can’t remember the last time I saw one of those.”
“They carry lots of things, even some antique books. My mother owns it, and she has a huge collection. If you want, I can set up a tour for you.”
“That would be awesome,” she blurted, then realized she sounded like a teenager with a crush. Acting unprofessionally had caused her more trouble than even her vivid imagination could have invented. Getting a firmer grip on her dignity, she amended, “If I have time.”
Across the street was a store called There’s No Place Like Gnome, which apparently sold nothing but garden statues so ugly they were cute. It was totally unexpected, and Bree made a quick note of it. Unique features like that would be great for her story. An award-winning reporter himself, Nick McHenry was notoriously tough to impress, and she was desperate to earn his confidence. To do that, she’d have to knock this article out of the park.
“I see six vacant storefronts.” She paused in the middle of the sidewalk for a better look. Their display windows were clean but dark, and while the For Rent signs were subtly posted in lower corners, you couldn’t miss them. “Is the economy especially bad here?”
“Unfortunately, yes. Fish and seafood stocks are declining, taking the towns that rely on that industry right along with them. That’s why you’re here. We need to bring in more tourists, to help fill the gap.”
It sounded like a solid plan, but she knew better than anyone that things didn’t always work out the way you wanted them to. “And if they don’t come?”
Worry clouded his expression, and he grimaced. “There’s another option, but I don’t like to think about it.”
“But you have,” she pressed. “I can tell.”
“We all have,” he admitted with a sigh. “There’s a developer who wants to come in and build a golf community outside of town. We just can’t agree whether to say yes or no.”
This would be news to Nick, she was certain of it. If she did some digging and asked the right questions around town, maybe she could parlay the development issue into another article. Or even a series of them. Having scraped her savings account down to the bone, the influx of cash would be a refreshing change.
For now she put aside her own interests and went the sympathetic route. It wasn’t hard, since to even mention it to a stranger, the potential construction project must be weighing heavily on his mind. “That must make mayoring kind of hard, especially since you didn’t run for the office.”
Cooper eyed her with something she hadn’t seen much of the past year: respect. “Off the record?”
Bree held up her hands to show him she wasn’t recording or taking notes of any kind. “Of course.”
“You’re very perceptive, and you’re right. I didn’t want the job, and it’s turning out to be a lot tougher than I thought it’d be. But I love this place, and I’m doing my best to keep things on track until we elect someone else in the fall. My personal situation has nothing to do with why you’re here, so let’s just focus on the town. Okay?”
He was so upbeat, even in the face of what must be a huge problem, she couldn’t help smiling. Some people honestly believed that positive thinking led to positive outcomes, and she wasn’t going to be the one to burst this handsome optimist’s bubble. “Okay.”
His assessment couldn’t have been more wrong, but she opted to keep that opinion to herself. The state of Holiday Harbor’s town government had everything to do with its problems—and the potential solutions to them. If she’d learned anything during her varied assignments, it was that there were several facets to every story. Her job was to uncover as many of them as possible and give her readers all the angles.
They continued walking, and beyond the modest business district, Victorian-style homes rose up behind white picket fences. Their porch roofs were accented in crisp white gingerbread, their yards filled with neatly trimmed hedges and flower gardens. It was like stepping into a living, breathing Norman Rockwell painting. Even though she was seeing it for herself, Bree couldn’t quite believe a place like this still existed.
In front of one hung a brass sign that read Landry House—1820. During her research, she’d learned that was the year Maine had attained statehood, which meant the Landrys had been here a very long time. The yellow house had a cheerful presence, with tall windows and a wing on either side to balance out the porch running along the front. Well-tended flower beds led to two rows of petunias that bordered the wide walkway leading to the porch.
Large and inviting, it was nothing like the apartments Bree had grown up in. Always seeking new experiences, her restless parents had moved from one city to the next, so she’d never been in one place more than a year. Being so deeply rooted didn’t appeal to her, but obviously it worked for Cooper’s family.
“On the record now?” she asked.
There was that grin again. This time she caught a faint dimple in one cheek that gave him a little boy look she hadn’t noticed before. “Sure.”
“Tell me about Holiday Harbor.” She discreetly hit the record button on her phone. The video would be of the inside of her pocket, but the sound should be good enough for her to take notes from later.
“Back in 1816, my ancestor William Landry—”
He paused for a proud grin, and she smiled. “The cooper.”
“That’s the one. Anyway, he started up the coast with four wagons and a hand-drawn map from a blacksmith in Concord, Massachusetts. He claimed there was untouched land up here, sitting right on the ocean, where a man could farm or fish, or both. His brother and new wife joined them, along with a few other families. On Christmas Day, they ended up here.”
“Literally the end of the road.”
Bree wondered how those long-ago travelers had felt when they saw this place for the first time. Relieved that their long journey was over? Or regretting that they’d left civilization so far behind?
“Back then it was nothing but wilderness, but he liked it right away. So he got down off his wagon, looked around and said to his wife, ‘This is it, Addie. We’ll call it Holiday Harbor, in honor of our Lord’s birth.’ My family’s been here ever since.”
This was the kind of story people adored, and while Bree recognized she’d have to confirm every last detail except the name of the town, the yarn had a nice ring to it. In keeping with the village’s old-fashioned appearance, she’d call the article “Mayberry on the Sea.” “Nick told me you celebrate some unusual holidays up here.”
“Yeah, we do. Most months there’s a traditional holiday. When there’s not, we find something and make our own festival out of it.”
“So this month it’s the Fourth of July. What’s in August?”
“The seventh is always National Lighthouse Day. We’ll have a picnic in the square, bring in kiddie rides, carnival games, stuff like that. It’ll also be the fourth round of the Holiday Harbor Costume Regatta, which runs from May to September every year.”
Bree had heard lots of odd things, but this was a new one for her. “You mean people sail their boats dressed in costumes?”
“People, pets, whatever. Some folks
