Harbor Nights (8 page)

“I didn't do anything, but you're welcome.” She wandered away as the woman went to speak to Ethan.

The gallery had some amazing paintings and sculptures. She studied each one carefully before moving on to the next display. Zsa Zsa, who was nestled in the crook of her arm, seemed to enjoy herself too. She heard Ethan waiting on the woman and a moment later, little Brad and Sophie came to say good-bye before they left the gallery. The woman gave a friendly wave, and then they were gone.

The captain of the yacht drifted up the stairs, leaving her and Ethan alone. “I would like to thank you for both helping my customer and entertaining her children so she had some time to look around.” Ethan joined her by the window overlooking the harbor. There were more wooden sculptures between the gallery and the water. A patio door opened to the outdoor display area.

“You're welcome.” She rubbed Zsa Zsa's back. “I hope you aren't too upset with me for bringing my dog into the building.”

Ethan chuckled as he eyed Zsa Zsa. “Dog? Is that what it is? I've seen bigger hamsters.”

“And how many hamsters have you had in your gallery?”

“None that wore a yellow bow.” Ethan smiled at the dog. “Can I help you with anything, Ms. . . . ?”

“Stevens, Joanna Stevens.” She held out her free hand. “My daughter and I just moved to Misty Harbor. In fact, Karen Harper is my neighbor.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. If you came to see Karen, I'm afraid she had to take an early lunch.”

“I know. I ran into her earlier, and she said you might be interested in hiring some more help around here.” She tried not to appear too hopeful or desperate. “I was wondering if I could fill out an application.”

Ethan's smile grew. “Can you work full-time?”

“Yes.”

“What about nights and weekends?”

“I'm free.”

“Joanna, you're hired.” Ethan looked immensely pleased with himself.

“Oh, don't I need to fill out some paperwork and all?” She was momentarily stunned to find herself employed so quickly.

“Of course; the government loves paperwork. When can you start?”

“Any time.” She gently placed Zsa Zsa back into the tote. She was free to start this afternoon, but she didn't want to appear too eager.

“Good. Karen can do most of your training.” Ethan hurried to the back room. In a daze, she followed him. “Is your dog always so friendly to children?”

“Of course. Zsa Zsa loves kids. The only time she gets anxious is when she's around seagulls.”

“Seagulls?” Ethan looked up from the file cabinet drawer he was digging through.

“Long story; don't ask.”

“Okay.” He went back to the search.

“Ah, Mr. Wycliffe?”

“Ethan, please.” He pulled out a blank job application form. “What is it? Ah, I know—salary.” He mentioned what she thought was a fair and reasonable amount.

“That's fine, but I think you should know I really don't know a whole lot about art.” There, she had said it. Before she got her hopes up about heading back to Claire's to buy that blue outfit for her first day of work, she needed to be straight with Ethan. He seemed like such a nice man.

“I don't know a whole lot about becoming a daddy, but that's not going to stop my wife from delivering our first child in August.” Ethan grinned. “Lack of knowledge is curable.” He handed her four different sheets of paper. “Fill all of these out, and bring them with you tomorrow morning. You start your training at nine.”

She took the papers. “I'll be here.”

“One more thing, Joanna.”

“What's that?” She was almost afraid to ask.

“Make sure you bring Zsa Zsa. The kids are going to love her.”

Norah headed downstairs and wondered what was in the refrigerator that she could heat up for dinner. It was Friday night, and she had the house to herself. Her mom and the four-pound hairball were working till nine. Who would have guessed that her mother would go out and get herself a job? Not only was her mother pulling in a paycheck, but Zsa Zsa was also doing tricks for doggie treats. The whole world had gone insane, and someone had forgotten to tell her.

She glanced at the crystal vase filled with long stem red roses and suppressed a chuckle. The crimson roses that her mother had received from Gordon Hanley were the exact same color as blood. She had met Mr. Hanley last week when she had been in town searching for the latest
New York Times
bestseller. The Pen and Ink had been the logical choice of a place to start her search. The amazing thing was that Hanley had known exactly where it was placed in his hodge-podge shelving system. He had gone right to it and pulled the book out of the middle of a hundred or so other books with black spines. Hanley had been polite and talkative. They had enjoyed a lively discussion on politics and on the first article she had written for the
Hancock Review.
But the whole time they were chatting, she couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding in the shadows of the shop or behind the steady stream of smoke his pipe produced. Hanley was a tall, thin, pale man with an angular face who had an aversion to sunlight. Norah had christened him the vampire.

It seemed fitting that the vampire of Misty Harbor sent bloodred roses. She only wished that it hadn't been her mother he had sent them to. Then again, she would have missed the sight of her mother blushing like a school girl when the delivery man handed them to her. She should be the one sending Gordon Hanley a thank-you note for putting that look of wonder back into her mother's eyes.

