Cynthia Thomason - The Women of Bayberry Cove

“Hi there,” she said, flashing the man a sincere smile. “Can you tell me where I might find Pintail Point, the home of Jamie Malone?”

He looked her up and down with appreciative scrutiny, murmured directions and gestured into the distance with a gnarled finger.

Louise thanked him and headed out of town to a two-lane road he’d identified as Sandy Ridge. She turned right and in three miles spotted the causeway that would lead her to where Vicki lived with her husband.

The tires crunched on loose gravel as she drove across the narrow spit of land. Dust settled on the wax on her car. When she parked at the end of the point, she got out and walked toward a neat little houseboat with geraniums in the window boxes. She heard a welcoming squeal before she actually saw her best friend.

“Oh, my God, you actually came!” Vicki crossed the wooden bridge from the boat and ran toward Louise.

“It’s me,” Louise stated unnecessarily. “Now slow down or you’ll pop that baby out four months ahead of schedule.”

Vicki threw herself into Louise’s arms. “Don’t worry about him. He—or she—is as protected as the gold in Fort Knox, and not going anywhere.” Keeping her hands on Louise’s shoulders, Vicki stepped back and fired questions. “How was your trip? How long can you stay?” She darted a glance over her shoulder where her husband, the totally gorgeous and charmingly Irish Jamie Malone, was approaching at a leisurely pace with his odd-looking dog beside him.

“Cover your ears, Beasley,” Jamie said to the dog. “All this squealin’ and squawkin’ is typical womenfolk jabber.”

He placed his hands on his hips and grinned at Louise. “Well, well, Miz Lady Attorney. Fancy seeing you on Pintail Point.”

She sent him a smug look. They’d had their disagreements in the past, especially about the divorce Vicki had claimed she wanted from the virtual stranger she’d married thirteen years before when he’d needed a green card and she’d needed money. Thinking she was doing her friend a favor, Louise had had the mysterious Mr. Malone investigated and subtly intimidated—until Vicki had fallen head over heels in love with him and shredded the divorce papers once and for all.

Louise took a step toward him. “Come on, Jamie. I know you’re glad to see me.” She angled her cheek toward his face. “Give us a wee kiss now.”

He laughed and obliged her.

“So this is the love nest?” she said, walking to the boat. “The famous Bucket O’ Luck I’ve heard so much about.”

“This is it,” Vicki said, keeping pace with her. She stopped and pointed across Currituck Sound to a hill rising next to Sandy Ridge Road. “And that’s going to take her place in a few months when it’s finished.”

A partially completed house crested the hill, its bare timbers rising toward the afternoon sun. “Very nice.”

“It will be. But for now, it’s the Bucket or nothing.” She opened the door and waited for Louise to precede her inside. “So talk, Lulu. What’s the real reason you’re here? You were very vague on the phone. I never thought you’d come.”

Like the true friend she was, Vicki listened to Louise’s tale and sighed at the injustice of it. “What are you going to do now?” she asked when Louise finished her story.

“Well, this looks like a nice place,” Louise said. “I’ll probably stay here for a while. Maybe Oppenheimer is right. Maybe I do need some downtime.”

Vicki shot a glance in Jamie’s direction. He hunched his shoulder in male confusion. Louise laughed. “I don’t mean here here,” she said. “I’m not moving in with you, for heaven’s sake. I meant here in Bayberry Cove.”

Relief washed over both faces. “Oh, well…” Vicki said. “If our house was ready, there’d be no problem, but we only have one bedroom on the Bucket and…”

Louise waved her hand to dismiss her friend’s concern. “Enough, Vic. I don’t want to stay with you two any more than you want me to. Just direct me to a motel. Anything in town will do.”

Vicki shook her head. “That’s a problem.”

“Why?”

“There are no places to stay in Bayberry Cove.”

“What? Nothing?”

“Nope.” Vicki looked to Jamie for a suggestion.

He thought a moment and finally said, “There’s always Buttercup Cottage. I could ask Haywood if he’d rent it.”

“There you go,” Louise said. “Of course, I’ve never churned butter or made my own candles….”

Vicki laughed. “It’s not like that. It has indoor plumbing and electricity.”

“Good. Show me the dotted line I sign on.”

“You’ll have to talk to Haywood Fletcher,” Jamie said. “His family owns the place. I think you probably recognize his name.”

Louise winced. “How could I forget the attorney who claimed he’d found flaws in that perfectly executed divorce decree I wrote for Vicki?”

Jamie laughed. “Don’t blame Haywood for that. It was a stall tactic I used to buy time until Vicki admitted she loved me. Haywood will treat you fairly, but there might be one problem.”

“What now?”

“My mother used to work for Haywood. She told me that his son is coming home sometime soon. He’s a semi-retired commander from the navy, and there’s a chance he might want to move into the cottage.”

Vicki groaned. “Oh, no. That place would be perfect for you, Lulu. When is Wesley due to arrive?” she asked Jamie.

“Ma didn’t say. Probably not for a while. And anyway, he’ll most likely stay at the mansion in town with his father.”

“So, where is this cottage?” Louise asked. “I’m going to check it out so I know it’s worth grappling with the town’s only attorney over a lease agreement.”

“That’s the best part,” Vicki said. “It’s right next to us, just a mile farther down Sandy Ridge. You can’t miss it. It’s stained a delightful color, like—”

“Don’t tell me,” Louise said. “Buttercups.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Louise drove onto the pebble driveway of Buttercup Cottage. Besides the identifying color, a wooden placard above the front door confirmed that she was at the right place.

She stopped in front of the entrance and got out of her car. “This looks fine,” she said, imagining the hypnotic effect of raindrops on the sloping tin roof, lightning bugs twinkling outside the double casement windows. The sound of waves lapping the shoreline behind the house reminded her that she was only steps away from the protected bay.

Louise walked around the side of the house. “I suppose I could look through the windows. No one’s living here now.”

She peered into a bedroom. A double bed covered by a bright quilt looked cozy. The ceiling fan, dormant now, would stir up a nice breeze on warm evenings.

The next window provided a view of a compact bathroom with a porcelain vanity under a small medicine cabinet. “Adequate,” she said, and proceeded to the back of the house.

Pleased to see that the rear door had a window in the upper half, she walked up to get a look at what was no doubt the kitchen. She was just leaning into the glass when a man appeared in her view, and the door swung open. Louise jumped back a step, but not far enough. Without warning, she was doused from chest to ankles with the grimy contents of a large pan.

She hollered, swore a little and shook her hands free of water mixed with unidentified substances. Then she watched in horror as rivers of rust permeated her new white capris. She stared at the open door where a man in a cap emblazoned with a gold insignia stood with the now-empty pan dangling from his hands. Plucking her halter away from her chest, she glared into bright aqua eyes and snapped, “Look what you’ve done.”