Feels Like Home (Oyster Bay Book 1)

by Olivia Miles

  She stepped back to let him pass, but he held out his hand and said, “Ladies first.”

  And she might have swooned. There was that grin again. Her sweaty palms were back. Couldn’t he just stop…smiling for a minute? Or better yet, couldn’t she? She didn’t smile. Not like this, at least. She smiled with her daughter, or when Jeffrey said something funny at work, but other than that…She was serious, Abby had always accused. No fun, Ryan had claimed. What neither of them understood was that someone had to be the responsible one.

  But now she felt downright giddy. Misplaced excitement, she told herself firmly. She’d been anticipating this meeting for two weeks, since the email first popped up from the man standing right here, claiming he saw her listing on the MLS and wanted to come to Maine for a look. She’d been anticipating this meeting with every sense: dread, fear, with more emotions than she could dare to process. She’d try to check each one, keep herself focused and professional, but now she was starting to unravel, and that wouldn’t do.

  She briskly walked by him and led him straight into the front living room, glancing at the piano in the corner, which Margo had insisted on propping open, even though the thing was painfully out of tune. Last Christmas, Emma had begged her for lessons and Bridget had spent most of December researching her options, thinking she could budget for it if Ryan went in on the gift with her. But then Mimi had taken a turn for the worse, leaving on the burner on the gas range, which Bridget luckily discovered when she stopped by to drop off dinner one night, and Bridget knew it was time to move her into Serenity Hills. The piano would never fit in her apartment, or Ryan’s, and so all talk of lessons had been shelved for now.

  She pushed back that never-ending guilt that she wasn’t giving her daughter the life she deserved, and stole another glance at her client.

  “This is a large room,” he observed.

  “It is.” She nodded. She was about to refer him to the dimensions on the listing sheet and realized with horror she had never handed him one. Good grief. Flustered, she fumbled in her handbag for her folder and quickly handed him the information. “I’ve always considered the fireplace in this room to be the prettiest in the house,” she said, walking over to the mantle. Until this morning, it had been lined with framed photos, but Margo had cleared those away, anchoring the mirror by two pillar candles she’d repurposed from the dining room instead. “There are three other fireplaces,” she said, turning.

  But Ian Fowler wasn’t admiring the craftsmanship of the millwork from which red and green stockings hung every December, or the ornate iron grate that Bridget once feared would be too heavy for Santa to maneuver. He was rubbing his jaw, eyes scanning the room, as if he were making some mental calculation.

  Furniture placement, Bridget thought, her heart skipping a beat. A good sign, technically.

  Ian walked over to the far wall and pounded it with the side of his fist.

  “The walls are plaster,” she said, frowning slightly.

  He looked at the ceiling, following the wall to the where it met its end. “Might be able to open this up.”

  “What?”

  The alarm in her voice caused him to look at her sharply. “I don’t think it’s a support wall.”

  She didn’t know what it was, other than the wall that housed the oil painting her grandfather had painted for Mimi on their twentieth wedding anniversary. A painting that should probably be with her in the nursing home, but which fit so perfectly into this room, she couldn’t bear to take it down just yet.

  “It would certainly open up the space, bring in more light,” he was saying.

  Bridget’s chest felt heavy. She supposed he was right.

  She swallowed hard and willed herself not to give away her personal feelings. The man did not need to know that this was her childhood home. It was, legally speaking, her grandmother’s home. Professionally, none of that should even matter. She was commissioned to sell it, and sell it was what she would do. If not to Ian Fowler, then to somebody else. For everyone’s sakes, things would proceed smoother if she treated this listing as impartially as any other. It was a product, and she was going to move it.

  “I love the windows,” Ian said, and Bridget couldn’t help but beam with pride.

  “Original to the home, but very well maintained. Double paned,” she added. “The insulation here is very strong.”

  Ian nodded. “Structure is very important to me. That and the view, of course.”

  Of course. It was of no surprise that the land would be the selling point, but as Bridget led Ian through the dining room, curiosity got the better of her. This was a large house with six bedrooms and a full third floor with loads of potential. What did this man plan to do with so much space?

