Welcome to Serenity Harbor

by Multiple Authors

  * * *

  He waited till dusk to seek her out. No potted flowers this time though he did have a little something tucked into the pocket of his bomber jacket. Suzie answered his knock on the back porch door. “Well, if it isn't Snidely Whiplash himself. Too bad we own the joint. Spoils all your plans to foreclose.”

  He figured she'd go at him with guns blazing so he came prepared. “Look, Tess Trueheart, it's a bit late in the day to play damsel in distress. Not with all the ink you sport.”

  She sniffed, then jerked her chin toward a door in the rear of the kitchen. “Go through the back stairs. The same ones you used to haul supplies up to the second floor. Last door on the right.”

  He nodded. “Thanks, Sue.”

  She tapped his shoulder as he passed her. “Just to let you know, you hurt my friend, I'll come after you with a boning knife.”

  He sighed. Nodded. “Bet you know how to do it and hide all the evidence.”

  “That high powered garbage disposal you installed the day before you crashed and burned in front of the entire town?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It grinds up more than food remnants.”

  “Understood.”

  * * *

  He found her in the English Garden Suite. Sitting on a four poster bed piled high with lace edged sheets, duvets and funky pillow cases. She was holding something in her hand.

  And weeping.

  Without speaking, he went to her, sat down and took her into his arms. Letting her cry out her heart made him feel … manly. Rubbing her back in long, comforting strokes from shoulders to hip and gave him the opportunity to offer support without ruining things by saying something lame.

  After a moment, she brought up her head to rest in the crook of his shoulder. She fitted perfectly as he knew she would.

  He took a picture from her hand. Drawn in a child's hand, in crayons, it showed a tall woman in a blue dress chasing after a lone wooly sheep, four black stockings for legs and a big button nose. “Who's the lady in blue?”

  “My Gran. I must have been about five, maybe six when I drew it for Mother's Day.”

  He smiled. “Tell me about it.”

  She snuggled in. “At one time, there was a farm down the road where they raised sheep. One day they decided the garden would serve as an excellent meal so several jumped the fence. Gran went ballistic when she caught them munching on one of her favorite shrubs. I'd never heard her raise her voice, much less use vulgar language. I learned several excellent Gaelic curses that day.”

  “She liked the picture enough to keep it.”

  “I found a folder in an unused dresser Lou brought down from the attic for me. I think she kept every picture, every card, every single thing I ever gave her.”

  “Including your heart?”

  She looked at him with a tinge of surprise. “Especially my heart.”

  “If your Gran were still with us, think she might share you with me?”

  “Oh, I'm sure she would. I know I will.”

  Nothing she could have said made him feel better for all the deception he'd needed to use with her. “Why is that, my Maddy?”

  “From when I saw you in the ER, no matter what, I knew it had to be you.”

  The End

  About Kat Henry Doran

  Kat Henry Doran uses her professional experience as a nurse, victim advocate, insurance investigator and paralegal for background in her award winning novels and novellas. She prefers to use her favorite vacation spots: the Adirondack Mountains and the Thousand Islands of Northern New York State for settings.

  It Had To Be You is her first venture outside the Empire State—though it won't be her last.

  When not writing or designing and creating aprons and tote bags, she can be found in the role of selfless hand-maiden to the four best parts of her life: Meredith and Owen, Ashlin and Kieran.

  To learn more about Kat and the stories she creates, go to:

  Blogs:

  www.WildWomenAuthorsx2.blogspot.com

  www.ApronsWithAttitude2.blogspot.com

  Email:

  WildWomenAuthors@yahoo.com

  Facebook

  https://www.facebook.com/wildwomenauthors

  MAY

  A Whole Lotta

  Love

  Luanna Stewart

  Lotta Wilson has a few days to get her bakery up and running, otherwise she’ll let down her best friend. Something she’d never do. Getting the repairs done means talking to strangers, not her favorite thing in the world. She’d much rather bake bread and hang out with her dog.

