A Small-Town Homecoming

“I like a man who’s honest about his bad intentions.”

A corner of Quinn’s mouth tugged to the side in something that wasn’t quite a grin.

Something dangerous, something potent. “If I ever have any of those, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“It’s a deal.”

Quinn lifted a hand to Tess’s sweater and ran his fingertips from button to button, along the opening.

“All right, then,” he said. And then he grew very still, as only he could do, and looked at Tess in that way that made everything in her aware of everything about him. Of his height, and his breadth, and his strength, and his ridiculous, impossible appeal.

Dear Reader,

One of my writer’s perks is having an excuse to daydream about things that interest me—I can always claim my woolgathering is productive when I weave various elements into the stories I tell. Since one of my interests is building design, I knew that eventually I’d create a character who works as an architect.

Tess Roussel in A Small-Town Homecoming is a woman accustomed to seeing her plans followed and her sketches become reality. I had a great time pairing her with Quinn, a man who is determined to build things his way. I’m sure you’ll enjoy the fun as this quietly intense hero rocks the self-assured heroine’s world to its foundations.

I’d love to hear from my readers! Please come for a visit to my website at www.terrymclaughlin.com, or find me at www.wetnoodleposse.com or www.superauthors.com, or write to me at PO Box 5838, Eureka, CA 95502, USA.

Wishing you happily-ever-after reading,

Terry McLaughlin

About the Author

TERRY McLAUGHLIN spent a dozen years teaching a variety of subjects, including anthropology, music appreciation, English, drafting, drama and history, to a variety of students from kindergarten to college before she discovered romance novels and fell in love with love stories. When she’s not reading or writing, she enjoys traveling and planning house and garden improvement projects. Terry lives with her husband in Northern California on a tiny ranch in the redwoods. Visit her at www.terrymclaughlin.com.

A SMALL-TOWN

HOMECOMING

TERRY McLAUGHLIN

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For the baristas at Gold Rush, who help keep me

going with smiles and Cold Snap Mochas.

CHAPTER ONE

TESS ROUSSEL sidled through her Main Street office doorway a quarter of an hour past the posted opening time. She maneuvered a stylish leather briefcase, two rolled elevation plans, an oversize clutch purse, a custard-filled maple bar and her triple-butterscotch latte past the jamb, but coffee slopped through the cup lid and splattered over her gray suede heels.

“Not again.” She inhaled April air smelling of last night’s special at the trattoria across the street and this morning’s catch on the docks two blocks over. And then she blew it out with a disgusted sigh. “Damn parking meters.”

Shoving the door closed with her hip, she flipped a row of light switches with an elbow. It wasn’t that she was too cheap to spend her work breaks feeding coins into one of the meters stationed along Main Street, although the daily expense competed with the cost of her favorite caffeinated beverages. And it wasn’t that she was too forgetful to deal with the meters’ payment schedule, especially after four parking tickets had forced her to devise an alarm system that could penetrate her deepest levels of concentration and summon her from her design work.

It was the principle of the thing. Potential customers shouldn’t have to pay for the privilege of popping into the Victorian-era storefronts crowding Carnelian Cove’s marina district. And the merchants shouldn’t have to pay for the convenience of parking near their own places of business. And she shouldn’t have to make the hike from the stingy public lot three long blocks down the street. And definitely not twice on such a drizzly morning, just because she had too much stuff to tote safely in one load. And not in these heels.

Although the shoes attached to the heels were simply fabulous.

Her stylish heels clicked across the scarred plank floor, echoing in the high-ceilinged space. Usually she enjoyed the ambience of her one-of-a-kind office—the subtle industrial spotlights punctuating the softer illumination of period fanlights, the brick side walls separating her office from the used bookstore on one side and the gardening boutique on the other, the touches of sharp black lines and bright red paint and delicate greenery. But this morning, in the fog-dimmed daylight trickling through the street-front bay windows, everything looked a little worn-out and washed-up.

