The Inn at Eagle Point. Sherryl Woods
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himself at home, Trace wandered into the kitchen, found a dishtowel to mop up his face and sop some of the water from his shirt, then took another towel into the dining room to clean up the mess there. He regarded the dish of chocolate mousse with regret. It hadn’t exactly turned out to be the peace offering he’d intended it to be.
“Chocolate mousse? Abby’s favorite,” Nell O’Brien noted as she walked into the dining room and spotted it in his hand. “Nice touch, though I imagine suggesting the yacht club for your meeting was your idea of a power play. You know perfectly well she hates that place.”
He winced at the accuracy of her comment. “None of it worked out quite the way I’d planned,” he commented wryly.
“I don’t suppose she poured that pitcher of water over your head because you brought her dessert,” she said.
“No, I believe it had more to do with a few unflattering things I said to her.”
She shook her head. “You two act like you’re six and still on the playground. Go in the kitchen and take off your shirt. I’ll throw it into the dryer, and then maybe I’ll give you a few tips on handling my granddaughter.”
Trace frowned at her, not entirely trusting the seemingly magnanimous offer. Nell hadn’t been one of his biggest fans ten years ago. He couldn’t imagine why that would suddenly change.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
“Because it’s obvious to me that the two of you will manage to mess it up for a second time, if you’re left to your own devices,” she said with more than a touch of impatience. “And I’d like to see my granddaughter happy.”
“What is it you think we’re going to mess up?” Trace asked, though he knew she wasn’t talking about their new and mostly awkward business relationship.
She merely rolled her eyes, as if she found the question ridiculous, the answer obvious. “Go,” she ordered.
Trace left, stripping off his shirt as he went. Nell carried in a tray filled with the remains of their aborted lunch and set it on the counter, then took the shirt from him and tossed it into the dryer.
“Shall we have a cup of tea while we wait?” she asked, not waiting for his reply as she put cups on the table and started pouring.
Trace was smart enough not to object to the ritual. He’d learned years ago that Abby’s grandmother marched to her own drummer and it was best to go along. Those who didn’t want to do that at least had the good sense to stay out of her way.
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