The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove)

by Donna Alward

  Mary was a natural mother, and whether she realized it or not, she tried to mother him, too. He let her because she had made his miserable brother happy and because she was the best damned cook this side of Portland. She knew him well enough to know that his dietary staple was burgers on the barbecue, chicken wings, and bacon and eggs. Occasionally he mixed it up with a box of mac and cheese or a sandwich. But he was no cook, and most of his meals came from the café in town, right here at Bryce and Mary’s table, or Sunday dinners with his parents.

  Bryce came back to the table and put the coffee in front of Tom. “So you met the new Foster woman. What’d you do to piss her off? She sounded mad as a wet hen when she called the office today.”

  Tom’s pulse gave a little thump as he remembered the way her blue eyes had widened when she’d opened the door. “She doesn’t appreciate the workmanship in that house.” He scowled into his coffee cup, looking up when Bryce laughed. “What?”

  “You’re going to tell me your foul mood has to do with workmanship?”

  He’d gone to the house on Blackberry Hill with one goal in mind and he’d left without achieving it. At times he’d nearly had the upper hand. But she’d been stubborn. Sassier than he expected. “What else would it be?” he asked innocently.

  Bryce blew on his coffee as he raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Nothing. But Tom, that house is a mess and you know it.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth fixing.”

  “I’m guessing you told her that in no uncertain terms.”

  “Hell, yes, I did. Can you think of anyone who would do a better job than me?”

  Mary was at the sink with her back to them but Tom heard the light snort and saw the movement of her shoulders. Bryce was grinning like a fool. Tom knew how cocky his words sounded just as he knew his brother was having fun winding him up. So predictable …

  “Of course you’d do a great job,” Bryce replied. “And it would keep your mind off … other things.”

  Tom didn’t miss the not-so-subtle reference and he gritted his teeth. “You know, it would be much easier to move on if people quit bringing Erin up all the time. I’m fine.”

  “Right.”

  Okay, so he wasn’t totally fine. He was still carrying around a fair bit of guilt about the way things had gone down. It had been hell falling in love with Erin, watching her marry someone else, and then losing her on some distant battlefield. That was perhaps the hardest part—knowing she’d been alone and so far away. At least when Erin had been alive he’d told himself he was satisfied with the knowledge that she was happy—or so he thought, until just before her last deployment.

  It was just his bad luck that Tom had spent the evening in the Rusty Fern when Josh and Erin had announced their engagement and he’d been a little too vocal expressing how she was marrying the wrong man. Nobody ever forgot anything in a small town. Everyone knew by the next day at noon how he’d professed his undying love over one too many pints of beer. It had nearly been a relief when Josh had been deployed as an army doctor, and then when he’d gotten out of the forces he and Erin had stayed in Hartford, close to Erin’s family. Jewell Cove was small and seemed even smaller when you couldn’t look a man in the eye. Tom had got to her first, but Josh was the one who’d put a ring on her finger. That was all that counted.

  Tom looked into Bryce’s face. He knew his brother cared, but moving on was something he had to do on his own time and in his own way. “I promise you, I’m fine.”

  Mary’s soft gaze tore into him. “Honey, when did you last go on a date?”

  He looked back at her evenly. “Small town. Slim pickings. Especially since my brother got the only woman worth having in the county.”

  A pretty flush glowed on her cheeks. “Go on with you.”

  “So what about this Foster woman?” Bryce sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “Maybe you should ask her out. I heard she’s the right age and has all her teeth and everything.” He grinned wickedly.

  “Abigail? Huh. She’s a mouse with a sharp tongue. Kind of plain, actually.” A hint of a smile cracked his lips. He’d gotten a peek at a fine bottom tucked into those snug, ripped jeans, not to mention her blinged-up feet.

  “Plain, huh?” Mary questioned, a note of disappointment in her voice.

