The Chesapeake Diaries Series 7-Book Bundle: Coming HOme, Home Again, Almost Home, Hometown Girl, Home for the Summer, The Long Way Home, At the River's Edge

by Stewart, Mariah

  “Dallas,” he told her.

  Steffie bit the inside of her lip. “It’s because you’re sleeping with her, isn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

  Grant sighed. “The guy’s entitled to his privacy. If he wants to discuss his private affairs with you—or anyone else—he’ll do it.”

  “This isn’t fair. I knew you first. We grew up under the same roof. Your allegiance should be to me.”

  “You sound like a petulant eight-year-old.”

  Steffie stuck out her tongue.

  “Make that a five-year-old.”

  Plan B, Stef told herself. Maybe I can get Berry to spill over one of my special sundaes …

  “And don’t be thinking you’ll trick Miss B into telling you,” he said as if reading her mind. “Her lips are sealed, too.”

  “Damn.”

  He wrestled the key from her hand and unlocked the door.

  “Oh, and let me know what you come up with for Dallas’s birthday flavor.”

  Steffie stood in the doorway for a moment watching her brother’s long strides carry him across the lot to his car.

  “Damn.” She punched a fist into her other palm. “And I was so close …”

  “I suppose haggis is out of the question.”

  “What’s that?” Tina poked her head into the back room, where Stef had spent every possible moment that afternoon going over flavor possibilities for Dallas’s birthday ice cream.

  “I was just thinking out loud,” Steffie told her.

  She was thinking maybe she needed to come up with something that said “Scottish” to tie in with MacGregor, but the only two things that came to mind were haggis and heather. What did heather taste like, anyway?

  She searched the shelves for the notebook containing the ice-cream recipes she’d started collecting when she was a teenager, and after spending an afternoon making ice cream with Horace, declared that she was going to make ice cream every day for the rest of her life. Over the years, she’d handwritten recipes she’d begged, borrowed, stolen, and later, made up, into the notebook. Through trial and error, testing and retesting, she’d come up with flavors that were all her own. Stef was the first to admit that some of her early attempts at creativity had in fact been duds. It had taken a while, but she’d developed an uncanny ability to blend flavors that others might not dream of putting together. Her ice cream had been written up in many local and regional periodicals, and her shop had landed on several of the must-see lists that appeared every summer in vacation guides and weekend getaway suggestions.

  It had been a long time since she’d faced a challenge like this one, and she was enjoying it. She spent the entire rainy afternoon poring over her notebook, but she had yet to hit the right note.

  She barely heard the ringing phone.

  “Stef,” Tina told her, “it’s Cam. He wants to know what time to meet you tonight.”

  “Sometime between six and seven. Whichever works best for him,” Stef said absently.

  After she’d hung up the phone, Tina told her, “Cam said six-thirty is good.”

  “Thanks. Any chance you could work an extra hour or two tonight? We shouldn’t be too busy with all this rain, and I’ll be back before it’s time to close.”

  Tina nodded, then reminded her, “I’ve got two kids in college. I’ll take all the extra hours I can get.”

  Maybe something Scottish wasn’t the way to go, Stef thought as she drove to Olive Street, the ice-cream flavor still on her mind. Maybe something that was more Dallas than MacGregor.

  Maybe something with honey in it …

  Yeah, honey seemed right for Dallas. But what with it? Dallas loved peaches. She almost always ordered whatever peach concoction Steffie had on the menu board. But she had the feeling that peach had been overdone that summer. Whatever she came up with for Dallas had to be special, something no one had done before. Well, no one in St. Dennis, anyway.

  Yet delicious, she reminded herself as she parked in her driveway. It has to be unique and fabulous, like Dallas herself, and incredibly tasty.

  She put Dallas’s birthday ice cream from her mind as she walked from room to room with Cam, both of them taking notes on what they agreed should be done, and in what order.

  Cam suggested they start by updating the mechanics—plumbing, electricity, the heating system.

