Chapter 4

 

Holy crap. What a collection.

Claire scanned her eyes over a pickup truck, a hulking SUV, two snazzy sports cars, and a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle. About the only kind of vehicle missing was a snowmobile. Maybe Ry would get around to acquiring one of those too by the time the first snow flew.

And then, on the far end of the garage, there were the death machines—seven motorcycles of various sizes and colors. The very sight of them made her queasy. No wonder he’d perked up when she mentioned that Tammy and Pam rode Harleys.

“Uh, this is…incredible. They’re collectibles, right? I mean, most of these motorcycles.”

He looked at her like she’d just sprouted fairy wings. “Hell, no. I use them all.”

She clamped down on the nausea rising within her and forced herself to make normal conversation. “Did you have a big place like this to keep them in New York?” She assumed he’d lived in some high-rise Manhattan condo.

He gazed around with obvious masculine pride. “I rented a garage in New Jersey. I didn’t have a lot of time to use this stuff when I was still playing. Still, I’d head across the river and fire up a few whenever I got a chance.”

His choice of toys suggested he was a man who enjoyed taking risks. After all, doctors didn’t call motorcyclists “organ donors” for nothing, and ATV’s were notorious for serious accidents too. Almost every year, one of the local kids ended up at the ER after rolling his vehicle on the rocky backwoods trails around Spy Hill. The only way she would ever ride one of the damn things was in the Lobster Festival parade, where nothing moved faster than five miles an hour.

She slowly trailed Ry as he headed for a gleaming red motorcycle that looked like something out of a Batman movie. It was nothing like the Harleys or the cruising motorcycles that people sometimes parked in front of the Red Dory pub on the weekends. This one was a sleek Yamaha, and it looked super fast.

“This one’s my baby,” he said, patting the black leather seat. “I race her as often as I can. And I’ll have a lot of time for that now, since I’m unemployed.”

Claire had occasionally seen clips of motorcycle races on the news—ones where the rider leaned so far sideways through the curves that his kneepad was within a hair of scraping the pavement. The combination of high speeds and severe angles looked sickeningly dangerous.

“Uh, do you have a death wish or something?” she blurted.

He looked away for a moment, a slight frown crossing his face.

Note to Brides Bay Concierges: avoid asking any personal questions.

She quickly opened her hands in apology. “I’m sorry—that was a dumb thing to say. I suppose I react that way because I’ve never been able to understand why people do something so out there for fun.”

His frown eased. “I get it, but the risks have payoffs. They make us feel like we’re alive—really alive, not just going through the motions. That’s what extreme sports are about.”

That sounded crazy to her. Not knowing how to answer without risking he’d get pissed off, she pressed her lips shut.

Stanley plopped down at his feet and gazed at her with almost an identical head tilt as his master. They both looked puzzled by her lack of response, although Stanley was probably just wondering why she wasn’t rubbing his head some more.

“You mentioned that you paint,” Ry said. “Is that what makes you feel like your life is really worth something?”

Claire’s art was her passion, but she’d certainly never thought of it in such dramatic terms. “Yes, that’s a big part of it. But a lot of things make me feel good. Like a sunny day.”

She rubbed Stanley’s head. “Or spending time with a beautiful fella like this guy.”

“If Stanley is all it takes, I envy you.” His eyes tracked over her shoulder.

She hesitated, taking in the shuttered look in his dark gaze. “Do you miss hockey?” she finally asked.

His attention returned to her. “Of course. The best feeling I ever had was when I was skating hard and my winger was staying right with me, both of us going so fast that the air rippled our jerseys and everything off the ice was just a blur. I’d see my guy break for the net, setting up to shoot after I gave him a perfect feed. All I had to do was thread the puck past the defenseman and lay it on my winger’s stick for us to score the goal. And I knew I could do it. We could do it. I never had a single doubt when I was in that zone. There was nothing like it.”

His smile flashed brief and bittersweet. “No better feeling in the world. Making the pass to my buddy was better than scoring the goal myself.”

Claire knew what it was like to be on top of your game, although that now seemed a distant memory.

