Sea of Love: A Bayberry Island Novel

  Though the brochure did summarize the connection between the Flynns and the mermaid legend, it glossed over the crux of the matter: Rutherford Flynn was a nut job.

  Ash read on.

  Rutherford Flynn was just twenty-four when he started Flynn Fisheries with two of his brothers in 1879. That was only a year after they’d boarded the City of Chester in Queenstown, County Cork, and set sail for Ellis Island. The brothers lived with distant relatives in Boston for about six months before they signed on with a fishing boat out of Cape Cod and decided to remain on Bayberry Island.

  Rutherford, or Ruthie as he was called as a young lad, rented a fishing boat and started making money almost immediately from the bounty of Atlantic haddock, cod, halibut, and salmon, plus a variety of shellfish, such as bay scallops, muscles, oysters, and shrimp—all commodities in demand by big-city restaurants and shops on the mainland.

  Ash took another swig of beer. The ocean breeze blew through the window and over his bare chest, sending a ripple of pleasure through his body. He thought of the silky heat of Rowan’s skin in his hands, how she’d undulated on his lap, the way she’d clutched his body against hers as he entered her. The variety of sounds she made when . . .

  “Aauugh! This is insane!” Ash set the beer on the bedside table and breathed deep, pushing Rowan from his mind and continuing with his reading. Anything to stop torturing himself like this.

  By 1880, there were three boats in the Flynn Fisheries fleet and the company employed more than two hundred men, nearly all the able-bodied adult male population of Bayberry Island. By then, one of the original Flynn brothers had passed away in an accident at sea and another had moved to Nantucket to join a whaling operation, a lucrative industry Rutherford refused to engage in.

  “Now, that’s something I didn’t know.” Ash bent a leg and propped the brochure against his knee, making a mental note to look into the man’s no-whaling philosophy.

  On the evening of March 14, 1881, when an epic nor’easter hit the fishing fleet, Captain Rutherford Flynn was at the helm of the lead boat, the Safe Haven. As huge waves and gale-force winds battered the boats, Ruthie knew it was his duty to save the seventy crew members from almost certain death.

  Ash reached for another sip of beer, then switched to the mermaid brochure again, preferring to relive the details of that fateful night in a more melodramatic storytelling style.

  He fought valiantly to lead the boats to shore, but all seemed lost! Then suddenly, the captain spotted something at the side of the boat! He stared in disbelief as a mermaid became visible, strangely illuminated in the dark, swirling water. Her raven hair fanned out around her. Her beautiful, dark eyes locked on his as she smiled reassuringly. He couldn’t believe his eyes!

  Ash laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Wonder what ol’ Ruthie was packin’ in that hip flask.”

  Captain Flynn watched in amazement as the mermaid pulled his boat to the cove and the other boats mysteriously followed. He was so overcome with emotion that the instant his ship was secured, he dove into the frigid Atlantic in search of the divine creature who had saved them, attempting to pledge his undying love and devotion to her!

  He nearly drowned, but his men managed to pull him from the crashing ice-cold sea and dragged him to the island’s only inn, where he slipped into a fevered illness for days. When he awoke, his eyes landed on Serena, the beautiful innkeeper’s daughter, who had been nursing him back to health. And what did he see? The same shiny raven black hair and dark, beautiful eyes! Despite the girl’s protests, Captain Flynn swore she was the mermaid, and he rolled off his sickbed to one knee and pledged to cherish her and love her until the end of time!

  Ash picked up his beer, dismayed to see it was nearly empty. He skimmed down toward the end of the story.

  Serena and Rutherford Flynn began their happy, long life together. As his business boomed and his family grew, the captain built a mansion for his wife on the island’s highest point of elevation, naming it the Safe Haven, in honor of his first fishing boat. Not long after, he commissioned Philadelphia sculptor Henry Manger to create a bronze mermaid fountain in Serena’s likeness. The fifteen-foot-high, neo-classical statue was unveiled in a public ceremony on June 5, 1888. Being that it was Victorian-era New England, the fountain was considered immodest, even for a work of art. Islanders and distinguished visitors gasped when the drape was removed. The mermaid wore nothing but a tail and a smile!