  “If you’re going to put in a whole new system”—he looked up from his clipboard—“you might want to think about central air conditioning.”

  Stef nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely.”

  “And if we’re doing over the plumbing, maybe you should redo the bathrooms at the same time. You know, new fixtures, new tile. And maybe take some of that space from the back shed area and put in a powder room.”

  “Put a detailed estimate in there, and I’ll think about it.”

  “Now, in the kitchen, you thinking about ripping out all those old cabinets?”

  They stood in the kitchen doorway.

  Stef shook her head. “I like the glass doors. I just thought I’d paint them.”

  Cam nodded. “I’d do the same. Now, about the floor …”

  Two and a half hours later, with a promise from Cam that she’d have the estimate by the weekend, Stef went back up the steps to the second floor. The hall bath had been remodeled about thirty years ago, and was to her eyes, a fright. That one should be completely redone, definitely. But the master bathroom still had the old claw-foot tub and the delicate tiles with embossed flowers, and though a few of the tiles were crazed and others bore signs of age, she liked it just the way it was. Satisfied that she was on the right path where her house was concerned, she went from one room to the next, turning out the lights.

  “Good night, house,” she whispered as she locked the front door behind her. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Honey.

  She turned on her laptop and scrolled through her findings. There were more kinds than she’d ever imagined: orange blossom, wildflower, mint, Tupelo, lemon, heather, even chestnut and eucalyptus honey. The possibilities made her head spin. There was blended honey—made from a mixture of honey that originated from different geographic origins, plants, and differing in color and taste. Polyfloral honey was made of the honey from several different flowers. Then there was monofloral honey, the honey from only one flower. And honey could be light in color and lightly flavored, like clover honey, or denser, darker, like buckwheat honey.

  And who knew that honey came in so many different forms? There was liquid honey—that was what she was most familiar with—but there was also honey in the comb, as well as liquid honey in the comb, and something called “naturally crystallized honey.” There was whipped honey and organic honey and kosher honey, raw honey and wild honey.

  Flavor first, she decided, shaking her head to clear it. That should be the easiest decision.

  She spent several hours going from one website to another. The sheer number of honey flavors was mind-boggling. With a groan, she saved what looked like the best locations, closed the laptop, stood, and stretched. She had time to figure it out, and once she did, after a test run or two, making the ice cream shouldn’t be too difficult. She would need a guest count from Grant sooner or later so she’d know how much to make.

  She turned off the lights, picked up her bag, and took it and the list she’d made with Cam into her bedroom. She left the list and a pen on her nightstand while she got ready for bed. Once in her oldest, most favorite sleep shirt, she crawled into bed, and reviewed her checklist and began to number things in order of priority, grateful that she had savings that would cover much of the cost. Where the funds once earmarked for a down payment fell short, she’d do the work herself or she’d postpone it. Hence the need for priorities.

  First, of course, was to upgrade the electrical service and replace all the wiring and the outlets. Cam was right about that. It was boring and expensive, but necessary. Next would be the plumbing and replacing any lead pipes. After that, the heating and air
-conditioning needed to be addressed. She could be painting the kitchen while all that was going on. A soft, dreamy white for the cabinets and granite for the counters. A sweet buttery yellow for the walls, or a dark cream? Maybe the very palest gray, like she’d seen in a magazine. She sighed with pleasure. She’d thought it would be years before she had such delicious decisions to make.

  But should she wait until the floors were done to begin painting?

  Tomorrow, she told herself. Dallas’s ice cream and her plans for the house could all wait until tomorrow.

  She hooked the pen onto the notebook and dropped both on the floor, then turned off the light, thinking of all the nights she’d spent in this apartment dreaming of the day when she’d have a pretty house to call her own. Of course, in that dream, she’d also had her own handsome guy to share it with.

  Then again, all things considered, one out of two wasn’t bad.

