Sandpiper Island (The Bachelors

by Donna Kauffman

  “I’m—”

  “Don’t. Apologize.” He made each word its own statement for emphasis.

  She stood there, stewed-tomato face, hair most assuredly frizzed out beyond all belief, inelegant tear tracks on her forty-three-year-old cheeks—redheads did not make pretty criers at any age—and, shocking them both, she smiled. “I wasn’t going to say I was sorry.” Even though she was. It was one thing to be strong and self-protective, quite another to be an insensitive jerk. “I’m scared. That’s what I was going to say . . . I’m scared. Scared that standing won’t be enough. That I won’t be enough. That I won’t just lose everything I am to myself, but everything I am—that Delia’s is—to Blueberry Cove. I’ll let everyone down. And that’s so much worse than letting me down.”

  And the shield dropped, just like that. The glimmer slid back in. His eyes weren’t so much impenetrable gunmetal as the rich depth of the black sky on a clear hot summer night. And she wondered for a brief moment what he would be like if the stars would just wink back on.

  “So, don’t,” he said, and for the first time there was something in his voice. Something, rather than . . . nothing.

  And memories from that long-ago night blitzed through her mind, in hyper-speed flashes, how he’d sounded when he’d finally let his guard down, when he’d finally given over to the moment, given himself over to her. There had been a lot of something there that night.

  There must have been something of that . . . something, in her eyes, because his gaze, so certain, so focused, so specific. . . dropped, ever so briefly, for barely a whisper of a moment, to her lips. And she went from rooted to the spot to feeling like her legs, her entire insides, had suddenly turned to liquid . . . if hot, molten lava could be described as something as innocuous, harmless as liquid.

  And then he was walking back to the door. And she was gripping the side of the doorframe, wondering how the yellow rubber gloves covering her forearms hadn’t simply fused to her overheated skin. This time she didn’t shoot him in the back, didn’t let fear take the lead, where words built walls meant to keep her in, and others out, out, out.

  There was a gust of cool, evening air rushing in, but like a whisper trying to put out a flame, it did nothing to soothe the fire.

  She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but she finally turned back to the kitchen, returned to the sink and, by rote more than thought, picked up the grate, found the steel wool, and went back to work.

  Because work was what she would have to do if she planned on being ready to feed Blue’s lobstermen at the bare crack of dawn before they headed out for the day’s catch, and Ceil from the town hall offices, who’d need her coffee if she had a chance in hell of dealing with her boss, Ted Weathersby—or Teddy the Letch as Delia had privately always called him. She guessed if he and his daddy-in-law managed to steal her place out from under her, she could add a few more names to that list.

  She pushed her mind back to the morning regulars, and Old Lou, who sat on the second stool from the back, and liked his oatmeal with raisins and pecans, the way his late wife used to make it, and his coffee with more milk and sugar than actual coffee. Then the lunch crowd would start up, and Lou would still be there, in full storytelling mode, regaling sweet Jean Reister, who ran the jewelry store, with the tale of how he’d met Clara, his wife of forty-seven of the best years of his life, and Jean wouldn’t have to pretend to be charmed, because she sincerely would be. Every time.

  Being late August, what passed as the tourist season in a town this far up the coast was over, so dinnertime would just be the locals, her neighbors, who had put in a full day being useful to somebody, somewhere and weren’t in the mood for the more rowdy goings-on over at Fergus McRae’s pub, The Rusty Puffin, but not quite ready to go home to a house that was too quiet or, for some, not quiet enough.

  So they came to Delia’s. Not because the menu was trendy—she was a firm believer, as Gran had been when she’d run O’Reilly’s, that folks don’t come to the local restaurant because they want cutting-edge cuisine—they go local because they want the comfort of familiarity, both with the menu and with the people. Which worked out really well, because what Delia wanted was the comfort and familiarity of the people of Blueberry Cove.

  “So, I suppose I’d better figure out how to make sure we all get to keep what we want.”

