by Miles, Cindy
Reagan gave a slow twirl, and her sister squealed and clapped. “Oh, my sweet Lord, you look just beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Gosh, I wish you could see it on yourself!”
“Well, describe it, since you’ve kept it a secret all this time,” Reagan said, smiling.
“Okay. It’s so perfect on you, I can’t stand it!” Emily giggled again.
Maid of honor dresses were in fact extremely important.
“It’s a vintage plum lace with a pearled Empire waist and darker plum velvet sash,” she said breathily. “You look like a dream!”
Reagan ran her hand down the front of the gown, feeling the texture of the lace beneath her fingertips. The neckline was low, as the vintage gowns tended to be. “My boobs aren’t hanging out, are they?” she asked.
Emily snorted. “Not too much at all!” she said. “Just think...Rose DeWitt Bukater.”
Reagan shook her head. “From the Titanic movie?”
“Exactly!” Emily clapped. “It’s perfect on you, Rea, seriously. You’re just breathtaking!”
Reagan smiled and stepped back into the dressing room to remove the gown. She was pleased that her sister was so happy. Emily had found a seamstress in King’s Ferry who specialized in tailoring vintage clothing and gowns, and now they were here, trying on the bridesmaid’s dresses. Reagan, being the maid of honor, had a slightly different one than the others, Emily had said, and Reagan did wish she could see herself in it. From the description, it sounded beyond lovely.
A far cry from her airman’s uniform.
She really did feel as though she’d stepped back in time.
And she couldn’t help but wonder what Eric would think when he escorted her down the aisle at the wedding. It was a month away, and already Reagan had the jitters.
And she wasn’t even the bride.
Her jitters came from something else entirely. Rather, someone else.
Eric Malone.
Although she’d been insistent on telling Eric she was indeed moving, she hadn’t counted on him leaving her completely alone. Not once had he tried to call. Text. Or sneak up on her while painting in the studio. It was unfair of her to wish it, but she’d wanted him to show up. She missed him. Which was making it harder for her to leave.
Something she knew she had to do. Had to prove to herself she could make it 100 percent on her own. It clawed at her, and although it’d be easy to lean on Emily, or Eric, her pride led her down a different path. One of total independence.
Unburdening independence, she liked to call it.
It’d become sort of an obsession, she figured.
“Hey, are you ready for some lunch? I know this teahouse that has scrumptious sandwiches,” Emily called from behind the curtain.
Reagan hung the dress back on the hanger and pulled on her clothes, then stepped out. “Ready,” she said, carrying the dress over her arm to the counter. The hem needed taking up quite a bit, so they left the dress and headed out into the afternoon, with air that smelled clean, cool and piney.
At lunch, Reagan and Emily chatted over turkey, cranberry and brie sandwiches, and a pot of crème brûlée black tea, sweetened with cubes of raw sugar and milk. The wedding would be themed, of course, vintage 1930s, and people were encouraged to come in full ’30s regalia. Emily was so excited, Reagan could feel her energy vibrating where she sat. She imagined Em would be a beautiful bride, with that dimpled smile and the glimmer of love in her eyes for Matt Malone.
She could only hope to find such love, one day.
Well, she knew she’d found it.
Only she wasn’t too sure it was reciprocated.
As Emily discussed floating lanterns, a wishing well for guests to toss pennies and words of marriage wisdom into, and cocktails, Reagan’s thoughts wandered back to the few nights earlier, when Eric had begged her not to leave. He’d been genuinely distressed. And when she’d placed his hands on her face, and insisted he see her, he’d assured her that he did. He’d told her how crazy about her he was.
He hadn’t told her he loved her.
And frankly, she wished he had.
She’d already admitted to herself that she was in love with Eric. A fact she’d keep to herself, too. She couldn’t imagine how awful it would feel to profess something so grand, only for it not to be reciprocated. No way, not Reagan. But perhaps his love wasn’t strong enough in the first place. He’d quickly left their relationship to save another woman in distress. She knew how badly Eric Malone wanted love. But how absolute true was it?
* * *
LATER THAT EVENING, after changing into her comfy boyfriend jeans—kind of an ironic thing to have, seeing as how she didn’t have a boyfriend—and her favorite USAF hooded sweatshirt, she pulled her hair into a loose ball on her head, set up her studio and got to work.
Her mind, her thoughts, though, despite the comforting sounds of the marsh and breezy September night, always slipped back to Eric.
* * *
“WELL, NOW, LOOK what the tide washed up,” Ted grumbled.
“Ha-ha, boy, what are you doing out here this time of morning?” Mr. Wimpy asked.
“I guarantee it’s either to talk baseball or girls,” Dub commented.
Sidney just sat there, grinning.
Eric wiped at the smile on his face. The old guys were looking older every time he saw them, but they were still hanging in there, and as feisty as ever. They never ceased to fascinate him. All brothers. All in the war. Two of them at Utah Beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944. And here they were, slow but there, having their morning coffee and gossip on the veranda at the Windchimer. Soon, though, the cold would run them inside. He patted Mr. Wimpy on the shoulder.
“How are you handsome devils doing this morning?” Eric asked.
