by Tessa Bailey
Daniel sighed in the wake of Hannah’s trailed-off question. “My investor is demanding a show of contrition for what you did, Piper. He’s a self-made man like me and would like nothing more than to stick it to me over my spoiled, rich-kid daughter.” Piper flinched, but he didn’t see it because he was scanning the contents of the file. “Normally I would tell anyone who demanded something from me to fuck off . . . but I can’t ignore my gut feeling that you need to learn to fend for yourself for a while.”
“What do you mean by”—Piper did air quotes again—“‘fend’?”
“I mean you’re getting out of your comfort zone. I mean you’re going to Westport.”
Hannah’s mouth dropped open.
Piper shot forward. “Wait. What? For how long? What am I supposed to do there?” She turned her panicked gaze on Hannah. “Does Mom know about this?”
“Yes,” Maureen said from the office doorway. “She knows.”
Piper whimpered into her wrist.
“Three months, Pipes. You can make it that long. And I hope you would do it without hesitation, considering I’ll maintain my film budget by making these amends.” Daniel came around the desk and dropped the manila folder into Piper’s lap. She stared at it like one might a scuttling cockroach. “There is a small apartment above the bar. I’ve called ahead to make sure it’s cleaned. I’m setting up a debit account to get you started, but after that . . .” Oh, he looked way too pleased. “You’re on your own.”
Mentally listing all of the galas and fashion shows that would happen over the course of three whole months, Piper got to her feet and sent her mother a pleading look. “Mom, you’re really going to let him send me away?” She was reeling. “What am I supposed to do? Like, fish for a living? I don’t even know how to make toast.”
“I’m confident you’ll figure it out,” Maureen said softly, her expression sympathetic but firm. “This will be good for you. You’ll see. You might even learn something about yourself.”
“No.” Piper shook her head. Didn’t last night yield the revelation that she was good for nothing but partying and looking hot? She didn’t have the survival skills for a life outside of these gates. But she could cope with that as long as everything stayed familiar. Out there, her ineptitude, her uselessness, would be glaring. “I—I’m not going.”
“Then I’m not paying your legal fees,” Daniel said reluctantly.
“I’m shaking,” Piper whispered, holding up a flat, quaking hand. “Look at me.”
Hannah threw an arm around her sister. “I’m going with her.”
Daniel did a double take. “What about your job? I pulled strings with Sergei to get you a coveted spot with the production company.”
At the mention of Sergei, Hannah’s long-standing crush, Piper felt her sister’s split second of indecision. For the last year, the youngest Bellinger had been pining for the broody Hollywood upstart whose debut film, Nobody’s Baby, had taken the Palme d’Or at Cannes. Most of the ballads constantly blaring from Hannah’s room could be attributed to her deep infatuation.
Her sister’s solidarity made Piper’s throat feel tight, but there was no way she’d allow her sins to banish her favorite person to Westport, too. Piper herself wasn’t even resigned to going yet. “Daniel will change his mind,” she whispered out of the side of her mouth to Hannah. “It’ll be fine.”
“I will not,” Daniel boomed, looking offended. “You leave at the end of July.”
Piper did a mental count. “That’s, like, only a few weeks from now!”
“I’d tell you to use the time to tie up your affairs, but you don’t have any.”
Maureen made a sound. “I think that’s enough, Daniel.” With a face full of censure, she corralled the stunned sisters out of the room. “Come on. Let’s take some time to process.”
The three Bellinger women ascended the stairs together, climbing up to the third floor where Hannah’s and Piper’s bedrooms waited on opposite sides of the carpeted hall. They drifted into Piper’s room, settling her on the edge of the bed, and then stepped back to observe her as if they were medical students being asked to make a diagnosis.
Hands on knees, Hannah analyzed her face. “How are you doing, Piper?”
“Can you really not get him to change his mind, Mom?” Piper croaked.
