Half Moon Harbor

by Donna Kauffman

  “Well, that might be the sticky part.”

  Brodie frowned and turned the card over, read the name engraved on the front. And the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

  Fergus hesitated only a moment. “Brooks Winstock.”

  Brodie looked up. “Cami’s father.”

  Chapter 11

  Grace headed down the main pier toward the large boathouse built out over the water, way at the end. She’d never been inside it, but she knew Brodie used it as his workshop. She’d seen him walk there most every morning, had heard the sounds of power tools coming from there when she sat on the end of her pier with her coffee in the mornings, and had viewed him hauling lumber and other supplies there from time to time while working on her own boathouse. Lately, she’d seen a light on there well into the night. Not that she’d been watching morning and night or anything.

  She’d seen him head in that direction just after sunrise. Sunrise happened early in Maine, which had taken some getting used to. It had become her favorite time of the day, though. Most of the world was still quiet, asleep. The morning air was crisp and cool. The sounds of the gulls starting their morning hunt for fish mixed in with the banter of the osprey pair who’d nested for the summer atop the light pole that stood between her boathouse and the parking lot. She didn’t think she’d ever be less than awed by the extreme changes in high and low tides so far north, and enjoyed listening to the lobstermen talk, their voices carrying easily over the water as they set up their boats with traps and buoys before chugging out from Blue’s, a commercial fishing enterprise situated just past the Monaghan property.

  And, okay, she might have paid more attention than she should have to Brodie’s boathouses . . . the one he lived in and the one he worked in. She hadn’t spoken to him since what she’d come to think of as that afternoon, which was two weeks ago. He’d invited her to dinner a few times in the days immediately following, but had quickly given up when she hadn’t responded. It hadn’t been an intentional slight on her part. Other than a quick trip back to get Whomper from her boathouse after Brodie had dropped him off that evening, she’d ended up spending a good part of the following two days holed up with Langston at the rental house, working and reworking the plans, alternately arguing, listening, and ultimately compromising. Her cell phone signal out there was poor to nonexistent, so she’d missed both of Brodie’s calls.

  By the time she and Langston were done hammering out all the details and Grace had returned and resumed work at the boathouse, she’d decided it would be wiser to focus on the steep hill she’d just begun to climb rather than her attraction to Brodie. In order to give the renovation her full, undivided attention, she should probably steer clear of her sexy Irish neighbor and those clever hands of his. And that accent. Also, his amazingly talented mouth.

  Yeah. Wiser.

  That didn’t mean she didn’t think about what had happened that afternoon. Often. Too often. The very fact that just one time together still had the power to distract her the way it did made her stick to the decision to leave well enough alone. When her unintentional silence had resulted in his calls stopping . . . she’d left it at that, and turned her attention where it needed to be.

  After all the haranguing and wrangling back and forth with Langston, whose vision was inarguably brilliant but hadn’t always lined up with hers, Grace was happy with the final plans for the inn—thrilled, really—and couldn’t wait to begin the actual work. It was just a matter of getting through what felt like the endless delays as new problems cropped up on a daily basis. Sometimes hourly. Some of the issues even had issues.

  There were continuing problems with the foundation, the wiring throughout was faulty, and neither that nor the plumbing was even close to current code standards. Many of the original cypress boards could be salvaged but would have to be taken up and shipped out to be worked on, and the new planks she needed to fill in the gaps would have to be ordered and shipped in from out of state. Way out of state. And on it went.

  She was starting to worry that they wouldn’t make enough progress to be under the new roof and ready to begin interior work before the weather turned. Winter came early to Maine.

  She’d had to divest more and more of her investment portfolio to cover the additional repairs, causing more than a few sleepless nights as she worried that she’d go broke before she ever got the inn finished. Admittedly, Cami’s suggestion to tear the place down and start from scratch had played through her mind more than once.

  But even if she’d had a change of heart about the historic building—which she truly hadn’t—she couldn’t imagine doing anything other than building the marvelously unique loft plan that Langston had designed. So onward she pushed. To that end, she’d been staying at the boathouse full-time. Despite having keys to the amazing waterfront house that Langston had rented and spent all of two nights in, she’d been bunking at her boathouse. She told herself it was because she was too exhausted by nightfall to make the drive out to the Point. But, truth be told, even though the cavernous building was still more torn up and run down than anything resembling reconstruction . . . it was hers. And she liked being there. No . . . she loved being there. So did Whomper, who had free rein of the place as well as the docks.

  She felt too disconnected when she was out on the Point, and not just because her phone didn’t work out there. She knew that staying on the boathouse property day and night wasn’t getting it done any faster, but she just . . . felt better when she was there. Given the gorgeous summer weather, with warm sunny days and brisk nights, she hadn’t needed much more than a cot, a cooler, a small cookstove, and a lamp that ran off the work generator her crews were using for their power tools, all of which she’d picked up at Hartley’s, the fabulous local hardware store.

