Snowflake Bay (6 page)

“You say that like it's a bad thing,” Fiona said dryly.

“If I don't take advantage of their willingness to do this, then the feud will continue to drag out, possibly for more generations. And that's ridiculous. This is my future family, and I don't want to live in this civil war between the two clan sides. If I can be part of bringing about an end to it, then I'm going to do that. For the good of this generation, and the ones to come. Including my own.”

“Good closing argument, counselor,” Fiona said, then sighed, because her sister was right. If there was a chance to end the centuries-old battle between the two warring Blue factions, then it was worth trying. She waved her hand when Hannah's expression threatened to crumple. “Okay, okay, don't—oh come on, Han. We'll figure it out.” She pulled her sister into a hug and Alex leaned in and wrapped her arms around them both.

“I know it sucks,” Hannah said, her voice sounding thicker now.

Fi stroked her sister's hair and sighed, pressing her cheek to the top of Hannah's bowed head. “The intention behind the gesture is a good one, and it speaks well for Calder's family. But in all the ways of wedding planning? It does suck, I won't lie. And I'm also not happy because it's your wedding day, dammit, and you shouldn't be stressed out about it. Not like this.” She straightened and pushed gently at Hannah's shoulders until they were eye-to-eye. “But I promise you it's going to be a beautiful Christmas wedding. If I have to hog-tie every Blue to a pew to do it.”

“I knew I could count on you, Fiona,” Hannah said, bottom lip still a little trembly. “Thank you.”

“Don't worry about it. That's what sisters do.”
Bridesmaid Rule No. 20: Never agree to be in a family wedding. Ever.

Ben pulled over and parked in front of Mossy Cup Antiques
.
He couldn't say why, exactly, but much like a parishioner feeling guilt for not going regularly to confession, he felt a pang or two for not having been in to see Eula March in, well, it didn't bear putting a number on it, really. Too long was long enough.

He was back in town again trying to sort out and finalize the details for the Blueberry Cove tree stand. He had been on his way out when he'd impulsively pulled to the curb. He smiled as he always did at the croquet-mallet door handles that bracketed the twin doors leading into the whimsical antique shop. Mossy Cup had been a part of the Cove since its inception, some three hundred years earlier. A March woman had always been in charge of the place, though no one person seemed to know the exact details of that family tree. There had never been any other Marches in Blueberry Cove, at least none that the town's rich and otherwise highly detailed history had kept track of.

He stepped inside and stopped to take in the grandeur that was the live mossy-cup oak tree that grew straight up through the middle of the shop. It was the kind of tree folk tales were made for, and had inspired no small share of its own. Ben and Logan had all but terrorized the shop owner as children, doing whatever they could to try and distract her long enough so that one of them could climb it. Neither had ever been successful in that. For all that whimsy was one of the cornerstones of the historic shop, the owner and proprietor was anything but whimsical. Look up
stern New Englander
in any encyclopedia and it would be no surprise at all to see a photo of Eula March there as a prime example.

“If you've come to sell me a tree, I think you can see, I already have one.”

Ben grinned at the starchy voice. Eula's Maine roots reflected strongly in her heavy down-east accent. “I think Campbell firs are some of the finest trees in the country, but even they bow down to your mighty oak,” he said, still smiling as he stepped farther into the shop and around the tree.

Eula was a tall woman, and her gray hair of undetermined length was always pinned up in a neat bun at the back of her head. She was thin bordering on boney, but despite having run the shop for as long as any resident could recall, there was nary a hint of a stoop in her frame. If anything, he thought she was taller and stiffer than ever. She wore one of her trademark simple floral dresses, with one of her shop aprons tied over it. The apron pockets had been hand stitched with characters from
The Calico Cat
. Another whimsical anomaly on a woman who looked anything but.

“Don't patronize me, young Benjamin Campbell. You might fool some folks into believing you've grown up all responsible and successful, but I can and will still swat your behind and set you out on the street without so much as turning a hair.”

Inside, he was chuckling at the familiar set-down, but he knew better than to let his amusement, much less his affection, show on his face. “Yes, ma'am,” he said, adopting the appropriate supplicating tone. “Wasn't my intention.”

She wiped her hands on the soft rag that was bundled into one of her apron pockets. It was clear she'd been working on one of the many beautiful pieces she personally restored and put up for sale. Her workshop was another part of the lore of the shop. From the outside, its dimensions appeared somewhat cramped and small, but that didn't stop some rather spectacular pieces—both in their intricately detailed beauty and in their sheer physical scope—from occupying space on the shop floor.