Maureen shook her head. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” Her mother fell onto the bed beside her, taking her limp hand. For long moments, she was quiet, clearly gearing up for something. “I think part of the reason I didn’t fight Daniel very hard on sending you to Westport is . . . well, I have a lot of guilt for keeping so much of your real father to myself. I was in so much pain for a long time. Bitter, too. And I bottled it all up, neglecting his memory in the process. That wasn’t right of me.” Her eyelids drifted down. “To go to Westport . . . is to meet your father, Piper. He is Westport. There’s so much more history . . . still living in that town than you know. That’s why I couldn’t stay after he died. He was surrounding me . . . and I was just so angry over the unfairness of it all. Not even my parents could get through to me.”
“How long did they stay in Westport after you left?” Hannah asked, referring to the grandparents who visited them on occasion, though the visits had grown few and far between as the sisters got older. When Daniel officially adopted Piper and Hannah, their grandparents hadn’t seemed comfortable with the whole process, and the contact between them and Maureen had faded in degrees, even if they still spoke on holidays and birthdays.
“Not long. They bought the ranch in Utah shortly after. Far from the water.” Maureen looked down at her hands. “The magic had gone out of the town for all of us, I think.”
Piper could understand her mother’s reasoning. Could sympathize with the guilt. But her entire life was being uprooted for a man she didn’t know. Twenty-four years had gone by without a single word about Henry Cross. Her mother couldn’t expect her to jump all over the opportunity now because she’d decided it was time to dump the guilt.
“This isn’t fair,” Piper groaned, falling backward on her bed, upsetting her ecru Millesimo bedsheets. Hannah sprawled out beside her, throwing an arm over Piper’s stomach.
“It’s only three months,” Maureen said, rising and floating from the room. Just before she walked out, she turned back, hand poised on the doorframe. “Word to the wise, Piper. The men in Westport . . . they’re not what you’re used to. They’re unpolished and direct. Capable in a way the men of your acquaintance . . . aren’t.” Her gaze grew distant. “Their job is dangerous and they don’t care how much it scares you, they go back to the sea every time. They’ll always choose it over a woman. And they’d rather die doing what they love than be safe at home.”
The uncharacteristic gravity in Maureen’s tone glued Piper to the bed. “Why are you telling me this?”
Her mother lifted a delicate shoulder. “That danger in a man can be exciting to a woman. Until it’s not anymore. Then it’s shattering. Just keep that in mind if you feel . . . drawn in.”
Maureen seemed like she wanted to say more, but she tapped the doorframe twice and went, leaving the two sisters staring after her.
Piper reached back for a pillow and handed it to Hannah. “Smother me with this. Please. It’s the humane thing to do.”
“I’m coming with you to Westport.”
“No. What about your job? And Sergei?” Piper exhaled. “You have good things happening here, Hanns. I’ll find a way to cope.” She gave Hannah a mock serious face. “They must have sugar daddies in Westport, right?”
“I’m definitely going with you.”
Chapter Four
Brendan Taggart was the first Westport resident to spot the women.
He heard a car door slam out by the curb and slowly turned on the barrel that passed as a seat in No Name. His bottle of beer paused halfway to his mouth, the loud storytelling and music filling the bar fading away.
Through the grubby window, Brendan watched the pair exit on oppo
site sides of a taxi and immediately wrote them off as clueless tourists who obviously had the wrong address.
That is, until they started hauling suitcases out of the trunk. Seven, to be exact.
He grunted. Sipped his beer.
They were a ways off the beaten path. There wasn’t an inn for several blocks. On top of misjudging their destination, they were dressed for the beach at night, during a late-summer rain, no umbrella to speak of—and visibly confounded by their surroundings.
It was the one in the floppy hat who caught his eye right away, purely because she looked the most ridiculous, a lipstick-shaped purse dangling from her forearm, wrists limp and drawn up to her shoulders, as if she was afraid to touch something. She tilted her head back and gazed up at the building and laughed. And that laugh turned into what looked like a sob, though he couldn’t hear it through the music and pane of glass.
As soon as Brendan noticed the way the rain was molding the dress to Floppy Hat’s tits, he glanced away quickly, going back to what he’d been doing before. Pretending to be interested in Randy’s overboard story, even though he’d heard it eighty goddamn times.
