Harbor Nights (10 page)

“What happened?” she asked.

“The marriage never should have happened in the first place. I wasn't husband material.” He was always the first to admit that he was the reason behind his failed marriage. “My job took me away from home too often and for too long. Susan, my ex, deserved better than that. She wanted a family, and to be honest with you, I would have made a terrible parent.”

Joanna seemed curious to know more. “Why? Don't you like children?”

“Love them, but back in my thirties, I was never around. It wouldn't have been fair to Susan or the children we might have had. Thankfully, we both realized our mistake, and moved on with our lives.” He had been the one to realize it first while sitting in another bland hotel room a thousand miles away from Susan and the home fires she swore she kept burning for him. “Susan remarried, and she is now the mother of two teenage boys that are driving her nuts.” He could smile about it now, but at the time, learning of Susan's impending motherhood had hurt. It had hammered home all the things in life he had given up for his career. He had vowed never to make that same mistake again. Life was too short.

“You keep in touch with her?”

“We've remained friends over the years.” He had learned how unusual that was from other friends, associates, and family members who had gone through divorces. Most divorces ended with hatred, jealousy, and vengeance. He wondered how Joanna's divorce had ended.

“I didn't realize that being an artist took you away from home that much. Don't you have a studio or something?”

“Carving is my second career, and yes, I do have a studio next to my house. Bringing eight- or ten-foot sections of trees into my living room would ruin the floors.” He was half tempted to tease her about coming out to his place one day so that he could show her his studio and she could look at his etchings. Somewhere beneath all of Joanna's wariness, he had a feeling there was a sense of humor. He was usually a pretty good judge of character.

Joanna softly smiled. “I imagine all that chipping and carving can cause quite a mess.” Her left hand stopped toying with the spoon, and she finally seemed to relax. “What did you do before becoming an artist?”

This was the part where he usually jokingly said “a little of this and a little of that.” He didn't want to hedge with Joanna. He had a feeling that she wouldn't appreciate it and that it would damage what little trust there was between them. “I really would rather my past not be broadcast all over town.”

“Why not?” Joanna's gaze turned cautious.

He had been afraid of that. Joanna was attributing the worst possible scenario to his past, and her imagination was in overdrive. He could practically see the trust shattering in her eyes. “Because I have found that people see me for what I was, not for who I am.”

“What were you?” Joanna's fingers went back to the spoon, and her one foot was shaking so much that he was amazed the vibrations didn't knock over their drinks.

What in the world did she think? That he'd just gotten out of prison, or that he had been a drug lord who had spent all his time flying in and out of Colombia? He lowered his voice so that the other people sitting at the counter or in the other booths couldn't overhear and tried to put her fears to rest. He whispered, “FBI.”

Joanna went perfectly still and gave him a funny blank look. “What?”

He tried not to roll his eyes. Was it really so farfetched that he had worn a suit and tie for twenty-five years while working for the government? “I said”—his voice was just above a loud whisper—“I was an FBI agent.” There wasn't a person in America who needed those initials spelled out.

Joanna blinked twice and then did something totally unexpected. She burst out laughing, causing everyone in the place to turn and stare at them.

He sat there, stunned. He'd known he was attracted to Joanna. Instant attraction and lust he understood. But sitting here, watching her eyes fill with tears of joy and hearing the wonderful sound of her laughter, he was overcome with another emotion. One that would have floored him flat on his backside if he weren't already sitting down. He was falling in love with the very prim and proper Joanna Stevens.

 

 

Norah pulled her old SUV into the driveway and gave thanks that the vehicle had made it back from Bangor. It was due for some major work, and she'd been putting it off so as not to drain her savings on a hopefully unnecessary expense. She was hoping to buy a new four-wheel drive vehicle before the first snowflake landed in Maine. So far that dream might turn into a reality if she continued nursing it along. But there were no more long hauls in the battered SUV's future. The trip up from Pennsylvania had been its last hurrah. An occasional trip into Bangor was about all it could handle.

This morning's trip to an office supply store had been necessary. Not only had her printer run out of ink, but she was also nearly out of paper, and she was tired of living with all the boxes in the spare room upstairs. Six brand new, three-foot high bookcases had been piled in the back of the SUV by some seventeen-year-old fullback on the local high school football team. The fun part now would be not only carrying them into the house and up a flight of stairs, but they also had to be put together.

