The Women of Bayberry Cove

She raised her eyes to scan the tops of the buildings on Main Street. “I can’t imagine that there isn’t a room to let above one of these Bayberry Cove establishments. I can be quite comfortable here in the middle of everything that goes on in your little town.”

“That is an interesting solution, Louise. I’m sure you’ll find the nightlife in town quite stimulating. Have you checked with any of the shopkeepers yet about vacancies?”

“I don’t need to go door-to-door,” she answered smartly. “I’ve already made one friend in Bayberry Cove who will be helpful.” She pointed to the park across the street, where an old man sat on a bench.

Wes smiled when he recognized the familiar figure who had occupied that particular bench for most of the last five years.

“He was kind enough to give me directions to Pintail Point yesterday,” Louise continued. “I’m sure he’ll help me find a vacancy. I’ll bet he sees everything from that vantage point. And I’ll bet he knows everyone in town.”

“That’s probably a good bet,” Wes said.

Louise inclined her head toward the restaurant door. “You enjoy your breakfast, Commander. By the time you’ve finished, I’ll have signed a two-month lease, and we’ll practically be neighbors.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Wes glanced at the old-timer in the park. Mason was a tough cookie in most of his dealings, but if anyone could talk him into the lease deal of the century, it was Louise. “Why don’t we meet back here in, say, forty-five minutes, and you can let me know how you made out,” Wes suggested. “I’ll even spring for coffee and promise not to pour any on you.”

Amazingly, she seemed to like the idea. “Forty-five minutes it is.” She gave him a grin and left.

“HI. DO YOU REMEMBER ME?” Louise said to the old man sitting under the sprawling oak tree.

He looked at her with surprisingly clear blue eyes that were still apparently capable of appreciating her obvious attributes. Sliding over to give her room on the bench, he motioned for her to sit. “I may be old,” he said, “but my memory’s as fresh as last night’s dew for things that catch my fancy. Did you find your way to Pintail Point yesterday?”

She sat, then angled toward him with her elbow on the back of the bench. “I did. Your directions were perfect. I’m counting on you knowing every little thing about this town. That’s why I’ve come back for your help today.”

He layered his hands over a thick wooden walking stick and appraised her with an intensity that suddenly seemed strangely familiar. “What is it you need, young lady?”

Louise squirmed on the bench seat just a little, suppressing the feeling that she knew this man as more than just a passing acquaintance from the previous day. It was more than his eyes. Though his skin was creased with wrinkles and slack on his face, she detected a once-square jawline, punctuated by a strong chin that thrust forward with authority.

She told him about her search for living quarters and that she was hoping an apartment might be available in town. He nodded, asked her a few questions about her intended length of stay and her reason for being in Bayberry Cove.

She answered truthfully, and when she’d finished, he thought a moment and then replied. “There’s a small house out on the sound about four miles from here,” he said. “Has a sign above the door that says Buttercup Cottage. I think you’d like it there.”

Louise laughed. “I would indeed, but it seems someone beat me to it. A man is already living there….”

His scraggly white eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Do you know his name?”

“Wesley Fletcher,” she said.

The beginning of a smile curled the man’s thin lips. “So, the boy’s come home,” he said. “I wondered when I caught a glimpse of him going into the Kettle.”

“He has. I tried to bargain with him—”

“Oh, you can’t bargain with Wesley. He’s as stubborn as his father.”

Louise nodded. “So I’ve experienced.”

The old man chuckled. “You’d best leave the cottage to him.” He pointed across the street. “Now, then, see that furniture store? McCorkle’s New and Used?”

Louise nodded again.

“You try that place. I know the upstairs is vacant, and I think it’s in pretty good shape. ’Course, all these buildings are showing signs of age. But I expect that one will do.”

“And who should I see about renting it?” Louise asked.

“Ask for Suzie or Evan McCorkle. They run the place. You tell them that Mason told you to inquire.” He winked at her. “You’ll get the apartment. I guarantee it. Just have Suzie draw up a simple agreement saying you’ll pay three hundred a month for the next two months. Tell her to give you a copy and that’ll be that.”

“Really? It’s that easy?”

“You run along and get your suitcase. It’ll be that easy,” he assured her.

