by Hope Ramsay
Oh yeah, it was that promise he’d made as a little boy, right before Micah had gone away to college. He’d promised to look after Daddy, which he’d been doing most of his life. More than either of his brothers, in any case.
He finished frying up the steaks, slapped them onto a couple of dishes, and threw the prepackaged salad into a bowl. He slammed everything onto the table.
“Enjoy your meal. I’m going home,” he announced, and marched out of Daddy’s house. He’d gotten as far as the sandy track that led to Old Granny’s house when Micah caught up to him.
“Don’t go. Please.”
He stopped and turned. “I have nothing to say to you.”
Micah nodded. “I know. But for what it’s worth, it’s good to see you. You may not believe this, but I’ve prayed for you.”
“Yeah, well, thanks. It might have been better if you’d stayed for me. But since you didn’t, don’t think you can come in here and judge us all. You got that?”
“I didn’t come to judge. I’m here to help. Please, let me help you.”
“I don’t need your damned help now. I’m a grown man, not that boy you left. He needed your help, but I don’t. Go on back and eat your steak. Daddy’s totally lit. You’ll need to put him to bed tonight. And just so you know, that happens every Sunday. And every Sunday I have this talk with him about rehab. There’s a bed open at the center in Georgetown. All I need to do is to get him to realize that he needs it. But he won’t. He’s stubborn as a mule.”
He turned around and stalked into the scrub pine.
The brother he’d once loved above all others didn’t come after him. And he was okay with that. More than okay. That was the way he wanted it.
But since when did Jude ever get what he wanted?
The next morning Colton came knocking on Jude’s front door. He knocked and hollered until Jude rolled out of bed, stepped into some boxers, and opened the door.
“Get dressed,” Colton said. “Micah needs our help.”
“So?”
Colton jutted his chin. “Don’t be that way, Jude. He’s back, and he’s our brother, and that house the Episcopalians want him to live in is in disrepair. The ladies of the Altar Guild have planned a volunteer paint party for today. I can just imagine what those old biddies are about to do to that house. We need to go make sure things are done right.”
“We need to? Since when? Look, I don’t feel like I need to do a thing for Micah.”
Colton blew out a sigh. “Come on. Don’t be that way.”
“What way?”
“Bitter. You’ll be way happier if you let the past go, you know? I mean, not just about Micah, but everything.” He gestured to Old Granny’s house, which Jude had been renovating bit by bit, as his resources allowed. “This old place. It isn’t worth it, Jude. It’s time to move on.”
“Yeah, well, you and Daddy and Micah can move on. I’m staying here. And I’m going back to bed.” He shut the door in Colton’s face and did go back to bed.
But damned if he got any sleep at all.
Chapter Eleven
Monday dawned cloudy and breezy. Jenna stayed inside for her morning yoga and meditation. Jude had been right about the bay today. A heavy wind whipped at the water, churning up whitecaps. There would be no sailing even though the rain had stopped.
Now that she knew Jamie Bauman had saved Jude’s life, it was hard not to connect the dots or to want to spend more time with him. Maybe some people would say that it was mere coincidence that she’d seen Jude on her very first day on Jonquil Island. But no one would ever convince Jenna of that. No. She’d come here looking for answers about the father she’d never known, and within a few hours she’d met Jude St. Pierre, a man who owed his life to her father.
Which Jamie was he?
Would she ever find out?
Feeling restless, she went seeking refuge in the library but not before stealing several chocolate chip cookies and a glass of sickeningly sweet iced tea from the kitchen. She settled into the big mohair wing chair with a well-thumbed Sue Grafton mystery.
She had just started chapter two when someone asked, “Whatcha reading?”
She peeked over the top of the paperback. Jackie Scott, resembling a freckled elf, sat cross-legged on the threadbare Persian rug at her feet. How the hell had the kid entered the library without her noticing? Six-year-old boys were not usually so quiet. And why wasn’t this child in school?
But instead of giving him the third degree about his truancy, she played along with him. After all, he’d directed her to a very useful book on sailing.
