boy’s?—Seth Harper would finally look up and notice that the girl of his dreams had been in front of him all along.
Maybe she’d even get a locker next to his. Those things could happen, right? After all, all those book writers and movie makers had to get the “meet cute” idea from somewhere. And one day, while he was taking out his book for their shared first-period English class, their eyes would meet, bells would chime, Disney bluebirds would sing and, forever and ever afterward, they’d be known to one and all as “Sethanna.”
Unfortunately, when they’d returned to school after the Christmas break their last year of middle school, he’d looked up, all right. But instead of being blinded by her not-yet-achieved perfection, instead he’d noticed Zoe Robinson, a new girl from Astoria, Oregon, whose father had brought the family across the Columbia River back to his hometown. From the moment Zoe had walked into that first-period homeroom, Seth’s swoony brown eyes had locked on to her. And Zoe had tumbled just as fast.
Brianna could have hated her. At first, she’d wanted to hate her. But the petite girl with the long dark curls turned out to be as friendly as she was pretty. With Seth seeming destined to forever stay in brother mode, and unable to ignore the little sparkly hearts that appeared to follow the couple around like fairy dust, by the summer of their sophomore year of high school, Brianna had resigned herself to the fact that the two were, in fact, the perfect couple. And over that time, Zoe had become like the sister Brianna had always dreamed of.
Not that any of that had stopped her from dreaming of Seth. Mature Audience Only dreams (she hadn’t had the experience to imagine the R-rated yet) that had her feeling guilty when she woke up, and making it hard to face either one of them the next day.
After graduation, Zoe had joined the Army, something she’d been talking about all through school, but Brianna hadn’t really believed she’d go through with. And, from what she could tell, her visit to the Port Angeles recruiting center had surprised even Seth. She’d always wanted to be a nurse, but loggers didn’t make that much money, and even with her part-time job waiting tables at the diner, her family hadn’t had the money for nursing school. Beginning with a descendant who’d first arrived on the peninsula from Seattle to serve at Port Townsend’s Fort Worden in the early 1900s—theoretically to thwart any invasion from the sea—every succeeding generation of Robinsons had had at least one military family member. Which was why Zoe, an only child without any brothers to carry on the tradition, had decided that letting the Army pay for college only made sense.
She and Seth had continued to date while she’d gone to school at UW, returning home on the weekends and for holidays. Although everyone in Honeymoon Harbor knew they were destined to spend their lives together, Seth had officially proposed on New Year’s Eve of Zoe’s final year, and after her graduation, once she’d been commissioned as a second lieutenant, they’d married in a simple ceremony held in the Moments in Time meadow at Lake Crescent Lodge in Olympic National Park.
Because Seth was a civilian, rather than wear her dress uniform, Zoe had chosen to be married in a simple white silk shantung sheath, while Brianna, who’d returned home from her job at the Winfield Palace Hotel in Atlanta to serve as one of Zoe’s two attendants, had worn a sleeveless dress with a flared skirt in a soft, dusty pink that mirrored the mountains’ icy glaciers at sunrise. The other bridesmaid, Kylee Campbell, had gone with a matching style in a kelly green that echoed the bright new needles on the fir trees surrounding the town.
After a weekend honeymoon at the lodge where President Franklin Roosevelt had once slept, Seth had stayed behind on the peninsula while Zoe headed off to San Antonio for more training. Afterward she’d gotten her choice assignment to serve at Joint Base Lewis-McChord’s Madigan Army Medical Center north of Olympia. So they’d moved into a rental near the base and considered themselves even more fortunate when she’d gotten to stay there for all four years of her active duty.
Although Brianna was busy moving from town to town, hotel to hotel, Zoe had kept her up to date with phone calls and texts. After finishing her active duty, the couple had returned to Honeymoon Harbor, where they moved into a house Seth got busy renovating. Zoe had been so excited about the house, texting pictures of the progress and links to Pinterest pages of ideas she had for making the small cottage perfect. She still owed the Army four years of Individual Ready Reserves, which apparently hadn’t seemed any big deal because it only involved mustering once a year, which she could even do online.
Tragically, just as her IRR time was coming to an end, she’d been deployed to Afghanistan, only to be killed in a suicide bombing at the hospital while on duty.
In the midst of transitioning from the Ritz-Carlton, Kapalua on Maui to the soon-to-be opened Midas, Brianna had flown home across the Pacific for her BFF’s burial in the veterans’ section of the Harborview Cemetery, where generations of Robinsons were buried. At the time, Seth had appeared numb. Now, looking more closely at his face on her iPad’s screen, his face appeared haggard, his dark eyes haunted.
Brianna sighed at the painful memory, swiped at a tear, checked her watch and saw that she still had another ten minutes before the pizza delivery. While Vegas might be a 24/7 city, when it came to takeout, weekend nights were especially heavy. So rather than have to interrupt her movie when the delivery guy finally arrived, she took another sip of wine and impulsively clicked on the link to the town’s real estate listings.
When she saw the Victorian on the bluff overlooking the harbor at the top of the For Sale column, Brianna’s heart, which had been hurting for her lifelong friend and former crush, took a leap.
Despite the unfortunate color choice someone had chosen for the exterior, it was her house! Growing up Catholic, with a high school principal for a mother, Brianna had tended to be a rule follower. One exception had been all those times she’d sneak into the abandoned three-story house with her brothers and Seth. Her brothers had claimed the house was haunted. Brianna hadn’t believed in ghosts, but even if it did have a resident wandering spirit or two, she wouldn’t have cared. The creaky old Victorian spoke to her in some elemental way. Much as that first amazing taste of a Ding Dong had done.
Even in those days, as she’d wandered through the dusty, cobweb-strewn rooms, she’d pictured it as it must have once been. And could be again. All it had needed, she’d believed, was some love and tender care. The house, named Herons Landing by its original timber baron owner for the many great blue herons that would roost in nests in the property’s towering Douglas fir trees, was, quite literally, Brianna’s dream home. But, like her youthful dreams of Seth Harper, it would remain someone else’s reality.
The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of her spicy buffalo chicken pizza with Greek yogurt dressing. She logged out of the computer, paid for the meal and settled down to watch the opening of the Dragonfly Inn Gilmore Girls episode, which had inspired her to get into the hotel business. By the time all the first guests had arrived, Brianna had managed to put her encounter with the rude, gambling doctor behind her.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t going to prove that easy.
CHAPTER THREE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
THE LEAF RESTAURANT was located on Rainshadow Road in a bungalow in the center of town across from Discovery Square.
In contrast to the Victorian gingerbread exterior—which the town’s historical planning commission had refused to allow to be modernized—the owner of the restaurant, a transplanted chef from the San Francisco Bay area, had opted for a clean and simple Scandinavian look. Posters of vegetables, framed in light wood, brightened the glacier-white walls. Harper Construction had done the work, and although the furniture chosen by the Portland designer made Seth feel as if he were having dinner in an IKEA store, he was, nevertheless, pleased with how it had turned out.
He spotted the couple as soon as he came in. They were seated at a white table by the window overlooking a garden from which the chef sourced much of the restaurant’s herbs and vegetables. When Mike Mannion leaned across the table to take hold of his mom’s hand, Seth felt a very familiar twinge of loss.
There were too many reasons he’d missed Zoe two years after her death to catalog, but one of the worst was those random, impulsive moments when the two of them would get lost together in their own private world. He missed touching her. Tasting her...
No. Don’t go there. Remembering making love to his wife while having dinner with his mother and her maybe boyfriend, who she might even be having sex with (and didn’t that idea make him want to wash his mind out with bleach?), made this already awkward situation even weirder.
He cleared his throat as he approached the table. They moved apart, but easily. Naturally. Not at all as if they’d been caught in any inappropriate display of affection. Yet another possible indication that they’d moved beyond dinner dates that ended with a chaste good-night kiss at the door.
“There’s my handsome boy now!” Looking like a wood nymph in a long green suede dress and some sort of colorful stone hanging on a black velvet cord around her neck, his mother rose with a warm and welcoming smile. It had been a long time since he’d seen that smile. Having been wallowing in his own dark pit of grief for two years, Seth hadn’t paid all that much attention to gradual changes in his mother.
Seeing her now, so vibrant and joyful, as she’d been while he’d been growing up, he realized that her vibrancy had been fading away the last few years.
“I’m so glad you could join us!” Despite having lived nearly four decades in the Pacific Northwest, Caroline Harper’s Southern roots occasionally still slipped into her voice, bringing to mind mint juleps on a wide wraparound porch while a paddle-bladed fan spun lazily overhead.
Seth had visited his mother’s childhood home a few times as a kid, but hadn’t been back to the South since his grandparents had died. Both on the same day, he remembered now. His grandmother had died of a sudden heart attack while deadheading roses in her garden. Her husband of sixty years had literally died of a broken heart that same evening.
Maybe, he considered now, deep, debilitating grief ran in his family’s DNA. If so, his grandfather Lockwood had been more fortunate than he. At least the old man he remembered always smelling of cherry tobacco from his pipe hadn’t had to linger for years and years, suffering the loss of his soul mate.
Unlike so many in the Pacific Northwest, whose wardrobes tended toward hoodies, flannel, T-shirts and jeans, his mother had started dressing all New Agey, which could have looked ridiculous, but suited her perfectly.
Going up on her toes, she kissed his cheek. Then leaned back and sniffed what he realized was undoubtedly the aroma of grilled beef he’d brought with him from the pub. Laughter danced in her green eyes. “Seems this is your second meal of the night.”
“Consider yourself busted,” Mannion said on a laugh as he stood up and held out a hand. “I stopped in Port Angeles on the way back from the coast last week for some ribs and brisket and I’d no sooner walked in the door of your mother’s place when she asked me if I had a death wish.”
“You smelled of pit smoke,” she scolded him. “And that barbecue platter is a heart attack waiting to happen. At our age, we have to start taking care of ourselves. I don’t want you keeling over on me.”
“Not going to happen,” the older man countered. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”
His mother’s obvious concern, along with that casual mention of him spending personal time at the apartment she’d moved into, as if they might already be a couple, was yet more indication that she’d moved on. While meanwhile her husband continued to insist that his wife had merely gone menopause crazy and would return home any day.
“What do you mean, at your age?” Seth asked, determined to stay out of his parents’ personal lives as much as possible. “You look as terrific as you did back when I graduated high school.”
“And isn’t that exactly what a dutiful son is supposed to say,” she said, dimpling prettily. He’d heard it said, down at Oley Nilsson’s barbershop, that when Caroline Lockwood had hit town, there’d been a stampede of single men vying to pass time with the pretty Georgia peach. But for some reason he’d never figure out, his gruff, uncommunicative contractor father had won not just Caroline Lockwood’s hand, but apparently her heart, as well.
Until recently.
As he slipped into the booth next to Mannion, she turned toward him, her smiling eyes turning as serious as a heart attack as they moved over his face. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Another thing that might be in his Harper DNA was that the men in their family would rather have their fingernails pulled out with a pair of needle-nose pliers than ever talk about their feelings.
He’d never cried over Zoe. Not even when he’d insisted on seeing inside the polished wooden casket that didn’t carry her body, because it had been blown to pieces, but merely an empty starched green uniform carefully pinned to the sheet and blanket inside which, he knew from reading up on the topic online, carried a plastic bag with what little searchers were able to find of his wife after the explosion. Some caring soldier—who had to have one of the toughest, most unappreciated assignments in the military—had shined the buttons to a bright glossy sheen, never knowing if anyone would see them. It was, Seth had recognized, even through the cloud of pain, a matter of respect.
He hadn’t cried when he’d placed her wedding band, which had been recovered and delivered to him in person, along with some rescued uniform patches, into the casket. Although the heat of the blast had turned her ring into a metal lump, since she’d never taken it off from the moment he’d slid it on her finger during their Crescent Lake ceremony, he’d felt it belonged with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t about to let her parents see it. They probably had the same horrific images in their mind as he did in his and the least he’d felt he could and should do was spare them this one piece of pain. He did, however, save out the Purple Heart and Bronze Star he’d received, knowing the Robinsons would want them. As far as he was concerned, they were of no comfort and he wouldn’t mind never seeing them again.
He hadn’t so much as misted up when the uniformed officer had handed him the flag that had seemed to take freaking forever to fold. Nor during the ceremonial volley performed by a team of eight volunteer soldiers who’d shown up from Fort Lewis-McChord to honor one of their own.
All around him, people, even men, had been sniffling. Others, like his mother, had openly wept, while Helen Robinson, Zoe’s mother, keened in a way that had him afraid she’d throw, prostrate, herself over her daughter’s casket. Brianna Mannion, Zoe’s best friend, who’d flown in from Hawaii, had had silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
Burke, Brianna’s older brother, who’d gone on from being a high school quarterback to play in the NFL, had flown in from a spring skiing vacation in the Swiss Alps, arriving in town minutes before the funeral due to flight delays. Even he’d been uncharacteristically somber and had bitten his bottom lip during the gravesite military ceremony.
But not Seth. He’d felt as if he’d turned as dry as dust. As dry as that damn violent, fucked-up country that had killed her. His only emotion was a low, seething anger that Zoe hadn’t just taken out a student loan like any normal person.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have a good job, he’d told her during their many heated arguments over her decision. With his income from the construction company, and her earning a civilian nursing salary, they could have paid off the damn loans. Sure, it would’ve taken time. But they could have done it. Together. Unfortunately, that same tenacity he’d always admired had a flip side. She was, hands down, the most stubborn person he’d ever met. And once Zoe Robinson decided on something, heaven and earth couldn’t have budged her.
Now, as a line furrowed his mother’s forehead, he dragged his thoughts back to their conversation and ratcheted up his blatantly fake response. “Seriously, things are going great. We’ve got a lot of work lined up, which is always good. Seems everyone wants to be ready for summer.” And punching holes in other people’s walls kept him from abusing the ones in his and Zoe’s house.
Another furrow etched its way between her eyes. “You work too hard.”
“When you love what you do, it’s not work.” Terrific. Now he was talking like that motivational desk calendar his insurance agent had sent him at Christmas.
“Yet it’s necessary to have downtime,” she scolded him gently. “Silence is important. We need it to connect with our inner selves. Which then allows us to make sense of the disturbances surrounding us.”
Seth had many words he could use to describe Zoe’s murder. Disturbance didn’t come close.
“You used to like to sail. And hike. Fish. Go over to the coast. Or the park.”
He used to like to do a lot of things. Some of those with the Mannion brothers. Others with Zoe. The first time he’d touched her bare breasts had been one sunny summer afternoon he’d dropped his boat’s anchor in a hidden cove rumored to have once been a pirate hangout. Two years later, they’d returned to that same cove and lost their virginity beneath a huge white moon.
But that was then and this was now and rebuilding other people’s houses was what was left of what had once been his life. Which was working for him just fine.
“I still make it up to the park.” Which he did every weekend, but she didn’t need to know why.
“Good.” She patted his cheek. “Because I worry.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Which shows how much you know. Mothers are genetically programmed to worry.”
Seemingly unaware she’d sent a dagger straight to her heart as he thought about that nursery Zoe had designed waiting behind the closed door for a baby that would never come, she reached down and retrieved a gift-wrapped package. “I brought you a present.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Well, of course not. I’m not so old and senile that I’d ever forget that day I took part in a miracle. This is a ‘just because’ gift.” Her smile wavered, giving him the feeling that she might be concerned about how he felt about whatever it was.
He untied the cord, sliced the tape and gingerly pulled back the brown kraft paper. “Wow. This is nice.” A huge whoosh of cooling relief came over him as he looked down at a misty painting of the Olympic rainforest that suggested at any moment fairies would come out from behind the moss-draped trees and begin dancing in a magic circle. It was, to his admittedly untrained eye, really, really good.
“It’s my first watercolor,” she said. “I’ve been taking Michael’s classes.”
Along with his real estate investments, and his own painting, Mike Mannion taught various art classes, charging only for the supplies. Seth’s father, unsurprisingly, claimed it was a ruse to meet women. Given that the artist had inherited the Mannion men’s black Irish looks, Seth was pretty sure he wouldn’t need to go to that much trouble to attract a woman. But why did the woman in question have to be his mom?
“Your mother’s got a natural talent,” Mike said.
“I don’t know about that,” she said, patting her newly streaked blond hair in a way that was as close as Seth had ever seen her come to preening. It also called his unwilling attention to the gold wedding band on her left hand. At least she hadn’t taken it off. Yet. That was something, right? “It’s more that Mike is a marvelously patient teacher. And so inspirational.”
“I keep telling Caroline that she needs to overcome all that Southern belle breeding to work on her artistic arrogance,” Mike said on a hearty laugh. “She is, hands down, the best student I’ve ever taught. I’m trying to talk her into exhibiting at the annual boat festival for Harbor Days.”
“I’m certainly not at that level,” she protested.
“There she goes again. Underestimating herself.” The artist/entrepreneur shook his head. “That’s something we’re going to have to work on.”
As they smiled across the table at each other, getting lost in each other’s eyes—oh, hell—they could have been two teenagers in the throes of first love. Seth had no problem remembering that morning Zoe had walked into middle school class, their eyes had met and, at thirteen, he’d fallen like a stone rolling down Mount Olympus.
“Well, not that you asked me, but if Mike thinks you’ll be ready to take part in the exhibition, I think you should go for it,” Seth said. “As for your natural talent, you did, after all, attend the South Carolina School of Art and Design.”
“Only for two years. And I was studying fabric design, not painting, before I dropped out.”
To marry his father. No way was Seth going to go there. “Their loss. And you’ve always drawn the architectural renderings of the company’s projects.” Not just to promote the company on its website, but to give clients an idea of how their buildings would turn out.
“Those are only illustrations.”
“Only snobs draw a strict line between fine art and illustration,” Mike said. “Both forms need the same elements: successful lighting, color and composition. And while the argument will probably rage forever, because everyone’s definition of art is a personal one, if art is about communicating a message, then illustration is definitely fine art.”
They were getting over his head, but there was one thing Seth did know. “Blueprints don’t tell anyone who can’t envision them in three dimensions anything. But when clients see your illustrations, with the interiors, exteriors, even landscaping, they can imagine themselves living there. They see themselves on that porch swing, or playing with their children in the backyard. Or having summer dinners on the deck or patio. You bring the blueprints alive and allow them to keep the faith during all the hectic months of construction, which can be depressing for even the most optimistic buyer.”
All the years he’d been growing up, she’d carried around a sketchbook in her oversize purse so she could draw scenic sites around the peninsula. When had she stopped doing that?
“Your son,” Mike said, “just made my point. You’re definitely an artist.”
“My son is prejudiced.”
“Probably so. But that doesn’t mean he also isn’t right.”
“And hey,” Seth said, “when you’re a famous watercolor artist, I’ll be able to boast that your very first painting is hanging on my wall.”
Caroline laughed, then opened her menu—which, natch, boldly proclaimed to be printed on recycled paper—and began pointing out items that he’d enjoy. She’d always been a warm and caring person. But this laughing, happy New Age druid earth mother sitting across the wooden table reminded him of a bright butterfly newly emerged from a chrysalis.
Michael Mannion was a long way from a starving artist. Although Seth wasn’t into Honeymoon Harbor’s art scene, he knew Michael’s work must sell well enough to allow him to spend years traveling the world. And now he’d returned home to buy another of the abandoned warehouses rebuilt by one of Seth’s ancestors after the fire. Unlike the pub’s bricks, it had been built with rocks that had originally served as ship ballast.
A gallery, featuring not just Mike’s but other local artists’ and artisans’ work, took up the street level floor; his loft and studio took up the entire third floor. At the moment the second floor was vacant, but plans were for Harper Construction to turn it into a communal work space for Olympic Peninsula craftspeople.
The conversation, which Seth had admittedly not been looking forward to, flowed easily, covering the weather, always a topic in the wait-a-minute-and-it’ll-change Pacific Northwest; the pod of orcas they’d seen this morning, three calves breaching playfully; and the news that an award-winning woodcrafter from Seattle, who’d created artisan furniture for some of Seth’s wealthier clients, was close to becoming the first tenant to take space on the second floor of Mike’s building.
Since he’d been hired for the initial work, Seth had come to know both the building and the painter well. Remodeling, especially a building dating back to the late 1800s, was not for the fainthearted. Having been forced to be the bearer of bad construction news on more than one occasion, Seth knew Mike Mannion to be a patient and good man. One who’d treat his mom well.
Still, as he dug into his surprisingly not bad cremini mushroom meatloaf topped with cornbread made with organic cornmeal from Blue House Farm outside town, Seth realized that wherever this budding romance was headed, Caroline Harper might not be returning home. Which, as happy as he was to see his mother enjoying her life, meant that his already strained situation with his dad was about to get a whole lot worse.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
ONE OF THE things Brianna loved best about her profession was that, on any given day, she never knew what was going to happen at work. Which typically was nonstop. She needed to be ready for any question, any request, because, as she’d discovered, any guest could ask her anything. This morning, as she arrived at her office, her assistant, Brad, was waiting with her coffee. Something she’d never requested, but since he’d started the habit his first day and was inordinately proud of his French press, she certainly wasn’t going to turn him down.
“The man called,” Brad said before she’d even sat down at the cluttered work desk guests never saw. Which, because she’d insisted she couldn’t work on something that looked as if Marie Antoinette might have chosen it, was simply painted a fresh, clean white. The Cape Cod style reminded her of her Honeymoon Harbor roots and helped keep things in perspective when she spent sixty hours a week in a gilded palace. “He asked to see you as soon as you got in.”
That, in itself, wouldn’t have triggered any concern. Hyatt Huntington, general manager of both the resort hotel and the casino, was even more of a workaholic than Brianna, often boasting that he had no trouble getting by on three hours of sleep a night. There were many days when she’d arrived early to find a stack of messages already waiting. She had, after several weeks of sleepless nights, convinced him that she didn’t have his superpowers and could do her job much better if he stopped texting her all night.
Still, she couldn’t miss the seeds of worry in Brad’s normally smiling blue eyes. “Sure. Would you let him know I’m on my way?”
“Of course.”
With his romance cover model looks, Brad could have made a bundle in tips if he’d chosen to work on the casino floor. But, as she’d once done, he’d opted to work his way up the ladder, learning the ropes at previous hotels before this one, that would hopefully someday earn him entry into the prestigious Les Clefs d’Or. It had been Brianna’s membership in the international organization of concierges at the pinnacle of the profession, along with stellar recommendations from previous employers, that had won her this job, which had been the most sought-after position in the city.
Grateful for the burst of caffeine before meeting with the high-energy hotel manager, she took a sip of the perfectly brewed coffee. Oh, yes, with his ability to anticipate every need, Brad had a successful career ahead of him.
“Did he mention what it’s about?” The general manager usually sent her a blizzard of messages every day. Ones that Brad, who had to triage them by importance, had taken to calling Huntington’s snowflakes.
“No. But he didn’t sound very happy.”
“Then it’s situation normal.” Brianna never got called to her boss’s inner sanctum to be rewarded for a job well done. She was expected to provide guests with perfection. Anything less was unacceptable. Wondering if her furious physician had followed through on his threat to report her, she paused before leaving the office.
“Would you please check the latest Yelp reviews?” she asked Brad. “And text me if we’ve got a new negative one?”
“Sure. Let me do it now. It’ll just take a sec.” Without missing a beat, not bothering to inquire why, he began tapping on his computer.
Hopefully he wouldn’t find anything. But it was always good to be prepared.
Unfortunately, the review was already there. As soon as she got back from her meeting, she was going to have to take several deep breaths, switch from coffee to more calming tea, and respond. Bad reviews were never a good thing. But letting them go unacknowledged suggested the hotel didn’t care about its guests, which was even worse.
Brianna buttoned her jacket over her ivory silk blouse, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in her black pencil skirt, and ran a hand over her hair, which she’d coiled into its usual tidy chignon. Then, after changing from the flats she’d worn for driving into her official work pumps, she squared her shoulders and headed toward the express elevator leading directly to the executive floor.
Her boss’s secretary waved her right into his private office. The sympathy in the woman’s eyes was not encouraging.
The office, which was spacious enough to hold Brianna’s entire apartment, was situated at the very top of the Vegas strip high-rise, which not only offered real-time viewing of all the hotel’s public places on the multiscreen TVs that were duplicates of the ones in the security offices, but also a stunning view of the entire valley out the glazed window wall.
“Brianna.” Hyatt Huntington didn’t get up from behind his huge, imposing desk. Having seen the invoice when the Louis Quatorze polished black desk covered in ornate gilded friezes of lions’ heads and acanthus leaves had arrived, Brianna knew that the cost had topped twenty thousand dollars. Paid for by gamblers like the angry, Yelp-reviewing physician. Not only had Hyatt not stood up, as he usually did, he hadn’t wished her a good morning.
“Mr. Huntington.” Her three-inch heels clicked on the miles of marble as she approached the desk. Then, unsure whether or not she should sit down, Brianna stayed standing in front of him.
“It’s Hyatt,” he said on an exasperated breath. “I told you when this place opened two years ago that you needn’t be so formal when we’re in here alone together.” His brows dove toward his blade of nose. “And would you please sit down and stop looking as if you’re on the way to the guillotine?”
Resisting mentioning that the furnishings brought to mind all those executions after the French Revolution, Brianna sat down in the neoclassic reproduction chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. His own high-backed baroque chair with its red velvet upholstery could have belonged to the Sun King himself.
He might not be about to chop off her head, but the fact that he hadn’t offered her coffee and his hands were folded tightly atop the gilt leather desktop told Brianna what was coming. But rather than volunteer and risk telling him something he might not yet know—like that damn Yelp review—she folded her own hands and waited.
“I received a call first thing this morning,” he said.
Still she waited.
“From a guest. Does the name Dr. Aaron Michaelson ring a bell?”
“Yes. He was unhappy about a less than satisfactory experience he had at Bombay Spice.”
“Which he says you highly recommended.”
“No.” Brianna was not going to back down on this point. “He came to me with a printed-out page of reviews. As you undoubtedly realize, online reviews only reflect that one diner’s experience. I told him that Bombay Spice was one of the better Indian restaurants in the city. Then, after asking him what his favorite restaurants back home were, in order to get more information on his personal tastes, which turned out to be all steak houses, I recommended a few of those, as well. Including our own Chops, but I could tell that his mind was already made up when he arrived.”
“He was angry because there wasn’t any meat on the menu.”
“It states quite clearly on the restaurant’s website and the menu that it’s vegetarian. Perhaps he’s never heard of the concept of sacred cows?”
Realizing she’d come off snarky, Brianna held up her hand and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Did he happen to mention that I offered him a free meal here?”
“On a day he was checking out.”
“If he’d first complained when he’d returned from Bombay Spice, Greg, the night concierge, would have done the same thing.” He’d even have had his overpriced dry-aged prime steak delivered to the doctor’s damn room, which could have prevented him losing a bundle on the tables out of pique.
“I get your point. But he’s insisting you owe him fifty thousand dollars.”
“To which you told him, ‘No way,’ right?”
“Of course. The idea is ridiculous. You didn’t drag him down to the casino and force him to keep throwing his chips around the roulette table.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she’d expected Hyatt to take that complaint seriously, but it was encouraging that he found the idea as ludicrous as she had.
Her relief was short-lived.
“We came to a compromise.”
Her knuckles whitened from the pressure of her hands being squeezed together so tightly. “Oh?”
“I offered him the Golden Treasure suite, on the house, the next time he’s in town.”
“I assume he accepted.” King Midas himself might have found the suite blindingly overgilded. Which undoubtedly would suit the status-conscious doctor and his apparently privileged wife to a T.
“He did. After I assured him that you’d write him a note of apology.”
“What?” Brianna crossed her arms. “No. Period. Way.”
He arched a blond brow. It was not often that they were at cross-purposes. And never, in her two years of working together, had she ever refused a directive.
“He called me a bitch.”
“That’s unfortunate. But it was obviously in the heat of the moment. He was a guest. And the single most important tenet of any business, but especially hospitality, is that guests are always right.”
“No, not always.” This one had been rude, sexist and wrong.
“Give me a break, Brianna. The guy might be an asshole, but he also just happens to be one of the biggest whales in this town.”
That she hadn’t known. Not that it made a difference in the treatment she would have provided. Still, while all the elderly men and women who came on the chartered buses to add some excitement to their retirement brought in a nice bit of change, it was the high-stakes gamblers, aka the whales—who couldn’t stay away, who’d keep betting, even when they were losing—that kept all those chandeliers lit and indoor fountains flowing. Not to mention paying her salary.
“Why didn’t I know him?”
She was familiar with all their regulars. She created files for every one with all their likes and dislikes. She never missed sending birthday or anniversary cards (not always easy to keep up with, considering the number of divorces many went through), enclosing vouchers for chips. Some took advantage of their status to the point her dentist had warned her that if she didn’t stop grinding her teeth, she’d end up eating baby food.
Others, more reasonable, nice ones, Brianna had become close with. Enough that she’d spent part of her Christmas holiday in Florence, shopping with a bond fund manager’s wife and taking care of their children while they’d gone on a Tuscany wine tasting tour. All expenses paid, of course, along with a nice check and a gold mesh bracelet the wife had insisted on buying her at one of the shops on Florence’s Gold Bridge.
“You don’t have him in your book because he’s from Des Moines and usually stays at Wynn Tower Suites or the Mansion at MGM Grand. Which, given his tendency to jump back and forth, suggested that he might be induced to make us his home base when in town.”
“He’s a doctor. Granted, it’s a good profession, but he’s not exactly the type of gambler either one of those places or we would be vying for.”
“Ah, but he’s a doctor who happens to have established a national chain of for-profit medical clinics and is part owner in three more hospitals in Miami, Phoenix and Honolulu. The guy’s rolling in dough. Which, as last night proved, he’s more than willing to throw around. We want him throwing it around at our tables.”
It made sense. And surely Doctor Dick hadn’t been the first rude or even obscene guest she’d dealt with over the years. But, as she sat across from this man she knew to be the son of two high school teachers in Mesa, Arizona, Brianna realized the incident yesterday was close to becoming her last straw.
“What happens if I refuse to write the letter?”
“Of course I can’t force you.” She could tell that Hyatt wasn’t enjoying this any more than she was. One difference was that she was single, responsible only for herself. While, with two kids in college, one of whom was currently in Italy, studying for her PhD in art history, her boss had a great deal more to lose if the gambling doctor went over his head to Midas’s owner, a billionaire who always ranked in the top fifty on the annual Forbes richest list.
“Not that you’d ever try,” she allowed. Hyatt was a good guy who, through no fault of his own, had landed in an untenable situation. Which was only one of the reasons she decided to help him out. “But you would accept my resignation.”
He stared at her for what seemed a full minute. Then dragged his hand down his face. “Oh, hell. You don’t want to do that.”
The idea hadn’t occurred to her as she’d taken the elevator up to this floor. Neither had it crossed her mind as she’d made the long trek across the ocean of pink marble and sat down in the fake antique chair. But as soon as she’d heard the words leaving her mouth, Brianna knew it was exactly what she wanted to do. And fortunately, thanks to a recent surprise inheritance from another favorite guest whose family she’d become personal friends with, she could afford to walk away.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. I assume you’ll want me to leave immediately, so you can assure Dr. Michaelson that I no longer work here. Hell, tell him you fired me. That should gain you points over the MGM Grand and Wynn.”
“Does it matter that I don’t want you to leave?”
“Yes.” He did not, she noted, insist that he wouldn’t play the fired card. She watched the tension in his shoulders, clad in a suit that she guessed cost as much as either of his parents’ annual salaries, loosen slightly. “It matters a great deal and I appreciate it. But it doesn’t make any difference, Hyatt. It’s not the first time I’ve felt that I’m not the best fit here at Midas. So I think it’s for the best.”