  Stepping into Hartley’s was like stepping back in time. A true vintage hardware store like she’d only seen in old movies, with everything from nails and lumber to kitchen utensils and Red Flyer wagons. Owen Hartley had been a godsend in more ways than she could have ever hoped. Late forties or early fifties, she guessed, average height, trim physique, ginger-haired and somewhat mild-mannered in demeanor, he’d also turned out to be the town historian and had all sorts of connections with local contractors. He’d been a tremendous help in hiring her initial demo crew. He’d also assured her that when the time came and she needed to install fixtures and such, he could help her with the more traditional, antique, and period pieces she might be interested in. He promised that if he couldn’t track down the parts personally, he surely would knew of someone who could. Between Langston and Owen, she felt she had two fairy godfathers watching over her.

  She smiled at the fanciful notion. Langston would love the comparison, but she wasn’t sure the hardware store owner would feel the same.

  Rounding out her stay-cation villa, as she’d come to call it, was a heavy work hose and sprayer nozzle that ran off well water and connected to the fixture at the back of the building as her make-do shower . . . and the port-o-potty she’d had installed out in the parking lot for the crew took care of the rest. It was sort of like camping indoors. Well, except for the fact that half the roof was now down to exposed beams. So, indoor-outdoor camping. When she couldn’t stand herself any longer, she’d head out to the Point and live like a real person for a day—or more typically a short evening and a night—then come back to her place.

  Her place. Her smile spread to a grin as she strode down the long pier and resisted the urge to hug herself. Again. She still couldn’t get over how drastically her life had changed in such a short time. The idea of pulling on panty hose and wearing tailored suits and sensible pumps for eight to ten hours a day sounded like torture to her now. Well, not that it hadn’t been before, but she’d grown so used to the business uniform she’d simply donned it out of habit. She had thought she’d miss the people, the sounds, the day-to-day conversations with coworkers and just, well, the general “noise” that comprised her former world. But it was exactly the op
posite. It was as if everything had slowed down and she could finally breathe. Think. Clear her head. The way she’d only been able to do out on the river, back in D.C.

  There was noise in Blueberry Cove, just an entirely different kind. She wasn’t referring to the loud and chaotic noise that came from the work being done to the boathouse. She was thinking about the day-to-day interactions she had, talking with the locals—her new neighbors—and not just when they stopped by, but everywhere she went. It was a completely different rhythm. Folks weren’t in a hurry. They took a moment to say hello, and when they asked after you, they were sincere in wanting to hear your reply.

  Grace had wondered if that sort of thing would drive her crazy. How would her hurry-up-and-get-it-done-racing-always-racing mentality of living in the city work with the slow pace and Nosy Nellies that were the norm of small-town life in the Cove? She couldn’t lie, the slow pace had, at times, tried her patience right to the limit and then some. It had definitely taken some getting used to, especially as she felt she was racing under the deadline of winter to get the boathouse to a certain point in the renovation . . . and no one else seemed to share her focused intensity in making that a reality, no matter what hourly rate she was willing to pay.

  Ultimately, though, as the days passed, her internal rhythms had slowly begun to shift to match the external ones . . . and she realized just how much she’d needed to slow down, to stop and smell the proverbial roses. Or, in her case, the gorgeous stalks of purple, pink, and white lupines that bloomed and blossomed any and everywhere in summertime Maine. Most especially the thriving patch that filled much of the long sloping hill that curved upward behind the Monaghan property, all the way to Harbor Street. She never tired of looking at them, gently swaying in the breeze that always came off the water.

  So, she mused, watching yet another fishing boat chug away from the docks at Blue’s, was it more grand adventure or insane leap off a cliff? She laughed. Both. For sure. She’d never worked so physically hard in her life. She’d thought rowing had made her stronger, fitter, but ripping out old warped boards, prying off and taking down hundreds—thousands—of rotting shakes, hauling more loads of demolition detritus than she could count out to the big construction trash trailer she’d also had hauled in, not to mention pile after pile of junk that had found its way into the boathouse over decades that had turned it into the world’s biggest crap-filled garage, was a whole different kind of workout.

  Still, it was progress. Every shingle, every old lobster trap, every warped board they hauled out of there was one step closer to the time when they’d start the real renovation, start making Langston’s gorgeous plans come to life. In the meantime, she tried to enjoy the process, knowing it would make the end result all the more meaningful to her because she’d done it with her own hands.

  She also knew that sinking herself heart and soul into the arduous, slow-moving process was making it a lot easier to procrastinate on making any headway on her other reason for coming to Maine. Her main reason, as it were. She figured at some point she’d know when it was time. The right time. If there was ever going to be such a thing. Maybe it was when she’d finally feel confident enough, work up enough nerve, to take that critical first step. But the days were turning into weeks, and that “right day” hadn’t happened.

  She’d finally admitted that she was simply going to have to make it the right time.

  She’d been in Blueberry Cove just shy of six weeks, a boathouse owner for exactly a month. Though she’d come to know many locals from their visits to the boathouse and from her trips to the town grocery, handling her account at the bank, stopping in at the post office from time to time to pick up the plans from Langston or other paperwork stemming from her investment dealings, as well as frequent trips to the library to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi . . . not a single soul had said a word to her about Ford.

