A Small-Town Reunion

CHAPTER TWO

FOR A MOMENT ADDIE FORGOT why she had come to Chandler House. And why she could never, ever think of something to say to Dev to get past him and over him and forget him and move on with her life. Because he’s Dev Chandler, and he’s simply the most beautiful man you’ve ever met. Look at him, standing there the way he is, acting as if he owns the world—or all the best parts of it, anyway.

And in the next instant Addie reminded herself that she had forgotten him, and that she’d made an excellent start on getting over him. That she was here because his grandmother had asked her to come—because she had talents and abilities and had made a damn good life for herself.

But she still had to get past him.

“Who is it?” boomed a familiar voice from the kitchen.

Dev’s mouth curved at one corner with one of his devil’s spawn half grins. “Good question.”

Julia shoved him aside with a muttered curse, and then her homely face creased in a wide, long-toothed grin when she saw Addie. “If it isn’t Miss Addie. Come in, come in. Just look at you, so neat and trim in your pretty summer things. If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes. And it just so happens I’ve got some of your favorite cookies sitting in my jar, just waiting for you to finish them up.”

She latched on to Addie’s arm with one of her knobby-fingered hands and tugged her inside. The scents of cinnamon and nutmeg rode on the thick, warm kitchen air, but Addie’s skin prickled with the icy awareness of Dev’s stare.

“You settle yourself on that stool, right there,” Julia insisted, “just like old times, and I’ll pour us both a cup of hot tea. And you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Go ahead,” said Dev as he tossed his unfinished toast into the sink. “Don’t mind me. I can get my own tea and cookies.”

“That’s right,” said Julia with a wink for Addie. “We won’t mind you one bit. And you keep your sneaky mitts off those cookies.”

“The cookies sound great,” Addie remarked. “But I’m not here to visit. I have an appointment with Mrs. Chandler.”

Julia turned with a frown, the plate of cookies in her hand. “Did you say ‘Mrs. Chandler’?”

“I’m here on business,” Addie said. “To take a look at the damage to some windows.”

Dev nipped the plate from Julia’s hand. “I’ll take those.”

Julia snatched them back with a scowl. “You’ll take Addie to find Geneva, is what you’ll do. Now get out of my kitchen. You’ve been pestering me all morning, keeping me from getting my work done.”

Dev darted to the side and stole a cookie. “I’ve been keeping you company, you old windbag.”

Julia pulled the towel from her shoulder with a practiced move and snapped it at Dev’s arm.

“Ow.” The cookie fell to the floor.

“Is Geneva in her office?” Addie asked.

Dev began to button his shirt. “I’ll take you.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll just—”

“I said I’d take you.” He unfastened the top snap on his jeans and stuffed his shirt into his waistband. Behind his back, Julia rolled her eyes and muttered something about manners.

“If she’s not in her office,” he said, ignoring the cook, “what are you going to do—hunt all over this place for her?”

Addie crossed her arms. “I thought I’d start by checking out the windows.” She glanced at his bare feet. “I take it the area has been cleared of any broken glass?”

“Nope.” He shot her another crooked grin. “We thought we’d leave that to the expert. Ow,” he said again as he darted out of towel range.

“When you’re finished upstairs,” Julia told Addie, “you come right back here. I want to hear all your news.”

Addie followed Dev through the sunny breakfast nook and cavernous dining room toward the marble-floored foyer. She caught a glimpse of new wall-covering in one room and reupholstered chairs in another, but everything else was as it had always been. The scents in the formal parts of the house were the same, too—citrus polish, lavender water, old books and wool carpets.

And then there was Dev. The same wide shoulders set in a perpetual slouch, the same slightly wavy hair in need of a trim, the same casual gait stuck somewhere between a shuffle and a swagger. The heir apparent of Chandler House; the only son of Geneva’s only son. She wondered why he was here, how long he’d stay, whether he was married—no, he wasn’t married. She was sure she’d have heard the news from Tess, his cousin.

