Chapter 13
A
lex hiked her pack up higher on her shoulder and held her clipboard closer as she ducked down to look through the second-story dormer window. Outside, the early winter sky was a luminous gray, but it felt more cocoon-like than foreboding, providing a protective cap over the tranquility of Half Moon Harbor. She wished she could will the stillness of that smooth, peaceful surface into her. If only she could be like the boats tethered to the docks and those dotting the harbor and the bay beyond—just bob gently along the surface of life.
Though the setting around her was quiet and composed, nothing seemed capable of slowing the stormy onslaught of jumbled thoughts and emotions tumbling around inside her head. She felt off balance, as if the ground was constantly pitching and rolling beneath her feet, only all on the inside. She’d taken the job in Blueberry Cove because she’d wanted—needed—a steady, sturdy place to land. A safe, uncomplicated harbor where she could find her way back to her passion, to the work she loved. Or say good-bye to it forever. A potentially tumultuous time, but one she’d at least have a merciful chance to explore alone, at her own pace, with no one but herself to contend with as she sought out those answers. She hadn’t thought that was too much to ask, or expect.
She’d never been so wrong.
It was tumultuous all right, but so much more than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t just about her any longer. She hadn’t planned on Blueberry Cove opening its collective arms and pulling her in. She hadn’t counted on Logan McCrae making her feel things she’d never felt, want things she’d never known she could have. It all seemed like too much . . . and there was no place to hide. She couldn’t retreat from her own thoughts, which included all the feelings the town itself and the people in it had evoked, as well as the emotions and desires Logan had so effortlessly stirred inside her.
Added to all that, she’d woken early to tear-streaked cheeks, puffy eyes, and a raw throat, and had felt an immediate sense of defeat, of failure. She’d known the nightmares would return at some point . . . periodically, anyway. There was no way they’d miraculously disappear overnight, but still . . . it had felt like a giant step backward. That on top of an already monumentally confusing and emotionally charged evening with Logan—which was likely why the dream had come back in the first place. Her defenses had not only been down, but weakened to the point that she wasn’t sure how to rebuild them again . . . or if she really wanted to. It seemed an exhausting way to go through life, constantly on guard, constantly worrying.
The nightmares, the pain, and the terror had been a stark reminder of why she’d built those walls in the first place. It was all fine and good to lower them to allow the positive things in; the sizzle of desire, the excitement of feeling wanted, and of wanting in return. Being unguarded also allowed the rest in. The confusion, the pain, the frustration of having to make choices—complicated, bewildering, nerve-rattling choices—that had no perfectly right or wrong answers.
The one thing about leaving Thunder Bay that had felt so good was the relief of knowing those kinds of choices were finally behind her. All she’d thought about was how big a relief it would be to get back to work, where the answers were a lot more cut and dried—see what was in need of repair, assess what it would take to fix it, then find a way to make the numbers line up, and do the work. Gratifying work that provided a wonderful feeling of personal accomplishment, but without any challenging emotional entanglements.
Her only fear in taking the Pelican Point job, or any job, had been whether or not she would be able to recapture the passion she’d had for it, experience once again what it was like to see something that was broken . . . and know she could fix it, restore it to its former glory. Her one hope was that by doing that again, she’d finally find the way to heal and fix herself.
How was it that Logan McCrae had come into her life, providing her with the means to do exactly that . . . only to bring with him an even more confusing and challenging set of conflicts and questions to figure out than she’d started with?
She had memories of him being there for her again last night, of him holding her, rocking her, soothing her. She’d thought it had been a mixed-up part of the dream, adding bits and pieces from that first night . . . except his scent had been on her pillows when she’d woken up. He had been there, had held her, soothed her. She had no idea how long he’d stayed or when he’d left. She did know that there had been no torrid kiss, and she knew it was wrong to wish there had been . . . along with everything that would have likely come afterward.
