Sandpiper Island (The Bachelors

by Donna Kauffman

  “If I let you manhandle me back, would you consider it a fair division of power?”

  She laughed and rolled her eyes. “How about you go feed the puffball and I’ll go make us some breakfast? That’s a fair division of labor. We can discuss division of power later.”

  He let his gaze drop and linger on her mouth, then rise ever so slowly back to her eyes. Her entire body trembled as it remained pressed to his.

  “You sure they didn’t teach you this stuff?” she said faintly. Wow, but you pack a pure, carnal punch when you put your mind to it, she thought. Hell, just breathing and doing absolutely nothing, he was pretty damn hard to resist.

  He stopped toying with her hair and pressed his fingertips to the back of her head, pulling her slowly down until her mouth met his. Her eyes drifted shut and she moaned as he kissed her slowly, thoroughly, and deeply. As if he had the rest of the day, possibly the rest of his life, to get it right.

  She was ready to clear her calendar, too, when he ended the kiss and rolled them both to their sides.

  “You’d better go first,” he said, “or I’ll never get out of this bed.”

  She looked at him, and then laughed. “You just want to watch my bare ass.”

  He tried and failed to look affronted by the accusation. “That’s not true.” Then the grin crept back across his handsome, morning stubbled face. “I also wanted to watch these bounce a little as you climbed down the ladder.” He slipped his hands up to caress the sides of her breasts.

  “Men,” she said, but her matching grin pretty much erased whatever exasperation she was able to inject into the single word.

  “Guilty as charged,” he said, then propped his hands behind his head.

  Delia knew he expected her to give him a hard time, or wheedle him into climbing out of the warm cocoon of the bed into the chilly morning air first. And being predictable would never do. He was so observant and all wise, it would be good to shake him up whenever the occasion presented itself. Otherwise, he’d just be insufferably smug.

  Her grin might have turned just a shade malicious, right before she yanked the heavy down comforter they’d burrowed under at some point during the night straight off them both—what was good for the goose, after all—and dumped it to the floor. Then she jumped off the bed, swung her backside in an exaggerated wiggle as she went over to the ladder, turned, and shimmied her shoulders for all she was worth as she carefully climbed down through the opening in the floor.

  And she was rewarded with yet another new Ford—the gob-smacked Ford—for her efforts.

  Her smile of victory faded a bit when she made it to the office level and realized she was cold, naked, and all of her clothes were back up in the bedroom loft. She moved on tippy toes to the chair behind his desk, snatched the sweatshirt draped across the back, and pulled it on. As it passed over her face, she paused in the act of pulling it on to take a deep whiff. Delia, honey, you’ve got it bad. Seriously, though, was it his fabric softener or what? Would a man like Ford even use a fabric softener? She had no idea, but damn, even his day-old hoodie smelled good.

  She yanked it the rest of the way on, past her hips, before he came down the ladder and caught her mooning over his old sweatshirt like a college coed who’d just scored the quarterback’s jersey. She bent down and took a peek in the box under Ford’s desk and melted at the black-beaked face looking up at her. Baby puff let out the most soulful bleat ever and Delia made apologetic noises. “He’s coming down to feed you, I promise. If I had some fresh herring on me, I’d feed you myself. Aw, you poor little sweetheart. How is your foot?”

  In response, the baby chick let out an even more pathetic bleat, then turned her back on Delia and settled down with a huffy little fluff of its feathers.

  Delia grinned. “Well, I guess I’ve been told.” She tiptoed on the cool wood floor back to the base of the ladder and called up to Ford. “Fair warning, the patient is in a mood.”

  “Good,” he called back down. “Means she’s getting her fighting spirit back.” A moment later, a pair of thick wool socks were pitched down through the hole in the floor, causing her to duck and cover her face.

  “Nice aim.”

  “Nice ass.”

  She laughed at that. “Thanks.” Then, “For the socks, I mean.” She pulled them on, and then paused before climbing down to the main floor and said, “Okay, and for the ass compliment.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.”