Kind of like the way she’d be feeling if she let herself dwell too long on her problems. She dumped the briefcase, purse and elevations on her drafting table and scowled at today’s project: a contractor’s rough sketch for a bowling alley renovation she’d agreed to transform into a permit-ready plan. Not exactly the glamorous career she’d envisioned while slaving through her university design classes. And nothing like the exciting projects she’d worked on during her seven years with one of San Francisco’s most prestigious architectural firms.

Her father, a dashing, aristocratic Frenchman whose work had dazzled the city’s art connoisseurs before his untimely death, would have shuddered at the bourgeois assignment. Her mother, owner of the Bay area’s finest art gallery, would probably cringe at the dull practicality of the finish details.

But drawing restroom updates and adding more diner space to Cove Lanes was the only kind of work available in this compact northern California town on the Pacific coast. She knew she should be grateful for the crumbs the local contractors had tossed her way since she’d arrived a year ago, though she understood why they were so quick to give her this particular share of their business: builders wanted to build, not fuss over paperwork.

Yes, she understood—more than any of them realized. As much as she enjoyed the process of design, of crafting neat, two-dimensional schemes that would be transformed into three-dimensional works of art, it was nothing compared to the thrill of helping to shape her creation on the job site. The buzz and clang of equipment, the smell of sawdust and solvents, the skeleton and organs and nerves and skin of studs and plumbing and wiring and siding—every step was fascinating and exciting and hers. Every detail and decision was hers to choose and make, and the sense of power and control was addictive. Every line and corner and arc sprang from her imagination, and watching it all rise from the ground was a rush beyond compare.

She switched on her music system and selected her favorite Miles Davis album—something cool to match the day, a bluesy tune to match her mood. No one in Carnelian Cove considered hiring an architect when there were plenty of contractors willing to secure a building permit with the inexpensive—and unimaginative—basics. That’s how things had always been done, and most people couldn’t see a reason to do things differently. She’d known it might take a while to change their minds, and she’d been prepared to watch her savings dwindle during the adjustment period. But she hadn’t realized there might never be any genuine design business for her architecture firm.

Her very own firm, her long-time dream: Roussel Designs. She sighed and carried her maple bar and her cooling latte across her office to study the model occupying the prime real estate in the windows fronting Main Street: the model for Tidewaters. Retail spaces for six smart boutiques and offices, a midsize restaurant at dock level and five spacious multilevel condominiums above. A wonderful boardwalk fronting the bay and an open, parklike space surrounding the parking area—ample, meter-free parking. A harmonious blend of commercial use and stylish housing, a contemporary building reflecting local traditions, an ideal example for future waterfront redevelopment.

And it was absolutely, positively gorgeous.

She bit into her pastry and licked creamy custard from the corner of her mouth. She’d get Tidewaters built, all right. She’d pull it from her imagination and raise it from the ground, and then they’d see the three-dimensional proof of what she had inside her. She’d show them all what she could do—everyone back in San Francisco who’d warned her she’d never make it on her own, everyone here in the Cove who didn’t think an architect could make a difference, everyone in her family who’d patronized her ambitions and doubted her abilities.

Everyone but her grandmother, Geneva Chandler. Grandmère didn’t need proof of her granddaughter’s talent and determination. She’d already put up the financial backing for the construction and had been calling in her political markers for this building she wanted as much as Tess did herself. They’d make a hell of a team.

Tess shifted her shoulders, uncomfortable with the possibility of comparisons to Geneva Chandler. She loved the old woman, but her grandmother could be powerfully intimidating.

A streak of sunlight pierced the low-lying fog along the bay, and the interior of Tess’s office brightened. The fog would clear by midmorning, and another gorgeous spring day would lift her spirits. Good weather for building something.

And time to get started on the day’s work.

She turned to face her desk, ready to draw the bowling alley plans on her computer’s CAD system, and saw her answering machine’s red eye blinking from beneath a messy stack of bills. The display listed the number for Chandler House.

“Tess, dear,” scolded Geneva’s recorded voice. “You’re late.”

