Snowflake Bay

Book 0: Brides of Blueberry Cove

by Donna Kauffman

Genres: Holiday books; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

There's no place like seaside Blueberry Cove, Maine, at Christmas - and there's nothing like a wedding, the warmth of the holidays, and an old crush to create the perfect new start.... Interior designer Fiona McCrae has left fast-paced Manhattan to move back home to peaceful Blueberry Cove. But she's barely arrived before she's hooked in to planning her big sister Hannah's Christmas wedding - in less than seven weeks. The last thing she needs is for her first love, Ben Campbell, to return to neighboring Snowflake Bay.... When they were kids, Fiona was the bratty little sister Ben mercilessly teased - while pining after Hannah. But Fi never once thought of Ben like a brother. And that hasn't changed. Except Fi is all grown up. Will Ben notice her now? More importantly, with her life in a jumble, should he? Or might the romance of the occasion, the spirit of the season, and the gifts of time ignite a long-held flame for many Christmases to come? Something old might just become something new....

Release date: October 1, 2015

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 368

Sample

There should be a rule book, she decided. Or at the very least, a tastefully done pamphlet. The Bridesmaid Rules. Fiona McCrae zipped along the cove road, too distracted to even glance across Pelican Bay at the lighthouse perched majestically out on the tip of Pelican Point. Too much to do. Too much to plan. What on earth had she been thinking, taking this on?

“A list of basic, common-sense rules,” she said, warming to the subject as she made the turn toward the Point. She would have been quite happy to draw up that list, if anyone asked. She could think of a half dozen without even trying.

Bridesmaid Rule No.1: No one should have to be a bridesmaid more than once in a year. “Especially if said bridesmaid has yet to become a bride herself.” She smiled wryly. “And the single-ladies crowd goes wild.” She made the universal hordes-cheering sound, and held on to her amused smile as she wove her way ever closer to home base. Hmm. Bridesmaid Rule No. 2 . . . “No bridesmaid should ever be expected, asked, or guilted into being the wedding planner.” Actually, she thought, that should probably be Rule No. 1.

If there was such a rule book, being a bridesmaid twice in six months and the wedding planner for both events would be in serious breach of the bridesmaid code. On top of that, this time she was also the maid of honor. And she had been honored when her older sister had asked her to play that most special role in her big day. She’d done the big, sloppy cry, in fact. They both had. And there hadn’t even been adult beverages involved.

At the time, Fiona had blamed still being joy-buzzed from watching her big brother tie the knot barely three months earlier. And now, suddenly—too suddenly to her mind—it was Hannah’s turn to walk down the aisle.

Weddings were a happy thing. A thing she should be thrilled about. Downright jubilant. So what if her family was falling in love all around her while her life was falling apart?

Okay, so maybe falling apart was being a bit melodramatic. Except selling off her award-winning interior design business in Manhattan to move, lock, stock, and fabric sample binders, back to her hometown of Blueberry Cove, Maine—all without exactly firming up her new business model—pretty much felt exactly like that. She still couldn’t believe she’d really made the leap, taken the plunge. “Jumped off the cliff,” she added sardonically as she pulled in between her sister-in-law Alex’s ancient truck and the big red pickup parked in the small lot outside her childhood home.

Fiona gasped as she cracked the car door open and the icy coastal breeze snatched her breath away. She wedged her booted foot out first to keep the door propped open, trying not to bang it into the truck as she climbed out, lugging the heavy satchel behind her. It was filled with an assortment of samples, swatches, wedding books, and magazines she’d carefully selected, along with a stack of planners she’d already begun assembling, the combined weight of which felt as if she’d packed up the proverbial kitchen sink.

She edged her way out between the vehicles, but didn’t give the truck much notice otherwise, assuming it belonged to yet another of Alex’s long list of sub-contractors. The renovation work on the old lightkeeper’s cottage was the last part of the Pelican Point restoration project that Alex had been working on for close to two years now. Fiona did glance out at the Point then and took a moment to admire the beautifully restored stack of two-hundred-year-old stone that was the McCrae family lighthouse. But only a moment.

No time for dawdling! There was a wedding to plan! “In seven freaking weeks,” she muttered under her breath. Seriously. There should be rules. Fiona hauled the oversized canvas tote up higher onto her shoulder and dipped her chin down, tucking it into the scarf she’d wrapped repeatedly around her neck. It was a vain attempt to keep the wind that clipped relentlessly over the rocky promontory from whipping her cheeks to an even more chapped pink than they already were. In all of her daydreaming about moving back home to the Cove, how was it she’d managed to so utterly forget what the cold weather did to her fair skin?