  Lord knows she’d have plenty of time to do that, seeing as the only way she’d ever keep Ford Maddox from invading her dreams now was quite simply to never go to sleep again.

  Chapter 3

  Ford rolled up his notebook and shoved it in the side pocket of his plaid flannel coat, but still paused before reaching for the Wonderland-themed croquet mallet door handles. He wasn’t even certain why he was there.

  It definitely wasn’t because he needed an antique piece of furniture, no matter how interesting, eclectic, or compelling. And Eula March’s Mossycup Antiques contained all of those things. Every piece she sold, whether charming, practical, or both, came with a story, and if local lore were true, had been lovingly restored not only by Eula’s skilled eyes and hands, but possibly with a wee bit of magic thrown in for good measure. That particular legend was made easier to believe, and embellish upon, because the centuries-old building had a giant mossycup oak tree growing straight up through the middle of it. The unique little shop sat perched on High Street, looking out over Half Moon Harbor, just up the hill from Delia’s, and had been run by Eula March for as long as anyone in the Cove could remember.

  Ford had seen the shop when he’d come to town the first time for Tommy’s funeral—it was hard to miss—but he hadn’t actually gone inside until years later, after he’d left the military and moved to the Cove full time. He’d begun his work with Pelletier out on Sandpiper, his interest in livable tree houses by then a personal mission, so he’d initially been drawn in by the oak tree, hoping to learn something about how the shop and tree had coexisted so harmoniously over such a long stretch of time. However, it had been the unexpected conversation he’d had with the shop’s eccentric owner that had brought him back, periodically, over the ensuing years.

  Depending on whom you talked to in Blueberry, Eula was either a crotchety old woman with an opinion she never minded sharing, a gifted seer with uncanny insight into the lives and souls of all of the Cove’s denizens, or a clever witch who kept elves in her secret workshop.

  Or all of the above, Ford thought, as he tugged the door open, wondering which one he’d encounter today. He paused, as he always did, to take a look at the tree. Hardy and huge, it squatted in the center of the store like the gatekeeper to some magical realm located far below the earth’s surface, if only one could figure out how to find the hidden portal. The trunk of the tree was so thick it would take the arms of three adults to circle it. There was a large knot on the side facing the door that had sunken in at the center, creating a dark crevasse, which had become a constant source of dares by children—and more than one adult—to test the bravery, or lack thereof, of those willing to reach inside. Stories were told with delighted glee and much embellishment of the less-than-savory results that had befallen those who attempted to reach inside the grand oak.

  Ford laid his hand on the rough gray bark and looked up to the heavy branches that reached skyward into the eaves and out through carefully constructed portals in the steeply pitched roof. Well, he could only assume the careful part, given the health of the tree, and the shop. Eula had never been exactly forthcoming on the whys and wherefores of the original construction, nor had she been keen on letting him climb the thing to see for himself.

  “It’s in a boy’s nature, you know.”

  Ford hadn’t heard her come out to the front of the shop, but he didn’t startle easily. Or at all, actually. Ever. Some training stuck for life. “What nature would that be?” he asked idly, still looking up into the branches that reached in the eaves.

  “To climb what is climbable, whether it wants to be climbed or not.”

  �
��I didn’t ask.” He hadn’t for years now.

  “Didn’t have to.”

  Something that resembled a smile touched the corners of his mouth as he finally shifted his stance, moved back from the tree, and turned to look directly at the shop’s owner. “Good morning, Ms. March, ma’am.”

  He could see the ingrained look of the long suffering that came with his continued stubborn refusal to stop ma’am-ing her. Couldn’t be helped, he thought. It simply wouldn’t be polite. He’d done a long list of very impolite things in his forty-five years, including the most impolite thing one could do—take another’s life—but disrespecting women of any age was not one of them.

  She folded her arms over the thin middle of her tall, wiry frame. She kept silver-white hair of indeterminate length tucked up in a neat bun, always wore a simply styled dress—made by her own hand, he’d heard—with a work apron tied over it, and the sort of sensible shoes worn by someone who’d spent most of her life standing in them. He couldn’t have said what color any of her dresses had been, but he could tell you every apron she’d ever worn. At least the ones he’d been present to see. It was the sheer incongruity of them more than it was the detailed needlework that went into their design that made them so memorable.

