Half Moon Harbor

by Donna Kauffman

  Six months had ticked by with agonizing slowness and he’d begun to think he was ruined for good . . . then he’d awoken three weeks ago to the sound of a woman swearing down on his dock. . . .

  He grinned as he sorted through Fergus’s extensive toolbox, looking for the right size socket. Funny how he hadn’t thought of Alex MacFarland in . . . well, in three weeks. And when he thought of his boathouse, all he pictured was that moment on the iron steps. His grin turned wry and tone self-deprecating as he muttered, “Perhaps ye might want a mental image that doesna’ include a woman in your home who otherwise wants nothing to do with your pale Irish ass.”

  Except that wasn’t entirely true. Oh, Grace Maddox wanted him. They’d sealed that truth the afternoon in her boathouse. Her boathouse. He grimaced. That he’d even thought of it that way was a step in a direction he still wished he didn’t have to take.

  Problem was, that direction also led him to Grace. Who, since their blistering hot interlude, had yet to make time in her oh-so-busy schedule to so much as wave in his general direction. Other than a message left on his business voice mail asking him to leave Whomper back at her boathouse—her boathouse—with a bowl of fresh water and a bit of dog food that same night, he’d only heard her voice two other times. Both times also via voice mail, both times turning down his invitation to dinner, invites which he’d been forced to leave on her voice mail because she couldn’t even be bothered to answer his damn calls.

  He’d been sorely tempted to simply show up on her doorstep again, but he told himself to have some pride, a shred of dignity. If she wasn’t interested, he wasn’t about to grovel, for God’s sake.

  Brodie found the right socket, fixed it to the wrench, then parked his bum in front of the open base of the unit and wedged his shoulder in so he could reach the connectors on the back and make sure they were cranked completely off before he went any further. Grace probably had the right idea anyway, he thought, as he’d told himself numerous times already. Starting something up wasn’t a good notion, not when they were destined to be close neighbors for at least some length of time. Privately, Brodie questioned her future as an innkeeper. It was long hours, hard work, and not nearly as romantic or heartwarming as was painted in novels and movies.

  Coming from a small Irish village, he’d been in the position to live in close quarters with women he’d dated but no longer saw romantically . . . and he’d always been able to find a way to keep the friendship, even if the more personal liaison had frittered out. It always had. But that was then. Things were different. He was different. Only he wasn’t exactly sure yet where those differences began and ended. He wasn’t interested in easy liaisons, casual dalliances. He wanted . . . well, he wanted to feel like he had when he thought about Alex. He wanted to feel like he wanted . . . something more.

  Grace had certainly captured his full attention . . . in a way that made whatever fledgling feelings he’d had for Alex seem dim and unformed in comparison. He credited that to the fact that the attraction in this case was mutual. Bordering on downright explosive. He’d have to be dead not to have her constantly on his mind. She’d proven he was far from that.

  That left him where? Wanting what . . . exactly? If wandering around his boathouse like a pathetic sad sack these past months had been bad after the nonstarter his relationship with Alex had been . . . what in the world would it be like living within spitting distance of Grace if things went in the same direction? He doubted it would turn into the friendly, platonic arrangement he’d enjoyed back in Ireland, and had managed with Alex.

  Oh, if only his sisters could see him, the merry amusement they’d have at his expense.

  “Coming to America might have had its saving graces after all,” he muttered as he bent to the task at hand. Now I just have to figure out how to save myself from Grace.

  Brodie emerged from the kitchen a little more than two hours later without any answers to his most pressing questions, but he was smiling as he wiped his hands on an old work rag. He found Fergus behind his cluttered wooden desk in his equally cluttered office at the back of the pub. “I’ve managed to sweet-talk your recalcitrant little fire pistol into keeping her flame alive a wee bit longer. However, I’d be thinking about trading up in the near future. Way up.”

