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A job at a local oyster farm caught his eye. He glanced around, then pulled the card from the board and tucked it in his pocket. He loved oysters and farming meant that he’d be spending his time outdoors. He couldn’t think of a better combination.
Ronan walked over to the hospitality counter and gave the elderly woman sitting behind it a quick smile. “Are you Maxine?”
She nodded. “I am.”
“I’m looking for a room. I’m going to be in town for six weeks. It needs to be cheap. I don’t have a lot of money.”
“We have a couple of boarding houses in town,” she said. “And Isiah Crawford rents out a few of his motel rooms on a monthly basis. Let me try Mrs. Morey first.”
The woman dialed a number. “Hello, Elvira. It’s Maxine down at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man down here looking for a room. Do you have anything available?” She paused. “Wonderful. How much?” She scribbled something on her pad, then glanced up at Ronan. “What’s your name?”
“Ronan Quinn?”
Maxine’s eyes went wide for a moment, then she cleared her throat. “Yes, Elvira, you heard that right. Well, I’m sure he’ll understand. If you forgot, you forgot.”
Maxine hung up the phone and smiled apologetically. “It seems that she doesn’t have a room after all. Some big group coming in.”
“Could you try the other boarding house?” he asked.
“I—I don’t think Tillie has anything available either. I just saw her at church this morning and she—she would have mentioned it. Maybe you could try across the river in Newcastle?”
Ronan had the distinct impression that he was getting the runaround. Why were these people suddenly unwilling to rent to him? “Maybe you could try the motel?”
With a reluctant smile, she dialed the phone. “Hi there, Josiah. It’s Maxine over at the Visitor’s Center. I have a young man here named Ronan Quinn and he’s looking for a—yes, that’s what I said. He’s looking for a room. Well, that’s a shame. All right. You, too, Josiah.”
She hung up the phone again and shrugged. “He doesn’t have any vacancies either. Newcastle really is your best option. It’s just over the bridge.”
“I need to stay here, in Sibleyville,” he said. Ronan picked up his duffel bag. “Never mind, I’ll find a place on my own.”
Maxine forced a smile. “Can I offer you a bit of advice? Don’t give them your name. In fact, use a different name entirely. But don’t dare tell anyone I gave you this advice. Run along now.”
With a soft curse, Ronan walked outside, keeping his temper in check. What the hell was going on here? Did the town have something against the Irish? Or was it just because he was a single guy? From what he could tell, the town thrived on tourism so it didn’t make sense they’d turn anyone away. If he’d thought Sibleyville looked like a friendly place at first glance, he’d been sadly mistaken.
He looked down at the card he held. Mistry Bay Oyster Farm. Contact Charlie Sibley. Would a potential employer feel the same? Especially one named after this very village? For now, he’d keep his name to himself until he knew for sure.
“Maybe living a different life is going to be more difficult than I thought it would be,” he muttered.
“YOU NEED TO scrape harder than that,” Charlotte Sibley said, running her hand over the rough hull of the skiff. “All this old paint has to come off. If you paint on top of it, it won’t stick.”
Her fourteen-year-old brother, Garrett, looked up from the task she’d given him and rolled his eyes. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Of course you do. You’re just not doing a very good job of it. You’ve been bugging Dad to let you work the boats on your own but you’re not willing to put in the effort that comes with it.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on, princess, put some muscle into it. We’re going to need that skiff this season.”
“Who made you the boss of me? You’re not the boss of me, Charlie. Dad is.”
“And if you haven’t noticed, Einstein, Dad is laid up with a bad back. His doctor says he can’t work for at least a month or two. He made me the boss of things, so that makes me the boss of you, too.”
Garrett muttered something beneath his breath and went back to work. Charlotte smiled to herself. Now that she’d been put in charge of the Mistry Bay oyster farm, it had been a bit of a rocky ascension from worker to boss. Charlie knew the business from top to bottom, after working it for years with her family. And six years away hadn’t been long enough to forget the ropes. But being in charge meant that she’d had to rein in the members of the Sibley clan who preferred malingering to hard work.