“I know.” Tess snatched at the bills before they toppled over the edge of the desk.

“If you’re going to advertise office hours, you must make more of an effort to keep them,” the machine continued. “It’s part of a polished professional appearance.”

“Get to the point,” Tess muttered.

“But that’s not why I called.” Grandmère paused for dramatic effect. “I want you to cancel your morning appointments—”

“As if I had any,” Tess said with a sigh.

“—and meet me here, at Chandler House. I’ll expect you by eleven. No later than eleven,” Grandmère emphasized. “You can practice your punctuality on one of your relatives, who manages to love you in spite of your shortcomings.”

Tidewaters. She had news—that had to be the reason for this summons. Tess pressed a hand to her jittery stomach and sank into her desk chair.

A city council meeting was scheduled for tonight, and the waterfront zoning issue was on the agenda. Again. Grandmère had been pulling strings behind the scenes, postponing a vote until she was sure the results would go her way. She still carried plenty of political clout in this town, and several of the council members already agreed with her plans.

They were right to agree—Tidewaters would be a genuine asset to the city. It would develop a weed-choked gap along the waterfront, provide new jobs and help reinvigorate the quaint, older business section of town—and all on someone else’s dime. Tess had been astounded that anyone would refuse Geneva Chandler’s offer to build such a wonderful, beautiful place in the heart of her community. But the opposition to development had been fierce. There were many here who wished things to remain as they were, who viewed progress with suspicion and the land at water’s edge as untouchable.

Tess set the remains of the maple bar aside, wiped her sticky fingers and tried to concentrate on her work. But she couldn’t shake the case of nerves or the unsettling swings from elation to dread that kept her stomach churning. Even if her grandmother had won this battle, even if construction were about to begin, Tess wondered if the war over the waterfront would quietly move underground.

And she didn’t like the idea of building on such a shaky foundation.

PRECISELY one hour later, Tess drove her roadster up the long, winding approach to Chandler House. Early shrub roses edged the drive, and puffs of cotton-candy blooms dotted the rhododendron bushes spreading beneath the lacy canopy of a redwood grove. With each bend in the road, she caught a glimpse of the creamy yellow shingle-style mansion rising at the edge of Whaler’s Bluff.

Her great-grandfather, an ambitious man who rose from lumberjack to mill owner, had purchased the site and planned for a great house overlooking the growing town. His son, a clever man who launched several local businesses and invested in others, created that house to showcase the family’s wealth. Both men had used their money—and that of the heiresses they married—to benefit Carnelian Cove and their own positions in the community. Both had filled various city political offices; both had served as mayor.

Tess’s mother had spent her childhood in the fairytale house, her room overlooking the crescent-shaped sprawl of Carnelian Cove. The building’s fanciful bays and jutting windows, its wide porches and shadowed niches had filled Tess’s imagination with romantic scenes during the holidays and summers she’d spent here as a girl, and she wondered—as she so often did lately—whether this grand old place was the source of her fascination with architecture.

She slowed as she passed through the gap in an imposing black iron gate, admiring the stone steps that marched from the leaded-glass entry to meet the dramatic sweep of pristine lawn. Pale green ferns spilled from wicker stands, and the porch swing sported bright new pillows striped in sherbet shades. One of Grandmère’s fussy, yappy little terriers dashed to the top of the steps and sounded the alarm.

Though she’d have preferred to continue to the rear service area and enter through the modest kitchen door, Tess pulled beneath the stately porte cochere shading the side entrance. She was a grown woman now—and gathering every one of her thirty-one years about her like a shield. She didn’t need the additional fortification of a cookie stolen from Julia’s fat jar to help her face her formidable grandmother. But she did take a moment to run a comb through her hair and freshen her lipstick before she stepped from her car. Geneva Chandler wasn’t simply Grandmère this afternoon—she was a business associate.

The heavy oak door opened and two more yipping, beribboned dogs escaped to circle Tess’s car. Geneva stood in the doorway, a tall woman whose regal stance was softened by pink cashmere, pearls and a welcoming smile. “Right on time,” she said.

