by Nora Roberts
She’d picked out a dresser, but had listed the alternative of a secretary with drawers. More unique, he decided, more interesting.
And she apparently had her mind made up about a bed for Westley and Buttercup—their second suite, rear—as she’d written THIS IS IT!! in all caps on the sheet.
He scanned the other sheets; she’d been busy. Then turned to his computer.
He spent the next two hours with CAD, arranging, adjusting, angling. From time to time, he opened the binder, refreshed himself on the feel and layout of the baths, or took another look at the electrical, the cable for the flatscreens in each bedroom.
When he was satisfied, he sent his mother the file, with copies to his brothers, and gave her the maximum dimensions for any night tables, occasional chairs.
He wanted a break, and more coffee. Iced coffee, he decided. Iced cappuccino, even better. No reason not to walk down to Turn The Page and get one. They had good coffee at the bookstore, and he’d stretch his legs a little on the short walk down Main.
He ignored the fact that the coffee machine he’d indulged himself in could make cappuccino—and that he had ice. And he told himself he took the time to shave because it was too damn hot for the scruff.
He went out, headed down Main, stopped outside of Sherry’s Beauty Salon to talk to Dick while the barber took a break.
“How’s it coming?”
“We’ve got drywall going in,” Beckett told him.
“Yeah, I helped them unload some.”
“We’re going to have to put you on the payroll.”
Dick grinned, jerked a chin at the inn. “I like watching it come back.”
“Me, too. See you later.”
He walked on, and up the short steps to the covered porch of the bookstore, and through the door to a jangle of bells. He lifted a hand in salute to Laurie as the bookseller rang up a sale for a customer. While he waited he wandered to the front-facing stand of bestsellers and new arrivals. He took down the latest John Sandford in paperback—how had he missed that one?—scanned the write-up inside, kept it as he strolled around the stacks.
The shop had an easy, relaxed walk-around feel with its rooms flowing into one another, with the curve of the creaky steps to the second-floor office and storerooms. Trinkets, cards, a few local crafts, some of this, a little of that—and, most of all, books and more books filled shelves, tables, cases in a way that encouraged just browsing around.
Another old building, it had seen war, change, the lean and the fat. Now with its soft colors and old wood floors, it managed to hold on to the sense of the town house it had once been.
It always smelled, to him, of books and women, which made sense since the owner had a fully female staff of full- and part-timers.
He found a just-released Walter Mosley and picked that up as well. Then glancing toward the stairs to the second-floor office, Beckett strolled through the open doorway to the back section of the store. He heard voices, but realized quickly they came from a little girl and a woman she called Mommy.
Clare had boys—three boys now, he thought. Maybe she wasn’t even in today, or not coming in until later. Besides, he’d come for coffee, not to see Clare Murphy. Clare Brewster, he reminded himself. She’d been Clare Brewster for ten years, so he ought to be used to it.
Clare Murphy Brewster, he mused, mother of three, bookstore proprietor. Just an old high school friend who’d come home after an Iraqi sniper shattered her life and left her a widow.
He hadn’t come to see her, except in passing if she happened to be around. He’d have no business making a point to see the widow of a boy he’d gone to school with, had liked, had envied.
“Sorry for the wait. How’s it going, Beck?”
“What?” He tuned back in, turned to Laurie as the door jingled behind the customers. “Oh, no problem. Found some books.”
“Imagine that,” she said, and smiled at him.
“I know, what are the odds? I hope they’re as good for me getting an iced cappuccino.”
“I can hook you up. Iced everything’s the order of the day this summer.” Her honey brown hair scooped up with a clip against the heat, she gestured to the cups. “Large?”
“You bet.”
“How’s the inn coming along?”
“It’s moving.” He walked to the counter as she turned to the espresso machine.
Pretty little thing, Beckett mused. She’d worked for Clare since the beginning, shuffling work and school. Five years, maybe six? Could it be that long already?
