Harbor Nights

by Marcia Evanick

  Whoever had designed the place knew what they were doing. Her money was on Ethan Wycliffe.

  She glanced around and counted two customers. One, an elderly gentleman who looked like he’d just stepped off a yacht, was studying a painting of the ocean. The other was the young mother with two undoubtedly bored children. She didn’t know who she felt sorry for: the harried-looking mother or the two children who were being dragged through an art gallery. Ethan Wycliffe was nowhere in sight, but she could hear distant voices coming from the second floor.

  “If you two don’t stop it, we are going back to the hotel, and Grandmom Reid won’t be getting a birthday present.” The young mother looked ready to walk out.

  She didn’t know where Ethan was, but she knew the look of a woman at the end of her patience. Ethan was about to lose a customer. She reached into the tote, gently stroked the top of Zsa Zsa’s head, and softly whispered, “Wake up, Princess; it’s show time.”

  Joanna walked a couple of feet closer to the family. “Excuse me, ma’am, but do you think your children could help me entertain Zsa Zsa here?” She lifted the dog out of the bag and smiled as the eyes of both children grew wide with delight. The mother looked relieved yet cautious. “She’s perfectly gentle,” she reassured the woman, “and we’ll stay right here in the middle of the gallery, so you can keep an eye on the children.”

  “Can we, Mommy?” cried the little girl, who looked to be about four.

  The slightly older boy echoed his sister’s wishes. “Please, Mommy. We’ll be good.”

  The woman looked at her for a moment as if sizing her up, before turning back to the kids. “You will behave yourself, and listen to Ms. . . . ?”

  “Stevens, Joanna Stevens,” she answered. “And this is Zsa Zsa, and she knows two tricks.”

  Both kids came hurrying to the center of the gallery. Joanna didn’t blame the mother for being cautious. In this day and age, one didn’t leave her children with strangers. “If you both sit down, I’m sure Zsa Zsa will do them for you.” Two little butts hit the wooden floor in an instant.

  A moment later, she was squatting down, and the Pomeranian was sitting prettily and rolling onto her back so the children could give her belly a rub. She kept the children entertained as their mother viewed the gallery while keeping a careful watch over them.

  A man carrying an exquisite clay vase came down the stairs. He was followed by a middle-aged couple who were happily talking about the vase and how well it was going to look in their family room. The good-looking man, who was only a couple of years older than her own daughter, gave her and Zsa Zsa a grateful smile before setting the vase on the counter and ringing up the sale. Ethan Wycliffe had made his appearance, and she had to wonder if she had just blown her chance at the job by bringing her dog into the gallery.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Stevens.” The young mother joined her children. “Thank you ever so much for entertaining Brad and Sophie.”

  “My pleasure; they weren’t any trouble at all.” She scooped Zsa Zsa up and cradled her in her arms.

  “Could I get your opinion on something?”

  “Sure.” She followed the woman over to the far side of the gallery and hoped she could be of some help. Oil paintings and watercolors dominated the area.

  “I need a birthday present for my husband’s mother.” The woman pointed to a beautiful oil painting of a lighthouse with the morning sun rising behind it. “I like this one, but I also think she would like this one.” The other painting had an Asian feel to it. It was done in soft watercolors and portrayed a garden in bloom.

  She saw the beauty in both paintings. “They are both wonderful.” In her opinion, she liked the garden painting better, but that was her taste, not this woman’s mother-in-law’s. “What do you think she would like? Does she like to garden and have a lot of flowers in the house, or is she more inclined to walk along a beach or to sit for hours staring at the ocean?”

  “Flowers.” The woman studied the watercolor. “Definitely the flowers.” The woman gave her a smile. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do anything, but you’re welcome.” She wandered away as the woman went to speak to Ethan.

  The gallery had some amazing paintings and sculptures. She studied each one carefully before moving on to the next display. Zsa Zsa, who was nestled in the crook of her arm, seemed to enjoy herself too. She heard Ethan waiting on the woman and a moment later, little Brad and Sophie came to say good-bye before they left the gallery. The woman gave a friendly wave, and then they were gone.

