statement. Beau had always been the wild one, parties every weekend and a different girlfriend every month. His exploits had been splashed across local gossip columns dozens of times.
“You, on the other hand,” Tyrell continued. He gestured Deacon up and down with his empty glass. “I recognize you have a certain sophistication. Women seem to like you. Nice women seem to like you.”
Deacon couldn’t help but be amazed that Tyrell had paid any attention to him at all.
“You’re not publicly connected to the family,” Tyrell continued. “You can move in under the radar, romance her, marry her.”
“Then blindside her with the news about you?” Deacon had always questioned Tyrell’s morality, but this was beyond belief.
Tyrell rolled his eyes. “Ease her into it, boy.”
“No.” An ownership position in Hale Harbor Port might be Deacon’s lifelong dream, but he wasn’t going to use Frederick’s widow as a pawn.
Tyrell came to his feet. “You have a moral objection?”
“Yes. And you should, too.” Deacon peered into Tyrell’s eyes, searching for some semblance of a soul. “You do know that, right?”
“Go meet her,” Tyrell said.
Deacon started to refuse again, but Tyrell talked right over him. “Just meet her before you decide. If you don’t want to do it, don’t do it. But don’t give up hundreds of millions of dollars without looking at all the angles.”
“You’re the angles guy, not me.”
“You’re my son,” Tyrell repeated.
Deacon wanted to protest. He might be saddled with Tyrell’s DNA, but he wasn’t anything like him. He had a moral compass. He got it from his mother.
But he found himself hesitating.
In that second, it was clear he’d inherited some traits from his father. And they couldn’t be good traits. Because he was weighing the harm in meeting Frederick’s widow. Was there any harm in meeting her before refusing Tyrell’s offer?
* * *
It was on days like these that Callie Clarkson missed her husband the most. Frederick loved springtime, the scent of roses wafting in the bakery windows, mingling with the cinnamon and strawberries from the kitchen. Today the sun was shining in a soft blue sky, and tourists were streaming into Downright Sweet for a midmorning muffin or warm berry scone.
Their bakery, Downright Sweet, occupied both floors of a red brick house in the historic district of downtown Charleston. The first floor held the kitchen that they’d refurbished when they bought the place five years ago. It also held the front service counter and several tables, both inside and out on the porch. The second floor was a dining room with screened windows all the way around, plus a covered sundeck that overlooked the tree-lined, shade-dappled street.
The lunch crowd was diminishing, and Callie’s manager, Hannah Radcliff, breathed an audible sigh of relief.
“My feet are killing me,” Hannah said.
She was in her early forties, with rounded curves from a self-described weakness for buttercream. Her voice was soft. Her eyes were mocha brown, and she had a perpetual smile on her very pretty face. Both of Callie’s sons, James and Ethan, loved her to death.
“Go take a break,” Callie said. “Nancy and I will be fine.”
“Rest your feet,” Nancy echoed from where she was wiping down the espresso machine. “I’ll do the tables.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” Hannah said. “Wait. Hello.”
Callie followed the direction of Hannah’s gaze to see Mayor Watkins striding past the front window, toward the Downright Sweet entrance.
Nancy gave an amused laugh. She was a college student who had come back to her family in Charleston for the summer. She didn’t see the attraction of the Mayor.
Hank Watkins was single, slightly younger than Hannah and equally quick to smile. His dark hair was short at the sides, with a swoop across the top that didn’t particularly appeal to Callie. But he was attractive enough, in a distinguished way that was beneficial for a politician.
She’d describe him as burley, with a deep, booming voice. He was the son of one of Charleston’s most prominent families. They traced their ancestry all the way back to the Mayflower.
The classic little gold bell jingled as the door opened.
Callie stepped away from the cash register, busying herself with tidying the displays of cupcakes and giving Hannah a clear field.
“Hello, Mr. Mayor,” Hannah said.
“You know to call me Hank,” the Mayor answered.
“Hank,” Hannah said. “What can I get you?” She gestured to the glass case on her left. “A lemon puff pastry? Or coconut buttercream? The cupcakes are popular today.”
“What do you recommend?”
“You can’t go wrong with the pecan tart.”
“Done.”
“Whipped cream?” Hannah asked.
“Of course.” The Mayor pulled his wallet from his suit jacket pocket. “Callie?” He turned his attention to her.
“Whipped cream is always a nice addition,” Callie answered lightly. She kept her attention on the cupcakes, not wanting to intrude.
“I was hoping I could talk with you,” Hank said, his tone going more serious.
She went immediately on edge. “Is everything okay?”
Following the unexpected death of her husband six months ago, Callie’s optimism had taken a hit. She realized her years with Frederick had made her complacent. She’d forgotten life mostly dished out pain and disappointment. She intended to be braced for it from here on in.
“Nothing too worrisome,” he said, handing Hannah a ten-dollar bill. He smiled again as he spoke to her. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, Hank,” Hannah said.
He looked at Callie again. “Will you join me?”
“Sure.” She untied her hunter green apron and slipped it over her head.
Beneath, she was wearing a white blouse and a pair of pressed khaki slacks. Her hair was up in a casual twist, and her earrings were small diamond studs that Frederick had given her for her birthday last year. She wore them every day. And as she walked around the end of the display case, she twisted her engagement ring and her wedding band round her finger.
She feared Hank was here with bad news about her deck permit.
He had offered to talk to the board personally to advocate for its quick approval. She’d turned down the offer, but now she