  Fergus looked up from the pile of receipts he’d been tallying on a small calculator. He slid off the pair of bifocals that had been perched on his nose and rubbed the spots on the bridge where they’d been resting. “Och, and that’s good to hear. I’ve got a few other pressing concerns that need tending to before I deal with that headache.”

  “Well, I’ll let you get back to it then. I’ll see about dropping in later for a pint when I’ve reached my limit with the current work in progress.”

  “Park yer bum for a moment longer if you can spare it.” Fergus pointed the arm of his glasses at the seat positioned on the other side of his desk, just inside the door.

  Brodie looked at the stack of books, folders, and catalogs that filled the beat-up leather chair and grinned. “I’m no’ sure I should dare to squeeze any more of me into the space left in this room.” He looked around the small office.

  The walls and built-in shelves were all original wood, stained dark from heat, smoke, time, and God knew what else. The shelves lined the wall top to bottom on one side, every last inch of them crammed with books, binders, framed photos, bowling trophies, a few hand-fletched darts, and every other thing the old man had saved and held on to over the past two decades—which appeared to be everything. Old oak file drawer units filled the other wall, crammed to bulging if the partially opened drawers were any indication. Stuff was stacked just as high on top. The floor, the desk, and the chair bore the weight of more files, more books, various and sundry wholesale catalogs. “It’s a wonder you know what’s what and what’s where. I’m guessing you keep your accountant on a running open tab at the bar to bribe him into even coming in here.”

  Fergus snorted. “I’m my own accountant. Ran my own businesses just fine back home and I’ll do the same here, thank you very much. Just move that stack”—he glanced around and shrugged—“somewhere. Have a sit down.”

  “We can go out to the bar. It’s still early yet.”

  “I’d rather talk here.”

  Brodie frowned. “Aye, then.” He shifted the stack in the chair to the open doorway, then took a seat. “Is everything okay? Whatever the problem is, ye’ve only to ask and I’ll do whatever it is I can.”

  Fergus smiled and true affection shone from his eyes. “Aye, you’re a good laddie, you are, and I’m proud to call you friend. But the problem here isn’t mine. ’Tis yours.”

  Good lord, now what? “What is it you’ve heard?”

  “Heard you up and lost a piece of your heritage to the newcomer.”

  Brodie wasn’t surprised word had spread. In fact, he’d assumed everyone knew by nightfall the day the deed had been signed over. His brows lifted a bit at the hint of censure. “The local grapevine must be slipping. Happened three weeks ago. The property was gone before I knew the deal was even in the works.”

  “Och, give me a wee bit more credit than that, boy-o. I’m aware the sale was a done deal inside a week of when she first laid eyes on it. In a town this size, hard to believe pulling off something like that would be possible. Unless of course the motivation was there.” He tapped his glasses on the open file on his desk. “I can think of only one person who might have had the power and the inclination.”

  Brodie wasn’t surprised that Fergus might have put together what Brodie knew to be fact. Cami Weathersby’s extracurricular proclivities were high on the list of the town’s worst-kept secrets. He had thought, however, that his rejection of her advances had been a private matter and had remained such. He couldn’t imagine she’d have advertised her failure to land him in her bed. “How would this particular . . . motivation as you call it, have become public knowledge?”

  “Oh, I didn’t say it was common knowledge, lad. But
I might know a bit or two more than your average citizen, mostly because I pay attention. You’ve a smile, a wink, and a spare moment for a pretty face, whether they’re in a stroller or using a walker to get themselves about. To you, every woman has a pretty face. It’s a part of you as much as breathing; a harmless diversion at worst, at best, a lovely example of our Irish charm.”

  Fergus smiled briefly. “However, if one were to pay attention, one might have noticed that there is a rather exceedingly attractive face in our wee village who hasn’t been able to command much more than a polite nod from your general direction.” He sighed. “Seeing as she’s used to the opposite sex generally treating her like royalty—some would say she gauges a good part of her self-worth on her ability to command her royal subjects—my sense is that where you’re concerned, perhaps a bit of the ‘evil queen’ is showing.” Fergus made quotation marks with his fingers.

