Читать книгу Return to Pelican Inn - Dana Mentink - Страница 12
ОглавлениеROSA ALTERNATELY PUZZLED and fumed all the way back to Tumbledown.
Cy was not at the appointed meeting place outside the estate sale. Since her brother wore no watch and paid scant attention to his cell phone when in the throes of an antique hunt, there was nothing to be done but track him down on foot. She stepped out of the car and trudged through a trellis laden with clematis and into a well-appointed Tudor-style home filled with customers and eager sale attendants.
She found Cy in the living room, a wall sconce in each hand, standing like the figurehead from some strange pirate ship.
An old lady with startling bluish hair arranged in perfect springy curls tried to snatch them out of his grip.
“I got them first,” she said.
The normally unflappable Cy yanked back. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But these are mine. I found them, and I’ve got an inn to refurbish.”
She glowered up at him. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a store to fill and original sconces will sell.”
“They’re reproductions.”
The old lady glared as if he’d sworn at her. “Liar. They’re Colonial Revival, circa 1920.”
Cy glared back, though he had to bend down to look the ferocious female in the eyes. “Circa 1925.” He drew out the last word into the full measure of syllables. “Reeeproductionssssss.”
Her face twisted into a deeper scowl. “Aged brass.”
Cy drew himself up to his full six feet. “Cast metal.”
She fell back slightly, a flicker of uncertainty on her wrinkled face, and Cy went in for the kill. Leaning close, he delivered the coup de grace. “Polychrome finish.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I think I know you. Did you go to school here?”
Cy nodded, snapping his fingers. “You’re Miss Flaubert, the freshman English teacher.”
“Retired teacher,” she said sharply. “And you’re Cy Franco, C-minus student who wrote an essay about promoting nudist beaches here in Tumbledown.”
Rosa felt her cheeks warm.
Cy laughed. “Yep, that was me. Awesome that you remember my paper after all these years.”
Miss Flaubert’s gaze found Rosa and shifted back to Cy. “You two were memorable, all right.” With a sniff, she stalked off, muttering angry words under her breath.
Cy spotted Rosa and waved the sconces. “I had to fight the English teacher for ’em.”
“So I heard.” She risked a look around to see if anyone else had taken note of the exchange, but no one appeared at all interested. “Ready to go?”
He shot a mournful glance at the remaining treasures. “I guess. I’ve got a box waiting for me at the pay table.”
“Cy...” she warned.
“Don’t worry. Just a lamp and a small piece of stained glass.”
They lined up to pay and Rosa filled him in.
“So, you think Pike’s trying to put the squeeze on Bitsy to sell?” Cy asked, eyes wide.
“Seems like it.”
“Then why help her enter the contest in the first place?”
Rosa shrugged. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”
As they waited by the tables crowded with items, Rosa’s attention was caught by an old black-and-white photo of a man perched proudly on the bow of a small boat. Before she knew it, her memories took her back to Pike’s exquisite eighteen foot runabout, listening to him ramble on about the mahogany decks that he himself had restored. She hadn’t cared one bit about anything relating to boats, but back then, her sixteen-year-old self had been more than impressed by his heart-melting smile and, yes, the dimple in his strong chin.
Pike was completely at home on that boat, more comfortable than she’d ever seen him strolling down the halls of their high school. She’d always thought there was some sort of tension in him, some coiled spring inside, in spite of the easy smile and elegant posture. Lost in the memory, she could feel the wind whipping her hair, his hand on the small of her back.
On that boat, the sleek Poppy’s Dream, Pike was truly at home.
Until the day when Poppy’s Dream was delivered to the bottom of the Pacific.
She remembered his handsome face twisted with rage, nearly unrecognizable, when her father began to investigate. Pike, he believed, helped his own father commit insurance fraud by sinking the exquisite boat to recoup the $100,000 insurance money they’d pretended not to need.
There was a history that hinted at fraud, Manny Franco had said. Past events that painted an entirely different picture of Pike and his kin. Facts she was unaware of.
You’re wrong, Dad, she’d told him.
Whatever Pike’s family may or may not have planned, Pike did not sink that boat. She knew it then with all the certainty of her steadfast teenage heart. He loved Poppy’s Dream too much. The proof was in his long fingers trailing over the gleaming wood, the way he’d settled into the captain’s seat with a sheen of awe in his brown eyes. The passion in his voice when he’d told Rosa every last detail about acquiring the antique vessel and his dreams to start a sailing school.
He’d never forgiven her father for the accusation.
Or Rosa for being related to him. And now Pike’s father was gone, dead of a heart attack some four years prior.
