The Chesapeake Bride Page 6

  Cass was busy making mental notes. Just the sort of thing I wanted to hear. Some human interest for the marketing brochure: obscure artist spurned by his family paints in secret and creates images of the Chesapeake. I’ll have to check out that house, maybe use a photo of that painted wall for the cover of the brochure.

  The main course was crab cakes, mashed potatoes swimming in butter, green beans served in a huge white pottery bowl, and fried green tomatoes served with a horseradish sauce—everything served family-style. When bowls were emptied, the girls appeared and refilled them.

  Cass devoured her crab cake and one of the tomatoes, picked at the mashed potatoes, and could have eaten seconds and thirds of the green beans. Everything was almost too delicious for words. While she ate, she listened to the conversation around the table, thinking how she might include this story or that in her marketing plans. From time to time she glanced across the table at Owen, and found he, too, was absorbed in the discussions. Surely he must be familiar with most of what was being talked about, having grown up on the island. Was it genuine interest in the stories or deference to Ruby that had him hanging on her every word? If Cass were to guess, she thought it might be a little of both, but she leaned heavily in favor of deference. From time to time throughout the meal, Cass’d observed his interactions with Ruby. There was no denying he adored her. Sweet, Cass thought. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve where his great-grandmother was concerned was a rare find. Didn’t make him any less of a bad risk where other women were concerned, but it was nice that he was so devoted to Ruby.

  Still a player, her little inner voice reminded her.

  Owen turned suddenly and looked at Cass, and for a second she thought he’d been reading her mind. She turned toward the end of the table, where one of Janet’s sons was asking a question about his grandparents and others about his father. Then Diane wanted to talk about her mother, Josie, and what Ruby remembered about her childhood. Throughout the meal, Ruby answered questions and told stories, all of which Cass silently vowed to remember so she could write them down the second she got back to her hotel room.

  We could name the houses after the original owners, and for each house we could make up a little booklet. We’ll have signs made up to identify the properties, such as Wagner House to commemorate Carl’s family.

  Marketing these houses with their unique histories would be so much fun, Cass thought. She could hardly wait to begin.

  She tried to focus on what Ruby was saying and ignore feeling Owen’s eyes on herself.

  “. . . Kathleen and Josie thought they be so clever, you see. They had their hiding places, so they’d set out for school just like always, then meet up down near the old chapel and sneak on out to the point, hide for a time in that old cottage of ours.” Ruby turned to Cass. “That place you be helping Alec fix up for him and Lisbeth. Should be done next week, I hear. It best be, with the wedding so close now.”

  “Were they ever caught skipping school?” Diane asked. “My mom and your granddaughter?”

  “Those two couldn’t stay hid to save their souls. They’d get hungry, they’d get thirsty. They’d need the bathroom.” Ruby chuckled. “They’d be slipping into the store, creep around to the cooler, and grab something to drink. Snatch a box of cookies or crackers off the shelves and slip on out again. Like I didn’t know they were there. So of course someone would drive by, see the two of them heading over the dune with their snacks, like they thought they be invisible or something. Like they were the first on the island to think they could sneak out of school.”

  More questions, more stories. More for Cass to memorize.

  We can take photos of the houses before we begin working on them and maybe get some pictures from Ruby, copy and frame them for the new owners. Like a family album of sorts, joining the new families with the old. Play that up in the advertising: Become a part of the Cannonball Island family. Cass began to repeat the stories over and over in her head: The Wagners were watermen and Allen was the painter whose father wanted him to dredge for oysters. Josie was the girl who skipped school with Kathleen Carter, and the two of them caught frogs and took them to Sunday school. Tom Hagen was sailing by the time he was five and joined the navy as soon as he was old enough.

  Conversation was put on temporary hold when dessert was served, and everyone ended their feast with just-out-of-the-oven apple pie and homemade ice cream.

