by Amanda Ashby
Groups of people were walking along the sandy beach, and on the reserve families were setting up grills and tents as kids ran around screaming and laughing. He turned and headed in the other direction.
The crowds thinned out as he reached a grassy verge overlooking the water. There were a couple of bench seats up ahead, as well as a gray-haired woman wearing a tuxedo and holding a shovel. She was about seventy. Beads of sweat ran down her brow as she slammed the shovel into the ground. It failed to break the earth.
She lifted her head and summoned him over.
“You look like you’ve used one of these before.” She thrust it at him. “I need a hole about a foot deep. Think you’re up for it?”
“Sure.” He took the shovel and plunged it into the spot where she’d been digging. The soil was hard, and the metal handle vibrated up and down his arm. The dry earth finally broke, and with the next thrust the soil gave way completely.
She nodded in approval and smoothed down the tuxedo. It was teamed with a baby blue bow tie and cummerbund much like his own prom outfit a million years ago.
“So. You’re the writer,” she said as he continued to dig. The rich scent of broken dirt combined with the sea air tickled his nose.
“I am. And you’re the woman who—” He paused. “Actually, I’m not sure what you’re doing.”
“Tilly.” She grinned and held out a hand. “You could say I’m in the death business.”
“Death business? Sounds ominous.” He raised an eyebrow, now thoroughly intrigued. To think that he’d dismissed St. Clair as being boring. With her short-cropped hair and round face, she looked like she’d been raised on apple pie and milk. “Tell me, Tilly. Are we committing a crime?”
“No. Definitely not—” She paused, and her blue eyes filled with consideration. “Actually, digging up public land probably is a crime, but we’re not burying any bones. It’s for Douglas Right.”
“Okay.” Adam was none the wiser. It must have shown on his face, and she laughed while at the same time pointing her finger to the ground. He dug deeper, the unexpected exercise humming through his veins.
“I’m a funeral director,” she explained. “I buried Douglas’s wife five years ago, but I’ve kept an eye on him. I can usually tell the ones who’ll recover and ones who won’t. Doug was the latter. Poor guy. Anyway, he was taken to the hospital with pneumonia yesterday. I figured I’d get a memory box together. Some photos, the penknife he always kept in his pocket, his favorite cookies…that kind of thing.”
Adam stopped digging and wiped his own sweat away. He’d been in his gated community for five years and was only on nodding terms with a guy who wore a cowboy hat while washing his yellow Porsche and a woman with two white dogs who power walked along the beach beneath his balcony each day.
Yet after being in St. Clair for two days, he knew Jacob and Melanie’s life story and was now aiding and abetting a funeral director on behalf of a widower named Doug. It was unexpectedly satisfying.
“And the soil?”
Tilly nodded to the nearby bench seat and produced a glass jar from a box on the ground. “He proposed to Mary Hinchcliffe here. Sixty years ago now. Has a photo of it in the cottage. I can’t lug the bench up to him, so I figured this was the next best thing. But no dry earth. Something rich and full of life.” Then she fixed him with a level stare. “You going to tell me I’m mad?”
“Not when you bury people for a living.” He grinned, meeting her unflinching look. “I think it’s nice.”
It was true. He wondered who’d bother to dig up the ground to give him some soil. Ryan might, if he thought of it, but somehow Adam doubted anyone else would. He took the large glass jar from her hands. It still had a giant pickle on the front label.
“You’re in the minority. Some folk around here think it’s odd to make a memory box,” she said as Adam lowered himself to the ground and pushed the glass jar into the rich, dark soil. The earthy scent mingled with the sea air, and he breathed it in, the knot in his shoulders loosening. He shook the soil down into the jar and twisted the lid on.
“Trying to change what other people think about you is like banging your head against a wall.” He’d learned that the hard way when people started calling him Doctor Josh and asking him for advice. At first, he’d refused, but after being branded rude, he’d ended up going along with it. Feeling more and more like a fraud every day.