“What is your intention? Haven't seen hide nor hair of you in longer than I care to think on. Guess your business in Portsmouth is keeping you all tied up. A shame when a man can't even make it home over the holidays to visit his family.”

“You know our family celebrates together at a less chaotic time of the year.”

“Heard tell your mother and father picked up and moved south. It's a hard thing, having to make that kind of choice. Long line of Campbells have run that farm. How is he?”

With anyone else he considered more acquaintance than close friend—and though he'd known Eula his whole life, they weren't what he'd call friends—he'd have said the same “hey, it's all good, they're doing great” thing he'd told Fiona, though Fiona had likely seen through it, or would have as soon as Logan told her what was going on. But Eula March was not someone a person could brush off, no matter how well meaning the exclusion. In fact, it was well known in the Cove and surrounding area that the March women had what some called a “special gift.” They tended to
know
things, things that oftentimes had yet to occur. Eula occasionally saw fit to impart a bit of what seemed like unasked-for wisdom or advice, but the recipient would do well to take heed. There was always something to it. Always. Maybe that's why he'd come to see her, he thought. Hoping for some of that unasked-for guidance.

“He's doing well now,” Ben said truthfully. “The move was a bit of a strain, but my mother is using her natural-born cruise director skills to organize things for them down there and, for now, they seem to be happy.”

She nodded, but inquired no more about them. Instead, she said, “Put the business in your hands, did they?”

“They did. Dad wanted to complete the season, but my mother was afraid one more season would only serve to accelerate his health issues and undo any good they hoped to gain by moving.”

“Then she's doing the right thing by him. By herself, too.” Eula finished wiping her hands and stuffed the rag back in her pocket before lifting her gaze and all but pinning him with it. “What about you? You doing the right thing by them?”

Ben felt suddenly ten years old again, caught red-handed by Eula as he tried to block the workroom door, thereby giving Logan a chance to climb the tree. Only Eula hadn't been in the workroom. How they'd missed seeing her in the shop, neither of them had ever figured out. Now, it was all he could do not to shuffle his feet and look at the floor. He held her gaze and answered honestly.

“I don't know. I'm trying to figure out what the right thing is. For them. And for me.”

If he'd earned any respect from her for his straightforward answer, she didn't let it show in the still-stern set to her jaw. “What do they have to say about it?”

“Dad thinks he's going to vacation in South Carolina for a bit, then come home and take over again, so he expects me to run the place in his absence.”

“And your mother?”

“She wants me to do what's best for me. Sell it, go back to my life in Portsmouth, if that's what I want to do.”

“Would the money from the sale help with your father's future troubles?”

Part of Ben couldn't believe they were having such a frank, personal conversation. It would be the first time for that. He could admit to himself now that this was why he'd come, but the jury was still out on whether it had been a good idea to give in to the impulse. “I think they'll be okay either way.”

“Then it's up to you, isn't it?”

“Indeed,” he said.

“Your business is doing quite well down in Portsmouth.” She made it a statement, then went on before he could respond, clearly not expecting him to. “Heard about the fancy photo spread in that architectural magazine.”

She surprised him with that one. For all Eula seemed to know way more about everyone who came into her orbit than seemed possible, she wasn't one for local gossip. Far from it, in fact.

“It was flattering to be approached,” he said, sticking with honesty as the best policy, but more on edge now than before. He didn't know what he'd expected from the visit, but he hadn't expected to feel . . . whatever it was she was making him feel. Disconcerted? Off-balance? They were merely exchanging pleasantries. So why did it feel anything but pleasant? As if any second she was going to tell him something he really didn't want to hear, but, because it was Eula, he would know it must be true.

“No need for modesty,” she said, her tone a bit more clipped, if that was possible. “I would imagine you earned the showcase. What do you plan to do with it?”

“Do with? I . . . guess my hope is that it drives more clients to Campbell Landscapes.”

“Do you need more clients?”

His eyebrows lifted at that one. “Is there such a thing as having too many?”

“If you can't sustain the good work you do because you are spreading yourself too thin, then yes, there certainly is. But I don't see you getting slipshod. You were raised to know the value of the work you're producing, to take pride in your product.”

He was going to ask her what she knew about how he was reared, only he recalled boasting about how great Campbells' trees were, so he nodded, and said, “Yes, I'd like to think so.”

