by Owner
Feeling like a pet owner boarding out beloved Fido, Jon parked his Jag in the lot near the ferryboat landing. He wished he had the portable dust cover he’d been meaning to buy for just such car emergencies.
He locked the door, patted its gray, simonized fender lovingly and walked away, laptop in hand. He refused to look back when a rusty, red Jeep spun into the parking lot kicking up enough dust to choke a herd of elephants, let alone one mere Jaguar. His muscles flinched beneath the shoulder strap of his leather overnight bag.
Tension had built on Interstate 95 with the steady stream of weekend traffic. It looked like more stress ahead as he strode toward the boat’s rickety boarding ramp. A few cars, apparently headed for other island ports that allowed autos, rattled onboard the double-decked, paint-chipped ferry.
He took a seat on the warped wooden bench of the superior deck, well away from the couple feeding the squawking seagulls from a paper sack.
None too soon, the ferryboat pilot blew a whistle, the gulls screamed, and the last boat for Rose Island steered away from the landing with all the speed of a last place racehorse. Jon let out a long breath, suspicious of the boat staying afloat any longer than he could.
Once underway, two things lifted his spirits. An ocean breeze that cut through the midday sun and heat. And a blonde, portside.
Standing at the rail, wisps of hair escaping a lone braid trickling down her statuesque neck stood the woman of his dreams. His dreams for a livelier voyage, anyway.
A ferryboat romance. Now that gave him some salty ideas. He wondered if there was a mile-out club, sort of a spin off from the mile-high club.
Her Maine Man
by
Sylvie Kaye
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Her Maine Man
COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Sylvie Kaye
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 706
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History:
previously published by Triskelion, 2007
First Champagne Rose Edition, 2008
Print ISBN 1-60154-460-X
Published in the United States of America
Chapter One
Aw, hell. Looking up from his computer monitor, Jonathan Matthews rolled his shoulders to loosen his tight muscles. He recognized a setup when one breezed through his office door. Especially when the deliveryman was his brother-in-law, whose pregnant wife, Jon’s only sister, was overdue, and a deathbed promise was up for grabs.
Jon teetered back in his worn leather chair, propped his Rossetti oxfords onto his sleek but cluttered desk, and felt his nerve endings cringe, waiting for the pitch.
“You look like you need a vacation and I’m here to put you on an island for an all-expense paid weekend.” Craig flashed his uptown version of a carnie pitchman’s smile—the kind that had promoted him to head of PR at Matthews Consulting and charmed Jon’s sister, Sarah, into marrying the lovable son-of-a-bitch.
Before Craig’s grin got any wider, he snapped, “No thanks.” Even though he knew he’d have to give in, eventually.
Craig sat down on one of the several chairs scattering the room, the plush, brown leather sinking in around him. “I told Sarah I’d sell you on the idea.”
“I don’t need a vacation,” he said, making Craig work for it. “I need to come up with potential funding options for the borough of Bain Island. Legal ones. They’ve already been bilked once, it seems. The last consultant took a large retainer and disappeared.” Bolstering his hands behind his head, he braced for Craig’s next tactic.
“A change of scenery will help clear your head.”
“I have mind-altering scenery.” He thumbed behind him to the office window with its bird’s-eye view of City Park, Pennsylvania. From here he could enjoy the trees, the birds, the squirrels, without actually having to venture out and breathe in the city’s pollution or fend off any muggers.
“And you worked damn hard to earn that view. That’s why you need a break.” Craig crossed one ankle over his knee, striking his never-let-them-see-you-sweat posture.
Jon raised his eyebrow. Why was his brother-in-law sweating this soon into the presentation? Sarah must’ve really bruised his ears. His sister thought this whole island tryst with their deceased mother’s mystery man tragically romantic. No wonder she’d sworn to Mom at the last that one of them would meet the guy face-to-face at their yearly spot and tell him of her passing away.
“I didn’t make a vow to traipse to some remote island in Maine to meet with the bastard. Sarah did. Let her go.” He bit his tongue, but too late. As soon as the words spilled out he knew he’d given Craig the advantage.
He pounced. “She’s nine months pregnant. The only place Sarah’s going is into the labor room.” Stress creased the corners of his eyes. “And me alongside her.”
“How convenient.”
“There’s nothing convenient about joining your sister in the delivery room. Have you ever heard her scream?”
Jon nodded with pity.
“I’d gladly take an island getaway instead,” Craig persisted.
“It’s not as if it’s some tropical island. It’s in Maine for crissake.” Plunking his feet down off his desk onto the red wool carpet, he pointed to the monitor. “I looked it up. No hot sun, no powdery beaches, no Bahama Mamas.”
His friend and PR manager flashed a gotcha smile. “Bahama Mamas don’t usually come in the clingy blonde type you prefer, anyway.”
Jon wasn’t about to kiss-and-diss, but he did like his women on the intellectually lighter side, peroxide and all. “Blondes aside, there’s nothing up there but a forty-minute ferryboat ride and a couple hundred lobster fishermen. It sounds downright claustrophobic and smelly.”
