by Donna Fasano
Sara: Cathy, you don’t trust ANY man.
Cathy: Oh, I don’t know. Landon’s pretty cool.
Sara: You’re just saying that because he installed a water shut off valve in the café.
Cathy: *grin* Like I said, he’s pretty cool.
Heather: Hey, speaking of Landon… Did you tell him? Did you pee on that stick? Can you tell us yet?
Cathy: Put us out of our misery already. Are we going to be aunties?
Heather: What did Landon say?
Sara: Intended to tell you both face to face tomorrow, but since you asked…
Sara: Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And Landon is ecstatic!
Heather: OMG
Cathy: *speechless*
Sara: Well, that’s a first for you. Somebody make a note!
Heather: Congrats. So happy for you, sweetie. Can’t wait to shop for the baby!
Sara: He wants to get married. Squeee!
Cathy: Whoa. I’m happy about the baby. But being preggo is no reason to get shackled.
Sara: Cathy. Shut up. I love the man.
Cathy: Whatever.
Chapter Six
At breakfast the following morning, Heather stood in the doorway of the dining room, studying Daniel as she inadvertently worried a striped tea towel between her fingers. He sat at the table, hunched over a yellow legal pad filled with penciled notes. Every once in a while he would check off an item or add a another thought to the long list.
She hated to bother him, but it was nearly ten o’clock and he’d been sitting there for over an hour. When she’d placed the food on the sideboard, he hadn’t looked up, hadn’t made a move to fill his plate. He hadn’t even noticed when she’d refreshed his cup of coffee.
There had been mornings in the past when work had engulfed him to the point that he hadn’t eaten until the food had gone stone cold. She’d made buttermilk pancakes, sausage patties, and fresh cinnamon-laced applesauce this morning. Pancakes were always best eaten while they were still hot and moist and fluffy, dripping with melted butter and maple syrup. And if those little sausage patties were allowed to grow cold, they’d turn into miniature hockey pucks. Yes, the hot food was sitting on an electric warming tray, but every cook worth her while knew it would dry out eventually despite the most valiant efforts.
Heather resisted the urge to pace. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. It wasn’t as if her guests couldn’t skip breakfast if they chose to do so. He was a grown man. If he wanted to work rather than eat that’s exactly what he should do. But when he did eventually eat, and surely he would, wouldn’t the stale pancakes and hard sausage rounds be a reflection on her?
Tucking the towel into the waistband of her apron, she had every intention of going into the kitchen and leaving him to work in peace. But she took one step and then another, not toward the kitchen, but toward the sideboard.
She served up three pancakes, slathered them with butter, drizzled them with syrup, and then placed three patties of sausage on the plate. She practically tip-toed across the floor, and then she set the food near the spot where his forearm rested on the corner of the tabletop. Just as she turned, his fingers lightly encircled her wrist, stopping her forward motion.
“Thank you, Heather,” he said.
His tone was warm and low, and it sent shivers up her spine.
She turned and looked into his face, smiling. “You’re welcome.”
“I love pancakes.”
“I know you do,” she told him. “I’ve noticed that you eat a little more breakfast when I serve pancakes.”
His thumb roved lazily across the back of her hand, making her feel all breathless and raising a stark vision in her mind of how utterly incredible it felt when he’d touched her cheek, her neck, her shoulder, kissed her mouth last night.
“I’m sorry that I’m preoccupied this morning.” His coal black gaze darted to the pad of paper and then back up to her face. “A scene came to me this morning and I really must get it down before I lose something.”
“That’s all right. I completely understand.” Heather reached out and slid the plate an inch closer to him. “But could you eat while you work? I’ll worry all day, otherwise. I really don’t like it when you skip breakfast, because very often I can hear you tapping on your keyboard right through lunch. That can’t be healthy.”
The corners of his mouth turned up, and for a second or two, she couldn’t take her attention off his face. With those big, dark eyes, that thick wavy hair, and those sharp cheekbones, he would make gorgeous babies.
