Wind Chime Summer: A Wind Chime Novel

by Sophie Moss

  Wind Chime Summer

  A Wind Chime Novel

  Sophie Moss

  Copyright © 2017 by Sophie Moss

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Sea Rose Publishing

  Created with Vellum

  For the memory of my great-grandmother

  Helen M. Murray

  “Nan”

  1908-2002

  Contents

  1. One

  2. Two

  3. Three

  4. Four

  5. Five

  6. Six

  7. Seven

  8. Eight

  9. Nine

  10. Ten

  11. Eleven

  12. Twelve

  13. Thirteen

  14. Fourteen

  15. Fifteen

  16. Sixteen

  17. Seventeen

  18. Eighteen

  19. Nineteen

  20. Twenty

  21. Twenty-One

  22. Twenty-Two

  A Note from the Author

  Maryland Crab Cakes

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Sophie Moss

  The Selkie Spell

  The Selkie Spell

  One

  Izzy Rivera didn’t notice the marshes. She didn’t notice the tall reedy grasses that swayed into the beams of her headlights with every gust of wind. She didn’t notice the wildflowers that lined the narrow strip of road through her rain-streaked windshield, or the way her whole car shook with each thunderclap from a storm that only seemed to grow worse the closer she came to this place at the end of the earth.

  What she noticed were the pine trees. Or what was left of them. Hollow, broken stumps of pine trees glowing ghostly white in the strobes of lightning that splintered the sky.

  That was how she felt now.

  Dead. Broken. Empty inside.

  She reached for her worn, Army-issue handkerchief and pressed the cloth to the back of her neck. It was already damp. Cold from the sweat she’d soaked up a few minutes ago.

  She’d had to pull over three times since crossing the drawbridge to Heron Island. She’d passed through the tiny village about a mile ago, spied a blurry outline of an ice cream shop, a bookstore, a café, a school…and then nothing. There was nothing at all out here.

  Nothing but her and those trees.

  The memories crept in, threatening to swallow her whole. She forced them back as another flash of lightning lit up the sky and she spotted a lone structure in the distance, an old yellow farmhouse rising up from the end of this soggy, sinking spit of land.

  She nearly stopped the car again, nearly turned around. But she wasn’t a coward.

  Broken? Yes.

  A coward? No.

  She willed her foot to stay on the gas pedal, to keep pushing the car forward. The wiper blades scraped sheets of rain from the glass, providing intermittent glimpses of a circular driveway filled with cars, a wide front porch covered in potted plants, and a waterlogged garden edging the base of the house.

  There were lights on in the downstairs windows. She could see people moving around in the rooms. She eased her car into the last empty spot in the driveway and sat with her foot on the brake, watching them.

  She wasn’t good with people anymore. She didn’t like the way they looked at her, the questions they asked. The smallest exchange of pleasantries—How’s it going? How are you today?—could set her off now.

  She wanted to scream, to throw things, to break things.

  I’m fine, was all she ever said, but she wasn’t fine. She was as far from fine as she’d ever been in her life.

  Shifting the car into park, she cut the headlights and felt a moment of panic when the darkness closed in around her. It was the kind of darkness that could seep through your skin, sink into your bones, spread through your mind until there was nothing left but madness.

  Her hand shook as she reached for her water bottle. Somehow, she managed to unscrew the cap. She drank until the dryness in her throat gave way to the familiar pulsing knot of rage that lived inside her.

  It was the only thing that kept her going now.

  Tossing the empty bottle onto the floor, she lifted her gaze to the yellow house. The colors dripped and melted, the image distorted through the wet glass, until the corners warped and the roof tilted. She was supposed to spend the next three months here. Three months with people like her—people who needed to heal.

  As if there were any hope.

  She’d read the mission statement on the website. She understood the purpose of this program. Will Dozier and Colin Foley weren’t the first Navy SEALs to start rehab programs for down-and-out veterans. It seemed like a perfectly noble goal from the outside. But she’d encountered her share of SEALs overseas. Most of them were arrogant pricks who thought they were better than everyone and knew everything.

  They probably thought fixing her would be a breeze.

  Sliding the key out of the ignition, she grabbed her pack, flipped the hood of her raincoat up to cover her tangled mass of black curls, and opened the door. An unfamiliar scent rushed toward her. It was muddy, tangy, and smelled faintly of saltwater.

  The Chesapeake Bay, she mused. She’d read about that on the website, too. The big body of water that surrounded this island was supposed to help with the healing process. Their fearless leaders were probably going to take them out kayaking and bird watching. Maybe they could hold hands and skip afterwards.

  Stepping out of the car, she slammed the door and made her way to the porch. If they even mentioned the words ‘group therapy’ later, she was going to lose it. Mentally preparing herself for one of those big, cocky SEALs to answer, she knocked on the door. She was pretty sure she’d read somewhere that one of them was the son of the Governor of Maryland.