“People ask us all the time,” she told him as she worked. “When, when, when, what, how. And especially when you’re going to take down that tarp so we can all see for ourselves.”
“And spoil the big reveal?”
“It’s killing me.”
With the conversation, the noise of the machine, he didn’t hear her, but sensed her. He looked over as she came down the curve of the steps, one hand trailing along the banister.
When his heart jumped, he thought, Oh well. But then, Clare had been making his heart jump since he’d been sixteen.
“Hi, Beck. I thought I heard you down here.”
She smiled, and his heart stopped jumping to fall flat.
CHAPTER TWO
HE HANDLED IT. HE SMILED BACK AT HER, QUICK AND casual, as she walked down the stairs with her long, sunny ponytail swaying. She always reminded him of a sunflower, tall and bright and cheerful. Her gray eyes held hints of green that gave them a sparkle whenever her mouth, with its deep center dip, curved up.
“Haven’t seen you in a couple days,” she commented.
“I was down in Richmond.” She’d gotten some sun, he thought, giving her skin just a hint of gold. “Did I miss anything?”
“Let’s see. Somebody stole the garden gnome out of Carol Tecker’s yard.”
“Jeez. A crime spree.”
“She’s offering a ten-dollar reward.”
“I’ll keep my eye out for it.”
“Anything new at the inn?”
“We started drywall.”
“Old news.” She flicked that away. “I got that from Avery yesterday, who got it from Ry when he stopped in for pizza.”
“My mother’s putting another furniture order together, and she’s moving on to fabrics.”
“Now that’s a bulletin.” Green sparkled in the gray; it just killed him. “I’d love to see what she’s picking out. I know it’s going to be beautiful. And I heard a rumor there’s going to be a copper tub.”
Beckett held up three fingers.
Her eyes widened; the green deepened in the smoky gray. He’d need oxygen any minute.
“Three? Where do you find these things?”
“We have our ways.”
She glanced toward Laurie with a long, female sigh. “Imagine lounging in a copper bathtub. It sounds so romantic.”
Unfortunately he instantly imagined her slipping out of the pretty summer dress with red poppies over a field of blue—and into a copper bathtub.
And that, he reminded himself, wasn’t handling it.
“How are the kids?” he asked, and took out his wallet.
“They’re great. We’re starting to gear up for full back-to-school mode, so they’re excited. Harry’s pretending not to be, playing Mr. Old Hat since he’s going into third grade. But he and Liam are giving Murphy the benefit of their vast experience. I can’t believe my baby’s starting kindergarten.”
Thinking of the kids always leveled him off, helped him slide her into the do-not-imagine-naked column of MOTHER.
“Oh.” She tapped the Mosley book before Laurie bagged it. “I haven’t had a chance to read that yet. You’ll have to let me know what you think.”
“Sure. Ah, you should come over, walk through sometime.”
Her mouth bowed up. “We peek in the side windows.”
“Just go on around the back.”
“Really? I’d like to, but I figured you didn’t want people getting in th
e way.”
“As a rule, but—” He broke off as the bells jangled, and two couples came in. “Anyway, I’d better get going.”
“Enjoy the book,” she told him, then turned to her customers. “Can I help you find anything?”
“We’re touring the area,” one of the men told her. “Got any books on Antietam?”
“We do. Let me show you.” She led him away as the rest of the group started to browse.
Beckett watched her go down the little flight of steps into what they called the annex.
“Well. See you later, Laurie.”
“Beck?”
He stopped, one hand on the doorknob.
“Books? Coffee?” She held the bag in one hand, the go-cup in the other.
“Oh yeah.” He laughed, shook his head. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” She sighed a little when he left, and wondered if her boyfriend ever watched her walk away.
CLARE CARTED A tub of books packaged for shipping down to the post office. She breathed in deep a moment as she went out the back and across the gravel parking lot as an actual breeze fluttered over her face.
