by Melody Grace
“That’s great, Mom.” Eliza recovered first. “I’m so happy for you!”
“Me too,” Paige said honestly. Her mother, having a whirlwind affair with a handsome Frenchman? She could never have predicted this, but if anyone deserved to be happy after the years of grief and loss, it was Linda. “How did you guys meet?”
“He had a place next door to Annette in the countryside,” Linda said, “so we would get together for wine and cheese, and, well, you know these Frenchmen.” She giggled.
Yes. Giggled. Paige blinked in amazement.
“I decided you girls weren’t the only ones who could make a change,” Linda continued. “I found a whole new lease on life.” She paused and looked at Paige again. “Have you put on weight, honey? You can’t get complacent just yet. At least, not until after you’re married.”
Well, almost a new lease on life. Paige smiled. Some things would never change.
Eliza and Cal took them into the living room, peppering the new couple with questions, but Paige drifted out to the back porch and breathed in the crisp, salty air. It was dark out, and the sky was clear; a blanket of bright stars over the bay.
She looked out at the darkness and marveled how far they had all come. Eliza finding Cal; her mom, moving on after loss; and Paige, too. When she looked back at her life before the summer, it felt like a hundred years ago: working on those cute kids’ outfits all day in the office and sitting through a dozen dull blind dates at night. Pushing her inspiration back, caring so much about what she should be doing that she’d forgotten how to follow her heart.
Now, it couldn’t be more different. Her world was filled with color and creativity, and every morning she woke up, excited for the adventure ahead.
The door opened behind her, and Declan stepped out. “Well, I never thought I’d say it,” he joked, “but your mom’s got game. That Jean-Luc is a catch.”
Paige laughed. “Believe me, I’m as surprised as anyone.”
“But you’re OK?” he asked, moving behind her. “I know it’s still soon, after your dad . . .” He wrapped his arms around her, and Paige threaded her hands through his and happily sank back into the warmth of his embrace.
She took a deep breath. “She deserves to be happy, too.”
“Happy, a few thousand miles away,” Declan said, his laughter rumbling against her.
“An added perk.” Paige twisted, tilting her face up to kiss him. Just like the first time, she felt it everywhere, the rush of sweetness and wildfire. But now, she knew there was more beneath the surface. Something she could believe in, to last long after the fireworks of Fourth of July had faded away. “I love you,” she whispered, and Declan smiled back.
“I love you, too,” he murmured, dropping his lips to taste hers again. “And you know what I remembered?”
“What?”
“I still owe you a molten chocolate cake.”
Paige laughed, and took his hand. “Well, then, I think it’s time to call in that debt.”
Chocolate and the man of her dreams. What more could a woman want?
* * *
THE END.
(Almost…)
Epilogue
Jenny waved off the last of the lunch customers and flipped the sign on the restaurant door to “closed.” “See you soon,” she called as they hurried to their car. Fat droplets of rain began to fall from the sky, and a brisk November wind whipped leaves around the parking lot. Fall on the Cape was already well in season, which meant bright, blue-skied days that could turn blustery on a dime.
She loved this time of year. Sure, summer had its appeal, with lazy beach days and pink-hued sunsets, but when the breeze turned brisk in late September and the leaves began to change, Jenny could taste fall coming in the air. Thick knit sweaters and hot apple cider; pumpkin pie and long walks in the woods. Now, she looked out at the rainclouds and smiled. This was an evening made for curling up in front of a crackling fire, with a mug of tea and a good book.
But first, she had to finish closing up. Jenny shut the door quickly and headed back into the warmth of the dining room to deal with the mess the diners had left behind. Clearing, tidying, upturning the chairs on their tables . . . it was a familiar routine. She was working alone that afternoon, but Jenny didn’t mind. She’d take all the extra shifts Declan had going, especially with the holidays coming up. Hannah had her heart set on a set of graphic novels for Christmas, and she was already talking about an art camp her friends would be attending over summer . . .