A knock sounded on the door of the boathouse and Charlotte strode over to the door. She’d been expecting a visit from an up and coming chef from Boston who was visiting the area. Chef Joel Bellingham had already made a name for himself in Boston with one highly rated restaurant and would soon be opening a second—a seafood place that might feature Mistry Bay oysters.
She yanked the door open, but her greeting died in her throat as she came face-to-face with an impossibly handsome man, not much older than she was. He watched her with pale blue eyes, as she tried to regain her breath, his gaze holding hers. Charlie swallowed hard, then cleared her throat. “Hello! Come on in. I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding the place.” She’d met Bellingham over the phone earlier that morning and had somehow gotten the impression he was much older. This guy could be thirty, tops.
“There was a sign above the door,” he said, glancing around.
They stood there for an uncomfortable moment before Charlie could shake herself into action. “How was your trip?” she asked. “The traffic on Highway 1 can be really bad on the weekends.”
“It was fine.”
He was a man of few words. Charlie felt a stab of disappointment. He obviously wasn’t interested in chatting with her. And usually she was so good with customers. But this guy, though stunningly handsome, didn’t have much of a personality. “Let me show you around.”
The waterfront building served multiple purposes for the family business. Charlie pointed out the shop area where they repaired equipment and boat engines. Housed in the other half of the lower floor was the shipping area, where workers cleaned and sorted oysters before they were boxed to be sent all over the east coast and beyond. As Charlie rattled off her talking points, she realized she wasn’t even listening to herself. He stood beside her, nodding politely.
The second floor housed the business offices and a small apartment Charlotte sometimes used when she needed to get away from the craziness at her parents’ house. It also included a finely appointed tasting room, modeled after a gourmet kitchen, where they often entertained visitors interested in featuring Mistry Bay oysters at their restaurants or seafood counters. The room overlooked the river and was the perfect setting to talk oysters.
“Mistry Bay is a family business,” she said as they walked up the stairs. “We’ve had the oyster farm for nearly twenty years and we think we have some of the best oysters on the east coast. But I’m a bit prejudiced.” She drew a ragged breath. “Why don’t we taste some oysters.”
He walked beside her into the tasting room and she couldn’t help but notice how tall and well built he was, dressed in cargo shorts and a T-shirt that hugged his muscular chest. He hadn’t shaved in a few days, but the stubble made him look slightly dangerous. He was like the kind of guy who wore his sex appeal with a casual indifference, as if he didn’t care if women noticed him.
Since she’d left Danny in New York over a year ago, Charlotte hadn’t found herself attracted to any man. In truth, she’d written off men completely. As long as she was living in Sibleyville, romance was an exercise in futility anyway. But she wasn’t averse to indulging in a little fantasy every now and then and Chef Joel Bellingham provided plenty of raw material.
She pointed to a stool at the granite-topped counter then moved to the other side of it to retrieve a bowl of freshly harvested oysters from the refrigerator. As she stood across from him, she laid a folded towel on the counter and grabbed an oyster. Charlotte felt him watching her. She was almost worried to look up, afraid that he’d be able to read her thoughts.
She held the oyster with another towel and popped the shell open at the hinge. After carefully slicing the meat from the shell, she placed the fresh oyster on a Mistry Bay oyster plate, preserving the liquid in the shell. “Lemon?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I like them plain.”
“Can I offer you a pairing? We have champagne, muscadet and ice-cold vodka. All three really enhance the taste of our oysters. Not all together, of course. Each one separately.”
“It’s eleven in the morning,” he said.
“Right.”
He regarded her warily. “Champagne would be good. If you’re going to join me.”
She found a split of bubbly in the fridge, popped it open and poured it into two flutes. Drawing a deep breath, she went into her business pitch as she continued to open oysters. “We ship from September through June and use overnight delivery. That means you can have fresh oysters Tuesday through Saturday mornings. We harvest early in the morning and ship that afternoon.”
Charlotte continued to shuck oysters and place them on the plate, describing the attributes of the Mistry Bay oyster in sensual terms. They were plump and juicy, briny and sweet. Usually a half dozen on the half-shell satisfied most customers, but Chef Joel seemed to be particularly hungry.