  The captain of the yacht drifted up the stairs, leaving her and Ethan alone. “I would like to thank you for both helping my customer and entertaining her children so she had some time to look around.” Ethan joined her by the window overlooking the harbor. There were more wooden sculptures between the gallery and the water. A patio door opened to the outdoor display area.

  “You’re welcome.” She rubbed Zsa Zsa’s back. “I hope you aren’t too upset with me for bringing my dog into the building.”

  Ethan chuckled as he eyed Zsa Zsa. “Dog? Is that what it is? I’ve seen bigger hamsters.”

  “And how many hamsters have you had in your gallery?”

  “None that wore a yellow bow.” Ethan smiled at the dog. “Can I help you with anything, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Stevens, Joanna Stevens.” She held out her free hand. “My daughter and I just moved to Misty Harbor. In fact, Karen Harper is my neighbor.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. If you came to see Karen, I’m afraid she had to take an early lunch.”

  “I know. I ran into her earlier, and she said you might be interested in hiring some more help around here.” She tried not to appear too hopeful or desperate. “I was wondering if I could fill out an application.”

  Ethan’s smile grew. “Can you work full-time?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about nights and weekends?”

  “I’m free.”

  “Joanna, you’re hired.” Ethan looked immensely pleased with himself.

  “Oh, don’t I need to fill out some paperwork and all?” She was momentarily stunned to find herself employed so quickly.

  “Of course; the government loves paperwork. When can you start?”

  “Any time.” She gently placed Zsa Zsa back into the tote. She was free to start this afternoon, but she didn’t want to appear too eager.

  “Good. Karen can do most of your training.” Ethan hurried to the back room. In a daze, she followed him. “Is your dog always so friendly to children?”

  “Of course. Zsa Zsa loves kids. The only time she gets anxious is when she’s around seagulls.”

  “Seagulls?” Ethan looked up from the file cabinet drawer he was digging through.

  “Long story; don’t ask.”

  “Okay.” He went back to the search.

  “Ah, Mr. Wycliffe?”

  “Ethan, please.” He pulled out a blank job application form. “What is it? Ah, I know—salary.” He mentioned what she thought was a fair and reasonable amount.

  “That’s fine, but I think you should know I really don’t know a whole lot about art.” There, she had said it. Before she got her hopes up about heading back to Claire’s to buy that blue outfit for her first day of work, she needed to be straight with Ethan. He seemed like such a nice man.

  “I don’t know a whole lot about becoming a daddy, but that’s not going to stop my wife from delivering our first child in August.” Ethan grinned. “Lack of knowledge is curable.” He handed her four different sheets of paper. “Fill all of these out, and bring them with you tomorrow morning. You start your training at nine.”

  She took the papers. “I’ll be here.”

  “One more thing, Joanna.”

  “What’s that?” She was almost afraid to ask.

  “Make sure you bring Zsa Zsa. The kids are going to love her.”

  Chapter Five

  Norah headed downstairs and wondered what was in the refrigerator that she could heat
up for dinner. It was Friday night, and she had the house to herself. Her mom and the four-pound hairball were working till nine. Who would have guessed that her mother would go out and get herself a job? Not only was her mother pulling in a paycheck, but Zsa Zsa was also doing tricks for doggie treats. The whole world had gone insane, and someone had forgotten to tell her.

  She glanced at the crystal vase filled with long stem red roses and suppressed a chuckle. The crimson roses that her mother had received from Gordon Hanley were the exact same color as blood. She had met Mr. Hanley last week when she had been in town searching for the latest New York Times bestseller. The Pen and Ink had been the logical choice of a place to start her search. The amazing thing was that Hanley had known exactly where it was placed in his hodge-podge shelving system. He had gone right to it and pulled the book out of the middle of a hundred or so other books with black spines. Hanley had been polite and talkative. They had enjoyed a lively discussion on politics and on the first article she had written for the Hancock Review. But the whole time they were chatting, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding in the shadows of the shop or behind the steady stream of smoke his pipe produced. Hanley was a tall, thin, pale man with an angular face who had an aversion to sunlight. Norah had christened him the vampire.

