Driftwood Cottage

5

After drying off and changing her clothes, Heather went downstairs to the store just as she’d told Connor she’d planned to do. Truthfully, her motivation was less about the work that needed to be done than it was about not being in her apartment when Connor returned with little Mick. Right now that apartment was her haven, someplace with no memories whatsoever of Connor. It was exactly what she needed if she was to have her fresh start.

If Connor visited, even for a few minutes, there was a huge risk that it could change the way she felt about her new home. She’d have to grapple with images of him being there, seated, if only for moments, on her new sofa. His scent might linger in the cushions. It was hard enough to keep him out of her head as it was. That’s why she hadn’t let him past the threshold when he’d arrived unexpectedly earlier.

Downstairs, she spent an hour on paperwork, opened a box of new fabric and put the bolts on display, then found herself at loose ends. She picked up the quilt she’d promised to make for Megan, another Chesapeake Shores scene, this time of the family’s home overlooking the bay. She’d worked on simplifying the design for days, using photos to get not only the images she wanted but the colors that would capture the scene. She’d assembled her fabrics and started the work during lulls in business the day before.

Though she’d made several traditional quilt patterns over the years, she found special satisfaction and creative freedom in doing this kind of folk art quilt. If Megan was right about her talent, these would distinguish her shop from any others in the immediate region.

And if she decided to do custom scenes for her customers, she could probably charge even more for them. Or she could assemble a collection of such quilts and even have a show. She could do it right here, or she could have a more formal showing next door at Megan’s increasingly respected art gallery. That could boost prices even higher, she suspected, still a bit stunned by Megan’s assessment of her quilts’ worth.

Sitting in a rocker she’d placed near the front window for better lighting, she pieced together a section of the O’Brien house with the kind of tiny, neat stitches she’d learned from her mother.

As always, any thought of Bridget Donovan filled her with nostalgia. How had they let things get so far off track? Of course it was because they’d both taken strong positions from which there was no backing down, pretty much the way she and Connor had done.

Ironically, she’d always thought herself capable of reason and compromise. Maybe, though, when something mattered so much, there was no room for compromise.

She wondered how her mother would feel if she knew that Heather had left Connor. Would she rejoice, or would she find it one more thing to criticize? There was no way to know without picking up the phone or going for a visit, and Heather simply wasn’t ready to do either. Not yet, anyway. She needed to get her feet back under her, to establish herself in her new life. Then, perhaps, she could withstand one of her mother’s pointed interrogations or her father’s disappointed looks.

A tap on the front door had her glancing up to spot Connor with their son in his arms. She put aside the quilt and let them in. Connor set little Mick down in his playpen, where he was immediately absorbed with his toys. Connor nodded toward the fabric she’d had in her lap.

“You working on something new?”

“It’s for your mother,” she said. “She admired another one of my quilts, so I’m doing something similar for her. It’s not very far along, though.”

Connor walked over and took a closer look, then turned to her with a surprised expression. “It’s our house!”

Heather grinned. “Thank goodness you recognized it. You have no idea what a relief that is.”

“It’s actually amazing. Have you done others like this? I only remember when you worked on the one that’s hanging in the window.”

“That’s a more traditional design,” she explained. “It’s the kind of quilt you’d find in a beach cottage, I think. At least that’s your mother’s theory, and I have sold several to the weekenders who have homes here. They love the old-fashioned look and feel of the cottage quilts, and they’re perfect for the old iron and brass beds so many people have found in antique shops in the area.”

“Did you make them all?” he asked. “When on earth did you find the time?”

She laughed. “Heavens, no. I’m not that fast. I’ve found several excellent Amish quilt-makers in the area, and I’ve bought quite a few quilts from them. So far I’ve resisted buying the machine-made quilts, but I may have to if I can’t keep up with demand.”

A frown knit his brow. “Can you make enough money selling quilts?”

She shrugged. “I hope so, but I’m also starting classes. Not only do I have several people signed up already, but they’ll all need supplies. And I’ve put out some flyers, so word’s getting around that I have fabric available, and a lot of women have been coming in to buy patterns and fabric for their own quilt projects.”

He hesitated, then said, “I suppose I have no right to say this, but I’m proud of you, Heather. Clearly you’re excited about this and have a vision to make it succeed.”

Heather was pleased by his approval. “Keep your fingers crossed that it goes well, or I’ll wind up back in a classroom.”

