by Toni Blake
“You’re a pretty funny kid,” Beck told his new little friend. “I bet your grandfolks are happy to have you visiting.”
“That’s what they tell me,” Cade replied matter-of-factly, making Beck chuckle once more. “But Grammy Marie says I get bored easy.”
“Most kids do,” Beck informed him. “And up here, in winter, even some grown-ups.” It was a pretty intense level of isolation.
The two worked in companionable silence for only another minute or so before Cade could apparently stand the quiet no longer. “Tonight we’re going to put up the Christmas tree,” he told Beck—and the way his eyes lit took Beck back in time. Christmas trees and snowmen—the simple joys of life, even better when you were a little kid, because they came without things like responsibilities, conflict, or problems. “Have you put yours up yet?”
Beck shook his head. He wasn’t bothering with a tree this year—it was only him in the big house across the way, after all, and he’d be at his sister’s in Kentucky for the actual holiday. But he kept his answer simple. “No, not yet.”
“Grammy Marie says a pretty, lit-up Christmas tree makes her soul happy. Or her spirit happy. Or her Christmas spirit happy.” The kid scrunched up his face, then shook his head. “Something like that.”
That was when the sound of jingling bells drew their eyes up toward the street, and Cade declared with great wonder, “Horses!”
In summer, the mail on Summer Island came by horse and wagon—and when it snowed, the wagon was traded for a good old-fashioned sleigh. Though mail could be picked up at the post office anytime, delivery only happened once a week—and today was the day. The sight of the two large horses and the sleigh drawn behind them was Christmas-card-worthy, so Beck hoped it wouldn’t dash his new friend’s awe when he informed him, “That’s the mailman.”
He shouldn’t have worried though—Cade’s eyes only grew even bigger and rounder. “The mailman comes like Santa does?”
Beck smiled. “Sort of, I guess. But only here on the island.”
“How come?”
“Cars and trucks aren’t allowed here,” he explained, “so people have to travel in old-fashioned ways.”
Cade looked critical. “Are you calling Santa old-fashioned?”
Beck leaned his head back in a laugh. “No—no, sir. I would never do that. Might get myself on Santa’s naughty list.”
“I’m on the nice list,” Cade informed him smartly, obviously still wanting to impress.
“Know that for a fact, do ya?”
The little boy nodded knowingly.
“Well, that’s good. I wasn’t always on it myself.”
Beck realized immediately it was the wrong thing to say, as Cade suddenly appeared wary. “Why not?”
Hell, how to answer? Keep it simple. “Well, I just didn’t always do everything the way my parents wanted me to. But don’t worry—I’m back on the nice list now.” Even if Lila Sloan might not see it that way.
When the mailman glided to a halt, his two big, brown horses clopping their way through the snow, Beck and Cade abandoned their shovels and walked out to meet him. Seeing Cade’s awe, the mailman kindly let Beck lift Cade up to pet his Clydesdales.
“This one yours?” he asked of Cade. Beck had said hello to the guy before but didn’t know him beyond that.
“Oh—no,” Beck answered, lowering Cade back to the ground. He pointed to the Walton house. “George and Marie are his grandparents.”
Then the mailman hefted a sizable box from the mail sleigh and said, “Want this on your porch?”
Beck lifted his eyebrows. He hadn’t been expecting anything. “That’s for me?”
The guy nodded, then glanced down at the box. “From an Emma Sturwold.”
For a second, Beck wondered what the hell his sister could have mailed to him—but then he remembered. She’d told him she was going through Dad’s office. And that she’d send him anything she thought he might want.
“I don’t want anything.”
“Maybe you will.”
“I won’t.”
But clearly, she’d ignored his wishes on that.
Cade looked from the horses up to Beck, eyes big and round once more. “Do you think somebody sent you a present?”
Beck tried to keep the low chuckle that escaped him from sounding too cynical. “No, probably not,” he replied, leaving it at that.
