parted ways with the bike and gone flying. At least, he thought, he’d been going less than ninety….
Gabe Trask stared down at the clipboard in his hand, ignoring the throbbing roar of earthmovers as they worked to smooth the final hundred yards of the new ski run, where it came down to the lift house. Between running the hundred-year-old Hotel Mount Jefferson and overseeing the upgrades to the newly acquired ski resort across the highway, he was beginning to have a lot more sympathy for those circus clowns with all the plates on sticks. It had taken some mad spinning, but so far he was keeping it all on schedule and under budget. If the new run passed muster with J.J., they’d be all set. The Hotel Mount Jefferson Resort and Ski Area would be the hospitality powerhouse of New Hampshire.
“So I’ve got good news and bad news,” said a voice behind him.
Gabe glanced over to see J.J., who sported an odd grin on his sunny beach boy face. “What have you screwed up now?” he asked, glancing back down at his clipboard.
“The good news is that the top of the run checks out fine,” J.J. continued, ignoring him.
“And the bad news?” Gabe glanced back up. J.J. stood there with his right hand curled around the gooseneck of his mountain bike and his left arm hanging down loose. Weirdly loose. Almost as if—
“The bad news is I’m calling in my marker on all those rides I gave you when we were in high school,” J.J. continued, a little note of strain tightening his voice.
“You need a ride home?”
“I need a ride to the clinic.” He gave Gabe a wry grin. “I think I dislocated my shoulder.”
Chapter One
August, Salem, Massachusetts
“Nice pair a melons you got there, lady.”
Lainie Trask glanced from the cantaloupes she held to the fruit vendor standing behind his table. Her brown eyes glimmered with fun as she hefted them higher. “They are, aren’t they?”
“Buck for the two of ’em. Can’t do any better than that.”
Lainie handed over a dollar and tucked the fruit into her canvas carrier bag. “And here I thought I already had a nice pair of melons,” she said out of the corner of her mouth to her girlfriend Liz.
Liz glanced at her judiciously as they turned away from the fruit stand. “More like guavas, I’d say.”
Lainie laughed and swept her glossy dark hair back from her face as they walked deeper into the confusion of color, noise and scent that was the Salem farmers’ market. Tables and pushcarts groaned under the weight of baskets filled with crimson tomatoes, sunburst-yellow lemons, green zucchini, the strange, otherworldly fuzz of kiwi.
“Get yer bay scallops here. Bay scallops, fresh off the boat. Hiya, Lainie.”
“Hey, Pete.” Lainie stopped at the stall and studied the seafood on ice, then the man who stood behind it. “Fresh, huh?”
The weathered, sixty-something fishmonger gave her a roguish wink. “Any more fresh and it’d be hittin’ on you.”
She grinned and looked at Liz. “Scallops for dinner?” she suggested.
“Nah, I’d rather go out, assuming there’s anyplace around here you want to go to.”
“There’s a McDonald’s on the highway. We could splurge on Chicken McNuggets. Sorry, Pete.” She gave him a quick smile. “Next time around. Come on, Liz, let’s go get coffee.”
The two women began walking again. “Chicken McNuggets,” grumbled Liz. “You know the owner of Tremolo just opened up a new bar and restaurant two blocks away from me? Small plates to die for and a six-page cocktail menu. You should have come down and visited me in Boston for the weekend.”
“It was your turn to drive up here,” Lainie argued. “I’m sick of driving down.”
“Then move down. I mean, why are you still living up here in Siberia, anyway?”
“Salem,” Lainie corrected, leading the way out of the farmers’ market and onto the main drag.
“Salem, Siberia…it’s north and it’s cold. Same difference.”
“It’s not that far north.”
“Far enough. You don’t belong up here. You belong down in the city. I thought that was the plan. I mean, you don’t have a life up here.”
“I have a life,” Lainie objected. She did, and one she increasingly loved.
“Oh, yeah? When’s the last time you had a date?”
She glowered at Liz. “Don’t start sounding like my parents. It’s not my fault. Most of the people I know are married.”
“Of course they’re all married. You’re living in the burbs. You’ve gotten it out of order. You get hooked up first, then you move to Siberia.”
Lainie rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I guess I missed that part in the manual. Anyway, I don’t even know if I want to date,” she said grumpily.
“You don’t want to date?”
“I mean, come on, be honest, it sucks. You sit around, trying to make conversation, trying to figure out what you’ve got in common, trying to remember why you ever even bothered to say yes. I’d rather be at home watching a movie.”
“But it would be better with some guy’s arm around your shoulders.”
“Well, is it my fault they never ask me out?”
“Maybe you intimidate them.”
“Is that because of my six Nobel Prizes or my seven-figure income?” Lainie asked.
“Ha, ha. No, it’s because you’re…you. I mean, you’re never exactly shy of an opinion.”
“You’re shy of an opinion in my family and you’ll never get a word in edgewise. So I say what I think, is that a crime?”
“No, but maybe it’s a little much for the average Joe right off. Maybe you could tone it down a little.”
Lainie stared at her. “Whatever happened to the ‘be yourself’ advice? Isn’t a guy supposed to love me for who I am?”
“He can’t if you chase him away before he figures you out.”
“Forget it. I’ll stick with my idea about taking time off.” If it took pretending to be a fragile flower for her to lure a guy, she wasn’t interested. It was too much work, anyway. She was happy to give the opposite sex a rest for a while.
Liz wasn’t, though. “I know a couple of nice guys I could introduce you to but you’re G.U.”
“G.U.”
“Geographically undesirable.”
“For