He rested a hand on the Yamaha’s seat. “At least I’ve still got my bikes. And now I’ve got racing too. It was actually my first love when it came to sports. I couldn’t race when I was still playing, of course. The teams always made me swallow that restriction as part of my contract.”

“I can imagine.” Why would any team tolerate a star player risking injury on something as crazy as motorcycle racing?

“Bastards,” he said with an amused snort. “Anyway, when I’m racing, I can push it right to the line. Really test my limits, you know? The only thing better than riding a bike is racing one.”

“Is that truly the only time you feel alive now—when you’re pushing it right to the edge? That sounds so dangerous.” She offered up a wobbly smile, not wanting to appear like she was judging him.

But you are.

He scoffed. “It’s not like that. Sportbike racing isn’t nearly as wild as some people think. In fact, serious injuries are pretty rare. The racers know what they’re doing.”

Nobody could convince her that blasting around a track at insane speeds, all bunched up in a tight pack of screaming machines, wasn’t risky as hell. Still, a funny sensation rummaged around in her chest. What would it be like to be so fearless, ignoring all the risks to do what you loved? That kind of courage seemed like a distant memory too.

Not that motorcycle racers were the only people who deliberately courted danger. Her father had been a risk taker too, and look where it had gotten him—into an early grave in the little cemetery behind St. Brigid’s Catholic Church.

Ry led her over to a black Harley-Davidson that sported enough gleaming chrome to make her eyes water. It even had a passenger seat with a backrest. For a moment, her mind flashed a mental image of a faceless woman perched on that seat, her arms clutched tightly around his broad, strong back.

Don’t go there.

“This one is my everyday bike,” he said. “I use it for going into town and taking lazy rides up and down the coast.”

His gaze lingered over her. Wherever that happened, it pulled heat to the surface, making her feel flushed and warm. She had to resist the impulse to look away.

Unexpectedly, he picked up the black helmet that was perched on the seat and held it out to her.  Claire froze.

“It’s a great day for a ride,” he said with a casual shrug. “We could take Route 1 up to Damariscotta. I found a nice coffee bar there. Then later, if you’re up for it, we could go a bit farther—maybe down to Christmas Cove. It’d be an opportunity to get to know each other. Hang out a for a while.”

She stood there like an idiot, just staring at him. Ry radiated a ton of confidence, as if to say what woman wouldn’t want to take a ride with me?

There were a dozen reasons why she should say no, including the fact that she’d rather run a cheese grater over her face than take a road trip on a Harley. Then there was the overriding issue of getting too close to a client. Wrapping her arms around Ry’s awesome body and hanging on for dear life as they whipped up coastal roads sounded pretty close to intimate.

Why was he even asking her in the first place, since he’d made such a point of safeguarding his privacy?

Of course, he might simply be trying to do something nice for her, or show her that he wasn’t a reclusive snob. Or maybe he was even issuing a bit of a dare. Daring her not to be some frightened little country bumpkin. Either way, she should say no, although she hated to risk that he might be ticked off by her rejection.

Don’t be such a wimp, Claire.

“I do love Damariscotta,” she finally said. “And it’s a good idea to talk a bit more about what you want from me. As your concierge,” she hastily added when his eyebrows lifted slightly. “But would you be okay if we took my car instead? Because motorcycles…well, I’m afraid they just aren’t my thing.”

“Your thing? What’s that mean?”

Claire shrugged.

“Hey, if they scare you, just say so. Lots of people are afraid of powerful bikes.”

“Oh, please forget I said anything. It’s a beautiful day and I’m sure you want to take a ride, so I should probably be heading back to town.” She started toward the door.

“Hang on a minute.” He set the helmet down and caught up to her. “We’re all scared of something, but trust me when I say that I wouldn’t let anything happen to you. I might take some risks with my own life but never with yours or anybody else’s.”

That might be true, but there was still no way she was going to climb on the back of a Harley—not for him or any client, no matter how rich and important they might be. “I know you wouldn’t, Ry. And while it sounds like fun in theory, trust me when I tell you that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to get on a motorcycle.”

