Chapter 20
20
“That was tasty lasagna Bren sent over last night for dinner, wasn’t it?”
“Very.” As Noah replied to his dad, he set the casserole pan he’d removed from the dishwasher on the counter.
“And there’s plenty left for me after you go home next week too. I see some Italian lunches in my future.”
Noah removed the bowl for the salad that had accompanied the main dish and put it beside this morning’s breakfast dishes waiting to be stacked in the dishwasher.
May as well share the idea that had been percolating in his mind for the past few days. Dad would find out soon enough.
“I’ve been thinking about asking my boss to let me extend my stay another week. On a remote work basis, not vacation.”
“Now that’s music to my ears.” His father’s face lit up. “Though I think your so-called vacation was remote work. You were holed up in your room on that laptop most days—and evenings.”
“It’s the nature of my job.”
“How will your boss feel about you staying longer?”
Not happy.
But the closer his departure date loomed, the less inclined he was to leave after only two weeks.
“Remains to be seen.” He kept his tone nonchalant.
“May I ask what prompted this change of heart? I got the impression when you arrived that you were champing at the bit to go back.”
“I was concerned about my workload.” Plus the loss of face time, although now that he’d been away for eleven days, that seemed less important. “But I’ve been managing to keep up. And with your wrist out of commission, I’d rather hang around a little longer.”
His dad appraised him. “I’m coping without too much trouble, and I did fill out the help checklist. Not that I’m discouraging you from staying, but I think I’ll be covered after you’re gone.”
In other words, his father wasn’t buying the broken wrist rationale for his son’s decision to linger.
He should have known Dad would see through that excuse.
But he wasn’t going to reveal the other reason for his change of heart.
Namely, that Bren had gotten under his skin—and he was still trying to figure out what to do about it.
“I have to admit the people here seem to watch out for each other. But it’s not like having someone in the house within calling distance 24/7.”
“That’s true.” His dad finished off the last of his morning coffee. “You think your boss will go along with this?”
“I won’t know until I ask. I’d call today, but I don’t want to bother him on a Saturday. I’ll touch base with him early Monday morning.”
A twinkle appeared in his father’s eyes. “I could groan in the background, if you think that would help.”
Noah’s lips twitched. “I appreciate the offer, but I expect I can plead my case without sound effects.”
His father studied him, concern creasing his brow. “I don’t want to cause problems for you with your job, Noah. I really would be fine here on my own, you know.”
Yeah, he knew.
And his dad knew he knew.
But concern about his father was the rationale he’d given for wanting to stay, and he was sticking with it.
“I’d just feel more comfortable if you had another week or so to heal before I leave.”
“I appreciate that, Son.” He rose and waved a hand toward Bren’s dishes on the counter. “That casserole brigade is a wonder, isn’t it? Thanks to this broken wrist, I’ve eaten better in the past week than I have since your mom passed on. Tasty food combined with pleasant companionship can stimulate a person’s appetite. And that lasagna was top-notch. Bren is quite a cook.”
“Yes, she is.” Noah tucked their breakfast plates and utensils into the emptied dishwasher.
“Would you mind running her dishes over to the cottage for me? I wouldn’t want to trip on the stepping stones while I’m trying to juggle those one-handed.”
Blast.
An encounter with Bren hadn’t been part of his morning plans, but there was no logical excuse to refuse his father’s request.
At least she’d had Emma deliver the food last night, eliminating the possibility of any contact between the two of them during the handoff.
“I can do that.”
“Thanks. What’s on your schedule today?”
“Nothing special. I got my run in early, leaving me at loose ends aside from a couple of tasks for work. Would you like to take a drive up the coast? I remember how much you and Mom always enjoyed your trips to Shore Acres State Park.”
“That would be a treat—but could we defer it until tomorrow? My golfing buddy called last night. He got tickets at the last minute for a talk up at the college in Coos Bay by a paleontologist from Oregon State. The guy’s an expert on Jurassic-age vertebrate fossils found in the state. I assumed you’d be working most of the day, so I agreed to go.”
“I’ll pencil Shore Acres in for tomorrow.” His father’s social calendar was a sight to behold.
Another indication he’d be fine on his own here—and more proof there was no need to convince him to return to St. Louis.
“Be sure to give my compliments to the chef.” His father tapped the edge of the casserole dish.
“I’ll do that.”
“If you have a chunk of free time later today, you could wander down to Starfish Pier. The tide pools are spectacular.”
“Yes, they are. Bren told me about them, so I stopped in during one of my runs.”
“A long walk on the beach is always a fine option.”
“I’ll see how my day looks after I check in at work.”
His father rolled his eyes. “Once you sit in front of that laptop, you’ll be glued there for the duration.”
“Not necessarily.” But the probability was high.
“Before you boot up, don’t forget about this.” Dad tapped the casserole again.
