Where I Found You (Magnolia Bay #1)

Chapter 1

one

N oah Hebert needed to get back home—he didn’t have time to watch paint dry.

“You got the wrong blue.” Peter, Noah’s apprentice at the Blue Pirogue Inn, clearly felt confident enough to point out the obvious as he stood beside Noah, his scrawny arms crossed.

“I can see that.” Noah pushed one hand through his hair as he stared at his mistake—one of many over the past several months he’d been fixing up the inn since his grandfather’s funeral—and sent a scattering of sawdust onto the taped off floor. The humidity of his coastal Louisiana hometown wet Noah’s flannel shirt and stuck it to his back, despite the spring breeze rustling through the pine trees outside. Not that the humidity was much better in north Louisiana.

Figured. They were finally at the finish line of these endless renovations, meaning his return to Shreveport and his real job as a land man in the oil and gas industry was in sight…but now he was being mocked by slate blue and?—

“Sky blue. How did you even do that?” Peter squinted up at him beneath his side-swept dark hair. The kid had chosen to work a trade instead of going to college, and had proven to be a hard worker and fast learner. Noah could trust him to notice details.

Especially this one glaring at them in matte finish.

“Lot on my plate, kid.” Noah checked his watch with a grimace. “And now I’m late for an appointment with the one man in Magnolia Bay who probably hates me the most.”

Peter’s eyes widened. “Must be a Bergeron.”

“Isaac Bergeron, and if you’re a praying kind of person, you might start working on that now.”

“That bad, huh?” Peter made a tsk with his tongue.

Worse than the kid knew. But some parts were public. “As county inspector, Isaac’s the one holding the keys to this kingdom.” Noah gestured around them, at the multitude of mostly-finished projects, at abandoned tools lying on heaps of folded tarp that hadn’t been put away yet. And now even more projects would be delayed, all because of the stupid paint. “I’m hoping I get the inspection certificate from this meeting so we can reopen and call this a wrap.” And never have to see the wretched man—or his daughter—again.

Not that Elisa Bergeron would be at the Magnolia Blossom Café today. Just the ghost of her memory.

Peter clasped his hands in front of him in a posture of prayer. “On it.”

Noah headed for the front door, stepping over a discarded roll of painter’s tape. “I’ll grab the right blue on my way home.”

“Slate blue!” Peter called after him.

Noah shot him a thumbs-up over his shoulder as he hurried outside. He steered around a crew member perched halfway up a ladder on the porch, measuring for the decorative trim left to hang. Better him than Noah—he’d never been a fan of heights.

He breathed a gulp of air not thick with sawdust as he hurried down the porch stairs, careful to avoid the rotten spot on the second step. No, wait. That had been fixed, along with the shingles that begged for attention the past year. Everything was finally coming together, just in time for tourist season.

Assuming Isaac Bergeron didn’t hold a grudge and did his job fairly.

There’s more where this one came from . Noah might not ever get Isaac’s last words to him—or the sight of the bitter man cleaning a shotgun on his porch, out of his mind. And now he had to sit down with him for coffee.

He started toward his grandfather’s Chevy truck that had become his along with the inn during the reading of his will. For the first time in a long time, Noah’s chest didn’t tighten at the sight of the tired but sturdy three-story structure he’d inherited—the lingering symbol of a family feud multi-generations thick. That’d be one way to market for the upcoming tourist season. Come see where the infamous Bergeron/Hebert battle first began…

His cell vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it free before hauling himself into the truck cab. Hopefully his backorder of tile hadn’t been delayed again. He snorted at the display indicating a string of missed messages. Thankfully, none from the tile guy.

Noah opened the group text labeled “Gone Fishing.”

CADE

Fishing tonight at 7, right?

LINC

Aye. I’ll bring the cold ones.

OWEN

You always bring the beer, Linc.

LINC

Only because we never know if Noah is gonna bother to show.

Noah winced. Yet lately, the accusation wasn’t inaccurate. He typed back.

NOAH

I’ll be there this time, I promise.

