Herons Landing

by JoAnn Ross

  “Used to being the definitive phrase,” Seth pointed out, wondering yet again how he got into this damn situation. “Do you want her back?”

  That question had his father spinning around so fast Seth feared he might fall off the ladder and break his stiff neck. “What the hell do you think?”

  “I’ve no idea. You damn well should,” he said. “Not only is she smart, kind, loving and an all-around great woman, the one thing you and I have in common, along with the love of fixing up old homes, is that we both married above ourselves. Besides, living alone is the frigging pits.”

  Not that the way he spent his days was fully living. The truth was he was fucking tired of being lonely. If he hadn’t been able to lose himself in his work, he probably would’ve just taken his boat out the strait into the Pacific and jumped into the icy ocean where Coast Guard PSAs were always reminding boaters to wear their life jackets because a fit person could swim only fifty yards in fifty-degree water, which just happened to be the summer temperature.

  Another grunt. “You should know, given that you’ve turned into a hermit monk,” his father said. “Hell, even I’ve played poker once a week for the last twenty or so years.”

  Which had always taken place at the Harper house, and which, Seth could have argued, wasn’t exactly getting out.

  “It’s not the same thing,” he insisted. “My wife died.”

  Zoe had been more than Seth’s wife. She’d been his soul mate for over half his life. He’d lived for her weekend visits home while she’d been away at college, and it never would’ve occurred to him to so much as look at another woman while she’d been deployed, assuring him that she was in a well-guarded hospital and would be returning home to make a lot of babies, so he’d better be prepared to man up and do his part. Which had totally worked for him.

  “That was two years ago,” Ben said.

  Two years, one month, two weeks and three days. But hell, who was counting?

  He was.

  “We were talking about you and Mom.” Seth felt the damn plaster walls closing in on him. Inside his head, bombs were exploding. “And what you’re going to do to win her back.”

  “She’ll be back. Once she gets over this crazy hippy streak.” He went back to working on the wall. “Town used to be made up of regular folks. Loggers, fishermen, boat builders. People who made this place. Now it’s being overrun with all sorts of writers, musicians, artists and such. Who wouldn’t even know how to bait a hook, fell a tree or hammer a nail into a wall.”

  Like most Harpers, Ben had a strong streak of mule in him. While his mother, despite what Mike had referred to as her Southern belle breeding, was, indeed, the steel magnolia his dad claimed she was to the core. Once the former Caroline Lockwood Harper made her mind up about something, she wasn’t one to back down.

  Reminding himself that his parents were adults who didn’t need their only son to play marriage counselor, Seth went down the hall into what was going to be the en suite for a new master bedroom. Where he vented his frustration with a crowbar, attacking the crappy ’70s lime-green and yellow-daisy ceramic tile in the shower.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ONE WEEK AFTER quitting her job, Brianna was standing at the railing of a Washington State ferry slowly chugging its way across Puget Sound. Although spring in the Pacific Northwest could be chilly, and she’d be warmer indoors, she enjoyed the briskness of the salt-tinged breeze ruffling her hair, which was no longer pulled back into its tight, tidy, professional chignon that had always given her a headache.

  She’d lived life on a wildly spinning hamster wheel for so many years since leaving home, it took her a while to recognize the heady feeling that rushed through her as she drank in the sight of the shaggy Douglas firs spearing into the sky, the rugged white peaks of the Olympic mountains in the distance and seagulls noisily diving for fish in the water churned up by the gleaming white boat.

  As she sipped from a cardboard cup of coffee, the drink that famously kept the Pacific Northwest humming, a brown pelican flew by, the ungainly, awkward-looking bird surprisingly graceful in flight. More pelicans perched on wooden pilings.

  Freedom. For the first time since she’d left her family Christmas tree farm to go off to college, she had no demands from any calendars, clocks, hotel guests, and no one to answer to but herself.

