Half Moon Harbor (29 page)

She didn't blush but she might have glowed a bit more brightly. “Well . . . thank you. I—maybe it comes from what I used to do for a living. Listening was oftentimes ninety percent of the battle. Figuring what's really important to people. So that's . . . thank you.”

He laughed then, tugged her more fully into his arms and to hell with his messy shirt. He smiled down at her as she tipped her head back to look into his eyes. “You confound me, Grace Maddox. All ballsy straight talk one moment, then flustered the next, as if you're no' used to hearing about your good points.”

“It's not that, it's just . . . well, maybe I'm not used to caring about who it is I'm hearing them from.” She grinned then. “Now who's blushing?”

He just shook his head, kissed her lightly on the tip of her nose, then her forehead, then drew her against him and wrapped his arms around her fully. She tucked her cheek to his chest, not caring or even noticing the sawdust, too caught up in the soap and sweat smell of the man. Her man.

Hmm. My man. Is he?

She wanted him to be.
I think I really do.

“About the deal with Winstock, and Cami . . . I hadn't the heart to wake you. Then you had work issues. After so much in one day, you looked a bit flat on your feet. I thought we could talk of it later today. I was going to make you dinner. I should have known in twenty-four hours someone else would mention it before I could. I'm sorry you heard of it that way. I'm guessing you have questions.”

She lifted her head and looked up at him. “Delia mentioned there was a business deal with Cami's father, but when she saw I had no idea what she was talking about, she stopped and said it would be better coming from you. She also mentioned that Cami has a grudge of some kind with you, which I took to mean she might not be so happy with me now, either. Brodie, honestly, I'm not worried about any of it. I just . . . it sounded like it might be something I should know.”

“It is. And I should have told you about why Cami sold you my boathouse in the first place, straight out. I just . . . didn't think it had so much to do with you as with me. But then we weren't an
us
and now—”

Grace wove her hands around Brodie's neck, aware in a way she'd never been before of the statement she was really making, standing out in the open as they were in plain sight on the main Monaghan pier where more than likely several sets of eyes were on them, intentionally or not. She'd meant what she'd said about not caring who knew she was spending time with him . . . but hearing him say the same thing was also something she wanted. “And now we are.” She didn't make it a question, but held his gaze as she said it all the same.

“Aye,” he said on a short breath as if he'd been holding it. “That we are.” She saw relief, a sort of abashed pride, a bit of stunned happiness . . . and still a thread of concern. She took that last bit to be about whatever it was he had to tell her—not about them personally or where they stood—and her trembling new confidence in wanting to be part of an
us
grew a little steadier and stronger.

“Whatever it is, we'll deal with it,” she said. “I thought I'd give that together part a try,” she added with a laugh.

“Together.” He held her gaze, then his handsome face split into that sexy grin that made his dimples wink out and his eyes twinkle. “I know this was my idea, but hearing you say it . . . any other time in my life, that word would have scared me senseless.”

“And now?” she asked, thinking that just because she wanted it, wanted him, didn't mean she wasn't still scared. Maybe more so now. But that's what risking it was all about.

“Now I'm still scared out of me mind . . . but it's all for a greater good, so what choice to I have but to go with it?”

“Exactly what I was thinking. You know,” she added, marveling a bit at the step they were trying to take toward each other, toward being together. “Langston has been married a bunch of times, and yet he's constantly giving me relationship advice, encouraging me to go for it, to take bigger risks. He claims he's been head over heels every time he's said his vows, as hard and deep as if it were the best thing he'd ever had. I didn't really get how that was possible, though I believed he felt that way. But he said something to me that I understand now. He said, ‘if you're not scared out of your mind, then you're not really in—' ” Too late she realized what she'd been about to say and broke off. Not that saying it was saying she loved Brodie, but he might think that's what she was saying.

Would that be such a bad thing? Do I love him?

She looked at him, blinked, certain she looked a bit poleaxed. Sensible or not, rational or not . . . she was pretty sure that even if she couldn't say those words to him right that second, she was well on her way to a place where not saying them would be almost impossible.

B
rodie was glad Grace stopped speaking when she did . . . because his heart pretty much stopped beating right at that point. He had no idea how he'd feel if she'd said those words to him. And he wasn't ready yet to find out. From the look on her face, she wasn't ready yet, either.
Thank the saints.

He didn't know what else to do, so he kissed her. She took the out. Quite fervently, if the way her fingers dug into the back of his neck was any indication. He was smiling as he lifted his head. They were a pair, that they were.

“Let's go up to the boathouse. I'll show you the plans for the schooner I'm to build for Brooks Winstock.” He turned, arm around her shoulders, and headed up the pier.

She slid her arm around his waist, leaned into him, matching his stride, as if they'd walked many a mile together. “Schooner. Like your two-master, you mean? Wow, that will be quite some undertaking. Where would you build it? Will you renovate the main boathouse for that?”

He shook his head. “The main boathouse isn't really a boathouse, it was the lumber mill, amongst other things, for the shipyard. Part of why the company ended up failing was because when the shipbuilding shifted from wood to steel, they didn't shift with it.”

