A Month at the Shore

by Antoinette Stockenberg

  She sat back down at her father's desk and continued plugging away. She already had a list of Top Ten Dos for the Garden to pass out; but she wanted to include the Top Ten Don'ts. She composed at a feverish pace and didn't look up until the printer began spewing the pale green printed pages. She pulled one off the top and looked it over.

  1. Don't water your roses at night; you'll encourage blackspot.

  2. Don't plant your tulip bulbs in holes that are shallow; you won't get a second season of bloom.

  3. Don't use chemical pesticides if you want earthworms to make your soil rich. And bees to pollinate your flowers. And birds to feed on the seedpods.

  4. Don't plant sun-loving flowers anywhere where they can't get four to six hours of sun a day; they'll sulk and just won't bloom.

  Don't don't don't.

  Don't think about him.

  Don't think about yesterday.

  Don't think about his touch, his kiss, his vow to get to the bottom of the letter mystery.

  Don't.

  Laura proofread the rest of her tips and set the stack aside. Next up: tip sheets for her dried-flowers workshop. She was gratified that the class would be full. Twenty-one women—including Miss Widdich!—had paid the ten-dollar fee, which barely covered the cost of the supplies. It was part of doing business, and Laura understood that, but still. It would be awfully nice if they managed to come out of the week with anything close to a profit.

  No one ever promised you a rose garden, her mother used to say. It was kind of a family joke. But Laura needed success, money, and, yes, that rose garden, so she had gone off in search of the good life. She had found herself a city, a job; for a while, a man. But now, looking out the window at the bounty of the nursery and beyond it at the sea, she had to wonder whether she'd made the right choices in life, after all.

  Don't.

  She brushed away her doubts like aphids off a rose and got back to work, and she didn't look up from her laptop until she heard three easy raps on the open door to the den.

  He was standing there with his arms crossed and leaning against the doorjamb, big and broad-shouldered and looking about as un-geeky as a man can get. There was something about his smile—something in the anticipation she saw there—that made Laura feel it right down to her toes.

  Chapter 14

  "Welcome to our humble home," Laura said—and she wasn't just being modest.

  "It's a really nice old house. Good bones. I've never been in it before."

  "That's true." She left it at that.

  "All ready for your big day tomorrow?"

  "Is that why you're here? To find out?"

  "Nope."

  "I didn't think so," she admitted, almost rigid with awareness of him.

  He strolled over to where she was sitting. She watched him carefully, as conscious of his thick brown hair as she was of the threadbare brown fabric of her chair.

  She said, "Gee, you're not at work."

  "Banker's hours, remember?"

  "Oh, right. Whereas over here, we're working our buns off." She gave him a too-perky, too-tense smile and said, "Isn't that just the way?"

  "Is there anything I can do to help you?" he asked.

  Go away. Leave here. Vamoose. Before I forget everything I am and want to be and have to be. Beat it. Scat. Shoo.

  With unbending politeness, she declined his offer. "Thanks very much, but I think I have things under control. I'm certain of it, in fact."

  "Well ... good," he answered, but her tone was clearly throwing him off balance. He seemed unsure, suddenly, of how to proceed. He began fiddling with the pens and pencils that were stuffed in a chipped mug on the desk, rattling them until they all fit more upright.

  "I ... ah ... wanted you to know that, in the best tradition of Sherlock Holmes, I have figured out who wrote you that letter way back when."

  "Really! How did you do that so fast?"

  He said wryly, "I picked up the phone. It wasn't my father who wrote it, incidentally."

  "Ah. Your mother, then."

  " 'Fraid so. It was a surprise to me. It was my father who'd been on top of the situation. I can't remember my mother's reaction at all, other than an understandable sense of distress at seeing her kid with a split lip and a black eye."

  "Maybe she was afraid that I had designs on you."

  "Obviously she was afraid that you had designs on me," he said with disarming candor, then added, "You didn't, did you? By any chance?"