  The idea was both thrilling and a little daunting at the same time. After all, ever since graduating from college, she’d always moved on from town to city, hotel to hotel, place to place, never looking back. Her life had been like that old country video where the heroine had ripped the rearview mirror off the side of her car and headed, hell-bent for leather, out of Dodge.

  And now here she was, on a ferry getting closer and closer to land, drinking in the familiar sounds, the smells and pretty sights, and hoping that Thomas Wolfe had been wrong about never being able to go home again. This was a new chapter in her life. A new beginning, and despite the butterflies that had begun fluttering their wings in her stomach, she would make it work.

  Reminding herself that she’d always been a self-starter with strong organizational and people skills, instead of worrying about any possible pitfalls in her plan, she concentrated on the vision of what she’d always thought of as her house turned into a warm and inviting bed-and-breakfast. The type of place she herself would want to stay in.

  Over the years, as she’d worked her way up the hospitality chain to the Midas, her surroundings had become more and more luxurious. And while each hotel offered additional amenities and increased pampering, they’d never been the type of place she would have preferred to stay herself. She wouldn’t have chosen glitz and glamor, or bustling staff in crisp uniforms with shiny brass buttons and fringed epaulets that would make a banana republic general proud.

  Rather than a crowded dining room abuzz with conversation drowning out the pianist playing Gershwin on a shiny black baby grand, she’d rather spend an evening enveloped in an overstuffed chair in a room with well-read books lining the walls, and a fire crackling away in an old stone fireplace.

  Instead of shopping at designer boutiques with a platinum credit card, she’d rather stroll down tree-lined streets, dropping into small, quaint, locally owned shops that carried homemade fudge and desserts and whimsical, one-of-a-kind handmade pieces created by local artisans. And rather than being suffocated by ridiculously overpriced designer scents, she’d rather breathe in the tang of fir trees and salt air.

  The sky turned a tarnished silver hue, hinting at rain as Honeymoon Harbor came into view, the stone Victorian buildings climbing up the steep hill, the now-automated white lighthouse at Pelican Point, and there, overlooking the harbor, was Herons Landing, unfortunately painted a Pepto-Bismol pink with purple trim and chartreuse shutters. Fishing and whale-watching boats bobbing in the water beside the sailboats and beautiful wooden boats the town was known for and what appeared to be a father and son stood on the pier, fishing lines dangling over the railing into the water, reminding her of childhood days when she’d done the same thing. Not that she’d been all that wild about fishing or crabbing, but if Seth was going to be out there with her brothers, she wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to show him what a perfect girlfriend she’d be. The fact that he’d never experienced that hoped-for epiphany hadn’t been for her lack of trying.

  The announcement to return to her car came over the speaker and five minutes later, as she drove off the ferry onto the cobblestone street created from the same stones as many of the town’s buildings, she felt an internal click that told her she’d made the absolutely right decision.

  Pages from Captain George Vancouver’s ship logs, housed under glass in the town historical museum, revealed his awe at the towering, snowcapped mountains, deep green rain forests that come nearly to the water’s edge, crystal rivers, tumbling waterfalls, beaches and sapphire water studded with emerald islands.

 
By the late 1800s the town had become a bustling seaport, banking on a rich future. A building boom gifted it with an abundance of ornate Victorian homes perched atop the green bluff overlooking the bay. A town built and populated by dreamers, its port frequented by vessels from faraway places, the early economy had been built and supported by timber and shipping.

  Unfortunately, too much of what was now Honeymoon Harbor had been constructed on the shifting sands of speculation that it was primed to become the capital of Washington State. Dreams were dashed when the boom collapsed and the population had declined drastically.

  Although it never became the major shipping harbor people had hoped for, the royal trip that had resulted in the town’s name change, along with the magnificent monument Franklin Roosevelt later designated as a national park, had created a renaissance that resulted in an influx of visitors who continued to arrive at the harbor’s dock on gleaming white ferries like the one that had brought Brianna home.