She’d probably have a massive panic attack and throw up all over him. Wouldn’t that be a dandy way to impress the boss?

He studied her for a few moments before unleashing a smile that transformed his expression from brooding to warm and slightly amused. “Okay, no problem. We’ll go in your car. You pay the gas, and I’ll buy coffee and lunch. And I think it’s a great idea to talk more about what I want from my new concierge.”

By taking the Harley out of the equation, there was no way she could refuse. “That sounds like a great idea. We can get the business out of the way, and then—”

He touched her gently on her lower back to get her moving. “And then we can have some fun.”

* * *

Ry was gazing out the open window, absently drumming his fingers on the roof of her car. They’d chatted for the first few minutes of the drive up the coast before he’d fallen silent, saying something only when she pointed out a local landmark.

Maybe he was still annoyed with her for being such a baby about the Harley. Any woman in her right mind would have jumped at the chance to snuggle up to Ry Griffin, with his gorgeous bad boy looks. But most women hadn’t gone through what she’d had when a big black monster of a motorcycle roared around a corner and changed her life in one horrific instant. She’d survived the crash, but had suffered a broken leg and multiple severe contusions. Her best friend, strolling by her side, had died an hour later at New York Methodist Hospital.

After four years, Claire had yet to fully shake the emotional pain and the nightmares that sometimes pulled her awake, drenched in sweat.

She probably should have been straight with him about her past. But she hated talking about the accident, especially to someone she barely knew. People usually responded in awkward and often disconcerting ways. Most rushed to change the subject, though that was far preferable to the other reaction she frequently got—friendly advice on how to “move on.” It was a freak accident, people would say, caused by a drunk driver who was speeding. There was no reason to let someone else’s screw-up ruin your whole life.

As if she hadn’t tried to do just that ever since that wrenching day in Saratoga Springs when she’d stood by Julie’s grave after the funeral.

If she told Ry the true reason why she hated motorcycles, she’d probably end up with another well-intentioned lecture about getting on with her life. He took tons of physical risks and obviously feared nothing, so how could he understand how she felt? He would think she was a coward or, worse yet, would feel sorry for her.

Her livelihood depended on projecting the calm, confident image of someone who could handle any emergency. She couldn’t afford to look like a nervous nelly who might fall apart in a crisis.

She slowed as they crossed the narrow bridge over the Damariscotta River and then kept her speed down along the town’s cute Main Street. On the second block, she pointed to her right. “See that little art gallery? I sell some of my watercolors there from time to time.”

“No kidding? Cool.” He sounded impressed, even though it hadn’t been a major accomplishment to convince the gallery owner to display a few of her works. “I’d like to see them the next time you have some there.”

She had to bite her lip to repress a silly, prideful grin at his approval.

A block farther down, they passed her favorite gift shop, owned by her friend Grace Yee. It was just one of many stores that catered to tourists in the thriving little town, and Grace had a lovely selection of jewelry and other local crafts. Claire shopped there as much as she could when she needed a gift for family or friends.

She pulled over and parked in front of the Green Bean Coffee Bar. While she reached into the backseat for her purse, Ry came around to open her door. The courteous gesture touched her. Plenty of men in Brides Bay did that, but she didn’t expect it from a rich city guy.

“It’s too nice a day to sit inside,” he said. “How about we get coffee to go and check out some of the shops. Then maybe head down to the river?”

“Sounds like a plan.” A walk would give her a chance to stretch her legs after the tension of the ride. The mid-morning sunshine was warm and the bright, and blue sky stretched in a cloudless vault over their heads. A breeze fluttered through the trees lining the other side of the road and ruffled the white banner overhead that advertised the town’s Blueberry Festival, now only a month away. For the past two years, she’d exhibited a small collection of her paintings at the festival and sold a few. Last year, she’d even sung a couple of sets as part of the live music program and had signed up to do it again this year. Back by popular demand were the words the music program’s organizer had used when he called to persuade her to return.

It had made her feel good to know she’d made an impression with her amateur efforts.

