The Red Door Inn (14 page)

“Can I ask you something?”

He glanced away from the road toward Marie, all innocence and perfectly unaware of the irony of her question breaking into his peaceful ponderings. “I guess.”

She looked at her folded hands in her lap, then out the window like she was going to ask the trees what she wanted to know. “You said earlier when we were talking with Aretha that Jack had been at this a lot longer than you. And he said something to me on my first day at the inn about you having nowhere else to go . . .”

His fist tightened on the wheel. He didn't want to talk about it. He wanted to go back to the silence. He wanted to enjoy a quiet trip thinking about the great things to come for the inn.

And mostly he did not want to confess Reece's betrayal.

Marie didn't know any of that, so she kept right on. “I thought that you'd been working with Jack since the beginning. But I guess that's not the case.”

“Are you going to ask a question in there?”

Her dark hair fell over her shoulder as she leaned forward, twisting to look at him more closely. “Why are you here? What happened?”

He shook his head. He should be asking her the same
questions. Her answers could have serious consequences. His did not.

“It's a long story.”

“We only have a few miles, so what's the ten-minute version? Or longer if you follow Rob's advice and go slow.”

Her joke provoked a dry chuckle. How did she manage to tease him about the thing that he found most absurd? Maybe she could read him better than he thought.

If he told his history—at least an abridged version—that might prompt her to open up about hers. It couldn't hurt to try.

“I was a builder.”

“In San Diego?”

He nodded. “Yes. I owned my own company. Sloane Construction.”

“Creative.” She shifted again until she was nearly perpendicular in the bucket seat, facing him, one leg pulled up under her.

“It was just me, a couple guys that I trusted, and a few contract crews. We did mostly new construction, custom homes for big-money clients.”

She whistled low. “In San Diego? That must have been lucrative.”

“It was.”

“So what happened?” She twisted a strand of hair around a finger, but stopped as soon as he opened his mouth to continue.

He swallowed, taking time to find the right wording. “We met with a bit of financial difficulty.”

“Jack said something about a fiancée. Are you engaged?”

Thank you, Jack.
The man had no respect for anyone
else's privacy. “Once. We broke it off about eight months ago.” Marie made a sound deep in her throat that said she was sorry to hear it and he should continue. And for some reason, he did.

“Her name is Reece, and we met at the home of one of my clients. He had a party to show off his new house. And he said I could meet potential new clients. His friends were well connected and wealthy. Just my clientele. He said I'd be a fool to miss the chance to sign contracts with them.

“So I showed up at his house and met Reece, who, at the time, was dating one of the other guys at the party. We struck up a conversation around the pool, and I'd never met anyone so beautiful in my life. The way the patio lights reflected off the water and danced across her face. I couldn't look away. She laughed at every one of my jokes—even the really lame ones.”

“Interested girls usually do.”

He jerked at the sound of her voice. Surprised that he wasn't rehashing the relationship by himself for the umpteenth time.

Perfect. He'd probably said far too much. “Anyway, we got engaged, but it didn't last.”

“Hey. That's not fair.”

“What?”

“You can't get me hooked and then give me some abbreviated version without the details.” She lifted her eyebrows twice in quick succession. “How did you get Reece away from that other guy? How'd you win her?”

“Funny. I never—I mean, it didn't—” He paused, putting a hand over his mouth until the words in his mind sorted themselves out. “I never thought of it as winning her. The spark was so strong, I just thought she felt it too and—”

Marie leaned back, the anticipation on her face replaced by uncertainty. “You
thought
she felt it. She didn't?”

He let out a slow breath through his nose. This was not the conversation they were supposed to be having, but he'd just opened up that can of worms on himself. “No.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“She made it perfectly clear that she'd never given a flying rat's rear end about me when she cleaned out all of the money from my company's accounts and left me. She'd been with me only for the con.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. He hadn't meant to say that. At least not with that much bitterness. It was supposed to be getting easier to deal with. But the sting was still fresh.