He blew out a breath. Then finally stood up, went around the desk and, instead of shaking her hand, surprised her with a hug. Not a creepy boss-copping-a-feel hug, but the kind two close friends would share. “I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Back at you,” she said, meaning it. He’d been not just a mentor, but a friend. Perhaps, she’d often considered, because they’d both come from similar middle-class backgrounds.
Her second thought, coming right on top of the first, was that although she was friendly with many people, she no longer had anyone she could consider a true friend. At least not the kind she could share secrets with, or who’d play designated driver while you got drunk because you’d been dumped by some guy your always loyal friend would assure you was a tool who’d never been, and would never be, good enough for you.
Zoe had been that type of friend. But now, although she’d have been the first person Brianna would have called, she was gone. Forever. And although Brianna had exchanged emails back and forth with Seth for the first few months after the funeral, their correspondence had drifted off when he’d stopped responding, suggesting he’d moved on with his life.
“You’ll be impossible to replace,” Hyatt said, breaking into her thoughts.
She laughed at that and felt the tension inside her melt away, like one of the glaciers on Mount Olympus back home at spring thaw. “You know that’s not true. No one’s irreplaceable.” Except possibly George Clooney. “You might take a look at Brad,” she suggested.
“Are you sure he’s ready?”
“He’s young,” Brianna allowed. “But he’s been in the business since he was eighteen and has worked hard to learn the job along the way. He’s also eager to please and is a natural at this business.” She knew he had three younger sisters and had often thought that when they’d played tea party, he’d have been the one setting up the table and pouring the pretend tea. “If you move Greg to days, Brad should be able to handle nights. Especially with Greg to act as a mentor.”
“I’ll give it a thought. Thanks for the recommendation.”
He’d already mentally moved on. As he should.
“You’re welcome.” She patted his arm. “Take care. I’m off to write a polite, gracious response to the not-the-least-bit-truthful Yelp rant, pack up my desk and be on my way.”
“I’ll write a glowing referral. Just let me know where to send it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Again an arch of the brow. “You already have a new place in mind?”
“I do.” The answer was so obvious she was surprised it wasn’t flashing in neon bright lights over her head. “I’m going home.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
IT WAS MORNING in Kabul, Afghanistan. Traffic was streaming through the Bagram Airfield gates: suppliers, contractors, civilian workers, local residents who were members of the ANA, the Afghan National Army. The sun was rising, the base buzzing as the day medical staff at the state-of-the-art Craig Joint Theater Hospital caught up with patients who’d transferred in or out during the night. Widely recognized as one of the most advanced hospitals in the US Central Command, as well as the premier medical facility in Afghanistan, CJTH had the admirable record of a 95 percent survival rate. Thanks to dedicated medical personnel like Army Captain Zoe Harper, who was currently assigned to the intensive care department.
She was busy mentoring a local nurse, teaching her to tend to one of the unit’s favorite patients, a nine-year-old boy who’d been burned when the family’s propane tank blew up, when shouts started ringing out through the wing. Then automatic gunfire.
Instructing the nurse to bar the heavy metal door, she threw herself over her patient just as the world blew up.
When his phone alarm crashed into the all-too-familiar nightmare, Seth, drenched in sweat, dragged himself out of the inferno and threw the damn phone across the room. He resisted, just barely, taking a hammer to it.
The events that invaded his sleep weren’t real. Or maybe they were. He had no way of knowing because the only facts the Army would share with him were that his wife had been working in the IC ward when security had been breached, allowing suicide terrorists dressed in medical uniforms to attack the hospital.
She’d told him about her patients. Both military and civilian, but he could tell that the little boy, whom she’d been treating for six months, had been a favorite. She’d even asked Seth to send a box of birthday party paraphernalia and Star Trek and Star Wars figures. Which he’d done. She’d emailed pictures of the birthday party two days before her death. The boy had been grinning up at Zoe, who was wearing a silly, definitely not standard issue Princess Leia wig with her military scrubs. It was obvious the kid had fallen in love with her. As everyone always did.
Her stories had created endless possible scenarios of her death. All were violent and horrific, and too often, followed Seth throughout the day. Which, in its own way, was even worse than the nights.
And not just because morning meant going out into the world where he might be forced to interact with people, but mostly because the one person he would not be able to avoid was his dad. Who, if Seth arrived at the job site a nanosecond past the seven o’clock start time, would spend all damn day complaining about the supposed lack of the younger generation’s work ethics.
Stumbling out of his side of the bed (he couldn’t make himself breach his wife’s cold, empty side), he let Bandit out to do his business, then opened a can of dog beef stew that had more vegetables than Seth ate in an average day. He figured he’d banked about a month’s worth at last night’s dinner.
Drawn by the sound of the electric can opener, the mutt came racing back in, skidded across the wood floor, dove his head into the bowl and dispensed with breakfast in three huge gulps.
He followed Seth into the bathroom and would have continued right into the shower if not barred by the ceiling-high glass door. The vet had explained that along with eating issues, separation anxiety wasn’t uncommon in rescues. Especially one who’d been all mangy skin and bones when he’d started showing up at the job site.
Having learned to ignore the unwavering eyes watching his every move, Seth braced his hands against the tile walls of the shower, lowered his head and let the cold water pouring out of the rain shower slam down the hard-on that continued to taunt him every damn morning. Closing his eyes, he kept his hands flat on the walls because even getting himself off would feel like he was committing adultery.
But not taking care of the ache wasn’t easy as he fought against envisioning what he’d be doing if Zoe was in this multihead shower he’d built solely with her in mind. She’d seen one on an HGTV makeover show, and sexted him with ideas of how much fun it would be to work on their baby making in one. Graphic, hot ideas that had had him immediately driving to the plumbing supply store.
There were days, and this was one of them, when he thought he ought to just sell the damn house. But then he’d wander through the rooms and see things like the rooster wall clock in the kitchen and the trio of small, seemingly useless little porcelain boxes she’d bought for the bedroom side table, or photos of her planting the living Christmas tree they’d bought from the Mannion farm so their future children could grow with it, and he knew that there was no way he was ever going to be able to abandon this house that he’d remodeled, but she’d turned into a home.
After he’d toweled off, dressed in boxer briefs and jeans, layered a flannel shirt over a black Harper Construction T-shirt and pulled on his socks and work boots, Seth took off his wedding band and put it into the box in the bedside table drawer.
One of the few things he and his father agreed on was that wearing rings when doing construction could be dangerous. Seth himself had seen guys seriously bruised, had one guy on his sheet metal crew whose finger had been amputated when the ring caught in a piece of machinery, and his electrical contractor’s finger was burned to the bone from an electrical arc during his apprentice days.
So, every work morning since returning home from his weekend honeymoon, he’d put the ring away in its black box in the drawer of the table that still held a framed photo of Zoe and him on their wedding day. And every evening, as soon as he walked in the door, he’d put it back on. Although his main reason was that wearing that simple gold band was a way of keeping his wife close, of not forgetting her and all they’d shared together, the simple truth was that after all these years it had become a habit.
Not a habit, he decided as he walked, with Bandit following right on his heels, out to the garage. Habits, both good and bad, became mere routines, something done without thinking. Taking off and putting on his wedding ring was more like a ritual. Which was a good thing, right?
Rituals were important. They were what bound societies together. Without them, the world would spiral into disorder. The type of chaos that could blow up a beautiful young woman, who’d never done anything to hurt anyone, in the bloom of her life.
Two years after its detail job, Zoe’s Civic still sat in the second car stall. It was concealed by the cover he’d bought after seeing her off on her deployment, but he could still envision it in all its Rallye Red glory. Many people in town, including Quinn, who’d actually shared a personal opinion for once, had suggested he sell it. Easy for them to say. Seth would rather cut off a limb with a rusty chain saw.
He wondered what all those well-meaning folks would say if they knew that once a week he’d drive it to Olympic National Park, up to Hurricane Ridge and back (except in the winter when snow closed the road), to keep the battery charged and gunk from building up inside the various internal parts, none of which he knew all that much about, but it’s what the guys on the car radio shows when he was growing up were always saying. The ranger at the Heart O’ the Hills entrance station, whose kitchen he’d remodeled, had quit asking for his park pass and merely waved him through. She’d also never, not once, asked him the reason for such regular visits.
It wasn’t easy keeping a secret in Honeymoon Harbor, but the fact that his mother hadn’t known about his weekly trips to the ridge suggested he owed that ranger a debt of gratitude.
Over the past years, Seth had learned a funny thing about death. The funeral, held in St. Peter’s because Honeymoon Harbor wasn’t a big enough town to have a Greek Orthodox congregation, had been packed, with every pew filled and standing room only in the side aisles and at the back. The townspeople, along with soldiers from Fort Lewis-McChord who’d come to honor one of their own, had even spilled out into the church parking lot.
Even more people from the peninsula lined the sidewalks on the way to the cemetery, holding their hands over their hearts, their kids waving miniature flags. Although much of that time was a blur, Seth remembered the members of the fire department, dressed in full uniform, standing at attention in front of their gleaming red trucks, having to stop for a freight train carrying a load of logs, and how the engineer had respectfully left his finger off the whistle at the crossing. He also recalled how, as the cortege wound its way along the waterfront, one old man, wearing fisherman’s rubber overalls and black boots, stood on the dock beside his trawler, shoulders squared, back straight as a ramrod, briskly saluting as the hearse drove past.
They were forced to hold the lunch after the internment in the parish community hall because neither his and Zoe’s home nor her parents’ house had enough room for everyone who’d wanted to attend. Tables groaned with casseroles, salads and cakes, and although he’d protested, the women who’d planned the occasion with the precision that Eisenhower had probably used for the D-Day invasion had sent him home with Tupperware and foil-wrapped packages labeled with the contents and name and mailing addresses of who’d made them so he could send thank-you notes. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
Unwilling to allow people to believe their efforts weren’t appreciated, his mother had handwritten notes on cards she’d made herself. Later, he’d learned from Ethel Young, who ran Harper Construction’s office, that she’d taken time to write a different, personal message on each card.
The first few weeks after the funeral, everywhere he went, people would stop to tell him how sorry they were for his loss, and ask—with great concern in their eyes and sadly sympathetic expressions—how he was doing.
To which he always lied and said something along the lines of, “Well, you know, it’s not easy, but I’m doing okay.” To which all those who’d told him that if he ever needed something, anything, to give them a call, looked openly relieved that they wouldn’t be roped into dealing with Honeymoon Harbor’s youngest widower.
Widower. Seth hated that word, which sounded like something from one of Zoe’s downloaded Jane Austen movies that he couldn’t bring himself to delete from their DVR menu.
But time moved on and apparently everyone had expected him to, as well. Because, except on Memorial Day, when Boy and Girl Scouts put flags on all the veterans’ graves and the VFW held a remembrance ceremony at the Harborview Cemetery, it was as almost as if his wife had never existed. As if she’d never twirled across the stage in a tutu playing the Sugar Plum Fairy in the eighth grade production of The Nutcracker, never waved her blue-and-white pom-poms while he was racing down the high school football field to catch Burke Mannion’s passes, never marched in perfect military formation in her JROTC cadet uniform. As if she’d never exchanged wedding vows with stars in her eyes, dreamed about babies who would never be born, never gone to war to save lives, only to lose her own.
“Fuck.” Although it never got easy, some days were tougher than others. Realizing that this was going to be one of the tough ones, he yanked open the door for the dog, who jumped into the passenger seat. Then he climbed into the truck, punched the button for the garage door opener and headed to work.
As imagined images of the aftermath of the hospital bombing that had seemed to run 24/7 for days on cable TV and were probably burned forever on the inside of his eyes, Seth pulled up in front of Cops and Coffee, conveniently located next to the police station and across the ferry dock from the pub. The coffee shop was operated by three retired Seattle detectives, thus the name and the flashing red, white and blue police light. They’d wanted to put the sign above the door, which the town’s strict historical design committee had quickly nixed, but Seth, who’d done the remodel, had managed to get them to give him a permit to place it in the front window, where visitors coming in or leaving on the gleaming white ferry couldn’t miss it.
Bandit’s ears perked up as soon as he cut the engine. His tail began to thump enthusiastically. And just in case Seth might forget the doggie bag, he reminded him with a loud woof.
“Got it,” Seth reassured him. One thing about having a dog...it was hard to feel sorry for yourself when you lived with an animal that, despite an obviously rough background, could remain optimistic. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Bandit would’ve been a good dog for his and Zoe’s kids. Which sent his momentarily uplifted mood diving again.
The decor, if it could be called that, was a hodgepodge of ’50s blue vinyl booths and red Formica-topped tables, a counter with the same blue vinyl on the swivel stools and a separate room in the back where tourists could buy souvenirs. What elevated the joint from your average doughnut shop was the enormous stainless steel espresso machine with as many switches and dials as a fighter jet. Because, after all, this was Washington State, where coffee was the nearest thing to a religion and Folgers in a carafe just wouldn’t cut it.
“You look like you’re on the way to the chair,” Dave, a former homicide detective sporting a Tom Selleck broom brush mustache, greeted him. The uniform of the day was a cop-blue shirt with a badge that read Doughnut Patrol. The badge, natch, was available for sale in the gift shop alongside the T-shirts and travel mugs reading Don’t Dunk and Drive.
“Just the job site,” Seth answered, handing over his oversize travel mug to Dave, who brewed him coffee just the way Seth liked it. Pitch-black and strong enough to stand a spoon up in.
“Meaning the job you’re doing with your dad.” The machine began pouring out the coffee. “The morning after you had dinner with your mom’s new boyfriend.”
“Well, that didn’t take long.” One of the good things about Seth’s hometown was that it was, in many ways, like small towns anywhere. The type of close-knit community where everyone would band together in a heartbeat to support and protect their own. The downside was that same closeness had everyone privy to everyone else’s business. “What, did someone put it on the damn Facebook page?”
“Not yet. But Emma Mae Graham, who came in for a mocha latte and a chocolate glaze to take on the ferry for a day in the city told me she saw you with your mom and Mike Mannion at Leaf. Which makes it the first time they’ve gone public after the past two months, right?”
“Yet you already knew.”
“Hey, I was a street detective before I got into this business.” He tapped his temple. “And detecting in this town is a lot easier than back in the day. Hell, if I knew that everyone who comes in for a cup of joe feels the need to tell a story, I would’ve suggested we open up a Starbucks in the cop shop back in Seattle. It would’ve saved us a lot of interrogation time.”
Fortunately, Seth’s dad was even more of a hermit than Seth, so there was a chance that it might take him longer to find out that his wife, who’d filed separation papers three months ago, had found herself a new man. He skimmed a glance over the doughnuts in the glass-fronted case. “I’ll take a box of six glazed crullers and six apple fritters to go.”
“Breakfast of champions,” Dave agreed as he began putting them into a dark blue box with the Doughnut Patrol shield printed in gold on the top.
“The fritters have apples in them,” Seth said. “Which is a government-recommended fruit part of the food pyramid, right?” That was his story and he was sticking to it.
“Works for me,” the former detective agreed. “Like carrot cake is a vegetable.”
“There you go.”
After boxing up the fritters and crullers, along with three doughnut holes in a small waxed bag for Bandit, Dave handed the complimentary baker’s dozen thirteen deep-fried doughnuts to Seth, who bit into a cruller and enjoyed the rush of fat and sugar.
He drove along the water, turning up the hill to a gut-job he’d been working on for a month. Great. His dad’s truck was already in front of the house. Seth didn’t know how the old man did it, but he’d often thought he could arrive at two in the morning and Ben Harper would already be there.
He paused for a moment, studying the house, which was one of his favorites. Like the arts and crafts bungalows, Folk Victorians were one of the most often found styles of historical houses in the country, and what home buyers usually thought of when they went looking for “charm.”
The homes had ruled the day from 1870 to 1910. Unlike the better-known high-style Queen Anne, a Folk Victorian was nothing more than a dressed up ordinary “folk house,” so named because it had been built to provide basic shelter for the masses with little regard for changing fashions.
As growing railroads brought machinery into towns where workmen could produce inexpensive Victorian detail to be grafted onto existing homes, the decorated houses began to spread like wildfire.
What set the Folk Victorians apart from the earlier ordinary houses was the decorative detailing on the porches and cornice line. Porch supports were usually turned spindles or square beams with beveled corners. Other porch details were lacy or unique jigsaw-cut balustrades. The possibilities were as endless as the craftsmen’s imaginations and reflected their own particular region. In this part of the country, silhouettes of trees, mountains, animals, whales and fish along with stylized Pacific Northwest Native American symbols predominated.
Their uniqueness, combined with a simple floor plan, made Folk Victorians as desirable today as they were when that first trainload of architectural trim had arrived in the 1800s. This particular house had been bought by a local photographer, Kylee Campbell—an old friend of Zoe’s—and her photographer fiancée she’d met while traveling across Europe. While Kylee tended to focus more on portraits and the lucrative wedding business, Mai, her fiancée, was more into scenic shots she sold to magazines around the world. Some, taken in the national park and around town, were currently displayed in Mike Mannion’s gallery.
While Bandit snuffled around the exterior, searching out any squirrels or raccoons that might have invaded during the night, Seth found his father inside what had once been a back kitchen and was in the process of becoming a darkroom. Although Kylee and Mai were both photographers, their methods were very different. Kylee preferred shooting digital so her clients could see the photo immediately, but Mai occasionally preferred working with black-and-white film, which she’d develop herself. While going over the plans for the darkroom, she’d jokingly told him part of the reason she preferred film over digital was that the Caffenol, which apparently had replaced the funky old developer, smelled so damn good. Especially early in the morning, when she claimed it was like breathing in hot coffee steam while meditating. He’d decided to take her word on that.
While working on this house, he’d thought how often marriages were a study in contrasts. Along with being a born nurturer, which had made her such a beloved nurse, Zoe had definitely been the more outgoing and talkative of the two of them. Even as she could be briskly efficient, she also wore her heart along with her combat patch on her uniform sleeve. One of his few positive takeaways from her deployment was how she would have made a bad situation better for any soldier who’d ended up in her care.
Similarly, in contrast to Mai’s serenity, Kylee was an extrovert, as bright as her red hair, perfect for keeping stressed-out brides and grooms from freaking out before the ceremony, while at the same time being empathetic enough to catch those special moments that showed, far better than any posed photos, expressions of love.
Like the photos she’d taken for his and Zoe’s wedding, which included one of Zoe’s mother zipping up her wedding dress, another of his bride-to-be calling him one last time on her cell minutes before the ceremony to tell him how much she loved him. And one he hadn’t realized Kylee had caught, of him pinning the rose boutonniere on the lapel of his father’s seldom-worn, outdated suit. His father’s expression had revealed a warmth of emotion Seth couldn’t remember ever seeing before or since. Whenever he looked at that particular photo, Seth wondered if, just possibly, Ben Harper had been remembering his own wedding day to a woman as warm and open as he was distant.
Zoe had always been the outgoing one of the two of them. Middle school was hard enough to figure out your way through, even when you’d known everyone in your class forever. Coming in as the new girl midyear couldn’t have been easy. But seemingly without any effort at all, she quickly began weaving herself into the fabric of the school, and by the time summer vacation rolled around, it was as if she’d been there all her life. All of his life.
After steaming off over a century’s layers of wallpaper, Seth’s dad was now down to getting rid of the paint before repairing the walls with a mixture of lime putty, fine sand and goat hair. Watching him, thinking back to that photo, Seth wondered, for the very first time, if, as much as he’d loved Zoe, because he shared the same difficulty in articulating his feelings as his father, they might have ended up like his parents. At a point when their love might not have been strong enough to overcome years of what Zoe might someday come to view as indifference.
Hell. And wasn’t that a fun thought? Not that he’d ever get a chance to know. Or to try to fix things if they had gone off course. Because Zoe was gone. And he was still here. With a job to get done. On budget and on schedule.
Ben Harper might not be the easiest of men to live with, but no one could fault his attention to detail. The man was one of the last of a dying breed of craftsmen whose knowledge of building had been passed down through the generations. Although many of the kids Seth had grown up with couldn’t wait to get out of their small, isolated hometown, Seth’s roots had always been deeply set in the area’s glacial, loamy soil. And he especially appreciated being part of a continual line of Harper males who’d built Honeymoon Harbor.
“’Bout time you showed up,” his father, thankfully unware of Seth’s earlier thoughts, muttered without turning around. “Late night?”
“I stopped for fritters.” He didn’t bother to share that he’d spent most of the night locked in the frequent nightmare of the suicide bomb blowing Zoe’s hospital ward to smithereens.
He put the box on top of a sheet of plywood being held up by two sawhorses and could tell that he’d diverted his old man’s interest in this morning’s delay when the steamer paused. Fritters were Ben Harper’s favorite. But apparently this morning they weren’t enough to stop him from his work. “Humph.” The steamer began moving again. “Didn’t realize Cops and Coffee had gone organic. Given that’s what you seem to be into these days.”
“They haven’t.” Since he’d only begun to make inroads in the oversize travel mug of coffee, it took a moment for his dad’s meaning to click in. Obviously he was talking about the newest organic place in town. Busted.
“Word gets around,” Seth said casually. Not that there was anything casual about your parents’ breakup. Whatever your age, he was discovering.
“I was driving by and saw you going into Leaf after work.”
“I remodeled the place. Makes sense I’d eat there from time to time. The mushroom meatloaf’s pretty good.” Yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why so many things on the menu had appeared to be pretending to be meat. It wasn’t like you’d ever go into the pub and find Jarle’s beer-battered fried cod and chips pretending to be a salad.
The older man grunted, then muttered something beneath his breath. “Like it makes sense for a son to turn traitor on his own flesh and blood?”
“Okay. I had dinner with Mom. So what?”
“You weren’t eating with just your mother. You going to tell me you didn’t know that she would be there with her new boyfriend? Wearing a dress she sure as hell never wore out to dinner with me?”
Seth was about to point out that he couldn’t remember the last time his father had taken his mother out for so much as a burger at Dinah’s Diner when the comment hit home.
“Nobody told you she was at Leaf.” Gossip might always be swirling in Honeymoon Harbor’s salty air, but he doubted anyone talking to his dad would bother to mention what his mom was wearing. “You saw her with Mannion.”
“Like I said, I happened to be driving by.”
“You said you saw me while driving by.” Seth jabbed a finger at him. “I was ten minutes late because I stopped by the pub first.” Unless his dad had been driving up and down the street, the odds of him seeing both his wife and son arrive was not only unlikely, it was flat-out impossible.
Ben backed down the ladder, switched off the steamer and put it onto the plywood next to the blue box. “I’ll bet dollars to those doughnuts you brought with you that you stopped at the pub to have yourself a real dinner before eating the damn rabbit food they serve at Leaf.”
Seth was going to neither confirm nor deny that guess. “I told you, the meatloaf was good. And the corn bread nearly as good as Mom makes. And trying to change the subject to a debate about vegetarian versus burgers isn’t going to work. You were stalking Mom.”
“Not stalking.” His face settling into hard lines, his father reached into the box, took out a fritter and bit into it with enough force to send powdered sugar flying around like snow in a blizzard. “I was just watching out for her. She’s not used to being on her own.”
Even as he was annoyed by the stalking aspect, Seth knew that his father wasn’t entirely lying. He’d always known Ben Harper loved his wife. In his way. Which, unfortunately, hadn’t ever been the least bit demonstrative. Which caused a twinge of pain as he remembered the way Zoe would touch his arm, smooth a hand over his hair, nuzzle his neck while they were sitting and watching TV on the secondhand couch she’d unearthed at Treasures antiques shop.
“I suspect she’s felt as if she’s been on her own for a long time,” he said, feeling his way across what was turning out to be a conversational minefield. “Given that you’re not one for going out.”
“A man puts in a hard day’s work, he doesn’t feel like getting all gussied up to stay out until all hours of the morning dancing,” his father said around a second mouthful of fritter.
“Last I checked, movies only take a couple hours. And don’t require either dressing up or dancing.”
“Cheaper to stay at home and watch a show on the TV.”
“Maybe. But did you ever think that attitude is what’s got you living alone?”
“Your mother will be back.”
Seth knew he’d hit a sore spot when his father grabbed the steamer, went back up the ladder and switched it on.
“It’s been three months,” he said to Ben’s back.
“Took nearly that long to talk her into marrying me and staying here instead of going back east to that foo-foo art school.” He began methodically moving the steamer over the wall. “I can wait her out.”
“I’m no expert on women, but I’m not sure that’s the best option.”
The steamer paused as his father stiffened. Shoulders, arms, legs. “You saying she’s serious about some pansy artist?”
Seth resisted rolling his eyes. “Did you ever think that mom might prefer you not to talk like Archie Bunker?”
“I liked Archie,” Ben shot back. “It was good to see a regular guy on TV. So? Is she involved with Mannion?”
“I don’t have any idea. All I know for sure is that she’s taking classes from him in art.” And how weird did it feel playing this stupid high school game of “does she like me or him best” with his dad? “Which, by the way, she’s really good at.”
“He’s probably just leading her on by telling her that.”
“She gave me a watercolor. Believe me, she’s good.”
“If she’d wanted to paint, I wouldn’t have stopped her. Hell, she could’ve helped out on the houses instead of just doing the business’s books. And those drawings of the houses.”
Seth opted against mentioning that creating an actual piece of art wasn’t anywhere the same as painting a wall. But then wondered if, just possibly, she’d like to try a mural. With Kylee and Mai both being visual types, a mural of the harbor, or snowcapped mountains, might make a nice feature wall.
“That wasn’t my point. Whatever their relationship, Mike Mannion’s not the only guy in town. Did you ever think that the longer she stays away, the more comfortable she might be with the new normal of single life?”
Ben shot a look over his shoulder. “She’s my wife.”
“For the moment, though I feel the need to point out that you are legally separated.” Seth had been surprised when she’d gone all legal-ass on his dad, having those separation papers served on him. “But, just in case you missed the memo, the days of women being chattel are long gone. You don’t own her.”
Great. Now not only was he eating veggie meatloaf, he was paraphrasing Beyoncé.
“Never said I thought I did.” Ben’s scowl deepened. “Your mother’s always had a mind of her own. I used to call her my steel magnolia.”
There was just a tinge of something that sounded like pride in Ben’s tone. Which made sense because only a strong woman would’ve stuck around past the first anniversary. It wasn’t that his father was a bad guy. But he was from another era, a hardworking, blue-collar guy who wasn’t all that happy about a world that seemed to be moving too fast to keep up. And whereas some people might see the glass half-filled, Ben Harper always seemed afraid someone was going to steal his.
“Used to being the definitive phrase,” Seth pointed out, wondering yet again how he got into this damn situation. “Do you want her back?”
That question had his father spinning around so fast Seth feared he might fall off the ladder and break his stiff neck. “What the hell do you think?”
“I’ve no idea. You damn well should,” he said. “Not only is she smart, kind, loving and an all-around great woman, the one thing you and I have in common, along with the love of fixing up old homes, is that we both married above ourselves. Besides, living alone is the frigging pits.”
Not that the way he spent his days was fully living. The truth was he was fucking tired of being lonely. If he hadn’t been able to lose himself in his work, he probably would’ve just taken his boat out the strait into the Pacific and jumped into the icy ocean where Coast Guard PSAs were always reminding boaters to wear their life jackets because a fit person could swim only fifty yards in fifty-degree water, which just happened to be the summer temperature.
Another grunt. “You should know, given that you’ve turned into a hermit monk,” his father said. “Hell, even I’ve played poker once a week for the last twenty or so years.”
Which had always taken place at the Harper house, and which, Seth could have argued, wasn’t exactly getting out.
“It’s not the same thing,” he insisted. “My wife died.”
Zoe had been more than Seth’s wife. She’d been his soul mate for over half his life. He’d lived for her weekend visits home while she’d been away at college, and it never would’ve occurred to him to so much as look at another woman while she’d been deployed, assuring him that she was in a well-guarded hospital and would be returning home to make a lot of babies, so he’d better be prepared to man up and do his part. Which had totally worked for him.
“That was two years ago,” Ben said.
Two years, one month, two weeks and three days. But hell, who was counting?
He was.
“We were talking about you and Mom.” Seth felt the damn plaster walls closing in on him. Inside his head, bombs were exploding. “And what you’re going to do to win her back.”
“She’ll be back. Once she gets over this crazy hippy streak.” He went back to working on the wall. “Town used to be made up of regular folks. Loggers, fishermen, boat builders. People who made this place. Now it’s being overrun with all sorts of writers, musicians, artists and such. Who wouldn’t even know how to bait a hook, fell a tree or hammer a nail into a wall.”
Like most Harpers, Ben had a strong streak of mule in him. While his mother, despite what Mike had referred to as her Southern belle breeding, was, indeed, the steel magnolia his dad claimed she was to the core. Once the former Caroline Lockwood Harper made her mind up about something, she wasn’t one to back down.
Reminding himself that his parents were adults who didn’t need their only son to play marriage counselor, Seth went down the hall into what was going to be the en suite for a new master bedroom. Where he vented his frustration with a crowbar, attacking the crappy ’70s lime-green and yellow-daisy ceramic tile in the shower.
CHAPTER SIX (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
ONE WEEK AFTER quitting her job, Brianna was standing at the railing of a Washington State ferry slowly chugging its way across Puget Sound. Although spring in the Pacific Northwest could be chilly, and she’d be warmer indoors, she enjoyed the briskness of the salt-tinged breeze ruffling her hair, which was no longer pulled back into its tight, tidy, professional chignon that had always given her a headache.
She’d lived life on a wildly spinning hamster wheel for so many years since leaving home, it took her a while to recognize the heady feeling that rushed through her as she drank in the sight of the shaggy Douglas firs spearing into the sky, the rugged white peaks of the Olympic mountains in the distance and seagulls noisily diving for fish in the water churned up by the gleaming white boat.
As she sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee, the drink that famously kept the Pacific Northwest humming, a brown pelican flew by, the ungainly, awkward-looking bird surprisingly graceful in flight. More pelicans perched on wooden pilings.
Freedom. For the first time since she’d left her family Christmas tree farm to go off to college, she had no demands from any calendars, clocks, hotel guests, and no one to answer to but herself.
The idea was both thrilling and a little daunting at the same time. After all, ever since graduating from college, she’d always moved on from town to city, hotel to hotel, place to place, never looking back. Her life had been like that old country video where the heroine had ripped the rearview mirror off the side of her car and headed, hell-bent for leather, out of Dodge.
And now here she was, on a ferry getting closer and closer to land, drinking in the familiar sounds, the smells and pretty sights, and hoping that Thomas Wolfe had been wrong about never being able to go home again. This was a new chapter in her life. A new beginning, and despite the butterflies that had begun fluttering their wings in her stomach, she would make it work.
Reminding herself that she’d always been a self-starter with strong organizational and people skills, instead of worrying about any possible pitfalls in her plan, she concentrated on the vision of what she’d always thought of as her house turned into a warm and inviting bed-and-breakfast. The type of place she herself would want to stay in.
Over the years, as she’d worked her way up the hospitality chain to the Midas, her surroundings had become more and more luxurious. And while each hotel offered additional amenities and increased pampering, they’d never been the type of place she would have preferred to stay herself. She wouldn’t have chosen glitz and glamor, or bustling staff in crisp uniforms with shiny brass buttons and fringed epaulets that would make a banana republic general proud.
Rather than a crowded dining room abuzz with conversation drowning out the pianist playing Gershwin on a shiny black baby grand, she’d rather spend an evening enveloped in an overstuffed chair in a room with well-read books lining the walls, and a fire crackling away in an old stone fireplace.