“The sea was boiling that day,” Randy said, in a voice equivalent to scrap metal being crushed. “We’d already hit our quota and then some, thanks to the captain over here.” He saluted Brendan with his frothy pint. “And there I was, on a deck slipperier than a duck’s ass, picturing the bathtub full of cash I’d be swimming in when we got home. We’re hauling in the final pot, and there it was, the biggest crab in the damn sea, the motherfucking grandpappy of all crabs, and he tells me with his beady little eyes that he ain’t going down without a fight. Noooo, sir.”
Randy propped a leg up on the stool he’d been sitting on earlier, his craggy features arranged for maximum drama. He’d been working on Brendan’s boat longer than Brendan had been captaining it. Had seen more seasons than most of the crew combined. At the end of each one, he threw himself a retirement party. And then he showed up for the next season like clockwork, having spent every last dime of last year’s take.
“When I tell you that sucker wrapped a leg around the arm of my slicker, right through the pot, the mesh, all of it, I’m not lying. He was hell-bent for leather. Time froze, ladies and gentlemen. The captain is yelling at me to haul in the pot, but hear me now, I was bamboozled. That crab put a spell on me—I’m telling you. And that’s when the wave hit, conjured by the crab himself. Nobody saw it coming, and just like that, I was tossed into the drink.”
The man who was like a grandfather to Brendan took a pause to drain half his beer.
“When they pulled me in . . .” He exhaled. “That crab was nowhere to be found.”
The two people in the crowded bar who hadn’t already heard the legend laughed and applauded—and that was the moment Floppy Hat and the other one decided to make their entrance. Within seconds, it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop, and that didn’t surprise Brendan one bit. Westport was a tourist stop to be sure, but they didn’t get a lot of outsiders stumbling into No Name. It was an establishment that couldn’t be found on Yelp.
Mainly because it was illegal.
But it wasn’t only the shock of non-locals walking in and disrupting their Sunday-night bullshit session. No, it was the way they looked. Especially Floppy Hat, who walked in first, hitting the easy energy of the room with shock paddles. In her short, loose dress and sandals that wrapped around her calves, she could have stepped out of the pages of a fashion magazine for all those . . . tight lines and smooth curves.
Brendan could be objective about that.
His brain could point out an attractive woman without him caring one way or the other.
He set his beer down on the windowsill and crossed his arms, feeling a flash of annoyance at everyone’s stupefied expressions. Randy had rolled out the red carpet in the form of his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and the rest of the men were mentally preparing marriage proposals, by the look of it.
“Little help with the luggage, Pipes?” called the second girl from the entrance, where she’d propped open the door with a hip, struggling under the weight of a suitcase.
“Oh!” Floppy Hat whirled around, pink climbing the sides of her face—and hell, that was some face. No denying it, now that there wasn’t a dirty windowpane distorting it. Those were the kind of baby blues that made men sign their life away, to say nothing of that wide, stubborn upper lip. The combination rendered her guileless and seductive at the same time, and that was trouble Brendan wanted no part of. “Sorry, Hanns.” She winced. “I’ll go get the rest—”
“I’ll get them,” at least nine men said at once, tripping over themselves to reach the door. One of them took the suitcase from Floppy Hat’s companion, while several others lunged into the rain, getting stuck side by side in the doorway. Half of those jackasses were on Brendan’s crew, and he almost disowned them right then and there.
Within seconds—although not without some familiar bickering—all seven suitcases were piled in the middle of the bar, everyone standing around them expectantly. “What gentlemen! So polite and welcoming,” Floppy Hat crooned, hugging her bizarre handbag to her chest. “Thank you!”
“Yes, thanks,” said the second girl quietly, drying the rain off her face with the sleeve of a UCLA sweatshirt. Los Angeles. Of course. “Uh, Pipes?” She turned in a circle, taking in their surroundings. “Are you sure this is the right place?”