  Ash chuckled. “Nothing but a tail and a smile.” Sounded like Rowan’s parade attire. “Ugghh!”

  He pushed himself up from the queen-sized four-poster bed and headed into the kitchen. Ash swung open the 1950s-era refrigerator and grabbed another beer. Looking around, he had to admit he liked the apartment’s pitched roof and dormer windows, rough-hewn pine floors, and original stable doors used for privacy in the bathroom and bedroom. Its simplicity was in stark contrast to the opulence of the main house, with its chandeliers, brass light fixtures, decorative tin ceilings, and acres of rich wood wainscoting, friezes, and crown moldings.

  He’d seen a hundred houses like the Safe Haven while working for his grandfather, and every one of them had been built by a man like Rutherford Flynn, a guy who used his home to proclaim his own magnificence. Even as a kid, Ash had appreciated the beauty and historical value of these old mansions, but was confused by one thing—if a man was so great, why did he have to have a big, fancy house to prove it? Ash was about thirteen when he asked his grandfather about this, and never one to miss an opportunity to hit Ash over the head with preachy mumbo jumbo, he’d answered in typical Louis Wallace fashion. “Without solid framing, a house will fall. Without humility, a man will fall. And make no mistake about it—most of these men eventually fell.”

  Upon his grandfather’s death, Ash discovered Louis Wallace had walked his talk. Grandfather often told Ash stories about how he got his first job at age sixteen during the post–World War II building boom, paid his way through college, and earned a degree in architecture. He told Ash that he’d become one of the East Coast’s most trusted restoration contractors because he worked hard, lived honestly, and never stopped learning. Of course, his grandfather lived comfortably, enjoying his travel, good food, and restoring and sailing the Provenance, but he certainly didn’t live like a rock star.

  So Ash had been stunned when Grandfather Louis died and left him fifteen million dollars.

  Ash popped the cap of the beer bottle, tossed it onto the kitchen counter, and wandered into Rowan’s small living room, doing his best to let the memory of his grandfather waft out of his thoughts. He’d loved Louis Wallace. There was no question about that. But he’d never loved the feel of his grandfather’s virtuous foot on the small of his back or the pressure he felt to live up to some sort of impossible ideal. After all, today’s business world was nothing like it had been in his grandfather’s day. As Brian once pointed out, Ash might have chosen a career with questionable ethics as a way to stick it to his dear old deceased granddad. As usual, Brian had a point.

  Ash walked through the living room. He’d tried his best not to use his guest status to spy on Rowan any more than he already had. Truthfully, he’d been relieved last night to find the desk locked and the more intimate contents of her bedroom and bathroom drawers emptied. But he couldn’t resist breathing her in while he was in her home, surrounded by her things. He smelled her in every room, on every piece of furniture. Her scent took up residence in his mind.

  He found himself moving toward the fireplace mantel and the built-in bookcases on either side, heavy with family photos, mementos, seashells, and odd items he knew meant something only to her. Yes, Rowan had appeared tough during Frederick Theissen’s trial. She’d testified against him and given a statement at his sentencing. She’d faced the TV cameras stoically, with her chin set and her shoulders back, every word measured and rehearsed for optimum effect. She never let anyone see her sadness or the burden of betrayal she carried.

  He knew her better now. He?
??d seen the loneliness and injury in her expression. He noticed how she’d tenderly arranged the living room toss pillows and set an old milk bottle of dried wildflowers inside the dormant fireplace. He knew she preferred sheets with little yellow polka dots and occasionally read paperback romance novels. He saw how she’d proudly framed her diplomas and a certificate of recognition for her master’s degree honors thesis in organizational psychology.

  Not to mention that he’d tasted her skin, smelled her hair, and felt her heat. Somehow, the two of them had turned an unplanned encounter into a chance to make love. It was the truth. Ash had made love to Rowan and she’d made love to him. Yesterday his life was simple and clean. Today he didn’t know where his heart ended and his head began. He hardly knew which end was up.

