by Cathryn Fox
Dedication
To our wonderful editor, Tera Kleinfelter, and to all those who love Whispering Cove as much as we do.
Prologue
“Damn that officer, closing up the bar and sending us home ’cause there’s a storm blowing through. Pffttt…” Errol Wilson closed the door against the cool winter wind and placed his battered cane on his coat rack. He shook the snow from his wool overcoat and scowled. “It’s winter. All we get are storms. Ain’t the first one we’ve weathered.”
Harold Adair harrumphed and grabbed his usual seat at the long oaken table the three men had been sitting around for the last fifty years. He began dealing the cards and said, “You got that right. We’ve been weathering storms long before that lad was a gleam in his father’s eyes.”
“Well if we can’t drink at Hauk’s, we’ll drink here,” Errol announced, pulling a bottle from the stash he had hidden way behind the boxes of bran flakes his granddaughter, Katy, kept buying him and he kept refusing to eat. He might as well head up to Dresden’s Bluff and gnaw on a hardwood tree. Roughage his ass. He didn’t need no damn roughage. All he needed to keep him regular was his trusty bottle of rum. “What the hell is wrong with the young’ns today anyway?”
“They don’t know nothin’ about nothin’,” Harold declared.
Byron stretched out rheumatoid swollen fingers and grabbed three shot glasses to line them up. After Errol poured the rum, Byron took a swig and said, “You know my Dani’s got me eating dried apricots.” His face turned sour. “Do you have any idea how much I hate apricots?”
Errol set the bottle of rum aside and picked up his cards to study them before tossing a few chips to the center of the table. “Those kids need something to do other then watch over us.”
“And they accuse us of meddlin’.” Byron refilled his glass, swallowed it in one gulp, and then poured himself another.
“Yeah, and I think our bar-closin’ Officer Leo Caan needs something to occupy his mind other than the law.”
Harold’s bushy brows show upward as he laid his cards down. “Something or someone?”
Errol perked up. “Oh yeah? You got someone in mind?”
Before Harold could answer, the phone rang. Errol climbed to his feet and checked the display. “Damn. That Lila’s a persistent one. Always after me to sell her the B&B.”
“You can’t,” Byron said flatly.
Harold gave a slow shake of his head. “Ain’t right.”
Ignoring the ringing, Errol sat back down and thought of his great-nephew, Jon, the rightful owner of the old B&B. It had been left to him after his folks died and he needed to be the one to decide to sell it or keep it. Errol missed that dang boy, and it was about time he left Miami and came back to where he belonged. He’d argue that he couldn’t leave his practice, but Dani could use his help. They could all win.
Errol rubbed his balding head, his mind racing, scheming—even though half the town had warned the three to stay out of everyone else’s business. “So, what’s this you’re saying about getting Officer Caan out of our hair?”
Wind whispered outside and Byron’s weathered yet shrewd eyes glistened as they shot to Harold. “Yeah. What are you thinking?”
Harold tossed two cards down, his cloudy blue eyes lighting with excitement. “I think I smell a bet.”
Errol nodded toward his cupboard. “If the bar gets shut down more than just tonight, my stash will be gone in no time. It’ll be real nice to get a month’s worth when you two bloated puffer fish lose.”
He took a drink, knowing just how he’d get his couple together in time to win a bet. His mind raced with an idea on how to catch two fish with one lure. Get his great-nephew home for good and get Lila Sheppard off his dang back.
Harold swirled his glass on the table and jabbed his thumb into his chest. “We’ll see who the bloated puffer fish are when it’s my stash you two will be refilling.”
They both turned to Byron.
“You in?” Errol asked.
“Damn straight,” Byron said. He shook his head. “’Cause it ain’t right that sweet Aimee is raising that little angel all alone. That girl needs some support.”
“You mean meddlin’,” Harold corrected.
Errol took in the twinkle in Byron’s gaze and knew the old goat was scheming. And scheming good. “You been thinkin’ about this?”