  Mitch is high and dry from his regular job helping his dad run the family fishing business while waiting for his broken leg to heal. To keep from going stir crazy he helps out his buddy in the construction business – he can still pound a few nails.

  Lotta finds it nearly impossible to string together more than a few words when the gorgeous handyman is hanging around. But what Mitch has in mind doesn’t involve a lot of talking.

  Is it possible this is more than lust at first sight?

  Dedication

  With heartfelt and grateful acknowledgement to my friends and Beta readers,

  Cara Carnes and Jodie Wilkerson.

  Innumerable thanks also to my fabulous editor, Janet Corcoran.

  Chapter 1

  A Wednesday morning in May, really early…

  Charlotta Wilson stood in her bakery and inhaled the familiar scents of cinnamon, flour, and yeast. She couldn’t wait to get to work baking the sweets for Marcy’s bridal shower that weekend. The bread dough that had been proofing overnight in the fridge would come to room temperature in about an hour, and then she could commence with her regular orders.

  She also wanted to test her new cake pan, the behemoth she’d bought specifically for the wedding in two weeks. She’d never baked a cake so big. If the center didn’t cook through before the edges burned, she’d have to rethink the cake design. Tiers of cupcakes seemed all the rage in the land of weddings, but Marcy wanted a traditional, multi-layered, flower-encrusted confection. Perhaps the cake, known affectionately as The Cake, would just need to be tall – like five feet tall.

  Chuckling, Lotta turned the dial on one of the ovens and opened the walk-in cooler to get the dough, and a couple pounds of butter. Hunh, is the light bulb burnt out? Some inner sense made her check the oven panel. No indicator light. The oven was definitely not working.

  What the what?

  The fuse box was at the bottom of the stairs. She grabbed a flashlight and crept toward the cellar door. She could do this. She could slip down, flip the breakers, and be back up the stairs in a flash. The heavy door creaked as she pried it open, and a wave of musty air that brought crypts and rotting corpses to mind slapped her in the face. Her breathing grew more erratic as she squinted into the darkness, but the beam of her flashlight failed to penetrate the gloom at the bottom of the stairs. If she made a lot of noise, any critters lurking nearby, waiting to bite her ankles, would scurry away. She hoped. She really needed to get the area cleaned out, maybe add some better lighting. Then she could use it for—something. Growing mushrooms, or housing vampires.

  The stairs groaned as she descended into darkness. The beam of the flashlight reflected off a wet patch on the floor. A puddle. It hadn’t rained in several days. This was not good. She listened hard but didn’t hear anything dripping. The water had to come from somewhere though, and since it hadn’t come from outside, her bakery had obviously sprung a leak. Definitely not good.

  Opening the cover of the fuse box, she was dismayed to see half of the breakers tripped. What the hell? Eager to flee the dark, spider-filled space, she flipped all the switches to the on position, slammed the cover closed, and raced up the stairs, a shiver skittering along her spine. No way would the bogeyman catch her.

  The oven still wasn’t working. Neither of the ovens would turn on. Nor would the giant dough mixer. Crumbs.

  And it was only five o’clock in the morning. To
o early to call Marcy, her usual lifeline for, well, life. Electricians and plumbers and the like were used to emergency calls at all hours, but maybe she’d be lucky and reach someone’s voicemail. She was good at leaving messages. Talking to real people was what gave her fits. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone and hit the number of Jake’s Contracting. He’d helped her out a few years earlier when she needed a new roof, and she believed in customer loyalty. Besides, it was the only number she had for this type of emergency. After seven rings and five urges to hang up a man’s scratchy voice mumbled, “Hello”.

  She sucked in a deep breath. “Hi.” She cleared her throat. “Sorry to call so early. My—um—oven won’t work. The—ah—breakers keep—”

  “Who is this?”

  “Oh, sorry. Lotta Wilson. Over at The Trellis Bakery. You did some work for me a couple years ago?”

  The man coughed, mumbled, and something rattled as if the phone had been dropped. Maybe it was too early to call, even for contractors.

  “Sorry, dropped the phone. You lost power?”

