The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  “Am I gonna be in the way when your guests show up?” he’d asked one day when they’d taken their sandwiches and sodas to the patio.

  “No,” she’d told him. “I can arrange the work I want you to do so that it won’t hamper anyone’s stay.” Then she’d glanced toward the back screen door, thinking of the room on the other side. “But the kitchen will be done by then, won’t it?”

  “Absolutely,” he’d promised with his usual confidence. “With time to spare.”

  Two days after their discussion in the garden, he came outside to find her late one afternoon. She sat in the same Adirondack chair—not with the diary this time; only a cup of tea instead because she still had so much to do and only enough time for a short break. He peeked around the same arborvitae as before, to ask, “Out here soaking up the lilacs again, darlin’?”

  He stood in the shade of a mostly cloudy afternoon with only a few patches of blue showing through. And she realized that a man who had, for a while, made her feel slightly on edge with his mere presence had gotten much easier to be with. I’ve grown used to the chemistry, the magnetism. That same energy still flowed invisibly between them, but it felt...safer to her now, less intimidating. A little time always changed everything.

  “Guilty as charged,” she answered with a soft smile.

  “Don’t worry—I’m not the lilac police,” he said on a teasing wink. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Join me?” she suggested without quite planning to, motioning toward the adjacent chair.

  He glanced at the chair and then back at her. “Normally I would—but got somethin’ to show ya.”

  She sat up a little straighter, her very posture asking him what.

  “Kitchen’s done.”

  Together they followed the garden path, paved with brick by Grandpa John, toward the stone walkway that led to the patio, then stepped inside. She’d witnessed the whole transformation taking place every day for a while now, but seeing the finished room took her breath away. It was the perfect change, the perfect kitchen for her quaint, homey inn.

  “I love it,” she whispered, absorbing all the details. Every cabinet door and drawer had been uniquely antiqued—her old kitchen table, as well. What had before looked outdated now felt as warm and inviting as the rest of the house, as well as considerably more rustic. Seth had even gone to the trouble to hang the new curtains she’d bought for the window over the sink and return things that had been moved to other rooms during the work, like Miss Kitty’s bowls and the salt and pepper shakers from the table.

  “The kitchen feels like...it’s wrapping around me now or something, like it’s holding me.”

  “Lucky kitchen.” The glance he slanted in her direction brought heat rising to her cheeks.

  Their eyes met, but she looked away quickly, turning her attention back to the room even as she tried not to smile. “This is amazing, Seth. Truly.” Knowing already that she would enjoy time spent here much more now, she said to him, “I’d better be careful. You might make the place look so good I won’t want to leave.”

  Just then, her phone buzzed with a new text. Pulling it from the back pocket of her blue jeans, she found a message from Suzanne: You’re late.

  “Crap,” she whispered.

  “Something wrong?”

  “I totally forgot an early dinner date with my friend Suzanne.” She glanced down at the work clothes she’d been in all day. “I need to run upstairs and change—I’m sorry.”

  “Nothin’ to be sorry for, darlin’—I’ve just got a little more cleaning up to do and I’ll head back to the cabin.”

  “You don’t mind if I rush out?”

  “Not at all.”

  The dinner wasn’t anything special—just burgers and drinks at the Pink Pelican—but it was Trevor Bateman’s first night back on the island. He’d be performing mostly for locals, though Meg knew a few early visitors had arrived on the ferry over the last couple of days as she’d begun seeing tourists on bicycles, and a few meandering up Harbor Street. And given the lack of social options on the island, even just common catching-up sessions felt noteworthy.

  Meg texted her friend a quick apology, then ran upstairs and changed—albeit without showering. She threw on a long, flowy summer skirt and coordinating top, and grabbed a sweater for later.

  Heading back down, she popped her head into the kitchen, where Seth was packing up his toolbox. “Goodnight,” she said. “See you in the morning—and I love the kitchen, Seth.” She flashed him a bold smile, something she didn’t often do, but seeing the room again made it hard to hold back her happiness.

  “I’m glad you like it, darlin’,” he told her. “Should I lock up or anything on the way out?”

  Now that mainlanders were starting to arrive, this was the time of year when she started actually doing that, but one night of unlocked doors wouldn’t hurt anything. “No need,” she assured him.

  Which was when he told her, “You look real pretty tonight.”

  The simple compliment sent a fresh burst of heat through her chest, and as on other occasions, she wondered if her nipples might be getting hard, showing through her top and bra—but she had no intention of glancing down to check right in front of him. “Thank you. ’Night.”

  And after that she rushed out.

  She made the walk quickly, drinking in the transition from day to dusk. The scent of lilacs in the air plus the few tourists wandering about town made it official—summer had arrived and Summer Island was open for business. Though she’d all but forgotten tonight’s plans, now she found herself looking forward to seeing Suzanne and other friends, and to hearing Trevor’s set. And she also found herself...feeling pretty. Because Seth had said so.

  She didn’t walk around feeling ugly by any means, but those few simple words made the lilacs’ fragrance a little sweeter, the darkening air a little softer, the coming night a little richer.

