by Blake, Toni
He was sorry the heat between the two of them had sent her running—damn sorry—but when he’d caught a glimpse out the window of her walking up the street a little while later, it had felt like an opportunity he couldn’t squander.
Still, he soon concluded that what he sought wasn’t in the library—and it wasn’t in any of the other rooms he’d checked out so far, either. Of course, he hadn’t gotten to explore them as thoroughly as he wanted because he’d been on edge, couldn’t take his time. And then she’d walked in on him.
So it could still be here somewhere. He just wished he had a firmer grip on what room it had been in. As he departed the library through the parlor, a caustic chuckle left him. It was almost ironic that he’d found her grandmother’s secrets, but not his own. And maybe he deserved that, considering exactly what his secret was.
He hadn’t imagined the whole thing, had he? He hadn’t just somehow made it up in his brain, leaving that book here? Along with what he’d put inside it.
Hell, sometimes the past was hard to piece together. Sometimes you thought you remembered something absolutely perfectly and then had it proved wrong.
He’d spent most of his life remembering a ride to Mississippi when he was ten in his dad’s brand new bright red Mustang GT. Black leather seats that almost swallowed him, engine that revved and purred, little horse emblem on the glove box. It wasn’t even something he’d ever questioned—he’d just known. But when he’d mentioned it in passing a few years back, his dad had said, “No, son, we were in a rental. A Honda of some kind.” And Seth had argued the point, thinking his dad had lost it, until he said, “Son, you were only ten and we didn’t get that car until ’01, the year it came out. Think about it. Don’t add up.”
And to his astonishment, his dad had been right. The Mustang had been a 2001 model, making it physically impossible to have been the car they drove south.
He stood in the inn’s foyer now, thinking his way through the rooms, thinking through them all as he’d come to know them the last few days—versus any memories of them. But doubts crept in big-time now, enough that another sardonic laugh escaped him. If I came here looking for something that doesn’t even exist, that’s hilarious.
Frustrated, he swiped a hand back through his hair. Maybe I should go back upstairs, keep looking there. Doubts aside, his gut told him that was where he’d left it. It had to be true. Had to.
Get caught up there again, though, and it might not be so easy to talk your way out of it.
Unless...maybe you’re just looking for more loose baseboards. Or floorboards. Trying to unearth more old, lost treasures for her like the box from her grandma. Thin, but maybe she’d buy it. She seemed trusting and she assumed the best of him, so that helped.
He swung past his toolbox—parked in a kitchen corner on the newly varnished hardwood—to grab a hammer and a few nails to carry with him, to back up his story. Then he took another look out an eastern-facing window up Harbor Street to see Meg nowhere in sight—before ascending the stairs.
Once at the top, he headed down the open hallway toward the rooms at the front of the house. They were all numbered, though their doors were open right now—since the vacation season hadn’t started, he guessed. Well, they were all open except for one—which, instead of a number, had a little sign on it that said, Private. With a daisy painted at the end of the word. Only on Summer Island would an innkeeper attempt to make the word Private seem friendly.
He shouldn’t go in. For more reasons than one.
But for all he knew, what he sought was inside, under another loose floorboard there. Again, he only wished he could remember more about the hiding place.
Reaching down, he quietly turned the knob. Though his heart beat too fast. Too fast for a guy who’d done this before. Too fast for a guy who’d been taught to take what he wanted no matter what rules it broke.
If she comes back now, catches you in here, there’s no talking your way out of it.
Unless...you tell her you wanted to see where she sleeps. Where she takes off her clothes at night. Her personal space.
It was only as he took in the room that he realized it wouldn’t even be a lie.
The sun shining in through old-fashioned white sheers gave the bedroom a gossamer glow. The sheers, edged by curtains sporting purple blossoms, blew in the breeze that came through open windows. The walls were lavender—but a shade more warm than soft. And the space smelled of lavender, too—but maybe the scent came from the bathroom off one corner. It was many things, this room: It was warm and inviting, but clearly someone’s private space. It was soft and feminine, but also sophisticated and mature. It was a girl’s room. It was a woman’s room.
It was everything he saw in Meg—shades of light and dark, fun and serious. He’d known his fair share of women, and he’d seduced his fair share, too—but this one, this one was more of an enigma than any he’d ever met. In one moment carefree, innocent, open, with adventure shining in her warm green eyes. In the next, the staid, responsible innkeeper who never got ruffled.
Well, except for when he stood too close to her. That ruffled her. That ruffled her like crazy.
And damn, he liked that. With a woman who he could tell normally had it all under control, it escalated his attraction to her even more. Because if just standing close to her affected her that much, what would it be like if he kissed her? What would it be like if he took her to bed?
Most women he could read. Most women made it easy. Hell, most women wanted to be seduced so bad they could taste it.
But Meg was different.
And when he got to see her soft, sweet sides, or—Lord—her ruffled side, he thought... I’m getting pieces of her that not everyone does. Just standing here, seeing this piece of her that few people did, and thinking about the quiet innkeeper who’d nearly started trembling with him not long ago, made his groin tighten. Damn. He wanted more of that, more of her.