Byron shrugged. “A Christmas concert, with a surprise guest.”
As Errol and Harold nodded their heads, knowing exactly what Byron was up to, the smile fell from Byron’s face. “But you two barnacle-suckin’ old blowfish got to keep the name of the surprise guest a secret.”
“I’m real good at keeping secrets,” Errol said with a nod toward Harold. “Unlike some people.”
Harold looked offended. “Why you no good, creatin’…”
Byron held his hand up to cut him off. “I’ll bet my own bottle neither of you can.”
“You’re on.” Errol grinned and tossed his cards down. “First one to make a match without being caught wins.” Harold held his glass up for a three-man salute and they all clinked glasses.
“Here’s to getting the young’ns out of our hair,” Errol said.
“If we had any,” Byron said, his mouth twitching.
Chapter One
Jon Carver wasn’t sure what he disliked more, Christmas or homecomings.
That thought had him wondering why he’d left Miami and was currently weaving his rental vehicle through the snow-powdered streets of his childhood home. The coastal fishing town might be small in both size and population, but the decorated store fronts, the garland wreaths hanging from the lampposts and the twinkling lights in every window of every house reminded him that the tight-knit community of Whispering Cove, Maine, celebrated Christmas in a big way.
As snowflakes fell on his windshield warm childhood memories ambushed him. He flicked on his wipers and, despite his aversion to the holidays, couldn’t help but take pleasure in the festive sights. The bulbs and ribbons took him back in time, specifically to the Christmas when he was twelve and his mother and father had bought his first mini bike.
But thinking of his folks had a chaotic lump crawling into his too-tight throat. He drew in a sharp breath and desperately tried to swallow the pain, locking it behind the wall he’d built some seven years ago, right after the accident that had changed the face of his future.
Looking for a distraction, anything to get his mind off that horrific night, he recklessly negotiated a twisting turn and cut down a side road. But there was no escaping the holiday jubilation in this festive town. Every image on every street spoke of family and fun, love and laughter, and made him remember what he’d lost. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers itching to spin the vehicle around and drive straight back to the airport. At least in Miami he could get lost in the anonymity of his life. No one on the streets knew his name or his history.
His heart beat quicker in his constricted chest and he worked to desensitize, to bring back the numbness, because there was no denying that deep down he wanted to be a part of the celebrations, wanted to laugh and share eggnog with friends, trim the tree and hang stockings with family.
Except he didn’t deserve the ideal life that seemed to go on without him.
Moments before he was about to give the wheel a good hard yank and pull a one-eighty right there in the middle of the street, he spotted his great-uncle Errol’s house overlooking the ocean. As he recalled their phone conversation just last week, and remembered how urgent and out of sorts Errol had sounded, Jon knew he couldn’t turn his back on the man who’d always been there for him. Errol had been vague on the phone and Jon had no idea what was wrong, he only knew something wasn’t right.
Night fell over the town as he pulled into Errol�
�s driveway. He lightly tapped the brakes, and when the vehicle came to a complete stop, the porch light flicked on and his uncle hobbled out with a cane. Jon frowned as he killed the ignition and hurried out of the driver’s seat. During his brief visit some three years ago, when he’d come back to check on his estate, an old Victorian house Errol was renting for him, and trying to sell, Errol had been robust, healthy and bustling around town without any kind of assistance. What had happened since Jon had been gone? A knot twisted in his stomach as concern for his uncle’s well-being washed over him like a cold Atlantic wave, and it made him worry about the real reason Errol had insisted he come home this holiday season.
Jon climbed the three stairs and Errol jabbed him in the ribs with his cane when he reached the landing.
“’Bout time you got here, boy.”
“Nice to see you too, Errol,” Jon said. He buttoned his wool coat against the bite in the air, a reminder that he was a far cry away from the sunshine state he now called home.