  “Aye, well, there’s no supposing to it.” Brodie wouldn’t have confirmed or denied it to anyone else, but Fergus wasn’t just anyone. And Brodie knew he’d keep what was said between them private. “She visited me in my workshop a week or so back and made it quite clear that I had myself to blame for the transaction.”

  Fergus looked surprised at that. “Did she now? What leverage would there be in that? Unless it was merely to gloat.”

  “You have the right of it, there. But she also let it slip that Grace was considering snapping up yet another of the buildings, the largest one that sits right next to her first purchase, in order to expand on the inn she is in the process of creating.”

  “I imagine she wanted you to shift your allegiance to her and she’d protect your, shall we say, vested and divested interests?”

  Brodie choked a little on that last part, but managed to say, “Essentially . . . aye. My favors for her favors.”

  “Ye turned her down, I imagine.”

  “I did. If my previous rejections set her on a path to see me stripped of my heritage, I honestly don’t know what Plan B will consist of. But I can assume it won’t be pretty.”

  Fergus studied him for a long moment. “I was going to say that explains the pinched look I commented on earlier, but you’ve another matter concerning you, don’t you.” He didn’t make it a question. “How are you getting along with the newcomer? I’ve yet to make her acquaintance, but I hear she’s related to Ford.”

  That got Brodie’s full attention. “You know her brother? Is that his name?”

  Fergus’s bushy eyebrows climbed quite high on his forehead. “Whew, that’s quite a concerned look yer sportin’ there, my boy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say . . .” He trailed off, then his face split wide in a devilish grin. “Och, but you’ve gotten yourself into a tricky mess now, haven’t you, laddie? Does Cami realize she’s competin’ with her own client?”

  “There is no competition. Of any kind. With anyone.”

  “Maybe not to your mind, boy-o. Or perhaps even Miss Grace’s mind. I suspect if Miss Camille were to get a gander at your expression at the moment, she might have a somewhat different take on the matter, however. Do ye think Grace will leave your property be if she has a reason to not ruffle your feathers?”

  “Grace is a strong, independent woman who will do whatever she thinks is best for her plans. I’m not a factor in those decisions, nor would she let me be.”

  The twinkle in Fergus’s eyes could only be described as merry, bordering on downright gleeful. “Wouldn’t she now? Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain. That you’re not taking credit for your charm is also interesting.”

  Brodie frowned, angry and hurt at the insult. “I’m not using her. I wouldn’t do that. Not her or anyone else.”

  “Oh, pipe down.” Fergus was completely unabashed by Brodie’s outburst. “You know I wouldn’t accuse you of such. My point is that if you’re involving yourself in any manner with Grace Maddox, I think you’d be a fool to believe it won’t influence her, even if you or she wish it otherwise. There is not a single doubt that if word were to get out, so much as a whisper—in a village this size, I can’t see that not happening—then Cami’s very pretty head will likely explode. There’s no telling what she’ll do.”

  “There is nothing happening with Grace. If there were and it mattered, I would warn her about Cami. As it stands, there’s no point. She’d just think it a ploy to win her trust and divert her from purchasing the other boathouse. As it is, I think it’s all moot. I think Cami was bluffing. As I said, Grace is a smart businesswoman. I don’t think she would risk taking on the extra real estate at this point in her little venture, even at rock-bottom prices.”

  “Oh, my concern wasn’t that Cami would try to sell the place to Grace. If she finds out there’s even a hint of smoke to that fire, my bet is she would want to stick it to both of you. There’s nothing keeping her from finding yet another buyer. Especially now that she could pitch the building as part of a harborside renewal project or some such. With you launching the sailboat business and Grace opening an inn, that property will become a lot more attractive. For that matter, it could happen even without Cami’s interference.”

