Love
by
Design
A Heartswell Harbour Romance
Table of Contents
Title Page
Love by Design (Heartswell Harbour Romance)
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Note from the Author
Mavis Williams
Acknowledgements
For Great Auntie Tilly, with love.
Editing services provided by
Nancy Cassidy
Cover design by
germancreative
Copyright © 2019 Mavis Williams
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental.
Other Novels in the Heartswell Harbour series
Legally in Love
Love on the Rocks
Love, Interrupted
Visit
Mavis Williams: Blissfully Writing Studio
for more books, inspiration and occasional random silliness.
Chapter 1
“This is shocking. Simply shocking!”
Auntie held up what had once been a white blouse. She glared at it with the same look she had given Robin when she’d drawn on the walls in marker as a child. “It’s pink, Robin. You’ve ruined yet another perfectly good piece of clothing with your absolute refusal to do laundry correctly. What will I do with you, I ask you?”
Robin was completely indifferent toward laundry. Trying to convince Auntie of that fact was a daily battle. Whether her whites were white or her colors faded was on the very bottom of a very long list of concerns which included things like paying her car insurance and getting Izzy to the dentist.
Yet here she was in the basement of her small apartment building, fretting about the rent that was due next week and once again pretending an abiding fascination with all things laundry. Robin epically failed to deflect Auntie Rosalee’s domestic coaching, no matter how little time she had in the run of a day.
Auntie was her only living relative, and Auntie was a laundry tyrant.
“Well no wonder... just look at this laundry soap!” Auntie shook her head in despair. “This simply will not do, Robin. Where on earth did you find this? In the bargain bin?”
The thudding dryer sounded like it was full of wet racoons who resented being dried. Robin added dryer repair to her growing mental list.
“Fifty percent off, Auntie. Can’t argue with that.”
“Robin.” Auntie used her firmly-affectionate voice. The one that told Robin she was an idiot, but an adorable one. “Izzy deserves better. Dingy whites and faded reds will only make her look tatty.”
As if having her three-year-old looking tatty was the worst of her concerns.
How about having enough to eat every day? How about not losing her mind over the power bill and the car insurance and daycare fees...? Robin sighed. Fifty percent off laundry soap was a score in a long list of fails.
She let Auntie ramble on. She smiled grimly; the older woman just needed to feel helpful. She loved Great Aunt Rosalee, despite her constant intrusion into Robin’s unsustainable domestic life.
Her mind wandered as Auntie launched into the challenges of fabric softeners. She had three hours before she had to pick Izzy up at daycare. She longed to disappear into her attic studio to paint, but today was a big day. She simply had to win the contract with Proxly and Son. If she didn’t, she would have to seriously consider giving up Design by Robin and look for yet another waitressing job. Her design company was barely scraping the bottom of the barrel, despite her tireless efforts, and she knew she was running out of time.
“I just said to Mrs. Crawley yesterday, I said—” Auntie’s voice followed her up the stairs and into the kitchen. “—and then can you believe it? Irenia Crawley agreed with me.”
“Uh huh.”
“Robin, dear. You’re doing it again.”
Robin sighed. She dumped the laundry basket on the floor and hastily shoved several sketches scattered on the kitchen table into her portfolio. “Doing what?”
“Not listening.”
“I’m listening, Auntie. I’m just really busy and today is important.”
“Mrs. Crawley and I agreed that you need to find a man.”
“Now... I’m really not listening.”
“Come now, dear. I know you like to be independent.” Auntie rolled her eyes. “But Isabella is three now and it’s high time—”
Robin grabbed her keys, her portfolio and her remaining patience and hustled Auntie out the door.
“Are you not going to fold those clothes, dear? They’ll be wrinkled beyond redemption.”
“I will be beyond redemption if I’m late for my meeting at Proxly and Son, Auntie. The laundry will still be here when I get back. And I will thank you to keep Mrs. Crawley out of my personal life.”
“This is why you need my guidance, child.” Auntie pontificated all the way down the stairs and into the yard. “Laundry is only one aspect of domestic bliss, Robin. I had twenty-seven years of romance and matrimony with my Harold. I just want the same for you.”
Robin held Auntie’s car door open for her, pecked her on the cheek and tucked her into the driver’s seat. Auntie’s eyes shone with tears, but today was not the day to get into a conversation about domestic bliss.
“I am always here for you, dear,” Auntie said. “Good luck with your little job. Not that I am one to spread rumors, but I hear Proxly is a tight-fisted old miser. Why, Mrs. Crawley just told me the other day—”
“Gotta run, Auntie. Love you!” Robin closed the door on Auntie’s surprised face. She waved and dashed to her own car. She tossed her portfolio into the back seat and glanced down at her blouse and skirt. Dingy white and faded red. Auntie was right, laundry probably needed to find a place on the list—but not today.