She needed to get a tube of rehydrating cream to keep in her purse. And one for her car. And every other bag she carried. If she applied it a dozen times a day, she might have a slim chance at not resembling a cherry-cheeked elf at her sister’s December wedding. And that was another thing. Who gets married at Christmas? Who wants to have their wedding anniversary compete with Santa?

“More to the point, who makes the big decision to get married at Christmas, when it’s already only two weeks away from Thanksgiving?” She’d tucked her chin so far down behind the heavily wrapped scarf that speaking out loud caused the wool fibers to laminate themselves to her heavily balmed lips. Lovely. Just lovely. Bridesmaid Rule No. 3: It has to be at least above freezing to have a wedding. And while she was at it, No. 4: There should be at least a six-month minimum wedding planning rule. Better yet, nine. Hell, make it a year. “But seven weeks from saying yes to saying I do? Insanity.” She spluttered at the wool fibers now sticking to her teeth and tongue, too, as she clambered up the wide stone steps.

It wasn’t sour grapes, either. These were salient, perfectly rational points, all of which Fiona planned to put forth to her sister. And she would. Just as soon as she divested herself of the luggage-sized satchel she was grappling with, and scraped the scarf off her face. She’d be completely non-confrontational, of course. She’d merely explain, in a calm, rational, don’t-piss-off-the-starry-eyed-bride manner, that it would make so much more sense to have a lovely spring wedding. Coastal Maine was beautiful in the spring. Well, if you overlooked the mud that resulted from all the snow melting. Followed by all the heavy seasonal rains. Not to mention the occasional crippling late snow storm. Okay, so maybe she’d go the nine-month minimum wedding planning rule. All the better, really. A summer wedding would be perfect. Just as it had been for Logan and Alex.

Plotting how she’d open the delicate-but-had-to-happen conversation, she banged her way to the side door off the wraparound porch that hugged the gabled, shake-shingled house that had been home to generations of McCraes. Surely she could make Hannah see reason. “Knock, knock!” she called out as she let herself in. She shoved her body and the tote into the small mudroom, then heard a loud thump overhead, mixed with muffled voices, followed by laughter.

“Alex?” she shouted through the scarf, which was still half-draped over the lower part of her face as she tried to maneuver herself around to reach for the door that led to the kitchen. There was another thump overhead and more laughter. Good. She’d recruit Alex into her change-the-date mission. Strength in numbers.

“You’d better not be upstairs having crazy, naked, newlywed sex with my brother,” she called out as she finally managed to nudge the kitchen door open. Grunting, she pushed harder when she and her bag got wedged in the narrower kitchen doorway. “Because that is an image I do not need to have burned into my corneas today.”

She should have put her satchel down and taken her scarf and coat off in the mudroom before trying to head inside. Me? Plan ahead? Why start now? She made one last determined push, sucking in air, as if it would somehow make even the satchel thinner, and finally popped through the door like a parka-clad spitball. She made a loud oof sound as the center work island broke her staggering trajectory. “Hannah?” she half shouted, half wheezed, as she slumped over the canvas tote she’d slung onto the new marble countertop before it slung her back onto her ass.

She needed to start working out again. All right, ever. And she would. That was part of why she’d come home after all. Okay, so perhaps not specifically to get into shape, but in the slower pace of life that was Blueberry Cove, surely she would have time for things like jogging and yoga.

Things she also had sworn she’d do when she’d moved to the big city, she reminded herself, recalling her gilded visions of getting all lithe and lean on her daily runs through Central Park, topped only by the fabulous friendships she’d surely make with her newfound fellow-artist gal pals in her thrice weekly yoga classes in the Village. Yeah, somehow those items had never made their way onto her daily agenda.

Of course, she was older now, wiser, with her priorities clearly straight, proven by her recent exit from a stressed-out city piled high with even more toxic clientele, and she was returning to her healthier, more serene, simple-life roots. She tried to feel cheery at the thought of shopping for a yoga mat and cute running shoes.

