by Cathryn Fox
“Are you a student?” I ask, even though she made it clear she didn’t want to talk about it.
“Something like that.”
At that non-answer, I say, “I should get to bed. Six o’clock comes early.”
Another gust of wind washes over the house and she hugs herself. “I think Frank’s knees might be onto something. It sounds like there’s a storm coming.”
I pull open the curtain and from our perch on the hill, we have a view of the ocean. It’s dark, but if I listen carefully, I can hear the surf, the waves crashing against the docks.
“Will it be safe to be on the boats tomorrow?”
Her concern for my men does something weird to me. “Hard to keep a good lobster fisherman down,” I say. “But our company has strict criteria, if it’s too dangerous, the boats don’t go out.”
“That’s obviously changed since I was a child.”
Her soft smile draws me in and before I realize what I’m doing, I take a step toward her. “Have you ever thought about buying the place yourself.”
She gives a laugh that comes out sounding like a snort. “Even if I could afford a down payment, I don’t belong here, Nate. My life is on the other side of the country.”
“Okay,” I say, totally understanding where she’s coming from. I don’t belong here, either. I set my tea down, stretch my arms over my head and her eyes drop, move over my bare chest. She takes a small breath, almost too quiet for me to hear, and I rub the back of my neck, wanting to stand here with her longer, continue the conversation—or maybe take her to my bed. I dip my head, and run my tongue over my bottom lip, dying for a taste of her. I swallow against a dry throat that scratches like I haven’t had a drink in ages. The log in the fire cracks, snaps some sense back into me, and breaks the trance between us. “I uh, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Night,” she says quietly, breathlessly.
I turn, take the stairs two at a time, and flop on my bed. I leave my door cracked, in case Kira needs me to collect her mouse trap, or anything else she might need. Like a hot tumble between my sheets. Warmth from the fire downstairs rushes up, and I roll, trying not to think about how close I was to kissing her. Christ, what would she have done? Introduce my balls to my gut with her foot?
Or would she have kissed me back?
Groaning, I roll, tug the blankets to my chin, and the next thing I know, my alarm goes off and the smell of bacon reaches my nostrils. I stretch out and glance out the window to find a light dusting of snow on the ground, but the winds are still high, the top branches of the trees batting against the side of the house.
I dress and step into the hall. The doors around me all open, save for Izzy, she does not like mornings and prefers it if we’re all out of her way by the time she crawls from her sheets. But this morning, her door cracks open.
Her focus shifts from me, to Sam, to Jason and then to Cody. “If we’re all here, who’s making the racket downstairs?” The clanging of a pan hitting the floor reaches my ears.
“That’s been going on for about half an hour,” she says.
I must have been in a deep sleep. “My guess is Kira is cooking breakfast.”
“Right,” she says, obviously forgetting about our newest family member in her half-coma state.
“Shit,” Jason says. “Where’s the fire extinguisher?”
Everyone chuckles, but I say, “She’s a smart girl. Give her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Cody says.
We all take a quick turn in the bathroom, and head down the stairs in single file, which reminds me of my elementary school fire drills. I just hope that’s not the case this time. We pile into the kitchen and Kira’s tired eyes light when she sees us. Did she get any sleep last night?
“Good morning,” she says, a little too chipper for this motley crew. She gets a few grumbled responses and Izzy goes straight for the coffee.
“You’ve all been so nice to me, I thought I’d do something for you in return.”
“Not burning the kitchen down is nice,” Jason teases, and it brings a smile to Kira’s face.
She points to the stove. “I Googled how to properly use a gas stove,” she says.
I like her resilience. “Need any help?” I ask, and for the first time since I entered the kitchen her glance flickers my way. Our eyes meet, hold a second too long, before she shakes her head no.
“I’ve got it all under control.”
Izzy sits down and slurps her coffee. She’ll need a few of those before she comes out of zombie mode.
Sam steps up to the window and looks out. “Man, we’re going to freeze our nuts off out there today.”
“Have you checked the front closet for a coat?” I ask Kira.
“No, but I found some toques, mitts, and a couple homemade knitted sweaters in Gram’s room. She made them in different sizes and donated them to those who needed them. You guys are welcome to whatever you’d like.” She nods toward the counter near the back door, and I see the pile. “Just help yourselves.”
Izzy snort. “Homemade knitted sweaters. Those damn things are back in style.”
“They’re all a little big for me. I don’t mind, but I’ll drown in her coats. She comes from sturdy German stock,” she says with a grin.
“Better that than freezing to death.” Izzy looks Kira over and snaps her fingers. “You got no meat on your bones. You’ll freeze in seconds.”
“I’ll be okay,” she says, and for some reason I know she will be. She’s tougher than she looks. “Now, who wants bacon, fresh Edna eggs, and pancakes? I baked with Gram, but this is pretty much all I know how to cook.”
I grab plates from the cupboard and set them out on the long oak table, and I fill mugs of coffee for everyone as she divvies up the food. Sam coats his pancake in syrup, tapped from a local maple tree farm.
“Pancakes, a transport mechanism for syrup,” he says, and hands the bottle to Kira.