Saving herself from a nightmare by reigniting the incendiary passion that came so naturally to them would have been an even bigger mistake. She knew she should be thankful he’d been there to help her through it . . . and equally thankful he’d had the strength, the control, to leave before she’d woken up. She wasn’t sure, in his place, she’d have been as strong. But knowing what she should feel . . . and acknowledging how she actually felt . . . were going to remain two distinctly different things, no matter how much she tried to browbeat her subconscious mind into accepting the only workable solution.
“So, what do you think? Will this work for you?”
Alex spun around as Delia came into the small loft space. “Yes. It’s perfect. Thank you. Are you sure it’s okay? You said you don’t have a regular tenant.”
“I wouldn’t have offered to let you become one unless I’d already made up my mind about you.” She walked past Alex and stood in the corner of the open area that comprised the kitchen. “It’s basic, but functional,” Delia said, gesturing to the tiny four-burner stove, short counter, sink, and fridge. “I know the table only seats two, but anything bigger and you can’t really move around.”
She pointed to the two doors on the front wall opposite the pair of dormer windows. “Bathroom is through the door on the left. Just a small, stand-up shower, no tub. Closet is on the right. Coats, clothes, it all has to go there, I’m afraid. But it’s a decent size. One of the former tenants built some shelves underneath the hanger rails and added some little square canvas baskets to hold socks, underwear, and the like. Sort of an open dresser type arrangement. There’s a place for shoes in a hanging rack on the back side of the door.”
The main area of the room held a soft blue couch and a small antique walnut coffee table that had seen better decades. A mismatched, round, oak end table was angled between the couch and a high-backed, overstuffed red chair. There was a standing lamp on the other side of the chair and an old brass and stained-glass hurricane lamp on the end table for lighting. A ceiling fan with a single light in the center hung over the kitchen area.
“Couch folds out to a double, but it faces the windows, so you have the view to make it feel a bit bigger. Radiator heat, though you might want to get a little space heater for when the temperatures really dip. No central air in the summer, but you won’t really need it. Just crank out the dormers and set a fan in one to circulate the breeze coming off the water. Always cools off at night. We’ve got the Wi-Fi downstairs in the diner, so you’ll have it up here, too. No television though, sorry. If that’s something you need, we could talk about trying to figure something out. There’s a radio around here somewhere. It’s a good idea to keep it tuned to the weather. Especially this time of year. Keep flashlights and fresh batteries, too.” She came back to stand next to Alex. “Not much, I know, but—”
“It’s just right. And I appreciate it, Delia. More than you know.”
“Well, you might not feel that way when you realize there’s going to be folks underneath you at all hours, yammering on and such. I know it sounds quiet now, but we’re just done with the breakfast crowd. You’ll see what I mean come lunch. I come in early—and by early I mean no later than four—to get started on the day. We open at five to feed the fishermen and anyone else crazy enough to get up at that hour. We’re here until nine in the winter, but the nights are quiet on the water this time of year. Come summer, that all changes. We’re open all the way to midnight and there’s always something going on down on the docks and out on the water. There’ll be plenty of noise, but you get used to it.”
“It’s okay. Noise won’t bother me.” Privately Alex thought it might be a good thing. The sounds of talking, laughter. She’d get enough silence out on the Point, and probably too much time to be inside her own head.
Alex’s gaze shifted back to the harbor, and Delia’s followed hers. “You’re also right close to the Monaghan’s boathouses and docks,” she commented, about as subtle as an anvil. “Just down there.” She pointed. “You know, I rented this place to Brodie when he first got here. I guess he’s holed up somewhere on his property now, though I can’t see where. He lived on one of his boats for a bit, but that’s docked and wrapped for the winter now.”
“He’s renovating the boathouse on the far end of his property into living quarters,” Alex told her. “That’s the work I’m doing for him. He’s more or less camping indoors there at the moment, but he needs to get something more solid before it gets really cold.”
Delia had folded her arms and finally shifted her weight a little, glancing back to Alex. “Why’d you let us all believe there was something going on between the two of you?”
Caught off guard, it took Alex a moment to regroup, but in that same moment she knew better than to say anything less than the truth. “It was easier.”
