by Liz Johnson
“Oh, I don’t know.” She covered a secret smile with her fingers. She’d gotten into the catbird seat and was in no rush to let him in on the mystery.
With a riddle sparkling behind her sapphire-blue eyes and slender fingers hiding a girlish smile, she was beyond pretty. She was absolutely stunning.
He grabbed the broken drawer from the counter and banged at the dented hardware on its side with the palm of his hand.
Anything to keep his mind off her.
At least her, meaning her.
He wasn’t making any sense.
Marie, the mildly antagonistic, always enigmatic housemate, was fine. He could think about her and her plot to swindle Jack. But Marie, the beautiful woman with a smart tongue and kissable lips, was off-limits. She was bound to be trouble, and he had to keep his mind as far away from that version of her as possible.
He stretched to pick up a hammer and beat the dent until it resembled the metal strip on the opposite side. He slid the drawer back into place. It wobbled but closed all the way. He opened it and shoved the paper back inside, then closed it again.
“There. That’s done. What’s next?”
“Ice cream.”
He hadn’t really been asking her. He’d been trying to forget she was even in the room, actually. But he had invited her.
“All right. Let me just tell Jack we’re going.” He ducked into the other room, where Aretha sat with perfect posture, mesmerized by one of Jack’s stories. Clearing his throat, he waited for them to look his way. “We’re going to get some dessert. Would you like anything?”
“None for me.” Jack patted the plaid flannel shirt over his flat belly. “That lobster and egg deal was something else. I’m not sure I’ll need to eat again until next week.”
“You kids have a good time,” Aretha said. Immediately her eyes returned to Jack, who launched back into a story of how he’d gotten caught during a storm on Lake Michigan in a kayak. Seth had heard that tale a few times, and this version was bigger, more grandiose, than ever before. Was Jack trying to impress Aretha?
He frowned at Marie as he turned back into the kitchen. She just smiled that cat-who-ate-the-canary grin.
“What do you know that I don’t?”
“Enough.”
He scowled as he pulled a jacket over his T-shirt. Jack had sworn he wasn’t interested in Aretha as anything other than a friend. But Marie seemed to suspect something different.
Her levity added a bounce to her step as she traipsed through the mudroom and down the back stairs.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said as he caught up to her.
But that’s what he did. He worried about Jack. He worried about the inn. If he didn’t, who would?
And something was definitely going on between Jack and Aretha.
Whether Jack was aware of it remained to be seen.
Marie’s pulse slowed down, her breathing unfettered as she stepped onto the planks of the boardwalk. She drew the warm afternoon air into her lungs, full and whole. What was it about this place that made breathing so much easier than it had been in Boston?
“Do you think there’s magic in the air here?”
Seth looked at her like she’d lost her mind, his forehead a sea of wrinkles.
“Don’t you feel it? It’s like the ocean is calling and good ol’ St. Lawrence wants us to go for a swim.”
“St. Lawrence?”
“Well, the gulf was named after someone, wasn’t it?”
His nod was as slow as his steps. “I suppose.”
“You’re hopeless, Seth.”
His head jerked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that there’s something incredible about this place, and you’re missing it.” She spun in a slow circle, lifting her face to the sun. Pine trees lent their scent and gulls their song to the day’s delights.
“I’m not missing it. I’m not missing anything.” He marched on, ignoring her, save for his monologue. “It’s a Sunday afternoon. It’s a nice day. But it’ll be better with ice cream.”
“Everything’s better with ice cream.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
She pulled off her jacket and pushed the sleeves of her sweater up to her elbows, the sun on her skin taking the sting out of the wind. “I don’t know.” And she truly didn’t.
Maybe it was the way Jack and Aretha had sat so close during lunch, exchanging stories and secret smiles. Maybe it was the local lobster in their lunch. Or simply the smell of spring winning the fight against winter’s freezing rain.
Maybe it was that for the first time in three months, she’d had butterflies.
Innocent. Unexpected. Thrilling butterflies.
When Seth had brushed his thumb across her cheek, pushing her hair out of her face, her stomach had erupted like a swarm of monarchs. Their wings had fluttered and flickered, both calling for further contact and terrified of the same.
He’d pulled away just before she flew apart.
And beyond all of that, her body had remembered how to respond to a man’s touch.
For months her only reaction to physical contact had been gasping for breath and incapacitating dizziness. But maybe this island was changing her.
She couldn’t turn down her smile.
When they reached the fishing village at the end of the path, they veered toward a weather-beaten shack, red paint peeling off the wood siding. In bold letters it proclaimed the treat they’d trekked almost a mile for.
“Ladies first.” Seth offered a slight bow, and Marie didn’t need him to offer twice.
At the window, she smiled at the teenager behind the counter. He was less enthusiastic about having to work on such a beautiful day. “How can I help you?” His words were as flat as his metal scooper was round.
Put a smile on your face and be thankful that you’re giving out the world’s sweetest gift. “I’ll have a double scoop of mint chocolate chip.”
“We’re all out of that.”