And it almost was. Evan McCorkle, gray-haired, well-fed and a living, breathing folk-art archetype of middle-class virtues, was at first reluctant to rent to Louise. She determined from what she deciphered from snatches of his whispered debate with his wife that Evan thought Louise might play loud music or entertain guests at odd hours.

But Suzie McCorkle argued that she had a good feeling about Miss Duncan, and couldn’t she always trust her feelings? In the end, it was Suzie’s intuition and the mention of Mason’s name that clinched the deal. By the time Louise entered the Bayberry Cove Kettle to meet Wesley Fletcher for coffee, she had a signed lease in her hand. “The place is a bit dusty,” she explained to Wes, “but I can fix it up. And I bought a few pieces of furniture from the McCorkles. I’ll be very comfortable there.”

Truthfully, it would take her a good two days to even make the place livable. The furniture needed sprucing up. The cobwebs alone would fill up a trash can, and the grime on the windows all but obliterated the view of Main Street. But Louise wasn’t about to admit to Wes that any of those details were more than a passing inconvenience.

“Sounds like everything worked out for you even without Buttercup Cottage,” he said, while filling her coffee mug.

“Absolutely.” She stirred her coffee and let a smug grin convey her feeling of self-satisfaction. “And the best part is I got a great deal, and don’t have to write any rent checks to the Fletchers.”

He smiled down into his own cup before leveling a serious gaze on her face. “That’s not necessarily so, Louise. If you look at that document carefully, you’ll see that your rent payments should be made out to Mason D. Fletcher Enterprises.”

Louise darted a glance out the window at the old man in the park. “His name is Mason Fletcher?”

“’Fraid so,” Wes acknowledged. “Your landlord is my grandfather.” When he noticed the puzzled look on her face, he added, “Mason Delroy Fletcher owns these entire three blocks of Bayberry Cove, Louise. So no matter what second-story apartment you chose, you would be supporting the Fletchers.”

He took a long sip of coffee. “And we certainly do appreciate your patronage.”

CHAPTER FOUR

VICKI MALONE CAREFULLY removed a china dinner plate from the packing box. She stacked it on top of others on an old wrought-iron and glass table in the kitchen section of Louise’s apartment. “These dishes are really pretty, Lulu,” she said. “I love the cherry blossom design.”

“The best the Morgan City Wal-Mart had to offer,” Louise responded. “And within the limits of the dollar amount I set to furnish this place.”

Vicki swiped her finger through a layer of dust on the single kitchen counter. “Are you really going to sleep here tonight?”

Louise snapped plastic gloves onto her hands and dipped a cleaning rag into a solution of vinegar and water. “Absolutely. Two nights in a motel is enough for me. I’m looking forward to all the…” she paused, glanced around the room at the work that still needed to be done, and gave Vicki a rueful smile “…comforts of home. Have I mentioned how grateful I am to you two for your help?”

Jamie Malone, intent on turning an old oak bureau into a utilitarian work of art, shrugged off the comment. “Forget about it. What are friends for?”

“Besides, you’ve mentioned it about a hundred times,” Vicki said. “With the three of us working, we actually might have this place in order by this afternoon. It’s going to be lovely,” she added. “The curtains and linens and pillows you bought are adorable and will add a lot of charm to this room.”

Louise stared at her dearest friend. Vicki loved pottery and flowers and chintz, so Louise allowed her to use words like adorable and charm. Louise’s viewpoint was that a person needed towels. So what if they had a little lacy trim on the hem? So what if a plate had a cluster of cherries painted in the center? It would still hold a microwave dinner. “That’s the look I’m going for,” she said with a grin.

When she finished unpacking dishes, Vicki picked up a candle that had been sitting on the table, and examined it closely. “I didn’t know you were into these things. Did you buy this at the Bayberry Cove Candle Company?”

“Hardly, since I’ve never heard of the place. The truth is, I didn’t buy it at all. It was outside my door this morning when I got here.”

“It’s a beautiful shade of blue,” Vicki said. “Did you read the tag taped to the side?”

“Tag? No. I didn’t know there was a tag.”

“It says, ‘Look to the sky and look to sea for this tranquil shade of blue. Light it tonight and it will bring comfort to your home and you.’”

Louise walked over to the table and took the candle from Vicki. “Very touching,” she said, “if not exactly poet laureate material.”