  Ash’s eyes once again wandered to the framed photos on Rowan’s mantel. He especially liked the family photo from when she was about six, the age Ash had been when his mother and father died. Rowan was a skinny, freckled wild child who’d obviously been forced into a dress for the occasion and wasn’t happy about it. Ash looked closer to see that her smile was accentuated by a stubborn squint of her eyes. Both her knees were scraped and one of her fancy shoes was unbuckled. It made him laugh.

  Frasier was the proud father in the portrait, one arm around his wife and a hand resting on Clancy’s shoulder. Mona was quite lovely and she knew it, presenting a sly grin to the camera. Clancy looked like a smaller version of himself now, minus the uniform, and it was clear that his father’s hand was on his shoulder to keep him from squirming. But it was Duncan who fascinated Ash the most. He looked sickly and withdrawn, leaning a bit into his mother’s leg as if he weren’t sure he could stand on his own. His face was turned slightly away from the camera.

  Ash’s attention moved to the photo of Duncan’s Naval Academy graduation portrait. He had to shake his head in disbelief. The difference was startling. How did a pale and shy weakling turn into this formidable, steely-eyed officer in his dress whites? As he took a seat on Rowan’s sofa, Ash made a mental note to learn a little more about the Flynns’ eldest child.

  He sighed, dangling the beer bottle between his fingers. Tomorrow was Sunday, the second day of the Mermaid Festival. Ash had been on the island for two days and had little to show for it. Nothing he could report to Jessop-Riley, at any rate. He promised himself that in the morning, he’d really get down to business.

  Chapter Eight

  “Everything is better when you’re naked.”

  Rowan placed the tray of breakfast pastries on the dining room sideboard and did her best not to laugh. The nudists had insisted that Ash and the party girls join them at their table and were giving them the hard sell on why their version of Mermaid Festival events was the better choice.

  “Okay, so you’re saying that everyone’s naked?” One of the Tea Rose Room girls seemed incredulous. “There isn’t, like, a bouncer to make sure only the hot people get in? Like at the club?”

  “No, dear. Our lifestyle isn’t about physical perfection. It’s about the freedom to be in the world as nature intended. Our events are invitation only, of course, but body type never determines who gets invited.”

  The girl looked as if she’d just caught wind of a dead skunk. “Ew. Thanks, but we’re busy!” The girls jumped up from the table and said their good-byes, but not before giving coy little head swivels in Ash’s direction.

  Rowan froze. She’d just witnessed those two bimbos give Ash the universal sign for “let’s get together.” And— Oh, no, she didn’t! The dark-haired girl just whispered their room number to Ash before the two of them giggled and stumbled their way out of the dining room.

  Rowan turned away, leaned her fists on the sideboard, and glared out the windows. She felt her face get hot with jealousy. Wait. She was jealous? She’d never been the jealous type, even with men she was actually dating. And she wasn’t dating Ash. Yet here she was, so jealous she could scratch out the eyes of a couple of ditzy girls who’d flirted with him.

  She shook her head at her own ridiculousness. Enough. After festival week, she was going to schedule an appointment with the doctor on Nantucket. She’d get some blood tests. Or ask that her hormone levels be checked. Maybe get a CAT scan or an MRI. Something. Because this emotional free fall had to end.

  She heard Ash stand from his chair, scoot it in, and excuse himself from the table. “Have a great day, everyone,” he said with his usual politeness.

  Rowan didn’t move. She began to rearrange sugar packets in an effort to appear busy. Her ears strained to hear his footsteps leave the dining room and enter the foyer. Instead she heard footsteps come closer, then stop behind her.

  Her shoulders tightened. He was about to talk to her! But this was what she wanted, right? This is what she and Annie had talked about. It was why she’d ironed a cute and somewhat low-cut cotton blouse to wear that day instead of a T-shirt. It’s why she’d added a dab of perfume at her throat, shaved her legs, and worn a surfer-girl skirt. So if she wanted him to speak to her, why was she terrified?

  “Rowan.”

