Several in the group were slow to rise, finishing either their tea or one of the pastries that had been served. Cass left the table a moment or two after Grace.
“Excuse me, Grace, if you have a minute?” Cass caught up with her at the door between the dining room and the lobby.
Grace turned and smiled. “Of course, Cass. Is something on your mind?”
“I want to thank you for backing my project. I was afraid people would react the way Joanna did at first. I couldn’t think of another way to deal with the fact that the houses we’re going to be selling have graves on their property.”
“Sometimes a little education is all that’s needed to overcome our fears and our prejudices, and it appears you have a handle on that.” Grace patted Cass’s hand. “But I also feel you are sincere in honoring the residents of the island—living and dead—and I respect that. I was serious about writing an article for my paper. I’ll look at the schedule and see when a feature would be most appropriate.”
“I appreciate that, Grace. I know your paper is widely read on the Eastern Shore, so your article will draw attention to what we want to do on the island.”
“Cannonball Island isn’t like other places. Its history is unique, and without an effort to preserve it, I’m afraid much will be lost, and that would be a terrible shame. I’d like to see all your homes sell so I can be assured the story not only will be remembered but will continue to be written.”
“You know, if the people who have been staying at the inn decide to buy on the island, you’ll be losing business,” Cass teased. “You might regret making such a good case on our behalf.”
Grace laughed. “The last thing I worry about is the inn losing business. We have waiting lists for every weekend from March through December. You should plan to be here for the Christmas holidays—we have wonderful events. There are a number of bed-and-breakfasts in St. Dennis, but we’re the only true inn, and the only one right on the water. We have families who’ve been staying with us for years. I’m not at all concerned about losing their patronage, but I am concerned about losing our local heritage. You can always call on me if you have any questions or need any information you think I might be able to share.” Grace took a few steps into the lobby, then turned back to Cass. “You might want to talk to Lisbeth. I understand she’s been sitting with Ruby, recording the old stories for a book she was thinking about putting together. Your work could enhance hers, and hers, yours.”
“Thanks, Grace. I’ll talk to Lis and see what she has in mind.”
“You do that, dear.” Grace waved and went off in the direction of her office on the other side of the inn.
Cass’s plan had been to go back to the island and take some photos at the Singer plot, but she was still annoyed with Owen and didn’t want to risk running into him again today. Instead, she returned to her room to take a much-needed nap. The earlier raking had awakened muscles she hadn’t known she’d had.
Tomorrow, she thought as she punched her pillow and curled up in the middle of the bed, she’d go to that big-box store out on the highway and buy her own sickle and weed-whacker grass-trimmer thingy.
Who needs Owen Parker? Not this girl.
EARLY THE NEXT morning, Cass set out for the highway, her list of things to buy in hand. She’d need the equipment, certainly, but a goodly supply of the largest trash bags she could find would certainly come in handy when it came time to—ugh—rake the cut grass and take it somewhere, though she wasn’t sure where that would be. Would Ruby Carter want the clippings?
Maybe we should plan a community garden, Cass mused as she tried on a pair of garden gloves, which should cut down on the wear and tear on the palms of her hands. No garden this year, but maybe in the future something could be done. She asked for assistance to find the implements she’d come for and spent a full half hour with the salesman, who felt compelled to explain every feature of everything he showed her. Finally she selected a battery-operated weed whacker—the salesman called it a trimmer, but it was the same thing—and something that resembled Owen’s sickle, though lighter in weight.
“I can do this,” she murmured confidently as she drove over the bridge onto the island and along the bayside road. “I will clean up every one of those plots by myself. It may take a while, but I know I—”
She slammed on her brakes as she rounded the point and the river came into view. There, fifty feet from shore, was a boat. She turned off the engine and got out of the car and stood for a moment, one hand shielding her eyes. For a moment she watched several men gather on the deck before she took off for the beach, her tennis shoes filling with sand as she neared the water. As she drew closer, she could easily identify Jared Chandler, but the others she didn’t recognize. She walked out as far as she could on the unfinished dock and glared.
The rat. She’d left a message for Jared with the desk, telling him about her involvement with Deiter Construction and asking him to call her when he got back. Owen probably knew in advance Jared would be here this morning, and neither of them had let her know. Thanks, guys.
“Hey!” she shouted, and all five men on board turned at the sound of her voice.
“Hey, Cass!” Jared waved a greeting.
“Something going on I should know about?”
“I just got back.” Jared walked to the far back of the boat. “I was going to catch up with you as soon as I had something to tell you.” Before she could respond, he said, “I take it you’ve heard about the ship that’s down there.”
“I heard that, but not a whole lot else, except that it’s going to cost Deiter Construction a delay and a lot of money.”
“I’m sorry about that, but it can’t be helped until we know exactly what we’re dealing with here. Right now, we’re going to take some depth measurements, and we’ll try to get a read on the visibility down there. I wish I knew more, had more to tell you, but that’s all I’ve got right now.”