  She glanced at his left hand. No ring.

  And shame on her for being so pleased by that discovery.

  She continued the tour into the kitchen, noting that Ian made no comment about the room. Bridget took that as a good thing, or an indication that as a bachelor, he might prefer takeout to cooking. She unlocked the French doors and led him out onto the back porch, with an expansive view of the grass that sloped down to the shoreline.

  “This is a perfect backyard for a wedding,” he surprised her by saying.

  At that, Bridget, who had been leading the way down the stairs to the lawn, missed the next step and managed not to fall flat on her back only by the quick reaction of Ian, whose sturdy hands were on her back and arm, righting her before the blood could even rush to her cheeks. But rush it did. She let out a nervous laugh, and muttered her thanks, feeling the heat of mortification spread down her neck.

  Ian just gave her a pleasant smile in return, and for a moment she dared to imagine the two of them standing right here, at the base of the stairs, their friends and family gathered on the lawn, where a huge white tent would be set up for their reception. Her dress would be long and elegant, and the music would be low enough to still make out the rhythm of the waves in the distance, and he’d hold out his hand and crack that smile and they’d take their first dance to the delight of everyone who had come to witness their happy day.

  A wedding. She hadn’t just imagined that he’d said that, had she? Was he…flirting with her?

  “I’d like to take some pictures, if that’s all right with you.” He pulled out his phone.

  “Of course.” She stepped back, while he took some shots of the back of the house.

  A wedding. Hadn’t she always dreamed of that? A wedding right here in her own backyard? The sisters had all shared in that dream in their own unique way, imagining the flowers they’d chose (tulips for Margo, roses for Bridget, and not surprisingly, wildflowers for Abby). Instead, Bridget had eloped, Margo had been roped into the wedding of her mother-in-law’s wishes, and Abby…Abby seemed to have no interest in settling down.

  That left Emma. And now Emma would never have the opportunity the rest of them had squandered.

  “Should we see the rest of the house?” she asked. They hadn’t even been upstairs yet, and she was eager to get back inside, alone with this man. It might not even be so bad if he bought it. A single, attractive man of appropriate age who was clearly financially secure and successful and who was talking about a future and weddings. Why, if she played her cards straight, this house might just stay in the family after all!

  “Let me just take a few more of the view,” he said, snapping another photo. He gave her a lopsided grin and oh, if her stomach didn’t roll over. “I promised my fiancée I’d send these to her.”

  Fiancée.

  Bridget’s smile tightened as she turned to go up the porch steps, her tread slow. She’d dared to hope, she realized. Something she hadn’t done in a long, long time.

  Something she’d be careful not to do again.

  Chapter Eight

  The Harper family had been coming to The Lantern ever since Uncle Chip opened the place, back when Margo’s parents were newlyweds. The family had celebrated everything here: lobster wi
th garlic mashed potatoes for birthdays; clam chowder with biscuits for New Year’s Day lunch; and ice cream sundaes for good grades or other special events like, say, Margo’s disastrous performance in the school talent show.

  When their parents had died, the sisters agreed it was fitting for the reception to be held in the restaurant rather than at home, and Chip closed the business for the day, made his sister’s favorite dishes, and half the town had stopped by and hugged them and cried with them, and as awful as that day had been, Margo knew it could have been worse. She had her friends and family surrounding her, sharing in her grief. It wasn’t until she went home to her house in Charleston that the sorrow hit her, and there was no one to talk to, no one who could understand. Ash had tried, but he didn’t understand. He hadn’t known her parents, hadn’t been a part of their memories, hadn’t shared in so much of her life.

  “I still don’t see why I couldn’t bring Pudgie,” Mimi grumbled as Margo helped her into a chair.

  Abby stopped unbuttoning her coat for a moment as she met Margo’s eye. “Oh, I think Pudgie is happier at home, Mimi.”

  “Home?” Mimi half laughed. “You call that dump a home?”