“Old as hell but still here,” Ted grumbled good-naturedly. “So, what is it, boy?”
Eric studied the faces of the men who’d survived the trenches from 1942 to 1944. Each one told a story, and each pair of aged eyes waited for him to speak.
Eric drew a deep breath. Let it out. Then began.
“I’m crazy about this girl,” he said.
All the guys chuckled, and Ted let out a whistle.
“But,” Eric continued, “she is determined to leave Cassabaw.”
“You’re talking about Emily’s little sister, right?” Mr. Wimpy asked. “She’s blind. Where is she going off by herself?”
“She’s determined to move to Caper’s Inlet, to make it on her own,” Eric said.
“We heard about your scandal,” Dub said. “Quite the hubbub of the island. Did that have something to do with her decision?”
Eric shook his head. “Tell me about it.” He held his hands up. “I’m clear, though, baby’s doing well, and mother and father and baby are leaving Cassabaw. And yes, it did. I can’t blame her. I might have done the same thing.” He sighed. “But now it’s about her independence, and I can’t fault her for that, either.”
“But you want to change her mind,” Mr. Wimpy said.
Eric nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“So what’s your plan, son?” Ted asked. “Sit on your hands and cry?”
Eric gave a quiet laugh. “No, sir. That’s why I’m here. To ask you fine gentlemen for advice. Since you’ve lived a hundred years already.”
They all laughed.
“Well, boy,” Mr. Wimpy said. “Just so happens the wife and I have a house, just at the north end of the beach. Our granddaughter’s been renting it, but she left a month ago.” Mr. Wimpy’s blue eyes, although watery with age, sparkled. “Thinking about selling it. It’d be a good investment for a young man like you.” He wiggled his old bushy gray brows. “You could even fix her up. Rent her out.”
Eric’s hopes rose, and he shot out of his chair. “Can I take a look at
it?”
Mr. Wimpy laughed, adjusted the USS Arizona cap he wore on his head, pulled his key ring from his pocket, jingled it around until he found the right one and pulled it off. He handed it to Eric. “It’s the last house on the hill, just beyond the fort and jetty. Built her myself when I came home from the war.”
Eric took the key, then shook Mr. Wimpy’s hand. “You, sir, are a lifesaver! Thanks!”
The old, wheezy laughs sounded behind him until he reached his truck, jumped in and took off for the north end of the island.
Eric pulled down the single private lane to the old cottage that Mr. Wimpy had built and then simply stared. A whitewashed concrete house with dark blue shutters, the front flanked by large camellia bushes, it sat facing the ocean, a white fence separating the property from the downward grade into the hills of sea oats, then the water. He’d seen it a million times doing maneuvers and flybys of Cassabaw with the Coast Guard, and always thought it was nice. He’d never known who it belonged to, though. Just another rental.
The wind had picked up as he followed the footpath to the small door at the fence and let himself through. He climbed the porch, and at the front door, he pushed in the key and opened it. The moment he stepped inside, he knew he had to buy it.
No, he’d known that the moment he saw it sitting on the hill.
Inside, it was a nautical-themed two-bedroom cottage, with white kitchen cabinets, modern appliances, a small living room and two small baths. The master bedroom had a small veranda off a set of French doors, and they opened out onto the back deck, which faced the sea.
Perfect. It was...perfect.
And so was his plan.
Quickly, he went through the house again, testing doors, drawers, showers and toilets, sinks and appliances, and the wood on the porches. Mr. Wimpy had kept it up pretty good, and for a cottage facing the sea it was sturdy and in seriously decent shape.
He had plans, though, for that back veranda.
Letting himself out, Eric locked the door and headed back to the Windchimer.
He and Mr. Wimpy needed to talk sale.
* * *
“YOU KNOW YOU got this for a damn steal, right?” Matt asked as he secured one section of the screen on the veranda.
It’d been a week since he’d purchased the sea cottage from Mr. Wimpy. And thanks to his dad and brothers, he was nearly finished with the veranda renovation.
“I do know,” Eric said with pride. “I know Mr. Wimpy let me have it,” he confessed. He stopped hammering and paused, grinning at his brother. “I think he saw the love in my eyes.”
Matt grinned—barely—and shook his head. “I hope you know what you’re doing, little brother. Reagan’s pretty damned determined. Can’t say that I blame her.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Eric stated. He finished installing the built-in workstation and bench and stepped back. “No way will she be able to refuse.”
“Have you even talked to her?” Matt asked. “She’s made a down payment on the rental in Caper’s Inlet.” He shook his head. “Her belongings are packed, bro.”
“I’d figured as much,” Eric noted. “But I appreciate the heads-up.”
Matt just grumbled something under his breath and continued working on the screen.
Eric hadn’t spoken to Reagan. Not once.
And it was killing him.
He’d be lying to say he hadn’t been a voyeur. He’d caught her a few times sitting on the end of the Quinns’ dock. Sitting there so pretty, and he imagined her eyes had been closed against the breeze as it blew her hair, and then he recalled other memories.
Like the night they’d made love.