“I’m on it.” He picked up the bowl and dish and walked over to the back door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Don’t rush on my account. I’m going to catch up on email. I have a ton of well-wishes I need to acknowledge.”
As his dad disappeared down the hall, Noah exited through the rear door, crossed the lawn to the cottage ... and attempted to ratchet back the surge in his pulse.
Yet hard as he tried to rein it in, his galloping heart refused to cooperate.
Fine.
He’d hand off the dishes, say his thanks, beat a hasty retreat—and keep his distance until he got a handle on why his father’s tenant was wreaking havoc on his usual self-control and logical thinking process.
Of course, he could do that just as efficiently in St. Louis as he could in Oregon.
Which made extending his stay foolish and illogical. Likewise for his reluctance to leave.
Another example of how the pretty barista had messed with his brain.
Taking a steadying breath, he paused at the cottage door. Knocked.
“Come in.”
At Bren’s muffled invitation, he frowned.
She left her door unlocked? And she was inviting an unknown caller in without checking to see who it was?
That was super risky in this day and age.
Brow bunching, he twisted the knob while juggling the bowl and casserole dish and pushed the door open.
As he stepped across the threshold, she glanced up from the dinette table where she was surrounded by stacks of envelopes, her smile of welcome faltering as their gazes met.
“Dad asked me to return these and to give his compliments to the chef.” Noah hoisted the items in his hand. “I second that.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the meal.” As she pushed back her chair to stand, she bumped the table. A tall stack of envelopes near the edge toppled, spilling onto the floor. “Dang.” She dropped to her hands and knees and began gathering them up.
Noah strode across the room, set the casserole and bowl on the island, and joined her on the floor to help collect the scattered envelopes. “Sorry for interrupting you and causing a mess.”
“This was my own fault.” Tension pinged off her, almost visceral now that he was within touching distance. “You don’t have to help me pick these up.”
“I don’t mind. Being on all fours appears to be my lot when visiting this cottage.” Perhaps a touch of levity would dispel some of the nervous energy bouncing off the walls. “Fortunately, on this visit I don’t feel like I’ve been plunged into the bowels of hades.”
He was rewarded with an amused snuffle that she quickly smothered. “Sorry. I know it’s not funny.”
“It is in hindsight. It’s the kind of story people tell their grandkids.”
She froze, and his stomach twisted.
Where had that stupid comment come from? It was the sort of thing you said to someone you intended to share your life with. To share grandkids with. He and Bren weren’t a couple.
She cleared her throat and resumed picking up the envelopes. “I, uh, suppose that’s true.” She didn’t quite pull off her obvious attempt at a chatty, relaxed tone.
Hard as Noah tried to think of another humorous comeback that would lighten the atmosphere, he drew a blank.
So he continued to gather up envelopes, skimming the front of one as he did so.
Stopped.
Examined a few more of the addresses that were penned in a graceful, elaborate script.
They looked like the kind of envelopes he’d received that contained invitations to friends’ weddings.
And there were stacks of them on the table.
His breath hitched.
Was there something he didn’t know about Bren? Something his father didn’t know about her?
Pulse skittering, he tried to speak past the tightness in his windpipe that was restricting the flow of air to his lungs. “The calligraphy on these makes me think of wedding invitations.”
“Calligraphy is used for many different purposes, but yes, these are wedding invitations.”
His stomach bottomed out.
Bren was getting married.
A shock wave surged through him as he tried to absorb the startling news that was almost as traumatizing as the faceful of pepper gel he’d gotten on his last visit here.
Bren was getting married.
Even as he silently repeated that, it didn’t compute.
Hadn’t she admitted less than a week ago that she felt the connection between them as much as he did—even if they’d agreed that pursuing it would be foolish?
Why would she do that if she was engaged?
More importantly, why should he care? Hadn’t he thought all along they weren’t compatible? That a go-with-the-flow woman and a plan-everything-to-the-nth-degree guy could never have a future together? That geography aside, it could never work? Wasn’t that why he’d been avoiding her ever since the night he’d almost kissed her?
Yes, yes, yes, and yes.
So he should be glad he wouldn’t have to angst about this anymore. As a matter of fact, maybe he ought to return to St. Louis as planned and—
“Noah?”
At Bren’s prompt, he refocused. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah. Sure. I’m fine.” He tried without success to clear the rasp from his voice. “Um ... congratulations.”
Her face went blank. “What?”
“Congratulations. On the wedding.” He lifted the envelopes clutched in a death grip in his hand.
As understanding dawned on her face, she shook her head. “Those aren’t for my wedding.”
He tried to process that. Failed. “Why else would you have a whole tableful of wedding invitations here?”
“I’m a calligrapher.” She picked up a stray invitation that had eluded them, stood, and motioned to the table beside him.
He rose too and scanned the surface.
Behind the piles of envelopes and what appeared to be response cards, there was a desktop easel in a slanted position, several pens, nibs with different tips, ink, a fine paintbrush, and parchment paper.
