A Small-Town Homecoming. Terry Mclaughlin
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THAT EVENING, after she’d changed into her most comfortable jeans, her softest designer loafers and dined on a frisée salad with her special raspberry vinaigrette dressing, Tess drove toward Driftwood. The residential area south of the town center offered a certain rustic charm, particularly where the streetlights thinned and the pavement faded to crunchy gravel roads, where lacy-branched redwoods crowded the shoreline and cast their long shadows over wave-splashed rocks. The neighborhoods she passed wore a jumble of styles, and the houses perching in the open spaces among the trees often reflected the personalities of their owners rather than the period of their construction.
Normally Tess enjoyed a trip through Driftwood at this time of night, when the amber glow of early-evening lamplight provided glimpses of prairie-style mantelpieces, paneled doors, arching doorways and coved ceilings before the home owners drew their curtains to shut out the dark. She might have enjoyed restoring one of the vintage houses in this part of town, but she’d found a place that suited her along the river, a more practical house that wouldn’t require messy repairs or put a dent in her budget making them.
Tonight she wasn’t in the mood to notice much more than the widening pothole on Daylily Lane and her own negative attitude. Her chat with Quinn had siphoned most of the joy from what was supposed to be the first triumph of her professional career.
All she’d wanted was some time alone on the site to look at the place and to know—to truly believe—that what was in her imagination was actually, finally going to appear. A few minutes to let her imagination loose, to fill that space with all the possibilities she held inside. Her very own creation, her very own miracle—hers and hers alone, for the first and last time.
Only it hadn’t been hers, because she hadn’t been alone. She’d been forced to share it with Quinn. Just as she would be forced to share every step of its creation with him for the next nine months, to maintain her vision through his interpretation and consult with him on its progress. To share the end result, too: her design, his construction.
Quinn Construction. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. He had a lot riding on this project, too. He was rehabbing his professional reputation as well as his personal life. If he pulled off this job—the largest in the Cove at the moment—without a hitch, he’d be well on his way to establishing himself as a competent builder, not to mention banking a sizable profit.
And in order to maximize that profit, he’d want to complete the job as quickly and as cheaply as possible. Which meant they’d argue over the specs. Contractors always tried to shave their costs by changing the specs—after they’d used those same specs to draw up their bids for the project in the first place. She wanted Tidewaters to be spectacular; he’d want it to be finished.
If only he weren’t so … so … so damned attractive. Those craggy, lived-in looks, that haunted, stoic air. Thick black hair layered in unruly waves, sensuous lips above a dented chin. Yum. Even the intense gaze he aimed at her with those shockingly blue, deep-set eyes could send tiny shivers skittering up her spine at the same time it ratcheted up her annoyance. She’d always been a sucker for a bad boy, and Quinn was as bad as they came.
Beyond bad. A disaster, considering his problem with drinking and her problem with drinkers.
Besides, lusting after a business partner couldn’t be good for a working relationship, especially one that was so important to them both. Especially when that relationship threatened to be antagonistic. Although she didn’t intend to be antagonistic … not at first, anyway. She’d be generous and let him make the first wrong move.
Smiling grimly in anticipation of the coming battles, she pulled into the narrow gravel drive beside Charlie Keene’s tiny bungalow and plucked a dog biscuit from the box tucked behind her seat. Then she climbed from her car, lifting a pink bakery bag high above her head.
“Down,” she ordered the black Labrador retriever streaking across the shadowy yard. “Stay down, or you won’t get your bribe, you fur-faced shakedown artist.”
Charlie’s obnoxious pet rammed its wide black nose into her crotch before she could toss the biscuit across the yard. “Good riddance,” she muttered as the dog raced after it, and then she glanced at the muddy paw prints on her shoes with a sigh. At least the monster hadn’t left a matching set on her jeans and jacket. Charlie’s fiancé, Jack Maguire, must have been making some progress with the obedience training.
He’d certainly made some progress with Charlie’s house. As Tess strode up the narrow path toward her friend’s freshly painted forest-green front door, she noted the neatly clipped lawn and the new willow tree staked in one corner of the yard. Charlie hadn’t done much more than dump her junk in the place after she’d bought it last year, but Jack was slowly and surely turning the fixer-upper into a charming home they’d share after their wedding. Charlie had always needed a keeper, and in Jack she’d found a man who liked to keep things the way they ought to be kept.
Actually, it had been Jack who’d found Charlie. He’d arrived in the Cove nearly three months ago, investigating the area’s sand and gravel supply for his employer. Within two weeks of checking out the local situation—and meeting Charlie—he’d quit his job, made an offer to buy out her competition and slyly cornered her with a deal she couldn’t refuse: combining their two ready mix companies with a wedding. At first she’d fought him with every weapon in her arsenal, but in the end she’d agreed to a mutually beneficial business arrangement and accepted his marriage proposal.
For a man whose words tended to ramble along in a syrupy drawl, Jack Maguire could do some fast talking when it suited him.
Tess lifted the period knocker and let it fall against the hammered plate, pleased with the solid thwump of the heavy iron. The man had taste. He also had an ego the size of the Pacific, but at least that Southern-fried charm of his helped soften the most outrageous excesses.
More than she could say for the prickly contractor she’d had to deal with before dinner. Nothing soft or charming there.
Charlie opened the door. “Thought you’d never get here,” she said as she snatched the bag from Tess’s hands and tugged her inside. “Addie brought a stack of bridal magazines, and she’s making me look at pictures again. Tell her to stop, or I’m going to shoot you both right now and eat all the cookies myself.”
Tess tossed her jacket over the arm of a club chair and settled beside their friend, Addie Sutton, on the plump sofa. Addie owned a stained-glass shop a block from Tess’s office, where she was creating some fabulous windows for Tidewaters. She had more artistic talent in her dainty fingers than Tess had in her entire body, and yet Tess loved her in spite of it. Everyone loved Addie, in the same way everyone loved puppies and pizza. It was inevitable.
“Where’s Jack?” Tess asked. “I brought one of Marie-Claudette’s cookies just for him. One shaped like a big, fat mouth.”
“Baseball practice.” Addie turned a thick, glossy magazine in Tess’s direction and pointed to a photo of a model buried in clouds of white tulle and baby’s breath. “Isn’t this gorgeous?”
“Yeah, if you’ve got something to hide—like the bride and half the wedding party.”
Leave it to Addie, who could pass for a French bisque doll with her spun-gold hair and long-lashed eyes, to go for the ruffles. But anyone who knew Charlie knew she was allergic to frills. Tess took the magazine and flipped through more pages, looking for something sleek and simple. A classic gown with a touch of pizzazz or a hint of drama, just to keep things interesting. “Do we have a date yet? Or a venue?”
Charlie shrugged. “I’m working on it.”
“That’s what you said last week.” Tess paused to admire a striking bouquet of calla lilies. “You mustn’t be working very hard.”
“Don’t nag.”
“Don’t worry. I figure Maudie and Ben are double-teaming you on a daily basis.” Charlie’s mother, Maudie, had recently announced her own engagement to Ben Chandler, Geneva’s relation by