OWEN

Hey guys, I might need to borrow some bait again.

Noah dropped his phone into the console cup holder. The familiar scent of Armor All mixed with the evergreen air fresheners he kept dangling from the rearview mirror wafted over him. Partly his scent now, partly his grandfather’s. Grandpa Gilbert used to keep candy orange slices in the glove box. There were probably still melted traces of them clinging to the interior.

Noah gripped the steering wheel and took a breath. Time to get this over with. He started the engine just as his phone rang.

Noah grunted as he reluctantly hit the speaker feature. “Yeah?”

Cade’s voice filled the cab. “Just making sure you’re really coming tonight and not blowing smoke.”

“I’ll be there. I could use the break…after I get this certificate and slate blue paint, anyway.”

“Sure you don’t want to stick around Magnolia Bay a little longer? Enjoy the hard-earned fruits of your labor at the inn?” Cade’s grin was evident in his voice.

Noah looked both ways at the end of the drive. “I’m sure. This town is too small for Bergerons and Heberts to coexist again.”

“Especially with a certain blond one?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to.” Noah turned off the private road, the bay in his rearview. “Three months of working on the inn has been plenty. I need to get back to Shreveport ASAP.”

For several reasons, and fine, maybe one of those reasons was blond. Not that Elisa Bergeron lived in the Bay anymore—she was probably a famous chef somewhere on the mainland by now.

But he’d seen her memory more around town in the time he’d been back than he had in the twelve years prior combined.

Cade sighed. “That’s too bad, man.”

Noah cleared his throat. “You know I was just here long enough to get the Blue Pirogue fixed up for tourist season.” He ignored the pinch of guilt that always followed that fact. He should keep the inn—it was his favorite childhood landmark, his safe space growing up during his parents’ tumultuous marriage. It was his grandfather’s legacy.

But he couldn’t live in a town that judged him. Judged his family.

He pressed the gas. “I have a real job in Shreveport.” One he’d been on hiatus from. He didn’t have a boss to go back to, since technically, he was self-employed as a landman, but the project manager might not trust him with future projects if he stayed gone too long.

“Running an inn is a real job. Regardless, you’re good at construction—I’ve seen what you’ve been doing at the inn.”

The compliment might have sunk in if there hadn’t been so many mistakes made the past few weeks. “Don’t worry. I’ll hire someone to keep the Blue Pirogue running for me. I definitely don’t want to sell.”

Cade’s voice dropped in understanding. “To Isaac?”

“To any Bergeron, but definitely not to him.” The thought of Noah’s beloved childhood inn going to that man was inconceivable. Grandpa Gilbert would flip over in the grave.

“Don’t worry about meeting Isaac today, by the way. I think he’s mellowed a little over the years.”

“Maybe to you. You’re not a Bergeron…and you didn’t break his daughter’s heart.”

Cade snorted. “I think that breaking part was a bit mutual, if I recall.”

Noah’s grip tightened on the wheel. “Water under the bridge.” And if that statement didn’t remind him of the time he and Elisa would walk the beach to the coastal bridge onto the island, picking up seashells, throwing back the broken ones and collecting Elisa’s favorite in a little mesh pouch he’d bought her just for that purpose…

“I guess you’ll see.” Cade chuckled. “She might be there, you know.”

“What?” Noah hit the brake harder than he meant to at the stop sign. “She’s back?”

“Been back, bro. She manages the café.”

Impossible. “I thought she went off to culinary school.” Not that he kept up. But small towns talked, and some gossip threads strung all the way up the state to North Louisiana.

“She came back.”

Noah’s foot slipped off the brake pedal and he quickly stomped it again. “You could have warned me.”

Cade laughed. “What do you think this is?”

“I meant sooner.”

“If it’s water under the bridge, what’s it matter?”

If Noah could reach through the phone and wipe the smirk off his friend’s face, he would. With his fist. “Thanks a lot.” He eased off the brake and turned onto Village Lane, Magnolia Bay’s main drag, flipping his visor down against the mid-morning sun.

