by Darci Hannah
“What do you think, Welly?”
He pressed his wet nose to the window.
“That’s our new home.” I looked in the backseat and saw that his tail was working double-time. Wellington was ready to begin our new adventure. I took that as a good sign.
“Well, as they say, in for a penny, in for a pound,” I remarked and opened the door.
“Welcome to Beacon Harbor, Ms. Bakewell. I’ll get the luggage.”
* * *
“Whoa! Now this is a shocker.” Mike dropped the first load of luggage inside the doorway and stared in wonder. “Looks like somebody blew their entire renno budget on the interior. I thought you said you were going to open a bakery or something?”
“Bakeshop café,” I replied, ignoring his budget remark. “It had to be livable.”
It was more than livable. It was, quite frankly, perfect. Although only part of the keeper’s house had been renovated (most of the main floor being reserved for the industrial kitchen, bakery counter, and café), what had been set aside for my private use had been transformed into a thing of wonder. The interior designer and her team had outdone themselves, fusing old lighthouse charm with clean, modern living. The original hardwood floors had been beautifully restored. The plaster walls had been replaced with a tasteful mix of shiplap and drywall. The entire living quarters dazzled the senses in a palate of airy blues, sea foam greens, and clean whites. The wooden rocking chair by the fireplace was original, as was the antique table beside it; the hand-woven rug, white wingback chair with footstool, and the two-piece sectional in berry-red leather were new. A bouquet of red and white roses sat on a rustic white-painted coffee table with four sets of keys neatly laid beside it along with a note of welcome from the design company. It was a nice touch. I’d have to call Betty and thank her for the suggestion.
“These are for the lighthouse,” Mike informed me, picking up a set of keys. “Those are a duplicate set. And those,” he added, pointing to the other two sets, each on a Jeep key ring, “are for your sweet ride. Betty said it was delivered Thursday and is now in the old boathouse, which is like a garage, only bigger.” Mike grinned. “I had you pictured as more of a Range Rover type of gal. The white Jeep Rubicon threw me, but it’s a fine car for these parts.”
“So, you’ve seen it.” Why did this surprise me? Mike grinned, affirming that he had.
“I haven’t owned a car in years. Didn’t need to. And, financially speaking, you get more bang for your buck with the Jeep. Besides, it’s Wellington’s favorite vehicle. Every time he sees one with the top off and a dog buckled into the passenger seat with the wind ruffling its fur, he perks up and barks with joy.”
He looked at me as if I were crazy. “You bought a Jeep for your dog? Well, it’ll be a few more months before you can take the top off that thing.”
I smiled at Mike. “Thanks for reminding me. You can leave the bags there.” A look behind him out the door told me that Wellington was still bounding around in the snow, eating half of it and pleased as punch with his new home. And he had plenty of room to run. Although the little town of Beacon Harbor sat just across the road, the lighthouse grounds were extensive. Once again, I was overcome by the thought of how perfect it was going to be for outdoor seating and a beachside pup café. Perhaps down the road it might even serve as a romantic lighthouse wedding venue. I could now see that the possibilities were endless.
The lighthouse itself was a large two-story brick structure designed for the keeper and his family. The front of the house faced the public beach and had two main entrances. The entrance on the lakeside required a little set of steps to enter and was closest to the light tower. This was the entrance Wellington and I would use for access to our living quarters, consisting of a cozy parlor with a fireplace, the original kitchen, now remodeled into a quaint workspace that even Joanna Gaines would approve of, a small dining area, a powder room, and access to the entire second floor. Not as spacious as my New York penthouse, but the views were spectacular.
The second main door was on the other end of the house and had a short set of wide steps flanked by wrought-iron railings. This entrance had better access to parking and was at one time the assistant keeper’s apartment. The spacious rooms on this side would soon be converted to a bakery café.