  Of course, Eula March was a study in contrasts. Her stiff New England posture, the patrician nose that she’d long since perfected looking down, the no-nonsense bun, and an attitude to match, seemed to be at complete odds with the whimsical nature of her shop, starting with the croquet mallet door handles, and continuing throughout the place with the various eclectic storybook collectibles tucked in nooks here and crannies there, not to mention the giant tree that sat in the center of it all.

  That dichotomy was reflected on her person as well, with her buttoned-up, neatly collared, calf-length dresses and sensible shoes, always paired with shop aprons sporting deep front pockets that featured a veritable who’s who parade of hand-embroidered characters from those same beloved childhood storybooks. He’d finally decided that if the morose gentleman farmer from those iconic, vintage cornflakes ads had ever had a love child with Mother Goose, the result would have been Eula March. If he wasn’t mistaken, today her pockets featured the full cast of A. A. Milne’s Winnie-the-Pooh.

  “What’s so amusing about insolence?” Eula wanted to know.

  Ford realized he was smiling, but didn’t smooth his expression, despite her censure. “Nothing, ma’am,” he said easily, thinking it had been too long since someone had gotten a true smile from him.

  “Then you can wipe that smirk off your face. If you’d been paying attention, you’d have noticed I didn’t remind you that I don’t care to be ma’am’d to death.”

  “Didn’t have to.” There might have been a flash of teeth with that comment; then he ducked his chin and smoothed his expression before lifting his gaze to hers once again. “Ma’am.”

  She huffed and turned toward the back of the shop. “Some of us have work to do. Can I help you with something, or did you just come by to make googly-eyes at my oak tree again?”

  Ford was already walking toward the back of the shop behind her, but almost stumbled over his own feet at that last part. Googly-eyes? He shot a quick glance at the tree, and fought another smile as he realized that maybe she had a point. How pathetic was it that just the night before he’d stood, stone-faced and stock-still, in front of the vibrancy of pure womanhood that was Delia O’Reilly, with her looking up at him like he was Thanksgiving dinner and Christmas morning all wrapped up in one . . . and instead of doing anything about it, he’d locked up like the tongue-tied, fumble-fingered kid he’d never been, even when he was a kid, and delivered a lecture instead.

  This morning, however, he had no problem whatsoever putting his hands on the trunk of an inexplicably thriving three-hundred-plus-year-old tree and trading banter with a woman old enough to be his grandmother. He didn’t need a shrink to spell that one out for him.

  “Don’t go prettying it up for me,” she went on, still moving to the back of the shop. “We both know it’s not me you come to visit.”

  “You would be wrong about that, ma’am,” he said, earning a baleful glare delivered over her bony shoulder. The corners of his mouth might have kicked up a twitch again. “I come to see both of you.”

  That earned him the rarest of things, a chuckle disguised as a snort, and between his smile and her snort, he counted the visit a success before it had even really begun.

  She paused a few feet before the blue painted door that led to her fabled workshop. Fabled, because the pieces she displayed in her shop, so stunningly refurbished and restored, were never actually witnessed coming into the shop via delivery truck or any other method. And many of the pieces were far too immense to fit in the small confines of the tiny area at the rear of the shop dedicated to her workspace. There were almost as many stories about that as there were about the possible magic that resided in the tree. “Well, you’ve made puppy-dog eyes at the tree, so let’s get on with the rest of your business. What do you need with me?”

  “It’s about Delia O’Reilly. I understand that she—” He broke off when Eula turned back. She clasped rawboned hands together in front of her waist, and pinned her gaze so directly on him that he stopped right where he stood, his hands instantly still by his sides, fingertips twitching, every fiber of his being fully aware and alert. Long years of training made such a move instinctive, though a reaction like that usually meant there was at least one gun barrel of some kind pointed in his general direction. Looking into her light gray eyes, he wasn’t too certain that wasn’t the case now. Double-barreled, even. “What’s wrong?” he asked, without preamble.

