It wasn’t like he didn’t care for her. She was a breath of fresh air, the most fascinating, intelligent woman he’d ever known. When he’d first met her, sitting down to Thanksgiving at the Martin’s table, she was just a topsy-turvy teenager with a whirlwind of ideas and theories. Then a few years later, in his freshman Intro to Psych class, he’d been drawn to her. But it wasn’t until he read her paper on how cultural norms influence social cognition that his intrigue grew into something more. He’d known she was brilliant—being Amos’s daughter, how could she not be? But the brave honesty and clarity of her words… Well, he rarely saw such skill even at the graduate level.
That had been back at the community college in Maine. Before he was offered a tenure-track position in the Psychology Department at NYU. He’d accepted without looking back, and certainly hadn’t given Josie Martin another thought.
Until she showed up in one of his graduate classes in New York five years later. More beautiful, and if possible, more brilliant than the last time he saw her. Only she was grieving Amos’s death hard, and though he’d lost touch with his older friend the last several years, he thought it only honorable to fill in gaps where he could.
Honorable. Yeah.
And who was he kidding about having a friendship with Amos? They were more debate partners than friends. At his lowest of times, Finn admitted how Amos probably saw him—not as a friend, but as a charity case.
Still, he couldn’t shake his admiration for the man. So incredibly open, so incredibly smart, Amos held a certain genuine pull that everyone longed to be around. Including Finn.
He groaned. What would Amos say about the mess he’d gotten his daughter into?
Finn honestly hadn’t expected the fast fall. Josie was not who he pictured himself with, not like his cast of previous girlfriends. She had depth. Heart, spirit. And she wasn’t easily swayed in seeing his view of things.
She didn’t drink and party to excess, didn’t stand for flighty, attention-grabbing friends. She’d choose time with a book over time at a bar or frat party any day. She was a virgin and they’d taken things slow. He genuinely cared for her, was beyond patient. In truth, he would have waited a lot longer than she’d made him.
Finn took a long swig of his coffee, the burn in his throat satisfying. Maybe that’s what bothered him. Maybe deep down some of those childhood convictions still leeched the life out of him. Though twenty-three and intelligent, Josie had been endearingly innocent as well. She’d trusted him, looked up to him not only as a teacher, but as her father’s colleague. And he’d used both positions to their full advantage to get what he wanted.
Not knowingly, of course. He did care for her. Loved her even. In truth, he still did.
He sat in his chair again, gazing at the lights of the Manhattan skyline twinkling so bright they obliterated the stars. The gentle fan of the AC came through the vents, cooling the apartment. He picked up his phone, hit the message icon, and pulled up Josie’s name.
Just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing, he typed. His thumb hovered over the send arrow, but before he worked up the courage, he threw the phone down in disgust. What was he thinking? Texting Josie while another woman lay in his bed? And what was he thinking reaching out to her anyway? He was free.
He’d made it quite clear he wanted no part in raising a baby. No child support. No visitation. Not that he expected her to ask. So why would he give her ideas through one simple text?
He looked at his laptop’s screensaver—an image of him skydiving the summer before in New Zealand. He closed his eyes and relived the intense rush of it all. The wind blasting his face, yet hovering like a pillow below him. The feeling of soaring, conquering the world. The sudden, satisfying snap of the chute and gentle float to the ground.
And then wanting to do it all over again.
Two years ago, he’d joined the United States Parachute Association, intending to become an instructor during his summers off. It was a worthy thing to do—help people conquer their fears, experience the world, test their limits. He’d logged one-hundred of the five-hundred required jumps last summer, and then he’d returned to school and met Josie. He’d spent his spring break with her, forgetting his desire to become an instructor—or even to jump again.
He’d lost some of himself to Josie. It was good they’d broken it off, after all. Maybe his conscious was simply crying out for a little pampering. A little time to do what he wanted to do, to remember who he was without emotional encumbrances.
He picked up the phone again, erased his message to Josie, and typed Sven’s name. Sven, a buddy and skydiving instructor who’d convinced Finn to jump in the first place.