She remained on the dock for a few minutes and watched two of the men pull on wet suits. Armed with some equipment—Cass wasn’t a diver, so she wasn’t sure what they were carrying—they entered the water from a platform on the very back of the boat. She stood for a few more minutes, then realized she was wasting time. She couldn’t see what the men were doing below the surface of the water or know how long they’d be down there. Best for her to go about her business. She could stand here for the rest of the day and still not learn anything.
Meanwhile, she had work to do. She went back to her car and unfolded the map she’d made for herself the night before. She’d drawn the island, marked the properties Deiter Construction had purchased, and drew an X on the ones having graveyards. She’d drive by each and see which one needed the most work, and she’d start there. She studied the map, numbered the properties, then headed for the first on her list.
At the old Heller homestead, Cass drove onto the overgrown driveway. She stepped out of her car into a sea of grass that came above her knees and tickled her legs up to the cuff of her shorts. She decided there should probably be a path to the graveyard, so that was the logical place to start. She put on her new gloves and got the sickle from the back of her car.
It was cooler than the previous day, overcast and gray. Sun was forecast for the afternoon, but as yet was still hiding behind the low clouds. The breeze off the bay brought whiffs of the salt marsh at the far side of the property, bringing the scent of decaying plant and animal life as summer slowly faded into autumn.
Might be a good idea to show this property early in the season, she mused, lest the smell off the flats turn people off. People unaccustomed to natural elements might object.
Cass tried to remember how Owen had used the sickle, but she wasn’t sure. She gave it a good swing, but she’d misjudged the length of the handle and, it being unwieldy, caused the blade to careen a little to one side. She’d somehow managed to lop off the top third of a few strands of grass, but that was all. She swung the sickle again, a little closer to the ground thi
s time, but her form still wasn’t right. Perhaps if she handled it more like a golf club and less like a rake?
She took another swing, but swung too hard, and the weight of the sickle almost took her with it.
This looked so much easier when Owen was doing it.
“Okay, you are going to cooperate with me whether you like it or not.” Cass planted her feet solidly and tried the golf swing again, this time not quite as hard. The sickle barely missed her ankles.
“You keep that up and you’ll be shorter by a foot.” She hadn’t heard him walk up, but she didn’t need to turn around to know who was behind her. “Get it? Shorter by a foot?”
“I get it, Owen. Not funny.”
“Do you know how unfunny that actually is? Do you realize how close that thing came to your ankles?” He wrestled the sickle from her hands. “You want to clean up the whole damned island, you should have called me. I told you I’d help.”
“Was that before or after you called me crass?” She let go of the handle. She knew when she was overmatched. “Why would I think you’d want to work with someone who’s so opposite to your moral compass?”
“About that.” He planted the sharp end of the sickle on the ground. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I spoke. It was a stupid thing to say. I understand that it’s possible to have two goals at the same time. Which is what I think you were trying to tell me, but it went over my head at the time.”
“Who explained it to you?”
“Fine. I deserve that. Go ahead. Pile it on. But I wanted you to know I am honestly sorry, and that I understand.”
“So what, exactly, is it you think you understand?”
She was not going to make this easy for him. She’d thought he of all people, having grown up on the island, would recognize how special it was, how steps should be taken to preserve as much of it as possible. That he’d thought her interest was only financial gain had hurt her. That he had the power to wound her bothered her almost as much as his unfair assessment of her efforts.
“I understand that as an employee you are obligated to do the best job possible for your father and his company, but at the same time, I think you really do want what’s best for the island. I apologize for not realizing that right away. I should have known better.” Owen paused. “I do know better. And I am very, very sorry.”
For a moment Cass was taken aback. A heartfelt apology was the last thing she’d expected. At least, he sounded sincere.
“You’re smarter than you look.”
“I guess that’s a blessing,” he deadpanned. “Do you accept my apology?”
“I do. Thanks for manning up.”
“So how ’bout I finish up here for you?”
It would have been so easy to take him up on the offer. Her back would have thanked her. Her hands would have been eternally grateful.
“I appreciate it, Owen, I really do, but I want to finish what I started. What you can do is teach me how to use that thing.” She gestured at the sickle, which he was still holding.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“All right. Come here.”
He instructed her and watched as she followed through with his directions. When she realized she’d cleared a path to the gate, she turned to him and beamed.
“Nothing to it once you get the hang of it,” she said, pleased with the results. “Thank you for taking the time to show me.”
“You’re welcome, but the offer stands. I’d be happy to work on the others. Anytime.”
“Nice of you, Owen, but really, it’s something I want to do myself. My tennis partner signed out of the inn this morning, so I’m going to be missing that morning workout. Now I’ll spend that morning time working over here on the island. If I don’t have a reason to leave my desk, I’d stay there all day. Not good for the head, the heart, or the hips.” Cass smiled. “And besides, taking care of something here on the island makes me feel more a part of it. Makes me feel as if I’m more than just someone who wants to buy a home here.”
“I get it. Okay, you’re on your own. But you know you can call me if you need me.”