Someone jostled Rosa out of her reverie, and Cy forked over fifty dollars to the beaming attendant. Five thousand minus fifty. Four thousand, nine hundred and fifty dollars left to transform a tired old fowl into a regal bird.
Cy handed her a box to carry while he took possession of his hard-won wall sconces. On the way to the car, Rosa’s foot caught on a loose brick that edged the lawn. The box tumbled to the ground as she sprawled on the sidewalk, the heel of her shoe breaking clean off.
Cy helped her up and retrieved the box, which was still mercifully taped shut, and handed it to her. She shook it gently. Glass tinkled inside. “Uh-oh.”
His expression was pained. “It was a stained glass panel. The colors are out of this world. Don’t worry. I can probably fix it.”
With a sigh, Rosa schlepped the box to the car and loaded it into the trunk.
The sun was low in the sky, painting the town in umber and gold as they drove back to the Pelican. This time, she rolled the window down and kissed her hairdo goodbye.
Cy sang to himself, content in the passenger seat, fingers pounding a drum lick on his thighs. She was used to driving everywhere they went. Cy had only been driving for a few short weeks after getting his license when he’d struck a child riding a bike. The child had recovered, Cy had not. He’d never tried driving again. They zoomed along against the backdrop of a spectacular sunset, and Rosa could not help but revel in it.
When they finally traipsed into the inn, the smell of roast chicken greeted them. Baggy was lapping up a bowl of broth and rice.
“Baggy seems to be missing some teeth, so I thought maybe soft foods were the way to go,” Bitsy said, ushering them to the table. Pike was already seated there, looking like the lord of the manor in his clean shirt and jeans. Rosa felt more like a court jester as she furtively attempted to smooth her hair and straighten her blouse, limping to the table on her broken shoe.
“What happened to you?” Pike asked.
She flashed him a snooty look. “It was just some trouble relating to wall sconces.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave her a smile that, she was annoyed to discover, transformed his face from arrogant to breathtakingly handsome.
“I had no idea the decorating business could be so dangerous,” he said.
And the lawyering business is about to take a nasty turn, too, she thought, trying to figure out how to steer the conversation toward his plans for Bitsy’s inn. She decided to do some fishing over the delectable herbed chicken and creamy roasted potatoes.
“I went to see the Great Escapes people today,” she said. “Wanda says hello.”
“Wanda?” Pike frowned as he selected a pillowy roll and passed the basket to Cy. “Oh, red-haired lady. Right.”
“She told me you helped Bitsy prepare the contest materials. That was nice of you.”
Pike nodded. “I’m Bitsy’s lawyer. I created a history of the inn to be used for other purposes, and Bitsy attached it to the entry form.”
Bitsy smiled. “Oh, you’re much more than just my lawyer. You’re my darling nephew, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She shot a look at Rosa. “I can’t figure out why you two never got along. You’re both such angels to me. Here you are, Rosa, with Cy, ready to transform my inn, and Pike has helped me manage the legalities of this old place ever since he finished law school.”
“You could have done it, too, Rosa,” Pike said. “Why did you decide on that career change, by the way?”
She tried to read his expression. Was he baiting her or simply curious? “Never mind.”
“It’s a big job, running a bed-and-breakfast,” Pike said, eyeing Rosa as he spoke. “Too big.”
Rosa put her fork down. Time to take off the gloves. “Are you trying to pressure Bitsy to sell this place? Is that why you don’t want us here?”
“No one is pressuring me to do anything, honey,” Bitsy said, taking a tiny sip of water. “I’m not that pliable. I do what I want to.”
“And you don’t want to sell,” Rosa said. “But Pike thinks you should.”
Pike stared at Rosa and put down his fork. “I’m going to come right out and say it. I think it would be better for her to sell than participate in some cockamamie contest that, at best, will disrupt her life and, at worst, bring in more guests than she can handle.” He sat back. “That’s my position and I’m working toward getting the Pelican sold. With Bitsy’s permission, I might add.”
“Your position is wrong,” Rosa snapped.
“You’ve been here all of three hours and you think you know what’s best for my aunt?”
“Maybe I do,” she retorted.
“You’re not a lawyer, remember?”
“Hang on,” Bitsy said, an offended gleam in her eye. “As far as I can tell, I’m still in the room. I love the Pelican and I want to see her spread her wings again. I’m not a spring chicken, but I’m not dead quite yet.”
Rosa and Pike both started to speak, but Bitsy held up a hand and silenced them. “We will finish out this contest and see where things lie, but in the meantime, I want everyone to try and get along. Is that clear?” She directed a stern, blue-eyed stare at Rosa and Pike.
