Letters and Lace (The Ronan's Harbor Series)

by M. Kate Quinn

  “Planning your wedding isn’t work, sweetie,” Sarah said. It’s my pleasure.” And no complaining neighbor or fool town law is going to ruin it.

  “You never have any fun, Mom. You need to, you know, go out a little.”

  “I do,” Sarah said. “As a matter of fact Gigi and I are painting the town red this very evening, going to go stay out to all hours of the night. Be, you know, hussies.”

  Hannah laughed loud, shaking her pretty head. “Are you two going to Captain’s Pier House again tonight? Is that your hot time?”

  “Yes,” Sarah said, lifting one shoulder against the remark. “It happens to be Ladies Night.”

  “Oh, wow, sure you can handle a night of Mr. Bailey’s three-piece combo playing their version of The Beatles?”

  “The City, my darling, the City” Sarah said pointing toward the doorway. “Now go. Give my love to Ian.”

  ****

  Alone in the foyer, Sarah’s gaze sought the framed oil portrait adorning the wall above the antique credenza. Cornelia Vandermark DeGraff looked out from the frame, dark brown eyes painted expertly to reveal the courage Sarah knew resided inside her inn’s namesake.

  Cornelia stood before the parlor’s fireplace, one delicate hand clasping an ornate silk fan. The young widow’s frothy, lemon-chiffon-colored gown gathered low beneath her corseted waist, draping with swags of fabric that swooped around to her back—a tailor’s masterpiece scandalously unbefitting a woman who’d lost her husband, tyrant though he’d been.

  Sarah knew well the story behind the regal brunette with her hair femininely clustered in ringlets atop her crown and girlish bangs frizzled over her forehead. Cornelia DeGraff had not been a delicate flower.

  The founder of the Ronan’s Harbor Garden Club had been a maverick, unwilling to conform to societal morés. Sarah knew that pretty prop in her hand had been less her norm than the pipe she was rumored to have smoked out on her front porch—much to the shock of the townsfolk.

  What would Cornelia have done about the filed complaint? She looked the old girl dead in the eye. “We won’t stand for it, will we, Cornelia?”

  Sarah retrieved the letter and shoved it into her jeans pocket. She needed to remember to bring it along with her tonight to show her best friend. Gigi would help her come up with a strategy.

  She spent the day going over her lists, cross-checking her calendar, careful not to forget any of the wedding details appointments or the workmen’s projected scheduling. She marked down Monday night’s meeting at the town hall regarding the complaint.

  No matter how she tried to avoid thinking about it, the news hung in her head like an infection, throbbing against her temples, reminding her she had a problem.

  It was dusk when Sarah finally put away her paperwork. As if on automatic pilot she entered her bathroom and ran water to fill the tub. A hot soak usually worked miracles whenever she needed to wash away stress.

  How much of my adult life have I spent with pruny skin? Based on the possibility of some saboteur ruining her sunroom plans—and halting Hannah’s dream wedding at the inn—Sarah figured she’d have oak tree-like bark for skin before Monday night at seven-thirty.

  The phone rang while she soaked. Sarah was careful not to drop the handset into the water where the previous one, as well as her MP-3 player, had met their sudsy demise.

  She heard her friend, Gigi’s sensuous tone. “Ready for action?”

  “Ready,” Sarah said, attempting to sound enthused. She closed her eyes, leaning against the inflatable pillow Gigi had given her one Christmas. “Just taking a bath.”

  “A, you don’t sound ready, and B, you only switch from shower to bath when you need to escape something cruddy.”

  Sarah smiled against the device in her wet hand. A, Gigi often spoke in bullet points, and B, she knew Sarah better than anybody on the planet. So C, there was no sense in giving her friend lip service. She blew out a long breath, chasing some bubbles off her fingertips. “Cruddy’s the right word.”

  “Okay, spill it.”

  “We’ll talk about it later at the Pier House. I got a letter today from town hall. Somebody filed a complaint against me.”

  “What asshole would do that?” Gigi’s normally deep tone changed to her angry rasp. “Are you serious?”

  “Yup.” Sarah was too tired to discuss it now. The high temperature of the water was making her drowsy.