It wasn't how she had been hoping to spend a gorgeous June Saturday, but she'd heard tomorrow was going to be just as nice. Since her mom worked today and had off tomorrow, she figured she'd stay at home today and tackle the room and then play tourist with her mom on Sunday. Maybe her mom would come clean about this Karl James guy. She didn't know what was going on between her mother and Misty Harbor's resident artist. All she knew was that they had gone out to lunch together nearly every day this week. Her mother had even gone in early yesterday to meet him before she had to start work at the gallery.

Working at the gallery was one thing. At first, she had been anxious about her mom working, but that had quickly faded when she saw how happy the job made her mother. Her mother had even stopped cooking dinner at eight in the morning. Joanna Stevens had entered the working world, one that was full of fast food, take out dinners, and frozen entrees. Nothing seemed to give her mother more pleasure than writing in all the spaces on the kitchen wall calendar. It seemed every detail of her mother's life was written on that calendar, from dental appointments, to her work schedule, to lunch dates with Karl.

She reached for the bag of merchandise and headed for the house. She should be thrilled that her mother was getting on with her life, but she couldn't shake the fear that her mother would be hurt again. She was waiting for the lunch dates to turn into dinner dates, and then she'd be the one up until all hours of the night waiting for her mother to come in. When in the heck had their roles in life become reversed? Her own mother was getting out more and having more fun than she was.

With that depressing thought, the bag almost slipped from her hand as she unlocked the front door and managed to stumble into the house. Not the best beginning, considering she had six bookcases to unload. She tossed the bag and her purse onto the couch and headed back to the car.

The hatchback swung up, and she frowned at the boxes. They looked bigger now than when the kid had loaded them. The printing across the top box claimed that they were the right measurements. She just prayed hernias didn't hurt too much. With a wiggle, a few jerks, and a couple of groans, she had the first box halfway out of the back when she stopped to catch a good breath before the hard part—picking that sucker up. Who would have thought particle board weighed so much?

“Give me that before you hurt yourself,” was growled in her ear a second before a pair of strong hands lifted the box away from her and out of the car with ease.

Ned couldn't believe what he was seeing when he pulled up in front of his parents' house. Norah was attempting to lift a box that was nearly as tall as she and probably weighed a good sixty pounds out of her car. He'd had to sprint across her yard before the box tipped and ended up on her foot. “Where do you want them?”

He counted five other boxes in the back of her Bronco and tried not to roll his eyes. The woman had to be delusional if she thought she could get all of them into the house without major damage being done either to the boxes or to herself.

He didn't know what had caused his heart to leap into his throat—the thought of Norah being hurt, or the sight of her shorts riding up the backs of her slim thighs as she leaned into the SUV. Darn, how could such a little bitty thing have such a powerful effect on him.

“Thanks, Ned. They go in the house.” Norah hurried ahead and held open the screen door.

Ned maneuvered through the doorway with only inches to spare. “Which room?” The house had a layout identical to his parents'.

“Upstairs and to the left.” Norah led the way up the steps.

Ned watched the enticing sway of her hips as she climbed in front of him and nearly dropped the box. If Norah had any tattoos, they had to be tiny ones. Her off-white shorts barely covered the essentials, and the skimpy green top she had on left half her back bare. Norah had more skin showing today than she had the other night. Not a tattoo or imperfection in sight.

Norah stepped into the doorway on the right and gestured to the room on the left. The bracelets on her wrist jangled. “In there, wherever you can find room.”

Ned looked into the room and chuckled. “Unless you are planning on putting this together on the couch, I would suggest we clear a space first.” He wanted to ask what was in all the boxes, but he figured the answer was obvious—books. Why else would Norah buy six bookcases? He lowered the box and leaned it against the bathroom door.

“I don't think even Matthew and I had this much stuff in the room when we were growing up.” He remembered the chaotic clutter of his youth, which had mostly consisted of sporting equipment, video games, and dirty laundry. Matthew had been the messier one, but they had both shared the groundings when their mother had tired of the mess.

“Oh, this room was your bedroom?”

“Yep, and I had to share with Matt.” He had overheard his brother asking Norah out and had nearly laughed when she had told him no. “How about if I pile some of these boxes onto the couch to give us some room to work.”

“I can do that if you're willing to carry up the other bookcases for me. When I bought them, I didn't think they would weigh as much as they do.”

“Why don't you go hunt up whatever tools we are going to need to put these together while I stack the boxes onto the couch.” He didn't have his tool box with him in his truck, but he was sure his father's garage would have whatever they might need if Norah didn't. It had been his experience that a lot of women tended to think that butter knives and a high-heeled shoe were the equivalent of a Craftsman screwdriver and hammer.

