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The conversation shifted to baseball, an even more dangerous subject in metropolitan Boston than politics. On another night, Tess might have joined in. Good food and a good argument were part of the charm of her father's pub, a contrast to the pace and complexity of her normal routine as both business-woman and designer. Unfortunately the last man in her life hadn't seen the appeal of Jim's Place and chowder night.

"Pop," she said, "it's not a barn, and I wasn't stupid not to take cash. This was a great opportunity. I never could have afforded something like this otherwise. It's a half block from the ocean. It just needs work."

He put together a martini, seemingly absorbed in his work. Tess knew better. It had been just her and her father for so long, she knew when he was on automatic pilot. She'd had ample opportunity to tell him about her carriage house, and she hadn't. And they both knew it. She was the daughter who'd lost her mother at six, who'd always told her father everything. Even as they'd carved out the landscape of their adult relationship, she and Jim Haviland hadn't abandoned their tendency to speak their minds. It didn't matter if the other didn't want to hear what had to be said.

But not this time.

Tess finished her soup while he pretended to concentrate on his drink-making. It wasn't that she needed her father's approval. They'd worked that out a long time ago. It was just that her life was easier when she had it.

"How much work?" he asked.

"A lot," Davey said.

Her father shot him a warning look, and Davey shrugged and finished his beer.

Tess opened a small package of oyster crackers. She never ate them with her soup, always after. "A fair amount."

He nodded. A place that needed work was something he could understand. "You've decided to keep the house?"

"I don't know. I think so. Pop, when I was up there this afternoon, I kept thinking of all the possibilities. There's something about this place-it fired my imagination."

That he could understand. Her imagination had put them at odds before. He grunted. "Well, if you decide to hang on to it, a bunch of these bums here owe me favors."

"I'll keep that in mind." She nibbled on a cracker, and added, "But if I go through with this, I think I'd like to do as much of the work as I can myself."

Davey gave an exaggerated groan. "If there's anything I hate, it's cleaning up after some do-it-your-selfer."

"Give me a break, okay, Davey? I'm trying to have a conversation with my father. This is important to me."

"True confessions," Davey said. "You're a day late and a dollar short, Tess."

She ignored him. "I've got pictures, Pop. Do you want to see? Ike Grantham gave them to me when he signed over the property."

"Ike Grantham." Jim Haviland snorted. "Now there's a piece of work."

"Pop."

"Yeah, sure. Show me your pictures."

Tess slid off the stool and picked up her satchel. Her father's pub was one of the rare places that made her feel short. She unzipped a side pocket and removed the best two shots of the roll Ike had taken. He'd been very proud. "It's a great place, Tess. I know I can trust you with it."

She passed the pictures across the bar to her father.

He put on his reading glasses and took a look. "Tess. Jesus. It is a barn."

"I'm telling you," Davey said, "it's got snakes."

Davey was getting on Tess's nerves. She almost told him the place was haunted by a convicted murderer whose descendants lived next door, never mind that one of them was a six-year-old who thought she was a princess. But she said nothing, because arguing with Davey Ahearn only encouraged him.

"It's in Beacon-by-the-Sea, Pop. Remember when we used to go up there for picnics on the beach?"

"Yeah. I remember." He took off his glasses and pushed the pictures back to her. "Long commute."

"It'd be a while before I could move in, and I'm not sure I would. If business keeps up, I could keep it as a weekend place."

"Old as it is," Davey went on, as if he'd never stopped, "it's probably got asbestos, lead pipes. Lead paint."

"So? I could buy a duplex up the street with lead paint and asbestos."

Davey eased off the bar stool. "Now, why would you want to buy a place in a neighborhood with people who've known you your whole life? That wouldn't make any sense when you can fix up some goddamn barn some goddamn rich nut gave you in a quaint little town up on the North Shore where not only no one knows you, no one wants to know you."

"That's pure prejudice, Davey, and I earned the carriage house. It wasn't ‘given' to me." Except she'd thought she'd have to do more work to really earn it, although Ike had never put that on paper. Technically, the carriage house was hers, free and clear of everything but taxes.

"You know I'm telling the truth." Davey walked heavily over to her, this big man she'd known since she was in a crib. Her godfather. "You've lost sight of who you are, where you come from."

"Davey, I'm sitting here eating clam chowder in my father's pub. I haven't lost sight of anything."

He snorted, but kissed her on the cheek, his mustache tickling her. "You need a plumber for that barn of yours, kid, give me a call. I'll see what I can do. If it's hopeless, I'll bring a book of matches. You can collect the insurance."

Tess fought back a smile. "Davey, you're impossible."

"Ha. Like you're not."

The guys at the tables ragged him about the bald spot on the back of his head, and he gave them the finger and left.

"You're thirty-four years old, Tess." Her father exhaled a long, slow breath, as if his own words had taken him by surprise. "I can't be telling you what to do."

"That's not what I was worried about. I was worried you'd talk me out of doing something before I could figure out for myself if it was something I really wanted to do."

"And since when have I done that?"

"It could have happened today."

"You want to keep this place?"

"I'm thinking seriously about it, Pop."

"Well, so be it. How 'bout a piece of pie?"

"What do you have?"

"Lemon meringue."

She smiled. "Perfect."

* * *

Davey Ahearn was smoking a cigarette on his front stoop across the street from the pub when Tess headed out into the cool evening. He walked over to her. "You take the subway?" He tossed his cigarette onto the street. "I'll walk you to the station."

There was no point in telling him she could see herself to the subway station. He'd walk with her, anyway. "Thanks."

He glanced at her as they headed to the corner. "You didn't tell him about the ghost, did you?" Tess hoisted her satchel higher onto her shoulder.

"I don't believe in ghosts." "Tess." "No, I didn't tell him, okay? For God's sake, I'm a grown woman. I don't have to tell you or my father that a few highly imaginative people believe my carriage house is haunted."

"Not a few people. It's in the goddamn guidebooks." She gripped her satchel with one hand. "How do you know these things?"

He grinned at her from behind his oversize mustache. "I know everything."

"If I decide to turn the place into a bed-and-break-fast, a ghost could be good for business."

"Not that ghost."

Tess didn't respond.

Davey grunted. "No wonder you still keep your old man up nights. He wants to go to his grandkids' Little League games, and he's got a daughter wanting to renovate a barn haunted by a murderer."

"I'm not answering you, Davey. Answering would only encourage you."

They turned onto the main road, traffic streaming past them, the last of the daylight finally fading. She thought of Beacon-by-the-Sea, how quiet it would be.

Davey eased back. "Go on. Go home, Tess. If you screw up, you screw up. You're smart. You'll figure it out."

She smiled at him. "And you and Pop will be there. Don't think I don't know that, Davey."

"Hell, no. I'm not cleaning up after this mess. You're on your own."