Cass paused, wondering if he knew Jared had returned.
“I suspect you’ll be pretty busy, now that Jared’s back. I saw him out near the mouth of the river earlier. He had a couple of divers with him.” She paused. “You wouldn’t have been one of them, would you?”
“No. He sent me a text a while ago to let me know he had me on the schedule to dive tomorrow. I told him I think they were diving in the wrong place.”
“Where do you think the ship is?” She mentally crossed her fingers. Please, somewhere away from our dock.
“Ruby says the story she heard was that the ship went down on shoals that used to be out in the bay, in line with the mouth of the river, and it was pushed by the currents and the tides into the river itself. I’d like to look where she suspects it might be. I never argue with her.” He appeared to think that over. “Well, rarely. She’s always right.”
“So you’re saying more in the river than in the bay?”
“If Ruby’s right, then yeah. More in the river.”
Damn. “Sounds like you’ll have lots to keep you busy. Think maybe you could keep me in the loop? You know, about what you find and where.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks. Now, maybe you can show me how to work the weed whacker.” She rested the sickle against the fence and walked to her car. “I watched how you started yours yesterday, but this one isn’t like yours.”
“Let’s take a look.” Owen followed her to the car and looked over her purchase. “Fancy. You went for top-of-the-line, I see. Long-lasting lithium battery. Probably cost double what the gas-powered units sell for, but the battery is easier to maintain and you won’t have to add gasoline to make it run. Good choice.”
“Thanks. The salesman—he called it a trimmer—did show me where the on switch is, but I looked at so many of these things this morning, I can’t remember what he told me.”
“Trimmer, weed whacker—two names for basically the same piece of equipment.” Owen leaned over her shoulder and reached around her. He was close enough that she could feel his breath on her cheek. She tried to ignore the tickle that went up her spine.
“It’s right here on the handle.” He pointed to it.
She activated the switch and the trimmer turned on. She turned it off right away. “Got it.”
“So you’re all ready to go.” He stepped back, but he was still close.
“Again, thank you.” She took the weed whacker into the enclosed yard and made it clear she was ready to work.
He nodded and started to walk away, then turned back. “Cass, about crabbing . . . ?”
“What about it?”
“How ’bout you let me teach you? If you’re going to be an islander, you have to know how to catch crabs. This could be your way of thanking me for teaching you how to use that thing.” He stood with his hands on his hips, his long legs tan under the shorts that were cut off at the knee, his shoulders broad and muscled and dark from hours spent in the sun.
She almost had to force herself to look away from all that male gloriousness.
“All right.”
“Morning’s the best time for crabbing, but it looks like mornings are going to be out for a while, with you weed-whacking and me diving, so let’s shoot for tomorrow afternoon.”
“What time in the afternoon?” She’d be really interested in hearing about what he found on his dive. On the other hand, she wasn’t sure placing herself in the path of temptation was such a good idea, and the more she was around Owen, the more she was tempted.
“Does four work?”
“I have tea with Grace at four.”
“You have what?”
“I have tea with Grace Sinclair. She hosts afternoon tea at the inn, and I go every day. I look forward to it.”
“How long does it take to drink a cup of tea?” Owen frowned.
&nbs
p; Cass smiled. “It’s more than just a cup of tea. It’s conversation and spending time with Grace and some of the other guests. It’s fun and relaxing. Actually, it’s about the only fun, relaxing thing I do these days.”
“I can be fun. We could spend time together crabbing and conversing. Of course, we’d have to whisper so the crabs don’t hear us.”
“It’s the whole thing—the ambience, the little group who shows up every day.” She paused, then put it in terms she thought he’d understand. “The inn’s chef makes scones and éclairs and incredible pastries.”
“No way I can compete with Grace’s chef. I’ve had his pastries. Okay, how ’bout five thirty?”
“Five thirty should be fine.”
“How ’bout we meet on the pier out at the point?” Owen knew Cass was well familiar with the point, that section of the island that stuck out farthest into the bay, because her father had done his damnedest to talk the current owner into selling it. That owner being Ruby, the answer was always an unequivocal no.
“Perfect. I’ll see you there.” She turned back to the job at hand and went to work.
If he said anything else, it was lost in the whine of the weed whacker. When Cass glanced over her shoulder, he was gone.
THERE WAS STILL plenty of daylight left when Owen parked his Jeep at the edge of the clearing and began to unload his crabbing gear: two buckets—one for bait, one to contain the crabs after they’d been caught—and a long-armed net. On his way out to the pier, he passed the old house—the cottage—where Ruby and Harold had lived when they were first married and where they’d raised their children before they moved above the store, the place that had become the object of Lis’s obsession.
Owen still marveled that the place had been salvageable. He’d walked through it a week ago and he’d been amazed by the transformation.
“Silk purse, sow’s ear,” he’d murmured when he saw the nearly finished structure.
He’d obviously lacked imagination because he’d told Lis she was crazy to take on such a project. He thought maybe her being an artist might have had something to do with the way she could see what the space could become.
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