“You haven’t seen her around town at all the past few months?”

“Been keeping to the inn and the hardware store.” And eating enough Chinese take-out to merit his jeans fitting tighter, all to avoid public restaurants and the chance of running into…well, anyone.

“She didn’t come to the funeral, did she?” Cade asked.

“No. But I wouldn’t have expected her to. She owes me nothing.” And he probably owed her even less.

He coasted into a parking spot in front of the Magnolia Blossom Café, then killed the engine. The truck idled into silence. “I’m here, man. I’ll see you on the pier.”

“You got this,” Cade coached. “Get in, get the certificate, and get out.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” Maybe the Lord would hear one of them.

Noah sat for a moment, slowly withdrawing the keys from the old ignition and stalling as he took in the café’s front. Not much had changed in the past decade plus. The turquoise curtains tied back in the front windows had faded and the welcome sign on the porch now hung slightly crooked. The potted flowers celebrating spring were new, though, as was the cheery yellow paint on the door.

His erratic heartbeat was also new. How many times that fateful summer had he coasted up to this very parking lot, waiting for Elisa to get off work so she could hop in his truck? Hit up the drive-in movie the park hosted every June, toss popcorn in each other’s mouth and miss. Share a large soda and fight over the last of the Milk Duds.

Noah reluctantly released his seat belt. Of course Isaac would choose this spot to meet—probably got free coffee from his daughter, if she ran things now—and Noah wasn’t in a position to argue the specifics.

He pushed through the front doors, the turquoise walls immediately closing in on him in a rush of memory. He avoided looking at the patrons seated at the spinning barstools at the serving counter—more so, at anyone potentially behind said counter—and scanned the crowded room for Isaac. The unmistakable aroma of waffles and syrup wafted over him like an air freshener someone needed to invent. He inhaled deeply, then moved through the maze of various-sized yellow tables toward the back, where Isaac was most likely to be seated. He definitely didn’t want to draw attention to himself lingering in the doorway.

The breakfast crowd was in full swing. Forks clanked against dishes, the abrupt holler of “order up” sounded through the swinging doors behind the bar, and the chatter from townsfolk eager to start their day filled the diner with a low hum.

Despite Noah’s determined attempt to keep his gaze away from the counter, it traitorously darted there anyway, ping-ponging back and forth until he was certain Elisa wasn’t one of the two aproned people pouring coffee.

Relaxing, he walked past Sadie Whitlock, owner of the local used book shop, who sat at a table reading a hardback and nursing a glass of chocolate milk. She’d always been kind, a little older than him, and usually had her face in a novel. “Hey, Sadie.”

“Noah! Good to see you out and about.” She looked up from her book with a smile, her green eyes bright. “How’s progress on the inn?”

“It’s getting there. You’ll be seeing less of me around here soon.” Noah’s grandfather had been a regular at Second Story , devouring American history texts as far back as Noah could remember. He’d accompanied Grandpa Gilbert into that used bookstore more times than he wanted to that last summer spent on the island when he was eighteen.

“That’s too bad, but I understand. Not everyone can take over a business suddenly, like I did from my great-aunt.” Sadie gestured with her book—what looked to be a romance novel, judging by the cover. “Surely I’ll see you before you leave.”

Old Farmer Branson—who looked exactly the same as he had a decade ago—raised his head from a plate of bacon as Noah passed, but didn’t nod. The grizzled man had always been close with the Bergerons, taking their side in the ongoing feud over who rightfully owned the inn’s grounds. Most people in Noah’s generation seemed mature enough to realize the majority of that beef had occurred in the past, but some old-timers still liked to play favorites.

Especially if they’d only ever been told one side of the story.

“Noah! Fancy meeting you here.” August Bowman, his grandfather’s probate attorney, stepped in front of Noah and held out his hand. “Come for the pancakes?”

