by Bella Andre
She’d been looking for buried treasure.
What she’d found was beyond her wildest imagination.
She was only halfway through the first journal—how many stories had Charlie written, and were they all about the two of them?—when her phone buzzed. Still stunned beyond belief by what she’d just read, she pulled it out of her pocket on autopilot.
Her mother’s name and face were on the screen. Even though Mari had emailed to ask Donna to call as soon as she woke up, Mari knew she couldn’t talk to her now. Hours ago, when she’d been sitting at her laptop sending the note, she hadn’t known the truth of just how deep Charlie’s love for her had gone. Now that she did, how could she possibly have a rational conversation with her mother when she hadn’t yet processed this latest revelation herself?
A knock at the front door gave Mari the excuse she needed to put the phone back in her pocket without answering it. And when she got close enough to the door to see through the window, though she had never met the person standing outside, she recognized her immediately.
Mathilda Westcott.
Mari’s heart beat even faster as she unlocked the door. “Hello.” She felt her lips wobble as she tried to smile at Owen’s grandmother. The other woman hadn’t yet had a chance to speak when Mari held up the book. Mathilda was one of the only people who might understand just how big a deal this was, given what Owen had said about how close Charlie and Mathilda had been. “I found this. Charlie wrote a children’s book. About the two of us. There is a whole stack of these stories.”
Mathilda came in and closed the door behind her. “May I see it?”
Mari handed her the notebook. The older woman’s hands were far steadier than hers as she opened it carefully.
Mathilda had read only a few pages when she closed the cover, gave it back to Mari, and opened her arms wide. Mari didn’t think twice before walking into them.
“My darling Marina.” Owen’s grandmother held on tight and didn’t let go for a long while.
Not that Mari wanted to pull away. She desperately needed someone to talk to about Charlie’s journals—but more than that, it was as though Mathilda Westcott had known this and magically appeared right when Mari needed her most.
Almost as though Charlie had sent her himself…
“Why don’t you come back to the cottage with me? I’ll text Owen and ask him to have a pot of tea waiting for us. And then when you’re ready, we can finally get to know one another.”
Mari couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do right now than drink a cup of steaming tea in a cozy cottage with Owen and Mathilda as she tried to make sense of the way everything in her life had turned upside down since arriving on Elderflower Island.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
All day, Owen had been tethered to his telephone. The conference calls with the producers in France that he’d put off earlier in the week could no longer be ignored. But as they hammered out details and timelines, he’d been thinking of Mari.
His grandmother had left fifteen minutes ago for the bookshop. He’d wanted to accompany her, but that was right when the president of the French network joined the call. Planning to follow as soon as he could, he had gestured for her to go without him.
His grandmother’s text made his chest tighten with concern: Bringing Mari home for tea after a huge shock. Please put the kettle on.
Though the network president didn’t seem ready to wrap up the call just yet, Owen made his excuses, then left his desk without giving work another thought. For the past year, he’d lived and breathed business. At last, he could see how far overboard he’d gone. Yes, his work on behalf of his grandmother’s books was important, but it should never have become the be-all and end-all of his life. There was no question that last night’s talk with Mathilda had helped absolve him of a great deal of the guilt he’d been carrying around for the past year. But what felt just as momentous was that he hadn’t been able to shake Mari from his thoughts since the moment they’d met.
He didn’t want to shake her away. Just the opposite, in fact.
He wanted nothing more than the chance to know Mari better. And not only because of their spectacular kisses…although he wouldn’t deny just how many times he’d replayed them in his head.
As he made tea, he tried to figure out what the latest shock could be after yesterday’s nasty pile-of-bills surprise. Owen loved Charlie—they all had. And he dearly wished Mari’s father had still been here today. But that didn’t mean he could ignore the man’s faults, especially where his daughter was concerned.
On top of being absent for nearly Mari’s entire life, Charlie had left her with a filthy flat, a run-down bookshop, and a stack of unpaid bills. Owen knew his perspective on families was different from many others’. His parents had been happily married for more than three decades, and he was close to his four siblings. But was it too much to ask for parents to openly love their children without making them feel as though they’d done something wrong at some point along the way?
The kettle was whistling by the time he heard the front door open. He poured water into the pot and brought it over to the table just as Mari and Mathilda came into the kitchen.
Mari’s face was pale, and she was clutching a stack of black art journals.
“Thank you for making tea, darling.” His grandmother led Mari over to a chair and sat her down, then moved to the cupboard to get out her stash of chocolate Hobnobs, her special biscuits that Owen knew not to eat, or suffer the consequences. “A biscuit and a sip of sweet tea will do wonders.”
Just as his grandmother predicted, a few minutes later, the color had returned to Mari’s cheeks. When she looked up, it was as though she had only just realized Owen was in the room.
“Hi.”
He smiled at her, his heart feeling like it had a soft center. “Hi.”
“I found these today. Right before your grandmother came to say hello.” She held out one of the notebooks. “Please, open it.”
Owen had thought he knew Charlie quite well after haunting his bookshop for a good twenty-five years. But not only had he never guessed that the other man had a daughter nearly Owen’s age, he’d certainly never sussed out that the man was a brilliant illustrator and storyteller. The style of the illustrations was vaguely reminiscent of the Winnie-the-Pooh books, but not at all a copycat.
