Half Moon Harbor (4 page)

Below the final sign dangled a smaller wood plaque, painted black with a beautifully rendered family seal or crest in the center. The crest was made up of a blue and gold flag with a knight's head positioned above it. She assumed it was the Monaghan crest. Then she glanced back up at the hand-painted clipper ship, and noted the same crest was painted on a small flag that flew at the top of one of the masts.
Wow.
She couldn't even imagine what it took to build something so majestic . . . and to think it had been Brodie's own ancestors who'd made their legacy doing just that. She wondered what kind of boats he built or planned to build. Obviously nothing on so grand a scale as his ancestors', so . . . what was his goal?

She thought of her own goals, and how overwhelming it felt, launching herself into uncharted waters, trying to build something new while resurrecting the only part of her past that meant anything to her.

Thinking about what Brodie faced, the weight of what he bore on his shoulders, of all who had come before him . . . made her own journey seem miniscule and a little ridiculous by comparison.

She turned, looked back down the curve of the harbor to her boathouse.
And yet, mine is no less important, no less meaningful a mission.
In fact, any time she felt overwhelmed, which she imagined would probably be pretty much all the time, she only had to look out on all he had to accomplish to put her own to-do list in perspective.

She smiled at the thrill that shot straight down her spine, the sensation comprised of equal parts anticipation and terror. She'd initially thought she'd build something brand new, completely original, thinking that was necessary to her new life plan. But as soon as she'd entered the old coastal town, she'd been drawn to its history, its heritage, and decided she wanted to blend old and new. She'd looked at old waterfront houses and even a few abandoned inns, wanting something with character, maybe with its own colorful history, where she could begin to build her own . . . and then she'd walked inside the boathouse right on the water, with a dock of its own, and something about it had called to a place deep inside her. Probably the same place that had pulled her to the Potomac River back in D.C. and to rowing. There was a specific kind of peace that she'd found only on the water, an inner serenity. The water had represented continuity. Security.

She'd felt that same thing when she'd walked into the boathouse, then down the pier that extended into the harbor. In some ways, it couldn't be more different from the river she'd spent so many hours on. But in all the ways that mattered, it had felt the same, standing on that particular spot, feeling physically hugged by the curve of the harbor behind her, and energized by the horizon that spread out in front of her, endless, hopeful, full of promise.

She understood Brodie's disappointment with the town for doing what they'd done, but she told herself that the loss of one boathouse wouldn't diminish one iota the proud and bold legacy the Monaghans still laid claim to in Half Moon Harbor, and the entire Cove for that matter. She needed to make him understand that if anyone was going to co-opt even the tiny part of his heritage that she'd taken over, how fortunate he was that it had fallen to her understanding and careful hands, and not to some developer who might have simply torn it down and started over.

She'd honor his ancestors' intent and put her own stamp on the place. She'd bookend what he'd started. He'd see that for himself in time, and she could only hope he'd approve.

She turned back to the wide plank door, smiling as she noted the throng of small white buoys hanging from the oversized handle, each banded with a different colorful stripe, or rather what once had been bright and colorful, but had clearly seen their share of ocean action. Pot buoys, she knew they were called, for the lobster pots they marked all over the bay. They were a symbol she'd noticed hanging proudly on countless buildings and posts all around Pelican Bay and Blueberry Cove. Most noticeably, they were in the harbor area, so charming and true to the local fishing heritage.

All in all, Brodie had made a really good start with his boathouse renovation, a fine beginning to the daunting task he had ahead. Well, it could do with a bit of landscaping, she thought. Some shrubbery, a flower garden to cheer up and soften the overwhelming masculinity of it all wouldn't have been out of place, but what did she know from boatbuilding businesses?

“About as much as you do about innkeeping,” she murmured under her breath.
Not that he has to know about that.

B
rodie had left the large sliding door partially open, but Grace knocked on the plank closest to the gap just the same. No response. A small brass ship bell had been mounted to the frame of the door panel, but ringing it seemed a bit overkill since he was expecting her. She stuck her head inside, but didn't see man or her traitorous beast. She did, however, see the remarkable transformation of the wide-open interior and eased inside to take a better look.

She turned in a slow circle and took in the smart use of space, the corner work area, and the cypress planking used for the flooring. Original to the place, she knew, as her boathouse had the same. She'd been planning on replacing it, thinking the boards beyond salvation, but whoever had restored these had done a stunning job. The golden wood glowed with renewed warmth and a rich glossy finish. She made a mental note to ask him whom he'd used.
Like he'd tell me
. She sighed, hoping they could sort out their issues without involving anyone else—namely lawyers. Well, more lawyers.

Still caught up in the structure of the place, she moved to the beautiful piece of circular stair ironwork that led up to the thoughtfully executed loft space running across about a third of the open-to-the-rafters interior space. Also cypress planking, she noted, looking up at the loft flooring, absently wondering where the ironwork had been done or if it was original to the old boathouse structure before the renovation. She stepped back and looked up, and noticed the black wrought iron continued across the open edge of the loft space, creating a simple, yet beautiful railing. So, it was new to the renovation, she thought, making another note to look into local tradesmen and see if it had been done by someone in the area.

