Читать книгу A Small-Town Temptation - Terry Mclaughlin - Страница 10

JACK SWUNG HIS GARMENT bag over his shoulder later that afternoon and paused to admire the gaily colored Victorian houses standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their postcard pose along Oyster Lane. Stretched atop the rail of a white picket fence, a fat tabby spared him a crotchety meow before shifting its attention to the gulls overhead. The scents of salt-crusted docks, wood smoke and early hyacinths blended in the offshore breeze, a perfume that was Carnelian Cove’s own.

An interesting town, he thought, packed with the kind of character that came with several different interests nurtured in relative isolation. Fishermen and artists, lumberjacks and university professors, dairy farmers and silversmiths—all rubbing up against each other in an eclectic collection of shops and neighborhoods that appeared to predate the concept of zoning restrictions. Untidy and unexpected, and charming in an offbeat way.

Sort of like the carved driftwood sign hanging from a reproduction London gaslight: Villa Veneto Bed and Breakfast.

He wondered what his boss would make of such a jumble. Bill Simon liked his private surroundings and business dealings streamlined and simplified, so he could make his personal and executive decisions as quickly and neatly as possible. Such a cool efficiency had its own appeal, but Jack sometimes preferred mucking through life’s muddles—especially when he discovered the diamonds in the rough patches.

Uncut, unpolished diamonds like Sawyer’s BayRock Enterprises. Buying Sawyer’s company could satisfy Continental’s insatiable appetite for raw materials while establishing a viable—and potentially valuable—presence north of San Francisco. And it was up to Jack to prove that viability and estimate that potential.

To streamline and simplify the muddle.

He nodded an apology for disturbing the tabby cat before opening the low picket gate and strolling up aged concrete steps to the stained-glass entry. The gingerbread tacked onto every nook and cranny made the villa look homey and fussy, giving the impression the inside was likely stuffed to its curlicued rafters with antiques and doodads.

As he stepped onto a wide wooden porch furnished with wicker and ferns, one of the lace curtains swagged across a bay window twitched discreetly and settled back into its graceful curve. Jack grinned, pleased to see his hunch had paid off. Just as he’d suspected when he’d phoned, Agatha Allen was a nosy hostess. Bed and breakfasts weren’t the typical business-trip lodgings, but they often provided one benefit in addition to a comfortable place to sleep and a home-cooked meal to start the day: a built-in source of small-town gossip.

Moments after he twisted an ornate brass bell knob, a handsome woman, neat and trim and somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty, opened the heavy mahogany door.

“Agatha Allen?” he asked.

She nodded and stepped aside, waving him in. “And you must be Jack. Welcome to Villa Veneto. Oh, put that away,” she said with another wave as he shifted his bag over his arm and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. “We can take care of the paperwork after you’ve had a chance to settle in.”

She plucked a tasseled key ring from a row of hooks behind her tiny reception desk and led the way up a steep, narrow flight of stairs covered with a floral runner. “I hear you’ve been in the Cove practically all day already. Kate down at the Abalone waited on you at lunch, and she called to tell me you got here safe and sound, since she knew I’d be worrying. You must have caught your plane at the crack of dawn, you poor thing. I’ll bet you’re ready for a cup of tea. Which do you prefer—black or herbal?”

He shook his head at her back. “Neither, though I truly appreciate the offer.”

“Coffee, then.” Agatha tossed him a no-nonsense glance over her shoulder and nodded with a finality that let Jack know he’d be having a cup of coffee before he stepped foot out her front door again, come hell or high water.

“And something to eat,” she continued. “I took the last batch of coconut macaroon cookies out of the oven not five minutes ago. I make them up to crush for my chocolate silk pie crust—and don’t you go telling anyone about that secret while you’re here, or I’ll find out—but I can always spare a couple of cookies for a snack.”

“Coconut macaroons just happen to be one of my favorites,” he said.

She paused when they reached the second floor and studied him as if she were attempting to divine the truth of his statement, and he suffered through the panic of a guilty moment. He wondered what the penalty might be if she discovered he could barely tolerate coconut, in macaroons or pie crusts or anywhere else.

“And my secret?” she asked at last.

“Is safe with me,” he answered with relief.

He followed her along a wide balcony and a curve in the hallway that wrapped back around the stairwell, past several tall, transomed doors punctuating rose- and lily-papered walls. Doors with exotic names calligraphied in gold paint on thickly trimmed panels: Lido, Rialto, Murano.

