It's a Wonderful Wife (14 page)

“Ah, I did, actually. And I still don't get it.”

“Really?” Jesse said in surprise, since Nathaniel was one of the sharpest young men he'd ever had the privilege to mentor. “Where did Winnie the Pooh live?” he prodded.

“In Hundred Acre Wood.”

“And where am I building my house?”

Silence. Then a heavy groan. “On Hundred Acre Isle. But what's that got to do with a hollow—” Then came a snort. “I guess that also explains her parting shot before she hung up.”

“Which was?”

“She asked if I was your assistant, and when I said yes, she suggested having some books on beekeeping sitting on your desk when you returned might get my big fat raise
doubled
.”

Jesse checked for traffic and pulled back onto the road, breaking into a full-blown chuckle. For a woman forced into running from a lecherous loan shark, Cadi didn't seem all that traumatized. In fact, it sounded as if she thought she were on an adventure.

His chuckle was answered by a relieved sigh. “So is there anything else you'd like me to do?” Nathaniel asked, apparently eager to get off the subject of Miss Glace. “Say, any actual Tidewater business, like maybe fly to Newfoundland for you and handle a small matter of marine patrol chasing down one of our ships and arresting the captain?”

It was Jesse's turn to go silent, and if he hadn't been driving, he would have dropped his head on the steering wheel. “Arrested for what?”

“It's apparently against the law in Canada for anyone to pull up a string of lobster traps they happen to be passing by, relieve them of their catch, then toss them back several miles away from where they'd been pulled.”

“Who in hell is the captain? Wait, how does marine patrol even know it was our boat that snagged those traps? For that matter, what evidence do they have it was deliberate?”

“The entire crew was eating the evidence when they boarded. At least they only arrested Captain Fournier and let our ship continue on once the first mate produced paperwork showing he was licensed to command. So do you want me to hop on the corporate jet and fly up there with Tidewater's hat figuratively in hand, pay the lobsterman for his lost gear and a little something extra for goodwill, and bail out Captain Fournier?”

Poor Nathaniel; he was dying to board one of their jets as the man in charge. Hell, Jesse wouldn't be surprised if the kid brought along his girlfriend, had the steward serve champagne, and asked the pilot to take the scenic route. “Sorry, but the job I just gave you takes precedence over everything else, especially some idiot captain. Send Ben.”

“I tried him first, but he said his passport is expired.”

“Then send Sam.”

“Willa told me, and I quote, ‘Sam's a total basket case over Jen's imminent departure.'”

“Damn,” Jesse muttered. “I forgot about the bon voyage party. What day is it?”

“It's a week from this Saturday at eight a.m. at the Sengatti shipyard.”

“No, what day is
today
?”

“In Maine or Istanbul?” Nathaniel sighed again when all that got him was silence. “It's Tuesday, June twenty-fourth, the year two thousand—”

“You leave for Newfoundland tonight,” Jesse said, cutting him off, “in the Lear. I promised the Boeing crew at least a week to recover. But you don't set one foot on that plane until after you send out my cell phone antenna. And Nathaniel?”

“Yeah, boss?” he said with unfiltered cheeriness.

“Captain Fournier takes a commercial flight back and buys his own ticket. And he pays his own bail. Got that?”

“Loud and clear. Anything else?”

“Yeah. Champagne is clichéd; you really want to impress your girlfriend, ask Charles to break out
your
private stock of Aberfeldy single cask.”

The phone went so silent that Jesse thought their call had been dropped.

“Don't worry,” he added. “Charles is a sharp fellow and will play along. He also knows when to close the curtain and go read a book.” Jesse grinned at what sounded like a forehead thumping down on wood. “Enjoy your flight, Mr. Cunningham,” he drawled, ending the call.

Jesse pressed a little harder on the accelerator and thought about why Cadi had tried to contact him. Had spending one night in a tent made her wonder if being Mrs. Sinclair came with any other privileges besides opening doors, such as maybe her and her cat hiding out at Rosebriar for a little while?

Damn, he wished she'd given Nathaniel her number, because he would have immediately sent the kid to pick her up in the Lear. Or, if she'd been shy about staying at Rosebriar without him being there, he could have talked her into driving to Sam's in Keelstone Cove or to Ben's in Medicine Gore. Both brothers would have welcomed her with open arms, no questions asked.