  “No—well, sort of. Half my bakery has power. There’s a puddle on the basement floor. A large puddle. Should I call a plumber?” Why did this happen today? Or at all? She paced to the window and back, wanting only to be in her bakery, alone.

  He snorted. “Good luck finding one of those.” More coughing. “Sorry, I’ve got the flu. Give me your number and I’ll see if I can find someone. My crew is busy at the resort.”

  The poor man was sick. Now she felt horrible for waking him. “I’ll call someone else.” Who? She didn’t know anyone else. She glanced at the clock. Dang, still too early to call Marcy.

  He snorted again, which led to another fit of coughing. “You picked a bad time. Most of the guys are on big jobs. Look, lemme make a few calls.”

  “Do you think you can send someone over within the hour? I’ve got to—”

  “An hour? More like the end of the day. What’s your number?”

  She gave him her number, disconnected, and then Googled electricians and general contractors in Serenity Harbor. No way could she sit around all day twiddling her thumbs. She had sandwich rolls to bake for the deli, the treats for the weekend to make, and a blog post to prepare.

  Unfortunately, Jake had been telling the truth. After leaving a few messages and talking to one other contractor all she had accomplished was a good-sized knot in her stomach. She stuck her phone in her pocket and slumped against the counter. She’d used up all her chit-chat for the day. Speaking to another stranger was beyond the realm of possibility.

  Why couldn’t she have a plumber in the family? Or a close, personal friend? Well, that would be Marcy, and she didn’t do manual labor.

  Back in her little house attached to the bakery via a breezeway, Lotta turned on the oven in her kitchen and got the coffee maker started. She loved the cozy, retro feel, but the space wasn’t conducive to large baking projects. It was retro only because it was the original kitchen, built in 1895. Well, original except for the fridge and stove. At least this part of the building had power. Luckily, when Aunt Florence built the addition onto the house in the 1960’s for her bakery, they’d put in separate power lines.

  Lotta sat at her kitchen table and scrolled through her few contacts again, looking for someone, anyone, who might be able to help. Of all the times for this to happen, it had to be now when all the contractors were beyond busy at big construction and remodelling projects. The new resort down the road, the new condos in the next town, and two hotels being totally remodelled. A sure sign of thriving tourism, which was great for everyone. Busy restaurants needed lots of her bread, rolls, and desserts. If only she could get her mixers and ovens running.

  She filled her favorite coffee mug. Shaped like a black dog, with a tail for the handle and a cute nose sticking out the opposite side, the mug always made her smile because it looked like Bella. Bella! She went into the hall, and whistled. Three seconds later the tip-tap of nails sounded from upstairs.

  “Come along, Bella, time to go out.”

  The black lab trotted downstairs, gave Lotta’s hand a lick, and made for the door. After doing her business in the side yard, she came in, drank some water, and joined her stuffed sheep toy on her bed under the small, round table. One giant yawn and she was asleep.

  “Hunh…you do have a hard life, puppy dog.” Lotta yawned in sympathy. Even after three years, her pet, companion, and sounding board hadn’t adjusted to the early rising schedule of bakers.

  She refilled her mug and was considering the logistics of moving all that dough and how best to time the baking of five dozen rolls, five full-sized loaves, and a large tray of brownies in her small oven, when a knock sounded on the front door. Thank you, Jake. He must have found someone. Perhaps he heard the panic and despair in her voice. She hurried along the hall after giving Bella the stink-eye. Some guard dog. She’d merely opened one eye. This was taking non-aggressiveness a little too far.

  She peeked through the window and her heart did a little tap dance.

  Chapter 2

  Wednesday morning, not quite as early…

  Mitch Calhoun moved his toolbox from one hand to the other, then shifted his weight off his injured leg. Eyes still scratchy from sleep, he surveyed the neighborhood. Small, well-kept houses in tidy yards lined both sides of the street. He hadn’t been to this part of town in a while and had forgotten this was where the bakery was housed. He heard the approach of someone on the other side of the door and pasted a smile on his face. Hopefully, the problem would be an easy fix, and he could get back to doing nothing.

