Patricia Coughlin - Tall, Dark And Difficult

“Like it?” She sighed. “I love it. And the furniture…don’t get me started.”

“Didn’t plan to.”

“That yellow brocade settee in the hall,” she continued, her expression dreamy.

“The low one with the spiky arms? Have you ever tried actually sitting on that thing?”

“Once,” she told him, grinning. “I felt like a princess. But my absolute favorite piece is the hand-carved cherry-wood cabinet in the sitting room…the one with all the Bavarian china and the ivory figurines. The first time I saw it, I just stared in absolute, dumbstruck wonder.”

He nodded. “I’ve stared that way at a lot of Devora’s stuff.”

“She had an amazing eye. Did you know the glass sides of that cabinet are a J-curve?”

“I had no idea. Is that good?”

“Good and bad. Good because it’s so rare and because it’s refractive quality is so much greater than a standard curve. Bad because it’s so rare and costs a fortune to replace should it be broken.”

“Sort of like ‘damned if you do, damned if you don’t.’ Which is something I definitely understand.”

“I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“Very. When we found out that Devora had left the house to her ‘hotshot nephew from California,’ as you were sometimes referred to, some folks around here, including me,” she confessed with a rueful smile, “were worried you would sell to an outside developer. Do you have any idea how much a house that size, with that much water frontage and a view that would make a sailor weep, is worth on today’s market?”

“Some,” he murmured.

“What am I saying? Of course you know what it’s worth. But much more important, you obviously understand that the true value of a person’s home cannot be measured in dollars and cents. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have kept it in the family, and Wickford would have one more commercial enterprise to contend with.”

“Pardon me for saying so, but isn’t this a commercial enterprise?” He indicated the shop.

“I suppose it is, if you want to get technical. I prefer to think of it as a labor of love.” She grinned unabashedly. “Besides, as a New Englander born and bred, I have a geographical obligation to be cantankerous and irrational when it comes to outsiders.”

“Let me guess,” he said dryly. “Outsiders would be anyone whose local roots don’t stretch back for at least three generations?”

“Exactly. But since your roots are impeccable, things couldn’t have worked out better.” A sudden thought caused her mouth to pucker. “You are planning to live in the house, aren’t you? I mean, that is why you’re here?”

Those dangerously blue eyes met hers, and Rose got the distinct impression that Hollis Griffin didn’t like being asked personal questions. Not that the question struck her as overly personal—but then, she warmed up to strangers quickly enough to turn a chance encounter in a dentist’s waiting room into a lifelong friendship. She had a hunch that Griff took a while longer to thaw.

“My long-range plans aren’t firm yet,” he said finally, “but I sold my condo in California and last week I moved everything I own into Devora’s place.”

“Last week?” she echoed, surprised. “I never even noticed.”

“No reason you should have. It wasn’t much of a move. Just a couple of suitcases and a TV.” He shrugged. “I got rid of everything else.”

“That’s great,” she told him.

He gave her a puzzled look. “It is?”

“Sure. There’s nothing as exciting as a completely fresh start—new town, new neighbors… Speaking of which, I live in that little cottage just beyond your yard. Weathered gray shingles, white shutters.”

“Pink door?”

“Actually, the color is Sun-Kissed Rose—but yes, that’s me. At this time of year the trees and shrubbery provide a buffer, but come fall we’ll have a clear view of each other.”

He said nothing.

“Apparently no one else noticed your arrival, either, or the news would have spread like wildfire. You know what they say about small towns.”

“Yes, unfortunately. I tend to keep to myself.”

“You can try, but be warned, Fairfield House is as much a local treasure as Devora was. Folks are bound to be curious about its new owner.” Her smile was meant to be reassuring. “Look on the bright side—we’re nosy but friendly. If there’s anything I can do to help you get settled, just give a shout. I know nearly everyone in Wickford, along with their hidden talents and who has what available to rent or borrow. Whatever you might need—butcher, baker, candlesticks and caviar for twelve,” she said, ticking the items off on her fingers, “or just someone to haul away trash—I can hook you up.”

He gave a faint, undecipherable smile. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Probably because you’ve seen me in action,” she countered with the ease of a woman who has taken a good hard look at herself and decided to play the hand she was dealt rather than waste time trying to turn three of a kind into a royal flush. “After all, I’ve been standing here talking your ear off without giving you a chance to tell me why you were looking for me in the first place.”

Her expectant silence was met with another of those cool, shuttered stares.

“I…” He hesitated. “My aunt mentioned you once, and I thought that as long as I was back in town, it would be…uh, interesting to look up some of her old friends and say hello.”

He was lonely, she realized. Lonely and looking for some way to connect through the only person he had known in town, Devora. Rose’s heart went out to him as if he were a stray kitten, huddled on her doorstep in the middle of a storm. If she could have picked him up in her arms and cuddled him, she would have. However, since practically speaking he resembled a tomcat more than a kitten, she quelled the impulse and instead offered him her brightest, most encouraging smile.

“How sweet of you.”

He blushed, which struck her as sweeter still.

“I’m very glad you dropped in,” she told him. Then, with laughter in her voice, she added, “Though from your initial reaction, I suspect I wasn’t quite the sort of ‘old’ friend of Devora’s you expected to find.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’ve been just one surprise after another, Miss Davenport.”

“Rose.”

“Rose.”

“I know what I’m going to do,” she said suddenly.

“What?” He looked vaguely uneasy.

“I’m going to throw a party in honor of your arrival.”

Now he really looked uneasy. Shy, thought Rose, surprised a second time. Shyness didn’t fit with his outward appearance. Or with her first impression of him, she realized, ashamed of herself. Maryann was right. She was so gun-shy around certain men that she never gave them a chance. She would work on it, she decided, and she would begin by making up for her rush to judgment by heralding Hollis Griffin’s move to town in style.

“A party is…out of the question,” he said.

“Nonsense, it’s the least I can do for Devora’s favorite nephew.”

“I was her only nephew.”

“All the more reason to make you feel welcome.”

“I don’t want you to go to any trouble on my account.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him. “You’re actually doing me a favor by providing me with an excuse to throw a party between the Fourth of July and Labor Day, a period with a notable dearth of occasions to celebrate.”

“I am not an occasion.”

“Of course not, but your arrival in Wickford is. It’s also all the excuse I need. Ask anyone—I am a party planner extraordinaire.”

“I’m sure you are. But as luck would have it, I am a lousy guest of honor.”