Soldier, Handyman, Family Man

Chapter One

The attractive brunette juggling a cardboard box and a plastic trash bag filled with who knew what needed help. Mark Delaney had first noticed her yesterday when her bobbing ponytail had proved to be very distracting. Now, seeing disaster about to happen, he sprang from the ladder, where he painted the underside of The Drumcliffe Hotel roof trim, nearly rolling an ankle. Then he jogged across the street attempting to hide the limp.

Need help?

Oh. She tossed him a flustered glance, the box precariously slipping from her grasp. Yes, please.

He rushed in and grabbed it, surprised how light it was.

My favorite English tea set’s in there. She used her head to signal the delicate nature of the contents. Should’ve thought this through more. She stopped, took a breath and made an obligatory smile. I’m Laurel Prescott, by the way, and you are?

Mark Delaney. With his free hand, he gestured across the street. My family owns The Drumcliffe.

Her honey-brown brows, a few shades lighter than her hair, lifted. Ah, so we’re neighbors.

He deposited the box on the porch as she came up beside him, then noticed the eyes that were light hazel and shaped like large almonds. He liked that. Guess so. When are you planning to open the B&B?

Another inhale, this one deeper. Good question. My goal is next week, but there are so many last-minute things I need to do, and of course hadn’t even thought of. She shook her head rapidly. Don’t know what I was thinking doing this final move the week school started. She hoisted the trash bag over her shoulder. Something clanked inside. Oh, yes, I do—I’d finally have a few hours to myself!

He couldn’t help but laugh with her even if it was over impending hysteria. Anything else you need carried in?

Her downright attractive eyes sparkled, signaling he may as well have been sent from heaven. Which felt good for a change.

Are you sure you have the time? I mean it’s obvious you’re in the middle of painting.

He glanced down at his black T-shirt and jeans, both splattered with the eggshell paint his mother had meticulously picked for the trim. I was ready for a break anyway. Then he looked across the road where he’d left the lid off the paint can. Just give me a second, okay?

Of course! She continued up the steps to the grand Queen Anne‒styled Victorian house, which had been sitting empty, according to his mother, for ages. Some nice old couple used to live there when he was a kid, right up to the time he’d left home. He remembered once having the best apple pie he’d ever eaten in that kitchen.

He crossed the street heading back to the hotel. For the last several months, he’d seen crews inside and out bringing the gem back to its original beauty and then some. By the extensive upgrades, he knew his mother had been right about the old home being turned into a bed-and-breakfast. The workers had finished a few weeks back, making the steeply pitched roof with the dominant front gable and oddly shaped porch look picture-book perfect. Once a blah blue with ho-hum white trim, chipped and peeling from years of neglect, now the house was sage green with cream trim and forest green detailing between the cornices, and Mark had to admit it looked classy. Like her. That had been his first impression of his new neighbor last week when she’d stopped by to check on the finishing touches.

The lady was way out of his league, so today, when she was dressed in work clothes—faded straight-legged jeans with slip-in rubber-soled shoes, and a stretched-out polo shirt that’d seen better days—it made him smile. She fit right in with his style. And for the second day in a row she’d worn a ponytail. Not that he was keeping tabs or anything, but man, the ponytail was distracting.

Mark replaced the lid on the paint can.

Little early for a break isn’t it? Padraig Delaney chided his middle grandson, while he had no doubt just finished a Monday morning round at the city course judging by his loud patterned golf slacks and a salmon-colored shirt. His daily routine at eighty-five kept his craggy face tanned and his blue eyes bright, not to mention the notorious toothy grin pasted in place. Which he was currently flashing since noticing where Mark had come from and the lady across the street waiting for him.

Mark smiled at his grandda with the Guinness-soaked voice and tendency toward magical thinking. They had an understanding since both had known how it felt to be young, far away from home, frightened and lonely—though one in peacetime and the other, well, in that hot mess known as the Middle East. Yet that was their unspoken bond, and nothing would break it.

Everyone knew Padraig Delaney’s history. As a young Irish immigrant in the 1950s, he’d been brought over to work the new and lush golf courses along the central California coast. Cheap labor for sure, but he’d also had the foresight to scrimp and save money and buy the small patch of land in Sandpiper Beach. As his jobs and responsibility advanced, he saved more and worked like the devil to build the humble hotel back in the late sixties and early seventies. If it weren’t for that hardworking dreamer’s spirit, who knew what the Delaney clan would be up to now? So he’d cut him some slack over playing golf every morning. The man had earned it.

As Mark always did, he also tolerated the supernosy man’s inclinations. I’ll get ’er done. All of it. By the end of the day. Have a good game?

Every game’s a good game, Marky my boy, ’cuz I’m alive.

Mark had heard a similar statement from his grandfather at some point every single day since he’d returned from Afghanistan last year. He understood it was a less-than-subtle message, but most of the time he couldn’t relate to it. Though today, glancing across the street to the lady with the ponytail, his personal outlook struck him as somewhat optimistic. That it is, Grandda. That it is. He stood, ready to set off again for the B&B and the woman who needed some serious help.

