Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove) (35 page)

Want to give your home an instant boost? Bring the golden glow back to your antique doorknobs and add a little luster to your life!

Brass is made from a combination of two metals: copper and zinc. The quality of the brass has to do with the percentage of zinc in that combination. Forged or cast, brass is often used in home décor items because of its beautiful golden luster. However, it’s an unstable metal that oxidizes easily and that chemical reaction creates a tarnished surface. Due to constant handling, brass doorknobs tarnish quickly and are in particular need of more regular maintenance.

There are many different approaches to cleaning tarnished brass, and while there are natural methods (did you know you could use household items like onions and Worcestershire sauce?) those methods take more time and the results are less dependable. (Not to mention who wants doorknobs that smell like onions and steak sauce?) Just keep in mind that when doing any restoration project, make sure you use proper ventilation, protection for hands (and eyes, mouth, and nose, if needed), and keep the cleaning solvents away from your kids and pets. Always read all the safety instructions on any product before using.

 

Latex gloves

Denatured alcohol or paint stripper

Ammonia

Vinegar

Salt

Commercial brass cleaner

0000 (very fine grade) steel wool

Soft T-shirt material or other soft cloths

Come back to Blueberry Cove next May and visit Brodie Monaghan in HALF MOON HARBOR.

 

T
he morning of Brodie Monaghan’s one-year anniversary as a resident in Blueberry Cove, Maine, began with a hard-on and a surprise visitor. Unfortunately for him, those events occurred in exactly that order.

Living right on the wharf in Half Moon Harbor, he loved waking to the sounds of the gulls calling back and forth as the tide slowly began to ebb. The sun making its way slowly and gloriously over the horizon and the low, reverberating thrum of the lobster boats chugging out of Blue’s, heading toward Pelican Bay, was the best alarm clock known to man.

Brodie stretched fully, not minding as the sheet and quilt slid to the cypress floorboards in a tangle. Restless night. Again. He let the chilly May morning air ripple over his heated, bare skin, but it did little to calm down his body’s morning state of affairs. He rubbed a hand over his face, felt the scratch of his morning beard, knew it was a match to the shaggy condition of his hair, then glanced down through barely open eyes. “Aye, yes, I know. I’ve been neglectin’ ye, I have.”

The part of his anatomy to which he’d directed the comment twitched as if in response, making Brodie grin, even as he sank his head back into his goose-down pillow and let his eyes drift shut. He was considering taking matters into his own hand—a poor substitute, but he was a man who believed in taking gratification where and when he could—when a loud clatter on the docks below brought the rest of his body upright, as well. Grunting, he rolled out of bed, which was located in the converted loft of his boathouse. Well, one of his boathouses. All of which were located on his docks. His privately owned docks.

Probably that ruddy pelican had gotten his claws caught up in the frayed, old, line ropes still piled out on the back piers. He’d meant to get those hauled out before they’d frozen into miniature ice piles last winter. He made a mental note to give Owen a call down at the hardware store and see who might be available to help with that.

Before he could cross the narrow space to peek through the porthole window, there was another thud, followed by some very inventive swearing.

His grin returned. As an Irishman, he respected anyone who was as passionate in their cussing as he was, but the grin was more because he was fairly certain the colorful curser in question was a woman.

Respect for the fair sex more than modesty on his part had him grabbing and pulling on the pair of plaid pajama bottoms he’d dropped beside the bed before climbing between the sheets the night before. “Down, boy-o,” he said to his still invigorated manhood, which also apparently approved of passionate, swearing women. “I promise I’ll end the drought and soon enough. But for now, behave. We’ve company.”

He climbed down the circular iron stairs to the open area below. He’d had the space converted into kitchen and living room. The corner area where the picture windows in the east and south walls came together was dedicated to his drafting table and work desk.

Normally, he grinned every time he looked over the newly finished space, sending silent thanks to Alex MacFarland for her fine craftsmanship and dedicated work ethic, but for once, his thoughts were mercifully on another woman. Perhaps he’d get lucky and this one wouldn’t already be spoken for.

He flipped up the oversized latch and slid open the large plank doors original to the boathouse and stepped out onto the docks. Immediately, he wished he’d also grabbed a sweatshirt. And his Wellies. Late spring mornings were still pretty brisk Down East . . . as was the steady breeze coming off the water. Folding his arms and rubbing his hands over his chest, he trotted down the pier and around to the docks on the far side where the noise had come from.

“I should have left you in the car,” he heard as he neared the back corner of the boathouse.

Definitely a woman.
One with a decent bark, too. His morning mood was growing cheerier by the moment.

“Pants are ruined, heel busted. And I’m pretty sure I’ll need some help getting these splinters out. Ouch! Damn, that one’s deep. Seriously, how does someone your size cause so much trouble?”

Brodie slowed his pace. Ah, so she had wee ones. Or one of them, at least. Those usually came with a father of some sort. Present company excepted, anyway.
Didn’t that just figure?

“I have one moment of weakness—
one
—and this is what happens. I get you.”

Just like that, Brodie’s smile faded as did his respect. No child should be talked to that way, made to feel unwanted—as if they’d had a choice in the matter—even in the heat of the moment. Especially in the heat of the moment.