She was half-joking, but Connor apparently took her seriously.

“Would that be so awful? The schools around here won’t be as tough as the ones in Baltimore,” he said. “It would be a whole different experience. Don’t you have regrets about wasting your college degree?”

“Not really,” she said candidly. “I never felt about teaching the way I do when I walk in here every morning, knowing this business is mine. Connor, I doubt you can imagine what that’s like, to discover something you’re passionate about and turn it into a career. I never imagined that my love of quilting could be anything more than a hobby, yet here I am.”

He frowned. “You don’t think I understand that kind of passion? It’s exactly how I feel about law.”

Heather regarded him with skepticism. “I’m not a hundred percent certain about that.”

“Meaning?”

“To be honest, I’ve always thought you liked law as a way to get even, not as a way to ensure justice.”

He looked taken aback by the comment. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

She saw the hurt in his eyes and regretted being so candid. “Oh, Connor, it’s not that. I love you. That’s why it’s so hard to see what you’re doing to yourself with the kind of cases you take. I know it sounds dramatic, but I almost feel as if you’re selling your soul.”

“The cases I take—and win, by the way—will get me a partnership in a very prestigious law firm, which means you and our son will never want for anything,” he responded defensively.

“I appreciate that you want to support little Mick, but we could get by on less. I’d rather have you truly happy.”

“You could ensure that if you’d just come home,” he said, then waved off the remark before she could respond. “Never mind.” He regarded her with resignation. “I know that’s not happening, not now that you’ve apparently made a new life for yourself here.”

He looked for an instant as if he wanted to say more, maybe even to plead his case once again. Heather waited, wondering if he was about to take a step closer and kiss her the way he might have done a few months ago. His kisses, always intoxicating, always persuasive, never failed to move her.

But the joy and contentment she found in his arms was fleeting. Once her feet touched down on solid ground again, she had to face the same reality. She and Connor were as close as they would ever be. They couldn’t grow together as married couples did.

Instead of reaching for her now, though, he backed away. He shoved his hands in his pockets as if he feared making a move that would be rebuffed.

“I suppose I should get on the road,” he said. “I have some case files I need to go through tonight.”

“More divorces, of course,” she said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted the bitter, judgmental tone of them.

As she’d expected, his expression immediately turned defensive again. “Of course. That’s the kind of law I do.”

“And you’re very good at it,” she admitted. “Your clients are lucky to have you. I just think it’s sad to be surrounded by people who are so miserable and embittered.”

He held her gaze, tried to make his case. “Heather, don’t you get it? People who are going through a tough time emotionally need to have someone in their corner they can count on to protect their interests.”

“Of course I get that,” she said. “But it’s as hard on you as it is on them. Every time you get caught up in their stories, you become more and more disillusioned about marriage.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said impatiently. “I’m the objective outsider, remember?”

She smiled wearily at the characterization. “If only that were true.”

“It is true,” he insisted.

“No, Connor, you take every case personally and add it to that mental ledger you keep as proof that marriage can’t work. Tell me, whose side are you on these days? Always the husband’s? Or have you started taking the wives as clients, at least some of the time?”

He seemed thrown by the question. “Most of my clients are men. What’s your point?”

“That in every single instance, you’re still trying to get payback for what you believe your mother did to your father all those years ago. As I said earlier, you’re still that little boy trying to get revenge because his mom walked out on his dad and on him.”

“That’s absurd!”

She held his gaze. “Is it?”

He was the first to blink. “I’m not having this discussion again,” he said finally. “I need to get on the road.”

She let the subject drop and nodded. “Drive safely.”

At the door, he hesitated again, looking torn, but then he walked out without another word. Heather stared after him and sighed.

Forget their fractured relationship, she thought. How could he not see that as long as he focused his law career on disintegrating marriages, he’d never find the kind of happiness he deserved?

One of little Mick’s toys landed at her feet just then. Relieved by the distraction, she laughed as she walked over to his playpen and picked him up.

“Tired of being ignored?” she teased, holding him close.

“Mama,” he said, patting her face.

She breathed in the scent of baby shampoo and powder. “No matter how bad things are for your daddy and me,” she told her boy, “I have you, and that’s the greatest gift anyone could ever have given me. I will always love your daddy because of that.”

“Da?” Mick said, looking hopefully toward the door.