Fraternizing with the competition are ye? Ah, he wasn’t going to let this slip by.

Mark laughed, knowing Grandda was making a joke. His mother was the one and only person in the family fretting about the B&B opening. Padraig Delaney understood different types stayed at a place like that than their modestly priced hotel. The B&B wasn’t about competition, it was about revitalizing the town, which would be good for everyone. Just helping out a neighbor.

A mighty attractive neighbor I might add. The old man winked.

Mark returned a let’s-not-go-there stare, though Grandda already had.

Have you thought more about taking over the hotel? So he’d gotten Mark’s hint and changed the subject.

You know I’m not ready to do that. He placed the paint can next to the hotel wall, then folded the ladder and put that next to it. Besides, Mom and Dad really don’t want to retire yet. At least he hoped so.

Could fool me, the way they talk about it mornin’ till night. Besides, you’re the only one who loves this hotel the same way I do.

Mark couldn’t deny that he was the logical person to pick up where his parents left off, if they retired like they kept threatening to. With Daniel being a doctor with his own practice and Conor a deputy sheriff for the county with plans for advancement, neither brother showed the slightest interest in running the place. But since being honorably discharged from the army last year, he’d wanted nothing to do with responsibility. For now, being a handyman every morning and surfing every afternoon was about all he thought he could handle. Still he did have a vision for The Drumcliffe, which he’d talked to his parents about under the condition that they would give him time, and postpone any immediate plans to retire. If Grandda caught on, he might insist Mark take on more responsibility right away. But he flat out wasn’t ready. Yet.

Mark kept his head down, rather than pursue the pointed conversation about the future of the family hotel. Grandda cleared his throat in resignation, but Mark knew there would be future dialogue on the subject. The man would probably hound him until he gave in. It might even be for his own good.

Well, I’m off, then. Padraig set out heading up Main Street for his daily visit with the other local business owners, using an ancient wood putter as a cane. Remember the selkie, lad, he said, not bothering to look back for Mark’s reaction, knowing it would be annoyed.

Would the old man ever let go of the notion Mark and his brothers had saved a selkie the day they’d gone deep-sea fishing together? First off, it wasn’t a selkie, it was a seal that was being hunted by a pod of orca. Foolish or not, the brothers had used the fishing boat to interfere with the obvious training session for a young orca on how to catch a snack. Turns out they’d distracted the pod just long enough for the seal to escape. Their biggest mistake, after risking getting their boat flipped by ticked-off orcas, was repeating the story during the Sunday night family dinner in the pub. You’d have thought they’d saved the king of the little people judging by their grandfather’s reaction. The seal was a selkie, he’d said. The selkie now owes each of you a favor. As if he knew the selkie rulebook backward and forward.

Ever since, Padraig Delaney, a wise and intelligent man on many other levels, but obviously not this one, insisted each brother would find true love.

Right. And there’s always a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. Anyone ever find it?

His oldest brother, Daniel, hadn’t helped Grandda’s notion a bit when he’d hired Keela and, after a few months, started dating her. Now they were newly married with a baby on the way, and calling that proof, Grandda had doubled down on his woo-woo predictions. Especially after he’d had a Guinness or two. He’d gaze over his glass and give Mark, the middle brother, and Conor, the baby, meaningful glances meant to convey they’d be next. What a load of malarkey.

Remember the selkie, my ass, Mark mumbled, watching the old man stride up the street without a care. What had made him bring that up again, anyway?

Because their new neighbor was a knockout, that’s why. Mark smiled to himself. So Grandda had noticed, too.

And with that undeniable thought, he grinned and cleaned his hands with the rag hanging on the ladder and headed back across the way, even though she wasn’t likely to give him the time of day after he’d finished helping her. He was still just a fix-it guy.

* * *

Laurel walked back to her car and secretly watched Mark reseal a paint can when an old gentleman approached him.

Here she was, thirty-five, a widow second-guessing her every move. Being the mother of a teenage boy dealing with grief and anger on top of the usual teen angst, and twin four-year-olds just beginning their journey with school, only added to the doubt. Buying the old house with one of Alan’s generous insurance policies had been a risk, for sure, but it had also been her way of beginning again. Lord knew she needed a fresh start. They all did. The last five years had been hijacked by Alan’s cancer, then remissions, praying the worst had been over, followed by the nightmare two years later of those demon cells’ return. If anyone deserved a do-over it was the Prescott family. Though Alan never got the luxury of a second chance.

She swallowed a hard and familiar lump. Life had been difficult without him the past two years, and may have kicked the wind out of her, but now she wanted to move on. What choice did she have, really?

She retrieved a few small items from the trunk of the car and subtly watched on the periphery, the conversation going on across the street at the hotel between the old golfer and Mark, her disturbingly attractive neighbor. The fact she’d noticed him was progress, wasn’t it? He was good-looking. There, she’d admitted it. But so what?