The unexpected thought made Heather’s eyes go wide and her smile slipped. Why would she think such a thing?
Ah, yes. Of course. It was Sara’s news from last night that induced the baby-making thought. Heather let her eyelids slide closed for a moment as she took a deep, collective breath.
“I will eat.”
She looked at him when he spoke and smiled at the humor etched around his mouth.
“And I thank you for worrying about me.”
Heather blinked. “W-well, I worry about all my guests.”
Her momentary stammer caused his expression to shift just the slightest bit; his facial muscles softened with a… knowing. And as they stared into each other’s eyes, she felt as if he perceived her every thought, recognized that her concern for him had grown overnight into something important, something much more profound than it had been only days before.
Softly, he said, “I know you do.”
The breath in her throat caught and held, and when his gaze latched onto her mouth, her pulse went haywire. The very molecules of air seemed to swell until they were engorged with—
Her phone trilled, alerting her to a text message, and she felt as if a magician had snapped his fingers and awakened her from a heavy trance. After offering him a self-conscious smile, she stepped away, and slipped her hand into her pocket to retrieve her cell phone.
She chuckled lightly at Sara’s text, grateful to have escaped the sultry longing that had charged the small space between her and Daniel.
“Sara’s baked a new cookie recipe,” she told him. “She wants Cathy and me to meet her in the foyer for a sample. Want to take a break? Her cookies are always delicious.”
“I appreciate the offer, but I really do need to get to work.” He slid his chair out and picked up his legal pad. “I have to get this into the computer. Before I forget something.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “It’s okay. But you will eat, won’t you?”
His eyes crinkled and he reached out and gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I will. I promise. I’ll take the plate up with me.”
The loud knock on the front door caused Heather to frown as she swiveled her head toward the sound.
“Hmmm. I wonder who that could be. Cathy and Sara never knock.” She turned back to him and waved her hands as if to shoo him upstairs. “Go on. Get to work. I’ll see that you’re not disturbed.”
She hurried through the dining room and into the foyer to open the door.
The young woman standing on the porch looked to be in her late twenties. Her blonde hair was pulled up into one of those floppy, messy buns that was the going style these days, and her blue eyes flashed as brightly as her smile.
“Hi,” she said. “Are you the owner?”
Heather nodded, but before she could say anything, the girl continued to talk.
“I was walking out front and saw this beautiful building. I’d love to do a story on your B&B. The Lonely Loon. I love that name. I’d love to hear the history of the building, how you got started, local attractions and restaurants, and what not.” Her smile widened. “And you, too, of course. I’d certainly include you in the story.”
The blonde’s enthusiasm and her soft, southern twang made Heather smile. “A story for what? A magazine? A newspaper?” She lifted both hands, palms up.
“Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Sandra Douglas.” She fumbled around in her enormous leather purse and pulled out a business card.
“I work for Atlantic Coastal magazine.”
“Atlantic Coastal? But you’re based in Georgia, right?” Heather liked the idea of the story. It would give her a little publicity. “Aren’t you a little far north?”
The questions made the journalist’s eyes widen slightly. “W-well, you are on the Atlantic coast.”
Heather chuckled. “You’re right about that.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sandra shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “I don’t normally make cold calls like this. But I just… happened to pass by.”
A curious awkwardness swiftly filled the next second or two of silence, a telling sign to Heather that Sandra was out of her element. She reached out her hand and smiled in an attempt to ease the young woman’s anxiety.
“I’m Heather Phillips. I own The Loon and I’d love to see my B&B in Atlantic Coastal. That would be wonderful.”
Sandra’s body visibly relaxed. “That’s great. My boss will be pleased.” Her gaze darted beyond Heather into the inner confines of the house. “Could I come in and look around?”
“Actually, you can’t,” Heather told her. “Today’s not a good day for you to take a tour. I have a guest who needs the house to be quiet. He’s working and I don’t want to disturb him. Won’t you need a photographer, anyway?”
