The Women of Bayberry Cove

At the next corner, he ran faster. Louise was still in town. He’d heard that from several sources, including Jamie Malone. In fact, Jamie couldn’t seem to talk about her without aiming a knowing grin at Wes.

Surely Jamie didn’t think he was interested in Louise. She was about as alien to Bayberry Cove as nouveau cuisine was to the Kettle. If Wes ever did settle down with one woman again, it wouldn’t be with an independent, wisecracking, sexy-as-hell city girl like Louise Duncan.

Jamie wasn’t the only one in town who’d taken a liking to Louise. Bobbi Lee referred to her as “the princess” without the slightest hint of malice in her voice. Lots of folks in town seemed to like her. Wes wasn’t at all sure how he felt about her, but as each day passed, he found himself wishing the warning bells in his head would cease their clamor so he could have the opportunity to decide how he did.

And then opportunity knocked—or dashed—right smack into his exercise regimen. In the middle of the long section of track opposite Main Street, Louise suddenly appeared next to him, jogging with all the vigor he had begun to lose. Long, lean legs extended from clinging midthigh shorts and ended in sparkling white running shoes. A form-fitting tank top revealed a slash of creamy abdomen each time her fists pumped away from her body. The material stretched tightly across her breasts, permitting just enough of a subtle bob to make his throat feel as if it were stuffed with cotton. A brazen red baseball cap completed her outfit. She wore it low on her forehead, and a swath of raven hair swung from the opening at the back, reminding him of the tail of a Thoroughbred twitching at the starting gate.

“Nice day for a run, isn’t it, Wesley?” she said, her voice even and controlled, and irritatingly unlabored.

He huffed out an answer. “A beautiful morning, Louise. I haven’t seen you run before.”

“I’ve indulged in entirely too much Southern cooking at the Kettle,” she said, patting a tummy which, now that he looked, might be straining her zippers a little. “I run three days a week at home.” She smiled at him. “Can’t let myself go just because I’m on vacation.”

Ordinarily Wes might have slowed as he approached the third curve for the second time. But he wasn’t about to exhibit a lack of endurance in front of Louise. He sucked in his diaphragm, straightened his back and kept up the pace that somehow in the last minute he’d let her establish. “So how’s that vacation thing working out for you?” he asked.

“Fine, but I’m counting on you to help make it better.”

He stumbled on absolutely nothing. In disciplined military fashion, he covered his blunder and kept running. But he knew from the quick upturn of her lips that she’d seen him falter. “Oh?” It was all he could manage to say.

“I figured, who better to show me the sights than one of the town’s most respected citizens.” She cast him a sideways glance. “And from all I’ve heard, that’s you, Commander.”

The sun glinted off a silver medallion that bounced against her chest above the scooped neckline of her top. Wes couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Her voice jolted him back from a dangerous place. “Wes? Are you interested?”

He snapped his eyes to hers. “Well, okay. Where would you like to go?”

“I thought we’d start with the candle factory.”

The candle factory? He’d expected…deep down he’d hoped she would request a boat ride on Currituck Sound. In fact, he could picture her in his speedboat or the lively little skiff he’d brought out of dry dock and kept by the shore at the cottage. Or he thought she’d ask to see Bayberry Park with its thirty-foot waterfall, an anomaly in an area that boasted few attractions above sea level. But no, she wanted to see the candle factory.

As if sensing his confusion, she elaborated. “I love candles. I have dozens in my condo in Florida. What about this afternoon? I want to see the factory from the inside out, how candles are mass-produced, all the details I wouldn’t get if I didn’t go with someone who knows the territory.”

Of course he could accommodate her. His father and the candle factory president, Justin Beauclaire, had been friends, fishing buddies and poker-playing rivals for years. The factory was certainly a safe place to take the bewildering Miss Duncan, but Wes’s thoughts kept returning to a vision of a more intimate afternoon at the park or skimming over the crystal water of the sound. “Okay, the candle factory it is,” he said, trying to hide a disappointment that surprised him with its intensity. “I’ll pick you up behind the furniture store at two?”

They’d reached the path by Main Street again, and Louise veered off toward her apartment. “Great. See you then.”

As soon as Wes was certain she couldn’t see him, he stopped running, bent his knees and placed his hands on his thighs. He expelled a long, exhausted breath and heard his grandfather chuckling. Wes looked over his shoulder, frowned and said, “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just sympathizing with you, boy,” Mason said. “That woman can knock the wind right out of you.”

HER LEGS ACHING, her heart pounding and her breathing as ragged as if she’d climbed a hundred steps instead of eighteen, Louise flung open the door to her apartment, grabbed a bottle of water from her small refrigerator and collapsed onto her sofa. “You idiot,” she said. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Running a mile-long track around the square was nothing like hitting the treadmill for fifteen minutes at her Fort Lauderdale gym before getting a smoothie and a massage. She gulped the water and lay on her back, propping her head on the arm of the couch. Her gaze connected immediately with her coffee table and the single item sitting there, the blue candle.

“I just love candles,” she said in a sing-song voice that mimicked her previous comment to Wes. “I have dozens in my condo.” She flung her ball cap and hit the candle dead center, hiding it from view. “Candles, my ass,” she groaned.

