“What kind of lawyer?” He was suddenly very worried that he knew this guy.
She laughed, but it sounded flat. “Divorce lawyer.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face again. This just got worse and worse. “Please tell me he pays you child support.”
“He does,” Laura said slowly. “I don’t use any of it, though. I put it all in Emma’s college fund.”
“Alimony?”
She shook her head. “We were married for less than a year.”
“But you left school for this guy,” he protested.
“I left school for my daughter,” she corrected him vehemently.
He nodded. “Where’d he go to law school?”
“Boston University.”
He felt some relief that it wasn’t Harvard, but pressed on anyway. “Name?”
She lifted an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“I want to make sure I don’t know him.”
She touched the back of his hand, and he sucked in a breath at the unexpected contact, feeling like a schoolboy again. Since when did the casual touch of a woman’s hand affect him like that? It was odd, and a little bit thrilling, all at the same time.
“I don’t think you know him,” Laura said. “You’ve got Ivy League written all over you. You probably went to Harvard or Princeton or Yale, right?”
He nodded. “Harvard.”
“See? You’d never slum it with some awful divorce lawyer from BU.”
She was definitely laughing at him now, and he should be annoyed at her assumption that he was a snob, but he found he couldn’t let this go. “He’s giving all lawyers a bad name.”
She smiled, and this time it looked genuine. “Then make it up to me. Show me you’re not all the unethical, morally bankrupt people I think you are.”
“All right.” He held out his hand so they could shake on it. “Challenge accepted.”
She laughed. “For real?”
“For real,” he repeated, waggling his hand.
She put her hand in his and shook it. “Okay, Harvard. Enlighten me.”
He pulled her to her feet and started walking toward the kitchen, still tugging at her hand. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, laughing and trying to dig in her heels.
“Let’s go take a look at that dishwasher of yours.”
* * *
Laura and Jonathan pulled up to the hardware store in Jonathan’s BMW. She’d made a big show out of putting a towel down on the passenger seat so she wouldn’t scuff up the leather. He’d rolled his eyes, but he’d let her poke fun at him. He wasn’t nearly as uptight as Conrad had been.
Before they’d left for the store, he’d actually done a fairly thorough assessment of the problem with the dishwasher. He’d removed the air gap and discovered a clog in the drain tube. He’d tried to flush it out with water, but had quickly come to the conclusion that he needed a special brush. Hence the trip to Prime Eight Hardware, a mom-and-pop shop in a plaza on Route 28A on the way out of town.
The bell over the door jangled as they made their way inside. The store was small but packed with tools. If you ever needed anything that wasn’t in stock, Jason or Angela Cline would special-order it for you so that it arrived the next day.
Angela looked up from the magazine she was reading behind the counter. “Laura!” she exclaimed happily. “Haven’t seen you in ages!”
Laura grinned, going over and giving her friend a one-armed hug across the counter. “Not in at least five days, right, Ang?” Angie had six young children and claimed the only time she got peace and quiet was when she was working—alone—at the store.
“Where’s Emma?” Angie asked, looking around as though she’d simply missed seeing the little girl.
“Girls’ afternoon with Chloe.”
Angie sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a girls’ afternoon...” All six of Angie’s children were rough-and-tumble boys—the youngest of them in the same preschool class as Emma. She lowered her voice and goggled her eyes at Jonathan, who was currently scouring the plumbing aisle. “Who’s your friend?”
“A lawyer who wants to buy the inn for Carberry Hotels.”
Angie’s face fell. “You’re kidding. You’re selling?”
Laura shook her head. “My mom wants to, but I’m going to do my best to convince her to keep it in the family.”
Angie exhaled in relief. “I still can’t believe Dot left the inn to your mom.”
“Half the inn to my mom.”
“Still. I mean, you were there with her every step of the way for the last five years. Who helped your grandmother redecorate the front parlor? Who helped her with all her hiring decisions? Who helped her with the accounting, the taxes, the publicity? Because it certainly wasn’t your mother.”