  “You’ve come to me. About Delia O’Reilly.” She didn’t make either sentence a question. Instead, she merely continued to observe him, quite sharply, for another long moment, before tapping one bony finger to the back of the opposite wrist, as if pointing to a wristwatch, only she wasn’t wearing one. “I’d just about given up hope.” She eyed him up and down once more, not bothering to disguise her disappointment. “Actually, truth be told, I had given up hope. Then Grace arrived, and managed to do what none of us could. She miraculously breathed life back into your sad, self-pitying state of affairs.”

  Ford knew his expression had shifted instinctively to the impenetrable mask it was trained to become when being questioned by the enemy. Not that he’d ever seen Eula March as an enemy, but there was no doubt he was presently under attack. Even for Eula, the words were unexpected, too close to home, and . . . hurtful. He hadn’t thought himself vulnerable in that way, not with her. Apparently, his defenses had softened so gradually over time he hadn’t even realized it.

  “What is it you want from me regarding our Miss O’Reilly?” she asked briskly.

  Ford couldn’t jump conversational streams quite as deftly as Eula. He was still wading through the muddy one she’d so off-handedly jerked him into. “You think I’m self-pitying?”

  She eyed him, seeming a bit surprised that he’d asked, possibly even approving of the fact that he had. It was hard to tell. “You’ve barricaded yourself out on that island, in a sky fort, no less, as if the island itself wasn’t fortress enough. Cut yourself off from any and everyone who gives a damn about you—and you’d be quite surprised to learn just what that number might actually be. So, I don’t know that it’s so much what I think, as it is merely stating a fact.”

  “I’m not on that island because I’m feeling sorry for myself. I’m there to work.”

  She snorted again, though there was no trace of amusement in it this time. “Your work doesn’t require year-round residence. You live out there because you don’t trust yourself around other people. Not, as far as I can tell, because the scars you carry from your past have manifested themselves in some violent, post-traumatic whatnot sort of way that might be sprung all of a sudden on the unsuspecting. No, I think it’s because you’ve decided you’ve been responsible for enough in this world, and you’re simp
ly not going to sign on for any more.” She folded her arms. “Are you saying you disagree?”

  “I don’t see that as self-pitying.” He’d been there when his own men, men who’d counted on him to lead them, had gotten blown literally to bits. Worse even than that had been the innocents. The little boy he’d watched kicking a ball around the dusty streets outside the shell of a building he’d made his temporary base, the little boy’s even younger sister, who always looked up at him with that shy smile, the one who made him think about Grace, about family. The two children had been laughing as he’d driven out that morning on the sniper mission he was there to complete. . . only to come back several hours later to find half the village had been destroyed by a missile aimed at taking out his base of operations. He’d found the ball, and the lifeless body of the little girl, barely recognizable in the rubble. And that was just one day. One of many. So very, very many. Yes, Eula was right. He’d been responsible for enough in this world. He figured he was due a break from that.

  “It is if by doing so you intentionally cut yourself off from enjoying every other aspect of the rich and rewarding life you could be having, thereby also cutting off those who might be enriched and rewarded by knowing you.”

  Her words struck him like physical blows. “I’ve learned my limits, ma’am,” he said, with every ounce of respect he had for her, which he realized now was quite a lot. Why else would he be standing in her shop in the first place? Why else had he turned to her for advice when faced with a problem he had no solution for? “I know what I’m capable of doing. And what I’m not. I’ve learned what I’m capable of giving. What I’m not. I’m a productive member of society, of Blueberry Cove’s society and the greater society of Pelican Bay. The work I do is important. I think that is a very rewarding life, and I’m thankful for it. As to what people think about that? About me? About what I should or shouldn’t be doing? Well, I don’t give a good—” He stopped, ducked his chin, and bit off the rest of the words, even as they burned the tip of his tongue.