“Don’t make me beg, Jon. According to Sarah, I have to come home victorious or tied across the hood of my Vette, which would mess up the metallic quicksilver paint. You know how I love the car.”
“She didn’t mention anything about keying my Jag, did she?” His heart skipped with a thud. Driving the supercharged Jaguar he’d only lately been able to afford was the only outdoor activity he enjoyed.
Craig shook his head. “Not yet.”
With a sigh, he slumped his shoulders. “How long do I have to stay on this so-called island if I decide to go? And I’m stressing the if here.” But he knew there was no if. His mother’s annual rendezvous took place this weekend, and Sarah was too far along to go.
“You only have to stay long enough to give him the bad news. Once the guy splits, if you like the setup, the whole weekend’s yours. It’s on him.”
“If he has money why didn’t he help Mom out? She struggled both before and after the other deadbeat, the one we called Dad, left.” His fist clenched. A muscle in his jaw jumped.
“If it’s any consolation, Grace said she lived plush the past ten years. You took good care of her right until the end.”
Jon shook his head. “I should’ve spent more time with her…the cancer took her so fast.” Which the doctors assured him had been for the best.
He guessed he could do this for her. Meet the lech. Give him the bad news. Clean his clock for him.
“Grace understood how much the business demanded and how important it was to everyone’s support.”
Craig knew too, he thought. He’d put in his share of long hours before his marriage. “I wish I could’ve made more money sooner.” He unclenched his fist. “Why didn’t he just marry her?”
“You know why.”
Jon knew. Because the creep was already married.
Craig ducked his head, apparently not wanting to get into it again. He’d done enough refereeing after the funeral, while Jon and Sarah were at loggerheads over the issue.
“As soon as he shoves off,” Craig added, “the rest of the weekend is yours to enjoy.”
“Enjoy what? Lobstering? The smell of raw fish.” His nose twitched. “I like mine drawn in butter.”
“Success has made you an elitist.”
“I’m a snob because I don’t fish?” Sitting forward, he stabbed at the Macassar ebony veneer on his art deco desk. “I didn’t fish before I became—”
“A prosperous snob.” With his shirtsleeve, Craig swiped the fingerprints from the sleek surface.
“Hell, I can’t even swim.” Jon sank back in his chair.
“Did I mention the biking and hiking?” Craig shrugged his buff shoulders, which stretched the cotton material of his pinstriped dress shirt taut.
“Does the excitement never end?” Feeling self-conscious about the love handles pushing at his Gucci belt, he sat up straighter and sucked in his gut. He really had to schedule workouts or learn to do pushups at the computer. “If I have to go, I’ll take my laptop and work on the new proposal for VIP. They’re still our biggest account. And while I’m up that way, I might as well turn the trip into an island-hopping junket, scope out Bain Island once the Rose Island meeting’s out of the way.”
“And that’s exciting?”
“My laptop will probably be the biggest thrill to hit Rose Island since my mother and that jerk were there last year, as sick as that sounds.”
“Sick and disgusting.” Craig’s eyebrow arched.
I’m sorry.” Loosening his tie, he puffed out a long breath. “But I don’t have to like meeting him.”
“No, you don’t have to like anything about him. But as Sarah pointed out repeatedly over the past month, fifteen years is a long time. He deserves to know she’s dead. Grace didn’t give us his name or phone number. She wanted him told in person.”
“They met fifteen times in fifteen years.” Jon rifled through the papers on his desk for a distraction. Just thinking about the man, let alone assigning him any rights made his stomach flinch.
“One more thing.” His brother-in-law tapped his foot against his knee. “Sarah wants you to promise not to punch the guy out.”
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.” His mother had deserved better than a married lover.
“Sarah assured her that everything would be handled graciously.” Looking Jon in the eye, he said, “I’ve yet to see a gracious punch in the face.”
“You said that at the funeral service, too. I still think I should’ve bounced dear old drunken Dad out on his ear. After all these years, why’d he bother to show up?”
“Let it go with him,” Craig advised. “Let it go in Maine, too.”
“I miss her. I hate him.” He wasn’t sure if he meant his father or the married other-man. His voice was even and calm, though. He was back in control. He didn’t like not being in control.
“I know it’s difficult, but tell the guy on the island she’s gone and let it be. She’d have wanted it that way.”
“Yeah.”
The man, whoever he was, he’d had things his way while she was alive. Now it would go Jon’s way. He hadn’t made any agreements.
“Is that a promise?” Craig persisted. “Sarah wants your word.”
“Sarah’s suddenly big on promises. To Mom. From me. Lots of promises being made.”
And none of them being broken. So far.
****
Madelyn, we have to talk in person. ASAP. The message from her father on the answering machine at the physical therapy unit of the small clinic sounded grim.
Madelyn Bain Powell knew that whenever her father used her Christian name, instead of Maddie, he had something earthshakingly important to say.
