Finally, he found a spot he thought looked right. “I think this is it. See the way the shoreline curves, an equal distance between us and the lighthouse?”
He stood behind her and rested one hand on her shoulder, pointing down the beach with the other. When he spoke, his warm breath fanned her cheek, a sharp contrast to the chilly spray coming off the sea. Jean was so distracted by his nearness, she couldn’t answer for a moment.
“I think it’s the spot, too. Or close enough,” she said quietly.
He stepped back and checked the settings on one of the cameras that hung from a strap around his neck. Then he lifted the viewfinder to his eye. He seemed in a trance after that, the shutter clicking rapidly as he moved closer, then farther. He crouched, knelt down and stood up again, and even walked into the foamy edge of the rushing tide.
Jean watched him but didn’t speak, afraid to break the spell. After a few moments, she walked back to the jetty and carefully walked out, selecting each stone to step on and then the next. The way she had as a child, calculating her moves as if playing a giant game of checkers.
Before she realized it, she had walked more than halfway out. The pile of stones began to narrow and waves slapped on either side. Sudden bursts of spray rose up like fountains. She knew her coat and even her hair were getting wet but she didn’t care.
She tipped her head back to watch the sea birds that cackled and cawed above. Or floated in lazy loops then dove into the water and swooped up again, tidbits of fish dangling from their orange beaks.
Jean watched them, studying the graceful curve of their bodies and wings, filing the images away for some future time, a drawing or a painting perhaps. She heard Grant shout her name and turned suddenly, nearly losing her balance. She realized he must have been calling for a while. She had either been lost in her thoughts or the wind had carried his voice away.
He smiled and began to walk toward her. She began to walk toward him, too. With a short distance between them, he picked up his camera and began taking photos. Jean stopped in her tracks and waved her hand at him. “Please don’t do that. I hate being photographed. I don’t need any pictures taken of me. Honestly.”
“Of course you do. It’s a perfect shot. You look so free out here, just you and the sky and the water. It’s beautiful.”
She stopped in her tracks and crossed her arms over her chest. “I mean it. Will you please just stop? I look like a windblown mess.”
At the words, her hair tie burst and her long hair, wavy from the mist, whipped across her face. She pushed it back with her hand to find Grant very close, still taking photos. Then, suddenly, he tucked the camera in his jacket, reached out, and brushed her hair off her face, his palm lingering there, cupping her cheek.
“Windblown, yes. But definitely not a mess. Just the opposite, I’d say.” His tone was quiet but decisive, his face very close. Jean wanted to speak but the words got stuck in her throat.
With one hand resting on her waist, his dark head dipped down and he kissed her. Softly at first, then deepening as she responded to his touch. His lips tasted salty, like the sea, but felt warm and soft.
She wasn’t sure how long they stood there. A big wave crashed on the rocks where they stood. Grant pulled her close and turned his back to the water, shielding her from the worst. As quickly as the wave had risen up, it washed away.
Jean pulled back from his embrace. “Your cameras. I hope they didn’t get wet.”
“No worries, I tucked them into my jacket. They’ll be fine. But I think the tide is coming in. We’d better get back to dry land before we’re washed away.” He took her hand and they headed down the jetty to the beach.
Jean’s mind was spinning on the ride back. She didn’t know what to think. Was this the start of something? Was he really attracted to her—or just taking advantage of a romantic moment? Which it most certainly had been. One she would replay in her mind later, when she was alone.
Grant was as talkative as he had been on the ride out, acting as if nothing at all had changed between them. “I got some good shots of the shoreline. I think your mother will be pleased. I won’t fuss over the prints. I’ll make her some eight-by-tens when I get back to Vera’s and bring them with me tomorrow.”
“That sounds great. My mother couldn’t ask for faster service than that.”
“She might ask,” he said, a teasing light in his eye. “But she wouldn’t find it.”
Jean laughed. He already knew her mother well, didn’t he?
When they returned, Jean thought Grant would drop her off and be on his way. But he parked and walked back into the house with her.
“I want to tell your mom that I think I found the spot and will bring the prints tomorrow,” he explained.
Jean didn’t mind him coming in at all and considered inviting him for dinner. Then decided that would be too much. After all, it was only a kiss. She didn’t want to seem too eager and overwhelmed by his attention.
As they hung up their jackets, Reverend Ben walked into the hallway from the direction of her mother’s room. He smiled at them, looking pleased for some mysterious reason. “Did you have a nice walk?”
“Very nice,” Jean replied. “Grant took a lot of photos that will help Mom finish her painting. How is she doing?”
“She’s fine. We went back to the studio and looked over her ornaments. They’re wonderfully creative. I’m sure they’ll be the hit of the fair,” he said. “Then she felt a little tired. She’s in the bedroom, taking a nap.”
Before Jean could reply, she heard her mother call out. “I’m awake now. I’d like some help getting out of bed, please.”
Reverend Ben turned to go back to the bedroom, but Jean touched his arm. “I think you’ve stayed long enough, Reverend. I appreciate you keeping her company.”
He smiled and patted her hand. “Anytime, Jean, anytime. You just call me. I always enjoy chatting with your mother.”