A moment of awkward silence hit as they stood there staring at each other. As Jon looked into Errol’s cloudy blue eyes an eerily familiar feeling invaded his gut. Almost seven years ago to the day, when tragedy hit like a hard punch to the stomach, the two had stood on this exact same porch, both staring at one another in much the same manner.
Jon sucked in a breath and blinked against the flood of sadness and loss. He fisted his hands at his sides and valiantly struggled to get himself together. He’d known this homecoming wasn’t going to be easy, but there was no way he could tuck tail and run. If Errol needed him, then he was damn well going to be there for him, despite the demons.
Errol finally cut the tension by saying, “Well get on over here and give an old man a hug, will ya?”
Jon bent forward and put his arms around the aging man. As Errol hugged back, Jon once again considered the man’s health and couldn’t help but worry about the medical care he was receiving at the clinic. It was becoming more and more difficult to get doctors to practice in small towns. Most wanted to be in the big city. Jon was no exception. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. When he’d first left for college some twelve years ago, his plan had been to come back and hang his shingle in Whispering Cove, but… Sometimes things change.
After the hug Jon inched back and gave his uncle a good, hard look. Concern washed over him and guilt that he hadn’t been overseeing the aging man’s health settled in the pit of his stomach like a lump of cold oatmeal. “What happened to your leg, Errol?”
Errol glanced at the sky and snarled as snowflakes fell over the town. “Damned bum leg. Always acts up in the damp weather.”
Instantly going into professional mode, Jon asked, “You want me to take a look at it?”
Looking indignant, Errol blurted out, “You wanna look at a leg, look at your own damn leg.”
That brought a grin to Jon’s face. Despite whatever was going on with Errol, it gave Jon a measure of comfort to see that his great-uncle had remained his spirited, ornery self.
“When was the last time you had blood work done?”
“Blood work?” Errol tapped the inside crook of his elbow. “Only thing running through these veins is rum, my boy. Don’t need no doctor poking me with a needle to know that.”
When Errol gave him a look that suggested it was time to switch topics, Jon gave a resigned sigh, knowing he wasn’t going to get anywhere tonight. Perhaps after they’d both had a good night’s sleep he could investigate a little deeper. Maybe even a trip to the clinic tomorrow to look over Errol’s health records was in order.
He gestured toward the vehicle. “Let me grab my bag.”
Errol poked him with the cane again. “You best not be talking about no medical bag.”
With his hands up and palms out Jon said, “Just going for my duffle bag, Errol. Scout’s honor.”
Errol’s bark of laughter carried in the quiet night. “You never were much of a Scout. Always lighting fires and getting into trouble.”
Jon laughed in response. “Yeah, well you’re one to talk. You and Dad taught me everything I know.”
At the mention of his father, silence once again hung heavy. Fighting back a wave of pain, Jon turned from his uncle. “I’ll…uh…I’ll get my bag.”
“Jon.”
Errol’s somber voice stilled Jon. When Jon angled his head to see his uncle and spotted worry moving into his cloudy eyes, it stopped his breath.
Even though his gut was in turmoil, Jon kept his voice level when he asked, “What is it?”
“Got me some bad news, boy.”
Jon stiffened, his pulse leaping in his throat. He didn’t visit his uncle often enough, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care about the man. He did. He cared enough to clear his schedule as fast as he could and head straight to the airport from the hospital first chance he had.
He cleared his throat and wrapped his hands around the paint-chipped rail beside him, gripping it until his knuckles turned white. “What is it, Uncle Errol? Are you ill?”
“I’m fine, boy. Never been better.” He paused and gave a mischievous wink. “The rum keeps me young and healthy.”
Jon loosened his hold on the rail as his mind raced for answers. Okay, so if Errol was fine—and the jury was still out on that one—and hadn’t called him back home for medical reasons, why then had he sounded so anxious on the phone? Why had he been so insistent that Jon drop everything and return to Whispering Cove without delay?
Jon scrubbed his hand over his chin, his mind trying to sort things through. “What’s the bad news, Errol?”