  “Okay, Sarah, look. Whatever it is, we’ll handle it. Nobody’s pulling that shit and getting away with it. Remember that time the Coopers tried to sue me because their geraniums died after a week?”

  A lazy grin grew on Sarah’s face as she remembered the disgruntled customers trying to poison townspeople’s minds against Bayside Blossoms, her friend’s treasured flower shop.

  The only poison that had taken hold was the entire box of plant food Gigi discovered the fools had dumped onto their freshly planted bed of geraniums, wiping out the poor plants like a plague. Sarah recalled how she and Gigi had sneaked onto the woman’s property after dark to get a soil sample.

  Yes, Gigi was right. Nobody pulls that shit and gets away with it.

  Sarah sat up straight in the tub. It was time to get out and give her skin the chance to resume what smoothness it had left after forty-six years of bubble therapy.

  “You know what, Gigi, you’re right. Whoever this complainer is better watch out.”

  “Tonight we’ll make a toast,” Gigi said. “To the sorry ass who thinks they can mess with us.”

  “You got it,” Sarah said. “See you later.”

  She pressed the “off” button and the handset began to slip from her grasp. Frantically, she jerked her hand out from the tub and the handset fell to the floor and skidded across the tile. Saved, at least, from drowning. I’ll check the blunt-force trauma later.

  She leaned over to the chrome lever at the front of the tub and gave it a full twist. She heard the momentary pop of water startled from its complacency followed by the gurgle as it drained.

  By the time Gigi was due to come by for her Sarah had regrouped sufficiently, even when the doubt of her ability to combat the complaint tried to encroach into her brain. She reminded herself that though she wasn’t sure how, she would be saving her plans.

  She took extra care in her appearance for tonight, deciding to dress with her “as-if” mentality. She didn’t pull out the strategy often, but it had its merits—appear as if you’re full of confidence and there’s a good chance the world will believe it.

  Tonight in her close-fit black pants and trendy tunic sweater, she had the look of assurance. The silver hoop earrings, the long drippy chain necklace—all of it worked the façade. Sarah straightened her shoulders and air-kissed her painted lips toward the image in the mirror. Confidence, she was loaded with it.

  Later, as they drove down Ocean Avenue toward the beach on their way to The Pier House, Gigi bubbled with typical excitement.

  “Something awesome’s in store for us tonight, Sarah,” she said with a broad grin. “I feel it.” She scrunched her nose for emphasis.

  “If you say so.”

  Gigi clucked her tongue. “Come on. Loosen up. You look great, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Sarah said. “So do you.”

  In contradiction to Sarah’s smooth-lined outfit, Gigi’s ensemble had been sewn with threads soaked in “wow.” There was that familiar flash in Gigi’s eyes that matched the electric blue of her billowy blouse. No one needed to tell her she looked great.

  Gigi hummed with audible admiration. “Girl, your ex should see you these days.”

  Sarah’s fingers brushed over the soft strands of her un-sprayed hair, a flowing mass of waves that had a mind of its own. She’d abandoned the tedious efforts to straighten the arrogant waves years ago—especially since it had been Gary’s idea in the first place.

  When the strings of pin lights lining the roof of the small building came into twinkly view, Gigi flipped down the visor above her head and looked
into the rectangular vanity mirror, lit now by a small bulb.

  “Um, you’re driving,” Sarah commented.

  Gigi, ignoring Sarah’s observation, ran well-manicured fingers over her pointed, spiky hair—jet black these days, color choice of the month. Just two months earlier, her short wacky hair had been a deep red—burgundy really—in honor of Valentine’s Day.

  Sarah’s wheat-brown that had been the same all her life. It was true, Sarah supposed, that no two women could appear more unalike. But, it had been love at first sight for the two friends on the day Sarah had walked into her first Garden Club meeting.

  Luckily for her, she’d sat right beside Virginia Allen, the proprietor of the town’s flower shop. Gigi had handed her a plastic cup and had leaned close. “Have some,” she had whispered. “I spiked the hell out of it.”

  Sarah had taken a tentative sip, immediately tasting the distinct tang of wine—a lot of wine—and it was good.

  The woman with the strange hairdo and crazy, dangling feathered earrings had given her a toothy grin. “I’m Gigi,” she’d said. “You’re not one of these prima donnas. I can tell.”