Then again, she thought, it was winter. And in Maine that meant it was dark. A lot. And pretty damn cold. Jogging in the cold and dark seemed unwise. In fact, it seemed wrong, really, to have to work out like that at all in the winter. Ask any Mainer and they’d tell you that surviving a New England winter was pretty much the equivalent of participating in a full-contact sport in and of itself. Yeah. So, technically, she was already working out. She would be like a boxer, punching her way through a tough coastal winter, while simultaneously focusing her creative mind and spirit on plotting out the best way to apply her well-honed design skills to suit the needs of the sure-to-be sweeter, kinder, gentler clientele she’d find in the Cove.

Come spring, she’d be all bulletproof from winterizing herself, her new business model would be successfully created and implemented, and she would happily jog herself skinny all while feeding her inner creative soul in a local yoga class. When you looked at it that way, it was all simply a part of a bigger training regimen, really.

Feeling somewhat better about herself now, she disentangled herself from the satchel strap, then began mentally rehearsing a summer-weddings-are-so-beautiful speech while she looked around for something to scrape the wool scarf out of her mouth. Deciding to get herself unwrapped first, she fished out the end of the scarf, already feeling her fair skin chapping even as she stood there, the warmth of the kitchen creating something of a sting in her thawing cheeks. The struggle with the scarf started almost immediately. It was as if her curls had begun actively weaving themselves into the knitting, becoming one with every loop and knot.

So, she was more wrestling with the scarf than unwrapping it, really, swearing somewhat creatively, possibly a wee bit passionately even, by the time a deep male voice that was quite decidedly not her big brother’s baritone spoke from far too close behind her.

“I’ve got bolt cutters in my truck. We could just cut you out.”

Fiona froze. Stock-still. And not because of anything having to do with the coastal winter weather or being out of shape. She wasn’t breathing hard. In fact, she might never draw breath again. It had been, what, ten years? Longer. She’d lost track. Or, more truthfully, you’ve blocked it from your memory banks. Blocked it back when the owner of that voice had left Blueberry Cove for college in Boston, excited to get started on fulfilling his dreams—none of which included coming back to his hometown. At the time, blocking her memory files had seemed the only way she’d ever survive not having him in her daily orbit ever again.

She felt his big, broad palms cup her shoulders, turning her slowly around to face him, and stupidly squeezed her eyes shut, as if that would change this sudden new reality. All it did was delay the inevitable.

“Fireplug?” he said, as the top half of her face became visible when he pushed the curls from her forehead and the scarf from where it was now haphazardly draped diagonally across her face. There was sincere surprise in his voice. “Is that you inside all that sheep’s clothing?”

Fireplug. All of the air came back into her lungs in one big, sucking gasp. Emphasis on the sucking. Her cheeks burned again, only the sting of remembered humiliation coupled with the memories of her pathetic, unrequited crush on her brother’s best friend, who’d only had eyes for Hannah, far—far—outstripped anything a Maine winter could do to her fair skin.

They were both many years older now, she reminded herself, and that meant wiser as well. Although she didn’t feel wiser at the moment. At the moment, she felt instantly thirteen again, pining after a guy who’d barely noticed her, and when he had, had seen her as nothing more than the nuisance kid sister of the girl he was trying to impress.

Of course, that girl was now engaged to another man, and for all Fiona knew, her childhood crush was married himself, with a bundle of kids stashed somewhere. Hell, for all he knew, so was she. Which meant, yeah . . . the distant past was just that. Distant. And past.

She prided herself on taking an extra moment to steady herself and let her breath ease out, then slowly back in again, before opening her eyes. Okay, so she was still half-tangled in a woolen neck scarf and she wasn’t exactly making eye contact with him, but it was a start. A mature, grown-up start. Between two, mature, grown-up people.

So why is your heart racing like it’s the first time a man has ever touched you? More to the point, why are all your other more mature body parts clamoring for him to touch a whole lot more than your shoulders? You’re both potentially married with kids, remember?

Only she wasn’t married. Didn’t have kids. Not even the dimmest of prospects of either on the horizon. A horizon that, at the moment, was completely consumed with a big, tall, rugged reminder of all that she didn’t have. Had never had. A reminder, it should be noted, who still had his hands on her.

All her line of vision allowed, however—now that he’d turned her around so her back was to him, tipping her head forward to allow him to work her hair free from the scarf—was the Michelin Man-style, double-padded red snow coat she’d buttoned around her short, curvy frame, under which was a layer of thick hoodie, a long-sleeved turtleneck, and a T-shirt. She surprised herself by letting out a muffled snort. “Well, if the nickname still fits,” she murmured, proud of herself for embracing the humor in the moment, only to discover a split second later she was blinking back stupid tears.

