Hatteras Girl (Heart of Carolina Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - J. Wisler Alice

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124 pages

English

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There are two things twenty-nine-year-old Jackie Donovan asks God for: an honest, wonderful man to marry, and to own a bed-and-breakfast in the Outer Banks region. In the meantime, Jackie works for Lighthouse Views magazine, writing articles about other local business owners, and intrepidly goes on the blind dates set up by her well-meaning but oh-so-clueless relatives. There's one specific property Jackie dreams of purchasing: the Bailey Place, a fabulous old home where Jackie spent many happy childhood afternoons, a place that has now fallen into disrepair because of its outrageous price tag. When Jackie meets handsome Davis Erickson, who holds the key to the Bailey Place, Jackie is sure God has answered both her prayers. But as Jackie learns some disturbing details about Davis's past, she begins to question her own motivation. Will she risk her long-held dreams to find out the truth?

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441213228
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0259€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Hatteras Girl
Books by Alice J. Wisler
Rain Song How Sweet It Is Hatteras Girl

Hatteras Girl Copyright 2010 Alice J. Wisler
Cover design by Paul Higdon
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means-electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise-without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wisler, Alice J. Hatteras girl / Alice J. Wisler.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-7642-0732-7 (pbk.)
1. Single women-Fiction. 2. Outer Banks (N.C.)-Fiction. 3. Bed and breakfast accommodations-Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I846H38 2010
813 .6-dc22
2010016287
For Carl, who convinced me to grow old with him
To be satisfied with what one has; that is wealth.
-M ARK T WAIN
CONTENTS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Questions for Conversation
1
Seated at the mahogany counter on a wobbly barstool, I wait for Mr. Wealthy and Available. As I sip my Diet Pepsi, I run my index finger across the grooves in the wood, pretending that I m admiring the surface and the way the overhead lights bring out the soft shine. Really, I m eavesdropping. Other people s conversations are wonderfully fun-particularly those of Outer Banks tourists.
At a table near me, a father with a Boston accent tells his sons that tomorrow they re going fishing in Pamlico Sound and then to see the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. One of his sons slurps his drink and then asks when they re going to see the alligators at the wildlife place. I imagine he must be talking about Alligator River National Wildlife Refuge.
Dad, you promised, the boy says eagerly.
Dad agrees, but not without clarifying the rules: You two need to eat all your chicken tonight. And no texting at the table.
James Taylor s melodic Carolina in My Mind fills the restaurant, but I tune my ears to other fragments of chatter.
I know he s balding and a little round, I hear a woman confess to another at the right side of the bar. She sounds like she might be from New York. But I love the way he treats me.
He s a Red Sox fan, someone-I presume her friend-says with disdain.
I know, comes the reply. And my team will always be the Orioles. A sigh follows. He told me I m the glittery constellation in his sky. Isn t that romantic?
That is.
With true love, baseball shouldn t matter.
A giggle forms in my throat, and to squelch it, I quickly lower my head, pick up my pen, and open my notebook. Flipping to a clean page, I draw clusters of miniature globes, add stems to their bases, and place leaves near the petals. After shading them with the tip of my pen, I m pleased with the garden of geraniums I ve created.
I m not as pleased with my reason for being at the Sunnyside Grille tonight. My aunt Sheerly has set me up with yet another man. I hope this one will be all she claims he is. My relatives here in Hatteras have a goal this year-to see a diamond on my finger by December 31. They re a bunch of sweet folks, worth far more than Blackbeard s treasures to me, and as hardworking as the summer sun. But lately, I think they ve gone into overtime trying to find Mr. Right for me. I don t want to appear finicky; I appreciate their efforts and that s probably why I ve been on four blind dates just this spring. Also, I ll be thirty in August.
The unsuspecting staff of the restaurant thinks I m here writing up an article for Lighthouse Views , the Nags Head magazine I work for. Betty Lynn, barely twenty-one and dressed in a pair of khakis and a yellow T-shirt-the uniform for the Sunnyside Grille employees- stops beside me on her way to a table of guests. She whispers, Always busy writing. When are you going to interview me?
Betty Lynn is the type of girl who thinks her good looks and ability to balance a quarter on her nose while sipping juice through a straw are worthy of a magazine article. Actually, my editor usually assigns me interviews with the owners of Outer Banks businesses for features in the magazine.