“Oh, yeah.” Her brow furrowed. “I do have a camera, but I left it in my hotel room.” She let out a short bark of laughter. “Silly of me, huh? As I said, I was just passing by.”
“How about this idea,” Heather said. “We can go downstairs to the café and I’ll answer any questions you have. Then this evening or tomorrow, when we’ve figured out a time that will work, you can come back to look around The Loon and take your pictures.”
The young woman took a small step backwards. “Well, I-I, um, really don’t have time right now. But, um, could you meet me for coffee? Tomorrow? Mid-morning? At the Starbucks in West Ocean City? I’m staying in a hotel over there.”
Heather unwittingly lifted her hand, resting it on her hip. The reporter’s sudden withdrawal took her aback. One minute she wanted a tour, the next minute she didn’t have time to ask her questions. Heather tried to go with the flow, doing her best to hide her bewilderment.
“Sure, um…” She nodded vaguely. “I can do that.”
“That’s great. Thank you.” Sandra smiled as she hitched her purse up onto her shoulder again. “I’ll see you around ten in the morning, then?”
“That sounds perfect. I’ll be there.” Heather hoped her smile was wide enough to defeat the frown that kept trying to force itself onto her brow.
Just seconds later, Sandra had descended the front stairs and was hurrying along the boardwalk.
While Heather was still standing at the door, Sara came up the steps, a plate balanced in one hand. And then Cathy followed close on her heels.
“What’s up?” Sara asked. “You look like you’ve seen a bona fide merman.”
“Yeah, you look flummoxed,” Cathy added.
Sara looked askance at Cathy, laughing. “Flummoxed?”
“Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day.” Cathy grinned. “I’m a subscriber.” Then Cathy asked Heather, “What’s the matter with you?”
Heather offered a vague shrug and pointed toward the reporter who was half a block away. “That young woman wanted to do a story on The Lonely Loon, but…”
Sara and Cathy both turned to see who she was talking about.
“Hey,” Cathy said, “she was just in The Grill. Had a coffee. Said she wanted to book a room. I told her there were no rooms available.”
Cathy and Sara were both aware that Daniel had booked the B&B for the winter. They knew about his quest to finish his novel.
Cathy swiveled her gaze back to Heather. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of having to break the bad news to her.” She reached up and pinched her chin. “Now that I think about it, when she learned there were no vacancies, she seemed a bit discombobulated.”
Sara’s mouth quirked up. “You’re loving that Word of the Day thing, huh?”
Cathy ignored her. “She didn’t say anything about doing a story, though.”
“That is really strange.” Heather’s tone went soft. “She told me she was staying in a hotel in West Ocean City.” She swiped her hands together then brushed her palms down the thighs of her trousers. “Oh, well. I’m meeting her tomorrow morning. I’m sure I’ll find out what’s going on there.”
She smiled at Sara, then looked at the plate of cookies. “So what do we have here?”
Sara beamed with pride. “These are Vegan Oatmeal Raisin Cookies.”
“Vegan?” Cathy’s fingers had been a mere inch from the plate, but then she pulled her hand back to her chest. “Doesn’t that mean—”
“No butter, no eggs, no animal products,” Sara finished for her. Then she chuckled at Cathy’s expression. “Oh, come on. Keep an open mind.”
Heather picked up a cookie and sniffed it, the rich scent of cinnamon making her mouth water.
“I had two different customers request a vegan cookie to give as gifts this past Christmas,” Sara told them. “I had nothing to offer them. So I’ve been experimenting.”
Heather took a bite, and she was surprised by how flavorful the cookie tasted. “It’s light. And moist. Love the cinnamon.” She chewed. “The raisins offer a nice sweetness, but the cookie itself isn’t overly sweet. Nice oat flavor.” She savored the goodness in her mouth and then swallowed, tipping her head just a bit. “Is that walnuts I taste in there?”
Sara’s smile was back. “Yes. I toasted them for this batch, and then ground them up in the food processor. Good?”
