Return to Magnolia Harbor

by Hope Ramsay

  She overheard their conversation—all about sailing—and suspected they were headed off to the yacht club.

  PopPop had been a lifelong member of the club, and his connections had helped her land the job as a lifeguard up there the summer of her junior year in high school. But she’d never really belonged to the yacht club set. The kids who hung around the pool were rich and spoiled. Caleb had been one of them.

  She’d gotten a bird’s eye view of Caleb that summer—enough to know that the Rutledge Raiders’ star running back considered himself a gift to all females, whether the females in question were interested or not.

  She never had been. But that hadn’t stopped him from following her into the deserted women’s locker room one afternoon and pressing his unwanted attentions on her.

  Thank goodness Mrs. Bauman had arrived unexpectedly. Of course the old biddy had misread the situation and scolded both of them for making out in the locker room. The woman had actually threatened to tell Jessica’s parents.

  But she’d never made good on that threat. Heck, the way Daddy would sometimes go on and on about the boys on that championship team, he might not have even cared that she was caught red-handed with one of them. And he certainly wouldn’t have believed or listened if she’d told him the truth.

  Daddy had once been a Rutledge Raider himself. And he was the team’s biggest booster. No. He wouldn’t have wanted to hear about Caleb’s behavior. And in the end, he didn’t care about the fact that the football team had started a rumor that had wrecked everything.

  When he’d heard those rumors, he’d chosen to believe them.

  And it was the height of irony that, months later, the boy who had attacked her in the locker room against her will was the very same one who had accosted her in the hallway outside her physics class and called her a slut for sleeping around with Colton St. Pierre.

  He’d pointed his finger at her while a group of other football players, Topher Martin among them, had stood by and laughed.

  And none of them had paid a price for their lies or their cruelty. They’d gotten away with it because they were members of a powerful and entitled group.

  Not much had changed. Caleb was still in a position of power over her. He sat on the design selection committee, along with Harry Bauman. And she wanted that commission more than anything.

  Harry, an avuncular old gentleman, waved at her as he came down the hall. “Jessica, I hear you’ve been a busy girl.”

  What was Harry talking about? What did he think she’d been busy doing? What were people gossiping about today? She hated it when people started conversations this way. It always made her feel left-footed and just a little out of sync.

  But she covered her worry by pasting a smile on her lips as she held up the cardboard tube containing her entry into the design competition. “I have been busy. Working on my entry for the City Hall design. Thought I’d drop it off myself a day early.”

  His eyes lit up. “Oh, good.” Harry turned toward Caleb. “You remember Jessica Blackwood, don’t you? She used to be a lifeguard up at the yacht club.”

  “I do.” Caleb gave her an oily smile as his gaze slid from the top of her head down to her not-very-expensive ballet flats. Why did this man make her feel so small and dirty? “So, do you work for an architectural firm in town?” he asked.

  She wanted to spit in his big blue eyes. “I have my own business. And we’re doing well. In fact, I just moved my company into new space above Daffy Down Dilly.” She delivered this line with forced innocence and enjoyed every moment of his surprised expression.

  She had stolen that office space away from him. Bobby Don Ayers down at Berkshire Hathaway had told her Caleb Tate had wanted the office above the boutique and wasn’t happy when she’d beaten him to the punch. Score one moral victory for her side.

  “Oh, that’s wonderful,” Harry said. “I’m glad business has been good for you.” He turned toward Caleb. “Jessica has been designing a lot of interesting houses in the area.”

  “Yes, I was the architect of the Akiyama house that was on last year’s house and garden tour,” she said in her best Southern-lady voice.

  “That’s the one that looks like a bird taking flight,” Harry said. “And speaking of birds, I’ve heard from several in the neighborhood that Topher Martin has hired you to design a house out on Lookout Island.”

  “I—”

  “Topher?” Caleb interrupted. “Topher is back in Magnolia Harbor?”

  “Yes. He is. He’s staying at Howland House,” Harry said.

  “Damn. I need to look that boy up,” Caleb said. “I heard he made billions after he gave up football.” As if Topher’s billions were all that mattered—probably because campaign contributions were Caleb Tate’s lifeblood.

  “Well, it was nice to see you again,” she said, and then edged away from the two men. She couldn’t get away from Caleb fast enough. “I’d like to get this into the clerk’s office as soon as possible.” She managed to sound confident as she held up the cardboard tube containing the architectural drawings.

  “Of course,” Harry said with a genuine smile. “Good luck. I’m always rooting for the hometown team.” He gave her a little wave and headed down the hall.

  Caleb straggled behind a bit, turning to look at her in a way that made her want to run away like a scared rabbit. But she held her ground and stared right back at him until he turned around and hurried after Harry.

  * * *

  Jessica walked down the crushed-shell path of the Howland House garden on Tuesday morning with her portfolio tucked under her arm. Her design concepts for Topher Martin’s house were finished, even if they were a bit on the sketchy side.

  She’d spent only four days on them, working all weekend and late into the night last night, but she still felt woefully unprepared. And she’d agreed to have this meeting on Topher’s territory, cognizant of the steep stairs up to her office above the boutique and still a little guilty for calling him out on his inability to scale the lighthouse stairs.