  Steffie hit the hardware store on Charles Street as soon as her daily supply of ice cream was in the cooler and Tina was behind the cash register. She’d awakened with a clear head and a definite vision for her house. She knew exactly what she wanted, and couldn’t wait to get started. She bought the paint for the entire downstairs and the room she’d selected as her bedroom and bath, as well as all the supplies she needed: brushes, pails, rollers, and pans. It had taken two of the countermen to help her load it all into the back of her old Pathfinder.

  “I’m a busy woman. I don’t have a lot of time to waste,” she’d explained as she paid the tab. “As long as I’m already here and I know what I want, I might as well take care of as much of my business right now as I can.”

  Later that afternoon, she met with Jesse Enright, from Horace’s law firm. He had the papers all laid out for her on his conference-room table when she arrived.

  “I know you’re busy and don’t have a lot of time to spare,” he said when he finished explaining the terms of Horace’s will and the legalities of the papers she was about to sign, “so I made sure everything was in order and ready to go. If you’re satisfied, I’ll show you where to sign.”

  He handed her a pen with the name of the law firm, Enright and Enright, in gold block letters, with his name underneath in script. After she’d worked her way through the stack, she handed him the pen.

  “Thanks, Jesse.” She couldn’t help but grin.

  “Keep the pen.” He grinned back at her.

  “Thanks,” she said again.

  “It’s nice to see someone happy for a change,” he told her as he packed up her copies of the deed and the tax records and everything else he was sending her home with. “So far today I’ve had two divorces and this morning I had to go to court with a very young client who was arrested for stealing his parents’ car.”

  “How young is very young?” she asked.

  “Eleven. I had to convince the judge it was a onetime thing to satisfy his curiosity and that he’d never do it again and that community service would be appreciated.”

  “Did the judge buy it?” She clutched the envelope tightly, still barely able to believe her good fortune and doing her best to keep from breaking into a happy dance.

  “After he had his say, he agreed. But he did put the fear of God into that kid.” Jesse walked her to the door, his hand lightly on her arm. “For which the boy’s parents were grateful.”

  “I’m not even going to ask you who the kid is.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Right. Client confidentiality.”

  He nodded, his blue eyes dancing. “And probably a good customer of yours.”

  “Most of the kids in town are.”

  He opened the heavy wooden door and held it for her.

  “Thanks again, Jesse.” She stepped outside onto the brick walk that led from the sidewalk to the office building that was slightly set back from the street.

  “Look, Steffie.” He stepped out with her. “If you need help with anything—with the house, whatever—give me a call, okay? I’d be more than happy to give you a hand with … well, with whatever you need. I spent my summers working for a carpenter back when I was in school. I swing a mean hammer.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled her prettiest smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you at the leukemia run next week.”

  “You signed up?” She paused on the walk. Steffie and Grant’s parents had organized the first run years ago in honor of their deceased sister, Natalie, and since then, it had become an annual event.

  Jesse nodded. “It’s a good cause, and it seems like a good way to become involved in the community.” He stepped out onto the walk, his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t been in town long enough to get to know too many people, unless they’ve come into the office or they’re friends of my uncle’s. I figured it was time for me to get out and meet people on my own. All work and no play and all that.”

  “There are a lot of ways to become part of the community, so I’m glad you chose Natalie’s Run. Obviously, it’s a cause that’s very important to my family and me.” She shook his hand. “I’d be happy to introduce you to some of the people I know.”

  “That would be great, Steffie. I’d appreciate that.”

  “And you know, you don’t have to run. You can walk,” she told him. He really does have nice eyes. And a terrific smile. Are those dimples? Sigh …

  “I already entered to run, but it’s good to know I have an option.” He walked her as far as the driveway. “So, I guess I’ll see you there.”

  “Yes,” she assured him. “You’ll see me there.”

  Options, she repeated to herself as she returned to her shop. Always good to know there are options …

  Jesse might be an option, she mused. He’s a really nice guy, he’s cute as the devil—dimples!—and as far as I know, he’s eligible.

