The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (2 page)

It was Daniel Scott.

Back when Lacy was in school, it seemed every girl in Coldwater Cove had a not-so-serious fling with Jacob Tyler at one time or another. It was like a rite of passage.

Lacy was glad she'd gone through her “Jake phase” in fifth grade when their courtship consisted of holding hands during school assemblies. Once their budding “true love forever” ended abruptly after a new girl moved to town, Lacy's dad had mended her broken heart by signing her up for riding lessons. She stopped pining for Jake almost immediately. At ten or eleven, girls love horses more than boys anyway.

For one breathless summer before Lacy headed east to study design, Daniel was her soft, warm night and endless sky. Even though she was the one who moved to Boston, he was the one who got away.

“Saw the out-of-state plates and—” Daniel stopped mid-step. His eyes were as green as she remembered them, not muddy like a moss green, but vibrant like a spring morning.

“Lacy,” Daniel said.

That was it. Just her name. It'd been over a decade since she'd seen him, yet something inside her hummed with remembered longing. A slow-motion scene where they ran toward each other, arms outstretched, scrolled across her mind.

Instead of a slow-mo sprint, Dan walked over to the booth where she and Jake were sitting. They started the round of small talk again. It was basically the same ground she'd covered with Jacob, only Daniel didn't sit with them. A question tromped around on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back.

The bells over the door jingled again. A group of folks dressed in church clothes filed in for the breakfast special before Sunday School.

“Gotta go.” Jake slid out of the booth to take care of his customers.

“Me too.” Daniel put his hat back on, and when he looked down at her, one side of his mouth lifted. She would have given her last penny for the thought behind that half smile. “It's good to see you, Lacy. Welcome home.”

His lips parted as if he was about to say something else, but then he turned and walked away. Still looked pretty incredible doing it, too, but Lacy didn't need to ask that other question anymore.

She'd seen the ring on his left hand.

 

—Jacob Tyler to his commanding officer, after coming out of surgery for the injury he received in Afghanistan

 

 

 

B
ack in Boston, the streets had been rimed with crusts of dirty snow, the remnants of a late-season nor'easter. Lacy had chased warmer weather half the way across the country and arrived in Coldwater Cove in time for full-blown spring. Crocuses and daffodils pushed through the red clay soil and forsythias erupted in a yellow riot on every block.

In her parents' yard, the War of Squirrel Insurgency began afresh.

Lacy had never actually seen the squirrels in action, but her dad was convinced they broke off twigs from his oak trees and threw them down into the yard for pure cussedness. Of course, it didn't help matters that her parents' neighbor, Mr. Mayhew, put out bird feeders that had the (hopefully) unintended effect of enticing even more squirrels to the Evanses' yard. According to Lacy's dad, the feeders were supply depots for the enemy. As she pulled up, the first casualties of this year's opening salvo littered the grass.

Dad was out front, gathering fallen twigs from under the ponderous oaks. Fergus, his little Yorkie, nosed around the trunks, always alert for the stray “rat with a fluffy tail.” Her dad had been warned not to break out his shotgun in town anymore, so Fergus was all the firepower he could muster against the furry foes.

Still, the battle must be enjoined each spring.

Again, Lacy was glad some things didn't change, however ridiculous they might be.

She was barely out of the car before her dad had her in a solid hug. Sometimes, her parents' affection was like being smothered by a blanket of molasses, too sweet to resist and too sticky to escape. But now Lacy sank into her dad's loving acceptance with gratitude, blinking away tears.

She was the baby of the family. On a scale measuring good behavior, Lacy fell somewhere in the lower middle between her perfect sister, Crystal, and her black sheep brother, Mike. It had been tough going through school with teachers expecting her to either be as brilliant and good as her sister or as wild and irresponsible as her brother. Lacy was never given the benefit of a totally clean slate either way.

When her dad patted her back, the years sloughed off, as she'd feared they would, and she was reduced to childlike dependence again. Amazingly enough, that wasn't as bad as she'd expected. For a few moments, she allowed herself the fantasy that she had ever been that innocent. Then she pulled away.

She was back in Coldwater Cove because she hadn't been careful, because she hadn't been professional. Because she wasn't . . . good enough to cut it in the big city.

“Lacy-girl, we weren't expecting you till this afternoon.” Dad's resonant voice echoed off the stand of trees. If he'd been a trial lawyer instead of a tax and estate planning attorney, he'd have been a terror in the courtroom. His James Earl Jones–like tone would carry every argument. As it was, every self-respecting squirrel within earshot ought to have been shaking in its little rodent boots. “You must have driven all night.”

