It's a Wonderful Wife (5 page)

“I was just finally getting everyone to stop treating me like a fragile piece of china. My father had had two heart attacks; it's not like I didn't see it coming. And now this thing with Stanley,” she hissed, gesturing at the lone balloon bumping along the ceiling, “is going to start the coddling all over again.”

“Because they care,” Jesse repeated.

“Yeah, well, you spend over a year with an entire town giving you sympathetic smiles and patting your shoulder and constantly asking how you're doing. Or having them tell you to be happy because your father's with your mother now. Or worse, having them push you to set a wedding date so you can get busy having babies.”

“You don't want children?”

Her glare turned thunderous. “Not with
Stanley
.”

Undecided if this particular snit was about her fake fiancé's little perversion or the destroyed models, Jesse simply gave up. He walked to the door, but stopped and looked at her. “Promise you'll be here when I get back, and I promise that after you've eaten enough food to soak up at least some of that wine, we'll decide whether you'll get a motel room or sleep on my couch.” When her only answer was silence, Jesse shot her a grin. “But instead of snooping to pass your time, why don't you play with the slide-outs,” he said, tapping the panel on the wall beside the door. “And see if you can't figure out how to make some of the walls of my house move when you rebuild the model.”

As he had suspected she would, the woman immediately zeroed in on the panel. “I prefer chicken,” she said, waving him away as she turned her attention to the slide-out across from her. “And mashed potatoes. And I've changed my mind; bring me a Moxie instead of the wine. Please,” she tacked on while pulling her purse onto her lap.

“Moxie? Is that a beer? I really don't think you should be mixing beer with wine.”

She went back to glaring at him. “It's
soda
.” But then she suddenly smiled, although it looked more sinister than sparkly. “You should also get yourself one if you want a true Maine experience. Oh, and see if the deli has any premade stuffing, will you?”

The woman definitely had an attention problem. “Anything else?” he drawled. “Ice cream? Cookies? Blueberry pie?”

“No thank you. I'm not really into sweets,” she said, rummaging around inside the purse. She pulled out a small wire-bound notebook and used it to give him another dismissive wave. “Go on. I'm starved.”

“And you promise to be here when I get back?” he thought to clarify when she frowned at the notebook then started searching through her purse again.

Her hand emerged holding a pencil. “I'll be here,” she murmured, leafing through the notebook. “Wait,” she added when he opened the door. “Does your truck have to be running to power the slide-outs?”

Oh yeah; did he have the lady's number or what? “No, the camper's battery system can handle it,” he said to her head of big blonde curls, since she was bent over her notebook already furiously scribbling.

FOUR

Jesse beat a hasty retreat—having to leap to the ground at the last second when he realized the steps weren't down. He closed the door and lowered the steps on the chance his stowaway was a liar as well as a snoop, then sprinted up across the parking lot and shot through the store's automatic doors just as a man was approaching holding a set of keys.

“We're closing in five minutes,” the guy said, his grin more resigned than inviting.

“Then I'll only take four,” Jesse offered, grabbing a shopping basket.

“That your rig out there? I'm sorry, but we don't allow overnight parking,” he added when Jesse nodded. “There's a campground fifteen miles east on Route One.”

“I'll move on if you insist, Mr. Dean,” Jesse said, reading the name tag claiming Ken Dean was the owner/manager. “But it would be convenient for me to be here when you open in the morning, so I can stock my cupboards before I take the camper out to my island.”

That certainly perked him up. “You the gentleman from New York who bought Hundred Acre Isle last summer?”

“Yes, I'm Jesse Sinclair.”

Ken Dean's entire countenance changed right along with his grin. “You go ahead and take all the time you want, Mr. Sinclair. And I don't have a problem with you spending the night in my lot.” Ken fell in beside him when Jesse started toward the back of the store. “Corey Acton's been working out on your island for the last month, getting it ready for your camper. He said you're planning to build a home out there and hired him to do all the site work.”

“Since we're going to be neighbors, please call me Jesse,” Jesse said, stopping in front of the deli display case. “And yes, I hope to start construction in the next few months.”

“If you ever need anything besides groceries, my brother owns the only hardware store in thirty miles. If he doesn't have something in stock, he can get it here in two days.”

“Thanks. I will definitely look him up.”

“And if your wife needs anything, my sister and brother-in-law own the drugstore right next door,” Ken said, nodding toward the side wall. “And their daughter has the beauty salon at the end. I suppose your wife would get her hair cut in the city, but Joanne also offers manicures and pedicures.”

“I'll take those last two chickens,” Jesse told the deli clerk when he spotted her putting them on a tray as she cleaned out the case. “And a container of stuffing and one of mashed potatoes.” Jesse looked at Ken and decided not to correct him on the wife situation, since he really didn't want to become a target for every marriage-minded woman in Castle Cove. “Any suggestion on who I should contact about getting a boat slip and a couple of moorings—one here in the harbor and one out at my island?”