Instead of shopping at designer boutiques with a platinum credit card, she’d rather stroll down tree-lined streets, dropping into small, quaint, locally owned shops that carried homemade fudge and desserts and whimsical, one-of-a-kind handmade pieces created by local artisans. And rather than being suffocated by ridiculously overpriced designer scents, she’d rather breathe in the tang of fir trees and salt air.
The sky turned a tarnished silver hue, hinting at rain as Honeymoon Harbor came into view, the stone Victorian buildings climbing up the steep hill, the now-automated white lighthouse at Pelican Point, and there, overlooking the harbor, was Herons Landing, unfortunately painted a Pepto-Bismol pink with purple trim and chartreuse shutters. Fishing and whale-watching boats bobbing in the water beside the sailboats and beautiful wooden boats the town was known for and what appeared to be a father and son stood on the pier, fishing lines dangling over the railing into the water, reminding her of childhood days when she’d done the same thing. Not that she’d been all that wild about fishing or crabbing, but if Seth was going to be out there with her brothers, she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to show him what a perfect girlfriend she’d be. The fact that he’d never experienced that hoped-for epiphany hadn’t been for her lack of trying.
The announcement to return to her car came over the speaker and five minutes later, as she drove off the ferry onto the cobblestone street created from the same stones as many of the town’s buildings, she felt an internal click that told her she’d made the absolutely right decision.
Pages from Captain George Vancouver’s ship logs, housed under glass in the town historical museum, revealed his awe at the towering, snowcapped mountains, deep green rain forests that come nearly to the water’s edge, crystal rivers, tumbling waterfalls, beaches and sapphire water studded with emerald islands.
By the late 1800s the town had become a bustling seaport, banking on a rich future. A building boom gifted it with an abundance of ornate Victorian homes perched atop the green bluff overlooking the bay. A town built and populated by dreamers, its port frequented by vessels from faraway places, the early economy had been built and supported by timber and shipping.
Unfortunately, too much of what was now Honeymoon Harbor had been constructed on the shifting sands of speculation that it was primed to become the capital of Washington State. Dreams were dashed when the boom collapsed and the population had declined drastically.
Although it never became the major shipping harbor people had hoped for, the royal trip that had resulted in the town’s name change, along with the magnificent monument Franklin Roosevelt later designated as a national park, had created a renaissance that resulted in an influx of visitors who continued to arrive at the harbor’s dock on gleaming white ferries like the one that had brought Brianna home.
The town had been divided between residential and business. Most of the buildings along the water were commercial, designed to serve arriving and departing ships. Originally built of wood from the bustling timber trade, they’d been reduced to ashes during a devastating fire that had swept through the waterfront. Meanwhile, the homes, including the Victorians the town had become known for, had been built on the bluff overlooking the harbor, which had allowed them to escape the firestorm.
Tempted as she was to drive out to the house, she reluctantly decided it made sense to go home, see her family and get a good night’s sleep before contacting the Realtor in the morning. As much as Honeymoon Harbor looked much the same as it had when she’d been growing up here, there had been changes. An old warehouse had been turned into condos, the real estate sign out in front offering spacious, remodeled lofts. She dropped into a coffee shop by the ferry terminal that hadn’t existed when she’d returned for Zoe’s funeral two years ago, and stood in line to buy a salted skinny caramel mocha latte from one of the owners, whom, she learned from their brief conversation while he prepared her drink, was a former undercover Seattle vice detective. Which, she supposed, explained the earring and the dreadlocks.
There were other new businesses, as well, including her uncle Mike’s art gallery, which would prove handy when it came to decorating her inn. Honeymoon Harborites preferred to buy local whenever possible, and in her case, it was even better when one of the businesses was owned by family.
She came up to the wide, grassy green square that had always been the centerpiece of the town. A lacy white Victorian gazebo—built by a Harper for the royal visit, where the Mannion mayor had handed the Montacroix king and queen the key to the city—had immediately proven popular with the honeymoon trade. Even today Brianna’s attention was drawn to a tall, familiar redhead snapping wedding photos of a smiling bride and groom.
Growing up, Kylee Campbell and Zoe Robinson had been Brianna’s best friends. They’d been inseparable, the self-named Three Musketeers, except for those times, as they’d segued into their junior and senior years of high school, when Zoe had begun spending more and more time with Seth Harper.
Pulling into a parking spot, Brianna sat in the car, watching as Kylee posed the couple in various ways while another woman set up reflector boards. They were apparently coming to the end of the shoot. After taking a few more photos next to the fountain bubbling away at one end of the green, Kylee exchanged a few words and hugs with the couple. Then, as she turned to walk away, Brianna got out of the car.
“Well, look who finally made it home,” Kylee called out, emerald green skirt flowing around her ankles, revealing a pair of purple Chucks as she ran across the parking lot toward Brianna. The other woman, who’d finished packing up the equipment, followed at a more sedate pace. “I was beginning to think we’d lost you to Sin City forever.”
Kylee threw her arms around Brianna and gave her an even more enthusiastic hug than she’d shared with the bride and groom.
“Wasn’t going to happen.”
Before her sudden change in her career, Brianna’s destination track after Vegas had always been New York (her goal had been the Waldorf Astoria, currently under renovation), then London’s Claridge’s, before reaching her personal pinnacle: the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, which might not be Paris’s flashiest hotel, but to Brianna’s mind was the most luxurious, romantic and, with its glorious views of the Eiffel Tower, iconic.
Bygones.
“Do I dare hope you’ll be here for our wedding?” Kylee asked. “Believe it or not, Seth’s mother is going to be the officiant.”
“Caroline Harper is a minister now?”
“She was ordained online about a year ago. She doesn’t have an official church or anything, but has become very spiritual, in an earth mother New Agey way. More and more people have been turning to her for their weddings. And not just the retro hippy crowd, but remarrying widowers or divorcés, who want more celebration than signing papers at the courthouse, but also don’t want to lock themselves into any established religious belief system.”
“Trust you to have a unique wedding.” Caroline Harper had always been a creative thinker and, like Brianna’s own mother, was actively involved in community service. Performing weddings sounded like just another step along her life’s path. She did wonder how Mr. Harper, who’d never seemed that conducive to change, had taken to his wife’s apparent midlife transformation. “Now I’m even more looking forward to being part of your special day.”
“So you’re staying?”
“How could I not?”
“Oh, that’s so great!” She pumped the hand not still holding the camera into the air. “I didn’t want to dump any guilt on you, but I’ll admit to being disappointed when you said you had that big deal convention to deal with.”
Magic Marketplace, the world’s largest fashion show, which attracted nearly a hundred thousand visitors, many of whom had booked Midas two years in advance, had been going to keep her in Las Vegas. Missing her BFF’s upcoming wedding had been on the top of Brianna’s list of life regrets. Now, thinking how events turned out, she should be grateful for Doctor Dick turning her life not upside down, but right side up.
“My priorities were screwed up,” she admitted. Hyatt had denied her request for time off when she’d asked two months ago, but she’d also known that if she’d put her foot down and made certain her duties were well covered, he would have let her get away for at least the day of the wedding. But her damn pride, believing that only she could handle such a large event, had outranked what would be, so far, the most important day of her remaining best friend’s life. Which went right along with her recent thoughts about not having any true friends. Because, in order to have a friend, you had to be one. Something she’d failed at. Miserably.
“Don’t even worry about it. I totally understood.” Kylee turned toward the woman who was, in appearance, her physical opposite. Where Kylee was tall, with wild masses of curly red hair that tumbled over her shoulders, her wife-to-be was petite with an asymmetrical black bob. “I’m sorry. I was so excited to see you, I got sidetracked. This is Mai, the grand love of my life. Mai, Brianna.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” The other woman’s smile was warm. “Including that you’re what keeps Las Vegas’s most glamorous resort humming along.”
“That’s a major exaggeration. But it doesn’t matter, because I no longer work there.”
“No way!” Kylee’s green eyes widened. “We talked just last week and you didn’t give me so much as a hint you were changing jobs.”
“It was sort of unexpected. And sudden.”
“I guess so. So, what new gig did you jump up to this time? Social secretary at the White House?”
“Ha. Far from it. I’m opening a B and B.”
“In Las Vegas?” Mai asked. Her tone remained neutral, but a slight lift of her brow hinted at skepticism. Which wasn’t surprising since bed-and-breakfasts were rare in the city. Visitors tended to stay in the resort hotels, economy off-Strip motels or RV campgrounds as much as an hour outside the city. Although Airbnb had begun making inroads with budget travelers, hotels at Midas’s level, where size always mattered, weren’t the least bit concerned.
“As it turns out, I’m going to be doing it here.” Brianna blew out a breath. This was the first time she’d said it out loud. And it sounded good. Good, but a little scary.
“Really? Wow!” Kylee’s face lit up like a sudden sunbreak during a long winter of gray days. “And your timing’s perfect because Herons Landing is for sale.”
“I saw it on the website the other night. Other than paint colors on the exterior, it looks in pretty good shape compared to the last time I was in town.”
“That paint was the previous owner’s idea. While those painted ladies may fit into San Francisco’s street scene, the pink and purple look ridiculous with the wooded backdrop. And photographs can be deceiving,” Kylee said. “Especially in these days when everyone knows how to Photoshop. The sales photo exterior shots only look good because Seth spent the entire last year fixing up the outside. Then the couple who’d hired him broke up and the place went into foreclosure.”
Which explained why the price had seemed lower than Brianna would’ve expected. The real estate ad hadn’t mentioned that little detail.
“The inside is definitely a work in progress,” Kylee said.
“Which is a polite way of saying wreck,” Mai murmured.
“True. But so was our new place not that long ago,” Kylee reminded her. “Seth is a miracle worker. Even though his father is a bit of a challenge.”
“He likes you,” Mai said.
“That’s because the caterers always let me keep the leftover wedding desserts. Which I take right over to the job. The man’s got a serious sweet tooth,” she confided to Brianna. “In his case, my mom was right on the money about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. You can never go wrong with cookies. Or doughnuts. I’m not sure I could have convinced him to put coffering on the ceiling were it not for the fritters from Cops and Coffee.”
Knowing how Ben Harper felt about her family, Brianna felt that even the entire contents of that towering glass case next to Cops and Coffee’s take-out counter wouldn’t be enough to win Seth’s father over. Not that she was going to allow any negative behavior to dissuade her from hiring Harper Construction to create her dream.
“Anyway, Mai and I looked at Herons Landing while we were house hunting, but decided it was a lot more of a project than we wanted to deal with. And more rooms than we’d ever need. Even now that we’re planning a family.”
“You are? That’s wonderful.” Brianna shot a hard look at her only remaining friend. “Yet you accused me of holding back news? After, as you pointed out, we only talked last week.” A conversation that had mostly been about the unexpected and ongoing trials with the Folk Victorian that Harper Construction was remodeling for them.
“I didn’t want to risk jinxing things.” Kylee ran a hand through her curls. “A few months ago I photographed the wedding of a woman who works with state and private organizations matching potential parents with children who need families. Which was when we decided to adopt.
“Meanwhile, our baby’s birth mother isn’t due for another month and we’re hoping to move into the house beforehand so we don’t have to bring her home to the apartment, then move again. It’s not easy, but we’re trying to stay patient.”
“Which is proving a bit easier for me than her,” Mai said with a laugh.
“What can I say?” Kylee shrugged. “We Scots have never been ones for red tape.”
“I’d imagine there’s quite a bit when it comes to adoption.”
“Miles and miles of the damn stuff,” Kylee agreed. “And it’s a risk because the birth mother can always change her mind. However, despite some construction setbacks, like having to redo all the wiring in the place and getting rid of some asbestos, we’re up for the challenge. The house is going to be perfect when Seth finishes.
“Speak of that handsome devil,” she said as she saw a truck approaching. “There he is now.” She stepped out into the street to wave him down.
Fortunately, the pickup had good brakes. He stopped on a dime, then pulled over next to the sidewalk. Brianna watched as the two exchanged a few words through the open driver’s window. Then the door opened and the man she’d spent her entire adolescence fantasizing about climbed out looking like a cover model for Hot Construction Guy Monthly.
Over the years, partly in loyalty to her best friend and partly to keep her own hormones in check, she’d tried to convince herself that Seth Harper was just another guy. Okay, better-looking than most, but still, it wasn’t as if he were movie-star handsome like Chris Evans. Or any of the other hot Chrises: Hemsworth, Pine or Pratt.
But she’d been wrong. As he strolled toward her across the street, she decided that just maybe he topped them all. He was tall, lean and lanky, which only emphasized the intriguing ridges visible beneath the black T-shirt he was wearing under a flannel shirt. Brianna didn’t think it was possible to have a zero body fat ratio, but if it was, he was definitely pulling it off.
A black ball cap worn backward covered his hair, but his eyes were that same melted-chocolate brown she remembered, and above the hollows in his cheeks, his jaw bore a sexy scruff. Though, as he neared, she could detect lines fanning out from his eyes that hadn’t been there two years ago.
“Hey, you.” She hugged him, just as she had Kylee. But this hug was different. Even as Brianna reminded herself that he was her best friend’s widower, despite all those years of telling herself that the man was off-limits, and not to even be fantasized about in her most secret moments, her breath caught in a way that could not be good.
“Hey, you.” Was his voice deeper? Rougher? She wasn’t sure, but it had definitely caused something inside her to jitter. He broke the brief hug off. “It’s been a while.”
“It has.” They’d been standing side by side at the love of his life’s funeral. She’d had no jittering that day. No unsteady breath. Just a deep, aching pain that went all the way to the bone.
“I’ve been meaning to get back for ages, but somehow days flew by, then weeks, then months, then a year had passed, then two, and...”
She slammed her mouth shut. Of course he, of all people, would know how many days, weeks, months and years had passed. That wretched day had to have been etched forever in his mind. And in no way that had anything to do with her.
“Anyway, I’ve quit my job and come home for a lifestyle change.”
“That’s a surprise.” His cocked brow echoed Mai’s. “Zoe always talked about how much you loved your work in the fast lane.”
“Well, you know how it is.” Determined to appear casual, even as those butterflies in her stomach had turned into giant condors, she waved an airy hand. “Or possibly you don’t, not because Honeymoon Harbor isn’t exactly in the fast lane...”
Terrific. Now she was implying Seth Harper was some small-town rube. Could Mount Baker please just erupt and cover her in ash and lava now before she made things worse? “But you always knew exactly what you wanted to do.”
Hadn’t he built the tree house he and Zoe would hide out in with his own two hands from wood reclaimed from Harper Construction dumpsters? No. She was not going to think about what the two of them might have been doing in that house that Zoe had hung curtains in, because any thoughts of sex concerning this man were off-limits.
“I mean, you were the only person I’ve ever met who probably knew the difference between Italianate, Gothic Revival and Queen Anne styles of Victorians before the rest of us mastered long division.”
She remembered, while they’d been running wild in Herons Landing, he’d stop and point out architectural details one of his ancestors had originally installed. Her brothers, intent on adventure, had never paused to listen. But she had. Though, to be honest, back then she would’ve been more than happy to listen to him recite the tide tables.
Her thoughts were spinning even faster than she was talking. Even Kylee was looking at her strangely. She was saved from making a total fool of herself when a huge brown-and-black dog leaped out of the truck’s window and came bounding toward them.
“Bandit!” Seth shouted. The dog’s only response was to run faster, its tail wagging like a metronome. “Stay!”
Whether it was intending to obey, or it had finally reached its target, the dog came skidding to a halt in front of Brianna and, in way of greeting, thrust his huge nose into the crotch of her jeans.
“Hell.” Seth grabbed its collar, and tugged. “I’m sorry. We’re still working on manners.”
“That’s okay.” She reached down and rubbed his broad head, scratching behind its ear. Her family had always had dogs, which, needless to say, hadn’t been possible for her once she’d left home. Even if she had found a small couch potato breed, her long working hours wouldn’t have been fair to any animal. “Aren’t you a handsome boy?”
Moaning with canine ecstasy, he collapsed on the ground and rolled over for a tummy rub, exposing his male parts in all their proud glory.
“Don’t get him started,” Seth warned. He yanked off his cap and stuck it in his back pocket, revealing shaggy hair, streaked with the rich, golden brown of big-leaf maple leaves in fall. “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.”
“And probably deserves it.” Crouching down, she obliged as eighty-plus pounds of dog wiggled on its back, huge paws waving in the air, a picture of pure canine bliss. “His name is Bandit?”
“Yeah. Because he’s a thief. I adopted him partly to stop him from swiping all the workers’ lunches. And not just food. Shoes, socks, toothbrush, you name it, he’ll take it. Last week he swallowed an entire dish towel, which involved a trip to the vet.”
“Ouch.”
“Bri’s going to buy Herons Landing,” Kylee said, jumping into the conversation.
The dark brow climbed again, practically disappearing beneath the strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. And you sound skeptical.” Now that they’d moved to talking about work, Brianna was back in her comfort zone, her mind returning to a more familiar organizing and planning mode. “Kylee said you restored the exterior. Which looks wonderful, by the way.” She decided not to risk offending him by mentioning the exterior paint colors. “At least from the ad on the website.”
“The rough edges on that ad were smoothed out by the real estate agent doing some Photoshop magic,” he confirmed what she’d already been told. “Though that part’s close to being done. The interior, however, is definitely still a work in progress.”
“Which, I’ve learned over the course of our job, is contractor speak for ‘It’s going to take twice as long and three times the money,’” Kylee said.
“Especially when clients keep bringing up new ideas they want,” Seth responded pointedly.
Bandit, realizing that he’d gotten as much tummy rubbing as he was going to get right now, was sitting in front of Brianna, his brown eyes giving her an adoring look she guessed often worked to his advantage.
“I can’t deny that,” Kylee said with a laugh.
“I keep telling her to step away from Houzz and Pinterest,” Mai said. “But she’s like an addict. Just one more picture. And the next thing you know, it’s two in the morning and she’s printed out a stack of photos and suggestions.”
“I’m not that bad. And fortunately, Seth knows how to do everything.”
“Far from everything. But having grown up on work sites, it’s probably in my blood. I always knew I’d work to keep the town’s old buildings from being turned into parking lots or strip malls.” He turned to Brianna. “The same way you knew you wanted to work in hospitality. Whether it was finding a family the perfect Christmas tree, or creating a special hotel experience.”
Brianna was surprised he’d listened to any of her grand plans when they’d all hung out together back in high school. Every atom in his body had always seemed to be honed in on Zoe.
She stood back up and shrugged with a feigned casualness she was a long way from feeling. “I did love my work. Especially in the beginning.” Which she hadn’t taken time to appreciate, being so focused on racing past each rung of the hospitality ladder. “But after a while, it became more a case of ‘Be careful what you wish for.’”
“It happens.” He didn’t look all that surprised. On the contrary, his eyes, which she now noticed had deep shadows beneath them, turned sad. “So, what’s your new plan?”
“She’s turning it into a B and B,” Kylee answered before Brianna could. “So why don’t you take her over there and give her a professional opinion so she’ll know what she’s getting into when and if she ends up negotiating a price?”
“That’d probably be best for her contractor to discuss with her.”
“I was hoping you’d take on the job,” Brianna said, looking up at him in surprise. She’d never considered the possibility that anyone but Harper Construction would do the remodeling.
He put both his hands on his hips, his long, work-roughened fingers framing a part of his body that Brianna never allowed herself to even think about. Which was a lie. There’d been a time, during her freshman year of high school, when she’d first started having those feelings, that she’d definitely imagined what Seth Harper was hiding beneath those five metal buttons. He glanced over at her car with its back seat loaded with luggage and boxes. “Did you just arrive today?”
“On the four-o’clock ferry,” she confirmed. “I’m staying with my folks for the time being until I find a rental in town. But I’m sure you have better things to do right now, so perhaps we could set up an appointment, since Kylee’s idea for me to find out what I’m in for before I buy the house is a good one.”
A silence hung between them. Everyone, including Bandit, whose gaze had begun going back and forth between them, seemed to be waiting for Seth’s response.
“I don’t have anything else to do,” he said finally. A shadow had moved across those sad, dark eyes, like clouds drifting in from the coast before a storm. “If you don’t need to get straight out to the farm, I’m up for showing you through the house.” He looked down at her, studying her, his face unreadable. “Though I’ve got to warn you, it’s a long way from being livable enough to open for guests anytime soon.”
“It couldn’t be any worse than back when we used to sneak in,” she said.
“Got a point there.” And then he almost smiled. At least that’s what she thought that twitch at the corner of his lips might have meant to be. Though that could just be wishful thinking.
“I’ll meet you there,” she said.
“Works for me.”
All three women watched as he walked back to his truck. “I’m not into guys, but I’ve got to admit, that’s one damn fine butt,” Mai said on a long sigh.
“It’s all those squats,” Kylee said. When Brianna shot her friend a look, she lifted her hands and said, “Hey, he’s working on our house. I’d have to be blind not to notice him picking up all that lumber and stuff.”
“And those back muscles when he’s pounding nails,” Mai said on a sigh. “He’s like a living work of art. You should shoot him,” she told Kylee. “In the nude.”
“I’ve thought about doing a calendar of Honeymoon Harbor Hotties to raise money for the food bank. Not entirely nude. Just suggestive enough for those of us with dirty minds.” Kylee flashed a wicked grin. “He’d definitely fit right in.”
“You could have a showing and auction of the photos at Mike Mannion’s gallery,” Mai said. “It would boost interest in the calendar. Especially if you had all the guys standing next to big, blown-up photos of their months. The place would be packed with women from all over the peninsula. Not counting our brother gays.”
“She shoots. She scores. And the crowd goes wild,” Kylee, who’d played center for the town’s high school hoops team, said with a laugh.
“I’d buy it in a heartbeat,” Brianna said. It would be the closest she’d gotten to a naked man in too long to remember. “And, as much as this has been fun, I’d better get going.” Just the thought of a nude Builder McDreamy was raising her temperature.
“Good luck,” Kylee said as Brianna opened the driver’s door.
“Thanks. You know I’ve always loved that house.”
“Oh, yeah. The house.” Her friend’s knowing look reminded Brianna of all those times when they’d talked about her secret crush on the third member of the Three Musketeers’ boyfriend. “Good luck with that, too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
DRIVING OVER TO Herons Landing, Seth passed two kids, about nine years old, racing their bikes down the quiet street lined with bright pink flowering plum trees and waved back at Otto and Alma Karlsson, who were sitting in rockers on their front porch. They’d celebrated their sixtieth anniversary in the town hall this past Valentine’s Day. The party had originally been planned to take place in the friendship hall of the Swedish Seamen’s Lutheran church, but when so many townspeople wanted to join in the celebration, it had been moved to the larger venue.
Turning left on Mountain View, the sight of Mellie and Jake Johnson pushing their two toddlers in a double stroller had him rubbing his chest. If he and Zoe had been successful in their baby-making plan, their child would be about the same age as the Johnson’s twins. It also occurred to him that, in a space of less than three minutes, he’d witnessed a circle of life. From the babies and their parents, to the preteens, to the elderly Karlssons.
Although she might have arrived in Honeymoon Harbor from Astoria, Zoe’s father’s family, like Seth’s own and the Mannions, were early settlers. From time to time he’d be dragged into pioneer celebrations, which he’d always enjoyed growing up, but the last few times had only made him all too aware that Zoe wasn’t there with him.
Putting that thought away in the mental lockbox, where he kept all things Zoe, he made another turn that took him past the high wrought iron gates of the cemetery, and along the water to the house in question.
The Queen Anne–era Victorian boasted three stories, four fireplaces, a turret and a curved porch with a view of both water and mountains. Back when it had been built by a timber baron in the late 1800s, at least two of the five acres it sat on had been gardens, which had long ago gone to weed.
He was standing on temporary gravel that had been planned to be a stone paver driveway, hands on his hips, looking up at the new slate roof that had cost an arm and leg but was historically accurate, when Brianna pulled up behind his truck.
The first thing he noticed when she climbed out of the snazzy red convertible, which wasn’t all that practical for the rainy Pacific Northwest, was how long her legs were. Why hadn’t he ever noticed that before? She was wearing a pair of cropped skinny jeans and a shirt blooming with hibiscus blossoms open over a white tank top. Her turquoise flats had little bows on the toes like the ones he remembered on Zoe’s ballet slippers during those years her mother had made her take dance lessons. Hopefully, Zoe had complained, with a roll of her expressive dark eyes, to make her more girly so she’d give up any idea of being a soldier.
Which, duh, hadn’t worked all that well since once Zoe Robinson got an idea in her head, it was impossible to shake it out. Still, those pale pink slippers with the lace-up ribbons and scuffed-up soles she was always having to clean were why those combat boots he’d last seen his wife wearing at her deployment ceremony at JBLM had always seemed so out of place.
Seeing his new best human friend again, Bandit loped over and jumped up, putting his paws on Brianna’s shoulders. At the same time a cloud overhead started spitting rain, making her colorful Las Vegas–style outfit all the more impractical. Which, even as he yelled at his dog to get down, had Seth wondering if it would really be possible for a woman who’d harbored such glamorous, big-city dreams to come home again.
The sudden cloudburst had soaked her, revealing a lacy bra beneath the white tank clinging to her lean body. It had been nearly three years since he’d seen a woman’s bra that wasn’t on a commercial for the Victoria’s Secret fashion show that’d pop up every year on ESPN. As an unbidden and entirely unwelcome feeling stirred, he snagged one of the emergency slickers he kept on hand for clients—usually Californians who didn’t understand the concept of weather changing on a dime—from his truck’s club cab back seat and held it out to her.
“Thanks.” She shrugged into it, covering up that see-through tank. “I remembered to put the top up on the car when I crossed the border into Oregon, but forgot the cardinal rule of never being without a rain jacket.” The sleeves fell nearly over her hands, which were tipped in coral lacquered nails that matched the flowers on her shirt. Each ring fingernail had a tiny white blossom with rhinestone centers painted on it, which was something he couldn’t remember ever seeing in Honeymoon Harbor.
“You probably didn’t need a slicker all that much in Vegas,” he said.
“That would be true. I know people up here dream of retiring to the desert, and a lot do, if all those gray-, blue-and purple-haired elderly ladies who’d camp out at the slots were any indication, but I never got the appeal. Natives would say there were two seasons: hot and hotter. I always thought there were three: hot, pizza oven hot and hell.” She lifted those colorful fingertips to her cheek. “And the lack of humidity, while good for hair, was horrible on the skin.”
Her skin looked just fine to him. When he found himself wondering if her smooth cheek felt as silky as it looked, the resultant stab of guilt jerked his mind back to their reason for being here.
“The color leaves a lot to be desired,” she said, looking up at what Seth personally considered an abomination, but the previous buyers had been adamant about wanting their very own painted lady.
“It’s undoubtedly visible from space,” he said.
“I would’ve gone with blue, to echo the water. Or perhaps yellow, to brighten the winter days. With crisp white trim.”
“Both of which I suggested.”
“Great minds.” She flashed him a smile that was like a ray of sun shining from the quilted gray sky and momentarily warmed some cold, dark place inside him.
“You sure you don’t want to come back another day? When it’s drier?”
“The roof’s new, right?” She glanced up at the randomly placed multicolored tiles in shades of blue and gray.
“It is. And not the fake stuff, but real slate formed by hand right here on the peninsula in Port Angeles. It’ll last another hundred years.”
“Then it won’t leak on us.”
“Not even during a downpour.” Which this wasn’t.
“So there’s nothing stopping us from going in.”
“It’s a mess.”
“I heard.”
“And you’re not exactly dressed for climbing over boards and nails.” He looked down at the flats.
“Good point.” She glanced over at the car. “Hold on a minute.”
As he watched, she ran over to the convertible, Bandit right on her heels, popped the trunk, opened a suitcase and pulled out a pair of yellow Keds with perky white daisies printed on the canvas. She sat down on the edge of the trunk and changed. The Keds weren’t proper boots, but if she was careful and he could keep her from climbing any leftover scaffolding, they’d work.
“Ready,” she said. Since she hadn’t pulled out any rain gear, he guessed she hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said that she didn’t own any.
The snazzy car, along with the flowery blouse, which looked to be real silk and not the polyester Zoe had always bought at Target, suggested that she’d been well paid. But as two other owners in the last decade had proven, renovating a house like Herons Landing was neither easy nor inexpensive. And it also took time. He wondered if she ought to try staying in Honeymoon Harbor for a while before buying, just to be certain she found the town to be a good fit after all these years away.
“I’ve been homesick for a while,” she said when he carefully brought the subject up. “The idea had been simmering beneath the surface for some time, but I was too busy and distracted by work to recognize it. The minute I saw it was for sale, I felt the tug to come home.”
It was his turn to shrug. Hell, it was her problem, and her money. If it was what she really wanted to do, he’d make it happen. Not just because he was the best guy in Washington to pull the job off, but, other than himself, Brianna Mannion had been Zoe’s best friend. He owed it to her.
“Some folks around here still claim it’s haunted,” he said, taking her arm as he led her up the steps to the front door.
“Some folks also claim Bigfoot’s out there roaming around in the woods,” Brianna countered. “And if you believe the supermarket tabloids, actual sparkly vampires exist in Forks.”
“True. But a couple who bought it three years ago believed the stories enough to hire a Ghostbuster.”
She looked up at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Not to get rid of her, but to connect on some ethereal plane. They wanted a self-proclaimed paranormal investigator to make sure she didn’t mind them living in her space.”
“I guess she told them that she did mind? Since they didn’t finish the project?”
“I’ve no idea since I didn’t ask and they didn’t tell.”
“I never really believed in her,” Brianna said. “Or, more, I never saw any proof. But I never disbelieved, either.”
“Whichever, they were arrested for running a Ponzi scheme disguised as a hedge fund and the property was seized by the government.” Leaving his bank account to take a huge hit when he’d been forced to pay for the materials and subcontractors out of his own pocket.
“Last summer it was bought at auction by a couple of doctors from the Bay Area who got tired of the San Francisco rat race and decided it would be fun to run a bed-and-breakfast. We’d barely started working on the interior when the docs realized what living in a construction zone would feel like. As their costs escalated, they got a divorce and bailed on the deal by declaring bankruptcy. We’re far enough down the debtor’s list, I doubt we’ll ever see a dime.”
“It sounds as if this place has turned into a money pit for you.”
“Enough that Dad decided the house may not be haunted, but it’s definitely cursed.”
Having to listen to his father’s nonstop bitching about Seth letting them get shafted, not once, but twice, had been the worst part of the deals. He’d have to remember to be outside when he told his old man about their new client. Because Ben Harper was flat-out going to hit the roof.
He wondered how much he should tell her about his parent’s separation, then decided, what the hell. Since she’d undoubtedly hear about his family’s domestic drama soon enough, he might as well let her know right off the bat.
“There is one thing that might cause a problem, so if you’re going to be around the house during work hours—”
“That would be my plan.”
“Then you need to know that my parents are currently separated.”
“Oh.” She tilted her head. “I’m sorry. That must be difficult for you. Being in the middle.”
“It’s not a walk in the park. But the reason I’m telling you up front is that it might concern you, too.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because my mom’s dating again.”
“I guess that’s a good thing? For her, anyway.”
“It seems to be. But here’s what could be a problem...the guy she’s seeing is your uncle.”
“Uncle Mike?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how serious things have gotten between them, but I had dinner with them at Leaf—which is this new vegetarian place that’s opened up since the last time you were here—”
“I saw the building. Near the park. Did you do the work?”
“Yeah. They hired a designer for the interior decorator stuff, but I drew up the plans and did the construction part of the job.”
“You’re awfully modest for a man who won an award for environmental historical renovation and remodeling.”
“Sounds like you really checked out the town’s website.”
“As I said, I’ve been homesick. I saw your award. That’s impressive.”
He shrugged. “There’s a lot happening in the historical environmental field right now,” he said, shaking off the cloud that had returned to hang over them. “I enjoy attending seminars on the various views and options.”
