Sailing In Style. Dana Mentink

I loved him until his dying day, and so did you.”

      “That was different, Aunt Bitsy.”

      “No, it wasn’t.”

      “But he’s...”

      “I appreciate your kindness more than you know,” Piper said to Bitsy, “but we will leave now. We’re sorry for any trouble we’ve caused.”

      She whirled on her heel and marched up the steps to Boris without a backward glance at Cy.

      Bitsy folded her arms across her chest and gazed mournfully at Cy. “Oh, honey.”

      Cy resisted the urge to put his hands over his ears like a child. “It’s for the best,” he offered up lamely.

      She bit her lip, and he saw the deadly glimmer of tears again. Manny put his arm around her shoulders. “It’s their inn now, Bits. The young people. We’ve got to let them do things their way. Our time is past.”

      Cy considered his aunt’s tears and the grip of his father’s once-strong arm, which now seemed spindly, and saw that he was stripping them of their dignity. In a moment, they were reduced to old, irrelevant, extraneous. Because of him. But surely the answer was not allowing a thief, Piper’s uncle, to live at the Pelican? Surely not that.

      * * *

      PIPER’S CHEEKS BURNED with shame as she rushed over to her uncle. Cy knew everything. He’d known for years. And worst of all, he’d kept Boris out of jail, which made him a sort of benefactor. It was too horrible. She blinked hard. She’d hoped he had chalked up her theft of his truck to temporary insanity. Now she knew she was nothing more than a common criminal in his eyes, her uncle’s getaway driver.

      How could he think that? After all they’d shared. Six months together, months like no others.

      She gripped the box so tightly it bit into her palms. You stole his truck and left him on the beach because you were ashamed. You’ve earned every bit of his distrust. Somehow she made it to the carriage house steps in spite of her trembling knees.

      “We can’t stay, Uncle Bo.”

      He sighed. “I got that. Shame, since we’ve started to put down roots already.” He gestured to the cage at his feet.

      The ugliest dog she’d ever seen was crouched in a ball on the steps, staring through the birdcage bars at Peaches.

      “Is this some sort of predator-prey thing?” she asked.

      As if on cue, Baggy put his misshapen nose closer, and Peaches awarded him a sharp nip. Baggy drew back with a whine before settling into the same position, eyeing the bird with rapt attention.

      Boris shrugged. “I think it’s more of a love thing.”

      That figured. “Doesn’t matter. We’re going.”

      “Where?”

      “Wherever.”

      “Not too many wherevers that only charge eight-hundred a month. I’m a little, er, low on funds at the moment.”

      She wanted to shake him. “Uncle Bo,” she said fiercely. “They know our history, and they don’t want you—” She swallowed. “They don’t want us around.”

      “‘A hungry dog believes in—’”

      “‘—nothing but meat.’ Anton Chekhov. Hungry or not, you’ll have to find a new dog house. Period.”

      He sighed and picked up the birdcage, then they started down the steps.

      Cy was waiting at the bottom. His father and Bitsy were headed back into the house.

      Cy’s expression was pained. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Brindle, I apologize for my rudeness. We’d like you to stay.”

      Piper nearly dropped the cardboard box. “What?”

      He shot her a look. “You heard me.”

      “That’s very kind, Mr. Franco. I accept.”

      Charity? Piper elbowed him. “No, he doesn’t. We’re leaving, remember?”

      Cy held up a hand. “My aunt was right. I wasn’t being fair, especially considering some of our own family history.”

      She frowned. “Your aunt said she was married to a thief?”

      He grimaced at the word. “I’m not going to get into that now. Mr. Brindle is welcome to stay. Aunt Bitsy went into the house to start cooking for you two.”

      Piper groaned. “No. Tell her no. Tell her we’re leaving.”

      Cy heaved out a breath. “Sorry. You used the word more powerful than any other in the English language.”

      “Hungry?” Piper queried.

      “Starved,” Boris said, beaming at them as he trundled toward the kitchen.

      “No, Uncle Bo,” she called.

      He turned to say over his shoulder, “Put Peaches inside the carriage house, will you? I don’t think she should hang around a dog unchaperoned.”

      If Piper was the fainting type, this might have been the time. Her pulse pounded, and there was a distinct ringing in her ears. Left alone with Cy, all she could do was pull her gaze away from his handsome, discomfited face and stare at the mole-like dog making goo-goo eyes at her uncle’s parakeet.

      “What’s the matter with you, Baggy?” Cy asked.

      “My uncle thinks he’s in love with Peaches.”

      “Does she love him back?”

      “She bit him a minute ago.”

      She waited for Cy to say something hard and bitter.

      Instead, he threw back his head and laughed.

      It was the same rich laughter she heard in her memories, from the time when her heart was still whole. Despite her mortification, Piper found herself smiling.

       CHAPTER SIX

      CY WALKED INTO TOWN at such a rapid pace, he had to carry the short-legged Baggy along.

      “Listen to me, Bags. This whole bird infatuation? It’s not going to work out. Examine the facts. She’s a bird. You’re a mammal. She won’t touch meatballs, and not to shock you, but birds lay eggs, buddy boy. Also, they don’t curl up on blankets. Were you aware that they molt? You’re from two different biological universes.”

      Baggy licked Cy’s chin, and Cy imagined he saw an inner conviction dawning in those vague canine eyes. “So we’re straight on this? It hurts, I know, but some things can’t be overcome.”

      Truth was, he was lying to Baggy. Deep down, he still wanted to believe the human spirit was strong enough to get through any difficulty. Not conquer it, necessarily. His father’s love of an incurable alcoholic was proof of that. You just loved on through the mess. He still believed it, fool that he was. Piper’s face swam up into his mind before he shoved it firmly back down.

      Nester Lodge waved at him from the doorway of his Brew Unto Others coffee shop and bakery.

      Cy stopped in and declined a cup of coffee, enjoying the aroma of Nester’s freshly baked blueberry scones. Several older women in matching yellow hats chatted noisily over their breakfasts. “Any news yet?”

      “Nah,” Nester said. “Sharma’s two days overdue and she’s climbing the walls.” He lowered his voice. “She’s getting testy.”

      Cy nodded sympathetically.

      “The pregnancy books say aromatherapy is helpful, so we’ve found some lavender essential oils, and she carries a peppermint tea bag in her pocket to sniff. Peppermint