The Home They Built

by Shannon Stacey

  Then she heard the creak of wicker as he leaned back in the rocker and a male sigh of contentment that made her toes curl in her tennis shoes.

  Daring to turn her head, she watched him rocking slowly, his mouth curled into a small smile as he looked out over the bay.

  The shiver of desire made her turn her gaze back to the water in a hurry. “It’s so peaceful out here.”

  “Most of the time,” he said softly. “My family can be loud at times, but I guess you’ll find that out yourself. I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s all love. But it gets loud, and my mom and Gram can push each other’s buttons like nobody’s business.”

  “It sounds like you’re trying to warn me, but I have to confess that a loving but loud family doing a renovation together makes for great television.” She leaned her head back and rocked her chair in time with his. “The fun really starts tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait,” he replied without an ounce of sincerity in his voice.

  Chuckling softly, she watched the rain fall and tried to convince that panicky voice inside her head that, no, she had not gotten herself in over her head here.

  She was almost sure of it.

  Dear Reader,

  Welcome back to Blackberry Bay, New Hampshire!

  If there’s one thing we have a lot of in New England, it’s old, historical houses with a lot of character, and in The Home They Built, I got to write about two women who love old houses as much as I do. Tess Weaver is struggling to maintain her home, and brings Anna Beckett and her show, Relic Rehab, to town to help her remodel it. Anna has made saving historical properties into her livelihood, but she’s never met a woman like Tess. And she’s never met a man like Tess’s grandson, Finn Weaver. He makes it hard to concentrate not only on her job, but on the real reason she’s in town.

  You can find out what I’m up to and keep up with book news on my website, www.shannonstacey.com, where you’ll find the latest information, as well as a link to sign up for my newsletter. And you can also reach me by emailing shannon@shannonstacey.com or look me up on Facebook at Facebook.com/shannonstacey.authorpage.

  I hope you enjoy Anna and Finn’s story, and your visit to Blackberry Bay.

  Happy reading!

  Shannon

  The Home They Built

  Shannon Stacey

  A New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of over forty romances, Shannon Stacey grew up military and lived many places before landing in a small New Hampshire town where she has resided with her husband and two sons for over twenty years. Her favorite activities are reading and writing with her dogs at her side. She also loves coffee, Boston sports and watching too much TV. You can learn more about her books at www.shannonstacey.com.

  Books by Shannon Stacey

  Harlequin Special Edition

  Blackberry Bay

  More than Neighbors

  Their Christmas Baby Contract

  Carina Press

  Boston Fire

  Heat Exchange

  Controlled Burn

  Fully Ignited

  Hot Response

  Under Control

  Flare Up

  The Kowalski Series

  Exclusively Yours

  Undeniably Yours

  Yours to Keep

  All He Ever Needed

  All He Ever Desired

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  For my husband, for being my port in the storm that was a very challenging year. I’m always thankful I get to go through this life with you.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from Operation K-9 Brothers by Sandra Owens

  Excerpt from The Cowgirl’s Surprise Match by Nina Crespo

  Chapter One

  “You are not even going to believe what your grandmother did now.”

  Finn Weaver wasn’t sure how many conversations with his parents had begun with those words, but he’d put his money on at least half of them. “It can’t be that bad, Mom. On a scale of going to the market in her pajamas to the time she got a pet goat and tried to train it to live in the house, how bad is it?”

  His mother sighed, and it sounded loud even over the phone. “If she bought an entire herd of goats and knit them matching sweater vests—no, if she stole the goats matching sweater vests from the ski shop—it still wouldn’t be as bad as what she’s done now.”

  “Hold on. Let me sit down.” Finn walked across his office and sat in his plush leather executive chair, spinning it to look out over the view of the Piscataqua River.

  “I don’t think sitting down is going to help,” she said.

  “Does she need bail money?”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  That didn’t sound good. “What’s worse than Gram being arrested?”

  “Well, let’s start with the fact she expects you to come home for a few weeks to aid and abet her.”

  “You mean that figuratively, right?” When it came to Gram, he could never be sure.

  “Literally,” his mother snapped. “We all get to take part in defrauding a popular television show in a way that’s definitely wrong and probably criminal.”

  That didn’t make any sense. While Gram’s shenanigans could be legendary, neither of his parents had ever even had a speeding ticket. They didn’t do shenanigans. “We’re not taking part in that. I’ll call her and talk her out of whatever it is she’s up to.”

  “She already signed the contract.”

  Groaning, Finn leaned forward so he could rest his forehead on his hand. He should probably take some preemptory ibuprofen because this was going to be one hell of a headache. “I feel like defrauding and criminal are the words I should be focusing on, but, to be honest, I’m a little hung up on the expectation I can just drop everything and hang out in Blackberry Bay for a few weeks.”