  It seemed fitting that the vampire of Misty Harbor sent bloodred roses. She only wished that it hadn’t been her mother he had sent them to. Then again, she would have missed the sight of her mother blushing like a school girl when the delivery man handed them to her. She should be the one sending Gordon Hanley a thank-you note for putting that look of wonder back into her mother’s eyes.

  She headed into the kitchen and glanced at her own bouquet of flowers that was placed in the center of the dining room table. They weren’t roses. They were a wonderful mix of irises, carnations, roses, and a couple birds-of-paradise to give the arrangement an exotic flair. She only wished the bearer of the bouquet had been half as intriguing. Gregory Patterson had shown up on her doorstep carrying the flowers and a dinner invitation two nights ago. He’d ended up staying for a cup of coffee and a couple of sweet rolls her mother had just pulled from the oven. Gregory had seemed nice, but she just wasn’t interested in going out with him or any other man.

  After Gregory had left that night, her mother had started in on her about her staying home all the time and her lack of a boyfriend. She had heard the lecture before, but this time, she had had ammunition with which to fire back. She had overheard her mother on the phone with Gordon Hanley as she was gently but firmly turning down his offer of dinner. Tit for tat. Both of the Stevens women weren’t ready to dip their toes into the dating water.

  Norah opened the refrigerator and stared at its contents. There was plenty to choose from. Her mother still hadn’t gotten the feel of working a forty-hour week and running the home at the same time. Joanna Stevens was overcompensating in a huge way. Before noon today, her mother had cooked a meatloaf and a batch of brownies, washed and folded two loads of laundry, run Zsa Zsa to the vet, and vacuumed the entire downstairs. She didn’t know what terrified her mother more: the thought of dust bunnies or fleas or of her twenty-four-year-old daughter not having something to snack on when she got home from work.

  It was ridiculous the way her mother did everything, but the more she tried to help out or to talk to her, the more her mom protested. Her mother was either going to work herself into an early grave, learn that she wasn’t superwoman, or work whatever it was that was bothering her right out of her system.

  Her mother did have a lot to work out of her system, so she would give her another week or so of waxing and polishing before stepping in and laying down some rules. In the meanwhile, there were meatloaf and brownies for dinner, and hopefully, a decent movie would be on television. It was either that or finish unpacking upstairs.

  Her clothes and most of the bathroom stuff had found their proper places. The bedroom was decent, and a person could even walk around the bed. It was the other room up there that was a disaster area. A person couldn’t walk two feet into the room without stumbling over a box, a chair, or even a lamp or two. Somewhere in the fifty or so boxes of books scattered throughout the room were at least a dozen books she hadn’t had a chance to read yet. By the time she got around to unpacking those boxes, the pages would be yellowed with age.

  In her apartment back in Pennsylvania, she had had a lot of six-foot high bookcases. She had sold every one of them at a yard sale before they had moved to Maine. The room upstairs had slanted ceilings, and there wasn’t any room for high bookcases. When she had some free time, she needed to find an office supply store and buy a bunch of three-foot high ones. Maybe then she would find the energy or the desire to start unpacking her small library’s worth of books.

  Meanwhile, she could sneak a brownie before dinner, and her mother would never know. Heck, she could even have two if she wanted. There was something good coming out of her mother having a job, besides the joy it was obviously bringing her. She couldn’t remember the last time her mother had been this happy or excited about anything.

  The sound of the doorbell prevented her from reaching for that first brownie, which her mother would have sworn would ruin her dinner.

