Free The House on Blackberry Hill: Jewell Cove #1 (Jewel Cove) by Donna Alward Page A

see.”
    She didn’t know what was more attractive—the idea of the restored mansion or the image of Tom Arseneault in his work boots and a plaid shirt. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
    “Tomorrow,” he echoed.
    As she hung up, she pressed a hand to her forehead. She needed help. Rugged carpenters weren’t her type. For goodness’ sake, she hadn’t dated in so long she didn’t even have a type. And the idea of restoring the house should make her relieved, not excited.
    Still. Maybe tonight she’d paint her toenails. She had a new shade in turquoise she’d been dying to try …
    *   *   *
    Abby gave up on the pedicure. After a long day of scrubbing and scouring, she was too tired to cook so she ventured into Breezes again, greeted by the savory scent of pot roast, seafood chowder, and fresh bread. She recognized a few faces already and smiled as they nodded in greeting. Instead of taking a table and sitting alone, she sat up at the counter, perched on a wooden swivel stool with a rung back. The fastest thing to order was the chowder, and within seconds a steaming bowl was placed in front of her along with a plate holding the largest dinner roll she’d ever seen.
    “This smells fantastic,” she complimented the woman behind the counter. “Thanks.”
    “You need anything else, give a holler.” The woman looked over Abby’s head. “Evening, Art. Sweet tooth acting up again?”
    “Maybe.”
    “I’ll see what I can do. Be right back.”
    A man sat up to the counter a few stools over and Abby stole a look. Older than Luke Pratt for sure, probably in his sixties or more, with a friendly face and a slight potbelly. She smiled as he looked over, then turned her attention to her bun—really the size of a small loaf. She broke off a piece and spread it with butter. The real stuff—no artificial low-fat anything here, she realized. The sign said home cooking and they meant it.
    “You’re Miss Foster, aren’t you?”
    Abby supposed this would go on until she’d met everyone in the town, so she reluctantly looked away from her steaming chowder and smiled. “I am.”
    “You’ve got your great-aunt’s smile. Art Ellis. May I?” He nodded at the stool beside her, and when she agreed he slid over, taking off his Bruins ball cap. “I used to look after the grounds up at the house before Ms. Marian took sick.”
    Her smile came easier. At least Ellis wasn’t just being nosy, he actually had a connection to the house. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “You, too. Town’s been buzzing with the news that you’re here, but I didn’t want to intrude. Thought you might be sort of a private-type person, like Marian was.”
    The waitress put a gigantic piece of apple pie in front of him, topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream that was already starting to melt. “Linda, you’re an angel.”
    “Our little secret,” Linda replied with a wink. “And if you blame this on me and Margie asks, I’ll deny it.”
    He grinned at Abby, then took a bite of his pie and sighed contentedly. “My missus would have a fit if she knew I was eating pie. Worries about my girlish figure. But Linda here makes the best pastry in town.” He grinned, a sideways smile that made him look boyish, and patted his stomach. “Wouldn’t want Margie to know I said that, either.”
    The smell of apples and nutmeg was heavenly. Abby sipped her water. “My lips are sealed.”
    He ran his hand over the thinning hair at the top of his head. “There’s lots of speculation about you, Miss Foster.”
    She met his gaze. “Call me Abby. And I’m just as curious about the town as it is about me.” She was surprised to realize it was true.
    “It’s true, then? That you never knew Marian?”
    She didn’t know why she was shocked that he should know that. “News travels fast around here. So you were the gardener?”
    He nodded. “Of a sort. I cut the grass and kept the trees pruned, did odd jobs around the house. But the garden, that