  The town had been divided between residential and business. Most of the buildings along the water were commercial, designed to serve arriving and departing ships. Originally built of wood from the bustling timber trade, they’d been reduced to ashes during a devastating fire that had swept through the waterfront. Meanwhile, the homes, including the Victorians the town had become known for, had been built on the bluff overlooking the harbor, which had allowed them to escape the firestorm.

  Tempted as she was to drive out to the house, she reluctantly decided it made sense to go home, see her family and get a good night’s sleep before contacting the Realtor in the morning. As much as Honeymoon Harbor looked much the same as it had when she’d been growing up here, there had been changes. An old warehouse had been turned into condos, the real estate sign out in front offering spacious, remodeled lofts. She dropped into a coffee shop by the ferry terminal that hadn’t existed when she’d returned for Zoe’s funeral two years ago, and stood in line to buy a salted skinny caramel mocha latte from one of the owners, whom, she learned from their brief conversation while he prepared her drink, was a former undercover Seattle vice detective. Which, she supposed, explained the earring and the dreadlocks.

  There were other new businesses, as well, including her uncle Mike’s art gallery, which would prove handy when it came to decorating her inn. Honeymoon Harborites preferred to buy local whenever possible, and in her case, it was even better when one of the businesses was owned by family.

  She came up to the wide, grassy green square that had always been the centerpiece of the town. A lacy white Victorian gazebo—built by a Harper for the royal visit, where the Mannion mayor had handed the Montacroix king and queen the key to the city—had immediately proven popular with the honeymoon trade. Even today Brianna’s attention was drawn to a tall, familiar redhead snapping wedding photos of a smiling bride and groom.

  Growing up, Kylee Campbell and Zoe Robinson had been Brianna’s best friends. They’d been inseparable, the self-named Three Musketeers, except for those times, as they’d segued into their junior and senior years of high school, when Zoe had begun spending more and more time with Seth Harper.

  Pulling into a parking spot, Brianna sat in the car, watching as Kylee posed the couple in various ways while another woman set up reflector boards. They were apparently coming to the end of the shoot. After taking a few more photos next to the fountain bubbling away at one end of the green, Kylee exchanged a few words and hugs with the couple. Then, as she turned to walk away, Brianna got out of the car.

  “Well, look who finally made it home,” Kylee called out, emerald green skirt flowing around her ankles, revealing a pair of purple Chucks as she ran across the parking lot toward Brianna. The other woman, who’d finished packing up the equipment, followed at a more sedate pace. “I was beginning to think we’d lost you to Sin City forever.”

  Kylee threw her arms around Brianna and gave her an even more enthusiastic hug than she’d shared with the bride and groom.

  “Wasn’t going to happen.”

  Before her sudden change in her career, Brianna’s destination track after Vegas had always been New York (her goal had been the Waldorf Astoria, currently under renovation), then London’s Claridge’s, before reaching her personal pinnacle: the Hôtel Plaza Athénée, which might not be Paris’s flashiest hotel, but to Brianna’s mind was the most luxurious, romantic and, with its glorious views of the Eiffel Tower, iconic.

  Bygones.

  “Do I dare hope you’ll be here for our wedding?” Kylee asked. “Believe it or not, Seth’s mother is going to be the officiant.”

  “Caroline Harper is a minister now?”

  “She was ordained online about a year ago. She doesn’t have an official church or anything, but has become very spiritual, in an earth mother New Agey way. More and more people have been turning to her for their weddings. And not just the retro hippy crowd, but remarrying widowers or divorcés, who want more celebration than signing papers at the courthouse, but also don’t want to lock themselves into any established religious belief system.”

  “Trust you to have a unique wedding.” Caroline Harper had always been a creative thinker and, like Brianna’s own mother, was actively involved in community service. Performing weddings sounded like just another step along her life’s path. She did wonder how Mr. Harper, who’d never seemed that conducive to change, had taken to his wife’s apparent midlife transformation. “Now I’m even more looking forward to being part of your special day.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  “How could I not?”

