and better than the last.
But here in Sibleyville, there was no goal anymore, besides getting up in the morning and going to sleep at night. She was drifting aimlessly through life and she couldn’t seem to stop herself. It really was time to make a few hard decisions about what she really wanted to do. Cursing softly, she climbed the stairs to the second floor.
When she got to the tasting room, she quickly tidied up the mess from Chef Joel’s visit. She’d heard the shower through the door of the apartment, but the water was off now. Drawing a deep breath, she crossed to the door and rapped on it softly.
The door swung open and Ronan stood on the other side, shirtless, his cargo shorts riding low on his hips. His hair was damp and droplets clung to the smooth expanse of his chest.
Charlie drew a deep breath and the scent of soap and shampoo filled her head. Her fingers twitched and she fought the urge to reach out and smooth the water from his skin. “I thought it might be good to show you the nursery and the farm,” she said. “You’re going to be working at both.”
“All right,” Ronan said. “Just let me grab a shirt.”
She swallowed hard. “I’ll just wait outside in the truck.”
The image of Ronan Quinn half-naked was now burned into her brain and it was a memory she didn’t really want to forget. His body was beautiful, lean yet muscular, every limb in perfect proportion. It had taken every last ounce of her resolve to walk away.
She could have reached out and touched him, knowing that he might take the action as an invitation. But what then? Would he have kissed her? She wanted to believe that she saw desire in his eyes, but she’d only ever been with one man and that gave her little to use as a reference.
The only option left to her was to wait until he made the first move. At least then she wouldn’t be humiliated by misreading his signals. Charlie hurried down the stairs, stumbling on the last step and grabbing the rail for balance. But maintaining her composure was going to be the difficult part. Whenever she looked at him, her knees got wobbly and her brain refused to function.
Charlie grabbed a brochure from the rack near the front door, then walked outside to her SUV. She hopped behind the wheel, the started it up, a love song blaring from the radio. With a soft curse, she reached out and turned it off. The last thing she needed was to start thinking about romance. Besides, if the curse was to be believed, then falling in love within the village limits of Sibleyville was impossible.
A few minutes later, Ronan stepped outside, squinting his eyes against the noonday sun. He slipped his sunglasses on. She honked the horn and Ronan started toward her. When he was settled in the passenger seat, she handed him the brochure. “There’s a map inside. You’ll need to learn how to get to the pond and the bay by road as well as by water. I’ll show you by water tomorrow, but today, we’ll go by land.”
“I don’t have a car,” he said.
“How did you get here?” she asked as she pulled out of the parking lot onto the street.
“Bus?”
Charlie frowned. Why would a guy like Ronan be traveling by bus? He might as well have told her that he’d rode up on a camel. “Bus?”
“Yeah. It was part of the deal,” he said.
“What kind of deal was that?” A sudden sting of doubt pricked at her thoughts. “You didn’t just get out of prison, did you?”
This time he laughed, a deep, resonant sound that caused her heart to flutter. She glanced over at him and took in his smile. God, he was really handsome when he smiled. “Did you?”
“No,” he said. “My grandfather sent me on this trip. He picked the place, bought me the bus ticket and sent me on my way.”
“Why?”
He paused for a long moment, as if he was deciding exactly how much to reveal to her. “When me and my three brothers were just kids, our folks died in an accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Charlie murmured.
“We all worked together on the family business,” he said. “We build custom sailing yachts. Quinn Yachtworks in Seattle.”
“So that’s why you knew so much about the skiff.” She risked another glance over at him and caught him staring at her from behind his dark glasses. “Why would he send you away?”
“He wanted us all to live a different life for a while. To figure out if we wanted to continue on with the family business or strike out on our own.”
“So you decided to try oyster farming,” she said. “I’m not sure that was a very sensible choice. It’s not nearly as glamorous as building yachts. It’s a lot of dirty, sweaty work. And some days, the mosquitoes are so thick they’ll carry you away.”
“I don’t mind working hard,” he said. “And I like being outside.”
“All right,” she said. “Now, watch that map because this next turn is kind of tricky. It’s easy to miss.”
Charlie pointed out the sign for the hatchery right before she turned down the narrow, winding road to Kepley Pond. “My dad’s brother, Uncle Jake, runs the hatchery and nursery.”
She stopped the SUV in front of the hatchery building, then jumped out and waited for Ronan to join her. “This is where we start,” she said. “Kepley Pond. It’s really not a pond, but an estuary. We bring adult stock into the nursery from the bay. Usually, oysters spawn in mid-summer, when the water reaches a certain temperature, but we gradually bring the temperature up, forcing them to lay their eggs in the spring. We also grow phytoplankton here to feed the larvae. When they’re ready, we move the seed oysters into an upweller system beneath those six docks. We also sell seed oysters to other farmers in the area.”
Charlie led him down to the pond. Long wooden docks jutted out into the brackish water. “As they grow, we put them in containers that sit on the bottom of the pond, giving them space so that they grow evenly. And when they’re big enough, we plant them out in the bay.”
“How do you do that?”
“We toss them overboard with a snow shovel. Very high tech. Maine oysters grow slower in the colder water so they’ll stay in the bay for about three or four years before we harvest them. We do that a lot of different ways, mostly dredging. In some areas we culture them in lantern nets. A few times a year at low tide, we can harvest them by hand.” She smiled. “So, that’s oyster farming in a … an oyster shell.”
They walked to the end of one of the docks and Charlie showed him the upwell system. When she’d replaced the cover, she watched as he sat down at the end of the dock, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
She sat down beside him, glancing over to study his expression. “Is there something wrong?”
He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on a point on the pond. “So, I’m going to have to go out on the water with a boat?”
“Yeah. That’s how we plant and harvest. Can’t you swim?”
“Oh, yeah, I can swim. I’m just not a real big fan of boats. And deep … dark water.”
