Snowflake Bay Page 6

  “He’s doing well now,” Ben said truthfully. “The move was a bit of a strain, but my mother is using her natural-born cruise director skills to organize things for them down there and, for now, they seem to be happy.”

  She nodded, but inquired no more about them. Instead, she said, “Put the business in your hands, did they?”

  “They did. Dad wanted to complete the season, but my mother was afraid one more season would only serve to accelerate his health issues and undo any good they hoped to gain by moving.”

  “Then she’s doing the right thing by him. By herself, too.” Eula finished wiping her hands and stuffed the rag back in her pocket before lifting her gaze and all but pinning him with it. “What about you? You doing the right thing by them?”

  Ben felt suddenly ten years old again, caught red-handed by Eula as he tried to block the workroom door, thereby giving Logan a chance to climb the tree. Only Eula hadn’t been in the workroom. How they’d missed seeing her in the shop, neither of them had ever figured out. Now, it was all he could do not to shuffle his feet and look at the floor. He held her gaze and answered honestly.

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure out what the right thing is. For them. And for me.”

  If he’d earned any respect from her for his straightforward answer, she didn’t let it show in the still-stern set to her jaw. “What do they have to say about it?”

  “Dad thinks he’s going to vacation in South Carolina for a bit, then come home and take over again, so he expects me to run the place in his absence.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She wants me to do what’s best for me. Sell it, go back to my life in Portsmouth, if that’s what I want to do.”

  “Would the money from the sale help with your father’s future troubles?”

  Part of Ben couldn’t believe they were having such a frank, personal conversation. It would be the first time for that. He could admit to himself now that this was why he’d come, but the jury was still out on whether it had been a good idea to give in to the impulse. “I think they’ll be okay either way.”

  “Then it’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “Your business is doing quite well down in Portsmouth.” She made it a statement, then went on before he could respond, clearly not expecting him to. “Heard about the fancy photo spread in that architectural magazine.”

  She surprised him with that one. For all Eula seemed to know way more about everyone who came into her orbit than seemed possible, she wasn’t one for local gossip. Far from it, in fact.

  “It was flattering to be approached,” he said, sticking with honesty as the best policy, but more on edge now than before. He didn’t know what he’d expected from the visit, but he hadn’t expected to feel . . . whatever it was she was making him feel. Disconcerted? Off-balance? They were merely exchanging pleasantries. So why did it feel anything but pleasant? As if any second she was going to tell him something he really didn’t want to hear, but, because it was Eula, he would know it must be true.

  “No need for modesty,” she said, her tone a bit more clipped, if that was possible. “I would imagine you earned the showcase. What do you plan to do with it?”

  “Do with? I . . . guess my hope is that it drives more clients to Campbell Landscapes.”

  “Do you need more clients?”

  His eyebrows lifted at that one. “Is there such a thing as having too many?”

  “If you can’t sustain the good work you do because you are spreading yourself too thin, then yes, there certainly is. But I don’t see you getting slipshod. You were raised to know the value of the work you’re producing, to take pride in your product.”

  He was going to ask her what she knew about how he was reared, only he recalled boasting about how great Campbells’ trees were, so he nodded, and said, “Yes, I’d like to think so.”

  “What I’m asking is whether growing your business is your goal. Is that how you define success? The size of your client list?” She didn’t give him time to respond. “Is enjoying what you do important to you?”

  “It is. I wouldn’t have started my company if I didn’t enjoy it. If you’re asking if I equate more clients with more money and more money with more success, well, money or profit is certainly one way to measure it, but I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone or impress anyone.”

  She tilted her head just a bit, eyeing him with renewed speculation. “Interesting.”

  “What is?” he asked, before he could think better of it.

  “That you thought you needed to say that. I don’t believe I mentioned a thing about needing to prove yourself. I was just asking what it was you thought necessary to feel successful in your chosen profession. Who is it that you’re not trying to impress?”

  “No one. I just meant—”

  Her eyebrow arched further, as she said, “Really? Then why mention it?”

  “I don’t know. I was just—”

  “Don’t you? I think you do. And if you want to figure out what choice you should be making about your family’s business, then perhaps that’s a good place to start.”

  “What does me proving something—or not proving something—with my landscaping business in Portsmouth have to do with my decision about the future of Campbell Christmas Tree Farm?”

  “Well, if you can’t see that, then you do have quite a bit to work out, now, don’t you?” She made a brief tsking sound.

  It was ridiculous to feel defensive. She was poking at him, but that’s what she did. He wouldn’t let it get to him. Which, clearly, it had, because he opened his mouth and said, “What I do with the tree farm will be what’s best for my folks. My company is successful by whatever measuring standard you care to use. The magazine spread was a nice compliment after all the hard work I put in, and if I get more clients from it, then that’s a double win.”

  “Yes, but what is it you’re winning, Mr. Campbell?”

  Before he could figure out what to say to that, the bells on the door jingled as Fiona McCrae let herself in amidst a swirl of snowflakes.

