rel="nofollow" href="#ud3569c06-1145-5f46-a416-cb6588caf511">CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE OLD RIVERBOAT rocked gently under Cy Franco’s feet, and he wished they were bare instead of pinched inside shoes so ridiculously shiny they dazzled the eye.
Weddings. He used to love them, everything from the gorgeous decor down to the vegetable crudités. Funny how flinging an engagement ring into the ocean could take away his enthusiasm for all things matrimonial.
Nevertheless, his sister Rosa’s wedding ceremony was complete, and he hadn’t dropped the rings or said anything too sappy for the toast. A great accomplishment since his duties encompassed being both best man to his new brother-in-law, Pike, and attendant to his sister, Rosa. The word unorthodox didn’t even begin to cover it, but it was done and they were hitched. The blissful couple would soon be off to honeymoon someplace tropical for a month. Mission accomplished, in spite of the last-minute change of venue. His sister deserved her happily-ever-after. Her face, so suffused with love and happiness as she whispered her “I do,” had been perfection, but still Cy couldn’t help but think the one thing that would have made it even better was his mother living to see it.
We don’t all get the happily-ever-after, Cy.
He turned on the stainless steel taps in his stateroom—he would have switched the fixtures out for brass if it was his show—and soaked a cloth to dampen his face, wetting his fingers and trying again in vain to smash down his wild head of blond curls. The mirror reflected the glittering cove through the porthole behind him, waves rippling across the water on their way to lap the rocky shore on the central California coast. His coast. What he wouldn’t give to hoist himself up on the railing, strip off the chafing monkey suit and dive in. His muscles tensed at the imagined pleasure of swimming hard and fast, mile after mile. Maybe he’d keep going until he slogged ashore in Tumbledown and squelched his way to the Pelican Inn, his place of business and current home since Aunt Bitsy sold her beloved hotel to his sister Rosa and her freshly minted husband, Pike.
Nope. There were a bazillion termites meeting their doom at the Pelican at the moment, the whole inn tented and off-limits, which was exactly why they’d needed to move Rosa’s wedding reception to the boat newly docked past the breakwater in Gold Cove. A whole wedding rerouted by a bunch of insects. The irony.
A flicker of movement in the mirror drew his attention from the running water. Something white, lacy, ethereal drifted past on the outer deck, momentarily obscuring his view of the cove. A pair of eyes, unforgettable. Unbelievable.
A ghost, his mind told him.
You’re an idiot, it added immediately.
You got your heart broken by a lady in white. Weddings, vows, rings. Stirs everything up.
Cy dropped the cloth in the water and scooped a palmful from the running tap, dashing his face with it to wash away the mirage. Get it together, man. He had a reception room full of people to tend to, including his father and his new mother-in-law, a woman to whom he ascribed saintly qualities. She had taken Cy and his sister in as teens after they were abandoned by their father, and she’d married that same man even though doctors claimed he was losing his sanity to Pick’s disease. Aunt Bitsy, though not his biological aunt, was a cut above the rest, and she wanted the wedding to go off without the slightest snag. This was not the time for hallucinations.
The swirl of white passed in front of the porthole again. Green eyes, the pale tint of newly unfurled leaves, his memory supplied, with the tiniest fleck of gold in the left. Truth be told, he was probably imagining the woman in the first place, the wisps of strawberry blond hair peeping out from under a wisp of white lace. The water splashed and gurgled, but he could not look away from that reflection of perfection.
One second more, two. He blinked and screwed up his eyes, closed and opened them, and yet she remained, reflected in the mirror. Then she smiled in the sad, elfin way that only Piper Brindle could, in the same manner she had on the day she destroyed them. Ruined him.
Hallucination.
Imagination.
A crystal tear brimmed from those green eyes and trickled down her face.
A crying hallucination? He whirled around, crashed through the door and careened through the narrow corridor on his way to catch up with the lady in white.
* * *
PIPER FLICKED THE veil back from her face, heart pounding, and swiped a hand across her cheeks. She jogged as fast as the stiff satin pumps would allow. She never should have peeked through the porthole, but she had to prove to herself that the impossible rumor was not true. Cy Franco could not actually be on the ship, yet the man who gaped at her in the mirror had certainly looked like the tousle-haired, half-crazy decorating savant whom she had broken up with three years before.
It couldn’t be Cy. All six-foot, wide-shouldered vegetarians probably looked alike wearing tuxedos. Last she’d heard, he was in Northern California, helping his sister run a design firm. And what, she asked herself as she jogged, was up with the tear that had slid down her face? Tears? Really, Piper? Cy probably hadn’t cried when she left. He was no doubt glad to be rid of her. She didn’t blame him. She stopped to listen for pursuit and heard the clatter of someone running in clunky dress shoes. The Cy lookalike. She raced faster, ducking into an empty conference room, and leaned against the door, breathing hard. Whoever it was, the last thing she needed was for a guest on the boat to lodge a complaint about the peeping Thomasina staring through his porthole.
Even if it was Cy, he had no business chasing her. Of course, the tiny voice that passed for her conscience reminded her she’d actually stolen the man’s Chevy.