Jesse snorted, wondering who was he kidding; if he'd known Cadi was in trouble he would have turned his plane around and come after her himself.

Forget five p.m. tomorrow; he was giving her until
noon
to call, which gave him twenty-one hours to figure out how to persuade her to let him protect her pretty little ass.

Jesse blew out a heavy sigh, wondering if he was ever going to sleep in his camper's bed. Because as things stood now, it appeared he'd be spending the night on the high ridge where he had a cell phone signal—his only consolation being he'd finally get to see his first island sunrise.

Too bad he wasn't going to enjoy it.

ELEVEN

Jesse decided one advantage of driving Maine's back roads was that law enforcement apparently had more important things to do than patrol them for speeders. He made it to Castle Cove in plenty of time to get a post office box and give Nathaniel an actual address, and even managed to hit the marina before it closed.

The powerful cruiser he'd purchased last fall was really a lobster boat rigged for personal use, and he'd only been able to spend four days running it under the tutelage of its builder—a soft-spoken Swede named Sven—before having to put it in winter storage. But to his surprise, the marina had brought it to the harbor eighteen days ago, since he'd apparently been too busy flying all over the world to remember to call and tell them to wait until he got back.

So now he was the one waiting on a small group of what appeared to be tourists to finish ambling across the entrance to the pier. But instead of turning once they passed, Jesse froze when he spotted a woman wearing a blue hat exit a store farther up the sidewalk, and didn't start breathing again until she turned enough for him to see her face.

Talk about having Miss Glace on the brain; this was the second time since reaching town that he'd mistaken a woman for Cadi. It had to be the hats. Hell, he'd swear half the female population of Castle Cove was wearing them. But then, maybe lots of women wore hats in the summer and he'd just never noticed before meeting Cadi.

Then again, maybe they were a Down East thing.

A horn honked, and Jesse lifted his hand in apology and turned into the parking lot. He pulled into the empty slot marked with the slip number the marina had given him and shut off the truck, so damn glad to be smelling ocean air instead of jet fuel that it was all he could do not to rest his head on the steering wheel again. But the bottle of Aberfeldy in his overnight bag was enough incentive to send him in search of his boat, and with any luck he could haul his sleeping bag up to the high ridge in time to watch the sun set. He grabbed his bag out of the backseat and headed down the ramp—which was rather steep because it was low tide—to a maze of floating docks filled with recreational vessels of every size and shape imaginable. He stopped to read the sign pointing out the slip numbers, but looked up when he heard a shout and saw Oren Hatch at the other end of the long anchoring dock. The harbormaster had one arm outstretched, apparently directing a group of kayakers paddling through the congested harbor to put ashore on a narrow beach beside the boat launch ramp.

Satisfied they were following orders, Oren turned and spotted him, waved Jesse forward as he started toward him, and extended his hand when they met. “Good to see yah again, Jesse. Although hearing you was traveling overseas, I didn't expect you for another two weeks.”

“I was highly motivated to cut my trip short,” Jesse said as he shook his hand, having to marvel at how everyone seemed to know everyone's business in small towns. “You haven't seen my cruiser around here, have you? The marina said I'd find it in slip twenty-three.”

Oren headed down the center dock. “I hope you don't mind that I put you in here,” he said as Jesse followed, “what with your boat being more maneuverable than most its size.” He grinned over his shoulder. “But I figured you wouldn't have no problem fitting her into a tight spot, seeing how you make your living juggling cargo ships.”

“You do know they don't let me actually drive them, don't you?” Jesse said dryly, lengthening his stride when he spotted his cruiser tied to the dock three boats from the end.

Oren stopped beside it, his grin folding his weathered face into a treasure map of wrinkles. “Watching you put this beauty through her paces last fall, I admonished Sven for calling you a flatlander, since most summer folks can't row a dinghy through this harbor without fetching up on mooring lines or causing a traffic jam.” His wrinkles folded into a grimace. “And don't even get me started on them fools in their sloops who come in off the reach under full sail, then send the little missus scrambling to the winches
after
they get inside the breakwater.” He gave Jesse a one-eyed squint. “You ain't thinking of getting a sloop, are yah?”