  * * *

  IN THE LAKE HURON port town of Newfork, Zack sat in a dark booth with cracked vinyl seats downing a deluxe cheeseburger and fries. He’d never met the waitress before but she’d flirted with him enough that she felt like an option. An option he didn’t want.

  What was it with waitresses having a thing for him?

  Or maybe it’s because they’re the only women you come into contact with when you’re on the water.

  The burger was good, and the day’s catch had been surprisingly good, too. He’d got a good price for it almost the moment he’d docked. And the restaurant was warm on a cold Great Lakes spring night, a good, cozy enough place to be for an hour or two. So if everything was so damn good, why the hell did he feel like shit?

  Normally, a night like this would seem peaceful to him, the solitude comforting. Places where you didn’t know anybody didn’t require you to talk much and he liked not talking just fine. Usually anyway.

  But something wasn’t right.

  And it had to do with Meg.

  With how much he didn’t like having left her there with that handyman flitting around. No matter what she said, the guy felt like trouble.

  And with how much he didn’t like the new uncertainties between them. Would she really, actually leave the island? Leave him? He wanted their relationship to stay the same, be like it had always been. She was damn nice to come home to. And maybe he didn’t tell her that enough.

  He’d tried to say the right things before he’d left. But she hadn’t seemed to want to hear them. Or maybe he just didn’t know the real right things to say.

  He found himself thinking back to the night they’d met. He’d known in five minutes that she wasn’t the easy, breezy, carefree kind of woman he usually ended up connecting with. He’d known she would be more to him than that, and require more from him. Even with her drunk on too many Sea Breezes consumed too fast at the Pink Pelican, laughing and giving him come-hither looks he
’d felt in his groin, he’d known she was a steady, sweet sort of woman.

  And he’d gone home with her anyway. And never regretted it, not for a moment. Not even when she wanted more from him than he knew how to give. Not even when she got angry or put out, making it clear he let her down. She was worth trying to please. Even if he seemed to do a crappy job of it.

  He’d never been good at staying, at having a real home. His mother’s fault.

  Of course, maybe it was weak to lay blame. He’d known by the age of five that his mother wasn’t like other people’s. It had been an awareness—observing other moms with kids, seeing that they weren’t all furious, or yelling, or hitting. He’d realized that young that he’d gotten cheated in life somehow.

  But shit—why was he thinking about that? He’d survived, gotten away, and it was long in the past. And while Dahlia wasn’t exactly the maternal type, his MIA dad’s sister had given Zack a sense of family, a sense of someplace to belong, that he was grateful for.

  Try harder with Meg. When you go home, try harder. Just figure out what she needs from you. Without having to give up what you need. Surely there’s a middle ground there. Just find it.

  She’d been wearing yellow that first night—a spring night, unseasonably warm and sweet and full of moonlight. “Meg runs the big, pretty inn up the street from my place,” Dahlia had said by way of introduction.

  They’d drunk. And talked. Drinking made the talking easier for him with someone he didn’t know. He’d talked about commercial fishing—because he didn’t know much else. She’d talked about her inn, and her family, and her late grandmother. Her smile had nearly buried him. So earnest. But...ready. For something. He’d sensed that. It was a natural attraction, the kind that makes you ready for something, too, when you least expect it.

  “Are you gonna invite me home?” he’d been so bold as to ask after lots of drinks and talking, and a little touching of knees under the table and hands on top.

  “I never do that.”

  “But are you going to tonight?”

  Their eyes had met. And she’d looked as surprised as he was when she whispered, “Yes.”

  They’d walked up the empty street—it was late, past one—holding hands, leaning flirtatiously on one another. And she’d risen up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “I have a confession to make.”

  He’d turned to peer down on her in the soft evening air. “What’s that?”

  She continued to whisper. “I’ve never been very fond of fish.”

  A laugh had erupted from his throat. And he’d teased her. “Then we can’t go on. I can’t come home with you.”

  “Really?” Her eyes had widened, intoxicated and innocent.

  He’d narrowed his gaze. “Well, you’re pretty enough that maybe I can make an exception.”

  She’d smiled, flashing one more of those come-hither expressions that had him counting the seconds until they were behind the closed doors of her inn. “Then I’m a lucky girl.”

  And he’d wanted to wait until they reached her bedroom, but he in fact had only made it to just beyond that closed front door before he’d started kissing her. He’d kissed her and undressed her all the way up the stairs, leaving a line of clothing that trailed from the foyer like bread crumbs.

  The house had been empty of guests—just before the season started. He’d been so damn happy to find out they were alone, didn’t have to be quiet. And he’d made her moan and cry out in ecstasy before they’d fallen asleep in each other’s arms.

  “Anything else, handsome?”

  He looked up. The waitress was young. Too young. Tattoos on both her arms, displaying the names Brandon and Austin. Boyfriends or babies? Maybe one of each? He didn’t much care as he said, “Just the check.”

  “You a fisherman?”

  He gave a brief nod. Still not interested in chitchat.

  “We get a lot of fishermen. Hard work.”

  “Mmm.” Disinterested agreement.