  “Not true,” she called back as she climbed down the ladder. She might have paused about halfway, thinking about what had happened the day before on that very ladder rung. “Not true at all,” she whispered as she climbed down the remaining rungs. She hurried over to stoke the potbelly stove, which was sputtering out nothing more than ember heat, then peered outside the deck doors before heading to the kitchen to see what there might be to rustle up for breakfast. She wasn’t particularly heartened by the overcast skies or the dearth of anything breakfast-food-related, but found herself smiling as she heard the floorboards creak overhead. “Life could be a lot worse.”

  She finally decided on another batch of cheddar biscuits, sadly without bacon this time, but there was a jar of blueberry preserves and she could put together a small fruit and cheese plate. Once she got the biscuits in the oven, she would tackle the dishes left from the evening before. Funny how she didn’t mind the chore so much because she was too busy grinning like a fool recalling why it was they’d been left overnight in the first place.

  She’d just washed the mixing bowl and utensils she’d need to make the biscuits when she heard the phone chirp up in his office. A moment later Ford called down, “It’s Peg.”

  Delia looked at the clock on the stove and saw it was just after seven. “Why would she be calling this early on a Sunday?”

  Ford climbed down the ladder—sadly, he’d found his clothes—and brought her the phone. “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask her?” He handed her the phone, but didn’t let it go when she reached for it. Instead, he used the leverage to tug her in for a fast, knee-knocking kiss.

  He lifted his head, smiled down into her face, then went and grabbed the cooler that held ice packs and herring off the deck, and headed back up to his office. All the while Delia stood on unsteady legs and watched him dazedly through hormone-fogged eyes.

  “Delia?” came a squawk from the phone.

  “Oh!” She put the phone to her ear. “Peg, hi, sorry. I was . . . distracted.”

  “And no one’s more glad to hear that than me,” she said in all sincerity, but Delia heard the edge to her voice and the fog cleared instantly.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Well, remember you told me to pack it in early yesterday?”

  “I did. I mean, I do, yes. Did something happen at the diner while it was closed?”

  “You might say that.”

  Delia’s stomach knotted like an anxious parent getting bad news about a child. Then she remembered that whatever had happened would be moot to her if the town was selling it to Winstock. “Hopefully something that’s only toxic to the development and building of a yacht club,” she replied.

  “Actually, it is about that.”

  Delia straightened, worried all over again. “What happened, Peg? Just tell me straight out. No sugar coating required.”

  “Well, I came by this morning to do some early prep before going to church and found a notice tacked to the door.”

  “A . . . notice? On the door? What kind of notice?”

  “An eviction notice.”

  “What?” Delia had all but screeched the word, and took a moment to pull herself together and tamp down her anger. “Are you telling me that Mayor Davis couldn’t even be bothered to inform me directly, or send a letter, something? Really? I can’t believe he’d do that.”

  “Well, I’m sure we can blame him for making the decision to go with Brooks Winstock’s offer on the property. But the signature on the notice is Ted’s.”

 
“Weathersby.” Delia swore under her breath. “Still, that’s pretty shitty. Excuse me for saying,” she added, knowing how Peg felt about swearing.

  “Actually, I would have to agree with you.”

  “And he did that on a Sunday? How low can they stoop? And why? I mean, they won. I lost.” She shook her head. “I just guess I thought I deserved better than this.”

  “No guessing about that. You do, honey, you bet you certainly do. Small consolation, but just so you know, according to the time and date on it, they came by yesterday when we would have been open, but—”

  “I had you close early due to the storm. Still, I’m not sure that would have been any better. Serving me with some kind of legal papers in front of my customers. Everything about this stinks.”

  “Well, honey, as I say, if it acts like a pig, rolls around in the muck like a pig, you can’t rightly expect it to come up smelling like a rose, now can you?”