Earth shakes only pertained to one of two things. Her mother or Bain Island. The last time he’d called her Madelyn was five months ago, to say that her mother had been in a debilitating car accident in Portland.
Now that she was in recuperation, perhaps her mother finally needed her. If not Maddie personally, then her professional skills. For months the doctors had been urging Barbra Bain to start physical therapy.
Maddie shucked her white clinic jacket while checking the schedule for appointments. “If Mrs. Muttley shows up before I’m back, will you start her hot packs?” she asked Lyndsey, the receptionist and PT intern. “I may be running a little behind.”
Lyndsey waved, her red curls bouncing. “Not to worry. Just be on time for the softball game. We need you to win, slugger.”
“Six sharp.” Maddie hustled to the parking lot and her rusted, but reliable CJ Jeep.
A salty, fish-scented breeze whisked up from the ocean as she drove along the shore roadway. A few lobster boats dotted Bain Cove and a schooner with sails fluttering in the breeze. Even through her sunglasses, the ocean-blue sky and billowy clouds had a bright, airy, nothing-could-go wrong feel.
An obvious deception. After all, Dad had used her given name.
It was possible Bain Island, and not her mother, needed her. An emergency ribbon cutting or something equally spectacular could’ve come up. Cubby’s was having a Grand Opening for his newly done-over dining area this week.
Or there was the Pinewood Lodge’s monthly meeting. Although the matriarch of the founding family would’ve been the perfect choice for speaker now that she was on the island, Maddie would get drafted. Her mother refused to appear in her wheelchair in front of anyone, even her own daughter.
All of these functions ranked up there as crucial. The Bain family name had to be immortalized whenever and wherever possible. She shook her head. What a lifelong gig.
When she veered left off the roadway, Tidewater popped into sight. The colonial revival mansion with its three hundred feet of shorefront and a dozen bedrooms, fireplaces, and bathrooms—which, to her Mainland friends, Barbra Bain referred to as a cottage—had been home sweet home to generations of Bains.
Maddie braked to a stop, and her tires crunched on the crushed seashell driveway in front of the twin urns of pinkish turtlehead flowers flanking the doorway to the house. As she pounded up the front steps with all the high-flying speed of her Air Jordan sneakers, the great oak door swung open.
“I heard you drive up.” Her father hugged her to his warm, starched chest, mussing the French braid she’d so painstakingly fussed with that morning.
“I missed you at breakfast.” Her words were muffled against his blue silk tie. This year’s color in power ties. Victor Powell was not only the CEO of VIP Industries but also First Selectman of Bain Island, and better known as Mayor. He dressed impeccably and accordingly.
“For the first time, Barbra asked that I join her for breakfast in her sitting room.”
“She hasn’t asked for me yet?”
“She sees her wheelchair as diminishing. You know how proud she is.”
Proud was a safe choice of words. She tried the word out. Too proud to hug her. Barb hadn’t hugged Maddie since she’d sent her off to first grade. Too proud to call. She seldom phoned when she was away from the island, which was all the time, except for the annual Bain Day Celebration. Too proud to see her only daughter. Nope, proud didn’t cut it.
“Face it, Dad. She’s pissed about being stuck here on the island.” Maddie tweaked his cheek to lift his frown. Frowning at her language had been one of his parental duties, dictated by her mother during Maddie’s formative years. Now that she was an adult, he did it out of habit. “So how is Barb?”
she asked. “She talked to me more when she wasn’t living here.” The occasional phone call to dictate island protocol beat out silent disinterest.
“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about.” Still grimacing, he steered her toward his office. The room reeked of old money. Old books, old portraits, and lemon-oiled old furniture. The citrus mingled with a dusty, musty smell that she found pleasing.
She settled onto the armchair facing the desk her father had inherited from generations of old Bains. Usually, she felt comfy and secure in Dad’s familiar office where she’d played as a child, under his desk, his guidance, and his love. Today, she felt uneasy under the furrow of his dark eyes.
He sat on the edge of his mahogany desk, swinging one leg, his tailored gray dress slacks unwrinkled.
“I don’t know where to start. I didn’t want to bring up the subject while Barbra was incapacitated.”
Her stomach flinched. “What subject?”
“I hoped not to have to explain this to you until next year on your thirtieth birthday when you inherit and take over the Bain Island holdings.” He cleared his throat.
“Take over, why?” Her pulse pounded. “Your heart hasn’t been acting up again?” She clutched the chintz-upholstered arms of the frail old chair. The mahogany wood creaked, but several other ugly, uncomfortable chairs, handed down from generations of uptight Bains, littered the room waiting to replace it should it falter.
“The doctors assured me my attack was merely a touch of angina.” He reached out and squeezed her shoulder with his familiar large, warm hand. A hand that had presented her with keys to her flame-red, but now rusty and weathered, CJ Jeep on her sixteenth birthday.
She touched her smaller hand to his. “Dad you’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things.”
She leaned her cheek to his hand.
“The Bains were never loving people,” he said. “Of course, I didn’t find that out until I married and came here to live on the island.”
