Sharon Shaw Mills winked at Nate. “She’s been bugging me to braid her hair, so now that school is out, I decided to oblige Miss Thang and take her to the Beauty Box with me.”
Whenever he looked at his sister, it was a constant reminder of what their mother had looked like at that age. Sharon had inherited her mother’s petite frame, café au lait complexion, and coal-black curly hair, physical characteristics she’d passed along to her own offspring.
“You girls look beautiful,” Nate crooned.
“Momma’s not a girl, Uncle Nate,” Gregory piped up, correcting his uncle. “She says she’s a woe-man.”
Nate turned his head to hide the grin that had spread across his face. Living with his sister had taught him one important rule: Edit everything before you say it, because her children had minds like steel traps. They remembered everyone and everything.
“Thank you for reminding me, Gregory,” he said in apology. “I’ll see you guys later.”
“Aren’t you staying for supper?” Sharon asked.
“No. I have to go to the Cove.”
“Do you want me to leave a plate for you?”
“No, thanks. I’ll grab something at Jack’s Fish House.”
Nate was anxious to see what Morgan was proposing. He’d spent all day Sunday, Monday, and early Tuesday morning putting shingles on the roof of the barn. It’d taken him five months to put up the framework, including the roof and all-around overhangs, the exterior and interior walls, and the floors, windows, and doors. The structure could’ve been completed in under a month if he’d hired a crew to assist him. But for Nate it was a test of endurance. He’d used every waking hour for the project, dividing his time between working with his father in the one-room cabin that had served as the workshop for Shaw Woodworking for nearly a century and working on the barn site itself.
He got into his truck, started the engine, and headed for Sanctuary Cove. The paved road connecting Angels Landing to Sanctuary Cove cut down on the travel time. Cavanaugh Island had changed slightly during his absence, only adding to the island’s charm.
The Creek had Happy Hour, a club catering to the under-forty crowd. It was the only bar on the island. Then there was Panini Café, another gathering spot in the Creek for the younger crowd. Both establishments were popular with local and mainland residents. Nate maneuvered slowly along the two-lane road lined on both sides with towering pine trees. He barely glanced at the sign indicating the number of miles to Angels Landing and Sanctuary Cove.
Angels Landing appeared to have been caught in suspended animation. Totally residential, it nevertheless had no new homes or subdivisions. There were the “haves,” who lived in scaled-down replicas of antebellum mansions, and the “have-nots,” who lived in one-story structures built on pilings off the ground. Many of these houses were in need of a fresh coat of paint as well as new windows and screens. He chuckled softly. The years he’d spent working for a West Coast developer had perfected his observational skills. He could now apply what he’d learned to his hometown.
The paved road wound through a swampland where few had ventured in the past because of quicksand, alligators, and poisonous reptiles. His gaze followed the flight of a pair of snow-white egrets who had been perched on a fallen branch resting in the murky water.
Fifteen minutes later he entered the town limits of Sanctuary Cove. Having been accustomed to speeding on California freeways, Nate had to reprogram his brain to drive less than twenty miles per hour. There were no streetlights, except in the Cove and Creek business districts, no posted speed limits, and no stop signs on the island.
Nate decelerated, maneuvering through the downtown. He’d become a sightseer: He passed Jack’s Fish House, then the town square, where groups of teenagers used to gather around the fountain and the marble statue of patriot militiaman General Francis Marion atop a stallion. He stared at the Cove Inn, the town’s boardinghouse. It, too, needed a fresh coat of white paint. It suddenly hit him as if he’d been jolted by electricity. This was the first time he’d been to the Cove since his return. Jesse had accused him of hiding, Bryce had asked him if he knew how to have fun, and Morgan had talked about him not getting out enough. It was apparent they were right, because he felt more like a tourist than a native.
Since his return, his routine was always the same: up at sunrise, retire to bed at midnight, which left him with little or no time for himself. And if he didn’t share Sunday dinner with his family or go to the lumberyard on the mainland, Nate would’ve lived a monastic existence. He hoped that would change now that the barn was nearing completion.
Nate turned down a side street and drove into an area set aside for business district parking. He managed to find an empty space between a rusty pickup and a late-model roadster. The Memorial Day weekend signaled the official start of the summer season, and that meant the island’s population increased appreciably, with an influx of tourists and college students. Walking out of the parking lot, he made his way down Moss Alley. Ageless oak trees draped in Spanish moss had given the iconic narrow cobblestone street its name.
Moving back to Cavanaugh Island had been a shot in the arm for Nate. Here there was no manufacturing to pollute the air and water; no traffic jams, no exhaust fumes; no fast-food restaurants, big-box stores, or strip malls. When the local kids didn’t go to Charleston, they’d hang out in the town square or on the beach. There had never been a record of a vehicular fatality or a hit-and-run accident. Anyone caught driving under the influence was harshly dealt with by local law enforcement.
He strolled along Main Street, peering into storefronts. He smiled when he saw the piano in the Parlor Bookstore. The shingle above a nearby storefront read ASA MONROE, MD, CRITICAL CARE FAMILY PRACTICE. Dr. Monroe had become his father’s primary physician. It was good the island now had a resident doctor and a bookstore.
