Sweet Haven

by Shirlee McCoy

  Whatever it was, she had to forget it.

  Sinclair was in town until the Jefferson house was cleaned out and fixed up. Even if he’d planned to stay, she had no interest in long-term, short-term, or any-term relationships.

  Friendship was great. Anything beyond that was a recipe for heartache. The way she saw things, one heartache in a lifetime was plenty.

  She turned off the service area light, walked into the kitchen.

  It was spotless. Every bowl washed and put away, every pan scrubbed to a high sheen. She’d wiped down the counters, cleaned the sink, mopped the floor.

  She was getting the hang of running the shop.

  Too bad she hadn’t gotten the hang of making the fudge.

  Three pans of it sat on the counters, the tops glossy and smooth, one dotted with pecans, one swirled with rich dark chocolate, one plain. They looked beautiful, but she knew they tasted . . . good.

  Not great.

  Just . . . good.

  And that wasn’t going to be good enough.

  She’d serve the three pans tomorrow when Anna Ellis brought her second grade class for a tour of the shop. The kids would eat and enjoy it regardless of Adeline’s failures.

  Speaking of which . . .

  She snagged her gym bag from the hook near the back door, pulled her running clothes out. She’d managed to go the entire day without shoving her face full of chocolates and sweets. She’d microwaved her low-calorie, low-fat meal, sipped water dutifully throughout the day, and avoided anything and everything that might keep her from fitting into the dress.

  She scowled, hurrying into the bathroom to change.

  Tonight she’d actually get some exercise in. Mostly because Tiny was at Sandy Seaton’s house, making good use of her large fenced yard. Sandy hadn’t been all that keen on taking the puppy for the day, but Addie had called in a favor earned over several years of free tax preparation. Since Sandy’s husband, John, was out of town on business, Addie figured she could ask her friend to dog sit.

  She had until seven, and then Sandy was going to set the puppy loose on Benevolence. An idle threat, but Addie wasn’t going to make Sandy wait. She’d do her half-hour run and then she’d go pick Tiny up, drop him off at home, and return to tackle a few dozen of the wedding favors. Time was ticking away, each day bringing her closer to the inevitable orange dress mess. At least if the favors were beautiful and tasty, people might overlook the garish tangerine sausage-casing.

  She ran along Main Street, turned onto Patterson Place, bypassing a few shops that were still open. This was the touristy stretch of town—Jim’s Sasquatch Hunting Gear, Lila’s Bead Palace, the Doughnut Hole. They did most of their business during the fall and early winter, before the passes closed and the town became a time capsule waiting to be opened by the next round of visitors.

  Nothing much ever changed. Not the white façade of the Baptist church or the dark brick of the Catholic parish church. Not the school or the park or even the shops that had been around for more years than Addie. The closest they’d come to true change had been May closing her fabric store and putting the building on the market. It would be a while before it sold, but Janelle was determined to bring someone progressive into the space. She’d showed the property to a few businessmen from Seattle, a guy from San Antonio, and business partners from Orlando. There’d been talk of a wine shop, an organic market, and a pottery, but so far none of it had panned out.

  Addie wasn’t disappointed in that. Secretly, she wanted May to come back from her honeymoon in Niagara Falls with a changed heart and a changed mind. Secretly, she wanted everything the way it had always been—predictable, easy, and comfortable.

  She raced uphill, heading away from Main Street and deeper into the quiet little town. The houses were farther apart here, the old bungalows and stately Victorians built on large lots. For the most part, people kept those lots manicured and pretty. A few properties had seen better days. Those were the ones that Janelle said would be on the market one day. She was biding her time, waiting for the property owners to decide they’d had enough of small-town life. When that happened, she’d have those places sold before the FOR SALE signs went up.

  She was hoping that Addie’s house would be one of those properties. She mentioned it every time she talked about Willow and Brenna. They’d made their escapes from Benevolence. It was Addie’s turn to do the same.

  The problem was, Addie didn’t want to escape.

  She didn’t want to go to a big city or a bustling suburb and get lost in the anonymity of too many people filling too much space. The way she saw it, some people spent a lifetime looking for a place to call home. She’d found hers early.

  She made it to the top of the hill and stopped there, breath heaving, heart pounding. It didn’t feel as bad as she’d thought it would. Except for the sweat that was now freezing on her cheeks, the icy burn of frigid air filling her lungs.

  She swiped at the sweat, tried to slow her breathing. She could see Janelle’s house from there, the property spread out over a few acres, the house huge compared to most Benevolence homes. She could have jogged there, walked inside, chatted with Janelle for a while.

  They didn’t really have that kind of relationship, though. Willow and Brenna had always been more like Janelle. Addie? She was like her father or her grandfather or maybe like Alice. Whatever the case, she didn’t mesh with her mother’s style. She was too plain, too loud, too unpolished.

  And she really did need to get her hair done.

  She touched the end of her long braid as her watch beeped.

  Time to head back to the shop.

  Thank God!

  Running might not have felt as bad as she’d thought it would, but it hadn’t felt good either. She could check it off her list though. That made her happy, gave a little zing to her steps as she headed back down the hill.