She pours and passes it on. I try not to watch her lips part as she slides her fork in. Sporting a boner at the breakfast table is not my idea of a fun time.
“Oh my God, I forgot how good Nova Scotia maple syrup is.”
“Only the best,” Cody says, and we all agree.
As we eat, Kira goes quiet, and I sense she has something on her mind. Izzy works on her second cup of coffee and has come more alive. Once our plates are practically licked clean, Kira places her hands on the table and glances at us.
“I have some bad news.”
I sit up a little straighter. I’m guessing the breakfast was to soften the blow of her news.
“What’s up?” Jason asks.
“Well, you see. This bed and breakfast came to my mom after Gram died, and I’m here to sell it for her,” she says getting right to the point.
Sam sets his fork down. “You’re selling Gram’s B&B?” he asks, like there is no way in the world for him to process that. Sam and Gram were close. He’s been staying at her place for years, and he was the one who took her to the hospital when she was having pains in her chest. He was like the grandson she never had. I expected the news to be hard on him.
“I’m sorry,” Kira says. “It’s mom’s wishes, and I can’t see any other way around them. I have to sell.”
“Why don’t you stay? Buy the place out from her?” Sam asks.
She looks down, and a line forms in the center of her forehead. She opens her mouth and closes it again. Coming to her rescue I say, “Kira’s life is on the other side of the country.” I don’t bring up the fact that she can’t afford to buy it. She seemed a little embarrassed by that last night. “We can’t expect her to just pack up and move here.”
Kira gives me a grateful smile, a thank you for the rescue, and for some odd reason her appreciation curls through me, does the weirdest things to my fuck
ing insides.
“We have to keep it in the family,” Jason says. He looks down like he always does when he’s scheming something. But no scheme is going to change the fact that she must sell.
“I’m sure it won’t sell before fishing season is up this year, but next, you’ll have to find other accommodations. If we do have viewings, I’ll try to make them as unobtrusive as possible.” The mood around the table changes, and plates get pushed away. But it’s Kira’s frown that hits like a sucker punch.
Nothing about this feels right. But it’s not my place to step in and try to fix things. My only goal is to see to business, then move on to the next failing plant that needs technological changes and a boost of youth and energy.
Yeah, staying here was never part of the plan and I’m no one’s knight in shining armor. I just can’t figure out what it is about Kira, that makes me want to save the day. Clearly, I need to put some distance between us, and I will.
Tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Kira
As I read the name on the business card Nate gave me, I try not to think about all the man’s hotness and how he stood before me last night in nothing but a pair of jeans. When he wasn’t looking, I stole a peak at broad shoulders that taper to a trim waist and sexy oblique muscles that guided my eyes down, to the all the goodness behind his zipper. Honest to God, it took every ounce of strength not to blatantly stare—okay maybe I did—or reach out and trace his grooves and valleys. I shake my head to clear it, the man is a ridiculous distraction, and I need to put a leash on my overactive libido. I pull my cell phone from my pocket. Might as well get this over with. I punch in the realtor’s number, and he answers on the second ring.
“Tail Winds Realty, Phillip speaking.”
“Hi Phillip, this is Kira Palmer.” I give him a second to see if it rings any bells. I can only assume word spreads fast around this small town, and Gram’s granddaughter being back would make headlines.
“How can I help you, Kira?” he asks.
“I’m Gram’s…uh, Margaret Andrew’s granddaughter.”
“Oh, right. Kira, how are you? I haven’t seen you in years.”
I close my eyes and rack my brain but have no recollection of a Phillip Gates. I might have been too young when I met him. “I’m doing well, thank you. I’m back in town to take care of Gram’s estate.”
He goes quiet for a moment, much like the crew this morning when I broke the news.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “You’re selling the B&B?”
“Yes, and I was wondering if you could come by for an assessment.” Here I thought I’d have to hire a local contractor, or even a plumber and electrician, to repair and spruce the place up, but the house is in great shape, save for a few creaks here and there, a deck in need of repairs, and mice. I cringe inwardly at that.
Papers rustle in the background. “I can come by tomorrow around noon if that works for you.”
“That would be great, thank you.” I end the call and glance around the empty house. The quiet is a bit disconcerting. Odd really, considering I spend so much time alone, either at my desk at the university or in my small apartment.
Cup of tea in hand, I head to my den and go over paperwork. The copper key near my laptop pulls my attention. I’d been hoping the realtor would come today, give me a reason not to go to Gram’s studio, the place we talked, laughed, had bonfires, and painted. Facing the past is going to be hard, that much I know. My stomach tightens, and I exhale a painful breath as warm memories bombard me. Then again, maybe the visit will help soothe my soul, give me the closure I can’t seem to find.
Okay, girl, put on your big girl panties and do this already.
Pushing from my chair, I tug on a sweater, and five minutes later, I’m in my rental. After I return the vehicle, I’ll use Gram’s huge Ford Thunderbird, aka, the land yacht. I’d prefer to Uber, but well, this is Lunenburg. Cripes, they don’t even have a Starbucks in town. The Lunenburg Heritage Society shut that down years ago, their mission to preserve culture and natural heritage. Unless that’s changed since I’d been here last, and I somehow doubt it has. That’s all well and fine, until PMS hits and a girl needs her mocha latte.