  But she’d taken care of that problem in her design, adding an elevator and turning the lighthouse into a castle-like tower at the corner of the house.

  The roses in Ashley Scott’s garden were alive with butterflies and bees as she headed toward Rose Cottage. The heavy scent hung in the moist, hot air, making the humidity seem a little worse than it was. Her hands were sweaty, and she wiped them on her graphite-gray sheath dress before knocking on the cottage door.

  She told herself she would do fine with this presentation. Her designs were unfinished, but she had made an earnest attempt to capture his vision of a castle at the mouth of the harbor.

  The door opened, and for a strange, timeless instant as their gazes met and held, a weird vertigo swept through her. Topher’s stare frightened her, but not because of the scars on his face. In truth, the fear was inexplicable. She couldn’t even put a name to the disquiet he created, but she pushed through it and forced herself not to look away from him.

  She would not let this rich, powerful man intimidate her. Last Thursday she’d stared down Caleb Tate; she could do the same with Topher Martin.

  “Hey,” he said, setting time in motion again.

  Only then did she notice how he’d cleaned himself up. The big, bushy beard had disappeared, replaced with a casually trimmed scruff that showed off the line of his jaw and the blades of his cheekbones. With the beard trimmed back, more of his scars showed through the stubble like silvery swirls across his tanned skin.

  Yes, that was different too. He looked sun kissed today, as if he’d been spending more time outside. And his crisply ironed linen shirt exposed a tanned neck and a few masculine hairs at the open neckline.

  “Morning,” she said.

  He turned his back on her and moved into the cottage’s sitting room. “Come in,” he said gruffly over his shoulder. “If you brought drawings, put them on the table.”

  He was used to giving commands, wasn’t he? She tried not to h
old it against him. As the CEO of a successful investment fund, he was probably used to having people jump to his every word.

  He strode past the small table into the kitchenette. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked in a tone that verged on civil.

  “No,” she said, even though her mouth was dry. But her hands were trembling, and she didn’t want to run the risk of spilling water over a long weekend’s worth of work.

  He kept his back turned as she laid her drawings on the table. “I thought we could start with the elevation,” she said, waiting.

  He finally turned and stepped closer, bringing his body heat with him, along with the scent of some kind of herbal soap. The aroma was deep and rich…and oddly pleasant. That knocked her sideways. She didn’t want to discover anything about Topher Martin that was pleasant.

  He leaned over the table and studied the rendering of his castle, showing not the slightest bit of emotion.

  Anxiety clutched at Jessica. She’d never had a client respond this way. Usually at this stage, the reaction was mixed. They’d like some things and want changes. But they never stood by stoic and silent and brooding.

  “The walls are…” He started but never finished the sentence.

  What? She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t, and his silence hung over her like a sword.

  Defensiveness sprang up in her like a fountain. “I checked the zoning restrictions for the island, and I’m precluded from putting up a sea wall. So instead, I borrowed the concept of a curtain wall from medieval castle design. Those walls will provide some protection against storm surge without disturbing the marine environment.

  “And of course they serve as wind breaks. Which, I believe, is what you said you wanted.”

  “Oh,” he said, but he didn’t sound excited or enthusiastic.

  “Why don’t I show you the plan view,” she said, pulling a few more drawings out of her portfolio and laying them on the table. “I’ve given you a great room with a vaulted ceiling here.” She pointed to the room on the drawing. “It’s the largest room in the house, with southern windows. They have storm shutters, of course. The master bedroom is here.” She tapped on the drawing.

  She’d purposefully roughed in some furniture. In the case of the bedroom, she’d drawn a circular bed like the one in the captain’s cabin on Bachelor’s Delight.

  “There are two more smaller bedrooms and an elevator in one of the spires to take you to an observation deck.” Again she pointed. “With the pool here, the observation deck, and an outside kitchen, I think you’ll be able to throw some fabulous parties.”

  When his silence continued, she ventured a look at him only to discover that he was staring at her, not even focused on the drawings.

  And that stare made every synapse in her body fire at the same moment. Was this fear or something else? Something so unwanted it frightened her. How could she find him attractive? How could she be drawn to him?

  He’d ruined her life with the stories he’d told of Colton’s drug use. He’d stood by the day Caleb Tate had publicly called her a slut. He was gruff and silent and damaged. And he was the kind of domineering person that Momma had married.

  She took a small step back, trying to escape the aura that had so utterly captured her attention. “Okay. So I’m getting the impression you don’t like these ideas,” she managed to croak.

  “Where on earth did you get the idea I wanted to throw parties out there?”

  “Well, um.” She took a deep breath. “I may have drawn some conclusions from your yacht. It looks like the quintessential party boat.”

  “My yacht?” He seemed utterly surprised.

  She nodded. “You know, the black leather, the gold faucets, the red bedspread in the captain’s quarters—”

  “You looked at the captain’s quarters?”

  She blushed for no reason at all. “I poked around below decks. Just to get a sense of your style.”