So much for avoiding conversation. He liked August, though, as far as lawyers went. “No, sir.” He returned the handshake, noting the older man’s signature tweed blazer. The man had been born in the wrong century. “I have an appointment—Blue Pirogue business.”

“Speaking of the inn, I was going to call you later this morning, so this is rather fortuitous.” August set his briefcase on the empty table beside them, then pushed his glasses up his nose. The man’s untamed salt-and-pepper hair was the only thing about him that wasn’t always perfectly in order. “Could you come by my office this afternoon?”

Noah hesitated as the dozens of unfinished tasks on his calendar filled his mind, including finding slate blue paint. “I’m afraid I’ve got a full?—”

“Here, take my card, in case you need a refresher of the address.” August handed over the rectangular business card. “It won’t take long, but it’s important.”

“I’ll try, but?—”

“Great! Two o’clock?” August clapped Noah on the shoulder before he could protest. “See you then, son.”

Noah was more likely to be August’s grandson than son, but he didn’t get to protest that or the fact he couldn’t come by before the older man scooted toward the exit.

Great. Noah needed to find Isaac, before he got swept into any more obligations.

He scanned the café a final time, his gaze bouncing off the various magnolia blossom centerpieces, the kitschy teal and yellow wall art, and the hardened stare of Sheriff Rubart—another Bergeron fan—until… there .

Isaac Bergeron sat with his back to the restroom wall, his iPad on the table before him next to a mug. The Magnolia Blossom Café had never used a designated set of coffee cups. Delia Boudreaux, the long-time owner and town “mama,” had told Noah when he was a kid that she was clumsy and would end up breaking them, so if they never matched, no one would know.

The thought brought a smile. Maybe he’d missed this quirky town just a little.

Isaac looked up from his iPad, squaring his shoulders under his dark polo shirt. His face was clean shaven save for a tidy goatee peppered with gray. “Noah. Glad you could make it.”

Noah’s burst of generosity dissipated. He dipped his chin as he slid onto the bench seat across from Mr. Bergeron, then remembered a childhood’s worth of Delia’s reminders to take off his hat during greetings. He tugged his favorite ball cap free from his head and nodded again. “Sir.”

Isaac wasn’t a gambling man, but his poker face could have won him a bundle. He revealed zero hint of how sharing a table with a Hebert affected him, if it did at all. Especially this particular Hebert.

Noah, however, worked hard to keep his thoughts off his expression. He replaced his hat and searched for polite conversation. “Have you ordered?”

“I had a bagel. Would you like some coffee?” Isaac cocked one brow, the intentional movement creating the exact intimidation factor Noah was sure he intended.

“I think I’m set, thanks.” He wanted a stack of pancakes, but not at the expense of making this meeting longer than necessary.

Under the table, Noah flexed his hands against the worn denim of his jeans. During the inspection last week, they’d kept their distance. Isaac had done his official thing, while Noah hovered just close enough to be reached if the inspector had any questions. Thankfully—for both of them—there had been few, and their forced interaction hadn’t taken long.

Isaac took a leisurely sip from his mug, and Noah dug his fingers harder into his knees. Surely Isaac wanted to get this over with as much as Noah did. But the older man didn’t seem in a hurry to hand over the coveted contents of the closed manila folder sitting on the table.

“As you might expect, I have some news for you.” Isaac set down his mug, then draped one arm across the length of the booth seat.

There was the poker face again. He braced himself for a request to tweak a few things. But Noah knew the inn, knew the work that had been done with his own sweat and blood, not to mention the crew he’d hand-picked that had come highly recommended. He’d had a tight budget to work with from his construction loan, but he’d gotten the best and even bartered a handful of favors when finances got tight.

That reminded him—he owed Peter a few bass.

Noah cleared his throat. “I’m ready.”

“I have to warn you, it might not be good news.” Isaac drummed his fingers on the bench as if it were a regular day, not as if he was holding Noah’s golden ticket just out of reach. “But it’s how these things go sometimes.”

So it was as he’d feared. Noah gritted his teeth, keeping his gaze on the syrup-sticky menu between them rather than on Isaac’s smug expression. “I assume there are some changes you’d like to see?”