In response to her friend’s question, she seemed to notice where she was standing for the first time. Those eyes grew even bigger as she catalogued the interior of No Name and the people occupying it. Brendan knew what she was seeing, and already he resented the way she recoiled at the dust on the mismatched seats, the broken floorboards, the ancient fishing nets hanging from the rafters. The disappointment in the downturned corners of her mouth spoke volumes. Not good enough for you, baby? There’s the door.
With prim movements, Pipes—keeper of ridiculous names and purses—snapped the handbag open and drew out a jewel-crusted phone, tapping the screen with a square red nail. “Is this . . . sixty-two North Forrest Street?”
A chorus of yeses greeted the strangled question.
“Then . . .” She turned to her friend, chest expanding on quick breaths. “Yes.”
“Oh,” responded UCLA, before she cleared her throat, pasting a tense smile on a face that was pretty in a much subtler way than Pipes’s. “Um . . . sorry about the awkward entrance. We didn’t know anyone was going to be here.” She shifted her weight in boots that wouldn’t be good for anything but sitting down. “I’m Hannah Bellinger. This is my sister, Piper.”
Piper. Not Pipes.
Not that it was much of an improvement.
The floppy hat came off, and Piper shook out her hair, as if they were in the middle of a photo shoot. She gave everyone a sheepish smile. “We own this place. Isn’t that crazy?”
If Brendan thought their entrance had produced silence, it was nothing compared to this.
Owned this place?
No one owned No Name. It had been vacant since he was in grade school.
Originally, the locals had pooled their money to stock the place with liquor and beer, so they’d have a place to come to escape the tourists during a particularly hellish summer. A decade had passed since then, but they’d kept coming, the regulars taking turns collecting dues once a week to keep the booze flowing. Brendan didn’t make it over too often, but he considered No Name to be theirs. All of theirs. These two out-of-towners walking in and claiming ownership didn’t sit right at all.
Brendan liked routine. Liked things in their place. These two didn’t belong, especially Piper, who noticed him glowering and had the nerve to send him a pinky wave.
Randy drew her attention away from Brendan with a baffled laugh. “How’s that now? You own No Name?”
Hannah stepped up beside her sister. “That’s what you call it?”
“Been calling it that for years,” Randy confirmed.
One of Brendan’s deckhands, Sanders, disentangled himself from his wife and came forward. “Last owner of this place was a Cross.”
Brendan noticed the slight tremor that passed through Piper at the name.
“Yes,” Hannah said hesitantly. “We’re aware of that.”
“Ooh!” Piper started scrolling through her phone again at the speed of light. “There’s a custodian named Tanner. Our stepdad has been paying him to keep this place clean.” Though her smile remained in place, her gaze crawled over the distinctly not clean bar. “Has he . . . been on vacation?”
Irritation snuck up the back of Brendan’s neck. This was a proud town of long-standing traditions. Where the hell did this rich girl get off waltzing in and insulting his lifelong friends? His crew?
Randy and Sanders traded a snort. “Tanner is over there,” Sanders said. The crowd parted to reveal their “custodian” slumped over the bar, passed out. “He’s been on vacation since two thousand and eight.”
Everyone in the bar hoisted their beers and laughed at the joke, Brendan’s own lips twitching in amusement, even though his annoyance hadn’t ebbed. Not even a little bit. He retrieved his bottle of beer from the windowsill and took a pull, keeping his eyes on Piper. She seemed to feel his attention on her profile, because she turned with another one of those flirtatious smiles that definitely shouldn’t have caused a hot nudge in his lower body, especially considering he’d already decided he didn’t care for her.
But then her gaze snagged on the wedding band he still wore around his ring finger—and she promptly looked away, her posture losing its playfulness.
That’s right. Take it somewhere else.
“I think I can clear up the confusion,” Hannah said, rubbing at the back of her neck. “Our father . . . was Henry Cross.”
Shock drew Brendan’s eyebrows together. These girls were Henry Cross’s daughters? Brendan was too young to remember the man personally, but the story of Henry’s death was a legend, not unlike Randy’s evil crab story. It was uttered far less often lest it produce bad luck, whispered between the fishermen of Westport after too much liquor or a particularly rough day on the sea when the fear had taken hold.