I ll never get a break tonight, she tells me, fluffing her blond hair. The hostess didn t show, so I have to seat guests and wait tables.
Maybe you ll get twice as many tips, I offer hopefully.
Her blue eyes hold doubt.
I glance at my cell phone to check the time. He s late, this wealthy-and-available man. I wonder if he s doing a million-dollar business transaction with other successful people. Maybe he s tied up in a board meeting or taking his yacht for a cruise down to Beaufort.
When Betty Lynn leaves, my mind wanders to wondering why we label folks with money as successful. I think about how God must rate our success and decide it has to be on much different terms. Jesus chose twelve disciples to hang out with, and had they lived today, I don t think any of their names would appear in Fortune 500 magazine.
Buck Griffins, one of the waiters, motions toward my empty mason jar. Would you like more Pepsi?
Closing my notebook, I give him a smile I ve been practicing all afternoon. Each time I get ready for a date, I borrow a pair of my housemate and friend Minnie s gold hoop earrings and smile into my dresser mirror for a while.
What time is he supposed to be here? Buck asks as he refills my drink from the soda fountain.
I watch the bubbles float to the top of the glass. What do you mean?
Buck grins. Your date. You are meeting someone, right? He nods toward the neon green fisherman s hat I ve placed beside my notebook.
So much for incognito. Buck knows me too well. Of course, I have suggested the Grille for all of my recent blind dates, and Buck was working at least two of those nights when I entered the restaurant with the fisherman s hat. Carrying the hat is one way I make it easy for my dates to spot me. When they ask what I look like, I briefly describe my looks and then say I ll have a bright green fisherman s hat with me.
Tonight will be better than all those other dates, I tell myself when Buck heads to the end of the counter, where a customer orders a burger. Please, God, let this Douglas Cannon be pleasant. Oh, more than that. Let him be interested in me, and me in him. As I finish the silent prayer, my eyes roam around the restaurant.
There s an assortment of old-fashioned skillets and Pepsi glasses lining the shelves across the back wall behind the bar. Aunt Sheerly told me the owner picked up these pieces at an auction years ago. The Grille s d cor also includes travel posters of New Orleans- masquerade masks, a jazz band, and patrons dining along a busy section of Bourbon Street. I want to be like one of the couples at a corner table on the poster near me. The woman has a contented look on her slender face, and the man is gazing into her eyes over a plate of what looks to be oysters on the half shell. I catch my reflection in a narrow mirror by the sign for the restrooms, smile, and smooth my straight black hair. Maybe tonight I ll get to dine with a contented look on my face.
Buck saunters back over to me and picks up my hat. He twirls it around with one finger as a whimsical look stretches across his face. This guy hasn t changed a bit. He s as silly as he was when he and my younger brother Ron were kids. The two of them once got away with putting jellyfish into a large pot in the high school cafeteria. I don t think Mrs. Straybutton ever forgave them for the scare she had when she took the lid off the pot to prepare spaghetti for lunch that day and was greeted by three slimy sea creatures. I overheard her in Principal Miller s office exclaiming, Those nasty critters were swimming in filthy water in my kitchen! We must shut the school down and have it cleaned top to bottom! Call the janitor; alert the fire department! Does the mayor know?
I glance up at Buck and tease, I just hope you haven t put any jellyfish in my Pepsi.
He raises his hands, feigns innocence. In the whole history of Manteo High, no one has ever proven Ron and I were guilty.
You two were lucky.
Buck s eyes flicker, and I see that they still hold that childhood mischievousness. He s had shoulder-length blond hair ever since ninth grade when he and Ron decided to grow their hair out. Watching him place my hat on top of his head, I picture him as he looked at fifteen in swimming trunks-wiry and thin. Now the lines of a muscular chest fill out his yellow Grille T-shirt.
Taking off the hat, he asks, Do you ever wear these, or just bring them along for show?
I m about to tell him how my fishermen s hat collection started when at my left shoulder I hear a man s voice. Excuse me. Are you . . . Jackie Donovan?
2
The first thing I notice is that his voice is deep. When I turn, he s there in full view. The wondering what he looks like is over. He s not Johnny Depp, George Clooney, or even my mother s all-time favorite, Humphrey Bogart, but he s breathing-and male. In reply to his question, I nod.
I m Douglas Cannon. When he stretches out his arm, it brushes against the woman seated on the stool beside me. He murmurs, Oh, sorry.
He s nervous. It s not that he s stuttering, or that his hands are shaking; I just sense that he s nervous by the way his voice crackles like static in a sound system.
Stepping off the barstool, I steady it as it tilts toward the same woman, then grab my purse. I wait for Buck to hand me my hat. Turning to Douglas, I give him a smile that I hope is kind, happy, and able to set him at ease. Nice to meet you. I