Jessica
It was difficult to concentrate on anything but the attraction I’d felt to Cooper Lawson. I’d paused a moment, wondering if it was a good idea to tell him where I was staying, but then I thought what the hell. I was here on vacation and there was no rule that said I couldn’t flirt with a rugged bar owner while I was here.
Still, it was the kind of intense attraction that threw me a little, so I had to admit stepping into Emery’s was a nice distraction.
To my left was a large counter and, behind it, coffee machines. To my right was the bookstore. Ahead and up a few steps was a seating area filled with cute little white tables and chairs. To the left of the table and chairs were comfortable armchairs and sofas situated near a lit open fireplace that crackled and snapped invitingly.
The place was empty, presumably because of the weather, but I couldn’t see why anyone wouldn’t want to hang out here.
A door behind the counter opened and a woman stepped out. She gave me a shy smile. “I thought I heard the bell over the door.”
I smiled back and walked over to her. “It’s miserable out there.”
Her startling pale blue eyes took in my bedraggled state. “Would you like to get warm by the fire?” She asked it tentatively, almost as if she thought it was forward of her to offer me a kindness.
She was tall and willowy, with beautiful eyes and a heart-shaped face. She wore her long white-blond hair in an intricate plait that rested over her right shoulder. Wisps of hair framed her lovely face.
I glanced around at the bookstore with its white-painted bookshelves and hodgepodge of comfortable seating. A few Tiffany lamps were set here and there, adding warmth and color. All the woodwork in the store was painted white and it contrasted beautifully with the rich teal blue of the walls.
The place seemed to fit the woman and I couldn’t even put my finger on why. I turned back to her. I’d had every intention of buying a book and heading back to the inn, but I suddenly liked the idea of getting warm here. “Yes, I think I will. Are you the owner?”
She nodded.
I held out my hand. “I’m Jessica Huntington.”
She glanced at my hand a little unsurely and I was relieved when she lifted a long-fingered hand covered in silver rings and placed it in mine. The silver bracelets on her wrists tinkled together as we shook. “Emery Saunders.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
“You, too.” She dropped my hand quickly, along with her gaze. “Would you like a hot drink?”
I frowned, wondering how someone so timid could like working with the public all the time. “I’ll have a latte, please. I’m just going to peruse the books.”
She nodded and turned away, busying herself with making my coffee.
I realized I was curious about her—and also wondered why this place had me so damn curious about everything and everyone.
Especially a certain bar owner.
A few minutes later I put down two books on the counter and pulled out my wallet to pay for them and the coffee.
“That’s a good one,” Emery offered quietly, touching the book on top.
It was a crime novel. I had a thing about crime novels.
“You read thrillers?” She didn’t seem like the thriller type. She seemed like the magic and fairy-tale princes type.
“I read everything,” she replied softly and put my books through the register.
I paid and grabbed my books and coffee, heading toward the fireplace.
“Happy reading,” she said, just loud enough for me to hear.
I grinned back at her in thanks and got myself comfortable in an armchair with a footstool, right by the fire.
Heat suffused me and I soon lost myself in my book, my clothes drying without my even realizing it until much later.
Over the next couple of hours I was vaguely aware of a few people coming in and out of the store, but I was left to enjoy the fire alone. When a shadow fell on me I was surprised to find Emery standing over me.
She wore a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans and a white shirt with sleeves that were fitted from shoulder to elbow, where the fabric loosened out into long bells, like the style of a medieval maiden’s dress. Short biker boots completed the look.
“Would you like something to eat?” she offered. “I have sandwiches.”
It was only then I felt the growl of my empty stomach. “Sure, thank you.”
“Another latte?”
“That, too.” I grinned at her.
Not too long later she came back with both and laid them down on the reading table beside me.
“What else do you like to read?” I said, before she could escape me.
Emery seemed surprised by the question. “Oh . . . I like everything.”
“Okay. Who is your favorite author?”
She wrinkled her nose and I saw a glimmer of a smile on her lips. “That’s like asking which I prefer: oxygen or food.”
I laughed. “Well, tell me one of your favorite authors.”
Her lids lowered over her eyes, and I saw that her lashes, darkened with mascara, were enviously long.
For some reason I was charmed by this shy bookstore owner.
I was finding myself charmed by many people in Hartwell so far.
“J. D. Salinger,” she offered suddenly.
I loved that answer. “Catcher in the Rye fan. Me, too.”
She smiled at me and I felt triumphant that I’d won a grin from her.
There was something about her, something in the back of her eyes, that made me sad, and I liked that I’d made her smile.
I glanced down through the store to the front window to see the rain had started coming down in sheets again. “I doubt you’re going to be busy anytime soon. Why don’t you grab a book and sit by the fire?”
Emery followed my gaze to the windows and I watched her chew on her lip as she thought about it. “I probably shouldn’t,” she muttered.
“If someone comes in, you just put the book down and go help them.”
