Sea Glass Sunrise

by Donna Kauffman

  She abruptly tipped her chin forward again and continued on her walk. However nice it might have been to have a little attention thrown her way from a good-looking man, she was smart enough to know she’d only let him because it had soothed her self-esteem, which Tim had left battered in his duplicitous wake. So, yes, a moment of weakness, an understandable one even. But not one she planned to repeat anytime soon.

  Yes, it had felt good. Okay, better than good, if she was honest. It had been . . . Jesus, it had been electric. She took a steadying breath, another fortifying sip, put a more determined pace in her gait. Feeling . . . well, anything, right now, was probably unwise. She wasn’t ready. She needed to be stronger, more distanced from what had happened, more settled on her new path, before including anything like that—or anyone like that—in her life. At the moment, what she needed was to stay comfortably numb a little longer.

  She shoved thoughts of men, past and present, from her mind, and smiled as the music from the Rusty Puffin echoed after her down the hill. She always loved it when Fergus got out his fiddle, and tonight he’d rustled up a few local musicians to join in for a full-blown, traditional Irish ceilidh. She’d enjoyed watching everyone dance, had even taken a step or two herself. She smiled, picturing Kerry trying to teach them some Maori tribal dance, but in the manner of Irish step dancing, which . . . God, only Kerry. Hannah would have stayed longer, stayed forever in that cocoon of love and family, but her head had had enough. Logan and Alex would understand. Fiona had already asked her a half dozen times if she wanted to go on back home again to get some rest.

  Home.

  Hannah paused at the bottom of the hill to look out over the harbor. Yeah, what home meant to her now was . . . complicated. So she let her thoughts shift instead to how it felt to be back in the Cove. For good. To how it felt to not have any cases pending. At all. Of course, she worried about the ones she’d handed over when she’d tendered her resignation, worried they wouldn’t be handled the way she would have handled them. She’d spent significant time with the new counsel for each case, made sure each had her contact information if clarification or assistance was needed. Her last day had been ten days ago now, and she’d been on the phone a dozen or more times, answered an avalanche of e-mails on various notes and proceedings, but it otherwise hadn’t been as bad as she’d thought it would be.

  When she’d walked out the door that last day, she’d had this feeling that she’d never be able to truly leave that part of her life behind, that it would dog her, as had all the rumor and innuendo, forever. She’d been so deep in it, her every waking moment so consumed by it, she honestly couldn’t imagine it ever being truly over.

  And yet . . . standing here, tasting the salt in the air, and feeling the utter calm that surrounded her . . . she realized that it just truly might. She laughed at herself as she began walking along the harbor road. And how pathetic was she? All she’d wanted was to escape, to put all the ugliness and hurt and pain behind her, and if that meant leaving her thriving career behind too, then so be it. The one had become inextricably linked to the other anyway, so she couldn’t even lose herself in her work to drown out her personal pain. Not when her personal pain had marched its pregnant self right into her office and announced its presence to God and the world. Her world. Her former world.

  And now she was feeling, what . . . miffed? A little insulted that the legal whirl on Capitol Hill hadn’t come to a crashing halt because she’d decided to exit it, stage left? Okay, maybe she was. A little.

  The caseload that had defined her life for more days, weeks, months, and years than she could remember was gone. Poof. No problem. Hand the files over and walk away. Don’t let the office door hit ya on the way out. Easy come, easy go. See ya later, bye. That’s what you wanted, remember?

  So what if it seemed that both Tim and the profession she’d dedicated her life to could let her go. So easily, and so swiftly. Easily forgotten, easily replaced.

  If only it could be that way for her.

  Now her biggest problem was figuring out how to never be either of those things again.

  She paused at the shipyard, looking up at the dark, shadowed spires that were the four tall ship masts, soaring so improbably high up into the night sky. Incredible. She made a note to ask Logan when the launch date would be. She wanted to see it being rolled out into the harbor, as the Cove’s ancestors had done so many times in centuries past.