But why hadn’t Tess mentioned he was back in town?

Addie slowed and paused when they reached the grand entry to the front parlor, staring up at the set of stained-glass windows depicting the four seasons. She couldn’t see any damage from this angle; maybe things weren’t as bad as she’d feared.

Dev stopped, too, and when she finally lowered her gaze from the glass, she found him watching her.

“What have you been up to, anyway?” he asked.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“Are you married? Divorced?”

For one second, a ridiculous wave of joy rushed through her at the fact that he seemed interested enough to ask, to make an attempt to start a conversation with her. And in the next instant, her pitiful little thrill whirled down the drain as she realized he didn’t know the most basic facts about her—and that he’d never cared enough to find out.

“I beg your pardon?” she asked.

He frowned and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Never mind.”

“No, I—” She shook her head, knocked off balance by her over-the-top reaction and his serious expression. “No, I’m not married.”

He waited, as if he expected her to say something else. His dark-eyed gaze roamed over her features, assessing, testing. And then the corner of his mouth tipped up in one of his cocky grins. “Go on up to your windows, if you want to,” he said with a jerk of his chin toward the stairway. “I’ll tell Geneva you’re here.”

DEV SOFTLY KNOCKED on one of the tall, paneled pocket doors leading to the old smoking library his grandmother used for her private office and waited for her invitation to enter. Instead, one of the doors slid aside on silent casters. “Is Addie here?” asked Geneva.

“She’s in the entry, waiting for you.” He turned to head back to the kitchen.

“Wait.”

Geneva angled through the narrow opening, commanding her pack of whiny, yappy little Yorkies to sit and stay behind. She wore casual, caramel-colored slacks and a sporty linen top on her tall, amazingly youthful frame. But the pearls at her ears and the elegant twist of her upswept gray hair reminded him she was a no-nonsense woman who expected proper behavior in all things, at all times. “I’d like you to hear what she has to say,” she said.

As he followed his grandmother back toward the entry hall, he wondered what the old lady was up to. She was up to something—Geneva’s demands were never eccentric and sometimes Machiavellian. He didn’t like being caught like a cog in her current machinations, but he didn’t know how to avoid it as long as he was taking advantage of her hospitality.

And he’d continue to take advantage of the situation because he was up to something, too. Several somethings, he mused as Geneva greeted her beautiful—and single—stained-glass specialist. For the time being, he was content to remain exactly where he was, following his grandmother’s lead.

Trailing after the ladies provided an unexpected bonus. At about eye level, Addie’s shapely butt swayed back and forth as she climbed to the landing between the first and second floors. Nice. She’d always been a looker—and it seemed he’d always been looking in her direction. Hard to avoid it, with her attending the same schools and spending so much time in the same house. No point in avoiding it, not when the looking was such a pleasure.

And Dev had never seen the point in avoiding pleasure.

He’d done his best to avoid Addie, though. At first it had been easy—she was just a kid, three years younger and a useless female. A timid little thing with big, watchful eyes, a golden-haired mouse who’d scurry out of his way whenever he entered a room. He’d been confused and lonely after his parents had divorced, lonelier still after his father had wrangled custody from his mother and then left him, for the most part, in Geneva’s strict care.

So Dev had vented his frustrations on the naive girl who was his most convenient target. Even if he hadn’t already ruined the possibility of a friendship with his bullying, he’d never have lowered himself to seek the companionship of a shy, dreamy kid who spent her time drawing pictures.

Beautiful pictures. Fanciful, dreamlike scenes. Yes, he’d done his best to avoid her, but he’d been smitten with her all the same.

And years later, after he’d discovered females weren’t entirely worthless, he’d realized Addie had more to offer than most of them. Her dreaminess had blossomed into a creativity that intrigued him. And her shyness had transformed into a calming presence that attracted him with its promise of peace.