Two minutes later, coffees in hand—a skinny latte for her and an Americano for him—they crossed under the banner and headed toward the shops and cafés along Main. “You should come up here for the Blueberry Festival if you get a chance,” Claire said. “It’s a lot of fun. You can’t believe the incredible baked goods and the fresh-picked wild berries. Mom and I always get up early because they sell out so fast.”

“Everybody tells me how great Maine blueberries are,” he said. “Sounds like it might be worth the trip.”

She stopped and gave him an exaggerated look of shock. “Are you seriously trying to tell me you’ve never had Maine blueberries?”

“Hey, I’m a CFA, remember?” he said with a grin as he nudged her back in motion.

It was interesting that he already knew Mainers sometimes referred to an outsider as a “Come From Away.” She just hoped nobody in Brides Bay had called him that to his face. Sometimes the term was applied with gentle affection, but other times it was leveled as an insult. Not all locals were happy with the influx of moneyed outsiders. Not by a long shot. In fact, a few had even suggested to Claire that she was something close to a traitor for working for the wealthy island residents.

“You’re in for a real treat then.” Maybe she’d bake him a pie once the tangy wild berries came available in another week or two. She had the impression that Ry wasn’t the sort of guy to spend a lot of time or effort on food, so he might appreciate some home baking.

They strolled past the historic Lincoln Theater that featured classic movies as well as recorded plays and concerts. An independent bookstore and café occupied the building at street level, with posters in the window detailing the events and the music line-up for the Blueberry Festival. Her name appeared near the bottom of the performer list.

“I’m going to be singing at the festival,” Claire added, pointing to the list.

He was about to take a drink of coffee but pulled the cup back from his lips. “You sing? I mean, in public?”

“Well, I sing in the shower mostly, but yes, I have been known to put my very modest talents out there in the wild from time to time.”

He looked at her like she’d just told him she was a trapeze artist in a traveling circus.

“You’re clearly shocked.” She wrinkled her nose to show him she was kidding around. “But, hey, you’re a musician too. And a really good one, I might add.”

While he was truly talented, for her to call herself as a musician was a major stretch. She could sing decently enough but had no musical training and could manage only a few basic guitar chords.

“But I don’t play in public,” he said.

“No? Was I hallucinating those wonderful guitar solos at Derek and Jane’s wedding?”

“That was a one-off. Derek twisted my arm, the bastard. He totally guilt-tripped me.”

She knew he didn’t like being put on display, but his aversion seemed to run deeper than that. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he and Jane were impressed when I played for them a couple of times at my place in New York. And because Derek gets off on being a pain in the ass with his buddies.” He paused, then his mouth quirked up in a reluctant grin. “Some kind of male bonding thing. Hockey players are into that shit too. Big time.”

“Well, in any case, I was totally jealous. If I had that kind of talent, I might try to make a career out of it.”

He shook his head. “For me, it’s just something to pass the time.”

End of discussion was the implication, especially since he was now making a point of studying the festival poster.

Claire eyed his reflection in the glass. “You know we have a festival of our own in August, right? The Brides Bay Lobster Festival?”

“I saw a poster for it in town the other day. I’m not really a fan of lobster, to tell you the truth.”

Neither was she. When you had a fisherman father and had eaten lobster a million times as a kid, it held no particular allure. “I’m not either. But I’m both a festival volunteer and on the organizing committee. I’m in charge of the music program, which raises money for local charities.”

He shot her a wry look. “When do you get time to eat? Or sleep?”

She couldn’t tell whether he was impressed or just mildly amused by such mundane, small town activities. “In a small town like ours, it makes sense to get involved and play at least some small part in community life.” Okay, that sounded a bit preachy. “What I mean is that if volunteers don’t do it, then it doesn’t get done. So we all kind of share the pain,” she added with a smile.

“I get it.” He turned around and tossed his empty cup into a sidewalk trash container. “Let’s head down to the bridge and take in the view.”

He sure had a knack for closing down a conversation, especially if it involved becoming part of the Brides Bay community. That gave her an idea he would probably hate.