“He’ll be back soon,” she promised. And she had to figure out how she was going to prepare herself for the next encounter, because clearly they weren’t getting one bit easier.

Thoroughly disgruntled by the parting conversation he’d had with Heather and by the way his family seemed to have accepted Heather and his son into their lives, Connor returned to Baltimore determined not to give any of them another thought. He had plenty of work to keep him occupied, including a couple of high-profile cases that were going to be very complicated and messy.

In fact, first thing Monday morning he had an appointment with a film director who’d been working on location in Baltimore, had established a residence here and then moved the movie’s star in to share the place with him. Naturally the tabloids had gotten wind of it. The director’s wife back in Los Angeles had been furious about the publicity, if not about the infidelity, and intended to take him apart in the divorce. Despite the man’s egregious behavior, Connor didn’t intend to let her get one penny more than she deserved.

To be honest, he’d taken the case more for its publicity value than out of any desire to defend the man’s bad behavior. If he could keep Clint Wilder from being taken to the cleaners, it would seal his status as the top divorce attorney in the region. He’d make partner at the law firm by the end of the year for sure.

Even as the thought occurred to him, he remembered Heather’s disdain for his motives. Okay, she was right, at least to an extent. But what was wrong with wanting to be successful? Wasn’t that what most people wanted, to be the best at whatever career they’d chosen?

Still, on Monday morning as he listened to Wilder’s side of the mostly sordid tale, he couldn’t help thinking what Heather’s reaction would be. She’d be horrified that Connor would take the husband’s side over his wife’s. Connor had a momentary twinge about it himself, especially as Wilder boasted that it wasn’t the first time he’d slept with the leading lady in his films, just the first time his wife had gotten wind of it and been publicly humiliated.

“I don’t know what she expected,” the director said, sounding genuinely bewildered. “She stays at home with the kids. What am I supposed to do? Look, just offer her the house, support money for the kids and some kind of monthly alimony. Make it all go away.”

He handed Connor a piece of paper with some suggested figures. Connor glanced at them and shook his head. Even by his usually conservative standards, these would never fly. Not when this man made millions.

“Look, I’ll do what I can, but it may not be so easy to make this go away. You’ve been married a long time, and this isn’t the first time you’ve strayed. Her lawyer could rip you apart. If she gets a sympathetic judge, you’ll wind up paying three or four times this amount.”

The director leveled a look at him that probably intimidated every actor on his set. “Don’t let that happen,” he said quietly. “Understand?”

Connor nodded. All he could do was offer his best advice. In the end, it was his client’s decision. “I’ll be back in touch as soon as I’ve spoken to your wife’s lawyer.”

“Tell that little weasel I have plenty of dirt of my own I can throw at her,” Wilder told him. “If he wants to get tough, I’ll be tougher, and I’ll walk away with the house and the kids. She’ll wind up with nothing. She was barely one step out of the gutter when I met her, and I can see that she winds up back there.”

Connor felt his blood turn cold at the man’s vicious words. For all of his go-for-the-jugular tactics, he still clung to at least some sense of respect for women. Sadly, though, he had dealt with enough men who thought their own behavior should be exempt from scrutiny to recognize a man willing to play hardball. Usually he liked having the kind of leverage necessary to make the other side squirm. Maybe because of last night’s conversation with Heather, today he was the one squirming. The whole thing suddenly seemed so darn sleazy and cruel.

Ironically, it wasn’t Heather’s face he saw in his head, but Gram’s. He heard her reminding him over and over that Megan deserved his respect, even when he was angriest at what she’d done to the family. Gram would be appalled by Clint Wilder, a man willing to publicly sully his wife’s reputation out of greed.

In the end, though, Connor knew he would win for the director in court, because that’s what he did. But for the first time, at the end of the day, he didn’t feel entirely good about it.

When the firm’s senior partner, Grayson Hudson, walked into his office and asked about the case later, Connor shrugged. “It’ll get a lot of publicity,” he said, as if that were all that mattered.

“Just make sure the firm looks good,” Grayson told him. “You’re very good at what you do, Connor. That’s why I used you myself when Cynthia and I split up. But your tendency to go for broke can stir up sympathy for the other side. You make sure that man’s wife isn’t going to come through this looking like Mother Teresa, you hear?”

Connor thought about Wilder’s veiled references to his wife’s past. “Doubtful, sir,” he said confidently.