It took her longer than it should have to consider it, almost like she was afraid to do the wrong thing. Finally, she gave me a small smile. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm.”
“Not at all,” I said encouragingly.
A few minutes later she was curled up on the sofa across from me and I watched with fascination as she seemed to get sucked into her book from the moment she opened it. In the time it would take me to snap my fingers Emery was immersed in the world of the story in her hands.
It took me at least a chapter before I became oblivious to everything around me.
But not Emery.
I had the fanciful thought that she was escaping, and that she’d escaped into pages and words so many times in her life that falling down the rabbit hole was like second nature to her. I wondered what she was escaping from.
This curiosity of mine was getting out of hand, I grumbled to myself as I bit into the ham and cheese sandwich Emery had brought me. In a way my curiosity had brought me to Hartwell. I didn’t need to get wrapped up in the mystery behind the shy sadness of Emery Saunders. And maybe there was no mystery! Maybe Sarah’s story had me imagining that everyone here had a tragedy hiding behind them.
Maybe even Cooper Lawson.
Don’t think about him!
I had no time for his kind of temptation.
On that thought, I stared down at the pages of my book and willed myself to get caught up in fiction.
After dinner at the inn that night I sat by the fireplace in the front room with a glass of wine in my hand. I was hoping to catch Bailey before I went to bed and was waiting on the diners to clear out so I could talk to her.
Staring into the flames, sipping my wine, I realized that I’d spent the most relaxing, peaceful day I could remember having in a very, very l
ong time.
Emery hadn’t said much as we whiled the day away reading by her fireplace, but I didn’t need her to. As much as there was something sad about her, there was also something incredibly soothing about her company. I thought it funny that I’d experienced the same comfortable silence with Cooper on the same day, when I’d never experienced that feeling with anyone before.
I left Emery late that afternoon, vowing to return before my vacation was over. That sadness I saw in the back of her eyes seemed to grow as she was saying good-bye to me.
And there it was. Despite myself, I was intrigued by Emery Saunders and I couldn’t make myself not be.
And that intrigue only reminded me of Sarah’s letters, which had brought me to Hartwell in the first place.
I’d decided to ask Bailey about her after all.
As the last customers were leaving the inn, Bailey trailed behind them wishing them a warm good night. The bell over the door rang as they left and a few seconds later Bailey flopped down on the sofa beside me.
She looked exhausted.
I handed her my glass of wine and she accepted it with a grateful but very tired smile. She took a sip and handed the glass back to me. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Please tell me you don’t work these ridiculously long hours every day. “
Bailey shook her head. “No. Like I said, I had a deputy manager and we worked around one another. I used to have a day or two off, if you can believe it.”
“You need your own vacation.”
“Yes, yes, I do.” She grinned at me. “The rain didn’t frighten you away today?”
I smirked. “No. Actually I got caught in it outside of Cooper’s. The man himself let me into his bar to dry off until it calmed enough for me to venture back outside.”
Sitting up straighter, Bailey eyed me with a mischievous smile. “What did you think of Cooper?”
I could spot a matchmaker a mile off and so I avoided her gaze. “He didn’t say much.” I sipped at my wine, pretending disinterest.
“That’s because he’s a good listener.”
“You know him well?”
“I’ve known him my whole life. He’s single, you know.” She nudged me with another cheeky grin. “Divorced.”
I laughed. “You are so not subtle.”
“What’s the point in subtlety?” Bailey studied me. “Are you single?”
I opened my mouth to say no and then sighed. “It’s complicated.”
“I’ll take that as you’re single.”
“How so?”
“If you were really certain of this guy, whoever he is, your answer would have been a straightforward no.”
I guessed that was true enough.
It was time for a subject change. “You know how I asked about George Beckwith this morning . . .”
“Yeah.”
“There was a reason.” I turned on the sofa to face her. “I actually don’t know George. The reason I know of him is because I found letters in a book at the prison. They were addressed to George in 1976.”
Bailey’s mouth parted in surprise. “Sarah Randall,” she said breathlessly.
At the sound of her name, that now familiar ache in my chest hitched. “You know the story?”
“Everyone knows the story.” Bailey’s green eyes darkened with sadness. “She and George were sweethearts. They fell in love on the boardwalk when they were sophomores in high school. Everyone thought they’d get married. But the summer they graduated from high school Sarah married—”
“A man named Ron.”
Bailey raised an eyebrow. “Ron Peters. How . . . ?”
“It’s in her letters to George.”
I could see the blaze of curiosity in Bailey’s eyes, but she continued recounting their history for me. “No one knew what made Sarah marry him. Most people suspected he had something on her, but she wouldn’t say what. George was devastated. He started sleeping around and he knocked up Sarah’s best friend, Annabelle. He married her. And then a few years later Sarah Randall shot Ron in the chest and she went to prison. And she died there.”
My eyes stung with unshed tears.