When she wasn’t talking, she was nervously sipping champagne, trying to keep herself from spinning right out of the room. He finally held up his hand at a dozen, then drew a deep breath. “They were really good. Thanks.”
Really good? Usually her oysters received more than a “good.” Exquisite, delicate, satisfying, better than sex. Really good wasn’t that good at all. “Do you have any questions?” she asked.
“Just one. Does this mean I have the job?”
She sent him a quizzical look. “Job? I—I don’t understand.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an index card, then held it out to her. “I found this over at the visitor’s center. It said you were looking for help?”
A gasp slipped from her throat. “Wait a second. You’re not Chef Joel from Boston?”
“Nope. I’m Ronan. Ronan Smith from Seattle. I don’t mind working hard. I’ll be here early and stay late. You tell me to do something and it’ll be done.” He gazed at her silently.
Charlie felt a shiver skitter down her spine and she had to force herself to look away. She cleared her throat. “You ate a dozen oysters,” she said. “Did you think that was part of the interview?”
“I just thought you were showing me the product. And I was hungry.”
She really couldn’t blame him for the mix-up. She’d been caught off guard from the moment she set eyes on him. The fluttery feeling in her stomach and the buzzing in her head had made it impossible to think clearly. Maybe if she’d had her wits about her, she might have seen his confusion sooner.
“So, do I have the job?” he asked again.
“Come with me,” Charlotte said. She had just posted the job yesterday. Considering the other employment opportunities available, she hadn’t expected such a quick response. Nor such an interesting prospect. But here was guy who set her heart racing and she had a perfectly good reason to keep him around a little longer.
“The job is hard, with long hours. The pay isn’t great, but with the hours you work, you should make a decent living. Are you going to have a problem with that?”
“Nope,” he said as he followed her downstairs.
She led him over to the inverted skiff. “This is my brother, Garrett. Garrett, this is Ronan Smith. He’s interviewing for the job. Give him your scraper.”
“No problem,” Garrett said, handing Ronan the paint scraper. “I’m going home, Charlie.”
Charlotte didn’t argue this time. She was glad to be rid of her little brother. She certainly didn’t need him watching her fall all over herself around the gorgeous new employee. “Cut the lawn when you get home. You know Dad can’t do it and Mom is too busy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Garrett said.
“Teenagers,” she murmured as they watched Garrett walk out the door. When she turned back to Ronan, she caught him staring, his blue eyes direct and intense.
“You’re Charlie?” he asked. “You’re the boss?”
“Yes. Charlotte. Charlie. Sibley.”
“I was expecting a man.”
“And I was expecting a chef,” she countered.
“What do you want me to call you?”
She caught a look in his eyes that appeared to be amusement. Was he just toying with her? Or had she completely lost control of this interview. “You don’t have the job yet.” She picked up the paint scraper and safety glasses and handed them to him. “If you want the job, show me what you can do with this scraper first.”
He nodded. And for the first time since they met, he smiled. To Charlie, it was as if the morning mist had suddenly parted and the sunshine shone down. He was even more attractive, if that was possible.
Men who looked like Ronan Smith usually learned to wield their charm early on. By the time they reached their teens, they knew the effect they had on the opposite sex and used it to their advantage. But Ronan seemed reluctant to use his God-given advantages.
He set to work on the skiff, a shower of paint chips flying off with each stroke. Charlie watched him for a moment, her gaze falling on the finely cut muscles in his arms. A shiver skittered down her spine and she turned and hurried back upstairs to clean up the tasting room. A bit of privacy gave her a chance to take a deep breath and focus her runaway thoughts—on Ronan Smith. It was an odd name, Ronan.
She grabbed the bottle and guzzled the remainder of the champagne, then opened another split. He’d mentioned he was from Seattle. She really ought to ask for references. Or a resume. For all she knew, he could be a criminal or a con artist—or a competitor, out to get an inside look at their operation.