Nate glanced at the clock above the building housing the Sanctuary Chronicle. It was 6:20. Morgan had mentioned she could be found in her office most nights, so he turned on his heels and headed back toward Moss Alley.
The sound of the doorbell chiming like Big Ben echoed throughout the space where Morgan had set up M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design. She saved what she’d typed, then walked to the front door. Peering through the beveled glass, she saw the figure of a man, then his face. Nate. Unlocking the door, she stared up at him. Her breath caught in her throat, making breathing difficult. The stubble on his jaw, and his black T-shirt, relaxed jeans, and work boots, served to enhance his blatant virility.
“You came.”
Staring at her under lowered lids, Nate smiled. “I told you I would. Do you always keep the door locked?”
“I do when I’m here alone and working in the back.” She opened the door wider. “Please come in.” Nate walked in, the subtle scent of sandalwood aftershave wafting to her nose. Why does he have to look and smell so delicious? her inner voice asked. Morgan knew that if she wasn’t careful, old feelings were certain to resurface, making it hard for her to maintain a professional demeanor when interacting with him. Closing and locking the door, she turned to find him glancing around the outer office.
“I like what you’ve done here,” Nate said, staring at a trio of framed Jonathan Green prints.
Two side chairs upholstered in natural Haitian cotton flanked a low table topped with a vase of fresh flowers and succulents in small decorative pots. Twin Tiffany-style floor lamps matched one on another table, which doubled as a desk. Recessed lighting, prerecorded music flowing from speakers concealed in the ceiling, and the cool colors of blue, gray, and white created a calming effect.
Nate ran his fingers over a wall covered with blue-gray fabric. “Fiberglass?”
Morgan nodded. “You’re good. How did you know?”
“I’ve installed panels like these in a number of houses.”
“I thought you only work with wood,” Morgan said, slightly taken aback by Nate’s revelation.
“I spent about fifteen year
s working for a builder, and during that time I learned a lot about the construction business.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he studied the decorative marquetry inlay and contrasting veneers on the desk in the reception area. “Where did you get this table?”
She took a step, standing close to him. “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”
“Is it signed and dated?”
“The underside is stamped: Shaw 1898.”
Nate gave Morgan a quick glance. “How many pieces do you own that were made by my ancestors?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
She led the way to the back of the shop, where she’d set up her private office. She’d divided the expansive area in half, to accommodate a lounge. “The credenza is a Shaw, and so is the drop-leaf table.” Morgan stared at Nate when he touched the credenza as if it were a priceless relic.
“Was this a part of a dining room set?”
“Yes. My grandfather gave away the table, chairs, and china closet when he married my grandmother. She came to their marriage with her own furniture, so he agreed to part with everything but the tables and credenza. When his mother heard what her daughter-in-law had done she never spoke to her again.”
Nate crossed muscular arms over his chest and angled his head. “I’ve heard of families falling out over money, but rarely furniture.”
Morgan stared into his clear brown eyes, which seemed not to look at her but through her. It was the same look she remembered when they’d shared a booth at Perry’s, which now seemed eons ago. Had he recognized her longing gazes? Or had he thought her a silly, awestruck girl all too eager for an upperclassman to acknowledge her?
“We Danes are reluctant to let go of our past, lest we forget where we’ve come from.”
Bending slightly, Nate peered closely at the photographs atop the credenza. “Living here makes it almost impossible to forget where we’ve come from. Your grandfather made certain to preserve history when he took those pictures.” There were black-and-white photographs of couples walking to church in their Sunday best, a group of men sitting on the back of a pickup truck filled with watermelons, a young man in a zoot suit, and girls jumping rope.
“Grandpa was known as the Lowcountry James Van Der Zee.”
He stood up straight. “Are these photos originals?”
Morgan shook her head. “No. When Grandpa passed away he left me all his photographs, camera equipment, and negatives. Some of his originals are exhibited in museums and many are in private collections.”
“You’ve done an incredible job decorating this place.”
She curbed the urge to curtsy. “Thank you.”
“Now that I see this place, I’d like to hire you to decorate my barn.”
Morgan went completely still. “You want me to decorate a barn?”
“It’s not what you think. I built a two-bedroom apartment in the loft.”
“How large is the apartment?” she asked.
“It’s about twenty-one hundred square feet.”
“That’s larger than some of the houses on the island.”
A rumble of laughter came from Nate’s broad chest. “Well, it is in a barn. Will you come by and look at it?”
There was a pregnant pause before Morgan said, “Sure. But I can’t come for at least two weeks. I’m currently interviewing brick masons and landscapers while attempting to complete a research project. Is that okay with you?”
He nodded. “It’s fine.”
“Now that we’ve got that settled, would you like to see the rest of the office?”
“Sure.”
She opened the door to the lounge, revealing four yellow leather chairs pushed under a round glass-top table and bookcases filled with books on subjects ranging from art, African-American history, architecture, castles, gardens, and handicrafts to decorating and interior design. A wall-mounted flat-screen TV and an orange leather reclining love seat had turned it into the perfect place to unwind and relax. Open louvered mahogany doors exposed a utility kitchen with overhead cabinets, a refrigerator, microwave, and dishwasher.