“If you didn’t buy it,” Vicki said, “I wonder where it came from.”

Jamie turned off the power to his electric sander and set the tool on top of the bureau. “I’d guess that Suzie McCorkle left it,” he said. “She’s interested in that kind of stuff. Candles, crystals, things like that. It’s probably her way of wishing you domestic harmony.”

Louise pictured the mousy woman with the shoulder-length gray hair neatly pinned back from her forehead with two barrettes. A New Age lady? Well, why not? Louise looked at the mattress and box springs and the “nearly new” plaid sofa she had bought from Suzie’s shop the day before, and another explanation came to mind. “Maybe she’s just thanking me for buying a few things.”

Jamie ran his hand over the surface of the dresser and picked up the sander again. “Maybe. She would do something like that—quietly leave a candle without expecting recognition. She’s a nice woman.”

The origin of the candle solved, Louise returned to her struggle with the first of three windows that looked over Main Street. After scrubbing for ten minutes with the vinegar solution and following up with industrial strength glass cleaner, she was finally able to see the sun dappling the sidewalks in the square across the street. She yanked another batch of paper towels from a roll and feverishly wiped the stubborn glass with a circular motion. “Just have to eliminate a few more streaks,” she huffed, “and then a bird with a bad case of cataracts might actually knock himself silly trying to fly into this place.”

“For the love of Saint Pat, Louise,” Jamie said above the steady whirr of his sander, “you’d better quit now before you rub a hole in the glass.”

“Jamie’s right, Lulu. You’re taking out your frustration on the window.”

Louise laid her forehead against the nearly clean pane and sighed. “You’re right. I still can’t believe I didn’t notice the name Fletcher on that lease. Four days ago, if I’d had a client who’d done something as stupid as sign a document without reading it carefully, I’d have seriously considered not representing him.”

Jamie looked at Vicki and was unsuccessful at hiding a grin. “And what difference does it really make now? You have a place to stay at a reasonable rent—the only place available, as I see it. Why do you care who owns the building?”

“But they’re so smug,” she said. “Wesley practically crowed when he told me that his family owns this building.”

“They own Buttercup Cottage, too,” Vicki pointed out. “And that didn’t bother you when you thought you could rent it.”

“That was yesterday, before I knew them.” She gestured out the window, where people in the square were now visible through the sparkling glass. “And that old guy over there…Mason Fletcher. Now that I think about it, he was smug, too. And I can just imagine Haywood. He’s probably more smug than the rest of them.”

Jamie hunched a shoulder in a sign of agreement. “Smug, clever…there’s a fine line between the two if you ask me. You have to be clever first in order to justify being smug. And as for your signing the lease, my advice is to forget about it. You’re on vacation from lawyering, so you might as well relax and enjoy yourself.” He walked to the middle window and with his fist cleared a three-inch circle through the grime so he could see the street below. “Bayberry Cove is a really nice little town.”

Louise let out a long breath and followed his gaze. It was Sunday morning, and families had gathered on the square. Fathers pushed children on swings and women chatted on benches.

“Yes, it is,” she admitted. “And you’re right. I’m going to relax just as soon as I get this place clean. And right after you tell me how old man Fletcher got all his money.”

Jamie went back to the bureau, picked up a piece of sandpaper and began smoothing the edges by hand. “That’s an interesting story,” he said, his words a soothing accompaniment to the rasp of the paper. “Mason was in his early twenties when he took a small inheritance his father left him and traveled from Bayberry Cove to Arizona. He invested in a silver mine out there with some other fellas, and as luck would have it, they uncovered a rich vein that gave them each a good stake for their futures.”

Louise dipped her rag again and attacked the middle window. “So he came back to North Carolina and bought Bayberry Cove?”

Jamie chuckled. “Not all at once. He made his real fortune in patents. Sold one to Henry Ford that revolutionized the assembly line process. And then, bit by bit, he started buying up property around here and dabbling in various ventures. He built Buttercup Cottage in 1935 for the love of his life, the woman he married.”

Louise stared down at the old man under the oak tree. She wasn’t surprised to learn a romantic soul lurked behind his knowing blue eyes. Smugness aside, Mason Fletcher had a soft spot. “Who was she?”