But there’d been no point in making a bigger mess of his life than necessary. Geneva had warned him about putting the moves on the housekeeper’s daughter, and Addie’s mother had given him a silent version of the same message. Addie herself had flashed the hands-off signal like a neon skyscraper on the Vegas strip. This morning’s chilly exchange had let him know nothing had changed.

Nothing but the passage of twelve years since his high school graduation, a mouth-watering deepening of her sexy voice and a refinement of the padding on those interesting feminine curves. And his own deepened and refined appreciation for both her curves and her attitude.

He frowned as he remembered that awkward pause earlier when he’d opened the kitchen service door and they’d stood there, staring at each other like a couple of dumbstruck kids. She’d looked at him as if she’d expected him to slip a snake into her pocket or trip her as she walked up the steps. And he’d wondered how her expression would have changed if she’d known his thoughts involved something scarier than a slithery reptile and just as likely to knock her off balance.

Now she dropped to her knees beside the damaged windows and plucked a few bits of glass from the carpet runner. “Is this everything that came loose?”

“No. Most of it’s outside, on the ground beneath the foundation shrubs.” Geneva clasped her hands at her waist. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d need those fragments, so I left everything as I found it.”

“How did this happen?” Addie peered more closely at the long crack in a wavy yellow panel. Beside that piece, dented metal framework outlined empty spaces. “Stained-glass windows are usually sturdier than others.”

“One of the statues on the upper level fell from its pedestal. The tremors must have sent it rolling down the stairs, and it crashed against the glass, as you see.”

Addie ran her fingers over a section of damaged lead. “How old are these windows?”

“My husband had them installed when the house was built, shortly before he and I were married. So they’re at least fifty years old.”

“I’ll take a look at the exteriors to see if there’s any sign of deterioration.” Addie leaned in closer to the glass. “I don’t see any signs of bowing, so it might be another twenty or thirty years before they need complete reconstruction.”

“Reconstruction?”

“You’re close to the ocean here. Salt in the air can cause the lead to deteriorate over time.”

Addie frowned as she studied the windows. “I’m not going to be able to simply patch these up, you know. I’ll match the missing pieces as well as I can, but they may not be exactly the same. A lot of this is high-quality antique glass, and suitable replacements are going to be hard to track down.”

“I’m sure whatever you can manage will be acceptable.”

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased with whatever I ‘manage.’” Addie wiped her hands on her jeans as she stood, and then she leveled a bland look at Geneva. “And whatever that is, I assure you it will be a great deal more than acceptable.”

Geneva gave her a tight smile. “Very well, then. When can you start?”

“Once I find the glass I need and order it. This weekend, perhaps. More likely the week or two after that.”

“Sooner would be better.”

“I’m sure it would.”

Dev smiled at the subtle clash of wills, grateful his grandmother had insisted he stick around for the show.

“Well?” asked Geneva, raising one eyebrow. “Will it be sooner, then?”

“I’ll need to arrange for some help getting these windows removed.”

“You need to take the entire window?” Geneva stroked a hand over a curve of ruby-red glass. “Can’t you fix them here?”

“Not without setting up a duplicate shop.” Addie trailed her fingers along a twisting length of lead, her gesture resembled Geneva’s. “And even then, I’d still have to remove the windows from their frames.”

“Then take them.” Geneva inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders. “Do what you need to do. As quickly as possible. Devlin will help you.”

“I need expert help,” Addie clarified, ignoring Geneva’s suggestions and his presence. “And I’ll need crates made to brace and transport them. I’ll call Quinn to come and take a look at what needs to be done.”

Geneva hesitated and then nodded. “All right. I’ll have Devlin arrange for Quinn to meet you here, and then the men can get the windows out of the wall and into their crates.”

Addie narrowed her eyes. “Quinn and I can take care of everything.”

“I’m sure the windows must be quite heavy,” said Geneva. “Quinn will need Devlin’s help.”