  The hopeful look on his face left Laura absolutely smitten. He was such a charming mix of cockiness and naïveté. She'd never known anyone like him.

  "Ken, I was thirteen years old," she said, trying not to smile.

  "I know. I know." He frowned and said, "You don't happen to remember anything from the letter you wrote, do you? Since you apparently memorized my mother's?"

  She could have lied and said no, but there was something satisfying about having the chance to let him know, at last, how grateful she'd felt all those years ago.

  "If I told you, your head would swell and you'd become stuck-up," she went as far as saying.

  "Me? Ha. I doubt it."

  Now it was her turn to sigh. She already knew him well enough to realize that arrogance wasn't part of his makeup. She'd had him pegged so wrong. All those years. So wrong.

  She owed him at least one apology. "The first time I saw you in town after I got that letter," she explained, "I saw your face turn all red when you spotted me. I figured that you were embarrassed by having got involved in such a foolish mission. So after that, I avoided you."

  "I had that feeling," he murmured. "And, boy, am I ever sorry to know I was right."

  He sat back against the edge of her desk and stroked her cheek in a cloud-soft caress. "If you hadn't run ... if you hadn't misinterpreted my red face ... would we maybe have gone to a movie together?" he asked, smiling.

  "I doubt it," she said, despite that look. Because it was true.

  "Might we have ... fooled around in the library stacks, maybe?"

  She laughed and said, "Without being caught by Mrs. Roberts? Not a chance."

  He rubbed his chin, then came up with yet another scenario. "If you had taken sailing lessons, we could have raced together—or even against one another. Heck, I'm easy: I would've let you win."

  She blinked. Was he really so oblivious to the differences in their lifestyles back then? "I don't recall that my parents ever belonged to the yacht club," she said dryly.

  "You didn't have to belong. Anyone local could have signed up for lessons."

  "For free?"

  "Well—not for free."

  "Then I wouldn't have signed up. I wouldn't have signed up, anyway, Ken. We were not only dirt poor—literally—but we worked very long hours."

  "Ah. Like now."

  "Oh, we're not that poor, anymore," she quipped.

  He laughed and said, "Okay, I can take a hint; I'll get out of your hair. I know everything's riding on this week. I liked your ad in the Herald, by the way: 'Visit us again for the first time.' Very nice."

  "Thank you, sir," she said, ridiculously pleased that he'd noticed. She stood up to walk him to the door. It was the least she could do, since he'd stopped by specifically to clear up the mystery of the purloined letter.

  "How did you know where to find me?" she asked on their way out. She wanted him to say "by telepathy," so that she could take it as some kind of sign.

  But he didn't. "I went to the shop, and Corinne gave me precise instructions: down the hall after the kitchen; second left is the office."

  "Well ... thanks for letting me know that you've cracked the case. I hope there wasn't a dust-up over this," she added, but not with much conviction. How could his mother have done something like that? It was so deeply offensive to know the truth.

  "The dust-up is yet to come," he said, suddenly grim. "I see my mother later."

  Laura winced, and he said, "Don't worry. No blood will be shed in the slaying of this illusion."r />
  "I'm glad to hear it. It was a long time ago."

  At the front door, he seemed reluctant to go, which pleased Laura much too much.

  He said, "You know, the town's really abuzz about you and Snack coming back and pitching in to put the place in order. The Shore kids, together again—everyone's intrigued. I think the citizens of Chepaquit are really rooting for the nursery to stay in business."

  "Maybe they'll actually give us some, then. That would be nice."

  Part of her hated to see him leave. The other part was holding her breath until he did.

  Suddenly she blurted, "Will you be dropping by tomorrow?"

  God in heaven! Where had that come from?

  "Wild horses couldn't keep me. I'd bring you a good-luck plant for your grand reopening, but I guess you've got that base pretty well covered. On the other hand," he said softly, "maybe this will get my point across."