  “No. I suppose you’re right.” Still, she thought, it didn’t just make her mad. It stung. It wasn’t as if she’d even actively opposed or tried to shout Winstock down. Hell, she’d been so wrapped up in her own worries, she hadn’t said boo to Winstock, or his hateful daughter for that matter.

  “I’m not sure I can get back there today, Peg,” she said with a resigned sigh. “I honestly didn’t expect anything to happen this weekend.”

  “Might be why they did it like that.” She paused, then said, “Might be that most anyone in the town who matters knows you’re out on Sandpiper with our Dr. Maddox.”

  Delia started to ask her how—or why, for that matter— anyone knew or cared where she was, but she knew the answer to that. A town the size of the Cove thrived on local gossip. She’d have to get used to being part of that for a change, she guessed. And fast, too, considering she was about to hand them the mother of all grapevine special bulletins when word got out about the eviction notice. She sighed at the thought, and then smiled briefly. She’d liked hearing Peg say “our Dr. Maddox,” so there was that.

  “Mayor Davis never exactly struck me as the type to have any starch in his shorts, if you know what I mean,” Peg continued.

  Delia spluttered a surprised snort at that. “I do, and I concur. Good thing he’s not running for reelection, the weasel. Not that his replacement is going to be any better.”

  “Worse, I’d say. Especially given what his father-in-law is doing.”

  “Sure wish I could get Owen to reconsider running against Ted so we’d at least have a fighting chance before Brooks Winstock steals the whole town out from under us.”

  “I know, honey. I’ve talked to him, too. He’d be such a good candidate. Honest and fair.”

  “Well, maybe we need to bend his ear again. When word gets out about this, maybe it will light a fire or something.”

  “Maybe,” Peg said, sounding doubtful. “And don’t you worry about getting back here. It’s not like they’re going to come dragging me out by my hair.”

  “Peg,” Delia said, instantly alarmed. “You don’t think—I mean they’ve already stooped this low. Is there a date saying when—” Out of the blue her voice caught, broke. She took a breath, then another when the first one hitched. They’re going to tear my diner down.

  “I’m so sorry, Delia. I truly, truly am. You know if there’s anything we can do, some petition we can sign—”

  “It’s over, Peg. I think we need to face that and—” She broke off again as the enormity of what was happening started to crash over her, the horror of it and the pain combining to make her gulp back a wave of fresh tears. It wasn’t just the mayor making a chickenshit move on her while she was gone. It was also the fact that word was going to get out swiftly, people were going to be upset, and she was stuck out here on an island in the midst of heavy seas that were going to last for God only knew how long.

  “I’ll hold down the fort here. You just get back when you can.”

  “I appreciate that, but I’m not going to put you through any more than I already have. I want you to put a sign up saying we’re closed. Put the damn notice on my desk, call Charlie and whoever you got to cover for Pete—how is his hand, anyway?”

  “Old coot,” Peg grumbled. “Ask him, all he needed was a little crazy glue and a Band-Aid. I told him his brain was held together by crazy glue. I did manage to keep him from coming in though. I got Charlie for today and Kevin is on board if we need him.”

  “Well, call them and tell them I decided to close today. I’ll pay him anyway, and you, of course, then—I’ll figure something out,” she finished, her brain scrambling but not pulling things together very well.

  “I’m not worried about my paycheck and neither is Charlie. Don’t you risk coming back right away. Small craft advisory is in effect today. Stay out there. Take advantage of that strong pair of shoulders you’ve got with you and lean on ’em a bit. You hear?”

  Delia felt like she was walking into a thick haze. Stumbling, was more like it. She’d known at the courthouse it was going to happen. Had that just been yesterday? Seemed impossible. A lifetime of things had happened to her since then. But there was a whole new lifetime waiting to unfold as soon as she set foot back in Half Moon Harbor. And she wasn’t ready for it. Plain and simple . . . she wasn’t ready.

  “I thought I’d have more time,” she whispered, her voice tight with unshed tears. “I mean, I knew it was coming, but it wasn’t even two weeks ago that Brooks made his snake-in-the-grass move in the first place. How much time do we—?”

