Feels Like Home (Oyster Bay Book 1)

by Olivia Miles

  And shame on her for ever getting comfortable in the first place.

  With a heavy heart, she pushed the wheelchair back toward room 132, this time walking more slowly, and daring to look around, to face her new reality. Most of the doors were open, televisions were on, some other residents had guests. In the distance she even heard the sound of a child laughing. She smiled at that, but it slipped from her face when she rounded the bend and saw a man standing in the doorway of another room. Tall and broad shouldered, with nut brown hair that curled ever so slowly at the neck.

  She’d know that hairline anywhere. She’d memorized it freshman year, sitting behind him in algebra, on the days he bothered to show up to class.

  Eddie.

  What the hell was he doing here? And really, what was he doing back in Oyster Bay at all?

  Now wasn’t the time to find out.

  Heart racing, she swiveled the wheelchair and then realized that there was nowhere else to go, unless she wanted to push Mimi into a janitor’s closet. It was tempting.

  “What are you doing, girl? Abby! Abby!”

  Margo closed her eyes, feeling her face heat, and then glared at the wall, knowing with a sinking feeling that Eddie was probably staring at her backside. Her thirty-two-year-old backside. A far cry from the seventeen-year-old figure she’d once possessed, despite her twice a week Pilates classes and three days of cardio on the stationary bike.

  She turned. Eddie’s mouth quirked into a grin. But not just any grin. It was that slow, lopsided, mischievous grin that got her into trouble, every time. The kind that didn’t need a verbal invitation. That kind of smile that just said…everything.

  Margo didn’t grin. She didn’t smile. She gave a tight nod, gripped the handles of the wheelchair a little tighter, and pushed Mimi and Pudgie back into their room at the end of the hall, where she hid for the next hour, before doing what she did best these days. She fled.

  ***

  There was a box of donuts from Angie’s next to the coffeepot when Eddie walked into the station. Normally he tried to avoid sugar as much as he avoided alcohol, but this morning, his self-control was plummeting.

  He grabbed a mug and filled it, then stared at his options.

  To hell with it. If he was going to eat a donut, it was going to be a good one. And Angie made the best donuts in town.

  “Someone’s birthday?” he asked Sylvia as he walked to his desk. From the numerous reminders she’d dropped in the past few weeks, he knew for a fact that her birthday wasn’t until Saturday.

  His partner eyed him with suspicion. “Since when do you eat sweets?”

  “Since I came from visiting Ray,” he replied evenly.

  A look of recognition crossed her face. “Well, don’t go reaching for another one. Wouldn’t want to mess up your boyish figure.”

  He laughed, appreciating the way she lightened the otherwise sensitive topic. “Anything come in this morning?”

  “It’s ten thirty. And this is Oyster Bay, not Philly,” she reminded him, as she liked to do whenever he complained about the lack of action. “But I’ll tell you what. Next time Damon Padilla calls complaining that his cat climbed up his tree again, I’ll let you handle it.”

  “Wow, thanks,” Eddie said, but he was grinning.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a donut to fetch.” She pushed herself out of her chair and then sat back down again. “No, I do not have a donut to fetch. I ran on that treadmill for forty-five minutes this morning and I am not going to undo all that hard work with a donut.”

  “There you go,” he said, taking another bite from his own. He powered up his computer and tapped in his password.

  Sylvia was watching him, a look of longing taking over her big blue eyes. She pushed a strand of graying hair behind her ear, then licked her bottom lip.

  “One donut won’t kill you, you know.”

  “No, but one donut will set me back an entire day,” she replied, turning back to her paperwork. She looked up again. “Fifteen pounds per kid. You know what that adds up to?”

  Eddie quickly did the math and refrained from comment.

  “Got to get my figure back in shape before I’m forty if I’m ever going to be asked out on a date again.”

  “But you’re turning forty this Saturday,” Eddie pointed out.

  “Exactly,” Sylvia said.

