The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  Conversation also went in other directions.

  She learned which of Walt Gardner’s cabins he was staying in. “The third one, farthest back the lane, with the dip in the porch roof. It’s rustic as hell, but I don’t need much, so I don’t mind. It’s got a tin roof—good for sleeping when it rains like last night.”

  He assured her he still didn’t want to rent a bike when she brought it up again. “I like the walk, even if it takes a little longer. See more, hear more, that way. Gives me more time to think about your pretty face and wish you’d give me a chance.” That came with the usual grin, and she’d been tempted to ask a chance for what exactly? but thought better of it.

  She’d learned that he enjoyed working outdoors and had also done some construction in his day, he didn’t drink coffee, he had calluses on his hands, he preferred ice cream to frozen yogurt, and dogs to cats—though he liked Miss Kitty fine because she mostly kept to herself. “And she’s named after a saloon girl,” he added with a grin.

  He asked her about Zack on more than one occasion. The first time being the very day Zack had left. “Darlin’, I’m sorry if I caused any trouble for you last night.”

  She’d tried to blow it off as nothing. “It’s fine,” she told him with a quick shake of her head. “He just expected me to be alone—not with a handsome younger guy.”

  His eyebrows had lifted, his expression playful but smug. “Careful there or I’ll start thinking you like me, too.”

  “I do like you,” she’d said, all confidence and grace, “just not in the way you’re talking about.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  His eyes had told her he knew that. But he said nothing, let it go.

  And just yesterday, out of the blue, as he’d been brushing pale yellow paint onto one of the doors currently detached from the cabinets, he’d said, “You and that guy...”

  The doors and drawers were spread on a drop cloth stretched across the backyard between the patio and the stream. She’d been headed back inside when his words had cut through the gentle sound of water trickling overtop rocks and around roots, stopped her, made her look over her shoulder. “Zack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about him?”

  He’d hesitated, and she’d thought maybe he wasn’t quite sure what he even wanted to ask. “What’s the...uh...deal with you two? How serious is it?”

  Talk about a tricky question. But then she remembered there was an easy answer for that these days. Which she delivered with her same little Seth-all-purpose smile. “It’s complicated.”

  He laughed lightly—then met her gaze. Challenged her. “Too personal for me to ask?”

  She pursed her lips, thought a moment. “Too complicated for me to answer.”

  “In my experience, ‘it’s complicated’ usually means there’s a lot of serious shit there, but that all’s fair.”

  “All’s fair?”

  The corners of his mouth curved slightly and his eyes went sexy, seductive. “That if something happened between you and me, you wouldn’t be breaking any rules.”

  Maybe she should have been dishonest about that, to keep his advances at bay, but she wasn’t used to having to think that fast, or be deceptive. “I wouldn’t be,” she told him, “but nothing’s going to happen.” And she’d disappeared through the back door before he could say another word.

  And despite all this conversation they’d been having on so very many topics, still Seth revealed little to nothing about his past. Even when she asked.

  “Where in Pennsylvania did you say you lived when you were little?”

  He shook his head, smiled easily. “Just some little podunk town—nowhere too interesting.”

  “What did you do in Mississippi?”

  “Pretty much the same thing I’m doing here.” Then he’d let his eyes drift down her body and back up. “But here the view’s better.”

  Now, as she finished the rose room, noting that she still needed to change the bedsheets and towels, she picked up her dusting supplies and padded down the hall into the sherbet room.

  Then gasped, flinched—to find Seth there, kneeling between the bed and the far wall.

  He looked up, eyes wide, like he’d been caught at something. But that quickly his face changed, trying to cover it. “Uh...sorry to scare ya, darlin’.”

  She drew in her breath. “What are you doing up here?” Because there was no reason for it whatsoever. His work remained strictly in the kitchen. And certainly not up here. Where it was way too far away to have heard a noise, as he’d claimed the other time she’d found him in one of the rooms.