“It’s a mystery,” she said.
He flashed her a grin. “Like you?”
Odd. The boy was odd, and his big blue eyes seemed older than they should be. “Why do you think I’m a mystery?” she asked.
He lifted one shoulder in an almost-there shrug. “I heard Ms. Tighe say that to Ms. Jernigan. She said you’re a mystery ’cuz you don’t dress well enough to be staying at the cottage.”
Thank God. Or maybe not. It was a bit discomforting to know that she was the subject of local gossip. “Are Ms. Tighe and Ms. Jernigan members of the Piece Makers?” she asked.
The boy nodded.
“What else do they talk about?”
“Lots of stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like the new preacher.”
Well, no surprise there. Everyone was talking about the new minister. “What else?” she asked.
“The woman with the booty.”
Jenna worked to keep her mouth from dropping open. Wow. The Piece Makers might be a bunch of sixty- and seventysomethings, but they obviously talked some serious smack while they stitched away on patriotic quilts.
“Why do they talk about her?” Jenna asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“Because they’re mad about her booty. Especially Ms. Bauman.”
What? Ugh. Her gut tightened. Was Aunt Patsy more than merely a snob, as Louella Pender had suggested? Was she Magnolia Harbor’s slut shamer in chief, as well?
“Why would she be mad about someone’s…?” Jenna couldn’t say the word booty out loud to a child Jackie’s age. It seemed wrong somehow. She also shouldn’t be encouraging him to gossip. That was wrong too.
“’Cuz it was ill gotten,” Jackie said, apparently understanding her question even though she hadn’t said the word.
An ill-gotten booty? What?
“Cap’n Bill says that ill-gotten booty is a curse,” Jackie added, just as the proverbial lightbulb went off in Jenna’s head. The little boy wasn’t talking about the size of some woman’s backside. He was talking about pirate treasure. Loot. Money.
My money. Or, to be more precise, her grandfather’s money.
She was the woman with the booty. Which, given the puny size of her butt, was almost hilarious.
She wanted more information about her aunt, but before she could ask her next question, Ashley called Jackie’s name from down the hallway, and the little boy hopped up.
“Gotta go,” he said.
Ashley tied the bandanna around her head and studied her face in the mirror above the powder room’s sink. She looked tired. Probably because she hadn’t been sleeping well. And somehow, she always seemed to be frowning these days. The fold at the bridge of her nose had become permanent.
Her life had taken a bad left turn onto a rocky road. When she’d married Adam, she’d accepted the risks. After all, she was an army brat; she knew the drill. She knew about the long deployments and the moving around. She was self-reliant. She could cope.
But she wasn’t ready when the worst happened. She hadn’t expected to become a widow at the age of thirty-three. And three years ago, right after Adam died, she hadn’t come to stay with Grandmother to become an innkeeper. Life had unfolded on her in a relentless fashion that had left her stranded, alone, and in financial difficulties. She leaned on the sink.
Maybe it was time to call it quits and go back to
Kansas, where Mom and Dad would gladly take her in. She could sell the house and the cottage and be debt free.
But she’d lose her independence and disappoint her grandmother, who might be watching from up there in heaven.
She blew out a sigh. How could she sell the house and land that had been in the Howland family for generations?
Short answer: if she got desperate enough. And right now, with yesterday’s rain soaking through the roof in several places, she was desperate enough.
But first she had to help paint the vicarage. How she’d been volunteered to coordinate this project remained a mystery. It had started as a simple cleaning operation but had escalated at every turn. And with the minister already here in town and staying out at his father’s place, which was nothing but a falling-down cabin in the woods, the heat was on. Volunteers had ended up missing services yesterday, as they’d started work patching holes in the walls.
She should have said no. She should have known it was more than she could handle. And, of course, she hadn’t planned to be still mired in this project on Monday, which was one of those teacher work days where the kids got a three-day weekend. So Jackie would be underfoot again. All day.
She turned off the light and stepped into the hallway. Where was Jackie? She’d left him in the kitchen with a cookie and had told him to stay put.
