*
* *
Jess was so furious with herself for letting her father
catch her goofing off that she doubled her efforts as soon as he'd gone.
She worked nonstop in what she was now referring to as the yellow room with its
sunny walls, white trim and deep blue carpet. The furniture in here was
white—an old-fashioned iron bed, an antique dresser with a beveled mirror and a
washstand, also painted white. She'd found the perfect drapes with tiny white,
yellow and blue stripes. The comforter and cushions for the chairs had similar
stripes, but there were sprigs of yellow and blue flowers scattered over the
background of the fabric. It was going to look amazing.
She'd just finished painting the last of the woodwork when Abby found her.
"Oh, I like it," her sister enthused. "It looks so
cheerful."
"Wait till you see the drapes and comforter," Jess said, basking in
Abby's praise. "If you want a peek, I've stored them next door until I get
the paint scent out of here. I'll leave the window open overnight and it should
be okay by morning."
"Show me," Abby said eagerly.
Jess led the way into the room next door and pointed to the packages piled next
to the bed. "All the comforters, drapes and pillows for the last three
rooms are in there. The blue and yellow ones will go next door. There's
turquoise for the room at the end of the hall and dark green for the last room
on this floor."
Abby admired all the things Jess had spent so much time choosing. "You
really do have good taste. Every room will have its own personality."
"That's what I'm hoping," Jess said. She hesitated, then said,
"Dad was here earlier. He's going back to California."
Abby nodded. "I know. He told me before I went into town."
"It figures he'd take off just when there are a million things to
do," Jess said.
Her sister frowned at the accusatory note in her voice. "Hold on, Jess.
How many times did he offer to help out and how many times did you turn him
down flat?"
Jess sighed. "Okay, I know you're right, but this is the way it always is.
He always has one foot out the door."
"That's the nature of his business," Abby pointed out impatiently.
"Why are you on his case again? Did something happen when he was over here?"
Jess was sorry she'd brought it up, but now she admitted, "He called me on
the carpet, as usual. He accused me of wasting time and money."
"Why would he say that?" Abby asked, looking bewildered. "He
knows how hard you've been working."
"He caught me looking through an old trunk I found in the attic, instead
of working down here. I'd just gone up there to see what it would take to add a
couple more rooms and baths up there. I saw the trunk and found all this cool
stuff in there. So, I was up there a little longer than I should have been. So
what?"
"You realize you're on a very tight deadline here, don't you?" Abby
said.
"Dammit, not you, too," Jess said, her temper flaring. "I'm sick
to death of everyone thinking they need to remind me of what's at stake here.
Don't you think I know?"
"It's just that sometimes you…"
"I what? Take ten minutes for myself? Sit down and have a glass of tea or
look through an old trunk? I am not going to defend myself to you or Dad or
anyone else," she shouted. "You may think you're in charge of the inn
because Trace said so, but you're not in charge of me."
She whirled around and left the room with Abby staring after her. Thundering
downstairs, she grabbed her purse and keys from the table in the foyer and took
off. She had no idea where she was going, but she had to get away from here,
away from all the voices judging her.
Usually when she was in this kind of a mood, she would go to Gram for some
quiet sympathy and wise advice, but she could hardly go there when Abby was
likely to turn up right behind her. When it came to a fight between her and her
sister, there was no way Gram would take sides, no matter which of them she
thought was in the right. In fact, she'd be so darn impartial and reasonable,
Jess would wind up grinding her teeth to keep from yelling at her, too.
As Jess drove along the shore road, her temper slowly cooled until she started
thinking about Trace Riley and his role in all this. It was his fault that Abby
was in her face, his doing that her father was on her case about wasting Abby's
money.
The next thing she knew, she was parked outside the bank. Without giving
herself time to reconsider, she stormed inside, marched right past an obviously
startled Mariah Walsh and threw open the door to Trace's office.
"This has to stop," she told him, when he regarded her with wariness.
"Why don't you sit down and take a deep breath?" he suggested.
His calm tone only inflamed her more. "Don't you dare patronize me. I've
had more than enough of that for one day."