  “Hello, Eula,” she called out, stamping her feet on the mat just inside the door, brushing snowflakes off her mop of dark curls.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Fiona,” Eula answered, her attention on Fi, her expression . . . he supposed he’d call it dissatisfied. Probably concerned the middle McCrae sister was going to fling moisture in the form of melted snowflakes all over her beautifully restored antiques. At least she wasn’t wrapped up like a mummy in that scarf again.

  “Hey, Fireplug,” he said, moving slightly so the tree didn’t block him from her view. “Snowing already? I thought they said it wasn’t coming in until after sundown.”

  She went completely still for a moment, then kept on with the business of gently brushing the snow from her hair, and unbuttoning her coat. Not only was she not wrapped up like a mummy, he noted, but she was also not layered in enough snow gear to dress an Olympic ski team. In fact, she looked pretty sharp in a smartly tailored black pea coat with a blue and green plaid scarf knotted and tucked into the front and . . . holy mackerel. Whatever else he’d been thinking got all sort of lost in a jumble when she slid smoothly out of the coat to reveal a sapphire-blue, cowl-neck sweater that clung to her in all the right places, over black slacks tucked into knee-high tooled leather boots that made her legs look longer than he’d have thought possible. All of which served to take curves he hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to—okay, no attention to, because he was apparently blind and dumb—and showcase them in a way that would make Jessica Rabbit envious. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

  He glanced down then as he pushed balled fists into his own coat pockets, feeling supremely awkward and just . . . well, wrong, for having thoughts like that about a person he thought of as . . . okay, maybe not as a sister. After all, hadn’t he pursued her older sister like some poor dumb dog all through high school? But she wasn’t . . . well, she was just Fiona. Bra
tty, annoying—he glanced up again, unable to help himself, and swallowed hard—sexy-as-hell, sweet Mary, mother of God, with-curves-that-made-his-palms-sweat Fiona. When in the hell had that happened?

  “I appreciate your making time for me today, Eula,” she was saying as he snapped his gaze away from the way that jewel-tone knit clung to a pair of full, perky breasts that begged a man to find out just what she wore under that sweater to make them sit up like that. You are so going to hell. That’s Logan’s sister, for God’s sake. He gave up trying to figure out why it was a sin to covet Fiona’s breasts when he’d wanted to do a whole lot more than put his hands on Logan’s other sister. Maybe it was because Fiona had always been such a kid, whereas he’d thought of Hannah as, well, maybe not a woman back in those days, but surely not a bratty kid. Fiona was what, four years younger than he was? Which was nothing now that they were grown adults, but . . . gah, shoot me now.

  He came back to the conversation as Eula was asking, “Did everything go okay with Beanie and the closing? She didn’t have a last-minute change of heart?”

  Ben’s gaze shifted from Eula to Fiona in time to see her smooth, all-business expression falter. “Did she say something to you? Was her heart not in the retirement? Because I asked her a dozen times, two dozen even, whether she was sure—”

  “You bought Beanie’s Fat Quarters? The old quilt shop?” he blurted out, thinking he just wanted to get his mind focused on anything besides Fiona McCrae’s undergarments, but the surprise was real. “She’s run that place for as long as I’ve been alive. Does that mean you’re giving up interior design?”

  Both women looked at him, but it was Fiona who responded to the question. “Beanie’s been talking about retiring. She and Hannah had a little, uh, run-in, last summer, and Beanie took that as a sign that maybe it was time to move on to her next life chapter. Apparently she’d been considering it for some time. Her husband passed away a few years ago, and—”

  “Yes, my folks told me. I know that was a loss to the community. All the signs he’d painted for the town over the years.”

  “Yes, well, that’s the thing that sort of finalized the deal. I promised Beanie that I’d be keeping the same bright, fun, cheerful mood of her place, and that I’d personally see to it that all of Carl’s signs were maintained, at least as long as the signs remained relevant to the community.”

  “Should consider doing some signs yourself,” Eula put in. “A good way to get involved in the Cove’s business community, get folks to see who you are now, all grown up. Nice way to market yourself at the same time.”

  Fiona smiled at Eula. “I was thinking the exact same thing. In fact, I’ve already made a quick stop to see Owen at the hardware store to see if I can bring it up at the next council meeting.” She looked at Ben. “Did you know Owen is also our new mayor?”

  “I’d heard,” he said absently, but his mind wasn’t really on the conversation. It was still on Fiona. Not her breasts, thank God, though they really were remarkable, but . . . just on her. When he’d come upon her in the kitchen out at the Point the previous week, she’d just seemed . . . well, like the grown-up version of the Fireplug Fi he’d spent a lifetime tormenting and being tormented by. She’d always seemed to be a little irritated with him, which in turn had just egged him on.

  Though, to be fair, that day in the McCrae kitchen, it had been different. He’d appreciated her sincere interest in his parents’ situation, giving him a chance to talk about the farm and his new responsibilities. Something about her straightforwardness and the fact that they were, after all, lifelong friends, had made him feel comfortable enough to share. Hell, even he hadn’t known what all he was feeling until she’d given him the chance to articulate it a little. Of course, he hadn’t been completely forthright with her about the exact nature of his father’s health issues, and he found himself wondering if Logan had filled her in. Not that it mattered what she knew. It wasn’t as if he and Logan lived in each other’s pockets any longer.