In a few weeks’ time, the wind-battered brick would be tuck-pointed and given a fresh coat of white, the gabled roof and dormers re-shingled in bright red. The bakeshop door would be refitted with a glass-and-wood one, with a sign above it, welcoming hungry customers to The Beacon Bakeshop & Café. Large picture windows would be reset into the brick. Above the windows there’d be a charming red awning with scalloped edges. I had envisioned it all and had meticulously planned it out to the last detail. Excitement coursed through me. It was going to be the business I had dreamed of owning. Yet as heady as my dream bakery was, the three-story light tower overlooking Lake Michigan was the real showstopper. I couldn’t wait to climb up there and have a look.
By the time I had coerced Welly inside, Mike had unloaded all our luggage.
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it, then.”
I handed him a sizeable tip and sent him on his way. He was about to walk out the door when he suddenly stopped.
“You’re opening up a bakery, right?”
“That’s the plan.”
“I have a cousin,” he said. “She lives in town and used to work for the old Downtown Bakery until they went out of business. For the last two years she’s been cleaning cottages and baking for private events. If you’re looking to hire some experienced help, she’d be a great choice.”
I watched as Mike scribbled a name and phone number on the back of his business card. Apparently, Mike had a day job. “Beacon Harbor Fishing Charters and Boat Tours, by Captain Mike Skinner,” I read aloud. “Captain Mike Skinner? Sounds like you’re living the dream as well.”
“You’re not the only one with a knack for making money. Not quite Wall Street here, but you’d be surprised at what tourists will pay for a day out on the lake. With any luck they’ll have enough left over to buy some of your big city baked goods too.”
“I hope so.”
“Call Dylan when you’re ready. If you want to know anything about Beacon Harbor, she’s the one to ask. See ya later, Ms. Bakewell.”
“Lindsey,” I said. “Call me Lindsey.”
CHAPTER 3
The arctic winds whipping off the lake were brutal, but even they were no match for a full-scale construction crew wreaking havoc on the lighthouse. Construction on the bakery started the day after I arrived. That’s the day I learned that planning a renovation was a lot more fun than living through one. Before the kitchen could be set up and the display cases brought in, the building had to be configured to house everything I needed. Financing, my specialty, hadn’t been a problem. Getting the right permits proved a little more difficult, but not impossible. What was impossible was trying to concentrate with the sound of table saws screaming, drills whining, and nail guns popping throughout every fiber of the building.
“That’s sure to wake the dead.”
I was in my private lighthouse kitchen. The quaint room, bedecked with fresh white upper cabinets, navy-blue lower cabinets, and pristine white granite countertops, was the place I’d spent most of my time since arriving in Beacon Harbor. I’d been in the kitchen all morning, trying to perfect a new donut recipe for our beach-day launch on Memorial Day weekend. Although I planned to have the shelves filled with all kinds of sweet rolls, coffee cakes, muffins, croissants, and a list of rotating delights, there was just something about a freshly made donut. Not only were they delicious, but they were the perfect treat for a celebration. Oversized specialty donuts were even better. Besides, they looked like mini inner tubes, the filled ones like flattened beach balls. My plan was to have fun with the beachy theme and offer shoppers and beach frolickers alike a feast for the senses. The unfamiliar voice had broken my concentration. For the last two weeks strag
glers kept making the same mistake, confusing my private entrance with the one for the construction site. Without turning to look at the speaker, I said, “Construction entrance is through the other door.”
“I’m not here to work. I’m here because of this.”
There was just enough annoyance in the male voice to grab my full attention. I stopped kneading my second batch of dough and turned to the doorway.
My jaw dropped. This was definitely not one of the construction workers I was familiar with. Nope, the man staring at me with extreme displeasure was a real Northwoods vision, a well-built, black-haired, blue-eyed hunka-licious Paul Bunyan, swaddled in hunter-green Carhartt. Due to his impressively good posture, thick neck, and smartly cut hair, I suspected some military training as well. Whatever the case, he was a welcome vision. I hadn’t looked at another man since my breakup with Jeffery, partly because I was so fed up with men in general, but mostly because of the bakeshop. But this man? He could distract me any day of the week.
“Ahem,” Hunky Woodsman cleared his throat, bringing me back to my senses. That’s when I noticed the thin rope dangling from his hand. The sight of the mangled fish hanging from it made me recoil.
“I’m sorry, and you’re here why?”
“I’m here because of this!” He pointed at the disgusting fish.