But it’ll be good for him, so go for it.

Claire knew what it was like to feel cut off from the world. After Julie’s death, she’d gone into full retreat. But her family and friends in Brides Bay hadn’t put up with that for long. They’d dragged her back into the world, even when sometimes she was kicking and screaming. Now she thanked God they had.

Ry had chosen his self-isolation—why, she didn’t yet know. But she had to believe it wasn’t good for him to rattle around in that old house on Promise Island with only Stanley for company.

She thought back to the odd conversation she’d had with Jane on the night of the wedding. There had to be a reason why Jane told her Ry could use her help on a lot of things. Maybe she was talking about helping him fit into life in Brides Bay.

She fell into step beside him, trying to work up the courage to float the idea that had been bouncing around her in her head for the last few minutes.

“I hope you don’t think I’m being too pushy,” she said after a couple of minutes, “but I was wondering if there was any chance you’d be interested in helping out a little with the festival music program? I could use assistance with a few things—the sound setup, for one. I thought because you love music…”

A twitch of a muscle in his jaw was his only reaction.

“Oh, crap. I overstepped, didn’t I?” she said with a sigh. “Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

He actually didn’t look annoyed at all, which eased the little knot in her gut.

She stopped when they reached Grace’s Jewelry and Crafts, one of the more popular spots in town.

“Hey, do you mind if we pop in here in for a few minutes?” she asked. “The owner is a friend of mine.”

He glanced in the window. “No problem.”

“I promise we won’t stay long.”

The bell over the door jingled when they went inside. A noisy family of four had crowded around a wall display of metal sculptures, some of which were animals fabricated from gears, bolts, nuts, and other everyday parts. The two pre-teen girls were arguing over which one the family should buy. While Claire headed to the jewelry counter, Ry stopped to inspect the colorful birdhouses arrayed on a tall rack nearby.

The petite, raven-haired woman behind the counter gave her a welcoming smile. Grace Yee had owned this store since Claire was in high school. They also knew each other from the Blueberry Festival committee, which Grace had chaired several times.

“Claire! It’s so good to see you again.” Grace leaned halfway over the counter and hugged her. “And oh my, who is that gorgeous specimen you brought along with you?” she whispered.

Claire glanced over her shoulder to see Ry was still examining the birdhouses. Maybe he was looking to replace the weather-beaten, broken down one she and her sister had put up in their yard—his yard—when she was nine. “He’s a new client, Grace. Ryder Griffin. I’m just showing him around a bit today.”

“Welcome to my shop, Mr. Griffin,” Grace said, leaning even farther over the counter. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Thanks, but I’m just looking around.” He strolled over, glancing down at the case with its attractive display of jewelry, mostly made by local artists.

Grace reached inside the case and extracted a gorgeous bracelet. “I got this in yesterday. It’s aquamarine and mother of pearl, crafted by a South Portland artisan—a really lovely piece. When I saw it, I immediately thought of you, Claire. It’s just your style.”

Claire was sure the bracelet would be well out of her price range. Besides, only occasionally did she buy anything non-essential for herself. She’d been saving as much as she could for years in the hope of buying her old house. But since that hope was now a pipe dream, maybe it was time to indulge in a few small luxuries after all.

Grace slipped the bracelet onto her wrist. Claire immediately fell in love with the delicate twists of silver and the glitter of the gemstones. Against her tan, the mother of pearl glowed with a soft sheen.

Ry gave a low whistle. “Wow, that looks amazing on you.”

She glanced up, startled to see he’d moved even closer. Trying to ignore the sudden flutter of feminine nerves, she twisted the bracelet around, eyeing the little price tag.

Ack. It was even more expensive than she’d guessed. But it was spectacular, especially in the way the light played off the stones. The bracelet somehow managed to look both antique and hip at the same time, and it appealed like crazy to her artistic sensibilities.

“Like it?” Ry murmured in a deep voice.

“Too much,” she said with a sigh. Regretfully, she started to pull it off.