“Easier than . . . ?” Delia gave Alex a considering look with her shrewd hazel eyes. “I’m guessin’ it has something to do with why you’re working out on the Point, but needing to find a place to live here in town.”
“I have Brodie’s remodel, and a lot of what I’ll be doing for the Point restoration will require me to be here, so it’s six of one, half dozen of the other.” That was true enough.
Delia turned and faced her. “It’s the lighthouse, the man who owns it, or a bit of both.” She kept her gaze steady on Alex’s, so Alex was pretty sure she could see the answer as clearly as if she’d stamped it in bold black letters on her forehead.
“Why do you think it’s the lighthouse?” Alex asked by way of reply.
“Honey, we all know about your family, your dad. Couldn’t be sorrier, by the way.” Delia reached out, rubbed Alex’s arm, then gave it a solid squeeze before folding her arms again. “We’re a small town and you’re big news, especially this time of year when things are quiet. Have you been inside it yet?”
“No. This week. It’s next on the list.” Alex had thought it would be harder to say. Maybe it was Delia’s no-nonsense plain speaking, but it helped.
Delia cocked her head. “You ready? You don’t look it.”
That surprised a laugh out of Alex. “Yeah, well, if I wait until I’m ready, they’ll need to hire someone else to do the job.”
“Would that be the worst thing?”
Surprised again, she looked straight at Delia, and the words tumbled out. “Yes. I want that lighthouse. It’s my project.” The truth in those words still stunned her a little.
Delia grinned, stunning Alex again with how completely it transformed her face. She’d seen the diner owner laugh often, but it had been more of a raucous thing. Alex knew Delia was only in her early forties, but the cheerful, beaming smile of approval knocked a full dozen years off her.
She gave Alex a slap to the side of the shoulder. “Now that’s what I wanted to hear. A little grit in there.”
“I’ve got plenty of grit,” Alex said, affronted and amused at the same time.
“Oh, when it comes to dealing with our police chief or the head of the town council, you’re all ready to do battle, yes sir. I’m guessing we’ll find out you sent Brodie home last night, tail between his legs, too. Was probably good for him to experience rejection.” Delia barked out a laugh when Alex gaped.
“There’s nothing that happens in the Cove I don’t hear. Anything I miss during the day, Fergus picks up on the night shift at the pub. Anyhow, it’s good to know you’ve got some of that fire in there for yourself. From the looks of ya, you’ll need it.”
Alex knew the nightmare and the crying hadn’t helped her out there. She half snorted, half spluttered a laugh. “Thanks. I think.”
“I’ll let you get settled.” Delia dug in her apron pocket. “Here’s the keys, though during the winter, I don’t expect you need to worry much. There’s a baseball bat behind the door if it helps you sleep better.”
Alex just grinned. “It might.”
Delia hooted a laugh at that and headed to the door that led to a narrow set of steps running down the rear of the building to the parking lot. “We get bad weather, I’ll remember to ask Charlie or Pete to salt and scrape the stairs for ya. I forget, just take that bat and pound it on the floor.”
Still smiling, and feeling oddly more settled and less rattled as Delia went on, Alex said, “Okay.”
Delia turned at the door. “You have plans for Thursday?”
“Thursday?”
“Thanksgiving. You’ve heard of it?”
Alex nodded, her smile turning dry. “A rumor, yes.”
“This your first one?”
It took a moment for Alex to catch on. Delia meant her first one alone.
Alex shook her head. “Uh, no. My second. But I was in Canada last year. They don’t celebrate the holiday.” Not that she’d have been all that aware of it if they had. Her father had died the end of August and by Thanksgiving she’d been gut deep in the lawsuit.
“So . . . plans?”
“No. No, I haven’t. Lost track, I guess.”
“Well, you do now. I do a dinner here every year. For folks who don’t have a family.” Delia grinned. “Or want to escape the one they do have.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You don’t have to—”
“I don’t do it because I have to. I do it because I want to. Same reason I just invited you. Boy, do you make everyone work this hard?”
“Hard at what?”