Читать книгу When Adam Came to Town - Kate Kelly, Kate Kelly - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

SYLVIE CARSON PUSHED the door to the family café open and made a beeline for the washrooms located at the front of the restaurant. She locked herself in a stall and thrust her head down between her knees. Breathe. She counted to seven before letting out her breath, blood rushing to her head.

Second breath. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. And out. The door to the washroom burst open.

“They’re taking bets out there on how many months along you are, and who the father is. Oliver’s in the lead.” Sylvie heard the scrape of a match as Teressa, head cook and childhood friend, lit a cigarette.

“No smoking in here,” Sylvie croaked. She sat up and braced her hand against the side of the stall as she waited for her equilibrium to even out.

“Like you’re going to fire me. You have a better chance of finding an available man who can support himself in this village than a professional cook. Unless you want to do my job. You’d have to learn how to boil water first, though.” Teressa snickered.

Sylvie pushed the stall door open with her foot. “Very funny.”

“For someone who has the perfect life, you’re sure acting like you’re at death’s door a lot.” Teressa frowned at her in the mirror. “Please tell me you’re not pregnant. It would ruin my day. You’re the golden girl, and golden girls do not mess up. Although having to marry the scrumptious Oliver...” Her friend looked away from her reflection in the mirror long enough to take another drag off her cigarette. “Hard to feel sorry for you, Syl.”

Teressa had two small children to support, both from different fathers, which made her life a scheduling nightmare. So, yes, from Teressa’s point of view, Sylvie’s life probably looked pretty good. She was single, made enough money that she didn’t have to worry about it and had even achieved a small amount of fame.

And it had all come to a crashing halt six months ago.

The curvy redhead took one last look at herself in the mirror and turned to face Sylvie. “No offense, but I don’t get why you’re still here. If I had your life, I’d be out of Collina like a shot. Your dad’s getting stronger every day. He’s out in the kitchen right now, trying to tell us all how to run a restaurant. You should stop torturing yourself and go back to Toronto and your cushy life.”

Sylvie sighed. Cushy life. Why did people think being an artist was easy? “Wait ’til everyone finds out that I’m not pregnant...that I’m just...whatever.”

Every day, that first step inside the café, the oh-my-God-what’s-happened-to-my-life moment, stole the breath right out of her body. She’d tried blaming the whole fiasco on her father’s heart attack and having to move home six months ago. Six months! Normal, well-adjusted people did not let their lives become gridlocked because their father got sick.

The first signs that her life had derailed came the day after her father’s heart attack. She’d gone into her studio, picked up a brush and painted mud. Okay, not mud. She was a skilled craftswoman, after all. But the tingle of magic she’d always felt had been absent, and it showed.

She and Oliver, her agent boyfriend, had tried to keep her problem under wraps, but rumors were starting to circulate about her inactivity. Oliver insisted she needed to return to Toronto, but Sylvie didn’t know if she’d be able to paint, or—worse—if she even wanted to. Either way, she wasn’t leaving until her father felt a hundred percent better. Then maybe they could discuss the real problem—the secrets her family had kept from her all these years.

Teressa stuck her cigarette under a stream of water, chucked it in the garbage and started washing her hands. “Well, boss, I came to tell you the customers are packing in for breakfast, and sweet little Tyler is hiding God knows where. I think he’s been alley-catting all night again. If his mother wasn’t the only decent hairdresser in town, I’d beg you to fire him. And, lentil soup, Sylvie? Again? Your father had the heart attack, not the entire village. We’re going to have a revolution on our hands if you put too much healthy stuff on the menu.” She stopped on her way to the door. “If I knew how to fix things for you, sweetie, you know I would, but I’m afraid you’re on your own with this one. Oh, and there’s a big bruiser of a guy waiting at the cash register. Haven’t seen him around before. He’ll start growing roots if he stands there much longer.”

Sylvie rubbed her hands over her face and levered herself off the toilet. “I’m right behind you. I’m good now.” But Teressa was already gone, the door swishing shut behind her.

