Leonard cleared his throat, the movement jerky. “Actually, Mr. Harlow, we’ve encountered a complication with the property.”
Jack straightened. “What kind of complication?”
Leonard shifted from foot to foot. “There’s a private loan against the café. The holder of that loan has called in the debt.”
Bea’s voice was tight with worry. “We were just discussing what that means.”
“It means,” Jack said, the reality clicking into place like the pieces of a puzzle he didn’t want to solve, “that if the loan isn’t paid off, they’ll foreclose on the place. And who knows what they’ll do with it.” The words were sour on his tongue. This was a nightmare he knew too well. He turned back to Leonard, his gut sinking. “How long?”
The lawyer swallowed. “Less than thirty days.”
“How much?” Jack asked.
“A hundred grand,” Aggie said, casting a pointed look at the back pocket of his jeans where his worn wallet rested. “Got that kind of cash hidden away anywhere?”
He ignored her, his attention laser-focused on Leonard. “Who?” His fists clenched at his sides, the muscles in his arms straining to keep his anger in check. “Who holds the loan?” He had a sneaking suspicion he already knew the answer.
Leonard’s eyes darted nervously around the room and finally landed on him. “Nathaniel Worthington. Privately, not through the bank.”
The name hit him like a sledgehammer. Worthington. Of course. It had to be a blasted Worthington. A lifetime of bad blood between their families rushed back, and all he felt was bitter fury rising in his chest. His jaw was clenched so tight he felt the pressure in his teeth.
Winston leaned forward, hands steepled on the table. “Now, Jack, let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation.”
“Reasonable?” He barked out a laugh. “There’s nothing reasonable about the Worthingtons. They’ve been trying to buy up every inch of Sunrise for years. And now they’ve got their sights set on Lolly’s place? We need to stop them.”
He glanced at Cora. Confusion and worry shadowed her face. She didn’t know the half of it—the feud between their families, the power struggles, the dirty games. To her, this was just business. But to him, it was personal.
“Jack,” Cora said softly.
Something in her voice pulled him back. Their eyes met, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of vulnerability there.
“This isn’t your fight,” she said.
But it was. The Salty Spoon was more than a café. It was a chance to honor Lolly’s memory and to prove he wasn’t thescrew-up everyone thought he was. To finally change how this town saw him.
“Lolly was my friend. Her fight is my fight. We need to figure out what’s really going on,” he said, his voice low. “And we need to do it fast.”
Aggie let out a quiet huff, her glasses slipping down her nose. “I’m still trying to figure out where you fit into the picture. Did Lolly have some dirt on you or something?”
Her words stung, dredging up why he’d kept his distance from Lolly’s friends since he’d been back in Sunrise. Their judgment hung in the air, thick as the ham and pea soup Lolly used to make on Wednesdays. But he held his ground.
“People change, Aggie. Sometimes they don’t have a choice.”
Cora shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, Jack, but I can handle this on my own. It’s my grandmother’s estate. It’s my responsibility.”
The stubborn set to her jaw told him arguing would be as effective as asking the tide to go out on command, but he wanted to tell her she didn’t have to do it alone. That Lolly would have wanted him to help.
Before he could even try, Cora’s resolve broke. A sob escaped, and she bolted through the screen door to the café’s back porch, leaving the rest of them staring after her in stunned silence.
Chapter Seven
Cora burst out onto the back porch, the screen door slamming shut with a satisfyingthwackas she blinked through a blur of tears. The humid Carolina air wrapped around her like a hot, damp blanket, and she gulped in shaky breaths to steady herself under the flood of emotions. At least out here she was able to let the tears fall freely. She sank onto the porch swing, kicking off her shoes to feel the sun-warmed wood beneath her feet. One shoe flew off and landed with a dull thud against what looked like an old, ratty brown rug. Sniffling, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, trying to pull herself together.
Then the rug yelped.
She yelped too, her heart leaping into her throat as the “rug” stretched and transformed into a massive Saint Bernard. He perked up his velvety ears, eyeing her with mild surprise and curiosity.
“Oh, no,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as her hiccupping breaths battled with sobs that refused to stop. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
