by Sarah Morgan
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“I know you’re hurting and I’m not going to let you hurt alone. For now you need sleep, but on the weekend we’re going to talk about this. Things always seem better when the three of us are together.”
Friends. They laughed with you through the good times and hugged you during the bad. They cheered your successes and bandaged the wounds from falls.
Men came and went from her life, but her friends always had her back.
It made her feel better knowing that. “Thanks for the lift and the shopping. I’ll see you at breakfast, but I’ll walk. It will do me good. Now go back to your man and your child.”
“And my dog.”
“Dog? Who are you and what have you done with my friend?”
Emily smiled. “Agnes can’t cope with Cocoa so we’ve inherited her. Lizzy is thrilled.”
“Man, child, dog and swimming.” Brittany shook her head in disbelief. “I’ve been away too long.”
ZACH STROLLED INTO the busy bar of the Ocean Club and dumped the backpack on the seat next to Ryan, who was deep in conversation with Alec Hunter.
“Can you drop that off next time you’re passing?”
“Passing where?”
“Castaway Cottage.”
Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Do I look like I work for FedEx? And since when does anyone ‘pass’ Castaway Cottage? The clue is in the name. It’s at the end of the road to nowhere.”
“You’ve been passing it often enough the last month so that you can have sex with the pretty blonde who moved in with the kid who looks like Goldilocks.”
“Has someone installed a webcam I don’t know about?”
Alec suppressed a yawn. “This is Puffin Island. The most secure place in the whole of the North America. If a caterpillar lifts its head, people can tell you how high. The reason we don’t have an island newspaper is because there is nothing anyone could write that the population don’t already know.” Pushing a beer towards Zach, he said, “Sit down. We bought you a drink in case you joined us.” After a moment’s hesitation, Zach slid into the vacant seat.
The summer after he’d turned sixteen, he hadn’t returned to Boston. Instead, Philip and Celia had taken him in with the approval of the authorities. For months, Zach had lived on a knife edge, waiting for them to tell him they’d made a mistake and that other plans had been made for him, but they never did. Instead of throwing him out, they’d given him a key to their home.
Carrying that key, he’d felt like a fake and a fraud. He knew a hundred different ways to break into a house. He didn’t need a key.
Philip had arranged for him to attend the local school and it was there he’d met Ryan.
His closest brush with happiness had been on the days he’d been sucked into Ryan’s noisy, disorganized family life.
“How’s Rachel? I saw her with Jared.”
“Who my little sister dates is her business.”
Zach eyed Ryan’s fingers, white on the bottle, and knew how hard he was struggling not to make it his business. Knowing that Ryan had all but raised his younger sister after the death of their parents, the protective streak didn’t surprise him.
“You could do her hair at the wedding.” Knowing that humor always worked better than sympathy, he went with that. “You always were good with bows and braids.”
Ryan shot him a black look. “She’s not marrying the guy.”
Alec stretched out his legs, a gleam of humor in his eyes. “So it’s just sex?”
Ryan cursed softly and ran his hand over the back of his neck. “Why do I feel this way? I’m not her father.”
“You care,” Alec said mildly, “and caring is the first step towards psychological trauma. Buckle up. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.”
And sometimes, Zach thought, it never got better.
Sometimes, the trauma was so great you learned how to stop caring.
Ryan drained his beer and looked at Zach. “So how did you end up with Brittany’s backpack?”
“She left it in my plane. Your blonde friend gave Brittany a lift home but they managed to leave the backpack.” And he’d stared at it for the best part of thirty minutes, weighing up his options, annoyed that he’d been so distracted by seeing her again he hadn’t noticed it. “She’s back.”
“Brittany? Yeah, I know. As you say, I’m having sex with the friend who gave her a lift whose name, by the way, is Emily. For the sake of accuracy I should tell you that her hair is more caramel than blond and we’ve never actually had sex in Castaway Cottage. Her choice, not mine.” Ryan jerked his head towards the beer. “Drink. Given that you just flew your ex-wife in, I’m guessing you’re going to need several of these. Or maybe something stronger.”
Something stronger sounded tempting, but Zach didn’t want to fight the crowd at the bar. “How do you know I flew her in?”
“Same reason you knew I was having sex with the woman living in her cottage. Nothing travels faster than gossip, especially when it’s juicy. And because I’m a man and have no tact or sensitivity, I’m going to ask the question everyone wants to ask. How hard did she punch you?”
Zach reached for the beer. “There was no physical contact.” He didn’t mention the solid thump in his gut that had come from seeing her again. “It was a civilized encounter.”
“Civilized?” Ryan’s brows rose. “That doesn’t sound like Brittany, especially since the last time she saw you was when you walked out days after your wedding.”
“Thanks for the reminder.”
Knowing how protective the islanders were of Brittany and how suspicious they were of him, Zach hadn’t expected a warm welcome on his return to the island, but Ryan had immediately invited him for a drink at the Ocean Club, sending a clear message to the locals that whatever had happened in the past had no bearing on the present. “For that she didn’t black your eye? Are you sure you picked up the right passenger? Fierce brunette who once shot me in the butt with an arrow? I’ve got money on her taking a swing at you within five minutes of laying eyes on you.”