Not only was I miffed, I was confused. What person in their right mind would bring a smelly, mangled fish into my private kitchen? The nerve! The germs! Then, chancing another look at the man, I was struck with a sinking feeling. This was the village idiot. He had to be. There was no other explanation for it. What he lacked in brains, he more than made up for in looks, and he was clearly a menace to fish. But just as I was staring at the mangled remains of the poor fish, another troubling thought struck. What if it wasn’t just fish? Dear Lord, no one would hear me scream over the sound of hammers and saws.
Whenever I was approached by crazy in NYC, I just threw up a stern hand and continued walking. But I was in my own kitchen now. Paul Bunyan and his rotting fish filled the entire door frame. Being rude to this beast of a man was not an option. On my life I would not be strangled in my own kitchen with a rope smeared with fish guts! Time for option number two. Blind him with kindness. I smiled, wiped my flour-dusted hands on my apron, and asked very slowly, “Do you want me to buy your fish?”
His dark brows furrowed. “What?”
“Your fishy thing,” I repeated. “Isn’t that why you’ve come?”
The look he gave me this time confirmed that he was not the village idiot. In fact, if I was reading him correctly, he thought that title belonged to me. “No, I don’t want you to buy it,” he snapped, turning an alarming shade of red. “This was my dinner!”
“Oh. Well, thank you for sharing that with me. I’m making donuts. Would you like to try one?” I held up a tray of the first batch I’d been testing. They were a lighter-than-air yeast donut, infused with pure maple syrup, dipped in maple frosting, and sprinkled with thick-cut, naturally cured, hickory-smoked bacon. “I call these Hog Heaven.”
Hunky Woodsman was drawn to the donuts like a moth to a flame. Good, I thought, urging him on with my smile. Good. Good boy. Take a donut.
His large hand reached out. He was just about to grab a warm donut off the tray when his hand suddenly jerked away—as if he’d been slapped.
“No! I mean, I’m not here for a donut. I’m here because your dog ate my fish!”
“What?” It was my turn to be shocked and offended. “Well, that’s ridiculous.” I retracted the donut tray. “My dog doesn’t even know where you live.”
“I’m your neighbor!” he stated with a touch of annoyance, as if I should have known. “I waved to you the other day. I live right over there!” He pointed to the wall.
I honestly doubted he’d waved at me. I mean, I’d remember if I’d seen this man before.
“I was in the black pickup truck?” He was trying to jog my memory. Unfortunately, I’d seen more black pickup trucks in the last two weeks than I had in my entire life. “I passed you on the road, driving to my cottage on the other side of the point?”
“Oh?” I said, recalling that I had waved at somebody. It suddenly dawned on me that he was the owner of the charming little log home, tucked into a thick scree of pines with a private stretch of beachfront. It was one of the little treasures that had caught my eye when I had climbed the lighthouse tower. So, this gorgeous man was my neighbor. Still, the thought that he had the nerve to barge into my kitchen and blame the mangled fish on Wellington annoyed me. My inner New Yorker flared.
“So, we’re neighbors. That still doesn’t give you the right to blame my dog for that.” I pointed an angry finger at his fish. “You don’t have any proof. My dog doesn’t know you, and I assure you, he doesn’t eat fish on a string. He eats Blue Nature. It’s the best dog food money can buy.”
“Well, now he eats fish on a string!” Apparently, I’d gotten under his skin. Hunky Woodsman turned abruptly and left the kitchen. Good riddance, I thought, until a moment later when he returned with yet another rope. He glared at me and gave it a good tug.
On the other end was a sullen Wellington, looking like a prisoner waddling to the gallows.
“Welly!” I cried, shocked to see my dog. I thought he was curled up before the fireplace in the parlor. I dropped to my knees, untied the rope, and forced the droopy brown eyes to mine. They were riddled with guilt.
“Caught him red-handed,” the man continued. “I had five fish on here this morning, fresh from the lake. This is all I have left!”