She headed into the kitchen and glanced at her own bouquet of flowers that was placed in the center of the dining room table. They weren't roses. They were a wonderful mix of irises, carnations, roses, and a couple birds-of-paradise to give the arrangement an exotic flair. She only wished the bearer of the bouquet had been half as intriguing. Gregory Patterson had shown up on her doorstep carrying the flowers and a dinner invitation two nights ago. He'd ended up staying for a cup of coffee and a couple of sweet rolls her mother had just pulled from the oven. Gregory had seemed nice, but she just wasn't interested in going out with him or any other man.

After Gregory had left that night, her mother had started in on her about her staying home all the time and her lack of a boyfriend. She had heard the lecture before, but this time, she had had ammunition with which to fire back. She had overheard her mother on the phone with Gordon Hanley as she was gently but firmly turning down his offer of dinner. Tit for tat. Both of the Stevens women weren't ready to dip their toes into the dating water.

Norah opened the refrigerator and stared at its contents. There was plenty to choose from. Her mother still hadn't gotten the feel of working a forty-hour week and running the home at the same time. Joanna Stevens was overcompensating in a huge way. Before noon today, her mother had cooked a meatloaf and a batch of brownies, washed and folded two loads of laundry, run Zsa Zsa to the vet, and vacuumed the entire downstairs. She didn't know what terrified her mother more: the thought of dust bunnies or fleas or of her twenty-four-year-old daughter not having something to snack on when she got home from work.

It was ridiculous the way her mother did everything, but the more she tried to help out or to talk to her, the more her mom protested. Her mother was either going to work herself into an early grave, learn that she wasn't superwoman, or work whatever it was that was bothering her right out of her system.

Her mother did have a lot to work out of her system, so she would give her another week or so of waxing and polishing before stepping in and laying down some rules. In the meanwhile, there were meatloaf and brownies for dinner, and hopefully, a decent movie would be on television. It was either that or finish unpacking upstairs.

Her clothes and most of the bathroom stuff had found their proper places. The bedroom was decent, and a person could even walk around the bed. It was the other room up there that was a disaster area. A person couldn't walk two feet into the room without stumbling over a box, a chair, or even a lamp or two. Somewhere in the fifty or so boxes of books scattered throughout the room were at least a dozen books she hadn't had a chance to read yet. By the time she got around to unpacking those boxes, the pages would be yellowed with age.

In her apartment back in Pennsylvania, she had had a lot of six-foot high bookcases. She had sold every one of them at a yard sale before they had moved to Maine. The room upstairs had slanted ceilings, and there wasn't any room for high bookcases. When she had some free time, she needed to find an office supply store and buy a bunch of three-foot high ones. Maybe then she would find the energy or the desire to start unpacking her small library's worth of books.

Meanwhile, she could sneak a brownie before dinner, and her mother would never know. Heck, she could even have two if she wanted. There was something good coming out of her mother having a job, besides the joy it was obviously bringing her. She couldn't remember the last time her mother had been this happy or excited about anything.

The sound of the doorbell prevented her from reaching for that first brownie, which her mother would have sworn would ruin her dinner.

She opened the door and had to jump back a couple of inches as a bouquet of yellow roses was nearly thrust into her face, startling her. “Hey!”

“Oh, sorry.”

The flowers were lowered, giving her a clear view of the man holding them. “Can I help you?” She didn't think the man was a delivery person. For one thing, he was dressed like a banker about to attend a stockholders' meeting, and second, his thinning hair was slicked back over his bald spot with enough grease that, if it were instead applied to the right wheels in Washington, even they would turn.

“I'm Wendell Kirby, and you must be Norah Stevens.” Wendell had the smile of a politician.

Her hopes that he had come to court her mother faded. “Yes, I'm Norah. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kirby.”

“Wendell, please.” He thrust the flowers into her hands. “As the President of the local Chamber of Commerce and the owner of the only motel in town, I wish to welcome you to Misty Harbor.”

Imagine that—a politician who owns his own motel. Business and pleasure all rolled up into one.
“Do you greet every new resident personally?” She lifted the roses and breathed in their scent.

“Only the beautiful ones.” Wendell's smile widened at his witty comment.

“Who welcomes the ones you don't consider beautiful?” She didn't think of herself as beautiful. Fair looking or passable, but not gorgeous. She would rather people remember her for her brains, not because little children hadn't screamed in horror at her face.

Wendell's smile slipped a notch, and he quickly changed the subject. “I read your columns, and I must say that you are a breath of fresh air to the
Hancock Review.
You are just what the paper and this town needed.”

“My boss will be glad to hear that.” She leaned against the door jamb. There was no way she was inviting Wendell, Misty Harbor's equivalent to Casanova pond scum, into the house. “So you wouldn't mind if the county went through and reassessed your property value for tax purposes?”

This week's column had pushed more than one person's hot button. Tom Belanger, her boss, had said that if she kept this up, he would need to hire her own personal body guard. She had voted for a young Kevin Costner or Brad Pitt. Tom had voted for a nicer, less controversial assignment for next week's column. She was currently researching the medical advantages of eating blueberries. Everyone knew that blueberries tasted great and helped the local economy. It was her job to make readers realize how good they were for you.