“Jackie, where have you gone off to now?” she hollered, inwardly cringing at the exhaustion ringing in her voice.
“Gotta go.” Jackie’s voice sounded from the library, where Ms. Fairchild was last seen reading a paperback novel.
A knot of anger and helplessness caught in her throat. How many times did she have to tell her son not to bother the guests? She pulled in a breath. She would not cry. She was an army brat, an army wife, and an army widow. She was stronger than this.
She stalked down the hall to the library’s doorway and put her hands on her hips when she found Jackie. “I’ve told you five times today that we needed to go over to the vicarage to help with the painting. And why are you in here talking to Ms. Fairchild?”
“It’s all right. He was—” Ms. Fairchild began.
“No, ma’am, it’s not all right. Come on, let’s go.” Ashley gave Jackie her no-nonsense glare. The one she’d learned from Mom. He hopped up from the pitifully threadbare carpet, jammed his grubby hands in the pockets of his too-small jeans, and slowly headed in her direction, head down. A wave of love, wide and deep, washed over Ashley and almost buckled her knees.
Jackie was the spitting image of Adam. And even though he tried her patience, she’d never loved anyone as much as she loved that little boy of hers. When he got close, she grabbed him and pulled him into a hug he clearly didn’t want.
“I’m sorry,” Ashley said to Ms. Fairchild. “He won’t bother you again. We’re off across the street to help paint the vicarage.”
The right corner of Ms. Fairchild’s mouth tipped up, and her eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “Ah, the new minister,” she said.
“How’d you know about that?”
Ms. Fairchild shrugged. “Everyone’s talking about it. In town.”
Yes, they were. And Ms. Fairchild was listening and taking notes. Maybe Patsy, who called her Buddha girl, was right about Jenna Fairchild. Patsy had convinced herself that Ms. Fairchild was working for one of the resort companies that had been scoping out the land north of town for a new development. Because the woman was not only pretending to be poor, but she’d also showed up at the town council hearing last week on Jude St. Pierre’s petition to rezone that land north of town.
Now, what tourist goes to town hall meetings?
But as much as she wanted to cross-examine Ms. Fairchild, Ashley also couldn’t afford to rock any boats. She needed the rental income. “Well,” Ashley said, “maybe people need to find something else to gossip about.”
Ms. Fairchild sat forward in her chair, her gaze suddenly avid. “Is it because Jude St. Pierre is his brother?” she asked. “Or is there some other reason people are so upset?”
Interesting. In a week, Jenna Fairchild had learned a lot about the locals, hadn’t she? And mentioning Jude St. Pierre, the man behind the efforts to designate the land north of town as off-limits to the resort developers, was also revealing. “The St. Pierres live in ‘Gullah Town,’” she said, “and I guess there are one or two parishioners who have a problem with that. But not everyone. Not by a long shot. The truth is, Micah St. Pierre used to worship at Heavenly Rest when he was teenager, so I think a lot of folks are pleased that a Jonquil Islander is coming home to be our minister.”
Ms. Fairchild nodded, clearly understanding the subtext. “I see.”
Ashley’s face flamed. “I’m afraid we have some people who haven’t yet realized we’re living in the twenty-first century. But you know what? I don’t care about people like that. Which is why I’m off to help paint the vicarage for our new preacher.”
Ashley turned to go, swallowing back her annoyance. Sometimes the people living in this town were small-minded. But that was none of Jenna Fairchild’s concern.
“Can I help?” Ms. Fairchild asked.
Ashley stopped and turned to gaze at her guest, who was dressed in ancient flip-flops, a pair of old camp pants, and a dingy T-shirt that said, ALL THAT WE ARE IS THE RESULT OF WHAT WE HAVE THOUGHT. A quote from the Buddha, apparently, which seemed oddly apt given the topic of their conversation.
Ms. Fairchild’s threadbare pants and faded shirt suggested that she’d planned to come help with the painting all along. Had she known about the painting day? Was she here to spy on the St. Pierres because of Jude’s efforts to designate “Gullah Town” off-limits to developers?