He slipped on his jacket and headed out as Cynthia called, “I’m still waiting.”
“Coming, Mom. Just a second . . .”
“I’ll wait here. Maybe she’d like some privacy,” Grant said. “Call if you need help.”
Jean thought that was wise. She could tell from her mother’s tone that she had woken up in a bad mood.
“There you are. Finally.” Cynthia was sitting up in bed, her oxygen tubes dangling around her neck. She had obviously pulled them out of her nose, though Jean suspected she could use the help breathing.
Jean sat on the edge of her bed. “Are you all right? Reverend Ben said you got tired.”
Her mother shrugged. “He’s a good man, but small talk wears me out after a while. I wish you hadn’t left me alone like that. You said you’d be right back. You were gone for hours.”
Jean had already checked the time on the way back and knew for certain she had only been out a little over an hour. “Grant took some very good photos for you. He’s going to make prints tonight and bring them tomorrow.”
Her mother’s sour expression didn’t alter. “Is he still here? I think he should go. It’s almost dinnertime. I don’t want any more company today. I’ve had enough of that.”
“Yes, of course. He wanted to speak to you, but I’ll tell him you’re tired. You can talk to him tomorrow.”
“Please do. Can you fix the pillows behind my back? I’d like to read a little while you’re making dinner. I don’t think I want to get up, after all.”
Jean leaned over and fixed the pillows the way her mother liked. “I can bring your dinner in here if you’re too tired to eat at the table.”
Her mother had already opened a book and found her place. She glanced at Jean over the edge of her reading glasses. “Maybe . . . I don’t know how I’ll feel from one minute to the next.”
Jean didn’t know how to reply. If her mother was trying to make her feel guilty for
going out, she was doing a good job.
“I’ll make your dinner. I’ll cook something fast,” she added. She left her mother and found Grant in the living room, sitting in an armchair.
“How is she? Did she survive being babysat by the reverend?”
“Just barely. Or maybe she’s just acting that way.”
“If she’s mad at you, it’s my fault. I wrangled you away and then stayed out too long. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”
Jean was touched by his gallant intentions. “It’s not your fault. She would have complained if we were gone fifteen minutes. Sometimes there’s really no pleasing her,” she added honestly.
His warm brown eyes met hers, his gaze thoughtful. “Maybe not, but you’re a very good daughter to try so hard. I’m sorry she’s out of sorts. I hope it was worth it?”
Jean felt herself blush and didn’t know how to answer.
“So, what’s the verdict? Did you have fun?”
She tried not to smile but couldn’t help it. “Yes, I did. I must admit, I did have fun with you, Grant Keating.”
He looked very pleased by her reply, and as his gaze locked with hers for a long moment, she had the feeling he was going to kiss her again.
Her mother’s voice rang out from the bedroom. “Jean? Is Grant still here? I thought you were going to start dinner.”
“He’s just leaving, Mom. Dinner will be ready soon.”
Grant headed for the front door. “She still has excellent hearing, all things considered,” he whispered.
“Yes, she does. Remember that,” Jean whispered back, a hint of laughter in her tone.
She walked him to the door and watched as he ran down to his truck, jumped behind the wheel, and drove away.
Jean turned and headed for the kitchen. It was a little early to start dinner, even in their house. Jean wasn’t hungry yet and decided to fix something quick for her mother and have a bite by herself later. Her mother obviously wanted to eat and go to sleep. She had tired herself out today, maybe by starting to paint again. Or her visit with Reverend Ben. Or fussing over Jean’s outing with Grant, despite her claims of being perfectly able to stay on her own.
Jean heated some leftover chicken in the oven and worked on a salad. Her thoughts turned to Grant. Did he really care for her, or did he just enjoy charming any woman—or two—he might encounter in his travels? An inner voice cautioned to keep her guard up. To be wary of a man who was obviously a rambler, rootless and resistant to commitments.
While another voice, a voice in her heart, encouraged her to let go and follow her feelings. She had been married once, in her twenties, and had been in a few serious relationships since. But Jean could barely recall feeling this drawn to anyone. The more time she spent with Grant, the stronger the urge to follow this attraction wherever it might lead.
Chapter Eight
Darrell was on his way home late Wednesday afternoon when he realized that he had forgotten to stop at Village Hall to prod the building inspector again about visiting the Turner house. And he had promised his father that he would. He had just finished working at the Prentiss renovation and had made the rounds of the other jobs, too, to check the day’s progress. It was already five o’clock, and he doubted that he would catch Inspector Hepburn in his office. The village employees were notorious for leaving at five on the dot. But he turned the truck down Main Street anyway. At least he could tell his father that he tried.
Village Hall was quiet and looked deserted. But back in the building department, Darrell found an assistant still at his desk. Just as Darrell had expected, the inspector had left for the day.
“Would you like to leave Inspector Hepburn a message?” the assistant asked.
“I’m with Morgan Construction. We’re waiting for an inspection of the electrical system at a jobsite—38 Tea Pot Lane. The resident’s name is Turner.”