  She could only imagine how big his head must be.

  The door swung open, she took one look at the person on the other side, and the speech she’d rehearsed in the car froze on her lips.

  He wasn’t military.

  He was…

  A dog barked, slipping out of the gap in the open door and launching itself at her. She sucked in a breath as seventy pounds of wet dog wrapped around her legs in a sniffing, wiggling mass of brown fur.

  “Sorry.” The man grabbed the dog’s collar, pulling the animal back to his side. “She’s usually more polite than that.” He glanced down at the dog, gave her a scolding look. “Sit.”

  The dog sat immediately, her tail thumping on the floorboards, her whole body quivering with excitement.

  The man looked up at Izzy and offered her a sheepish smile. “This is Zoey. She’s part of the welcoming committee.”

  No, Izzy thought as her heart rate struggled to return to normal. He was definitely not military. His stance was far too casual, far too relaxed. His build was tall and lanky, more like a long distance runner’s, and he wore a faded T-shirt and jeans, both of which were streaked with mud.

  “You must be Isabella.” He smiled and held out his hand. “You’re the last to arrive.”

  “It’s Izzy,” she corrected, glancing up at his face again. There was a small smudge of something that looked like white paint along hi
s left cheekbone. His hair was a thick, tousled mess of sun-streaked blond. And his eyes were the palest shade of gray she’d ever seen.

  Not the gray of storm clouds; they were lighter than that. Like the calm after the storm, the calm leftover as the last of the clouds blew away.

  She took his hand. A warm, pulsing sensation spread up her arm. Not sparks of electricity, not wild currents of sexual energy, just warmth and peace and complete and utter calm.

  “I’m Ryan,” he said, releasing her hand. “Can I help you with the rest of your bags?”

  “No,” she said, mentally shaking herself. What was wrong with her? She held up her backpack. “This is everything.”

  His gaze lingered on her small pack and an unspoken question swam into his eyes. But he kept his thoughts to himself. “Come on in,” he said, nodding for her to follow him into the house. “Everyone else is in the kitchen.”

  The moment Izzy stepped inside, the feeling of home wrapped around her like a hug. She tried to fight it, but it was impossible not to feel the love and attention that had gone into every detail of the renovation of this centuries-old farmhouse. She took in the collection of black and white photographs that lined the hallway leading into the next room—family portraits, children at various ages, people from all walks of life.

  To the left of the entranceway, a cozy sitting room was filled with overstuffed armchairs and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. To the right, a polished oak stairwell led up to the second story. The floors were wood as well, thick planks that felt strong and sturdy under her feet.

  Ryan took her wet coat, hung it on one of the hooks by the door, and snagged a towel off one of the tables, handing it to her to dry off with. It was big and plush and cozy and made her want to weep.

  Stop, she told herself. She didn’t need comfort. She didn’t want comfort. Comfort would make her soft, would make her face things she’d locked up deep inside. The fact that those things were starting to leak out through the cracks didn’t matter. She could patch herself together. At least for the next three months. At least until she could return to Baltimore. She could fall apart there. Where no one could see her.

  She handed the towel back.

  Ryan dropped it into a hamper. “How was the drive?”

  “Fine.”

  “You didn’t run into too much water on the roads?”

  There had been a few bends in the road where the water had reached the underside of her car, but she’d powered through them, as she did with everything in life now. “I managed.”

  “Summer storms can be rough out here. We had one a few years ago that washed out the road completely.”

  Izzy didn’t doubt it, and wondered why anyone would choose to live here, in this place that looked like the next high tide could wash it away. A jingle of dog tags drew her gaze down to the chocolate lab, who had unearthed a tennis ball from beneath one of the tables in the hallway and was looking terribly pleased with herself.

  “Ready?” Ryan asked, gesturing for her to follow him into the kitchen.

  Izzy nodded, but her throat tightened when she spotted the crowd gathered in the next room. There had to be at least fifteen to twenty people in there. She forced her shoulders back and her spine straight as the first few curious eyes swung her way. Don’t let them see any weakness. Don’t ever let anyone know that you’re afraid.

  She stepped into the room and her own gaze automatically gravitated to the stove, where steam rose from the top of a large cast-iron pot filled with something that smelled amazing—earthy and spicy with a rich tomato and beef broth. Her fingers curled around the straps of her pack as she struggled against the urge to walk over and see what was inside.

  “Are you hungry?” Ryan asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ll let Colin and Will know you’re here,” he said, slipping into the crowd.

  Izzy took in the gleaming stainless steel appliances, wide chopping block counter, oversized farmhouse sink, and impressive collection of copper pots hanging from an iron rack mounted to the ceiling. It was the kind of kitchen that was made for cooking big meals that took all day to prepare and inviting everyone you knew over to enjoy them.

  There was a time when she would have dreamed of having a kitchen like this in her own home.

