Sea Glass Sunrise

by Donna Kauffman

  He watched her mouth soften into a more natural smile, and was pleased with himself more than was wise. Even banged up and bruised, she was a very beautiful woman, but the unexpected wry humor was the far more dangerous weapon.

  “I’m afraid to ask,” he said, “but assuming this dress is to go along with the getup your sister was wearing yesterday, and that this has something to do with that wedding you mentioned, just who is your brother marrying, and why does she hate you all so much?”

  “Actually, the dresses were Fiona’s idea. They’re for the wedding rehearsal later today, which I’m going to be late for if I don’t get going. With everything that happened yesterday, I forgot to stop here and pick up my present for Alex—the bride,” she elaborated. “We’re having the rehearsal dinner party in town at the pub, which is where Fi is now, decorating. I want it to be a surprise, so this was the only way to hide it from her.”

  Calder looked down at the trunk he was still holding. He knew a little bit about antiques, partly from his work, which included a fair amount of restoration, as well as from his aunt Jo, who ran a little antiques shop in Calais. It was a beautifully made piece that someone had painstakingly taken a good bit of time to restore right down to the intricate scrollwork on the brass corner pieces and front locking mechanism, not to mention the design and letters that had been hand-carved and branded directly into the wood planking. “It’s quite a piece. I don’t know her, but I’m sure she’ll like it.”

  “She’s in charge of all the restoration work on Pelican Point,” Hannah said. “Our historic lighthouse,” she added, when he didn’t show any sign of recognizing the name. “My ancestors were the lightkeepers of the tower, dating all the way back to its inception, almost two hundred years ago now.”

  “She’ll appreciate the craftsmanship that went into restoring this piece, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, I know she will. That’s her work.” At his surprised look, she added, “Alex helps Eula occasionally—Eula is the shop owner here—with some of her restoration work. I found out she was particularly fond of this one, so . . .” She trailed off with a light shrug.

  He looked back at the piece. “I’m sure she’ll be touched by your thoughtfulness. Your brother appears to be a fortunate man. She is a very talented woman.”

  “You know something about antiques?”

  “Some. I know more about restoration.”

  “A shame you aren’t here to bring one of our many weathered buildings back to life, then. We could use that a lot more than—”

  “A yacht club. Yes, I imagine you could. But that’s not the job I was hired to do.”

  “More’s the pity,” she said, adopting a bit of her Scarlett accent again, even as her smile shifted back to one of cool politeness. “Well, I should be on my way.” She reached for the steamer trunk.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, not because he needed the shield any longer, but . . . because you’re an idiot who needs to get his mind back on business and off her . . . bustle. “Where did you park the horse and buggy?”

  “I opted for just the horse.” She motioned to the midnight-blue Mustang convertible parked curbside, just a half dozen yards down the street from his pickup truck.

  He cast a glance from the sports car back to her, but wisely said nothing.

  “I promise I’m looking both ways before entering intersections,” she said, following his gaze.

  “Did I say anything?”

  “Your condescending grin speaks volumes for you.”

  “My grin never condescends,” he said . . . grinning. “But I’m glad to hear you’re observing proper road safety protocols. Still, I wouldn’t let Wonka ride shotgun again if I were you. Not in that dress.”

  Her lips twitched at that. “Yes, well, we certainly wouldn’t want to do anything to damage this . . . fine piece of couture. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a plantation to save.”

  He followed her to the car and set the case inside the trunk after she popped the lid with her keyless remote. Walk away, Blue. Just, nod, smile . . . and walk away. “How long are you in town?” he heard himself ask. Christ. Then it was his turn to be surprised when a look of, what—uncertainty? Worry? Worse?—flashed across her face. What the hell was that about? Wasn’t she just in town for a family wedding?

  “I really should get going,” she said.

  “That’s not an answer.” And why on God’s green earth was he pushing it? Why the hell are you still standing here?