  Abigail Foster was far from plain no matter what he said, but he wasn’t about to encourage Mary or Bryce. “Not my type. Look, all I want from her is the chance to work on that house. There’s not another to match it on the coast. Jed Foster built it with the best and built it to last. If she’s planning on selling it, she’ll get a better price if it’s restored properly first.”

  Bryce shrugged. “If you’re so hot for the house, why don’t you buy it yourself? You could get it for a lower price now and either keep it or turn it over for a nice profit. Then her lack of appreciation wouldn’t matter and you could do it how you wanted.” He made air quotes around the words “lack of appreciation.”

  The idea was a good one, and Tom had some money put by he could use as a down payment and for renovation materials. He tried to imagine flipping it for a profit after putting all the work into it. How could he invest all the time and energy just to hand it to someone else? But then he tried to imagine living there. What would he ever do with a house that big? Wander around in it and become a recluse. He was close to becoming a hermit now and he knew it. Besides, maybe he could scramble to put together a down payment, but the mortgage and taxes would bankrupt him. Flipping it was his only option.

  Still, the idea was tempting. And if he bought it, at least it would be restored the way it should be. Who knew what atrocities some outsider might inflict upon it? Maybe Miss Foster would cover those gorgeous floors with carpet and rip out the fireplaces, cover everything with floral chintz or something. Unthinkable.

  “I’ll think about it. It would be a lot more challenging than my current job.”

  “Which is?”

  “A new deck and pergola outside Jess’s store. She has some new idea of displaying windsocks or something outside this summer.” Their cousin Jessica Collins owned Treasures up on Lilac Lane. Josh had always said she got the creative genes in the family, but none of them had guessed at how well she could apply her business sense to that creativity. In the summer, at the height of tourist traffic, Treasures would be jam-packed with people. Generally Tom tried to avoid it, especially in the evenings when Jess held classes above the store. Too many women. Too much chatter. Cluck-cluck.

  “A big project might be just what you need,” Mary said, putting a casserole dish in a low cupboard. Her smile flickered for a second as she gripped the edge of the counter for support.

  “Okay?” Bryce asked. Tom had gone cold seeing how Mary had swayed on her feet, but Bryce was cool as a cucumber. He hadn’t even shifted in his chair. What was wrong with the man?

  “It’s gone now. Just a head rush.” She looked at Tom and grinned. “Happened the last time, too. All the time.”

  “The last time…” His gaze dropped to her belly and back up to her wide smile. “Alice isn’t even a year old!”

  She shrugged. “We always said we wanted them close together.”

  An emptiness opened up inside him and he refused to fill it with jealousy. He was happy for them, of course he was. He got up from the table and gave his sister-in-law a gentle hug. “Well, congrats again,” he said, then backed up, giving Bryce a thump on the shoulder. “Another one past the goalie, huh?”

  He didn’t waste time over long good-byes, but alone in his truck on the way back into town, he let the feelings in. Maybe they were right. Maybe a big project was what he needed, because having too much time on his hands gave him too much time to think. And the truth was, seeing his brother so happy made him realize how empty his life had become.

  * * *

  The washer and dryer at the house hadn’t been used in so long that everything had calcified or rusted, and Abby had the persistent, icky thought that mice might have built
nests in the dryer ducts. There were no clean linens on any of the beds; the gorgeous four-posters had mattresses but nothing else. A search of a linen closet revealed two sets of sheets coated with the ever-present layer of dust, but no blankets or comforters.

  Realizing there was no way she could stay here in the house’s present condition, she bundled up the sheets, got in her car, and started back into town to check into a motel for the night. Tomorrow she’d wash the sheets at a Laundromat and stop by the grocery store to stock up on cleaning supplies.

  Abby slowed as she got closer to the town limits. There was more than enough dirt at the house to keep her busy for at least the next few weeks. For a few moments she fantasized about using some of Aunt Marian’s money to hire cleaners to come in and do the work for her. And yet, despite her dislike for dusting and scrubbing, she knew she didn’t want anyone else going through the contents of the house. If nothing else, she owed it to her grandmother to find out what she could about this side of the family. Who knew what she might discover beneath the grit and grime?

