The Man She'll Marry Read online

He shook his head. “No, I feel that way because you’re the smartest kid in sixth grade, and the brainiest math whiz in the whole school. Just remember to relax. Your mind can’t work right if you’re too tense.”

  He knew this from personal experience. Give him time to puzzle out the words on a page and he could. Hurry him along and make him uptight, and the print looked as foreign as Arabic.

  “How do I relax?” she asked, her forehead puckered.

  “Simple. Just take a deep breath.” He drew in a breath and watched her do the same. “Now blow it out.” They both did. “Tell yourself, ‘I can handle this.’ Then trust your brain and let it do its thing.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty cool.” His niece looked at him thoughtfully. “Where did you learn it?”

  “From Mr. Edison, a high school teacher of mine.”

  The man who at last had diagnosed Nick’s learning problems as dyslexia, not mental retardation. At the time, Nick had been sixteen, still stuck in ninth grade and about to drop out. Mr. Edison had persuaded him to work hard and graduate. Four years later he had. His mother had died shortly after that, and he’d left town and moved to Cranberry to start a new life.

  Abby knew nothing about his reading problem. Nobody in Cranberry did except Sharon, who had followed him here eleven years ago. She’d promised to keep his secret, and so far had kept her word. In all those years she’d never brought up the subject. Neither had he, which was how he wanted things.

  He shrugged at his niece. “What do you think? Gonna try it today?”

  Her taut expression easing, she nodded. “Thanks, Uncle Nick.”

  When she closed her book and slipped it into her backpack, Nick gave a mental sigh of relief. Mission accomplished.

  “How about I take you and your mom to Rosy’s tonight to celebrate?” The diner was a family favorite, and easy on the wallet.

  “You mean if I win?”

  “You will,” he said. “But even if you don’t, you deserve a celebration for working so hard. And to keep up your strength for the real math bee.” Signaling, he followed a school bus into the drop-off area. “Wish I could be there today to support you, but with the Valentine holiday coming up, Fran needs me.”

  The actual tourist season started at the beginning of April, but the days around February 14 drew plenty of couples who were eager for a romantic getaway. After that the tourist trade built and grew until the town hummed with visitors.

  Nick was glad of the work. He liked Fran and she paid well. True, he would prefer Cinnamon not be there, but if he stuck to a brief “hi” and focused on work, he’d be way too busy to think about her. He hoped. Since he needed to stop at the lumberyard this morning, he might not even see her today. That’d help.

  In any case, she was only here two weeks. In that short amount of time he could put up with anything, even misplaced sexual desire.

  “That’s okay, Uncle Nick, because we need the money. As long as you come with Mom and me to Portland.”

  “Wouldn’t miss that for the world,” he vowed as he turned right. Even if it did mean leaving Thursday and driving four hours to get there, and precious money spent on a motel. Necessary tolls on Abby’s road to success.

  He braked to a stop at the drop-off area. School kids of all ages skipped and strolled toward the building’s entrance.

  “Have fun at Fran’s, and tell her ‘hi’ from me.” Abby opened the passenger door.

  A year ago he would have tousled her hair, but she didn’t like that anymore. She was growing up way too fast.

  He settled for a thumb’s-up. “’Bye, kid. Don’t forget to breathe. Then knock ’em dead.”

  Her shoulders squared. “I will.”

  SHOWERED AND DRESSED, Palm Pilot tucked reassuringly into the pocket of her cardigan, Cinnamon moved purposefully down the stairs. It was still dark outside, but she was used to waking up early for work. Besides, Fran was leaving for a dentist appointment shortly, and Cinnamon wanted to eat breakfast with her.

  Speaking of breakfast…The fragrant aromas of fresh-brewed coffee, frying bacon and baking treats filled the air. Cinnamon hurried across the foyer, her mouth watering. Near the kitchen she heard her friend’s voice. Who was she talking to?

  Nick. Cinnamon faltered. She didn’t want to face the man, especially first thing this morning. She stopped outright. Maybe she’d sneak back to her room or take a beach walk, an activity she’d entered on her Palm Pilot to-do list, now instead of later. But Fran had prepared a meal, and Cinnamon wanted to enjoy it with her.