“Yes, ma’am,” Pike said, after a moment.
Bitsy gave them an impish smile. “I’m not sure that sounded sincere. You’ll both get along for the sake of your cherished aunt, won’t you?”
Rosa sighed, thinking it would probably be easier to negotiate peace in the Middle East.
“For you,” Pike said to Bitsy, “I will try.” He extended a hand to Rosa across the table. “Truce?”
A temporary one. Rosa reluctantly stretched out her own hand and Pike clasped it. His palms should be clammy and soft, she thought. Reptilian, perhaps. Instead, they were strong and warm, sending an electric shock through her body. She pulled her hand away and hastily shoved some chicken into her mouth.
Cy began to happily wolf down every morsel that passed near his plate except for the chicken, which he declined on account of his longstanding vegetarianism. He stopped chewing only for a moment when his phone chirped, indicating a text. “I think it’s from Dad,” he said, consulting the screen, “but it makes no sense. He hasn’t gotten the hang of text speak.”
Pike stiffened. “So what is your old man up to these days? Falsely accusing other families?”
“Pike,” Bitsy warned. “We just agreed to a truce, remember?”
Rosa glared at him. “And I thought we weren’t going to bring up family business.”
“Guilty conscience?”
She dropped her fork with a clatter. “I don’t have anything to feel guilty about, Pike.”
“You agree with your father, then? You think my family and I set out to commit fraud?”
Rosa bit her lip. “I don’t have to agree with him to defend him. He’s my father.”
“Oh, yeah,” Pike said. “And he’s done such a great job in that role. When was the last time you saw him?”
Rosa clamped her mouth closed.
“Too far, Pike,” Cy said, his customary smile gone. “Back off.”
Rosa felt the tears gather. Her brother was her stalwart defender, the only man she could rely on. She abruptly shot to her feet, determined not to let Pike see her cry. “I’ve got plans to sketch,” she said.
Pike half rose as she bolted past, as if he meant to stop her. To apologize? Not likely. She stomped up the stairs, stomach knotted, knee throbbing from her spill at the estate sale. He had no right. Arrogant, self-important jerk. In the little attic room, she tried to quiet her breathing. Just do what you know, Rosa. Do what you’re good at and don’t let Pike derail you.
She pulled out her stack of well-thumbed magazines, a book full of fabric swatches and her favorite stubby pencil with the paint chewed off in the middle. Closing her eyes, she tried to conjure up the essence of home.
* * *
ROSA WAS STILL wondering what she should do about Captain’s Nest the following morning, after she’d emailed the landlord of their rented home in Danville to collect the papers and mail during their absence. Too bad he wouldn’t allow them to skip the rent check, which she forced herself to write and send out. If money didn’t start coming in soon, she and Cy would be out on their ears.
In her fuzzy pajama pants and T-shirt, Rosa paced the attic’s worn floorboards, ignoring the chill that seeped in through the ill-fitting window casement. Her watch read six thirty. Baggy tracked her movement with his steady eye. Cy was no doubt out for a run on the beach. And Pike? She didn’t have any idea where he was. Nor did she care, she told herself firmly.
Downstairs, someone knocked at the front door, sending Baggy galloping in excited circles until she opened the door and let him out. The knocking continued, but she ignored it. Should she try to talk to Bitsy again? Or let the subject of Captain’s Nest drop?
The knocking resumed.
Bitsy was probably out gardening.
She waited another minute, hoping the visitor would go away.
Another round of knocking destroyed that hope.
Blowing out a breath, Rosa headed downstairs, more to stop the incessant pounding than out of any real interest in whoever was on the porch. Her thoughts flipped through a mental Rolodex of design topics. Striped ticking slip covers to freshen up the sofa in the front room rather than reupholstering would free up some cash for airy curtains. Her mind stubbornly insisted on picturing these imaginary curtains hugging a certain window in a certain Captain’s Nest, despite Bitsy’s odd reticence about the room.
Knock, knock.
Her slippered feet flew down the stairs. “Stop knocking. I’m coming.”
Baggy leapt up and down as much as his stubby legs would allow.
“Hold on to your kibble, Baggy. I’m on it.”
She pulled open the door, letting in a swirl of air sharp with the tang of the sea. The man on the step stood with his callused hand raised to knock again, a shock of thick white hair hanging over a creased forehead. She blinked hard. Did she actually see the scar on his forearm, or was it a memory from long ago when he’d absentmindedly crashed into a sliding glass door?
A door in the place they’d rented in Tumbledown.
A place she’d finally dared to believe was home.
Home with the father who now stood before her on the porch, watching his daughter watching him.