“My uncle is the harbormaster. Oren can fix you up on this end and probably get a mooring set at your island.” He gave Jess a calculating look. “You're also going to need a rugged deep-water dock.”

Jesse decided his contractor had been passing word around that a deep-
pocket
flatlander was moving to town. “You wouldn't happen to have any relatives in the dock business, would you?” he asked dryly.

“Well now,” Ken murmured behind his hand—which was likely hiding his grin. “It so happens my son knows a little something about building docks. In fact, Jason's just about elevated it to an art form.”

“That's good,” Jesse said with a nod, “because I know a little something about docks myself, since I've overseen the construction of several here in the States and overseas. You wouldn't
happen
to have one of Jason's business cards on you, would you?”

Ken reached in his hind pocket and pulled out his wallet. “That's right, Corey mentioned you're a high-up executive in a big shipping company, Tide-something-or-other.”

“Tidewater International,” Jesse said, also deciding not to mention he was in fact one of the majority shareholders.

“Well, Jesse,” Ken said, handing him
three
cards, “my youngest son also has a business you might find yourself needing once your house is finished. It appears you're not the only one drawn to our remote coastline in recent years, and many of the summer folks started looking for someone to keep an eye on their homes. Amos is a full-service caretaker; he'll do regular property checks, lawn maintenance, painting, and tree-trimming, and he'll put your floating dock in and out of the water each spring and fall. In fact, he's even planting a vegetable garden for a client and his wife this spring, so they can pick their own salad fixings all summer.” He shook his head. “This week the boy's been out hunting up half a dozen laying hens for another couple, because they thought it would be fun to mosey out to the coop for fresh eggs every morning.”

Jesse used his thumb to fan the business cards to see the third one. “And Samantha?” he asked, reading that Samantha Wiggins apparently did something with interiors.

“You need a reliable, discreet housekeeper to clean once a week while you're here, my Sammy's the girl for you. She'll also do some baking if you have guests coming, and even cater and serve small dinner parties.”

Jesse lifted his grin to Ken Dean. “How many children do you have?”

Ken grinned back. “Five. My oldest son, Kenny Jr., runs this store with me. I have one daughter still in the nest; Abby helps her sister out when she's home from college, and she'll also babysit.” He suddenly frowned. “Jason's the only one I couldn't talk into going to college. You got any kids, Jesse?”

“Not yet.”

Ken shook his head again. “Well, I can tell you that despite coming from the same gene pool and having the exact same upbringing, every one of them will have their own personality.” He went back to grinning. “And opinions. And the older they get the dumber
you
get, because they're certain they know a better way of doing things.”

“Mr. Dean to the service desk, pa-lease,” a frustrated voice called over the speaker.

Ken's grin broadened. “That would be Oren's granddaughter, Malinda.” He started backing away. “If you'll allow me a little fatherly boasting,” he said, gesturing at the cards Jesse was holding, “you won't find more reliable, harder working people at a fairer price than those three.”

Jesse slipped the cards in his shirt pocket. “Coming from a close-knit, hardworking family myself, I appreciate what it takes to build a business from the ground up. Once I'm settled in and get my bearings, I will likely give them a call.”

Ken Dean backed away with a nod, then turned and sprinted toward the front of the store when Malinda paged him again, several drawn out words indicating she was nearing the end of her patience. Jesse loaded his basket with the chickens and fixings, gave the girl behind the counter a warm thank-you, then headed off in search of cold beer and Moxie.

Satisfied he had enough food to sober up his stowaway, Jesse tossed a couple of candy bars onto the conveyor belt as Paul—whose name tag said he was in training—slowly scanned and carefully arranged each item into four bags. Jesse swiped his card and entered his PIN, then patiently waited while the teenager tried to decide which register button he needed to push to conclude the transaction.

“Sorry about that, Jesse,” Ken Dean said as he walked up beside Paul and tapped a button that made a sales slip shoot out of the register. “Wednesday evenings are usually slow and a good time for training. You help Mr. Sinclair carry his purchases to his rig, Paul,” he added, pulling out the drawer. “Check the lot for any stray carts on your way back in, then we'll sit down together and cash out your drawer.” Ken looked at Jesse. “I'll leave my cleaning crew a note saying you have permission to spend the night and for them not to sweep the parking lot.” He chuckled. “They usually wait until one in the morning to fire up our old sweeper and make several trips past any campers who ignore the signs for no overnight parking.”

“I appreciate the note,” Jesse said, grabbing two of the bags. “What time do you open up in the morning?”

“Officially at seven, but I put on a pot of coffee and unlock the doors when I get here at six in case any fishermen need something before they head out.”

“I'll see you in the morning, then,” Jesse said as he followed Paul.