  Snap! Crack!

  Something plunged through thick hedges to her right.

  She went left.

  She didn’t know what was in the bushes, and she wasn’t going to stick around to find out. This time of year, coyotes sometimes wandered through town. There’d been an occasional bear too—out early from hibernation and not all that happy about it.

  She should have brought her bear spray or her whistle.

  Instead she had her feet, which weren’t carrying her away nearly fast enough. She sped down the hill for about three seconds before the thing caught her. It crashed into her back and she fell, her palms and knees skimming along the pavement as she slid down the hill.

  Protect your neck! her brain shouted.

  She brought her forearms up, shielding the back of her neck from attack. A warm, rough tongue rolled across her knuckles. Puppy breath tickled her ear. She opened her eyes, which she hadn’t realized were shut, and looked into Tiny’s fuzzy face.

  “You!” she nearly shouted.

  He barked happily, his tongue swiping across her cheek.

  “For God’s sake, Tiny! Can’t you behave?” She stood, her yoga pants ripped at the knees, her palms dotted with dirt and speckled with blood.

  Tiny didn’t look repentant, but he sure seemed happy to see her. She didn’t have a leash, so she just started walking, Tiny trotting along beside her as she headed back to the shop.

  * * *

  God! He hated paperwork!

  Sinclair eyed his computer screen, his legs stretched out beneath Byron’s old dinette table, his laptop taunting him. He had a bid to write up, and he had to make sure it was a good one. Handwritten notes lay beside the laptop, a few photos lying on top of it. Bidding for a contract was his least favorite part of his business. He’d put it off indefinitely if he didn’t have a crew who counted on him to keep the jobs coming in.

  Not that they didn’t have plenty of work to keep them busy. More often than not, jobs found Sinclair. He was the best restoration specialist on the West Coast, and pretty damn close to being the best in the country. At least that’s what write-ups in seve
ral national magazines claimed.

  Sinclair didn’t let it go to his head.

  He had a fantastic crew working for him. Men and women who made it their mission to restore every building with historic accuracy in mind. With the team he had in place, he could handle almost any job. Currently he was eyeing an early twentieth-century schoolhouse on the outskirts of Portland. The city wanted to restore it and turn it into a community center. Sinclair wanted the job. Not for the money it would bring or any prestige he might gain from it. He wanted the job because two of the companies writing up bids were known for cutting corners and using modern fixtures in historic buildings. He’d seen some of their handiwork. He’d been hired to correct some of it.

  No way did he want either company to get the job.

  On the other hand, he wanted to make a profit.

  He lifted the photos, studied the double-wide front door opening. It had been boarded up years ago, the door removed. He probably had a replacement in his warehouse. He could donate that, donate a couple dozen doorknobs and some replacement tiles for the two bathrooms.

  Somewhere outside a dog barked, the sound barely registering as he recalculated his bid, typed in the estimate for labor and materials. He wouldn’t be as low as the other two companies, but his reputation might win him the contract.

  The dog barked again, the sound of someone or something bounding up the exterior metal stairs bringing Sinclair to his feet.

  Tiny?

  He opened the door and the dog barged in, skidding across the wood floor and slamming into the couch.

  “Enough,” Sinclair commanded, and the dog rolled onto his back, his tail wagging frantically.

  Adeline raced into the apartment a few seconds later.

  “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” she cried as she ran to Tiny and tried to pull him up by the scruff. “This dog has no manners!”

  “I’m the one who opened the door,” he replied, but she was too busy trying to get the dog to his feet to hear.

  “Tiny,” she growled. “Get up! I have to take you home, and then I have to work.”

  At the shop? She didn’t look dressed for it. As a matter of fact, she looked like she’d been out for a run, her legs encased in black spandex, her torso covered by a thick vest. She looked . . . rough . . . her hair escaping its tight braid, bloody knees peeking out from holes in her running pants.

  “Did he escape the neighbor’s again?” he asked, and she shook her head, her violet eyes the only hint of color in her face.

  “My friend had him in a fenced yard. Plenty of room to run around, but I guess not enough for him.” She wrapped her arms around Tiny’s torso. “Up, you naughty boy!”

  “I think he passed naughty a while ago.” Sinclair snapped his fingers to get Tiny’s attention. The dog jumped up, then settled down onto his haunches, tongue lolling.

  “And I passed patient around the same time. I’m working up to full-out pissed,” she responded, her gaze on the dog. “This is the last straw, Tiny. Tomorrow you’re going to Spokane for obedience training.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to find someone around here who could train him?”

  “Based on the way things have gone the past few weeks,” she said, plucking at the torn fabric of her yoga pants, “I’d say no.”

  “He tripped you?”

  “He tackled me. One minute I was jogging along, feeling pretty good about how much I’d accomplished today. The next thing I knew, a giant puppy was jumping on my back.”

  “You could have really been hurt,” he commented as he grabbed a wad of paper towel, ran it under warm water, and dabbed gravel and dirt from her knees.

  “I know, and Nehemiah is much more fragile than I am. So is the friend Tiny stayed with today. Much as I hate to do it, I’ve got to send him somewhere to get some serious training.”