  “Notice says September fifteenth.”

  “But that’s just a little over a few weeks—” She stopped, realizing that it was exactly thirty days after her lease had technically expired. “What a rat bastard,” she muttered. “What does Brooks Winstock think he’s going to do in the month or so we’ve got before the first snowfall hits? Does he really need me to be gone this instant? What the hell? I mean, I know he’s an aggressive businessman who doesn’t hear the word ‘no’ too often, or ever. But I guess I never thought he’d do something this . . . well, this mean. Doesn’t he realize that a little goodwill would go a long way with the townsfolk? He’s going to make a lot of enemies kicking me out.”

  “It’s just business to a man like him. He doesn’t really care what we think. But I’ll tell you this. His smarmy daughter even thinks about stepping one foot in this place, and I’ll take a frying pan—”

  “I’d say I’ll promise to bail you out,” Delia said with a watery laugh, “but honestly, Peg, she’s not worth the effort.” The haze wasn’t lifting; instead, a nice headache was settling in right along with it. She wanted to tell Peg just to lock the place up and walk away, that she’d deal with it when she got back, whenever that turned out to be. Sixteen days might as well be no days. But that meant her employees would be immediately jobless, and she couldn’t do that to them. Two weeks wasn’t much, but they could at least be earning a wage while looking for new—her face crumpled and that thought trail went right along with it.

  “You go have yourself a good cry,” Peg said, sounding miserable. “Maybe I will, too. I’d say we’ve earned it. I’ll close up today if you insist, but we’ll be back tomorrow, I’m telling you that right now. We’re not just folding up the tent and going quietly into the night.”

  Delia didn’t have it in her to argue or overrule. “Okay,” she said. “Thanks, Peg. I appreciate everything you’ve done. Are doing. You know that, right?”

  “We’ve all got each other. That’s what matters. That’s what’s important. I’ll call if anything else pops up.”

  “Thank you, Peg,” Delia said, tears burning the corners of her eyes. She clicked off, then stared unseeing at the phone.

  She jumped slightly when broad palms bracketed her hips. Then she immediately slumped against Ford as he pulled her back against his chest, reached for the phone, set it aside, and wrapped her up against him with his cheek pressed to the top of her head.

  “How much did you hear?” she asked thickly.<
br />
  “Enough.”

  She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. There was nothing to say. No point in raging against Winstock, or Ted, or the mayor. They weren’t worth the energy. The grief, however, wasn’t going to be so easy to duck out from under. “Twenty years,” she whispered shakily, and then dissolved completely as the tears finally burst forth.

  Ford turned her in his arms and wrapped her up tightly against his chest. As before, he said nothing, just held her, her rock in the storm, steady and unwavering, trusting that she could fall apart without needing any guidance on the subject from him.

  When the worst of it had passed, he let go with one arm long enough to grab paper napkins off the table and press them into her hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, sniffling. “I haven’t cried in so many years, I can’t remember when I did last. Yet that’s all I seem to do around you.”

  She blew her nose rather inelegantly, and his hold on her never wavered.

  “We all need to let it out from time to time,” he said.

  “Not me,” she said.

  “Even you,” he said more quietly, tucking her cheek back to his chest. “You just keep it bottled up. Probably why it’s shaking you so much now. Maybe all you needed was a port in the storm.”

  “A place to tether to,” she said, and slipped her arms around his waist.

  He held her as her breathing slowed, hitching less. At length, he said, “None of this is going to be easy, Dee. Not the situation with the diner. Getting through the next few weeks. Or figuring out what comes after.” He snuggled her a bit more deeply into his arms. “I know this isn’t going to be easy, either,” he said, and she knew he was referring to whatever it was they’d begun since coming out to the island.

  She nodded against his chest, knowing he was right.

  He leaned back until she tipped her chin to look into his eyes.

  “Just promise me you won’t pull away. Won’t think this is something you have to do on your own.”