  His lips pressed together briefly before he asked, “And the castle walls?”

  “You said you wanted sea walls. You said you wanted…” She swallowed back the rest of her defense and took a deep breath. “Um, look. I’m sorry. You obviously don’t like these concepts. Maybe I should go.”

  She reached for the drawings, intent on putting them away and hiding them forever. But before she could shove any of them into her portfolio, he grabbed her by the wrist.

  His fingers were warm and just a little rough. They branded her skin in an oddly gentle way. He’d violated her space, and yet his touch wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

  Startled by her own reaction, she tried to pull away, but he held her firm for one exquisite moment. “Leave the drawings. But we need to—”

  “No!” She pulled her arm out of his grasp as her senses returned. She needed to protect herself. She needed to put distance between them.

  He let her go without a struggle, allowing her to pick up the portfolio and run for her life.

  Chapter Six

  Topher stood in the doorway of the cottage, watching Jessica run away as if escaping a monster.

  Which wasn’t far from the truth. His face was certainly hideous enough to be called monstrous, having been rearranged by shattered glass and shards of shrapnel. And he’d acted like a beast. He should never have touched her.

  He turned away from the door and returned to the table, where he stared at her renderings for a long moment.

  He’d asked for a big wall to keep the winds out, hadn’t he? And he’d told her that Granddad wanted a structure that would eclipse Howland House.

  She’d certainly given him all of that.

  He almost laughed out loud about the party house concept. Maybe he should have told her that Bachelor’s Delight had been purchased only a few months ago from one of his business partners—a swinger who’d partied like there was no tomorrow.

  Erik Sokal would have loved the party deck, but Topher had no desire to hold parties. Unless it was for a pack of children who wanted to swim in the cove, or play pirate in a bunch of dinghies, or sit around a campfire telling ghost stories about the old lighthouse keepers.

  No. He didn’t like her design because it wasn’t him. It was some other person he’d become. Someone he hardly recognized. The real Christopher Martin wanted nothing except to turn back time.

  He wanted to escape into those days before Granddad had died. Before he’d wrecked his knee before his sophomore year at Bama and ended his NFL dreams. Before the deer had appeared in the headlights. Before he’d swerved and ended up wrapped around a guardrail.

  He’d had it all once, and now…

  He wanted to ball up her drawings and throw them at something or someone. The fury was enough to leave him breathless, but he didn’t touch the papers. Let them sit there as a reminder of what he had become.

  He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Knowing that a house would never return Granddad or his innocence or his health, why was he so set on building one?

  Stubbornness?

  Maybe.

  Maybe he should give it up.

  The thought left him hollow. If he gave it up, then what? Would he live out the rest of his days in this cottage with Ashley and Sandra and Karen treating him like an invalid? Would he walk the streets of Magnolia Harbor, becoming a fixture that people would pity?

  He grunted a laugh. Maybe he could get a part-time job as a pirate impersonator on the daily cruises that left from the marina. With his bad leg, eye patch, and scars, he could probably scare the crap out of the little ones.

  He sank into the easy chair by the fireplace. How had it come to this? Living a life that belonged in an alternate universe.

  No. He pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. He would not become an object of pity or derision. He wanted a house on Lookout Island.

  And he wanted Jessica Blackwood as his architect because she’d actually tried to figure out what he wanted. She’d missed by a mile, but she’d paid attention.

  And she’d loo
ked him right in the eye.

  But how could he ever persuade her to come back to him? He had no clue, except that the first step would probably involve an apology. He picked up his cell phone and dialed her number.

  She didn’t answer. No surprise there.

  When her recorded voice finished its message, he said, “I’m sorry. I’m an asshole. Can we start over? Please? Call me.” He disconnected the line and let his head fall back against the easy chair.

  Would she call him back?

  Probably not.

  * * *

  Jessica ran through the rose garden as if her life depended on it. She didn’t think, just moved in a panic that left her dizzy and shaking by the time she reached the confines of her ancient Volkswagen.

  She fired up the engine and cranked the AC to full max, then peeled out of the parking lot, driving like a madwoman as she relived that moment, years ago, when Caleb Tate had cornered her in the locker room. That attack had started with him grabbing her by the wrist.

  She didn’t drive back to her office. Instead, she found herself on the road out of town, heading toward the Atlantic Ocean and the house she’d inherited from Momma. The house had belonged to Momma’s parents, MeeMaw and PopPop, who had been gone for more than a decade.

  She hadn’t been consciously going there, but it made sense. The place pulled her heart like a kite on a string because she’d always felt loved there. Not like Granny’s house in town, where she’d lived as a child with Momma and Daddy. At Granny’s house, she had to be careful not to spill the sugar or slosh the tea. At MeeMaw’s house, she baked cookies and went swimming and spent countless hours out on the porch drawing pictures of the ocean that her grandmother stuck up on the refrigerator.

  She pulled into the gravel drive, cut the engine, and rested her head on the steering wheel, trying to think of what came next. She’d turned in her City Hall design, and she’d just blown it with her only other client—a client she’d never been sure about. And maybe worst of all, her main go-to friend wanted to change the nature of their relationship.