  “Puppy boot camp?”

  “More like K-9 boot camp. I have a friend who works for the Spokane County Police K-9 unit. He and Tiny have met.”

  “And he offered to train the dog?”

  “Yes, but first he offered to take Tiny off my hands. He said that with the right training Tiny would be a good fit for K-9 work.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked as the dog circled the kitchen, tried to squeeze under the table, and nearly flipped it and Sinclair’s work.

  “I’m not, and neither was Josh. He’s called two or three times to see if I’ve changed my mind about keeping Tiny.”

  “Have you?”

  “No. Tiny is a good dog waiting to happen.”

  “Meaning he’s a bad puppy?”

  “He’s not bad. He’s just . . . busy.”

  “He’s crazy, Adeline. Admitting it and asking for help is the first step in recovery.”

  She laughed, dropping into a chair, her raw knees jutting out from torn fabric. “Thanks.”

  “For?”

  “Making me laugh. I was starting to feel a little sorry for myself.”

  “Because Tiny is a pain in the butt?”

  “Because I was having a pretty great day right up until he tackled me.”

  “You can still have a great day. Just leave Tiny with me while you finish your work.”

  “You seriously do not want my dog in your apartment.”

  “It’s your grandfather’s apartment. I’m just leasing the space.”

  “Exactly. You’re leasing it. Which means you’re spending money to have a nice quiet place to relax when you’re not trying to fix up the rotting corpse of your brother’s life.”

  She must have suddenly realized what she’d said, or maybe she just realized how it sounded. Her cheeks went three shades of red.

  “God! I am so sorry. That was one of the stupidest things I’ve said in a long time.”

  “Then you must not say very many stupid things,” he responded. Truth was truth, after all. He was just as quick to dish it out as anyone, and he was always willing to have it tossed at him.

  “I say plenty of stupid things. Just ask Janelle. She’ll be happy to fill you in on my verbal transgressions. Speaking of which, I’d better get Tiny home and get back to work. Opening my mouth and agreeing to make a bunch of chocolate for May’s wedding”—she shook her head, her braid flopping over her shoulder, loose strands of hair floating wildly around her face—“is at the top of the stupid-things-I’ve-said list.”

  “You put up a HELP WANTED sign.” He’d seen it posted on Chocolate Haven’s front door.

  “Do you know how many people have applied?”

  “None?” he guessed, and she smiled wryly.

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe Byron has some ideas. People he’s hired for seasonal work who’d be interested in coming back for a couple of weeks.”

  “We already thought of that, but Glenda Sherman, who we offered the job to, couldn’t take it.” She stood and stretched, the edges of her vest and T-shirt riding up to reveal pale, silky skin, and just that quickly everything changed. The impersonal discussion about business and dogs and brothers faded, and he was looking at a funny, quirky woman with wild hair and smooth skin that was just begging him to touch it.

  And, God, he wanted to. He wanted to slide his finger along that little sliver of flesh, feel the warmth of silky skin and the soft curves.

  He clenched his fist and turned away.

  “I’ve been in the contracting business for a long time,” he said, his voice still gritty with longing for a woman who belonged to a world he wanted no part of: small town, close ties, responsibility for everyone and everything in the community. “I’ve been in the same situation you’re in more times than I can count—too many jobs and not enough hands to do them.”

  “You must be anxious to get back to your home base,” she said, her hand flitting over his notebook and the photos of the old schoolhouse. “Is this one of your projects?”

  “Not yet. I’m working up a bid for it, hoping to go to contract next month.”

  “Portland, right?” She lifted a
photo, her fingers long and slim, her nails short. No polish or prettiness. None of that sweet-smelling lotion that Kendra used to keep her hands soft and smooth. “I spent summers there when I was in college, interning at an accounting firm. It’s a cool city, very pretty and lots of things to do.”

  “You didn’t want to stay?”

  “Why would I?” She looked up from the photos, her eyes that deep violet blue that made him want to look and just keep on looking.

  “Because it’s a cool city with lots of things to do?”

  She shrugged, her attention on the photos again. “Portland isn’t home.”

  “Any place can be home if you want it to be.”

  “That’s exactly it.” She replaced the photos and stood so that they were just inches apart, the crown of her head barely reaching his chin. “I don’t want to make my home anywhere else. You may think that Benevolence is too small, too quaint, too—”

  “I never said any of those things.”

  “You didn’t have to. You moved away, and you didn’t come back.”

  “Come back to what? You’ve always had a home here, Adeline. You’ve always had family and a community that loves you. I’ve always had a shack filled with junk and a reputation for being one of those Jefferson boys.”

  “Trust me,” she murmured, walking to Tiny and trying to tug him to his feet. “That is not what you have a reputation for.”

  “No?” He moved in next to her, his hands brushing hers as he grabbed the dog by its scruff. “Maybe you should tell me what I do have a reputation for, then.”

  “I’m not sure you can handle it, Sinclair.” She grunted as the dog finally lumbered up, then dropped back down again. “What with all your successes, you just might get like Randal Custard.”

  “A head so big I can’t fit through a doorway?”