  “It gets better.” His mom paused, as if waiting for his reaction, but he couldn’t manage more than a weary sigh. “She needs you here by ten tomorrow morning.”

  Gram had a bad habit of waiting until the last second to drop bombs because it didn’t give a person time to get out of the way. And no matter how often her loved ones complained, she didn’t change her strategy, because it was effective.

  He looked up, his gaze fixed not on the river this time, but on his own faint reflection in the window. He looked like a grown man. Dark hair kept neatly trimmed. His suit coat hung by the door and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, but he was still wearing the boring maroon tie. It was the reflection of a professional adult who had a business to run.

  But it didn’t show the grandson on the inside who had a soft spot for the woman who kept their lives in a constant state of low-level disarray, with occasional spikes of straight-up chaos. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Gram, but this...

  “I know,” his mom said softly, even though he hadn’t said anything yet. “But your father and I think she could really get in trouble this time, and unless you can find a loophole
in the legal crap your father couldn’t, we might have to go along with this scheme she’s concocted.”

  “What exactly are—” He paused. “No, don’t tell me. I have a feeling the more I know, the less I’m going to want to show up for it. I’ll be at Gram’s by ten tomorrow, but I’m not making any promises about staying.”

  “Thank you, Finn. And Gram said you should bring some old jeans, too. And work boots.”

  “What?” But his mother, smart woman that she was, had already disconnected.

  He dropped his cell phone on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Unbelievable.”

  “A few weeks? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  The screen between the two desks didn’t offer much in the way of privacy. It existed more to keep him and Tom Brisbin, his business partner, from throwing balled-up paper or shooting rubber bands at each other during working hours.

  “It’s about Gram,” Finn replied. Tom had known his family long enough so he didn’t feel a need to say more.

  “It always is.” A low chuckle filtered through the screen. “I love that woman.”

  So did Finn, which was the only reason he rolled into Blackberry Bay at ten minutes before ten the following morning. The quaint little town nestled around a bay off Lake Winnipesauke attracted tourists year-round, thanks to their proximity to a popular ski area as well as the water, but summer was their booming season and he had to roll the big Harley-Davidson to a stop at what felt like every crosswalk in town.

  He had clothing and toiletry staples in one of the big side bags and what amounted to a mobile office in the other, because he hadn’t wanted to pack up his truck and give his family the impression he was on board with an extended stay. After going over the calendar, he and Tom had marked the meetings Finn couldn’t miss, but there was no reason he had to be in the office otherwise. The day-to-day of their financial management company could be run from practically anywhere, but he didn’t want anybody to know that. Especially Gram.

  Because three road construction zones in twenty miles had slowed him down, Finn went straight through the intersection with the right turn that would lead to his parents’ house, figuring they’d already left, and followed the bay for another mile and a half, until he came to the winding driveway leading up to his grandmother’s house.

  Finn’s grandfather—may he rest in peace—had been one for maintaining appearances, and the outside of the massive Victorian on the hill, overlooking Blackberry Bay, was in pretty good shape, though it was starting to show some wear and tear. The clapboard siding—some original and some not—was painted a muted salmon color and the door and many windows were trimmed in a cream color. It caught the eye without being garish. Blackberry Bay didn’t do garish.

  The two-car garage that had been built to replace a torn-down barn, as well as an original shed that was almost as big as the garage, were painted to match, and if there was one thing Gram could do well, it was tend gardens. From the road, her home was the picture of historical grace and elegance.

  Inside, it looked like the seventies and eighties were having an everything-must-go rummage sale.

  Or it usually did, anyway. He’d had a busy month at work, so his visits to town had been quick ones, and after visiting his parents, he’d made time for a glass of lemonade with Gram on her front porch. But sometime between his last time inside and today, a whole lot of stuff had been removed and somehow he doubted she’d randomly decided to do a mass decluttering.

  “We’re in here,” his mother called when he gave the front door the extra little shove it needed in order to latch properly behind him.

  As if they were ever anywhere but in the kitchen. His footsteps were loud in the foyer as he walked past the doors to the living room and the sitting room—and damn if anybody had ever been able to tell him the difference between the two, other than one having a television and the other having the most uncomfortable wingback chairs he’d ever sat in—to the kitchen.

  His parents were seated at the butcher-block table several generations of Weavers had taken their meals around. They were dressed in their usual jeans and T-shirts, though his mom had a lightweight cardigan over hers. They both had short dark hair liberally sprinkled with gray and gave him matching tired smiles.