Marie's slender fingers touched his sleeve. “I am so sorry, Seth. I didn't realize. I'm sorry that happened. I understand—”

“How could you possibly understand? What about your fairy-tale life makes you think you could possibly understand that kind of betrayal?” The words exploded in his anger at himself for revealing too much, but it was too late to take them back.

He got the silence he'd wanted for the rest of the trip, but this quiet wasn't about peace or contentment. Like her face, it was stony, masking the boiling emotions just below the surface. It grated his nerves and shot pain through his temples.

Of course, his anger was really at himself. He'd let Reece convince him to add her as a partner in his business. Blinded by his own attraction, he'd signed over his entire livelihood. And as their wedding date approached, she'd talked him into a joint banking account too. Better to take care of it before the actual ceremony, right?

How could he have been so stupid? He'd handed her his entire life savings and given up every legal right by signing three little slips of paper.

“This will make things so much easier after we're married,” she'd cooed. “This is what's best for us and the business, right? I mean, if anything were to happen to you, who would you want to run things?”

She'd had her hands running through his hair and her lips pursed so close to his that he couldn't possibly have been thinking straight.

A little flick of the wrist and he signed it over.

His own bad judgment had cost him everything.

It still made his stomach hurt, even three thousand miles and eight months away, as he pulled into the Red Door's driveway.

Marie slammed her door open before he could even put the truck in park. She jumped to the ground and marched toward the house without a look over her shoulder.

He hopped out after her, running to catch her before she made it to the stairs leading up to the back door. “Wait. Marie, don't be—” He caught her hand to tug her to a stop.

She flung her arm around, dislodging his grip at her wrist. “Don't
touch
me.” Her words slithered like a snake, quiet enough that they wouldn't draw Jack's attention from inside but hard enough to bend rebar.

“I didn't mean to yell—”

“Don't.” She cut him off with the flash in her eyes even more than with her words. “I really don't want to hear it.”

“Please. Just let me explain.” He stabbed a hand through his hair as she turned away. But she stood still for a long moment, and his pulse jumped. This was his chance. “I—”

She shook her head. “You say I don't understand, that I couldn't possibly, but you have no idea about my life. You presume to know about my fairy-tale existence without ever bothering to ask.”

His heart wrenched.
Lord, what have I done?
“Will you tell me about it?”

“No.” She bounded up the steps, the door slamming behind her. Seth chased her up the stairs, nearly running into her motionless form in the kitchen.

She was staring at Jack, who leaned against the counter with locked elbows and hands that shook, papers scattered before him. Shoulders slumped and head bowed, he didn't move.

“Jack?” She walked up to him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, her movements the opposite of what they'd been two minutes before.

The old man jerked up, looking at them. “I didn't even hear you come in. How was the auction?”

“What's wrong?” Seth stepped forward, keeping a wide perimeter around Marie, and pointed to the papers strewn across the counter. “What's all this?”

Jack looked confused for a moment before pulling the pages into a haphazard pile.

“Jack?” Marie's tone had the gentleness of a preschool teacher coaxing a scared student out of his mother's arms. “Are you all right?”

“Sure. Sure. Just fine.” His head bobbed with a smile, but the light never made it to his eyes. Marie shook her head, giving him a silent scolding, and his eyes darted to the paper. “Everything's great.”

“We can't help if we don't know what's going on.” Marie reached for his hand. “We're invested here too. Let us help.”

Jack's posture sagged even lower as he leaned his back against the counter. His gaze passed between them, and he hoisted a smile. “Not a big problem. Money's a bit tight, is all.”

“Well, I don't need a paycheck,” Marie immediately piped up. “And maybe I could help you look over the budget. I have some exp—”

“Nonsense. Get paid as long as you're working here. I promised you.” Jack looked at the ground. “Besides, that's a drop in the bucket compared to what we need.”

“What about the loan money?”

Jack crossed his arms. “We're going to have to make it stretch.”

Marie squeezed Jack's hand, and a pang of something he couldn't name shot to Seth's stomach. “Will they give you some more?” she asked.

