He shook his head. “Not since I was a little kid, and Marian hosted some picnic or something. But the house on Blackberry Hill is the stuff of legend in this town. You’ll find everyone knows something about it. The construction is in my wheelhouse, so to speak.”
It was the second time that day someone had called it that. It gave Abby a little thrill and a jolt of apprehension. She was the outsider here. And while she was the owner of this … mausoleum, she was fully aware that not “everyone,” as Tom put it, might appreciate a stranger coming in and taking over. She was just a name on the deed. She understood that in some way, the house belonged to the town, too. Certainly it was part of the town identity and history.
“So, what you’re saying is, don’t be surprised if someone decides to barge in, boss me around, and then proceed to share his rather forceful opinion about what I can and cannot do with my property?” Abby asked with a pointed stare.
Tom chuckled, understanding her completely. “Exactly. If that happens, you should also definitely listen to him. He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Now, have you explored yet?”
She angled him a wry look. “I just got here. There hasn’t been time to see anything besides dirt.” She indicated her now dusty outfit to prove her point.
Tom gave her clothing a slow perusal and she felt her cheeks heat beneath his scrutiny. Not only was the house a mess, but Abby knew that after her earlier exploration, she was as well.
Lifting her chin, she treated him to the same overt examination—looked at his boots, up the long length of his faded jeans, past every button on his cotton shirt, and into his darkly handsome face. She nearly shivered with pleasure. If she looked in the dictionary for “rugged, sexy, and capable,” it would have a picture of Tom Arseneault. What a dumb idea it had been to give him the slow once-over. All it did was highlight his yumminess while she felt drab and dowdy in comparison.
He put his hands on his hips, the movement emphasizing the impossible breadth of his chest and shoulders, and grinned, displaying a mouth full of perfectly white teeth. Abby was suddenly unsure if she was standing in front of the woodsman or the big bad wolf. That grin was lethal. It was the charming grin of a man used to getting his own way. She might not be a pushover, but she discovered she wasn’t quite as immune to that smile as she should be.
Abby sighed. “I take it Jewell Cove is like any other small town? No privacy whatsoever?”
His dark gaze settled on hers. “None whatsoever,” he echoed. “Listen, Miss Foster … you know as well as I do that you can’t sell it the way it is.”
“Who said anything about selling?” she challenged.
“You’re going to stay here? Live in it? By yourself?”
He sounded so surprised she wanted to say yes just to enjoy his reaction. But she couldn’t, not when she wasn’t planning on staying a moment longer than was necessary. She knew he wanted the job of fixing this place up and he wanted her to hire him on the spot. Well, despite her earlier whimsical moment in the library, her good sense hadn’t totally abandoned her.
“I didn’t say that, either. I realize it needs work, whether I stay or I put it on the market. But I’ve been here…” She made a show of checking her watch. “Less than two hours. I’d be foolish to make any decisions in such a short amount of time. Rest assured, if I require your services I’ll look you up.” She was rather proud of the tone that came from her mouth. She might look disorganized but she wasn’t incompetent.
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Wow. You’ve got the cool-dismissal bit down cold.”
She took it as a fine compliment and sighed dramatically. “And yet here you still are.”
His lips twitched at her obvious set-down. “You’re somethin’, Miss Foster.”
She felt slightly guilty at her sharp tone—after all, he’d been quite friendly once he’d begun showing her the inside of the house, and he’d given her information about her relatives. Still, she couldn’t let a cheeky smile and a pair of bedroom eyes distract her. “I assure you, Mr. Arseneault, when I want help, I will ask for it.”
“No need to be so prickly,” he commented, backing away and putting his hands in his pockets. He withdrew
a business card and held it out, waited until she took it before he spoke again. “Give it some thought. No matter what you do with this house, it needs work. I promise you I’m the best contractor for the job.”
“And why is that, exactly?”
“Because I’ll take the time and care to preserve the very best of it, and keep as much of the original workmanship as I can. Not everyone would, you know. And because there’s no one on the mid-coast with a better hand for finish work. Ask around.”
Tom gave her one more long look before he nodded. “Now I’ll show myself out. I can see I’ve taken up too much of your time.”
She heard his boots clomp back down the hall and the predictable squeak and groan as the door opened. Then another crack and a loud curse. Abby stifled a laugh in the silence that followed.
Then he was gone and she was left alone once more with the dirt and the mice, and the house seemed strangely quiet again.
Waiting. She just wished she knew for what.
CHAPTER 4
Tom endured dinner as best he could. His older brother, Bryce, had married four years earlier and he and Mary had an adorable baby girl who was just beginning to crawl. Their whole life was a contrast to Tom’s. Simply put, it was full of love and family, while Tom’s life centered around his cottage out past Fiddler’s Rock and his workshop. Dinners with Bryce and his perfect family always highlighted what Tom didn’t have.
Nights like tonight, watching his brother gaze into his wife’s eyes with such affection, or seeing Mary touch baby Alice with unconscious, ever-present love, made him long for things he’d given up hope of ever having for himself.
“Best blueberry buckle in town,” he said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his full belly, trying to chase away the maudlin thoughts. “Thanks for dinner, Mary.”