  That had been over a decade ago, and since then the two had faced a lot of things; Gigi’s scare with a phantom lump in her breast, as well as her painful breakups with on-again-off-again boyfriend, Mickey Nolan. There’d been Sarah’s divorce, followed by the anguish of her going solo at the inn.

  Gigi pulled her car into one of the lot’s parking spaces and the two scurried toward the entrance against the chilly ocean breeze. Music wafted through the flimsily tented patio that jutted from the main building. They hurried through the door and snaked a path to the bar.

  “I’d say sixty-forty,” Gigi said perusing the people milling about. “Not bad.”

  Gigi had the habit of assessing the ratio of women versus men at Ladies Nights. Typically, the scales at these Pier House events tipped toward an abundance of middle-aged women, men were a meager showing.

  Sarah didn’t care. She was out and dressed up, and doing her best to forget about the letter that sat folded in her purse.

  Gigi ordered her a cosmopolitan, a pink martini that Sarah didn’t normally drink. They hit her too quickly and she didn’t like the fuzzy-brained effect. She took a tiny sip, vowing to herself to let the beverage last her the evening.

  Gigi eyed the crowd over the rim of her cone-shaped glass. “I see one.”

  “For God’s sake, Gigi, we’re not at a pet store. Stop acting like you’re shopping for a puppy.”

  “Oh, what I see is no puppy. I spotted me a Rottweiler.”

  Sarah couldn’t help but laugh. She followed her friend’s gaze to the other side of the room, near Pete Bailey’s combo busily crucifying a ballad.

  The man was dark. His navy blue oxford was tucked into faded jeans. His dark hair brushed straight back over his head had a few uncooperative strands falling forward. He brought a partially-filled pilsner glass to his mouth and took a sip of dark beer.

  In the subdued light Sarah detected the chisel of his facial planes, the angles coming together in a rugged kind of broodiness that looked both appealing and dangerous. She turned to look fully at her friend. Gigi’s face was that of a child after finding a package with her name on it on Christmas morning.

  “Down girl,” Sarah warned, knowing such a comment was about as effective as an eyedropper of water on an inferno.

  “Come with me.” She walked in the man’s direction not even hesitating a beat to be sure Sarah would follow.

  They wove through the throng of women dolled up in their evening-out attire. They passed clusters huddled together in giggly conversations, reminding Sarah of a school dance. It was pathetic really, but who was she to say? She was at the dance, too. And she’d come with the Prom Queen.

  They hovered near the man, but not too close. Sarah knew the drill. Get in his direct line of vision, let him know you’re there, wait for him to approach.

  Gigi broke out her usual moves, touching a delicate hand to her hair, laughing with her head back, running a hand over a thigh to brush away non-existent lint. Sarah didn’t understand why her friend bothered. Gigi always got noticed. She exuded pheromones the same way fresh basil filled a room with its aroma. Truly, if pheromones looked like snowflakes, Gigi would be a walking blizzard.

  The band took a break, the three local men abandoning their instruments for a stint at the bar. People gathered around them offering compliments on the guys’ performances.

  The people in Ronan’s Harbor were nothing if not supportive of each other. Sarah scrutinized the faces of the people she knew, wondering, So, which one of them is trying to ruin my life? The feeling was ugly. These were her people. The idea of one of them filing a complaint against her felt like a personal slap. It stung.

  Gigi’s target approached, sauntering toward them like a gun-slinger traversing a dirt road in an old western. Sarah hated to admit it, but the guy was hot. Smoldering with a subtlety that gave Sarah a little foreign-feeling pang. This kind of twinge had been dormant so long that at first she thought the cosmo had done a job on her already. She looked down at her glass, still three-quarters full.

  He stopped when he reached their table, offering a small half-smile. He had a nice mouth and his lopsided grin only served to make it more appealing. Gigi had picked a good one this time, that was for sure.

  “I’m Gigi,” she said, her voice dropping an octave. She offered a hand, which he took into his own.

  “Benny,” he said. He turned toward Sarah. “And?”

  “Oh,” she startled. Usually with Gigi around, men tended to regard her as a lamppost. “I’m Sarah.”