  Her thoughts drifted to the other changes coming to Half Moon Harbor. The yacht club. For God’s sake, who had let that plan get through? Without her wanting it to be, her gaze was pulled past the shipyard, to where Delia’s Diner would have been standing, and she felt a gut-deep pang to see the spot was nothing more than a flat lot, graded over, parking lot, deck and all. The docks that went along with the property were still there of course, but otherwise it was just a gaping hole, waiting to be filled.

  She understood how that felt.

  She let the memories roll in, almost defiantly now, all the times she’d spent at Delia’s, how much a part of her life it had been, and O’Reilly’s—Delia’s grandmother’s restaurant—too. Birthdays, graduation dinners. Older kids going to prom. O’Reilly’s had been gone before Hannah had reached prom age, but she remembered family dinners as a young girl, watching the teenagers coming in, boys all awkward in their tuxedos, girls in their fancy dresses, hair pinned up, corsages on wrists and boutonnieres pinned crookedly to lapels. It had all seemed so romantic to her.

  Hannah forced her thoughts away from what she thought about romance these days, and thought instead of Delia as she’d been that afternoon, in the awesomely appalling bridesmaid dress she’d worn to the rehearsal. The gothic, almost funereal, punk-style getup—complete with studded collar and chainmail chastity belt—had made Hannah feel positively stunning by comparison. Delia was about ten years her senior, but they’d been like family for all of Hannah’s life, which was probably how Delia felt about pretty much everyone in the Cove. They certainly felt that way about her. Delia and Alex had become good friends, hence the co-maid-of-honor designation. Alex’s way of honoring both her ties to the Cove and Logan’s family, which Hannah thought had been beyond kind and thoughtful, given they hadn’t even met yet.

  Her phone chirped, startling her. She juggled her bottle of ginger ale and dug the phone out of her jeans pocket, not bothering to look at the screen before answering it. It would be Fiona. “Hi, I’m okay. I just decided to get some—”

  “Glad to hear it,” came an unfamiliar male voice. “Do I have the right number? Is this Hannah McCrae?”

  Her mind wiped clean of all thought by the sudden shift, she took a beat to switch gears. She glanced at the phone, but the number was unknown to her. Putting it back to her ear, she said, “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. Who is this?”

  “Mike Garrison. Over at Thompson, Craft and Banks. Got a minute? I have a proposition for you.”

  The knowing note he’d injected into that last part had her hackles rising. “I’m afraid I don’t, Mr. Garrison. It’s quite late, and I’m not—”

  “From what I understand, late nights aren’t a problem for you.”

  So. Apparently her past wasn’t done with her quite yet. Yippee. She lowered the phone, too tired to be pissed off, too numb to care, her thumb on the END button, then stopped and put it next to her ear again. “I sincerely doubt you understand much of anything. You’ll have to take your proposition elsewhere.” Preferably up your ass. “I’m not with Holcombe and Daggett any longer.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge. I know you left them—that’s why I’m calling.”

  “The only one guilty of snap judgments, Mr. Garrison, would be you. Whatever you thought to propose, I’m not interested. Good night.”

  “Wait! Listen, maybe that wasn’t the right approach, okay?” He chuckled. “I should have known you’d want a little more foreplay. My bad. I just wanted to say that H and D is a stuffy firm and I don’t blame you for walking
. But not all firms are like that one. Some of us have a more . . . open-minded view of the workplace. I think there might be a place here for you. I’d love to meet you for drinks. Feel you out.” He chuckled again, and it made her skin crawl.

  “Thank you once more for the incredibly insulting and demeaning invitation, Mr. Garrison. You’re right, I don’t belong at Holcombe and Daggett. And given your description, I can say with equal certainty that I also don’t belong at Thompson, Craft and Banks. It does sound, however, as if you’ve found exactly the right spot. Best of luck with that.”