“I can't ask you to put them all together, Ned.” Norah picked up the nearest box and piled it on top of an end table. “Just getting those shelves in the house and up the stairs will be a great help.”

“I don't mind. I don't have anything else that needs to be done this afternoon.” He reached for the biggest box and set it on the couch. It was either an entire set of encyclopedias or cannon balls. He continued to lift boxes as Norah stepped over and around furniture to open the two side windows. His gaze followed the sound of the charm bracelet that she had wrapped around one slim ankle. Norah had the right idea; it was getting awfully warm in the room.

“Where are you planning on putting the bookcases once I get them together?” With his luck, he would need to move the now buried under six tons of books couch.

“Against the length of the entire back wall.” Norah waved her hand to where the sloped ceiling met the kneewall. “It's twenty-five feet wide. With the six bookcases, I've got twelve inches to spare.”

Most of the space along that wall was already cleared, and there was just enough room for him to start to put the cases together. “Smart.”

He liked the fact that Norah loved her books enough to have moved them from Pennsylvania with her and that she had eccentric taste in reading. Some of the titles he glimpsed had been textbooks; others poetry and a few nonfiction; but most had been fiction titles. He had a lot of the same titles on his shelves at home. “You go get the tools while I go get the bookcases.” He headed for the steps.

Fifteen minutes later, he carried the last of the bookcases into the room and set it in the cleared spot. Norah had moved more of the stuff away from the wall. “Where's the tools?”

“In the case.” Norah didn't bother to glance up from the box she was going through. She waved toward a pink, hard plastic case sitting on the floor.

He stared at the silly feminine-looking case for a moment before kneeling in front of it and opening it. He gingerly picked up the hammer and a screwdriver. He'd be laughed out of the state if Daniel or Quinn could see him at this moment. “Norah?”

“Yes?” Norah finally took her head out of the box.

“They're pink!” The handles to all the tools were pink. Even the razor knife was pink. He had never seen such a thing. Norm Abram would keel over in his Yankee Workshop with laughter.

“You have something against pink?” Norah looked at him as if she was expecting some smart remark.

My momma didn't raise no fool.
“Nope, it's one of my favorite colors.” He took out the razor knife and was impressed that the blade was still sharp and that all the little slots inside the case held the proper tools. He could tell that the tools had been used occasionally. He had seen grown women disregard a good tool as soon as the job was done, but Lord help the poor man who moved her curling iron or left up the toilet seat. “Can I ask where you found a
pink
set?” He was having a hard time swallowing the concept of a pink hammer.

“Under the Christmas tree two years ago.” Norah helped him take all of the pieces out of the box. “Santa gave them to me.”

He tried not to chuckle at the image of Norah, all sleepy eyed and fresh from a warm bed, sitting on the floor unwrapping presents Christmas morning. “You must have been a very good girl that year.”

Norah's laughter filled the room as she opened the bag of screws and started to arrange them by size. “Let me tell you, Santa doesn't know everything.”

He wasn't going to bite at that comment either. Norah thinking she was bad was one thing. Him picturing Norah being bad was another. If she startled when she was accidently touched, he'd be willing to bet she'd run from the room screaming when she saw his version of her being bad.

He forced his mind away from such tempting thoughts and glanced at the instruction sheet, the pile of wood, and then the neat rows of screws Norah was lining up. It could have been worse. He remembered the day he had helped his brother John set up a swing set for Tyler. It had taken the four Porter men seven hours and almost a case of beer to get the stupid thing together. And then, because they had followed the directions to the letter, the sliding board had been put on upside down. Kay and Jill hadn't let them forget that one yet, and it had been two and a half years. From that day forward, none of the Porters would use instruction sheets. They only made the simple more complex. They had also sworn never to allow a female near them when they were putting something together.

Ned glanced at Norah, who was trying to be helpful. “Why don't you find the books that will go on this shelf while I put it together.” Her scent was driving him crazy. Norah smelled like she had just walked through a field of lavender. His mind was busy categorizing all of the body parts to which she would have applied the perfume.

“You don't need my help?”

“I can handle it.” He smiled to soften his words. It wasn't Norah's fault he couldn't control his thoughts. He started putting the pieces together.

Norah shrugged her shoulders and started digging through the boxes of books.

He almost had the second bookshelf done when Norah asked, “Did you have lunch yet?”