The only ones she’d ever bought in her life had been skinny little things to stick into birthday cakes, and those she’d bought for someone else. Louise was a firm believer in electric light—bright, soft, sexy, whatever. As long as it illuminated without threatening to set the house on fire. But what the heck? She was getting inside the candle factory, and she was going in on the arm of Wesley Fletcher.

BY TWO O’CLOCK that afternoon, Louise had showered, applied makeup and slipped into a coral shirt-waist dress with what she considered a respectable hemline. On impulse, as she went down the back staircase from her apartment, she popped open the top two buttons and spread the yoke of the dress just enough to distract Wesley from the questions she intended to ask.

He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a tan knit shirt that fit his military-sculpted chest as if it had been molded to him at the factory. He leaned on the hood of an immaculate dark green Jeep.

“Nice car,” she said, figuring a compliment to his vehicle would go a long way with a guy like Wes.

He opened the passenger door, and she slid onto a spotless tan leather bucket seat. “It gets me where I need to go,” he said.

He bolted to the other side, got in and started the engine. With one wrist draped over the steering wheel, he turned to her and asked, “You sure about this? You really want to see the candle factory?”

She swiveled toward him so her knees were mere inches from his thigh, and stared at the handsome, rugged face that had invaded her thoughts for the last few hours. “I’ve been thinking about this excursion all day.” That was the truth. “I can’t wait to see how candles are made.” That was a lie. “I hope you can take me behind the scenes—you know, introduce me to the movers and shakers at the factory.”

He laughed. “I’m afraid the only moving and shaking you’ll see is when Justin Beauclaire walks across his office to the bar and shakes the martini pitcher.” He pulled out of the lot and headed down an alley. “But whatever your pleasure…”

The factory was located a couple of miles outside of town on a two-lane county road that curved past the Brew and Bowl Alley, a few blue-collar businesses and three trailer parks. Louise recognized the name of the mechanics garage where Miranda Lopez’s husband, Pedro, worked, as well as the Lazy Day Mobile Home community where the family lived.

Louise knew she might see the women she’d talked to the night before at the Kettle. They’d all agreed that if they encountered each other at the factory, they would pretend to be strangers. Their association would be public soon enough, but for now, Louise was concerned with getting information, and her guise of being a tourist interested in candles was the best way of doing that.

Wesley parked near the double doors of the two-story colonial offices. This part of the building resembled a modest but gracious Southern mansion. The rest of the business, the production area extending behind the offices, was a long, single-story metal building with windows along the roofline.

Wes and Louise entered a lobby furnished in Wedgwood-blue wing chairs, Queen Anne tables and peaceful pastoral prints. And of course, candles. A half-dozen mahogany shelves displayed the products, which came in many shapes and sizes. The receptionist, a middle-aged lady, gushed over Wesley while Louise scanned the racks, picking up samples. One fact was abundantly clear. This company didn’t miss a holiday sales opportunity or the chance to permeate the world with all sorts of intoxicating smells, from light floral to exotic spice.

After answering questions about where he’d been, how long he’d been home, and thanking the receptionist for expounding on what a handsome young man he’d become, Wes waved for Louise to follow him through a door that led from the lobby. “I called ahead,” he told her. “Justin Beauclaire, the CEO of the company, is expecting us.”

Louise walked beside him down a short hallway to an elevator. This was exactly what she’d hoped for. She whistled in appreciation. “Wow, are we getting a tour from the president?”

“Looks like it.”

“I’m impressed with your contacts, Wesley.”

“Don’t be. This is a small town. Justin and my dad go way back.”

They exited the elevator on the second floor and were met by a portly, balding man. He shook Wes’s hand and introduced himself to Louise as Justin Beauclaire. While he openly admired his visitor, Louise gave him her sweetest smile, slipped her hand into her shoulder bag and discreetly turned on her tape recorder.

BACK ON THE MAIN FLOOR, Justin Beauclaire took his guests past offices on either side of a long hallway. They ended at a metal door. “Through here lies the pulse and energy of the factory,” Justin said. “This is where tons of paraffin is turned into the beauties I hope you saw on display in the lobby.”

“I did indeed,” Louise responded. “I was truly amazed by the number and variety of candles produced here.”

“We’re trying new designs all the time,” Justin said. “We have a research department entirely devoted to market analysis, product testing and nationwide sales.” He opened the door and held it for Louise and Wes to precede him. “Ordinarily I don’t allow any visitors into this part of the business,” he explained. “Insurance issues, you understand.”

She stopped just inside the warehouse and waited for Justin to close the door.

“’Course, I don’t mind breaking the rules for old Wes, here,” he said. “Even if I do remember wiping his nose a few times when he was just a little sprout.”

Wes, clearly embarrassed, forced a snicker.

“We have a lot of expensive and sensitive machinery in here,” Justin added. “Plus nearly every employee inside this building is working with wax in one form or another. In the beginning stages of candle production, wax can be tricky to handle. We melt ours to one hundred eighty degrees.” He gave Louise a sly grin. “Can’t have any novices poking their pretty noses, or fingers, into a vat of hot wax, now can we?”

Louise tsked in sympathy. “Certainly not. I promise to stay safely away from any bubbling cauldrons.” She studied the huge metal tanks across the warehouse. Suspended above each were large circular racks, each holding dozens of taper candles of varying thicknesses. “Has anyone ever gotten badly burned?” she asked.