The Women of Bayberry Cove. Cynthia Thomason
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on the paint.”
They each took a few sips of soda before Wesley spoke again. “So…why are you here? And even more important, I suppose, who are you?”
She set her Coke down and folded her hands. “My name’s Louise Duncan. I’m a friend of Vicki Soren—” She stopped when she realized she was about to give Vicki’s maiden name, the one she’d used until six months ago. “Make that Vicki Malone.”
“Malone?” He nodded in recognition. “Jamie’s wife? The one who married him so he could get a green card all those years ago?”
“That’s the one.”
“My dad told me those two found each other after something like thirteen years. He said he had a hand in keeping them together after all that time.”
Louise scoffed. “I guess you could say that. I was Vicki’s lawyer, and I drafted the faultless divorce settlement she presented to Jamie. And then your daddy took it upon himself to concoct a number of loopholes. No offense to your father, but he’s a crafty old buzzard.”
Wesley chuckled. “None taken. In the Fletcher family, that’s a compliment.” He eyed her over the top of his can as he took a long swallow. “So you’re a lawyer?”
“That’s right.” She looked directly at him. “And I’ve heard every shark and bottom-feeding joke you can think of, so you can keep them to yourself.”
He affected an innocent shrug. “Believe me, I wasn’t going to make any cracks.”
She relaxed. “Okay then. Now as for why I’m here in Bayberry Cove, I’m on vacation, sort of.” Seeing no reason to delay the inevitable, she announced, “And I’ve come to Buttercup Cottage because I want to rent it for a couple of months.”
He set the can down with a metallic thump. “Sorry. It’s not available.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m living in it.”
“But you could live anywhere.”
“So could you.”
She took a deep breath. Engaging in a war of words with Wesley Fletcher was not likely to get her anywhere, especially since the cottage she now obsessively wanted to rent was in his family’s name. “Look, I might consider renting something else, but my friend told me there is nothing available in Bayberry Cove—no motels, no seasonal places even.”
“That’s true, but you could point that BMW down Sandy Ridge Road, and in ten or fifteen miles you’ll hit some quaint little towns with enough gingerbread bed-and-breakfasts to make your mouth water.” He picked up his can and pointed it in a direction roughly behind him. “Or head to Morgan City and get a room at the Comfort Inn. They have a free continental breakfast.”
“That’s almost twenty miles away.” His answering shrug was impassive, and Louise had to struggle to control her temper. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop and watched for any sign of capitulation. Nothing.
“I think we can reach an agreement here,” she finally said. “I’m only in your town for one reason. My friend lives a mile from this cottage and I want to spend time with her.”
“That makes sense.”
“And I know that your father lives in a big house in town. Jamie Malone told me. Couldn’t you stay there for a couple of months? Then when I leave, you could move back to this place.”
He shook his head. “I’d rather not. It’s really not convenient.”
Logic wasn’t working, and now Louise wanted to rent Buttercup Cottage with a craving that was almost scary. She changed tactics. “I’ll pay you, of course. And I know this time of year demands higher rates. Would you say a thousand dollars a month is a fair price?”
He barked with amusement. “For this little water-front gem?” He leaned toward her across the table. “Here’s what I think is a fair price. Assuming I can get the pipes fixed…” he glanced around the small kitchen “…and assuming these old appliances are in working order, which I haven’t tested yet since you stopped by and interrupted me. And assuming that when I get up on the roof and walk around I won’t find any leaks…then I’d say a fair price might be about four hundred a month.”
Now they were getting somewhere. In fact, Wesley was turning out to be a decent guy. “You’d do all these repairs and only charge me four hundred a month?”
“No. I said that would be a fair price. Actually, I’m not going to charge you anything because I’m not renting you this house.”
She stood up, sending her chair scooting along the worn linoleum floor. “I see what’s happening here,” she said.
“You do?”
“Absolutely. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
He looked at his wristwatch. “Can I at least move back to the sink? I’m behind schedule already.”
She glared at him, then picked up her keys from where he’d left them on the counter, and stomped through the kitchen to a parlor, where a few old pieces of furniture were haphazardly arranged. She picked her way through a clutter of old magazines and knickknacks and stepped out the front door to her car. Opening the passenger door of the BMW, she snatched her purse from the front seat. When she went back to the kitchen, Wesley was under the sink again.
“Excuse me,” she said.
He scooted out and stood up.
Louise moved to within inches of him and waved her checkbook in front of his eyes. “How much? Name your price.”
He stared at her and slowly shook his head. “Are you crazy?”
“I want to rent this place, Wesley Fletcher. And I mean to have it. I’ve played games with your father in the past, but I’d rather not play games with you. Can’t we just settle this here and now?”
His blue eyes turned flint-gray, and Louise took a step back. Be nice, Lulu, she said to herself. Be compassionate and caring like Roger says. Don’t intimidate. She took a deep breath. “Please, Wesley. I’ll pay whatever you say.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with serious intent. After a moment he turned his hands palms up. Louise experienced a gratifying rush of victory at the obvious gesture of surrender.
And then he said, “The place isn’t for rent. That’s final.”
His was as resolute a face as she’d ever seen in her life. It was a granite and steel countenance that would be perfect at a peacemaking summit between world powers. Or above the green felt of a high-stakes poker table. And it was a face that wasn’t going to change.
Louise marched into the bathroom, stuffed her soiled clothes into her suitcase and her feet into her ruined sandals and wheeled the bag back to the kitchen. Wesley was under the sink again, but his shadowed gaze snapped from the gaping pipes and remained fixed on her face.
“I suggest you let the local postman know you’re living here, Wesley,” she said. “The bill for my clothes will arrive in the mail. Since I don’t have an address, you may send your check in care of the Malones.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in an odd little grin that might have been endearing on a young boy, but was simply maddening on Wesley. “Aye, aye, Counselor,” he said.
She stepped to the sink, carefully avoiding contact with his bent knee, and gave the old enamel spigot one quick flick of her wrist. The rewarding squeal and shimmy of old copper tubing filled her with satisfaction. Water spurted through the pipes, hitting Wesley Fletcher square in the middle of his smug face. Louise smiled down at him, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and exited Buttercup Cottage.
CHAPTER THREE
WESLEY DROVE HIS Jeep Wrangler onto the gravel