Helen Brenna - Redemption at Mirabelle

What the hell could she say to that without sounding bitter and petty? Maybe her problems were nothing in the grand scheme of things. His problems, on the other hand, involved the lives of children and the death of their mother, his wife, and he seemed to take it all in stride.

Or did he?

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “But it’s one thing to put life with all its ups and downs in perspective. It’s quite another to deny that bad things even happened in the first place. Which one have you done with your life, Adam?”

Silently, he held her gaze.

She stood and headed for her house. “Thanks for the beer.”

MARIN WOKE AT THE CRACK of dawn her first morning on Mirabelle and glanced at the clock. By this time back in Manhattan she’d have already read the Wall Street Journal while working out on her elliptical, showered and dressed, eaten breakfast, had three cups of coffee and caught up on email, phone messages and the up-to-the-minute financial news on CNBC.

How many times over the years had she intently watched those news reports waiting for changes in the Federal Reserve’s monetary policy? Then there were statistics on new home sales and jobless claims, along with the CPI, PPI and GDP. Any minute now the unemployment figures from last month were due to be released and every person on Wall Street was anticipating their next move in the financial markets.

Not your concern any longer, Mar.

She snuggled under the covers, closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. Instantly, the memory of how Adam Harding had looked in the moonlight last night flashed through her mind and her body came fully awake. Had she really been so frank with him as to suggest he was in denial? Yes, but then hadn’t he suggested she was nothing more than a drama queen? The man had balls, she’d give him that. After shifting from one side to the other, flopping onto her back and then onto her stomach, she realized more sleep was simply not on her horizon.

She hopped out of bed and grabbed her cell phone to find Colin had already called twice this morning. Too bad. After shutting off her phone, she went downstairs to find her mother already up and sipping a cup of coffee in the kitchen, the patio door open to the sounds of chirping birds. “Morning, Mom.”

“Good morning.” She glanced at Marin. “Sleep well?”

“Actually, very.” Marin poured herself a cup of coffee and noticed the sun rising over Lake Superior. A thin strip of hazy clouds obstructed an otherwise clear sky and in the distance she could just make out the shape of some kind of huge cargo ship heading, no doubt, to the port of Duluth.

“Isn’t the view stunning?” her mother murmured.

“Yeah.” Marin took a sip of coffee. Curious about those unemployment figures, she reached to turn on the small TV on the kitchen counter.

“Don’t you dare turn that on.”

“Why not?”

“The last thing I want to hear over the sweet chirping of chickadees and cardinals is the drone of CNBC.” Marin laughed.

“Sit down and relax.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Marin—”

“I’m going to work out.” Figuring there wasn’t a gym on Mirabelle, she put on her running gear. A glass of water and a yogurt later and she was outside stretching in preparation for a run. It was a gorgeous morning. Crisp, cool and she simply could not get over how clean the air smelled. She was bent down touching the sidewalk with her fingertips when the front door of the Harding house opened and Adam came outside.

Dressed in khakis and striped polo shirt, he looked cool and composed. Except for the fact that his still damp hair hung haphazardly over his forehead. “Morning,” he said, a travel mug in one hand and a roll of what looked like some kind of building designs under his arm.

“Hi.”

“You run every day?”

“No, I have an elliptical at home and a gym membership. Running’s my stopgap.”

He smiled and headed toward the street. “Do a few sit-ups for me, okay?”

From what she could tell, the man got enough of a work-out on the job. Sit-ups didn’t appear to be the least bit necessary. “Will do,” she said, in any case, as she headed toward the street. “Who’s taking care of your kids?”

“My assistant, Phyllis. For now, anyway.” He hit the boardwalk at about the same time as did she. “Hey, and about last night,” he said. “Sorry about what I said. I had no right to make light of what you’re going through.”

“No worries. Besides, I’m the one who should apologize. I was pretty blunt back at you.”

“You live your life. I’ll live mine.” His cell phone rang. “I have to answer this. Have a good run.” Without taking his eyes off her, he answered the call.

As she took off down the canopied residential street, a breeze came toward her bringing along with it the scent of a man’s spicy aftershave. Damn, but that man smelled good. Was it wrong for her to want to turn around and bury her face in his neck? She almost stopped and turned, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that he just might still be watching her.

“WHY HAVEN’T YOU STARTED doing anything yet?”

“Where are all these crews you promised us?”

“Start construction already, would ya?”

Adam sat at a table at the front of a large room in the community center, letting the islanders spill their guts for several long and drawn-out minutes. Several members of Mirabelle’s city council were sitting alongside him, trying to keep the audience calm. On Adam’s right were Carl Andersen, mayor and owner of the Rock Pointe Lodge, the largest resort on the island, and Garrett Taylor, the island police chief. Sarah Taylor, Garrett’s sister-in-law and island wedding planner, and Marty Rousseau, manager of the Mirabelle Island Inn, were off to the left.

Carl, Marty and, to a lesser degree, Sarah, had been on board with Adam and his company from the initial phone call Carl had put in to Adam’s company asking for a bid. Garrett, on the other hand, was still skeptical about working with one general contractor.

While Adam would’ve preferred not holding these meetings at all, he’d learned the hard way over the years that he could either face everyone at once at a time of his own choosing, or he could deal with them one at a time over the phone. Day in and day out.

Questions came at Adam like rifle fire, but he was used to this kind of reaction, at least initially. It had been the same in each and every community he’d rebuilt, especially at the beginning of every job. Everyone in this filled-to-capacity room was worried. Everyone was impatient. Everyone wanted his or her house repaired, street fixed or business up and running first. They wanted their lives back as quickly as possible and it was hard to fault any of them for being human.

“All right. All right.” Adam finally stood and held up both hands. He connected eye-to-eye with as many individuals in the room as possible. His gaze caught with Missy Abel’s and he found himself unaccountably searching for her sister, Marin. As he recalled her fresh, energetic appearance in running gear at the start of this very long and drawn out day, he forgot what he’d been saying, and everyone in the room stared at him expectantly.

Oh, right. Questions.

“One person at a time, so I can hear you,” he continued. “I will answer questions until every person in this room is completely satisfied. I promise.”

Hands flew into the air.

Adam made it a point to memorize as many names as he could prior to starting every job. If there was one thing that helped people in these situations feel better, it was being treated like a person as opposed to a number. He pointed first at an older man in the front row who owned buildings on Main Street that had gotten hit head-on in the storm. “Ron Setterberg, correct?”