rushed in to tell her that she had a new client. Aunt Donna leaned in ready for the next juicy morsel.
“I’m meeting with him on Monday to discuss the house he wants to build.”
“So you’ve seen him?” Donna asked.
Jessica shook her head. “No. We had a phone conversation. And it would be an exaggeration to say that I’m his architect. I have no idea, really, what he wants to build. He hasn’t signed any paperwork, either. We’re meeting for a site visit. That’s it for now. And since he might be paying me a lot of money to design a house for him, I’m not going to gossip about him.” Although, way back in her mind, it struck her that maybe there was justice in the world. Let the old biddies of Magnolia Harbor gossip about him all day long. She hoped all that talk would make him miserable, and then he’d realize what he’d done.
Jessica leaned over and picked up the teapot. “Seconds, anyone?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“You know,” Donna said, holding out her cup, “I’ve heard Ashley, Sandra, and Karen talking about Topher. His cousins definitely don’t want him to build this house.”
“No?” Jessica asked.
Donna shook her head. “I gather he’s been deeply injured too. Has a problem with his leg.”
“The poor dear. He has no business moving out to that remote island,” Granny said, turning toward Jess. “You should tell him no.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t help him, my dear,” Granny repeated.
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right.”
Jessica bit her tongue and just barely stopped herself from asking Granny the age-old question: Who elected her to be the arbiter of right and wrong, anyway? Because she was a really bad judge.
“It might not be,” Donna said.
Jessica stared down at the stupid Cinderella teacup. Here was the exit door. She could walk through it if she wanted. She could tell everyone that she refused his commission because he had no business building a house in a remote location.
So maybe doing the wrong thing was exactly what she needed to do. She didn’t care. Let him go live a miserable life in a drafty old lighthouse. It would serve him right.
The thought warmed her in some weird and unacceptable way. She looked up from the teacup and right into her grandmother’s judgmental stare.
“I really don’t care whether it’s right or wrong, Granny,” she said. “I need a client; he has money. And that’s the end of this discussion.”
* * *
The only berth available for Topher Martin’s newly purchased, forty-foot Caliber sailing yacht, Bachelor’s Delight, was way at the end of the Magnolia Harbor pier. When he’d first returned to Magnolia Harbor three weeks ago, he’d planned to live on the boat. But the long walk from the berth to the nearest convenience store had proved impossible for him.
So he’d thrown himself on his older cousin’s mercy. Ashley Scott, the owner of Howland House, the five-star bed-and-breakfast in town, had allowed him to rent Rose Cottage for the next six months, through March.
The long walk from the parking lot reminded Topher that his earlier plans had been half-baked. He was annoyingly winded, and his bad leg ached by the time he reached the berth.
Isaac Solomon, at the marina office, had fueled up the boat and stocked the small refrigerator in the galley with drinks and box lunches. Topher hobbled down the ship’s ladder and snagged himself a bottled water and gulped four ibuprofens.
Maybe that would take the edge off the pain.
But even if it didn’t, he would endure it. He’d done that before when he’d torn up his knee between his freshman and sophomore years at Alabama. That injury had ended his NFL dreams and taken months and months of recovery time.
But that old injury was nothing in comparison to the pain that lanced through his leg with every step. He loved and hated the pain. It was a reminder of the alternative he’d narrowly escaped when he’d wrapped his Ferrari around a barrier when he’d swerved to avoid a deer on a blind man’s curve. At the same time, he often wondered why his life had been spared and reduced to this living nightmare.
He dragged himself back above deck and sat down in the cockpit behind the ship’s wheel. He checked his watch. He’d left himself plenty of time because he didn’t want Jessica Blackwood to see him winded and limping down the pier. Hell, if he could have dealt with her entirely by telephone or text, he would have.