  She frowned. What was she afraid of, anyway? At least today she’d applied makeup and fixed her hair, the very actions bolstering her self-esteem. Today she looked like her usual composed self and felt firmly in control of her emotions. She would simply pretend nothing had happened last night. That was how she’d survived the last awful weeks at Sabin and Howe.

  In quick order she smoothed the pullover turtleneck under her matching cardigan, fluffed her hair with her fingers and pasted a polite smile on her face. Ignoring the knot in her stomach, she strode confidently into the kitchen.

  To her surprise she saw only Fran. “Good morning,” she greeted, glancing around with bewilderment. “I swear, I heard you talking to someone.”

  “Hey, you.” Dressed in a cheery red sweater and matching cords covered by a bright blue bib apron, Fran stood at the stove over a skillet of sizzling bacon. “What you heard was my side of a conversation with Stubby and Stumpy, my seagull friends. They’re not much for chitchat, but they’re great listeners.” She glanced at the sliding glass doors in the dining room. “They were sitting in their usual place on the railing, but flew off when they saw you.”

  For years Cinnamon had heard about the gulls Fran had “adopted,” both with permanent injuries. She followed her friend’s gaze, her attention stretching beyond the veranda. The view, matched only by the view from her suite, was spectacular—about twenty yards of sandy beach and an unobstructed vista of ocean beneath a clear blue sky.

  “What an incredible view,” she breathed.

  “Didn’t I tell you? This time of year we rarely get sunny days, so be sure you take advantage of the nice weather and get out on the beach.”

  “That’s on my list.” Cinnamon patted her pocket, feeling the Palm Pilot. “I hope the gulls come back, so I can meet them.”

  “Don’t worry, they haven’t eaten yet. They’ll hang around until I feed them. Today is Wednesday, which means bacon. Extra crisp, or they throw fits. And the cheese-and-mushroom frittata had better be warm.”

  Cinnamon laughed. “Sounds as if they have you wrapped around their little feet.”

  Amusement sparkled in Fran’s eyes, and a grin lit her face. “You’re so right.”

  Badly in need of coffee, Cinnamon opened a cabinet stocked with cups, saucers and mugs. “I thought you were talking to Nick.”

  That earned her a shrewd look. “You should see the expression on your face. I don’t care what you said last night. You’re interested in him.”

  “And you’re dead wrong.” Cinnamon chose a large, red mug emblazoned with two gulls soaring over the Oceanside Bed and Breakfast sign. “I meant what I said. I’m through with men, at least for now. The truth is, I’d rather avoid Nick.”

  “You’re still wasting energy on what happened last night?”

  When Cinnamon sheepishly nodded, Fran tsked. “Nick’s good people, and I’m sure he’s forgotten the whole thing. Besides, by the time he shows up, you may be out. He called a few minutes ago to let me know he was at the lumberyard outside town, picking up a few things. Could be a while before he arrives. He’ll be working on the veranda today, replacing some rotted floorboards, but he needs access to the house, for the bathroom and so forth. So leave the sliding door unlocked.”

  “Will do.” Cinnamon didn’t understand the sharp prick of disappointment that followed Fran’s announcement. She wanted to steer clear of Nick, yet at the same time hoped to see him.

  Which was thoro
ughly mystifying and not at all the way she ought to feel. Pushing aside her confusion, she filled her mug. Regardless, she wouldn’t be facing him today.

  “NEED HELP COOKING?” Cinnamon asked as Fran bustled around the kitchen. She wasn’t used to being waited on. Even as a child, she’d been the one cooking breakfast for herself and her mother, who would have been content with coffee and cigarettes.

  Fran shook her head. “This is part of what I do for my guests.”

  “But I’m not really a guest. I’m your best friend.”

  “You insist on paying for your room, so you’re both.”

  “Yes, but you gave me a cheap rate. Way too low for a luxurious suite.”

  Fran waved off the words. “I gave you the off-season rate. So you like the suite?”

  “Who wouldn’t love plush carpeting, a king-size bed covered with soft, flannel sheets and a fat down comforter? Or the cozy sitting room with fireplace, and the private balcony overlooking the ocean? Yours is as lovely as a suite at any four-star hotel,” Cinnamon gushed. “This whole place is fabulous. I’m no small-town girl, but if I had an aunt Franny like you did, and she left me this place…You’re one lucky woman.”

