Bold

Bold


Mackenzie McKade


Chapter One

Laughter, music and chatter blended with the hum of power saws and drills, pounding hammers, and the occasional creak of wrenches being turned. The scent of sawdust joined culinary delights drifting from nearby restaurants. Attractions and booths like the one Reece McGrath erected, aligned the long, narrow cobbled street. The entire town was in a state of excitement with the upcoming Fall Festival that would open in two and a half days.

He swiped the back of his leather glove across his sweaty forehead, accidently knocking back the bill of his ball cap. Flipping the hat backward, he straightened it over his damp hair before gazing up the street.

Colorful storefronts encroached upon the walkways, displaying knickknacks and items to entice tourists and locals to come take a look at their wares. In the distance, the cries of several fish market vendors hawking their daily catches rose. He inhaled the heavenly aromas of flatbread pizza and something containing heavy garlic that filtered through the open doors of Papa Vita’s Pizza Parlor. His stomach growled. It was nearing noon, lunchtime.

Perched high atop a ladder, he paused to peer over a multitude of red, blue and gray tiled and shingled roofs to see large white sails billowing in the bay in the distance, while the roar of motors and sailors’ voices swept over the coastal village. Above him a cloudless blue sky hung. The early October breeze was rather warm but perfect for sailing, whale watching and sun bathing. He thought a moment of the sandy beaches lined with scantily covered women before he stripped out of his T-shirt and hung it across a step. With tourist season in full swing, Whispering Cove’s Fall Festival should prove to be a huge success. That is, if he and his crew could finish the last two booths in the remaining time available. The thought urged him back to work.

Thirty minutes passed and he paused, smiling when he realized his hammer beat to the rhythm of a country song playing on the radio. Even his right boot tapped on the metal rung to the happy tune, until a baritone voice below him attempting a high note made him cringe. The harsh wail reminded him of a feisty seagull after a coot. The humorous image of the large bird chasing the small black-and-white one, squawking furiously, forced his head back. He released a loud burst of laughter that grabbed his oldest and dearest friend’s attention.

Devon Taylor stopped sawing the two-by-four laid across two sawhorses and glanced up. He grinned, squinting into the afternoon sun as he tossed his shoulder-length dark hair out of his gray eyes. “Not everyone is gifted with the voice of a nightingale like you.”

“Nightingale? Uh.” Reece’s brows pulled together. “Was that a compliment or insult?”

“Your singin’ is just so darn purrty,” Dev said, adding a western twang to his Downeast accent.

Another howl of laughter burst from Reece. Flicking a bent nail at his friend, he chuckled. “Get back to work.” He reached into a pocket of his utility belt and retrieved another nail.

The need to succeed had diluted Reece’s dialect. He had learned to speak much slower than his fellow easterners and to enunciate his words, which just happened to come out in a drawl that Devon loved to tease him about. It didn’t help that Reece enjoyed country music.

And it was true—he could sing.

A talent he had never pursued, much to his mother’s disappointment. On rare occasions he would sing for an audience and in church when his mom dragged him there. And there was also that card game last week where he’d lost a bet to Hauk Michaelson, the owner of the Seaside Pub. That would ensure his vocal talents were known throughout the festival since he had to sing at least one song at the pub for a week and maybe once at the festival. But most of the time Reece preferred not to be the center of attention, unlike his older brother.

Brody was sheriff here in this part of Maine. His wife Andie, a native of the town, used to be a big-shot Los Angeles attorney. Now she contracted with the city and carried the next generation of the McGraths tucked away in the largest belly he had ever seen. And for good measure she had a double batch baking in the oven, two boys who made their father beam with pride every time someone mentioned his babies.

Reece physically shuddered with the thought. He was a diehard bachelor, not that there was anything wrong with children, but marriage was not for him. Too bad his mother didn’t realize it. The five-foot nothing woman nagged him insistently, even more so of late. Why couldn’t she see his only goal in life was to be the best damn architect around the world? One thing she was right about was that no matter his growing success, the ocean and Whispering Cove called him home.

A salty breeze wafted across his heated face like a lover’s caress. He tipped his chin higher, accepting her welcoming touch when his stomach growled again. Damn, he was hungry. Aligning another nail in the beam, he slammed his hammer down, eager to finish this structure. He had two booths left to design and construct before the opening ceremony, which would be noon on Friday. All proceeds from the festival went to the local community center. But the funds for erecting booths were dwindling and all his ideas had been stretched tighter than the city’s pocketbook. The chairman of the booths, Harold Adair, assured him last evening there was nothing to worry about. Apparently he had a secret weapon. When Reece had quizzed his brother’s grandfather-in-law about this secret weapon, the old gent had flashed him a knowing grin and closed his mouth tighter than a lobster trap.