The boy exited the store, immediately headed to the lone shopping cart in a nearby aisle, and dropped the beer and bags inside. He then grabbed the handle as he set a foot on the bottom rail, pushed off with his other foot, and rode the cart down the parking lot toward the camper.

Jesse couldn't help but grin when he saw the living room slide-out extending three feet beyond the camper. There were four slides total—which he imagined had all been opened and closed several times by now: a large one on this side, two on the other side in the main area and kitchen, and one in the raised bedroom that jutted out over the cargo bed of his pickup.

“Nice rig,” Paul said when Jesse caught up with him. The boy took the two bags and beer out of the cart and set them on the ground beside the steps. “You the guy my dad's been building a campsite for out on Hundred Acre Isle? He said you was coming this week.”

“You're Corey's son?” Jesse asked in surprise, since Corey Acton had to be in his sixties.

“No, he's my grandfather. My dad runs the bulldozer and excavator while Gramps hauls the gravel.” The boy frowned toward the store. “I'm only working here for the next two years because the stupid insurance company told Gramps I can't work for him until I'm eighteen, even though I've been running heavy equipment since I was seven.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “I went out to your island last weekend while Gramps was gone to Bangor, and Dad let me use the bulldozer to level out the last three loads of gravel on your camper pad.” He threw back his shoulders. “You won't be stepping in any puddles when it rains, because I made sure it was pitched so the water will run right off. All the trees we cleared for the pad are sawed into firewood and stacked, we hauled away the stumps and underbrush just like you told Gramps you wanted, and we planted the septic bed with a mix of grass and wildflower seeds.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Me and Dad spent all day Sunday cleaning up the beach where the barge has been off-loading the equipment and trucks, so to make it look all natural again. All you'll see when you get there is a more permanent landing site at one end and a small road leading up to the pad. We made sure the road curved instead of running straight down the hill, so it won't wash out when it rains.” He glanced toward the store when half the parking lot lights suddenly went out, then started backing away, hauling the cart with him. “School gets out next Friday, so if you need anything else done on your island this summer, I'm willing to work any days I'm not working here. I can run a chainsaw and I don't mind hauling brush and stuff like that. You just tell Gramps and he'll tell me.” He stopped and shot Jesse a wide grin. “And I won't charge you an arm and a leg, neither, just because you're from away.”

“That's good to know,” Jesse said with a nod. “I'll definitely keep you in mind.”

The boy swung the cart around and set his foot on the bottom rail, gave a wave over his shoulder, then pushed and rode and pushed and rode his way back up the parking lot.

Jesse chuckled, having to admire Castle Cove's obvious bent toward entrepreneurship, which apparently started in the cradle. Oh yeah, he couldn't think of a better place to bring his kids every summer.

Speaking of which, hearing that Cadi only seemed opposed to having children with Stanley had certainly been a relief. He was also quite heartened to learn she wasn't firmly entrenched in her own safe little corner of the world the way Willa and Emma were, which had compelled Sam and Ben to make Maine their permanent home. That Cadi wanted to travel was probably her most appealing trait at this point, since it should make her open to living at Rosebriar the lion's share of the year.

Well, assuming they got married. But if their grandfather had taught his three grandsons only one thing, it was that when a Sinclair decided he wanted something—be it in his personal life or business—he single-mindedly went after it. And Bram couldn't have driven home that lesson any more outrageously than when he'd left everything he'd worked his whole life to acquire, including his beloved Rosebriar, to a disaster-prone little partridge from Maine.

Jesse opened the door with a snort as he remembered how Bram had even bequeathed Willa one of his grandsons—although the old wolf had magnanimously left the choice of which one up to them. Jesse set his bags inside on the floor, then picked up the beer and other two bags and walked up the stairs with the single-minded intention of finding out if the ever-interesting Miss Glace might indeed be the woman of his dreams—only to find himself standing in a now spacious, starkly silent, apparently
empty
camper.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head in defeat. Had Cadi not believed his promise to act the gentleman tonight, or had she simply taken another downward spiral and—

Jesse snapped his head up when he heard the soft thud of something hitting carpet. He set the beer and bags on the counter, turned and closed the camper door, then quietly walked up the short set of stairs leading to the raised bedroom. He passed the open door to the bathroom, noting the light over the vanity was on, and stopped in the bedroom doorway when he spotted his stowaway curled up on his bed, hugging her purse like a pillow, sound asleep.

Okay then; he was still in business.

He bent down and grabbed the notebook off the carpet, then headed back to the kitchen, snagged the six-pack of beer on his way by, and walked over and set the beer and notebook on the table tucked into one of the slide-outs. He went back and emptied the bags onto the island counter, quietly opened cupboards and drawers looking for eating utensils, then filled a plate with fixings. He ripped several paper towels off the roll hanging under the cupboards, carried his plate and one of the warm chickens over to the table, and pulled out a chair and sat down.