“Only one big one.” Isaac finally reached for the folder and slid it across the table to Noah, then flipped open the cover. The bold stamp boasting the words FAILED INSPECTION met him like a red-inked slap in the face.

Noah’s mouth went dry. He stared at the unexpected words until they swirled against the other type. “I don’t understand. How?” His renovations couldn’t have failed. Noah had personally attested that everything had been done up to code.

But he did understand, didn’t he? He should have known a Bergeron wouldn’t play fair.

Noah wished he could rip the paper into tiny shreds and throw it in Isaac’s face. Wasn’t that what his grandfather had preached all those years of Noah’s childhood, as he grew up in the inn? That the land under the Blue Pirogue was rightfully Hebert property, despite their petulant claims otherwise, and that the Bergerons were simply “too lazy to make their own good business deals”?

Isaac’s face was less than sympathetic—in fact, that appeared to be a smirk hovering around the corners of his mouth. Then the man schooled his features and picked up the condemning paper before Noah could give into temptation. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you hoped.”

“I bet.” The words slipped out before Noah could censor, but as a flush of heat crawled up his chest, he realized he didn’t want to. This was injustice. “There is nothing wrong with those renovations, and we both know it. I followed all the rules.”

“What are you implying?” Isaac tilted his chin a degree, his gray eyes narrowing.

“More like assuming. I’m assuming the fact the Blue Pirogue happens to be on the exact acreage our families have been feuding over for generations has nothing to do with this.” Noah jabbed his finger at the folder.

“Of course it doesn’t,” Isaac snapped. “Are you questioning my professionalism?”

“Yes, along with about a dozen other things right now.” Namely, what in the world had he taken on with this inheritance? Hadn’t his dad, who’d been successfully managing a luxury hotel chain in California for the past fifteen years, warned Noah when Grandpa got sick the first time? He’s going to pawn that old dump off on you in his will, you know. It’ll be a money pit. You don’t have to accept it.

But Noah had. And until this moment, he hadn’t regretted it.

Isaac’s eyes flashed.

Noah took a deep breath, trying to regain control. He laid both palms flat on the table, releasing his breath. “Let’s just say I’m questioning the timing. You’ve had your eye on that inn since before Grandpa started chemo.”

“That has nothing to do with this and you know it.” Isaac’s voice turned to steel. “In fact, if you’d bothered to read the report before making accusations, you’d see there’s a good reason the inspection failed.” He nudged the paper closer to Noah. “Black mold.”

Noah’s fire tempered a bit. “That’s impossible.” He’d have seen it.

“Afraid not.” Isaac pulled a few photos free from the folder pocket and turned them around for Noah.

His heart dipped in his chest as he stared at the evidence in the walls. Not so impossible after all. He picked up another glossy image. “How did I miss this?”

“It probably happened after the storm. You know Hurricane Anastasia didn’t play favorites last summer.” Isaac’s haughty expression sobered. “Left more damage in its wake than a Kardashian.”

“I know. It even hit us in Shreveport. Mom and I have lived there for fifteen years, and we’d never seen anything like that reach so far up north.”

Was it his imagination, or did Isaac’s eyes narrow at the mention of his mother?

“Regardless of where it came from…” Isaac began stacking the photos. “The mold exists. It’d be unprofessional to approve this inspection before the problem is fixed.”

Noah stared at the way Isaac calmly slid the photos that were ruining Noah’s life back into the folder pocket. He’d thought the Blue Pirogue hadn’t taken much damage during the storm, and what little there had been had easily been swept into the round of renovations.

He’d thought wrong.

“Black mold is a massive liability.” Isaac leaned back in the booth, his expression tight. “You clearly can’t operate with guests until the mold is taken care of.”

“But I can’t afford this.” He’d barely made budget on the renovations needed to get the inn up to date—and up to code—for the pending tourist season. The inn’s books had been in the black—barely—when Noah took over, but having to close temporarily for the repairs had given the dwindling business account a hit. So far, he’d managed to keep his own meager savings out of it, hoping to get the inn back up running before he decided whether or not to keep it.

