A Cottage Wedding (A Heart's Landing Novel from Hallmark Publishing)

by Leigh Duncan

  But sending what appeared to be a junior staffer to do the job, that was an entirely different matter. Why would Regina Charm do such a thing? Was she honestly trying to remain impartial after her own wedding crashed and burned in Heart’s Landing? That had been Tara’s explanation. Did he really believe her?

  He shook his head. He had to. The alternative—that no matter how well they performed over the next ten days, Heart’s Landing was doomed to failure—was too difficult to even think about.

  Chapter Five

  Jason resisted an urge to shake his head. He’d half expected Tara Stewart to return from her brief respite with the poise and self-assurance of a veteran reporter. If anything, with her hair in a messy topknot while she stood staring up at the painting of his swashbuckling ancestor, she looked even less experienced. The camera she’d slung over one shoulder lent her a serious air, but the loose blouse with slits on both arms definitely wasn’t professional attire. Evelyn had referred to the style as a cold shoulder. He hoped that wasn’t indicative of the journalist’s mood.

  “You bear an almost uncanny resemblance to him, you know,” she said, turning toward him as he strode down the hall. “I bet you get that a lot.”

  “You’re not the first,” he admitted. “Evelyn and I put it to good use, though. We often appear at weddings and receptions dressed as the Captain and Mary. Sing a duet or two. Mingle with the guests. People like it.” He shrugged.

  “Your cousin has a good ear. She was humming the ‘Covenant Hymn’ when I came in. That’s not an easy piece.”

  “You sing, do you?” The melodic lilt in her voice intrigued him.

  “In my church choir.” She half laughed. “Not on stage like you do. That must give you quite a thrill, to stand in front of an audience and belt one out. Do you enjoy it?”

  Did he? He and Evelyn had worked out their routines in order to fill the needs of brides who loved the history of Heart’s Landing as much as they appreciated Rhode Island’s rocky coast or the town’s beautiful wedding venues. He’d never really stopped to ask whether he actually liked performing or not. Not that it mattered. “I’m all for anything that makes our brides happy. We aim to provide each and every one of them with a perfect wedding. Around here, that’s all that counts.”

  “I’ll probably hear some version of that line quite often while I’m in Heart’s Landing, won’t I?”

  Tara had an easy grace about her. The prospect of spending time with her over the next few days was far less intimidating than he’d expected it to be with Regina. He relaxed enough to let a small chuckle escape. “It’s who we are here. We wish all our brides a Heart’s Landing love for the ages. Then, there’s our town motto. You’ll probably hear ‘the best is yet to be’ repeated so often before you leave that you’ll find yourself chiming in with everyone else.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that.” Tara tapped the thin notebook she carried in one hand. “I’m supposed to remain at least a little bit impartial while I’m here.”

  He cracked his knuckles and hoped that was exactly what she’d do. Remain impartial. If she gave them half a chance, he had no doubt she’d soon realize that Heart’s Landing’s perfect blend of charm and sophistication made it the best place in the country for brides to get married.

  “Why don’t we get started? I thought we could begin at the top as long as you don’t mind climbing a few stairs.” A quick glance confirmed the sensible shoes on her feet. “The view from the widow’s walk is spectacular. From there, we can work our way down to the ballrooms and the smaller wedding venues.”

  Tara met his questioning look with a distant smile that reminded him she’d come to Heart’s Landing with a job to do. Though it would be easy to convince himself they could be friends, he couldn’t afford to let his guard down around her. Was she here to praise them, like she said? Or to cut them to ribbons? Whatever her goal, it was up to him to uncover the truth. Intent on finding out more about what made her tick, he led the way from the foyer to the grand staircase.

  Might as well get started. He lobbed an easy question. “Where are you from, Tara?”

  “Savannah, originally. My folks own a restaurant near Forsyth Park. My dad makes the best shrimp ‘n grits in the entire state. Whenever it’s on the menu, people line up out the door. Mom runs the front of the house. She keeps my two sisters hopping.”