“I like you. Now, pick that box up and carry it to my car,” she instructed, though her eyes were twinkling. Her abrupt air was amusing, and he covered the hole up, hoisted the shovel over his shoulder, and followed her to a bright pink hearse.
“That’s some ride.” He lifted an eyebrow.
“It lets folks know straight up if I’m the funeral director for them.” She shrugged, pride in her voice. “Just because I’m in the death business doesn’t mean it needs to be all black and gloomy.”
“I like it,” he said. His mother had died ten years ago, and the funeral had been as cool and clinical as she’d been in life. He supposed it had been a good match.
“I actually think you mean it.” She hit a remote, and the passenger door opened. He put the box on the floor. “So, Adam Fitzpatrick, what are your thoughts on climbing a tree?”
“Up until a minute ago, I wasn’t aware I had any thoughts on it. Let me guess: Doug liked trees?” He wiped the dirt from his hands. The wide sky was still impossibly bright as it stretched out across the Pacific Ocean. He had a similar view from his L.A. apartment, but it seemed different, condensed. More edited. Out here, it was like the director’s cut of the same scene.
“Robin eggshells. There’s a nest over in the walnut tree. Of course, the only way of knowing if there are any shells is for someone to go up.”
Adam studied her. He suspected if he hadn’t come along, she would have been the one climbing the tree. Tuxedo and all. He liked her style. And how long had it been since he’d done anything unexpected?
Once upon a time, his life had been based on spontaneous decisions. Quitting a crap job? Moving to a new city? Writing a book when he didn’t have a clue what it involved? Sure. Sign him up.
The irony wasn’t lost. His spontaneous decisions had led him into the exact kind of life he’d tried to avoid. Even being on tour had somehow become a routine. Not to mention lonely.
Why the hell not climb a tree to help some old guy in the hospital?
“Lead the way,” he said just as footsteps sounded out behind him.
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice puffed, followed by a sharp bark. He spun around as Laney walked toward them, a long ladder awkwardly tucked under one arm. She adjusted it against her hip to stop it from dragging on the ground. It had the added benefit of highlighting her curves beneath the sapphire blue dress.
Her eyes flashed in annoyance. It helped cool him down.
“Just in time. I’ve got an extra recruit.” Tilly marched in the direction of a clump of trees. Laney gave her a weak smile and then turned to Adam, mouth pinched.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped in a tight whisper as she walked. The ladder slipped from her arms, and she paused to right it. The fabric strained more, and he swallowed. Would she bite his head off if he offered to carry it? Probably. Which meant there was no point asking. He plucked it from her arms. As expected, she glared at him.
“I thought that was obvious.” He easily balanced the ladder under his arm.
“But why?” she demanded, color rising up her cheeks. She’d always been cute when she was mad. The fact he was turned on by someone who unabashedly hated him probably wasn’t a good sign. In his defense, seeing her with a ladder, obviously planning to help Tilly, reminded him of the Laney he’d first met.
Sweet and wild. The one who did like being spontaneous and taking risks.
“Because I offered,” he said, then frowned. “Actually. I might have be
en shanghaied. Want me to go?”
“Yes. Absolutely,” she said, not missing a beat. Before he could reply, Tilly spun around, waving for them to catch up.
“Everything okay?”
Laney’s face underwent a series of transformations. He suspected it involved a bit of mental swearing.
“Everything’s fine. Let’s go find these eggs.” She pushed past him, her glossy hair tumbling down her back as she walked away. He remembered another time, when they been hiking and she’d run ahead before swinging around to face him, her T-shirt gone to reveal a tiny bra.
The memory hit him like a generator, and his nerve endings hummed with energy. His breathing quickened as she stalked away, oblivious to the effect she was having on him.
Oh, hell. He always had been a slow learner.