  He flashed his usual grin. “Snoopin’?”

  She just looked at him, waited for more. Her heart beat harder in her chest.

  “Was just takin’ a little break—doing a little sightseeing, I guess. Liked it up here when you gave me that tour and wanted to see some of the rooms again, that’s all. And then I caught sight of a loose baseboard here.” He pointed to a spot beside where he still knelt. So she walked around the bed toward him, glancing down. The board did bow slightly from the wall in a way she’d never noticed. “I’ll put in a couple finishing nails—see if that fixes it—and touch up the paint.”

  And then he stood up. Which put them face-to-face, body to body, only a few inches between them. Why had she stepped so close? Because you were trying to see the baseboard. But it seemed like a mistake now.

  Because that magnetic thing was happening between them again, that chemistry that felt like something physically connected them even when it didn’t. It had continued all along, of course, but the closer she was to him, the worse it got—or the better, depending on how she looked at it.

  She raised her eyes to his only for a second—but then lowered them because the sensation was too intense. Her entire body tingled. She wore a purple tank top with lace at the edges over shorts. Typical summer day outfit—but now she suddenly felt exposed somehow. Maybe because her breasts physically ached just being so near him. She wondered if her nipples were hard. And if he could see.

  Though it hardly mattered since he surely didn’t need to see her nipples to feel how moved she was. Questions flitted through her brain. Does he have this effect on all women? Does he feel it, too, as strongly as I do? Is this mere sport for him—am I prey?—or could he possibly really like me? Or both.

  “That sounds fine,” she said.

  Then turned and walked out of the room, furniture polish and dusting rag still in hand. No smile, no graceful exit—this was pure escape, no hiding it. Ugh.

  Her first thought: Go to your bedroom, her most private haven.

  But no—he might come there, knock on the door, ask her why she’d run away, start kissing her or something.

  So she headed downstairs instead. Although that also seemed like a bad plan—since he’d likely come back down to resume painting in the kitchen.

  And what the hell was he doing in the sherbet room anyway? Sightseeing? Really?

  Grabbing a can of soda from the fridge, she followed the instinct to walk out the back door, cross the patio, and head for the lilac grove, one of several garden areas that dotted the expansive yard at the house’s side, stretching for fifty yards or so before the grounds gave way to woods. The small grove of tall bushes, some now large enough to consider trees, was a place of peace and refuge for her—because her grandmother had loved it and so did she. The lilacs were ready to bloom any day now.

  She sat down in a white Adirondack chair and let the surroundings calm her. The day was bright with a light breeze that whispered across her skin. Pink roses were budding, ready to open in the distance, and purple clematis climbed a nearby trellis. She reminded herself to take some time to enjoy the lilacs in the coming few weeks—no matter what else was happening. She waited all year for them, every year, and didn’t want to miss it.

  There was a ce
rtain kind of woman she aspired to be—someone who was always calm, cool, and collected, someone who had her life well under control, someone who handled every situation with grace and aplomb. And she thought she pulled that off most of the time. But there were, undeniably, certain elements in her world that stole her grace away.

  Every time Zack left in his unceremonious fashion it stole a little of her grace.

  And just now—being so close to Seth that she could almost feel his breath on her skin, and then racing away—that had stolen a little of her grace, too.

  The second instance seemed more pleasing than the first, even if not ideal. But even so...

  I want my grace back—all of it.

  And wasn’t grace just...self-possession? Being your best self? Living your best life?

  At night, she thought about him. Some nights more than others, but always at least a little. She imagined what it would feel like if he touched her. Different than with Zack? More exciting—because he made her feel more like a prize to be won and cherished? Because it felt more daring, more wild? She asked herself those questions in the dark—but let them drift away on sleep, nearly forgotten by the next morning.

  Yet now she asked herself a question in the daylight of her garden for the first time.

  What would happen if you quit running from Seth?

  What was so wrong with her reaction to him? What was so wrong with his desire for her?