Not wanting her to think he was blowing his own horn, something his dad had taught him at an early age Harpers didn’t do, he didn’t tell her that he’d given a lot of those seminars himself. Just like they weren’t that generous with compliments, Harper men weren’t that good with accepting them. Another possible reason his mother seemed so attracted to Mike Mannion, who appeared to hand them out like penny candy.
Once again, Seth was forced to consider the idea that his parents’ separation could well become permanent. Then, once again, he reminded himself that they were adults and their relationship, whatever the hell it was or wasn’t these days, was none of his business.
“Anyway, getting back to Dad, he might not be all that cooperative.”
“Believe me,” she said on a laugh, “in the hospitality business you learn to deal with uncooperative people. Many of whom are males.”
Her rich, warm laugh caused a tug of something he’d thought he’d never feel again. Something that was too close to desire for comfort. Which was why Seth immediately shut it down. Even if he were looking for any kind of relationship, which he wasn’t, getting involved with his wife’s best friend would just be too weird.
Which made Brianna Mannion definitely off-limits.
As he used his key to open the lockbox on the door, Seth reminded himself that he’d be wise to remember that.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
HE HADN’T BEEN EXAGGERATING. However, from what he and Kylee had told her, Brianna had expected the cobwebs, mouse droppings and graffiti she remembered from those youthful days of breaking in. The graffiti was still there on the unfortunately ugly wallpapered foyer walls, but the only thing covering the floors was taped-down paper, sawdust and a few scattered nails. Scaffolding and sawhorses supporting long pieces of Sheetrock as tabletops took up much of the covered floors.
“The interior walls are all gone.” That had been a spooky, but in a weird way, fun thing about the house. Going from parlor to parlor, never knowing what lurked around a corner. Pipes and wires between studs were all that remained.
Broad shoulders lifted and fell in what appeared to be a resigned shrug. “They thought open concept on the first floor would make for a communal experience.”
“I can’t argue with that. Especially when you’re hosting a group that wants to spend time together. But they seem to have overdone the concept.”
“Again, we’re in full agreement.”
“Could you put some walls back in?”
“Sure. We’ll have to move some electrical and plumbing, and you’ll probably need to change the HVAC, but it’s doable. Were you thinking of going more back to the original layout?”
“A combination would be good.” She’d decided that on the long drive home. “Some small parlor rooms for more intimate conversations, and even private meals. But I want a wide-open kitchen with plenty of room to serve breakfast.”
Attacking her research the same way she had in her previous occupation, she’d bought two audiobooks about the business of establishing and running a B and B that she’d listened to along the drive, pulling off at exits every so often to write down notes in the three-ring binder she’d bought before leaving Las Vegas. She also had three more books on her Kindle waiting to be read.
She looked a long way up. “The mural is still there.”
Rather than depicting the mythological figures popular at the time the house was built, these were scenes of the peninsula—from the cliffs and crashing waves, to the glaciers of Mount Olympus, standing tall over Hurricane Ridge, to the towering hemlock and Douglas firs, the fields of lavender farms, the strait leading to the Puget Sound cities of Seattle, Tacoma and Olympia, the dazzling blue bay that Honeymoon Harbor had been built on.
Scattered throughout the quadrants were the Native American original settlers, the ships, including Captain Vancouver’s Discovery, fishermen and builders like Seth’s family. Unsurprising, given that the house had been contracted by a timber baron, loggers claimed the center.
“I had to fight to keep that,” he revealed. “The doctors wanted to paint over it and hang a massive chandelier they were bringing in from some old Italian chateau. Fortunately, the historical preservation folks stepped in to back me up since it turned out to have been painted by Whistler.”
“The Whistler? As in James McNeill Whistler?”
“The very same. The original owner of this place had seen one he’d painted on the dining room in the home of some wealthy Liverpool shipowner and wanted something like it for this house. The fact that he was an American pulled a lot of weight with the historical committee.”
“That makes it even more special. If I make a separate page for it on the website, it might even bring in historical art lovers wanting to stay here. Whistler’s got to have a following, right?”
“Could be,” Seth agreed. “The same way people go around the country searching out certain architects’ work.”
“Though, of course, that alone might not cause them to stay more than a single night. Fortunately, with the National Park and the proximity to the coast, and Victoria, BC, we’ve lots of other local things for visitors to do that will keep them here for at least a weekend, or longer. I’m going to make a list and put together packages on the site.”
“You’ve thought this through if you’ve gotten to planning a website.”
“It’s a nineteen-hour drive and a two-hour ferry ride from Las Vegas to Honeymoon Harbor. That gave me a lot of time to think. And I can tell from the expression on your face that you think it’s just a whim, but it’s not. Maybe the idea sounds impulsive, but it’s been percolating in the back of my mind for a long time. It just took an inciting incident to bring it to the surface.”
Seth thought about asking what incident that might be, wondered if it had anything to do with a guy, then decided the less he knew about Brianna’s personal life, the better.
“Except for updating all the wiring in the place to keep the house from being a fire hazard, the second floor hasn’t been touched,” he said as they walked toward the back stairs.
Bandit usually took the opportunity to patrol the perimeter for renegade squirrels if no worker was around to mooch from, but today he seemed to have decided to tag along with the pretty new lady.
“The circular stairway in the front entry is a showcase, but if it were the only one, the owners—who I guess would now be you—would have to keep running into guests.” Which he personally wouldn’t enjoy. Then again, ever since his wife got blown up, no one would refer to him as Mr. Hospitality on his best day.
“Good point,” she said.
“The third story attic’s been turned into a penthouse with its own kitchen. The previous owners intended to live there.”
She shuddered. “I remember bats.”
“They’re all gone. Though there is a bat house at the far end of the property, not far from the pond. Not only are they good for pollinating plants, one little brown guy can eat a thousand mosquitoes a night.”
“That’s a plus,” she allowed.
“All the windows, including those in the attic dormers, have been reglazed,” he assured her. “That wavy glass was a better insulator back then and, hell, it just looks better.”
Brianna paused on the landing leading up to what was once an attic crowded with junk. And mice. And, yes, bats. She’d gotten one tangled up in her hair one night, he recalled. He’d managed to free her, but not before she’d practically blown out his eardrums with her screeching.
While Zoe had long dark curls, Brianna’s hair was the color of caramel streaked with gold. As he got a whiff of its citrusy scent, he wondered if the streaks had been created by the blazing desert sun, or if she’d paid for them in some chichi salon. Not that he cared. It was just a random thought.
“I can tell why you deserved to win that award,” she said, thankfully unaware of his thoughts. “You really care.”
“Harpers built most of these old buildings,” he said. “It only makes sense that I’d want them to stay true to the original vision.”
“Yet with your credentials, you could work anywhere. You’d undoubtedly be in demand in lots of big cities where you could make more money.”
“I have all the money I need. And I like it here just fine. Though I have done a couple jobs, for cost, in Portland and Seattle for preservationists wanting to save them from the wrecking ball.”
She gave him another slanted-head look, as if working for free hadn’t been a concept in her high-flying world. Which, he figured, it probably hadn’t been.
“Let me show you the penthouse.” As he followed her up the stairs, it would have been impossible not to notice that she had a very fine ass filling out the back of those skinny jeans.
Off-limits, he reminded himself firmly.
CHAPTER NINE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
“OH, WOW.” Brianna stopped in the doorway of what she’d remembered as a spooky, cluttered bat attic. “This is an amazing space.” She walked in and turned around, arms outspread. “You could have the entire cast of Swan Lake dancing on these floors.” Which were natural light maple coated to a soft sheen.
“Different strokes. I pictured the Trail Blazers running up and down the court.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a guy.” A fact that, as she felt herself drowning in two deep pools of hot fudge, she was all too aware of. She glanced a long way up. “I don’t remember the ceiling being this high.”
“It wasn’t. We raised the roof another four feet, which brought it to twelve feet.”
“I couldn’t tell from the outside. But this makes it so bright and airy. Especially with the open beams and skylights you’ve added to the original dormer windows.”
She walked over to the window and looked out over the water, where a successful haul had a pair of fishing boats moving slowly and heavily into port. A gleaming bridal-white and grass-green ferry chugged across the bay. In the distance, the wooded islands appeared like emeralds on a bed of sapphire silk.
He gave her a brief tour, showing her the small three-quarters bath with a large shower with two walls glass, and the other two subway tile with gray grout. There was also a long counter with double sinks. She would have liked a tub, but lounging in a tub probably wasn’t something she’d have time for anyway.
The walls had been painted a soft grayish sage that blended with the various shades of green outside the windows. A kitchen area with maple cabinets and a gray quartz counter ran along one wall, and a large island divided the living space. The new gas fireplace featured a surround created by vertical strips of marble in grays and whites.
“It’s interesting that they chose such calming colors when the exterior is so discordant,” she mused.
“I figured they thought people would expect bright colors on a Queen Anne,” Seth said. “Or maybe they’d always dreamed of owning a painted lady of their own back home in San Francisco.”
“Whichever, paint can always be changed. Meanwhile, this space is lovely. You’ve almost made me forget the bats.”
“All the vent openings are well screened,” he assured her. “They can’t get in.”
“That’s good to know.” She crossed the room and looked out the windows facing the opposite side of the house, toward the snowcapped mountains, where blue and yellow wildflowers danced in the meadows. “The heron nests are still there.”
The great blue heron was iconic to the Pacific Northwest, celebrated in art going back to the earliest Native Americans. The massive nests on this property had been built in towering Douglas firs over years of breeding seasons, with birds building new nests with sticks and twigs every year. Glancing out, she could count five, though she remembered as many as a dozen at one time.
“Lucky,” he said. “Now you won’t have to change the name.”
She glanced over her shoulder and realized he was standing close behind her. Close enough for her to breathe in the brisk scent of his soap, like the towering fir trees blanketing the mountains, along with an undernote of workingman musk that was clouding her mind. “Lucky,” she murmured, knowing that he was joking. Despite the town’s long-ago name change, tradition was taken seriously in Honeymoon Harbor. Whoever owned the house, whatever it became, this would always be known as Herons Landing.
“As much as I love my parents, I’d feel like a teenager living there all the time it’s going to take to remodel,” she said, moving out of the danger zone before turning around to face him again. “I thought I’d rent in town for now, then eventually live in the carriage house for more privacy when I got up and running, but for now, this would be perfect.”
“And noisy,” he warned her. “Because you’d be living over a construction zone.”
“Ah, but it’d be convenient, because I’d be on-site instead of having to drive in from the farm every day.”
“You really do intend to be hands-on.” The tone was neutral, but she sensed that he was wary about that idea. Given the previous buyers’ choice of exterior paint, she understood his caution.
“I have some ideas,” she admitted. “But you’ve been essentially living with the house, through two earlier owners, and from what you’ve told me so far, you and I are on the same page. Though you’re way ahead of me because I never, in a million years, would’ve thought of this. Obviously you’ve drawn up plans.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Absolutely. I also have the originals if you’d like to compare.”
“The originals?” He might as well have told her he’d found the Holy Grail. “Seriously?”
“They were in some dusty old filing cabinets. Harper Construction built the most iconic buildings in town. Like the library, the city hall, the buildings where both your uncle and brother set up shop. We’ve always been proud of that.”
“As you should be,” she agreed without hesitation. “I just never expected them to still be around. What shape are they in?”
“A little yellowed. Brown around the edges. But they’re still readable. And apparently Jacob Harper, Nathaniel’s older brother who built the place in 1894, had a sense of history or immortality, or, if he was anything like Dad, worried about someone stealing them, because he signed every page.”
“Oh, wow.” Her heart began doing a happy samba at that news. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me buy the pages with the layouts of the room and exterior? To frame?”
“Sorry, they’re not for sale.”
“I understand.” Which was true. Disappointing, but true. They might not be as famous as Captain Vancouver’s ship logs, but they were a large part of Honeymoon Harbor’s history. Why should he sell them off? Especially to a Mannion?
“Though I can give them to you. After I get them copied.”
He’d been one of the nicest boys she’d known. Which was saying something, since she’d always found her brothers very special. It was also why, although there were times she’d admittedly been envious of Zoe, she’d never been jealous of her best friend for having Seth Harper fall in love with her. Apparently, despite the grief she could tell he was still experiencing, he hadn’t changed. Now he was one of the nicest men she knew. Working with him, while not proving to be all that easy on her hormones, was going to be a pleasure.
“I’d love that. Thank you. But since they’re a Harper family heirloom, I’d be thrilled just to have the copies.” She could already imagine them on the wall. Not in frames, she decided. But shadow boxes to honor them with the importance they deserved.
“They’re all yours.”
An easy silence settled over them as they both looked around, imagining the house as it could be. “It’s going to be wonderful,” she breathed. “Since so many of the guests will be coming here for the outdoor activities, I want an easy, simple style they can feel comfortable in. Where they don’t have to worry about knocking over a gilt-rimmed vase. But I also want to celebrate the curves and quality of the time.”
“Dressing your Victorian dowager in flannel shirts, jeans, hiking boots, while keeping her good set of pearls.”
He’d surprised her. Until she thought about it a second. This house might be her dream. But in a way, the entire town was both Seth’s family history and daily reality as he brought Harper-constructed buildings back to life. He was the one who’d dedicated his life to blending the disparate eras.
“I wonder if people realize how lucky they are that you decided to stay here in Honeymoon Harbor,” she said. She had no doubt he could make a great deal more in most older cities in the country.
He shrugged. “I never had any desire to go anywhere else.
“How about you drop by the office tomorrow?” he suggested. “About noon. We can go over the original blueprints and what I came up with, both before and after the lower floor walls came out, and you can give me your ideas.”
“I’d love that. I’ll bring lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Tonight’s my first night home in two years,” she said. “Which means Mom’s going to make way too much fried chicken and potato salad.” Although her mother might not have allowed processed food in her home while Brianna had been growing up, Sarah Mannion’s fried chicken, which had won awards at the county and state fairs, was a family favorite for special occasions. “There’ll be leftovers.”
“I’d never turn down your mom’s chicken,” he said. “So, moving on, how would you like to see an idea I had for the second floor tower room? The previous owners turned it down, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to pitch it again.”
“I’d love to hear any ideas you have.” After checking out Harper Construction’s website, she’d been blown away by their portfolio.
They left the large room and headed back down to the second floor, followed by Bandit, claws clicking on the wooden stairs. As he’d warned her, the second floor hadn’t been touched except for all the open wall spaces where outdated electrical and plumbing had been replaced.
“We also added air-conditioning,” he said. “Which didn’t used to be needed here, but the past summers have had some hot spells, so it seemed prudent. There’s a solar unit on the back side of the roof you can’t see from the front that provides the power.”
“Does solar really make that much of a difference here?” In Las Vegas, it made sense, but even here in the rain shadow so-called “banana belt” of Washington State, which received less rain than Seattle, winter days were still long and dark this far north.
“True,” he said when she shared that thought. “But conversely, summers are sunny and clear and can stretch from a five a.m. sunrise to ten p.m. sunset. That produces a lot of free, clean energy, which doesn’t all get used because the temperatures, which are admittedly rising, are still fairly mild. And here’s the best part. When you produce more solar energy than you need, it gets sent back to the utility grid. Net energy metering rewards you for producing electricity for your neighbors by paying you for the extra solar power.”
“Like spinning the meter backward?”
“Exactly.” His smile wasn’t as intimate as the ones she’d watched him bestowing on Zoe Robinson all during high school, but the warmest she’d seen since her arrival. Kylee might be right about food being the way to a man’s heart, but just perhaps, talking construction and energy conservation was the way to Seth’s.
But no... They were merely two old friends embarking on a joint project that would prove equally fulfilling and profitable. Reminding herself that she hadn’t come back to Honeymoon Harbor to attempt to hook up with her best friend’s widower, Brianna turned her mind back to their conversation.
“The credits show up on your bill, and the law requires that you be reimbursed for every kilowatt hour of electricity you produce. At minimum the power company has to pay you the same rate they charge you. So, the summer credits add up for you to use in the winter. Which, since we’re doing a green renovation, with all the insulation and other stuff I don’t want to bore you with until you’re sure you really want to do this—”
“I’m sure.” She’d thought it all through on the drive home and had convinced herself that she wasn’t really acting on impulse. That returning home and buying Herons Landing was what she wanted to do with this next phase of her life. But, admittedly, there’d been those nagging little thoughts of, Do you really want to throw away all you’ve worked for?
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JoAnn Ross
There’s no place to fall in love like the place you left your heart Welcome to Honeymoon Harbor, the brand-new, long-awaited series by beloved New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross, where unforgettable characters come face-to-face with the kind of love that grabs your heart and never lets go.Working as a Las Vegas concierge, Brianna Mannion is an expert at making other people’s wishes come true. It’s satisfying work, but a visit home to scenic Honeymoon Harbor turns into a permanent stay when she's reminded of everything she’s missing: the idyllic small-town charm, the old Victorian house she’d always coveted, and Seth Harper, her best friend’s widower and the neighborhood boy she once crushed on—hard. After years spent serving others, maybe Brianna’s finally ready to chase dreams of her own.Since losing his wife, Seth has kept busy running the Harper family’s renovation business and flying way under the social radar. But when Brianna hires him to convert her aging dream home into a romantic B&B, working together presents a heart-stopping temptation Seth never saw coming. With guilt and grief his only companions for so long, he’ll have to step out of the past long enough to recognize the beautiful life they could build together.
There’s no place to fall in love like the place you left your heart
Welcome to Honeymoon Harbor, the brand-new, long-awaited series by beloved New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross, where unforgettable characters come face-to-face with the kind of love that grabs your heart and never lets go.
Working as a Las Vegas concierge, Brianna Mannion is an expert at making other people’s wishes come true. It’s satisfying work, but a visit home to scenic Honeymoon Harbor turns into a permanent stay when she’s reminded of everything she’s missing: the idyllic small-town charm; the old Victorian house she’d always coveted; and Seth Harper, her best friend’s widower and the neighborhood boy she once crushed on—hard. After years spent serving others, maybe Brianna’s finally ready to chase dreams of her own.
Since losing his wife, Seth has kept busy running the Harper family’s renovation business and flying way under the social radar. But when Brianna hires him to convert her aging dream home into a romantic B and B, working together presents a heart-stopping temptation Seth never saw coming. With guilt and grief his only companions for so long, he’ll have to step out of the past long enough to recognize the beautiful life Brianna and he could build together.
Also By JoAnn Ross (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
Honeymoon Harbor
HOME TO HONEYMOON HARBOR (novella)
LEGACY OF LIES
CONFESSIONS
SOUTHERN COMFORTS
NO REGRETS
A WOMAN’S HEART
For a complete list of books by JoAnn Ross,
visit www.joannross.com (http://www.joannross.com).
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Herons Landing
JoAnn Ross
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08327-0
HERONS LANDING
© 2018 JoAnn Ross
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Select Praise for JoAnn Ross
“Ross’s Shelter Bay series spotlights her talent for blending vibrant characters, congenial small-town settings, and pressing social issues in a heartwarming contemporary romance.”
—Booklist
“Beautifully descriptive and gently paced, this heartwarmer captures coastal small town flavor perfectly.”
—Library Journal on Seaglass Winter
“It isn’t often readers find characters they’re willing to spend a weekend with. However that’s exactly what Ross accomplishes…enveloping the reader in the lives of two endearing, albeit flawed, characters.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Homecoming
“Ross is in top form…plenty of sex and secrets to keep readers captivated.”
—Publishers Weekly on Blue Bayou
“Skillful and satisfying… With its emotional depth, [River Road] will appeal to Nora Roberts fans.”
—Booklist
“A fast-paced novel about romantic relationships [and] parent-child relationships.… The narrative voice has a humor and rhythm that is fun to read…witty, kind, and meaningful.”
—Kirkus Reviews on Seaglass Winter
Again, to Jay, for all the years.
Contents
Cover (#u45649b8a-1b82-5e71-af15-22f4bbf830e0)
Back Cover Text (#u1c4f3159-72a2-5874-8120-3088413f3f8f)
Booklist (#uc4063137-0cc2-5414-b57c-935a0fe28abf)
Title Page (#uba29db9a-af6b-5140-bc91-c8fb82740c43)
Copyright (#ub9293891-dc9f-563b-beef-c823dc729e20)
Praise (#u36c4bcd4-2a23-5e83-a23a-2d0d573aa6dc)
Dedication (#uac39e284-6bbe-50b9-84e1-542734c7b9ac)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua4f9f1d9-efa7-581e-810f-f99f1aeded9e)
CHAPTER TWO (#u52c255b9-4383-5c27-8943-3db0878e3671)
CHAPTER THREE (#ucaa83958-659e-5fa1-a710-c3bbe9066ff4)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u9bbaa643-c283-56a0-b792-8871c7891280)
CHAPTER FIVE (#u3d02186e-1c21-59a5-8eba-1301d54b3a0a)
CHAPTER SIX (#u587ad504-0248-5d72-b146-c6f850153210)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ua6b5b3a8-da9b-5905-a9cc-dcc7b216b6aa)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#u750c28a4-9662-53f5-8ae7-541ddb441db9)
CHAPTER NINE (#u6725d9c1-36d7-51e1-88ca-f25f6fb8c813)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
Home to Honeymoon Harbor (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
SETH HARPER WAS spending a Sunday spring afternoon detailing his wife’s Rallye Red Honda Civic when he learned that she’d been killed by a suicide bomber in Afghanistan.
Despite the Pacific Northwest’s reputation for unrelenting rain, the sun was shining so brightly that the Army notification officers—a man and a woman in dark blue uniforms and black shoes spit-shined to a mirror gloss—had been wearing shades. Or maybe, Seth considered, as they’d approached the driveway in what appeared to be slow motion, they would’ve worn them anyway. Like armor, providing emotional distance from the poor bastard whose life they were about to blow to smithereens.
At the one survivor grief meeting he’d later attended (only to get his fretting mother off his back), he’d heard stories from other spouses who’d experienced a sudden, painful jolt of loss before their official notice. Seth hadn’t received any advance warning. Which was why, at first, the officers’ words had been an incomprehensible buzz in his ears. Like distant radio static.
Zoe couldn’t be dead. His wife wasn’t a combat soldier. She was an Army surgical nurse, working in a heavily protected military base hospital, who’d be returning to civilian life in two weeks. Seth still had a bunch of stuff on his homecoming punch list to do. After buffing the wax off the Civic’s hood and shining up the chrome wheels, his next project was to paint the walls white in the nursery he’d added on to their Folk Victorian cottage for the baby they’d be making.
She’d begun talking a lot about baby stuff early in her deployment. Although Seth was as clueless as the average guy about a woman’s mind, it didn’t take Dr. Phil to realize that she was using the plan to start a family as a touchstone. Something to hang on to during their separation.
In hours of Skype calls between Honeymoon Harbor and Kabul, they’d discussed the pros and cons of the various names on a list that had grown longer each time they’d talked. While the names remained up in the air, she had decided that whatever their baby’s gender, the nursery should be a bright white to counter the Olympic Peninsula’s gray skies.
She’d also sent him links that he’d dutifully followed to Pinterest pages showing bright crib bedding, mobiles and wooden name letters in primary crayon shades of blue, green, yellow and red. Even as Seth had lobbied for Seattle Seahawk navy and action green, he’d known that he’d end up giving his wife whatever she wanted.
The same as he’d been doing since the day he fell head over heels in love with her back in middle school.
Meanwhile, planning to get started on that baby making as soon as she got back to Honeymoon Harbor, he’d built the nursery as a welcome-home surprise.
Then Zoe had arrived at Sea-Tac airport in a flag-draped casket.
And two years after the worst day of his life, the room remained unpainted behind a closed door Seth had never opened since.
MANNION’S PUB & BREWERY was located on the street floor of a faded redbrick building next to Honeymoon Harbor’s ferry landing. The former salmon cannery had been one of many buildings constructed after the devastating 1893 fire that had swept along the waterfront, burning down the original wood buildings. One of Seth’s ancestors, Jacob Harper, had built the replacement in 1894 for the town’s mayor and pub owner, Finn Mannion. Despite the inability of Washington authorities to keep Canadian alcohol from flooding into the state, the pub had been shuttered during Prohibition in the 1930s, effectively putting the Mannions out of the pub business until Quinn Mannion had returned home from Seattle and hired Harper Construction to reclaim the abandoned space.
Although the old Victorian seaport town wouldn’t swing into full tourist mode until Memorial Day, nearly every table was filled when Seth dropped in at the end of the day. He’d no sooner slid onto a stool at the end of the long wooden bar when Quinn, who’d been washing glasses in a sink, stuck a bottle of Shipwreck CDA in front of him.
“Double cheddar bacon or stuffed blue cheese?” he asked.
“Double cheddar bacon.” As he answered the question, it crossed Seth’s mind that his life—what little he had outside his work of restoring the town’s Victorian buildings constructed by an earlier generation of Harpers—had possibly slid downhill beyond routine to boringly predictable. “And don’t bother boxing it up. I’ll be eating it here,” he added.
Quinn lifted a dark brow. “I didn’t see that coming.”
Meaning that, by having dinner here at the pub six nights a week, the seventh being with Zoe’s parents—where they’d recount old memories, and look through scrapbooks of photos that continued to cause an ache deep in his heart—he’d undoubtedly landed in the predictable zone. So, what was wrong with that? Predictability was an underrated concept. By definition, it meant a lack of out-of-the-blue surprises that might destroy life as you knew it. Some people might like change. Seth was not one of them. Which was why he always ordered takeout with his first beer of the night.
The second beer he drank at home with his burger and fries. While other guys in his position might have escaped reality by hitting the bottle, Seth always stuck to a limit of two bottles, beginning with that long, lonely dark night after burying his wife. Because, although he’d never had a problem with alcohol, he harbored a secret fear that if he gave in to the temptation to begin seriously drinking, he might never stop.
The same way if he ever gave in to the anger, the unfairness of what the hell had happened, he’d have to patch a lot more walls in his house than he had those first few months after the notification officers’ arrival.
There’d been times when he’d decided that someone in the Army had made a mistake. That Zoe hadn’t died at all. Maybe she’d been captured during a melee and no one knew enough to go out searching for her. Or perhaps she was lying in some other hospital bed, her face all bandaged, maybe with amnesia, or even in a coma, and some lab tech had mixed up blood samples with another soldier who’d died. That could happen, right?
But as days slid into weeks, then weeks into months, he’d come to accept that his wife really was gone. Most of the time. Except when he’d see her, from behind, strolling down the street, window-shopping or walking onto the ferry, her dark curls blowing into a frothy tangle. He’d embarrassed himself a couple times by calling out her name. Now he never saw her at all. And worse yet, less and less in his memory. Zoe was fading away. Like that ghost who reputedly haunted Herons Landing, the old Victorian mansion up on the bluff overlooking the harbor.
“I’m having dinner with Mom tonight.” And had been dreading it all the damn day. Fortunately, his dad hadn’t heard about it yet. But since news traveled at the speed of sound in Honeymoon Harbor, he undoubtedly soon would.
“You sure you don’t want to wait to order until she gets here?”
“She’s not eating here. It’s a command-performance dinner,” he said. “To have dinner with her and the guy who may be her new boyfriend. Instead of eating at her new apartment, she decided that it’d be better to meet on neutral ground.”
“Meaning somewhere other than a brewpub owned and operated by a Mannion,” Quinn said. “Especially given the rumors that said new boyfriend just happens to be my uncle Mike.”
“That does make the situation stickier.” Seth took a long pull on the Cascadian Dark Ale and wished it was something stronger.
The feud between the Harpers and Mannions dated back to the early 1900s. After having experienced a boom during the end of the end of the nineteenth century, the once-bustling seaport town had fallen on hard times during a national financial depression.
Although the population declined drastically, those dreamers who’d remained were handed a stroke of luck in 1910 when the newlywed king and queen of Montacroix added the town to their honeymoon tour of America. The couple had learned of this lush green region from the king’s friend Theodore Roosevelt, who’d set aside national land for the Mount Olympus Monument.
As a way of honoring the royals, and hoping that the national and European press following them across the country might bring more attention to the town, residents had voted nearly unanimously to change the name to Honeymoon Harbor. Seth’s ancestor Nathaniel Harper had been the lone holdout, creating acrimony on both sides that continued to linger among some but not all of the citizens. Quinn’s father, after all, was a Mannion, his mother a Harper. But Ben Harper, Seth’s father, tended to nurse his grudges. Even century-old ones that had nothing to do with him. Or at least hadn’t. Until lately.
“And it gets worse,” he said.
“Okay.”
One of the things that made Quinn such a good bartender was that he listened a lot more than he talked. Which made Seth wonder how he’d managed to spend all those years as a big-bucks corporate lawyer in Seattle before returning home to open this pub and microbrewery.
“The neutral location she chose is Leaf.”
Quinn’s quick laugh caused two women who were drinking wine at a table looking out over the water to glance up with interest. Which wasn’t surprising. Quinn’s brother Wall Street wizard Gabe Mannion might be richer, New York City pro quarterback Burke Mannion flashier, and, last time he’d seen him, which had admittedly been a while, Marine-turned-LA-cop Aiden Mannion had still carried that bad-boy vibe that had gotten him in trouble a lot while they’d been growing up together. But Quinn’s superpower had always been the ability to draw the attention of females—from bald babies in strollers to blue-haired elderly women in walkers—without seeming to do a thing.
After turning in the burger order, and helping out his waitress by delivering meals to two of the tables, Quinn returned to the bar and began hanging up the glasses.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You ordered the burger as an appetizer before you go off to a vegetarian restaurant to dine on alfalfa sprouts and pretty flowers.”
“It’s a matter of survival. I spent the entire day until I walked in here taking down a wall, adding a new reinforcing beam and framing out a bathroom. A guy needs sustenance. Not a plate of arugula and pansies.”
“Since I run a place that specializes in pub grub, you’re not going to get any argument from me on that plan. Do you still want the burger to go for the mutt?”
Bandit, a black Lab/boxer mix so named for his penchant for stealing food from Seth’s construction sites back in his stray days—including once gnawing through a canvas ice chest—usually waited patiently in the truck for his burger. Tonight Seth had dropped him off at the house on his way over here, meaning the dog would have to wait a little longer for his dinner. Not that he hadn’t mooched enough from the framers already today. If the vet hadn’t explained strays’ tendencies for overeating because they didn’t know where their next meal might be coming from, Seth might have suspected the street-scarred dog he’d rescued of having a tapeworm.
They shot the breeze while Quinn served up drinks, which in this place ran more to the craft beer he brewed in the building next door. A few minutes later, the swinging door to the kitchen opened and out came two layers of prime beef topped with melted local cheddar cheese, bacon and caramelized grilled onions, with a slice of tomato and iceberg-lettuce leaf tossed in as an apparent nod to the food pyramid, all piled between the halves of an oversize toasted kaiser bun. Taking up the rest of the heated metal platter was a mountain of spicy french fries.
Next to the platter was a take-out box of plain burger. It wouldn’t stay warm, but having first seen the dog scrounging from a garbage can on the waterfront, Seth figured Bandit didn’t care about the temperature of his dinner.
“So, you’re eating in tonight,” a bearded giant wearing a T-shirt with Embrace the Lard on the front said in a deep foghorn voice. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Everyone’s a damn joker,” Seth muttered, even as the aroma of grilled beef and melted cheese drew him in. He took a bite and nearly moaned. The Norwegian, who’d given up cooking on fishing boats when he’d gotten tired of freezing his ass off during winter crabbing season, might be a sarcastic smart-ass, but the guy sure as hell could cook.
“He’s got a dinner date tonight at Leaf.” Quinn, for some damn reason, chose this moment to decide to get chatty. “This is an appetizer.”
