So much for avoiding conversation. He liked August, though, as far as lawyers went. “No, sir.” He returned the handshake, noting the older man’s signature tweed blazer. The man had been born in the wrong century. “I have an appointment—Blue Pirogue business.”
“Speaking of the inn, I was going to call you later this morning, so this is rather fortuitous.” August set his briefcase on the empty table beside them, then pushed his glasses up his nose. The man’s untamed salt-and-pepper hair was the only thing about him that wasn’t always perfectly in order. “Could you come by my office this afternoon?”
Noah hesitated as the dozens of unfinished tasks on his calendar filled his mind, including finding slate blue paint. “I’m afraid I’ve got a full?—”
“Here, take my card, in case you need a refresher of the address.” August handed over the rectangular business card. “It won’t take long, but it’s important.”
“I’ll try, but?—”
“Great! Two o’clock?” August clapped Noah on the shoulder before he could protest. “See you then, son.”
Noah was more likely to be August’s grandson than son, but he didn’t get to protest that or the fact he couldn’t come by before the older man scooted toward the exit.
Great. Noah needed to find Isaac, before he got swept into any more obligations.
He scanned the café a final time, his gaze bouncing off the various magnolia blossom centerpieces, the kitschy teal and yellow wall art, and the hardened stare of Sheriff Rubart—another Bergeron fan—until…there.
Isaac Bergeron sat with his back to the restroom wall, his iPad on the table before him next to a mug. The Magnolia Blossom Café had never used a designated set of coffee cups. Delia Boudreaux, the long-time owner and town “mama,” had told Noah when he was a kid that she was clumsy and would end up breaking them, so if they never matched, no one would know.
The thought brought a smile. Maybe he’d missed this quirky town just a little.
Isaac looked up from his iPad, squaring his shoulders under his dark polo shirt. His face was clean shaven save for a tidy goatee peppered with gray. “Noah. Glad you could make it.”
Noah’s burst of generosity dissipated. He dipped his chin as he slid onto the bench seat across from Mr. Bergeron, then remembered a childhood’s worth of Delia’s reminders to take off his hat during greetings. He tugged his favorite ball cap free from his head and nodded again. “Sir.”
Isaac wasn’t a gambling man, but his poker face could have won him a bundle. He revealed zero hint of how sharing a table with a Hebert affected him, if it did at all. Especially this particular Hebert.
Noah, however, worked hard to keep his thoughts off his expression. He replaced his hat and searched for polite conversation. “Have you ordered?”
“I had a bagel. Would you like some coffee?” Isaac cocked one brow, the intentional movement creating the exact intimidation factor Noah was sure he intended.
“I think I’m set, thanks.” He wanted a stack of pancakes, but not at the expense of making this meeting longer than necessary.
Under the table, Noah flexed his hands against the worn denim of his jeans. During the inspection last week, they’d kept their distance. Isaac had done his official thing, while Noah hovered just close enough to be reached if the inspector had any questions. Thankfully—for both of them—there had been few, and their forced interaction hadn’t taken long.
Isaac took a leisurely sip from his mug, and Noah dug his fingers harder into his knees. Surely Isaac wanted to get this over with as much as Noah did. But the older man didn’t seem in a hurry to hand over the coveted contents of the closed manila folder sitting on the table.
“As you might expect, I have some news for you.” Isaac set down his mug, then draped one arm across the length of the booth seat.
There was the poker face again. He braced himself for a request to tweak a few things. But Noah knew the inn, knew the work that had been done with his own sweat and blood, not to mention the crew he’d hand-picked that had come highly recommended. He’d had a tight budget to work with from his construction loan, but he’d gotten the best and even bartered a handful of favors when finances got tight.
That reminded him—he owed Peter a few bass.
Noah cleared his throat. “I’m ready.”
“I have to warn you, it might not be good news.” Isaac drummed his fingers on the bench as if it were a regular day, not as if he was holding Noah’s golden ticket just out of reach. “But it’s how these things go sometimes.”
So it was as he’d feared. Noah gritted his teeth, keeping his gaze on the syrup-sticky menu between them rather than on Isaac’s smug expression. “I assume there are some changes you’d like to see?”
“Only one big one.” Isaac finally reached for the folder and slid it across the table to Noah, then flipped open the cover. The bold stamp boasting the words FAILED INSPECTION met him like a red-inked slap in the face.
Noah’s mouth went dry. He stared at the unexpected words until they swirled against the other type. “I don’t understand. How?” His renovations couldn’t have failed. Noah had personally attested that everything had been done up to code.
But he did understand, didn’t he? He should have known a Bergeron wouldn’t play fair.
Noah wished he could rip the paper into tiny shreds and throw it in Isaac’s face. Wasn’t that what his grandfather had preached all those years of Noah’s childhood, as he grew up in the inn? That the land under the Blue Pirogue was rightfully Hebert property, despite their petulant claims otherwise, and that the Bergerons were simply “too lazy to make their own good business deals”?
Isaac’s face was less than sympathetic—in fact, that appeared to be a smirk hovering around the corners of his mouth. Then the man schooled his features and picked up the condemning paper before Noah could give into temptation. “I’m sorry it wasn’t what you hoped.”