That plagued him more than anything. He remembered every second. Every touch, every taste, every kiss. But it wasn’t just the sex that plagued his mind. Everything about her did. Her tenacity. Her doggedness not to give up, to face the world with a handicap that most would cower behind. She tackled her new shadowed world head-on, fearless and with hope. Hope that she could make it into something she loved.
Eric was in love with her. Not crazy about her. Not in like.
He was crazy in love with Reagan Rose Quinn.
And now that his devious plan to keep her on Cassabaw was nearly complete, it was high time he let her know it.
Before it was too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“WELL, THAT’S THE last of it,” Reagan said, closing the box on her clothes. She didn’t have much, really. A lot of it was still in containers from when the air force shipped it to Cassabaw. She didn’t have that much stuff anyway, probably ingrained into her by being in the service. She’d had to pack up and go many times. The fewer personal items you had, the easier it was.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Emily said. Her voice was shaky. “I like you here.”
Reagan was suddenly wrapped in Emily’s arms, and she laid her head on Em’s shoulder. “Sister, don’t. We’ll see each other all the time. Plus you’ll have your life with Matt. You won’t need me underfoot.”
“I want you underfoot. You belong under my feet!” Emily half wailed. “But...I understand why you’re doing this.” She kissed Reagan’s nose. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.”
“Well, I’m not leaving for a few more days, silly, so no tears for now. Okay?” Reagan insisted. “Let’s just enjoy each other. Have fun girl time.”
Emily sighed. “Okay.”
Her sister kept her in a tight embrace.
“Um, Em? I can’t breathe,” Reagan teased.
“I don’t care,” Emily pouted. “You said to enjoy you. That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Reagan laughed. Her quirky sister was so silly.
Just then, a knock sounded at the front door.
With a sigh, Reagan made her way to the front door, and opened it. Through the screen, she saw a dark figure.
“Hello?” she asked.
“Reagan Rose Quinn?”
The screen door opened the second her mind registered that the caller was Eric.
“I’m here to kidnap you again.”
Before Reagan could react she was airborne, and she squealed.
“Eric! What are you doing? Put me down!” she cried.
“Negative, ghost rider,” Eric stated, and just like before when he’d carted her off at night to his awaiting rowboat, he settled her over his shoulder, securing her legs and backside. He gave her playful slap.
“Eric! Stop!” she yelled. “Emily!”
“I’m in the bathroom!” Emily called from the back of the house.
Completely unbothered by Reagan’s plea for help.
“Eric, for God’s sake, put me down!” she said. “Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?”
The sound of his footfalls moving over the gravel, then she heard the opening of his truck door, and then she was upright and settled into the seat. His piney clean scent washed over her as he reached and secured her seat belt.
“First, God is on my side. Totally on it. Second,” he warned, “don’t try to get out. I’ve something monumentally important to show you. Okay?”
“Ugh!” Reagan huffed. She didn’t like being forced to do anything.
Why hadn’t he just asked if she’d go with him?
Probably because she hadn’t heard from him in almost two weeks.
Reagan heard Eric run around the truck, hop into the driver’s side, slam the door and start the engine. “Has anyone ever told you how terrifying you can be?” he commented.
“No.”
Eric laughed and they started moving.
She had no idea where they were headed. Apparently somewhere monumental.
Reagan sat with her arms crossed over her chest, totally disliking being at a disadva
ntage.
“You’re really adorable when you’re pouting,” Eric commented. “With your lips all pooched out.”
Reagan stared straight ahead. “I’d glare at you right now, but it’d probably be ineffective,” she spat.
Eric chuckled beside her.
“Seriously, Eric. Where are we going?”
“You’ll see,” he said. “And I mean that symbolically, Reagan Rose. But in all honesty, you will see. Just you wait.”
“Do I have a choice?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Well, I’m not saying a word to you right now, Eric Malone. I’m pissed,” she announced, although it was fading by the second.
What could he possibly have up his sleeve?
Eric again laughed softly beside her. “Okay, have it your way.”
Reagan lifted her chin and remained silent.
A few minutes later the truck turned down a lane that obviously wasn’t paved, and they bumped along for a moment or two before the truck came to a stop. Wordlessly, Eric got out, and then her door was opened, and he released her seat belt and whispered close to her ear.
“I have a proposition for you, Reagan Rose Quinn. Come on.”
Unavoidable shivers ran over her skin, and suddenly her hand was in his, and she stepped out of the truck. Immediately, the salty sea air whipped at her, and the cry of gulls overhead sounded.
“Why are we at the beach?” she asked.
Eric tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and continued to lead her.
She didn’t fight. She didn’t argue.
Now she was curious.
The sound of creaking met her ears, and Eric said, “Okay, step through the gate.” She did, and a large looming shadow stood before her against the brightness of the day.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“Steps,” he warned, ignoring her question, and they moved up four steps to a veranda. A house? At the beach? The sound of a key in a lock, and another door creaked open, and Eric led her inside. The scent of fresh paint and wood permeated the air and mixed with the brine of the ocean. Eric led her a few feet inside, then stopped.
“I understand your need for independence, Reagan. Swear to God, I do. But what I don’t—can’t accept is your leaving Cassabaw.”