Sylvie stood at the sink and scrubbed her hands. The panic attacks may have started after her father’s heart attack, but having to move home for a while hadn’t helped her being blocked and not able to paint. She knew her family and friends had her best interests at heart but she wished to God they’d stop asking if she had started painting again. Nothing like having your failure thrown in your face every day.

If she went back to Toronto—when she went back to Toronto... Her lungs seized up. Would it all come back to her? Her talent? Her bright, shining future? She’d lived and breathed painting for seventeen years and without it, she was lost.

Hell, at the moment she could hardly talk herself into leaving the washroom. Returning to Toronto seemed as inconceivable to her as swimming across the frigid Bay of Fundy that sat outside her door. No, for once in her life she had to make a decision completely on her own. She needed to stay home in Collina and figure out who she would have been if painting hadn’t become the central focus of her life.

When she dragged herself back into the dining area, Tyler was leaning his forehead against the cool, stainless steel soda machine, ignoring the man waiting at the cash two feet behind him.

Sylvie hurried across the room. She felt sorry for Tyler, nineteen and nothing to look forward to but more of the same. It was enough to drive anyone to drink. But she couldn’t afford to sympathize too much. Tyler had to pull his weight, or Pops would insist on spending even more time here. The heart specialist had been explicit last week, Pops was to work no more than two hours a day, and that was pushing it.

She was already desperate to find a second cook. But even though good help was slim pickings in the village, that didn’t mean she could let Tyler get away with too much. And God forbid her family let her work in the kitchen or try her hand at bookkeeping—not the talented Sylvie Carson. They thought they were freeing her up to pursue her dreams, but every time they said no, she felt more and more limited as to what she could do. Instead she was expected to sit and stare at an empty canvas and pray for inspiration.

“Be with you in a second,” she said to the man standing at the cash register. She huddled with Tyler in the corner. The tall, wiry teenager looked like he’d fall over if she breathed on him. “We’re busy, Ty. I need your help.”

He shot her a sheepish look. “My stomach’s all jumped up this morning.”

“Right.” She sighed, checked out the guy at cash again. He looked like he was trying not to grin. Another tourist soaking up the local color. She lowered her voice. “Go tell Pops. He’ll fix you up with his secret concoction. It’ll probably burn your toenails off, but it’ll settle your stomach.”

Summoning a smile, she scooted over to the cash register. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”

As she looked up at the man, his tawny gaze caught hers and pulled her in. He was tall and lean, his jean jacket outlining broad shoulders and a narrow waist. With an artist’s eye, she automatically studied the way he held himself, as if taking care not to disturb the air around him. His nose had been broken at least once. She was guessing more than once. He didn’t have the bright-eyed, ain’t-life-grand look most visitors wore when they walked in the door. A stranger, but not a tourist.

“What’s the fifty-fifty draw for?” The man’s voice was soft and deep, and she caught herself wanting to lean closer to him.

“The what?”

He nodded at the glass gallon jar that sat beside the cash register. “The draw, what do you have to do to win?”

“Oh.” Her cheeks heated up. “You have to guess what’s been added to the mural.” She waved a hand toward the back wall, where she’d painted a scene of the village. Folk art was not her usual style, and after years of treating art as a discipline, she’d felt like a kid with a new box of paints when she’d tackled the mural.

The fifty-fifty draw had started when she realized she’d forgotten to include the Hacheys’ boat in the mural. Worried someone would interpret the omission as a sign of bad luck, she’d added the minor detail early one morning before the café opened. No one on earth was more superstitious than fishermen. Beanie, the local plumber, had noticed the change a few days later. It hadn’t taken long for people to start placing bets on who could spot the newest addition. Not that she’d planned or wanted to keep adding to the mural, but it had been so good for business, she’d have been stupid not to run with the idea. Yet every time she looked at the damned thing now it was like a slap in the face. The mural was the last half-decent thing she’d painted. And it was folk art.

He squinted toward the back wall. “You’d have to spend a lot of time looking at it to see what had changed.”

“Exactly.”

He shot her an admiring look. “Who’s the artist?”

“Me. So. Breakfast? Coffee? You can have it to go if you want. The coffee, that is.” She tried holding his gaze, but felt herself being pulled in again and broke the connection. So he had pretty eyes—a solid band of black circled his gold-flecked, hazel irises. She already had an acceptable boyfriend. She may have only seen Oliver twice in the past half year, but they hadn’t broken up...yet.