Sliding onto one of the stools, she opened up another oyster and slurped it down. Ronan was a complete enigma. But then, when it came to men, she really didn’t know what she was doing. She’d only had one romantic relationship in her life and that had lasted six years.
She and Danny had started dating when they were juniors in high school, playing opposite each other in the school musical. When they graduated, they were both determined to chase their dreams on Broadway.
But New York was a rude awakening. Danny was easily discouraged and took a full time job selling cell phones. After some minor parts in a criminal drama, a series of commercials for generic laundry detergent, and an appearance in an off-off-Broadway play, Charlie was beginning to break through.
But as she got more work, Danny became more and more distant—and jealous. Their relationship began to fracture and Charlie realized that New York wasn’t where she wanted to be. So, she moved out and came home to Sibleyville, older and a little wiser.
She glanced up at the chef’s mirror above the granite counter. A groan slipped from her throat. Her chestnut hair looked liked a tangle of seaweed. Charlie grabbed a clean oyster brush from the drawer next to the fridge and ran it though the shoulder-length strands, then pinched her cheeks to give herself some color.
She rarely wore make-up when she was working and usually didn’t care to dress in anything that showed off her figure. Yet she couldn’t help but regret that it wasn’t the New York City actress Charlotte Sibley that opened the door to Ronan Smith rather than the oyster farmer Charlie Sibley.
She looked at herself in the mirror once more. Though she could pretend to be a myriad of interesting and exotic characters, Charlie knew that the woman she was would have to be enough.
Shaking her head, she walked to the door, but found herself off balance from the champagne she’d guzzled. If she was going to hire Ronan, than she’d have to keep her feelings to herself and her wits about her. A man like Ronan probably had women drooling over him everyday. And Charlie had never aspired to be one of the crowd.
RONAN SMOOTHED HIS hand over the hull of the twenty-foot skiff. The boat was old, maybe sixty or seventy years old from the clues he’d found in the construction. Nowadays, most commercial outfits chose fiberglass boats for their easy upkeep and long life.
“How’s it going?”
He glanced up to see Charlie watching him. Jaysus, she was pretty. Her wavy dark hair framed a beautiful face, each of her features a perfect complement to the others. She had the kind of beauty that made him want to sit her down in front of him so he might study her in greater detail, like a fine painting or a famous sculpture.
“Good. This is a beautiful boat,” he said. “I love the lines.”
“It’s old,” she said.
“They don’t make them like this anymore. I think the best boats are made of wood.”
“My dad would totally agree with you.” Charlie came closer to examine his work. “You’re very thorough,” she murmured.
The compliment pleased him, more so because it came from her. “This scraper is kind of dull. If you’ve got a way for me to sharpen it, I’d get more done. And you might want to use a better grade of marine paint next time,” he said. “If you apply it properly and maintain it, you shouldn’t have to repaint as often.” He stopped himself. Now he was sounding like the boss.
“You know something about boats?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” Ronan said. “Just a little.”
“You said you were from Seattle. What are you doing in Maine?”
“Just traveling,” Ronan said. “Seeing America.”
“Well, if you’re willing to work hard, I’ll pay you a fair wage,” she said. “We have the office and shop here in town. And our nursery and hatchery is out at Kepley Pond. Then we grow out the oysters at Mistry Bay.”
Kepley Pond. Mistry Bay. That sounded like a lot of water. Since he’d been eight years old, Ronan made a point to stay off the water, at least the ocean. But he wanted this job and he’d need to put his fears aside. Maybe it was time to face the past. Besides, no one ever got lost at pond or at bay like they got lost at sea.
“You’ve done good work on the boat,” she said. “The job is yours, if you’d like it.”
“There is one thing,” he said. “I need to find somewhere to stay. I was hoping you might be able to help me.”
“We’ve got a small apartment upstairs next to the office. I could rent that to you,” she said. “As long as you’re quiet and tidy, I don’t see any problems.”
“Great,” he said. Ronan knew he ought to tell her his real name. She didn’t seem like the type to discriminate, although he still hadn’t figured out what the problem was with the rest of the town. “I tried to find a place in town, but no one wanted to rent to me.”
