The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove) by Donna Alward Read Free Book Online

bed-and-breakfast—too many curious questions—so she turned into a small roadside motel just past the waterfront and the commercial area surrounding it. The room came with a porch that boasted a stunning view of the main drag. Since she had no desire to sit in the camp chair and watch traffic, she checked out the view from the back window. The harbor spread out below her, boats tied to the docks and bobbing on the smooth water in the mellow late-afternoon light. She watched as a fishing vessel chugged its way into the far end of the dock, its grayish-white prow breaking the gentle waves.
    A long, low growl sounded in the silence and Abby pressed a hand to her stomach. When had she last eaten? Not for hours. There was no on-site restaurant at the motel, only vending machines in the office, so she had a quick shower to wash off the dust before looking for some dinner. Revived, dressed in clean navy trousers and a soft pink top with ruffles along the hem, she set out to explore Main Street and see what might tempt her. Since she hadn’t eaten since before crossing the border, she didn’t expect it would prove too difficult to find something appealing.
    She passed Memorial Square with its well-kept gardens, a gazebo, and upon close examination, a statue of Edward Jewell, the town’s founder. Right next to the dock there was a fish-and-chips place—more like a canteen, really—with the smell of fresh fish and hot oil clinging to the air. Farther along she saw Breezes Café, a promising-looking diner, right next door to an Italian place called Gino’s that filled the air with the pungent smell of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh bread. Deciding to keep looking, Abby walked down the sidewalk next to the water admiring the view of the boats coming to dock, when a door opened farther down the street and country music erupted through the breach like a siren’s call.
    It had been a long day, and Tom Arseneault’s sudden appearance was the icing on her already overwhelming cake. The reassuring twang of a recent country hit mingled with the delicious scent of grilled beef toppled her over the edge. What she needed was some red meat and a stiff drink. She kept going until she reached the brick-red building at the end of the block that looked more like a barn than a restaurant, a faded wooden sign outside announcing THE RUSTY FERN. She pulled open the door and stepped inside.
    Was there anything more universal than a local watering hole? Abby let out a breath as the familiarity of it soaked into her tired mind. Neon signs boasting beer slogans hung above the solid wood bar. Thick tables and chairs filled the open space, with one end of the room spared for two pool tables and a dart board, where one lone man was throwing darts with varying accuracy, pausing to take a drink from his glass after each shot. Easy chatter blended with the country music, the long Maine accent thick in the air after a few drinks. But best of all was the smell coming from the kitchen—garlic and beef and grease. Abby’s mouth watered just thinking about it, and she found a small table for two close to a window overlooking the wharf. It was perfect.
    A waitress approached. “Something to drink, darlin’?”
    The r was soft, reminding Abby of the childhood trips she’d made to Lunenburg and Bridgewater with her parents. She smiled. “Spiced rum and ginger, please.”
    “You got it. Do you want a menu?”
    Abby looked up at the woman’s face and smiled. “If somewhere on it says a steak sandwich, that’ll do.”
    The woman nodded in approval. “Sure does. How do you want your steak?”
    “Medium, and a salad instead of fries, please.”
    “Sure thing. I’ll be right back.”
    Her drink was brought straightaway and Abby savored the spicy, fizzy taste of ginger ale and Captain Morgan on her tongue. The window provided a view of the wharf and a smattering of small shops on its edge, each one with a different colored siding. Reds, blues, yellows—there