Summer’s young and I’m looking to log some jumps. What’s your schedule look like?
He sent the text, put the phone down, and opened up his email to download his students’ papers. Taking action. That’s what he needed. Remembering what it meant to be Finn Becker. While Josie’d been a fun temporary distraction, she’d only left him a weaker, unfulfilled person. Better off to sever the ties sharp and quick. No contact.
With the help of a new goal and a few dozen jumps, by the end of the summer Josie Martin would be nothing but a faint memory.
8
The clink of dishes and swish of water mixed with Mom’s quiet humming ushered me into our home. A single light over the kitchen shone down on my mother, hands deep in the sink.
“Everyone bail for cleanup?” I scooped up a dishtowel and picked up a salad bowl from the drying rack. The dishwasher ran beside us, no doubt already full with the first round of dishes from our dinner.
A wistful smile passed over Mom’s face. “I don’t mind. I’m just grateful to have had you all here tonight.”
I wiped the inside of the bowl, careful to get every last water droplet. “It is nice to be home. I appreciate it more this year than usual.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah,” I whispered. I placed the bowl down and propped a hip against the counter, turning to my Mom. “I have kind of a crazy idea I want to run by you.”
“That mind never stops working, does it? So like your father.”
“You miss him, don’t you?”
She swallowed, placed a plate on the drying rack. “Of course I do.”
“Mom, what if I told you I thought you shouldn’t open a bookshop?”
She turned from the dishes, her mouth parted. “What?”
“I think you should open your bed and breakfast instead.”
Her forehead softened. “Oh, honey. I’m afraid that ship has sailed.”
“But it’s what you’ve wanted. And Maggie told me you guys were trying to figure out how to make it work.”
“And we came up with nothing. I’m ready to turn to a new dream.” But her tone lacked surety.
“I thought of an idea you and Maggie may have overlooked.”
“Is that so? I’m all ears, then.”
“What if we used the Orchard House for your bed and breakfast?”
She laughed. “Aunt Pris’s home? This may be your wildest idea yet, my girl.”
“No, I’m serious. She said she’s having trouble keeping up with the home. What if we moved in with her and ran a joint business?”
“We, huh?”
My face heated. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask, would it? If you could part with this house, that is.”
“It’s not a matter of parting with this house, it’s logistics. Not to mention one of those logistics being your aunt.”
“But if she agreed, what would you say?”
Her gaze caught mine, and she shook her head. “If Aunt Pris agreed to such a venture, of course I’d consider it. But my dear girl, she’d never agree. She likes her independence too much. She probably likes her home even more.”
“But if she agreed, you’d consider it?”
She closed her eyes.
“Mom, I know you’re settling with the bookshop. You should have your dream. I want to help you get it.�
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The edges of her lashes shimmered. “You have such a sweet heart, Josie, and I appreciate your intentions. I really do. But Aunt Pris would never agree and I fear it’s presumptuous to ask.”
“But if she did go for it, would you be willing to move in with her and make it work?”
“That’s a lot to consider—Bronson, Lizzie, Amie…I’d be asking a lot of them to leave this house.”
I laid my hand on her arm. “What about you, Mom? I’m not asking about anyone else. They’re not going to live here forever. This is about you. Would you be willing to move in with her and sell this house?”
She inhaled a quivering breath. “I suppose if the opportunity arose…if I had a chance to run an inn...”
I threw my arms around her. “Okay, then.”
“Josie, you’re scaring me. Your ideas are well-intentioned, but I simply cannot go to your aunt and ask her such a thing.”
I grinned. “Oh, I know you can’t. But lucky for us, I have no qualms about doing so.”
I turned into Aunt Pris’s driveway, Tripp in the passenger’s seat beside me, and pushed the gas pedal harder up the slight incline of the pavement. A massive weeping beech tree partially blocked the left side of the wraparound porch, its graceful limbs reaching out to the house as if beckoning, begging for secrets.