“The car seemed to know the way and I didn't feel like stopping.” Lacy had a fear of bedbugs, so hotels held zero charm for her, even if she could have afforded a higher-priced room, which she couldn't. And besides, once she was horizontal, it was anyone's guess whether she'd sleep. Bradford's face had a nasty habit of hovering at the edges of her vision just as she started to drop off.

“How's the Volvo running?”

Gas mileage and odd knocking sounds in her motor were topics of intense interest to her dad. To Lacy, they had the charm of being safe to discuss, so she gave him the latest report. That way, she didn't have to revisit the reason she'd run home like a scalded dog. Besides, if Dad wanted more details, he'd be sure to ask.

“Coffee's on.” Dad unloaded her suitcase from the trunk and led the way into the house.

The home Lacy grew up in had been built in the 1920s. It was a lovely two-story Colonial with decorative dentils under the eaves, a carved wooden pineapple on the newel post at the foot of the stairs, wainscoting in the dining room, and crown molding throughout.

Really good bones.

Unfortunately, it was filled to the rafters with
stuff
. Not quite at hoarder levels yet, but every room in the place was crammed with furniture of various vintages ringing the walls. It would be hard to find space on those walls for even one more eight-by-ten photo. Occasional tables jutted into the hallways and every horizontal surface was covered with bric-a-brac, collectibles, and doodads.

Lacy followed her dad into the kitchen and perched on one of the bar stools at the island. He poured her a cup of vile, dark liquid and, like a good penitent, she drank.

Her dad's coffee was a cross between Starbucks on steroids and about six Red Bulls. Even though she'd been driving for thirty-some hours, the cobwebs in her brain began to dissolve.

Dad took a sip and made a face. “Well, that'll make a grown man tremble. Brewed it a might stout today, even for me. Let's sweeten it a bit.” He took down a bottle of Bailey's from the top shelf and liberally dosed both their mugs. The creamy liquor emitted pleasantly alcoholic fumes. “Don't tell your mother.”

Dad was of the opinion that the apostle Paul's admonition to Timothy to “take a little wine for thy stomach's sake” extended to distilled spirits as well. Mom was a more literal theologian. They argued the point on a regular basis, but without a definitive winner.

Lacy was the pragmatist of the family. Anything that made her dad's coffee drinkable was aces in her book.

“So how did you leave things back east?” he asked.

“I sold everything. The matter is settled to the DA's satisfaction.” At least, she hoped it was.

“Did you have to take on some serious debt, daughter?”

What? Did he have some sort of weird dad-radar that pegged out when one of his kids got in over her head? She wasn't about to tell him that as part of the deal that kept her from being indicted along with the absent Bradford, the district attorney had required her to liquidate all she owned to make reparations. When that wasn't enough, she had taken out a huge loan for the rest with no idea how she'd pay it back.

“I'm OK, Dad,” she said, more to convince herself than him. She'd had no choice really. It was accept the loan that almost miraculously became available from the O'Leary brothers or face jail time.

Lacy had lost everything. It made her chest ache every time she realized afresh that her trendy design studio was gone. In this economy, she wasn't the only one whose business had gone south, but her misfortune was the result of bad judgment rather than bad luck.

She really blew it when she took on Bradford as her business partner. As an Endicott, he was so well connected, so old money. Lacy figured he'd be able to bring in seriously well-heeled clients with discerning tastes. She'd counted on the patina of his Boston Brahmin status to cover the fact that she was from the sticks. As it turned out, it didn't seem to matter where she'd grown up. Once she'd completed a few projects, her designs were what brought in the work. Then “old money Brad” had used her to make off with a boatload of new money.

She was such a rotten judge of character. Maybe she deserved to lose everything. Lacy was grateful when her dad interrupted her increasingly depressing thoughts.

“What did they ever find out about that Endicott fellow?”

“The case is still open, but the trail is pretty cold. He made it to Belize, but the authorities there show no signs of wanting to return him.”

“Well, I was wondering if somehow the Irish mob was behind it. You know, putting your partner up to the scam.” Lacy's dad had retired from a legal practice consisting mostly of drawing up wills and settling disputes over water rights. But in his heart, he was a big fan of true crime. He could rattle off the names of mob bosses as easily as some men spout baseball stats. She suspected he'd always wanted to work with an Eliot Ness type who spent his life putting away bad guys. “The police don't think you're in danger, do they?”