“What I'm asking is whether growing your business is your goal. Is that how you define success? The size of your client list?” She didn't give him time to respond. “Is enjoying what you do important to you?”

“It is. I wouldn't have started my company if I didn't enjoy it. If you're asking if I equate more clients with more money and more money with more success, well, money or profit is certainly one way to measure it, but I'm not trying to prove anything to anyone or impress anyone.”

She tilted her head just a bit, eyeing him with renewed speculation. “Interesting.”

“What is?” he asked, before he could think better of it.

“That you thought you needed to say that. I don't believe I mentioned a thing about needing to prove yourself. I was just asking what it was you thought necessary to feel successful in your chosen profession. Who is it that you're not trying to impress?”

“No one. I just meant—”

Her eyebrow arched further, as she said, “Really? Then why mention it?”

“I don't know. I was just—”

“Don't you? I think you do. And if you want to figure out what choice you should be making about your family's business, then perhaps that's a good place to start.”

“What does me proving something—or not proving something—with my landscaping business in Portsmouth have to do with my decision about the future of Campbell Christmas Tree Farm?”

“Well, if you can't see that, then you do have quite a bit to work out, now, don't you?” She made a brief tsking sound.

It was ridiculous to feel defensive. She was poking at him, but that's what she did. He wouldn't let it get to him. Which, clearly, it had, because he opened his mouth and said, “What I do with the tree farm will be what's best for my folks. My company is successful by whatever measuring standard you care to use. The magazine spread was a nice compliment after all the hard work I put in, and if I get more clients from it, then that's a double win.”

“Yes, but what is it you're winning, Mr. Campbell?”

Before he could figure out what to say to that, the bells on the door jingled as Fiona McCrae let herself in amidst a swirl of snowflakes.

“Hello, Eula,” she called out, stamping her feet on the mat just inside the door, brushing snowflakes off her mop of dark curls.

“Good afternoon, Miss Fiona,” Eula answered, her attention on Fi, her expression . . . he supposed he'd call it dissatisfied. Probably concerned the middle McCrae sister was going to fling moisture in the form of melted snowflakes all over her beautifully restored antiques. At least she wasn't wrapped up like a mummy in that scarf again.

“Hey, Fireplug,” he said, moving slightly so the tree didn't block him from her view. “Snowing already? I thought they said it wasn't coming in until after sundown.”

She went completely still for a moment, then kept on with the business of gently brushing the snow from her hair, and unbuttoning her coat. Not only was she not wrapped up like a mummy, he noted, but she was also not layered in enough snow gear to dress an Olympic ski team. In fact, she looked pretty sharp in a smartly tailored black pea coat with a blue and green plaid scarf knotted and tucked into the front and . . .
holy mackerel
. Whatever else he'd been thinking got all sort of lost in a jumble when she slid smoothly out of the coat to reveal a sapphire-blue, cowl-neck sweater that clung to her in all the right places, over black slacks tucked into knee-high tooled leather boots that made her legs look longer than he'd have thought possible. All of which served to take curves he hadn't paid nearly enough attention to—okay, no attention to, because he was apparently blind and dumb—and showcase them in a way that would make Jessica Rabbit envious.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

He glanced down then as he pushed balled fists into his own coat pockets, feeling supremely awkward and just . . . well, wrong, for having thoughts like that about a person he thought of as . . . okay, maybe not as a sister. After all, hadn't he pursued her older sister like some poor dumb dog all through high school? But she wasn't . . . well, she was just Fiona. Bratty, annoying—he glanced up again, unable to help himself, and swallowed hard—sexy-as-hell,
sweet Mary, mother of God,
with-curves-that-made-his-palms-sweat Fiona. When in the hell had
that
happened?

“I appreciate your making time for me today, Eula,” she was saying as he snapped his gaze away from the way that jewel-tone knit clung to a pair of full, perky breasts that begged a man to find out just what she wore under that sweater to make them sit up like that.
You are so going to hell. That's Logan's sister, for God's sake.
He gave up trying to figure out why it was a sin to covet Fiona's breasts when he'd wanted to do a whole lot more than put his hands on Logan's other sister. Maybe it was because Fiona had always been such a kid, whereas he'd thought of Hannah as, well, maybe not a woman back in those days, but surely not a bratty kid. Fiona was what, four years younger than he was? Which was nothing now that they were grown adults, but . . .
gah
,
shoot me now.