But you came in here to look for something, not to stand around lusting for your current boss.
Like most of the house, the floors in this room were hardwood, not covered with carpet. If Meg’s grandma had ever covered these floors, Meg had removed it, leaving only throw rugs and area rugs behind. But as he ventured deeper into her bedroom, inspecting the parts of the floor that were visible, he didn’t see any signs of loose boards. And for the first time it occurred to him that what he’d hidden could have long ago had a repair done over it, in effect sealing it up in its secret place, making it virtually undiscoverable. Shit.
He leaned back his head, shut his eyes.
But don’t get discouraged. Still might be here.
And...maybe she never had those types of repairs sought out or done. Because he thought she liked the idea of the house having little hiding places as much as her grandma had. It was part of their family history, and he could tell preserving that mattered to Meg.
And the truth was, even if what he’d once hidden wasn’t still here, even if he never found it...well, he guessed it wasn’t the end of the world. He wouldn’t be any poorer than he’d started out. It had been only an idea, a way he’d thought he could get his life moving more rapidly in the right direction. He’d had no place else in particular to go this summer—and this place had held the possibility of a brighter future. As well as the added appeal of maybe finding out if his memories were real...or just wishful thinking.
Taking one last look around Meg Sloan’s room, the first hint of guilt crept over him like a shadow and he decided he should leave. Guilt—that was the thing that kept him at least a little in line these days. He only wished he’d learned to feel it sooner.
Though when he thought of all the things he shouldn’t have done in the past, it heaped up enough guilt and regret to eat him alive. And as the heaviness of that dropped over him with all the weight of a smothering blanket, he forced himself to push it away. Don’t let it in. Can�
��t go back and redo anything. Can only try to do things better from here on out. And being here, working for Meg, working for anyone who wanted to hire him on Summer Island, and looking for what he’d left behind, was a way to move on and put the past behind him—and well, maybe resolve some of it, too, if he ever found that damn book.
Pulling her bedroom door quietly shut, he heard the twitter of a bird and—through open doors and windows—caught sight of spring green foliage on tall trees towering on the other side of the house. It reminded him that Meg had said there was a garden area he hadn’t yet gotten a good look at—at least this time around. He recalled playing in the big yard as a kid.
Just then came the sound of the front door opening, closing. She was home. And he was still upstairs. Shit. You’ve gotten careless. His dad would call it soft. Or stupid. It took a certain sort of man, with a certain sort of hardness inside, to live the way his father did. Always on the take. Always. And never careless about it.
He made calculated movements and said a prayer he’d time this right. That she’d head for the kitchen and not the stairs.
A peek down revealed no sign of her, so he moved briskly but quiet as a cat. His father had always said that: Not quiet as a mouse, but quiet as a cat. And it was true, cats moved in silence and you only heard them if they chose to let you.
The foyer lay silent and still, stately and quaint, but he almost turned the corner from the foot of the staircase too soon—glimpsing a purple tank top disappear through the kitchen door.
He caught his breath, then took a few more quiet steps—into the hall bathroom.
Where he flushed the toilet, stepped back out, and headed to the kitchen.
She looked back at him from the doorway to her office. “There you are.” A whisper of a blush colored her cheeks a little, though, and he knew why—the last time they’d seen each other, they’d been standing too close for comfort and suffering a heat more intense than Mississippi asphalt in July.
What was it about her? She wasn’t his usual type. But again, it was those layers, those pieces of her—the really good ones under the straitlaced innkeeper shell.
He gave her a smile, hoped it would set her at ease. Well, mostly. Because he liked the heat and wanted her to keep feeling it, same as he did. “Here I am.”
“How’s the, um, work coming?” She pointed vaguely toward the cabinets and he got the distinct feeling she’d forgotten for a minute what exactly he was even doing there—besides turning her on.
That kept his grin in place. “Good. I’ll finish painting tomorrow and can start the antiquing process the next day.”
She nodded and he walked closer to her. It was instinct mostly, but convenient when he looked down and realized his paint tray rested on that side of the room.
And that was when his gaze fell on something behind her—something he’d never noticed before. A bulletin board hanging on the wall of her office. More notably, photos there. And one in particular.
“What’s this?” he asked, pointing.
She looked over her shoulder at it and smiled. “Pictures of some of my regular guests—the ones who come back every summer.”
He broadened his view to take in the whole board and found photos of couples and families, some standing by the Summerbrook Inn sign, others next to bikes in front of the house, still others sitting around the firepit. But his eyes were drawn quickly back to the first snapshot that had caught his eye.
In it, a slight woman with white hair, likely in her seventies, wore a sun visor and fanny pack, and stood next to a heavyset gray-haired man with a big mustache. And maybe he was crazy, but they looked familiar. Older than he remembered, of course. But familiar.
Except that...hadn’t he just acknowledged that sometimes his memory played tricks on him? And sure, seeing something like this right here, right now—of course his mind would go there. So he was probably imagining it.
