LITMIR.BIZ

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look at Christine’s still form. As he stepped outside, Ruth was just passing by.

      “See you tomorrow,” she said.

      Grant nodded. “I’ll be here.”

      Chapter Two

      “Morgan Williams.”

      As her voice came over the wire, Grant’s lip tipped up into wry grin. He’d tried her office number first, somehow knowing she’d still be there at eight o’clock at night. And her tone captured her personality to perfection. Crisp. Pleasant. Efficient. Businesslike. Except the pleasant part might go out the window when she found out why he was calling.

      “Ms. Williams, it’s Grant Kincaid.”

      He could almost hear her frown over the phone, and when she spoke her voice held an edge of impatience.

      “What can I do for you?”

      “I think the question is, what can you do for me?”

      Her sigh was audible. “Look, Mr. Kincaid, I don’t have time for riddles. Is there a problem with the cottage?”

      “First of all, since I expect we’ll be talking quite a bit for the next few months, can we dispense with the formality? Just call me Grant. Second, this isn’t about the cottage. It’s about Jo’s requirement that you assist with Good Shepherd Camp.”

      “How do you know about that?” She sounded surprised—and wary.

      “I’m president of the board.”

      He expected her to groan. But if she did, she hid it well.

      “I see,” she replied tersely.

      “I understand from Mary that you are to provide advertising and promotional assistance for Good Shepherd and attend board meetings as an advisory member for the next six months. Is that correct?”

      “Yes.”

      “Do you know anything about the camp?”

      “No.”

      Nor did she want to, if her tone was any indication.

      “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t I send you some literature? That will give you a lot of background. The board doesn’t meet in December, so you’re off the hook until January. But you’ll be a welcome addition. The camp is in pretty serious financial straits, and we need to come up with a way to generate significant income. Some sort of advertising or promotional campaign may be the answer. So we can use your expertise.”

      “I don’t have any experience in the non-profit area, Mr. Kincaid. So don’t get your hopes up.”

      “It’s Grant,” he reminded her. “And any help you can provide will be much appreciated. The camp is a very worthwhile cause, and we want to do everything possible to make sure it stays solvent. A lot of lives have been changed for the better because of Good Shepherd. All of the kids who go there have some kind of problem. They come from broken or abusive homes, or they’ve had run-ins with the law, or they have minor physical disabilities that have led to social or emotional problems. The camp experience has been a godsend for countless young people.”

      Even though Morgan had little personal interest in the project, she was struck by the passion and conviction in Grant’s voice. She may not like the man, but she admired his willingness to help those less fortunate.

      “I’ll look over whatever you want to send when I have a minute,” she promised.

      “Okay. On a different subject, any idea when you’ll be coming up to the cottage?”

      Good question. She’d gotten the appraisal, and Seth Mitchell had been right. The property was far too valuable to toss aside. So she had to give this her best shot. She glanced at her schedule, which was packed, as always. But Christmas was on a Saturday, she noted. Which meant the office would be closed Friday and Monday. So she could make a long weekend of it without missing any official work time.

      “Probably over the holiday. Would you be available to meet on Christmas Eve?”

      “Sorry, no. I have family activities planned for that day,” he said, making no attempt to hide his disapproval.

      “Could we make it Monday?”

      “How about Sunday?” she countered.

      “I usually reserve Sunday for God. And family.”

      Morgan expelled a frustrated breath. She’d hoped to leave on Sunday and put in a full day at the office on Monday, even though the firm was closed. But Grant didn’t sound as if he was going to bend. “Okay,” she relented. “As long as we can make it early.” At least she’d be able to get in half a day of work.

      “No problem. If you give me your number, I’ll fax you directions to the cottage.”

      After complying, Morgan ended the call and tried to turn her attention back to the latest campaign she was developing for a new brand of soft drink. But it wasn’t easy.

      Although, she’d more or less resigned herself to the fact that she’d have to be civil to Grant for the next few months, however much his obvious disapproval rankled her, she’d consoled herself with the knowledge that she really wouldn’t have to communicate much with him. However, if he was chairman of the board of Good Shepherd, there was very little chance she could avoid talking with him on a regular basis. Which was not a good thing, since they were about as compatible as the proverbial oil and water.

      Plus, the clock had started ticking on Aunt Jo’s six-month window, and Morgan figured she’d be spending two, maybe three days at the cottage in December. Tops. It didn’t take a math genius to figure out that at this rate, there was no way she was going to meet the four-week residency requirement.

      She had to come up with a better plan.

      So much for a good night’s sleep. As the crash of the surf and the howling wind outside Aunt Jo’s cottage jarred her awake for the umpteenth time, Morgan peered bleary-eyed at the illuminated face of her travel alarm. Twelve-thirty.

      Merry Christmas, she thought grumpily.

      She scrunched her pillow under her head, pulled the blankets up to her ears, and tried by sheer force of will to ignore the unfamiliar sounds of the elements raging outside her window. But it was no use. It was too noisy and she was too tense.

      Morgan had ended up working until midafternoon on Christmas Eve, and by the time she’d arrived in Maine and wandered for what seemed like hours on the back roads in search of Aunt Jo’s isolated cottage, she’d been forced to contend not only with the dark, but with sleet, snow and ferocious wind.

      When she’d at last pulled to a stop in front of the weathered clapboard structure, she’d had to sit in her car for a full minute until her nerves stopped vibrating. She’d ruined her twenty-dollar manicure as she’d tried without success to pry open her frozen trunk. She’d slipped and slid toward the door in her high-fashion, expensive boots, which had not been designed for the backwoods of Maine. And she’d lost her Saks scarf in a tug-of-war with the gale-force winds.

      It had not been an auspicious arrival.

      Taking a deep breath, Morgan tried to force herself to relax, but sleep remained elusive. Finally, when the first light of dawn began to creep in under the window shades, she gave up. If she was the praying type, she’d send a desperate plea heavenward for a fortifying cup of coffee. As it was she just crossed her fingers and headed for the kitchen.

      But a quick search of the pantry turned up only Spartan supplies—two cans of soup, some stale crackers, salt and pepper, a can of tuna and a couple of stray tea bags. She wasn’t much of a tea drinker, but at this point she’d settle for anything with caffeine.

      As she filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave, she glanced around. The cottage might have appeared rustic on the outside, but Aunt Jo had created an impressive kitchen. Though compact, it was very

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