  “Lonely, too, I bet. Sort of like a long haul trucker, but on a boat.” She giggled, amused by her own analogy.

  “I like my own company.”

  The mere way she tilted her head told him he’d said the wrong thing, given her an opening. “Might like mine, too,” she suggested. “I get off soon.”

  He kept it simple. “Got someone at home.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  And for the first time Zack realized he liked having someone at home. And that it wasn’t bad at all. It was pretty damn good actually. If only he could figure out how to make his someone happy.

  He didn’t answer the waitress. He’d already made his position clear.

  In response, she tore a ticket from her old-fashioned order pad and placed it on the table. “You have a nice night now.”

  He left money next to his empty plate, then pushed past the heavy front door out into a brisk night made more biting by the wind blowing in off the lake. Stuffing cold hands in his coat pockets, he thought of calling Meg.

  He didn’t have much to say, but maybe that didn’t matter.

  Pulling out his phone, he placed the call. And got her voice mail.

  “Hey there, Maggie May. Just wanted to say hi.” And I miss you.

  He didn’t add the last part, though—just disconnected. He didn’t know why. Maybe he didn’t like admitting it, and didn’t like admitting to himself or anyone else not being absolutely happy and content with where he was in this moment.

  Though, in fact, he was content. He liked his work. And he liked knowing she was there to go home to when his work was done. The only thing he didn’t like was realizing something had changed recently, and that he wasn’t sure how to fix it.

  But I love her and she loves me—that’s all that matters.

  * * *

  THE CROWD AT the Pink Pelican, situated on the ground floor of the Huron House Hotel, surprised Meg at first—but it had been a long, cold winter on the island and she supposed everyone was ready to officially welcome summer.

  As she slid into a chair across from Suzanne at a small table near the bar, Clark Hayes, who owned the place, came to greet her. “It’s awful nice to see you out and about, Meg.”

  And it hit her—she hadn’t been lately. Out and about. Was that because of Seth and her conflicted feelings surrounding him? Or did she always get a little reclusive when Zack first left? Deep down, she supposed it embarrassed her for people to know she put up with a man who was always leaving. Even if no one else saw it that way.

  A waitress she’d never met—Clark always hired college girls from the mainland for the summer—brought her a drink she hadn’t ordered along with a menu. “It’s something Clark is calling an Island Splash and has rum in it,” Suzanne informed her. “I decided we should both drink tonight. You know, cut loose a little.”

  “Be careful,” Meg warned her. “You might let your guard down and start talking to Beck Grainger if he shows up.”

  Suzanne peeked up from her drink, clearly alarmed. “Crap, I never thought of that. But surely he won’t.”

  “I hope he does. Would do you good.”

  Suzanne appeared belligerent. “Then I hope your handyman shows up.”

  Meg slanted her a look, then tried the drink. It was sweet, tasty—with fruit juices mixed in. “He won’t. He’s headed home for the night.”

  “Is that why you were late? Couldn’t tear yourself away from him?”

  “No. I just...lost track of time.” That sounded a lot nicer than “forgot altogether.” Though maybe Seth had played a part here. In the forgetting.

  If she was honest with herself, he stayed on her mind a lot. She arranged her days around his comings and goings now. Not on purpose. Not because he was so important. But just because he would be there. It was impossible not to plan for that, to make sure she was up and dressed before he arrive
d, to organize her work around his.

  “You should have invited him.”

  The very suggestion made Meg let out a laugh. “As if I need the entire town talking about me and my handyman.”

  Suzanne lowered her chin, hesitating briefly before saying, “Maybe they already are.”

  Meg’s stomach churned. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing bad,” Suzanne was quick to assure her. “A few people just asked me about him—that’s all. Said they’d noticed you had someone working at the inn.”

  “But they didn’t think there was anything...funny going on, right? Because it’s not.”

  “I don’t think so,” Suzanne said in answer to the first part. “And I still think it should be,” she said to the second.

  Before they could discuss it further, the waitress came back, and though Meg hadn’t had a chance to look at the menu, she ordered one of her usual choices. Then Trevor Bateman arrived, guitar in hand, chatting with them as he set up his speakers on the bar. The handsome thirty-something singer was a semi-local, returning every summer from some point south—Tampa Bay if Meg was remembering correcting.

  Soon dinner arrived, the music started, and she had the most fun she could recall having in a while. Unless she counted the night she’d grilled out with Seth on her patio. And some of the moments with him since. And maybe she should count them. Being around him made her feel good, plain and simple.

  The only islander to ask her about him personally all night was Audrey Fisher, who ran the Rosemont Inn, a five-minute walk in the opposite direction from Meg’s place. “Bob said you had some young guy doing work for you.” Bob was Audrey’s husband. “Is he any good?”

  Suzanne nearly choked on her third Island Splash at the question—while Meg tried to act normal. “Yes—he just redid my kitchen cabinets and floor and they look amazing. You’ll have to come by and see.”

  Audrey nodded. “Well, when you’re done with him, send him our way.”

  “Might be a while,” Meg heard herself say, sounding almost proprietary.