  Zack loved her, he said. But love could be so nebulous. How much did a man really love you if he couldn’t promise you...anything?

  And still, Seth remained...such an unknown quantity. So secretive in ways. And there was a serious possibility that she’d just caught him sneaking around her house. Snoopin’. Said so innocently. How innocent was he truly?

  Then again, what could he be looking for in her inn? Maybe he really had just been taking a break. He’d expressed an open appreciation for the house, and she’d told him a lot about it, including it having an abundance of cubbyholes and hiding places that added to its charm—so maybe he really was simply exploring. She’d sometimes done the same as a girl, back when the place was new to her, too—a habit brought on by Gran’s treasure hunts.

  The upshot of it all: She wasn’t certain she would even know how to have an affair.

  Though she was pretty sure he’d be happy to show her.

  Could I?

  Really?

  Outside of my little bedtime fantasies?

  She glanced toward the house. He was somewhere inside.

  As another soft May breeze wafted past, an answer settled over her. Maybe.

  * * *

  SOME YEARS THE impatiens beneath the shade trees in the east yard reseeded themselves in the sandy soil there—and some years they didn’t. This year she’d seen little sign of regrowth, and since it seemed like a good time for a walk anyway, she headed to Petal Pushers.

  “How’s your handyman?” Suzanne asked from where she stood loading red geraniums into small plastic pots for selling. It was the usual greeting these days, and of course she’d long since filled her friend in on the little drama that had ensued with Zack’s unexpected return.

  “Fine,” she said as usual, approaching her friend. Then, not as usual, she heard herself confess, “We had a moment a little while ago. A moment when we were standing very close and I wanted to kiss him.”

  Suzanne looked up, her hands dark with dirt, jaw dropping. “Um, um...wow. I knew you were into him, no matter what you said.” Meg had continued to deny more than the passing attraction most women would have toward him. “But somehow I didn’t see this coming. What did you do?”

  “I didn’t, couldn’t.” She gave her head an uncomfortable shake. “So I ran away. It was very mature.” Then she rolled her eyes. “Almost as mature as your response to Beck Grainger.”

  Suzanne ignored that part. “I could use more details,” she said, wiping her hands on her large canvas apron, emblazoned with the Petal Pushers logo.

  “There’s definitely...chemistry between us. It’s just that I’m not sure if I want to act on it.” Then she scanned the shop, remembering why she’d come. “I need impatiens, by the way—hot pink ones.”

  Just then, the bell above the shop door tinkled, announcing a new arrival. They both looked up to see the tall drink of water known as Beck Grainger walk in. Think of the devil—though Meg didn’t think him devilish at all really. But her heartbeat doubled on Suzanne’s behalf—she could feel the nervous energy just spilling from her, that quickly.

  “Hi,” Beck said, locating them in the back. Though he looked directly at Suzanne.

  She said nothing. So Meg replied, “Hi.”

  “I was, uh, looking for a big pot of flowers, for my front porch.”

  Meg glanced from the very handsome construction mogul—Dahlia had recently referred to him that way, as a mogul—to her apparently mute friend. She even nudged her ankle with one tennis shoe when she still didn’t answer.

  “Do you have any?” he asked.

  And finally Suzanne pointed toward a door that led out back. “There are pallets of them outside, to the left.”

  “Maybe you could...help me pick one out.”

  “There aren’t many. Everything I have is right outside that door.”

  And with that, Beck Grainger looked properly shot down and left through the appointed exit.

  “Holy God,” Meg said. “Could you not see that the man is trying to engage with you?”

  “I don’t know why,” Suzanne replied. “When I clearly don’t want to be engaged with.”

  “‘Clearly’ is the right word.” Meg simply shook her head.

  And that was when Suzanne announced, “I’m going to go get your impatiens from the greenhouse. Would you mind ringing him out if he makes a purchase.”