  He opened his mouth to give her some words of advice, something he’d learned in his several hundred AA meetings, but stopped himself just in time. Sylvia didn’t know he was in recovery. All she knew was that he left the force in Philadelphia for a simpler life in Oyster Bay, where he’d spent three and a half years with his aunt and uncle, back when he was just a kid.

  That was all she needed to know. That was all anyone needed to know.

  “You have big plans for the big day?”

  Sylvia looked at him like he was half-crazy. “Other than cooking for my three ingrates?”

  He knew she didn’t mean it. Those kids were her life. But there was still a hint of something sad in her voice that didn’t sit right with him.

  “Bobby is old enough to look after the younger two for a few hours, isn’t he?”

  Sylvia cocked an eyebrow. “Bobby is fifteen. Do you remember what you were like when you were fifteen?”

  He did, not that he’d be sharing. When he was fifteen he was awkward and shy and scared and didn’t know how to handle any of that. He was the new kid in town, the outsider, and his mysterious background didn’t help matters. The only person other than his aunt, uncle, and cousin Nick to go out of their way to make him feel welcome was Margo, and all because he’d sensed she felt the same way, after she’d humiliated herself at the school talent show. He’d shown her a little kindness, and in return…she’d shown him everything. How to trust, open up, how to believe that life could be so much more than the trailer park he’d come from, with his drunk dad and his gambling debts and his temper.

  “You think a fifteen-year-old boy is responsible enough to take care of his brothers?” Sylvia was still saying.

  Not if Bobby was anything like the boys Eddie had known. Those boys were mean, immature, and determined to get to the dark dirty truth of his past, no matter what it took. He was taunted for being new. Teased for being different. And when things got too bad, instead of walking away, Eddie took the bait. Every time. Because he was fifteen years old, and he didn’t know what else to do.

  “What about a sitter?”

  “I suppose their father could take them for the night. Why?” Now Sylvia looked pleased.

  “Dinner’s on me this Saturday. You deserve a night out. And you never know, you might end up meeting someone.”

  “I won’t hold my breath,” Sylvia said, but she was smiling when she said, “Thank you. And with that, I will cut out all sugar until Saturday. Chip Donovan makes a mean skillet cookie.”

  Eddie grinned. “I applaud your self-control. And just to make it easier for you, I will not eat this donut in front of you.”

  “Thank you,” she said primly.

  He stood, headed toward the conference room, taking his coffee with him, and stood near the window, looking out over the town center as he polished off what was left of his breakfast. He’d been back in Oyster Bay for months, and in all that time, he’d managed to control himself. His emotions, his urges, everything squared up, in place.

  And then Margo Harper had to come back.

  Chapter Four

  In exchange for finding a renter for the cottage, Jeffrey had thrown Bridget a bone: first-time buyers in the market for a starter home.

  The only thing better was if he’d tossed her a potential buyer for Mimi’s house, but of course those kinds of people were few and far between, and she’d had little interest since she’d listed it last month. Still, it only took one person, and in twenty-four hours Bridget would know if she had a bite. If this lead didn’t pan out, the house would likely sit on the market all winter; she’d have to relist it in the spri
ng. It wouldn’t be such a problem if the cost of upkeep didn’t directly clash with the cost of the retirement home.

  Still, deep down she clung to the dream of holding onto her childhood home a little longer. Having one last Christmas in the front living room. The fire crackling while everyone took turns playing carols on the piano, Emma helping Mimi bake cookies for Santa in the big, white kitchen.

  Not an option, she reminded herself firmly, as she pulled off Gull Lane and onto a gravel road that bordered the north side of town. The couple was meeting her at a cozy, three-bedroom Cape that had just come on the market last week, its former owners headed for the eternal sunshine of Florida. When it first popped up on the MLS, Bridget had pored over the photos, imagining herself living in it, knowing it was a big step up from her current situation but still just slightly out of reach. The kitchen was small, but renovated, with a cute little eating nook nestled beside a bay window. She could almost picture Emma doing her homework there while Bridget made dinner, or setting up a swing set in the tree-filled backyard, before Emma grew too old for that sort of play.