She stopped at the last in the line and handed him the key to the San Marco suite. “They have these in Venice, you know,” she said.

“Venice?” He stared at the old-fashioned brass key in his hand, struggling to make the transition from coconut crust to canals.

“The tassels.”

“Ah.” He gave her a suitably impressed nod. “Nice touch.”

“It’s in the Italian style, you see.”

“Yes,” he said, although he really didn’t.

“Like Versace and Armani.”

“Two of my favorites,” he said as he jiggled the key into the lock. He wondered what she’d think of his Armani suit and nearly regretted leaving it behind. He hadn’t thought there’d be much occasion for designer labels in Carnelian Cove. “Just like coconut macaroons.”

“Oh.” She flipped her little wave at him again. “There’s no need to lay the charm on so thick. Although I do enjoy a dose of it every once in a while, just like the next person. And especially when it comes out sounding so nice, like it does with that accent of yours. Louisiana?”

“No, ma’am. South Carolina.”

“Charleston?”

He stepped into the room and spread his bag across the quilt-covered double bed. “A small place west of there. Nothing anyone’s ever heard of.”

Nothing—and nobody—from nowhere. That’s what he’d felt like when he’d left, and that’s why he’d never go back. He’d worked his way across the country and struggled for a foothold on the corporate ladder, and he’d done it on his own.

And now he was going to collect the rest of his things, and settle down for some late-afternoon coffee and cookies, and pump Agatha Allen for every shred of information he could coax out of her. He’d kick back and relax, thicken his accent a touch and see what unexpected tips it might tickle loose.

Corporate intrigue came in all shapes and sizes, even coconut macaroons.

A KELP-SCENTED, BONE-CHILLING fog thickened the darkness on Cove Street that evening when Charlie steered her truck toward A Slice of Light, the stained-glass shop owned by Addie Sutton. The jeweled tones of the samples dangling in the windows slid over her windshield as she angled into the parking space behind Tess Roussel’s sporty red compact. Her two best friends in the same place at the same time—twice the sympathy, double the outrage. Fewer brownies to go around, she thought as she stuffed a pink bakery box inside a deep grocery bag and slipped out the driver’s door, but the moral support would be worth it.

She needed all the support she could muster after today’s potentially devastating developments.

Ignoring the Closed sign in the window, she rapped on the shop door. After a shivering wait and a second round of more insistent knocking, Tess—long-legged even without her three-inch heels—appeared in the darkened shop and sauntered over to open the door. Why the town’s newest architect wanted to wrestle her way into pantyhose and thigh-hugging skirts every day was a mystery.

“Well, look what the tide washed in,” said Tess. “A little red-shelled crab.”

“What are you doing here?” Charlie angled past her and headed toward the long, deep counter dividing the shop’s display area from Addie’s work space. She paused near a table bristling with pins holding dozens of cut glass pieces in place. It was the beginning of a peacock, the body crafted in rich hues and the tail cascading in intricate detail over the jagged outline of a tree limb.

“Same as you,” said Tess. “Scrounging for dinner company.”

“Shouldn’t you be out on some hot date with some hot dude?”

“It’s Thursday. Give me another twenty-four hours.” Tess closed the shop door and flipped the lock. “On the other hand, another day probably won’t make a difference. I’m fresh out of hot prospects in this town. Nothing but lukewarm lately.”

Charlie shot a skeptical glance at the woman with whom she’d shared every summer vacation during their school years. Tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous, Tess had only to crook a manicured finger at any available man in Carnelian Cove to have him panting after her.

“Besides,” said Tess as she brushed her short, layered hair out of her eyes, “I’m too busy being brilliant.”

“And humble.”

“Only when required.”

Charlie followed Tess through the curtained glass door at the rear of Addie’s shop and stepped into the odd apartment ranged along the building’s back wall. Antique kitchen appliances lined one side of the open space, and a thrift-shop sofa and woodstove directly opposite defined the seating area. Pipes and heating ducts snaked around lighting fixtures suspended from the high ceiling. The loft effect at ground level.

She passed an old, claw-footed oak table crowded with books, rolls of paper and a fat yellow pitcher stuffed with tulips and set her package on the slanted farmhouse sink, near the wreckage of a fast-food meal. She helped herself to one of the fries heaped on wrinkled paper and waved another one toward the mess on the table. “Is that your stuff taking up all the eating space?”

“My latest sketches. Look.” Tess spread one of the rolls of paper and anchored the corners with the books. “Look.”