…
What was it with Adam Fitzpatrick and trees? Laney gritted her teeth and clutched at the ladder to keep it steady. She’d only offered to help because she hated the idea of Tilly climbing. The fact he’d obviously thought the same thing only annoyed her more.
He promised to stay out of her way, yet here he was, being all rugged and smelling of nice things. Her fingers tightened around the ladder, and she kept her focus firmly ahead on the bark of the walnut tree. No good could come from looking up.
“Got some.” He lowered himself down. He used one hand to hold onto the ladder while the other was cradled against his chest. “Here, if you take these, I’ll go back up. There’s a second nest.”
She looked.
Damn.
His strong legs were pressed against the ladder, so close that all she needed to do was reach out and touch them. Her knuckles tightened on the frame as she reluctantly climbed the first two rungs so she could reach his outstretched hand. He leaned forward, carefully holding out the collection of delicate blue shells in his large palm.
It was an enticing combination of soft and hard. His fingers grazed the side of hers as he carefully deposited the shells into her hand. Invisible heat caressed her skin.
Doesn’t mean anything.
Nor did the memory teasing at the edges of her mind. Despite having a job that kept him at the computer, he’d always been active. Cycling, jogging, hiking. Making love—
“Well done, Adam,” Tilly said from somewhere behind Laney. It snapped her out of the thrall. She drew her hand protectively into her chest and hurried down the ladder. Just because he was helping Tilly didn’t mean a thing. Adam Fitzpatrick was bad news. She had the book to prove it.
Chapter Five
“Guys, let’s stop talking about the one who got away and start appreciating the one who stayed.” Blue Moon
“Don’t look at my stomach. I’m huge.” Jessica walked out of the reception area of the Bluebell and over to the parking lot. Dark hair swept across her face, and her chocolate-colored eyes were filled with tiny lines of amber that brought out the honey in her Mediterranean skin. So like Simon it still took Laney’s breath away.
“You look amazing.” Her eyes misted over at the thought Simon would never get a chance to meet his little niece or nephew. To see his beloved sister finally achieve her dreams of being a mother.
Jessica and Brett had first started trying for a baby years before Simon’s cancer diagnosis. At forty, she’d finally accepted it wouldn’t happen. Then, two weeks after the anniversary of Simon’s death, she’d conceived.
The cycle of life.
“Did Brett tell you to say that because I’ve been complaining all morning? Everything hurts.” Jessica pulled a face, though her eyes still twinkled.
“Maybe you should let him pamper you more,” she said, getting her emotions under control.
“Don’t worry. As soon as this one’s born, I’ll be demanding the full treatment. It’s nice to finally see you.”
“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” Laney said, burying her face in the trunk to avoid Jessica’s scrutiny. “I came back to a mountain of work.” And men to avoid.
Not that she’d been successful.
If failure to avoid Adam Fitzpatrick had a poster girl, I’d be it.
Her plan of clearing the air, then never seeing him again, had backfired in a spectacular fashion. Complete with a laser light show. If she’d told him he couldn’t stay, that would make her no better than the fictional Nina.
Which meant Adam was her new neighbor, and she kept seeing him everywhere she went. From helping Tilly to enthralling Kira Carmichael and her friends with his tales of being a writer to helping Sam fix a broken chair.
Every time–showing her that he wasn’t the selfish jerk she remembered.
It just wouldn’t do.
He didn’t even have the decency to wear a stained T-shirt or let his hair go greasy.
“How have you been?” Jessica asked as Laney passed her an armful of pale green olive leaves, the silvery underside soft like velvet.
“Busy, but I finally got an appointment with the bank. I’m going there next week.” She gathered up the rest of the flowers and shut the trunk with one hand.
“You’re still going ahead with it?” Jessica’s face fell an inch. Her sister-in-law had been worried Laney would become too reclusive. Too alone.
“I swear I won’t turn into an eccentric flower woman who never leaves her property. I’ll still have the store and will be around all the time to see my adorable niece or nephew. Unless you’re worried that I’ll become cool Aunt Laney, who lets them stay up late and eat junk food.”