  Of course, like so many of the homes she had toured for professional reasons, living in one was a long shot for a divorced, single mom. And it had been a long shot back when she was married, too. Sure, they’d been comfortable, living in a rental home that she’d tried to make her own. It was more spacious than her current apartment, and more expensive too, but it still wasn’t her own, and Ryan didn’t understand that need. The money she’d saved from her part-time college job had gone toward Ryan’s restaurant, as had all her earnings at the hotel in town, where she’d worked as an assistant manager for a few years. It was an “investment,” he claimed, in “their” future. But Bridget had her doubts. And as much as she had hoped to be proven wrong, she never was. Any profit the restaurant turned went back into the business, and all of Bridget’s hopes and dreams got put on the back burner.

  Well, no more. She was working hard, building back her savings, even if two steps forward always felt like three steps back lately.

  The listing was at the end of the road, tucked neatly between two maple trees whose leaves were just started to turn orange. A young couple (well, everyone felt young compared to her lately) was standing on the front step. Holding hands, God help her.

  Bridget eyed her naked ring finger, a habit she couldn’t kick even after nearly eight years, and gave herself a quick pep talk, which rarely worked, but it was better than nothing.

  It is better to be alone and broke than miserable and comfortable.

  Sometimes, like when she saw just how sweet this house was, she questioned that philosophy. After all, Ryan hadn’t been that bad, had he?

  Strike that. Yes, he had been that bad. And worse.

  With a brighter smile than she felt, she climbed out of her car and crossed the brick-paved path to greet her new clients. They parted hands long enough to shake hers.

  “New to Oyster Bay?” She’d lived in this town all her life and thought she knew everyone by now.

  “We wanted a fresh start,” the wife explained.

  Didn’t everyone? Problem was, it wasn’t as easy as it seemed. When she and Ryan had split up, she told herself it was for the best. That she’d be better off on her own. She imagined a sweet, simple house for her and Emma. Chatty meals at the dinner table. Carefree weekends without all the fighting and arguing that her married life had given her.

  So much for that. She worked every weekend she could; if a client wanted to see a house, she had to be available. And as for dinners, by the time she walked in her front door it was all she could do to heat up something from the frozen section so she’d still have time to look over Emma’s homework and get her ready for the next school day.

  “We’re both from small towns, and we like small towns, but…”

  Bridget nodded. “I understand. A new place for a new phase.” She would have liked that herself. Instead she had the joy of sharing Oyster Bay with her ex. “Oyster Bay is a wonderful community,” she said as she punched the code into the lock box on the front door. “The beaches are some of the best in the state, and the town center is very vibrant. I’m happy to recommend some good restaurants, if you’d like.”

  “We had lunch at Dunley’s,” the husband said.

  At the mention of Ryan’s establishment, Bridget could only hope her expression remained neutral. “Well,” she managed, pushing open the door. “Let’s have a look.”

  She stood in the front entranceway, imagining what it would be like to kick off her shoes, hang her bag on the hook, and go into the kitchen for a cup of tea. In the eight years since she’d joined Bayside Realty, first in the front office and later, when Emma was school-age, as a real estate agent, she’d walked through dozens of homes, from budget-friendly seasonal rentals in need of a complete rehab to beachfront estates, but this was the first time she’d experienced a feeling of…longing. She’d saved up a lot over the years, pinching and scrimping, and if she had one more year, or one big sale, something like this could maybe be hers. Maybe.

  She cleared the thought, forced her eyes away from the arched doorway that led into the living room, and to the listing sheet she held in her hand. “This is a three bedroom, two bath.”

  “Is the basement finished?” the wife cut in. She pursed her lips as she looked at the adjoining dining room from the hallway where they stood.