  “Don’t I know it. Even if you do prefer the hustle and bustle of big cities, you’ll like Cranberry. I wish I could spend all day showing you around, but with the Valentine’s Day festivities almost upon us and me on the activities-planning committee, and the meetings with the town council to keep them informed…” Fran shook her head. “Lately I’m so darn busy, it’s not even funny.”

  “I could use some of that.” Cinnamon stifled a pang of envy. “Don’t worry about me. I have plenty to keep me busy.” She’d typed a to-do list into her Palm Pilot to prove it.

  “What do you mean, ‘busy’?” Fran shot her a sharp look. “I thought you were here to relax.”

  Cinnamon didn’t really know how to do that, but she intended to try. “I will, I promise. But I need a new job and I want to start looking. I sent out e-mails to colleagues in New York, San Francisco and Minneapolis,” she added, “and I want to follow up on their replies.”

  “But this is supposed to be a vacation.” The scolding tone was softened by Fran’s concerned expression. “You haven’t had one in years. Give yourself time away from the work world. You’ve earned that.”

  True enough. For the past five years Cinnamon had been too wrapped up in work to take off more than a few days here and there. But she enjoyed working because it gave her life purpose. Also, she hadn’t saved as much as she should, and draining her savings was going to hurt.

  “I can’t enjoy myself with unemployment hanging over my head,” she said. “But I do plan to spend a good chunk of time taking in the sights and getting to know the area. I thought I’d tour the cranberry factory this afternoon, after I walk the beach.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Fran looked relieved. “Now take your coffee into the dining room and let me finish this bacon. Oh, and help yourself to the cranberry juice. There’s a pitcher on the table.”

  “No OJ?” Cinnamon made a face.

  “If you want. But this is Cranberry, Oregon, and since our cranberry factory employs ten percent of the population, the chamber of commerce has asked all restaurants, motels and bed-and-breakfasts to serve the juice every morning.” Fran looked solemn. “Though to tell you the truth, the factory isn’t doing well. It’s been for sale for over a year with no takers. Now there are rumors that soon people will be laid off. The business may even close its doors for good. We’ll be discussing the situation at this afternoon’s town council meeting.” She gave her head a dismal shake. “That won’t be pleasant.”

  As a management consultant, Cinnamon earned her living working with companies struggling to survive. Sounded as if this one could be on its last legs. “Sorry to hear that,” she said. “I’ll definitely drink cranberry juice this morning.”

  She wandered into the dining room. With the table positioned in front of the sliding glass door, every seat commanded a view of the ocean. As soon as she settled into a chair, two scrappy seagulls, no doubt the pair Fran had adopted and spoiled, lit on the deck’s wooden railing directly in her line of vision.

  “Nice to meet you at last,” she said, tipping her mug their direction.

  Standing side by side, they watched her with cocked heads. Their beaks opened and closed as if they expected her to toss them treats. Through the window she heard their pleading shrieks.

  “Begging, are you? Unless you drink coffee or cranberry juice, you’re out of luck,” she told them.

  From the kitchen, Fran laughed. “Oh, they’ll get theirs.”

  As the birds blinked and hop-stepped like a pair of vaudeville comedians, Cinnamon couldn’t help chuckling, too. “They sure are entertaining. Which is which?”

  Leaning across the counter that divided the kitchen and dining room, Fran peered at the beggars. “Stumpy’s the one with no webbing on his foot. Stubs is holding up his left leg.” She walked into the room with a half-dozen steaming blueberry muffins arranged in an attractive metal basket, then set it and a platter of still-sizzling bacon on the table.

  The timer on the top oven buzzed. “There’s the frittata,” Fran said.

  Seconds later she brought the egg dish into the dining room, setting off a frenzy outside. Both gulls flapped their wings and opened their beaks, making loud, demanding squawks.

  “Patience, boys,” Fran said. “You’ll eat after we finish.” She shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap.

  “We’d better eat fast,” Cinnamon said. “No telling what they’ll do if we take too long.”

  “They’ll wait. Bon appetit.”

  For several long moments they ate in amiable silence, enjoying the food. Far too soon Fran glanced at her watch.