Maybe no matter how much a person grew up, no matter how much she matured, she thought, mortified all over again, there would always be a part of her who was still that same, invisible thirteen-year-old girl.

Big hands gripped her shoulders again and turned her back around. Then she felt rough, thick fingers gently tug at the scarf until her face was completely uncovered, or at least most of it was. Curls still clung to her eyelashes and errant wool fibers remained plastered to her Chapsticked lips.

She finally looked up at him. What the hell. She couldn’t possibly be more mortified around him now than she had been during pretty much every waking, breathing moment of her adolescence, could she?

Any latent, exceedingly selfish hopes she might have harbored that time and age had been unkind to him were extinguished with that one simple glance. He was . . . beautiful. He’d always been beautiful. Thick, chestnut-brown hair that was forever in need of a trim topped a pair of always twinkling eyes the color of Maine evergreens, and a ready grin set between a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. Only now, age and time had somehow transformed him into a man who was more rugged, more handsome, more genuinely, heart-grippingly sexy. The kind of sexy a thirteen-year-old couldn’t even begin to appreciate, but the thirty-two-year-old woman standing before him could all too well.

His body was as ruggedly appealing as his face, with broad shoulders to match those wide palms, and the kind of muscles roping his arms and biceps that even the green plaid wool jacket he had on over a faded red hoodie did little to hide and everything to enhance. She didn’t dare look lower. Didn’t have to. He’d always been athletic and agile despite his size. Looking at those long legs and perfectly muscled thighs wasn’t necessary. She imagined them anyway, remembering far too many summers spent watching him and Logan from her bedroom window as they played pick-up basketball at the hoop mounted to the front of the carriage house, in nothing more than gym shorts and gleaming, honey-gold skin.

It seemed so unfair, she thought, even as she drank in the sight of him like a woman who’d been in the desert since, well, since the summer of her eighth grade graduation. Which was when he’d left town, and her unrequited love, in the unnoticed and seriously pathetic dust.

“Hello, Ben,” she said, seeing the wisps of wool still clinging to her lips dance briefly in the warm, dry air. She wanted to close her eyes. Hell, she wanted to dig a hole to China. Instead, she forced herself to maintain eye contact. Adult. Mature. Not thirteen. Not stupidly pining for a guy who never once thought of you as anything but his best friend’s annoying, bratty kid sister.

At the moment, however, he looked sincerely happy to see her. That shouldn’t have made her knees knock. Or her thighs clench.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” he said.

“That makes two of us,” she said, thinking that her heart had to be pounding against her chest so hard, if she looked down, she’d surely see a cartoon version of it pumping out through her coat. Her fireplug red, down-filled coat.

Yeah.

Her karma clearly didn’t include things like having the sexier-than-ever Ben Campbell reenter her life when she had on cute yoga pants and was in some innocent but super suggestive pose that had him immediately wondering why in the hell he’d never noticed her before.

“You, uh . . .” He made a brief motion toward her mouth, and then that gleaming white grin flashed. “Either you’ve been slimed by your scarf, or you have a very unfortunate fungal issue. Either way—” He reached past her to nimbly snag a napkin from the holder she’d half buried under her satchel. “Here,” he said, offering it to her.

Aaaaand humiliation complete. Forever thirteen. Ah well, what the hell. Might as well own it. She tugged off her gloves with her probably wool-coated teeth, then took the proffered napkin. “Thanks,” she said, and turned to put her gloves on the marble countertop and do the best she could without benefit of a mirror to de-fungi herself. Turning back around, she crumpled the napkin in her hand and gave him a wry smile. “Better?”

“Mostly,” he said.

She went stock-still again when, teasing grin still firmly in place, he stepped closer, bowed his head, and gazed ever-so-intently at her mouth. She had no idea how her legs held her upright as every one of her adolescent fantasies came screaming back to mind, but in a far—far—more adult fashion. Surely, he couldn’t mean to—

He brought his hand up—not to cup her cheek so he could lower his lips to hers—but to pluck away the few remaining fibers that still clung to her lips.