  That had helped to foster her belief that she could take her time and do things in her own way, when she was ready. She knew that his living and working on Sandpiper might be part of why no one had made the connection, but as far as she knew, he didn’t live out there year-round, only during the summer months when the island became the nesting ground for seals, puffins, arctic terns, razorbills, and other seafowl. Otherwise, he kept a place on the outskirts of town in the opposite direction from the Point, heading around the harbor to the east side of the bay.

  She knew about the latter because that was the address he used on his tax returns, though she hadn’t gone and found the place. She’d learned the rest after stumbling across some brochures and a little sign posted at the post office soliciting tax-deductible donations that went toward the work being done by the scientists and interns on the island every summer. Her heart had pounded as she’d read through the brochure front to back, but there hadn’t been any specific mention of her brother. Still, the organization advertised was the same one he listed as his employer, so she had to assume that’s where he was.

  Of course, she knew it was only a matter of time before someone pieced the connection together, but it had only struck her a morning or two ago during her coffee time on the pier, that possibly they already had. What if they knew exactly who she was in relation to Ford, but had thought they should mention her arrival to him before making any comment to her? It stood to reason they’d be more protective of him than of her.

  She’d spent the past two days trying to figure out the best way to get out to Sandpiper Island. Whale-watching boat tours went out into the bay, but none of the brochures or websites mentioned trips to Sandpiper. She assumed due to the sensitive work the scientists were doing with endangered species that tourists weren’t welcome, and understandably so.

  She was fairly certain that being related to one of the scientists wasn’t necessarily going to gain her any advantage. But having Ford find out from someone else that she’d up and moved her entire life to the very same small town he had been calling home for the past dozen or so years was far worse than anything that might happen if he heard it from her directly. She shouldn’t have waited as long as she had. She’d just assumed that if no one was saying anything, no one knew. She should have thought that through a little better. But hey, why start thinking things through at this late date?

  She glanced out toward the horizon, her nerves returning and starting to jangle in earnest as she drew closer to the boathouse. It was bad enough that she was scared about what was going to happen with Ford, possibly even as soon as that very day. It didn’t help that she had to deal with Brodie on top of anticipating what would happen when she saw her brother for the first time in fifteen years.

  Fifteen years. She’d been sixteen the last time they’d been together. It had been June then, too. Angry teenager or not, it hadn’t been one of her finer moments.

  She shut off thoughts of that day and focused on the current glorious June morning. New day. New life. New start. It was Saturday, and the crew had the weekend off so they could head up to Machiasport to participate in some sort of river race regatta. She’d thought about going herself, taking a much-needed day off to enjoy the river races and the country fair type thing she’d heard went hand in hand with the event. Then she’d seen Brodie head out to the boathouse, and another idea had taken root. One she couldn’t set aside, at least not until she pursued it and got either a solution to her transportation problem, or more likely, a curt “maybe when the bay freezes over.” With the crew off for two days, there would be no better time to find some way to get out to Sandpiper Island.

  She watched Whomper scamper on ahead and hoped he’d do his job as ambassador for her surprise visit. Just because she’d decided Brodie was off-limits didn’t mean her dog had. The traitor would disappear for hours at a time and, after a frantic round of calling and whistling for him the first time it had happened, dread filling her as she imagined him either leaping off a pier and drowning, or hit by a truck up on Harbor Street . . . she now knew that when the construction noise got to be too much for
him, he’d head on over to visit Brodie, either at his boathouse office or his workshop one.

  Brodie hadn’t called to complain, and Whomper trotted over quite happily and confidently whenever the mood struck him and always came back in much the same mood . . . so she assumed that at least his visits were welcome. For all that she hadn’t contacted Brodie in the past two weeks . . . he hadn’t so much as stopped by to see how things were going, either. She’d told herself it was better that way all around. Personally and professionally.

  She knew, lingering fantasies about that afternoon notwithstanding, at some point they’d have to find a way to deal with each other. The longer they waited to meet again, the more awkward it might become.

  “Well, we’re about to put an end to that moratorium,” she murmured under her breath. Even more than that, if her reason for seeing him went as planned, they’d be spending more than a few minutes together, which only added more tension to the nerve bundle.

  She’d been planning her little speech all morning. “Hi,” she practiced under her breath. “I know I’ve been avoiding you since we almost had hot monkey sex in the boathouse I bought out from under you, but I need a ride out to Sandpiper Island to find my long-lost brother. Got a few hours to spare?” Yeah. That’s going to go over really well.

  She heard strains of music mixed in with the noise of a power saw before she reached the open panel door situated on the opposite end of the boathouse from the side that faced her pier. She’d spent many mornings being alternately thankful and frustrated that she couldn’t look into his workshop, see what he was working on. Okay, okay, see him doing the work. Preferably shirtless.

  Yeah, she really didn’t need that visual on the brain at the moment. But even that vivid image was mercifully erased a heartbeat later when Whomper came tearing out of the boathouse, a chunk of cut wood clenched in his jaws. He gleefully tore past her and headed at a mad dash back toward her boathouse, where, given the chance, he’d spend at least the next hour chewing on it, then another one determining the exact right spot to bury it.