Before the move, she’d been walking around in a trance, dealing with the lowest rung on the Maslow hierarchy of needs—excluding sex, of course. That rarely entered her mind, except on those nights when she missed Alan’s touch so badly she cried. All she wanted to do was build a new life for her family, to keep them safe and fed, healthy, while wondering if this B&B had been the best idea she’d ever had or the craziest.

Regardless, she owned the Queen Anne‒styled house in Sandpiper Beach and planned to become a small businesswoman. A full-time job outside the home would provide a paycheck, but it would also keep her away from the ones she wanted to look after. This solution, buying and running a B&B, was the next best way she knew how to provide for her kids.

She glanced across the street. Why was that man so distracting? She had a world of other things to think about, didn’t need a single distraction, yet there he was, tall, dark hair, intense blue eyes, totally Irish American. Younger than her.

She walked back to the house, trying not to look over her shoulder. What could be the harm in allowing a tiny, secret attraction for someone who lived across the street? Could she go so far as labeling it a crush, or merely an interest? Whichever, she’d felt something the very first time she’d spotted him. Why now? Could it be a signal that, after two years of living in limbo, she was finally ready to move on with life?

Maybe.

A half hour later, after passing each other with arms loaded on trips back and forth to the house, with nothing more than glances and respectful smiles, Mark carried the last of Laurel’s boxes up the porch steps.

The grand entrance and main sitting room were detailed and updated with fresh paint, crown molding, a traditional fireplace, ornate mantel and rich wood balustrades lining the otherwise modest staircase. But the impressive dining room with its long and grand oak table, antique print wallpaper and classic crystal chandelier was clearly the focal point. Visitors were going to love this old house.

Looks great, was all he said.

Thank you, she said with an earnest gaze. I’m petrified. After all the money I’ve sunk into it, what if it’s a big bomb?

Have you done this before? He also wondered if she was married, which bothered him. Why should he care?

Never. Something close to panic flashed in her eyes, but she recovered quickly. Can I get you some lemonade? It’s the least I can do for all your help. Maybe she’s divorced.

He wasn’t the type to stick around and chat. In fact, he’d kept mostly to himself in the year since he’d been back from Afghanistan, skipping socializing outside of his family, but something nudged him to accept her offer. Sounds good. Thanks.

He followed her into the modest-sized kitchen for a house this big, and took in the view from the updated double-paned back window. The beach and ocean weren’t far off, and he assumed most of the guest rooms would have views of the same. I wouldn’t worry too much about bombing out. Unless you overprice the rooms.

I’ve done my homework on pricing, she said, opening the double-wide stainless steel refrigerator and grabbing a pitcher of lemonade. He also noticed she’d gone the modern route with the appliances and the long marble-covered island. Seemed like an efficiency decision, if she planned the usual serving of breakfast for her guests. I’m right in the middle of the current going rate. Except for the honeymoon suite, of course. She gave a flirty wistful glance. It’s beautiful and well worth the price.

He didn’t get what the deal was with rooms that were supposed to enhance romance—seemed to him you either had it or you didn’t—but figured Laurel was depending on other people who did. Whereas The Drumcliffe appealed more to families and seniors on budgets. So he was content to leave the lover’s weekend packages for her B&B. More power to her. Though Mom adamantly voiced the need for their hotel to have broader appeal, and she’d been on a quest to start wedding packages maximizing the gorgeous view and their large lawn area right along the ocean. An idea popped into his head: Why not turn the biggest room with the best view at the hotel into a honeymoon suite? Maybe he could get some ideas for decorating from Laurel. Of course, that would only mean more on his ever-growing to-do list. Which reminded him he was supposed to start building an arbor today, and a gazebo after that.

She handed him a dainty hand-painted glass of lemonade. So instead of gulping like he’d intended from thirst, he took only a sip of the fresh lemon and hint-of-mint liquid. This tastes great.

Thanks. I made it myself using the Meyer lemons from the side yard.

Really good. The yard, he’d noticed, needed some serious trimming and weeding. But she’d probably already made plans with a gardener for that, so he didn’t offer his services. Why would he? Besides, he had enough going on with the hotel.

He sensed she had all kinds of extra-special tricks up her sleeve where the B&B was concerned, like this homemade lemonade, and figured her guests would return because of those extra-special touches. That was if they found the house in the first place. You have plans for a grand opening or something?

She took a drink, her lashes fluttering. I plan to run some ads and have an open house.

That’s a good idea.

She looked gratefully at him. I grew up in Pismo Beach, so I know we have a long season. Does it ever get really dead around here?

I’ve only been back the past year, so I’m not a great resource. I’ll check with my parents, if you’d like.

Oh, sorry, I just assumed you—

—I was in the service for ten years. My parents run the hotel. I’m still getting used to being back. Would that matter to her, that he wasn’t the guy in charge? Again, he chided, why should he care?

He’d left home at twenty-one an accomplished surfer, surf bum as Grandda often teased. Then he’d come back after a few tours in the Middle East, mostly