  Glancing at Owen across the table, Cass said, “You’re going to need a wheelbarrow to get me to the car. I don’t think I have ever in my life eaten that much at one time.” She leaned back in her chair, regretting her decision to wear the skirt with its tight waistband instead of one of the looser-fitting sundresses. “But the food was out of this world, and the stories were just as good. I don’t know which I enjoyed more, or when I had a more interesting dinner.”

  “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard those stories, but I get caught up in them every time.” Owen held up the bag he’d brought in with him. “So caught up I forgot about the wine. I’ll save it for next time.”

  Cass didn’t respond. It would seem unkind to tell him she didn’t plan on a next time after he’d arranged for this truly enjoyable evening. This was Cannonball Island. This was the unspoiled, friendly, beautiful island that wasn’t like anyplace else she’d ever been. Surely buyers would want to live here for all the same reasons she did.

  Emily Hart entered the dining room to a round of applause, which she accepted as her due. Smiling as she saw each of her guests to the door, she made them all promise to come back soon, while the crabs were still plentiful and the rockfish were running.

  OWEN PARKED HIS Jeep near the back door of the inn and left the motor running when he got out and walked around to Cass’s side of the car, arriving just as she’d unhooked her seat belt. He opened the door and stood aside for her to get out, then closed the door behind her.

  “I had a great time, Owen. Thanks so much for taking me to dinner at Mrs. Hart’s and for bringing Ruby. She really is a treasure. You’re so lucky to have her.” They walked to the double doors that led into the lobby. “I want to go back to Emily’s and take some photos. I’m surprised I didn’t think of it while we were there, but it’s a great draw for the project. This elderly woman, cooking incredible but simple meals in her home kitchen . . . I think it’s going to be a huge selling point.”

  “Uh, no.” Owen stepped aside for Cass to enter, his jaw suddenly set, his eyes narrowed, his tone of voice hardened. “No publicity about Emily. If I’d thought for one minute you’d use her to sell houses, I’d never have taken you there.”

  “Why not? People would love to hear about—”

  “So would the state board of health. No. Nothing about Emily to anyone.”

  “What does the board of health have to do with it?” Cass kept up with him step for step across the lobby.

  “I have to spell it out for you? Okay, here’s the deal. Emily Hart has never applied for a business license, a restaurant license, or any other kind of license. She started out cooking for friends after her husband died because she needed the money. She only cooks for people she knows or their relatives. She’s never advertised, and according to Ruby, no one’s ever gotten sick eating at her table, but if she had to go through the state for a license, she’d have to shut down. She’s just too old and set in her ways to change the way she does things, and as Ruby says, ‘No one be needing a license to cook in their own kitchen and serve at their own table.’ You are perfectly free to debate the whole paying customers thing with Ruby, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  They stopped at the bottom of the stairwell.

  “So you’re saying I can’t mention Emily’s spectacular dinners in the marketing. Even if it would bring other people to her door and she’d make a lot more money.” Cass folded her arms over her chest.

  “She serves dinner on Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday only. Ten people at a time. She’s close to eighty years old and she can’t handle m
ore than three days a week. And she wouldn’t be making more money. She’d be making no money because the board of health would be all over her.”

  “But her granddaughters could—”

  “You don’t get it. It’s Emily’s table that people come back to over and over. Publicize what she’s doing and you will be responsible for shutting her down.” His eyes were angry. “Frankly, around these parts, I wouldn’t want to be the person who shuts down Emily Hart.”

  It took less than ten seconds for the message to get through to Cass. “Okay. I do get it. No mention of Emily to anyone, not in the advertisements, not even to prospective buyers.”

  “Thank you. I’d hate to see anything happen to that woman. She’s like Ruby: a Cannonball Island treasure.”

  Cass nodded, then took a step backward and used her business voice lest he think this was anything more than what it was: a casual dinner.

  “So, thanks again for a fun evening.” She took another step back.