“No.”

“How can you be so sure?” Seth said.

Jack's chin dropped, and he looked away. “I met with the loan officer at the bank again this morning.”

“Again?” Marie straightened until it looked like she'd left a hanger in her shirt. “Why didn't you tell us this was going on? I could have helped you update your business plan.”

“I thought they were going to give me another loan.” He pasted another smile on his face and straightened his paperwork by tapping the edges against the counter. “Don't worry about this. We're going to make the Red Door a success. We're just going to have to keep an eye on the budget and make the dollars stretch.”

So Jack didn't have any more money.

Seth eyed Marie, waiting for any indication that the news
upset her. If she was in this to dupe Jack, she'd gotten a worse deal than she'd counted on. If she was in this for the scam—and more and more he doubted that possibility—she'd jump ship sooner rather than later.

At least she'd go empty-handed.

But if she stayed, they could all wind up where they started. Broke, bitter, and all alone.

J
ack paced the kitchen, as had become his habit in the early morning hours after Marie left for her run. The girl couldn't sleep more than three or four hours a night. If she wasn't up late painting, she was drawing layout designs for the bedrooms. Even if she excused herself to her room early—as she had the night before as soon as Aretha left—her light didn't turn off until the wee hours of the morning.

And somehow she was still the most pleasant person in the house.

He rubbed a hand over his hair, the other at his waist as he stalked the room. The inn was supposed to open the first of May. Rooms had been booked and guests confirmed. And they were behind and without money to pay a crew to help them get back on schedule.

He scrubbed his whiskers with his fingernails.

They had so much more than finishing touches to finalize. The shower in one of the first-floor bathrooms didn't have any tile. The outside of the house needed to be painted. All of the kitchen cabinets needed to be finished.

He shoved at an open drawer, which groaned but didn't move.

And apparently that drawer needed to be fixed.

Then, of course, they hadn't started planting the garden or really gotten into the landscaping. It was too cold to do much yet, but they didn't have a plan in place, and Marie seemed pretty sure that they needed one.

He swung open the refrigerator door, analyzing the breakfast options. Even after Marie's most recent grocery store trip, the shelves seemed bare. Cold cereal and milk it was, despite his craving for something more akin to Caden's sweet rolls—or scrambled eggs and biscuits.

Rose made the best biscuits, light and fluffy layers of heaven.

She'd left a recipe in her tin box. Next to the shortbread and pie crust cards.

He'd tried to make them. Once.

After she'd gotten sick.

He scratched his chin, covering his mouth and wishing the taste of strawberry preserves over oven-fresh biscuits wasn't on the tip of his tongue.

He slammed the stainless steel fridge door closed, but the rubber seal bounced, swinging it wide again.

“Jack? Are you okay?”

Whipping around at the sound of Marie's voice, he tried not to look too embarrassed. This was his home, after all. And if he missed his wife's biscuits, then he was entitled to slam a door.

But the concern deep in Marie's eyes couldn't be missed. Even her rosy cheeks and wind-tossed ponytail didn't detract from the very real unease.

Jack sagged against the counter next to the sink. “I'm fine.”

She nodded, but the creases in her forehead told him she wasn't quite convinced. What did she want him to say? That he missed Rose? True. That he had started thinking he'd made the biggest mistake of his life trying to open a bed-and-breakfast? Also true. That he couldn't stop as long as he remembered Rose?

He'd sat beside her hospital bed and promised her. He'd sworn that he'd find a home and open her inn on Prince Edward Island.

Failure wasn't an option.

But success was out of reach.

“I'm sorry, honey.” He and Rose had never had any kids, but somehow it seemed right to soothe her with kind words. “I didn't mean to upset you. I was just . . .”

“Are you worried about the money? I think I can help. I'm pretty good at putting together a business plan. And I can help with marketing.” When he shook his head and waved off her offer, she simply plowed forward. “And in the short term, you don't have to pay me. Really. I don't need it. I'm all right.” She looked away as she said the last words. She'd said them often in the three weeks he'd known her, but no matter how often she did, it was clear she wasn't all right.