“This is the office lounge. The door in the corner is a bathroom.”
“Was all this here when you rented the space?” Nate asked.
“No. It was an open space with a minuscule bathroom. I had the bathroom expanded and a plumber put in a shower stall, but I can’t use it because the retractable showerhead sprays water everywhere.”
“Did you tell the plumber?”
“Yes, but he’s on a job in Myrtle Beach. He says as soon as he’s finished he’ll come and adjust it.”
Nate brushed past her and entered the bathroom. Sliding back the frosted doors, he looked at the showerhead. “It’s probably the diverter valve. I’ll come by tomorrow night and fix it for you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Turning, he approached her, she taking a step backward when he stopped less than a foot away. He was too close for comfort. His eyes glittered like yellow citrines in a face deeply tanned from working outdoors in the hot sun.
“If I’m going to work for you, then you’re going to have to loosen up.”
Nate knew he’d shocked Morgan when her jaw dropped. He stared at her parted lips, wondering how she would react if he kissed her—a real kiss this time. It was his turn to be shocked by his thoughts. He’d never been impulsive, especially when it came to women, but there was something about Morgan that made him react differently. He knew it had nothing to do with her looks, because he’d dated his share of beautiful women. In fact, he’d married one.
Staring at her, sharing the same space, made Nate aware of things he either hadn’t noticed or had forgotten. First it was her voice. It was low, sultry, and incredibly seductive. Then it was her confidence. It was unusual for a woman in her early thirties to have so thoroughly taken charge of her life and career, resigning her position at a small but very successful architectural firm to strike out on her own. And she was not only confident but also secure when it came to her marital status. Whereas many women her age were trolling clubs, joining dating sites, and asking their friends to hook them up with a man, Morgan had admitted she wasn’t looking for a husband. Especially not one who came from Cavanaugh Island. His father was right when he said men were buzzing around her like bees flitting from flower to flower. Instead of preening, she’d appeared totally bored and unaffected by all the male attention she’d garnered at last weekend’s wedding reception. We’re more alike than not, Nate mused as he continued his mental assessment of Morgan.
“What’s the matter, Mo? Cat got your tongue?” he said teasingly when she compressed her lips.
“No,” she countered, smiling. “It’s just that I didn’t expect you to accept my offer without seeing the rendering. And you also said you had to talk to your dad and brother.”
“I discussed it with them and they’re in agreement that I should work with you. I’ve finished the barn’s construction, so that’ll give me time to help you out.”
Morgan pressed her palms together at the same time she closed her eyes. When she opened them they were dancing with excitement. “Thank you, Nate. Now are you ready to see the model of what will eventually be the fully restored Angels Landing Plantation?”
Attractive lines fanned out around her eyes when she smiled. He didn’t know how or why, but he felt her excitement as if it were his own. “Yes.”
Nate had decided to become part of the restoration project for several reasons, not the least of which was curiosity. But it was also good for his ego, and for posterity. The Shaw name was deeply ingrained in the annals of Lowcountry furniture making, and to have the name associated with the Angels Landing Plantation restoration was something his sister and brother could tell their grandchildren. Children of his own weren’t part of his thinking, because he had no intention of remarrying. And becoming a baby daddy was definitely not an option or even a remote possibility for Nate.
Since his return, working with his fath
er was a reminder of how it’d been before he left for college. Accompanying his dad to the lumberyard was like visiting a toy store. The smell of raw wood had become an aphrodisiac, and the sight and sound of the saw was mesmerizing whenever it sliced large stumps into planks or wide boards. He’d watched his father, transfixed whenever he ran his fingertips over freshly cut Western red cedar, sugar maple, Brazilian mahogany, or American black walnut. Time and again he’d found himself doing the same thing. By the time he’d turned twelve he could differentiate at a glance among the many types of wood used in furniture making.
Nate followed Morgan back into her office, his gaze following the gentle sway of her hips in a pair of light gray cropped linen slacks. She appeared cool and fresh in a silk lavender man-tailored shirt and navy blue patent leather flats. When she opened the doors to an armoire, he noticed she’d replaced the drawers with shelves.
“I’ll help you with that,” he offered when Morgan slid out one of the shelves. He took it from her. “Sweet heaven,” Nate whispered when he saw the scaled-down model of a fully restored Angels Landing Plantation.
“You can put it on the drafting table.” She pulled out two high-back stools, turned on a swing-arm lamp, and positioned a high-intensity light over the table.
He placed the board with its magnetized pieces on the table, unable to believe the meticulous detail. The antebellum mansion sat at the end of a live oak allée. The scaled-down Greek Revival model, with pale pink columns and tall, black-shuttered windows, was an exact replica of the main house. Morgan had included guesthouses, carriage houses, an English boxwood garden, a family cemetery, chapel, and outbuildings around the property; rows of cabins and another cemetery made up the slave village. He recognized the cypress swamp at the east end of the property, which bordered the slave village on three sides. She’d even re-created the pond, which was surrounded by weeping willow trees.
Haven Creek Page 7