Though on the inside, he quietly added this to the list of things not exactly going his way. Let’s see—I have one woman on this island who just isn’t into me, another I’m a little intrigued by but who hates me, a halted land development, and now some mysterious anti-present from my recently deceased dad. This December just kept getting better and better.
* * *
SUZANNE QUINLAN HAD known a lot of snow fell on Summer Island when she’d decided to move here almost three years ago. And mostly she didn’t mind it. She’d been seeking a quieter life with fewer complications, in which she could keep mostly to herself when she wanted. And winters here certainly gave her that. It was the getting around in it that could be challenging.
Her flower shop, Petal Pushers—currently jam-packed with Christmas trees, wreaths, and boughs of holly to decorate the homes of the year-round faithful—rested directly across Harbor Street from Dahlia’s Café. But battling the wind made the usually short walk there a lot longer as the choppy Lake Michigan straits heaved tumultuously in the distance. Despite that, though, as she pressed forward through ankle-deep snow in warm boots and a puffy knee-length parka with the hood drawn tight, she looked forward to lunch with Dahlia—as well as with Meg’s younger sister, Lila, who would be joining them.
The café opened only from noon to three this time of year, but was a convenient place to meet since most of the island’s businesses closed down completely through the winter months other than on select occasions. And when Lila had texted her asking to discuss a problem at the inn, Suzanne had suggested involving Dahlia, too. Suzanne’s and Meg’s dear, older friend, Dahlia Delaney, had lived here much longer than Suzanne, making her a staple in the community and possibly better equipped to deal with any inn problems in Meg’s absence.
And while no one wanted problems, of course—for anyone, about anything—something about the lunch had already given Suzanne a fresh sense of purpose. The truth was that she’d been out of sorts lately, with Meg away, and the early dose of winter bringing on a seclusion that had left even her with too much time to think—and too much time to...feel.
Something inside her was shifting, leaving her restless and with a case of...was it island fever? Cabin fever? Basically the same thing, she supposed, but this wasn’t exactly that. It was more the sense something was missing from her life. Well, something more than usual—something had been missing since Cal died. But as a frigid gust of wind swept past, she couldn’t deny that the particular emptiness besetting her now felt new, different.
Life was so much simpler when you were content with your circumstances. But whatever the problem was with the inn, perhaps she could help, and perhaps it would give her something to do besides indulge in all that thinking and feeling.
“Come in, come in,” Dahlia said, greeting Suzanne at the quaint café’s front door the same as if it were her home. Every other pastel building on the street stood quiet and still in the snowfall, and Suzanne suspected she and Lila would be the only lunch guests on this wintry day.
Suzanne estimated Dahlia, a unique woman with her own sense of flair, to be in her sixties—though she’d never asked because it was clear that to Dahlia age was just a number. Today she wore a large, slouchy winter hat of red-and-white candy cane stripes over her short, silver hair and a thick, red cable-knit sweater. Summer usually brought out a variety of hippie-style sunglasses that made the red-framed ones she wore today seem tame in comparison, yet they remained a bolder choice than most would make and accented her
seasonal style.
“Looking all Christmas-fied,” Suzanne merrily observed.
“’Tis the season, and the season’s short,” Dahlia said with a wink.
Suzanne herself had chosen a fuzzy white sweater for the get-together, draped with a glittery snowflake scarf. “I’m doing more of a weather homage,” she declared, striking a pose as she shed her big coat. While it would only be a party of three, island winters held few enough social outings that it was fun to make fashion choices with some care.
Normally, the third member of the trio would be Meg—but Suzanne welcomed getting to know her friend’s sister better. Somehow even that delivered a small sense of purpose, too. And though she missed having her bestie here for the holiday season, she remained pleased about Meg’s new relationship with Seth, and glad to see her enjoying all that such a change brought with it—in this case some time away from the everyday.
As the café’s door opened behind them, they both looked up to see Lila, bundled in—if Suzanne wasn’t mistaken—one of Meg’s parkas, with a too-thin-for-the-weather fashion scarf wrapped around the lower half of her face. When they both looked a bit taken aback, she greeted them with, “This is a stickup.”