She glared at Seth, who shrugged. This was clearly a second-rate establishment. “Two scoops of strawberry on a cone.”
“Waffle or sugar?”
“Waffle.”
Despite the kid’s flagrant disregard for the joy that all ice cream scoopers should display, his portions were generous, and her smile was firmly back in place by the time he handed her the cone. Seth ordered two scoops of vanilla, in spite of her harrumph.
Shrugging, he said, “What? I’m a purist. Chocolate or vanilla.”
She licked at the frozen delight as Seth led the way toward the walkway. But instead of continuing toward the Red Door, he nodded his head in the direction of the beach. “Want to see something?”
“On the beach?”
He nodded.
“All right.”
If she’d thought her day couldn’t get better than a tongue coated in strawberry cream, she changed her mind the minute they crested the little hill. The water, so secretive during her morning visits, shone like a diamond under a spotlight in the noon sun.
“I’m not missing out on anything,” he said.
“You’re not?”
They strolled past a couple holding hands, drawing nearer to the rock jetty. Her attention shifted between the beauty of the scene before her and the cone in her hand so that she missed the hole in the sand. Her knee buckled as she lurched forward.
Seth grabbed her arm, righting her by the sheer force of his grip. “Are you going to watch where you’re going now?”
Kicking sand out of the cuff of her pants, she said, “Where are we going?”
“To my absolute favorite spot on the island.”
“You have a favorite spot?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Just because I don’t dance down boardwalks or ramble about the guy they named the gulf after, doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate it.”
When they reached the jetty, he climbed onto the rocks, holding his cone high in the air with one hand and using the othe
r to climb the uneven steps. Glancing over his shoulder, he wrinkled his brows. “Watch your step.”
“I’m more worried about my ice cream.” She licked a melting drop that slid toward her finger.
“Come on.” He held out his free hand, and when she tucked hers into it, he pulled her up with a strength that his earlier save had only hinted at. Several yards out over the water, he pointed to two rocks that formed a perfect bench. “There.”
“This is your favorite spot? On the whole island?”
“Try it out.”
She shrugged, dropping to her knees before sitting down facing the water. The catch in her breath had nothing to do with his proximity and everything to do with the view of the village. From their vantage point, she could just make out the beach beside a big yellow barn-like building. There waves clapped against the island’s famous red dirt with breathtaking ease. The little white lighthouse shone brightly even in the sun, and a few wildflowers were braving their way back, reaching for the sun.
After nearly five minutes of silence, she whispered, “Thank you.”
“Why?” He smiled around a bite of waffle cone.
“You know why.” She used her melting treat to motion across the water.
“You’re welcome.” He licked around the edge of his ice cream. “This makes me wish I still had my surfboard.”
“You surfed?”
He shrugged.
“I figured as much. San Diego guys always do.”
“Well, not all of us. We moved there when I was twelve, and I was obsessed with the water. Not very good at surfing, but I didn’t care.”
She nodded toward the rolling waves. “I don’t think these would make for good surfing either.”
“Nope. But I’d give just about anything to paddle out past the break and just sit there, letting the surf float me back to shore.”
She crunched on a piece of the crispy waffle, knowing exactly what he meant.
When her cone was gone and her stomach so full she could pop, she leaned elbows on her knees and rocked in motion with the waves. Closing her eyes, she let the water lull her almost to sleep. “Wake me up when it’s time to go back.”
“All right.” He leaned back on his hands.
The rhythmic lapping of the waves was the only mark of time, so when he nudged her, she nearly fell off her seat. “Maybe we should head back. I’ve got to get the mirror hung in the upstairs bathroom.”
She nodded, taking his hand as he helped her up and then back down the rocks. They walked side by side in silence all the way back to the inn. Whether he was trying to avoid more dancing or afraid that she’d begin rattling on again, he kept his mouth closed, a small grin in place.
Seth held open the back door as she walked inside.
“Thanks for the ice cream.”
He followed her closely into the house. “I didn’t pay for the ice cream.”
“You didn’t?” She whipped around, almost running into the middle of his chest. Her hands rose to fend off the bump, her fingers grazing the front of his T-shirt.
His forehead wrinkled, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you did.”
“I didn’t. He didn’t tell me how much it was.” She pointed in the general direction of the beach. “But he didn’t call after us. Did he?”
She tried to replay the scene in her mind, but everything before strawberry on the beach was a blur.
Seth’s chest rumbled, his laughter building from deep within. When it finally exploded, he had to put his hand on his side as the guffaws shook him. “I owe him some money. And if I don’t pay him, I might be labeled persona non grata.”
Between her own giggles, she said, “Yes, I’m sure they’ll post your picture next to the window and tell their whole staff to refuse you service.”
With quick backward steps that matched the rhythm of his laughter, he reached the door. “I’ll be right back.” He disappeared around the side of the house, his chuckles still ringing in the room.
Marie wandered into the dining room, a skip in her step to match Seth’s laughter. The table was empty, and Jack and Aretha had disappeared. “Jack?” she called down the hall, wandering to the foyer. At the front door, she spied two figures walking down the road toward Aretha’s shop.
