by Marni Mann
“Are you lost?” a man asked from behind me.
My eyes burst open as I turned around. I was surprised to hear a man’s voice—or any voice, for that matter—come from behind me. But it was nowhere near as shocking as the man it belonged to. He was tall and broad, maybe in his mid-twenties. His caramel irises stared back at me. Thick black stubble covered his cheeks and the span above his lips, pale red and slick from where he’d just wet them with his tongue. His hair was just long enough to gel and spike in a very specific arrangement.
His smile was subtle with a bit of astonishment. “Wow.”
His voice was as rough as the visual impression he created. I could feel his strength in his posture, in the way he wore his clothes, in how his hands hung at his sides like they needed to hold something, to grab it and make it his. In the few seconds that I’d been in his presence, I could already tell he was nothing like David or any of the other guys from back home. Tennis wasn’t his thing. Neither was covering his hard chest in a striped polo nor was making his face pretty every morning by shaving off his scruff.
He was sexier than any man I had ever met.
“Wow yourself,” I said.
Bella came charging out of the water as fast as she had entered it and headed straight for him. She sat at his feet with the Frisbee in her mouth. He knelt down, undeterred by her sopping coat, letting her lap his cheeks with her tongue. “Friendly one,” he laughed, and he looked up at me. “What’s her name?”
“Bella. You might want to—” I knew it was going to happen before it did. I could tell by the way she was wiggling, but it was too late to warn him. She stood quickly and began to shake, water from her fur flying toward him, splattering his shirt and jeans. “I’m so sorry.” I tapped my knees to get her attention. “Bella, come here.”
“No, she’s fine.” His voice was deep and heartening. “These are my work clothes…I was going to wash them anyway. And now I don’t have to.” He didn’t take his eyes off her as he reached for the Frisbee.
My eyes were drawn to his nails. They were short and cleanly-cut, but there was a line of black around his cuticles and on the skin at each tip. Tiny cuts and scrapes crossed his knuckles and ran down his fingers.
I wondered if his job was just as hard on his body.
He glided the Frisbee across the water and Bella chased after it, having to swim much farther than when it came from me. “So…you’re visiting someone in the neighborhood?”
“No.” I pointed in the direction of the house. “That’s my house.” It felt so strange to say that. I felt more like the middleman, delivering something that was never really mine to someone who could really appreciate it.
His eyes followed my finger. “I didn’t know it was for sale.”
“It isn’t. Not yet, anyway.”
His stare returned to me and everything inside me began to warm. The droplets from Bella’s shake were running down my arms. I didn’t feel them at all.
He took a few steps closer until we were just feet apart. “I lost my manners for a second, there.” His eyes contradicted his words; someone with real manners would never look at me the way he was, ignoring everything around us, leaving me in the center, completely bare in his gaze. With each passing second, the outside of me was closer to matching the inside. Everything turned hot and my skin blushed. “I’m Saint. My grandparents and I live next door.” He looked over his shoulder. Between the properties was a peninsula that jetted out into the water. A similar house as the Coswells' sat just on the other side.
“Your name is Saint?” I wanted to know what he’d done to earn that title. It wasn’t right to ask so soon, though.
He laughed with only his breath. “High school nickname. Real name’s Justin Drake, but I respond better to Saint.” His grip was almost painful. I could feel the power in his rough palm, in the way his hand swallowed mine and made me feel so small. The flutter in my chest doubled.
“And you live with your grandparents?”
“Kind of…over there.” He pointed across the peninsula to the opposite side of where we stood. A boat was hooked to the dock. “I just park it in their water.” His tongue wetted his bottom lip again “You still haven’t told me your name.”
“I’m Drew. Drew Stevens.”
“Well, it’s a small town, Drew Stevens.” His voice seduced my name as he said it. “A house goes up for sale, and everyone knows about it.” His eyes pierced me. “So why didn’t I know that you’d bought this one?”
I wasn’t sure how this was any of his business, but I liked the way he spoke. The way his top lip lifted when he pronounced certain syllables. I wanted him to keep doing it. And I didn’t think the reason for me being in Maine was a secret. He’d hear about it eventually anyway, in a town as small as this.
“You didn’t know because I didn’t buy it,” I said. “It was given to me. It’s going up for sale as soon as I meet with a realtor, which I hope is tomorrow.”
“The Coswells just gave you their house?” His arms crossed and his feet spread apart in a firm stance. His eyes looked down from the extra foot of height he had on me.
“Bequeathed would probably be a better word. I’m their… granddaughter.”
“Granddaughter?” His eyes began searching for resemblances. “You’re Rebecca’s daughter?”
My chest started to pound at the sound of my mom’s name coming from a stranger’s mouth. “You knew her?”
He shook his head. “Heard of her. That’s all.”
Had my grandparents spoken to him about my mom? Or was this one of those small town things where everyone knew everyone, even if they had moved away?
“My grandparents have lived in Bar Harbor all their lives.” He said it as though he could read me. “Names get tossed around, you know?” He took Bella’s Frisbee again and flung it across the water. “So why would you get the house instead of your mom?”