  “Nice to meet you both,” he said, but his gaze was on Sarah. She tried to pull her eyes from him, but they refused to cooperate.

  He held up his empty pilsner. “I’m heading for another one of these. Can I get you ladies a drink?”

  Sarah looked down at her glass, then over to Gigi’s which was nearly drained.

  “I’m good for now, thanks,” Sarah said.

  “Oh, come on, Sar, drink up, honey.” Gigi poked an elbow at her.

  The move caused Sarah’s hand to jerk spilling the cosmopolitan onto her sweater. A big wet patch appeared, like glaze on a muffin, on one breast of the cotton-synthetic blend.

  “Oh my God,” Gigi said. “I’m sorry.”

  Sarah stole a glance at Benny whose eyes had found the wet mound on her chest. A rush of heat flooded her face.

  “I, uh…excuse me,” she said.

  She headed toward the bar with the mission of grabbing some paper towels. She hoped the garment wasn’t ruined, but she was more upset by her reaction to Gigi’s Rottweiler. Why was she looking at him? Why was he looking at her? He made her nervous and the feeling was new, scary.

  She reminded herself that Gigi was excited over this newcomer. Truthfully it wasn’t every day a guy like this one showed up in Ronan’s Harbor.

  This Benny person was probably a business man, just passing through. There’d been plenty of those during their visits to Ladies Nights. Guys with wives and kiddies tucked away at home while they perused the local scene, did some flirting, and gave away drinks and empty promises as if they were both free.

  Somehow she sensed this Benny didn’t fit that mold. His was a far cry from the typical appearance of a transient businessman. This was a cowboy who’d taken a wrong turn at the corral and had landed on the Pier House’s doorstep.

  So, even if her sweater did reek of cosmo, she’d stick around for Gigi’s sake. She vowed to keep her eyes off the wayward cowpoke.

  It was Benny that managed to get his hands on a stack of paper towels and extended them to Sarah. She broke her vow in record time.

  There was a shiny message of sympathy in his dark eyes. They seized Sarah’s gaze, zapping her ability to avert from the lock they had on her. Air was suddenly trapped inside her lungs. He volunteered an easy smile, exposing a crooked eyetooth that for some reason just added to hi
s appeal.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d reacted to a man’s physicality. Right now she could actually feel her nipples pressing hard against the scratchy fabric of that ridiculous demi-cupped bra she’d bought on a whim one Saturday at the mall.

  It was as though her body had taken on a persona all its own, betraying her practiced aloofness—peeking out from behind the well-placed coating of armor she’d brushed onto her view of men, that shield she’d stayed safely behind for years.

  She reminded herself that this was Gigi’s Rottweiler. She’d never really entertain making a move toward Benny anyway. Hell, she was just happy knowing she wasn’t dead.

  Sarah accepted the paper towels and muttered a hushed, “Thank you.” Their fingers brushed against each other with a flash of electricity—two sticks producing enough friction to ignite a flame. Her own brazen thought jolted her.

  She unfolded a towel and pressed it to her sweater. Suddenly the move felt intimate and she didn’t need to lift her gaze to feel his stare.

  “I’m going to, uh, head to the ladies’ room to work on this,” she said to Gigi. She motioned to the front of her sweater and instantly hated herself for bringing attention to the area where her body advertised its reaction to Benny like a set of high beams. She dashed off.

  In the bright, stark light of the ladies room, Sarah stood in front of the sink and looked into the oval mirror above it. Look at yourself, she criticized inwardly. She was a sight. The dark patch over one boob looked like she’d missed a baby’s feeding. The nipple stared through the wet fabric that covered it, gawking at her image in the glass. It was good, she decided, that nipples couldn’t laugh because this one would be roaring.

  She knew trying to rewet the sweater to rinse it of the spilled drink would only make her nipples happier. She opted to stand under the hand dryer—no easy feat considering it had been affixed to the wall at the ideal height for a Smurf. She folded her five-foot-six self as best she could under the force of air. Sadly, nipples liked that too. The sorry truth was now that her armor had been cracked open, her physical reactions seeped out like lava, too hot to stop. She needed to get her ass home and, what? Take another bath? One in ice cubes, maybe?