  He leaned closer, pleasantly surprised by the faint trace of a Southern accent that softened the corners of her voice when she spoke about her family. “You didn’t want to go into the family business?”

  “Nope. I can make passable dishes, but I wasn’t born with my dad’s talent in the kitchen. My sister Lulu, now, that girl can cook! She’ll take over the stove when my parents retire. Maggie, she’s my mom’s right hand.”

  Tara’s answer struck him as just a little too polished in spite of her off-hand manner. Wanting to uncover the whole story, he probed a bit deeper. “No place for you? Is that why you moved to New York?”

  “In part. Everyone says I was born with a pen in my hand. From the time I could print the alphabet, I’ve known that writing was my calling. When it came time for college, my folks wanted me to major in the business. They weren’t thrilled when I studied journalism at the University of Georgia.” Almost like an extension of her team’s name, she peppered the conversation with a quick, Go Bulldogs! “Afterward, I landed an internship at Weddings Today. I’ve been there ever since. This assignment is my big chance to prove to my parents that I chose the right career.” She canted her head. “But listen to me going on and on about my life when I’m the one who’s supposed to be interviewing you.”

  She was a smart one. She’d caught on to him a lot faster than he’d thought she might. Going forward, he’d have to respect her intelligence. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you always lived in Heart’s Landing?”

  “You mean, have I ventured any farther than Newport?” he teased. “Yes. I spent ten years, give or take, in Boston after getting my Masters. Cornell. Hotel Management,” he added, wondering if she’d be impressed. “No matter where I lived, though, this has always been my home. Running the Captain’s Cottage is more than a job. It’s a legacy. Passed from one generation of Hearts to the other. I’m proud to carry on that tradition.” Reaching the first-floor landing, he ran his hand over the wooden railing much the same as his great-great-great-grandparents might have done. The familiar, smooth finish felt cool to his touch. He’d always known the Captain’s Cottage would play a big part in his life’s work. The various positions in Boston had merely provided an ample training ground for what was to come.

  “And now you manage all of this.” Tara paused to scribble in her notebook. When she looked up, she asked, “Was that the plan?”

  “I thought I’d stay in Boston for a while longer. I managed conference centers and arenas there, and I liked the work. The people were interesting, and every once in a while, I rubbed elbows with superstars. But when my dad died, the timetable shifted.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tara’s voice dropped. “How long has it been?”

  “A little less than two years.” He stopped to clear his throat. More and more often, the good memories outweighed the bad. Still, the pain of losing him so early lingered, even after all this time.

  “And your mom?”

  He shook his head. “She died in a car accident when I was seven. It was just my dad and me after that.”

  “That had to be tough.”

  Was that an honest sympathy he heard in her voice? Much as he’d like to believe it was, he didn’t know her well enough to tell whether the comment came from her heart or if she was simply mouthing a standard platitude. “So many have it so much worse,” he said, meaning every word.

  Though his childhood hadn’t been ideal, he wouldn’t choose another one. Connie, their head chef, had watched over him like a mother hen. She and the
other cooks had always encouraged him to help himself to a cookie or a snack on his way through the kitchen. He’d learned woodworking skills and the fine points of preservation from helping his dad make repairs around the Cottage. The pond in the back made the perfect place to ice skate in the winter or catch fish in the summer. The kids he’d slid down the banister with on snowy afternoons were still his closest friends. So, maybe he hadn’t had a mother, but he’d definitely been loved. Lately, though, he’d begun to wonder if his mother’s loss had had a bigger impact on him than he’d thought. Was that the reason he hadn’t been able to find happiness with Clarissa or any of the other women he’d dated?

  A thought for another day, he mused.

  They reached the third floor, where railings overlooked the cavernous space below. Reaching for the key he’d taken from the rack in his office, he explained, “We keep the attic locked because, well, it’s an attic. Mostly, we use this area to store seasonal gear and other items no longer in use. I’d be happy to bring you up here any time you’d like, but we don’t really want anyone wandering around unescorted. Can’t have someone getting hurt if they bump a shelf and it falls over, can we?” He didn’t wait for an answer.