Bailey reached for my hand. “You okay?”
I tried to smile reassuringly. “Sarah died of cancer. Before she could mail these letters to George. Letters that explained everything. She had a reason for what she did, Bailey.”
She squeezed my hand. “That’s so sad. Is that why you came here?”
I shrugged. “My vacation with my best friend got canceled . . . Sarah and George were on my mind so I decided to come here instead.”
Bailey considered me. “You came to Hartwell to give George Sarah’s letters?”
“Yes.”
“I knew I freaking liked you.”
I gave a huff of surprised laughter. “Thanks. I like you, too.”
“Of course you do; I’m hilarious,” she teased.
I laughed.
But Bailey sobered. “You know Sarah was Cooper’s mom’s cousin?”
I tensed. “Really?”
“His mom, Laura, passed almost ten years back, but she and Sarah were really close before Sarah went to prison. Coop was close to his mom and he knew how much what Sarah did broke Laura’s heart. Maybe it would be nice for him to know the truth.”
Uncertainty moved through me. “I don’t know. Those letters were only meant for George’s eyes.”
“You don’t have to give Coop the letters, but Sarah was his family. If there was a genuine reason for what she did, he deserves to know.”
SEVEN
Cooper
Cooper had to admit to himself he’d been hoping the doc would come to his bar the night before. She’d made him impatient to see her again and he’d been counting on her feeling the same way.
Shit.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Old Archie said as Cooper sighed.
He glanced down his bar. The place was filled with locals. In a week or two it would be packed with locals and tourists once the high season hit. Sitting in the same stool he sat in every night, Old Archie smirked at him over the rim of his beer glass.
“They’re not that interesting.”
“Right.” Old Archie narrowed his eyes. “Hear your ex has been bothering you.”
Cooper hadn’t heard anything from Dana since he’d cut her down in front of Iris. Hopefully that meant she’d finally gotten the message.
Truth was he was too young when he married Dana. The sex had been fantastic. Looking back, the sad realization he came to was that there was more lust in their marriage than love. Cooper had thought it love at the time, but now he couldn’t remember a moment when they ever talked about anything real. He didn’t think much of it back then, but now he knew that wasn’t right.
Sure, he’d made Dana laugh, and he’d gotten a kick out of making her laugh, but that wasn’t enough.
She’d been so goddamn beautiful when they first met—the kind of beautiful that would have opened up doors for her if she’d been smart enough to look for the doors in the first place. But Dana liked being a big fish in a small pond. Cooper knew she was vain. He’d always known it, but he’d been so caught up in her beauty he’d decided to call it confidence and find it sexy.
He’d been an asshole kid.
And they’d both paid the price for their stupidity. With not much between them but lust, the marriage had fallen apart. Dana had betrayed him, and that betrayal burned so much Cooper wasn’t sure he ever wanted to get involved in another serious relationship.
Yet . . . he wasn’t that dumb-ass kid anymore.
He knew something special when he saw it.
And he knew not to ignore that tingle on the back of his neck.
Cooper couldn’t put his finger on exactly what made Jessica Huntington different from any othe
r woman he’d dated. She was sexy, true. She was incredibly smart—had to be if she was a doctor.
Maybe that was it, he thought.
Maybe it was the doctor thing. It said a lot about her. All good. Other than the obvious, it said she was probably an independent woman, and Cooper had never dated a woman like that before.
After his dad left, Cooper had become the man of the house. He was twelve years old. He’d looked after his mom and sister. Then when he met Dana she was looking for him to look after her, too. And Cooper hadn’t minded that. At least, he hadn’t thought he did. However, looking back on it, he saw Dana had been more like a kid than a wife. She didn’t want the responsibility of making important decisions to do with their finances, their home, their cars, their bills. Nothing.
Unlike all the other couples they knew, he and Dana didn’t have a partnership. He didn’t have a wife to lean on when shit got hard. She had expected him to deal with it alone and shield her from anything bad, like she was a child.
For instance, when his mom died. His mom. She wasn’t even close to his mother. But Dana couldn’t cope with the sad reality of death. It made her question her own mortality and she didn’t like that one bit. So she wouldn’t talk about his mom’s death. She wouldn’t let him talk about it, and he’d needed to talk about it.
In the end it was Jack who had been there for him.
Huh. What a joke that was. He’d always considered himself a really good judge of character until Jack’s betrayal.
Cooper sighed again and shook off the ugly memories.
Jessica struck him as a different sort of woman than Dana. Not only did she probably take care of herself, she took care of other people. The idea of dating an independent woman appealed to him now. Then again, he’d always thought Dana was sweet, until she’d showed him how bitter she could taste.
But that shouldn’t be enough to put him off at least getting to know the doc. She was in Hartwell for three weeks. That was plenty of time to explore the chemistry between them if he was willing to give it a chance.
“Those look like some heavy thoughts,” Old Archie said.
The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk) Page 7