“Not until I'm sure I've gotten myself a little missus with plenty of scramble in her,” Jesse said with a chuckle as he climbed aboard his cruiser. He set down his bag and knelt to open the engine compartment and, despite the boat being newly constructed, stuck his head inside to check for any water seepage, as Sven had instructed. Seeing it was perfectly dry, he straightened to tell Oren the marina had said they'd left the key with him, only to find the harbormaster had disappeared. Jesse stood up and spotted him farther down the dock lifting something out of a large wooden skiff before walking back.

“Talk of your missus reminded me of this, and I figure you might as well take it with you,” Oren said, handing Jesse a bicycle wheel. “Ray had one of his clerks run it over about an hour ago.”

Jesse assumed it went to some piece of equipment his contractor had out on the island. “Ray?” he questioned, stowing it behind one of the seats.

“Ray Dean. He owns the hardware store down the street. Your wife brung the wheel with her this morning, and even before she docked I could see the tire was half off the rim.”

Jesse froze. “Did you say my wife brought it here? This morning?”

“It's off her garden cart,” Oren said with a nod. “She must'a punctured the tire and figured since she bought the cart off Ray that he could probably fix it.”

Son of a bitch; Cadi wasn't driving all over New England—she was
here
.

That's why she'd called his office two weeks ago pretending to have a question about his house; the woman had been fishing for information on how long before he was coming to Maine again so she could hide out on his island as
his wife
.

Hell, he had
helped
establish her as Mrs. Sinclair before he'd left.

Jesse vaulted onto the dock and walked to the skiff Oren claimed was hers, then stared down at the leaky, paint-peeling, positively ancient . . . scow and even older motor. He schooled his features to hide his surprise. No, his shock. No, he was pretty sure that was abject horror making his heart pound. “My wife is coming and going to Hundred Acre in this boat? And you say she bought a garden cart at the hardware store . . . when?”

Oren cocked his head and squinted off at nothing. “I seen her heading out past the breakwater with the cart in her skiff . . . oh, I reckon a couple of weeks ago now.” He looked at Jesse and nodded. “Yeah, it wasn't long after the marina put in your cruiser.” But then he shook his head. “I remember 'cause when I noticed how she seemed comfortable around boats and more than competent, I suggested she might prefer using your cruiser instead, especially if a gale were to come up when she was crossing the reach. I told her I had the key in my office and even offered to take her out and show her how to run it.”

Jesse stared down at Cadi's skiff again as he fought back his anger. Sweet God, if the woman was smart enough to hide on his island, why wasn't she smart enough to beg or borrow or even steal a goddamn
real
boat? “And my little missus said?” he whispered, looking toward his big, safe, seaworthy cruiser.

“Her eyes got all bright and twinkly and she said she wouldn't dream of driving your shiny new toy and risk putting a scratch on it. And she claimed the skiff was easier anyway, seeing how she could just run it up on the beach at the island.”

“Do you know where she got it? Who sold it to her?” Jesse asked.
So I can hunt the bastard down,
he refrained from adding.

The edge in his voice must have given him away, because Oren eyed him for a short second, then shook his head. “I come back from lunch one afternoon and found it here. She must'a seen it for sale by the side of the road.” He snorted. “In Fender Cove, most likely. Them outlaws are giving all us Downeasters a bad reputation with you from-away folks, seeing how there ain't a man—or woman, for that matter—in that town with enough decency to not sell a flatlander this piece of crap. So whenever you find yourself dealing with locals on anything, the first thing you ask is what town they're from. They say Fender Cove, you run like hell, yah hear?”

“I hear you,” Jesse said as he turned and walked back to his cruiser, silently promising the skiff a decent burial at sea.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Oren added as he followed. “The kid that run the tire over said Ray ain't gonna put the cost of the tube or installing it on your account, seeing how your wife's more or less responsible for his selling mud boots faster than he can order them.”

“My wife is buying multiple pairs of boots?” Jesse asked.
And putting them on an account I don't remember opening at a store I've never even been to?
he silently added.

“No, she ain't buying them. All the women in town are. Ever since your missus told Eva that . . . rustic clothing, I think she called it, was all the rave in New York City, mud boots and hats and anything with plaid on it's been flying off the shelves of every store in town. FedEx even had to put on a bigger truck to fit all the packages coming from L.L.Bean all of a sudden.”