“Aren't you planning on building wood-hull boats as your new business? I mean, what you're building out in your workshop is wood hull.”

“Aye, I am. But my focus will be entirely different from my ancestors'. I'll be going more for small, specially designed pleasure craft. Boats, mostly sail, for owners who want the art put into the design as much as the finesse and polish of the finished product.”

She grinned. “I was thinking that same thing when I stepped into your workshop today—that what you do is truly art. It's a bonus that it happens to be functional art.”

He looked down at her, inordinately pleased by her compliment. “Thank you.”

She laughed. “Don't sound so surprised. You know you're good.”

He chuckled, then squeezed her briefly against him and bumped hips. “I know my worth, but it's good to know ye see it, too.”

She rolled her eyes and nudged him back. “So, will you build this on your own? I know you did your two-master, but you said you had help. Even then it had to have been an enormous undertaking.”

“She's what I truly learned it all on, aye. She'll always be me first love. They're the most special.” As soon as he said the words, he experienced momentary brain freeze.
Gawd, can I not just steer clear of the L word today?

Instead of reading anything into his remark, or making some kind of joke, she answered quite honestly. “I didn't build my scull by hand, but after renting them for years, the day I bought my very own . . . yeah.” She leaned her head against his shoulder, her voice softening. “It's a standout moment that you can't really repeat. Something about firsts, I guess.”

That was his moment. With nothing more important going on than walking the short steps to his boathouse and sliding open the panel door, fate didn't care what you were doing when the inevitable sank in. When she'd said “something about firsts, I guess,” Brodie's instinctive, gut reaction was
aye, like how I feel about you.

“Well, I'm about to tackle a very different kind of first.” He winced inwardly again at the double meaning as he stepped back and let her enter before him. “I'm no' quite sure how as yet, and we've not finalized the deal.” He wasn't entirely sure that was because Brooks needed to look over the plans longer . . . or whether it was because he needed to consult with his daughter, and let her know that Brodie had been less than enthusiastic about her role in their deal. In fact, he'd made it rather clear she would have no role in their plan.

If they still had one.

Grace glanced at him expectantly. He motioned her over to his drafting table, and as soon as he lifted the cover sheet on the plans, she gasped. Her gaze immediately flew to his, then back to the scale drawing of the eighteenth-century, three-masted schooner.

“Brodie,” she said on a hushed breath. “This is . . . are you serious?” She looked at him again. “I—how would you even do that?”

He smiled. “Well, my ancestors did it. Many times. Right out there on that hill. Someone built those ships, you know.”

“I mean, of course, but . . . I guess I never thought about how they did it. This is, it's . . . stunning. I've seen paintings of tall ships and models of them, but that . . .” She trailed off, shook her head, and went back to looking at the drawing. Really looking at it.

Brodie felt a simultaneous swell of pride . . . and gut-notching fear. Because he was still wondering the very same thing.
How in the hell am I going to build that ship?

“What is Mr. Winstock going to do with it?”

Brodie's mind was still on the enormous challenge in front of him and answered absently. “He wants to run day tours out in Pelican Bay. There are other port towns that use modern-day versions of historic tall ships for tourist purposes.” He looked at his plans. “This will have some minor modifications for modern facilities, auxiliary power, communication, for safety and comfort purposes, but the ship itself will be an exact replica of the wood-hull schooners my ancestors built right here in Blueberry Cove. The modernized ones used today are usually built with a steel hull. Winstock realizes there will be longevity issues with such an actual replication, but is willing to make the investment in order to have something no one else has. I—” Brodie broke off as he glanced up and caught her looking at him. Staring at him.

“Brooks Winstock is going to run tours in Pelican Bay. Tourist-type tours.” She spoke as if she were trying to get that to sink in.

Brodie grinned. “It won't be happening anytime soon, but the time it takes me to build the ship will allow him months to plan and market the business, so, in the end, it all dovetails nicely. And yes, allow you time to finish your inn. To be ready made for the influx of visitors.”

She was still staring. “He's going to run it out of Half Moon Harbor,” she said. “Right? Where else could a ship that size go, anyway?”

“We're still discussing those particulars, but yes, it would have to be here.”

“Here,” she repeated, then pointed downward. “As in
here,
here.”

“Aye.” He was realizing that her shock wasn't actually one of stunned excitement. More simply stunned. He wasn't sure exactly why, but she didn't look very happy.

“It will be great for your boatbuilding business as well.” She was almost talking to herself. She looked back at the plans, and even in her current state, her expression melted a little. “You're going to build this here, too. Right here,” she added faintly.

And then he realized where she was going with this. He'd thought about it while talking to Brooks, but so many things had happened since then, that part had gotten lost in the shuffle. “Aye.”

“How long?” She looked from the plans, to him, to the plans. “Wouldn't this take . . . years?”

“No. Back during the time when they built such schooners, when the shipyard was running at full capacity, they could build this in under nine months.”

Her gaze swung to his; she was gaping. “No way.”