I drive past town until I find the dirt road leading to Gram’s studio on the ocean. Her father built the cottage over a hundred years ago, and when he passed, it went to Gram and eventually she turned it into her studio.
Twisted branches from the tall, neglected trees stretch like arthritic fingers overhead, the canopy of leaves keeping the small flakes falling from building on the road.
Has no upkeep been done since I’ve been here?
The cottages are abandoned, closed up for the winter, but with the overgrown weeds, and fading paint, I’m guessing no one’s been in them for ages. This once bustling place, full of families and kids and dogs is no more. The desolation fills me with a sense of loss and loneliness.
At the end of the long road, Gram’s studio rises up in the distance. Warm memories bombard me as I park, and when I spot a squirrel climbing up the old abandoned bird feeder I once filled with seed, my breath catches. I fail to calm my shaky hand as I open my door, and the cool fall wind washing over my face stirs the chaotic storm inside me.
Paint chips fall to the ground like snowflakes as I run my gloved hand over the railing. Big dirty window that haven’t been cleaned in ages, stare wide-eyed at the choppy ocean. Gram would be mortified at the state of the place. I swallow. If only I’d come sooner…
But now that I’m here I’ll do all I can to preserve the place her dad had bought years ago. Back when he was young, he purchased all the land, and sold off parcels to others. His property is at the end of the road, the land jutting into the ocean, giving a view of the water on all three sides of the studio.
The old fire pit is still standing, although its once pristine white stones are now dark with soot and cracked from use and age. I can’t even count the s’mores we gobbled up around it. I chuckle quietly. I might not be able to work a gas stove, but roasting marshmallows was the one thing I was good at. I’d get that perfect brown, caramelized exterior, while maintaining the warm, gooey texture inside. I guess that’s why Gram always let me make hers.
My heart beats a little faster and I brace myself for the onslaught of memories as I fish the key from my pocket and slide it into the rusty lock.
The second I enter, big fat tears fill my eyes, and spill down my cheeks. “Oh, Gram,” I whisper in an unsteady voice, the rawness in my throat making my words hoarse. I take a deep wheezy breath as her essence fills the place and wraps around me.
I rock in place and briefly close my eyes. When I open them again, I can practically see her sitting by the window in front of her easel, singing to the “oldies” blaring from her radio. A garbled laugh bubbles in my raw throat. How many times did I beg to change the station? It was a running joke between us.
I nearly trip when I take another step, and that’s when I come across a pile of envelopes on the old wooden floor.
What the heck?
They must have been dropped through the old mail slot on the door. Why would mail still be coming here? Mom had everything rerouted to her in Victoria, didn’t she? Then again, maybe she forgot about the studio. If that’s the case who’s been paying the bills on the place since Gram died? I’ll have to check in with Ralph. I gather the envelopes up and drop them onto the kitchen table. They all seem to be from the same place. Pratt and Whitney Law Firm in Halifax. I rip into one letter and sink down into one of the old white painted chairs at the small kitchen table, the chairs Gram and I painted together one sunny summer afternoon when I was a pre-teen. I read the letter once, then twice, and drop it on the table to open another.
“No way,” I say out loud. I stand and shove the letters aside. Gram’s one wish was for me to cherish this place, turn it into a heritage home, where people
can convene and paint, in groups, or alone. She wanted me to preserve the history of it, likely because it was our special place, and she never wanted to see it change hands, or land in the wrong hands. We all know whose hands she’s talking about.
Abandoning the letters, I continue my exploration and the old floorboards creak as I give the place a leisurely inspection. My wobbly heart swells, expands with the love I felt here—still do. The white sheets covering the furniture fill the air with dust as I remove them and fold them neatly. Old hinges on the cupboard whine with the opening and closing and when I find a few dented cans, no labels, I swipe at the falling tears, and sniff, my lips quivering as old, happy memories bombard me. Oh the fun Gram and I had opening those unmarked can to enjoy “surprise” lunches. Sometimes we found delicious juicy peaches, sometimes beans.
“Oh, Gram I miss you,” I say, pushing the words past the lump in my throat.
There is nothing I want more than to fulfill her wish of turning this place into a heritage home, but maybe I won’t do it right away. No, I might need to spend some time here alone before restoring it and opening it to the public. Perhaps I won’t even restore it this trip. I might want to come back in the spring, to a time when Gram and I made all of our memories. But in the meantime, I’ll gather information from the Heritage Society, and fill out the necessary paperwork.
Wind whistles outside, and a warm sense of peace comes over me as I grab the stack of letters, and take them with me. After one last glance, I climb back into the rental, wipe away the streaks of tears, and head back to town. I press the button on my steering wheel to call my mother. Perhaps she knows something about the lawyers wanting to buy the place.
“Call Linda Palmer,” I say to the canned voice.
The phone rings a few times, and mom comes on.
“Hey Mom, it’s Kira.”
The phone is quiet for a second. I probably caught her in the middle of some important project.
“Kira, how are things there?”
“Did you know Gram’s place is still a B&B.”