  And once that was done she’d decide what needed to be fixed and contact a Realtor. She hadn’t planned on staying in Jewell Cove very long but plans changed. It wasn’t like there was a pressing need to be on any schedule. Or anyone waiting for her to return. She could afford a few weeks to take care of personal business. That’s all this was. Business.

  She didn’t want the intimacy of a bed-and-breakfast—too many curious questions—so she turned into a small roadside motel just past the waterfront and the commercial area surrounding it. The room came with a porch that boasted a stunning view of the main drag. Since she had no desire to sit in the camp chair and watch traffic, she checked out the view from the back window. The harbor spread out below her, boats tied to the docks and bobbing on the smooth water in the mellow late-afternoon light. She watched as a fishing vessel chugged its way into the far end of the dock, its grayish-white prow breaking the gentle waves.

  A long, low growl sounded in the silence and Abby pressed a hand to her stomach. When had she last eaten? Not for hours. There was no on-site restaurant at the motel, only vending machines in the office, so she had a quick shower to wash off the dust before looking for some dinner. Revived, dressed in clean navy trousers and a soft pink top with ruffles along the hem, she set out to explore Main Street and see what might tempt her. Since she hadn’t eaten since before crossing the border, she didn’t expect it would prove too difficult to find something appealing.

  She passed Memorial Square with its well-kept gardens, a gazebo, and upon close examination, a statue of Edward Jewell, the town’s founder. Right next to the dock there was a fish-and-chips place—more like a canteen, really—with the smell of fresh fish and hot oil clinging to the air. Farther along she saw Breezes Café, a promising-looking diner, right next door to an Italian place called Gino’s that filled the air with the pungent smell of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh bread. Deciding to keep looking, Abby walked down the sidewalk next to the water admiring the view of the boats coming to dock, when a door opened farther down the street and country music erupted through the breach like a siren’s call.

  It had been a long day, and Tom Arseneault’s sudden appearance was the icing on her already overwhelming cake. The reassuring twang of a recent country hit mingled with the delicious scent of grilled beef toppled her over the edge. What she needed was some red meat and a stiff drink. She kept going until she reached the brick-red building at the end of the block that looked more like a barn than a restaurant, a faded wooden sign outside announcing THE RUSTY FERN. She pulled open the door and stepped inside.

  Was there anything more universal than a local watering hole? Abby let out a breath as the familiarity of it soaked into her tired mind. Neon signs boasting beer slogans hung above the solid wood bar. Thick tables and chairs filled the open space, with one end of the room spared for two pool tables and a dart board, where one lone man was throwing darts with varying accuracy, pausing to take a drink from his glass after each shot. Easy chatter blended with the country music, the long Maine accent thick in the air after a few drinks. But best of all was the smell coming from the kitchen—garlic and beef and grease. Abby’s mouth watered just thinking about it, and she found a small table for two close to a window overlooking the wharf. It was perfect.

  A waitress approached. “Something to drink, darlin’?”

  The r was soft, reminding Abby of the childhood trips she’d made to Lunenburg and Bridgewater with her parents. She smiled. “Spiced rum and ginger, please.”

  “You got it. Do you want a menu?”

  Abby looked up at the woman’s face and smiled. “If somewhere on it says a steak sandwich, that’ll do.”

  The woman nodded in approval. “Sure does. How do you want your steak?”

  “Medium, and a salad instead of fries, please.”

  “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”

  Her drink was brought straightaway and Abby savored the spicy, fizzy taste of ginger ale and Captain Morgan on her tongue. The window provided a view of the wharf and a smattering of small shops on its edge, each one with a different colored siding. Reds, blues, yellows—there was even one green with pink trim around the windows. It should have been garish but somehow it worked.

