Sweet Haven

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Adeline?” Sinclair prodded, and she realized she’d been staring too long and thinking too deeply about something that didn’t matter.

  “Tiny is locked up while I’m gone. My neighbor keeps him for me.”

  “The guy in the saltbox house?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him looking out the window when I drove up. Looks like he’s closing in on ninety.”

  “He’s a few years older than that. And I know he’s elderly, but he’s done a good job with Tiny.” Up until now.

  “It was just a comment,” he said, touching the fireplace mantel, running his hand down the carved wood. “I’m not judging you.”

  “That’s nice, because the rest of the town probably is.”

  “Do you care?” He turned his attention back to her.

  “Not really,” she responded honestly. Benevolence was filled with people who had all sorts of opinions about all kinds of things. She tried hard to never let that bother her. She wasn’t always successful, but Sinclair didn’t need to know that.

  “Meaning sometimes?”

  “Something like that.” She walked into the kitchen to check on Tiny. The dog had devoured every bit of kibble and was sitting mournfully at his bowl. “Next time,” she muttered as she grabbed the kibble bag from a cupboard, “chew.”

  Tiny’s tail thumped, and Sinclair chuckled, and for just a moment, it felt like they’d all done this a thousand times before: the conversation after a long day of work, the dog devouring his food, Sinclair’s quiet laughter.

  Adeline poured more kibble into the bowl, her cheeks hot with something she absolutely refused to acknowledge. “How did the work at your brother’s go?” she asked, because she felt the desperate need to break the silence.

  “About as well as I could have expected.”

  “Will you finish before the baby comes?”

  “That or die trying,” he muttered, and it was her turn to laugh, the expression on his face saying way more than his words did.

  “Gavin isn’t easy to work with?” she guessed, and he shook his head.

  “He isn’t easy to get working. The guy takes more breaks than any five people would need.”

  “He’s not used to that much manual labor, Sinclair. He’s a writer.”

  He snorted, his eyes blazing with frustration. “He could write and have a job that helps pay his bills. Instead, he’s relying on his wife’s teaching job to see them through.”

  “He works. He designs websites for twenty businesses. Most of them are in Seattle or Spokane.”

  “He didn’t tell me that.” Sinclair frowned, the tiny lines near his eyes crinkling, the scar a pale slash against his tan skin.

  “I don’t think he tells many people. I only know because I do Gavin and Lauren’s taxes.”

  “Seems like an odd thing to hide.”

  “It seems odd that everyone in town assumes he’s living off of Lauren and that he doesn’t want to support his family, but they do.” It seems odd that you assume the same. She kept the thought to herself. She didn’t want to get between brothers. She had enough trouble dealing with her own family.

  “It’s not like there haven’t been a long line of Jeffersons who have done the same. It’s a valid assumption,” he pointed out.

  She shrugged, turning on the coffeepot and taking two mugs from the cupboard. She hadn’t intended to offer him a cup of coffee. Then again, she hadn’t intended to have him in her kitchen. “I prefer to not assume things. I prefer to have the facts before I judge.”

  She had cookies in one of the higher cupboards, hidden away until after the wedding. She thought Sinclair might like one, so she levered up on her toes, reaching for the tin.

  “Let me,” he murmured, his breath ruffling the hair at her nape.

  God, he was close!

  Did the man know nothing about personal space?

  She eased out from between him and the counter, her cheeks so hot she wanted to splash ice water on them. “Thanks. That top cupboard is a little hard to reach.”

  “You could store them somewhere else.” He set the tin of shortbread on the counter, muscles rippling beneath his coat. At least she assumed they were rippling. She couldn’t actually see them through the thick down.

  “That would have made them too easy to access. I’ve got that dress—”

  “I thought we agreed that the dress was the one with the problem.” He cut her off, opening the tin and holding it out to her. Beautiful golden shortbread cookies lay inside, some of them dotted with dark chocolate chips.

  Her stomach growled, and he smiled. “Don’t bother telling me you’re not hungry.”

  “I wasn’t going to.”

  “And don’t tell me that you have to lose weight. You’re perfect the way you are.”

  “No need for compliments, Sinclair,” she said, her cheeks blazing even hotter. “I was planning to share the cookies. So sit down and be quiet, or I might change my mind and keep them for myself.”

  To her surprise, he did what she asked, dropping into one of the dinette chairs, his long legs stretched out beneath the table.

  “Aside from my drive here,” he said as she put a cup of coffee in front of him, “this is the first time I’ve sat all day.”

  “Were you heading back to your brother’s place when you saw Tiny?” she asked, placing a few of the shortbread cookies on a plate and setting it in front of him.

  She had leftover roast in the fridge, and she actually considered taking it out and heating it up for him.

  Not a good move if she planned to keep him from complicating her life. Which she did.

  “I haven’t been back to the apartment since this morning.” He sipped coffee, rubbed his knee, and winced. “I was heading there when I found Tiny.”

  “That’s funny,” she said, an image of that light shining down onto the awning filling her head.

  “What?”

  “One of the lights was on there. I saw it when I was leaving the shop. I thought you were back.”