“Coffee to go would be great. Black, with a half teaspoon of sugar.”

She spun around, slid a paper cup off the stack and grabbed the fresh carafe of coffee.

“I actually came in to ask for directions,” the man said to her back.

A tourist after all.

“Two Briar Lane. Do you know where that is?”

Hot coffee spilled over her hand as surprise jolted through her.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Yes.” She thrust the coffeepot onto the hot plate and looked over her shoulder. “You wouldn’t be the new owner, would you?”

He did the stillness thing again, like he was holding his breath. “That’s right.”

They’d often joked about who’d bought the old run-down house next to her family’s house. One of the best things about returning home, other than watching her father grow stronger every day and the occasional romp with her brothers, was living on Briar Lane with no neighbors. Apparently life wasn’t going to stand still for her, not even in Collina. What a pity.

Sylvie forced a smile as she turned back to the man and held out her good hand. “I’m Sylvie Carson. We’re neighbors.”

* * *

ADAM HUNTER FELT calluses on the woman’s palm as they shook hands. Her hands belied her appearance. He’d never been good at describing things, but to him she looked like an angel. Almost. More like a tarnished angel, which was a helluva lot more appealing than a perfect one. It was her curly, white-gold hair that made him think of angels. And her sky-blue eyes. But that’s where it stopped. Her mouth was too pouty, too full and ripe, and her body... Adam pulled his hand away from hers and doused the heat that flickered through him. Tarnished or not, she was somebody else’s angel. He’d bet on it.

“Adam Hunter,” he said. She probably hadn’t lived beside his gram’s house all those years ago. He’d have remembered, wouldn’t he? Or maybe not. At eight years old, he’d been a lot more interested in snakes than girls.

“We’ve been wondering who bought the old Johnson place. Took you a while to get here.” She slid his coffee across the counter.

He’d have arrived a day earlier if he’d had the sense to stop and ask for directions. Instead, he’d spent the night in Lancaster, the closest city. But she probably meant the nine months that had lapsed since he’d inherited his gram’s summerhouse.

Adam’s stomach knotted when she avoided looking him in the eye. He knew the place was run-down. He’d visited only a handful of times when he was a kid, and the house had been old then. If it was beyond repair, he didn’t know what he would do. The promise of moving to the small fishing village, of restoring the old house and making a home, had kept his head above water for the past few months.

In a few minutes he’d see for himself what shape it was in, but it was just as important to get a feel for the village and the people living here. The café seemed like a good place to start. “Interesting place. Are you the owner?”

“My family owns it.”

People were eating breakfast in the first half of the room. Past the crowded tables and chairs, several comfortable armchairs and a couch were loosely arranged around a woodstove with a glass door on the front. Everywhere he looked there were stacks of books; in columns leaning against a support beam, on several small tables positioned around the room. Two laptops stood open and ready for use on a long table in another corner. Available Wi-Fi. Great. It would probably take a while before he could get his systems up and running. In a little nook near the back was a kid’s corner with a knee-high table holding paints and crayons and more books.

The morning sun spilled in through the large front windows that looked out on the street, and apart from the colorful mural, the walls had been painted a warm gold color. It was a room that tempted people to use it, and judging by its warm, lived-in look, people had accepted the invitation.

“How much for the coffee?” When his voice echoed through the suddenly hushed room, he kept his smile in place. He imagined small towns had their own set of rules, and one of those would be knowing your neighbor’s business.

“First one’s free.” The angel smiled.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“You have a family?” she asked.

Not one he planned to tell anyone about. “Just me and my dog. So, Briar Lane?”

“Go back to the main street, turn right. Turn right again at Seaman Street. Briar Lane’s at the end. We’re the only two houses on it.”

Adam felt a whoosh of air as the door opened behind him. “Hey, sis. I need a coffee to go.” A man close to his age stepped up to the counter. He was an inch or two shorter than Adam and solid through the chest and upper arms. He had the same blond curls as his sister, but his eyes were a darker blue, edged with creases, like he spent a lot of time squinting into the sun. Adam thought he might remember the guy from the few times he’d visited his grandmother as a child.