  “Stone-cold, straight-up bitch,” he said before she could click off, and worse, he made it sound surprisingly complimentary, then actually chuckled again. “Heard that about you, too. Like to make a man work for it, huh? Well, I like a challenge. Given your taste for the forbidden fruit, though, I hope it won’t put you off when I tell you I’m single. But I can promise you—”

  She found the END button then and clicked off, barely resisting the urge to turn and fling the phone as far out into the harbor as she could, as if by doing so, she could fling Mike Garrison, and everyone just like him, out to sea with it. She would have hung up sooner, should have, but once he’d started in, she’d just gone still, shut down. Now she stood there, trembling in disgust, in anger, and yes, in hurt and humiliation, and—dammit—feeling the chill of the harbor breeze suddenly straight through to the bone. Deeper, if that were possible.

  “Hey.”

  She let out a short shriek and her phone did fly up in the air as she whirled around at the sound of the deep masculine voice coming from just behind her.

  Calder Blue lifted a hand and snagged the phone from the air mid-descent as easily as an outfielder shagging a pop fly. He handed it back to her. “Sorry. I was trying not to startle you.”

  “Epic fail.” Heart pounding now in addition to her head, Hannah tried to steady herself—again—but she was simply wrung out. In every possible way a person could be. She took the phone from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

  She had nothing left, and certainly wasn’t up for yet another encounter with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Everywhere. Now more than ever, all she wanted to be was alone. She moved around him and started walking back toward the shipyard. Now she did want to go home, only she wondered if she’d feel safe anywhere. She felt . . . betrayed, that the ugliness of her past had reached out and so easily invaded—poisoned—her one haven. Her one safe place.

  Maybe she wouldn’t be able to leave the past behind after all. Maybe it would haunt her forever. But dammit, if she was going to be remembered for something, needed for something, what the hell did it say about her that propositions like Garrison’s were going to be the legacy she’d be leaving behind?

  “Scarlett—”

  She stopped, whirled around to find him a few feet behind her. “Don’t. Just . . . don’t.”

  In response, he slid off the jacket he was wearing and handed it to her. When she didn’t reach for it, he said, “You’re shivering.”

  She realized then she was clutching her elbows, arms folded across her middle. She could have told him the shaking was caused by something much deeper, and far colder, than a simple harbor breeze, but she didn’t have the energy. “I’m good. Just heading back to the pub. Good evening, Mr. Blue.” She turned and continued walking.

  “You’re not, you know.”

  She dipped her chin, sighed, then swore under her breath. Keep walking. She did, but she also spoke. Dammit. What was it about this guy? “Not what, heading to the pub? I assure you I am. It was a mistake to leave. Or did you mean I’m not cold? Is that some kind of mind-over-matter suggestion?”

  When he next spoke, he was once again just behind her, at her elbow. “No, I know you’re cold. You’re not a stone-cold bitch, though. Who was that asshole, anyway?”

  It was surprising she didn’t trip and stumble, that somehow, for once around this man, she remained upright. He walked casually enough, spoke even more casually, as if they strolled together often, chatted together often. She didn’t look at him, kept her focus forward, but couldn’t seem to keep her mouth shut around him. “How on earth would you know that?”

  “That he’s an asshole? It’s a quiet night, you held the phone away from your ear. Voices carried. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but it was hard not to hear.”

  “What were you trying to do? I know Blueberry Cove is a small town, but even as small towns go, our paths have crossed an inordinate number of times in the past twenty-four hours.”

  She wasn’t looking at him, but she could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “My meeting was postponed. Again. So, since I was here, I was walking the harbor, trying to get a sense of what Winstock sees in his mind’s eye, what his future plans are, how he might go about implementing them.”

  “It’s close to midnight. Wouldn’t it make more sense to do that in the daylight hours?”

  “Lots of people out during the day, followed by lots more speculation if they spied me wandering about.”

  “Pretty self-important, assuming everyone knows who you are.”

  He chuckled, apparently not stung by her waspish tone. “I live in a small town, too. Given my surname, and who brought me here, it seems naïve to think folks don’t know who I am. And I’m not naïve.”