She pressed her face as close to the window as she could without leaving a smudge. Jack’s white hair fluttered in the wind, and Aretha clasped her hands around his elbow as she looked into his face.
This was very, very good.
If anyone was right for Jack, it was Aretha, with her warm heart and bright smile. Jack needed that after his loss. Even if he didn’t realize it.
Marie wandered back to the kitchen, put a few more glasses into the dishwasher, and wiped off the counters. There were still plenty of walls to paint, but maybe if she waited for Seth, she could help him hang the mirror and he’d help her paint.
Jack’s New York Times sat in a haphazard array on the corner of the counter, and she shuffled the pages together, automatically scanning the business section for anything of interest. The Dow was down, but that wasn’t new.
She flipped the page over and nearly crumpled it up to throw into the recycling bin. But her hand stopped at the edge of the page. She blinked several times, trying to focus on the tiny script and praying she’d misread the name in the article.
She hadn’t.
As the words came into focus, she scanned the lines as fast as she could, mumbling the words. “Boston area real estate group Carrington Commercial hit a snag in the purchase of two and a half acres of land . . . Current property owner Derek Summerville Sr. is asking the National Register of Historic Places to preserve the buildings on his land and halt the purchase of the land, which Carrington Commercial owner Elliot Carrington says . . .”
Her voice trailed off as her breath vanished. Leaning an elbow on the counter, she covered her face.
The land where her dad planned to put multimillion-dollar condos was still in limbo, still of more import than his daughter.
She tried to swallow the lump that lodged in her throat, but it stayed put.
Her father had tried to use her, but he wasn’t getting what he wanted. While he might be able to pressure Derek Summerville Sr. into selling, the land was worthless if it couldn’t be developed. Mr. Summerville knew that and was using it to fight back the only way he could.
The lines on the page blurred, and she knuckled away the wetness on her cheeks until she could make out the rest of the story. It was mostly financial jargon, except for the last line, a quote from Elliot Carrington.
“We believe there’s an expert who can clear up any confusion about this property, and we’re making every effort to locate her immediately.”
She sagged against the counter and covered her face with both hands. Tears splashed into her palms as she swallowed a sob.
It could only have been clearer if he’d used her name. He was coming for her, because without her, his bite was toothless. Without her, he could prove nothing. And Derek Sr. knew it.
17
Marie counted the money in her stash for the fifth time in as many days. There wasn’t any more than there had been the night before, and she folded it twice before tucking it into the hidden zipper of her backpack. Pressing her fists into her eyes, she pulled her knees up to her chin.
Was it enough? Was the meager stash enough for her to move on? To keep her father guessing at her whereabouts?
The lingering questions left her head pounding.
Not yet. But she had to go. And soon.
Jack and Seth hadn’t signed up to face down her father. When they met him, they might not initially intend to send her packing. But after he coerced and cajoled them in the same voice he used in the boardroom, they’d wish she would go. They might even encourage her to go back to Boston with him. And she couldn’t do that.
She wouldn’t do it.
No matter how much she might want to stay with them—or how much they could use another hard worker—it
wasn’t an option. Her father would find her. His private investigator was almost certainly tracking her. It wouldn’t have taken him long to find whatever security video the bus station in Boston had recorded. And someone at the Wood Islands ferry terminal had most likely remembered a lonely woman. At just two inches over five feet tall, she was noticeable. Memorable. The PI might still be stuck there if he hadn’t yet connected her with Jack. But the island wasn’t very big. It wouldn’t take long to track down a new resident, especially outside of tourist season.
She didn’t have much more time.
Two solid thumps on her door jerked her from her position on top of the bedcovers, and she scurried to answer it. Seth leaned one shoulder into the other side of the frame, his grin cocked to the side and a wink at the ready.
“Morning, sunshine.”
She put both hands on her hips. “What do you want?” The words tasted like sour grapes, and she wrinkled her nose at her own surly tone. “I’m sorry.”
“Wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” He pushed his long sleeves up to his elbows. The pale blue of the shirt made his hair even darker where it curled over the back of his neckline, and she had a sudden urge to run her fingers through it. He pushed a lock off his forehead, but it refused to stay behind his ear.
“You need a haircut.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She scowled at him. “What can I do for you?” Although she’d changed the words, her tone was still not convincingly pleasant. She cleared her throat and plastered a smile in place. “How can I help you today?”
His grin ratcheted up, the corners of his eyes crinkling as his shoulders shook in silent humor. “Before I knew about your stellar attitude this morning, I thought I’d ask you to help me hang up a closet rack. It’s a two-person job.” He squinted at her. “But now I’m thinking I might try to do it by myself.”
“I’m sorry.” She shook her head and pressed her fingers to the throbbing at her temple. “I didn’t sleep very well last night, and I wasn’t . . . Never mind. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. So you’ll help me.”
He was halfway up the stairs before she could even reply. “You’re pretty sure I’m going to, aren’t you?”