“Just do your homework, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Not to worry. I always do.”

After all, Connor reflected, wasn’t he the one who was known in his family for having very little faith in the human race? He left next to nothing to chance. Even though he had Clint Wilder’s word that his wife had skeletons in her closet, he’d put a private detective to work checking her background within five minutes of the man walking out of his office. He wasn’t about to enter a mediation room or a courtroom without knowing everything there was to know about the other side.

Using the dirt, though? That was another matter and one he had no idea how he would handle.

Though he was immersed in work, Connor still wasn’t able to keep Heather out of his head. Every time he drew up a line of attack in another case, he heard her voice questioning his tactics and his motives. It was getting annoying.

In fact, just being unable to get her out of his head was annoying. The only way he could think of to change that was to put his social life on a fast track.

For the next couple of weeks, he spent his evenings hitting every bar in town with various colleagues from his law firm. Though he met plenty of attractive, intelligent professional women, not a one of them held a candle to Heather. Her image haunted him.

He reached for the phone a half-dozen times a day, tempted to call so he could hear the sound of her voice. He even had a built-in excuse, wanting to get updates on their son. It was downright pitiful that he even considered resorting to that.

In the end, he resisted because he knew she’d see through the excuse. Anyone in his family could tell him what was going on with little Mick. It wouldn’t take frequent calls to Heather to learn how his son was doing. Besides, she left him regular messages herself. They were too short, too unsatisfactory. What he needed was a real conversation.

His inability to get on with his life clearly meant that he needed to try harder.

The next woman he met, he asked on a date, then spent an evening in one of Baltimore’s finest restaurants being bored out of his mind. It seemed all she cared about was whether he’d met any of the stars in Clint Wilder’s movie. He repeated the pattern for another couple of weeks, then finally conceded he was wasting his time.

On the Saturday morning of Easter weekend, he got in his car and drove once again to Chesapeake Shores, using the excuse that it had been too long since he’d seen his son. He somehow managed to blame Heather for that, even though several of her messages had included an offer to bring little Mick for a visit.

When he arrived at the house, he found Gram in the kitchen with all of the kids coloring Easter eggs. Though the room was a disaster and Gram looked harried, her eyes were twinkling when she spotted him. She handed off his son, who clung happily to his neck. The boy’s smile of delight at Connor’s arrival immediately improved his mood.

“Get out of those fancy clothes and come in here to help me,” Gram commanded. “If I’m not careful, I’m going to wind up with my hair dyed pink.”

“It would be beautiful,” Caitlyn told her solemnly.

“We can do mine, too,” Carrie said. “But I want blue.” She danced around. “Don’t you think I’d be beautiful?”

“Gorgeous,” Connor agreed, laughing. He felt lighter than he had in days. His twin nieces, with their unexpected observations and uncensored comments, could lift his spirits in a heartbeat. Spending time with them and the rest of the family was exactly what he’d needed.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised his grandmother.

Taking little Mick with him, he changed into an old T-shirt and a pair of cutoff jeans, then hurried back to the kitchen and settled his son in a high chair.

“How’d you get roped into doing this?” he asked Gram.

“Everyone’s working today,” she explained. “It’s a busy weekend in town, so Shanna, Heather, Bree and your mother are all at their shops. Abby went to help Bree deliver flowers. It seems everybody in the universe is sending an Easter bouquet to someone in Chesapeake Shores this weekend.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Mick took one look at the mess in here and mumbled something about checking on one of his Habitat for Humanity sites.” She chuckled. “I’ll have my revenge, though. Once we’re finished, I can walk off and leave this for him to clean up. That’s the joy of being able to go back to my own place these days. Now, you help your son. He doesn’t quite have the knack for dying eggs, instead of his hands.”

“Help me, too, Uncle Connor,” Davy pleaded.

Henry, who was still adjusting to this boisterous new family of his, stood back, looking on shyly.

Connor plucked three boiled eggs from a basket on the table. “Come on, guys, let a master show you how it’s done. Each of you grab a crayon. We’ll draw on a design first, okay?”

The designs weren’t much, but it hardly mattered. Connor guided little Mick’s tiny fingers as they drew a barely recognizable duck. Davy drew something that looked like Santa, though turned upside down it could have been a bunny. It was impossible to tell and probably risky to ask.