She whispered a quick “Please don’t let him murder me” prayer and did her best to unruffle herself as she watched him park, turn off the engine, and get out.
First impressions were important—her grandmother had taught her that. First impressions of Jack Walker (aside from his punctuality): Tall. Handsome. Chiseled features. Wave of sandy-colored hair with some gray sprinkled in around his temples.
Does not appear to be a serial killer.
He took one look at her and smiled. “It’s early.”
“I overslept,” she admitted, wondering what she actually looked like after her open-air sleep. She did her best to smooth her hair, but she could feel a bump in the back that probably made her look like the female version of Alfalfa. “I’m sorry.”
Jack held up his hands in front of him. “No need to apologize.”
She stuck out her right hand intending to redeem herself with a firm, good-enough-for-GrandPop kind of handshake, but Jack took her hand in both of his and squeezed it gently.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
She pulled her hand away and silently prayed again. “I’m Emily.”
“Jack Walker.” He gave her a quick once-over. “So you’re an Ackerman?”
“I am,” she said. “You’re not a murderer or anything, are you?” Emily’s body blocked the front door, and she realized if the answer to her question was yes, she’d be helpless to stop him.
He laughed. “I’m not.”
She sized him up.
“But I can find a reference letter that says so if you need me to.”
She stuck the key in the lock. “It’s okay. I don’t have time for that. Come on in. I’ll show you around.” She pushed the door open and stepped inside, the musty smell of neglect instantly hitting her nostrils.
She turned and found Jack still standing on the porch. “Do you want me to bring this inside?” He pointed to her suitcase, which she promptly grabbed and dragged into the entryway.
“Sorry,” she said.
There was a quizzical look on his face, but he didn’t say anything. Grandma would not be proud of the first impression she was making.
He stepped inside and she closed the door.
The house didn’t feel as big as she remembered. Straight ahead was the great room, with one whole wall of windows giving a perfect view of the backyard, the swimming pool, the cracked concrete patio. Off to the left was the kitchen, a true chef’s kitchen that—once upon a time—had been outfitted with the very best of everything.
“To be honest, I haven’t really had a chance to assess everything that needs to be done in here,” she said. “I just got in yesterday.”
Jack’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled and said, “That’s what I’m here for.”
She took a step to her right, and she could practically see GrandPop sitting behind his big desk, the smell of tobacco and peppermint filling his study.
“Maybe we can just walk through together and make some notes?” Jack asked.
“Sounds like a good idea.” Was it completely obvious she had no idea what she was doing?
She turned toward the stairway, and for the briefest moment she was twelve again, traipsing down those very stairs in her nightgown in the middle of the night, clinging to her mother’s hand.
She closed her eyes and let herself remember, just for a fleeting second.
You can’t dwell here, Emily. Assess the damage to the house. Make a list of what needs to go. Arrange for a Dumpster ASAP.
Emily opened her eyes, took out her phone, and began a list, which Jack also seemed to be doing on a clipboard. His list was probably a bit more comprehensive considering she’d never renovated a house before.
She typed:
Refinish floors.
Paint walls.
Get Dumpster.
They walked into the kitchen, and Emily nearly gasped at what it had become. “Wow.”
“How long since you’ve been in the house?”
“Eighteen years.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “That explains a few things.”
Yes. It did. Like the shabby floral café curtain partially covering the window over the sink. She pulled it down, wadded it into a ball, and threw it on the counter.
New window coverings
New windows?
“Let’s get some air in here,” Jack said. He leaned over the sink and fought with the glass pane until eventually it gave way, sending a warm breeze through the space. “What’s your plan with the house?” He set the clipboard down on the counter and looked at her.
“I’m going to fix it up so I can sell it.”
His eyebrows rose. “You don’t want to fix it up and live in it?”
Her laugh lacked amusement, and it sounded phony even to her. “Definitely not.”
“Then I think this room will need a lot of work.” He scribbled something on the clipboard. “The kitchen being the heart of the home and all. Buyers love a beautiful kitchen.”
She nodded, though it occurred to her that the kitchen had never been the heart of this home. That honor had gone to the living room. With a wall of windows facing the backyard and an opposite wall covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the living room had always been the gathering place for the Ackerman family.
She walked into the space and knelt down to study the bottom two shelves, where all her books were stored.
Trixie Belden. Anne of Green Gables. Pippi Longstocking. They were still here as if they’d been waiting all this time for someone to open them up again.
It was here where her love of story had begun—and her love of adventure. Her mom read to her out loud more nights than not, even after she was perfectly capable of reading chapter books on her own. It was their special time.
Grandma didn’t approve. “Don’t fill her mind with all that nonsense, Isabelle,” she’d say with a shake of her head. “We don’t want her head up in the clouds like yours always was.”