The assistant jotted down the information. “He can probably visit by the end of the week—or maybe early next.”
“I hope so. Please tell him our work is held up until we get that certificate. This is costing us money, and the client is getting impatient, too.”
Darrell tried his best to sound firm and assertive. The assistant, who looked about his own age, maybe a year or two older, didn’t look impressed. Darrell suspected all the contractors delivered the same complaints.
“I understand. I’ll see what I can do to fit it in the schedule.”
“Thanks. See you around.” Darrell was about to leave when he had a sudden thought. “Do you know anything about a property near the Willow Tree Estates? A big old warehouse, just off the Beach Road?”
The young man looked puzzled by the question. “A warehouse? Oh, right. I know what you mean. That property was taken over for back taxes a long time ago. I think the bank owns it. Or maybe even the village.”
“The village? That’s interesting.” Darrell was encouraged by that tidbit of information.
“That’s all I know about it. You can ask Inspector Hepburn when you see him. I’m sure he can give you more information.”
“I will. Thanks.” Darrell turned and left the office and soon found himself face-to-face with Cape Light’s mayor, Charlie Bates. Charlie, who owned the Clam Box Diner, had long sought the mayor’s office and had finally won it about two years ago in a very close election against Darrell’s aunt Emily.
Charlie was not his family’s favorite person, for that reason and a few others. Darrell’s parents didn’t think he was a very good mayor, not as good as Aunt Emily. But Charlie had come a long way from his rocky start, and the Morgans had always taught their children to give a person the benefit of the doubt and try not to judge others harshly. At the very least, to be polite and respectful of their elders.
Charlie greeted him warmly, though he looked surprised to see Darrell in the Village Hall offices. “Hello there, Darrell. I heard about your dad’s fall. Gee, that’s tough. How’s he doing?”
“He’s coming along. He hates to be cooped up in the house. That’s the main problem now.”
“I bet. I’m the same way. My wife says I have two speeds, fast and stop.” Charlie laughed at his own joke. “What brings you by today? Helping your father with his business?”
Darrell nodded. “I’m overseeing the projects. I came by to see Inspector Hepburn. We need a certificate for some electrical work.”
Charlie looked impressed. “I hear you’re studying to be an architect. What year are you in now?”
“I’m a senior at BU. I graduate in the spring.”
“Wow, time sure flies. I remember the first time Sam brought you into the Clam Box. You were maybe . . . this high?” Charlie held his hand at hip level. “Staying at New Horizons.”
“That’s right.” Darrell smiled but hoped Charlie wouldn’t take too long a walk down memory lane.
But what Charlie had said was true. Darrell had come to Cape Light because of the New Horizons program, which was part boarding school, part country camp for city kids who were getting into trouble at school and were at risk of getting into even more serious problems, like drugs and crime.
Darrell had never known his father, and his mother drifted in and out of his life. He had been raised mainly by his grandmother. But when she became ill and couldn’t handle him, he had started hanging with some bad kids and heading in the wrong direction.
A stay at New Horizons—and the love and attention he found there from Sam, who had been a volunteer at the time—had turned his life around. Saved his life, truthfully.
Darrell wasn’t ashamed of his history, but he didn’t feel comfortable hearing Charlie Bates rehash it. Darrell decided to change the subject and maybe get some information in the process.
“You know, Charlie, I was just asking in the building department about an old warehouse off the Beach Road. Near the Willow Tree Estates,” he added, mentioning his au
nt Molly’s neighborhood. “The assistant in the building office told me that the town might own it?”
“Oh, that old place. It used to be a cannery. Tillerman’s Clams. And before that”—Charlie’s expression changed as he remembered the history—“it was owned by your grandfather, Oliver Warwick. But it was taken over by the bank and sold at auction when he had that financial setback that ruined him. You must have heard about that?”
Darrell nodded. He didn’t know all the details of this dark page of family history. But he had heard how his grandfather, his grandmother Lillian’s first husband, was the only heir to an impressive fortune but lost practically all of it due to his own poor judgment and gambling debts.
“That’s interesting,” Darrell said.
“Yup, your grandfather Oliver once owned it.” Darrell could almost hear him add, “How the mighty have fallen.” An attitude many people in town held toward the Warwick family. Darrell’s relatives on his mother’s side, the Warwicks, were once the wealthiest family in town. They lived on a big estate called Lilac Hall: Jessica and Emily had both grown up there. But Lillian sold Lilac Hall to the village after everything fell apart, and it now housed the Cape Light Historical Society. Although it had been decades since his grandmother lived in such splendor, she still acted as if the family were local royalty. Then again, Lillian’s own parents had been Boston Brahmins. She had been “upper crust” from the day she was born.
“What got you so interested in that place?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I was just driving around the other day, and the building caught my eye. I thought it would be a good subject for my school project—mock plans to renovate and rescue a property. Who owns it now? Do you know?”
“The town owns it. We took it over years ago from Tillerman for back taxes.”
“Do you have any plans for it?”
Charlie laughed. “I thought we could take the boards off the windows and make it a bird sanctuary, but nobody on the town council agreed with me.”
Christmas Blessings Page 14