But the main thing that registered?
Bren wasn’t getting married.
She was unattached and available.
His spirits ticked up.
“Sorry. I assumed you were about to walk down the aisle.”
She snorted. “The closest I’ve ever gotten to a walk down the aisle is at the grocery store. That’s the closest I ever wanted to get.”
Understandable, in light of her history. Growing up with a direct window into a toxic marriage would turn anyone off of matrimony.
Which was sad.
So why did the solitary life she’d chosen as a result of her traumatic upbringing make him happy?
More than happy, in fact. It kindled in him an excitement and sense of anticipation similar to what he’d felt on Christmas mornings as a kid while he waited for the all-clear from Dad that Santa had come and it was safe to run into the living room and dive into all the wonderful surprises wrapped in colorful paper waiting for him under the tree.
“So, uh, are you doing this for a friend?” He waved a hand over the table and tried to put a lid on his sudden cheer.
“No. It’s a paying gig.”
“Yeah?” He surveyed the equipment again. Inspected one of the envelopes.
Her work was beautiful. Flawless. Elegant.
This was not an amateur effort.
“Mm-hmm.” She set the envelopes she’d picked up on the table.
“How does a person become a professional calligrapher?”
“A ton of practice. Classes. Online tutorials.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
She shrugged. “I started to dabble at it in high school. It gave me an excuse to stay in my room and avoid the drama in our household. I was self-taught at the beginning, but after I did a few projects at school, I began to get an occasional paying job. I kept practicing through the years, honing my skills, and after I settled here, I set up an online business. It took a while to get established, but in the past twelve months, I’ve been inundated with orders.”
“So is it like a hobby that pays for itself, or a paying job? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind. It’s a paying job. Weddings tend to be the most lucrative because they have multiple pieces that require calligraphy. This one is big.” She nodded toward the table. “It will take me two weeks to finish, working part-time. And the pay is excellent.”
When she rattled off the tab for the job, he did a double take. “I had no idea calligraphers earned those kinds of bucks.”
“If you have a reputation, it can be very profitable. I’m booked six months in advance these days, with a waiting list. My website gets a ton of traffic.”
She had a website and a waiting list?
This was a serious business.
“It sounds like you could do this full-time and give up The Perfect Blend.”
“I could, but I’m all about balance.” She picked up a nib. Examined the tip. Set it back down. “I’d burn out if I did this ten hours a day, every day. And I enjoy the social interaction during my Monday/Wednesday/Friday shifts at The Blend. Calligraphy is a solitary occupation, and while I’m independent and like my space, I’m not built for that much isolation. This gives me the best of both worlds.”
Along with an impressive income.
So much for his assumption early on that Bren was content to spend her life making fancy drinks.
What else had he misread about this woman?
“I admire the way you’ve built a life that suits you.”
She tilted her head. “Like you have. Right?”
“I thought so.” He fingered one of the beautifully inscribed envelopes. “And I guess I have, career wise. But my job success has come at the expense of a personal life. And a family.”
As that admission spilled out, he scowled.
Why on earth had he started down such a personal road?
Of course, Bren followed along. Why wouldn’t she, when he’d opened the latch on the gate?
“You have to meet the right person for that to happen.”
“Yeah. I imagine that would be tough in a town the size of Hope Harbor.” Switching the spotlight back to her seemed like a sound strategy. “Assuming a person was looking.”
“Yes. It would be.” But she ignored his implied question, about whether she was looking.
And he was curious, thanks to the wiggle room she’d left in her answer about not wanting to walk down the aisle. Her use of a past tense versus a present tense could suggest she’d rethought her position on that question.
She folded her arms. “I can’t imagine it would be hard to meet the right person in a city the size of St. Louis, though. Assuming a person was looking.”
Following his lead, she didn’t put her implied question into words either as she parroted his comment back to him. But it came through loud and clear.
How to answer?
He could blow it off. Spout a generic comment, as she had. Shut down this conversation.
But in light of his reaction to the news that she wasn’t getting married, maybe he ought to tell her about Candace. It would help her understand why he moved with extreme caution when it came to romance. He could also let her know he wasn’t averse to falling in love in principle.
However ... the safest route was to shut down the discussion.
Because it was possible he and Bren had more in common than he’d expected, now that he was getting a peek below the surface and finding the hidden treasure. Like Charley had mentioned that morning on the headland, about Sunrise Reef.
Nevertheless, that didn’t mean they could ever be anything more than friends, despite the electricity between them. He was too far along on his career path in St. Louis to switch directions, and Bren had made it clear she considered Hope Harbor her permanent home. That this was where her long search had led her.
Yet even if nothing more than friendship was their destiny, what could it hurt to give her a few insights about his past?
Nothing, as far as he could see.
So if he could summon up the courage to open his heart as she’d done the night they’d shared far more than an ice cream bar, he’d tell her in all its gory detail the dating disaster story that had left him gun-shy of romance.