  So you, Wade MacGregor, are not the only guy in town, she thought smugly.

  “As a matter of fact, from this moment on, I’m immune to you. You have no hold over me,” she mumbled as she entered Scoop through the back door. “You are so not worthy of me, and I’m happy to be looking elsewhere. I deserve better,” she reminded herself.

  “Are you talking to me?” Tina called from the front of the shop.

  “What?” Steffie’s face turned red. She hadn’t realized she’d been talking out loud. “No, sorry.”

  She grabbed her apron from the rack and tied it on, and went out front to wait on her customers.

  The paint was still in the back of the car when she pulled into the driveway around seven. She raised the back hatch of the car and tried to estimate how many trips it was going to take to get everything into the house. She decided to unlock the door first so at least she wouldn’t have to wrestle with heavy boxes and the lock at the same time. On her way back to the car, she heard her name being called.

  Wade. She pretended not to have heard.

  “Hey, Stef.” He crossed the street, jogging with Austin in his stroller. “Hey, great house. Congratulations. I heard the news.”

  “Oh, hi.” She crossed her arms over her chest. Immune, she told herself. I am immune. “I guess you saw Grant.”

  “Nah, Berry heard from Grace Sinclair.” He stopped on the other side of the fence. Austin peered around the awning of the stroller and smiled shyly before ducking back.

  I remain immune to him, and his little boy, too.

  “I wonder who told Grace?”

  “I’ve no idea. She does just always seem to know things, though.”

  Austin struggled quietly to get out from his restraints.

  “So, want to give us a tour?” Wade asked.

  She’d been this close to him before, and really, she hadn’t meant to stare, but it occurred to her how like his sister’s eyes Wade’s were. That odd shade of smoky lavender …

  “Of course.” She mentally slapped herself on the forehead. “Lavender. Lavender and honey. Lavender honey.”

  “What?” A puzzled Wade
tilted his head to one side.

  “Never mind.” Steffie glanced down in time to see Austin escape. “Ah, Wade. Fugitive.”

  “Yeah, he’s gotten pretty good at it.” He turned to the little boy. “Austin, come say hi to Steffie.”

  Austin came closer, his eyes—so dark, she noted, so unlike his father’s and his aunt’s—studying her.

  “This is Steffie, Austin. Daddy’s friend. Can you say hi to Stef?”

  Austin looked up at her and said, “Steppie.”

  “Wade, did he say ‘Steffie’?” She smiled in spite of her vow to remain immune. “I think he said ‘Steffie.’ ”

  “Steppie,” Austin repeated.

  “There. He did. He said my name.”

  “He’s pretty quick,” Wade told her.

  “He’s really cute,” she said. He was really cute. She could remain immune to Wade and still acknowledge the adorableness of his boy-child.

  “Thanks.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to ask who Austin looked like—maybe get some insight into Austin’s mama—because clearly, the child looked nothing like Wade. Dark hair, big brown eyes, and, she thought, olive skin, though that could be tan. They had been living in Texas, and it is pretty hot there, right?

  “Isn’t it almost his bedtime?” She went through the gate and around to the back of her car to start unloading. With any luck, Wade would strap his son back into the stroller and stroll on home.

  “It used to be. He’s been staying up a little later since we came to St. Dennis because we take a walk after dinner every night, and then he likes to play with his cousin.”

  Before she realized what was happening, Wade had lifted the heaviest of the boxes of paint cans and started to walk toward the house. When she started to protest, he said simply, “I have it.”

  With Austin toddling behind, Wade set off for the house.

  Steffie grabbed the bag with all the brushes and mixing sticks and the rollers and tried to catch up.

  “You can put them down right here in the front hall.” She trailed behind him. “Thanks, Wade, you don’t have to …”

  But he was out the door again, having passed her on the sidewalk, and at the car, hoisting another box and carrying it as if it were light as a feather.