The railing itself had been turned into art by the addition of a circular opening in the middle, which had been fitted with a vintage-style brass medallion the size of a dinner plate.

Without thinking, she climbed a few steps to get a closer look at the piece, and realized that while the wrought iron was new, the medallion was not. The patina had turned it a deep sea green, and the brass was pockmarked and pitted from excessive exposure to salt water and weather. The engraved clipper ship, the same as on the painted emblem representing the Monaghan shipbuilding legacy, was no less majestic for the wear and tear. Was it some kind of logo, a stamp of sorts, that they'd put on their ships, perhaps? Or in them? She didn't know anything about ships or what the historical traditions might have been, but the detail work in the medallion was intricate and beautiful. On closer examination, she noted that the flag flying from the center mast appeared to have the same family crest as the one outside, though it was almost impossible to tell for sure, given the degradation of the metal. It made sense, though, since it was exactly the same rendition in every other way. Again she was struck by the enormity of Brodie's legacy. She couldn't even fathom a history so rich and full of carefully documented detail.

From her perch halfway up the twisting staircase, she turned to take in the space as a whole. Whoever had planned and executed it was a smart designer and a talented craftsman. It occurred to her that the craftsman could very well be her erstwhile host. Considering his trade, she imagined it might not be a big leap from building boats to rehabbing a small boathouse. She did another quick scan of the open space, wondering where he'd gone.

She gave a short whistle for her dog. “Whomper? Where are you?” she called, keeping her voice low. Neither man nor beast was anywhere below her on the main level as it was completely open and easy to see into every corner. That meant—she cringed, imagining the little ruffian rolling and rubbing his fish-rot fur all over Brodie's bed linens, then allowed a short, self-deprecating smile as she thought that would at least be a handy solution to her wanting to roll around in Brodie's bed linens.

She turned and took another step up the circular column, pausing to finally slip off her other heel, before climbing a few more. “Whomper,” she whispered. “If you're up there causing more trouble, I'm going to leave you to explain yourself.”

Nothing. No sounds of anything being destroyed or tangled with. It took a few more steps and another turn around the spiral before she heard a thrumming sound and realized it was coming from the bathroom. The shower was running. She also heard what sounded like . . . “Singing?” She rolled her eyes. “Of course he sings.” And beautifully, too, she thought, as his lovely baritone, rich and deep, rose over the sounds of the water as he sang about a bonny lass with a smile like sunshine.

Her traitorous mind had no problem whatsoever imagining him naked in his shower, water cascading, hot and steamy, all over that too-sculpted-to-be-real body, white teeth flashing, dimples dimpling, as he let loose with the chorus. Filling those broad, wide palms of his with soap and rubbing them over those pecs, down those abs, and straight out along his . . .
Dear Lord.
Her grip on the iron rail tightened as her thighs went a bit wobbly, only to go rock stiff a moment later when his voice soared to the high notes . . . and a very distinctive howl rose up along with him.

“Seriously?” She climbed up a few more steps until her chin was level with the loft floorboards. The entire area was open up to the pitched ceiling, with a small porthole window in the side wall, and a bigger circular window set in over the headboard of the wide sea of mattress that dominated the space. Two long rectangular sunroof panels had been installed in the longer side of the roof that slanted toward the water. Warm, dappled light, which she imagined would turn to a golden glow as the sun climbed higher into the sky, flowed in. A large, slowly turning ceiling fan hung from a long pole mounted to the apex of the roof, the blades cleverly made from boat paddles, kept the air in the upper part of the building from getting too still and heavy.

Wide, deep drawers with heavy rope pull handles were built in under the bed. Similar drawers with brass handles had been built in along the base of the short side wall where the ceiling slanted steeply downward. Three wooden poles that looked a lot like boat masts in miniature, each about a few feet long, had been mounted with heavy brass fixtures straight out from where slanted roof met back wall, providing racks for apparel requiring hangers. A bit exposed for her taste, though she did take a moment to skim her gaze over the cotton shirts hanging on the top mast and the folded trousers on hangers that were racked on the pole two below it. All in all, it was a decidedly masculine space that did absolutely nothing to quiet her suddenly needy libido.

She shifted to look to her left and saw that a triangular corner portion of the other end of the loft had been walled off and turned into what was clearly a bathroom. Complete with shower that apparently fit a man and a dog.

She tried not to be charmed by the idea of Brodie and Whomper howling in unison as they scrubbed free of rotting fish remains, but it was damn near impossible. Grinning despite herself, she had turned to head back down the stairs when the water was abruptly shut off and an instant later the bathroom door was flung open.

“On with you now, ye little heathen,” Brodie commanded. “Go find your ma.”

A split second later, her freshly scrubbed ball of scruff shot out of the bathroom like a sodden bullet, slid to a stop not a foot from her floor-level face, and shook for all he was worth.