  She smiled politely, then stopped when it pulled at her busted lip, making him want to soothe it. Again. “I’m afraid it’s the best one I have at the moment.” She stepped up and closed the trunk with a snap, then moved around and opened the driver’s-side door. Before he could help her, she proceeded to tuck her voluminous skirts into the car with a smooth elegance and ease that shouldn’t have surprised him in the least.

  Lauren Bacall, eat your heart out.

  He did step up then and helped close the door as she pulled the last bit of her skirt in and out of the way, then smoothed it down under the leather-wrapped steering wheel. Mustang Scarlett. An incongruous sight, to be sure, but something told him that incongruity was a common theme where Hannah McCrae was concerned.

  She started the engine.

  “Might want to put that top up,” he said, continuing with the drawl. “Wouldn’t want you to lose that fine bonnet now.”

  In response, she merely reached up and tightened the starched bow under her chin, which was when he noticed how the ribbon and artful sweep of hair across her forehead, under the hat brim, served to hide the rest of the accident damage. Still, she had on an awful lot of makeup, and he wondered just how bad things really were underneath it all. The nose and lip alone had to be throbbing, no matter what pain relievers the nice paramedic had given her. Then she flinched a little as she pulled on the seat-belt harness across her shoulder, so yeah . . . she was hurting. A lot more than she was letting on. Pretty brave trooper to go through all the trouble of getting herself laced and buttoned and strapped into that crazy getup just for a wedding rehearsal. The things folks did for love of family. Yeah, he thought. Tell me about it.

  “Thank you for the help,” she said, clicking her seat belt in. “Again.”

  He let a hand rest on the open window frame of the door. “If you need to escape the insanity, I could always hijack you away somewhere for a bit.” He quelled his internal voice, knowing he should just let her go. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t already done so. She just as clearly neither wanted nor needed his help. Exactly. So who’s the needy one here? But it wasn’t that he needed her. He didn’t. It was just that for some reason he felt compelled to . . . care for her.

  “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” She made a big show of adjusting the rearview mirror, tightening her bonnet again.

  So, she was, what? Stalling?

  “You sure?”

  She looked back up at him then, the brim of her hat and his body both serving to block the late-afternoon sun from her face. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure of many things at the moment, so it seems unwise to add anything else into the mix.”

  So . . . not so much an “I don’t want to” as “I really shouldn’t.” He lifted his hand from the car door, but held her gaze as he let the grin slide across his face. “You know what they say, Miz Scarlett. Tomorrow is another day.”

  “Indeed it might be.” She turned on the engine and gunned it a little. “But frankly, Mr. Blue, I’m not in a position right now to give a damn.”

  Then she peeled off down the street, horses thundering, leaving him as he’d known she would . . . eating her dust.

  Well, you got one thing right about her, anyway.

  “Frankly, Mr. Blue,” Hannah mocked herself with an eye roll as she slowed down to a crawl and carefully navigated the shiny blue Mustang through town. It belonged to Sal’s nephew, Micah, who was stationed overseas with the army at the moment and had left his prized possession with his uncle for
safekeeping. Sal thought it would be a good way to give it some road time after being garaged for so long. Normally Hannah would have been more than happy to put some miles on the blue beast. All she had to do was even think about getting her foot close to the gas pedal and the thing leaped forward like the uncivilized stallion it had been named for. She would have enjoyed letting it loose to have a good galloping run. But nothing was normal for her right now. And being behind the wheel of any car, especially one so powerful, so soon after the accident, was making her feel queasy and borderline paranoid that something else awful was going to happen.

  Just get back on the horse and ride it already! She gave a rueful smile, thinking that sentiment applied to so many things in her life at the moment. Not a single one of which she felt remotely ready to climb back up on, much less let loose for a long ride. And that visual made her thoughts swing right back to Calder Blue. Oh, for the love of . . . She groaned, tempted to pull over, lean forward, and just rap her forehead repeatedly on the steering wheel. However, she’d already been punched in the face with one steering wheel this week, so clearly that wasn’t going to knock any sense into her.