“As a property owner, I mind greatly.” Wendell's good-hearted chuckle was as fake as a wooden nickel. “But as President of the local Chamber of Commerce, I must tell you that the added tax revenue could bring in some much needed help to revitalize the town. Think of all the extra services we could offer to attract more tourists.”

With a larger tax base, services across the board could be improved and added upon, just like she had stated in her article. “More tourists mean fewer empty motel rooms, right?”

“That's the name of the game.”

She wondered how many older residents, the ones who were living on Social Security and meager pensions, wanted to play Wendell's game. Her guess was that not too many of them did. “Anything for commerce?”

“That's why I've been elected President six years in a row.” Wendell's chest puffed out.

First thing Monday morning, she was asking her boss if she could write her next article on some people's idea of commerce. “Six years. My, that's a long time.” Wendell had to be either blackmailing or bribing the voters for that kind of loyalty. She couldn't put her finger on it, but there was something sneaky or desperate in the middle-aged man's eyes.

“It's nothing compared to the reward I feel doing my civic duty.” The look Wendell was going for, she thought, should have been congenial. Instead, he looked like he was suffering from constipation.

She was going to need a pair of boots soon. The level of BS was rising. Wendell wanted something from her, and she wished he would hurry up and get around to the reason behind his visit and the roses. “Civic duty is so important nowadays. Young people just don't seem to grasp the concept.”

Wendell blinked, obviously unsure of whether she was serious or being sarcastic about his age. Wendell was old enough to be her father. In all honesty, she wasn't sure if she was serious or not. It depended on what Wendell wanted from her. Men who came bearing roses usually only wanted one thing, and it had nothing to do with the Chamber of Commerce. Unless your profession was the oldest one in the book.

“I feel it's my civic duty to give you a personal tour of our lovely town.” Wendell waved his hand over his shoulder in the direction of Main Street. “We can start with a nice dinner at the best restaurant in town and then take an evening stroll. I can point out the highlights of our quaint little village and let you in on all the little secrets.”

She'd rather French kiss a toad. “I'm real sorry, Wendell, but I can't.” Behind Wendell's back, she saw Ned get out of his truck in front of his parents' house and look her way.

“Oh, I insist.” Wendell started to get that desperate look in his eyes as he took a step closer.

She took a hesitant step backward, realizing that she didn't know this man at all. “I said I was sorry, but I can't have dinner with you or go on a tour of the town.” She held the roses back out to him, hoping he would take them and leave.

“Why not?” Wendell didn't raise his voice, but there was a new, harder edge to it.

“Because she already has a dinner date”—Ned Porter stepped up behind Wendell—“with me.” Ned never took his gaze off Wendell.

“Porter?”

“Kirby?” Ned's smile didn't reach his eyes. “I see you brought Norah some flowers.”

She didn't have a date with Ned, but she wasn't about to bring that up now. She was too thankful to him, once again, for riding to her rescue. What was with this town and men showing up on her doorstep? “The flowers are from the Chamber of Commerce,” she said, hoping to defuse whatever situation was brewing.

“I'm sure the Chamber would love to know they are paying for the flowers Wendell hands out to all the single women who move into town.” Ned took a step closer to her. “Right, Kirby?”

“I bought those roses with my own money.” Wendell looked offended and guilty at the same time.

“So why did you tell Norah they were from the Chamber of Commerce? Are you using your Presidency as a pickup line? Isn't that against the bylaws or something?”

Wendell nervously straightened his too tight tie and tugged at the hem of his suit jacket. The buttons were a little tight across his stomach. “I wasn't trying to
pick up
Ms. Stevens, as you so ineloquently put it. I was offering to take her for a nice dinner and then to give her a personal tour around town.”

“I'm sure the Chamber values your devotion to your position.” Ned's voice dripped with sarcasm. “As you can see, Ms. Stevens has other plans for this evening. But I'm sure she appreciates the roses. I happen to know she's quite partial to them.”

Norah was getting tired of being treated like she wasn't even there. She thought about saying something to both men, but she noticed a slight flush on Wendell's face. She wasn't sure if he was embarrassed at being caught asking her out or if he was angry. She didn't want to push the subject either way, and she really didn't want Wendell Kirby showing back up on her doorstep tomorrow or any other night. Ned obviously didn't have a problem with people thinking they were dating. She took a step closer to him. “Thank you, Wendell, for the flowers. They're lovely, and”—she turned to Ned and gave him a smile that she hoped looked secretive and seductive—“this town has made me feel most welcome.”

Wendell grumbled something under his breath. “Well, I see you two are busy. Again, welcome to Misty Harbor, Ms. Stevens, and if I can be of service to you or your family, please don't hesitate to call.” With a slight nod to Ned, Wendell turned and walked to his car.

She stood there and continued smiling at Ned. A moment later, a car door slammed, and an engine started.