Dana Mentink - Return to Pelican Inn

Rosa sighed. Cy was a kind of decorating history savant. He’d been completely obsessed with clocks ever since he’d read that Thomas Jefferson designed the Great Clock in the front hall of his Monticello mansion.

“All right,” she said, hiding a smile. “But if you come back with a clock connected to a Chinese gong that chimes the half hour...”

“Jefferson’s clock chimed on the hour, not the half,” he fired back. “Did you know that gong rang loudly enough for field hands to hear it three miles away?”

“Yes, Cy. You mentioned that a time or two.” She grabbed her keys. “I’ll drop you on my way to the magazine, but remember we’ve only got five thousand for the whole place.”

“Caviar decorating on a bologna and cheese budget. I got it.”

She shot a glance into the backyard as they left. No chicken sounds, but no sign of Pike, either. She wondered how he’d squeezed his strapping six-foot-three frame into the coop.

Shaking off thoughts of Pike, she headed for the parking lot.

* * *

AFTER CY PRACTICALLY leaped from the moving car at the entrance to the estate sale, Rosa drove down Highway One, once again drinking in the vast ocean and the wheeling scores of seagulls and terns. If she hadn’t been on her way to a meeting, she would have pulled the elastic from her ponytail and let the glorious wind have its way. Instead, she kept her speed steady and professionalism intact as she made her way to the Great Escapes headquarters in Cliffside, some twelve miles north of Tumbledown. Once there, she was ushered into the neat but ordinary office of Wanda Elliot, coordinator of the contest.

The fiftysomething redhead looked ill at ease, despite her snappy charcoal suit. Rosa attributed Wanda’s discomfort to the bland eggshell paint and prosaic print on the wall. She found herself daydreaming about what the space would look like with a woven area rug and a handful of bright, odd-sized pillows tossed artfully about on the corner chairs.

Wanda sat at her desk, tapping a pencil on the glass top. “So, we’ve spelled it all out for you, the terms of the contest. If we could just have your paperwork.” She thrust out a hand and snatched the papers Rosa provided.

“I still can’t believe we were chosen to participate.”

“I’m sure. Is there anything else?” There was a small tic underneath Wanda’s eye.

“We’re just happy and thrilled,” Rosa said, raising her charm quotient with a cheerful smile. “Bitsy mentioned that she knew you.”

“Me? No. Well, yes. I mean, we’ve probably met a time or two. That’s natural, isn’t it?” Wanda’s blue eyes widened. “That a travel magazine editor and an innkeeper would meet?”

“She said she met you when she brought in pictures of the Pelican along with a history of the inn.”

Wanda looked relieved. “Ah, yes. Excellent write-up, as a matter of fact. Her nephew helped.”

Rosa jerked. “Her nephew?”

“Yes, good-looking man.” Wanda sighed, a wistful look stealing across her face. “That little dimple in his chin. If they could just figure out how to surgically implant those in all men.”

Rosa leaned forward, trying to catch Wanda’s eye. “Pike helped her prepare the materials for the contest?”

Wanda nodded, chewing a fingernail. “Yes. Dreamy brown eyes, too. Like fudge.”

Now it was Rosa’s turn to tap the desk. The noise seemed to rouse Wanda from her Pike-induced stupor. “That’s funny,” Rosa said. “I spoke to Pike right before I came here, and he gave me the distinct impression he wasn’t in favor of the contest.”

Wanda nodded. “Yes, I got that sense, too. He’s probably just going along with Bitsy to make her happy. Men always want to give Bitsy whatever she wants. Pike seems like he’d be that type of nephew. Loyal...kind...” She sighed again. “Strong.”

Rosa resisted the urge to shake Wanda by the shoulders. “But why would he be against the contest?” she asked firmly. “It can’t do anything but help Bitsy’s business...or the next owner’s, if she decides to sell someday.”

Wanda blinked. “He doesn’t want to help the business.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard him talking to Bitsy while they were here. He thinks she should give up the inn right now.”

“Give it up?”

“You know, sell it. A prime piece of seaside property like that would fetch a small fortune, and let’s face it, Bitsy is getting a little long in the tooth to be an innkeeper, though she fancies she’s the mayor of Tumbledown or something.” Wanda added, “Or so I’ve heard.”

Rosa’s eyes narrowed. And a nice piece of that “small fortune” would go to her faithful nephew and lawyer. Her father had been right about Pike. She thanked Wanda and made for the door.

“If you see Pike, tell him I said hello,” Wanda called.

Rosa offered a tight smile. “Oh, Pike and I are going to have a long conversation as soon as he finishes canoodling with the chickens.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Thank you, Ms. Elliot.”

Rosa returned to the parking lot, put the car into gear and stepped on the gas.

It was time to get started and show lawyer Pike that decorator Rosa was ready for a throwdown.

CHAPTER THREE

ROSA ALTERNATELY PUZZLED and fumed all the way back to Tumbledown.

Cy was not at the appointed meeting place outside the estate sale. Since her brother wore no watch and paid scant attention to his cell phone when in the throes of an antique hunt, there was nothing to be done but track him down on foot. She stepped out of the car and trudged through a trellis laden with clematis and into a well-appointed Tudor-style home filled with customers and eager sale attendants.

She found Cy in the living room, a wall sconce in each hand, standing like the figurehead from some strange pirate ship.

An old lady with startling bluish hair arranged in perfect springy curls tried to snatch them out of his grip.

“I got them first,” she said.

The normally unflappable Cy yanked back. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But these are mine. I found them, and I’ve got an inn to refurbish.”

She glowered up at him. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a store to fill and original sconces will sell.”

“They’re reproductions.”

The old lady glared as if he’d sworn at her. “Liar. They’re Colonial Revival, circa 1920.”

Cy glared back, though he had to bend down to look the ferocious female in the eyes. “Circa 1925.” He drew out the last word into the full measure of syllables. “Reeeproductionssssss.”

Her face twisted into a deeper scowl. “Aged brass.”

Cy drew himself up to his full six feet. “Cast metal.”

She fell back slightly, a flicker of uncertainty on her wrinkled face, and Cy went in for the kill. Leaning close, he delivered the coup de grace. “Polychrome finish.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I think I know you. Did you go to school here?”

Cy nodded, snapping his fingers. “You’re Miss Flaubert, the freshman English teacher.”

“Retired teacher,” she said sharply. “And you’re Cy Franco, C-minus student who wrote an essay about promoting nudist beaches here in Tumbledown.”

Rosa felt her cheeks warm.

Cy laughed. “Yep, that was me. Awesome that you remember my paper after all these years.”

Miss Flaubert’s gaze found Rosa and shifted back to Cy. “You two were memorable, all right.” With a sniff, she stalked off, muttering angry words under her breath.

Cy spotted Rosa and waved the sconces. “I had to fight the English teacher for ’em.”

“So I heard.” She risked a look around to see if anyone else had taken note of the exchange, but no one appeared at all interested. “Ready to go?”