Jarle Bjornstad snorted. “I tried going vegan,” he said. “I’d hooked up with a woman in Anchorage who wouldn’t even wear leather. It didn’t work out.”
“Mine’s not that kind of date.” Seth wondered how much arugula, kale and flowers it would take to fill up the man with shoulders as wide as a redwood trunk and arms like huge steel bands. His full-sleeve tattoo boasted a butcher’s chart of a cow. Which might explain his ability to turn a beef patty into something close to nirvana. “And there probably aren’t enough vegetables on the planet to sustain you.”
During the remodeling, Seth had taken out four rows of bricks in the wall leading to the kitchen to allow the six-foot-seven-inch-tall cook to go back and forth without having to duck his head to keep from hitting the doorjamb every trip.
“On our first date, she cited all this damn research claiming vegans lived nine years longer than meat eaters.” Jarle’s teeth flashed in a grin in his flaming red beard. “After a week of grazing, I decided that her statistics might be true, but that extra time would be nine horrible baconless years.”
That said, he turned and stomped back into the kitchen.
“He’s got a point,” Quinn said.
“Amen to that.” Having learned firsthand how treacherous and unpredictable death could be, with his current family situation on the verge of possibly exploding, Seth decided to worry about his arteries later and took another huge bite of beef-and-cheese heaven.
CHAPTER TWO (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
THE BRIDE WAS BEAUTIFUL, as all brides are. It was, of course, easier when you had unlimited funds at your disposal. The white couture gown, flown in especially for the event from Paris, was a cloud of diamond-white tulle, embroidered with seed pearls and Swarovski crystals. The Belgian lace veil was attached to a diamond tiara that was a duplicate of the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
As chief concierge of the butler floor at the Las Vegas Midas Resort Hotel and Casino, Brianna Mannion had arranged for a stylist to ensure perfect hair and nails for the bride and her seven attendants, all in poufy pastel taffeta gowns that would never be worn again.
The groom, while not as flamboyantly attired, nevertheless was handsome in a black tux. His concession to glitz was the crystal-studded bow tie designed to coordinate with the bride’s gown. There’d originally been plans for him to wear a top hat, but when he’d steadfastly objected, the bride’s harried mother had thrown up her hands in defeat.
“Well, I did want our princess to marry an alpha male,” she’d said to the bride’s father. Who, Brianna noted with a bit of trepidation, was pouring his third Scotch since arriving at the wedding preparation suite. Typically the suite was a women-only zone, but this was far from a typical wedding and since the bride’s mother (who had a strong alpha streak herself) had insisted her husband be there for the preparations, he’d apparently caved rather than risk a scene.
Because the Midas prided itself on the extreme level of privacy afforded to its guests, this particular suite had its own high-speed elevator that opened onto the ballroom booked for the event. Although it took four trips, Brianna managed to herd the party down the sixty-five floors to the ballroom, which took some logistics when a trio of bridesmaids, having lost patience during their styling, had begun nipping at each other. Fortunately, she was able to calm things down before the pink, yellow and aqua taffeta started getting ripped apart.
The ceremony, presided over by the top Elvis impersonator in the country—no mere local Elvises (Elvi?) need apply—amazingly went off without a hitch. And although the reception might have gotten a little rowdy, both the wedding party and the guests invited to this special occasion all seemed to enjoy the tiered white wonder of a wedding cake created by the Cordon Bleu–trained top chef. But it was the gilt doggie bags filled with a variety of gourmet dog biscuits dusted with edible twenty-four-karat gold that proved the hit of the party.
After escorting the happy couple up to their honeymoon penthouse suite that adjoined that of the bride’s parents, Brianna finally blew out a long breath of relief.
The good news was that the wedding of the tech mogul and his wife’s award-winning King Charles spaniel to a male belonging to a distant member of the British royal family (the first high-end dog ceremony Brianna had arranged) had gone off without a hitch. The bad news was that if word got out of its success, it might not be her last.
She’d just returned to her desk, which, like everything else in Midas, was heavily gilded, when a guest she recalled from yesterday came marching toward her. Unfortunately, the man’s lobster-red complexion, furious scowl and steam she could practically envision coming from his ears were not encouraging signs.
“I have a complaint,” he bellowed as he approached the desk. Like she couldn’t hear him from three feet away?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brianna pasted on her most conciliatory, caring smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The concierge from yesterday was terrible. I want her fired.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”
“Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”
He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”
“Bombay Spice.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.
“It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.
Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.
“I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,” she said with measured calm.
“Well, dammit to hell, I expected them to serve some meat dishes. None of the five-star reviews my wife read online said anything about them not at least having a damn rib eye steak.” His color rose to a hue that had her prepared to call 911 in case he keeled over from a blood pressure spike.
“I suspect the reviews didn’t mention the lack of meat because online diners were reviewing the restaurant’s vegetarian dishes.”
Brianna wished she had a dollar for every time a guest came up to her with a list of restaurants in hand, asking her to recommend one. The problem with online review sites was that they reflected only the experience of the person writing the reviews. She’d spent her first six months in Las Vegas eating at as many restaurants as she could, meeting the owners and managers, in order to get firsthand knowledge. Some guests might like a noisy, busy brasserie, while others might prefer a quiet, romantic dining experience. Some might like bright lights. Others might go for candles on the table. Her job was to ask questions to determine what restaurant might work for that particular guest. Which she’d tried to do with this agitated man yesterday.
“You shouldn’t send people there.”
“I did recommend two steak houses,” she reminded him, practically having to bite her tongue at this point.
“But Bombay Spice had great reviews,” he insisted. “Which is why my wife wanted to go there. She was determined to try the gobhi mattar masala with truffle rice because it had all five stars. But if a restaurant doesn’t have meat, you should warn people! You ruined our anniversary dinner!”
“I’m sorry you had a less than satisfactory experience.” The cauliflower/green peas/cumin/ginger/cashews dish was one of Brianna’s personal favorites. But she did find the truffle rice a bit rich for her taste.
“Less than satisfactory? It sucked! Of course we left the place, but by then it was impossible to get a table anywhere decent, so we just came back to the hotel.”
“We have several fine restaurants in the hotel,” she pointed out in her most cordial, professional voice. “All which have received excellent reviews by both critics and diners alike. I, or the night concierge, would have been more than happy to arrange for you to have dinner on us if you’d only let us know you were dissatisfied.”
“My wife had lost her appetite by the time we got back here and just wanted to go to bed.” He ripped off his black-framed glasses. If fiery glares could kill, Brianna would have burst into flames on the spot. “Which is why you owe me fifty fucking thousand dollars.”
That got Brianna’s full attention. “Excuse me?”
“My wife went to bed. Alone,” he stressed in the event Brianna hadn’t gotten his meaning. “Since our anniversary night was toast, I decided, what the hell, I might as well go down to the tables.”
Where he’d lost fifty thousand dollars. Brianna restrained herself from suggesting he Google the meaning of gambling.
“I’m thinking of reporting this place to the state gambling commission for rigging the games.”
“That’s certainly your right. But I can assure you that nothing at the Midas is rigged.”
Her roots may be Irish, from a many-times-great-grandfather who’d arrived in the Pacific Northwest where he’d gotten the dangerous job of driving the dynamite wagon for the construction of the railroad, but somehow Brianna must have been busy meeting and greeting people when God had handed out tempers, because she hadn’t inherited the trait. Still, this man was beginning to test her limits.
“I’ve never lost that much in any casino in two fucking hours.”
Wow. He’d really been tossing down the high dollar chips. And, from the red veins crisscrossing his eyes like lines on a Nevada roadmap, he hadn’t turned down any of the free drinks handed out to high rollers.
“I’m sorry for your bad luck.” Having never dropped as much as a dollar in a slot machine, Brianna didn’t comprehend why anyone would want to risk hard-earned money when everyone knew that in the end, the house always eventually won, but enough people seemed to feel different to allow her to be paid a very lucrative salary with benefits and generous tips from happy guests. Especially those who’d walked away after a winning streak. “But it certainly wasn’t due to any rigging.”
He shoved the glasses back on his face. “I’m going to report you to the manager.”
“Again, that’s your right.”
Having received not only high marks, but a bonus at her annual review, Brianna wasn’t concerned about her job being in jeopardy. Usually before a guest arrived on the butler’s floor, she’d wade through her files of past likes and dislikes to ensure a stay tailored to that particular party. But because this man and his wife were first-timers, there was no previous record. And unfortunately, he’d added nothing to the comments section in the online reservation form. Such as his intense dislike of vegetarian meals.
“And after I report you, I’m going to write the worst goddamn review ever published on Yelp.” He spun on a heel and stomped off toward the gold-embossed elevator.
“I hope you have a safe and uneventful trip back home, sir,” she called after him. It was the same thing she told all the guests as they’d leave.
“I intend to, since you won’t be the one doing the planning. And quit calling me sir, bitch,” he roared back over his shoulder. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon, dammit!”
“Doctor Dick,” Brianna murmured under her breath, reminding herself that although this might not be her most fulfilling day, she was exactly where she’d always dreamed of being.
Working at the family tree farm had taught her she enjoyed working with people, helping each family find the perfect tree just for them. Watching Gilmore Girls, she’d always identified with Lorelai’s dream of creating a warm and caring environment in her very own inn, rather than working for someone else. And she’d even had a specific house in mind.
Then, while earning her degree in hospitality and hotel management, classmates and professors had tried to convince her that she’d be wasting her talents on a small town of seven thousand plus, stuck out on the Washington peninsula, where guests would have to travel by ferry or a long car ride over twisting mountain roads to visit. No, she’d been born for more important things, she’d been told. All she needed to do was give up those childish dreams of creating a life in the Pacific Northwest’s version of Star Hollow, and dream bigger. Bolder. Brighter.
It was during summer break between her sophomore and junior years, with more time to watch TV, that she’d become hooked on the Travel Channel, drinking in the splendor of the world’s grand hotels. By the time she returned to UW, she’d changed her focus, and after graduation and playing maid of honor at her best friend Zoe’s wedding to Seth Harper, she’d begun her gypsy life of traveling the country, working her way up to this gilded desk.
Dealing with demanding high rollers who expected their needs dealt with immediately, if not before they even realized they were going to want something, she’d honed her skills at making the impossible possible.
But while she might be near the pinnacle of her specialized hospitality world, there were times Brianna found herself missing those early days when she worked in less luxurious surroundings, dealing with more cordial families. Parents who’d appreciate a bowl of chicken noodle soup sent up to the room for a sick child, or honeymooners excited about something as simple as a bottle of house-labeled champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in their room. And later showing her that they’d put a photo on their wedding Facebook and Instagram pages.
Be careful what you wish for, she thought as she cleared the desk of her planner and files to make room for the night-shift concierge to take her place.
Although she’d been offered housing in a wing of the sprawling resort away from the casino, Brianna had opted to rent a studio apartment away from the noise and bustle of the strip. Along with the rise in income, each step up the hospitality ladder had brought additional responsibility and increased stress, but whenever she drove into the quiet, green environs of The Sanctuary with its sparkling blue pools and xeriscape, drought-resistant gardens that appealed to her inner environmentalist, the stress of her workday began to flow away.
But not tonight. She’d always been a positive person. Anyone who had a flash fire temper, or was even easily annoyed, would never succeed in her career. But as she reran the conversation with the doctor who wore his privilege the same way he undoubtedly wore his white hospital coat, a low, simmering irritation flowed through her. And had her thinking, yet again, of those happier early days. She considered going to the resort’s exercise room and working it off on the treadmill and elliptical, but opted instead for take-out pizza, a glass of wine and streaming a movie.
Another reason she’d chosen this apartment was that its white walls offered a blank canvas. As did the white furniture and white kitchen. A person could do anything they wanted to make it their own. But, she realized now, though it was a respite from the overexcessive gilt of Midas, it didn’t offer a single clue to the person who lived here. She hadn’t bought any posters, or paintings, or even colorful throw pillows. And although she’d practically grown up in her mother’s farm kitchen, she owned one frying pan, two pots, a teakettle, a coffee maker and a set of four white dishes and bowls she’d bought online. A nun’s room at a convent would undoubtedly have more personality.
Then again, she reminded herself as she kicked off her sensible black pumps, changed into yoga pants and an oversize Gotham Knights football jersey her brother Burke had sent her, she didn’t exactly live here. She ate takeout and slept. Her life was at Midas. Same as it had been at every other hotel she’d worked at over the years. Which was fine with her. Dedication to her career had paid off in escalating achievements and money. And although she experienced a sense of satisfaction when she waved her magic concierge wand and provided a magical happy outcome for guests, when was the last time she’d felt happy?
“You’re just in the dumps because of Doctor Dick,” she assured herself as she poured a glass of chardonnay. After calling in her take-out order, she sat down on the hard, snowy white couch, turned on her iPad and logged into the Honeymoon Harbor website, which she’d been doing more and more often since moving to the desert two years ago.
Clicking on the link to the town’s newspaper, the Honeymoon Harbor Herald, she scrolled through announcements of births, weddings, anniversaries and deaths, recognizing the names of people she’d known all of her life. People she’d grown up with. Harper Construction had renovated the old library, which had earned a national award for innovative green historical renovation. Seeing the photo of Seth Harper, appearing uncomfortable in a suit and tie, caused a twinge in Brianna’s heart.
She’d had a crush on him going back to first grade, when he’d shared his lunch box Ding Dong with her. Her mother was a farm-to-table cook who hadn’t allowed processed food in their home. Even now, looking back, Brianna wasn’t sure whether it was Seth’s dark-chocolate-brown eyes with their ridiculously long lashes or the sudden burst of sugar on her tongue that had caused her to fall.
Despite being a Harper, he’d been friends with her brothers, which had him around the farm a lot. During her elementary school years, whenever she’d play with her Barbies, she’d be bridal Barbie, and groom Ken had been renamed Seth. Unfortunately, he’d always viewed her as either his friend’s sister who’d insist on tagging along with them, or worse, one of the guys. By middle school, she still hadn’t caught his attention, but Brianna knew, with every fiber of her young, not-yet-budding body, that once they got to high school and her breasts grew larger than the puny little bumps sticking out from her chest and she got curves in other places—like maybe some hips that didn’t look like a boy’s?—Seth Harper would finally look up and notice that the girl of his dreams had been in front of him all along.
Maybe she’d even get a locker next to his. Those things could happen, right? After all, all those book writers and movie makers had to get the “meet cute” idea from somewhere. And one day, while he was taking out his book for their shared first-period English class, their eyes would meet, bells would chime, Disney bluebirds would sing and, forever and ever afterward, they’d be known to one and all as “Sethanna.”
Unfortunately, when they’d returned to school after the Christmas break their last year of middle school, he’d looked up, all right. But instead of being blinded by her not-yet-achieved perfection, instead he’d noticed Zoe Robinson, a new girl from Astoria, Oregon, whose father had brought the family across the Columbia River back to his hometown. From the moment Zoe had walked into that first-period homeroom, Seth’s swoony brown eyes had locked on to her. And Zoe had tumbled just as fast.
Brianna could have hated her. At first, she’d wanted to hate her. But the petite girl with the long dark curls turned out to be as friendly as she was pretty. With Seth seeming destined to forever stay in brother mode, and unable to ignore the little sparkly hearts that appeared to follow the couple around like fairy dust, by the summer of their sophomore year of high school, Brianna had resigned herself to the fact that the two were, in fact, the perfect couple. And over that time, Zoe had become like the sister Brianna had always dreamed of.
Not that any of that had stopped her from dreaming of Seth. Mature Audience Only dreams (she hadn’t had the experience to imagine the R-rated yet) that had her feeling guilty when she woke up, and making it hard to face either one of them the next day.
After graduation, Zoe had joined the Army, something she’d been talking about all through school, but Brianna hadn’t really believed she’d go through with. And, from what she could tell, her visit to the Port Angeles recruiting center had surprised even Seth. She’d always wanted to be a nurse, but loggers didn’t make that much money, and even with her part-time job waiting tables at the diner, her family hadn’t had the money for nursing school. Beginning with a descendant who’d first arrived on the peninsula from Seattle to serve at Port Townsend’s Fort Worden in the early 1900s—theoretically to thwart any invasion from the sea—every succeeding generation of Robinsons had had at least one military family member. Which was why Zoe, an only child without any brothers to carry on the tradition, had decided that letting the Army pay for college only made sense.
She and Seth had continued to date while she’d gone to school at UW, returning home on the weekends and for holidays. Although everyone in Honeymoon Harbor knew they were destined to spend their lives together, Seth had officially proposed on New Year’s Eve of Zoe’s final year, and after her graduation, once she’d been commissioned as a second lieutenant, they’d married in a simple ceremony held in the Moments in Time meadow at Lake Crescent Lodge in Olympic National Park.
Because Seth was a civilian, rather than wear her dress uniform, Zoe had chosen to be married in a simple white silk shantung sheath, while Brianna, who’d returned home from her job at the Winfield Palace Hotel in Atlanta to serve as one of Zoe’s two attendants, had worn a sleeveless dress with a flared skirt in a soft, dusty pink that mirrored the mountains’ icy glaciers at sunrise. The other bridesmaid, Kylee Campbell, had gone with a matching style in a kelly green that echoed the bright new needles on the fir trees surrounding the town.
After a weekend honeymoon at the lodge where President Franklin Roosevelt had once slept, Seth had stayed behind on the peninsula while Zoe headed off to San Antonio for more training. Afterward she’d gotten her choice assignment to serve at Joint Base Lewis-McChord’s Madigan Army Medical Center north of Olympia. So they’d moved into a rental near the base and considered themselves even more fortunate when she’d gotten to stay there for all four years of her active duty.
Although Brianna was busy moving from town to town, hotel to hotel, Zoe had kept her up to date with phone calls and texts. After finishing her active duty, the couple had returned to Honeymoon Harbor, where they moved into a house Seth got busy renovating. Zoe had been so excited about the house, texting pictures of the progress and links to Pinterest pages of ideas she had for making the small cottage perfect. She still owed the Army four years of Individual Ready Reserves, which apparently hadn’t seemed any big deal because it only involved mustering once a year, which she could even do online.
Tragically, just as her IRR time was coming to an end, she’d been deployed to Afghanistan, only to be killed in a suicide bombing at the hospital while on duty.
In the midst of transitioning from the Ritz-Carlton, Kapalua on Maui to the soon-to-be opened Midas, Brianna had flown home across the Pacific for her BFF’s burial in the veterans’ section of the Harborview Cemetery, where generations of Robinsons were buried. At the time, Seth had appeared numb. Now, looking more closely at his face on her iPad’s screen, his face appeared haggard, his dark eyes haunted.
Brianna sighed at the painful memory, swiped at a tear, checked her watch and saw that she still had another ten minutes before the pizza delivery. While Vegas might be a 24/7 city, when it came to takeout, weekend nights were especially heavy. So rather than have to interrupt her movie when the delivery guy finally arrived, she took another sip of wine and impulsively clicked on the link to the town’s real estate listings.
When she saw the Victorian on the bluff overlooking the harbor at the top of the For Sale column, Brianna’s heart, which had been hurting for her lifelong friend and former crush, took a leap.
Despite the unfortunate color choice someone had chosen for the exterior, it was her house! Growing up Catholic, with a high school principal for a mother, Brianna had tended to be a rule follower. One exception had been all those times she’d sneak into the abandoned three-story house with her brothers and Seth. Her brothers had claimed the house was haunted. Brianna hadn’t believed in ghosts, but even if it did have a resident wandering spirit or two, she wouldn’t have cared. The creaky old Victorian spoke to her in some elemental way. Much as that first amazing taste of a Ding Dong had done.
Even in those days, as she’d wandered through the dusty, cobweb-strewn rooms, she’d pictured it as it must have once been. And could be again. All it had needed, she’d believed, was some love and tender care. The house, named Herons Landing by its original timber baron owner for the many great blue herons that would roost in nests in the property’s towering Douglas fir trees, was, quite literally, Brianna’s dream home. But, like her youthful dreams of Seth Harper, it would remain someone else’s reality.
The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of her spicy buffalo chicken pizza with Greek yogurt dressing. She logged out of the computer, paid for the meal and settled down to watch the opening of the Dragonfly Inn Gilmore Girls episode, which had inspired her to get into the hotel business. By the time all the first guests had arrived, Brianna had managed to put her encounter with the rude, gambling doctor behind her.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t going to prove that easy.
CHAPTER THREE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
THE LEAF RESTAURANT was located on Rainshadow Road in a bungalow in the center of town across from Discovery Square.
In contrast to the Victorian gingerbread exterior—which the town’s historical planning commission had refused to allow to be modernized—the owner of the restaurant, a transplanted chef from the San Francisco Bay area, had opted for a clean and simple Scandinavian look. Posters of vegetables, framed in light wood, brightened the glacier-white walls. Harper Construction had done the work, and although the furniture chosen by the Portland designer made Seth feel as if he were having dinner in an IKEA store, he was, nevertheless, pleased with how it had turned out.
He spotted the couple as soon as he came in. They were seated at a white table by the window overlooking a garden from which the chef sourced much of the restaurant’s herbs and vegetables. When Mike Mannion leaned across the table to take hold of his mom’s hand, Seth felt a very familiar twinge of loss.
There were too many reasons he’d missed Zoe two years after her death to catalog, but one of the worst was those random, impulsive moments when the two of them would get lost together in their own private world. He missed touching her. Tasting her...
No. Don’t go there. Remembering making love to his wife while having dinner with his mother and her maybe boyfriend, who she might even be having sex with (and didn’t that idea make him want to wash his mind out with bleach?), made this already awkward situation even weirder.
He cleared his throat as he approached the table. They moved apart, but easily. Naturally. Not at all as if they’d been caught in any inappropriate display of affection. Yet another possible indication that they’d moved beyond dinner dates that ended with a chaste good-night kiss at the door.
“There’s my handsome boy now!” Looking like a wood nymph in a long green suede dress and some sort of colorful stone hanging on a black velvet cord around her neck, his mother rose with a warm and welcoming smile. It had been a long time since he’d seen that smile. Having been wallowing in his own dark pit of grief for two years, Seth hadn’t paid all that much attention to gradual changes in his mother.
Seeing her now, so vibrant and joyful, as she’d been while he’d been growing up, he realized that her vibrancy had been fading away the last few years.
“I’m so glad you could join us!” Despite having lived nearly four decades in the Pacific Northwest, Caroline Harper’s Southern roots occasionally still slipped into her voice, bringing to mind mint juleps on a wide wraparound porch while a paddle-bladed fan spun lazily overhead.
Seth had visited his mother’s childhood home a few times as a kid, but hadn’t been back to the South since his grandparents had died. Both on the same day, he remembered now. His grandmother had died of a sudden heart attack while deadheading roses in her garden. Her husband of sixty years had literally died of a broken heart that same evening.
Maybe, he considered now, deep, debilitating grief ran in his family’s DNA. If so, his grandfather Lockwood had been more fortunate than he. At least the old man he remembered always smelling of cherry tobacco from his pipe hadn’t had to linger for years and years, suffering the loss of his soul mate.
Unlike so many in the Pacific Northwest, whose wardrobes tended toward hoodies, flannel, T-shirts and jeans, his mother had started dressing all New Agey, which could have looked ridiculous, but suited her perfectly.
Going up on her toes, she kissed his cheek. Then leaned back and sniffed what he realized was undoubtedly the aroma of grilled beef he’d brought with him from the pub. Laughter danced in her green eyes. “Seems this is your second meal of the night.”
“Consider yourself busted,” Mannion said on a laugh as he stood up and held out a hand. “I stopped in Port Angeles on the way back from the coast last week for some ribs and brisket and I’d no sooner walked in the door of your mother’s place when she asked me if I had a death wish.”
“You smelled of pit smoke,” she scolded him. “And that barbecue platter is a heart attack waiting to happen. At our age, we have to start taking care of ourselves. I don’t want you keeling over on me.”
“Not going to happen,” the older man countered. “You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”
His mother’s obvious concern, along with that casual mention of him spending personal time at the apartment she’d moved into, as if they might already be a couple, was yet more indication that she’d moved on. While meanwhile her husband continued to insist that his wife had merely gone menopause crazy and would return home any day.
“What do you mean, at your age?” Seth asked, determined to stay out of his parents’ personal lives as much as possible. “You look as terrific as you did back when I graduated high school.”
“And isn’t that exactly what a dutiful son is supposed to say,” she said, dimpling prettily. He’d heard it said, down at Oley Nilsson’s barbershop, that when Caroline Lockwood had hit town, there’d been a stampede of single men vying to pass time with the pretty Georgia peach. But for some reason he’d never figure out, his gruff, uncommunicative contractor father had won not just Caroline Lockwood’s hand, but apparently her heart, as well.
Until recently.
As he slipped into the booth next to Mannion, she turned toward him, her smiling eyes turning as serious as a heart attack as they moved over his face. “How are you?”
“Fine.” Another thing that might be in his Harper DNA was that the men in their family would rather have their fingernails pulled out with a pair of needle-nose pliers than ever talk about their feelings.
He’d never cried over Zoe. Not even when he’d insisted on seeing inside the polished wooden casket that didn’t carry her body, because it had been blown to pieces, but merely an empty starched green uniform carefully pinned to the sheet and blanket inside which, he knew from reading up on the topic online, carried a plastic bag with what little searchers were able to find of his wife after the explosion. Some caring soldier—who had to have one of the toughest, most unappreciated assignments in the military—had shined the buttons to a bright glossy sheen, never knowing if anyone would see them. It was, Seth had recognized, even through the cloud of pain, a matter of respect.
He hadn’t cried when he’d placed her wedding band, which had been recovered and delivered to him in person, along with some rescued uniform patches, into the casket. Although the heat of the blast had turned her ring into a metal lump, since she’d never taken it off from the moment he’d slid it on her finger during their Crescent Lake ceremony, he’d felt it belonged with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t about to let her parents see it. They probably had the same horrific images in their mind as he did in his and the least he’d felt he could and should do was spare them this one piece of pain. He did, however, save out the Purple Heart and Bronze Star he’d received, knowing the Robinsons would want them. As far as he was concerned, they were of no comfort and he wouldn’t mind never seeing them again.
He hadn’t so much as misted up when the uniformed officer had handed him the flag that had seemed to take freaking forever to fold. Nor during the ceremonial volley performed by a team of eight volunteer soldiers who’d shown up from Fort Lewis-McChord to honor one of their own.
All around him, people, even men, had been sniffling. Others, like his mother, had openly wept, while Helen Robinson, Zoe’s mother, keened in a way that had him afraid she’d throw, prostrate, herself over her daughter’s casket. Brianna Mannion, Zoe’s best friend, who’d flown in from Hawaii, had had silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
Burke, Brianna’s older brother, who’d gone on from being a high school quarterback to play in the NFL, had flown in from a spring skiing vacation in the Swiss Alps, arriving in town minutes before the funeral due to flight delays. Even he’d been uncharacteristically somber and had bitten his bottom lip during the gravesite military ceremony.
But not Seth. He’d felt as if he’d turned as dry as dust. As dry as that damn violent, fucked-up country that had killed her. His only emotion was a low, seething anger that Zoe hadn’t just taken out a student loan like any normal person.
It wasn’t like he didn’t have a good job, he’d told her during their many heated arguments over her decision. With his income from the construction company, and her earning a civilian nursing salary, they could have paid off the damn loans. Sure, it would’ve taken time. But they could have done it. Together. Unfortunately, that same tenacity he’d always admired had a flip side. She was, hands down, the most stubborn person he’d ever met. And once Zoe Robinson decided on something, heaven and earth couldn’t have budged her.
Now, as a line furrowed his mother’s forehead, he dragged his thoughts back to their conversation and ratcheted up his blatantly fake response. “Seriously, things are going great. We’ve got a lot of work lined up, which is always good. Seems everyone wants to be ready for summer.” And punching holes in other people’s walls kept him from abusing the ones in his and Zoe’s house.
Another furrow etched its way between her eyes. “You work too hard.”
“When you love what you do, it’s not work.” Terrific. Now he was talking like that motivational desk calendar his insurance agent had sent him at Christmas.
“Yet it’s necessary to have downtime,” she scolded him gently. “Silence is important. We need it to connect with our inner selves. Which then allows us to make sense of the disturbances surrounding us.”
Seth had many words he could use to describe Zoe’s murder. Disturbance didn’t come close.
“You used to like to sail. And hike. Fish. Go over to the coast. Or the park.”
He used to like to do a lot of things. Some of those with the Mannion brothers. Others with Zoe. The first time he’d touched her bare breasts had been one sunny summer afternoon he’d dropped his boat’s anchor in a hidden cove rumored to have once been a pirate hangout. Two years later, they’d returned to that same cove and lost their virginity beneath a huge white moon.
But that was then and this was now and rebuilding other people’s houses was what was left of what had once been his life. Which was working for him just fine.
“I still make it up to the park.” Which he did every weekend, but she didn’t need to know why.
“Good.” She patted his cheek. “Because I worry.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Which shows how much you know. Mothers are genetically programmed to worry.”
Seemingly unaware she’d sent a dagger straight to her heart as he thought about that nursery Zoe had designed waiting behind the closed door for a baby that would never come, she reached down and retrieved a gift-wrapped package. “I brought you a present.”
“It’s not my birthday.”
“Well, of course not. I’m not so old and senile that I’d ever forget that day I took part in a miracle. This is a ‘just because’ gift.” Her smile wavered, giving him the feeling that she might be concerned about how he felt about whatever it was.
He untied the cord, sliced the tape and gingerly pulled back the brown kraft paper. “Wow. This is nice.” A huge whoosh of cooling relief came over him as he looked down at a misty painting of the Olympic rainforest that suggested at any moment fairies would come out from behind the moss-draped trees and begin dancing in a magic circle. It was, to his admittedly untrained eye, really, really good.
“It’s my first watercolor,” she said. “I’ve been taking Michael’s classes.”
Along with his real estate investments, and his own painting, Mike Mannion taught various art classes, charging only for the supplies. Seth’s father, unsurprisingly, claimed it was a ruse to meet women. Given that the artist had inherited the Mannion men’s black Irish looks, Seth was pretty sure he wouldn’t need to go to that much trouble to attract a woman. But why did the woman in question have to be his mom?
“Your mother’s got a natural talent,” Mike said.
“I don’t know about that,” she said, patting her newly streaked blond hair in a way that was as close as Seth had ever seen her come to preening. It also called his unwilling attention to the gold wedding band on her left hand. At least she hadn’t taken it off. Yet. That was something, right? “It’s more that Mike is a marvelously patient teacher. And so inspirational.”
“I keep telling Caroline that she needs to overcome all that Southern belle breeding to work on her artistic arrogance,” Mike said on a hearty laugh. “She is, hands down, the best student I’ve ever taught. I’m trying to talk her into exhibiting at the annual boat festival for Harbor Days.”
“I’m certainly not at that level,” she protested.
“There she goes again. Underestimating herself.” The artist/entrepreneur shook his head. “That’s something we’re going to have to work on.”
As they smiled across the table at each other, getting lost in each other’s eyes—oh, hell—they could have been two teenagers in the throes of first love. Seth had no problem remembering that morning Zoe had walked into middle school class, their eyes had met and, at thirteen, he’d fallen like a stone rolling down Mount Olympus.
“Well, not that you asked me, but if Mike thinks you’ll be ready to take part in the exhibition, I think you should go for it,” Seth said. “As for your natural talent, you did, after all, attend the South Carolina School of Art and Design.”
“Only for two years. And I was studying fabric design, not painting, before I dropped out.”
To marry his father. No way was Seth going to go there. “Their loss. And you’ve always drawn the architectural renderings of the company’s projects.” Not just to promote the company on its website, but to give clients an idea of how their buildings would turn out.
“Those are only illustrations.”
