Nadia Nichols - Sharing Spaces

Since then, he’d made brief but frequent references to Senna, which Jack had strung together into this general assessment: She makes her living planning other people’s weddings. Got her degree in wildlife biology, wrote a brilliant paper on the Yellowstone wolf pack and landed a good job with the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife, but couldn’t hack the politics. Couldn’t compromise what she knew to be right with what would keep her employed. She’s too brash, doesn’t know when to pull her horns in. Was let go for stirring up all kinds of controversy and bucking the big hunting lobby over the snaring of coyotes and the baiting of bears with stale doughnuts. Spunky. She made the front page of the paper at a big legislative hearing in Augusta. Shortly after that she was conveniently laid off. Her mother’s sister owns a country inn on the Maine coast, and her aunt gave her a job there, so now she’s nothing but a wedding planner.

A wedding planner was someone who dealt with weepy, emotional brides, bossy overbearing mothers and grooms who didn’t realize what the hell they were getting into. Queasy. Jack couldn’t imagine a more insipid career, and knew from listening to the admiral talk that he wouldn’t like his granddaughter at all. He hoped she never showed up in Labrador.

“She doesn’t give a hoot about me,” the admiral alleged not a week before his death, puffing on his pipe with a contemplative gaze, “and that’s not her fault. I was never a very warm and friendly grandfather. I didn’t know how to be. And after her father died I didn’t visit them anymore. Senna’s mother never liked me much, nor did the boys. It was easier to stay away. I doubt Senna will come to Labrador when I die. But I’ve made it all nice and legal. Did it yesterday, in Goose Bay, with Granville. Just so you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Wish you’d quit calling me that, son,” the admiral said in a quiet voice, gazing out at the dogs.

“Yes, sir.”

“She won’t come.”

Jack stood, holding the five-gallon pail and the dog-food scoop. “She’ll come.”

The old man shook his head. “Not in a million years.”

“Bet you a thousand bucks she shows up.”

McCallum’s eyes flickered momentarily with that old fighting man’s gleam. “You’re on, but you’ll lose,” he said, extending his hand to seal the pact. “Give my winnings to Goody Stewart. She needs the money more than you do, and she’s a damn fine woman.”

“You should’ve married her,” Jack said.

The admiral turned away with a shake of his head, shoulders bowed beneath the weight of the years and the pain that had beaten him in the end. “I’ve never been able to make any woman happy. Goody deserves to be happy.”

But Goody wasn’t going to get the admiral’s money, not that there was any to give, because Jack was at this very moment looking into a pair of angry eyes—gray, pale blue?—that belonged to the admiral’s granddaughter.

He struggled up onto his elbows, trying to focus his eyes. Not easy, after the past few days. Damn hard, in fact. Better just to go back to sleep. Sleep it off. Sleep off everything, but she was right in his face, pointing her finger, waving a frying pan, and threatening to bring in the Mounties. Sergeant Preston and all that. He squinted and blinked. She was wearing a dark conservative skirt suit that showed off a pair of the shapeliest legs he’d seen in a dog’s age.

He rubbed a hand over his face and wished she’d shut up before his head exploded. There was nothing like a good old-fashioned Irish wake to bring out the best and the worst in a bottle of booze.

She should be planning her own wedding. That’s what the admiral had told him about his granddaughter. “She deserves to be barefoot and in the kitchen if planning weddings is all she aspires to.” The admiral had set very high standards, and woe to the granddaughter who lowered the bar, intentionally or not.

“Or not,” Jack muttered, interrupting Senna McCallum’s diatribe about how she was here to settle the admiral’s estate and had no intentions of playing cook and housekeeper to a hungover heathen who couldn’t even sit up in bed. He was pleased that his words had startled her into momentary silence, giving him another chance to eye those slender, feminine legs.

“Or not what?” she said, spine stiffening, frying pan lowering a bit. Her hair was gorgeous, the rich gloss of mahogany framing an equally beautiful and expressive face that just now was scowling on the stern side, but he bet that when she smiled her radiance would shame the sun. And damn, those legs of hers would rival any high-paid model’s…

“You didn’t deliberately get yourself discharged from your wildlife job just to spite the admiral. It was purely accidental,” Jack said. “I’m sure of it.”

“What are you talking about?” She recoiled as if he were rabid.

“Your grandfather told me all about you, but he never mentioned how good you looked in a skirt.”

If anything, her demeanor became more hostile and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Then you really are John Hanson.”

“I prefer Jack,” he said. He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

She declined to shake his hand, taking yet another step back instead. “We need to talk,” she said.

Jack needed aspirin, strong coffee and a lot more sleep, but since obviously none of these mercies were forthcoming, he sat up, very slowly, and attempted once again to focus his eyes on the young woman standing in his bedroom. “We threw a wake for your grandfather yesterday…or was it the day before? I’ve lost track. Damned sorry you had to see the place in such a mess, but it was a good old-fashioned Irish wake, just like the admiral wanted, and I’m not sorry about that. He deserved a good send-off.”

In spite of the effort this explanation had cost him, there wasn’t an ounce of sympathy or understanding in her expression. “That explains all the trash. I’m here to settle his estate and I had hoped to be able to discuss this with you as soon as possible, but I can see that’s not going to be any time soon.” She paused to glance down at the dog. “Is your dog about to attack me?”

Jack glanced at Chilkat, who was still eyeing her intently. “Like I told you before, he just wants to clean the grease out of the frying pan you’re holding. That’s his job and he takes it very seriously. And for your information, that dog belongs to you now, Ms. McCallum. His name is Chilkat, and he was your grandfather’s lap dog. A real cuddler. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the pack when you’re ready, but there are some things you need to understand. The admiral and I were full business partners, the lake house was part of the business, and you’re standing in my bedroom.”

The admiral’s granddaughter looked confused. “Do you mean to say that the two of you shared this house? You lived here together?”

“Even Steven.”

“Then…who lives in that other cabin?”

Hopeless. He’d known it would be. Who could understand the bond between himself and that irascible stiff-backed admiral who had scoffed at Jack’s plan to build a separate cabin for his own use, and then, when the cabin was complete, had suggested using it for a workshop. Who would understand that gruff old admiral was a lonely soul who liked sharing the lake house? Certainly not this young woman with the mahogany hair and the beautiful face which unfortunately seemed to be marred by a permanent and disapproving scowl.

“Nobody,” Jack said. “We use it for a workshop.”

She digested this as cheerfully as she had everything else. “And just how am I supposed to sell my grandfather’s half of this property while you’re living here and the place looks like a pigsty?”