He rounded the back corner intent on . . . well, he wasn’t sure, exactly, but no one was going to shout down a tiny tyke on his docks, or anywhere else in his presence. “Excuse me,” he said, taking the short ladder up to the higher pier in a single hop. “This is private property and you’ll be wanting to watch your tone with the wee one if you don’t wish to make a direct exit, seaside.”

She hadn’t heard him. “Aw, come on now, there’s no need for—cut it out with the look, okay? You’re killing me here. Oh, no.
No!
I didn’t mean—don’t you even think about—augh!”

Brodie took one look at the woman sprawled all over his dock, tangled up in a pile of ropes—and the small, scruffy mutt presently planted on her chest. Tail a’wagging like mad, it was giving lots of wet, slobbery doggie kisses to its owner, instantly restoring his goodwill. “You tell her, laddie,” he said with a chuckle. “That’s a good boy.”

At the sound of Brodie’s voice, the wee bit of scruff looked up, spied him, and set off down the dock in a dead dash toward him, barking the whole way.

“Whomper! No! Stop! Down! Something! Hell, what’s the right command? He’s friendly!” she called out as the dog increased his speed. “But be careful, because he can jump really—”

At that exact moment, Whomper launched himself from the dock, and in an amazing display of vertical prowess that would make any of those lads in the NBA quite envious, he landed squarely against Brodie’s chest.

“—high,” she finished limply.

Brodie instinctively caught and clutched the dog, staggering back a step, but managing to remain upright. Simultaneously, he realized two things. One, he still wasn’t wearing a shirt, and two, the dog’s claws were remarkably sharp. He got a whiff of Whomper and realized a third thing. The tiny rascal had apparently found a dead fish he liked . . . and had become quite cozy with it.

In danger only of being asphyxiated by the smell of wet canine mixed with fish guts, and possibly licked to death, Brodie immediately held the thing away from his body. “Whomper, lad.” He shook his head and grimaced at the stench. “You sure know how to make an entrance, boy-o.”

“I’m so sorry,” the woman shouted. “He’s kind of . . . exuberant.”

“She’s being kind to ye, laddie, now that ye’ve gone and made a scene.”

His pronouncement was met by bright dark eyes, a lolling tongue, and a still wagging stub of a tail. Part terrier, part harbor doxy, most likely, his white scruffy fur marked with the occasional splash of black and brown, Master Whomper still managed to be quite the charmer. One pointed ear and one with a rakish tilt at the tip didn’t hurt matters any, either. Brodie felt a certain kinship to the mutt. “Aye, ’tis a charmer you are, born and bred. Gets you out of a lot of scrapes, does it?” When the dog yipped in response, he grinned and gave the little fellow a fast wink. “Yes, I know. Comes in handy, that.” The dog wriggled with renewed adoration.

Still holding him at arm’s length, short hind legs dangling, Brodie strode down the dock toward the pup’s entangled owner, who, he realized, was still cussing under her breath as she tried—and failed—to extricate her feet and heels from the heavy ropes.

“Might take both our charms combined to get you out of this one,” he murmured to the dog. “That and a hot shower.” He shuddered. Their commingled fishiness was impossible not to breathe in. “Good Lord, but we reek.”

“I’m really sorry,” the woman said, teeth gritting as she worked to get the strap on her shoes free from the frayed edges of the rope. “He’s very well behaved . . . when he wants to be.” She glanced up at the dog and gave him an arch look. “Like when luring unsuspecting women into taking him home.”

Brodie grinned at the wriggling dog. “Well, mate, I’m finding you more interesting by the moment.”

She eyed dog and man. “Perhaps he’d be happier with a fellow hound to room with, then.”

Brodie barked a laugh at that. “I can see why you picked her from the crowd,” he told the dog. “Women who know their own minds and aren’t afraid to speak them are infinitely more interesting.” He bent down and set the pup on the docks. “Now, be a good lad and don’t run off whilst I free your mistress here. You’ve a bit of making up to do, I’d say, but we’ll get ourselves cleaned up first, aye?”

Whomper planted his butt on the dock, tail going in a furious spin, panting happily. He looked up at Brodie like he’d caused the sun to rise all by himself.

Laughing, Brodie glanced from dog to owner. “You had no chance,” he told her. “You realize that.” He crouched down and swiftly pulled the knotted rope fibers free from the buckles on her heels.

She sighed. “I never thought of myself as a sucker for strays, but I guess there’s always that exception.”

She glanced up just then, and with the angle of his head blocking the bright beams of the rising sun, looked directly into his eyes for the first time.

Suddenly, he was the one all tangled up. And not quite sure why.

There was nothing extraordinary about her eyes. They were hazel, in fact, not quite distinctly green or blue, and possibly leaning a bit toward brown. She was pretty enough in that her features were all lined up just right. Her hair was a shiny sable brown and long enough to spread across a man’s pillow, but as it was presently pulled back tightly against her head in a way that took it out of the equation entirely, there wasn’t really anything that would turn a man’s head in a crowd.

And yet, in that singular moment, he couldn’t quite look away.