Which made Dahlia laugh and reply, “Oh, I like you already.” She stepped forward. “Hello—I’m Dahlia, and you seem like a breath of fresh air.” She pushed the door tightly closed behind her new guest. “Not that we need any fresher, colder air at the moment. But I’m so pleased to finally meet our dear Meg’s little sis.”
“I’m Lila,” she introduced herself while pulling down her scarf, “and guilty as charged.” Her slightly self-effacing smile threw Suzanne a little—she’d expected someone more carefree than Lila seemed, both on their previous meeting and today. “I’m the sister who hasn’t been around much, and I’m embarrassed never to have met either of you before now. But glad to finally change that.”
Suzanne knew from Meg that Lila had quit visiting the island with any regularity after their grandmother’s death. The sisters talked on the phone once every month or two, according to Meg, but typically only saw each other on holidays. And perhaps Suzanne hadn’t expected to like Lila. Meg often described her as frivolous and “the fun one,” in which Suzanne had heard the unspoken words irresponsible and selfish—but so far she found Lila easy enough to be with. Though the slightly younger woman had also instantly struck her as...tired.
In summertime, Dahlia’s deck was an island hot spot, jutting out over the shoreline with a backdrop of masts and sails from the marina—but now the three women settled around a table in a room boasting a fireplace and a lake cottage vibe. Two Christmas stockings hung from the mantel, flanking a roaring blaze in the hearth—one bore Dahlia’s name, the other that of her nephew, Zack.
Meg’s ex, Zack Sheppard, lived in the apartment above the café and wasn’t Suzanne’s favorite person. “Where’s Zack?” she wondered out loud. A fisherman by trade, he was on the water from spring until fall, but was island-bound in winter.
Dahlia waved a hand down through the air. “Sulking, most likely. He’s spent a lot of time alone since coming back into port. He’s at loose ends without Meg.”
The breakup had happened less than six months ago, around the time Seth had entered the picture, and Suzanne thought Zack deserved every loose end he got, but kept the sentiment inside. He hadn’t treated Meg well, in her opinion, but Dahlia loved him and had been saddened by the split.
On a day like this, Dahlia chose to be a one-woman operation and had whipped up their lunch herself—finger sandwiches and a hot quiche, fresh from the oven. The scent of pine emanating from the live tree in one corner, strung with white lights, served as the perfect complement to the scene, reminding Suzanne that on Summer Island, even a winter of discontent could hold certain charms.
“This is all so lovely,” Lila said, using fancy tongs to move two egg salad triangle sandwiches onto her plate. “And I apologize if I yawn a lot.” She shook her head self-consciously. “Trouble sleeping lately. But hopefully a nice lunch will perk me up.”
Holiday small talk commenced:
“Harbor Street looks so pretty lit up.”
“The tree is lovely.”
“Is your shopping done?” But once they began to eat, Dahlia said, “Well, as much as I’d love to chat mindlessly with you both all afternoon, I hear this meeting was called for a reason.”
Suzanne waited with bated breath, ready to focus on something productive—as Lila took the cue. “Ladies, I came to Summer Island with a mind toward hibernating for a few weeks, and also trying to get some sleep—” she paused to yawn “—but circumstances have forced me to alter that plan. I’ve reached out to two women I don’t even know because I’m desperate.”
CHAPTER THREE
IT HAD TAKEN everything within Lila to so boldly call this lunch and go to her sister’s friends for help, but it was all she could think of. And now she sat before them at the quaintest little café she’d ever been to, thinking it far too cute a spot to indulge in tragedy—and yet having no choice but to relay in detail the unpleasant story of what had unfolded yesterday morning. “That’s when I realized someone was bulldozing down the trees behind the inn. I ran across the creek and stopped it by planting myself in front of the bulldozer—and it turns out the person responsible is Beck Grainger. I refused to move until he gave me the key—but that can only stop this travesty for so long, and I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”
When she finished, Suzanne just blinked—looking utterly confused and dismayed. “None of this makes any sense. Beck is mowing down the trees behind the inn? Beck? Because... I’ve just never known him to be anything but kind and respectful.”