  Gram hopped down from the barstool she’d been sitting on in front of the counter, since the kitchen didn’t have a center island. Her gray hair was long and loose around her face, and her white tank top, peach capris and white tennis shoes made him smile as she opened her arms for a hug. Gram refused to age gracefully by seemingly refusing to age at all, thank goodness.

  “You made it!” She looked at the clock on the wall and then pinched his arm just hard enough to make him wince. “Barely.”

  “Hey, barely counts. And of course I made it.” He pulled out a seat at the foot of the table and sat. Gram followed suit, sitting across the table from his parents. “So I’m here. Somebody tell me what’s going on.”

  “I have good news!” Gram clapped her hands together one time while his father groaned. “Do you know that show, Relic Rehab?”

  “Nope.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “You really should watch more TV, you know. Anyway, they remodel historical homes with businesses in them and they’re coming here to remodel the Bayview Inn!”

  “Okay.” Finn looked from Gram’s excited expression to his parents—his mother rolling her eyes and his father shaking his head—and back to Gram. “What’s the Bayview Inn?”

  “This is.” Gram waved her hand in a gesture that encompassed the kitchen before leaning closer. “I’ve decided I can only afford to keep this place up if I let rich flatlanders—I mean tourists—pay to sleep here, but it needs some updating to be an inn, so I applied to the show and told them it already was. And I got picked!”

  “This house has never been an inn and everybody in Blackberry Bay knows it. Everybody in this town knows everything.”

  “I know stuff, too, kiddo. I’ve lived here my whole life and I know where all the bodies are buried, so you can bet your sweet bippy everybody’s going to stick to the script.”

  Finn groaned and scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Please tell me you’re not blackmailing the neighbors.”

  “The neighbors? Honey, I’m blackmailing the entire town.” She nodded. “The ladies at town hall were going to be a problem, but Jill’s mother told Carolina before she passed that Jill got her job because she worked late with one town selectman in particular, if you know what I mean, and his wife’s meaner than a badger.”

  “Gram.”

  “You sound exactly like your father when you say that.” She chuckled. “Except he says ‘Mom,’ of course. But he makes that same face.”

  “Mom,” his dad said, his voice a groan.

  “See?” Gram pointed her finger between the two of them. “Just like that.”

  “I love you Gram, but this is...” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Tell her, Dad.”

  “Trust me, I already have. Several times.”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life trying to scrape up the money to pay taxes on this beast,” Gram said, “but I don’t want to sell it, either. I don’t really have any marketable skills to speak of, but I can do hospitality.”

  Finn recoiled so hard the old wooden chair creaked under his shifting weight. “You? Hospitable? You chased the plumber out of the house with a broom.”

  “I wasn’t chasing him with the broom. I was trying to hand it to him so he could sweep up the crap he tracked in on his damn boots.”

  “Mom asked why you had Christmas decorations up the first week of November and you threw her out of the house.”

  “I like Christmas. And who cares about November? Why do we have to reserve an entire month because we eat turkey on a Thursday?”

  “So I guess Thanksgiving dinner isn’t a tradition you’ll be honor
ing at the Bayview Inn?”

  “Damn. Do people stay at inns for Thanksgiving? They can go eat with whoever they’re in town to visit, I guess.”

  “Gram.” He set the lemonade down. “Remember when Mom’s parents came to town when Dad proposed to her and you made them stay in a hotel even though you have all these rooms?”

  “I remember that, but you don’t, since you weren’t born yet.”

  “Even if I have to limit examples of your hospitality to those I actually remember, I can still do this all day.”

  Gram gave him a that’s-enough-out-of-you look and sat back in her chair with her arms folded. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I signed the contract, dealt the cards and now everybody has to play the hands I gave them.”

  “What exactly is it I’m supposed to be doing?”

  “You’re the inn’s handyman.”

  He laughed until Miss Hospitality picked up the candle jar in the center of the table and cocked her arm back as if she was going to chuck it at him. “You can’t be serious, Gram. Remember when I took shop in high school and the teacher made me switch to home ec because his nerves couldn’t handle me being around power tools?”

  “Such a proud day for me,” his father said in a droll tone.

  “Hey, at least I learned how to cook.”

  “You barely passed that class,” his mom pointed out.

  His family was so much fun. Really. Finn couldn’t imagine why he’d chosen to live an hour away. “At least, unlike in shop class, I couldn’t hurt anybody.”

  His dad groaned. “I don’t know. That quiche—”

  “You’re getting off topic,” Gram snapped. “I don’t need you to cook. I don’t even need you to be particularly handy. I just need you to look like you are.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Wear some old jeans and run around with no shirt on. Maybe we should smear some baby oil so you look all hot and sweaty.”

  “Gram!” He was not letting his grandmother smear him with baby oil. And he never wanted to hear her refer to him as hot and sweaty ever again.