If there was one thing Jenny had learned since becoming guardian to her twelve-year -niece, it was that parenting didn’t come cheap.
She grabbed the broom and began sweeping down the dining room, enjoying the mindless activity. Waitressing hadn’t exactly been her dream career, but the flexible schedule suited life with Hannah, and she liked having a window into so many lives. She loved watching the diners and speculating about their worlds: who secretly hated their dinner companion, and who was harboring an unrequited crush. Today, they’d hosted two older couples, clearly life-long friends, but Jenny could have sworn she saw a few lingering glances between one of the women . . . and the man who wasn’t her husband.
The bell above the door suddenly sounded, and Jenny looked up to find a man on the threshold, shaking off the rain. He was tall and broad-shouldered in a gray wool duffel-coat, his dark curls rumpled and wet. He took another step inside, and when the light caught his face, she could see he had a strong, chiseled profile, with piercing blue eyes.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” she called.
The man looked annoyed. “The sign says you’re open until three,” he said with a burred Scottish accent. “It’s 2:55.”
Jenny raised an eyebrow at his tone. “Technically, yes. But the kitchen’s shut, everybody’s gone home. You’re welcome to stand there for the next five minutes,” she added tartly, “but don’t expect to get fed.”
She turned back to her sweeping, but the man didn’t leave. “I’ll take a whiskey, then,” he said, more a demand than a request, and strode over to the bar.
Jenny sighed. Perfect.
She reluctantly followed him and gestured to the display. “Jack Daniels, Glenfiddich…”
“The Glenfiddich, of course,” he said. “Twenty-one year.”
No please or thank you, Jenny noted as she poured him a glass and set it on the bar between them.
“Sláinte,” he said, and he swallowed it in one. He slammed the glass down and gestured for a refill.
She poured. “2:57,” she said.
The man arched an eyebrow.
“The time.” Jenny smiled. “You have three minutes left. Since you’re a stickler for the rules.”
He glared. “It’s pouring rain out there.”
“I can’t help with that.”
His scowl deepened. Now that she was up close, Jenny could see that his jawline was strong, almost harsh, with a dark shadow of stubble and what looked like a permeant frown creasing his forehead. Just her luck to be stuck with Mr. Cheerful, his mood as cloudy as the weather outside.
“I thought you Americans were supposed to be the hospitable kind,” he said, sipping his drink this time.
“That’s Southerners,” Jenny explained sweetly. “Us New England types are famous for being brusque and unfriendly.”
He let out a wry chuckle. “That sounds about right.”
Jenny found a cloth and turned her attention to wiping down the bar.
“White heather,” he said suddenly. She looked up. The man reached out and caught
her wrist, turning it to reveal the simple charm bracelet she always wore.
Jenny froze, thrown by his touch. “It was my sister’s,” she answered without thinking. Most people heard the past tense in that phrase and apologized, or—even worse—asked more. But maybe he didn’t notice, because he just released her.
“The Scots say it brings good luck.”
Jenny gave a hollow laugh. “Maybe next time.”
Her sister had been notoriously unlucky; at least that’s what she blamed for every new mishap and disaster. But Jenny knew Becca was the only one behind her string of bad choices, from dropping out of college and partying too much, to drinking that fifth of vodka and getting behind the wheel one icy December night.
The memory made her pause, and she looked over at Mr. Cheerful. “Are you driving?” she asked.
He snorted. “Don’t you worry about me.”
“I’m not,” Jenny lied. “I just don’t want to have to deal with the police reports after you wind up in a ditch somewhere.”
“I can handle my liquor.” The man got to his feet and put a twenty on the bar. “I can handle anything you need.”
Jenny blinked. For a moment, she was hit with a bolt of physical awareness. The size of him, stern, like he’d been hewn from a block of marble. No, flint, she decided. Something weathered and stormy.
Then she flushed. What was she thinking? This guy pretty much screamed, “tall, dark, and emotionally unavailable.”