“This is you and Charlie. Playing conkers.”
She nodded. “I had no idea he could draw. Or write. Or…that he loved me so much.”
“He really did,” Mathilda said.
Mari swallowed hard. “Did you know?”
“About you, yes. About these books, no.” Mathilda gestured to one of the notebooks. “May I look at it again?” When Mari nodded, his grandmother picked it up and turned the pages carefully as she read. “Honestly, I’m not surprised to learn that he’d been writing children’s books, nor that he was writing about you. Your father had a brilliant mind. One so full of books and other people’s stories that it could sometimes be difficult to have a straightforward conversation. But no matter how far away he often seemed, I knew he was always thinking about you. Always loving you with everything he was.”
Mari stared at the notebook open before her without seeming to see it. “If only I’d been able to talk with him before he passed away. I can’t stop wishing for it, even though I know it can never come true.”
Mathilda put her hand over Mari’s. “I wish you had been able to spend time with him too. Charlie and I rarely argued. But we argued about this. About you. About his stubborn insistence that he must stay out of your life forever.”
“All this time,” Mari said in a low voice, “I thought he didn’t love me anymore. Or that, maybe, he never loved me in the first place.” She ran her fingertips lightly over a drawing of her and her father skipping down a lane that looked just like the one the cottage and the bookstore were on. “Now that I know he did love me, while it feels like the hugest relief ever, at the same time it makes me more
confused. Why did he never come back into my life?”
“I’ve lived more than seventy years,” Mathilda said, “and I still find that, more often than not, people’s choices are a mystery. I can’t claim to know the full ins and outs of Charlie’s mind, but he and I had enough conversations about you that I feel comfortable telling you what he told me, at the very least.”
“Please.” Though it was clear that she wanted answers, Mari looked as though she was bracing for impact. Owen understood—it was exactly the way he was feeling himself, though this was her story, not his. It mattered to him a great deal because Mari mattered to him.
“No one and nothing on this earth meant more to your father than you, Mari.” Mathilda’s expression was earnest, empathy written across her face as she spoke. “All he wanted was the very best for you. The biggest happiness. The most extraordinary life, both present and future.” She paused a beat before saying, “Which was why he could never forgive himself for what happened the day you were found on a busy street while he lay passed out at home. Yes, your mother kicked him out, but the truth is that he was already planning to leave.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“For the same reason he never got in touch with you—because he believed your life would be immeasurably better without him in it.”
“Because he was an alcoholic?” A hint of anger underscored Mari’s question. “He could have gotten help for his addiction and still been my dad.”
“I agree, but I’m afraid he couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Not then. And not thirty years later. As I said, he and I argued about it—pretty much constantly once he was diagnosed with cancer. But he could never forgive himself for what almost befell you that day so long ago. I promise you, I tried every argument under the sun to sway him, but he was immovable in his belief that he didn’t deserve to be your father.” Though Mathilda looked as though she had more to say, she reached for her teacup instead, picking it up with a trembling hand.
“Whatever else you have to tell me, I want to hear it,” Mari insisted.
“You’re a very strong woman,” Mathilda noted. “I knew you would be.” She took another bracing sip of tea. “Your father was strong too. Strong enough to give up drink. Strong enough to build a new life for himself on the island after losing everything that mattered to him in California. But he wasn’t strong enough to give up the belief that coming back into your life would be akin to a bad-luck omen for you.”
Mari frowned. “Are you saying he thought I would get sick or hurt if I saw him again? That he believed the only reason I’m alive and well is because he was never again a part of my life?”
“Unfortunately, yes. As he grew more and more ill, I held out hope that he would at least write you a letter to explain everything and tell you how he felt about you, or put together a formal will. But in those final weeks when he refused treatment, then locked all of us away, I knew nothing had changed. Worse, I was certain that he believed dying of cancer was his karmic payment for losing you. Still, I hoped that when the solicitors found you, you’d come. And I felt certain that once you were here, you’d see all the clues he surely couldn’t help but subconsciously leave for you. Clues like these notebooks.”
“Every day, I’ve found a new one,” Mari confirmed. “The Winnie-the-Pooh signed first edition. Mars the cat. My baby clothes. And the birthday gifts he bought for me but never sent.”
At last, Mathilda smiled. “Now, here you are. And I couldn’t be happier to finally meet you. You’re as delightful as I knew you would be.”
“I’m so glad to meet you too. For so long, I’ve wondered about my father’s life. About his business and the people he loved.” Mari’s eyes were damp as she said, “I’m glad that he was surrounded by such wonderful friends. Thank you for caring about him. For loving him. I always loved him, even from afar. I’m not going to lie, however, and say I’m not angry with him. He should have given me credit for being strong enough to handle whatever came my way instead of keeping his distance because he was afraid that he might ‘curse’ my life in some way.”