Charlie popped another fry into her mouth and wiped her hands on her jeans before studying Tess’s sketch for a proposed bayside project. The opportunity to develop the property with her own design had played a major role in luring Tess from a large architectural firm in San Francisco. Charlie and Addie had been delighted when their childhood friend had hung her shingle above one of the Cove’s Main Street storefronts.

“I’ve decided the main entrance should feature stained-glass sidelights,” said Tess. “Maybe some more touches, here, and here—” she indicated “—if I can incorporate the design into the structure.”

Charlie marveled again at the way Tess had managed to capture and update Carnelian Cove’s architectural traditions with clean lines and decorative details. The building would add a fresh touch to the waterfront while blending in with its nineteenth-century neighbors “I hate to admit it,” she said, “but you’re right. You are brilliant.”

“Best idea I’ve seen in a long time,” said Addie in her low, raspy voice as she stepped around the partition screening her bedroom from the rest of her apartment. Her long blond hair fell in tangled spirals from a clip that had slipped to one side of her head. “Although I told her she should come back tomorrow morning so we can look at some glass samples in the sunlight.”

Charlie traced a finger over the drawing. “All that glass looks like a lot of work.”

“I could use a lot of work,” Addie said. “Business has been slow.” She crossed to the sink, rummaged through the large brown bag holding Charlie’s contributions to the impromptu dinner party and pulled out the pink box. “Is this from Bern’s Bakery?”

“Marie-Claudette’s brownies?” Tess snatched the box from Addie and ripped through the tape. “God, yes.”

“The ones with the fudge frosting?” Addie reached around Tess and fished out a chunky pastry. “And sprinkles. Look—red ones, for Valentine’s Day.”

“Dibs on the blondies,” said Tess.

“Don’t worry. They’re all yours.” Addie licked dark brown frosting from the corner of her mouth. “They’re disgusting.”

“Just because they’re not chocolate—”

“Which makes them disgusting—”

“Please.” Charlie pulled her soda six-pack from the crumpled grocery sack and wrenched a can from its plastic ring. “I’m in the middle of a crisis here.”

“Charlie.” Addie’s blue eyes darkened with worry. “What is it?”

Charlie took a long sip of her soda. “David’s really done it this time.”

“He convinced your mom to sell?”

“He burned down the plant?”

“He totaled his fancy new company truck?”

“He got Missy Turner pregnant?”

Charlie zeroed in on Tess. “What was that about Missy Turner?”

“Nothing. Not a thing.” Tess stuffed a wedge of yellow brownie into her mouth, cutting off any chance for an explanation.

Addie pulled one of the mismatched chairs from beneath the table. “Here. Sit down.” She gestured for Charlie to take the seat and gave her arm a sympathetic pat before settling into the chair beside hers. “You look beat.”

“I feel beat.” Charlie stared at the tulip leaves drooping over the edges of the pitcher. “Finally, totally beat.”

Tess popped the top of one of the soda cans. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure yet what part David played in this,” said Charlie, “but a rep from Continental showed up at the plant today.”

“Continental?” Tess’s eyebrows winged up in surprise. “The Continental that owns a piece of every construction firm between here and Vegas?”

Addie frowned. “What’s a representative from a big company like that doing here?”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to know,” said Charlie. “And what—or who—put Carnelian Cove on their radar.” She rubbed her temples. “He was at Earl’s plant this morning, too.”

“God.” Tess lowered her drink to the sink’s drainboard. “They’re moving in.”

“Looks like it.”

“They want to buy BayRock?” Addie’s forehead creased with worry. “But I thought Earl was going to sell it to you.”

“Wait a minute.” Tess folded her arms and leaned one hip against the sink. “There was this guy talking to Ramón at the self-serve pump when I stopped for gas on my lunch break. Someone I’ve never seen around here before. Medium height, wavy dark blond hair. GQ weekend look with slightly muddy work boots. And dimples to die for. God, that smile…”

She sighed and then straightened with a guilty look in Charlie’s direction. “But maybe not your guy. And probably not a genuine hot prospect.”

“Liar.” Charlie bit into Marie-Claudette’s chewy brand of comfort. “That’s him, right down to the dirty boots. And he’s a hottie, all right.”

“But a scary one,” said Addie. “With ulterior motives.”

“Definitely not a prospect,” said Tess.

“Prospect or not, he’s the enemy.” Charlie took another bite of chocolate fortification. “And I’m going to take him down, dimples and all.”