  She opened the door and had to jump back a couple of inches as a bouquet of yellow roses was nearly thrust into her face, startling her. “Hey!”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  The flowers were lowered, giving her a clear view of the man holding them. “Can I help you?” She didn’t think the man was a delivery person. For one thing, he was dressed like a banker about to attend a stockholders’ meeting, and second, his thinning hair was slicked back over his bald spot with enough grease that, if it were instead applied to the right wheels in Washington, even they would turn.

  “I’m Wendell Kirby, and you must be Norah Stevens.” Wendell had the smile of a politician.

  Her hopes that he had come to court her mother faded. “Yes, I’m Norah. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kirby.”

  “Wendell, please.” He thrust the flowers into her hands. “As the President of the local Chamber of Commerce and the owner of the only motel in town, I wish to welcome you to Misty Harbor.”

  Imagine that—a politician who owns his own motel. Business and pleasure all rolled up into one. “Do you greet every new resident personally?” She lifted the roses and breathed in their scent.

  “Only the beautiful ones.” Wendell’s smile widened at his witty comment.

  “Who welcomes the ones you don’t consider beautiful?” She didn’t think of herself as beautiful. Fair looking or passable, but not gorgeous. She would rather people remember her for her brains, not because little children hadn’t screamed in horror at her face.

  Wendell’s smile slipped a notch, and he quickly changed the subject. “I read your columns, and I must say that you are a breath of fresh air to the Hancock Review. You are just what the paper and this town needed.”

  “My boss will be glad to hear that.” She leaned against the door jamb. There was no way she was inviting Wendell, Misty Harbor’s equivalent to Casanova pond scum, into the house. “So you wouldn’t mind if the county went through and reassessed your property value for tax purposes?”

  This week’s column had pushed more than one person’s hot button. Tom Belanger, her boss, had said that if she kept this up, he would need to hire her own personal body guard. She had voted for a young Kevin Costner or Brad Pitt. Tom had voted for a nicer, less controversial assignment for next week’s column. She was currently researching the medical advantages of eating blueberries. Everyone knew that blueberries tasted great and helped the local economy. It was her job to make readers realize how good they were for you.

  “As a property owner, I mind greatly.” Wendell’s good-hearted chuckle was as fake as a wooden nickel. “But as President of the local Chamber of Commerce, I must tell you that the added tax revenue could bring in some much needed help to revitalize the town. Think of all the extra
services we could offer to attract more tourists.”

  With a larger tax base, services across the board could be improved and added upon, just like she had stated in her article. “More tourists mean fewer empty motel rooms, right?”

  “That’s the name of the game.”

  She wondered how many older residents, the ones who were living on Social Security and meager pensions, wanted to play Wendell’s game. Her guess was that not too many of them did. “Anything for commerce?”

  “That’s why I’ve been elected President six years in a row.” Wendell’s chest puffed out.

  First thing Monday morning, she was asking her boss if she could write her next article on some people’s idea of commerce. “Six years. My, that’s a long time.” Wendell had to be either blackmailing or bribing the voters for that kind of loyalty. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something sneaky or desperate in the middle-aged man’s eyes.

  “It’s nothing compared to the reward I feel doing my civic duty.” The look Wendell was going for, she thought, should have been congenial. Instead, he looked like he was suffering from constipation.

  She was going to need a pair of boots soon. The level of BS was rising. Wendell wanted something from her, and she wished he would hurry up and get around to the reason behind his visit and the roses. “Civic duty is so important nowadays. Young people just don’t seem to grasp the concept.”

  Wendell blinked, obviously unsure of whether she was serious or being sarcastic about his age. Wendell was old enough to be her father. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure if she was serious or not. It depended on what Wendell wanted from her. Men who came bearing roses usually only wanted one thing, and it had nothing to do with the Chamber of Commerce. Unless your profession was the oldest one in the book.

  “I feel it’s my civic duty to give you a personal tour of our lovely town.” Wendell waved his hand over his shoulder in the direction of Main Street. “We can start with a nice dinner at the best restaurant in town and then take an evening stroll. I can point out the highlights of our quaint little village and let you in on all the little secrets.”