“Eva?”

“Eva Dean, Ken's wife. They own the grocery store up on the hill.” Oren shook his head on a chuckle. “And I heard Joanne's havin' to stay open extra hours to keep up with the demand for perms and . . . highlighting, I think they call it, 'cause everyone suddenly wants blonde curls.”

“Joanne?”

“Sorry. What with your wife coming and going these past couple of weeks, I forgot you ain't spent much time here yourself yet. Joanne owns the beauty shop up next to the drugstore that sits up beside the grocery store.”

Okay, then; it would appear he'd not only acquired a wife while he'd been overseas, but one who was responsible for starting several new fashion trends. Not that he understood
why
she was starting them. The
how
was probably a given—as wouldn't most women living in such a remote town want to emulate a beautiful, bouncy-curled, sparkling-eyed
New Yorker
?

Jesse scrubbed his face with both hands, only to stop in mid-scrub at the realization that Cadi's skiff being here meant
she
was here. In town. Right now.

Unless Stanley had already called her and, realizing
her husband
was about to arrive, she'd already run off.

No, Oren had said the hardware store had brought the tire back over an hour ago, and, at best, Stanley couldn't have called Cadi more than three hours ago. And Jesse was pretty sure she wouldn't leave without her cat, which meant she wouldn't have had time to go out to Hundred Acre, grab the cat and her belongings, then motor back to shore in that tired old scow and make her getaway. He dropped his hands when he felt the dock vibrate and saw the kid from the grocery store striding toward him like a young man on a mission.

“I thought that was you, Mr. Sinclair. Remember me? Paul Acton? My grandfather and dad are doing the earthwork out on your island.”

“I remember you, Paul,” Jesse said, extending his hand.

Apparently surprised by the gesture, Paul reached out holding a folded piece of paper. He quickly switched the paper to his other hand and shook Jesse's—a little too long and a bit too firmly, but his enthusiasm was impressive. “Since your wife's not answering her phone, I came down to check if her skiff was here so I'd know if she was in town and could give her my bill,” the boy said, his chest puffing out on the word
bill
. “Even though I told her I don't mind adding my hours on the next bill Gramps was gonna give you, Mrs. Sinclair insisted on paying me personally in cash each week. And since I had to work for Mr. Dean all weekend and yesterday and today, I didn't get a chance to give her last week's bill.”

“Go ahead and give it to me, Paul,” Jesse said, holding out his hand, “and I'll pay you. What sort of work have you been doing for her?” he asked, unfolding the paper to find a neatly hand-written, daily accounting of hours worked and total owed. Hell, it was a good thing he'd stopped at a bank in Ellsworth and grabbed some cash—a good chunk of which was going to young Mr. Acton, apparently.

“You can see I worked four full days last week,” Paul said, peering over the top of the bill. “Mrs. Sinclair already paid me for the week before, when I mostly split the firewood from the trees we cleared for your camper pad.” He looked up at Jesse and grinned. “But I pointed out it wasn't near dry enough to burn yet and would pop embers at her. So my dad let me sell her half a cord of our seasoned firewood left over from last winter, and I used the cart to haul part of it to that low cliff halfway down the other side of the island. Then I—”

“Wait,” Jesse said, cutting him off even as he wondered why Cadi had the kid lugging firewood to the lower bluff. “How did you get the half cord to the island? Did you haul it over in my wife's boat?”

“Not likely,” the boy said on a snort, only to instantly look contrite. “I mean no, sir. I used one of my dad's boats. That's how I been coming and going to work.” He squared his shoulders. “I told Mrs. Sinclair a sea kayak would be safer than that old skiff she bought, and that she could probably
paddle
to the island faster. I also explained the reach has some powerful currents when the tide's changing, and if her motor suddenly quit she could end up on the rocks before anyone could get to her.”

“Don't worry, Paul,” Jesse said as he pulled out his wallet. “Mrs. Sinclair won't be crossing the reach in that boat again. So what other work have you been doing for her?”

Paul looked down, his face darkening again. “I . . . it's . . . I'm sorry, but I can't say.” He suddenly snapped his gaze to the bill Jesse was holding. “Oh, no. I bet the reason Mrs. Sinclair wanted to pay me personally was because we've been working on a surprise for you.”