And there had to be secrets. In a house that old, how could there not be?
The sprawling home was built in 1791, the very year Camden was incorporated as part of Massachusetts. Aunt Pris’s four times-great grandfather, Joseph Cranshaw, was a shipbuilder from Boston who started anew in the northern wilderness after losing his young wife and son to yellow fever. He built the home in honor of his departed wife and began an apple orchard, seeking peace and a new kind of living in the planting and growing and harvesting of fruit trees. After harvest, he would sail the fruit to Boston, where it sold well enough to keep him afloat until the next year.
In 1800, he married the daughter of Captain William McGlathry. The War of 1812 pulled Joseph back into the shipbuilding industry and he worked for his father-in-law building and repairing vessels all while making his fortune.
By the time Maine became a state in 1820 through the Missouri Compromise, Joseph and May had six children, and he continued adding to the home. His second-born son eventually took over the orchard and as generations passed, both the orchard and the shipbuilding thrived. By the time Aunt Pris was a girl, though, the business of the sea had long been forgotten. The orchard, though, was another matter altogether.
Aunt Pris’s husband had taken over the orchard after they married, but by then most of the family money had been lost in the stock market crash, and her new groom had trouble keeping away from the bottle. From the little bit I’d heard, my great-aunt’s marriage had not been pleasant. No children, no joy, and little love. Still, Aunt Pris continued the running of the orchard, keeping things afloat during her marriage. After her husband passed, she ran it another twenty years herself before allowing the weeds and ivy to climb over the beautiful apple trees, as if her family’s dreams had died alongside her youth. Yet, she’d been able to support herself with the saved earnings of her hard work. Until now, it seemed, when she considered selling the orchard.
Now, as I drove up to the cleanly-landscaped house with Tripp, I studied the orchard that stretched as far as the eye could see to our right and to the back of the house. It showed off brilliant blooms despite the ragged look of the weeds and dried grass beneath. I wondered if it pained Aunt Pris to look at the overgrown mess of it all. I wondered if in some way, she felt she had let her family down, too.
Maybe Aunt Pris and I really did have a lot in common.
“I never understood how one woman could live alone in such a huge place.” Tripp surveyed the sprawling home.
I parked my car in front of the brown barn, the place where the apples used to be cleaned and packed. “Hopefully she’s ready for some company.”
Tripp opened the door of my Honda on a sigh. “I really can’t believe I let you talk me into this.”
“I really can’t believe you didn’t let me drive your truck. I would have felt so much more respectable driving up in a Colton Contractors F-150 than this beat-up old thing.”
“Uh-uh. There’s no way you’re turning this all on me. Last time I let you drive my truck I ended up with a V-shaped bumper. Besides, I like your little sedan.” He wiggled his nose at me in a tease. “It’s homey.”
I bit back a smile and opened my door. I couldn’t argue. Tripp coming to see Aunt Pris with me meant more than a few rides in his truck. Despite my show of bravado in front of Mom, I didn’t know if I’d have the guts to approach Aunt Pris with my proposition without him by my side.
We walked beneath the side veranda and up the stairs to the door. I pressed the doorbell, sending Cragen yapping from within. “Oh good, he’s chipper as ever,” I muttered.
“Come in!” Aunt Pris’s voice came from behind the screen door and I opened it, the scents of lavender and old books a pleasure to my senses. A grand winding staircase leading up to the bedrooms served as the focal point of the entryway. A long dining table and fireplace in the room beyond gave way to generous windows. I imagined the table Mom could lay out for guests in such a beautiful environment, but quickly reined in my thoughts. No use getting ahead of myself.
“Who’s there?”
I followed Aunt Pris’s voice to the sitting area, where she sat on her Queen Anne sofa with all the poise of Queen Anne herself. Cragen perched on her lap, his nose twitching in the air, his growls low as I entered the room.
“It’s just me, Aunt Pris.” I stopped short at the sight of quilting club member Esther Glendale in the seat beside Aunt Pris, a cup of tea in her hands. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you had company. We can come back another time.”