“They’re delicious,” Cathy exclaimed, reaching for another and taking a big bite. “I always imagined vegan recipes tasting like cardboard.”
“Well, then,” Sara quipped, “I’m so glad you’re wrong. Again.”
Cathy screwed up her face in response.
“Who wants a cup of tea?” Heather took a small, backward step toward the front door. “Water’s already hot. I just need to pass out teabags and pour.”
“But isn’t the bestseller writing?” Cathy asked.
Heather turned and waved them inside. “He is, but we’ll be okay if we stay in the kitchen.”
“And we whisper,” Sara teased, following Heather.
“And tiptoe across these wood floors.” Cathy’s loud whisper made Sara snicker and Cathy quickly joined in.
Heather only offered them a long-suffering sigh. They might try to annoy the hell out of her far too often, but she wouldn’t trade them, not even for a truckload of gold bars.
* * *
Heather pushed her way into the Starbucks, not surprised that there was a line at the counter. As she stood waiting for her turn to order, she saw Sandra sitting at a nearby table near the front window, her focus on her open laptop.
The chilly January day called for the rich, warm spiciness of a chai latte, and once Heather had the drink in hand, she weaved around the tables and chairs as she made her way over to the reporter.
“Hey, there, Sandra,” she greeted. “How are you today?”
The young woman smiled, but Heather could tell there was edginess about her.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m good. How about you?”
“I’m great.” Heather slid out a chair and sat down. “Before you start asking me any questions, I need to be upfront with you about a few things. I called the magazine this morning.”
Sandra looked surprised.
“The woman I spoke with told me you do work for the Atlantic Coastal.”
The cell phone that sat on the table began to vibrate, but Sandra didn’t reach for it.
“But she seemed unaware of any Ocean City assignment,” Heather continued.
Sandra sat up straighter, then opened her mouth to speak, but Heather cut her off.
“I also want you to know that my friend owns The Sunshine Grill downstairs from The Loon.” She laced her fingers around
the cup of warm chai. “She told me that you had asked her if there any vacancies at my B&B, and that she told you—”
“I never said I was on assignment,” Sandra blurted. “I told you I was walking by. It was a whim, really. I thought your B&B would make a nice story. But if you’d rather not be in the magazine, if you’d rather not get all that great coverage, that’s fine by me.”
She ended her huff by slamming shut her laptop.
Heather wasn’t the least bit ruffled. And she didn’t fail to notice that the woman seemed to find it impossible to meet her gaze.
“I learned one other thing from making the call,” Heather said. “You’re not a writer, Sandra. You’re an editor. Of advertising copy.”
At that moment, Sandra’s cell phone began to vibrate again. She picked it up, glanced at the caller ID, turned off the ringer, and set it aside.
“Well, that was kind of her,” she muttered. “I’m not actually an editor. I’m a proofer. I stare at advertisements all day long, looking for typos.” She finally lifted deadpan eyes to meet Heather’s as she added, “It’s such a glamorous job, let me tell you.”
Heather set her cup down on the tabletop. “I have to say, you’re not very good at subterfuge. And you don’t think all that fast on your feet. The way you balked after I suggested we go downstairs to The Grill to talk. Your behavior set my suspicions tingling. And it wasn’t very smart to tell Cathy one thing and tell me another.”
Sandra rolled her eyes. “How could I know you two knew each other?”
“We work in the same building,” Heather gently pointed out.
It wasn’t Heather’s aim to embarrass the girl; she just wanted to cut through the lies to get to the truth as quickly as possible.
“Listen, hon.” Heather leaned forward. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about?”
She smiled, but she had to admit, after speaking with the woman at Atlantic Coastal this morning, she’d felt completely stumped. Why in the world would this girl approach her like she had? Why would she lie?
“I’m tired of proofing,” Sandra finally said. “And I don’t want to be an editor. I want to be a writer. And paying writing gigs are few and far between in this business. Newspapers are shutting down. Everyone is going digital. It’s… it’s hard.”
