Haven Creek by Rochelle Alers Page A

hoped that would change now that the barn was nearing completion.
    Nate turned down a side street and drove into an area set aside for business district parking. He managed to find an empty space between a rusty pickup and a late-model roadster. The Memorial Day weekend signaled the official start of the summer season, and that meant the island’s population increased appreciably, with an influx of tourists and college students. Walking out of the parking lot, he made his way down Moss Alley. Ageless oak trees draped in Spanish moss had given the iconic narrow cobblestone street its name.
    Moving back to Cavanaugh Island had been a shot in the arm for Nate. Here there was no manufacturing to pollute the air and water; no traffic jams, no exhaust fumes; no fast-food restaurants, big-box stores, or strip malls. When the local kids didn’t go to Charleston, they’d hang out in the town square or on the beach. There had never been a record of a vehicular fatality or a hit-and-run accident. Anyone caught driving under the influence was harshly dealt with by local law enforcement.
    He strolled along Main Street, peering into storefronts. He smiled when he saw the piano in the Parlor Bookstore. The shingle above a nearby storefront read ASA MONROE, MD, CRITICAL CARE FAMILY PRACTICE. Dr. Monroe had become his father’s primary physician. It was good the island now had a resident doctor and a bookstore.
    Nate glanced at the clock above the building housing the Sanctuary Chronicle. It was 6:20. Morgan had mentioned she could be found in her office most nights, so he turned on his heels and headed back toward Moss Alley.
      
    The sound of the doorbell chiming like Big Ben echoed throughout the space where Morgan had set up M. Dane Architecture and Interior Design. She saved what she’d typed, then walked to the front door. Peering through the beveled glass, she saw the figure of a man, then his face. Nate. Unlocking the door, she stared up at him. Her breath caught in her throat, making breathing difficult. The stubble on his jaw, and his black T-shirt, relaxed jeans, and work boots, served to enhance his blatant virility.
    “You came.”
    Staring at her under lowered lids, Nate smiled. “I told you I would. Do you always keep the door locked?”
    “I do when I’m here alone and working in the back.” She opened the door wider. “Please come in.” Nate walked in, the subtle scent of sandalwood aftershave wafting to her nose. Why does he have to look and smell so delicious? her inner voice asked. Morgan knew that if she wasn’t careful, old feelings were certain to resurface, making it hard for her to maintain a professional demeanor when interacting with him. Closing and locking the door, she turned to find him glancing around the outer office.
    “I like what you’ve done here,” Nate said, staring at a trio of framed Jonathan Green prints.
    Two side chairs upholstered in natural Haitian cotton flanked a low table topped with a vase of fresh flowers and succulents in small decorative pots. Twin Tiffany-style floor lamps matched one on another table, which doubled as a desk. Recessed lighting, prerecorded music flowing from speakers concealed in the ceiling, and the cool colors of blue, gray, and white created a calming effect.
    Nate ran his fingers over a wall covered with blue-gray fabric. “Fiberglass?”
    Morgan nodded. “You’re good. How did you know?”
    “I’ve installed panels like these in a number of houses.”
    “I thought you only work with wood,” Morgan said, slightly taken aback by Nate’s revelation.
    “I spent about fifteen years working for a builder, and during that time I learned a lot about the construction business.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he studied the decorative marquetry inlay and contrasting veneers on the desk in the reception area. “Where did you get this table?”
    She took a step, standing close to him. “It belonged to my great-grandmother.”
    “Is it signed