  She looked past the bar, where a few burly guys in their late-twenties were wolfing down big bowls of soup, and took a quick inventory of the rest of the people in the room. Besides the middle-aged woman tending to the soup on the stove, there were only two other women. One was in a wheelchair. The other was missing the lower half of her right arm.

  She was the only female veteran still in one piece.

  That should make her feel better, right? She didn’t look broken, so she must be fine. That’s what everyone else thought. Most of the time, it was easier to let them.

  One of the women offered her a tentative smile, a small offer of friendship. Izzy looked away. She didn’t want friends. She didn’t need friends.

  They wouldn’t want to be friends with her anyway once they found out the truth—that she wasn’t a real soldier.

  She was just a cook. A woman who’d worked in the kitchen.

  And now she couldn’t even do that.

  * * *

  “Hey,” Ryan Callahan said, putting his hand on Will Dozier’s shoulder. His best friend from childhood turned. “Izzy’s here.” He nodded across the room to where the woman stood, looking like she was ready to bolt.

  “Thanks,” Will said, extracting himself from a conversation with an ex-Marine. “I know Colin’s been anxious to get started. He was hoping to be halfway through the introductions by now.” He walked away, heading toward Izzy.

  Ryan’s gaze followed his friend’s path across the room. He couldn’t help it. It was impossible not to look at the woman again. Izzy Rivera was captivating in a rough-around-the-edges, mistrustful-like-a-cat kind of way. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but a few wet curls had slipped loose, framing an exotic, golden-skinned face of either Spanish or Latina descent. Her body was all female, with soft round curves that had drawn the attention of more than one man when she’d walked into the room.

  But it was those eyes—big and amber and filled with emotion—that made him unable to look away.

  Jesus. Those eyes. He’d never seen a pair of eyes like that.

  A sudden hand on his arm startled him and he flinched.

  “Somebody’s jumpy tonight,” Della Dozier commented.

  Reluctantly dragging his gaze away from Izzy’s face, Ryan looked down at Will’s aunt.

  “That’s not like you,” Della said, her blue eyes concerned. “Is everything all right?”

  That was a good question, Ryan thought. He hadn’t expected to be attracted to any of the women who’d enrolled in this program, especially not one who would be working for him. Obviously, it went without saying that any woman on his payroll was strictly off limits. She had come here to heal, not get hit on.

  Ryan’s gaze swept over the rest of the faces in the room. When he’d offered to provide temporary employment to some of the veterans in this program, he’d been so focused on the mutual benefits—he needed the workforce to help his new business succeed, and they needed something to do with their hands to get their confidence back—that he hadn’t really considered the full impact of what he was taking on.

  Every person in this room had something in common that he didn’t—they’d served in the military. He didn’t have a clue what it felt like to be shot at, to put on a uniform, to be shipped overseas and spend years away from your friends and family. He had no idea what it felt like to come home after multiple tours and try to fit in with the people you’d left behind.

  What if he couldn’t relate? What if he couldn’t offer them what they needed?

  He looked at Della. “I guess it just hit me—what’s at stake. I don’t want to mess up.”

  “You’re not going to mess up,” Della said, giving his arm a squeeze. “I have
faith in you, in all of you. And I know that you haven’t eaten anything tonight, so I fixed up a container of soup for you to take home afterwards. It’s in the fridge, on the top shelf.”

  “Thank you,” Ryan said, and felt some of the tension dissolve. Della had never had any children of her own, but she’d been like a mother to a lot of people on this island. People on Heron Island took care of each other. They looked out for each other. Now that these eleven veterans were staying here for the next twelve weeks, they would look out for them, too.

  “Welcome, everyone,” Colin’s deep voice cut through the room, silencing all conversation. “I think I’ve gotten to meet most of you by now. We’ll go around the room in a minute and let you all introduce yourselves, but I’d like to point out a few key people first. Most of you have probably met Will Dozier. He and his wife, Annie, and their daughter, Taylor, live in the private wing on the north side of the house.”

  From their spot by the fireplace, Annie and Taylor smiled and waved to everyone.

  “Della?” Colin asked.

  “Over here.” Della waved an arm, her short frame dwarfed by a wall of taller men who parted to let her through.

  Colin smiled warmly at the gray-haired woman wearing an apron with the words Kiss the Cook embroidered across it. “Everyone, this is Della Dozier, Will’s aunt and the best cook on Heron Island. Let’s give her a round of applause for making this incredible batch of Maryland crab soup for us tonight.”

  Everyone applauded and Della beamed.

  “Della wanted to be here tonight to personally welcome you all to the inn,” Colin continued, “but she works at the Wind Chime Café in town, which Annie owns. From now on, you’ll be responsible for preparing the meals we eat together.” He motioned to a large chalkboard hanging on the wall. “Every week, we’ll assign new jobs to each of you. You can see the first week’s breakdown here. We’ll go into this in more detail after the introductions, but as you can see it’s all the basic housekeeping chores: cooking, cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping.”