“Only snobs draw a strict line between fine art and illustration,” Mike said. “Both forms need the same elements: successful lighting, color and composition. And while the argument will probably rage forever, because everyone’s definition of art is a personal one, if art is about communicating a message, then illustration is definitely fine art.”
They were getting over his head, but there was one thing Seth did know. “Blueprints don’t tell anyone who can’t envision them in three dimensions anything. But when clients see your illustrations, with the interiors, exteriors, even landscaping, they can imagine themselves living there. They see themselves on that porch swing, or playing with their children in the backyard. Or having summer dinners on the deck or patio. You bring the blueprints alive and allow them to keep the faith during all the hectic months of construction, which can be depressing for even the most optimistic buyer.”
All the years he’d been growing up, she’d carried around a sketchbook in her oversize purse so she could draw scenic sites around the peninsula. When had she stopped doing that?
“Your son,” Mike said, “just made my point. You’re definitely an artist.”
“My son is prejudiced.”
“Probably so. But that doesn’t mean he also isn’t right.”
“And hey,” Seth said, “when you’re a famous watercolor artist, I’ll be able to boast that your very first painting is hanging on my wall.”
Caroline laughed, then opened her menu—which, natch, boldly proclaimed to be printed on recycled paper—and began pointing out items that he’d enjoy. She’d always been a warm and caring person. But this laughing, happy New Age druid earth mother sitting across the wooden table reminded him of a bright butterfly newly emerged from a chrysalis.
Michael Mannion was a long way from a starving artist. Although Seth wasn’t into Honeymoon Harbor’s art scene, he knew Michael’s work must sell well enough to allow him to spend years traveling the world. And now he’d returned home to buy another of the abandoned warehouses rebuilt by one of Seth’s ancestors after the fire. Unlike the pub’s bricks, it had been built with rocks that had originally served as ship ballast.
A gallery, featuring not just Mike’s but other local artists’ and artisans’ work, took up the street level floor; his loft and studio took up the entire third floor. At the moment the second floor was vacant, but plans were for Harper Construction to turn it into a communal work space for Olympic Peninsula craftspeople.
The conversation, which Seth had admittedly not been looking forward to, flowed easily, covering the weather, always a topic in the wait-a-minute-and-it’ll-change Pacific Northwest; the pod of orcas they’d seen this morning, three calves breaching playfully; and the news that an award-winning woodcrafter from Seattle, who’d created artisan furniture for some of Seth’s wealthier clients, was close to becoming the first tenant to take space on the second floor of Mike’s building.
Since he’d been hired for the initial work, Seth had come to know both the building and the painter well. Remodeling, especially a building dating back to the late 1800s, was not for the fainthearted. Having been forced to be the bearer of bad construction news on more than one occasion, Seth knew Mike Mannion to be a patient and good man. One who’d treat his mom well.
Still, as he dug into his surprisingly not bad cremini mushroom meatloaf topped with cornbread made with organic cornmeal from Blue House Farm outside town, Seth realized that wherever this budding romance was headed, Caroline Harper might not be returning home. Which, as happy as he was to see his mother enjoying her life, meant that his already strained situation with his dad was about to get a whole lot worse.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
ONE OF THE things Brianna loved best about her profession was that, on any given day, she never knew what was going to happen at work. Which typically was nonstop. She needed to be ready for any question, any request, because, as she’d discovered, any guest could ask her anything. This morning, as she arrived at her office, her assistant, Brad, was waiting with her coffee. Something she’d never requested, but since he’d started the habit his first day and was inordinately proud of his French press, she certainly wasn’t going to turn him down.
“The man called,” Brad said before she’d even sat down at the cluttered work desk guests never saw. Which, because she’d insisted she couldn’t work on something that looked as if Marie Antoinette might have chosen it, was simply painted a fresh, clean white. The Cape Cod style reminded her of her Honeymoon Harbor roots and helped keep things in perspective when she spent sixty hours a week in a gilded palace. “He asked to see you as soon as you got in.”
That, in itself, wouldn’t have triggered any concern. Hyatt Huntington, general manager of both the resort hotel and the casino, was even more of a workaholic than Brianna, often boasting that he had no trouble getting by on three hours of sleep a night. There were many days when she’d arrived early to find a stack of messages already waiting. She had, after several weeks of sleepless nights, convinced him that she didn’t have his superpowers and could do her job much better if he stopped texting her all night.
Still, she couldn’t miss the seeds of worry in Brad’s normally smiling blue eyes. “Sure. Would you let him know I’m on my way?”
“Of course.”
With his romance cover model looks, Brad could have made a bundle in tips if he’d chosen to work on the casino floor. But, as she’d once done, he’d opted to work his way up the ladder, learning the ropes at previous hotels before this one, that would hopefully someday earn him entry into the prestigious Les Clefs d’Or. It had been Brianna’s membership in the international organization of concierges at the pinnacle of the profession, along with stellar recommendations from previous employers, that had won her this job, which had been the most sought-after position in the city.
Grateful for the burst of caffeine before meeting with the high-energy hotel manager, she took a sip of the perfectly brewed coffee. Oh, yes, with his ability to anticipate every need, Brad had a successful career ahead of him.
“Did he mention what it’s about?” The general manager usually sent her a blizzard of messages every day. Ones that Brad, who had to triage them by importance, had taken to calling Huntington’s snowflakes.
“No. But he didn’t sound very happy.”
“Then it’s situation normal.” Brianna never got called to her boss’s inner sanctum to be rewarded for a job well done. She was expected to provide guests with perfection. Anything less was unacceptable. Wondering if her furious physician had followed through on his threat to report her, she paused before leaving the office.
“Would you please check the latest Yelp reviews?” she asked Brad. “And text me if we’ve got a new negative one?”
“Sure. Let me do it now. It’ll just take a sec.” Without missing a beat, not bothering to inquire why, he began tapping on his computer.
Hopefully he wouldn’t find anything. But it was always good to be prepared.
Unfortunately, the review was already there. As soon as she got back from her meeting, she was going to have to take several deep breaths, switch from coffee to more calming tea, and respond. Bad reviews were never a good thing. But letting them go unacknowledged suggested the hotel didn’t care about its guests, which was even worse.
Brianna buttoned her jacket over her ivory silk blouse, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in her black pencil skirt, and ran a hand over her hair, which she’d coiled into its usual tidy chignon. Then, after changing from the flats she’d worn for driving into her official work pumps, she squared her shoulders and headed toward the express elevator leading directly to the executive floor.
Her boss’s secretary waved her right into his private office. The sympathy in the woman’s eyes was not encouraging.
The office, which was spacious enough to hold Brianna’s entire apartment, was situated at the very top of the Vegas strip high-rise, which not only offered real-time viewing of all the hotel’s public places on the multiscreen TVs that were duplicates of the ones in the security offices, but also a stunning view of the entire valley out the glazed window wall.
“Brianna.” Hyatt Huntington didn’t get up from behind his huge, imposing desk. Having seen the invoice when the Louis Quatorze polished black desk covered in ornate gilded friezes of lions’ heads and acanthus leaves had arrived, Brianna knew that the cost had topped twenty thousand dollars. Paid for by gamblers like the angry, Yelp-reviewing physician. Not only had Hyatt not stood up, as he usually did, he hadn’t wished her a good morning.
“Mr. Huntington.” Her three-inch heels clicked on the miles of marble as she approached the desk. Then, unsure whether or not she should sit down, Brianna stayed standing in front of him.
“It’s Hyatt,” he said on an exasperated breath. “I told you when this place opened two years ago that you needn’t be so formal when we’re in here alone together.” His brows dove toward his blade of nose. “And would you please sit down and stop looking as if you’re on the way to the guillotine?”
Resisting mentioning that the furnishings brought to mind all those executions after the French Revolution, Brianna sat down in the neoclassic reproduction chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. His own high-backed baroque chair with its red velvet upholstery could have belonged to the Sun King himself.
He might not be about to chop off her head, but the fact that he hadn’t offered her coffee and his hands were folded tightly atop the gilt leather desktop told Brianna what was coming. But rather than volunteer and risk telling him something he might not yet know—like that damn Yelp review—she folded her own hands and waited.
“I received a call first thing this morning,” he said.
Still she waited.
“From a guest. Does the name Dr. Aaron Michaelson ring a bell?”
“Yes. He was unhappy about a less than satisfactory experience he had at Bombay Spice.”
“Which he says you highly recommended.”
“No.” Brianna was not going to back down on this point. “He came to me with a printed-out page of reviews. As you undoubtedly realize, online reviews only reflect that one diner’s experience. I told him that Bombay Spice was one of the better Indian restaurants in the city. Then, after asking him what his favorite restaurants back home were, in order to get more information on his personal tastes, which turned out to be all steak houses, I recommended a few of those, as well. Including our own Chops, but I could tell that his mind was already made up when he arrived.”
“He was angry because there wasn’t any meat on the menu.”
“It states quite clearly on the restaurant’s website and the menu that it’s vegetarian. Perhaps he’s never heard of the concept of sacred cows?”
Realizing she’d come off snarky, Brianna held up her hand and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Did he happen to mention that I offered him a free meal here?”
“On a day he was checking out.”
“If he’d first complained when he’d returned from Bombay Spice, Greg, the night concierge, would have done the same thing.” He’d even have had his overpriced dry-aged prime steak delivered to the doctor’s damn room, which could have prevented him losing a bundle on the tables out of pique.
“I get your point. But he’s insisting you owe him fifty thousand dollars.”
“To which you told him, ‘No way,’ right?”
“Of course. The idea is ridiculous. You didn’t drag him down to the casino and force him to keep throwing his chips around the roulette table.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she’d expected Hyatt to take that complaint seriously, but it was encouraging that he found the idea as ludicrous as she had.
Her relief was short-lived.
“We came to a compromise.”
Her knuckles whitened from the pressure of her hands being squeezed together so tightly. “Oh?”
“I offered him the Golden Treasure suite, on the house, the next time he’s in town.”
“I assume he accepted.” King Midas himself might have found the suite blindingly overgilded. Which undoubtedly would suit the status-conscious doctor and his apparently privileged wife to a T.
“He did. After I assured him that you’d write him a note of apology.”
“What?” Brianna crossed her arms. “No. Period. Way.”
He arched a blond brow. It was not often that they were at cross-purposes. And never, in her two years of working together, had she ever refused a directive.
“He called me a bitch.”
“That’s unfortunate. But it was obviously in the heat of the moment. He was a guest. And the single most important tenet of any business, but especially hospitality, is that guests are always right.”
“No, not always.” This one had been rude, sexist and wrong.
“Give me a break, Brianna. The guy might be an asshole, but he also just happens to be one of the biggest whales in this town.”
That she hadn’t known. Not that it made a difference in the treatment she would have provided. Still, while all the elderly men and women who came on the chartered buses to add some excitement to their retirement brought in a nice bit of change, it was the high-stakes gamblers, aka the whales—who couldn’t stay away, who’d keep betting, even when they were losing—that kept all those chandeliers lit and indoor fountains flowing. Not to mention paying her salary.
“Why didn’t I know him?”
She was familiar with all their regulars. She created files for every one with all their likes and dislikes. She never missed sending birthday or anniversary cards (not always easy to keep up with, considering the number of divorces many went through), enclosing vouchers for chips. Some took advantage of their status to the point her dentist had warned her that if she didn’t stop grinding her teeth, she’d end up eating baby food.
Others, more reasonable, nice ones, Brianna had become close with. Enough that she’d spent part of her Christmas holiday in Florence, shopping with a bond fund manager’s wife and taking care of their children while they’d gone on a Tuscany wine tasting tour. All expenses paid, of course, along with a nice check and a gold mesh bracelet the wife had insisted on buying her at one of the shops on Florence’s Gold Bridge.
“You don’t have him in your book because he’s from Des Moines and usually stays at Wynn Tower Suites or the Mansion at MGM Grand. Which, given his tendency to jump back and forth, suggested that he might be induced to make us his home base when in town.”
“He’s a doctor. Granted, it’s a good profession, but he’s not exactly the type of gambler either one of those places or we would be vying for.”
“Ah, but he’s a doctor who happens to have established a national chain of for-profit medical clinics and is part owner in three more hospitals in Miami, Phoenix and Honolulu. The guy’s rolling in dough. Which, as last night proved, he’s more than willing to throw around. We want him throwing it around at our tables.”
It made sense. And surely Doctor Dick hadn’t been the first rude or even obscene guest she’d dealt with over the years. But, as she sat across from this man she knew to be the son of two high school teachers in Mesa, Arizona, Brianna realized the incident yesterday was close to becoming her last straw.
“What happens if I refuse to write the letter?”
“Of course I can’t force you.” She could tell that Hyatt wasn’t enjoying this any more than she was. One difference was that she was single, responsible only for herself. While, with two kids in college, one of whom was currently in Italy, studying for her PhD in art history, her boss had a great deal more to lose if the gambling doctor went over his head to Midas’s owner, a billionaire who always ranked in the top fifty on the annual Forbes richest list.
“Not that you’d ever try,” she allowed. Hyatt was a good guy who, through no fault of his own, had landed in an untenable situation. Which was only one of the reasons she decided to help him out. “But you would accept my resignation.”
He stared at her for what seemed a full minute. Then dragged his hand down his face. “Oh, hell. You don’t want to do that.”
The idea hadn’t occurred to her as she’d taken the elevator up to this floor. Neither had it crossed her mind as she’d made the long trek across the ocean of pink marble and sat down in the fake antique chair. But as soon as she’d heard the words leaving her mouth, Brianna knew it was exactly what she wanted to do. And fortunately, thanks to a recent surprise inheritance from another favorite guest whose family she’d become personal friends with, she could afford to walk away.
“Yes,” she said, “I do. I assume you’ll want me to leave immediately, so you can assure Dr. Michaelson that I no longer work here. Hell, tell him you fired me. That should gain you points over the MGM Grand and Wynn.”
“Does it matter that I don’t want you to leave?”
“Yes.” He did not, she noted, insist that he wouldn’t play the fired card. She watched the tension in his shoulders, clad in a suit that she guessed cost as much as either of his parents’ annual salaries, loosen slightly. “It matters a great deal and I appreciate it. But it doesn’t make any difference, Hyatt. It’s not the first time I’ve felt that I’m not the best fit here at Midas. So I think it’s for the best.”
He blew out a breath. Then finally stood up, went around the desk and, instead of shaking her hand, surprised her with a hug. Not a creepy boss-copping-a-feel hug, but the kind two close friends would share. “I’ll miss you,” he said.
“Back at you,” she said, meaning it. He’d been not just a mentor, but a friend. Perhaps, she’d often considered, because they’d both come from similar middle-class backgrounds.
Her second thought, coming right on top of the first, was that although she was friendly with many people, she no longer had anyone she could consider a true friend. At least not the kind she could share secrets with, or who’d play designated driver while you got drunk because you’d been dumped by some guy your always loyal friend would assure you was a tool who’d never been, and would never be, good enough for you.
Zoe had been that type of friend. But now, although she’d have been the first person Brianna would have called, she was gone. Forever. And although Brianna had exchanged emails back and forth with Seth for the first few months after the funeral, their correspondence had drifted off when he’d stopped responding, suggesting he’d moved on with his life.
“You’ll be impossible to replace,” Hyatt said, breaking into her thoughts.
She laughed at that and felt the tension inside her melt away, like one of the glaciers on Mount Olympus back home at spring thaw. “You know that’s not true. No one’s irreplaceable.” Except possibly George Clooney. “You might take a look at Brad,” she suggested.
“Are you sure he’s ready?”
“He’s young,” Brianna allowed. “But he’s been in the business since he was eighteen and has worked hard to learn the job along the way. He’s also eager to please and is a natural at this business.” She knew he had three younger sisters and had often thought that when they’d played tea party, he’d have been the one setting up the table and pouring the pretend tea. “If you move Greg to days, Brad should be able to handle nights. Especially with Greg to act as a mentor.”
“I’ll give it a thought. Thanks for the recommendation.”
He’d already mentally moved on. As he should.
“You’re welcome.” She patted his arm. “Take care. I’m off to write a polite, gracious response to the not-the-least-bit-truthful Yelp rant, pack up my desk and be on my way.”
“I’ll write a glowing referral. Just let me know where to send it.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Again an arch of the brow. “You already have a new place in mind?”
“I do.” The answer was so obvious she was surprised it wasn’t flashing in neon bright lights over her head. “I’m going home.”
CHAPTER FIVE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
IT WAS MORNING in Kabul, Afghanistan. Traffic was streaming through the Bagram Airfield gates: suppliers, contractors, civilian workers, local residents who were members of the ANA, the Afghan National Army. The sun was rising, the base buzzing as the day medical staff at the state-of-the-art Craig Joint Theater Hospital caught up with patients who’d transferred in or out during the night. Widely recognized as one of the most advanced hospitals in the US Central Command, as well as the premier medical facility in Afghanistan, CJTH had the admirable record of a 95 percent survival rate. Thanks to dedicated medical personnel like Army Captain Zoe Harper, who was currently assigned to the intensive care department.
She was busy mentoring a local nurse, teaching her to tend to one of the unit’s favorite patients, a nine-year-old boy who’d been burned when the family’s propane tank blew up, when shouts started ringing out through the wing. Then automatic gunfire.
Instructing the nurse to bar the heavy metal door, she threw herself over her patient just as the world blew up.
When his phone alarm crashed into the all-too-familiar nightmare, Seth, drenched in sweat, dragged himself out of the inferno and threw the damn phone across the room. He resisted, just barely, taking a hammer to it.
The events that invaded his sleep weren’t real. Or maybe they were. He had no way of knowing because the only facts the Army would share with him were that his wife had been working in the IC ward when security had been breached, allowing suicide terrorists dressed in medical uniforms to attack the hospital.
She’d told him about her patients. Both military and civilian, but he could tell that the little boy, whom she’d been treating for six months, had been a favorite. She’d even asked Seth to send a box of birthday party paraphernalia and Star Trek and Star Wars figures. Which he’d done. She’d emailed pictures of the birthday party two days before her death. The boy had been grinning up at Zoe, who was wearing a silly, definitely not standard issue Princess Leia wig with her military scrubs. It was obvious the kid had fallen in love with her. As everyone always did.
Her stories had created endless possible scenarios of her death. All were violent and horrific, and too often, followed Seth throughout the day. Which, in its own way, was even worse than the nights.
And not just because morning meant going out into the world where he might be forced to interact with people, but mostly because the one person he would not be able to avoid was his dad. Who, if Seth arrived at the job site a nanosecond past the seven o’clock start time, would spend all damn day complaining about the supposed lack of the younger generation’s work ethics.
Stumbling out of his side of the bed (he couldn’t make himself breach his wife’s cold, empty side), he let Bandit out to do his business, then opened a can of dog beef stew that had more vegetables than Seth ate in an average day. He figured he’d banked about a month’s worth at last night’s dinner.
Drawn by the sound of the electric can opener, the mutt came racing back in, skidded across the wood floor, dove his head into the bowl and dispensed with breakfast in three huge gulps.
He followed Seth into the bathroom and would have continued right into the shower if not barred by the ceiling-high glass door. The vet had explained that along with eating issues, separation anxiety wasn’t uncommon in rescues. Especially one who’d been all mangy skin and bones when he’d started showing up at the job site.
Having learned to ignore the unwavering eyes watching his every move, Seth braced his hands against the tile walls of the shower, lowered his head and let the cold water pouring out of the rain shower slam down the hard-on that continued to taunt him every damn morning. Closing his eyes, he kept his hands flat on the walls because even getting himself off would feel like he was committing adultery.
But not taking care of the ache wasn’t easy as he fought against envisioning what he’d be doing if Zoe was in this multihead shower he’d built solely with her in mind. She’d seen one on an HGTV makeover show, and sexted him with ideas of how much fun it would be to work on their baby making in one. Graphic, hot ideas that had had him immediately driving to the plumbing supply store.
There were days, and this was one of them, when he thought he ought to just sell the damn house. But then he’d wander through the rooms and see things like the rooster wall clock in the kitchen and the trio of small, seemingly useless little porcelain boxes she’d bought for the bedroom side table, or photos of her planting the living Christmas tree they’d bought from the Mannion farm so their future children could grow with it, and he knew that there was no way he was ever going to be able to abandon this house that he’d remodeled, but she’d turned into a home.
After he’d toweled off, dressed in boxer briefs and jeans, layered a flannel shirt over a black Harper Construction T-shirt and pulled on his socks and work boots, Seth took off his wedding band and put it into the box in the bedside table drawer.
One of the few things he and his father agreed on was that wearing rings when doing construction could be dangerous. Seth himself had seen guys seriously bruised, had one guy on his sheet metal crew whose finger had been amputated when the ring caught in a piece of machinery, and his electrical contractor’s finger was burned to the bone from an electrical arc during his apprentice days.
So, every work morning since returning home from his weekend honeymoon, he’d put the ring away in its black box in the drawer of the table that still held a framed photo of Zoe and him on their wedding day. And every evening, as soon as he walked in the door, he’d put it back on. Although his main reason was that wearing that simple gold band was a way of keeping his wife close, of not forgetting her and all they’d shared together, the simple truth was that after all these years it had become a habit.
Not a habit, he decided as he walked, with Bandit following right on his heels, out to the garage. Habits, both good and bad, became mere routines, something done without thinking. Taking off and putting on his wedding ring was more like a ritual. Which was a good thing, right?
Rituals were important. They were what bound societies together. Without them, the world would spiral into disorder. The type of chaos that could blow up a beautiful young woman, who’d never done anything to hurt anyone, in the bloom of her life.
Two years after its detail job, Zoe’s Civic still sat in the second car stall. It was concealed by the cover he’d bought after seeing her off on her deployment, but he could still envision it in all its Rallye Red glory. Many people in town, including Quinn, who’d actually shared a personal opinion for once, had suggested he sell it. Easy for them to say. Seth would rather cut off a limb with a rusty chain saw.
He wondered what all those well-meaning folks would say if they knew that once a week he’d drive it to Olympic National Park, up to Hurricane Ridge and back (except in the winter when snow closed the road), to keep the battery charged and gunk from building up inside the various internal parts, none of which he knew all that much about, but it’s what the guys on the car radio shows when he was growing up were always saying. The ranger at the Heart O’ the Hills entrance station, whose kitchen he’d remodeled, had quit asking for his park pass and merely waved him through. She’d also never, not once, asked him the reason for such regular visits.
It wasn’t easy keeping a secret in Honeymoon Harbor, but the fact that his mother hadn’t known about his weekly trips to the ridge suggested he owed that ranger a debt of gratitude.
Over the past years, Seth had learned a funny thing about death. The funeral, held in St. Peter’s because Honeymoon Harbor wasn’t a big enough town to have a Greek Orthodox congregation, had been packed, with every pew filled and standing room only in the side aisles and at the back. The townspeople, along with soldiers from Fort Lewis-McChord who’d come to honor one of their own, had even spilled out into the church parking lot.
Even more people from the peninsula lined the sidewalks on the way to the cemetery, holding their hands over their hearts, their kids waving miniature flags. Although much of that time was a blur, Seth remembered the members of the fire department, dressed in full uniform, standing at attention in front of their gleaming red trucks, having to stop for a freight train carrying a load of logs, and how the engineer had respectfully left his finger off the whistle at the crossing. He also recalled how, as the cortege wound its way along the waterfront, one old man, wearing fisherman’s rubber overalls and black boots, stood on the dock beside his trawler, shoulders squared, back straight as a ramrod, briskly saluting as the hearse drove past.
They were forced to hold the lunch after the internment in the parish community hall because neither his and Zoe’s home nor her parents’ house had enough room for everyone who’d wanted to attend. Tables groaned with casseroles, salads and cakes, and although he’d protested, the women who’d planned the occasion with the precision that Eisenhower had probably used for the D-Day invasion had sent him home with Tupperware and foil-wrapped packages labeled with the contents and name and mailing addresses of who’d made them so he could send thank-you notes. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
Unwilling to allow people to believe their efforts weren’t appreciated, his mother had handwritten notes on cards she’d made herself. Later, he’d learned from Ethel Young, who ran Harper Construction’s office, that she’d taken time to write a different, personal message on each card.
The first few weeks after the funeral, everywhere he went, people would stop to tell him how sorry they were for his loss, and ask—with great concern in their eyes and sadly sympathetic expressions—how he was doing.
To which he always lied and said something along the lines of, “Well, you know, it’s not easy, but I’m doing okay.” To which all those who’d told him that if he ever needed something, anything, to give them a call, looked openly relieved that they wouldn’t be roped into dealing with Honeymoon Harbor’s youngest widower.
Widower. Seth hated that word, which sounded like something from one of Zoe’s downloaded Jane Austen movies that he couldn’t bring himself to delete from their DVR menu.
But time moved on and apparently everyone had expected him to, as well. Because, except on Memorial Day, when Boy and Girl Scouts put flags on all the veterans’ graves and the VFW held a remembrance ceremony at the Harborview Cemetery, it was as almost as if his wife had never existed. As if she’d never twirled across the stage in a tutu playing the Sugar Plum Fairy in the eighth grade production of The Nutcracker, never waved her blue-and-white pom-poms while he was racing down the high school football field to catch Burke Mannion’s passes, never marched in perfect military formation in her JROTC cadet uniform. As if she’d never exchanged wedding vows with stars in her eyes, dreamed about babies who would never be born, never gone to war to save lives, only to lose her own.
“Fuck.” Although it never got easy, some days were tougher than others. Realizing that this was going to be one of the tough ones, he yanked open the door for the dog, who jumped into the passenger seat. Then he climbed into the truck, punched the button for the garage door opener and headed to work.
As imagined images of the aftermath of the hospital bombing that had seemed to run 24/7 for days on cable TV and were probably burned forever on the inside of his eyes, Seth pulled up in front of Cops and Coffee, conveniently located next to the police station and across the ferry dock from the pub. The coffee shop was operated by three retired Seattle detectives, thus the name and the flashing red, white and blue police light. They’d wanted to put the sign above the door, which the town’s strict historical design committee had quickly nixed, but Seth, who’d done the remodel, had managed to get them to give him a permit to place it in the front window, where visitors coming in or leaving on the gleaming white ferry couldn’t miss it.
Bandit’s ears perked up as soon as he cut the engine. His tail began to thump enthusiastically. And just in case Seth might forget the doggie bag, he reminded him with a loud woof.
“Got it,” Seth reassured him. One thing about having a dog...it was hard to feel sorry for yourself when you lived with an animal that, despite an obviously rough background, could remain optimistic. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Bandit would’ve been a good dog for his and Zoe’s kids. Which sent his momentarily uplifted mood diving again.
The decor, if it could be called that, was a hodgepodge of ’50s blue vinyl booths and red Formica-topped tables, a counter with the same blue vinyl on the swivel stools and a separate room in the back where tourists could buy souvenirs. What elevated the joint from your average doughnut shop was the enormous stainless steel espresso machine with as many switches and dials as a fighter jet. Because, after all, this was Washington State, where coffee was the nearest thing to a religion and Folgers in a carafe just wouldn’t cut it.
“You look like you’re on the way to the chair,” Dave, a former homicide detective sporting a Tom Selleck broom brush mustache, greeted him. The uniform of the day was a cop-blue shirt with a badge that read Doughnut Patrol. The badge, natch, was available for sale in the gift shop alongside the T-shirts and travel mugs reading Don’t Dunk and Drive.
“Just the job site,” Seth answered, handing over his oversize travel mug to Dave, who brewed him coffee just the way Seth liked it. Pitch-black and strong enough to stand a spoon up in.
“Meaning the job you’re doing with your dad.” The machine began pouring out the coffee. “The morning after you had dinner with your mom’s new boyfriend.”
“Well, that didn’t take long.” One of the good things about Seth’s hometown was that it was, in many ways, like small towns anywhere. The type of close-knit community where everyone would band together in a heartbeat to support and protect their own. The downside was that same closeness had everyone privy to everyone else’s business. “What, did someone put it on the damn Facebook page?”
“Not yet. But Emma Mae Graham, who came in for a mocha latte and a chocolate glaze to take on the ferry for a day in the city told me she saw you with your mom and Mike Mannion at Leaf. Which makes it the first time they’ve gone public after the past two months, right?”
“Yet you already knew.”
“Hey, I was a street detective before I got into this business.” He tapped his temple. “And detecting in this town is a lot easier than back in the day. Hell, if I knew that everyone who comes in for a cup of joe feels the need to tell a story, I would’ve suggested we open up a Starbucks in the cop shop back in Seattle. It would’ve saved us a lot of interrogation time.”
Fortunately, Seth’s dad was even more of a hermit than Seth, so there was a chance that it might take him longer to find out that his wife, who’d filed separation papers three months ago, had found herself a new man. He skimmed a glance over the doughnuts in the glass-fronted case. “I’ll take a box of six glazed crullers and six apple fritters to go.”
“Breakfast of champions,” Dave agreed as he began putting them into a dark blue box with the Doughnut Patrol shield printed in gold on the top.
“The fritters have apples in them,” Seth said. “Which is a government-recommended fruit part of the food pyramid, right?” That was his story and he was sticking to it.
“Works for me,” the former detective agreed. “Like carrot cake is a vegetable.”
“There you go.”
After boxing up the fritters and crullers, along with three doughnut holes in a small waxed bag for Bandit, Dave handed the complimentary baker’s dozen thirteen deep-fried doughnuts to Seth, who bit into a cruller and enjoyed the rush of fat and sugar.
He drove along the water, turning up the hill to a gut-job he’d been working on for a month. Great. His dad’s truck was already in front of the house. Seth didn’t know how the old man did it, but he’d often thought he could arrive at two in the morning and Ben Harper would already be there.
He paused for a moment, studying the house, which was one of his favorites. Like the arts and crafts bungalows, Folk Victorians were one of the most often found styles of historical houses in the country, and what home buyers usually thought of when they went looking for “charm.”
The homes had ruled the day from 1870 to 1910. Unlike the better-known high-style Queen Anne, a Folk Victorian was nothing more than a dressed up ordinary “folk house,” so named because it had been built to provide basic shelter for the masses with little regard for changing fashions.
As growing railroads brought machinery into towns where workmen could produce inexpensive Victorian detail to be grafted onto existing homes, the decorated houses began to spread like wildfire.
What set the Folk Victorians apart from the earlier ordinary houses was the decorative detailing on the porches and cornice line. Porch supports were usually turned spindles or square beams with beveled corners. Other porch details were lacy or unique jigsaw-cut balustrades. The possibilities were as endless as the craftsmen’s imaginations and reflected their own particular region. In this part of the country, silhouettes of trees, mountains, animals, whales and fish along with stylized Pacific Northwest Native American symbols predominated.
Their uniqueness, combined with a simple floor plan, made Folk Victorians as desirable today as they were when that first trainload of architectural trim had arrived in the 1800s. This particular house had been bought by a local photographer, Kylee Campbell—an old friend of Zoe’s—and her photographer fiancée she’d met while traveling across Europe. While Kylee tended to focus more on portraits and the lucrative wedding business, Mai, her fiancée, was more into scenic shots she sold to magazines around the world. Some, taken in the national park and around town, were currently displayed in Mike Mannion’s gallery.
While Bandit snuffled around the exterior, searching out any squirrels or raccoons that might have invaded during the night, Seth found his father inside what had once been a back kitchen and was in the process of becoming a darkroom. Although Kylee and Mai were both photographers, their methods were very different. Kylee preferred shooting digital so her clients could see the photo immediately, but Mai occasionally preferred working with black-and-white film, which she’d develop herself. While going over the plans for the darkroom, she’d jokingly told him part of the reason she preferred film over digital was that the Caffenol, which apparently had replaced the funky old developer, smelled so damn good. Especially early in the morning, when she claimed it was like breathing in hot coffee steam while meditating. He’d decided to take her word on that.