Zach gave a grim smile. “Pay up. Seems like she didn’t care enough to take a swing at me.”
But it was true he’d expected a greater response from her.
Guilt, an unfamiliar emotion, nagged at him like an old wound.
He’d broken hearts before, right along with rules and property, and it had never bothered him until Brittany.
Unlike everyone else he’d ever met in his life, she’d believed in him.
Turned out living up to someone’s expectations had been more of a pressure than living down to them. He knew he’d done her a favor by disappointing her sooner rather than later, but he should have found a less brutal way of doing it.
“Ten years is a long time,” Alec said easily. “You were both young. It’s history, long forgotten.”
Ryan finished his drink. “That’s a strange statement from someone who makes a living ensuring history isn’t forgotten.”
Alec Hunter, a naval historian, had carved out a successful career as a TV presenter and explorer. “That’s different. I’m talking about relationship history.”
“So am I.” Ryan shrugged. “In my experience women don’t forget. They nurture the mad and then produce it when you least expect it. Either way, you’re doomed, Zach.”
“She wasn’t mad,” Zach said flatly. “She was indifferent.”
She’d sat with casual poise, those endless legs bronzed from the Greek sun, her response to seeing him again approaching boredom.
Why should that bother him?
Alec finished his beer. “Last time I checked, archaeologists didn’t earn enough to fly private. How could she afford your services?”
Zach thought about the phone call from the Greek offices of ZervaCo. “Seems she’s keeping rich company these days.”
Ryan gestured across the bar for Tom to bring them more drinks. “You’re not exactly struggling yourself.”
&nbs
p; “My bank account is healthy enough, although I’m a long way off from owning a Gulfstream.”
“Would you want to?”
“No.” Zach took a mouthful of beer. “It has to be landed on a strip of tarmac.”
“Whereas you’d rather land where no sane man would ever venture. So if the reunion was civilized, what’s stopping you from delivering the backpack yourself?”
Evading the question, Zach looked across the crowded bar and caught the eye of a young woman who’d been watching him since he’d walked in.
She gave him a shy smile and he immediately looked away.
All his relationships were short-term but he couldn’t contemplate even short-term while his ex-wife was jammed in his head.
And shy didn’t work for him. He made it a rule not to let himself touch anything breakable or vulnerable.
“I haven’t set foot in Castaway Cottage for over a decade.” Not since that day Kathleen Forrest had gone to the mainland with her knitting friends, leaving her granddaughter alone in the secluded house on the beach.
The first thing Brittany had done was phone Zach and invite him over.
He’d figured that if the good girl wanted to try her hand at being bad it wasn’t his business to talk her out of it.
Remembering what had happened next brought sweat to his forehead. It had been the beginning of a long vacation for his judgment.
He was doing better these days, but barely a day passed without him encountering someone who wanted to punch him for past offenses.
He’d assumed today was Brittany’s turn and no one, least of all himself, would argue that he didn’t deserve a hell of a punch for what he’d done to her.
He’d weighed that fact carefully before returning to the island, then decided that since she mostly spent her time traveling and had all the support of the islanders, he was the one who would suffer. Despite his relationship with Philip and his friendship with Ryan, most of the locals still viewed him with suspicion. He figured he’d earned that and anyway, he was used to being on the receiving end of disappointment and disapproval. It didn’t bother him. He didn’t live his life to please others. He did what felt right to him. Made choices that felt right to him. As long as he could live with himself, that was all that mattered.
But in the end it hadn’t been hatred or anger he’d seen in her eyes.
It had been—nothing.
His ex-wife really didn’t give a damn that he was occupying her space.
In which case he should just return the bag and have done with it.
She needed it. He had it. It was as simple as that.
Maybe then the two of them could make a go of living side by side.
With a rough curse he snatched up the backpack, ignoring Ryan’s curious look.
“I’ll take it over there in the morning.”
“Why not now?”
“Long flight. She’ll be asleep.” And there was no way he wanted to risk seeing her in her pajamas or, worse, naked.
He’d knock on the door, hand it over and leave. No words needed to be exchanged. No emotions, although if she wanted to yell at him he would stand there and take it. He wouldn’t even defend himself because how did you defend the indefensible? But in any case, it was clear Brittany no longer had any feelings she wanted to express.
She wasn’t looking for closure.
The door between them had been closed a long time.
CHAPTER THREE
CASTAWAY COTTAGE HAD stood at the edge of the curve of sand known as Shell Bay for over half a century. Built of clapboard and surrounded by a pretty coastal garden, it had been purchased by Brittany’s grandparents just after their marriage.
Brittany’s mother, Linda, had been born there and spent the next twenty years longing to escape the confines of island life. At that time the sole economy of the island, like so many in the area, had been fishing. It wasn’t until years later that a wealthy Bostonian had discovered the island by chance on a sailing trip and proceeded to build a home. Others had followed and, together with tax breaks encouraging people to live and work there, the fortunes and population of the island had been boosted. But for Linda, life had been all about the lobster and the never-ending cycle of worry that went with the business.