  “Hey, glad you enjoyed it. I know Ruby sure did.” He touched an index finger to his forehead as if saluting. “See you around.”

  Owen turned his back to her and walked across the lobby, pausing only briefly to say something to the girl on the reception desk before going back out through the double doors to the parking lot.

  As Cass started to climb the steps to the second floor, it occurred to her that Owen hadn’t offered to see her to her room—an offer she’d have soundly rejected, of course, but one she’d totally expected him to make—nor had he even tried to kiss her good-night. Not that she wanted him to. Not that she’d have let him. But still . . . he hadn’t even made the attempt.

  Not that she was disappointed, but it made her wonder what he was up to, because she knew he wanted to kiss her—she knew the look—knew he’d wanted to since the night they met at Lis’s exhibit at the new art center. They’d flirted lightly, but she’d dismissed him as nothing other than an accomplished flirt. Had he finally accepted that she wasn’t interested?

  That would be totally out of character for a man such as Owen, who knew exactly how good-looking he was, how funny, how charming he could be, how clever. Some might say irresistible. Though not Cass. Hadn’t she successfully resisted him for almost two months now, which in his world was probably a record?

  Methinks you protest too much, her inner voice taunted.

  Her growled “Shut up!” earned her a startled look from the couple passing her in the hall as she slipped her room key into the lock. Red-faced, she ducked inside and as quietly as possible closed the door behind her.

  Chapter Four

  Owen stood on the beach and rolled up his pant legs to his knees before stepping into the cool waters of the Chesapeake. Less than a foot from shore, the slimy tentacles of sea grass reached out to embrace his calves, and he flinched. As many times as he’d been in the bay, he’d never gotten used to that first tickle, which made him think of eels and octopuses slithering around his legs, of mean-spirited crabs with their sharp claws just waiting to grab on to an ankle or a toe. He knew all this was unlikely to happen—well, the crabs were a definite possibility, but as far as he knew, there were no octopuses in the bay. Eels, maybe, but they, like most sea creatures this close to shore, tended to flee rather than fight.

  There was just something cringe-worthy about stepping into water that was so dense with vegetation you couldn’t see what lurked there. That was true of much of the Chesapeake, where the waters were dark with grasses in some places, and just plain dark in others. He tried to remember if he’d ever seen clear to the bottom anywhere around Cannonball Island and had to admit he had not. If such a spot existed, he’d not found it.

  Yet here he was, wading in blindly to see how far one could walk before hitting the shelf where the bottom dropped off. He seemed to recall from his younger days that the drop was about ten or twelve feet from shore. A few more steps and he’d reach it. Mindful that he was close to the edge, he dug his feet in, which meant the sea grass caught between his toes—another sensation he particularly disliked. But he was a man on a mission and determined to find the ledge. Besides, it bothered him that he, big strong Owen Parker—adventurer, man of mystery, love-’em-and-leave-’em Owen Parker—had to fight the urge to scream like a girl when that first tentacle of slimy grass wrapped itself around his calf and reached for his knee.

  “Scream like a girl’s a little harsh,” he muttered before taking another step forward, ever mindful of the crabs. It was still their mating season, after all.

  His left foot found the spot he was searching for before his right foot, and he paused momentarily to avoid sliding down the uneven slope. He stood six feet three inches tall, and the water was just below his knees where drop-off began. But he knew from past experience the drop could be anywhere from fifteen to thirty or forty feet below the surface of the water, something he wasn’t prepared to look into at that moment. For one thing, he wasn’t dressed for swimming. For another, his purpose today was to try to determine how much the drop—and therefore the depth—had shifted since the last time he’d been here.

  Was it his imagination, or did the drop-off begin farther from the shore? He knew that here, at the exact point where the river joined the Chesapeake, the depth had changed over time. The width of the river had changed as well, as had the shoreline. He’d long ago learned that the only thing constant about the bay was that it was ever changing.

