Half Moon Harbor (13 page)

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Authors: Donna Kauffman

BOOK: Half Moon Harbor
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She knew exactly how many tours he'd gone on, though she hadn't always known where. She'd been so proud of him when he'd made it into the Army Rangers Special Forces. She'd bragged to anyone who would listen, but she hardly ever heard from him. She got postcards occasionally, fewer and fewer from that point on, and had treasured them as if they were worth a royal fortune. To her, they had been. As she'd gotten older, into her teen years, she'd wondered how she could love him so much and be so angry with him at the same time.

She'd been eighteen and legally independent—though she'd been on her own in every way that mattered far earlier than that—when he'd finally retired from the military and come back for good. By then, they were more estranged than not, and she was a pissed-off teenager who hadn't been all that forgiving when he'd finally come to see her. He'd moved around some after that, and she'd lost track of him, mostly because when Ford didn't want to be found, there wasn't any finding him. She'd only found out he'd settled in Maine by accident. A woman he'd been seeing had gone to the trouble of tracking Grace down and sending her a note, telling her where Ford was and what he was doing with his life, asking her to please come up and see him.

The fact that it was some strange woman asking and not Ford himself told her all she needed to know about how welcome a visit from her would be. She'd been about to graduate with her bachelor's degree and start law school and had long since decided she was better off alone. She'd told herself to stop thinking about him or wanting what she couldn't have. But the note had shaken her up. More than she'd wanted to admit. She'd finally compromised by sending him an invitation to her graduation, not sure which she was dreading more—that he'd come and be all happy in some new life . . . or that he'd stay away and reject her once again.

He hadn't come. No note. No phone call. So, she'd never gone to Maine. She had no idea what had happened to the woman. For all Grace knew, Ford had a passel of kids and multiple ex-wives. She only knew he was still in Maine because she'd done a little digging on him through a lawyer friend of hers who had a variety of contacts and verified that the address on his tax forms still listed him as living in Blueberry Cove, Maine. He filed as single and didn't list any dependants, not that that necessarily meant he didn't have any. Under occupation, it said
scientist
and that his employer was an organization that funded endangered wildlife study and rehabilitation. She couldn't really picture him doing that, but then she probably wouldn't recognize her brother if she bumped into him on the street.

“I know how important it is to you, to do what you're doing,” Langston said, breaking gently into her thoughts. “You know I worry about you doing all this and getting your hopes up—”

“I'm—I know this isn't going to be some magical reunion. We've talked about that. I know it may end up that my brother and I simply reside in the same place and that's as good as it will ever get. But . . . it's more than I had. I fully believe it would be a good thing for Ford to know me, to have me in his life, but this is ultimately the most selfish thing I've ever done. It's all for me. I don't belong anywhere, Langston. If I'd come here and it had felt off or wrong or ridiculous or . . . or as foolish as it sounds when I try to explain it to anyone, I'd have gone back. Or done something else.”

“But . . . I'm guessing that wasn't the case.”

She shook her head, and knew her heart was in her eyes because his expression softened and the worry she knew he still felt was exposed. “It was . . . well, it was simply right. The water here . . . so much of it, everywhere you look, the bays, the inlets, the ocean. It's so blue. So beautiful. It fills my heart, makes it pound. I can't even explain it. How is it I've never been here and it's the closest thing to home I've ever felt? Maybe it was that way for Ford, too. Maybe the water has some meaning to him, like it does to me. Or maybe it's nothing like that and there is nothing that connects us but the same zip code. It doesn't matter. What matters is I like it here. I like the water. I also like the quiet of the place, the slower, more deliberate pace. There is such a strong history here. The Cove has endurance and fortitude over centuries of time, and yet it feels intimate and personal, not cold and statistical, like a footnote in some history book. I'm liking the people, too, as I get to know them. And they seem to be welcoming me. I want to be here and I'm already falling in love with Blueberry Cove and the harbor and this scary new life. I haven't a freaking clue what the hell I'm doing . . . not a one, Lang, and I just don't care.”