He stopped her by wrapping his long fingers around her wrist. “Let me get it for you.”

She gaped up at him. When he pulled out his credit card, she finally unscrambled her brains. “Whoa. No way can I let you do that.”

“It’s not big deal,” he said as he handed Grace the card.

The casual comment made her mentally cringe. It might not be a big deal to him, but it sure was to her.

She took off the bracelet and gave it back to Grace. Then she pulled Ry to the other side of the birdhouse rack so they’d have a little privacy. “Look, it’s really sweet of you to offer, but you can’t be buying me presents. We hardly know each other. Besides, that’s not a cheap piece by any means.”

He looked puzzled. “Claire, it really isn’t a big deal. I often buy things for people who work for me. Just think of it as a welcome gesture, a thanks-in-advance for taking care of my house. Trust me—you’ll earn it,” he added in a dry voice. “I’m not the easiest guy to work for.”

Ah. Now she got it. She’d had other clients who dispensed expensive gifts and bonuses with barely a thought—no doubt it was easy to do when you were wealthy. She couldn’t help feeling a little deflated at the impersonal nature of Ry’s offer, even though that response was pretty irrational.

Plastering a smile on her face, she returned to the counter. “It really is a beautiful piece, Grace, but I don’t think it’s quite right for me. Thanks so much for letting me try it.”

Grace gave her a kind smile. “My pleasure, Claire. If you change your mind, just give me a call. I’ll be happy to set it aside for you.”

Claire thanked her and hurried out of the store. Ry caught up with her on the sidewalk.

“Hey, what just happened back there?” he asked. “You’re not pissed off that I offered to buy the bracelet, are you?”

“Oh no, of course not. It was a very generous gesture. But I just can’t accept it, especially not when I haven’t even done anything for you yet.”

He looked more amused than anything else. “Sorry if I offended you.”

“You didn’t. I guess it’s just the way I was brought up.”

“I’ve never had one of my employees turn down a gift before. Now you’re making me nervous.” When he flashed her a charming, one-sided smile, she was almost tempted to let him buy the bracelet just to please him.

Almost…

She stared at him, then gave in to the impulse that was still rabbiting around in her brain. “If you want to do something nice for me, I can think of a way that won’t cost anything except a little of your time.”

His eyebrows slowly crawled up his forehead. “Oh yeah? Why do I suddenly feel like I’m tied to the tracks with a train bearing down on me?”

Now it was her turn to grin. “You know what I’m going to ask, don’t you?”

“Probably.”

“I’m not talking about anything big. Just maybe a tiny bit of help with the Lobster Festival. Whatever time you can spare.” She had a feeling she looked like an over-excited puppy begging to go for a walk.

He silently studied her, as if he was looking for a trick somewhere in her request. “You’re just talking about a little behind the scenes work on stuff like sound, right?”

“Absolutely. Just background stuff. I promise. Nothing big.”

Stop babbling.

“The thing is, Claire, I came to Maine for privacy, not to get involved in community events.”

“Okay,” she said, trying not to sound desperate. “But I really could use your help. I bit off more than I could chew with the festival this year, especially with organizing the whole music program. You know music and you’re good with tools, which would come in handy when it comes to set-up for the various acts. I’ve been trying to drum up volunteers, but not much luck so far.”

“I thought everyone around here pitched in to help? Shared the pain, you said.”

She tried not to wince at the slightly sarcastic note in his voice. “I might have exaggerated that part a bit. But it’s worse than usual this year. All my regulars are too busy to help out, and I’m really stuck.”

After an awkwardly long silence where he flipped down his sunglasses and gazed out at the bay, she held up a hand. “Look, my bad. I shouldn’t have asked. Please don’t—”

“I’ll do it,” he said abruptly.

“You will? Really?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like I don’t have the time. How about we give it a try and see how it goes? No promises though,” he added on a clear warning note.

Claire had no idea why he’d changed his mind, but she could puzzle over that later.

And also try to figure out why changing his mind made her feel so ridiculously happy. “No promises expected.” She couldn’t hold back a goofy grin. “I promise.”