She looks down, and a line forms in the center of her forehead. She opens her mouth and closes it again. Coming to her rescue I say, “Kira’s life is on the other side of the country.” I don’t bring up the fact that she can’t afford to buy it. She seemed a little embarrassed by that last night. “We can’t expect her to just pack up and move here.”
Kira gives me a grateful smile, a thank you for the rescue, and for some odd reason her appreciation curls through me, does the weirdest things to my fucking insides.
“We have to keep it in the family,” Jason says. He looks down like he always does when he’s scheming something. But no scheme is going to change the fact that she must sell.
“I’m sure it won’t sell before fishing season is up this year, but next, you’ll have to find other accommodations. If we do have viewings, I’ll try to make them as unobtrusive as possible.” The mood around the table changes, and plates get pushed away. But it’s Kira’s frown that hits like a sucker punch.
Nothing about this feels right. But it’s not my place to step in and try to fix things. My only goal is to see to business, then move on to the next failing plant that needs technological changes and a boost of youth and energy.
Yeah, staying here was never part of the plan and I’m no one’s knight in shining armor. I just can’t figure out what it is about Kira, that makes me want to save the day. Clearly, I need to put some distance between us, and I will.
Tomorrow.
Chapter Seven
Kira
As I read the name on the business card Nate gave me, I try not to think about all the man’s hotness and how he stood before me last night in nothing but a pair of jeans. When he wasn’t looking, I stole a peak at broad shoulders that taper to a trim waist and sexy oblique muscles that guided my eyes down, to the all the goodness behind his zipper. Honest to God, it took every ounce of strength not to blatantly stare—okay maybe I did—or reach out and trace his grooves and valleys. I shake my head to clear it, the man is a ridiculous distraction, and I need to put a leash on my overactive libido. I pull my cell phone from my pocket. Might as well get this over with. I punch in the realtor’s number, and he answers on the second ring.
“Tail Winds Realty, Phillip speaking.”
“Hi Phillip, this is Kira Palmer.” I give him a second to see if it rings any bells. I can only assume word spreads fast around this small town, and Gram’s granddaughter being back would make headlines.
“How can I help you, Kira?” he asks.
“I’m Gram’s…uh, Margaret Andrew’s granddaughter.”
“Oh, right. Kira, how are you? I haven’t seen you in years.”
I close my eyes and rack my brain but have no recollection of a Phillip Gates. I might have been too young when I met him. “I’m doing well, thank you. I’m back in town to take care of Gram’s estate.”
He goes quiet for a moment, much like the crew this morning when I broke the news.
“I don’t understand,” he says. “You’re selling the B&B?”
“Yes, and I was wondering if you could come by for an assessment.” Here I thought I’d have to hire a local contractor, or even a plumber and electrician, to repair and spruce the place up, but the house is in great shape, save for a few creaks here and there, a deck in need of repairs, and mice. I cringe inwardly at that.
Papers rustle in the background. “I can come by tomorrow around noon if that works for you.”
“That would be great, thank you.” I end the call and glance around the empty house. The quiet is a bit disconcerting. Odd really, considering I spend so much time alone, either at my desk at the university or in my small apartment.
Cup of tea in hand, I head to my den and go over paperwork. The copper key near my laptop pulls my attention. I’d been hoping the realtor would come today, give me a reason not to go to Gram’s studio, the place we talked, laughed, had bonfires, and painted. Facing the past is going to be hard, that much I know. My stomach tightens, and I exhale a painful breath as warm memories bombard me. Then again, maybe the visit will help soothe my soul, give me the closure I can’t seem to find.
Okay, girl, put on your big girl panties and do this already.
Pushing from my chair, I tug on a sweater, and five minutes later, I’m in my rental. After I return the vehicle, I’ll use Gram’s huge Ford Thunderbird, aka, the land yacht. I’d prefer to Uber, but well, this is Lunenburg. Cripes, they don’t even have a Starbucks in town. The Lunenburg Heritage Society shut that down years ago, their mission to preserve culture and natural heritage. Unless that’s changed since I’d been here last, and I somehow doubt it has. That’s all well and fine, until PMS hits and a girl needs her mocha latte.
I drive past town until I find the dirt road leading to Gram’s studio on the ocean. Her father built the cottage over a hundred years ago, and when he passed, it went to Gram and eventually she turned it into her studio.
Twisted branches from the tall, neglected trees stretch like arthritic fingers overhead, the canopy of leaves keeping the small flakes falling from building on the road.
Has no upkeep been done since I’ve been here?
The cottages are abandoned, closed up for the winter, but with the overgrown weeds, and fading paint, I’m guessing no one’s been in them for ages. This once bustling place, full of families and kids and dogs is no more. The desolation fills me with a sense of loss and loneliness.
At the end of the long road, Gram’s studio rises up in the distance. Warm memories bombard me as I park, and when I spot a squirrel climbing up the old abandoned bird feeder I once filled with seed, my breath catches. I fail to calm my shaky hand as I open my door, and the cool fall wind washing over my face stirs the chaotic storm inside me.
Paint chips fall to the ground like snowflakes as I run my gloved hand over the railing. Big dirty window that haven’t been cleaned in ages, stare wide-eyed at the choppy ocean. Gram would be mortified at the state of the place. I swallow. If only I’d come sooner…
But now that I’m here I’ll do all I can to preserve the place her dad had bought years ago. Back when he was young, he purchased all the land, and sold off parcels to others. His property is at the end of the road, the land jutting into the ocean, giving a view of the water on all three sides of the studio.
The old fire pit is still standing, although its once pristine white stones are now dark with soot and cracked from use and age. I can’t even count the s’mores we gobbled up around it. I chuckle quietly. I might not be able to work a gas stove, but roasting marshmallows was the one thing I was good at. I’d get that perfect brown, caramelized exterior, while maintaining the warm, gooey texture inside. I guess that’s why Gram always let me make hers.