“An Arizona gal. He married her out there and took her away from all that soaring rock and desert and brought her to the sea. They say she loved being on Currituck Sound, and Buttercup Cottage was his gift to her on their second anniversary.” He stopped sanding and looked first at Louise and then at Vicki. “He called her Buttercup. He was a man very much in love, apparently. Still is, twenty-some years after her death.”

“Haywood was their only child?” Louise asked.

“The only one who survived the polio epidemic of the late forties,” Jamie answered. “Haywood had two younger sisters, twins. They both died.”

Louise watched as Mason Fletcher rolled a colorful plastic ball toward a group of children in the square. “That’s sad.”

“And Haywood only had one child—Wesley.” Jamie blew a film of sawdust from the top of the bureau. “Can’t say he didn’t try for more, though. He’s been married four times—which is why he shies away from wedded bliss today,” Jamie added with a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Louise resumed scrubbing. “So Haywood is quite the ladies’ man as well as a renowned legal mind. I can’t wait to meet this paragon of Bayberry Cove society.”

“You will meet him,” Vicki said. “The only woman in his life now is Jamie’s mother, Kate.”

“But didn’t you tell me that Jamie’s mother works for Haywood?” Louise asked.

“We said ‘used to,’ as in she used to be his housekeeper. Now she’s a bit more to him than that.”

“Yeah, but not his wife,” Jamie said with that same edge of rancor in his tone.

Louise spritzed a generous amount of cleaner on the window and began rubbing it dry. As the solution evaporated, a group of men standing on the sidewalk in front of the Bayberry Cove Kettle came into her view. There was no mistaking the tall, lean figure waving goodbye to the others and heading across the street. She quickly cleaned a larger section and watched Wesley Fletcher walk toward his grandfather. “Speaking of the Fletchers, the youngest one just appeared on the square.”

Vicki levered her pregnant body off the chair. She stood beside Louise at the window. “Is that him? Is that Wesley?”

“In the flesh.” Louise admired the stretch of a snug T-shirt over his chest and his muscled thighs extending from a pair of gray jersey shorts. “Or the next best thing to it, anyway.”

“Ohh…” Vicki’s one syllable rolled into several seconds of blatant admiration.

“Don’t stare at the poor man, ladies,” Jamie said from the middle of the room. “You couldn’t be more obvious.”

Vicki laughed. “You’re just jealous because there’s someone in Bayberry Cove who is nearly as good-looking as you are.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But Wes is a good friend. And he’s the town’s favorite son. He was born and raised here and all the locals followed his exploits through the naval academy and beyond. I’m content to stand in his shadow as the adopted son.”

Louise drummed her nails against the pane. “I wonder why he’s not married.”

“He was, once,” Jamie said. “To a girl he met while he was at Annapolis. She was a journalist in Washington, a couple of years older than him.”

“What happened?”

“She went her way, covering stories around the world, and he went his, to wherever the navy sent him. Tough to make a marriage work under those circumstances. They divorced after a few years.”

Louise drew her friend’s attention back to the window. “Look, he’s a runner.”

Both women watched as Wesley stretched his legs and arms. He jogged in place a moment before taking off around the perimeter of the square.

“He runs a few times a week when he’s in town,” Jamie said, adding that he started the regimen at precisely the same time each day. “Now get away from the window and give the man his privacy.”

“No way,” Louise scoffed. “He doesn’t want privacy. He’s running in the middle of the town square!” Determined to raise the window, which probably hadn’t been opened in a decade at least, she struggled until old paint finally cracked and the glass slid upward with a stubborn hiss. She waited for Wesley to sprint around to the street side again and then leaned out the window. “Ahoy, Commander,” she yelled. “Good morning.”

He looked up, shielded his eyes. “Good morning to you, Louise,” he called. “How are the new digs?”

“Couldn’t be better,” she said, propping the window up with a yardstick.

He tossed her an offhand wave and jogged around the corner. Louise continued to watch. His legs churned with nearly effortless grace. His arms pumped rhythmically at his sides. He was all fluid, powerful motion, an image of focused elegance. She nudged her friend. “So, what do you think?”

“Oh, you’re right, Lulu. I’ve never seen a man more outrageously…” Vicki fumbled for the right word and glanced over her shoulder at her husband “…sinfully smug in my life!”