What did it say that the tips of his fingers brushing her lips elicited a far greater response from her body than the last man she’d actually gotten naked with? Nothing positive, she was sure. About her, or about poor, couldn’t-find-an-erogenous-zone-if-it-was-staring-him-in-the-face Charlie. Which, sadly for them both, one rather universally well-known zone had been.

“Now you’re good,” he said, smiling again as he stepped back.

No, not really, she thought. But you sure are. She swallowed against a throat that was suddenly a dry wasteland, while other parts of her were . . . decidedly not. Oh, so, very, very good.

“Are—” Fiona had to pause, clear the dust and longing from her throat, before continuing. “Are you here visiting your folks?”

“Sort of,” he replied easily, completely oblivious, of course, to the havoc he was wreaking on every last strand of her DNA. “Mom finally convinced my dad to head south. For his health,” he clarified. “I’m just getting back from helping them move.”

All visions of hot yoga mat sex fled and her eyebrows drew together as she frowned. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said, pushing the last of her wayward curls from her face, only to get the balled-up napkin she’d forgotten she held stuck in her hair. She yanked it back out and shoved it in her coat pocket. Ever so seductive, Fi, you temptress, you. “I mean, not that they moved south, but—is he okay?” She’d known Henry Campbell and his wife, Elizabeth—Lizzy to everyone who knew her—her entire life. They were the fourth generation of Campbells to run the family’s—the thought broke off half-formed as she remembered the red pickup truck out front. How had she not noticed the distinctive white and green sign on the side panel? “So, who’s running the Christmas tree farm?”

Ben grinned, and it really should be a crime against nature, she thought, basking in the glow despite wishing she could resist it, and him. “Dad is okay,” he replied, answering her first question. “His arthritis has gotten steadily worse, though, and he really can’t take the winters up here any longer.”

“And that’s when you do all of your business. Aw. I’m sorry, Ben. I know how much they both love that farm.”

He nodded. “It wasn’t easy prying them out of there, but Mom found this really great retirement community in South Carolina, right on the coast. They’ve only been there a few weeks and she’s already gotten them both involved in so many things, I’m not sure they can rightly call themselves retired.”

“They’re happy, then,” Fiona said, seeing it in his eyes. His beautiful, forest-green eyes. “That’s good. Really good. They’ve both worked so hard, they deserve some play time.”

“I’ve been telling them that for years.”

“You’re not going to sell the farm, are you?” Ben was the youngest of the Campbell clan, and the only child of Henry and Lizzy. Neither of Henry’s siblings had had children, and Lizzy was an only child, so everyone knew that the farm would go to Ben one day. Then he’d left Blueberry Cove, gone off to college and beyond. Other than to see his folks from time to time, always in the off-season—which was why Fiona had never bumped into him on her annual holiday treks home—he’d stayed gone. She wasn’t even sure why the farm passing into different hands mattered so much. Yes, the McCraes had bought their Christmas trees from Campbell Christmas Tree Farm every year she’d been alive, and the past few generations of McCraes had as well. It was a long-standing tradition, not only for her family but for most, if not all, of the families in Blueberry Cove, as well as the surrounding Pelican Bay area. But did it really matter if it was a Campbell running the place?

Traditions meant something to her, a lot to her, in fact . . . but hadn’t she moved away exactly as he had? Of course, in her case, the Pelican Point property was already in Logan’s capable hands, so her leaving the Cove wasn’t quite the same thing, but still, she understood what Ben was facing. She also knew firsthand that his parents had lovingly supported him in his own pursuits. “Sorry, it’s none of my business. It’s just—it’s been in your family for a long time.”

“I’m running it,” he said. “For now, anyway.”

That surprised her. “I thought you had a big landscaping company down in Portsmouth?” Okay, so maybe she’d kept up a little since he’d gone. But she usually came home for the holidays and that meant buying a tree, and could she help it if his parents liked to brag about their only son?

One tawny eyebrow lifted, but all he said was, “I do.”

“Heck of a commute. How will you handle running both, especially at this time of year? Or, I guess maybe folks don’t do too much winter landscaping in New England, so maybe you can just do the Christmas tree thing, then when the season is over, you could—” She abruptly stopped talking. She was babbling.

His expression shifted for a brief moment, after which the easy smile remained, but the amused twinkle wasn’t there in his eyes any longer. “I just got back from South Carolina, helping the folks with the last of the move. Lots to figure out,” he said, by way of reply. “I’m only now diving in really.”

“And during your busiest season. That’s a lot right there.”

“In s. . .