  He slipped the key in the ancient lock and gave it a sharp twist. With a whisper, one of a pair of double doors swung open to reveal a room that stretched out in either direction and covered the main part of the entire house. He took a deep breath as he preceded her over the threshold. The attic’s cool, dry air had always reminded him of history and stability. Shelves crowded with appliances and bric-a-brac from days gone by filled a quarter of the space. Covered in cloth, furniture pieces loomed out of the shadows. Farthest from the exterior wall stood built-in cases filled with books.

  “This place is amazing!” Tara’s soft gasp stirred motes in the shaft of light that poured through one of the evenly spaced octagonal windows. “It’s like a museum.” She sneezed.

  “A dusty one. Watch you don’t brush up against something and ruin your clothes. We probably could do a better job of keeping things spic ’n’ span up here, but people so rarely come to the attic, it’s hardly worth the trouble.” He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her.

  “Thanks.” She pressed it briefly to her nose. “But I thought you said we were heading to the widow’s walk.”

  “We are. That door opens onto it. I thought you wanted to see everything.” He pointed across the room where chifferobes and armoires held clothes that dated back several generations. “This is all part of the history of the Captain’s Cottage.”

  “Impressive. Mind if I look around a bit?”

  “Take your time. We’re supposed to get some rain later this afternoon, but I think we’re safe for now.”

  He idled by the door, unable to prevent a grin from stretching across his face while she silently pored over items on the closest shelves. When she made her way to the tall wardrobes, his smile widened while she traced her fingertips across the metal tags. Stopping at one, she pulled out a beaded silver dress. Foot-long fringe dripped from the hem.

  “That belonged to my great-grandmother. She wore it when she danced the Charleston to Paul Whiteman and His Orchestra,” he recited from memory.

  “Your great-grandmother was a flapper girl?” Tara’s eyes shot up.

  “Among other things. Socialite, homemaker, businesswoman. She single-handedly kept this place afloat during World War I. Converted both the ballrooms downstairs into workrooms and enlisted every woman in town in the war effort.”

  “Wow!”

  “She was quite the character.” Thinking of all she’d accomplished in an era where women had often been seen and not heard sent a rush of pride through his chest. “I was just a child when she passed, but even into her late eighties, she had a sharp wit.”

  Tara carefully returned the gown to the closet. “She sounds like someone I wish I’d met.”

  “Her diaries are on one of those shelves.” He pointed toward the built-in bookcases on an interior wall. “I’m sure we can find them if you want.”

  “I’d like that. Not right now, though. There’s so much else to see.” With the eagerness of a true explorer, she started toward the door that led to the widow’s walk. “I bet the view is terrific from up here.”

  “It is that.” He strode past her, his hand reaching for the set of keys. Putting his shoulder to the heavy wood, he pushed. The door squeaked open. A stiff breeze blew into the room. It carried the fresh scent of ozone and salt. He’d checked the weather before they’d come upstairs, but apparently a forecasted evening storm had come ashore earlier than expected. “Shoot. I think we’re out of luck.”

  Rain fell in gentle sheets in front of him, turning the distant ocean a gray-blue. Water dripped from the eaves onto the slate tiles. Closer than he liked, lightning arced from the sky to the waves. Disappointment rolled through him. The view from the widow’s walk was spectacular in the sunshine. Not so much in the middle of a storm.

  “I guess we’ll have to save this for another time. It’s not safe to go out there now. The tiles get very slick when they’re wet.” Hoping Tara wouldn’t be too frustrated, he crossed his fingers.

  “Not a problem. It’s still a pretty view. Tell me about the widow’s walk. What’s its purpose?”

  “Before the radio was invented in the Twenties, wives and loved ones watched the seas for arriving ships. Captain Thaddeus was a merchant sailor—he plied the ocean between Boston and London. There were huge profits to be made in bringing silks and teas from the Indies, returning with bales of cotton or tobacco. But it was a harsh life, too. Filled with dangerous storms, slack winds, the occasional pirate, even. He always made it home in time for his wife’s birthday, though. October 21st. Starting in late August, Mary spent so much time out here watching for him, she literally wore footsteps in the slate tiles.”