She smiled at her friend. For the first time since arriving in Maine, since signing her name on a dotted line and taking out a loan for a business she had no idea if she could run, but desperately wanting to find out, she let every bit of her hopes and dreams show. “I hope this life will eventually involve Ford, too. He was the catalyst to all of it. When I finally admitted I didn't want to forget him, that I wanted—needed—to find him, reunite my family, this whole hair-brained idea took root and it wouldn't let go. Or I couldn't let it go. But he's not all of this. It's become so much more.”

Langston's smile deepened and the worry abated as a more typical gleam of excitement filled his eyes. “I can see that. You know I'll worry anyway, just as you know I'll do whatever I can to support you.”

“That means more to me than you will ever know. I realize we haven't known each other long in the big-picture scheme of things, but you know you're my other real family.” Her eyes got a little glassy when he nodded, and the honest affection he had for her shone very clearly in his eyes. “I'm scared, Lang. To death, actually. Like, a thousand times a day I wonder what the hell I've done. But the fear is almost like this kind of cool, energizing thing. It makes me feel . . . alive,” she said, being as honest and frank as she'd ever been. “Hitting the big three-o and then being passed over for partner—a position I'd worked my whole career for, lobbied hard for, and damn well deserved—should have crushed me. Devastated me. And . . . all I felt was relief.”

She paced and looked around the open space, but her thoughts were on her life as it had been, a mere ten months ago. God, it felt like a lifetime ago already. “I couldn't ignore that. I had to . . . well, to figure out why, to reassess. Everything. To ask myself if that was all there was. And if not . . . then what did I really want? What I realized I wanted was family. Not the biological clock kind, though that's probably in the mix somewhere, I suppose, but I wanted back the one I already have.” She looked at him again and grinned. “You know, you played a part in the decision, too.”

He looked honestly surprised. “I can't fathom how. I was the one who tried to talk you out of it.”

She laughed. “You have to admit that's pretty funny coming from the guy who lives for challenges. Your favorite hobby is taking risks.”

“Yes, but the difference is, it's my nature. I don't know any other way to be. I didn't think that was at all the case with you. I was trying to be a good friend.”

“And you were. That's just it. You've become so dear to me, and—” She broke off and her smile turned wry. “Don't let this alarm you or anything, but I trust you. I let myself rely on you—which speaks huge loud volumes you probably don't even realize. And, well, that was part of what made me want to reach out to Ford. To see if maybe we could establish something. Anything. I know what it can be like, because I have that with you. So it gave me the confidence to try. You know?”

“You humble me, Grace.”

She could see in his expression that he meant that sincerely.

“You're one of the few people I feel the need to take care of, besides myself, of course.” He flashed a smile. “I'm glad you feel you can trust me, rely on me. Because you can. Even if it means surrendering your life in the city and moving to the back of the beyond. An innkeeper? I'll admit I still don't see that part. You're a brilliant lawyer, so good at reading people, assessing what they need, and handling challenging emotional environments deftly. Your firm has to feel the loss. I'm sure they're kicking themselves ten times over for letting you go.”

Grace grinned. “Well, it would be a lie if I said I didn't hope they suffered at least a little. Thank you for all the kind words. I'm not sure I live up to that lofty a height, but if I was good at defusing tensions and reading people, it was because I didn't feel an emotional attachment to them. I used to be proud of my ability to remain detached and objective. It did make me good at my job. It also made me removed and distant, even from myself.” She lifted a hand when he started to respond. “I'm not going back into estate law. But I am hoping I can take parts of what I learned from it and apply it to my new life. If I'm good at reading people, helping them, assessing their needs, then that has to come in handy when it comes to running an inn, wouldn't you say?”

He nodded, though she could tell it was with some reluctance. They'd had this particular discussion before, more than once, since she'd made her decision to leave Harneker and Swift, the prestigious D.C. law firm that had hired her straight out of law school.

“You still haven't ever really explained where the sudden burning desire to open an inn came from.”