  It was a whisper, deep and husky. And close. She clenched her thighs together. She seemed to do that in his presence a lot, as if she’d never been near a decent-looking man before. Surely she could pull herself together to answer him.

  Slowly, Rowan turned, but kept her hands gripping the edge of the antique sideboard. “Good morning, Mr. Wallace. Did you enjoy your omelet?”

  “It was very tasty.”

  She was panting like she’d just run a 10K, 9K of which had been uphill. Nope. He laid claim to all the tasty around here. His tousled short curls ran the spectrum from sun-streaked light blond to medium brown. The stubble on his chin, cheeks, and above his upper lip was more brown than blond. His lashes and brows were darker still. And she felt that if she weren’t allowed to touch him in all those blond and brown places, she’d curl up in a ball and turn to dust. Honestly, she was starving to touch him.

  Rowan came to her senses enough to peek around Ash’s shoulder. Her nudist regulars were observing them with great interest, maybe even picturing one or both of them naked. The thought was enough for Rowan to snap out of it.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” She watched a sultry, slow smirk appear on his lips. Perhaps that had been a bad choice of words. She regrouped. “Do you have plans for today?”

  “Maybe.” His voice was teasing. Rowan could have sworn he let his gaze drop to her low-cut neckline. “Do you have plans today, Miss Flynn?”

  For a split second, Rowan saw the two of them in her bed, without a stitch of clothing between them. Everything is better when you’re naked.

  “Are you going to Island Day?”

  “Huh?” Rowan licked her lips. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Today’s Island Day, right? Will you be there?”

  “Yeah. Yes. Of course. Sunday of festival week is always Island Day. It’s fun. You’ll like it. I’ll get you a brochure.”

  Ash laughed. Rowan’s hands slipped off the edge of the sideboard, and when he reached out to assist her, his fingers brushed the side of her left breast.

  “Oh God.”

  “Are you all right?” He still gripped her gently by the upper arms. Rowan thought she’d melt.

  “Fine. No problem.” No, I’m not all right! She’d just heard his laugh, and it sounded like a masculine wind chime, soothing and cheerful at the same time. She wanted more. And he was still touching her . . .

  Ash dropped his hands and shoved them in the front pockets of his cargo shorts. He looked almost embarrassed.

  “Let me get you an Island Day brochure.”

  He shook his head. “I have one already. In fact, I think I have every brochure available at any kiosk anywhere on the island.”

  “Oh.” Rowan heard herself make a sound that was part sigh and part laugh. “Well, then, enjoy your day, Mr. Wallace.”

  “You agreed to call me Ash.”

  “Of course.” She glanced at t
he nudists again. All six of them had settled back into their dining room chairs with their coffees, thoroughly amused by the awkward exchange between hotelier and guest. If Rowan weren’t more careful, Annie, Imelda, and Clancy wouldn’t be the only ones who knew she had a thing for the man staying in the carriage house. Everyone on the island would. At this rate, she might as well go down to Annie’s shop and have her whip up a custom T-shirt that read: ASHTON LOUIS WALLACE III DID ME ON MY APARTMENT FLOOR.

  Rowan smiled at him. “Thank you, Ash.” Truly, she was doing the best she could, but he unnerved her. “To answer your question, yes, I’ll be at Island Day, but I’m working for most of it. The Safe Haven has a booth.”

  Ash nodded. “Handing out brochures?”

  She giggled. “Yes. And we have giveaways for half-priced weekend packages, free breakfasts, and we always raffle off two tickets to the clambake down on the beach, the best night of festival week.”

  “Wow.” He seemed impressed.

  “The clambake is our most popular over-eighteen event, but our liquor license limits us to four hundred people on the beach at one time. That’s why tickets are hard to come by. We always sell out the year before.”

  “That’s too bad.” Ash smiled at Rowan, and this time it was a full, genuine smile that almost knocked the wind out of her. “It sounds like it would have been a lot of fun.”

  “Excuse me!” One of the nudists stood from his chair. “We have a clambake, too, and we’re not sold out!”