“If he needs any help,” said Addie, “he can—”

“Don’t bother checking with me.” Dev crossed his arms and leaned against a newel post. “Just pretend I’m not here, that I have nothing better to do while you two make your plans.”

Though she didn’t move so much as an eyelash in his direction, the flare of pink in Addie’s cheeks told him she’d noted the tone beneath his remark.

“When I need your input, Devlin, I’ll ask for it.” Geneva turned and started down the stairs. “Addie, you can use the phone in my office to make your call.”

Addie stared at Geneva’s back until the elderly woman stepped onto the marble foyer floor and disappeared around a corner. And then she shifted to face him, her expression completely shuttered, those wide, sapphire-blue eyes of hers devoid of the slightest hint of emotion or reaction as they settled on his.

And then, for just one second—for a slice of time as narrow and fragile and sharp as one of the slivers of glass—she let him in. And on that lovely face of hers—a face that had slipped through his memories and drifted through his dreams—he could read the evidence of one more thing that hadn’t changed with the passage of all the years. She’d hidden it well enough throughout the morning’s appointment, but in that instant he could see it in every line of her ramrod-straight posture and in every puff of the icy vapor that emanated from her frosty exterior: Addie Sutton’s deep and abiding contempt.

ADDIE HAD LEARNED a long time ago to surrender to her mother’s wishes when she didn’t have the energy, or time to spare, for a siege. So when Lena had called with a dinner invitation that afternoon, Addie had postponed plans with her friends and agreed to travel across town to the riverside apartment complex her mother managed in exchange for her rent. The rest of the bills got paid with the money she earned cleaning offices after hours.

Her mother had once dreamed of a house of her own, Addie recalled, as she parked her truck in a guest spot in the complex’s lot. A house with a yard for a swingset and a place where Addie could leave her toys and crayons strewn about if she chose. But Lena hadn’t possessed any special skills or education, and the housekeeping job at Chandler House came with room and board, and a welcome for her daughter.

After a time, Lena had begun night classes, studying to be a bookkeeper. She’d demonstrated a talent for spreadsheets, and when she’d graduated from the course during Addie’s sophomore year in high school, Geneva’s son Jonah, had given her a job in his office downtown. A good job with the area’s most important businessman. An opportunity to leave Chandler House, to renew her earlier dream of saving for a place of her own.

But that dream had died three years later, shortly before Addie’s graduation. Jonah’s car had gone off a winding cliffside road. And in the days that followed, Lena had discovered sixty-two thousand dollars was missing from the business account—a sum she’d been accused of embezzling.

She hadn’t been guilty; Geneva Chandler had agreed, refusing to press charges. But the mystery of the missing funds had never been solved. And Lena had never again found employment as a bookkeeper, not after such a big scandal in such a small town.

Lena opened the ground-floor door and pulled Addie into a quick, tight hug. “I know you’re busy, and I know I’m being a pest, but I had to see for myself that you came through that quake all right.”

“I told you on the phone,” Addie said as she eased out of her mother’s arms, “everything’s fine.”

“You said some of your shop glass was broken.” Lena took the pink Bern’s Bakery box Addie handed her and carried it into her compact kitchen. “Did you file an insurance claim?”

“I found another way to replace the supplies.”

Addie took her usual spot at the tidy table set for two. Her mother had folded her faded cotton-print napkins into the foiled stained-glass rings Addie had made for a birthday present years ago. Addie ran a fingertip over one of the pretty bevels. “I went to Chandler House today.”

“Oh?”

Lena could pack a sky-high load of meaning into that one syllable. Tonight, disapproval underlined her stone-faced delivery.

Addie searched, as she so often did, for traces of herself in her mother’s features. When she was younger, Addie had imagined she could find her father in the differences. But she’d soon abandoned that game, once she’d figured out she’d probably never see the man. It seemed fitting to give up on him, since he’d never given her or her mother anything. No contact, no assistance. Lena had never told her daughter who he was—not so much as his first name—and Addie had long ago ceased to care.