  She turned into the parking lot of the Rusty Puffin. She’d promised Fi she’d help decorate for the rehearsal party after stashing Alex’s present in Gus’s office, but at the moment her thoughts weren’t on hanging copious quantities of tissue-paper wedding bells and crepe-paper streamers. Her thoughts were still all tangled up with Calder Blue. And climbing up on . . . things. And riding them. Hard.

  “Seriously, the man gives you one little alpha grin and you’re all Scarlett O’Hara to his Rhett Butler, Bacall to his Bogey. You’re in no shape for that,” she lectured herself. “So why do you respond to him?” Because there is nothing little about that man, her inner voice so helpfully offered. Or his Bogey. Probably. She swore under her breath and pulled into the space next to Fiona’s little Prius and shut off the engine. No more horses. No more climbing.

  She didn’t even like big, muscular men. Tim had the type of body she’d always found herself attracted to. His was the lean, long-limbed physique of a distance runner. Probably got it from all the beds he was hopping in and out of while making all those empty promises. And one very real baby.

  She shuddered at the memories, but wasn’t quick enough in clamping down on it to shut out the memory of that charming, lying bastard face of his, how he’d smiled down at her as they lay tangled up together in her soft linen sheets. She’d loved the way their bodies matched each other in their long litheness, how elegant his fingers had looked as he’d traced them over her pale skin, his beautiful blue eyes so laserlike in their focus, making her feel so utterly cherished, as he softly stroked her cheek, down along her shoulder, over her rib cage, her hip bone, seeming so completely absorbed in her as he earnestly told her she was his exquisite, porcelain goddess.

  Her stomach knotted up in equal parts disgust and fury. The fury was aimed at Tim for so calmly and easily abusing everything she’d felt for him, but the disgust she felt she reserved completely for herself, for being stupid enough, besotted enough, and—God—vain enough to buy into that awful, ridiculous, over-the-top praise of her supposed virtues in the first place.

  She forced those images out of her mind, only to have them replaced by warm honey eyes, a fast grin, a hard jaw, and chiseled lips. The way Calder had drawled out that Miz Scarlett, if he’d truly been a Southern gentleman, there wouldn’t be an untwirled parasol or dry petticoat on the plantation.

  Calder’s knowledge of classic films was yet another good reason for her to avoid him, she decided. She loved classic films. The last thing her beat-up and betrayed heart needed right now was some guy quoting iconic film dialogue to her clearly susceptible-to-flattery ego. Especially a charming, sexy-as-hell guy who gives really good Rhett Butler.

  And who’d offered to hijack her away from all the wedding craziness. She wondered what a stolen afternoon with someone like Calder Blue would be like. Climactic, for one. Oh for God’s sake. What was his deal, anyway? What was his angle? He had to have one. Because . . . why else the interest in her? Clearly it wasn’t her charm, good looks, or lovely personality.

  Maybe, from now on, she should approach the interest men showed her the way she did her case files, like a litigator. He was a guy from the wrong side of a centuries-old family feud who . . . what, decided to stroll into town like some kind of bad-ass cowboy at high noon and not only take on the Cove Blues, but also build something that was the source of a lot of anger and unrest in the Cove? Why would he do that? Was it possible he didn’t know the majority of the townsfolk were against the club being built? Could he truly think he was doing a good thing? That growth was always a positive?

  Her phone rang, making her jump, as her thoughts were jerked back to the present. She saw on the screen it was Fi, picked up. “Yes, dear?” she said in a put-upon, nasal drone.

  “Funny. Listen, could you do me a giant favor? I need more white crushed gravel.”

  “Of course you do. And please don’t explain why.”

  “I can’t. No time. But also no time to make it back out to the nursery for more, so I called Owen and he’s got something he thinks will work. Can you be an awesome sister and get it for me when you leave Eula’s?”

  “I actually just pulled in here at the Puffin. I’m outside in the parking lot. Can Kerry do it?”

  “No, she and Gus had their big reunion moment and are already thick as thieves in the kitchen cooking up God knows what.”