She thought—hoped—it looked like rain. Maybe a nice, solid soaker that would spare her the time it took to water her garden and pots. If it didn’t come with lightning, she could let the boys run around in the wet after dinner, burn off some energy.
Scrub them up afterward, then, since it was movie night, fix some popcorn. She’d have to check the chart, see whose turn it was to pick the flick.
Charts, she’d learned, helped cut down on arguing, complaining, and bickering when three little boys had to decide whether to spend some time with SpongeBob, the Power Rangers, or the Star Wars gang. It didn’t eliminate the arguing, complaining, and bickering, but it usually kept it at a more manageable level.
She dropped off the shipments, spent a few moments chatting with the postmistress. Because the traffic on Route 34 ran a bit thick, she walked back to The Square, pressed the button for the Walk light. And waited.
Every once in a while it struck her that she was, geographically at least, back where she’d started. Everything else had changed, she mused, glancing over at the big blue tarp.
And was still changing.
She’d left Boonsboro as a brand-new bride of nineteen. So young! she thought now. So full of excitement and confidence, so much in love. She’d thought nothing of driving off to North Carolina to start her life with Clint, as an army wife.
She’d done a decent job of it, too, she decided. Setting up house, playing house, working part-time in a bookstore—and hurrying home to fix dinner. She’d learned she was pregnant only days before Clint had been deployed for his first tour to Iraq.
She’d known fear then, she remembered as she crossed toward Vesta. But it had been offset by the wide-eyed optimism of youth, and the joy of carrying a child—one she’d borne back home, at barely twenty.
Then Clint came home, and they were off to Kansas. They’d had nearly a year. Liam had been born during Clint’s second tour of duty. When he’d come home again, he’d been a great father to their two little boys, but war had stolen his easy cheer, his quick, rolling laugh.
She hadn’t known she was pregnant when she’d kissed him goodbye that last time.
The day they’d handed her the flag from Clint’s casket, Murphy quickened for the first time inside her.
And now, she thought as she opened the glass door, she was back home. For good.
She’d timed the visit postlunch, predinner prep. A scatter of people sat at the dark, glossy wood tables, and a family—not locals, she noted—piled into the booth in the far corner. Their curly-headed toddler sprawled over the red cushions, sound asleep.
She lifted her hand in salute to Avery as her friend ladled sauce on dough behind the service counter. At home, Clare walked over to pull herself a glass of lemonade and brought it back to the counter with her.
“I think it’s going to rain.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Today I mean it.”
“Oh, well then. I’ll get my umbrella.” Avery covered the sauce with shredded mozzarella, layered that with pepperoni, sliced mushrooms, and black olives. Her movements quick and practiced, she opened one of the big ovens behind her and shoved in the pie. She shoveled out another, sliced it.
One of the waitresses swung out of the closed kitchen area, sang out a “Hi, Clare,” then carried the pizza and plates to one of the tables.
Avery said, “Whew.”
“Busy day?”
“We were slammed from eleven thirty until about a half hour ago.”
“Are you on tonight?” Clare asked.
“Wendy called in sick, again, so it looks like I’m pulling a double.”
“Sick meaning she made up with her boyfriend again.”
“I’d be sick too if I was hooked up with that loser. She makes a damn good pizza.” Avery took a bottle of water from under the counter, gestured with it. “But I’m probably going to have to let her go. Kids today?” She rolled her bright blue eyes. “No work ethic.”
“I’m trying to remember the name of the guy you were tight with when you got caught hooking school.”
“Lance Poffinberger—a momentary lapse. And boy, did I pay for it. Screw up once, just once, and Dad grounded me for a month. Lance works down at Canfield’s as a mechanic.” Avery wiggled her eyebrows as she took a slug of water. “Mechanics are hot.”
“Really?”
“With Lance the exception that proves the rule.”
She answered the phone, took an order, pulled out the pizza, sliced it so her waitress could carry the still-bubbling pie to the table.
Clare enjoyed her lemonade and watched Avery work.