IT AGGRAVATED HIS FATHER when he paced while they had their morning meetings, but it was the only way Hudson could prevent himself from leaping out of the fourth story windows to a grisly death on the sidewalk below. Not that he was suicidal, far from it, but there were days when he would do anything—anything—to speed his father up.
Bernard Proxly operated at one speed. The speed of diligence. Which apparently was slower than molasses flowing uphill.
“We must be diligent, my boy,” he said. “Dot every I and cross every T. We take our time to make sure we are right. We must always be right, Hudson. Are you listening to me?”
Hudson ran a hand through his hair. He glanced out the tall windows over the town of Heartswell Harbour spreading toward the horizon and fought the
urge to start running laps. If he started running, he may never come back.
“We are always right, Dad. That’s why we’re the best.” He paused for a moment before retracing his steps. Two steps forward, one step back. Story of his life.
“Complacency is the vice of the has-been,” his father intoned. Bernard removed his round glasses and squinted at Hudson from across his desk. Files and binders were arranged in perfect order across the expanse of the dark mahogany desk—corners lined up with corners, pens neatly in a row, a framed picture of Hudson and his mother from over a decade ago displayed at an exact forty-five-degree angle. The shining gold lettering of Proxly and Son winked at Hudson from the nameplate placed in the exact center of the desk, mocking him as he nodded.
“I’m not being complacent, I’m just sayin’...” His father also hated it when he used any form of idiom. “What’s the plan for today, Proxly Senior? You gonna let me sink my teeth into the Thompson Construction deal? I’ve done all the preliminaries. I’m good to go.”
Bernard sighed.
A sigh from his father usually meant that Hudson was going to be doing more filing, more research, more legal mumbo jumbo that kept him away from the exciting client interaction which was the reason he had chosen this career in the first place.
“I’d like to peruse your files before—”
“You’ve checked them five times, Dad. Five. I am not exaggerating.” Hudson stubbed his toe on the coffee table, staggering slightly as he caught his balance. His leg was well healed, but it sometimes gave him a little hiccup when he least expected it.
“Is your leg ok?” His father half-rose from his chair. He lowered himself back down as Hudson nodded.
Bernard glanced at the photograph on his desk, his usual reflex when Hudson reminded him that he was still alive while his mother had died in the car crash that left him with a limp ten years ago.
“Dad,” he said as gently as he could, sitting in the chair opposite his father and pulling out a pile of folders from his briefcase. They’d had this conversation, over this desk, for three years since he passed the bar. If he worked for any other law firm, he would be trying cases by now, or at the very least be garnering his own clients instead of being fed a steady diet of his father’s cast offs. The Thompson file was a huge construction operation that required zoning authorization and contracts and agreements with ecological, ethical and social agencies. So far, his father had only given him permission to run standard licensing forms.
“You’re killing me here, Dad.”
It was a bad choice of words.
His father glanced at the photo again.
Hudson looked at his hands, clasped between his knees.
“Is Delia coming for supper tonight?” Bernard asked.
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m simply inquiring as to the status of your dinner plans and whether or not you and your lovely partner will be available,” Bernard said. He folded his hands on his desk and blinked expectantly at his son.
“Not tonight, Dad.”
His father visibly wilted. They usually had dinner all together once a week, but Delia had been upset with Hudson this morning for something he wasn’t sure he had done.
“She’s mad at me.”
“Again?”
“Yup.”
“I believe I did a masterful job of helping you extricate yourself from that little wine fiasco last week.” Bernard smiled. “Now you know that red wine is simply not acceptable when the main course is fish.”
“Pop, I know you like Delia, but do you honestly think it was fair that she wouldn’t talk to me for two hours because I brought home the wrong kind of wine?”
“She had told you which one she wanted.” Bernard shrugged. “Diligence, Hudson. One must be diligent in all things.”
Hudson rolled his eyes. He pushed the pile of folders toward his father and got to his feet.
“Let me know what you think, Dad,” he said. “I’m outta here.”
“Aren’t you staying for the meeting with the interior designer? The artist I told you about?”
He hadn’t gone to Law school for seven years to spend his time looking at paint chips and fabric swatches with some artsy-fartsy woman who would probably want to discuss feng shui while sipping green tea.
“Nope,” he said on his way out the door. “I’ll leave that in your capable hands, Father. Just don’t choose pink.”
He let the door close behind him as he passed through the outer office, tugging off his tie as he went.
“You’re off early, young Mr. Proxly.”
Mrs. Davies had been his father’s secretary since the earth started cooling. Hudson was fairly certain she had changed his diaper, which would explain her proprietorial attitude toward his life, his schedule, his wardrobe and his choice of fiancée.