He nodded. "Okay, fair enough. Then tell me what's on your mind."
"I want Abby gone."
He reacted with obvious shock. "Excuse me?"
She waved off the comment. "Not forever, for goodness' sakes. I just want
you to tell her she can go back to New York. If I wind up losing the inn, then
it's all on me. I don't want my big sister involved in this anymore."
Trace's face set stubbornly. "It's too late for that, Jess. You know the
terms we agreed to, so that the bank wouldn't foreclose immediately."
"I never agreed to anything. You and the board decided what you wanted,
you dragged Abby into it and I just had to go along with it."
"That pretty much sums it up," he agreed. "As far as I can tell,
nothing's changed."
Jess stared into his unrelenting gaze and sighed. She sat down, feeling more
defeated than she ever had in her entire life. "You won't even consider
letting someone else oversee the business affairs at the inn?" An idea
struck her, and she brightened. "Laila! Put your sister in charge. You
trust her, don't you? And the bank certainly couldn't find fault with that
choice." She warmed to the idea. "Come on, Trace. It's the perfect
solution."
"No," he said flatly.
"Why not?"
"Abby stays."
"You're just being stubborn," she accused, and then understanding
dawned. "It's because you want her here, isn't it? You want another chance
with her."
"This is strictly business," he replied stiffly.
The fact that he couldn't meet her gaze when he said it spoke volumes.
"Hogwash!" Jess declared. "This is all about buying you time so
that you can hook up with her again. I wonder what your father would think if
he knew about that."
Trace gave her a rueful look. "He'd probably be pleased as punch. I'm
about ninety percent certain that he and my sister conspired to get me back
here at this particular time just so I could deal with this one piece of bank
business. They knew it would throw me together with Abby."
Jess stared at him incredulously. "You're kidding. They would do
that?"
"Of course they would. My father wants me settled down with a wife and
kids, and Laila knows that I've always loved Abby. Opportunity knocks and here
we are."
"Wow, your family is even more devious and mixed-up than mine. Does Abby
know?"
"I think your sister is blissfully ignorant of the undercurrents and the
scheming—theirs, anyway. I think she suspects my motives, but she doesn't have
conclusive proof of anything."
Jess leaned forward, distracted for the moment from her own problems. "So,
do you have a plan?"
"Since the last time I saw your sister, I left her sitting in Sally's and
took off in a huff, my current plan is to steer clear of her till I cool
down."
"What did you fight about?"
"Misunderstandings, lack of trust, love's inability to conquer all, the
usual relationship stuff," he said dryly.
"Must have been quite a conversation," Jess said, trying to imagine
it. "And you were in Sally's?"
Trace nodded.
"Then the whole town knows by now," she concluded. "That won't
help."
"Believe me, I'm aware of that."
"You really do need a plan," she told him.
"Not from you," he said at once. "I think you and Abby have
enough issues of your own to resolve without you trying to team up with me. She
would not appreciate having you switch allegiance from her to me."
"I'm not taking sides. This is all about fixing things between you two.
That's all good. You're happy. She's happy. In fact, with any luck, she'll be
so happy, she'll stay out of my hair at the inn." She beamed at him.
"If we do this right, this will definitely be a win-win all the way
around."
She bounced up and headed for the door. "I'll be in touch when I've
formulated a plan."
Trace groaned. "Heaven help me."
"Heaven's not the least bit interested in your love life," she told
him, then grinned. "But, lucky for you, I am."
9
W
hen
Abby arrived home after her back-to-back confrontations with Trace and Jess,
she found Carrie, the more intrepid of the twins, trying to scramble up onto
the porch railing in an apparent attempt to walk it like a tightrope. Gram and
Caitlyn were nowhere in sight.
Watching Carrie wobble precariously made Abby's blood run cold. She slammed on
the brakes, cut the engine and bolted across the lawn just in time to grab her
daughter before Carrie could release her grip on a post and stand upright on
the narrow railing.
