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The House on Blackberry Hill (Jewell Cove 1)

Page 57

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Marian had tended this garden with love and care. Now it was time for Abby to do the same.

* * *

The whole damn day had been torture.

He’d come earlier than the guys today, hoping to catch a few moments alone with Abby. He owed her an apology, after all. And not the half-assed one he’d given her the night of the barbecue. It had been especially clear when she was gone and he was working in her house alone.

He’d missed her.

But instead of a warm and sleepy Abby, he’d found his meddling cousins invading Abby’s kitchen like a couple of teenagers. Hell, they’d even had a slumber party. And then his crew had shown up and they’d started painting. He had fans going now, trying to minimize the fumes. George and the boys had already left in their trucks, so the only chance Tom had had all day to speak privately to her was now, when he was finished for the day.

She was still out in the garden.

He stepped outside, wandering around to the side of the house where the pathways meandered, all leading to the lattice arch and the profusion of rosebushes that surrounded it. She’d been busy. The bushes were neatly trimmed back, the deadwood pulled out, and she’d built a brush pile down over the side hill, away from the other trees. She’d pulled so many weeds from the flower beds that her wheelbarrow was rounded with them. Now that the garden was cleaned out, Tom could see the perennials that had withstood the test of time. Too choked to grow properly, the green stalks of lilies, irises, and phlox became clear. A lilac bloomed in one corner of the garden, and along one side she’d pulled away tall grass to let the rhododendrons have their space, their brilliant pink and purple flowers announcing the arrival of early summer.

It was going to be gorgeous when she got it done.

Abby knelt on a foam pad and sat up, stretching out her back, oblivious to him standing there. The stretch exaggerated the curve of her breasts and the long column of her neck, and then she pulled off her glove and rubbed her neck with her fingers, closing her eyes and tilting her head to one side.

Tom thought about rubbing it for her, working out the tight muscles and the kinks. She’d looked at him differently this morning. The last time she’d been so angry. So hurt. Not that he could blame her for that. But this morning it had been different. She’d teased him, acted like nothing had happened. He wondered if he had Jess and Sarah to thank for that. Wondered exactly how much they’d told her about him, and Erin, and Josh, and what a messed-up situation it had been.

While he watched, she put her glove back on and went to work on another patch of weeds. What would he say to her, anyway? How could he explain about Erin without sounding like a complete jerk?

He knew what she thought. That he’d gone after his cousin’s wife. That he hadn’t was merely a technicality. He’d hovered on the brink, unbearably tempted. Maybe he’d never followed through, but in his mind and in his heart he’d done it a thousand times and he hated himself for it.

He could never explain it all without tarnishing the memory of Erin. She was gone. He’d be damned if he’d put an ounce of the blame on her now.

Abby deserved better. So he turned around and walked away, out of the garden and back to his truck.

The early-summer eve

ning was slow and lazy as he drove into town, past Memorial Square, and parked along the vibrant waterfront. Pockets of people clustered around vendors and storefronts, spilling off the narrow sidewalk onto the plush grass. Someone’s rosebushes were blooming nearby and the scent filled the air, mingled with the smell of fresh fish straight off the boat. They were familiar aromas, ones he’d smelled for as long as he could remember. At least some things never changed. Jewell Cove would always be exactly what it was. The tourists would come and go, people would move in and move away, but there was a stasis to it that was strangely comforting.

He’d been inside among the paint fumes all day. The last thing he wanted tonight was to go home to an empty house and cook. A quick meal in the great outdoors sounded too good to pass up.

He put in his order at Battered Up, the canteen next to the charter boat sales shacks. As he waited for fish and chips, he wondered if Rick had gotten the job he’d applied for with Jack Skillin’s operation. A boy, probably sixteen or so, was hanging up life vests at Jack’s hut, getting ready for the next day’s tours. Inside another shed, a middle-aged woman was tallying receipts for the day. This time of year this side of the dock got crammed with tourists looking for a day of deep-sea fishing or whale watching, for a chance to see humpbacks, minkes, or the rare and highly protected right whale.

When Tom had been a teenager, he and Bryce and Josh had gone out of the bay with their dads a lot. They’d packed a lunch and their gear and spent the day on the water, catching pollock and cod and mackerel, getting a glimpse of seals and whales and the odd blue shark or sunfish.

Those had been good times. He missed them, more than he cared to admit.

His order was called and he grabbed packets of ketchup, tartar sauce, and vinegar before searching out a vacant picnic table. He found one on the far side in the shade of a tree, a stone’s throw away from the Three Fishermen Art Gallery. The brick-red building had warm beige trim and a scalloped screen door that was a work of art in itself. As Tom cut into his fish, he saw two young women come out carrying bags, their leather sandals slapping on the concrete walk. They were pretty, probably early twenties, with their hair up in the artfully arranged disarray that was a complete mystery to Tom. They looked over at him and smiled, and one of the girls nudged the other with an elbow.

Tom treated them to a polite smile and then looked away.

In months past he might have met their gaze a little more boldly, said hello. Maybe he hadn’t officially dated, but he hadn’t lived like a monk, either. He’d just been discreet about it.

But now there was no temptation. He thought he might know why and he didn’t like it one bit. Abby Foster and her house were supposed to be a good thing for him—professionally. Definitely not a romantic complication.

He finished his meal in silence, but when he got up to put his plate in the nearby garbage can he paused awkwardly, halfway up from his seat at the picnic table. Josh and Jess had been coming his way but now halted as they realized he was there, their hands filled with rounded plates of clams, chips, and coleslaw.

It was bound to happen. In a town this size they were going to run into each other from time to time. They couldn’t go on giving each other the silent treatment or throwing punches and accusations. Tom pushed himself away from the table and looked at Jess, then Josh.

“Nice night,” he said benignly.

Josh said nothing but Jess’s eyes were sympathetic. “It is. I don’t have any classes tonight so I thought it would be a good time to grab some dinner with my big brother.”

Her free arm was tucked around Josh’s.



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