Her mother would lean in close then so Grandma couldn’t hear. “I think there’s no better place for a head than up in the clouds.”
Emily would laugh and they’d go back to reading, taking turns making up voices for the different characters.
She ran her hand along the spines of the old books and felt, for a moment, like she’d just been reunited with her dearest friends.
But this mental detour wasn’t why she was here.
New furniture
New rugs
New fixtures
New everything!
“Why didn’t you sell the house sooner?” Jack asked, standing in the doorway of the living room. “Eighteen years is a long time for a place like this to sit empty.”
She stood. “It wasn’t mine to sell. My grandfather passed away, and he left it to me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.
She pretended it hurt less than it did, swatting his apology away before it had a chance to drill a hole in her perfectly placed facade.
“I haven’t been back in a long time either,” Jack said as if sensing her inward struggle.
“Did you spend a lot of time on the island when you were younger?”
“I did.” He inspected the trim around the sliding-glass door that led to the backyard. “I picked up some odd jobs here and there before and during college.”
She smiled. “I bet that was pretty fun, being here when you were that age.”
Finally he looked at her again. “Some of the best times of my life.”
“Did you know my mother? Isabelle Ackerman?” Emily had no idea why she’d asked that.
But Jack smiled at her question. “Everyone knew your mother.”
His answer surprised her.
“All the guys at the country club—” his eyes practically twinkled—“well, we admired her from a distance.”
“She was beautiful, wasn’t she?” Emily stilled.
“She was that,” he said.
After a brief pause, she started tow
ard the stairs.
This might hurt a little. Actually, this might hurt a lot. This was a Band-Aid she wasn’t ready to rip off, a wound that needed to stay covered.
She heard herself filling the silence as she pressed forward, giving herself what was quickly becoming a very tired (and annoying) pep talk: I can do hard things.
“If memory serves, my grandmother was a fan of wallpaper, so that’ll have to come down. It’s really ugly wallpaper.”
Jack laughed, following her up the stairs, and she opened the door to the room that used to be hers. She stood in the hallway while he went in and looked around.
“This room looks pretty good.” Jack pulled back the rug, which covered most of the floor. “Might not need to do much but paint in here.” He stood next to the bulletin board hanging over the bed.
“Is this you?” He pointed to a photo of Emily and her mom down at the beach. She didn’t need to get any closer to know which photo it was or from which day. A happy memory Emily had pushed out of her mind.
“Yes, a long time ago.”
Jack touched the photo, then glanced at her. “Cute.”
“There are three other bedrooms. You can look at them later—they’re all about the same as this one.” Only she didn’t know that for certain—not really. It wasn’t like she’d inspected them herself.
Dusty old memories didn’t need unearthing.
He stuck his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants with a stern nod. “Sounds good.”
As soon as he stepped back into the hallway, she closed the door behind them and exhaled. She didn’t want to think about what other memories were pinned to the bulletin board or tucked in the drawers.
She hurried back toward the stairs and started down. “Then there is some work in the yard.” That much she knew for sure.
She showed Jack the patio area, the torn screens on the porch, the rotting wood, the cracked cement. “It’s probably obvious, but I don’t know the first thing about renovating a home.”
He tucked his clipboard under his arm. “We’ll muddle through it together.”
“Yeah?” Does that mean you’ll take the job?
“I think we can handle most of what you need,” Jack said. “I can hire some local help—might take a bit of time, but there are always young guys who need work. Why don’t I put together an estimate and bring it by tomorrow?” Jack looked at her now, his eyes kind, fans of well-worn wrinkles at their corners.
“That would work,” Emily said. “I know my budget, so I’ll tell you what we can and can’t do.”
Her grandmother had sent her the information for a bank account with funds set aside for renovations—the point being to prevent the house from becoming a financial burden for Emily. She’d dipped into the account twice—once to buy her ferry ticket and once for a sandwich on her way over.
Looking at the cottage now, she wondered if she had enough money to cover the cost of the renovations. Did her grandmother know the shape this place was in?
“I’ll give you a fair price.” Jack smiled. He had a nice smile and looked nothing like an investment banker in his cargo pants, light-blue T-shirt, and work boots.
“I appreciate that.” Emily pulled her sleeves down over her hands.
Jack watched her for a few seconds, then finally looked away. “Grateful for the opportunity, Miss Ackerman.”
She gave him a nod. “I’ll look forward to your estimate.”
He pulled out a pair of sunglasses, stuck them on his face, and disappeared around the side of the house.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. Jolie again: Aunt Harper just got here! GrandNan wants to know what kind of sandwiches are your favorite? She’s going to bring you one even if you can’t come to the beach.
The text was accompanied by a photo of the girl, her strawberry locks pulled up in a messy ponytail. She was making a peace sign with her partially painted fingernails and her dad was in the background, looking pensive.