“I find my services are not required, Mrs. D.” He stopped by her desk, rolled up his tie and stuffed it in his pocket. “The senior Mr. P has everything well in hand, and then some.”
Mrs. Davies looked at him over the top of her spectacles.
“I have some files for you,” she said, stone-faced. “And there was a call from the florist regarding plants that may or not be chosen for your father’s redecorating plan.”
Hudson took a deep breath.
Plants.
He glanced around the austere office. Framed degrees and certificates adorned the grey walls, but other than the brightly colored sweater of Mrs. Davies, the room was barren.
“Plants would pale in comparison to you, Mrs. D,” he said. “I suggest we say no to the plants, no to the files, no to the endless tedium of administrative duties and we run off together to a tropical island where we will drink margaritas and eat kiwi fruit until our dying days.”
He leaned both hands on her desk, sorely tempted to sweep the immaculate paperwork off with one arm in a gesture of wild abandon.
Mrs. Davies did not do wild abandon.
“This is counter to your plan of yesterday where we would run off to the ski hills of Montreal,” she said flatly. She pursed her already pursed lips, but he could detect the sparkle in her eyes that told him she was considering it. “And Delia called.”
He groaned.
“If you spent as much time attending to your fiancée as you spend flirting with me, you might be married by now.” She raised an eyebrow. “She seems to be expecting it.”
Mrs. D didn’t like Delia. He knew it by the way she said her name, like Delia was a yapping terrier he’d insisted on bringing home to pee on the carpet.
He pulled out his cell and glanced at it. Five texts from Delia. Five unanswered texts were her limit. After that she would make every effort to track him down, including calling the office, calling the gym, showing up unannounced and invariably bursting into tears for dramatic effect.
“Delia and I don’t have what you and I share, Mrs. D.” He winked at her and moved toward the door.
“I’ll be sure to tell her about our travel plans, Hudson.”
He saw the smile under the tight line of her lips. He blew her a kiss and headed toward the elevator, punching in Delia’s number as he went.
Chapter 2
“No, no, no!” Robin moaned. She dropped her bag to the floor of the elevator and rifled through the contents. “Why? Why? Where is it?”
She stood up just as the elevator came to a stop on the fourth floor.
“Where is the fucking thing?” The doors slid open. The man standing in front of her had a cell phone to his ear and a look that told her he was not used to getting into an elevator where the air blistered with cursing. “Sorry,” she said. She grabbed her bag and they bumped past each other as she hastened out.
She couldn’t go into her meeting without her portfolio.
Unprofessional, unpolished, unprepared. From what she knew about Proxly and Son, showing up unprepared was a cardinal sin. She spun around on her heels and thrust her hand between the rapidly closing elevator door
s.
They slid open. The man on the phone stepped backwards to avoid being knocked over as she leapt in.
“I’m going back down.” She staggered to regain her balance and he put his hand on her arm— to hold her at bay or help her, she wasn’t sure. “I’m sorry. I left something in the car, and I need it. It’s really important.”
Why was she babbling? He squeezed her elbow and smiled.
It was a nice smile. Strong jaw, blue eyes that crinkled in the corners. The kind of guy who probably drove a Porsche and didn’t have a care in the world.
“It’s okay, Miss,” he said, releasing her. “Take a deep breath. Relax. It will be alright.”
She spun around and jabbed at the elevator buttons, instantly on the defensive. Take a deep breath? Don’t tell me to take a deep breath, Mr. Fancy Pants.
“No sweetie, I’m sorry,” he said into the phone. “No, I wasn’t talking to you. You don’t need to relax. I would never—”
She glanced sideways at the man, noting his shiny leather shoes and the perfect crease in his dress pants. Unruly blonde hair curled over his ears, completely at odds with his immaculate clothing. She had a ridiculous urge to touch his curling hair, like stroking a kitten. A shrill female voice shrieked from his phone. Probably some dissatisfied trophy wife demanding more Botox. She snorted as the woman twittered on. Problems of the rich and famous.
Not her world.
She would race out to the car, grab her portfolio, and get back to the fourth floor in time for her meeting. This had to work today. This contract was the make or break deal for her. Without it she simply couldn’t keep her business, even though she had poured her heart and soul into it for the last six months in a desperate effort to be in control of her finances and her life. Her dream of working for herself, of designing beautiful spaces and expanding her art studio would keep her out of the wasteland of waitressing for the rest of time, if she could just nail a few big decorating contracts like the one at Proxly and Son Legal Services. She needed a flexible working life to be a good mother to Izzy and she needed a reliable income if she was ever going to rise above living off tip money.
Love by Design: A Heartswell Harbour Romance Page 1