“My parents…” I took a deep breath. The fluttering I had felt earlier was replaced with a knot. “They died a few months ago, so my grandparents left the house to me.”
His posture softened. His hands moved into his front pockets and his shoulders slouched. “That’s shitty.”
I was so relieved that he didn’t say he was sorry. I was so fucking tired of that word. I’d heard way too much of it. It had lost its meaning. As I stared at him, I realized there was more than just sympathy in his eyes…there was understanding. I had a feeling that he had lost someone, too.
“I take it you won’t be sticking around Maine, then?”
“I’ll be heading back to Florida once all the paperwork is done and the house gets listed.”
The intensity in his eyes completely cooled. He was putting distance between us before there had been any closeness. Somehow, it affected me more than I thought it should.
“Florida, huh?”
I nodded again.
“Should’ve known. You don’t look like you’d make it as a Mainer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugged, but didn’t answer. “Have a safe trip back to Florida.”
“Thank—” Before I had the chance to finish, he’d already turned around, heading back across the rocks that separated our lots. Bella trotted over, her eyes following him the same way mine had. After a few seconds, she dropped the Frisbee at my feet, panting from all the swimming. I stepped on it, holding it to the ground so she could catch her breath.
It also gave me a chance to watch him a little more.
I couldn’t help but wonder how much he knew about my family, or why his expression had radiated empathy when I mentioned my parents’ deaths.
Or why the warmth still fluttered through me even after he was completely out of sight.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE LAYOUT OF THE COSWELLS’ HOUSE was much more open than Paul’s pictures had shown. A staircase started just off the entryway and wrapped around the side of the room, attaching to a catwalk that extended across the top of the seco
nd story. The kitchen was large and spacious; a huge island with barstools sat directly in the middle. A dining area, a den and an office were along the back of the house, each with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the water. I didn’t spend much time upstairs, but I saw enough to know that there were four bedrooms and two additional bathrooms. One of the rooms had Rebecca written in patchwork above the bed. I didn’t understand why they would have kept that decoration along with her posters and personal touches. I shut the door quickly as I passed it. I wasn’t ready to explore her things yet. It was too much for the first day.
I leaned against the kitchen sink, cupping my hands under the running faucet and sipping it out of my palms. It didn’t feel right searching through their house for glasses. In fact, it felt wrong to touch anything.
I was disoriented within these walls. This house held so much of my family’s hidden history. I was trying to feel a tiny bit of familiarity, to draw some sensation from these rooms that would provide me even a small sense of home. But I couldn’t. There was nothing familiar or recognizable. There was a small-framed picture that rested on the windowsill above the sink. It showed a middle-aged couple I assumed were the Coswells, with a girl probably around my age. Her features were similar to Mom’s, but her face was rounder and her nose was slightly larger. I figured it had to be Shirley.
How had my mom simply vanished from their lives?
Had I really never seen a picture of my grandparents before? I wracked my brain trying to remember a story, a hint, a reason my mom had given me at some point over the years. I couldn’t come up with anything. Maybe I had just forgotten.
My eyes moved across the counter and stopped at the oven. My mom had loved to bake; it was something we used to do together all the time. I wondered if she’d learned her skills in this kitchen. If they had worked together the same way we did.
What the hell happened here, Mom? If it wasn’t for your room, your name written above your bed, I wouldn’t have known you ever lived here. There’s no trace of you anywhere in this house that I’ve seen so far. What did they do to you?
Or what did you do to them?
I jumped at the sound of my phone as it rang from my back pocket. I was hoping not to see David’s picture. Gianna’s appeared instead.
“I know you didn’t just pull into the driveway, so why am I calling you and you’re not calling me?” she asked. I had promised to call her the second I arrived. It had obviously slipped my mind.
I took a seat at one of the barstools. “I had an attack, Gia. It was a pretty bad one…and I forgot. I know that’s not an excuse—”
“Roo…”
“I should have called. I’m so, so sorry.”
“I really wish you would’ve waited until the weekend so I could have come, too. You shouldn’t be there alone.”
I knew she was only trying to protect me, but she had been shielding me for months. That was because I had asked her to. For this—for Maine—I needed to learn how to be my own leader. And yet as much as I wanted answers, a part of me wished I had thrown that envelope away and had never taken possession of the house, even if the curiosity would’ve eaten me up. Nothing could bring my parents back—not in Florida, and not in Maine.
But something was pushing me to find out about my mysterious grandparents, and how my mom ended up exiled from their home.
“How’s the house, anyway?” she asked. “Is it as big and beautiful as it looked in the pictures?”
I glanced through the window at the ocean. I hadn’t gone swimming in three days. I needed to fix that.
“It’s big, yes,” I said. “And even more beautiful than we thought.” I tried to think of a way to change the subject to something much lighter than this. “I…met someone today.”
“The attorney, right? Was he cool?”
“Yeah…him. He was fine. I met someone else, too. A guy.”
“Well, now!” she chimed. “Who is he?”
“He’s Saint.”