  “I know. I’ve thought about that. But I can only expand as fast as I am. I wasn’t planning on having to commit to a complete overhaul. Building boats by hand isn’t something you can expedite. I’ve had three under contract, two delivered. I’ve made headway on the third and have a few nibbles on what’s to come next, but not enough to hire on or expand. Barely enough to make meager headway. It’s a healthy start and as good or better than I anticipated. If not for the state of the place, I’d be in fine shape. The Monaghan shipyard didn’t spring up overnight, nor did it fall to total disrepair in that same time span. It will take time, patience, and a lot of diligence, blood, sweat, and probably a few tears or at least some colorful language to pull her back to something resembling a new life. It won’t be what was there before, but it will be something I can put my name on, my family name on, with pride. I just need time. Time I thought I had.”

  Fergus leaned his heavy forearms on his desk . . . and grinned. “Well, laddie, perhaps I can help you with that.”

  Brodie looked sincerely surprised at the comment and the confidence with which Fergus had made it. “How?”

  “I’ve word that there’s a bit of chatter about courting more of the tourist trade.”

  “We’re too far up the coast for that. We’re a fishing village. Tourism here, what little I’ve seen, is a distant, distant second.”

  “Aye, perhaps. But it is some part of our economy, and chatter is it might be ripe for expanding upon. Frankly, I think folks are right. With a Monaghan back at the helm of the historic shipbuilding business and Grace wanting to put in an inn that I hear is being designed by a world-famous architect, well . . . that chatter will only increase.”

  “How does this involve me? I mean, yes, my family has historic ties to the whole bay area, but the shipyard is hardly a tourist attraction. Don’t tell me you want me to make it into some kind of maritime museum or such. Maine has more than a few of those, quite good ones in fact. All more geographically desirable and more than capable of handling the tourist demand for that sort of thing.”

  “No’ a museum, lad, though it’s something to think on as an aside to your own business. Don’t discount it at any rate. But this is a far grander scheme than that, and a far more profitable one for you. You’ve heard of the tall ships that some of the tourist towns have commissioned and use to take folks out on the water?” At Brodie’s nod, Fergus said, “Well, talk is someone with deep pockets is thinking of commissioning a schooner to sail here in Pelican Bay. In this case, a wood-hull, no-auxiliary-power, full-on replica of an eighteenth-century flagship. Who better to build her than a Monaghan?”

  Brodie slumped back in his chair, momentarily speechless. He had to take a moment to absorb the impact of the idea. “There is no one better suited. I was born to do that. I would kill to be the one to do that.” He looked at Fergus, energized and crushed at the
same time. “I don’t have the . . . I’m not set up for anything of that scope. I don’t know that I ever would be. I . . . there’s no’ exactly a big demand for ships these days.”

  “Your forebears built the very same right on the plot of land you now call home. Nothing has changed about the lay of the land, the deep harbor. Where else could it be built, lad, if not right here?”

  Brodie’s pulse was pounding so hard it was almost impossible to sit still. “Where is the chatter coming from? Who’s putting up the money for it? Do they really think they can develop a tourist trade this far north? If they want the attraction to be water based, they’d have to work with someone in Half Moon Harbor to make that a possibility. All the other businesses running out of the harbor are for commercial fishing, which would mean—”

  “Working with you.” Fergus slid a card out from under the blotter on his desk. “Aye. I said the very thing to the gentleman I heard talking over his grand scheme. It’s possible he wasn’t intentionally including me in his conversation, but who pays attention to the barkeep?”

  “You have his card?”

  “Not only that, I have his word that he’ll contact you. In fact, he was already planning on it. We were of the same mind in regard to you being the right one . . . the only one. I believe the contract is yours if you can find a way to make it happen. That would pretty much solve the rest of your problems about getting your property out of hock and back into proper Monaghan ownership.”

  “I—I can’t even believe—ha!“ Brodie sat back, well and truly gobsmacked. He laughed, a slight manic edge to it. “It will take me a moment to wrap my head around it. It’s like a dream come true and winning the lottery on the same day.” He leaned forward and reached for the card. “Who is it?”