  “I was in the woods. Chasing your dog.” He stood, grabbed a couple of cookies, and headed for the door. “Guess I better go check things out.”

  “It might be a better idea to call the police.”

  “Because there’s a light on in the apartment?”

  “Because there could be someone in there.”

  “I think we’ve had this conversation before,” he responded. “And, if I remember correctly, you had a smudge of chocolate on your face then, too.” He ran a finger across her cheek, touched the corner of her mouth, stared into her eyes for about six seconds longer than was probably necessary.

  Then he was gone, walking across the yard and climbing in his truck. She stood in the doorway, Tiny trying desperately to squeeze between her and the door.

  “Sorry, you’ve got to stay here,” she said, closing the door and rubbing at her cheek, trying to wipe away the warmth of Sinclair’s fingers.

  It didn’t work. The warmth remained as she coerced Tiny into the mud room, gave him a dozen chew toys to play with, and headed back to the shop to make a few dozen more chocolate hearts.

  Chapter Five

  The apartment was empty. Just like Sinclair had known it would be. The light in the office was on, though, and that bothered him. He hadn’t been in the office. Not the previous night and not that morning. He’d moved his stuff in, dragged his suitcase into the bedroom, and left the rest of the apartment alone.

  He flicked the switch on the office wall, plunging the room into darkness, and waited for something to happen.

  Nothing did, but the demons that were always clawing at the back of his mind insisted he was in danger.

  He searched the apartment again, checking under the bed and in the closets, his heart pounding frantically.

  “Idiot,” he hissed, frustrated with himself and his weakness.

  He knew he was fine, damn it!

  But his body sure as hell didn’t.

  He walked into
the living room, grabbed his cell phone, and called Janelle. Maybe she’d been in the apartment earlier, picking something up for her father-in-law. If so, that would explain the light that had been off suddenly being on.

  “Sinclair!” Janelle answered on the first ring. “What a pleasant surprise! How are things working out at the apartment?”

  “They’d be better if someone hadn’t been in here while I was gone today,” he responded, his voice raspier and rougher than he’d intended.

  “Someone was in the apartment?” she asked, her surprise obvious.

  “The light in the office was on when I got back. I thought maybe you’d stopped by to pick something up for your father-in-law.”

  “I’ve already removed Byron’s things. Even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have entered the apartment without your permission,” she responded, indignation dripping from every word. “The place is yours for the duration of the rental agreement, and according to that, I have to give you twenty-four-hour notice before entering the property.”

  He knew that, he’d read it in the contract.

  He ran a hand over his hair and rubbed the tense muscles in his neck. “I’m not accusing you of breach of contract, Janelle. Just asking if you were here.”

  “I wasn’t.” She was quiet for a moment, the silence filled with the soft creaks and groans of the old building. “But it’s possible Adeline was. She and Byron are very close. I’ll give her a call, let her know that she can’t just barge into your personal space.”

  “I don’t think it was Adeline.”

  “I’ll talk to her anyway. I want you to be comfortable in the apartment, Sinclair. Your happiness is of the utmost concern to me.”

  “Janelle, that really isn’t—”

  She hung up, was probably already pressing speed-dial to contact her daughter.

  “Shit,” he said quietly.

  He’d have to fix this.

  He headed down the exterior stairs, the cold wind spearing through his T-shirt and jeans and burrowing into his bones. It wasn’t just his knee that was aching now. His whole leg hurt. He gritted his teeth, every step sending what felt like jagged glass up through his kneecap and into his thigh.

  His mood went from bad to worse, and he thought about turning around, going back up to his apartment, grabbing his keys, and finding the closest dive bar.

  That would be the easy answer to his problems, and he’d stopped taking the easy road three years ago.

  He knocked on the shop door, the sound jarring in the evening quiet. He knocked again, rapping so hard his knuckles hurt. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  The door opened a crack, and Adeline peered out. “I figured it was you,” she said.

  “And I figured your mother was probably already on the phone with you.”

  “You figured right.” She opened the door the rest of the way, gestured for him to enter.

  The place was a mess, bowls piled in the large sink, chocolate plastered to the sides of them, drips of chocolate on the floor and splattered on the backsplash. A cell phone lay on the counter, a clear bowl turned upside down on top of it. He could swear he could hear Janelle’s voice through the glass.

  “It didn’t look like this when the shop was open. Everything was nice and sterile and tidy. Just the way Granddad likes it,” Adeline said, her gaze skirting over the mess in the sink and on the counter. “Things get a little crazy when I’m working on my fudge-making skills.”

  She also looked like she was working on not crying, her eyes a little glassy, her cheeks pale. She gnawed on her lower lip as if that might actually solve whatever problem she was having.

  “I won’t keep you from it,” he responded. “I just came down to apologize.”

  “For my mother?” She laughed, the sound shaky. “There’s no need.”

  “For myself. I shouldn’t have called her.” He walked to the sink, turned on the water, and ran it until it was so hot steam drifted into the air.

  “You had every right to call her with your concerns.”

  “Is that a direct quote?” he asked, looking up from the dish soap he was pouring under the stream of hot water.