Laura shrugged. “I don’t get it, either, but what’s done is done. At least with Jonathan here, I know my mom’s not going to run back to Hong Kong before we can meet the terms of the will.”
Angie gave her a sympathetic look. “You think she’s really going to last the whole summer here in Wychmere Bay?”
“To be honest,” Laura said, “when she walked out of the meeting with the executor of the estate, I wasn’t sure she’d ever set foot in the inn again. She’s in Boston right now.”
Jonathan walked up to the counter, brush in hand.
“You find what you were looking for, sugar?” Angie asked, playing up a very transparent, very fake Southern accent.
“Sure did,” he said, taking out his wallet to pay for the brush.
“Hang on a second,” Laura said, turning to the aisles. “There’s something I need, too.” She located the mousetraps and grabbed a big cellophane bag full of them.
Jonathan looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got mice?”
“I think so. I saw some droppings in the basement.”
“If they were big enough for you to notice, it’s probably a rat.”
“A rat!” Laura and Angie shrieked in unison.
“Calm down, ladies.” He plucked the mousetraps out of Laura’s hand. “I’ll handle it.”
Angie sighed and murmured, “My hero,” as he walked over to examine the various rattraps on offer.
Laura swatted her on the arm. “Don’t. He’ll hear you.”
Angie grinned. “He should be hearing you get all swoony.”
“Don’t be weird,” Laura muttered.
Jonathan brought the rattraps up to the counter. Laura looked at them with trepidation. “Are those for rats or small dogs?”
“Can Emma get into the basement?” he asked.
She shook her head. “The stairs are steep. I keep the door locked.”
He nodded. “Good. I don’t want her to get hurt.” He handed the traps to Angie, and Laura took out her wallet. He gave her a look that was almost offended and said, “Put that away.”
As Angie rang him up, she chirped, “If y’all have some time before Emma’s due home, you should go next door for the early-bird special. Two appetizers for the price of one!”
“Thanks, Ang.” Laura gave her friend another hug.
They walked outside and Jonathan studied the neighboring restaurant. “‘Mr. G’s Diner,’” he said, reading the sign. “What do they serve?”
“Irish-Indian fusion.”
He gaped at her. He looked...different this evening. He still wore his dress shirt, but no jacket and no tie. He’d left the top button open at his neck, and he looked less in control, somehow, less “master of the universe,” but also more relaxed. More free.
He was holding the bag with the dishwasher brush and the rattraps in his left hand. She had to admit that there was something kind of swoon-worthy about a man who knew how to take apart a dishwasher, and who wasn’t afraid to wrestle rats.
“That’s not a real thing
, is it?” he asked. “Irish-Indian fusion?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s real. And pretty decent, actually.” Now that they were talking about food, Laura realized she was hungry.
“What’s on the menu? Curry meat loaf? Corned beef tikka masala?”
“Uh, no,” she said. “But come on. I can tell you want to try it.”
He made a face. “Is it wrong that I’m scared?”
She laughed. “Yes, Harvard. Man up. A little experimental cuisine won’t kill you.”
“Are you insulting my masculinity now?” he asked, lips twitching. He was clearly more amused than annoyed.
She gave him a friendly little pat on the arm. “There, there, Harvard. Your masculinity is fine.”
He snorted. “Just what every man wants to hear from a beautiful woman.”
She felt a dip in her stomach. He thought she was beautiful?
But he’d already moved on. “I’m usually more of a burger-and-fries type of guy. You’re sure you don’t need to rush home for Emma?” He was clearly hoping for a last-minute reprieve.
Laura shook her head. “Chloe would adopt that child if I’d let her. They’ll be out until bedtime, at least.” She gestured toward Mr. G’s. “Come on. I’ll even pay, since you’re fixing my dishwasher and doing my rat wrangling.”