Rose had dreamed and prayed for this old house. She'd prayed that the broken would find healing under its roof. Long before the house had an address or an image in their minds, she had petitioned God for a place of healing.

She'd have liked Marie. And Aretha too. Rose would have liked North Rustico in general.

The thought of her smiling and standing in this kitchen brought a grin to his face.

Ignoring Marie's words, he pulled a mug from an overhead cabinet and filled it with coffee. He held it out to her, but she shook her head. Taking a sip himself, he sighed. “Marie, I loved my Rose more than anyone else in this world. She was kind, and she always smelled like peppermints. And not just at Christmas. All year long. How do you think a body gets to smell like peppermint?”

Marie filled up a glass with tap water but stopped with it halfway to her mouth. “I'm not sure. Lotion maybe. Didn't you ever ask her?”

He squinted as he stared at the opposite wall, not really seeing the trim around the plant shelves above the cupboards. “I guess not.” He took another sip, the bitter liquid stinging the inside of his lip. “Sometimes a little mystery in life is good. It keeps you wondering. Keeps you thinking.”

“About what?”

“I don't know. Life. Dreams.”

She gulped down half of the water in her glass in one chug. “Jack, can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“You're opening the Red Door for Rose, right? Because it was her dream. It's what she wanted.”

He nodded slowly. The girl's question wasn't quite complete. “Yes.”

“I don't mean to be disrespectful, but I'm curious. What's
your
dream?”

Jack opened his mouth to tell her his dream was the inn too. But his trap snapped shut with sudden realization.

He didn't love the old walls or creaking floor. He didn't
care if the bathroom tile was white or taupe. And he couldn't pick an attractive paint color to save his life. Opening the inn wasn't
his
dream.

“Jack?”

He couldn't quite make the words come out of his mouth. He couldn't even pinpoint them in his mind.

The pathetic thunk of the doorbell saved him from having to answer. “Let me see who that is.” He scuttled to the front door and opened it with more energy than was required. Marie's friend from church, the one who made all those tasty sweet breads, stood on the porch, a white paper bag in her hands.

“Mr. Sloane. I'm Caden. Holt.”

He nodded, stepping aside to let her enter. “Marie's friend.”

“Yes, sir.” Her short blonde hair bounced around her round cheeks, and her pretty blue eyes glowed.

“Caden.” Marie slipped out of the kitchen, a complete opposite to her friend, petite and reserved where Caden was solid and bubbly. “I wasn't expecting you.”

Caden shot a tentative glance in his direction. “Mom and Aretha wanted to make sure you're eating well enough.” Her chuckle masked the uncertainty in her words.

Jack suffered from no such modesty. “So did they send us something to eat?”

She nodded, holding out her bag. He took it and poked his head inside. The perfume of heaven floated out. Fresh bread and tart apples. And something citrusy, like an orange grove in a bag. “What is this?”

“Um . . .” She peeked over the edge of the sack and pointed. “Those are orange scones with an orange cream
glaze. That's a loaf of raisin cinnamon bread. And those are apple turnovers.”

He nodded his approval and took another sniff. “Do I have to share?”

Caden's gaze leapt to Marie and back to him. “Only if you want happy employees.”

He shrugged. “They've been cranky before. I think I could handle that again if I can keep this all for myself.”

Her smile was all teeth and charm.

“What are you doing today?” Marie asked.

“I have the day off.” She opened her coat to reveal a bleach-stained T-shirt. “I thought I might be of some help.”

Marie twisted the screw in the back of a cupboard door until the handle popped off. Then she sanded around the edges of the hole, smoothing down the splinters.

“These are beautiful.” Caden stood next to the stainless steel double oven affixed to the wall. Her fingers brushed the metal handles with a reverence that Marie hadn't ever seen in a kitchen before.

She shrugged. “I guess. I never thought about it.”