  “That dump is costing—” Abby pinched her lips. “Never mind.”

  Oh, dear. Margo took her seat while Abby flagged down a busboy. “A bottle of Pinot Grigio,” she said.

  “I’ll get your waiter,” he replied.

  “Oh, but you don’t mind, do you? Just this once? It’s been a day. And we’re celebrating.” Abby batted her lashes and, cheeks flushing, the poor young man muttered his agreement and hurried away.

  “He’s not the waiter, Abby,” Margo scolded.

  Abby just held her stare, her face impassive. “Tell me, could you have waited another fifteen minutes for something to take the edge off?”

  Margo looked down at the scratch on her hand, which Pudgie had left there after first climbing and then jumping from the drapes to Margo’s shoulder, much to Mimi’s endless delight.

  “Pudgie was having so much fun!” Mimi said now. “He loves company.”

  Margo reached for her water. Abby was right. She did need a drink. “Yes, well, the party is over.” While her grandmother sulked, Margo leaned across the table and hissed to her sister, “You really thought it would be a good idea to get her that cat?”

  “Don’t blame me!” Abby’s eyes were wide. “She was lonely. I assumed a cat would be less work than a dog, not that they allow dogs at Serenity Hills. It isn’t my fault that it has such a large personality.”

  A large personality. That was one way of phrasing it. Though she’d only met Pudgie twice, Margo could practically count the number of teeth in his mouth from his multiple attempts of nipping at her.

  “He’s not so bad, really,” Abby continued. “I just think…”

  At this moment, the waiter arrived with the wine, the young busboy close at his heels, his eyes fixed on Abby. Of course. Too young to serve. Not that this had stopped Abby from flirting with him to get her way.

  “You were saying?” Margo pressed, after the waiter poured them each a glass and Abby had graciously bestowed a smile on the blushing busboy.

  “I just don’t think Pudgie likes you,” Abby said, tipping her head in sympathy.

  Was this what it had come to? They were discussing the personal preferences of their grandmother’s obese feline? “He can join the crowd,” Margo muttered, taking a long sip of wine. It went down smooth. She caught Abby’s suspicious look over the rim of her glass. “Well,” she said, clearing her throat. She set down the glass and picked up the menu, even though the offerings hadn’t changed in twenty-five years. “Should we start with calamari?”

  But Abby wasn’t biting. “Everything okay, Margo?”

  “Of course!” Margo said, but it was no use. Her cheeks flushed and her glass rattled when she reached for the wine again. Her eyes began to dart all over the room, right to the door, where a crowd was gathered, waiting for a table to open up, and there, at the back of the group, was Eddie.

  This night just got better and better.

  “At least everything was okay up until a minute ago,” she said. “Eddie’s here.”

  Abby seemed to perk up at this, but then, she always loved a bit of drama. “Oh, and it looks like he’s alone!”

  Sure enough, Eddie was pushing his way through the crowd toward the bar. Margo picked up the menu again, hoping to hide behind it, but Mimi had other plans.

  “Eddie! Eddie Boyd!” Mimi called, waving her hand high above her head.

  “Mimi—” Margo said through gritted teeth, but it was too late. Eddie swiveled his head, finally finding the source of the voice. He glanced at Margo sharply, and spotting her, gave a hundred-watt grin.

  Oh, for Pete’s sake.

  “Can’t seem to stop running into you,” he said as he approached the table.

  “One of the perks of small-town life,” she said, hoping he caught the sarcasm.

  “Eddie Boyd! I have a bone to pick with you, young man!” Mimi reprimanded. Eddie’s smile turned positively wicked now and Margo rolled her eyes to the ceiling, waiting for it.

  “And what’s that, Mrs. Harper?” Eddie said, leaning down to kiss one of her cheeks in greeting.

  Mimi swatted him away, but a pleased smile pursed her red lipstick-painted mouth. “This here granddaughter of mine is now thirty-two years old, and she’s not getting any younger! Have you seen those fine lines around her eyes?”