  He tried to recall just how long it had been since he’d waded into these waters. The best he could come up with was a range of three to five years.

  Could that be right? He scratched his head and turned toward the shore. There was no denying he’d enjoyed the time he’d spent in the exotic—and not-so-exotic—places he’d been to since his last trip home, but it was good to be back on the island. It felt good to wake up in the old store every morning and to go downstairs and have coffee with Ruby and talk over whatever was on her mind that day. Sometimes it was something mundane, such as how Jolene Baker’s nephew had gotten her car stuck in the mudflats when he foolishly tried to take a shortcut across the island, and they had to get someone to tow it. Other times it was something profoundly beautiful, such as the story of how her Harold had wooed her by bringing part of his catch every day to her family’s back door when her father was ill and unable to work on the bay. Harold would quietly leave his offerings right next to the door where they couldn’t be missed, and he never missed a day in the entire six weeks of her father’s illness. Not until after her dad’d recovered did Harold ask to court her, coming to the front door with a handful of daisies for her mother, and a fistful of cornflowers for Ruby.

  “I can still see him standing there, right outside the door,” Ruby’d told Owen. “Daisies for my mama, and a bunch of those sweet blue cornflowers for me. How he knew I favored them, I never knew and he never said. But for all our life together, he never came into the house without a few of those pretty blue posies in his hand when they were in season. He was so tall and so handsome, I’d’a married him anyway, flowers or no. I never told him that. Guess maybe I should have.”

  She’d grown silent, and Owen had waited her out. He knew Ruby well enough to know that when she grew reflective, something else was always to come.

  “It was winter when we lost our Annie to the influenza. My Harold had to dig through the frozen ground to bury her. There were no flowers for her until the spring. Soon as they were up a couple of inches, Harold dug some up and planted them on her grave. He almost never talked about her, but I know his heart was right down there with her every time he thought about her. Everyone grieves in their own way and that’s a fact. He loved that little girl—she was eight when she left us—just like he loved the son we buried just a few hours after he was born. Seemed so unnatural to me, to have carried that baby all those months, then have nothing to carry in my arms.”

  Another short silence. “My Harold’s buried down there with them, at that graveyard next to my poppy’s old place. His kin
wanted him buried over in the Carter plot, but he’d made me promise to lay him next to his babies, and that’s where he is. That’s where I’ll go when the time comes.” She’d looked up at Owen. “Might not be any room left for you or your sister, so you’re going to have to find a place of your own.”

  Owen had smiled. “I don’t care where they plant me. I’ll probably die somewhere else and they’ll just bury me in some obscure corner of some unknown churchyard.”

  Ruby’s eyes had narrowed and she’d rolled up her newspaper and smacked him with it. “You’ll be buried right here on the island where you belong, and you won’t be giving me sass about it.”

  “Well then, I guess back there behind the store is as good a place as any. We can pull up a corner of your garden and they can bury me and Lis and Alec and their kids right there.”

  Ruby must have liked the idea because she didn’t argue the point. “What about your kids? Where they gonna go?”

  “You have to settle down before you have kids. You see me settling down, Ruby?”

  “Humph. How much you know, boy,” she’d said softly, that twinkle in her eye telling him she knew what he did not.

  Damn, but he’d miss her when she was no longer around. He couldn’t imagine life without her. She had been the one constant in his life. Wherever he was, however long he’d been gone, he’d always known Ruby would be there to welcome him home with a hug and a sly remark. His throat tightened at the thought of the unthinkable.

  He hurried through the seaweed to reach the beach, which was a mixture of rough sand and pebbles. He put his flip-flops back on and headed back to the store. Passing Emily Hart’s driveway made him think about the one person he hadn’t wanted to think about today. Cass was dangerously close to getting under his skin, and he couldn’t have that.

  Last night he had tried to read Cass, but just couldn’t get through, which annoyed him more than he’d like to admit. What was up with that?