  Despite the bad start to the day, she had to admit Jewell Cove was a pretty little town with lots of character. Main Street was vibrant with shops and businesses ranging from the quaint to the cute, the foot traffic steady even in the off-season. From what she could tell, there wasn’t even a Starbucks or McDonald’s in Jewell Cove. The place was delightfully free of chain stores and fast-food outlets.

  All in all she could have landed in worse places.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Her head snapped back to see Tom standing by her table looking down at her. She felt smaller than ever, seated as he towered above her. The fact that his deep voice sent something shimmering along her nerve endings was a nonissue. He was aggravating on a lot of levels.

  “My, my, it is a small world, isn’t it?” She hoped her cheeks weren’t giving her away as she picked up her drink and took a sip. Blushing would give him the wrong idea entirely.

  “Isn’t it just?”

  There was a long pause as he waited, standing by her table, and she finally sighed with irritation. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Arseneault?”

  “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  She swallowed, but made a point of lifting her chin and doing her best impression of disdain. “I wasn’t, no.”

  “Tsk-tsk, Miss Foster.” He began to smile, popping a ridiculous dimple. She would not be charmed. She would not. His dark eyes sparkled at her. “How very rude.”

  The blush she hoped wouldn’t appear heated her cheeks and she looked away, tempted to smile. “Oh, sit then. You’re going to anyway, and looking up at you is putting a crick in my neck.”

  He pulled out the chair and sat, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward until she could smell his clean, spicy scent. “Where are those Canadian manners we keep hearing so much about, eh?”

  He was baiting her and she was terribly close to giving in. All she wanted was to have a decent meal in peace. Instead she was face-to-face with Mr. Sexy Lumberjack—again.

  “I’m half American,” she stated, as if that explained it all, and he laughed.

  “Well played, Miss Foster.”

  She merely sipped her drink. The glass was only half empty and she was starting to feel the alcohol tingle through her legs and fingers. One drink would definitely be enough.

  “I was born in Maine, you know. In Houlton,” she explained. “That’s where my gram lived, and where she had my dad.”

  “So what prompted the move to Nova Scotia?”

  “How did you know that’s where I’m from?” Good heavens, was nothing sacred around here?

  He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “It might have been mentioned that you had Nova
Scotia license plates. Besides, I saw your car at the house.”

  Abby couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips as she thought, “Small towns.” “Of course. Good old Bill at the gas station, right? Anyway, my mom was from Nova Scotia, and we moved there when I was young.” There was more to the story, but Abby wasn’t about to get into her long, screwed-up family history with Tom. No one wanted to hear a sob story about how her mother was more interested in being a party girl than a mother or her childhood spent traveling from one trailer to another. There was a difference between presenting basic facts and airing dirty family laundry. Especially to someone who was practically a stranger.

  “So you have dual citizenship.”

  “Comes in handy sometimes.” Her stomach rumbled and she wondered how much longer the food was going to take. “I just came to have some dinner,” she said, turning her glass around on the cocktail napkin. “If there’s something you wanted, now’d be a good time. I’m hungry.”

  His face lost all trace of teasing. “All right, I’ll get right to my point. I want to buy your house.”

  She nearly dropped her glass, the condensation slipping down her fingers as she stared at him. “What?”

  “You don’t want it, right? And you’re going to sell it anyway. So sell it to me.”

  Abby hadn’t seen the offer coming, but she could tell he was dead serious. “I thought you were a contractor.”

  “I am.”

  “And I didn’t say I was selling it.” The words came out, even though she knew them to be a lie.

  He sat back in his chair. “So you’re keeping it? Staying here?”

  “I didn’t say that, either.” She folded her hands. “You were right about one thing. I can’t sell it as it is. It needs work, but I’m still trying to get a full picture. It would be irresponsible to sell to you right now. After all, I doubt I’d get market value. You’ll do the renovations and then flip it for a tidy profit.”

  “So? I’d be saving you a lot of headache,” he persisted.

  “The house hasn’t exactly been the source of my headache today,” she pointed out.