  He bent his head down and kissed her, a long, lingering kiss that sent a warm, delicious thrill through her. She wanted to pull away, but couldn't make herself do it.

  "Point ... well taken," she whispered against his lips.

  He kissed her again, lightly this time. "Good luck. See ya tomorrow."

  He turned and took the steps quickly, and Laura had to make herself close the screen door and not look as if she were memorizing the man as he left.

  She moved out of view and, leaning against the nearest wall, hugged herself. He had come there just to see her: Kendall Barclay, ex-knight, there to see Laura Shore, ex-wench-in-distress. He had done exactly what he said he'd do: got to the bottom of the false letter. And not only that, but he seemed truly interested in coming back.

  The only question was: why?

  ****

  At dawn the next morning, Corinne did not have to go around banging on bedroom doors; Snack and Laura were up, dressed, and ready to go. The air was so thick with anticipation that it was obvious to all of them when they'd last shared that feeling together.

  "Christmas mornings," said Laura. "Remember how we'd sneak down in the dark, and so would Mom, and we'd all have hot chocolate together before Dad got up?"

  "Do I," said Snack with an uncharacteristically nostalgic sigh. "I still can't smell hot chocolate without thinking of ribbons and tags."

  "Hey, I know! Let's have some, just like the old days," Corinne said in the middle of frying bacon. "I think I have a can of cocoa around somewhere."

  Snack laughed and paddled his clown nose with his open hand, dancing nimbly around the kitchen to keep the game going. "What're you, nuts? It's already seventy degrees out; it's Memorial Day, not Christmas Day," he said, keeping his eye on the bouncing nose.

  "So what? I won't make it super-hot. It'll be ceremonial."

  "I'll make it," Laura said, surprised by her own enthusiasm for the idea. She found that she was aching for that connection to her past, to her mother, to all the good things that were and might have been. She began rummaging through the cupboards for the cocoa.

  "Someone said that there was a huge crowd at the opening ceremonies down at the gazebo yesterday," Corinne told her. "Huge."

  "Because the weather's been so unbelievably nice."

  "But we don't want it to be too hot, or no one will come."

  "It's never too hot to buy the plants; just too hot to plant the plants."

  "I don't know why I'm worrying; the way the morning feels, we'll have a sea breeze for sure. There's no better place to be than Shore Gardens on a hot day; we catch every whiff of air."

  "Tell that to people on the Vineyard."

  "Oh, well—the Vineyard."

  "And Nantucket. And Block Island. Not to mention Cuttyhunk. People on the islands all have cooler breezes than ours."

  "Oh, what do they know?" Corinne said, dismissing them with a wave of her spatula. "They all live in Boston and New York most of the year, anyway."

  "Whereas you, my little townie, get to live here all year long," Laura acknowledged.

  At that moment, in that kitchen, with a breeze beginning to lift the new sheer curtains that she had bought on impulse, Laura could easily believe that Corinne Shore was the luckiest girl on earth. "Just make sure you never give up this day job," she said, patting her sister's fanny with a wooden spoon.

  Corinne bumped hips with her and smiled. "Not a chance ... now."

  Ten minutes later, they were sitting down to a farmer's breakfast that was designed to carry them through the day: oatmeal, bacon, eggs, biscuits, juice, and fruit, all served in heaping abundance by the maternal one among them.

  But it was Laura who carried the cups of hot chocolate to the table, Laura who raised their mother's angel mug in a toast.

  "To the Three Musketeers of Shore Gardens," she said, tapping each of the others' mugs in turn.

  "One for all," Corinne added, "and all for one."

  Snack lifted his clown nose high above his head and squeaked it twice. "Hear, hear."

  They sipped in unison. It was a moment as happy, as hopeful, and as selfless as any that Laura had experienced in her life. In a burst of pride and flush with newfound emotion, she said, "I love you guys, you know that?"

  Corinne smiled and said simply, "Sure we do."

  Snack groaned and rolled his eyes. "You had to go and get mushy."