“Augh!” she spluttered, unable in her present position to do anything but take the full frontal shower square in the face as she held on to the railing to keep from stumbling down the metal stairs. Spitting at the short strands of dog fur clinging to her cheeks and lips, she was trying to keep her balance on the stairs when the floorboards creaked right next to her—which was when she made mistake number two. She looked up at the man presently towering over her, wrapped in nothing more than a navy blue and white striped terrycloth towel, which, from her vantage point, didn't really cover . . . anything.

“For heaven's sake,” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut, but far, far too late to block out confirmation that the genetic fairies hadn't just been drunk off their asses when they'd created him. They'd apparently been high as well. Because . . . well, that kind of generosity in the face of all the other assets bestowed on him was just downright ridiculous.

Unless, of course, I am the one who'd be benefitting from it
. She squeezed her eyes more tightly, hoping to squeeze that thought right out of her head along with it.

“There you are,” he said. “We're through if you'd like a quick rinse, and at the risk of being rude, I'd encourage ye to take the offer.”

She cracked one eye open in time to see him wrinkle his nose a bit as he shot Whomper a quick wink. She shifted her gaze to her dog, who sat at the top of the stairs, stubby tail wagging for all its worth, eyes shining in eternal glee at the grand adventure the day had turned out to be.

“Speak for yourself,” she quietly informed her little beast. Adventure, yes, but grand wasn't quite how she'd have defined it. “I, ah—” She turned away from the dog, then quickly looked down, over, anywhere but up at the man in the towel. Surely from the broad grin once again splitting his handsome face, he'd realized the show he was putting on. Inadvertent or not, that was exactly the kind of man she'd pegged him to be, so she had no reason to be so disappointed at the confirmation.

She decided right then and there that following him inside had been a mistake, one that needed to be immediately rectified. He'd call whoever he needed to call and find out that she was indeed the owner of the boathouse, and they'd eventually come to some sort of détente. Or not.

At the moment, exiting the building seemed mandatory. And she didn't feel the least bit guilty over taking the coward's way out and avoiding further confrontation. “I can clean up where I'm staying. I'll, uh, just get the two of us out of your, um—”

She really shouldn't be stuttering and stammering. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen man parts before, although perhaps none so, generously—um, proportioned. And certainly not from her current vantage point. Exactly.
Jeez, just get on with it already.
“Contact the county offices and they can go over everything. I assure you my paperwork is all in order and, if necessary, we can always—”

“Talk right here, right now,” he finished for her. “As you were there, and you've got the papers, you can go over them with me. Then we'll call whoever we must and get this whole thing put to rights.”

“There's no rights to put things into,” she said, then grimaced at the twisted wording. “What I mean is, there's nothing that needs fixing. I was merely saying that if you need further proof, or you want to find out why they handled things the way they did, that's the direction to take. You really don't need me for that, and it's possible you'll be thankful I'm not there.”

“Meaning?”

She might have glanced up. Again. She really had to stop that. And he really had to move. Or she did. To that end, she turned on the stairs, keeping a death grip on the twisted iron railing as she wasn't entirely certain her knees wouldn't betray her sudden, overly avid interest in his genetic, um . . . prowess.

“Meaning you didn't look too happy to find out that neither Sue Clemmons nor Cami saw fit to let you know what was going on with the property. Property you clearly thought was under your control. So maybe it's best if you handle that privately, that's all. It's your personal business, not mine.”

“Cami Weathersby?”

Grace paused and turned back, relieved to see he'd moved closer to the railing, which pressed the towel against his legs, and formed a merciful barrier between her gaze and his—
seriously, can't you think about
anything
other than that
? “Uh, yes, Cami Weathersby. Why? Do you know her?”

His smile faded and his expression darkened in a way it hadn't before. She was surprised by how much it changed him. She'd already imagined he woke up smiling, then just went about being charming perfection the rest of the day, leaving a long line of lusting, desirous women in his wake.

“Aye, indeed I do.” The darker edge, she realized, was anger. He'd been shocked before, insulted, hurt even, then annoyed and dismissive. But if she wasn't mistaken, he was well and truly pissed.

Frowning, she asked, “Is there something about her I should know?”

“No, but perhaps ye've a point and we should meet at a later time.”

For the first time, a trickle of unease slid down her spine. “Why is that?”

“You were right about it being personal business. I need to make a few calls.”

The trickle became a steady stream. She had no idea what Brodie might be able to accomplish with a few phone calls and she didn't want to find out. The main problem with being the newest addition to the Blueberry Cove citizen roster was that she had no real contacts beyond those who had helped her achieve the first step in her dream. Worse, she had no knowledge of anyone's background or interpersonal history, not even the few she'd dealt with personally.

Grace gave in. “You know, on second thought, I can barely stand the smell of myself, and I don't need to stink up my car. Why don't I take you up on that offer to rinse off, and then we can head to the county offices together.” There was the little matter of her needing to get a change of clothes in there somewhere, but one step at a time.

He looked like he was going to nix the idea and go his own way. He definitely wanted to, she could tell, but hospitality—or her stench—won out. “Help yourself to the shower. I left a pair of track pants, a tee, and a jumper in there for you. You'll likely—”

“Jumper?”

“Oh, erm, a sweater, yes.”

“Ah. And track pants. Like a sweat suit, then.”