The man turned to him. “That your dog in the half-ton?”

“Yeah.”

“Beautiful animal. Oh, thanks, Syl.” He grabbed a cup of coffee from his sister. “I never saw a shepherd with that much white in it. Is it a mix?”

“Haven’t the faintest. I’m thinking part wolf.”

“Must make a great attack dog.”

“The only thing I’ve seen Romeo attack are bumblebees.”

“Romeo?” The guy laughed. “What kind of name is that for a dog?”

Adam cracked a grin. “He’s a lover, not a fighter. He’s got a deep bark, though.” He turned to Sylvie. “I’ll keep him in at night so he won’t wake you up.”

The brother’s smile dried up as he looked from his sister to him. “What’s going on?”

“Meet my nosy brother, Dusty Carson. This is the...guy who bought the old Johnson place. Adam Hunter.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw her smother a smile. Not only tarnished, but sassy, as well. Nice. He didn’t like the way she’d hesitated, though, like there was a better way to describe him. Idiot? Rube? Take your pick. Adam stuck out his hand to shake Dusty’s.

“Actually, I inherited the house from my grandmother.”

After an eternity, the angel’s brother shook his hand. “I think I remember you. You came once or twice when your grandmother was up from the States. You’ve got Ontario license plates.”

“I’m from Toronto.”

Dusty studied him over the rim of his coffee cup. “You plan on holding on to the house or selling it?”

“I’m hoping to fix it up so I can spend the winter. Install some windows, probably put on a new roof.”

An older man barreled through the kitchen doors, wiping his hands on a towel. “Whose roof are we talking about?” He looked at Sylvie. “I thought you’d left already, Sylvie. Better get going. I don’t like you driving back from Lancaster in the dark.”

Sylvie’s father or grandfather, if his looks were anything to go by. He was as tall as Dusty but more solid, bulkier. Despite his age, he still had a full head of blond hair. He held himself with the casual authority of someone used to commanding respect.

“His roof.” Dusty jerked his thumb in his direction. “Adam Hunter. Mrs. Johnson was his grandmother, and he inherited her house. This is our dad, Pops Carson.”

Not big on authority figures, Adam tried not to flinch as he met the old man’s stare straight on. “You’ve got a beautiful town here,” he said to fill the heavy silence in the café.

Pops shook his hand. “Your grandmother was a lovely person. I was sorry to hear she died. You’re from Toronto, aren’t you?”

“That’s where I grew up.”

“Toronto’s a long way from here.”

“That it is. I’m looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet.” He’d told himself that so many times, it had become a mantra. Peace and quiet. His salvation.

Pops switched his attention to the red patch on the back of Sylvie’s hand. “What did you do to your hand?”

“It’s nothing.” She turned her hand so only the palm showed.

“That looks like a burn. It could blister and get infected if you don’t take proper care of it. Let me see.”

Sylvie rolled her eyes. “It’s okay, Pops. My hand is not going to fall off because I spilled a bit of coffee on it.” She put her hand up to stop her father’s retort. “I’ll go home before I head out for Lancaster and put some ointment on it. Okay? Your turn. Did you take your morning medication?”

A smile softened Pops’s weather-lined face. “Just going to do that now, missy. You phone when you leave the city to come home so I’ll know when to expect you.”

“No, I won’t,” she responded over her shoulder as she sashayed toward the door. “You’ll be too busy chasing all the women at the dance. Come on, Adam. I’ll show you where your house is. I have to run back home now, anyway. See you later, all.” She waved over her shoulder and led the way out of the café.

Adam bit back a smile, nodded to the two men and followed her. Sylvie’s father and brother might like to think they held the upper hand, but he had a feeling the sassy little angel was used to getting her own way. Something to keep in mind.

He climbed into his truck and gave Romeo a hard scrub behind his ears. “This is it, Rom. What we’ve been waiting for.” He started the motor, his leg jittering so much the truck almost stalled as he engaged the clutch. Cursing under his breath, he pulled out behind Sylvie’s fire engine–red SUV.