Emily zoomed in on Hollis, who looked less like the baseball hero and more like a man with too much on his mind.
But still so very handsome.
She texted back: She doesn’t have to do that!
But she’s going to, so it might as well be something you like. ;)
I like everything! Turkey and cheese, ham and cheese, chicken salad. I’m not a picky eater.
Very quickly, her phone buzzed again. Dad said he’ll make you cheese and mayonnaise sandwiches.
Emily laughed out loud at the memory.
She—in all her nine-year-old wisdom—mistakenly proclaimed that she’d invented the best sandwich ever: a slice of white bread, doused with spreadable cheese, then balled up in her fist. The final touch? Mayonnaise—on the outside of the bread ball.
Emily was bossy at that age, so she forced Hollis and Hayes to try her culinary masterpiece, which ended in groans and a dash for something to “wash down the grossness.”
She couldn’t believe he remembered—she’d forgotten all about that.
She quickly typed back: Whoever invented that is a genius!
I think it sounds disgusting.
Emily laughed as another text came in.
I hope you change your mind about the beach. I can’t wait to hear more about Broadway!
Broadway, right.
Emily couldn’t bring Broadway to Jolie, but she could at least follow through at the arts center—do whatever it took to get the children’s show up and running again for the girl’s sake.
And maybe for her own sake too.
CHAPTER 12
LATE JUNE 1989
Isabelle’s summers had always been the same. Days on the beach or in the water, followed by parties and dinners with her parents and their friends. Somehow Eliza and Alan Ackerman loved to show her off, as if she were meant to be paraded around, a symbol of their good parenting, a symbol of their excellent life.
But what her parents didn’t know was that their daughter spent those dinners thinking about the handsome golf caddie she would later sneak out to see. Her parents didn’t know about the late-night picnics when she said she was with her friends. They didn’t know about all the times she’d skip the beach to meet JD at the Juice Bar. And they certainly didn’t know about the kissing—so much kissing.
Isabelle didn’t expect to be good at hiding her relationship with JD, but it turned out she was a wizard at it. Almost everyone in town knew her parents, so this was no small feat, but she knew where to go so as to not run into any of those people.
Still, they were careful—she didn’t want anything to jeopardize her time with the college boy who had most definitely stolen her heart.
JD said things to her that nobody had ever said before. He paid her compliments that had nothing to do with money or even beauty (though he often commented on that too). Mostly he seemed in awe of her spunk, her fire, her intelligence. And that made her feel like a person who could do anything.
It was a powerful thing, to feel invincible, like nothing could touch you. She had a feeling she made JD feel that way too, because he often came to her with new ideas and plans for their future—their future, not just his.
“I want to make sure you have the life you deserve,” he’d say.
“The only life I need is one with you.”
Now, sitting on their picnic blanket on Ladies Beach, a more secluded location than their first date, Isabelle laid her head in JD’s lap, gazing up at him as he stared out across the water.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked quietly, seeing a pensiveness behind his eyes.
“Same thing I’m always thinking about,” he said. “You.”
She reached up and touched the bottom of his chin, his slight stubble rough underneath her fingers. The tentativeness of their initial meeting was gone, and in its place was a quiet familiarity between them, as kisses were more frequent and hands were often interlaced.
“What about me?”
He brought his eyes to hers and smiled. “That I lov
e you, Isabelle Ackerman.”
She fought the urge to look away. Surely he’d gone mad. Love was something you experienced when you were much older and had known a person for months, maybe even years.
“Sorry.” He shifted, and she sat up. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
She could see hurt on his face. “No, I’m sorry—you just took me by surprise. Can you say it again?”
He glanced in her direction and she willed him not to look away.
“Please?”
He drew in a tight breath. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot, Isabelle, and I know it sounds crazy, but . . . I love you.”
She smiled, and his face turned shy.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking that I love you too.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “When you know, you know.”
She couldn’t explain it. It was crazy to think she was in love with someone she’d met just a month ago, especially when she was only seventeen, and yet everything inside of her believed that this was love. This was how love felt. And who could argue with that?
They didn’t talk about what would happen at the end of the summer, focusing instead on the moments they were together. Maybe that’s why it all felt so intense—it was as if they were living only one moment at a time, as if that were all they had.
JD kissed her, not like a person who’d kissed her a hundred times before, but like a person who might never get to kiss her again.
And she got lost in every single kiss.
But sometimes there was the lingering concern of what would come next. Every once in a while, there was that question—how would they last once they left the bubble of Nantucket?
“Don’t think about it now,” he said as if reading her mind. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and letting her melt into him.
“I can’t help it,” she said. “What am I going to do without you?”
“You’ll never have to know.”
And even though she mostly knew it wasn’t true, a sliver of hope seeped in through her seams, and that’s what she decided to cling to.
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