  “No,” Bridget said, sensing the couple’s disappointment. “But we can check the ceiling clearance. Older homes like this were built differently than newer construction.”

  She led them through the living room, gazing wistfully at the brick-framed fireplace with the wide mantle, and back through the hall to the kitchen, which was at least double the size of her apartment’s offering, and certainly filled with more charm.

  Judging from their silence, the couple didn’t seem nearly as impressed as she was.

  “Should we go upstairs?” she asked, leading them back into the hallway.

  “Actually, I think we’ve seen enough,” said the husband. “We’re looking for something more modern.”

  The wife nodded. “Clean lines.”

  From her experience, clean lines was code for boring and sterile. Everything a home shouldn’t be.

  “Okay,” she said, trying not to show her disapproval. Every sale counted, and this one could go toward that summer camp Emma was already hoping to attend next year. “I’ll go back to the office and see what I can find.” It was all part of the process, and they were still in the early stages. The clients told her everything they didn’t like; it helped her narrow down the field. Eventually they found something that fit. But sometimes that took months.

  She reached for the door handle, smiling a little when she saw a swing hanging from the sturdy branches of the nearest tree. They’d had one just like that growing up; the sisters always raced to see who could get to it first, Abby’s braids flying out from behind her as she scrambled down the steps. Margo was fastest, and always stood back and let Abby go first anyway. They’d carved their names into the bottom of the seat one year, crudely etching the wood with their initials, marking what was theirs, what was special.

  A sad smile pulled at her mouth. Maybe this was why she’d fallen so hard for this house. It reminded her of Mimi’s house.

  It reminded her of home.

  ***

  After leaving Serenity Hills by the emergency exit (honestly, if bumping into Eddie again didn’t classify as an emergency, she wasn’t sure what did), Margo spent the rest of the day unpacking the random belongings she had stuffed into her suitcases in her equally harried escape from her marital home. With the items laid out on the fluffy white duvet cover, there was no denying her mental state was questionable, at best. Six pairs of underwear, an extra pair of jeans that she hadn’t squeezed into since last fall (too much French onion soup at Froggy’s, it would seem), a handful of mismatched socks, four bras, a stack of sweaters, and two sets of pajamas. No shoes other than the ball
et flats she’d been wearing when she’d watched Ash stick his tongue down Candace’s throat. She was surprised to notice that she’d packed all of her toiletries, minus a razor. But really, was there any point in shaving her legs anymore?

  She sat down on the bed, considering that perk.

  She’d remembered her glasses, at least, and an extra pair of contact lenses. The book that had been on her bedside table for the last three weeks. And her phone charger. She’d had the sense to bring that.

  Not that her husband had bothered to call.

  Telling. About as telling as carrying on behind her back.

  When she was finished unpacking, she drove into town, bought laundry detergent and a bottle of wine for dinner with her sisters. Then she went back to the cottage to eat ice cream in front of the television, and tried not to think that nearly forty-eight hours had transpired since she’d left home and she was still no closer than she was when she’d left to figuring out what she was going to do next.

  By the time five thirty rolled around, she had scraped the ice-cream container clean, opened another, and cleared out a bag of tortilla chips as she caught up on daytime soaps and the evening news. No missing person alerts. No heartbroken husbands pleading for the safe return of his beloved spouse.

  With her stomach aching from too much junk food, Margo changed into a fresh sweater that didn’t bear the spill of melted ice cream, brushed her hair into a new ponytail, and slipped back into her ballet flats. An unforgiving chill was swirling off the ocean, making her shiver as she ran to the car that was parked in the driveway. She hadn’t needed a coat in Charleston at this time of year, but the weather was different in Maine. Heck, everything was different in Maine. If she stuck around much longer, she’d have to buy a coat. Have to buy a few things, actually. Or, she could just drive home, back to her sunny new construction brick Colonial on Peach Leaf Circle, where she had a walk-in closet full of everything she would ever need.