on the table. Before the day ended, he had several more things to do—and thinking about the lovely tearoom owner wasn’t on his list.
Yet try as he might, he couldn’t stop images of her from floating through his mind as he strolled down the cobblestone street and veered off toward Lighthouse Lane.
“Knock, knock. Anyone home?”
Wiping her hands on a towel, Heather smiled at the stout older woman who stood on the other side of her screen door. Since Edith and Chester Shaw had retired to Nantucket eleven years ago, the couple had become like family to her.
“Come on in.” Heather reached for the two leftover scones, added a generous portion of clotted cream and strawberry jam to the plate, and edged it toward Edith. “Help yourself if you’re hungry.”
“Oh, my. I shouldn’t.” Her neighbor cast a longing glance at the offering. Then, with a shrug, she pulled a stool up to the stainless-steel prep table and slathered the scones with jam and cream. “But these are impossible to resist, as you well know.”
Chuckling, Heather continued measuring ingredients for the chocolate tarts that would grace tomorrow’s three-tiered servers. “What’s up?”
“Did you notice any activity at my place while Chester and I were away? The note’s gone from my front door, so I know my tenant arrived. I’d planned to invite him to dinner since he doesn’t know a soul here other than Burke, but I’m afraid he may already have gone out to get a bite.”
Julie pushed through the door from the dining room. “Hi, Edith. Heather, I set the tables for tomorrow and refilled the sugar bowls. Anything else before I take off?”
“That should do it, thanks. To answer your question, Edith, he stopped in here around three in search of food. He thought we served lunch.” Heather stirred the chocolate in the double boiler. “I assumed he went back to your place when he left.”
“No one answered my knock. How long was he here?”
“He stayed for tea,” Julie offered, retrieving her purse and sweater from a chair and heading for the door.
Edith arched an eyebrow.
“I think he liked what we had to offer,” Julie added.
Heather turned in time to see her assistant wink at Edith and incline her head toward her employer before pushing through the door.
As it banged shut behind her, Edith tipped her head and appraised Heather. “So Justin Clay stayed for tea.”
Heather shot her a warning look. “Don’t make anything out of this, Edith.”
“What’s there to make anything out of?” She took a bite of her second scone. “I haven’t met Mr. Clay, but I understand from Burke that he’s got quite a reputation on the Chicago force for some pretty high-stakes undercover work. I sort of pictured him as the tall, muscular, rugged type. I guess I’m having a little trouble imagining him holding a dainty teacup and eating finger sandwiches. Unless he had an ulterior motive.”
Planting her hands on her hips, Heather narrowed her eyes. “Just because you had a hand in getting Kate and Craig together doesn’t give you the right to work on my love life, Edith.” Charter fishing boat captain Kate MacDonald, who occupied the little cottage between her house and Edith’s, had recently married Nantucket’s Coast Guard commander, and Heather knew Edith was proud of her role as matchmaker.
“How can I work on something that doesn’t exist?”
“Very funny.”
“No. Very true. And sad.”
“You know I’m not in the market for romance, Edith. And you know why.”
“Not all men are like your father. Or Mark.”
Removing the melted chocolate from the stove, Heather poured it into a mixing bowl containing the remaining ingredients for the filling and began to stir. Even after two years, the mere mention of the dashing Boston hotel executive who’d come to the island to manage a collection of boutique properties—and who’d finagled his way past her defenses—left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“I agree, Edith. But the Anderson women always seem to pick losers.”
“Humph.” The older woman licked a speck of cream off her finger. “What does the island’s newest police officer look like?”
“Dark hair, dark eyes, six-one or two.” Heather began scooping the filling into the miniature tart shells.
“As in tall, dark and handsome?”
“I didn’t say handsome.”
“You mean he’s ugly?”
As a mental image of her unexpected customer flashed across her mind, Heather lost her methodical scooping rhythm and a ball of filling plopped onto the stainless-steel counter. Expelling an irritated breath, she gritted her teeth and swiped it up. “He’s not ugly.”
“Well, I’m anxious to meet him. I already like his name. Justin Clay. It sounds very strong and masculine.”
“He goes by J.C.”
“Oh? How do you know?”
She was in too deep now to do anything but tell the truth, Heather realized, regretting the slip. “When he introduced himself, he said that’s what his friends call him.”
“His friends.” Edith mulled that over as she slid off the stool. Ambling toward the back porch, she tossed one parting comment over her shoulder. “Well, that’s a start.” Without waiting for a response, she pushed through the door and disappeared down the steps.
Dismayed, Heather blew out a breath and shook her head. She’d seen that look in Edith’s eyes before, and she knew what it meant—the older woman was in matchmaking mode. Now that Kate and Craig had tied the knot, she was on the prowl for new victims.
Meaning J.C. would probably end up ruing the day he’d stepped into The Devon Rose.
“Marci, it’s J.C.”
“Hey, big brother. You arrived safe and sound, I assume.”
“Yep.” He stretched out on the bed in his new digs, testing the mattress. Nice and firm. Just the way he liked it.
“So how’s life on a ritzy island?”
“I haven’t seen the ritzy parts yet. But I did have a ritzy experience today. I went to tea.”
Her response was preceded by several beats of silence. “You hate tea.”
“The food was good,” J.C. countered. “You would have liked it, Marci. White tablecloths, classical music, flowers.”
“You hate tea.”
“You already said that.”
“I know. I’m trying to make sense of this. What on earth prompted you to go to tea?”
