Beach Thriller(32)
She takes my hand and, as expected, her skin is cold and clammy. But then, without warning, I see her teeter on her feet. Her color turns gray. Her eyes widen as her knees buckle. I don’t have time to think—I extend my arms as she falls into them. Christ, she smells like potpourri. I strain to support her, my tiny frame overwhelmed by this woman’s stature, but somehow I manage to keep us both upright.
Conrad rushes to my side. “Mother!” he exclaims, taking her from me and guiding her with care to a nearby sofa.
Maeve’s head rolls back. She groans but doesn’t speak.
“Sidney, call the doctor immediately,” Conrad orders.
I grab a pillow to support Maeve, trying to make myself useful. Conrad’s hands tremble as he loosens her shirt collar to ensure her airflow isn’t obstructed. I check her breathing and elevate her feet.
It’s crazy how thirty seconds can feel like an eternity during a crisis. As full panic sets in, I hear Maeve speak. I can’t understand her, but I’m flooded with relief.
Thank God I haven’t inadvertently killed my employer on my first day at the job.
Chapter 19
Holly
Ethan returned in the morning with his tools and know-how. Holly wasn’t staring, she told herself, she was just … noticing. Maybe for a beat too long …
But she crash-landed. He had used the pronoun “we,” and although she didn’t see a ring, he must be spoken for. Some lucky girl would get to watch It’s a Wonderful Life with this hunky handyman, and it wouldn’t be her. If nothing else, it was amusing fodder for a book: Captivating carpenter stirs inner turmoil.
She had to focus on money over personal pursuits, anyway. To that end, she had a meeting with the lawyer, Allen Spellman, scheduled in thirty minutes. Still, there was no harm in appreciating Ethan’s aesthetics. And if she couldn’t get money right away, this might be the last time she’d lay eyes on him.
He approached with a smile that could melt ice. Why did he seem so familiar to her? Why did little alarm bells go off in her head as he neared? He wasn’t even her type. Almost all of Holly’s past boyfriends were artists of some sort. There was the sculptor with the alcohol problem, the fellow writer with the bank account problem, the musician with the honesty problem, and the actor with every problem in the book.
The only notable exception was Max Egan, the boy with a mop of brown hair and caramel-colored eyes that swam with depth and sincerity. Did Ethan remind her of Max? Was that the source of her strange reaction?
“I have my pressure washer and solvent in the truck to remove the graffiti,” Ethan said. “I believe it’s high time Joey and Emily’s love affair gets washed away. My gut tells me their relationship ended a long time ago.” He smiled. It was adorable.
“That’s great, Ethan. Do you mind if I write you a check just for today’s work? Hopefully, my meeting with the lawyer will go well, and I’ll be able to pay for everything in your estimate … but in my line of work, I’ve learned not to count any chickens until they’re hatched.”
He held up his hands, objecting to the prepayment, but Holly thrust a check at him anyway. He glanced at it, eyes widening. Oh no, Holly worried. Do I owe him even more?
“How cool! I might make a copy of this and paste it into my book,” he joked.
Holly didn’t get what he meant at first, but then remembered that Gail introduced her as a local author. But did that mean…?
“I own a copy of Beyond Horizons. Didn’t want to be presumptuous and bring it with me to get it signed. I don’t know how that works—you’re the only published author I’ve met.”
Holly was in shock. “I’d be happy to sign your book. But—you actually read it?”
Ethan nodded. “Read it and loved it,” he said. “Wait, I’m trying to remember—it was Dove, right? And what was the name of the shopkeeper?”
“Emma Lou,” Holly said, awestruck.
It was one of her early works, placing Ethan among a highly exclusive group of twelve or so people Holly knew for certain had read it. Wait, is he sensitive and hot? Or is this a tactic he uses to get girls to fall for him? Either way, he’d scored points with Holly, which upped his dangerousness.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” Holly said, wrapping up their mini book club before she was head over heels. Her dry spell had been long, her bed was cozy, and her repairman fantasy was quite vivid.
It was time to go.
* * *
The law office of Allen Spellman wasn’t much to look at. Neither was Allen Spellman. He was short, squat, and balding, but appeared industrious. The sleeves of his button-down shirt were rolled up, his navy-blue tie hung askew, and his sport coat was draped over the back of his black leather chair.
She had no trouble finding his office. He worked on the second floor of a small brick building that had received historical designation from the town of Beauport, a label the committee handed out like candy on Halloween. Everything in Beauport was historic, even dull, boxy buildings like this one.
Spellman’s workplace was as bland as the man seated at his desk. There was no ocean view. The walls were painted gray, the windows covered with vinyl mini-blinds, and a few black metal filing cabinets lined a back wall over which hung a single framed seascape. Holly scanned the books on the shelves of the built-in bookcase, seeing a collection of legal publications, which meant nothing to her beyond offering assurances that she was in capable hands.