Kathryn Springer - A Place to Call Home

“Another chance.” The pale gray eyes lit with sudden understanding.

“It seemed to fit.” Abby ruffled one of Mulligan’s floppy ears. “And I happen to think everyone deserves a second one, don’t you?”

Quinn didn’t answer. Because Abby Porter’s megawatt smile had momentarily short-circuited the hardware in his brain.

He knew her.

No, Quinn silently corrected the thought. He’d seen her before. On billboards strategically placed around the city of Chicago. Wearing black velvet and pearls. The reigning princess of Porter Hotels.

Only this princess looked different. And not only because of her smile. Honey-blond hair, caught in a casual knot at the base of her neck, accentuated delicate features dominated by a pair of eyes that were silver-green like an aspen leaf.

Instead of black velvet, she wore figure-hugging jeans, a paint-splattered T-shirt and a pair of sandals decorated with the gaudiest plastic daisies he’d ever seen.

But looks could be deceiving. He’d learned that the hard way. As far as Quinn was concerned, a diva in blue jeans was still a diva. Before she’d been aware of his arrival, he’d caught a glimpse of her reclining on the chaise longue with a book propped in her lap. Obviously she was so motivated to get the inn ready for her grand opening that she was taking a break before the day had barely started.

Quinn steeled himself against her smile, unnerved that it had had such an effect on him.

“Do you think you can spare a few minutes to give me a tour of the place?” He leveled a pointed gaze at the chaise longue.

“Of course.” Abby’s smile faded.

Quinn wasn’t quite prepared for the direct hit to his conscience. If he’d forgotten the reason he’d changed his professional focus from providing security to buildings instead of people, a few seconds in Abby Porter’s company had brought it crashing back. Buildings were easy to figure out. People, not so much.

They fell into step together, and Abby switched into tour guide mode.

“The main lodge started out as a private vacation retreat for a wealthy family, but eventually they donated it to a local church.” She gestured toward the sprawling two-story split-log home that Quinn had passed on his way to the gazebo. “The congregation built five additional cabins on the water and turned it into a retreat center and Bible camp. Eventually, though, they couldn’t keep up with the larger, more modern camps and had to turn it over to the bank.”

Quinn could empathize. He knew all too well what it felt like to struggle to keep a business afloat.

“After that,” Abby went on, “it ended up in the hands of a developer. He planned to replace the lodge with condos but later realized it wouldn’t appeal to tourists who wanted a full recreation lake…and easier access to civilization. Most of the people who come back to Mirror Lake think of it as a second home rather than a vacation spot. They appreciate the slower pace.”

“That’s why you chose to turn the place into a bed-and-breakfast rather than a resort,” Quinn guessed. “It will attract the type of clientele looking for peace and quiet.”

Abby gave him an approving look. “It sat empty for almost five years until my Realtor happened to mention it a few months after I started looking. Believe it or not, I had to beg her to show it to me.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “But the first time I saw it, I knew it was perfect.”

Quinn looked over at the lake, as clear and smooth as window glass, beyond a stand of towering white pines. He’d moved to Chicago after his tour of duty because he’d been ready to take on the world. Ready for a fresh start where no one knew the name O’Halloran. The energy and pace of the city had matched his lifestyle. Or so he’d thought. Until he moved back to Mirror Lake.

That first night Quinn spent in his childhood home, temperatures had dipped into the forties, but he’d crawled out the window of his old bedroom and sat on the roof.

He’d forgotten what it felt like to see the stars at night. To drive for miles without seeing a single house or apartment complex. Quinn may not have wanted to return to the town where he’d grown up but he hadn’t expected to feel a tug on his soul, as if he were still connected to it. Especially when his memories of the place weren’t exactly the Hallmark kind.

Sensing that Abby was waiting for a response, Quinn’s gaze moved from the lodge to the weathered cabins strung like wooden beads along the shoreline. Work, work and more work. But he was reluctant to strip the sparkle from Abby’s eyes. Again.

“It’s got potential,” he heard himself say.

Abby turned and smiled up at him. “I think so, too.”

Once again, Quinn wasn’t prepared for the force of Abby’s smile.

Focus, O’Halloran.

“What time does the rest of the crew usually get here?”

Abby shot him a puzzled look. “The rest of the crew?”

“The work crew,” Quinn clarified.

Abby’s low laugh went straight through him. “Now that Daniel is gone, you’re looking at it.”

She couldn’t be serious. “You and Daniel have been doing everything yourselves?”

“That’s right.” Abby reached down to fondle Mulligan’s ears. “I hired some teenagers to do some painting, but they have other jobs so they’re only available on the weekend.” She skipped up the wide plank steps and opened the front door. “I moved in at the beginning of June and started working on the main house right away. It was in fair condition but I’m still in the process of…”

The rest of the words dissolved in Quinn’s ears as he stepped through the doorway into the great room.

The place was a wreck.

Fair condition, Abby had said. The grand opening was a month away but Quinn saw three months of hard labor. At least.

No wonder her Realtor had tried to discourage her from purchasing the property and her brother had had a fit.

Quinn didn’t have to be a professional carpenter to see that the hardwood floors needed to be varnished, the walls painted and another coat of stain applied to the tongue-and-groove pine ceiling.

Abby tilted her head and a strand of sun-streaked blond hair molded itself to the curve of her cheek. “So, what do you think?”

“Wow.” That about covered it.

Abby grinned. “I’ll show you the kitchen.”

Can’t wait, Quinn thought.

He followed her, silently adding projects to the list with every step. New baseboards. New trim. New light fixtures.

It didn’t make sense. Abby Porter was an heiress. She had the resources to level the entire place and have it rebuilt in a week. So why was she doing the bulk of the work herself?

“The kitchen is original to the lodge when it was built in the 1940s, so it has a lot of vintage charm.” Abby paused in the doorway.

Vintage charm. A Realtor’s term for gold linoleum and chrome-trimmed Formica countertops.

He stepped past her, bracing himself for what was behind door number one.

“Your eyes are closed,” Abby said.

So they were. Quinn opened them. “They’re adjusting to the change in light.”

He had to look. No getting around it.

Relief crashed over him when he stepped into a room that could have been featured in a home decorating magazine. Given the fact the place was going to be a bed-and-breakfast, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Abby had devoted most of her time and effort to the kitchen.

She’d stayed true to the time period by keeping the original glass-front cupboards and painting the bead board walls a sunny shade of yellow. Old-fashioned dish towels had been recycled into valances.

The marble-topped island in the center of the kitchen blended seamlessly with the vintage decor but the granite sink and gleaming stainless steel appliances were definitely modern, state-of-the-art tools for the serious cook.