“You have every right to be angry. Just as you should never doubt that he loved you more than anyone or anything in the world,” Mathilda insisted again. “And I know, without a doubt, that everything he did came from a misguided sense of love. If he hadn’t been so stubborn, he would have found so much joy in seeing what a lovely, bright, determined woman you are. I’m sorry that didn’t come to pass. More sorry than I can ever express. But though you’re right that we can’t go back to change the past, I hope that what I’ve told you will help you move forward with a lighter and fuller heart.”
“It will. It is.” Mari gave his grandmother a small smile, but Owen could see her brain was still racing to process all she’d learned. “Ever since the call came from the solicitors, I’ve been grappling with what I should do. At the very least, I knew I should try to get the store up and running, so that when I looked for a buyer, the sales price would be higher for a current business. But after finding these notebooks and hearing everything you’ve just said?”
Mari met Owen’s eyes for a brief moment before turning back to Mathilda.
“I can’t leave. I don’t think I was ever going to be able to leave, if I’m being totally honest. Not when simply coming to Elderflower Island and walking into the bookstore has felt like stumbling into a world of buried treasure.” Her gaze lit as she spoke of the store full of all the books she so loved. “But now I’m not just going to try to get Elderflower Island Books up and running—I’m definitely going to make it work.” Determination lay under every word she spoke. “I’ve never done anything like this before—I’ve worked the same accounting job for the past ten years. But I love books and bookstores, and I know this is where I’m meant to be. I can never make up for missing a lifetime with my father, but I can embrace his legacy. And put everything I am into making sure it continues.”
Just as she’d thought might happen, one of the books in Charlie’s shop had steered her in the right direction. She just hadn’t ever thought it would be a book her father wrote—about her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Mari and Owen walked together from Mathilda’s cottage to the bookstore. At three in the afternoon, the island was bustling. Chatter and laughter rang out, and the enticing smell of fish and chips wafted over from the pub. But though Mari had eaten only Hobnobs since breakfast, she wasn’t hungry. She’d been so up, then down, then surprised, then touched, all within a very short time span. She could barely make sense of her emotions at this point.
All she knew for sure was that she didn’t want Owen to leave.
“Would you like to come in for more tea?” Her heart raced with anticipation at the thought of being alone with Owen again. She couldn’t think of any other man to whom she’d reacted so powerfully.
“I’d love to come in.” He stepped inside and closed the door.
After she made tea and they were seated on the couch in the living room, he asked, “How are you feeling? You’ve had a lot to take in since arriving on the island.”
“Seven weeks ago, if you had told me any of this would happen, I wouldn’t have believed it. Finally meeting Charlie’s friends. Being handed the reins of his bookstore. Learning things about him that I’ve always longed to know. Finding out that he never forgot about me, that I mattered to him as much as he mattered to me. Discovering his immense talent as a writer and illustrator.” She paused, holding his gaze before adding, “Meeting you.”
The truth was that the emotions growing inside her for the man who had just walked her home felt like the biggest thing of all. She couldn’t imagine what it would have been like to come to Elderflower Island without Owen being here. It still would have been a thrill to make so many discoveries about her father and to immerse herself in the wonders of life here—but it couldn’t possibly have felt as sweet.
Owen reached for her hands. How she loved the feel of his palms sliding against hers,
their fingers threading together. She’d never realized how sensitive her hands were, how sensitive every part of her was, until Owen touched her like this.
“I feel the same way.” His expression was at once gentle, yet full of heat. “I’ve struggled with Gran’s stroke, and my role in it, for so long. You woke me up, Mari. And not just when it comes to Gran. You’ve woken me up in every way.”
It felt so natural, so perfectly right when they both leaned in to kiss. It was fiery. Passionate. Intense. And so incredibly sexy that all she wanted was to drag him into her bedroom and make love with him all night long.
Mom will never forgive me for this.
The thought came from Mari’s subconscious with such force, and such venom, that she instinctively pulled away.
“Mari?” Owen stroked her cheek, searching her eyes. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” But it was clearly a lie. “Yes.” She scrunched her eyes shut. This was coming out all wrong. “Not with you. Nothing is wrong with you. You’re perfect.” Oh God, she was only digging a bigger hole for herself. First freaking out for what surely seemed like no reason at all, then going on and on about how perfect he was.
The corner of his mouth quirked up on one side. “I’m nowhere near perfect, as you well know.” But then his half smile fell away. “Especially given that I have no business kissing you, no business wanting you the way I do, when I know you’re already dealing with so much. I should be backing off, giving you space—”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want space. Not from you. It’s just that…” There was no good way to explain the spot she was in other than to spit it out. “I’ve already told you that my mother isn’t particularly thrilled that I’m here. But it goes deeper than that. She never forgave my father for what happened, and when he died, she didn’t want me to have anything to do with his flat or his bookstore or Elderflower Island—or even England, for that matter. Telling her that I’m planning to stay will be a massive blow.” She had to take a sip of her drink to give herself the fortitude to say the rest. “But I’m afraid the biggest blow of all will be if she thinks I’m repeating history. You see, my father swept her off her feet with his charming accent and exotic British ancestry. She claims I’m the only good thing that came from their relationship. I know you’re not Charlie, and that it’s not fair to lump all charming Englishmen into the same bucket, but—”