Wanda nodded, chewing a fingernail. “Yes. Dreamy brown eyes, too. Like fudge.”
Now it was Rosa’s turn to tap the desk. The noise seemed to rouse Wanda from her Pike-induced stupor. “That’s funny,” Rosa said. “I spoke to Pike right before I came here, and he gave me the distinct impression he wasn’t in favor of the contest.”
Wanda nodded. “Yes, I got that sense, too. He’s probably just going along with Bitsy to make her happy. Men always want to give Bitsy whatever she wants. Pike seems like he’d be that type of nephew. Loyal...kind...” She sighed again. “Strong.”
Rosa resisted the urge to shake Wanda by the shoulders. “But why would he be against the contest?” she asked firmly. “It can’t do anything but help Bitsy’s business...or the next owner’s, if she decides to sell someday.”
Wanda blinked. “He doesn’t want to help the business.”
“What do you mean?”
“I heard him talking to Bitsy while they were here. He thinks she should give up the inn right now.”
“Give it up?”
“You know, sell it. A prime piece of seaside property like that would fetch a small fortune, and let’s face it, Bitsy is getting a little long in the tooth to be an innkeeper, though she fancies she’s the mayor of Tumbledown or something.” Wanda added, “Or so I’ve heard.”
Rosa’s eyes narrowed. And a nice piece of that “small fortune” would go to her faithful nephew and lawyer. Her father had been right about Pike. She thanked Wanda and made for the door.
“If you see Pike, tell him I said hello,” Wanda called.
Rosa offered a tight smile. “Oh, Pike and I are going to have a long conversation as soon as he finishes canoodling with the chickens.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Thank you, Ms. Elliot.”
Rosa returned to the parking lot, put the car into gear and stepped on the gas.
It was time to get started and show lawyer Pike that decorator Rosa was ready for a throwdown.
ROSA ALTERNATELY PUZZLED and fumed all the way back to Tumbledown.
Cy was not at the appointed meeting place outside the estate sale. Since her brother wore no watch and paid scant attention to his cell phone when in the throes of an antique hunt, there was nothing to be done but track him down on foot. She stepped out of the car and trudged through a trellis laden with clematis and into a well-appointed Tudor-style home filled with customers and eager sale attendants.
She found Cy in the living room, a wall sconce in each hand, standing like the figurehead from some strange pirate ship.
An old lady with startling bluish hair arranged in perfect springy curls tried to snatch them out of his grip.
“I got them first,” she said.
The normally unflappable Cy yanked back. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But these are mine. I found them, and I’ve got an inn to refurbish.”
She glowered up at him. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a store to fill and original sconces will sell.”
“They’re reproductions.”
The old lady glared as if he’d sworn at her. “Liar. They’re Colonial Revival, circa 1920.”
Cy glared back, though he had to bend down to look the ferocious female in the eyes. “Circa 1925.” He drew out the last word into the full measure of syllables. “Reeeproductionssssss.”
Her face twisted into a deeper scowl. “Aged brass.”
Cy drew himself up to his full six feet. “Cast metal.”
She fell back slightly, a flicker of uncertainty on her wrinkled face, and Cy went in for the kill. Leaning close, he delivered the coup de grace. “Polychrome finish.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I think I know you. Did you go to school here?”
Cy nodded, snapping his fingers. “You’re Miss Flaubert, the freshman English teacher.”
“Retired teacher,” she said sharply. “And you’re Cy Franco, C-minus student who wrote an essay about promoting nudist beaches here in Tumbledown.”
Rosa felt her cheeks warm.
Cy laughed. “Yep, that was me. Awesome that you remember my paper after all these years.”
Miss Flaubert’s gaze found Rosa and shifted back to Cy. “You two were memorable, all right.” With a sniff, she stalked off, muttering angry words under her breath.
Cy spotted Rosa and waved the sconces. “I had to fight the English teacher for ’em.”
“So I heard.” She risked a look around to see if anyone else had taken note of the exchange, but no one appeared at all interested. “Ready to go?”
He shot a mournful glance at the remaining treasures. “I guess. I’ve got a box waiting for me at the pay table.”
“Cy...” she warned.
“Don’t worry. Just a lamp and a small piece of stained glass.”
They lined up to pay and Rosa filled him in.
“So, you think Pike’s trying to put the squeeze on Bitsy to sell?” Cy asked, eyes wide.
“Seems like it.”
“Then why help her enter the contest in the first place?”
Rosa shrugged. “That’s what I’m going to find out.”
As they waited by the tables crowded with items, Rosa’s attention was caught by an old black-and-white photo of a man perched proudly on the bow of a small boat. Before she knew it, her memories took her back to Pike’s exquisite eighteen foot runabout, listening to him ramble on about the mahogany decks that he himself had restored. She hadn’t cared one bit about anything relating to boats, but back then, her sixteen-year-old self had been more than impressed by his heart-melting smile and, yes, the dimple in his strong chin.
Pike was completely at home on that boat, more comfortable than she’d ever seen him strolling down the halls of their high school. She’d always thought there was some sort of tension in him, some coiled spring inside, in spite of the easy smile and elegant posture. Lost in the memory, she could feel the wind whipping her hair, his hand on the small of her back.
On that boat, the sleek Poppy’s Dream, Pike was truly at home.
Until the day when Poppy’s Dream was delivered to the bottom of the Pacific.
She remembered his handsome face twisted with rage, nearly unrecognizable, when her father began to investigate. Pike, he believed, helped his own father commit insurance fraud by sinking the exquisite boat to recoup the $100,000 insurance money they’d pretended not to need.
There was a history that hinted at fraud, Manny Franco had said. Past events that painted an entirely different picture of Pike and his kin. Facts she was unaware of.
You’re wrong, Dad, she’d told him.
Whatever Pike’s family may or may not have planned, Pike did not sink that boat. She knew it then with all the certainty of her steadfast teenage heart. He loved Poppy’s Dream too much. The proof was in his long fingers trailing over the gleaming wood, the way he’d settled into the captain’s seat with a sheen of awe in his brown eyes. The passion in his voice when he’d told Rosa every last detail about acquiring the antique vessel and his dreams to