  Eddie’s own eyes danced. “Can’t say that I have, but I can look again.”

  Margo scowled at him, but he studiously ignored her. Abby, of course, was beaming.

  “Thirty-two years old and spending Saturday night with her sisters and grandmother. Tell me, how much longer until you make an honest woman out of her?”

  Margo choked on her wine as Abby whooped in glee and Eddie did a poor job of covering his shock.

  “Well, Mrs. Harper, your granddaughter is certainly a beautiful woman who stole my heart a long time ago, but I’m afraid she’s already taken.”

  Margo set her glass back down. A beautiful woman. She knew she shouldn’t feed into such trivial nonsense, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t been called that since…well, her wedding day, perhaps, and then it had been by her father. Ash wasn’t one for compliments, and she supposed that when you were married, there was no need in stating the obvious attractions which helped bring you to that place to begin with. But hearing these words, spoken by Eddie. Well.

  “That’s right, Mimi,” she said, struggling to say the words. “I’m married.” Technically, and better for everyone at this table to go on thinking so. Especially Eddie, she thought, accidentally catching his eye.

  Mimi was blinking hard, as if trying to remember something. “Oh, that’s right. You left town. Broke my girl’s heart.”

  Eddie’s smile disappeared. “Well, now, it wasn’t that simple.”

  “Wasn’t it?” Margo knew she should let it rest, but she couldn’t let him off the hook that easily.

  He gave her a long, heated look, and this time she didn’t break his stare. Eddie. Oh, Eddie. Why’d you do it? And did it matter? What was done was done. It could never be undone.

  Her heart began to hurt, and she looked away, suddenly wishing she’d never come here at all. To The Lantern. To Oyster Bay.

  “And then she went off and married that woman,” Mimi finished.

  Now Abby was giggling and Eddie’s eyes were filled with mirth, but Margo was far from amused. “Mimi,” she said with overt patience, or perhaps, lack thereof. “I told you. Ashley is a man.”

  “If you say so.” Mimi snorted, giving her cohorts a wide-eyed stare.

  Margo shook her head and lifted her wine glass. No use continuing this conversation. Besides, her mind wasn’t on Ash right now. It was on what Eddie had said. About why he’d left. About how it wasn’t so simple.

  “Well, I should let you enjoy your evening,” Eddie said. “I’m meetin
g a friend and I think Chip is on his way over here to give you the royal treatment.”

  Mimi sat up straighter at this, but Margo found herself wondering just who this friend Eddie had referred to could be. It was Saturday night, and Eddie wasn’t married. His cousin Nick was apparently living in Portland, and he didn’t have any other old friends in town. Was he waiting for a date?

  She raked her eyes over his chest, wishing her stomach didn’t tighten at the sight of those broad shoulders, and assessed his outfit. Jeans and a navy sweater under his coat. Anything was possible.

  “Will I have the pleasure of seeing you ladies at the festival tomorrow?” he said as he turned to go.

  “The Fall Fest,” Abby explained, as if Margo didn’t know, or had forgotten, which she refused to admit she had. The annual event had been one of her favorites growing up, after all.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” she said.

  He grinned. “Good.”

  She didn’t read into that either. She couldn’t, because just then, a slightly older woman walked into the restaurant and called out Eddie’s name, and then…Then the night was officially ruined.

  ***

  Bridget stood in the front hallway of the McDowells’ cedar-sided Colonial, feeling even worse than she had the last time Jeffrey and Trish had invited her over, that time under the guise of matching her up with their next-door neighbor—a perfectly pleasant man who wasn’t shy in revealing that he hadn’t gone on a date in the three years since he’d moved to town to be close to family, mostly in part because his mother needed him for dinner five nights a week. He then spent a half hour showing her pictures of his cat, Nutjob, something her sister Abby was still giggling about to this day.

  Jeffrey and Trish were on a mission to set her up. She was their charity case. She got it. They were her oldest friends. They wanted her to be happy. Like them. They saw a problem and they wanted to fix it. And she was apparently a problem that needed fixing.