While working on this house, he’d thought how often marriages were a study in contrasts. Along with being a born nurturer, which had made her such a beloved nurse, Zoe had definitely been the more outgoing and talkative of the two of them. Even as she could be briskly efficient, she also wore her heart along with her combat patch on her uniform sleeve. One of his few positive takeaways from her deployment was how she would have made a bad situation better for any soldier who’d ended up in her care.
Similarly, in contrast to Mai’s serenity, Kylee was an extrovert, as bright as her red hair, perfect for keeping stressed-out brides and grooms from freaking out before the ceremony, while at the same time being empathetic enough to catch those special moments that showed, far better than any posed photos, expressions of love.
Like the photos she’d taken for his and Zoe’s wedding, which included one of Zoe’s mother zipping up her wedding dress, another of his bride-to-be calling him one last time on her cell minutes before the ceremony to tell him how much she loved him. And one he hadn’t realized Kylee had caught, of him pinning the rose boutonniere on the lapel of his father’s seldom-worn, outdated suit. His father’s expression had revealed a warmth of emotion Seth couldn’t remember ever seeing before or since. Whenever he looked at that particular photo, Seth wondered if, just possibly, Ben Harper had been remembering his own wedding day to a woman as warm and open as he was distant.
Zoe had always been the outgoing one of the two of them. Middle school was hard enough to figure out your way through, even when you’d known everyone in your class forever. Coming in as the new girl midyear couldn’t have been easy. But seemingly without any effort at all, she quickly began weaving herself into the fabric of the school, and by the time summer vacation rolled around, it was as if she’d been there all her life. All of his life.
After steaming off over a century’s layers of wallpaper, Seth’s dad was now down to getting rid of the paint before repairing the walls with a mixture of lime putty, fine sand and goat hair. Watching him, thinking back to that photo, Seth wondered, for the very first time, if, as much as he’d loved Zoe, because he shared the same difficulty in articulating his feelings as his father, they might have ended up like his parents. At a point when their love might not have been strong enough to overcome years of what Zoe might someday come to view as indifference.
Hell. And wasn’t that a fun thought? Not that he’d ever get a chance to know. Or to try to fix things if they had gone off course. Because Zoe was gone. And he was still here. With a job to get done. On budget and on schedule.
Ben Harper might not be the easiest of men to live with, but no one could fault his attention to detail. The man was one of the last of a dying breed of craftsmen whose knowledge of building had been passed down through the generations. Although many of the kids Seth had grown up with couldn’t wait to get out of their small, isolated hometown, Seth’s roots had always been deeply set in the area’s glacial, loamy soil. And he especially appreciated being part of a continual line of Harper males who’d built Honeymoon Harbor.
“’Bout time you showed up,” his father, thankfully unware of Seth’s earlier thoughts, muttered without turning around. “Late night?”
“I stopped for fritters.” He didn’t bother to share that he’d spent most of the night locked in the frequent nightmare of the suicide bomb blowing Zoe’s hospital ward to smithereens.
He put the box on top of a sheet of plywood being held up by two sawhorses and could tell that he’d diverted his old man’s interest in this morning’s delay when the steamer paused. Fritters were Ben Harper’s favorite. But apparently this morning they weren’t enough to stop him from his work. “Humph.” The steamer began moving again. “Didn’t realize Cops and Coffee had gone organic. Given that’s what you seem to be into these days.”
“They haven’t.” Since he’d only begun to make inroads in the oversize travel mug of coffee, it took a moment for his dad’s meaning to click in. Obviously he was talking about the newest organic place in town. Busted.
“Word gets around,” Seth said casually. Not that there was anything casual about your parents’ breakup. Whatever your age, he was discovering.
“I was driving by and saw you going into Leaf after work.”
“I remodeled the place. Makes sense I’d eat there from time to time. The mushroom meatloaf’s pretty good.” Yet for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why so many things on the menu had appeared to be pretending to be meat. It wasn’t like you’d ever go into the pub and find Jarle’s beer-battered fried cod and chips pretending to be a salad.
The older man grunted, then muttered something beneath his breath. “Like it makes sense for a son to turn traitor on his own flesh and blood?”
“Okay. I had dinner with Mom. So what?”
“You weren’t eating with just your mother. You going to tell me you didn’t know that she would be there with her new boyfriend? Wearing a dress she sure as hell never wore out to dinner with me?”
Seth was about to point out that he couldn’t remember the last time his father had taken his mother out for so much as a burger at Dinah’s Diner when the comment hit home.
“Nobody told you she was at Leaf.” Gossip might always be swirling in Honeymoon Harbor’s salty air, but he doubted anyone talking to his dad would bother to mention what his mom was wearing. “You saw her with Mannion.”
“Like I said, I happened to be driving by.”
“You said you saw me while driving by.” Seth jabbed a finger at him. “I was ten minutes late because I stopped by the pub first.” Unless his dad had been driving up and down the street, the odds of him seeing both his wife and son arrive was not only unlikely, it was flat-out impossible.
Ben backed down the ladder, switched off the steamer and put it onto the plywood next to the blue box. “I’ll bet dollars to those doughnuts you brought with you that you stopped at the pub to have yourself a real dinner before eating the damn rabbit food they serve at Leaf.”
Seth was going to neither confirm nor deny that guess. “I told you, the meatloaf was good. And the corn bread nearly as good as Mom makes. And trying to change the subject to a debate about vegetarian versus burgers isn’t going to work. You were stalking Mom.”
“Not stalking.” His face settling into hard lines, his father reached into the box, took out a fritter and bit into it with enough force to send powdered sugar flying around like snow in a blizzard. “I was just watching out for her. She’s not used to being on her own.”
Even as he was annoyed by the stalking aspect, Seth knew that his father wasn’t entirely lying. He’d always known Ben Harper loved his wife. In his way. Which, unfortunately, hadn’t ever been the least bit demonstrative. Which caused a twinge of pain as he remembered the way Zoe would touch his arm, smooth a hand over his hair, nuzzle his neck while they were sitting and watching TV on the secondhand couch she’d unearthed at Treasures antiques shop.
“I suspect she’s felt as if she’s been on her own for a long time,” he said, feeling his way across what was turning out to be a conversational minefield. “Given that you’re not one for going out.”
“A man puts in a hard day’s work, he doesn’t feel like getting all gussied up to stay out until all hours of the morning dancing,” his father said around a second mouthful of fritter.
“Last I checked, movies only take a couple hours. And don’t require either dressing up or dancing.”
“Cheaper to stay at home and watch a show on the TV.”
“Maybe. But did you ever think that attitude is what’s got you living alone?”
“Your mother will be back.”
Seth knew he’d hit a sore spot when his father grabbed the steamer, went back up the ladder and switched it on.
“It’s been three months,” he said to Ben’s back.
“Took nearly that long to talk her into marrying me and staying here instead of going back east to that foo-foo art school.” He began methodically moving the steamer over the wall. “I can wait her out.”
“I’m no expert on women, but I’m not sure that’s the best option.”
The steamer paused as his father stiffened. Shoulders, arms, legs. “You saying she’s serious about some pansy artist?”
Seth resisted rolling his eyes. “Did you ever think that mom might prefer you not to talk like Archie Bunker?”
“I liked Archie,” Ben shot back. “It was good to see a regular guy on TV. So? Is she involved with Mannion?”
“I don’t have any idea. All I know for sure is that she’s taking classes from him in art.” And how weird did it feel playing this stupid high school game of “does she like me or him best” with his dad? “Which, by the way, she’s really good at.”
“He’s probably just leading her on by telling her that.”
“She gave me a watercolor. Believe me, she’s good.”
“If she’d wanted to paint, I wouldn’t have stopped her. Hell, she could’ve helped out on the houses instead of just doing the business’s books. And those drawings of the houses.”
Seth opted against mentioning that creating an actual piece of art wasn’t anywhere the same as painting a wall. But then wondered if, just possibly, she’d like to try a mural. With Kylee and Mai both being visual types, a mural of the harbor, or snowcapped mountains, might make a nice feature wall.
“That wasn’t my point. Whatever their relationship, Mike Mannion’s not the only guy in town. Did you ever think that the longer she stays away, the more comfortable she might be with the new normal of single life?”
Ben shot a look over his shoulder. “She’s my wife.”
“For the moment, though I feel the need to point out that you are legally separated.” Seth had been surprised when she’d gone all legal-ass on his dad, having those separation papers served on him. “But, just in case you missed the memo, the days of women being chattel are long gone. You don’t own her.”
Great. Now not only was he eating veggie meatloaf, he was paraphrasing Beyoncé.
“Never said I thought I did.” Ben’s scowl deepened. “Your mother’s always had a mind of her own. I used to call her my steel magnolia.”
There was just a tinge of something that sounded like pride in Ben’s tone. Which made sense because only a strong woman would’ve stuck around past the first anniversary. It wasn’t that his father was a bad guy. But he was from another era, a hardworking, blue-collar guy who wasn’t all that happy about a world that seemed to be moving too fast to keep up. And whereas some people might see the glass half-filled, Ben Harper always seemed afraid someone was going to steal his.
“Used to being the definitive phrase,” Seth pointed out, wondering yet again how he got into this damn situation. “Do you want her back?”
That question had his father spinning around so fast Seth feared he might fall off the ladder and break his stiff neck. “What the hell do you think?”
“I’ve no idea. You damn well should,” he said. “Not only is she smart, kind, loving and an all-around great woman, the one thing you and I have in common, along with the love of fixing up old homes, is that we both married above ourselves. Besides, living alone is the frigging pits.”
Not that the way he spent his days was fully living. The truth was he was fucking tired of being lonely. If he hadn’t been able to lose himself in his work, he probably would’ve just taken his boat out the strait into the Pacific and jumped into the icy ocean where Coast Guard PSAs were always reminding boaters to wear their life jackets because a fit person could swim only fifty yards in fifty-degree water, which just happened to be the summer temperature.
Another grunt. “You should know, given that you’ve turned into a hermit monk,” his father said. “Hell, even I’ve played poker once a week for the last twenty or so years.”
Which had always taken place at the Harper house, and which, Seth could have argued, wasn’t exactly getting out.
“It’s not the same thing,” he insisted. “My wife died.”
Zoe had been more than Seth’s wife. She’d been his soul mate for over half his life. He’d lived for her weekend visits home while she’d been away at college, and it never would’ve occurred to him to so much as look at another woman while she’d been deployed, assuring him that she was in a well-guarded hospital and would be returning home to make a lot of babies, so he’d better be prepared to man up and do his part. Which had totally worked for him.
“That was two years ago,” Ben said.
Two years, one month, two weeks and three days. But hell, who was counting?
He was.
“We were talking about you and Mom.” Seth felt the damn plaster walls closing in on him. Inside his head, bombs were exploding. “And what you’re going to do to win her back.”
“She’ll be back. Once she gets over this crazy hippy streak.” He went back to working on the wall. “Town used to be made up of regular folks. Loggers, fishermen, boat builders. People who made this place. Now it’s being overrun with all sorts of writers, musicians, artists and such. Who wouldn’t even know how to bait a hook, fell a tree or hammer a nail into a wall.”
Like most Harpers, Ben had a strong streak of mule in him. While his mother, despite what Mike had referred to as her Southern belle breeding, was, indeed, the steel magnolia his dad claimed she was to the core. Once the former Caroline Lockwood Harper made her mind up about something, she wasn’t one to back down.
Reminding himself that his parents were adults who didn’t need their only son to play marriage counselor, Seth went down the hall into what was going to be the en suite for a new master bedroom. Where he vented his frustration with a crowbar, attacking the crappy ’70s lime-green and yellow-daisy ceramic tile in the shower.
CHAPTER SIX (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
ONE WEEK AFTER quitting her job, Brianna was standing at the railing of a Washington State ferry slowly chugging its way across Puget Sound. Although spring in the Pacific Northwest could be chilly, and she’d be warmer indoors, she enjoyed the briskness of the salt-tinged breeze ruffling her hair, which was no longer pulled back into its tight, tidy, professional chignon that had always given her a headache.
She’d lived life on a wildly spinning hamster wheel for so many years since leaving home, it took her a while to recognize the heady feeling that rushed through her as she drank in the sight of the shaggy Douglas firs spearing into the sky, the rugged white peaks of the Olympic mountains in the distance and seagulls noisily diving for fish in the water churned up by the gleaming white boat.
As she sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee, the drink that famously kept the Pacific Northwest humming, a brown pelican flew by, the ungainly, awkward-looking bird surprisingly graceful in flight. More pelicans perched on wooden pilings.
Freedom. For the first time since she’d left her family Christmas tree farm to go off to college, she had no demands from any calendars, clocks, hotel guests, and no one to answer to but herself.
The idea was both thrilling and a little daunting at the same time. After all, ever since graduating from college, she’d always moved on from town to city, hotel to hotel, place to place, never looking back. Her life had been like that old country video where the heroine had ripped the rearview mirror off the side of her car and headed, hell-bent for leather, out of Dodge.
And now here she was, on a ferry getting closer and closer to land, drinking in the familiar sounds, the smells and pretty sights, and hoping that Thomas Wolfe had been wrong about never being able to go home again. This was a new chapter in her life. A new beginning, and despite the butterflies that had begun fluttering their wings in her stomach, she would make it work.
Reminding herself that she’d always been a self-starter with strong organizational and people skills, instead of worrying about any possible pitfalls in her plan, she concentrated on the vision of what she’d always thought of as her house turned into a warm and inviting bed-and-breakfast. The type of place she herself would want to stay in.
Over the years, as she’d worked her way up the hospitality chain to the Midas, her surroundings had become more and more luxurious. And while each hotel offered additional amenities and increased pampering, they’d never been the type of place she would have preferred to stay herself. She wouldn’t have chosen glitz and glamor, or bustling staff in crisp uniforms with shiny brass buttons and fringed epaulets that would make a banana republic general proud.
Rather than a crowded dining room abuzz with conversation drowning out the pianist playing Gershwin on a shiny black baby grand, she’d rather spend an evening enveloped in an overstuffed chair in a room with well-read books lining the walls, and a fire crackling away in an old stone fireplace.
Instead of shopping at designer boutiques with a platinum credit card, she’d rather stroll down tree-lined streets, dropping into small, quaint, locally owned shops that carried homemade fudge and desserts and whimsical, one-of-a-kind handmade pieces created by local artisans. And rather than being suffocated by ridiculously overpriced designer scents, she’d rather breathe in the tang of fir trees and salt air.
The sky turned a tarnished silver hue, hinting at rain as Honeymoon Harbor came into view, the stone Victorian buildings climbing up the steep hill, the now-automated white lighthouse at Pelican Point, and there, overlooking the harbor, was Herons Landing, unfortunately painted a Pepto-Bismol pink with purple trim and chartreuse shutters. Fishing and whale-watching boats bobbing in the water beside the sailboats and beautiful wooden boats the town was known for and what appeared to be a father and son stood on the pier, fishing lines dangling over the railing into the water, reminding her of childhood days when she’d done the same thing. Not that she’d been all that wild about fishing or crabbing, but if Seth was going to be out there with her brothers, she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to show him what a perfect girlfriend she’d be. The fact that he’d never experienced that hoped-for epiphany hadn’t been for her lack of trying.
The announcement to return to her car came over the speaker and five minutes later, as she drove off the ferry onto the cobblestone street created from the same stones as many of the town’s buildings, she felt an internal click that told her she’d made the absolutely right decision.
Pages from Captain George Vancouver’s ship logs, housed under glass in the town historical museum, revealed his awe at the towering, snowcapped mountains, deep green rain forests that come nearly to the water’s edge, crystal rivers, tumbling waterfalls, beaches and sapphire water studded with emerald islands.
By the late 1800s the town had become a bustling seaport, banking on a rich future. A building boom gifted it with an abundance of ornate Victorian homes perched atop the green bluff overlooking the bay. A town built and populated by dreamers, its port frequented by vessels from faraway places, the early economy had been built and supported by timber and shipping.
Unfortunately, too much of what was now Honeymoon Harbor had been constructed on the shifting sands of speculation that it was primed to become the capital of Washington State. Dreams were dashed when the boom collapsed and the population had declined drastically.
Although it never became the major shipping harbor people had hoped for, the royal trip that had resulted in the town’s name change, along with the magnificent monument Franklin Roosevelt later designated as a national park, had created a renaissance that resulted in an influx of visitors who continued to arrive at the harbor’s dock on gleaming white ferries like the one that had brought Brianna home.
The town had been divided between residential and business. Most of the buildings along the water were commercial, designed to serve arriving and departing ships. Originally built of wood from the bustling timber trade, they’d been reduced to ashes during a devastating fire that had swept through the waterfront. Meanwhile, the homes, including the Victorians the town had become known for, had been built on the bluff overlooking the harbor, which had allowed them to escape the firestorm.
Tempted as she was to drive out to the house, she reluctantly decided it made sense to go home, see her family and get a good night’s sleep before contacting the Realtor in the morning. As much as Honeymoon Harbor looked much the same as it had when she’d been growing up here, there had been changes. An old warehouse had been turned into condos, the real estate sign out in front offering spacious, remodeled lofts. She dropped into a coffee shop by the ferry terminal that hadn’t existed when she’d returned for Zoe’s funeral two years ago, and stood in line to buy a salted skinny caramel mocha latte from one of the owners, whom, she learned from their brief conversation while he prepared her drink, was a former undercover Seattle vice detective. Which, she supposed, explained the earring and the dreadlocks.
There were other new businesses, as well, including her uncle Mike’s art gallery, which would prove handy when it came to decorating her inn. Honeymoon Harborites preferred to buy local whenever possible, and in her case, it was even better when one of the businesses was owned by family.
She came up to the wide, grassy green square that had always been the centerpiece of the town. A lacy white Victorian gazebo—built by a Harper for the royal visit, where the Mannion mayor had handed the Montacroix king and queen the key to the city—had immediately proven popular with the honeymoon trade. Even today Brianna’s attention was drawn to a tall, familiar redhead snapping wedding photos of a smiling bride and groom.
Growing up, Kylee Campbell and Zoe Robinson had been Brianna’s best friends. They’d been inseparable, the self-named Three Musketeers, except for those times, as they’d segued into their junior and senior years of high school, when Zoe had begun spending more and more time with Seth Harper.
Pulling into a parking spot, Brianna sat in the car, watching as Kylee posed the couple in various ways while another woman set up reflector boards. They were apparently coming to the end of the shoot. After taking a few more photos next to the fountain bubbling away at one end of the green, Kylee exchanged a few words and hugs with the couple. Then, as she turned to walk away, Brianna got out of the car.
“Well, look who finally made it home,” Kylee called out, emerald green skirt flowing around her ankles, revealing a pair of purple Chucks as she ran across the parking lot toward Brianna. The other woman, who’d finished packing up the equipment, followed at a more sedate pace. “I was beginning to think we’d lost you to Sin City forever.”
Kylee threw her arms around Brianna and gave her an even more enthusiastic hug than she’d shared with the bride and groom.
“Wasn’t going to happen.”
Before her sudden change in her career, Brianna’s destination track after Vegas had always been New York (her goal had been the Waldorf Astoria, currently under renovation), then London’s Claridge’s, before reaching her personal pinnacle: the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, which might not be Paris’s flashiest hotel, but to Brianna’s mind was the most luxurious, romantic and, with its glorious views of the Eiffel Tower, iconic.
Bygones.
“Do I dare hope you’ll be here for our wedding?” Kylee asked. “Believe it or not, Seth’s mother is going to be the officiant.”
“Caroline Harper is a minister now?”
“She was ordained online about a year ago. She doesn’t have an official church or anything, but has become very spiritual, in an earth mother New Agey way. More and more people have been turning to her for their weddings. And not just the retro hippy crowd, but remarrying widowers or divorcés, who want more celebration than signing papers at the courthouse, but also don’t want to lock themselves into any established religious belief system.”
“Trust you to have a unique wedding.” Caroline Harper had always been a creative thinker and, like Brianna’s own mother, was actively involved in community service. Performing weddings sounded like just another step along her life’s path. She did wonder how Mr. Harper, who’d never seemed that conducive to change, had taken to his wife’s apparent midlife transformation. “Now I’m even more looking forward to being part of your special day.”
“So you’re staying?”
“How could I not?”
“Oh, that’s so great!” She pumped the hand not still holding the camera into the air. “I didn’t want to dump any guilt on you, but I’ll admit to being disappointed when you said you had that big deal convention to deal with.”
Magic Marketplace, the world’s largest fashion show, which attracted nearly a hundred thousand visitors, many of whom had booked Midas two years in advance, had been going to keep her in Las Vegas. Missing her BFF’s upcoming wedding had been on the top of Brianna’s list of life regrets. Now, thinking how events turned out, she should be grateful for Doctor Dick turning her life not upside down, but right side up.
“My priorities were screwed up,” she admitted. Hyatt had denied her request for time off when she’d asked two months ago, but she’d also known that if she’d put her foot down and made certain her duties were well covered, he would have let her get away for at least the day of the wedding. But her damn pride, believing that only she could handle such a large event, had outranked what would be, so far, the most important day of her remaining best friend’s life. Which went right along with her recent thoughts about not having any true friends. Because, in order to have a friend, you had to be one. Something she’d failed at. Miserably.
“Don’t even worry about it. I totally understood.” Kylee turned toward the woman who was, in appearance, her physical opposite. Where Kylee was tall, with wild masses of curly red hair that tumbled over her shoulders, her wife-to-be was petite with an asymmetrical black bob. “I’m sorry. I was so excited to see you, I got sidetracked. This is Mai, the grand love of my life. Mai, Brianna.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” The other woman’s smile was warm. “Including that you’re what keeps Las Vegas’s most glamorous resort humming along.”
“That’s a major exaggeration. But it doesn’t matter, because I no longer work there.”
“No way!” Kylee’s green eyes widened. “We talked just last week and you didn’t give me so much as a hint you were changing jobs.”
“It was sort of unexpected. And sudden.”
“I guess so. So, what new gig did you jump up to this time? Social secretary at the White House?”
“Ha. Far from it. I’m opening a B and B.”
“In Las Vegas?” Mai asked. Her tone remained neutral, but a slight lift of her brow hinted at skepticism. Which wasn’t surprising since bed-and-breakfasts were rare in the city. Visitors tended to stay in the resort hotels, economy off-Strip motels or RV campgrounds as much as an hour outside the city. Although Airbnb had begun making inroads with budget travelers, hotels at Midas’s level, where size always mattered, weren’t the least bit concerned.
“As it turns out, I’m going to be doing it here.” Brianna blew out a breath. This was the first time she’d said it out loud. And it sounded good. Good, but a little scary.
“Really? Wow!” Kylee’s face lit up like a sudden sunbreak during a long winter of gray days. “And your timing’s perfect because Herons Landing is for sale.”
“I saw it on the website the other night. Other than paint colors on the exterior, it looks in pretty good shape compared to the last time I was in town.”
“That paint was the previous owner’s idea. While those painted ladies may fit into San Francisco’s street scene, the pink and purple look ridiculous with the wooded backdrop. And photographs can be deceiving,” Kylee said. “Especially in these days when everyone knows how to Photoshop. The sales photo exterior shots only look good because Seth spent the entire last year fixing up the outside. Then the couple who’d hired him broke up and the place went into foreclosure.”
Which explained why the price had seemed lower than Brianna would’ve expected. The real estate ad hadn’t mentioned that little detail.
“The inside is definitely a work in progress,” Kylee said.
“Which is a polite way of saying wreck,” Mai murmured.
“True. But so was our new place not that long ago,” Kylee reminded her. “Seth is a miracle worker. Even though his father is a bit of a challenge.”
“He likes you,” Mai said.
“That’s because the caterers always let me keep the leftover wedding desserts. Which I take right over to the job. The man’s got a serious sweet tooth,” she confided to Brianna. “In his case, my mom was right on the money about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. You can never go wrong with cookies. Or doughnuts. I’m not sure I could have convinced him to put coffering on the ceiling were it not for the fritters from Cops and Coffee.”
Knowing how Ben Harper felt about her family, Brianna felt that even the entire contents of that towering glass case next to Cops and Coffee’s take-out counter wouldn’t be enough to win Seth’s father over. Not that she was going to allow any negative behavior to dissuade her from hiring Harper Construction to create her dream.
“Anyway, Mai and I looked at Herons Landing while we were house hunting, but decided it was a lot more of a project than we wanted to deal with. And more rooms than we’d ever need. Even now that we’re planning a family.”
“You are? That’s wonderful.” Brianna shot a hard look at her only remaining friend. “Yet you accused me of holding back news? After, as you pointed out, we only talked last week.” A conversation that had mostly been about the unexpected and ongoing trials with the Folk Victorian that Harper Construction was remodeling for them.
“I didn’t want to risk jinxing things.” Kylee ran a hand through her curls. “A few months ago I photographed the wedding of a woman who works with state and private organizations matching potential parents with children who need families. Which was when we decided to adopt.
“Meanwhile, our baby’s birth mother isn’t due for another month and we’re hoping to move into the house beforehand so we don’t have to bring her home to the apartment, then move again. It’s not easy, but we’re trying to stay patient.”
“Which is proving a bit easier for me than her,” Mai said with a laugh.
“What can I say?” Kylee shrugged. “We Scots have never been ones for red tape.”
“I’d imagine there’s quite a bit when it comes to adoption.”
“Miles and miles of the damn stuff,” Kylee agreed. “And it’s a risk because the birth mother can always change her mind. However, despite some construction setbacks, like having to redo all the wiring in the place and getting rid of some asbestos, we’re up for the challenge. The house is going to be perfect when Seth finishes.
“Speak of that handsome devil,” she said as she saw a truck approaching. “There he is now.” She stepped out into the street to wave him down.
Fortunately, the pickup had good brakes. He stopped on a dime, then pulled over next to the sidewalk. Brianna watched as the two exchanged a few words through the open driver’s window. Then the door opened and the man she’d spent her entire adolescence fantasizing about climbed out looking like a cover model for Hot Construction Guy Monthly.
Over the years, partly in loyalty to her best friend and partly to keep her own hormones in check, she’d tried to convince herself that Seth Harper was just another guy. Okay, better-looking than most, but still, it wasn’t as if he were movie-star handsome like Chris Evans. Or any of the other hot Chrises: Hemsworth, Pine or Pratt.
But she’d been wrong. As he strolled toward her across the street, she decided that just maybe he topped them all. He was tall, lean and lanky, which only emphasized the intriguing ridges visible beneath the black T-shirt he was wearing under a flannel shirt. Brianna didn’t think it was possible to have a zero body fat ratio, but if it was, he was definitely pulling it off.
A black ball cap worn backward covered his hair, but his eyes were that same melted-chocolate brown she remembered, and above the hollows in his cheeks, his jaw bore a sexy scruff. Though, as he neared, she could detect lines fanning out from his eyes that hadn’t been there two years ago.
“Hey, you.” She hugged him, just as she had Kylee. But this hug was different. Even as Brianna reminded herself that he was her best friend’s widower, despite all those years of telling herself that the man was off-limits, and not to even be fantasized about in her most secret moments, her breath caught in a way that could not be good.
“Hey, you.” Was his voice deeper? Rougher? She wasn’t sure, but it had definitely caused something inside her to jitter. He broke the brief hug off. “It’s been a while.”
“It has.” They’d been standing side by side at the love of his life’s funeral. She’d had no jittering that day. No unsteady breath. Just a deep, aching pain that went all the way to the bone.
“I’ve been meaning to get back for ages, but somehow days flew by, then weeks, then months, then a year had passed, then two, and...”
She slammed her mouth shut. Of course he, of all people, would know how many days, weeks, months and years had passed. That wretched day had to have been etched forever in his mind. And in no way that had anything to do with her.
“Anyway, I’ve quit my job and come home for a lifestyle change.”
“That’s a surprise.” His cocked brow echoed Mai’s. “Zoe always talked about how much you loved your work in the fast lane.”
“Well, you know how it is.” Determined to appear casual, even as those butterflies in her stomach had turned into giant condors, she waved an airy hand. “Or possibly you don’t, not because Honeymoon Harbor isn’t exactly in the fast lane...”
Terrific. Now she was implying Seth Harper was some small-town rube. Could Mount Baker please just erupt and cover her in ash and lava now before she made things worse? “But you always knew exactly what you wanted to do.”
Hadn’t he built the tree house he and Zoe would hide out in with his own two hands from wood reclaimed from Harper Construction dumpsters? No. She was not going to think about what the two of them might have been doing in that house that Zoe had hung curtains in, because any thoughts of sex concerning this man were off-limits.
“I mean, you were the only person I’ve ever met who probably knew the difference between Italianate, Gothic Revival and Queen Anne styles of Victorians before the rest of us mastered long division.”
She remembered, while they’d been running wild in Herons Landing, he’d stop and point out architectural details one of his ancestors had originally installed. Her brothers, intent on adventure, had never paused to listen. But she had. Though, to be honest, back then she would’ve been more than happy to listen to him recite the tide tables.
Her thoughts were spinning even faster than she was talking. Even Kylee was looking at her strangely. She was saved from making a total fool of herself when a huge brown-and-black dog leaped out of the truck’s window and came bounding toward them.
“Bandit!” Seth shouted. The dog’s only response was to run faster, its tail wagging like a metronome. “Stay!”
Whether it was intending to obey, or it had finally reached its target, the dog came skidding to a halt in front of Brianna and, in way of greeting, thrust his huge nose into the crotch of her jeans.
“Hell.” Seth grabbed its collar, and tugged. “I’m sorry. We’re still working on manners.”
“That’s okay.” She reached down and rubbed his broad head, scratching behind its ear. Her family had always had dogs, which, needless to say, hadn’t been possible for her once she’d left home. Even if she had found a small couch potato breed, her long working hours wouldn’t have been fair to any animal. “Aren’t you a handsome boy?”
Moaning with canine ecstasy, he collapsed on the ground and rolled over for a tummy rub, exposing his male parts in all their proud glory.
“Don’t get him started,” Seth warned. He yanked off his cap and stuck it in his back pocket, revealing shaggy hair, streaked with the rich, golden brown of big-leaf maple leaves in fall. “Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.”
“And probably deserves it.” Crouching down, she obliged as eighty-plus pounds of dog wiggled on its back, huge paws waving in the air, a picture of pure canine bliss. “His name is Bandit?”
“Yeah. Because he’s a thief. I adopted him partly to stop him from swiping all the workers’ lunches. And not just food. Shoes, socks, toothbrush, you name it, he’ll take it. Last week he swallowed an entire dish towel, which involved a trip to the vet.”
“Ouch.”
“Bri’s going to buy Herons Landing,” Kylee said, jumping into the conversation.
The dark brow climbed again, practically disappearing beneath the strands of hair that had fallen over his forehead. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. And you sound skeptical.” Now that they’d moved to talking about work, Brianna was back in her comfort zone, her mind returning to a more familiar organizing and planning mode. “Kylee said you restored the exterior. Which looks wonderful, by the way.” She decided not to risk offending him by mentioning the exterior paint colors. “At least from the ad on the website.”
“The rough edges on that ad were smoothed out by the real estate agent doing some Photoshop magic,” he confirmed what she’d already been told. “Though that part’s close to being done. The interior, however, is definitely still a work in progress.”
“Which, I’ve learned over the course of our job, is contractor speak for ‘It’s going to take twice as long and three times the money,’” Kylee said.
“Especially when clients keep bringing up new ideas they want,” Seth responded pointedly.
Bandit, realizing that he’d gotten as much tummy rubbing as he was going to get right now, was sitting in front of Brianna, his brown eyes giving her an adoring look she guessed often worked to his advantage.
“I can’t deny that,” Kylee said with a laugh.