  Meg knew how to work the register—she’d helped Aunt Julia and had kept the shop running for a few months after her great-aunt had died. But she still rolled her eyes and said, “Are you serious?”

  Suzanne pressed her lips into a flat line. “I am. Sorry. And thanks.” With that, she made a beeline toward a different door than the one that had led her customer to the pallets outside, leaving Meg standing there shaking her head.

  When Beck returned carrying a large pot brimming with a combination of yellow Solenia begonias and some fuchsia, she smiled and asked, “Is this for a shady spot? These can only take an hour or two of sun a day.”

  He nodded. “Yeah. I read the sign that said so, but thanks for checking.”

  As he lowered the pot to the counter and Meg rang up the sale, she said, “I apologize for Suzanne. She’s not feeling well today.”

  But he shook his handsome head and answered shortly, “No worries.” Then completed the transaction, added a quick, “Thanks,” and was gone.

  A minute later, Suzanne conveniently returned carrying a large tray of bright pink impatiens.

  “I’m pretty sure that man didn’t even want flowers for his porch,” Meg informed her. “I think he came just to see you.”

  Suzanne only shrugged—and Meg tried not to feel infuriated, but it was difficult.

  “Just FYI—your bad behavior,” she informed Suzanne, “is making it hard for me to want to take advice from you.”

  “Do as I say, not as I do,” Suzanne said, lowering the flowers to the counter. “Surely you’ve heard that one before.”

  “Yes, and it’s never held much water for me.”

  “Look,” Suzanne told her, heading back to her work stand, “let me be an example of what not to do so you won’t end up a bitter, lonely woman like me.” She smiled then, though. “Good thing I like being bitter and lonely.”

  “You do seem to.” Meg crossed her arms. “Since Beck Grainger is giving you every opportunity to change that.”

  But again, Suzanne just shrugged as she scoo
ped some potting soil into a plastic container with a trowel, then added a geranium. “Like I keep saying, he’s too...startlingly handsome. That type is usually up to no good in my experience—can’t be trusted.”

  “Isn’t Seth that type?” Meg asked.

  Suzanne shook her head. “No, he’s more...mysterious.” Then narrowed her eyes, looked pleased. “I dig that.” And as she glanced down at her potting soil, added, “No pun intended.”

  “I’m not sure I do. Dig it, I mean. It makes me nervous.”

  “Still can’t get any personal information out of him?”

  “No. I even Googled him—but I got nowhere.” She’d done it last night at bedtime, on a lark, more curious than suspicious at the time, but now wondering if she should give suspicion a little more credence. “And today, our moment occurred because I found him in the sherbet room—when he was supposed to be downstairs. He claimed he was just looking around, but it seemed weird.”

  Suzanne tilted her head. “It’s a pretty house, Meg—if I were working there, I’d probably wander around a little, too. There’s something very comforting in the guestrooms—maybe he was just drawn there. By the comfort.”

  Meg mulled that over. It echoed her earlier justifications on the topic. And was part of the reason it was so hard to imagine leaving—the house made you feel relaxed, safe, like a home should. She thought of her grandma’s diary—the part about her great-grandmother feeling safe here. Maybe the house’s soul had been part of that.

  “So say you kissed him. Or...more,” Suzanne suggested gingerly, as if they were both tiptoeing into uncharted territory. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Meg answered with a speculative tilt of her head. “Maybe that’s the scary part.”

  Suzanne eyed her suspiciously. “But you’re thinking of doing it anyway.”

  “Am I?” she asked coyly.

  “Yes,” Suzanne said with full certainly. “Yes—you are.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  SETH STOOD IN the library, raking his gaze over the spines of all the books, once again trying to take in titles, but they all ran together. After a quick glance out the window, up the street, to make sure Meg wasn’t on her way back, he stepped closer, looked harder. Needle in a haystack. If it was even there at all. And he knew it probably wasn’t. But if you’re attempting to find a book in a house that actually has a library, it only made sense—as he’d thought upon first seeing the little room—to look there.