He’d envisioned this moment a thousand times. In his mind, it had been him, alone, standing in front of the house and taking his time to soak in each and every detail before going inside to explore. He hadn’t counted on having an audience. Still, he was grateful to Sylvie for rescuing him from her father’s interrogation. He was so jacked up about seeing his house, he hadn’t been paying as much attention as he should have to what he said. He wanted this to work. He needed it to.

He followed Sylvie’s four-wheel drive down a short side street that was lined with wood frame houses, each one different from the other. The last one was a lumbering old beauty with a widow’s walk on its roof and fanciful trim. Driving into the village, he’d noticed a couple of other houses with the same kind of intricate detail. Once he got to know some people, he’d ask what the story was behind the elaborate carpentry.

It had been over seventeen years since he’d been here, and the end of the street came up quicker than he remembered. A long stretch of beach and the wide gray ocean opened up in front of him. When Sylvie turned sharply to the right, he cranked his steering wheel and strained forward to catch his first glimpse of his gram’s house. Sylvie drove past 2 Briar Lane and pulled into the gravel driveway of a cedar-shingled two-story. He pulled into the weedy, narrow driveway he barely remembered and turned his attention to the small box of a house that sat before him.

His gaze shot over to his neighbor’s house, which had dormers and a huge veranda along the front, then back to his. His had cedar shingles, too, but they looked mottled, the white paint peeling from them, partially exposing the gray beneath. The windows and front door looked like they’d rattle in a light breeze, and the way the stunted spruce between the houses leaned drastically to one side suggested they got their share of gales here. A huge crescent beach crept up to meet the small patch of grass that formed his front yard.

“Hey.” Sylvie rapped her knuckles against his fender.

He switched off the engine and climbed out of the truck. Romeo jumped out after him, his nose leading him straight to Sylvie.

“Gorgeous dog.” She bent down to run her hand over Romeo’s head.

“Thanks.” He couldn’t peel his eyes away from the house. His house.

Someone else might see crumbling and decay, but to him it was beautiful. Everything he’d hoped for.

Sylvie straightened up from patting Rom. “What do you think?”

He tore his gaze away from the house and looked at her. At her clear blue eyes and silken, blond curls. A woman like her, she’d have a husband or a boyfriend who kept her busy. He wasn’t interested in distractions, and Sylvie, if she were free, which she probably wasn’t, could become a major distraction if he let her. He was here to work on his house. Maybe make a couple of friends. That’s all.

Her forehead furrowed. “It’s pretty run-down. Probably too much work to fix up. Although my other brother, Cal, says the house has a solid foundation and framework.”

She’d said that last bit almost grudgingly. “I think I remember Dusty, but not you or another brother. How many siblings do you have?”

“Just the two brothers.”

“Do they live here with you?”

“Cal and Anita have a house on the hill, and Dusty bought his own house just a few weeks ago.”

“So, it’s you and your dad.” As anxious as he was to go inside and explore, he wanted to know who lived beside him. Where he’d grown up, being aware of his neighbors had saved his hide several times.

“Just me at the moment.” She folded her arms and tucked her chin into her chest, frown lines creasing her forehead.

Before he could wonder why that ticked her off, she gave him a sour smile. “I have to get going. Enjoy your...house.”

A vague feeling of distress settled around him as he watched her scoot over to her house and slam the door shut. Why did he get the feeling she was slamming the door on him?

Hell, he’d only been in town half an hour and already there could be complications. Fitting in and being accepted was going to be more difficult than he’d imagined. Maybe he’d made a mistake; Collina was too small. People would want to know where he came from, who his folks were.

But he’d been running from the day he’d been born, and it was time to stop.

One thing he knew for certain. He’d keep his distance from Sylvie Carson. He hoped to ease his way into the community, get to know a few folk before the questions started in earnest. After watching Sylvie’s dad fuss about the light burn on his daughter’s hand and her driving home in the dark, he had no intention of riling up papa bear. Not that Sylvie seemed the least bit interested in him. The exact opposite, as a matter of fact. But still, he’d be smart to stay on his side of the fence.

He dragged his attention back to where it belonged—his new home. His future. His hand shaking, he stuck the key into the keyhole and turned the lock.