“Not yet.” It was almost one, and he had been planning on grabbing something at his parents'. He also had planned on cutting their grass for them. Between being out on the tuna boat all day and running back and forth to Boston to check on his aunt, his parents hadn't had a whole lot of time at home. He had convinced himself that he had a few extra hours to help them out and that coming by their place had nothing to do with their sexy new neighbor.

Norah got to her feet. The first case was in place and full. “Anything in particular that you don't like?” Norah stacked a couple of empty boxes in one another.

“Anchovies, brussels sprouts, and fifty-year-old Scotch mixed with a game of frisbee where you aren't allowed to use your hands.”

Norah arched a brow, but her lips were twitching. “Dare I ask?”

“An old college dare that the fifty-year-old Scotch warped my judgement on.”

Norah grinned. “Ah, but did you win?”

“Only second place. The very well-endowed Stephanie Zelinski won first because she had a more inventive way to toss a frisbee without using her hands.” He shook his head at the memory. “It wasn't a fair competition to begin with. All the judges were guys.”

Norah's laughter followed her out of the room and down the steps.

He had the second bookcase in place and was emptying the box containing bookcase number three when Norah came back up the steps carrying a tray loaded with sandwiches, drinks, and a plate of brownies. “It's time for a break, Ned. The least I can do is feed you.” She set the tray on the end of a coffee table. “I already cleared us a spot to sit. Bathroom's in there”—she nodded her head in the direction of the small bath at the top of the stairs—“if you want to clean up.”

Ned stepped into the cramped little bathroom and smiled at the memories. He and his three older brothers had shared a bathroom that looked amazingly like this one. How they had not killed each other was beyond him. There was barely enough room to turn around.

Norah's soap was yellow, and it smelled of sunshine. The entire bathroom, the shower curtain, rug, and matching towels, was done in rubber duckies. There was even a white basket filled with assorted rubber duckies sitting on the back of the john. He didn't know if he should be appalled at her decorating taste or laugh at her sense of humor.

He dried his hands and joined Norah. “Who's your decorator? Ernie?”

“Bert. I have this thing for the strong silent types who collect paper clips.” Norah was sitting on the couch, where there was only a small space, leaving him the recliner. On the coffee table between them was lunch. “I hope you like chicken salad and root beer.”

“Love them.” He sat and dug into lunch. “Where's your mom? I haven't seen her lately.”

“She and Zsa Zsa got a job down at Wycliffe's Gallery.” Norah nibbled on her sandwich.

“Ethan lets Zsa Zsa into his gallery?” Ethan was a good friend when they weren't trying to kill each other on the ice. During hockey season, all bets were off. His friend was very particular about his gallery, and he couldn't imagine Ethan allowing a dog in there.

“He insisted,” Norah tucked her feet up under her. “Zsa Zsa gets paid in treats when she entertains the kids of browsing customers. It's a win-win situation. Kids are happy, parents are happy, Ethan's happy because most of the browsers turn into customers, and Zsa Zsa just soaks up all the glory.”

He chuckled at the thought. “Like Zsa Zsa wasn't spoiled enough.”

“She's getting worse, and my mother encourages it. The only drawback is that her potty breaks are taken out back of the gallery, which is right at the docks.”

“Seagulls.” He gallantly tried to hold in his laughter.

Norah's laughter was contagious. They both cracked up thinking about the Pomeranian and all those birds. Norah wiped at the tears in her eyes. “Mom says she's getting better.”

“How can she tell?”

“Because she doesn't have to use the umbrella anymore. Zsa Zsa actually goes outside to do her business without its protection. Mom just stands beside her and waves her hands in the air to shoo away any gulls that might be curious about what's going on.” Norah bit her lower lip, but her green eyes sparkled with laughter.

“I think I would pay to see that.” He couldn't imagine Ethan allowing such a thing. Either Zsa Zsa had caused a tremendous spike in sales, or Ethan's wife, Olivia, was finally taking some of the starch out of his collar. Ethan had always been a prim and proper gentleman, and as sophisticated as they came, unless he was suited up and out on the ice. Maybe it was impending fatherhood that was mellowing out his friend.

“You would have to hide.”

“Why?”

“Zsa Zsa doesn't like anyone looking at her while she is attending to her business.” Norah's tone indicated she was serious, but her expression was priceless.

“She's a dog.” He'd never heard of such a thing.

“Tell her that. She thinks she's human.” Norah reached for the second half of her sandwich. “It's my mom's fault. She created the monster; now she gets to live with her.”

He'd readily admit to spoiling Flipper on certain things, like riding in the cab of the truck during below freezing winter days and taking him swimming in the cove on hotter summer days. But there was no way Flipper thought he was human.