“I can manage when it matters.” Tess grinned and waded through the pack of terriers sniffing at her ankles. “And I was hoping you might reward me with lunch.”

“I might at that, if you don’t mind sharing a plate of cheese and fruit.” Geneva wrapped her in a quick, tight hug that smelled of Chanel and felt like summer. “Julia has the afternoon off.”

If Julia had prepared the plate before she’d left for the day, the cheese would be brie and the fruit would be fresh and arranged with artistic flair. Grandmère’s cook may have rapped Tess’s fingers with a wooden spoon more than once when they’d inched toward the cake frosting or strayed into the sugar bowl, but she’d always found time for a kitchen visit, inviting Tess to perch on one of the tall stools around the gigantic island, oohing and aahing over the news of the day while she stirred the makings of something fabulous in one of her huge crockery pots.

“Sounds like you might be needing some company,” Tess said as she stepped into the cool side hall.

“Depends on the company.”

“I could manage to be on my best behavior.”

“Don’t beg, Tess, dear,” Geneva said with a shiver. “It’s so … unnerving.”

Tess laughed and bent to scoop one of the terriers into the crook of her arm and then grimaced as a quick pink tongue scored a direct hit on her lower lip. “Ugh.”

“You’re getting slow in your old age.” Geneva turned and headed down the narrow servants’ passage. “Please wipe your mouth and join me in my office.”

Tess set down the dog, tightened her fingers around her purse and followed her grandmother. A summons to the office had rarely ended well. Grandmère had always favored that spot for issuing difficult requests or doling out punishments.

Her grandmother ushered her into the small, thickly paneled room and then pulled the tall pocket door closed on its silent track. Tess’s heels sank into the thick Aubusson carpet, and she inhaled the familiar scents of old books and furniture oil. Sunlight shot through the ruby reds and cobalt blues of the stained-glass panes above the lace curtains and pinned rainbows on the portraits of Chandlers in military uniforms and Victorian gowns. The spired mantel clock, wedged between a pair of smudge-snouted Staffordshire spaniels, ticked away the seconds.

“Have a seat, Tess.” Geneva crossed to a cabinet. “This won’t take long.”

Tess perched on the edge of one of the delicate chairs near Geneva’s desk. Neatly stacked on the desk’s surface were correspondence and newsletters, no doubt from the Historical Society, the Garden Club, the Ladies’ League, the University Foundation Committee. As one of the Cove’s leading citizens, Geneva liked to keep a finger in every social pie in the county.

“I know it’s a bit early for this,” she said as she dribbled sherry into two dainty goblets, “but I think we can indulge ourselves just this once.”

Tess hesitated before taking the glass. She rarely drank—her mother had done enough of that for everyone in the family. She stared at the golden liquid in the elaborately etched crystal and told herself there was no harm in it, just this once. She sipped and braced for the burn along her throat, and then she lowered the drink to her lap and waited for her grandmother to explain the reason for her summons.

“I spoke with Arlie Ratliff again today.” Geneva settled in one of the high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace and regarded Tess over the rim of her glass. “He’s had a change of heart.”

Tess clutched the arm of her chair. The city councilman had been on the fence about changing the zoning of Geneva’s waterfront property to allow for commercial development. “Would this change have anything to do with Tidewaters?”

“Yes. He assures me he’ll vote for rezoning at tonight’s council meeting.”

“And we’ll have the building permit in hand by tomorrow afternoon.” Elated, Tess raised her glass in a toast. “You did it.”

“Arlie owed me a favor or two.” Geneva swirled the sherry in her glass with a sly smile. “I simply had to jog his memory a bit. And then promise him I’d forget all about it myself.”

Tess held up a hand. “Whatever it was, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Are you sure?” Geneva’s smile widened. “It would make for some excellent lunch conversation before it gets wiped from my memory for good.”