Yes, so Meg had clearly thought, too, but now Lila had unfortunately discovered this other side to the man they all liked so much. “Can you imagine?” she went on. “Houses behind the Summerbrook Inn? Instead of all those big, old trees that have always stood over the place.” She shook her head and sighed, letting her gaze drop sadly. “Our family never owned the land—but somehow it felt like ours anyway, you know?”
Suzanne cringed, clearly taking in the gravity of the situation. “This will crush Meg. And could very well affect her business.” She gave her head a doubtful tilt. “At the very least, it’ll make the inn feel much less secluded and idyllic, and—” she sneered “—possibly a little more suburban.”
“Exactly,” Lila said, glad Meg’s friend understood why this mattered so much.
“I once stood in front of a bulldozer myself,” Dahlia offered wistfully. “The year was 1975 and a group of us were trying to stop the building of a highway through sacred Native American burial grounds in Montana.”
Lila sat up straighter, her heavy eyelids lifting hopefully. “Did it work?”
Dahlia’s glance lowered to her quiche. “No.” Then she looked back up. “Yet I still heartily applaud the move, dear.”
“I just can’t believe Beck is doing this,” Suzanne said once more, shaking her head in continued confusion.
“Yes—our Beck?” Dahlia asked, sounding as puzzled by that part as Suzanne. “On our little island?”
“So neither of you knew about this zoning change either?” Lila asked, switching her gaze back and forth between them.
They both shook their heads—and Dahlia said, “I admit to not attending enough town council meetings the last few years. They’re very dry affairs, hard to sit through.”
“And I never even started,” Suzanne confessed on a regretful sigh. “But apparently I should have. I guess this is the kind of thing that happens when you’re not paying attention.”
“I plan to give Tom Bixby a piece of my mind,” Dahlia announced. “Tom’s a longtime member of the town council.” Then she shook her head once more, her tone softening as she put her hand over Lila’s on the table. “But honey, if Beck has the permits and the zoning, I�
�m not sure there’s a way to stop him, much as it saddens me.”
Lila’s heart fell like a stone to the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t accept that. Couldn’t even acknowledge it, in fact. So she glanced to Suzanne. “I told him he wasn’t nearly as nice as you said.”
Suzanne looked as if she were still trying to wrap her mind around this strange new reality. “The woods behind the inn—gone? Beck Grainger the culprit?” she mused. “I just don’t get it.”
“Maybe he...isn’t so nice,” Dahlia cautiously suggested. “I’ve been fond of him since his arrival here, but I guess the truth is that none of us knows him very well.”
Yet something about that suggestion started Suzanne shaking her head. “No. No, he is a good guy. I just feel that to my core. Only...maybe he’s a little more hard-nosed when it comes to business or something.”
“Well, that hard-nosed man is going to ruin the inn’s grounds if I don’t figure out some way to stop him,” Lila told them—even as she prepared to make another bold move, letting Suzanne’s belief in Beck Grainger draw her eyes directly to the other woman’s. “I...don’t suppose you’d want to try to work some magic and win him over. Since he likes you and all.”
Suzanne’s spine jerked straight as she sat up taller, blinked, and said, “You can’t be serious. Me? Work magic?”
Lila bit her lip, bummed that Suzanne seemed so instantly resistant. Just like this meeting, it was all she could think of—even if she knew it was pushy. “When I mentioned your name,” she explained, “he seemed interested to hear I knew you—and...well, interested, period. If he still has a thing for you, maybe you could have some influence over him.”
But when Suzanne hesitated, looking almost unaccountably wary, Lila knew she’d pushed too far, expected too much of someone she’d just met, no matter how nice. Which left...zero ideas for how to fix this. “Meg is going to kill me,” she murmured, overcome with a fresh wave of exhaustion—whether from the situation or lack of sleep, she wasn’t sure. Maybe both.