  The prettiest woman he’d ever seen opened the door. Where had she been all his life? Unless she was a guest, or something. If she lived in Serenity Harbor, he would have seen her before. And he definitely would have remembered her. He glanced at her hands to check for rings, not that that was any guarantee these days.

  “Hi?” She kept one hand on the door, clearly wary of strangers. Dressed in a baggy shirt and faded jeans, she made him feel like snuggling on the couch on a rainy day.

  “Hey, I’m Mitch. Are you Lotta?” At her nod he continued. “Jake gave me a call and asked me to stop by.”

  “Um—you’d better come in. Through here. I hope—well—I’ve got a ton of work to do.”

  He followed her into the house, liking the way her body moved with her quick steps. Heck, he hadn’t seen anything he didn’t like. Who was she? A niggling memory tickled his brain. There was something familiar…

  They went through a door at the back of the house into a well-lit, airy, industrial kitchen. He glanced around, looking for something dripping, but saw something worse. Several large, dark blotches covered the wall behind the bank of ovens. “Have you had that wall patched recently?” Maybe the paint color didn’t quite match.

  “No, why?”

  “Show me where you found water.”

  She led the way to the basement door and pointed. He limped down the stairs and located the puddle. Following the trail of dampness on the concrete floor he was again at the north wall, below the ovens. This wasn’t good.

  Mitch returned to the main level and removed the socket cover behind a monster of a mixer. Carefully, he stuck his little finger into the gap and encountered damp insulation. Damn.

  Lotta stood at his elbow, smelling like fresh air and vanilla. He turned and met her worried gaze. He was about to ruin her day. He drank in all the parts that made her so darn pretty – big eyes, freckle-covered nose, intriguing mouth. She had her lower lip between her teeth. He wanted it between his teeth. Her chocolate eyes widened and she looked away, a hint of color climbing up her neck. Did she feel it too? This crazy attraction? His intense desire to take her in his arms and love her?

  She backed up a few steps enabling him to draw a breath. And form words into a coherent sentence. “I need to turn off all the power in here. Will that shut the power to the main house as well?”

  “No, they’re on separate circuit thi
ngies.”

  He grinned and half-hobbled, half-skipped down the stairs. Thingies. So darn cute.

  “What do you think the problem is?” she asked when he returned to the now gloomy kitchen.

  His leg was starting to throb. He should sit down and elevate it, like the doctor had instructed. But he needed to help Lotta. Lotta. He knew that name, but from where? “You’ve got a plumbing leak in this wall, causing the discoloration in the plaster, and the circuits that keep shorting out. We’ll need to open the wall to find the source of the leak.”

  “No! You can’t! The shower is this Saturday.”

  “Shower?” Yeah, he could picture her in the shower, her body wet and warm.

  “Marcy’s bridal shower.”

  “Let’s see how bad the damage is.”

  Her shoulders slumped. He wanted to offer some comfort, pull her into his arms and assure her everything would be okay. Hold her, touch her. Hell, he was in danger of invading her personal space. If only he had a spare bakery to lend her, then she’d smile and maybe go out on a date with him.

  “Let me run home and get a few more tools. It might not be so bad.” Needing contact and unable to stop himself, he gave her arm a squeeze, then headed out to his truck. His aching leg would have to wait.

  Chapter 3

  Wednesday, a bit later…

  Lotta retreated to her little kitchen and, with shaking hands, poured another cup of coffee. Holy wow, batman. Who was that Mitch guy? Handsome, charming, sexy, and vaguely familiar. Serenity Harbor was a small town, so perhaps their paths had crossed. Especially if he stayed year round with the other couple thousand locals.

  She checked the antique school clock on the wall. The day was flying by. She didn’t have time to wonder about Mitch. Chances were the desserts would be ready by Saturday, but it was only fair to warn the hostess and bride. She called her friend, and not surprisingly, since she lived two houses away, Marcy arrived a few minutes later. Being a real estate tycoon, she was dressed for success. Today’s outfit of fitted cream-colored trousers and tailored blouse was the epitome of simple, elegant, and expensive.