He nodded. “That won't be the case with this ship, but once the actual building is underway, assuming I can get the right labor, I've got it scheduled out for fourteen months, from the laying down to the launch. Eighteen tops. It can't start right off, as I need to do a complete renovation and reinstallation of the lumber works and ironworks in the main boathouse and”—he blew out a breath on a half laugh—“so many other things.” He touched her arm. “But no, it will not be a peaceful and serene environment here. I know you probably have this idyllic vision of this place, but you bought a building that is part of a shipyard.”

“A shipyard I thought was defunct and abandoned.”

“For a day. Then you found out it wasn't.”

“I didn't know what you planned here. I thought it was going to be kind of like what you're doing out on the pier boathouse. Just . . . not huge. And certainly not that.” She gestured to the plans but didn't look at them.

“I never dreamed I'd have the opportunity to truly bring the yard back to its former glory.”

“Were you going to relaunch a full lumber mill and ironworks as part of your original plan?”

“A far more limited version of it, yes. I had hoped to section off part of the building and add on more space up the hill for actual indoor construction to allow us more months of the year to work.”

“Us. Who is us?”

He shrugged. “Whoever I hire or bring on to work with me. I don't want to bring all this back and have it be only about me. It can't be. You're talking about heritage and building something. My ancestors already did that. But I'm not going to go through all of this simply so I can personally build a few boats. I could have stayed in Ireland and done that.”

“So . . . you dream of having a bunch of little Monaghans and seeing them take this over?”

He looked at her quizzically, unsure of what she meant by that; it hadn't sounded like a ringing endorsement. “I don't know. Perhaps someone from back home will want to come over. I don't know what my personal future holds, but my sisters have no compunction about procreating. As I said, we Monaghans are overachievers in that particular arena. My three older sisters are all married and have started families. I realize that their children don't bear the Monaghan name, but they have Monaghan blood, and for me, that's enough. If not a relative, then perhaps someone who comes to work here will take up the passion. Mostly I don't want the craft of wood shipbuilding to die out. The business doesn't have to bear the Monaghan name, but I do want what my family spent generations building to continue in some form or fashion.” He paused and took a breath, realizing he was going from passionate to defensive and that wasn't what he wanted. “You yourself called it an art. Well, I agree. And it's a dying one. I'm trying to resurrect it.”

She listened, she took it all in, then she turned back to look at the plans, staying silent. He didn't know what was going through her mind.

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, isn't it?” She lifted a hand, signaling it was a rhetorical question. “I can't even begin to imagine how excited you must be. And that is . . . well, it's awesome in the truest meaning of the word. I am happy for you, thrilled for you.”

But.
He heard the word; she didn't even have to say it.

“You say eighteen months, tops, so, not forever, not much longer than it will take to get the inn built and open, and no time, really, in the bigger picture of things. Even the building phase will be a huge tourist draw, so I get that it's good for me, too.” She was talking herself through it. “But . . . lumber mills and shipbuilding and . . .”

“Things that aren't peaceful and serene and quiet,” he finished gently. He turned her to him, hands on her arms. “Not the romantic, picturesque, seaside inn of your dreams, perhaps?”

She shook her head, then surprised him by making a
but, what are you going to do
? face and shrugging.

No pouting, swearing, whining, though he suspected if she were in private she'd have done all three. He knew she was quite adept at that second one, at any rate. Ultimately, though, she was simply, well . . . taking it. He wondered how often she'd had to do that. She was rather too good at it.

“Where did the urge for this inn come from?” he asked, knowing he should be thankful she was handling the disappointment, perhaps even feeling a modicum of smug satisfaction that her dreams were being a bit tainted as his had been when she'd bought his property out from under him. But he wasn't feeling either of those things. He wanted her to want her dream so strongly that she'd be, well, angry if it wasn't going how she wanted. To fight for what she wanted. If she wasn't willing to get angry and fight for this big dream of hers . . . what was to say she'd fight for their relationship? Because no way was that going to be always smooth going. “You want a foundation for future generations to be proud of, so why not your own law offices or something? Why an inn?”

“It's not so much that I want future generations to be innkeepers; I think it's more . . . making a place they can call home. A place that they'd think of, identify themselves with, think back on fondly if they move on to other paths.” She looked at him starkly. “I didn't have that. I have—had—a condo in Alexandria, a city I wasn't tied to except by its proximity to my job, which I took because it was a good offer. The city was okay. D.C. is certainly striking in history and architecture and all that. But the only real connection I ever felt to it, the only one that was personal to me, was the river. My time on the water.”

“So what makes Blueberry Cove different?”

“Ford,” she said simply. “He's the only connection I have left to anything. If I got here and hated it, or if the situation between us made staying in the same place untenable—though I couldn't see how it could be any worse than it was, considering it was nothing—I'd have done something else, figured out something else. But I got here . . . and I loved it. I connected immediately to the water, the coast. I knew right away that I wanted my inn to be on the water. It's not like the river, and it's not about sculling. But I quickly realized it's more about my connection to the water, to the . . . I don't know, the primal element of it. So that, plus Ford . . .” She trailed off, lifted a shoulder. “It's not just as good a place as any. It's a specific place that has meaning to him, and now meaning to me. Hopefully, if I'm lucky, I can create something to pass down to whoever comes next.”