“You can’t stay with me.”
Jon looked past Errol to see into the house. “What are you talking about? I stayed with you three years ago when I visited.”
“You call that a visit? You holed up in the bedroom and I barely saw you,” Errol scolded and Jon didn’t miss the way his uncle had shifted his stance to block Jon’s view.
“What’s going on?”
“Termites.”
“Termites?” Jon shook his head, incredulous. “So let me get this straight, you call me and insist I come home for no apparent reason, and then tell me I have no place to stay?”
“Don’t need no reason. Besides, it ain’t like I knew I had termites when I called.” Jon looked past Errol’s shoulders a second time, but Errol straightened to his full height and asked, “You got something to say, boy?”
Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to figure out what the hell was going on, and more importantly where he going to stay for the next few days. He could crash with his cousin, Katy, and her husband, Trent, but with the new baby, he didn’t want to interfere. Then there were Katy’s parents, Aunt Annette and Uncle Pete, who were in that big old Victorian house all by themselves. They went all out at Christmas, decorating every inch of their place, inside and out. Since his dad and Pete were first cousins, the families had spent a lot of time together when Jon was young. While he loved his relatives dearly, staying at their place over the holidays would simply bring back too many memories.
“Termites?” he asked again. “This time of year?”
“Can’t control when them critters are gonna chew their way inside, boy. Those pests have a mind of their own.”
Jon exhaled slowly and instead of dwelling on the problem he turned his attention to a solution. “Okay, so where are you staying then?”
Errol offered him another mischievous wink. “Delilah Kean’s putting me up.”
“Oh.” Jon looked two doors down to Mrs. Kean’s house, and when he remembered that she was all alone in that big place of hers, her husband having passed away a few years back, his eyes widened. “Oh,” he said again, as understanding dawned. Well, good for the old man.
When he glimpsed a twinkle in his great-uncle’s eyes, Jon smiled, happy to see that Errol had found love again. Jon, on the other hand, had pretty much buried himself in his work, and while he had the occasional bedmate, most of the women from his social circle were eithe
r high maintenance or trying to climb the social ladder—certainly not the kind of girl he’d want to settle down with. Not that he was looking to find love or get married. He wasn’t. But if he were, he’d want an easy-going, low-maintenance kind of girl who knew how to let her hair down. Perhaps it was because deep down he was just a small-town boy who liked the simple things in life.
“I was thinking,” Errol said, pulling his thoughts back. “Why don’t you go stay at Sleepy Cove?”
Jon stiffened and gave a quick shake of his head. “I don’t think—”
“That’s your problem, boy. You do too much thinking.”
“Errol.”
“Here are your choices. You come stay with me and Delilah, but them walls are pretty thin and if you value your sleep—”
Jon cringed and held his hands up to cut his uncle off. “Errol, I get it. No need to explain any further.”
“So you’ll go to Sleepy Cove then?”
As his mind drifted to the Victorian house his folks had bought with the intention of turning into a B&B, an invisible fist squeezed his heart. Thanks to him, they’d never lived to see their dreams to fruition. After the accident, Jon had put the homestead in Errol’s hands and asked him to sell it, but Errol swore there were no buyers and instead rented it to Vivian and Doug Osmond, old family friends who eventually went on to fulfill his late parents’ dreams of turning it into a B&B.
He hadn’t seen the Osmonds in years, and the thought of facing them again and seeing the blame in their eyes, albeit justified blame, was more than he could take.
As if knowing exactly what he was thinking, Errol said, “Vivian and Doug retired. They’re spending their winters down south now. Lila Sheppard’s renting the place from me now.” Errol folded his arms across his chest and balanced on his good leg. “She refurbished the entire inn. Doesn’t even look like the same old house anymore.”
Jon’s head came up with a start. “Who’s Lila Sheppard?”
“Just a young’n who came here from Chicago to help Katy with her cooking show. Now she’s fulfilling her dream of being a chef in her own bed and breakfast.”