Shore Lights by Barbara Bretton Read Free Book Online Page B

He’d wasted enough time already. Slayney would be there any minute with a delivery, and once that was squared away, he needed to get the wings started and the ribs ready. The late lunch crew wandered in around two o’clock, followed by the happy-hour gang from the docks around five, who paved the way for the serious benchwarmers who began streaming in around eight and stayed until closing.
    Still, he couldn’t leave her hanging like that. He wasn’t sure what exactly e-mail etiquette entailed, but it seemed to him that dropping the ball now was a lot like not returning a phone call. Besides, there was nothing wrong with keeping the lines of communication open. There was always the possibility that her kid might turn up her nose at the bucket of rust, and JerseyGirl would turn to him to bail her out.
    He clicked on Reply and was about to start typing when Slayney’s voice rattled the rafters.
    â€œO’Malley! Get your ass out here! I got six other stops and there’s snow coming.”
    Walt Slayney was standing in the doorway, looking pissed as hell.
    â€œHey, Slayney,” he said with forced geniality. “Gimme a second. I need to send something out.”
    â€œQuit screwing around on the goddamn computer. If you want your Guinness, you’ll get your ass out here now.”
    He muttered something Slayney could probably sue him for, then got up to join the man out back.
    Sorry, JerseyGirl. It was fun while it lasted .
    Â 
WHERE WAS HE?
    Six minutes had passed since she had hit the Send key and still no reply from FireGuy. Was it something she’d said? She had been enjoying their rapid-fire exchanges and wouldn’t have minded volleying a few more notes with him. FireGuy, however, had apparently exhausted the limits of e-mail chat and vanished into the ether whence he came. Easy come, easy go . When it came to men, she could give Houdini a run for his money. She was great at making them disappear, and she didn’t need a magic wand and a Vegas stage to do it. She had inherited her mother’s chin and her bad luck with men. Traits shared by all four DiFalco sisters and most of their descendants.
    She fussed around with the Web site, but her heart wasn’t in her coding and she screwed up twice and had to start over from scratch. Thank God it was nearly two o’clock. Hannah’s preschool let out at two-thirty. At least when her daughter was around, she and Rose had a common interest beyond business.
    At her feet Priscilla let out a whimper, followed by a frantic scratching motion that Maddy instantly recognized as trouble.
    â€œOh, no, Pris, no mistakes today!” She swooped the puppy into her arms and dashed for the back door, pausing only long enough to grab her jacket and shoulder bag from the brass coat stand in the corner.
    Priscilla hated being leashed, but the days of neighborhood dogs running wild on Main Street were a thing of the past. “Good thing you’re a pedigree,” she said as she snapped the lead on the poodle’s tiny collar. “Before long they’ll be passing a law against mutts.” She slipped into her jacket, then grabbed the pooper-scooper and bag she kept stashed behind the trash bin near the garage.
    Priscilla made straight for her favorite spot by the stand of dogwoods. A sharp wind whistled between the house and the garage, nearly lifting the puppy off her paws. She looked up at Maddy with an expression that managed to be simultaneously forlorn and indignant. Who could blame her? Maddy was a fan of indoor plumbing, too.
    â€œThere you are!” a male voice boomed behind her.
    She turned to see a short, round man in a Philadelphia Eagles windbreaker bearing down on her. He seemed familiar. Where had she seen him before?
    â€œI’ve been looking all over for you.” He completely ignored the fact that she was standing there with a loaded pooper-scooper in one hand and two pounds of growling poodle in