The Cabin by Carla Neggers Page B

style. He might to Jack, though.
    Ellen set a sturdy white bowl in front of her. “Mom,
    we’re sorry we told Dad about the cabin—”

    60
    Carla Neggers
    “No, no, that’s not your fault. I was going to tell him.
    It just slipped my mind.”
    Maggie shot her mother a dubious frown, but said noth-
    ing. Ellen sighed. “We tried to talk to him while we were
    home. We told him he should try to be more romantic.”
    “Romantic? Your father?” Susanna smiled, shaking
    her head with affection for her two clueless daughters.
    “He just threatened to handcuff me and drag me back
    to Texas.”
    Gran set the steaming soup tourine of chowder in the
    middle of the table. “I don’t know,” she said, a mischie-
    vous gleam in her very green eyes. “I think it’s a start.”

    ��
    Four

    After thirty years of running a neighborhood pub, Jim
    Haviland considered himself a good judge of character.
    It came down to experience and survival—they’d honed
    his instincts about people. Still, he had to admit that the
    woman at the bar had him stumped. He guessed she was
    in her late twenties. Slightly built, short, curly, dyed red
    hair and pale skin, almost pasty looking. She wore a lot
    of makeup and about a half ton of gold jewelry. Dan-
    gling earrings, rings on both hands, bracelets, a thin
    gold necklace with a tiny heart pendant and a thicker
    chain necklace. He wouldn’t want all that metal on him
    in a nor’easter. But the snow had finally stopped, and
    the cleanup was in full force. The plow guys would be
    showing up later for the beef stew special.
    The woman’s clothes made her stick out in this neigh-
    borhood, too. She had on a close-fitting baby blue ribbed
    V-neck sweater, tight western-cut jeans and leather
    boots that would land her on her ass on an icy sidewalk.
    She played up her femininity, but there was a hardness

    62
    Carla Neggers
    to her, a toughness that Jim couldn’t reconcile with the
    jewelry, the clothes, the painted nails. He wouldn’t be
    surprised if she had a .22 strapped to her ankle.
    After making sure he didn’t use a mix, she’d ordered
    a margarita. Her accent wasn’t local, but Jim was no
    good at placing accents outside of New England. He
    drew a couple of drafts for two firefighters who’d come
    in, complaining about the hazards of space heaters and
    overtaxed extension cords. Davey Ahearn, on his stool
    at the end of the bar, was listening in, nursing a beer and
    keeping an eye on the woman with the makeup and the
    margarita.
    “New in town?” Jim asked her.
    “Two days. It’s that easy to tell?”
    “With that accent?” Jim smiled at her. “Where you
    from?”
    “Texas. A little bitty town outside Houston.”
    “Hope you brought a good winter coat with you.”
    She gestured toward the coat rack next to the door,
    gold bangles sliding down her slender wrist. “No, sir,
    but I bought one on sale this morning. They said it’s a
    basic parka. I never knew there was anything but. I
    bought a winter hat and gloves, too. I think mittens
    would drive me batty.” She raised her gray eyes at him.
    “I’m holding off on the long underwear.”
    She had an engaging manner, whoever she was.
    “That’s one thing about owning a bar,” Jim said. “I can
    get through a Boston winter without long underwear.
    You’ll like it here in the spring. Are you planning to stick
    around that long?”
    “I’m hoping to relocate here, but have you checked

    The Cabin
    63
    out the rents lately? Whoa. They’re sky-high.” She
    sipped more of her margarita, looking as if she relished
    every drop. “I don’t know why you put up with it. Aren’t
    you the folks who dumped the tea in the harbor?”
    “That we are. You have a job lined up?”
    “More or less, yes, sir.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Audrey,” she said. “Audrey Melbourne.”
    Jim studied her a moment, noticing she didn’t flinch
    under his frank scrutiny. Definitely a tough streak.
    “What are you running