  Grinning, Laura said, "You love us too. Admit it."

  "Do not."

  "Do too."

  "Do not."

  "Do too."

  He let Laura have the last word, and that made her feel warm and gratified.

  After breakfast, the others went out, and Laura cleaned up the dishes humming a tune. On the family front, life was good. Snack had evolved, during the weeks that they had spent together. He was drinking so much less now. His moods still shifted wildly, of course; he'd never tolerated frustration very well, and that was unlikely to change. But he smiled more easily, and the little boy popped out often from behind the brooding gaze.

  If he could find a good woman, Snack would be all set.

  As for Corinne, it looked as if she may have found her man, and wouldn't you know? It was the boy right next door.

  Despite her low expectations about men in general, Laura's fingers were crossed for her sister. It was heartening to see that Gabe had begun hanging around the nursery during the late afternoons, lending a hand, helping Corinne with stock. Laura sometimes heard them laughing together in the greenhouses, the kind of laugh that has a flirty, sexy edge to it. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that one out.

  Laura was also relieved that Gabe and Snack had apparently patched it up, although she had no idea which of the two had made the first move. Knowing men—neither. Probably the two of them had simply decided to behave as if the near-fight had never happened.

  She was able so easily to imagine all of them gathered together at their farmhouse on the hill during holidays, laughing, eating, getting along. That was the most important part of her idyll: that they be getting along. If they were able to do that, they'd be the first in a generation. (Their murderous Uncle Norbert most likely hadn't been very good company, and all of them knew personally what his brother had been like.)

  It had begun to hit Laura that it was time—past the time, really—for the Shore sisters to marry, to have children, to begin renewing the Chepaquit branch of the clan. Hopefully, Corinne would do just that.

  As for Laura ...

  She thought of Max, but not with any sadness, because the idea of having children with him had somehow never been compelling. It was the first time that Laura had admitted it to herself, and she experienced a sudden, sharp feeling of grief: for the children that she never wanted to have with Max.

  What was wrong with her? Was she missing a maternal gene or something? All of her adult life, her one desire had been to be financially and emotionally independent. Given her mother's situation, it seemed a logical goal.

  But now, suddenly, here she was, obsessing about her biological clock! Of all the irrelevant daydreams! />
  It was all Ken's fault. He was playing havoc with her emotions; messing with her head. Or her heart. She wasn't sure which.

  She tried to tell herself that her attraction to him was nothing more than a dramatic rebound from Max. Or that she was working through a leftover teenage crush. Or even that she was being insecure and vindictive and trying to get back at Ken's mother by seducing her son. She was ready to buy any theory except the scary one: that she might genuinely be falling for the guy.

  No way. Clearly the answer had to be a, b, or c.

  Methodically, Laura put away the iron frying pan and drained and scrubbed the sink. Today was not about Ken. Today was about Shore Gardens, and pleasing the customers enough to make certain that they'd come back.

  Was that so hard?

  She could do that.

  Chapter 15

  Their first customer was an hour early and came with her own carload of plants: Miss Widdich had agreed to sell Shore Gardens eight dozen herbs to bolster their already depleted stock.

  Laura was impressed by the robust health of Miss Widdich's plants; their roots were punching their way out of the waterholes in the three-inch pots. Nonetheless, she felt uneasy about buying from the woman; she didn't know why.

  Corinne pooh-poohed her reluctance. "It's not as if we need FDA approval of the plants, for Pete's sake. They're plants."

  Interestingly, Snack had even greater reservations than Laura. "We don't know what kind of hybrids the old lady's created. Just because she says something is tarragon—"

  Corinne was getting in a snit by now. "Well, at least we know it's not marijuana," she said as she added the new arrivals to their stock on an outside table. "I saw enough of your plants to be able to tell the difference."

  Taken aback, Snack said, "How did you know I used to grow weed?"

  "Please. The things towered six feet into the air. You couldn't exactly miss them."