“Why would you want to help?” Ashley asked.
Jenna smiled. “Because you need help.”
Well, Ashley hadn’t expected that answer. She’d expected a response that sounded like a lie. But when Ms. Fairchild looked her right in the eye and said, “you need help,” it was nothing but the God’s honest truth.
She did need help.
And she was oddly grateful for Ms. Fairchild’s offer. So she gave her guest a wide smile and said, “We can use all the help we can get.”
Jenna followed Ashley and Jackie across the street to an unremarkable brick, ranch-style home that looked as if it had been built in the 1960s. It sat surrounded by several older, historic homes, which made it an architectural sore thumb with zero curb appeal. Add in the overgrown landscape and the patchy grass and the home looked sad. Hardly the kind of place where a congregation wanted their minister to live.
But then again, the crowd at yesterday’s services had been tiny, so maybe this was the best the congregation could afford.
The door was already open, and they headed inside, where they found Patsy Bauman sitting in the middle of the empty living room in a folding chair. Aunt Patsy had come to paint the vicarage in a pair of white linen slacks, a pale-blue-striped man-tailored shirt, and a summer-weight, cream-colored cardigan. The woman was a septuagenarian fashion plate. Clearly she intended to direct volunteers and not get her hands, or her clothes, dirty.
Patsy took one look at Ashley Scott and said, “My word, Ashley, where have you been? I’ve been waiting on you for half an hour.” She followed this rude comment with an intimidating stare that shifted from Ashley to Jackie to Jenna and back again.
Jenna was not intimidated in the least. In fact, she wanted to walk right up to her great-aunt, get up in her face, and tell Patsy to give Ashley a break. Her landlord was giving off stress in hot waves like one of those oscillating electric heaters.
But when Ashley started apologizing, Jenna almost got right up in her landlady’s face to give her a pep talk on assertiveness.
“Sorry, Patsy,” Ashley said in a small voice, “it’s been a tough few days. I didn’t anticipate this project being so big. And the school has a teacher workday and I couldn’t find babysitting and…” Ashley’s explanations trailed off when a tall, handsome man c
ame striding through the front door, put his hands on his hips, and said, “Where can I find Ashley Scott?”
“Oh, my word, Micah St. Pierre, you’ve grown up, son.” Patsy got out of her chair, crossed the room, and shook the man’s hand.
“Miz Bauman?”
“It’s me. I don’t reckon I’ve changed as much as you have.” She gave him a smile. “I’m so sorry about the mess. We weren’t expecting you until later in the week. So sorry you had to find other accommodations last night.”
“It’s no problem. I needed to catch up with my family. And to that end, a few reinforcements should be here any moment.”
His gaze shifted toward Jenna. “Miz Scott?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m Jenna Fairchild. This is Ashley.” She gestured toward her landlady, who was staring at Micah with an odd look in her eye.
Jenna didn’t blame her. The Reverend St. Pierre didn’t look like a holy man. He was an older, bigger, slightly paler version of Jude. But his eyes were much darker. Where Jude was a bronzed statue with tiger eyes, Micah’s skin was more tan than brown. His eyes had fine lines at their corners, and a hint of gray shone at the temples of his military-short haircut.
Dressed in a black T-shirt with a hole at one shoulder seam and a pair of jeans with ragged knees, he didn’t look one bit like Jenna’s notion of a minister.
“I understand you’re the chair of the painting committee?” he said to Ashley.
“I…um…yes. And we haven’t really done any painting yet. We had so many holes to patch, and…” Her voice faded out.
“No problem. Reverend Ball lived here for a long, long time. There were bound to be a few holes.”
He shifted his gaze toward the little boy still standing beside his mother. He hunkered down to be on the same level as Jackie. “Well, hello. Are you Jackie?” he asked.
Wow. Obviously, the new minister had done some homework on his flock.
The little boy nodded, his eyes round.
“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard that you are a good friend of Captain Bill’s.”