Isaac shrugged a little, downing the last of his coffee. “Maybe if you hadn’t expanded the third-story suite, you’d have some money left over for emergencies.”

Noah stiffened. The last thing he needed was yet another person telling him how to manage and market the Blue Pirogue. “Not that it’s your business, but that expansion was necessary to draw honeymooners and guests who want more space.” He folded his arms over his hammering heart. “Statistics prove it’ll pay for itself in a few years.”

“That’s great—except you can’t start the clock until this is handled.” Isaac tapped the folder.

He was aware. Noah cleared his throat. These next words were going to taste like sawdust. “Then what do you suggest I do? I don’t have that kind of money left.” Or energy. Or time. The inn was supposed to be finished in the next few weeks so he could figure out his next steps in life.

Not take several backward.

“Do like everyone else does—get a loan.” Isaac raised his eyebrows in challenge as a slow grin curved the corners of his mouth. “Or you could always sell.”

Noah’s gut tightened. “Nice try.”

Isaac leaned forward and lowered his voice, all pretenses gone as he braced both hands on the table. “If you don’t handle this one way or another, I’ll call Judge Morrow. You’ll have a cease and desist slapped on you faster than you can say?—”

“Afternoon, gentlemen.” A slender, tan arm stretched past Noah and started pouring coffee from a carafe into Isaac’s mug. The familiar scent of vanilla and honey hit Noah like a two-by-four from the past and he didn’t need to look up to know.

Elisa Bergeron.

But he did look up, because there wasn’t a man on the planet who was unable to spare Elisa a second glance. He swallowed hard, watching her pour her father’s coffee, his gaze skimming over her high cheekbones and pink lips. Her blond hair, shorter than he’d ever seen it, was tucked back into a tiny ponytail, revealing her slender neck.

“And can I get you anything, hon?” Elisa’s voice, twangy with a southern drawl just as he remembered, trailed off as her eyes met his. Just as blue as he remembered, too, though they darkened as recognition paled her cheeks. She jerked the carafe upright. “Noah Hebert.”

He spread his arms in a slightly exaggerated, resigned gesture. “That’s me.” And that had always been the problem between them, hadn’t it? His name. What he represented.

She lifted her chin, her smile wobbly around the edges. “Well, I’ll be. It only took you four months of being back in town to stop in here, didn’t it?”

“I’ve been pretty busy with the inn.” He waited. Elisa had always been a master at keeping her emotions in check. Hard to tell if her words carried a genuinely pleasant undertone…or if she was contemplating stabbing him with the fork resting near Isaac’s mug.

She resumed pouring, her back rigid but her tone fluid as if he hadn’t spoken at all. “I didn’t think men who wore flannel every day were afraid of anything.”

He scooted the fork out of reach. “Never said I was.”

“You’re right. You didn’t say much of nothing, did you? Some things never change, I suppose.” Her voice flowed like molasses, but the look in her eyes as she met his gaze full on packed a punch he hadn’t expected.

And just like that, he was eighteen again, sitting on the pier out by the bay and memorizing the curve of her sun-kissed shoulder beneath his arm. The smell of sunscreen and vanilla wafting off her hair, lapping over him like the waves beneath their feet.

Naively believing that summer would last forever.

He held her challenging stare. “And some things do.” Unfortunately, and fortunately, all at once. He watched a hurricane of emotions flicker through her eyes, but he couldn’t have named a single one.

And he refused to look away first.

“Elisa!” Isaac yelped.

She finally broke eye contact, looking down with a gasp. Coffee spilled over the brim of Isaac’s mug and formed a river on the table, cascading toward Noah. He jerked back, but not before a stream of scalding brown liquid struck the leg of his jeans.

Forget Hurricane Anastasia—Elisa would always be the biggest storm he’d ever encountered.

And it looked like his brief respite from the rain was over.