“I keep telling her to step away from Houzz and Pinterest,” Mai said. “But she’s like an addict. Just one more picture. And the next thing you know, it’s two in the morning and she’s printed out a stack of photos and suggestions.”
“I’m not that bad. And fortunately, Seth knows how to do everything.”
“Far from everything. But having grown up on work sites, it’s probably in my blood. I always knew I’d work to keep the town’s old buildings from being turned into parking lots or strip malls.” He turned to Brianna. “The same way you knew you wanted to work in hospitality. Whether it was finding a family the perfect Christmas tree, or creating a special hotel experience.”
Brianna was surprised he’d listened to any of her grand plans when they’d all hung out together back in high school. Every atom in his body had always seemed to be honed in on Zoe.
She stood back up and shrugged with a feigned casualness she was a long way from feeling. “I did love my work. Especially in the beginning.” Which she hadn’t taken time to appreciate, being so focused on racing past each rung of the hospitality ladder. “But after a while, it became more a case of ‘Be careful what you wish for.’”
“It happens.” He didn’t look all that surprised. On the contrary, his eyes, which she now noticed had deep shadows beneath them, turned sad. “So, what’s your new plan?”
“She’s turning it into a B and B,” Kylee answered before Brianna could. “So why don’t you take her over there and give her a professional opinion so she’ll know what she’s getting into when and if she ends up negotiating a price?”
“That’d probably be best for her contractor to discuss with her.”
“I was hoping you’d take on the job,” Brianna said, looking up at him in surprise. She’d never considered the possibility that anyone but Harper Construction would do the remodeling.
He put both his hands on his hips, his long, work-roughened fingers framing a part of his body that Brianna never allowed herself to even think about. Which was a lie. There’d been a time, during her freshman year of high school, when she’d first started having those feelings, that she’d definitely imagined what Seth Harper was hiding beneath those five metal buttons. He glanced over at her car with its back seat loaded with luggage and boxes. “Did you just arrive today?”
“On the four-o’clock ferry,” she confirmed. “I’m staying with my folks for the time being until I find a rental in town. But I’m sure you have better things to do right now, so perhaps we could set up an appointment, since Kylee’s idea for me to find out what I’m in for before I buy the house is a good one.”
A silence hung between them. Everyone, including Bandit, whose gaze had begun going back and forth between them, seemed to be waiting for Seth’s response.
“I don’t have anything else to do,” he said finally. A shadow had moved across those sad, dark eyes, like clouds drifting in from the coast before a storm. “If you don’t need to get straight out to the farm, I’m up for showing you through the house.” He looked down at her, studying her, his face unreadable. “Though I’ve got to warn you, it’s a long way from being livable enough to open for guests anytime soon.”
“It couldn’t be any worse than back when we used to sneak in,” she said.
“Got a point there.” And then he almost smiled. At least that’s what she thought that twitch at the corner of his lips might have meant to be. Though that could just be wishful thinking.
“I’ll meet you there,” she said.
“Works for me.”
All three women watched as he walked back to his truck. “I’m not into guys, but I’ve got to admit, that’s one damn fine butt,” Mai said on a long sigh.
“It’s all those squats,” Kylee said. When Brianna shot her friend a look, she lifted her hands and said, “Hey, he’s working on our house. I’d have to be blind not to notice him picking up all that lumber and stuff.”
“And those back muscles when he’s pounding nails,” Mai said on a sigh. “He’s like a living work of art. You should shoot him,” she told Kylee. “In the nude.”
“I’ve thought about doing a calendar of Honeymoon Harbor Hotties to raise money for the food bank. Not entirely nude. Just suggestive enough for those of us with dirty minds.” Kylee flashed a wicked grin. “He’d definitely fit right in.”
“You could have a showing and auction of the photos at Mike Mannion’s gallery,” Mai said. “It would boost interest in the calendar. Especially if you had all the guys standing next to big, blown-up photos of their months. The place would be packed with women from all over the peninsula. Not counting our brother gays.”
“She shoots. She scores. And the crowd goes wild,” Kylee, who’d played center for the town’s high school hoops team, said with a laugh.
“I’d buy it in a heartbeat,” Brianna said. It would be the closest she’d gotten to a naked man in too long to remember. “And, as much as this has been fun, I’d better get going.” Just the thought of a nude Builder McDreamy was raising her temperature.
“Good luck,” Kylee said as Brianna opened the driver’s door.
“Thanks. You know I’ve always loved that house.”
“Oh, yeah. The house.” Her friend’s knowing look reminded Brianna of all those times when they’d talked about her secret crush on the third member of the Three Musketeers’ boyfriend. “Good luck with that, too.”
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
DRIVING OVER TO Herons Landing, Seth passed two kids, about nine years old, racing their bikes down the quiet street lined with bright pink flowering plum trees and waved back at Otto and Alma Karlsson, who were sitting in rockers on their front porch. They’d celebrated their sixtieth anniversary in the town hall this past Valentine’s Day. The party had originally been planned to take place in the friendship hall of the Swedish Seamen’s Lutheran church, but when so many townspeople wanted to join in the celebration, it had been moved to the larger venue.
Turning left on Mountain View, the sight of Mellie and Jake Johnson pushing their two toddlers in a double stroller had him rubbing his chest. If he and Zoe had been successful in their baby-making plan, their child would be about the same age as the Johnson’s twins. It also occurred to him that, in a space of less than three minutes, he’d witnessed a circle of life. From the babies and their parents, to the preteens, to the elderly Karlssons.
Although she might have arrived in Honeymoon Harbor from Astoria, Zoe’s father’s family, like Seth’s own and the Mannions, were early settlers. From time to time he’d be dragged into pioneer celebrations, which he’d always enjoyed growing up, but the last few times had only made him all too aware that Zoe wasn’t there with him.
Putting that thought away in the mental lockbox, where he kept all things Zoe, he made another turn that took him past the high wrought iron gates of the cemetery, and along the water to the house in question.
The Queen Anne–era Victorian boasted three stories, four fireplaces, a turret and a curved porch with a view of both water and mountains. Back when it had been built by a timber baron in the late 1800s, at least two of the five acres it sat on had been gardens, which had long ago gone to weed.
He was standing on temporary gravel that had been planned to be a stone paver driveway, hands on his hips, looking up at the new slate roof that had cost an arm and leg but was historically accurate, when Brianna pulled up behind his truck.
The first thing he noticed when she climbed out of the snazzy red convertible, which wasn’t all that practical for the rainy Pacific Northwest, was how long her legs were. Why hadn’t he ever noticed that before? She was wearing a pair of cropped skinny jeans and a shirt blooming with hibiscus blossoms open over a white tank top. Her turquoise flats had little bows on the toes like the ones he remembered on Zoe’s ballet slippers during those years her mother had made her take dance lessons. Hopefully, Zoe had complained, with a roll of her expressive dark eyes, to make her more girly so she’d give up any idea of being a soldier.
Which, duh, hadn’t worked all that well since once Zoe Robinson got an idea in her head, it was impossible to shake it out. Still, those pale pink slippers with the lace-up ribbons and scuffed-up soles she was always having to clean were why those combat boots he’d last seen his wife wearing at her deployment ceremony at JBLM had always seemed so out of place.
Seeing his new best human friend again, Bandit loped over and jumped up, putting his paws on Brianna’s shoulders. At the same time a cloud overhead started spitting rain, making her colorful Las Vegas–style outfit all the more impractical. Which, even as he yelled at his dog to get down, had Seth wondering if it would really be possible for a woman who’d harbored such glamorous, big-city dreams to come home again.
The sudden cloudburst had soaked her, revealing a lacy bra beneath the white tank clinging to her lean body. It had been nearly three years since he’d seen a woman’s bra that wasn’t on a commercial for the Victoria’s Secret fashion show that’d pop up every year on ESPN. As an unbidden and entirely unwelcome feeling stirred, he snagged one of the emergency slickers he kept on hand for clients—usually Californians who didn’t understand the concept of weather changing on a dime—from his truck’s club cab back seat and held it out to her.
“Thanks.” She shrugged into it, covering up that see-through tank. “I remembered to put the top up on the car when I crossed the border into Oregon, but forgot the cardinal rule of never being without a rain jacket.” The sleeves fell nearly over her hands, which were tipped in coral lacquered nails that matched the flowers on her shirt. Each ring fingernail had a tiny white blossom with rhinestone centers painted on it, which was something he couldn’t remember ever seeing in Honeymoon Harbor.
“You probably didn’t need a slicker all that much in Vegas,” he said.
“That would be true. I know people up here dream of retiring to the desert, and a lot do, if all those gray-, blue-and purple-haired elderly ladies who’d camp out at the slots were any indication, but I never got the appeal. Natives would say there were two seasons: hot and hotter. I always thought there were three: hot, pizza oven hot and hell.” She lifted those colorful fingertips to her cheek. “And the lack of humidity, while good for hair, was horrible on the skin.”
Her skin looked just fine to him. When he found himself wondering if her smooth cheek felt as silky as it looked, the resultant stab of guilt jerked his mind back to their reason for being here.
“The color leaves a lot to be desired,” she said, looking up at what Seth personally considered an abomination, but the previous buyers had been adamant about wanting their very own painted lady.
“It’s undoubtedly visible from space,” he said.
“I would’ve gone with blue, to echo the water. Or perhaps yellow, to brighten the winter days. With crisp white trim.”
“Both of which I suggested.”
“Great minds.” She flashed him a smile that was like a ray of sun shining from the quilted gray sky and momentarily warmed some cold, dark place inside him.
“You sure you don’t want to come back another day? When it’s drier?”
“The roof’s new, right?” She glanced up at the randomly placed multicolored tiles in shades of blue and gray.
“It is. And not the fake stuff, but real slate formed by hand right here on the peninsula in Port Angeles. It’ll last another hundred years.”
“Then it won’t leak on us.”
“Not even during a downpour.” Which this wasn’t.
“So there’s nothing stopping us from going in.”
“It’s a mess.”
“I heard.”
“And you’re not exactly dressed for climbing over boards and nails.” He looked down at the flats.
“Good point.” She glanced over at the car. “Hold on a minute.”
As he watched, she ran over to the convertible, Bandit right on her heels, popped the trunk, opened a suitcase and pulled out a pair of yellow Keds with perky white daisies printed on the canvas. She sat down on the edge of the trunk and changed. The Keds weren’t proper boots, but if she was careful and he could keep her from climbing any leftover scaffolding, they’d work.
“Ready,” she said. Since she hadn’t pulled out any rain gear, he guessed she hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said that she didn’t own any.
The snazzy car, along with the flowery blouse, which looked to be real silk and not the polyester Zoe had always bought at Target, suggested that she’d been well paid. But as two other owners in the last decade had proven, renovating a house like Herons Landing was neither easy nor inexpensive. And it also took time. He wondered if she ought to try staying in Honeymoon Harbor for a while before buying, just to be certain she found the town to be a good fit after all these years away.
“I’ve been homesick for a while,” she said when he carefully brought the subject up. “The idea had been simmering beneath the surface for some time, but I was too busy and distracted by work to recognize it. The minute I saw it was for sale, I felt the tug to come home.”
It was his turn to shrug. Hell, it was her problem, and her money. If it was what she really wanted to do, he’d make it happen. Not just because he was the best guy in Washington to pull the job off, but, other than himself, Brianna Mannion had been Zoe’s best friend. He owed it to her.
“Some folks around here still claim it’s haunted,” he said, taking her arm as he led her up the steps to the front door.
“Some folks also claim Bigfoot’s out there roaming around in the woods,” Brianna countered. “And if you believe the supermarket tabloids, actual sparkly vampires exist in Forks.”
“True. But a couple who bought it three years ago believed the stories enough to hire a Ghostbuster.”
She looked up at him. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Not to get rid of her, but to connect on some ethereal plane. They wanted a self-proclaimed paranormal investigator to make sure she didn’t mind them living in her space.”
“I guess she told them that she did mind? Since they didn’t finish the project?”
“I’ve no idea since I didn’t ask and they didn’t tell.”
“I never really believed in her,” Brianna said. “Or, more, I never saw any proof. But I never disbelieved, either.”
“Whichever, they were arrested for running a Ponzi scheme disguised as a hedge fund and the property was seized by the government.” Leaving his bank account to take a huge hit when he’d been forced to pay for the materials and subcontractors out of his own pocket.
“Last summer it was bought at auction by a couple of doctors from the Bay Area who got tired of the San Francisco rat race and decided it would be fun to run a bed-and-breakfast. We’d barely started working on the interior when the docs realized what living in a construction zone would feel like. As their costs escalated, they got a divorce and bailed on the deal by declaring bankruptcy. We’re far enough down the debtor’s list, I doubt we’ll ever see a dime.”
“It sounds as if this place has turned into a money pit for you.”
“Enough that Dad decided the house may not be haunted, but it’s definitely cursed.”
Having to listen to his father’s nonstop bitching about Seth letting them get shafted, not once, but twice, had been the worst part of the deals. He’d have to remember to be outside when he told his old man about their new client. Because Ben Harper was flat-out going to hit the roof.
He wondered how much he should tell her about his parent’s separation, then decided, what the hell. Since she’d undoubtedly hear about his family’s domestic drama soon enough, he might as well let her know right off the bat.
“There is one thing that might cause a problem, so if you’re going to be around the house during work hours—”
“That would be my plan.”
“Then you need to know that my parents are currently separated.”
“Oh.” She tilted her head. “I’m sorry. That must be difficult for you. Being in the middle.”
“It’s not a walk in the park. But the reason I’m telling you up front is that it might concern you, too.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because my mom’s dating again.”
“I guess that’s a good thing? For her, anyway.”
“It seems to be. But here’s what could be a problem...the guy she’s seeing is your uncle.”
“Uncle Mike?”
“Yeah. I don’t know how serious things have gotten between them, but I had dinner with them at Leaf—which is this new vegetarian place that’s opened up since the last time you were here—”
“I saw the building. Near the park. Did you do the work?”
“Yeah. They hired a designer for the interior decorator stuff, but I drew up the plans and did the construction part of the job.”
“You’re awfully modest for a man who won an award for environmental historical renovation and remodeling.”
“Sounds like you really checked out the town’s website.”
“As I said, I’ve been homesick. I saw your award. That’s impressive.”
He shrugged. “There’s a lot happening in the historical environmental field right now,” he said, shaking off the cloud that had returned to hang over them. “I enjoy attending seminars on the various views and options.”
Not wanting her to think he was blowing his own horn, something his dad had taught him at an early age Harpers didn’t do, he didn’t tell her that he’d given a lot of those seminars himself. Just like they weren’t that generous with compliments, Harper men weren’t that good with accepting them. Another possible reason his mother seemed so attracted to Mike Mannion, who appeared to hand them out like penny candy.
Once again, Seth was forced to consider the idea that his parents’ separation could well become permanent. Then, once again, he reminded himself that they were adults and their relationship, whatever the hell it was or wasn’t these days, was none of his business.
“Anyway, getting back to Dad, he might not be all that cooperative.”
“Believe me,” she said on a laugh, “in the hospitality business you learn to deal with uncooperative people. Many of whom are males.”
Her rich, warm laugh caused a tug of something he’d thought he’d never feel again. Something that was too close to desire for comfort. Which was why Seth immediately shut it down. Even if he were looking for any kind of relationship, which he wasn’t, getting involved with his wife’s best friend would just be too weird.
Which made Brianna Mannion definitely off-limits.
As he used his key to open the lockbox on the door, Seth reminded himself that he’d be wise to remember that.
CHAPTER EIGHT (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
HE HADN’T BEEN EXAGGERATING. However, from what he and Kylee had told her, Brianna had expected the cobwebs, mouse droppings and graffiti she remembered from those youthful days of breaking in. The graffiti was still there on the unfortunately ugly wallpapered foyer walls, but the only thing covering the floors was taped-down paper, sawdust and a few scattered nails. Scaffolding and sawhorses supporting long pieces of Sheetrock as tabletops took up much of the covered floors.
“The interior walls are all gone.” That had been a spooky, but in a weird way, fun thing about the house. Going from parlor to parlor, never knowing what lurked around a corner. Pipes and wires between studs were all that remained.
Broad shoulders lifted and fell in what appeared to be a resigned shrug. “They thought open concept on the first floor would make for a communal experience.”
“I can’t argue with that. Especially when you’re hosting a group that wants to spend time together. But they seem to have overdone the concept.”
“Again, we’re in full agreement.”
“Could you put some walls back in?”
“Sure. We’ll have to move some electrical and plumbing, and you’ll probably need to change the HVAC, but it’s doable. Were you thinking of going more back to the original layout?”
“A combination would be good.” She’d decided that on the long drive home. “Some small parlor rooms for more intimate conversations, and even private meals. But I want a wide-open kitchen with plenty of room to serve breakfast.”
Attacking her research the same way she had in her previous occupation, she’d bought two audiobooks about the business of establishing and running a B and B that she’d listened to along the drive, pulling off at exits every so often to write down notes in the three-ring binder she’d bought before leaving Las Vegas. She also had three more books on her Kindle waiting to be read.
She looked a long way up. “The mural is still there.”
Rather than depicting the mythological figures popular at the time the house was built, these were scenes of the peninsula—from the cliffs and crashing waves, to the glaciers of Mount Olympus, standing tall over Hurricane Ridge, to the towering hemlock and Douglas firs, the fields of lavender farms, the strait leading to the Puget Sound cities of Seattle, Tacoma and Olympia, the dazzling blue bay that Honeymoon Harbor had been built on.
Scattered throughout the quadrants were the Native American original settlers, the ships, including Captain Vancouver’s Discovery, fishermen and builders like Seth’s family. Unsurprising, given that the house had been contracted by a timber baron, loggers claimed the center.
“I had to fight to keep that,” he revealed. “The doctors wanted to paint over it and hang a massive chandelier they were bringing in from some old Italian chateau. Fortunately, the historical preservation folks stepped in to back me up since it turned out to have been painted by Whistler.”
“The Whistler? As in James McNeill Whistler?”
“The very same. The original owner of this place had seen one he’d painted on the dining room in the home of some wealthy Liverpool shipowner and wanted something like it for this house. The fact that he was an American pulled a lot of weight with the historical committee.”
“That makes it even more special. If I make a separate page for it on the website, it might even bring in historical art lovers wanting to stay here. Whistler’s got to have a following, right?”
“Could be,” Seth agreed. “The same way people go around the country searching out certain architects’ work.”
“Though, of course, that alone might not cause them to stay more than a single night. Fortunately, with the National Park and the proximity to the coast, and Victoria, BC, we’ve lots of other local things for visitors to do that will keep them here for at least a weekend, or longer. I’m going to make a list and put together packages on the site.”
“You’ve thought this through if you’ve gotten to planning a website.”
“It’s a nineteen-hour drive and a two-hour ferry ride from Las Vegas to Honeymoon Harbor. That gave me a lot of time to think. And I can tell from the expression on your face that you think it’s just a whim, but it’s not. Maybe the idea sounds impulsive, but it’s been percolating in the back of my mind for a long time. It just took an inciting incident to bring it to the surface.”
Seth thought about asking what incident that might be, wondered if it had anything to do with a guy, then decided the less he knew about Brianna’s personal life, the better.
“Except for updating all the wiring in the place to keep the house from being a fire hazard, the second floor hasn’t been touched,” he said as they walked toward the back stairs.
Bandit usually took the opportunity to patrol the perimeter for renegade squirrels if no worker was around to mooch from, but today he seemed to have decided to tag along with the pretty new lady.
“The circular stairway in the front entry is a showcase, but if it were the only one, the owners—who I guess would now be you—would have to keep running into guests.” Which he personally wouldn’t enjoy. Then again, ever since his wife got blown up, no one would refer to him as Mr. Hospitality on his best day.
“Good point,” she said.
“The third story attic’s been turned into a penthouse with its own kitchen. The previous owners intended to live there.”
She shuddered. “I remember bats.”
“They’re all gone. Though there is a bat house at the far end of the property, not far from the pond. Not only are they good for pollinating plants, one little brown guy can eat a thousand mosquitoes a night.”
“That’s a plus,” she allowed.
“All the windows, including those in the attic dormers, have been reglazed,” he assured her. “That wavy glass was a better insulator back then and, hell, it just looks better.”
Brianna paused on the landing leading up to what was once an attic crowded with junk. And mice. And, yes, bats. She’d gotten one tangled up in her hair one night, he recalled. He’d managed to free her, but not before she’d practically blown out his eardrums with her screeching.
While Zoe had long dark curls, Brianna’s hair was the color of caramel streaked with gold. As he got a whiff of its citrusy scent, he wondered if the streaks had been created by the blazing desert sun, or if she’d paid for them in some chichi salon. Not that he cared. It was just a random thought.
“I can tell why you deserved to win that award,” she said, thankfully unaware of his thoughts. “You really care.”
“Harpers built most of these old buildings,” he said. “It only makes sense that I’d want them to stay true to the original vision.”
“Yet with your credentials, you could work anywhere. You’d undoubtedly be in demand in lots of big cities where you could make more money.”
“I have all the money I need. And I like it here just fine. Though I have done a couple jobs, for cost, in Portland and Seattle for preservationists wanting to save them from the wrecking ball.”
She gave him another slanted-head look, as if working for free hadn’t been a concept in her high-flying world. Which, he figured, it probably hadn’t been.
“Let me show you the penthouse.” As he followed her up the stairs, it would have been impossible not to notice that she had a very fine ass filling out the back of those skinny jeans.
Off-limits, he reminded himself firmly.
CHAPTER NINE (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)
“OH, WOW.” Brianna stopped in the doorway of what she’d remembered as a spooky, cluttered bat attic. “This is an amazing space.” She walked in and turned around, arms outspread. “You could have the entire cast of Swan Lake dancing on these floors.” Which were natural light maple coated to a soft sheen.
“Different strokes. I pictured the Trail Blazers running up and down the court.”
“That’s ’cause you’re a guy.” A fact that, as she felt herself drowning in two deep pools of hot fudge, she was all too aware of. She glanced a long way up. “I don’t remember the ceiling being this high.”
“It wasn’t. We raised the roof another four feet, which brought it to twelve feet.”
“I couldn’t tell from the outside. But this makes it so bright and airy. Especially with the open beams and skylights you’ve added to the original dormer windows.”
She walked over to the window and looked out over the water, where a successful haul had a pair of fishing boats moving slowly and heavily into port. A gleaming bridal-white and grass-green ferry chugged across the bay. In the distance, the wooded islands appeared like emeralds on a bed of sapphire silk.
He gave her a brief tour, showing her the small three-quarters bath with a large shower with two walls glass, and the other two subway tile with gray grout. There was also a long counter with double sinks. She would have liked a tub, but lounging in a tub probably wasn’t something she’d have time for anyway.
The walls had been painted a soft grayish sage that blended with the various shades of green outside the windows. A kitchen area with maple cabinets and a gray quartz counter ran along one wall, and a large island divided the living space. The new gas fireplace featured a surround created by vertical strips of marble in grays and whites.
“It’s interesting that they chose such calming colors when the exterior is so discordant,” she mused.
“I figured they thought people would expect bright colors on a Queen Anne,” Seth said. “Or maybe they’d always dreamed of owning a painted lady of their own back home in San Francisco.”
“Whichever, paint can always be changed. Meanwhile, this space is lovely. You’ve almost made me forget the bats.”
“All the vent openings are well screened,” he assured her. “They can’t get in.”
“That’s good to know.” She crossed the room and looked out the windows facing the opposite side of the house, toward the snowcapped mountains, where blue and yellow wildflowers danced in the meadows. “The heron nests are still there.”
The great blue heron was iconic to the Pacific Northwest, celebrated in art going back to the earliest Native Americans. The massive nests on this property had been built in towering Douglas firs over years of breeding seasons, with birds building new nests with sticks and twigs every year. Glancing out, she could count five, though she remembered as many as a dozen at one time.
“Lucky,” he said. “Now you won’t have to change the name.”
She glanced over her shoulder and realized he was standing close behind her. Close enough for her to breathe in the brisk scent of his soap, like the towering fir trees blanketing the mountains, along with an undernote of workingman musk that was clouding her mind. “Lucky,” she murmured, knowing that he was joking. Despite the town’s long-ago name change, tradition was taken seriously in Honeymoon Harbor. Whoever owned the house, whatever it became, this would always be known as Herons Landing.
“As much as I love my parents, I’d feel like a teenager living there all the time it’s going to take to remodel,” she said, moving out of the danger zone before turning around to face him again. “I thought I’d rent in town for now, then eventually live in the carriage house for more privacy when I got up and running, but for now, this would be perfect.”
“And noisy,” he warned her. “Because you’d be living over a construction zone.”
“Ah, but it’d be convenient, because I’d be on-site instead of having to drive in from the farm every day.”
“You really do intend to be hands-on.” The tone was neutral, but she sensed that he was wary about that idea. Given the previous buyers’ choice of exterior paint, she understood his caution.
“I have some ideas,” she admitted. “But you’ve been essentially living with the house, through two earlier owners, and from what you’ve told me so far, you and I are on the same page. Though you’re way ahead of me because I never, in a million years, would’ve thought of this. Obviously you’ve drawn up plans.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to see them.”
“Absolutely. I also have the originals if you’d like to compare.”
“The originals?” He might as well have told her he’d found the Holy Grail. “Seriously?”
“They were in some dusty old filing cabinets. Harper Construction built the most iconic buildings in town. Like the library, the city hall, the buildings where both your uncle and brother set up shop. We’ve always been proud of that.”
“As you should be,” she agreed without hesitation. “I just never expected them to still be around. What shape are they in?”
“A little yellowed. Brown around the edges. But they’re still readable. And apparently Jacob Harper, Nathaniel’s older brother who built the place in 1894, had a sense of history or immortality, or, if he was anything like Dad, worried about someone stealing them, because he signed every page.”
“Oh, wow.” Her heart began doing a happy samba at that news. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let me buy the pages with the layouts of the room and exterior? To frame?”
“Sorry, they’re not for sale.”
“I understand.” Which was true. Disappointing, but true. They might not be as famous as Captain Vancouver’s ship logs, but they were a large part of Honeymoon Harbor’s history. Why should he sell them off? Especially to a Mannion?
“Though I can give them to you. After I get them copied.”
He’d been one of the nicest boys she’d known. Which was saying something, since she’d always found her brothers very special. It was also why, although there were times she’d admittedly been envious of Zoe, she’d never been jealous of her best friend for having Seth Harper fall in love with her. Apparently, despite the grief she could tell he was still experiencing, he hadn’t changed. Now he was one of the nicest men she knew. Working with him, while not proving to be all that easy on her hormones, was going to be a pleasure.
“I’d love that. Thank you. But since they’re a Harper family heirloom, I’d be thrilled just to have the copies.” She could already imagine them on the wall. Not in frames, she decided. But shadow boxes to honor them with the importance they deserved.
“They’re all yours.”
An easy silence settled over them as they both looked around, imagining the house as it could be. “It’s going to be wonderful,” she breathed. “Since so many of the guests will be coming here for the outdoor activities, I want an easy, simple style they can feel comfortable in. Where they don’t have to worry about knocking over a gilt-rimmed vase. But I also want to celebrate the curves and quality of the time.”
“Dressing your Victorian dowager in flannel shirts, jeans, hiking boots, while keeping her good set of pearls.”
He’d surprised her. Until she thought about it a second. This house might be her dream. But in a way, the entire town was both Seth’s family history and daily reality as he brought Harper-constructed buildings back to life. He was the one who’d dedicated his life to blending the disparate eras.
“I wonder if people realize how lucky they are that you decided to stay here in Honeymoon Harbor,” she said. She had no doubt he could make a great deal more in most older cities in the country.
He shrugged. “I never had any desire to go anywhere else.
“How about you drop by the office tomorrow?” he suggested. “About noon. We can go over the original blueprints and what I came up with, both before and after the lower floor walls came out, and you can give me your ideas.”
“I’d love that. I’ll bring lunch.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Tonight’s my first night home in two years,” she said. “Which means Mom’s going to make way too much fried chicken and potato salad.” Although her mother might not have allowed processed food in her home while Brianna had been growing up, Sarah Mannion’s fried chicken, which had won awards at the county and state fairs, was a family favorite for special occasions. “There’ll be leftovers.”
“I’d never turn down your mom’s chicken,” he said. “So, moving on, how would you like to see an idea I had for the second floor tower room? The previous owners turned it down, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to pitch it again.”
“I’d love to hear any ideas you have.” After checking out Harper Construction’s website, she’d been blown away by their portfolio.
They left the large room and headed back down to the second floor, followed by Bandit, claws clicking on the wooden stairs. As he’d warned her, the second floor hadn’t been touched except for all the open wall spaces where outdated electrical and plumbing had been replaced.
“We also added air-conditioning,” he said. “Which didn’t used to be needed here, but the past summers have had some hot spells, so it seemed prudent. There’s a solar unit on the back side of the roof you can’t see from the front that provides the power.”
“Does solar really make that much of a difference here?” In Las Vegas, it made sense, but even here in the rain shadow so-called “banana belt” of Washington State, which received less rain than Seattle, winter days were still long and dark this far north.
“True,” he said when she shared that thought. “But conversely, summers are sunny and clear and can stretch from a five a.m. sunrise to ten p.m. sunset. That produces a lot of free, clean energy, which doesn’t all get used because the temperatures, which are admittedly rising, are still fairly mild. And here’s the best part. When you produce more solar energy than you need, it gets sent back to the utility grid. Net energy metering rewards you for producing electricity for your neighbors by paying you for the extra solar power.”
“Like spinning the meter backward?”
“Exactly.” His smile wasn’t as intimate as the ones she’d watched him bestowing on Zoe Robinson all during high school, but the warmest she’d seen since her arrival. Kylee might be right about food being the way to a man’s heart, but just perhaps, talking construction and energy conservation was the way to Seth’s.
But no... They were merely two old friends embarking on a joint project that would prove equally fulfilling and profitable. Reminding herself that she hadn’t come back to Honeymoon Harbor to attempt to hook up with her best friend’s widower, Brianna turned her mind back to their conversation.
“The credits show up on your bill, and the law requires that you be reimbursed for every kilowatt hour of electricity you produce. At minimum the power company has to pay you the same rate they charge you. So, the summer credits add up for you to use in the winter. Which, since we’re doing a green renovation, with all the insulation and other stuff I don’t want to bore you with until you’re sure you really want to do this—”
“I’m sure.” She’d thought it all through on the drive home and had convinced herself that she wasn’t really acting on impulse. That returning home and buying Herons Landing was what she wanted to do with this next phase of her life. But, admittedly, there’d been those nagging little thoughts of, Do you really want to throw away all you’ve worked for?
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JoAnn Ross
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: There’s no place to fall in love like the place you left your heart Welcome to Honeymoon Harbor, the brand-new, long-awaited series by beloved New York Times bestselling author JoAnn Ross, where unforgettable characters come face-to-face with the kind of love that grabs your heart and never lets go.Working as a Las Vegas concierge, Brianna Mannion is an expert at making other people’s wishes come true. It’s satisfying work, but a visit home to scenic Honeymoon Harbor turns into a permanent stay when she′s reminded of everything she’s missing: the idyllic small-town charm, the old Victorian house she’d always coveted, and Seth Harper, her best friend’s widower and the neighborhood boy she once crushed on—hard. After years spent serving others, maybe Brianna’s finally ready to chase dreams of her own.Since losing his wife, Seth has kept busy running the Harper family’s renovation business and flying way under the social radar. But when Brianna hires him to convert her aging dream home into a romantic B&B, working together presents a heart-stopping temptation Seth never saw coming. With guilt and grief his only companions for so long, he’ll have to step out of the past long enough to recognize the beautiful life they could build together.