“Saint?” she asked. “That’s his name?”
“It’s Justin. Saint is his nickname.”
She sighed. “Why am I picturing the total opposite of what that name implies?”
I laughed. Was he really the lighter topic I’d been trying for? Probably not. Especially considering the way he’d made me blush…and not just my skin.
“He lives next door.”
“Oh my God,” she said. Twice. “You like him, don’t you?”
“I don’t like him.” I’d spoken to him for less than five minutes, which was hardly enough time to even consider liking someone. Plus I was in no position to start having feelings for a guy who lived in Maine when I was leaving in a few days. More importantly, I’d promised myself there would be no more men in my life—not when I’d chosen one over my family. Saint was fun to look at, but it wouldn’t go beyond that.
“So what’s he like?” she asked.
“He looks a little older than us. Dark hair. Scruffy. Very rugged. Caramel colored eyes that made me feel like…”
“He was seeing straight into your soul?”
I smiled. “Something like that. He lives on a boat, too.”
“Scruffy and…rugged? And he lives on a boat?” I knew what she was implying. “David was way too safe, way too pretty and you were way too comfortable with him. Saint sounds nothing like him, which makes me love him already. And the fact that he lives on a boat…I hope you know how hot that is.”
“Oh, I do.”
“Roo, I like the way he’s making you sound right now. Whether you see him again or not, you sound…relaxed. I haven’t heard that from you in a while.”
Relaxed was how I’d felt when I was standing in front of the ocean talking to Saint. Maybe the purpose of meeting him was to remind me that I was capable of feeling at peace again. That underneath all the angst, a layer of calm could still be found.
“I’m meeting with a realtor tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll probably stay here tomorrow night, then I’ll start driving home the day after.”
“I’ll call you on my lunch break so you can give me all the details. Try to get some sleep, okay?”
“I will. Promise.”
“Love.”
“Love,” I echoed before hanging up. With Gianna, the you had never been needed.
The word itself had always been enough.
***
I waited outside the next morning for Andy, the realtor, to arrive. I’d spent most of the night on the living room couch unable to sleep. It was more time than I wanted to spend inside, but it was too cold to go out. Maine nights weren’t anything like the evenings in Florida. In spite of my physical exhaustion, my mind was full of questions that wouldn’t let me rest. So when the sun rose, Bella and I went for a two-mile walk, drove into town to get coffee and ate breakfast together on the Adirondack chairs that lined the front porch.
Andy pulled up right on time. The picture on his business card had to be taken years ago; it didn’t reveal his receding hairline or his growing gut, or the fact he was well into his thirties. I hoped the advanced age meant he was more experienced and would be able to sell the house faster.
“It’s nice to meet you, Drew,” he said, climbing the front steps and shaking my hand.
“Likewise. Come on in.” I led him through the entryway.
He set his briefcase down in the kitchen. There were folders stacked inside. “I brought some comps that we can look at,” he said. He spread out several sheets of paper. “But I’ll be honest: there’s nothing on the market that I can compare this house to. Homes on the water rarely go up for sale. Most are passed down through the family, which makes it difficult to come up with an accurate price.”
That made no sense to me. “What are you saying?”
“It means I’d have to base the listing on what we think the house is worth, not what the market dictates. By doing that, I’m eliminating a majority of the locals who simply won’t be able to afford the property. But I really don�
�t think we should underprice it, either.”
“So what are you suggesting?” I asked.
“Show me the house first. We can decide afterward.”
I brought Andy through each of the rooms while he took measurements and jotted down notes. The more I looked around, the more I realized his dad was right. The place did need some work, definitely some modernizing. The wood floors were chipped and warped, the counters stained; the ceilings had a popcorn finish.
When the tour was complete, we returned to the kitchen. He compared his notes to the papers that he’d placed on the table. After several minutes of silence, he looked up. “I’m going to give you your options, and then I’m going to give you my opinion. Sound good?”
I nodded.
“The house needs work. It’s not in horrible shape, but it’s not in great shape either. Locals are more concerned about price, so option one would be to set it at a number that they can afford and market the house as-is. Option two is to renovate. I can give you a list of the upgrades that need to be done, which will be extensive, and we can go after out-of-town buyers. People from Portland and Boston, even Manhattan, who are looking for a place on the water and will pay top dollar.”
I knew absolutely nothing about real estate, but Gianna’s parents were teaching me as we prepared to get my parents’ house sold. I knew if I asked them about this, they’d tell me to choose the option that gave the biggest return. I wasn’t concerned about the money. But I still didn’t want to give the house away.
I asked Andy to show me how much he’d list the house for at each option and what the profit would be. He flipped between the different sheets of paper, pulled out a calculator from his briefcase and began adding up the totals. “Remember, these are just estimates,” he said. On a clean sheet, he wrote down two very different numbers. One was almost half of the other. “Renovate,” and he pointed to the larger number, “or not,” and he pointed to the smaller.
I met his eyes. “I’m thinking we should probably renovate.”
He smiled. “If you can afford it, that would definitely be my recommendation.”