“No way,” he said, opening the door to the restaurant so she could walk inside. “That’s part of our ‘prove lawyers aren’t morally bankrupt’ challenge. There’s no quid pro quo.”
The decor at Mr. G’s was...interesting. Neither Irish nor Indian, but new age, with a rainbow string of crystal beads separating the kitchen from the dining room, star maps on the ceiling and miniature lava lamps on the tables throwing off an ever-shifting, colorful glow.
Jonathan waved his hand at all the weirdness surrounding them and, in a voice pitched for her ears only, said, “I don’t understand what’s happening here.”
“Children, children, children,” a plump blonde woman in her fifties—Colleen Gadepali, Mrs. G herself—came through the rainbow bead curtain to greet them, folding her hands and bowing low. She was wearing an elaborate green sari, and she had a distinct Irish brogue. “Namaste. Welcome to Mr. G’s.”
“Hi, Colleen,” Laura said brightly, letting the older woman air-kiss her cheeks and then introducing her to Jonathan as Mrs. G. “How are you?”
“Happy days, dear. Happy days. Table for two?”
“Yes, please.”
Only one of the other tables was occupied, but it was still on the early side for dinner. Colleen seated them and handed them their menus. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water, please,” Laura said, while Jonathan asked for iced tea.
Once Colleen was out of earshot, Jonathan cocked his head to the side. “Namaste? Isn’t that a yoga thing?”
“Yoga was invented in India, you know,” Laura informed him.
“Really?”
“Never tried it, have you?”
He shrugged and opened his menu. “A bunch of weird stretches in a group exercise class? Nope.” He scanned the menu. “Hey, this looks more like Irish and Indian, not Irish-Indian fusion.”
She smiled at him, all innocence. “Does it? Well, there you go.”
He turned his attention back to the menu. “What’s good here?”
“The sausage and spinach skillet lasagna is fantastic. So’s the shepherd’s pie. Oh, and the eggplant gratin, and the chickpea curry, and the German onion pie.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Hungry, are we?”
She smirked. “It’s been a long time since lunch for me.”
“Want to order a bunch of stuff and share it?”
She sat back, feeling irrationally pleased by his suggestion. “Sure.” She was definitely hungry, and it would be fun to see what he thought of all the different food.
Colleen brought their drinks to the table. “Sláinte, children. Cheers.” She bowed low to them again.
They ordered. When Colleen heard how much food they were getting, she moved them to a bigger table so there would be room for all the plates.
Jonathan watched the older woman walk off in her sari. “So, how did Mrs. G come to run an Irish-Indian restaurant?”
Laura laughed. “Mr. G has Indian heritage. And happens to be a great chef.”
The food arrived and Jonathan took a forkful of the eggplant gratin without waiting for an extra plate. “Wow,” he said, fanning his mouth to cool it down. The food was steaming hot and very aromatic. The scent of cheese and curry, meat and spice filled the air. “That’s incredible.”
“And to think you didn’t even want to come in here,” Laura teased, accepting two extra plates from Colleen they could use to portion out the food.
He grinned at her. “I may have been misled.”
When they finished eating, he leaned back and patted his stomach. “So...dessert?”
“You can’t still be hungry,” she protested.
“Maybe a little walk first to digest?”
She drummed her fingers together. “Hmm, so Harvard has a sweet tooth, does he?”
“My one vice. Don’t tell anyone.”
She laughed. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He paid for dinner and they left the restaurant. Outside, he glanced down the street. “Which way?”
She turned to the left. “Follow me. There’s a candy store I think you’ll like.”
“Sold,” he said, walking next to her. He studied the buildings they passed curiously—a mix of homes and businesses: a hair salon, a restaurant, a bank. They all had big yards surrounding them, although the lawns got smaller as they got closer to the center of town.
“How come all the buildings here are cedar shingled?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Just the style, I guess. Some of them have vinyl siding.”