  “If I recall the stories, she also tied herself to the railing at one point, didn’t she?”

  So, Tara knew more than she let on. Or she thought she did. Good thing he had an advantage she didn’t possess—as a teen, he’d pored over the ship’s logs and the Captain’s journals until he practically knew them by heart.

  “Not exactly,” he corrected. “In 1897, when the Captain’s ship was overdue, a late-season hurricane struck. She had the servants lash her to the posts. She was sure he’d shipwreck at Heart’s Cove.” He pointed to a jagged outcropping that was barely visible in the rain.

  “Was it a bad storm?”

  “When you’re at sea in a wooden boat, there aren’t any good ones.” He’d gotten caught out on the open water in a squall when he was fifteen. The experience had given him a wary respect for the ocean. “This particular hurricane sank the Triton off Pinar del Rio. One hundred-eighty-eight men died that day. Fortunately for us, the storm died down a bit before it hit Block Island. By then, the winds had dropped to below sixty miles an hour.”

  “The Captain made it home, I take it?”

  “He did. A good thing, too. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. Mary gave birth to a son nine months later. He became my great-great-grandfather.”

  He closed the door and led the way across the room. “We’ll come back another day when it’s bright and sunny.” By then, he hoped to learn whether or not Tara had a hidden agenda.

  The tall man on the staircase beside her exuded poise and charm, but Tara sensed a vulnerability beneath his cool exterior. Did he feel threatened by her presence in his house? Silly question. He’d be a fool not to, and she had the unshakeable feeling that Jason Heart was no one’s fool. He was well aware that, with the stroke of a pen, she had the ability to change the face of Heart’s Landing until the next review. Or longer.

  Unfortunately, that was exactly what she was here to do and, in her position as a junior reporter, she didn’t have much of a choice. Which was a shame, because everything she’d seen so far told h
er the town deserved to hang onto its designation as the best wedding destination in the country. From the gently rolling hills surrounding Heart’s Landing to the vast ocean at its back door, from the quaint shops and tree-lined streets to the many restaurants she’d spotted during her taxi ride and the people who’d made her feel welcome despite her unexpected appearance, every detail had been picture perfect. And that was before she’d stepped foot in the Captain’s Cottage. Which was truly show-stopping.

  She trailed Jason down the flight of stairs, imagining herself making the same descent a hundred years ago. She’d have chattered with a bevy of girlfriends and sisters as they descended, each dressed for paying call on friends and neighbors in full satin skirts and blouses with big, puffy sleeves. Hats piled high with feathers and flowers. In the Roaring Twenties, she’d have made a grand entrance dressed to dance the night away wearing that incredible beaded frock she’d pulled from the wardrobe. After all this time, the silver fabric had still shimmered, the silk had rustled beneath her touch, the beads had clinked softly. Had she imagined the faint whiff of cologne that perfumed the air? She must have.

  She cupped her jaw between her thumb and her finger. What had Mary worn during the storm? Had she stood at the edge of the railing, the rain pelting while her ribbons and bows rippled in the wind? Anyone seeing her there would think she’d gone mad, soaked to the skin with her long, black hair whipping about her. Clinging for dear life to the banister while she prayed for the safe return of her man.

  Of course, that was a bunch of hogwash. Jason had all but admitted the story couldn’t be true when he’d cautioned her about the dangers of venturing onto the widow’s walk in the rain. Then there was the path Mary had supposedly worn. Tara didn’t care how often the story had been repeated. Slate was hard. That was why they used it for roofing material. It was preposterous to think that Mary had worn grooves in the tiles. Not when the woman had had a dozen mouths to feed and an enormous household to run. In that day and age, someone—her housekeeper, if no one else—would’ve barred the door and kept the mistress from doing something that would end up getting her put away “for her own good.”