  “Oh, that’s so great!” She pumped the hand not still holding the camera into the air. “I didn’t want to dump any guilt on you, but I’ll admit to being disappointed when you said you had that big deal convention to deal with.”

  Magic Marketplace, the world’s largest fashion show, which attracted nearly a hundred thousand visitors, many of whom had booked Midas two years in advance, had been going to keep her in Las Vegas. Missing her BFF’s upcoming wedding had been on the top of Brianna’s list of life regrets. Now, thinking how events turned out, she should be grateful for Doctor Dick turning her life not upside down, but right side up.

  “My priorities were screwed up,” she admitted. Hyatt had denied her request for time off when she’d asked two months ago, but she’d also known that if she’d put her foot down and made certain her duties were well covered, he would have let her get away for at least the day of the wedding. But her damn pride, believing that only she could handle such a large event, had outranked what would be, so far, the most important day of her remaining best friend’s life. Which went right along with her recent thoughts about not having any true friends. Because, in order to have a friend, you had to be one. Something she’d failed at. Miserably.

  “Don’t even worry about it. I totally understood.” Kylee turned toward the woman who was, in appearance, her physical opposite. Where Kylee was tall, with wild masses of curly red hair that tumbled over her shoulders, her wife-to-be was petite with an asymmetrical black bob. “I’m sorry. I was so excited to see you, I got sidetracked. This is Mai, the grand love of my life. Mai, Brianna.”

  “I’ve heard a lot about you.” The other woman’s smile was warm. “Including that you’re what keeps Las Vegas’s most glamorous resort humming along.”

  “That’s a major exaggeration. But it doesn’t matter, because I no longer work there.”

  “No way!” Kylee’s green eyes widened. “We talked just last week and you didn’t give me so much as a hint you were changing jobs.”

  “It was sort of unexpected. And sudden.”

  “I guess so. So, what new gig did you jump up to this time? Social secretary at the White House?”

  “Ha. Far from it. I’m opening a B and B.”

  “In Las Vegas?” Mai asked. Her tone remained neutral, but a slight lift of her brow hinted at skepticism. Which wasn’t surpr
ising since bed-and-breakfasts were rare in the city. Visitors tended to stay in the resort hotels, economy off-Strip motels or RV campgrounds as much as an hour outside the city. Although Airbnb had begun making inroads with budget travelers, hotels at Midas’s level, where size always mattered, weren’t the least bit concerned.

  “As it turns out, I’m going to be doing it here.” Brianna blew out a breath. This was the first time she’d said it out loud. And it sounded good. Good, but a little scary.

  “Really? Wow!” Kylee’s face lit up like a sudden sunbreak during a long winter of gray days. “And your timing’s perfect because Herons Landing is for sale.”

  “I saw it on the website the other night. Other than paint colors on the exterior, it looks in pretty good shape compared to the last time I was in town.”

  “That paint was the previous owner’s idea. While those painted ladies may fit into San Francisco’s street scene, the pink and purple look ridiculous with the wooded backdrop. And photographs can be deceiving,” Kylee said. “Especially in these days when everyone knows how to Photoshop. The sales photo exterior shots only look good because Seth spent the entire last year fixing up the outside. Then the couple who’d hired him broke up and the place went into foreclosure.”

  Which explained why the price had seemed lower than Brianna would’ve expected. The real estate ad hadn’t mentioned that little detail.

  “The inside is definitely a work in progress,” Kylee said.

  “Which is a polite way of saying wreck,” Mai murmured.

  “True. But so was our new place not that long ago,” Kylee reminded her. “Seth is a miracle worker. Even though his father is a bit of a challenge.”

  “He likes you,” Mai said.

  “That’s because the caterers always let me keep the leftover wedding desserts. Which I take right over to the job. The man’s got a serious sweet tooth,” she confided to Brianna. “In his case, my mom was right on the money about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach. You can never go wrong with cookies. Or doughnuts. I’m not sure I could have convinced him to put coffering on the ceiling were it not for the fritters from Cops and Coffee.”