Grace fully intended to sidestep that question again, and every time it came up. In fact, she'd probably never admit out loud to anyone how she'd come up with the idea for an inn. Maybe on the twentieth anniversary of its opening or something, she thought with a private smile, when it would all seem so amusing. And not completely nuts. “I know this is all a little crazy and I probably sound ridiculous to you, trying to describe any of it,” she said by way of response.

“No. What you sound is happy.” Langston's smile had grown and the deep affection in his gaze made her eyes grow a bit misty again. “That is a good thing, indeed.” He gave her a look up and down. “It's only been a few weeks since I saw you and already I almost don't recognize you. I didn't think you owned anything that wasn't black and tailored.”

She laughed. “Actually, I didn't.” She gave a quick turn. “The latest in boathouse renovation wear. Sure to turn heads in Milan next season.”

“Well, I don't know if it's the clothes, this new thing you're doing with your hair, or the high color in your cheeks, but so far, it appears Maine . . . or maybe it's certain people who live in Maine”—his eyes twinkled—“agrees with you.”

Her cheeks bloomed again, so she deflected revisiting what she'd been doing with Brodie, which conveniently meant she didn't have to think about whether she was going to do any of it again with Brodie, by saying, “You're one to talk. Check out the new duds. How very . . . Lauren-Does-the-Hamptons of you.”

Langston stood a full head and a fair amount of very thick shoulders taller than her own five-foot-seven and was built like the linebacker he'd been in college—if linebackers wore exquisitely tailored Italian suits and hand-tooled leather shoes. For all his bear of a chest and shoulders, he was surprisingly trim at the waist, with strong legs and, she hated to admit she'd noticed on more than one occasion, a pretty fine ass. All of which would have made him appear far more youthful than his sixty-some years, except for the lion's mane of shocking white hair he sported. He was ridiculously vain about the thick, wavy mass, which he wore to the shoulders, always meticulously groomed, as was his neatly trimmed, equally white Fu Manchu beard and mustache. It had become his signature, of sorts.

Given that architects were essentially artists, Grace figured it was a fairly mild eccentricity. However, only the lion's mane resembled the man she knew. He was decked out in pleated, white canvas trousers, tailored to fit his athlete's frame, with a thin, braided leather belt, under which he'd tucked a rich, melon-colored silk shirt with white bone buttons. The sleeves had been casually rolled up over his heavy forearms, and he'd topped off the ensemble with a thin ocean-blue sweater tied jauntily around his neck. Something only Langston could pull off with aplomb, given his size.

He held out his arms, thoroughly enjoying her once-over. “I thought I captured the essence of coastal Maine brilliantly. I wanted the sweater to match the color of the water here. So brilliant a blue, as you said, very inspiring indeed. I think Sven did a remarkable job, don't you?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Considering what you pay him, I'm surprised he didn't find a way to spin the water itself into a sweater. You're such a clothes hound.”

“Darling, I appreciate great talent. People pay me ridiculous sums to create their perfect nest, and I'm thankful every day I have the God-given talent to do that. I enjoy discovering great talent in others, and giving them the same opportunities. Worth every penny.”

“Says the man who has accumulated many, many pennies.”

“What's the point in accumulating them if you don't do something interesting and fun once you have them?” He glanced around. “Something you would know a little bit about now, as well.
Ho ragione?

“Yes, you're right,” she said, exhausting most of what little Italian she knew. That wee bit she had him to thank for. He'd taken her to Fashion Week in Milan three years ago, claiming he needed her estate skills to help him assess certain purchases he wanted to make while there, when she'd known all along it was because he'd been between girlfriends and really just wanted someone along who wasn't on his payroll. Regardless, she'd been thrilled to go. “You're always right.”

“And that is why I love you. You'll tell me that without my having to pay you to say it.”

“Oh, please. People all over the world gush about you on a regular basis. It's amazing your ego isn't the size of all Europe combined. Except, wait . . .” She shot him a dry look.

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