“Try learning to cook in an oven older than you are that has a habit of burning both the tops and bottoms of your cakes.” She winked from behind an unruly swipe of blonde bangs. “You'll gain an appreciation for fine appliances. And Jack has very good taste.”

“Try never learning to cook at all.” Marie caught her thumb on a rough patch of wood and cringed, popping it into her mouth.

“Never?”

Staring at the tip of her finger until the redness subsided, Marie said, “Nope. We had a—umm, I guess I just never had to. And I didn't really want to either. But my mom's best friend Georgiana was an interior designer, and she took me under her wing when she worked on our house.” No need for Caden to know it had been their beach house.

Of course, most houses on the island were on the beach. But the Red Door Inn—although right off the bay—was just half the size of her father's place on the Cape and intended to house three times as many people.

Caden looked down at her empty hands. “I feel like I should be doing something. What can I do?”

“Well, I almost have the handles off the cabinets. Then we'll give them a quick sanding before we paint them. Do you want to sand the ones I've already done?”

“Sure.” She picked up a sheet of sandpaper and swiped it in a straight line down the front of a cupboard door. “Like this?”

Marie held up a flat palm facing away from her, making small circles in the air. “Make loose, round motions. You're not trying to smooth it out, just give it enough texture so the paint will stick to it.”

“Paint doesn't stick to stuff naturally? I mean, it doesn't seem to be sliding off the wall or anything.”

She waited to see if Caden was serious, so when the blonde turned, her eyebrows pulled together and a pleasant frown in place, Marie nodded slowly. “It does naturally stick to surfaces, but sometimes, if there's a glossy coat or smooth surface on the bottom, you have to give it a little extra something to grab on to.”

Caden followed her directions, the scratching stiff and
disjointed. “So you learned all of this from your mom's friend? Did you work for her?”

The loose metal handles and screws clanked together as she swept them off the counter into a baggie. “Not exactly.”

“An internship?”

“I loved design, so I took any excuse I could to spend time with Georgiana.” Marie looked up at the ceiling, searching for the right word. “It was probably more like stalking.”

Caden chuckled, then abruptly stopped as a fine cloud of dust reached her nose. Her sneeze rattled the cabinets, sending them both into a bout of laughter. After rubbing her nose, Caden said, “Did you go to university for design then?”

Marie pressed a hand to her chest as a dull ache settled in. Even after ten years, the memory stung of turning down the invitation to attend Parsons The New School for Design in New York. “No. My dad didn't think design was a prestigious enough career path.”

The words felt strange as they came out. Like she'd never said them before. Maybe she hadn't. She'd sure thought it enough times, but no one disagreed with Elliot Carrington, especially not his only child.

“Really?”

“Really.” She sighed, the memories close, the regrets closer. She hadn't stood up to her dad then. In fact, she'd only stood up to him once. Well, running to PEI just to get away from him wasn't exactly standing up to him. But at least she hadn't become his pawn.

Caden's sanding slowed as she turned to stare over her shoulder at Marie. “So did you go to university?”

“Sure. I went into the family business.”

“I didn't know your family had a business. What is it?”

Money.

Well, that wasn't exactly a business. But her father was an expert at making money. Investing in property, building condos, and leveraging assets. He'd leverage anything he could to make a sweet million.

She pinched her eyes closed against the image of her dad's face on that morning in early January. After a week in hiding, a week trying to scrub the filth off her skin, she'd emerged from her suite. He'd acted bored with her, telling her she was overly dramatic. Of course, she wouldn't go to the police right that minute. She'd wait until the right time.

He put his foot down, and she let him. She stayed away from the truth because it hurt just to think about it. Because every breath in Boston was like sucking air through plastic. Because she was sure she was truly alone for the first time in her life.

After her mother died and her father—jealous of Georgiana's influence on Marie—told Georgiana she wasn't welcome in the Carrington home, Marie had clung to her mother's last words of hope. She'd spoken with such conviction of a God who cared for his children.

But how could a good God, a loving Father, leave her to the devices of a man who would barter her pain for a deal on the property he wanted?