Louise hooted with laughter. “See? I told you. But on him it does look good.”

LOUISE’S APPROACH TO LIFE in Bayberry Cove was characterized by good intentions. First, she intended to take Jamie’s advice. Once the apartment was in good shape, she’d kick back, relax, read a few good books. She’d definitely brightened the day of the owner of Books by the Bay when she’d walked out of the shop Monday morning with ten novels.

Second, she intended to stay a little bit angry with Wesley Fletcher. It was the safest way to combat a growing attraction to the good-looking ex–naval officer who seemed to be popping into her thoughts with alarming regularity. A man who lived his life according to regimens and schedules wouldn’t complement Louise’s more flamboyant style. More importantly, she wasn’t staying in Bayberry Cove for long. Two months in this town was the only interlude she meant to have from her real life.

And last, she definitely intended to avoid legal matters of any kind. She was in the South, where everybody understood that the livin’ was easy, and she was going to return to Oppenheimer Straus and Baker bathed in an aura of mint-julep cool if it killed her.

Unfortunately, each of these good intentions was blown all to hell on Tuesday evening.

Just two days after she moved into her little apartment, an unexpected event made her ignore every promise she’d made to herself.

Tired of reading, bored with dusting and totally disinterested in popping a frozen dinner into her microwave, Louise wandered down to the Kettle, where she’d eaten most of her meals the last couple of days. There was a good supper crowd gathered in the diner, but she found a small table and sat down.

After a few minutes Bobbi Lee came to take her order. “Hey, girl, how’s it going?” she said, her red lips curving into a welcoming grin. “How’s that place of yours working out?”

“Just fine, Bobbi Lee,” Louise said. She and Bobbi had established a friendly relationship. In fact, Louise was now beginning to worry about how this steadily increasing bond with the waitress might translate into fat grams.

“What’ll it be tonight?” Bobbi asked.

Louise folded the menu so she couldn’t see the words sausage gravy. “Just a salad.”

Bobbi sauntered off to place the order and Louise sat back and watched the people around her. Four women at a nearby table caught and held her attention. Each lady had a full bottle of Budweiser in front of her. Twice the number of empties sat waiting for the busboy to take them away.

Occasionally the women’s conversation was interrupted by boisterous laughter. But without fail, they quickly resumed a serious discussion once the joviality passed. Other sounds of the restaurant faded as curiosity made Louise tune in their voices. The ladies were obviously close acquaintances even though there was a wide range in their ages.

“All I know is that I couldn’t afford to give up another day’s wages at the factory to stay home with my son,” a young, olive-skinned Hispanic woman said. “Thank goodness he was well enough to go back to the baby-sitter today.”

“Did you tell Justin why you needed to stay home?” an older woman with a long gray ponytail asked.

“I did, hoping he’d be sympathetic. He said, ‘Go ahead, Miranda. Take all the time you need, but come payday—’”

“Wait, don’t tell us,” a slim woman with short blond hair interrupted. “He said, ‘Come payday, your check might be a little less than you expected.’”

Empathetic laughter erupted around the table until the older woman lifted her bottle into the air. “Let’s drink one to Justin Beauclaire, in honor of his unending compassion for his employees and his sense of fair play,” she said.

Something of an expert herself in the subtle deployment of sarcasm, Louise appreciated the old gal’s admirable use of it. She smiled and raised her glass of iced tea in silent commiseration.

Four bottles met and clinked above the center of the table, and each woman took a long swallow of beer. The older woman set down her bottle, wiped suds from her mouth with a napkin and gave her friend a serious look. “You know, Miranda, you could have brought Lorenzo to my house yesterday. It was my day off, and I would have watched him.”

Miranda smiled in gratitude. “Thanks, Bessie, but you’ve got enough to handle just taking care of your husband. Besides, who knows what germs Lorenzo could have brought into your house? If Pete had caught something from him, his emphysema might have gotten worse.”

“How’s Pete doing, anyway?” a woman with coffee-brown skin asked.

“Not too well, Yvonne,” Bessie said, “but thanks for asking.”

“You’ve got to get some help,” Yvonne said. “Between work and Pete, you’re wearing yourself out.”