I took a closer look at the fish, and my heart sank. Wellington had definitely made a visit to this man’s cottage. Not only had the lower half of the fish been chewed clean off, but it was covered in drool. There was even a long black hair or two tangled in the innards, leaving no doubt as to who had done the deed. I looked up at the man. “I’m sorry. He must have gotten out when I wasn’t looking. It’s the construction. The poor thing can’t stand it.”
“I can’t either,” he said plainly. “Used to be so quiet and peaceful around here before you moved in. Can’t concentrate on anything now with that racket.” He made a gesture to the other side of the house. “Thought I could get out on the lake far enough to escape it, but you’d be amazed at how sound carries across the ice. I only wonder what it’s doing to the Captain.”
“The Captain?” I repeated, wondering who that character was.
“Yeah, the Captain. Don’t tell me that you don’t know about the Captain?” There was something cryptic in the way he said this. Once he realized that I had no idea what he was talking about, he quickly changed the subject. “I’ll have that donut now.” He forced a smile and plucked one off the tray.
His first bite was aggressive, as if he wanted to hate it. But no man I knew could hate bacon, especially when liberally sprinkled on a maple-flavored, lighter-than-air donut. I watched as his eyes rolled back in his head. He then made a sound that made me go weak in the knees. I nearly dropped the pan.
“Oh my God, these are good!”
“Heavenly, even?” It was shameless of me, but thanks to my ex-fiancé I was totally turned on by good-looking men who moaned while eating my baked goods.
“Yes,” he uttered, shoving the rest of the first donut in his mouth. “Definitely heavenly. Sorry,” he mumbled. “Rory Campbell.” He wiped a few remaining crumbs on his pants, then stuck out his hand. “I may have come off a bit gruff.”
“Lindsey Bakewell,” I said, taking it. I offered him another donut. “No problem. You were probably just hungry. Happens all the time. And I am truly sorry about your fish. Can I make it up to you? Can I pay for them? What’s the market price on . . . ?” I had no idea what kind of fish they were.
“I’m good,” he said. “But I’ll take another one of these.” He helped himself to another donut. “And dinner tonight.”
“You . . . want me to buy you dinner?” The thought never crossed my mind, but I didn’t
hate it. In fact, I rather liked the idea. Why not go out with this man? He was my neighbor, after all. The fact that Wellington was sitting at his feet, leaning against his leg while being fondly petted was also an indication that he wasn’t a half-bad guy. Wellington might have stolen the man’s fish, but he was also an excellent judge of character.
“Actually, I want to buy you dinner.” His vibrant blue eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, suddenly turned playful. “Pick you up at seven, Lindsey Bakewell.” He grabbed another donut, gave Welly another pat on the head, and walked out the door.
All my life I’d considered myself to be a savvy New Yorker, but I got the feeling that I’d just been played by Mr. Rory Campbell—and my own dog.
CHAPTER 4
People were staring. Had they never seen Chanel before? Obviously not, I thought, looking at the enormous pair of antlers dangling on the wall above me. I’d never seen so much pine paneling in a room, or so many heads of dead animals. I supposed that’s what one gets when one dines at The Moose.
“It’s a local favorite,” Rory explained, picking up his menu. Although camo and Carhartt seemed to be the fashion of choice, Rory had dressed up his jeans and light gray sweater with a tweed blazer in dark navy. He looked good, so good, in fact, that I didn’t even mind that my black Chanel pencil dress and houndstooth bolero jacket stood out like a sore thumb. At least Mom would have been proud. Having Ellie Montague-Bakewell for a mother, one was taught early that there was no such thing as being too stylish. Rory grinned and closed his menu. “Don’t need to look at that. I brought you here because of the perch. If you can’t pull it out of the lake yourself, you come here instead.”
“I don’t fish, so I guess I’ll be coming here then. It smells delicious.” And it really did. I wasn’t one to hunt down my meat, but I always appreciated great food. If I was being totally honest, it was part of the appeal of dating a celebrity chef. Baking was my domain; cooking had been Jeffery’s. His restaurant, Sizzle, specialized in fine cuts of meat seared to perfection on exotic surfaces, like slabs of exotic salts, heated rocks, and smoked woods. His New York strip on Himalayan sea salt was to die for—until a few months ago. Now the thought repulsed me.