“Who are these people?” he asked, pointing. Without even caring that it might seem weird to ask. But at least their picture was front and center on the bulletin board, and taken more close-up than most, with the nearby lighthouse in the distance behind them.
“Funny you should ask,” Meg said. “Mr. McNaughton is one of my first arrivals, due in about a week. Comes up from Pennsylvania.”
McNaughton. As his stomach lurched, he tried like hell not to let it show.
“They...look happy,” he said. Because they did.
“A sweet couple,” she told him. “Friendly as can be. And he’s a real talker. But she never seemed to mind. She always struck me as...content with her own thoughts. Like she didn’t need to share them, was happy just keeping them to herself.” Meg let out a soft trill of laughter. “At times, they didn’t seem like they should fit together—and yet they did. Perfectly.”
He tossed her a sideways glance. “That’s kind of a...good thing to keep in mind, don’t ya think? That sometimes people you wouldn’t expect to work together do.” He ended on a wink.
And she responded with a simple smile. A smile that said I know you’re flirting with me. And that he hoped also said she liked it. Either way, though, any smile from Meg made him happy and seemed like a good sign.
“They apparently used to come here years ago, when my grandma was still alive, but then stopped for a while. Now they come every June like clockwork. Or, well, he does,” she amended. “She died a couple of years ago. But I know it’s really summer when Mr. McNaughton checks in.”
Seth kept his eyes on the picture, pressed his lips together tight, hoped his expression didn’t change.
But he couldn’t keep looking at it. He couldn’t keep standing here, in fact. “You mind if I take a quick break—just to stretch my muscles some?”
She looked a little surprised—maybe his expression had changed. Or maybe his whole demeanor. Which was why he needed to walk away for a minute, get his head wrapped around this. “Sure,” she said anyway. “Of course.”
He tried for a smile, but knew it came out tight. “Thanks, darlin’.”
Then he pushed through the back door, out into the fresh air and sunlight, striding briskly. To anywhere.
His first impression had been right. The people in the picture were his grandparents. And the last time he’d seen them, he’d been ten years old, attending his mother’s funeral.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Meg curled up in one of the Adirondack chairs in the garden, wrapped cozily in a thick plum-colored cardigan sweater, her grandmother’s diary in hand. The day had brought clouds—a few drops of rain with them. But the drizzle had ended early, leaving only the rich, damp scents of spring-ready-to-be-summer. Now clouds still hovered overhead, keeping the air cool but tolerable without a breeze.
Gran had loved this garden, a love she’d passed on to Meg. Meg’s grandpa had planted most of it over the years, adding bits and pieces right up until his early death from a heart attack—same as what had stolen Gran from them—at forty-eight when Meg had been just a little girl. She possessed vague memories of him, in most of which he was digging or mulching or planting, just like his sister Julia—and the image of him in her mind came with a cigarette between his lips and a trowel in his hand.
The first lilac blooms had finally begun to open, so before sitting down, she’d stepped up to cup a dark lavender blossom in her palm, bending to drink in the sweet aroma. She remembered her grandfather planting these particular ones—the Pocahontas Canadians, which always bloomed first and possessed a slightly deeper hue than others—when she was little, but now they towered over her head.
Grandpa John. Or Grandpa J.T. For all she knew, maybe having the right “grandpa name” had even brought about the change in moniker since Grandpa J.T. lacked the necessary music in her opinion. She remembered him being such a responsible, quiet man. Not a J.T. Definitely a John. Gran had once said this garden was his
love letter to her, and that he wrote a little more every year.
She wished she could freeze time—keep the lilacs here longer. In a few days, the rest would start blooming as well, lasting for a couple of fragrant, beautiful weeks, and then, that quick, they’d be gone until next May and June. When she didn’t even know if she would still be here. So this might be my last time seeing them, smelling them.
But quit wishing for impossible things, things you can’t change. Quit trying to hold on to things that can’t be held.
The thought brought Zack to mind. They’d exchanged some texts since he’d gone. The usual. Weather reports. Safety reports. And an unexpected goodnight from him that had somehow felt bittersweet—like a thing she wanted, but somehow it only made her sad for all the nights she’d never gotten it before.
Work going okay on the house? he’d asked a couple days ago. So careful not to ask specifically about Seth.
Yes—great, she’d told him. I think the kitchen’s going to look amazing when it’s done.
Good, he’d said.
She opened the diary to the red ribbon she’d used to mark her place. She’d found it toward the back of the book, where her grandmother had quit writing. She couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to get back to reading it, but life had felt less than normal lately—and this was the busiest time of the year, which her grandma would certainly understand.
March 25, 1957
Dear Diary,
It snowed a little, but didn’t get cold enough for the lake to refreeze, so the ferry was able to take us to St. Simon for the sock hop. We all had to bundle up for the ride, and we huddled together behind the wheelhouse trying to keep warm. You’d think that would be awful, but J.T. put his arms around me and I was on Cloud 9. I’ve known him all my life, but only in the last year did I start noticing how handsome he is. He asked me to go steady at Christmastime and I said yes, of course. I know it’s only been a few months, but I’m over the moon for him!