She could see her own saturated blue in her mother’s eyes and a bright hint of gold twining through the older woman’s darker hair. But Lena’s face was thinner, her cheeks less curvy and her jaw less sculptured. It was as though age and hard times and bitterness had worn her features.

Addie lowered her eyes, guilty over her unkind thoughts. “Two of the stained-glass windows were broken,” she stated. “Do you remember the set on the landing between the main floor and the bedroom floor?”

“The four seasons. Yes, I remember.” Lena ladled seafood chowder into a large bowl. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“She’s hired me to fix them.”

“I suppose that means you’ll be spending a lot of time at the house.”

“As little as possible.” Addie pulled her napkin from its glass ring as Lena set the bowl of soup in front of her. “I’ve already had the windows removed and delivered to my shop.”

Lena took her own seat without comment.

“She sent a ‘hello’ for you,” Addie said.

“Who did?”

“Geneva.”

“Oh.”

Addie cut off a sigh and leaned forward, hoping her mother would raise her eyes to meet her gaze. “She asked how you were.”

Lena idly stirred her thick soup. “That was kind of her.”

“She’d be more than kind to you if you’d give her the chance.”

“I don’t want Geneva’s charity.” Lena lifted a basket of rolls and handed it to Addie. “Or her pity, or anything else she’d care to offer.”

“I was talking about friendship.”

“We were never friends.” Lena shredded one of the rolls on her plate. “We were friendly. There’s a difference.”

“I don’t think Geneva ever saw it that way.”

“She wasn’t your employer.”

“She is now.”

It wasn’t often that Addie disagreed with her mother. The silences that stretched through the tense times that followed their arguments weren’t worth the trouble. Jonah Chandler was dead; Geneva Chandler had become the focus of Lena’s bitterness and resentment.

Addie sought a new topic, but the only thing that came to mind wasn’t a subject she particularly cared to discuss. “Did you know Dev was back?”

“No.” Lena paused with a spoonful of soup near her mouth. “And even if I had known, it doesn’t matter,” she said with a meaningful glance.

Addie was tempted to confess that it did matter. He still had an effect on her that she couldn’t control. But she knew her outburst would be followed by a lecture instead of sympathy. Lena had a lecture for every situation concerning the Cove’s most influential family.

And all those lectures ended with one essential piece of advice: never get involved with a Chandler.

CHAPTER THREE

ADDIE PULLED INTO Charlie’s drive on Friday evening and parked behind Tess’s sporty car. She jumped from her truck, exercised her temper by slamming the door and marched along the short walk to the front porch.

“Hi, Addie.” Rosie Quinn, the daughter of Tess’s fiancé, held one end of a chew rope. Charlie’s naughty black Labrador retriever, Hardy, growled and tugged at the other end.

“Hi, Rosie. Staying for dinner?”

“Yep. Tess said we could have a girls’ night.” Rosie didn’t bother to hide her delight at being included. “She brought a wedding video.”

“Does Charlie know?”

“Not yet.” Rosie worked the rope loose and tossed it across the yard for Hardy to chase. “Tess said we’d get some wine into her before we tie her to her sofa and make her watch.”

Addie stepped up to the trim front porch and whacked the iron knocker hard against its panel on the Craftsmen-era door. Jack Maguire, Charlie’s handsome fiancé, swung the door open. “Hey, Addie,” he said with his Carolina drawl and megawatt smile. “Glad to see you’re all in one piece.”

It was hard to resist Jack’s grin, especially when it deepened those grooves on either side of his mouth. His dark blond hair was still damp from a recent shower, and he smelled of a spicy aftershave. His dark blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he looked her up and down, making a show of checking for earthquake damage.

Addie dredged up a strained smile of her own. “Thanks. I’m fine.”