Norah's smile slowly faded, and she got a serious look about her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“You know a guy in town named Karl James?”

“The artist?”

“That's the one.”

“I know of him, but I can't say I know him. He doesn't come into town much, and when he does, he usually keeps to himself. Why?” Ned assured himself it wasn't jealousy he was feeling. Karl James was old enough to be Norah's father.

“My mom and he seem to be getting close.” Norah popped a chip into her mouth.

“As in dating close?” He relaxed. Karl wasn't bothering Norah.

“They have lunch nearly every day at Krup's General Store, but my mom says they are just friends and that it isn't a date.”

He could tell from Norah's expression that she didn't believe her mom. “If Karl's in town nearly every day, it must be serious.” As much as he wanted to, he couldn't put her mind at ease. “Have you met him yet?” He couldn't picture the classy and elegant Joanna Stevens and the aged hippy, Karl James, together in a romantic way. Talk about opposites attracting.

“Not yet.” Norah toyed with the remainder of her sandwich. “Think I should insist on her bringing him home one night for dinner?”

“I have no idea, Norah. She is your mother. I guess she can date anyone she wants to.” Gee, it's a screwed up world if you have to worry about who your mother is dating. “Has she brought home other dates?”

“No, this is the first man she has shown any interest in since the divorce.”

That could explain it. Karl was probably the first man to ask the lovely Joanna out, and she had readily accepted. Joanna had probably been married to some stuffy banker type, and she was ready to taste the wild side of life. He had to wonder if Norah knew about Karl's Harley. “What is your father like?”

Norah froze. “Why?”

“I was thinking that maybe she wanted a man who is his total opposite.” He didn't like the way all the color drained from Norah's face.

“She divorced him; that says it all.” Norah got up and started to gather up a few more empty boxes and other trash. “Take your time finishing your lunch. I'll take these down.”

Ned sat there and stared at the empty doorway. Norah had practically run down the steps to get away. What in the world was all that about? If Norah didn't want to talk about her father, all she had to do was say so. He would have dropped the subject, but now his curiosity was skyrocketing off the charts.

Did her father have something to do with the fear he'd glimpsed in Norah's eyes at different times? Was he the reason she startled so easily or jumped when she was accidently touched by a male?

His stomach turned at the very thought.

He liked Norah in a way that had nothing to do with her being his parents' new neighbor. She had a sense of humor, and was intelligent, two traits he found very appealing in a woman. She was openly honest and refreshingly candid. Norah hadn't been out to impress him, and that simple fact affected him the most. Now, if she would only grow another ten inches and build up enough muscle mass to actually chop firewood, he would feel more comfortable around her. As it was, he usually felt as if he were posing in a Jolly Green Giant commercial with Norah as a little sprout. Give them a couple of cans of fresh-picked vegetables, and they would be all set.

He finished his lunch and went back to putting the bookcases together, more determined than ever to find out who had put that fear in Norah's eyes. Then he wanted ten minutes alone with the guy.

Two hours later, there was enough space in the room for him to help Norah move the furniture around. “Are you sure you want the couch there?” He'd never heard of anyone putting a sofa directly in front of bookcases.

“Yes, but leave about two feet between it and the shelves.” Norah, who could now actually sit at her desk, was busy putting away office supplies and folders.

“What good is two feet going to do you?” He shoved the couch into the right position and frowned at the small space behind it. He had banged his head on the sloping ceiling at least fifty times so far today. He didn't remember the ceiling in his old bedroom being so low.

Norah went over to the sofa and walked the entire length behind it. Her hips never touched the back of the couch or a book. Her head never touched the ceiling. “See, there's plenty enough room.”

“For you, yeah, but what about the rest of the world?” Five-year-old Tyler would barely fit back there, and there was no way he could stand in front of the bookcases without bending over and probably pulling something in his back.

“Ned, it's my private office, den, sitting room, whatever you want to call it. I'm not going to be entertaining up here, so the only person that has to fit back there is me. If I need a certain book, I can reach it without having to shove the couch out of the way.”

He had to agree; for Norah, the room was perfect. A little cramped, but considering her size, Norah could fit another couch in here, and she would still be able to waltz around the furniture. The twenty-five by twelve room with its sloping ceilings felt like a walk-in closet to him. “I guess fairies don't need a lot of room.”

“Listen, Porter, I don't make fun of your size.” Norah put her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

“What's wrong with my size?” Lord, she was cute when she was mad.