Just her type.
She followed him to the door to close up behind him, but the man paused on the threshold and turned so suddenly, Jenny almost walked straight into his chest.
His broad, strong chest.
“Easy there, lass.”
Lass?
Jenny blinked. “I didn’t think people really said that,” she blurted. “At least, not outside of romance novels.”
The man’s mouth curved upwards in a smile for the first time, and in that instant, his face was transformed. Not stern or critical, but almost teasing.
“Och aye,” he said, laying his accent on so thick that it sent shivers down her spine. “And we all cross the moors in our tartans to get to the laird’s ceilidh, too.”
“Really?” Jenny asked, transfixed. He was still standing close, too close, but she didn’t step away. There was something in those stormy eyes that was mesmerizing; secrets hidden deep.
He gave a snort of laughter. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve been living in New York the past ten years.” He shook his head, still chortling. “Women. Ha! That Outlander’s got a lot to answer for.”
Jenny flushed.
Forget about those hidden depths.
“3:01,” she said, stepping forwards, so he had to step back—outside. “Time’s up!” She slammed the door shut in his face.
The scowl on his face was better than any tip.
* * *
Jenny finished up at the restaurant, then drove back up the coast towards home. It was spitting down with rain now, and the ocean was roiling in gray-green peaks against the shore. She turned up the hill just outside Provincetown and snaked carefully up the muddy driveway to the crumbling mansion that sat, grandly overlooking the bay.
Well, it had been grand, once upon a time. These days, it was in a state of faded disrepair, with a leaky roof, peeling wallpaper, and a hot water heater that could be called “temperamental” at the best of times. Still, Jenny loved the old house. It was sprawling, romantic, and—most important of all—absolutely free. She and Hannah had been living there for two years now, in exchange for her caretaker duties. The owner, an ancient Mr. Higgenbottom, was out in Arizona, and hadn’t even stepped foot over the threshold once since Jenny had been in residence. Which made her love him all the more. Sooner or later, she knew, the house would be sold to developers and revamped into a luxurious summer home for some wealthy family, or torn down altogether, but until that day came, it was a home all of their own.
Tonight, Hannah was at a sleepover with friends, but Jenny still called to check in. She shed her coat and scarf in the hallway and made a beeline for the kitchen, aka the warmest room in the house.
“Summoned any ancient evil yet?” she asked, teasing.
Hannah giggled on the other end of the line. “Not yet, but we’re going to go explore the basement later. There’s a creepy spell book in a box that says do not open.”
“Sounds like a solid plan,” Jenny said, putting the old-fashioned teakettle on the stove. “Just remember, you only need to outrun one of your friends to get away. Sarah hurt her ankle in soccer last week, right?”
“Jenny!” Hannah protested, laughing. “And no, Lucy’s the slowest.”
“Tough luck, Lucy.”
Hannah paused, her laughter fading. “Sarah’s mom says I can stay the weekend, if you’re too busy at work.”
Jenny tensed. “Thank her for her kind offer,” she said, making sure to keep her tone light. “But tell her we’ve got it covered.”
“I know,” Hannah sighed. “But just once, I’d like to tell her to mind her own forking business.”
Jenny tried not to laugh. “Language.”
“What, forking?” Hannah sounded innocent. “What’s wrong with kitchen utensils?”
“You’re too smart for your own good,” Jenny scolded her playfully. “It’s all those books, isn’t it? Nothing good ever comes from reading. From now on, no more books. You’re only allowed TV and video games 24/7.”
Hannah laughed again, and Jenny felt relieved. “OK, have fun, enjoy your demon-summoning,” she said. “Love you.”
“Love you more.” Hannah rang off and Jenny let out a sigh. Damn Sarah’s mom. She had a way of doing this: making “kind” offers that somehow still felt like an insult. Jenny tried to get along with her for the kids’ sake, but still, it really was none of her forking business.
