A Small-Town Temptation. Terry Mclaughlin

way up a steep, narrow flight of stairs covered with a floral runner. “I hear you’ve been in the Cove practically all day already. Kate down at the Abalone waited on you at lunch, and she called to tell me you got here safe and sound, since she knew I’d be worrying. You must have caught your plane at the crack of dawn, you poor thing. I’ll bet you’re ready for a cup of tea. Which do you prefer—black or herbal?”

      He shook his head at her back. “Neither, though I truly appreciate the offer.”

      “Coffee, then.” Agatha tossed him a no-nonsense glance over her shoulder and nodded with a finality that let Jack know he’d be having a cup of coffee before he stepped foot out her front door again, come hell or high water.

      “And something to eat,” she continued. “I took the last batch of coconut macaroon cookies out of the oven not five minutes ago. I make them up to crush for my chocolate silk pie crust—and don’t you go telling anyone about that secret while you’re here, or I’ll find out—but I can always spare a couple of cookies for a snack.”

      “Coconut macaroons just happen to be one of my favorites,” he said.

      She paused when they reached the second floor and studied him as if she were attempting to divine the truth of his statement, and he suffered through the panic of a guilty moment. He wondered what the penalty might be if she discovered he could barely tolerate coconut, in macaroons or pie crusts or anywhere else.

      “And my secret?” she asked at last.

      “Is safe with me,” he answered with relief.

      He followed her along a wide balcony and a curve in the hallway that wrapped back around the stairwell, past several tall, transomed doors punctuating rose- and lily-papered walls. Doors with exotic names calligraphied in gold paint on thickly trimmed panels: Lido, Rialto, Murano.

      She stopped at the last in the line and handed him the key to the San Marco suite. “They have these in Venice, you know,” she said.

      “Venice?” He stared at the old-fashioned brass key in his hand, struggling to make the transition from coconut crust to canals.

      “The tassels.”

      “Ah.” He gave her a suitably impressed nod. “Nice touch.”

      “It’s in the Italian style, you see.”

      “Yes,” he said, although he really didn’t.

      “Like Versace and Armani.”

      “Two of my favorites,” he said as he jiggled the key into the lock. He wondered what she’d think of his Armani suit and nearly regretted leaving it behind. He hadn’t thought there’d be much occasion for designer labels in Carnelian Cove. “Just like coconut macaroons.”

      “Oh.” She flipped her little wave at him again. “There’s no need to lay the charm on so thick. Although I do enjoy a dose of it every once in a while, just like the next person. And especially when it comes out sounding so nice, like it does with that accent of yours. Louisiana?”

      “No, ma’am. South Carolina.”

      “Charleston?”

      He stepped into the room and spread his bag across the quilt-covered double bed. “A small place west of there. Nothing anyone’s ever heard of.”

      Nothing—and nobody—from nowhere. That’s what he’d felt like when he’d left, and that’s why he’d never go back. He’d worked his way across the country and struggled for a foothold on the corporate ladder, and he’d done it on his own.

      And now he was going to collect the rest of his things, and settle down for some late-afternoon coffee and cookies, and pump Agatha Allen for every shred of information he could coax out of her. He’d kick back and relax, thicken his accent a touch and see what unexpected tips it might tickle loose.

      Corporate intrigue came in all shapes and sizes, even coconut macaroons.

      A KELP-SCENTED, BONE-CHILLING fog thickened the darkness on Cove Street that evening when Charlie steered her truck toward A Slice of Light, the stained-glass shop owned by Addie Sutton. The jeweled tones of the samples dangling in the windows slid over her windshield as she angled into the parking space behind Tess Roussel’s sporty red compact. Her two best friends in the same place at the same time—twice the sympathy, double the outrage. Fewer brownies to go around, she thought as she stuffed a pink bakery box inside a deep grocery bag and slipped out the driver’s door, but the moral support would be worth it.

      She needed all the support she could muster after today’s potentially devastating developments.

      Ignoring the Closed sign in the window, she rapped on the shop door. After a shivering wait and a second round of more insistent knocking, Tess—long-legged even without her three-inch heels—appeared in the darkened shop and sauntered over to open the door. Why the town’s newest architect wanted to wrestle her way into pantyhose and thigh-hugging skirts every day was a mystery.

      “Well, look what the tide washed in,” said Tess. “A little red-shelled crab.”

      “What are you doing here?” Charlie angled past her and headed toward the long, deep counter dividing the shop’s display area from Addie’s work space. She paused near a table bristling with pins holding dozens of cut glass pieces in place. It was the beginning of a peacock, the body crafted in rich hues and the tail cascading in intricate detail over the jagged outline of a tree limb.

      “Same as you,” said Tess. “Scrounging for dinner company.”

      “Shouldn’t you be out on some hot date with some hot dude?”

      “It’s Thursday. Give me another twenty-four hours.” Tess closed the shop door and flipped the lock. “On the other hand, another day probably won’t make a difference. I’m fresh out of hot prospects in this town. Nothing but lukewarm lately.”

      Charlie shot a skeptical glance at the woman with whom she’d shared every summer vacation during their school years. Tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous, Tess had only to crook a manicured finger at any available man in Carnelian Cove to have him panting after her.

      “Besides,” said Tess as she brushed her short, layered hair out of her eyes, “I’m too busy being brilliant.”

      “And humble.”

      “Only when required.”

      Charlie followed Tess through the curtained glass door at the rear of Addie’s shop and stepped into the odd apartment ranged along the building’s back wall. Antique kitchen appliances lined one side of the open space, and a thrift-shop sofa and woodstove directly opposite defined the seating area. Pipes and heating ducts snaked around lighting fixtures suspended from the high ceiling. The loft effect at ground level.

      She passed an old, claw-footed oak table crowded with books, rolls of paper and a fat yellow pitcher stuffed with tulips and set her package on the slanted farmhouse sink, near the wreckage of a fast-food meal. She helped herself to one of the fries heaped on wrinkled paper and waved another one toward the mess on the table. “Is that your stuff taking up all the eating space?”

      “My latest sketches. Look.” Tess spread one of the rolls of paper and anchored the corners with the books. “Look.”

      Charlie popped another fry into her mouth and wiped her hands on her jeans before studying Tess’s sketch for a proposed bayside project. The opportunity to develop the property with her own design had played a major role in luring Tess from a large architectural firm in San Francisco. Charlie and Addie had been delighted when their childhood friend had hung her shingle above one of the Cove’s Main Street storefronts.

      “I’ve decided the main entrance should feature stained-glass sidelights,” said Tess. “Maybe some more touches, here, and here—” she indicated “—if I can incorporate the design into the structure.”

      Charlie marveled again at the way Tess had managed to capture and update Carnelian Cove’s