  “If I want to make that dentist appointment on time, I’d better feed the birds and scoot. I’ll be back late this afternoon. I thought we’d eat at Rosy’s Diner tonight, one of my favorite restaurants. The fridge is full of cold cuts, so if you’re here during lunch, help yourself. Oh, and there’s a spare house key hanging on the hook by the back door. Be sure to take it with you when you go out, in case Nick leaves before you get back and locks the sliders.”

  “I’ll clean up the kitchen,” Cinnamon volunteered.

  “Everything goes in the dishwasher.” Fran piled the gulls’ breakfast onto old Melmac plates, which she set on the veranda. Car keys in hand, she waved as she headed down the basement steps. “’Bye, hon.”

  A moment later the garage door squeaked open, squeaking again as it closed. Cinnamon waited for the gulls to devour their meal, then collected their empty plates and brought them inside. In no time she straightened up the kitchen. She phoned the cranberry factory and set up an afternoon tour, then returned to the dining room to enjoy a leisurely second cup of coffee, a luxury she wasn’t used to. Nice as it should be to sit awhile, doing nothing made her antsy. For years she’d rushed off to work at the crack of dawn. Now she was free and easy. And alone.

  The gulls, who had flown off a moment ago, returned to study her. She watched them with delight and tried to relax. Instead she felt unsettled and at loose ends. Lost. Unemployed, no better than her mother.

  A disturbing thought. Panic tightened her chest, and her stomach twinged uncomfortably. “I’m not like her,” she sternly admonished. “I want to work.”

  She decided to spend some time online this morning and call a few colleagues.

  Mollified, she stared at the whitecaps dancing in the ocean. But the fluttery movement, or maybe the second cup of coffee, made her restless, and the worry crept back. What if I can’t find consulting work?

  “Then I’ll do something else,” she stated, sick and tired of herself. Relax. She slid her Palm Pilot from her pocket and clicked it on, the familiar activity anchoring her. Fran had left several brochures on the counter. Cinnamon decided to pore over those and figure out which places to visit during her stay here. Then she’d ta
ke that walk, which should help calm her nerves.

  She spread the brochures on the table. Unlike the big cities she preferred, Cranberry offered no art museums or cultural events. But the whale watching looked interesting. Unfortunately the company was closed till April. The game park was open, though, and it looked promising, as did the historical museum. Hmm…

  Loud squawks jerked her attention outside. Wings flapping, the gulls soared away. Footsteps thudded on the deck, and Cinnamon’s stomach flip-flopped.

  Nick had arrived.

  Chapter Three

  Huffing from exertion, breath visible in the chill air, Nick set a heavy blue tarp and circular saw on the veranda. Late January wasn’t the best time of year to replace the deck’s rotting floorboards, because of the cold. But with the Valentine’s Day holiday in a few weeks, followed by a steadily growing parade of tourists that would last through late October, now was the best time.

  He would need to make a good six trips across the veranda and up and down the steps for the rest of his supplies—a table for his circular saw he’d designed specially for this job, tools, nails, cedar tongue-and-groove planks and the sawhorse. Lugging all of that and a cup of hot coffee ought to warm him up.

  Nick drank a lot of the stuff, and Fran kept a pot ready for him. Blowing warmth into his icy hands, he headed for the sliding doors off the dining room.

  Damned if Cinnamon wasn’t scrambling up from the table. Nick hesitated. She’d been watching him and he hadn’t even realized it. For some reason that both irritated and excited him. He frowned. Wasn’t she supposed to be gone by now, sightseeing or whatever? No big deal. He’d stick to his plan—say hello, fill his mug and get to work.

  His feet scraped the welcome mat, then he slid open the door. “Morning.”

  “Hi.” Without quite meeting his eyes she offered a stiff nod and a flimsy smile.

  Could she be any more tense? Nick remembered a similar forced expression on her face last night. He hoped to God she didn’t start bawling.

  “You feeling okay this morning?”

  Relying on the flirtation that stood him well with women and put them at ease, he let his gaze slide over her. The fatigue had vanished from her face, and her eyes were clear. Without last night’s unhappiness spoiling her features, she was more than pretty. Nice clothes, too. Her pale blue sweater set outlined her breasts, and navy slacks hinted at round hips and long, slender legs. He raised his eyebrows approvingly. “You sure look good.”