  “I’m sure Beanie did whatever was right for her,” Eula was saying. “If she signed on the dotted line, then it’s all settled.”

  Fiona’s expression said she now had doubts about that, and he wondered what had prompted Eula to bring up the possibility. The woman wasn’t one for idle chatter. Or any chatter. If she said something, there was a purpose to it. So why make Fiona worry about something as important as buying the building that would house her new business?

  “When do you move in?”

  “I can start immediately,” Fiona said, still seeming a little distracted by whatever was going through her mind. Probably replaying the closing and retroactively looking for any signs Beanie might not have been completely okay with the deal. She dug in her pocket and dangled what was, apparently, the shop key.

  “What will she be doing now?” Ben asked. “Beanie, I mean.” He’d said it hoping to help cement the rightness of the transaction in Fiona’s mind, but then wondered why in the hell he was involving himself in the situation at all.

  He lifted a hand, stalling whatever reply he might have gotten. “Never mind, none of my business. And, in fact, seeing as you both obviously have some other business to attend to, I’ll get out of your hair. Eula,” he said, looking to the older woman, “it was a pleasure to see you again.” He glanced at Fi and gave her a brief smile. “Good luck with the new place.”

  Looking surprised, Fiona gave a little wave with the hand that still had the keys looped over one finger, making them jingle a bit as he strode by, stepping around her to get to the door. “Thanks.”

  He had almost reached safety, but at the last second before he passed through the door, he found himself glancing over his shoulder at Fiona. More specifically, at the back side of Fiona. Okay, okay, so he was checking out her ass. Dear Lord help him. All he could think was Jessica Rabbit, eat your heart out. He lifted his gaze to find Eula’s fixed directly on him. He was a thirty-six-year-old man who could not recall the last time he’d felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment. Actually, given the kind of kid he’d been, that was probably never. There was a distinct warmth in them now. He had no idea what kind of look he had on his face at the moment, but it was beyond him, it seemed, to simply snap out of it, grin, and give Eula a quick nod or wave good-bye. Instead, he was pinned there, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, by that steely pair of faded blue eyes.

  Then she turned her attention back to Fiona, as if nothing had transpired between them, and he let himself out into the chill of a wind-whipped swirl of snow. Had that been a warning? It certainly hadn’t been a blessing. Which begged the question . . . warning against what? Blessing for what? His mind zinged straight back to his initial reaction as Fiona had taken off her coat. Surely he wasn’t seeking Eula March’s blessing for the kinds of thoughts he was having about Fiona McCrae?

  No, it made a whole lot more sense that Eula March was warning him against something he’d already figured out for himself. It didn’t matter if it made no sense, didn’t matter that the two of them weren’t brother and sister, and in fact weren’t even remotely related, nor did it matter that they were old enough now that the four-year difference in their ages didn’t make thinking of her in that way wrong or unnatural. The bottom line was the same: Hands off Fiona McCrae.

  Better to keep thinking of her as Fireplug Fi.

  “Yeah,” he muttered, as he shoved his hands in his pockets again and tried like hell to ignore that he was still sporting half a hard-on. And it was seven freaking degrees outside. Good luck with that.

  Chapter Six

  “Did you sign the papers? Dot every i, cross every t?” Kerry asked the moment Fiona entered the Rusty Puffin, not pausing as she continued to wipe down the bar.

  “I did,” Fiona told her as she slid off her gloves and unbuttoned her coat. “As of this morning at about ten, Beanie’s Fat Quarters is all mine.”

  Kerry let out a musical-sounding, very loud hoot she’d probably learned while working in the jung
le somewhere, but since it matched Fiona’s mood pretty much exactly, she grinned and enjoyed the moment.

  She heaved herself up on a stool and leaned her elbows on the freshly gleaming cypress bar. “I even had the chance to go by and talk to Eula.” And, actually, her visit to Eula’s was every bit as much the reason for her giddy mood as was the reality that she once again owned her own place of business. Beanie’s was really perfect for her evolving business plan and she couldn’t wait to dive in and begin turning it into the design studio she truly wanted for herself. But the fuel stoking her current ebullience was the moment she’d had in Eula’s shop with Ben. Specifically the moment she’d taken off her coat and glanced at him in time to catch that rather poleaxed look on his face. It was quite possible it hadn’t meant that he’d just looked at her as a woman, rather than a short, plump, annoying kid sister, for the very first time, but she was going to choose to believe that’s exactly what had happened. And she was going to wrap up that moment in a shiny gold bow, and pull it out and open it up every time she needed a little boost. Because that look on his handsome face had made it almost worth—almost—every single moment of adolescent torment he’d put her through.

  “You’re looking rather cat and canary,” Kerry said, her bright green eyes gleaming now as she tucked the rag in her apron pocket and looked fully at Fiona for the first time. “More cat, less canary. You didn’t swindle our poor Beanie out of the shop that’s been her life’s work now, did you?”