  She thought about the smooth, easy—far too easy—way he’d slid in and round and past all her carefully constructed defenses earlier that day. She’d wasted thirty whole minutes after driving away from him the last time, convincing herself it was the combination of the accident, the exhaustion, the pain, and the wedding craziness, not the least of which was the getup she’d had on, that had caused her to lose her mind for five seconds and beg him to run off with her. To do what, exactly, she’d had no idea, then, or now. But he’d made it clear he had a few ideas of what they could have been doing. No, he definitely isn’t naïve.

  She shivered from the memory of his touch, his taste . . . his kiss. Even a half kiss from him had been enough to knock the sense right out of her. If a kiss to the corner of her mouth and a light stroke along her collarbone could turn her into a puddle of needy—

  His coat landed on her shoulders, jerking her thoughts mercifully away from that dangerous path. She didn’t bother shrugging it off and flinging it at him. Her little rant on the phone had zapped whatever defiant posturing she had left straight out of her. Instead, she pulled it closed in front of her, and tried not to breathe in the smell of him. Tried to make herself believe she hadn’t thought about that very scent well past the time she’d convinced herself that the whole scene in front of Hartley’s had just been an unfortunately timed chance meeting. Sort of like smashing into Beanie’s sign. Only less painful. Maybe.

  “So you graciously spared the town more needless gossip,” she said, struggling to pick up the thread of the conversation . . . and ignore his scent, which was literally wrapped around her. “A Good Samaritan and a thoughtful humanitarian.”

  “But humble. Don’t forget humble.” The humor was still there in his deep voice. “I figured this town has had enough gossip where the St. Croix River Blues are concerned, so why contribute more where I don’t have to?”

  Hannah was surprised to hear the laugh—her laugh—as she said, “First of all, if you wanted to spare us that, you should have stayed back on your farm. Not that it would matter. This town thrives on speculation. It will never have enough. If not about you, then it would be about something else. And if you think for one second that no one knows you’re skulking around down here after dark, well . . . you don’t know small towns as well as you think you do.”

  “I don’t skulk. And the only person I’ve seen is you.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m the only person who has seen you.”

  He dipped his chin for a moment, smiling. “Point to you, Counselor.”

  She shouldn’t smile at that, either. In fact, she shouldn’t be doing anything with him. And yet, she seemed to be doing something with him wit
h alarming regularity. “Why do you care what Winstock’s future plans are? You said this was just a job.”

  “It is a job. But the job is not the only reason I’m here. Well, that’s not entirely true. I wouldn’t have come except for this job offer, but it wasn’t the job itself, but the offer, that drew me here.”

  “That hard up for work in Calais?”

  “That hard up to find a way to mend my family.”

  She did slow her steps then, and she did, finally, look at him. There were no streetlights on the harbor road, but there were lights dotting the larger piers that stretched out into the water, and they provided enough ambient glow for her to see his face. “Do you think it can be? After all this time?”

  “Has anyone ever tried?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again, thinking. Finally, she said, “I don’t know. Not that I’m aware of. At least, no one from your side has actually shown up here. I’d know that. I can’t say if anyone from here has tried to come to your neck of the woods.”

  “How would you know? You don’t live here.”

  “Everyone would know that. Owen would have told you. He’d definitely have known. Besides, once a part of the Cove, always a part of the Cove.”

  “You’re about as much a part of the Cove as one could be, from what I understand. Descendant of the founding family.”

  “One of them. But that wouldn’t matter in this instance. Blueberry has a way of claiming you, of making you part of it, no matter how you got here or at what point in your life you show up. In return, the Cove has a way of holding on to its own, whether born here, or adopted. I think that’s part of the larger concern, about the new development on the harbor.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “This isn’t a transient community. People don’t just come and go from here. We’re not a tourist destination. We’re a village, a tightly knit one that has survived a lengthy and somewhat colorful history by sticking together, making us a self-supporting community, in every sense of the word. If you come here, it’s not to visit or to see the sights, it’s for a purpose, and if that purpose has merit and you respect those who are already established here, then our arms are open, and you won’t find better allies to your cause.”