Driftwood Cottage. Sherryl Woods

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      The drive home had been pleasant for a change. Although the weather was especially mild for late March, it was too early for most of the tourists and weekenders who flocked to the small towns on the Chesapeake Bay later in the season.

      Arriving in Chesapeake Shores to discover all the hints that spring was just around the corner, he realized how much he missed being home. This time of year the town green was edged with beds of daffodils, the salty air of the bay beckoned and there was something special about the way the morning sun filtered through a haze and sparkled on the dew that covered the fresh green lawns.

      With temperatures hovering close to seventy, he actually had visions of taking his old rowboat out for a lazy day of fishing. Maybe he could even convince Kevin to come along. It had been ages since they’d spent an idle day out on the water together.

      Before heading toward home, he made the drive along Main Street, then turned right onto Shore Road. It was practically a ritual to take a tour of the town his father and uncles had built, to see what was happening. There were always one or two changes that caught him by surprise, especially in spring, when most new businesses chose to open in time for the summer tourist season.

      He spotted the “Open” flag fluttering outside his mother’s new art gallery and resolved to make his duty call there later in the day, since he’d missed the official opening. He was anxious to see if she was as knowledgeable about art as his father and the rest of the family seemed to think she was.

      Before he drove on, Connor caught a glimpse of another new store right next door. A beautiful handmade quilt hung in the window, a quilt, he realized with a sense of shock, that looked very familiar because it—or one exactly like it—had once hung on the wall in his townhouse. It was the one thing that had gone missing after Heather’s departure.

      Slamming on the brakes, he looked around until he spotted a parking place up the street. He swung into it, then tried to still the sudden racing of his heart. He knew that quilt because Heather had made it. He’d watched her in the evenings as she’d stitched every seam, quilted every square, while he’d been studying for his law school classes. He’d been captivated by the contentment on her face as she’d worked quietly, happy just to be in a room with him.

      Spotting that quilt in a store window shouldn’t throw him like this, he thought as he strode across the street. It shouldn’t matter to him that she’d apparently put it up for sale. But it did.

      It offended him to think that maybe she was giving it up because she needed cash. How much could a quilt bring in, anyway? He thought he’d been giving her generous support money for their son, enough for both of them really, but maybe it wasn’t covering expenses, after all. He knew, though, from their heated exchanges, that she was too proud to take more.

      Worse, of course, was the idea that she was selling the quilt because she couldn’t bear to look at it anymore, because it reminded her of him. Had she grown to hate him so much? It was true that most of their conversations recently had been brief and edgy, but he’d convinced himself they’d eventually move past the cool civility of late. Maybe that was just another of his many delusions where Heather was concerned, right up there beside the idea that she would change her mind and move back home with him.

      He glanced at the sign on the window, which he hadn’t noticed earlier: COTTAGE QUILTS. For some reason that struck a distant chord as well. Had Heather ever mentioned opening a shop like this one? Was it one of the dreams she’d had before setting them aside to be with him? He’d known how much she’d hated teaching, but he couldn’t recall what she’d hoped to do instead once the baby was a bit older. That just reminded him of how many conversations they’d avoided over their years together. Anything involving the future had presented a minefield.

      Just then he saw and heard her, Heather, standing amid a sea of fabric with a customer, talking animatedly about which colors worked well together and which ones clashed. With a sense of shock, he realized that not only was her quilt for sale, but that she was working here. How had that happened? Filled with questions, he stood where he was, just outside the open door, and waited.

      When the customer left with a heavy bag filled with fabric, Connor stepped inside. Heather looked up, a smile on her face that faltered at the sight of him.

      “Connor,” she said, a catch in her voice. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

      “Chesapeake Shores is my home,” he reminded her, his own tone testy. “What the devil are you doing here?”

      She gestured around her. “What does it look like? I’ve opened a business.”

      A thousand questions came to mind, but he blurted only one. “This is yours?”

      She nodded, her expression defensive.

      “You opened a business here? In my town?” he said incredulously.

      She smiled at his reaction. “Actually if the town belongs to any one person, it would be your father, but I’m pretty sure it’s open to new residents.”

      “You didn’t think you needed to tell me you’d moved here?”

      “I would have as soon as we got settled. Getting this place open has taken a lot of my time.”

      “Don’t tell me you’re living with my folks,” he said, regarding her with suspicion, already sensing a plot afoot to throw them together. After all, wasn’t that exactly what his mother had hinted at her wedding, that she intended to see that he was next to walk down the aisle? And it would definitely explain the unexpected visit by all the men in the family the previous weekend and their push to drag him down here.

      “No. Believe me, I know that would have been a bad idea. I have my own apartment upstairs. Your mother and I …”

      He frowned at the mention of his mother. “What does my mother have to do with this? Was it her idea?”

      “In a way, yes,” Heather admitted at once.

      “And you went along with it,” he said with a dismayed shake of his head. “Haven’t I told you she can’t be trusted?”

      Heather visibly stiffened. “You told me a lot of things, Connor, all probably valid from your perspective, but I prefer to form my own opinions of people. I happen to like your mother, and even you have to admit she’s been a godsend in recent months, looking after little Mick.”

      Connor bristled. “That still doesn’t mean you should take her advice. Did she tell you if you settled here, eventually I’d cave in and marry you?”

      Heather frowned at him. “Trust me, I know your position on marriage, Connor. You’ve stated it often enough and in no uncertain terms. It’s ingrained in my head.”

      “Then what are you doing here?” he asked again, genuinely bewildered about why she’d pick this town if not because it was his hometown.

      “This decision was all about me and what I want for my future. Your mother saw my quilts and thought I had talent. When I was here for the wedding, she mentioned this space and the apartment upstairs. It seemed ideal for me, especially since it meant our son would get to be around his grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. It was a far better option than going back to Ohio to be around my family, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

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