“Not many.” He looked at another cedar-shingled house. “It’s nice, though. Cohesive. You’ll always know you’re on Cape Cod.”
A few minutes later, they stopped in front of a two-story building with red vinyl siding, a covered porch and flower boxes in the three windows upstairs. “The Candy Shack,” Jonathan said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“The Candy Shack,” Laura confirmed with a smile.
“Can’t wait.”
They went in. The walls were lined with penny candy bins full of peppermints and jujubes, licorice allsorts and saltwater taffy, bridge mixture and lollipop twists. The shelves were stacked with every kind of packaged candy known to man, including many international chocolate bars like Aero and Flake and Coffee Crisp. A huge glass display case housed rows and rows of homemade fudge.
Irene Perkins, her late grandmother’s best friend, was behind the counter. “Laura, sweetheart,” she said, adjusting her red-framed glasses, fluffing her short white perm and opening her arms for a hug. “Come here!”
“Hi, Irene,” Laura replied, obliging the older woman with a hug. “This is Jonathan. He’s here on business, staying at the inn for a few days.”
“Hello, young man. I heard about you from my little roommate, Chloe.” Laura always found it hilarious that her best friend lived in the apartment above The Candy Shack with her grandmother’s best friend, but Chloe had been devastated when her parents were killed in a car accident, and having Irene on hand as her grandmother by proxy seemed to suit her just fine.
“Hello. Nice to meet you,” Jonathan said, shaking Irene’s hand. “Is this your place?”
“Forty-three years and counting,” Irene confirmed. “Just like Dot and the inn.”
Laura’s grandparents had bought The Sea Glass Inn in the late ’70s and run it together until her grandfather passed away when Laura was ten.
“Good for you,” Jonathan said. “Looks like you do good business.” He nodded toward the other peopl
e milling around the store.
“We do, young man. We do.”
He leaned on the counter and gave Irene one of his easy smiles. “What do you recommend?”
“The fudge,” Laura and Irene said at the same time. “Definitely the fudge,” Laura added with a nod.
He laughed. “Fudge it is.” He looked to Laura. “What do you like best?”
“Oh, my gosh, how can I choose? It’s all so good. Especially the chocolate.”
He ran his eyes over the labels in the case. “Chocolate Almond, Chocolate Coconut, Chocolate Marshmallow, Chocolate Peanut Butter, Chocolate Pineapple, Chocolate Raisin, Chocolate Raspberry—” He broke off and glanced at her. “Which one?”
She bit her lip. “I can’t choose. They’re all delicious.”
“You must have a favorite.”
“Try the Chocolate Pineapple,” Irene said. “It’s our newest recipe.”
He looked to Laura, who gave a small nod. “Okay,” he said. “Half a pound, please.”
Irene smiled. “Good choice. I’ll cut it into bite-size pieces for you.”
“Sounds great.”
He paid for the fudge and followed Laura onto the back patio, where there were a few small wrought iron tables and chairs for customers to use. Beyond the patio, there was a birdbath on the lawn and a veritable plethora of garden gnomes in the flower beds.
Jonathan pulled out a chair for her. She wasn’t sure anyone had ever done that for her before. “Here.” He held out the box so she could select the first piece of fudge.
Then he took a piece, popped it in his mouth and groaned. “Wow. Chocolate and pineapple—who knew?”
She tried her fudge and smiled. “Yeah, it’s good.”
“Good? It’s phenomenal.” He popped a second piece in his mouth and then shoved the box in her direction. “You have to take some more. Otherwise, I’m going to eat it all.”
She laughed and took another piece. “Now I know why you run every day, Harvard.”
“You got me,” he said. “I can’t say no to chocolate.” He sat back and enjoyed his fudge for a minute. “So, do you know everyone in town?”
She laughed again. “Pretty much. Especially the small business owners. Gram and I used to host Wychmere Bay’s Small Business Association meetings every other month. Before she got sick.”
Falling for the Innkeeper Page 4
