The Women of Bayberry Cove

“Because I’m living in it.”

“But you could live anywhere.”

“So could you.”

She took a deep breath. Engaging in a war of words with Wesley Fletcher was not likely to get her anywhere, especially since the cottage she now obsessively wanted to rent was in his family’s name. “Look, I might consider renting something else, but my friend told me there is nothing available in Bayberry Cove—no motels, no seasonal places even.”

“That’s true, but you could point that BMW down Sandy Ridge Road, and in ten or fifteen miles you’ll hit some quaint little towns with enough gingerbread bed-and-breakfasts to make your mouth water.” He picked up his can and pointed it in a direction roughly behind him. “Or head to Morgan City and get a room at the Comfort Inn. They have a free continental breakfast.”

“That’s almost twenty miles away.” His answering shrug was impassive, and Louise had to struggle to control her temper. She drummed her fingers on the tabletop and watched for any sign of capitulation. Nothing.

“I think we can reach an agreement here,” she finally said. “I’m only in your town for one reason. My friend lives a mile from this cottage and I want to spend time with her.”

“That makes sense.”

“And I know that your father lives in a big house in town. Jamie Malone told me. Couldn’t you stay there for a couple of months? Then when I leave, you could move back to this place.”

He shook his head. “I’d rather not. It’s really not convenient.”

Logic wasn’t working, and now Louise wanted to rent Buttercup Cottage with a craving that was almost scary. She changed tactics. “I’ll pay you, of course. And I know this time of year demands higher rates. Would you say a thousand dollars a month is a fair price?”

He barked with amusement. “For this little water-front gem?” He leaned toward her across the table. “Here’s what I think is a fair price. Assuming I can get the pipes fixed…” he glanced around the small kitchen “…and assuming these old appliances are in working order, which I haven’t tested yet since you stopped by and interrupted me. And assuming that when I get up on the roof and walk around I won’t find any leaks…then I’d say a fair price might be about four hundred a month.”

Now they were getting somewhere. In fact, Wesley was turning out to be a decent guy. “You’d do all these repairs and only charge me four hundred a month?”

“No. I said that would be a fair price. Actually, I’m not going to charge you anything because I’m not renting you this house.”

She stood up, sending her chair scooting along the worn linoleum floor. “I see what’s happening here,” she said.

“You do?”

“Absolutely. Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

He looked at his wristwatch. “Can I at least move back to the sink? I’m behind schedule already.”

She glared at him, then picked up her keys from where he’d left them on the counter, and stomped through the kitchen to a parlor, where a few old pieces of furniture were haphazardly arranged. She picked her way through a clutter of old magazines and knickknacks and stepped out the front door to her car. Opening the passenger door of the BMW, she snatched her purse from the front seat. When she went back to the kitchen, Wesley was under the sink again.

“Excuse me,” she said.

He scooted out and stood up.

Louise moved to within inches of him and waved her checkbook in front of his eyes. “How much? Name your price.”

He stared at her and slowly shook his head. “Are you crazy?”

“I want to rent this place, Wesley Fletcher. And I mean to have it. I’ve played games with your father in the past, but I’d rather not play games with you. Can’t we just settle this here and now?”

His blue eyes turned flint-gray, and Louise took a step back. Be nice, Lulu, she said to herself. Be compassionate and caring like Roger says. Don’t intimidate. She took a deep breath. “Please, Wesley. I’ll pay whatever you say.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with serious intent. After a moment he turned his hands palms up. Louise experienced a gratifying rush of victory at the obvious gesture of surrender.

And then he said, “The place isn’t for rent. That’s final.”

His was as resolute a face as she’d ever seen in her life. It was a granite and steel countenance that would be perfect at a peacemaking summit between world powers. Or above the green felt of a high-stakes poker table. And it was a face that wasn’t going to change.

Louise marched into the bathroom, stuffed her soiled clothes into her suitcase and her feet into her ruined sandals and wheeled the bag back to the kitchen. Wesley was under the sink again, but his shadowed gaze snapped from the gaping pipes and remained fixed on her face.

“I suggest you let the local postman know you’re living here, Wesley,” she said. “The bill for my clothes will arrive in the mail. Since I don’t have an address, you may send your check in care of the Malones.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in an odd little grin that might have been endearing on a young boy, but was simply maddening on Wesley. “Aye, aye, Counselor,” he said.

She stepped to the sink, carefully avoiding contact with his bent knee, and gave the old enamel spigot one quick flick of her wrist. The rewarding squeal and shimmy of old copper tubing filled her with satisfaction. Water spurted through the pipes, hitting Wesley Fletcher square in the middle of his smug face. Louise smiled down at him, grabbed the handle of her suitcase and exited Buttercup Cottage.

CHAPTER THREE

WESLEY DROVE HIS Jeep Wrangler onto the gravel road leading to Pintail Point, the home of his long-time friend and Bayberry Cove’s resident artist, Jamie Malone. Wes had been home less than twenty-four hours and there were plenty of people he needed to see, but on this picture-perfect morning with the sun shimmering off the blue water of the sound, it was Jamie he wanted to talk to.

After he determined that Louise Duncan’s black BMW wasn’t anywhere in sight, Wes parked under a couple of tall, sweeping sea pines. He walked toward the houseboat, scanning the yard until he was convinced Louise wasn’t there. Then he fixed his gaze on the picnic table where Jamie’s dog, Beasley, was napping. The long-legged beast opened his golden eyes, crawled out from under the table and emitted a low-pitched bark of welcome. Then he plopped down at Wesley’s feet.

Wesley scratched behind one of the animal’s floppy ears. “Hey, Beas, how are you? Energetic as ever, I see.”

Jamie burst out the door of the Bucket O’ Luck and strode toward them. “Wes Fletcher, I heard you were home.” He held out his hand. “Good to see you.”

“Same here.” Wes resumed a reconnaissance of the property while answering Jamie’s questions about his retirement.

After a few minutes of conversation, Jamie snapped his fingers to get Wes’s attention. “She’s not here, buddy.”

Wes was forced to focus on Jamie’s face. “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The heck you don’t. I’m talking about Louise Duncan, who stopped by here yesterday after you doused her with what she described as some sort of sewage.”

Wes scrunched up his face. “It wasn’t sewage. It was rusty water from the kitchen pipes. And did she mention that she gave as good as she got?”

Jamie smiled. “Oh, yeah. That was the part of the story she enjoyed telling most.”

Wes shook his head. “She’s one strange woman. Bossy, pushy, demanding…”

“Don’t forget drop-dead gorgeous,” Jamie added.

Wes laughed. “I guess that’s true, too. And determined. She wouldn’t take no for an answer when it came to renting the cottage.”

“We heard. Frankly, my wife, whom you haven’t met, but who is the sweetest woman on this green earth, is a little ticked at you. She was hoping you’d move in with your dad.”

Wes shrugged. “I’ve been given a grant from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration to fund a project on marine ecology. I need to be on the water.”

“Why didn’t you tell Louise that? She might have understood why living at the cottage was so important to you.”

“She didn’t seem interested in anyone’s motives but her own. And have you ever tried to get a word in with her?”