“I might need to get in on that action myself. Staying up past eight o’clock and eating something that doesn’t involve olives sounds good right now.”
“Still on the olive kick?”
“Up to one jar a day. This baby is going to come out green.” She sighed, though her face was still glowing and dewy. Maybe Laney should eat more olives, too? Then again, she suspected the glow came more from being happy about the tiny human percolating in her womb.
They walked across the parking lot. The Bluebell Inn had been in the George family for the last three generations, and when Simon had moved away and become a dentist, it had been Jessica who’d taken it over. The three-story building was painted in a soft gray. White pillars flanked the low steps leading up to the door. There were also ten smaller cottages fanned out around the main building.
Through the grand old entrance was a long reception desk. Ever since Laney had moved to St. Clair almost ten years ago, she’d been making sure the huge Chinese vases were overflowing with local blooms. The hardy zinnias and delphiniums had held up well.
She came to a halt as her eyes slid farther up the wall. An old seascape usually hung there, but it had inexplicably been replaced with a framed blue sweatshirt with the words Nina Took It splashed across the front.
And was it signed?
“Jess, honey. What’s that?” she croaked, putting the flowers down on the counter.
“Isn’t it great?” Jessica rubbed her swelling belly. “Paige gave it to me. The publisher sent a couple of extra ones, and she thought it might help with publicity for the inn. Adam signed it when he checked out. I’m going to start a wall of fame.”
Adam’s fame, Laney’s shame.
“I see.” Heat stung her cheeks at the unfairness of it all. For so long, St. Clair had been her safe space in the world. The town had embraced her, first as Simon’s bride and then as his widow. She had a place here. Well, she had, until Adam had literally turned up on her doorstep. His very presence was a threat.
She picked up the vase and carried it through to the kitchen. Far away from the stupid sweatshirt. Jessica followed her.
“And speaking of Adam, why didn’t you tell me the big news? It’s all everyone’s talking about. I can’t believe you kept it to yourself.”
Her fingers tightened around the zinnia, snapping the stem as the blood thundered in her bro
w.
“N-news? About Adam Fitzpatrick?”
And me?
Her horror mingled with disappointment. So he had told someone. She couldn’t trust him. After all, he’d proved that over and over again. When he’d left her. When he’d written a book about her. And now he’d come into her adopted town and told everyone about their past. They’d no longer see sweet Laney George. They’d see Nina.
“He’s staying in town to finish his book. And he’s living next door to you. You must’ve seen him move in,” Jessica said, her gaze raking Laney’s as if seeing her internal panic.
“Oh…yes.” Laney took a shuddering breath and gave a vague wave of the dried flax flower in her hand. Tiny feather-like leaves fell from it, and she quickly put it down. “I doubt I’ll bump into him.”
“He seemed friendly. Not to mention good-looking.”
“Please tell me that’s your pregnancy hormones speaking?” Laney used mock outrage to hide her horror. “Besides, he’s not my type.”
Lie.
She might dislike him, but she couldn’t deny there was still a spark. She gritted her teeth and forced it down. Sparks made flames, and fire only destroyed things. Even glowing embers were dangerous. Besides, nothing had changed. He was still the guy who had left her.
Trust him once, shame on him. Trust him twice…
“Sorry. It’s a spark-free zone.” Her hand reached for the damask rose India had been admiring yesterday. Definitely not. Laney put it down in favor of the pale blush peonies.
Gentle. Simple. And no thorns.
Jessica studied her before shrugging. “Okay. I accept that. But there is something I wanted to ask.”
“You’re signing me up for babysitting duties? Violet and I gratefully accept,” Laney said, eager to move away from anything involving Adam Fitzpatrick.
“No. It’s about a date.”
She groaned. Out of the frying pan and into the proverbial fire. India wasn’t the only one who seemed intent on setting her up on blind dates.
“Please, no more.”