Esther waved a weathered brown hand through the air. “Young lady, I’m practically a fixture in this house. Company!” She laughed a bubbly sound that filled the room. “And I see you brought me some eye candy, so don’t be bashful now you two.”
Ever gracious, Tripp leaned over to give first Aunt Pris, then Esther, a kiss on the cheek, his face reddening. “It’s good to see you both as well.”
Aunt Pris stroked Cragen’s wiry fur. “And for what do I owe this pleasure? And so soon after seeing you at dinner last night?”
My gaze skittered from Aunt Pris to Esther, and my heart beat wild within my chest. I should have known my great-aunt wouldn’t be one for small talk. What was I thinking, coming into her home and asking that she hand it over to my family? None of it made sense. I’d heard that women who are pregnant shouldn’t make any major life decisions, that pregnancy hormones affected their ability to think. Perhaps I was living proof. And why hadn’t Tripp stopped me? Couldn’t he see the hole I was about to dig for myself?
“We’ll come back another time, really, Aunt Pris. I had a rather weighty matter to discuss with you, and I don’t want to bore Esther with the details.”
Esther slapped the arm of her chair with her hand. “Sugar, I’d love to be bored with details. Sure beats sitting around here, talking about the benefits of flushable wipes.”
I laughed, Esther being one of the few quilting members I genuinely adored.
Aunt Pris rolled her eyes. “Esther is my oldest friend, Josephine. Whatever you can say in front of me, you can say in front of her.”
I swallowed, nodded, and lowered myself onto the nearest upholstered chair, its frame draped in a quilt with pale blue stars. More than likely, Esther would forget our conversation by nightfall. She suffered from a severe case of Sundowners Syndrome and probably only had another hour or two left before she started swiping Aunt Pris’s silverware and asking for her mother. Surely, her daughter would come and get her before that happened.
Proud founding members of the Camden Quilting Club, Esther and Aunt Pris grew up together right on the orchard—Esther as the daughter of a couple that worked the orchards, and Au
nt Pris as the owner’s daughter. I considered it one of Aunt Pris’s admirable qualities that I never saw her treat Esther as anything but an equal, despite growing up being waited on by not only Esther and her family, but by many other people of color.
For every bone of rigid seriousness within Aunt Pris’s body, there was a fun-loving and creative one in Esther’s. Their friendship—though filled with too much gossip and crazy quilts for my liking—proved resilient over the years. Maybe even beautiful.
“Mr. Colton, please sit.” Aunt Pris gestured to the chair beside mine. She lifted the teapot and poured a cup, handed it to him along with a saucer. Though not one for tea, he didn’t refuse.
I accepted my own cup from Aunt Pris’s well-stocked tea table.
“Well, girl? What’s this matter of weight you wish to discuss?”
I shifted in my seat. No turning back now. “I was thinking about what you said last night. You know, selling the orchard so you could have cash on hand for help around here?”
Esther made a sound of part approval, part pity, which urged me onward despite the slight shaking of my teacup and the dribbling of liquid onto its saucer.
“I wondered if there was a way we could work together—you and my family—in some sort of mutually beneficial agreement.”
“Please, girl, don’t mince words. And if you came here wanting something, you best convince me that degree of yours is worth the pretty penny I’m paying for it.”
Her words almost sent me out the door. Only the thought of Mom’s scrapbook, packed away for eternity, dead and buried in the attic, kept me from leaving.
I glanced at Tripp, and he nodded.
I opened my mouth, pushed my words into the air. “Well, it’s always been Mom’s dream to own a bed and breakfast. Only she doesn’t have—”
“A bookstore, you mean, don’t you?”
I shook my head. “Dad wanted a bookstore. Mom wanted a B&B.”
“A B and what?”
Esther tapped Aunt Pris’s arm. “A bed and breakfast, Pris. You know, the quaint little inns they have all over the place around here? Guests stay over, have breakfast, then leave?”
Where Grace Appears Page 7