“If someone was angry enough to come after me, they'd have done it before now.”

At least, that's what she wanted her dad to believe. She'd repaid her clients and suppliers. But if she missed a loan payment, someone might well come. The O'Leary brothers weren't the sort who accepted payment by check. She'd already arranged to wire funds monthly to her friend Shannon, who would leave the cash in an unmarked envelop at a certain bar in the North End. By borrowing from the O'Learys, Lacy probably
had
made a deal with an arm of the Irish mob, but what else could she do? She couldn't exactly waltz into a Bank of America and get an unsecured loan to cover a debt of this size.

She didn't think there was a connection between the mob and Bradford. Other than greed and the chance to lie beside Ramona on a tropical beach, she didn't know why he'd betrayed her.

Her father gave her a sidelong look. It was the same face he'd made when he caught her sneaking out of the house after curfew when she was fifteen. The expression was a mixture of skepticism over her excuses and frustration that he hadn't raised her better. The “look” hurt worse than a whipping.

Of course, Lacy had never had a whipping, but she imagined the “look” was still worse. It made her insides ache instead of her backside.

“Well, whatever's happened, you're always welcome here. You know that,” her dad said with a shrug. “Your mother's been doing up the spare room and trying to empty a couple of drawers for you.”

There was no question of getting a whole closet for her things. Even the one in the guest room was as full of her mom's “treasures” as the rest of the house. Her dad tipped back his mug, drained it, and poured himself another. Lacy marveled at his capacity for self-inflicted caffeine-buzz.

“You just stay as long as you like,” he said.

“About that.” Besides needing her space, and a chance not to feel twelve all the time, if anyone from Boston did come looking for her, she didn't want to lead them to her parents. “I'll be getting my own place right away.”

“I understand, though your mother may not. She's been in a tizzy since you called to let us know you were coming. You can probably find something decent to rent in the
Gazette
.” He pointed to the local paper, folded neatly on the counter. “No trailers, though. Promise me, Lacy. I won't have any kid of mine in one of those death traps.”

“I promise.” Growing up in Tornado Alley had instilled a healthy respect for solid walls and cinder-block basements.

Suddenly from the second floor, Fergus launched into a barking frenzy. The Yorkie bounced down the stairs ahead of Lacy's mom, like a furry little herald announcing to all and sundry, “The Queen is awake!”

Awash in a cloud of Estée Lauder, Mom gave her a big hug and kissed both her cheeks with resounding smacks. Then she palmed Lacy's face and eyed her critically.

“You've let your bangs grow too long, sweetheart,” she said. “But never mind. We can fix it. You should see the cute new haircut Crystal got yesterday. Your sister looks like something out of
Vogue
.”

“When did she not?” Lacy muttered.

“Come on. I'll crank up the curling iron and we can catch up while it heats.”

Her mom had never given up the delusion that with enough primping, Lacy could be remade into the likeness of a country western star. She'd tried to tell her mother more than once that big hair was dead, even in Nashville, but she let herself be dragged up the stairs anyway.

* * *

By 10:30, the church-folk breakfast rush petered out. They'd be back for bacon burgers and onion rings or the fried catfish Green Plate special once the last “hallelujah” was sung. The only customers left in the Green Apple Grill were members of a slightly pagan drum circle who met there for coffee and icebox rolls with religious regularity. While the rest of the town celebrated the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, those old hippies were more likely to lift their spirits with a little weed they brought back from Colorado.

“Rocky Mountain high,” Jake muttered. Then he asked Ethel, his decidedly long-in-the-tooth waitress, to refill the drum circle's mugs.

“Maybe I can sweet-talk them into that leftover coffee cake, too,” Ethel said as she bustled off.

Ethel was a blue-haired wonder. She was old enough to collect both Social Security and her deceased husband's pension, so she didn't need the money she made at the grill. However, she did need the company and she liked working at the Green Apple. Even if her service was a little slow, most folks enjoyed being waited on by a grandmotherly sort who called them “honey,” “sugar,” or “darlin'.”

At first, Jake thought it was because Ethel had forgotten their names, but she never forgot an order and didn't use a notepad to jot them down either. Once the meal was over, she convinced diners that because they'd cleaned their plates, they
deserved
blackberry cobbler with homemade walnut ice cream.

No doubt about it, Ethel was good for business.