"What do you think you're doing?" Abby demanded, setting Carrie on
her feet on the porch floor, then hunkering down until their gazes were level.
"You know better than to climb up on things, especially with no one around
watching you. Where is Gram?"
"She's inside. Caitlyn got sick again, but I'm all well," Carrie said
proudly. She seemed clueless about how much trouble she was in.
"You may feel better, but you're not a hundred percent well." Abby
gave her a stern look. "And if I catch you trying to balance on this
railing again, you'll spend one whole day confined to your room."
Carrie regarded her with alarm. "But there's nothing to do in that room.
Everything in there is for boys. And there's not even a TV."
Abby wasn't about to relent on this one. Carrie and Caitlyn had a fairly firm
grasp of big-city dangers—traffic, strangers, getting little fingers caught in
elevator doors—but the dangers here were newer and obviously alluring. Cupping
Carrie's chin and looking at her directly, she said, "That is why the room
is the perfect place for a little girl who's being punished for breaking the
rules. Do you understand me?"
Storm clouds brewed in Carrie's eyes. "I wanna go home! I like
my
room! I don't wanna be here anymore!"
Abby could relate. She wouldn't mind being back in her own room, her own
apartment, her own
life,
but for the moment that seemed to be out of the
question. And the fact that Jess wasn't even appreciative of the sacrifice she
was making really exasperated her. The whole scene at the inn had been uncalled
for. It wasn't as if she'd created this situation. She'd merely rushed to her
sister's aid.
On some level, she knew that Jess's explosion had little to do with her. It was
a reaction to her earlier battle with Mick. Add in Abby's untimely criticism
and the two incidents had combined to set her off.
Suddenly she felt a tentative pat on her cheek.
"Mommy, are you sad?" Carrie asked worriedly. "I didn't mean to
make you sad."
"It's nothing you did, sweet pea. Mommy's just had a very long day."
Carrie looked puzzled. "Longer than mine?"
Abby laughed. "Just the same as yours. I've just had a lot more things
going on."
"Do you think me and Caitlyn will be well enough to go for ice cream
tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.
"More likely the next day," Abby told her.
"But I'm all well now," Carrie protested. "It's only Caitlyn
who's still sick. You can stay with her and I can go with Mr. Riley. I won,
anyway. I had the most spots."
"When we go, we'll all go together," Abby said. "You'll just
have to be patient."
As for her, she would have to have nerves of steel, because the more time she
spent around Trace, the more she learned about the mistakes and bad assumptions
they'd both made, then the more tempted she was to put the past behind her and
take another look at what the future might hold. And that, she knew with
everything in her, was very dangerous thinking.
*
* *
Trace had been up all night. He'd gotten a call on his cell
phone around four yesterday afternoon from one of his regular clients. There'd
been an unexpected opening for an ad in a trade publication and they needed
something designed within twenty-four hours in order to take advantage of it.
He'd agreed to tackle the job.
He'd worked nonstop through the night, using art he'd created for a previous
consumer-oriented campaign, then blending that with the new slogan and copy
that had been created for this particular professional audience.
For whatever reason, it hadn't come together the way he'd wanted it to. Maybe
it was exhaustion. Maybe it had to do with the words of his argument with Abby
playing over and over in his head as if they'd been recorded on some mental
tape deck. Or maybe it was because he'd been away from his design work for a
couple of weeks. Sometimes a break that long was enough to ruin his
concentration and his rhythm.
He stopped trying to figure out the problem around 9:00 a.m. and made himself
another pot of coffee. His brain might not be functioning on all cylinders, but
at least he was wide-awake. Since the only food in his refrigerator was a
carton of eggs, a package of cheese and some margarine, he scrambled the eggs,
threw in a slice of cheese and then ate while standing at the counter in the
kitchen, his gaze fixed on the artwork propped up on the sofa across the room.
Something was still off, but he couldn't pinpoint it. It was driving him crazy.
Maybe it was the combination of colors, he concluded, running water over his
plate and then heading back to his computer. He made a few adjustments, studied
the results, then tweaked it again. It did look better, but it still didn't
jump off the page the way he knew it needed to. He could e-mail it to the
client for a second opinion, but he hated to show him something that he wasn't happy
with himself.