Marriage had been a way out. Brittany’s father had worked as an engineer for an oil company and was often away, leaving Linda alone on an island she couldn’t wait to escape.
Brittany was ten when her parents had divorced. Her mother had immediately remarried and moved south to Florida. Brittany, settled on the island, had stayed with her grandmother.
Occasionally her mother would visit, more to confirm her life choices than to spend time with her daughter. Her father she’d rarely seen. Wrapped in the warm cocoon of her grandmother’s love, Brittany had barely noticed their absence. She’d grown up knowing that families came in different shapes and sizes, and the island community was so small and close-knit, she’d taken for granted the support of a wider group of people who knew and loved her. She’d been taught to swim by Kathleen, her grandmother, but it had been John Harris, the harbormaster, who had settled her down on the edge of the quay one day and shown her how to tie a bowline. John was the first to take her sailing and Dave Brown, who had lobstered the waters around Puffin Island for three decades, had been the one to teach her about the business that had been a mainstay of the island’s economy for longer than anyone could remember. Along with other islanders, she’d spent time helping him get ready for the season. She’d scraped the buoys, pressure washed the hull of his boat and painted the side where the surface had chipped from hauling traps. In return he’d taken her out on the water. From him she’d learned about hydraulic haulers and bottom sounders, that the temperature of the water changes with the seasons and that lobsters migrate from shallow waters to deeper ones. And from her grandmother she’d learned how to cook the lobster in a fish kettle and eat it fresh, dripping with butter. Raising a child on Puffin Island was a communal activity, especially during the long winters when so much of the time was spent indoors, often without power. Brittany had understood that the fortunes of the island were linked with the waters that surrounded it, and she also understood why people were working to change that.
A thriving island needed people, and people needed work.
Some of the older islanders resented the large influx of visitors that swelled the population over the summer months, many of them wealthy Northeasterners from Boston, New York and Philadelphia, but most accepted them as necessary for the survival of the community.
It wasn’t until her late teens that the warm embrace of the community began to feel more like constriction and interest became intrusion. Instead of feeling soothed by island life she’d felt smothered, unable to breathe without at least ten people knowing the depth of each breath she took. She’d started to wonder what it would be like to live in a place where the whole population didn’t know what you had on your report card.
And then she’d fallen in love with Zachary Flynn.
Zachary Flynn.
With a groan, Brittany rolled over and opened her eyes, remembering the events of the night before. It hadn’t been a dream. He was really here, invading her home.
Outside dawn had barely broken and a quick check of her phone told her it was only 6:00 a.m.
Thanks to the time change, her body thought it was already after midday and as a result she was awake. Exhausted, but definitely awake.
After Emily had left the night before, she’d stumbled up the stairs and collapsed onto the bed, too tired to undress let alone wrap her mind around the problem of Zach. She hadn’t even bothered sliding into the bed her friend had made up with clean sheets. Instead she’d covered herself with the pretty patchwork quilt lovingly stitched by her grandmother as another layer of protection against the cold months and taken refuge in sleep.
Now, with sleep evading her and the gradual dawn lighting the gunmetal gray of the sea, she had no choice but to think a
bout the events of the day before.
Her head still heavy from the journey and the time change, she sat up and scooped her hair away from her face.
The quilt lay on the floor by the bed where she’d kicked it during the night. Probably a result of dreaming about Zach.
Crap.
When she’d made her decision to return home to heal, she hadn’t planned on finding him here. If she’d known, she would have stayed in Greece. In a moment of wild panic she contemplated flying back to Europe but dismissed the idea instantly. If she left now he’d know she was running away. And she didn’t run from anything. Her grandmother had taught her that.
You stood and faced things. You dealt with them.
So how should she deal with this?
Indifference. That was the way to go.
Whenever she saw him, which hopefully would be infrequently, she’d pretend indifference. She’d deal with this situation with quiet dignity.
How hard could it be?
Through the open windows she could hear the rhythmic crash of the surf on the rocks, and the pretty muslin curtains billowed in the breeze. Not for the first time she was grateful that Castaway Cottage was away from the main hub of the island. It meant that he would have no reason to come here.
She flopped onto her back and stared up at the same ceiling she’d stared at growing up.
No matter how conflicted her emotions about Zach, it felt good to be home.
And Castaway Cottage wasn’t just home, it was a haven. Despite the fact she was alone in the house, the feeling of security wrapped itself around her.
How many times had she lain here, listening to her grandmother clattering beneath her in the kitchen? She’d sung as she’d cooked, humming to herself as she’d whipped up pancakes to go with blueberries freshly harvested from the bushes outside the cottage door.
Pushing aside the pang of sadness, Brittany gave herself a little longer in bed, and then sat up.
Self-pity wasn’t going to help and as her grandmother wasn’t there to kick her butt, she’d kick her own.
But first she had to find a way of managing everyday tasks with a broken wrist, starting with a shower.