  “Is she already dressed for rehearsal? And remind me to kill you dead again for making me come into town dressed like this when I could have stayed out of sight back out at the Point. Where the rehearsal actually is.”

  “It took me all morning to do your face, missy. You owe me. And there would be no time to get us all laced up and done after decorating the pub for tonight. So just roll with it. And yes, Kerry is all geared up, too. All we have to do is get this done, drive out there, and we’re ready, set, go. I just need the gravel.”

  “I already went into Eula’s looking like a sad extra from Gone With the Wind.” And ran into Calder. Literally. She tried to keep her thoughts from going to how it had felt to be pressed up against his big, hard body, how his hands had felt covering hers, then later . . . covering her ass. Well, okay, so they hadn’t really covered it so much as brushed over it, but she’d sort of thought about what it would feel like. At the time. But not now. And never again. She cleared her throat. If only it was so easy to clear her mind. “You know, not every event has to have a theme.”

  “But they’re so much better when they do. It’s funny, and it’s fun. I thought it would keep us from getting stressed or . . . I don’t know. I wanted us to be playful, spontaneous, silly, goofy. The world could use more of that. We need to embrace the fun.”

  “Well, you’ve got the silly and goofy nailed. I definitely feel both of those things,” Hannah said dryly, but she heard in Fi’s tone that same thread of anxiety or weariness, or . . . whatever it was that she’d seen in her sister’s face earlier that morning. Hannah hadn’t asked how long Fi was going to be staying in town, but happy wedding event and her own issues notwithstanding, Hannah decided she was going to make a point of getting her sister aside and sitting down for a good long talk to find out what was going on.

  “Well, I can’t argue with that,” Hannah continued. “Fun has been a foreign concept in my world of late.” The last time she’d been anything close to playful had been when—shut it down. Now.

  But when she forcibly blanked out images of Tim, they were replaced by Calder. He had made her smile. And she had been a little silly with him. With the whole Scarlett, Tara thing. It had felt good. Maybe too good. She had a lot of serious stuff to work through before she could afford to play and be silly. At least with members of the opposite sex, anyway. And she wasn’t going to be either of those things with him, at any point in time. The moment the townies found out he was building the yacht club, and
learned he was involved in a long-standing family feud, he’d be the town pariah. And she’d had enough notoriety in her life, thank you very much. She’d left D.C. to get away from that. The last thing she was going to do was come home . . . and get herself all caught up with the new black sheep in town.

  “Earth to Hannah,” came Fi’s voice over the phone. “Owen has the gravel all packaged up and ready. I already gave him my card number for it, okay? You just need to run in, snag it, and get back on over here. We’ve only got an hour or so left to get all this set up, then drive back out to the Point. Logan’s already headed that way.”

  “Logan, who is not in his crazy tux jacket yet,” she reminded her sister. “Unlike the rest of us. Why didn’t he get your gravel?”

  “Because he’d already headed out before I realized I was going to be short. And he can shrug on the jacket and cummerbund. It took me forty-five minutes to get that damn dress on you. And maybe I did it on purpose, okay? Making us wear these all day. It’s only one day, but that’s just it . . . it’s only one day. Then boom, on to the next. We need to slow down a little, enjoy each of our ‘only one days.’ So this is sort of like a reminder for us not to take ourselves so damn seriously. We all do it, Hannah. You do. I do. Okay, maybe not Kerry. But we all worry, we stress, we go out of our way to please everyone else, and then worry we didn’t do a good enough job at that, so then we bend over backward to do even more. We’re uptight, overly conservative, ridiculously PC, because God for-freaking-bid we ever insult or offend anyone’s delicate sensibilities, or make anyone feel uncomfortable, or step outside of our own boxed-up comfort zone. Oh my God, the world might come to an end.” She stopped abruptly, and Hannah could hear her taking an audible deep breath. Then, with a shade of her more characteristic dry humor back and the overly shrill tone nowhere in evidence, she said, “And then where would we all be?”