  “Good guess, Sinclair. That is exactly what she said to me. Word for word. She’s probably still saying it, reiterating the same point over and over again as she attempts to make me feel guilty for something I didn’t do.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “I’m overwhelmed. Tiny is home, locked in my mudroom until I can get back to him. May wants her wedding favors yesterday. That stupid dress is still broken and it still doesn’t fit. I could go on”—she jabbed at a whiteboard that had the list from hell scrawled on it, twenty items or more scribbled in different areas and different colors—“but I won’t.”

  “What’s the list for?”

  “It’s everything I need to get done. There’s not one thing checked off, Sinclair. Not one.” She rubbed her forehead, must have suddenly realized that he was washing dishes.

  She frowned, reaching past him and turning off the water. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t work here, and if Janelle—”

  “How about we get one thing off your list?” He wiped his hands on a dishcloth and grabbed the phone from under the bowl, Janelle’s voice ringing out into the room.

  “What are you doing!? That’s not on my list!” Adeline whispered, trying to grab the phone from his hand.

  “Janelle?” He interrupted Janelle’s diatribe, catching her midword. “This is Sinclair. Adeline is busy. She has a lot of fudge to make. She’ll call you when she finishes. Bye.”

  He hung up.

  Adeline stared at him for about three seconds, and then shook her head. “Wow,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Just . . . wow. I don’t think Janelle has ever had anyone hang up on her.”

  “I didn’t hang up on her. I ended the conversation.”

  He went to the sink, turned the water back on, and started scrubbing one of the bowls. It was vintage. A giant yellow Pyrex bowl that looked like it had been used a few thousand times.

  He liked that. Liked the little scratches in the exterior color. It whispered of things that lasted.

  “Really, Sinclair.” Adeline pressed in beside him, took the bowl from his hand, and dried it with a clean dish towel. “I can’t ask you to help me with these.”

  “You didn’t,” he pointed out, grabbing another bowl. Pink with stripes. It fit the candy theme, and he wondered if Adeline’s grandmother had picked it. He remembered Alice. She’d had a loud laugh and a soft smile. She’d also been quick to hand out samples of the candies she and her husband made.

  Not just candy, either. There’d been times when she’d handed him a paper bag with sandwiches or a Tupperware bowl filled with stew. “We had leftovers,” she’d always say. “It’s just sitting there rotting in the fridge. You think you and your brother can keep it from going to waste?”

  They always had, because Elijah’s idea of cooking had been opening a can of soup and sticking a spoon in it.

  He frowned, placing the bowl in the drainer, his arm brushing Adeline’s taut abdomen. He felt the silkiness of her T-shirt, the hint of warm flesh beneath, and everything he’d been thinking—all the memories that had been clawing at his mind—faded away.

  “I really don’t feel comfortable with this,” Adeline murmured, and he wasn’t sure if she meant him washing dishes or them standing so close that he could feel every breath, smell the hint of chocolate and berries on her skin.

  “I can leave if you want me to.” He set the pink bowl in the drainer and turned to face her. “But sometimes people don’t do things because they’re asked. Sometimes they do them because if they don’t keep busy, all the things they’re running from will catch up to them.”

  Her eyes went soft, and he wanted to tell her not to pity him. He didn’t want or need that from anyone.

  “Okay,” she finally said. “Wash
the dishes. I need to make another batch of fudge.”

  That was it.

  No questions, no digging, no probing at all the old wounds the way Kendra had always done when he’d woken bathed in sweat and fighting an unseen enemy. He’d tried to extend a little grace, allow her to try the best way she could to understand what he was going through. He’d given her what he could, but that had never seemed to be enough.

  In the end their relationship had faded out like a sunset over the ocean. Brilliant to black, the process gradual, then quick. He hadn’t even realized it was happening until they’d sat across the table from each other one night, looked into each other’s eyes, and mutually agreed they felt nothing but affection for one another and that affection wasn’t enough.

  He finished the last bowl, snagged a handful of spoons from the water, scrubbed and rinsed them, Adeline’s off-tune humming making him smile.

  “I was playing that on my guitar last night,” he said as she butchered “Bridge Over Troubled Water.”

  “I heard you.” She stirred a pot on the gas stove, a thermometer stuck over the edge of it. He liked the apron she’d tied around her waist, the tilt of her head as she looked into the pot. Or maybe he just liked not being alone in that apartment with anxiety pounding through his blood.

  “I’ll try to keep it down next time,” he said, and she met his eyes, shook her head.

  “Why would you do that? It was like listening to a live concert while I was cleaning the kitchen. I liked it.”

  “Then I’ll play louder when you’re in the shop.”

  She laughed. “Will I have to pay a concert fee if you do?”

  “I take payment in shortbread cookies,” he responded, enjoying the banter and the company.

  “Not chocolate?” She lifted the spoon, let the silky chocolate slide into the pot. “Because I have plenty of that.”

  “I don’t think your grandfather will be happy if you start giving away his product.”

  “Trust me, he’ll be more than happy for me to give this away.” She lifted the pot and poured the chocolate into a square pan lined with some sort of paper.

  “Why’s that?” He moved closer, wanted to touch that little smudge of chocolate at the corner of her mouth again. Just to see how she’d react.