They’d been friendly in high school, cocaptains on the cheerlead-ing squad. A bit competitive, but friendly. Then they’d lost touch when Avery went off to college, and Clare had headed shortly after to Fort Bragg with Clint.
They’d reconnected when Clare, pregnant with Murphy and with two boys in tow, had moved back. And Avery, with the red hair and milk white skin of her Scot forebears had just opened her Italian family restaurant.
“Beckett was by earlier.”
“Alert the media!”
Clare met sarcasm with a smug smile. “He said I could take a look inside the inn.”
“Yeah? Let me finish putting this order together, and we’ll go.”
“I can’t, not now. I have to pick up the kids in . . .” She checked her watch. “An hour. And I’ve still got some work. Tomorrow? Maybe before things get busy here or at TTP?”
“That’s a date. I’ll be in around nine to start the ovens and so on. I could slip out about ten.”
“Ten it is. I’ve gotta go. Work, kid pickup, fix dinner, baths, then it’s movie night.”
“We have some excellent spinach ravioli if you want to cross off the fix-dinner portion.”
Clare started to decline, then decided it would be an excellent delivery method of spinach, and save her about forty-five minutes in the kitchen. “Deal. Listen, my parents want the boys for a sleepover on Saturday. How about I fix something that isn’t pizza, open a bottle of wine, and we have an adult, female evening.”
“I can do that. We could also put on sexy dresses and go out, perhaps find adult males to share the evening.”
“We could, but since I’ll be spending the bulk of the day at the mall and the outlets browbeating three boys into trying on back-to-school clothes, I’d probably just shoot the first male who spoke to me.”
“Girls’ night in it is.”
“Perfect.”
Avery boxed up the takeout herself, put it on Clare’s tab.
“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”
“Clare,” Avery said as Clare walked to the door. “Saturday, I’ll bring a second bottle of wine, something gooey for dessert. And my pj’s.”
“Even better. Who needs a man when you’ve got a best girl pal?”
Clare laughed as Avery shot a hand in the air.
She stepped out and nearly bumped into Ryder.
“Two out of three,” she said. “I saw Beck earlier. Now I just need Owen for the hat trick.”
“Heading over to Mom’s. He and Beck are working in the shop. I’ll give you a ride,” he said with a grin. “I just took a dinner order, since Mom says it’s too hot to cook.”
Clare lifted her bag. “I’m with her. Say hi for me.”
“Will do. Looking good, Clare the Fair. Wanna go dancing?”
She shot him grin for grin as she pushed the Walk button on the post. “Sure. Pick me and the boys up at eight.”
She got lucky with the timing, and headed across with a wave. She tried to remember the last time a man had asked her to go dancing and meant it.
She just couldn’t.
THE MONTGOMERY WORKSHOP was big as a house and designed to look like one. It boasted a long covered porch—often crowded with projects in various stages—including a couple of battered Adirondack chairs waiting for repair and paint, for two years and counting.
Doors, windows, a couple of sinks, boxes of tile, shingles, plywood, and various and sundry items salvaged from or left over from other jobs mixed together in a rear jut they’d added on when they’d run out of room.
Because the hodgepodge drove him crazy, Owen organized it every few months, then Ryder or Beckett would haul something else in, and dump it wherever.
He knew damn well they did it on purpose.
The main area held table tools, work counters, shelving for supplies, a couple of massive rolling tool chests, stacks of lumber, old mason jars and coffee cans (labeled by Owen) for screws, nails, bolts.
Here, though it would never fully meet Owen’s high standards, the men kept at least a semblance of organization.
They worked together well, with music from the ancient stereo recycled from the family home banging out rock, a couple of floor fans blowing the heat around, the table saw buzzing as Beckett fed the next piece of chestnut to the blade.
He liked getting his hands on wood, enjoyed the feel of it, the smell of it. His mother’s Lab-retriever mix Cus—short for Atticus—stretched his massive bulk