Somebody to Love (Gideon's Cove #3)(40)

“Hey,” James said, shading his eyes to be sure. Ayuh. That was Tom, all right.

“Hey, James. How you doing, bud?”

“I’m good. You?”

“Can’t complain. Talked to Dewey last week. He said you were here for the summer.”

James climbed down from the roof, wariness prickling at the back of his neck. He was the only one of the five Cahill kids who’d graduated college, let alone gone on for a law degree. The only one who’d made it out of Maine, too. His brothers didn’t drop by or give him a call for the hell of it.

“Kids are good?” James asked. He hesitated, then shook his brother’s hand. From down by the water, he could hear Parker’s scythe hacking into the long grass. He hoped she stayed there.

“Kids are great. Maybe you can swing by and visit this summer.”

“Uh, yeah. That’d be nice.” Except Tom had never once invited James to his house before. “So what brings you up here, Tom?”

“Oh, I had to do something in Machias. Figured I’d swing by.” Machias was an hour south, but James didn’t point that out. Tom leaned back against his truck door, all casual interest, and nodded at the house. “Got your work cut out for you, huh?”

“Yeah. Just trying to get it up to code, pretty much.”

“You gonna reshingle the sides next?” Like their father, Tom was a carpenter.

“Yep. Rebuild those steps, too.”

Tom nodded sagely. “So listen. I have a proposition for you.”

Ah. That made more sense. Tom was here for money.

His brother folded his arms across his chest and stared out at the harbor. “There’s this very cool opportunity to be a part owner in the old lumber mill. Remember that place? Down by the river?”

“I remember,” James said.

“So me and my buddies, we were thinking we’d buy it, renovate it, put in some really nice shops on the first floor, right? Cheese shop, wine, upscale shit. Then up above, we’d have luxury condos.”

“Sounds great.” It sounded idiotic. Dresner was a dying city. There was more call for a soup kitchen than luxury condos overlooking a river polluted by forty years of industrial waste. Cheese shop? Come on.

“So I’m looking for a little capital to get started.” He paused. “I’d pay you back with interest and all.”

James took a slow breath. “I’d love to help you out, Tom—”

“No one’s asking for help. This is an investment opportunity. Thought you liked that shit.” There was already an edge in Tom’s voice.

“I wish I could help you,” James said. “I really don’t have the money.”

Tom pushed off his truck, his face growing even redder. “Yes, you do, you little prick. You’ve been working for that rich ass**le for years now—”

“In case you didn’t hear, my boss is in jail.”

“—and don’t tell me you didn’t get a king’s ransom for burrowing up that guy’s butt.”

Nice. “I did. But it’s all tied up, and you know it, Tom.”

His older brother glared. “Fuck you.”

“Tom, look, even if it was a great idea—”

“Oh, now it’s a crap idea?”

“—I honestly don’t have the money. It all went to Beckham.”

“And we wouldn’t have needed Beckham if it wasn’t for you! You f**ked everyone over, didn’t you? When your own family needs something, forget it. But here you are, playing house with your boss’s daughter, aren’t you? Having fun living off her money?”

“Tom, look at this place. Does it seem like she’s got money?”

“Thanks for nothing. I should’ve known. And don’t show your face in Dresner. Mom’s enough of a mess without you. Asshole.”

Ten seconds later, Tom screeched out of the driveway. He gave James the bird as he gunned the motor. Then he was gone.

Forget the roof. There was a crowbar; there was the long side of the house. James grabbed the heavy metal tool, jammed its wedged end under some shingles and began ripping them off with a vengeance. Sweat poured off his body, soaked his hair, stung his eyes. The wood screamed in protest, but he didn’t stop. Just ripped the shingles off the side, no matter that they’d been petrifying there for two generations, just shoved the pry bar underneath and jerked up and ripped them off like scabs.

He didn’t even notice Parker come up from the beach until she walked right past him, her dog as always tight against her calves.

“Hello, sweaty day laborer,” she said with a grin.

“Hey,” he grunted.

“Was someone here? Thought I heard voices.”

“Nope.”

“You hungry?”

“Nope.”

She gave him a look, but he kept ripping shingles. “Okay, Thing One. I’m going for a swim.”

“Fine.”

She went blithely into the house. James continued jamming the crowbar under the shingles, relishing the screech as they tore off.

Then her words sank in.

She couldn’t swim in Maine water. It was practically ice-cold. Fifty-two, fifty-five degrees? Maybe? It was high tide, too, so it’d be even colder. He tossed down the pry bar and stomped inside, folded his arms across his sweaty T-shirt and stood outside her door, ready to lecture her.