But in a small town like this, the gossip lingered. And her sister had thrived on it. Even before she got pregnant with Hannah, Becca had loved being the center of attention. Staying out, making noise, hooking up with people she definitely shouldn’t have . . . Jenny never understood how she could turn a blind eye to the whispers, but then, they’d always been different. Becca had always bragged about getting off the Cape and traveling the world, while Jenny always knew in her heart that she wanted to make a home there.
Which is exactly what she was doing, even if it was ahead of schedule. She’d been studying nursing in DC when she’d gotten that terrible call, but Jenny hadn’t hesitated, not for a second. She’d packed up her car and driven all night, and when Hannah had run sobbing into her arms, she’d felt her life shift course, snapping onto a new track in the space of a single heartbeat. Her niece needed someone to finally put her first, and that somebody would be Jenny.
It was as simple as that.
But that didn’t mean she didn’t relish her nights off. Jenny poured the tea and unpacked some leftover bread pudding from the restaurant, and she settled in front of the log fire in the cozy back living room. The wind was howling outside the windows and whistling through the hallways upstairs, but she snuggled under her blankets and lost herself in one of her favorite Brontë novels, pacing the moors with Heathcliff and Cathy until late in the night.
Dark, brooding, and temperamental? It reminded her of her Scottish guest that afternoon, with his stormy eyes and spiky disposition. Not that Wuthering Heights was a model of healthy relationships. In fact, Jenny was pretty sure she’d strangle Heathcliff if she was actually stuck in a room with him. Either that or take her chances on the moors. But still, the passion of the story always swept her up and appealed to the romantic side she usually kept under lock and key.
It had been too long since she’d felt that wild, and full of desire . . .
There was a sudden rumble of thunder, and a moment later, lightning lit up the sky.
Jenny shivered. It was late, and the embers had long since died down, so she headed up the grand staircase to bed. Her bedroom was over on the east wing of the house, with views of the water and a massive four-poster bed. Jenny was just changing into her flannel pajamas when suddenly, another flash of lightning cracked through the sky.
The lights went off.
“Fork it,” Jenny muttered. She waited hopefully for a moment, to see if they would switch back on, but the house stayed dark and silent.
She pulled on her slippers and fumbled around on her dress
er for matches. Luckily, she had a thing for scented candles, so soon the room was lit up—and smelling like gardenias. Jenny took a candle and headed cautiously back towards the stairs. The storm was going crazy outside now, and every new howl of wind or scratch of a tree branch against the windows made her jump.
Pull it together, she told herself, her heart racing. You’re not afraid of the dark.
She edged downstairs and along the back hall. The fuse box was in the basement, down another set of rickety stairs, and Jenny gulped, peering into the pitch black. Why had she been joking with Hannah about dark spirits? This was the first act of a horror movie, right here.
Something brushed up against her. She screamed. “Get off!” Jenny whirled around and found—
A cobweb.
She gulped for air, her heart pounding, and then laughed. If Hannah could see her now . . .
Jenny turned back towards the basement, about to go find the fuse box, when she heard a rattle, and then a heavy thud coming from outside.
She froze.
It came again: a rattle at one of the windows, and the heavy sound of somebody moving around.
Jenny’s heart leapt. Oh God. This time, it wasn’t her imagination.
Somebody was there!
She reeled back down the hall, staying in the pitch-black shadows, her mind racing. What was she supposed to do? Whoever it was, they could be dangerous. Deadly! She reached the hall closet, and desperately fumbled for something to use as a weapon. Her hand closed around something solid, an old tennis racquet and Jenny gripped it with relief. She stepped out and inched carefully towards the kitchen.
The rattling noise was louder there, and as she watched, the handle of back door began to turn.
She gulped, setting the candle on the table and gripping the racquet tighter. “Who’s there?” she yelled. “Whoever you are, I’ve called the police. And my boyfriend. My big, beefy, body-builder boyfriend!”