“Geneva Chandler, you can be one hell of a scary lady.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Tess rose and paced the room, unable to sit still. “I can’t believe it. Tidewaters—it’s actually going to happen. I’m going to build it.”

“Yes.” Geneva lowered her glass to the piecrust table beside her chair. “In a manner of speaking.”

“It’s going to be gorgeous. Fabulous.”

“Tess …”

“I know you’ve seen the model often enough—and I did a fabulous job on that, too, if I do say so myself, but—”

“Tess.” Geneva raised a hand. “Please. Sit down.”

Something in the tone of her grandmother’s voice had Tess’s stomach jackknifing to her knees. “What is it?” she asked as she sank back into her chair.

“It’s about the contractor I’ve chosen for the project.”

“You’ve chosen—” Tess took a deep breath, slamming a lid on her temper and her anxiety. “You promised to consult with me on that. I explained how important it was to find someone who could work with me to implement my vision. Our vision.”

“Well, yes, I did. But that was before my meeting with Arlie.”

“I see.” Tess set her glass on the desk. “Someone else helped him change his mind.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Geneva twisted her fingers through her pearls.

“You couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking.” Or what I’m feeling. Tess sucked in another long breath and ordered herself, again, to stay calm. “This is someone I’ll be working with so closely it’ll be as if we’re the same person. Someone who’ll have to practically read my mind and help fashion what’s inside me.”

“I’m sure you two will figure things out as you go.”

Tess narrowed her eyes. “Who is it?”

“Quinn.”

“Quinn.” The name was like a physical blow.

“Arlie says he’s very good.”

“He wasn’t so good a few years ago.” Quinn had skipped town after an accident on a job site had put one of his crew in the hospital. “And he’s an alcoholic.”

“Recovered.”

Tess knew all about “recovered” alcoholics. Those in her experience had never managed to stay recovered for long, no matter how much the people who loved them might beg. She rose from her seat to prowl around the room, swamped with ghostlike reactions, trapped in a never-ending loop of helplessness and resentment, tempted to gnaw a fingernail as she used to. But the moment she’d raise her hand toward her mouth, Grandmère would click her tongue and shake her head. That, too, was part of the old patterns.

Geneva picked up her sherry and took another sip. “I’m convinced Quinn’s the right man for the job.”

“Because you have so much experience with this sort of thing.”

“Because I have a great deal of experience reading people, yes.” The woman in pastel pink straightened her spine and leveled a severe look at Tess. “Quinn has assured me he can complete this job on time and on budget. And I believe him.”

“You’ve met with him?” A dull pain layered over the shock of betrayal. Her grandmother had done this without consulting her, knowing how much this project meant to her. Knowing how many dreams she’d poured into her sketches and plans.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Tess stared out the window, watching the waves beating against the rocks. “It’s decided, then.”

“I’ve offered him the contract. I expect his answer by the end of the day.”

“I’m sure you’ll get the answer you want.” A job this size would provide steady employment through the entire building season—and plenty of corners to cut to pad the contractor’s profit.

She turned to face her tough-as-nails grandmother. “You always do, Mémère.”

CHAPTER TWO

QUINN SLUMPED against the toolbox wedged in one side of his pickup bed, legs hanging over the edge of the open tailgate, and scanned three acres of weed-covered ground studded with refuse. From the cracked curb on the Front Street boundary to the gap-toothed riprap edging the foot of a disintegrating dock, the ground rose and fell in random, jagged waves.

Tomorrow he’d haul in an office trailer and set up shop. In one week, he’d have this place scraped clean and the footings ready to dig. By the end of the month he’d have gravel spread and neat piles of form boards and rebar placed and ready for the foundation work. And before the end of the year he’d be putting the finishing details on the finest building Carnelian Cove had seen erected in over fifty years.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool blend of trampled Scotch broom, sea-salted air and the rich tang of tobacco smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. And then he braced while a sharp-taloned need clawed its way through him. His personal battle with his alcohol addiction was a day-by-day siege, but nothing was proving as difficult as trying to deny his craving for tobacco.