Sighing, he decided to take a shower. Maybe that would finish off the job
started by the coffee and would give him a fresh perspective.
Eventually, the hot water pounding down on his shoulders eased the tension in
his muscles and a final burst of icy-cold water on his face revived him. He was
back in his office in fresh jeans and a clean shirt, when someone pounded on
the door.
"Trace, are you in there?" his father demanded impatiently.
"Answer the door or I'll have someone come and break it down."
Alarmed, Trace yanked the door open and regarded his father with bewilderment.
"What on earth are you so worked up about?"
"It's midmorning on a workday. You didn't come in. You didn't call. For
all I knew, you'd been murdered in your bed."
Trace stared at him incredulously. "Have there been a lot of murders in
Chesapeake Shores?"
His father scowled at his attempt at humor. "There's a first time for
everything. You scared your mother to death."
"How? She wasn't expecting me at work, was she?"
"No, but I called her when you didn't show up. I thought maybe you'd
stopped by the house."
"So, naturally, now she's all worked up, too," Trace concluded,
realizing it was going to take some adjustments to get used to having to
account for his time after years of answering to no one except himself.
"Dad, I'm sorry I didn't check in. A last-minute job came in yesterday
afternoon, and I was up all night working on it. It's due in a couple of
hours." Before his father could respond, Trace held up his hand. "No
excuse. I should have called Mariah."
"Yes, you should have," his father grumbled, but he was calmer.
"I'd best call your mother and let her know." He took out his cell
phone, made the call, then handed the phone to Trace. "She wants to hear
your voice for herself."
"Hello, Mother."
"You really must be more considerate," she scolded. "Your father
was in an absolute frenzy."
"I know. It won't happen again."
"You really are okay? He's not making that up for my benefit?"
"I'm perfectly fine."
"Then I'll expect to see you for dinner one night this weekend, so I can
look you over and see for myself that you're doing okay."
"Sure. I'll call you later to set it up. Bye, Mother." He cut off the
call and turned to hand the phone to his father, but he was nowhere in sight.
Trace found him in his studio, staring at the computer screen.
"You did this?" he asked.
"I did," Trace acknowledged, waiting for the inevitable criticism.
"It's a good ad," his father admitted, his tone grudging.
"Thanks."
His father studied the ad more intently, then said, "It could use a little
more contrast, though."
Trace was startled by the observation. He leaned over his father's shoulder.
"What do you mean?"
"Right here, this gray blends right into the background. It doesn't pop
enough, at least that's how it seems to me. You're the expert, though."
Trace studied the part of the design his father had indicated and realized he
was exactly right. The words, in a muted shade of gray, simply didn't pop
enough against the sky-blue background. They should have been black, or maybe
even navy-blue. Red would be even more bold.
"You've got a good eye, Dad," he said. "I've been staring at
this thing for two hours, and I couldn't figure out why it wasn't quite
right."
"You were probably overanalyzing it," his father suggested.
"Well, now that I know you're okay, I'll get back to the bank. One of us
needs to work today."
"I'll come in later," Trace promised. "As soon as this gets the
client's okay."
"Take the rest of the day off," his father said. "If you want to
do something, run by the inn and check on things, see how Abby's coming along
on getting all the bills in order."
"You're as transparent as glass," Trace accused. The innocent look on
his father's face was a nice effort, but Trace wasn't buying it.
"I have no idea what you mean," his father claimed. "Following
up with Abby is just part of your job. You want to turn it into something else,
that's up to you."
Trace grinned. "I'll remind you of that next time you start trying to push
us together." He walked his father to the door. "Thanks for coming
by, Dad, and I don't mean just for checking on me. You really were a help just
now."
Even as he spoke, he saw the spark of real pleasure that lit his father's eyes
and realized that Lawrence Riley, for all of his stuffy affinity for numbers
and business success, needed the occasional pat on the back just like everyone
else.