by Olivia Miles
“Still upset about Sean?” Hope frowned at her. “You know he’s not worth it. To just decide one day that he’d changed his mind? After committing? As painful as that is, it’s better to know that now than six years from now.”
Six years was how long Hope and Evan had been married. That was easy for Hope to say.
“Maybe you need a change of scenery. Something to get your mind off things here,” Hope said. Her expression suddenly lifted. “Why don’t you go to the lake house?”
Gemma frowned. “Evening Island?” It was far from convenient, and now was the time to buckle down, not take a vacation. Besides, there was the matter of Ellie to think about.
Still, Ellie was her sister, and they had to work through things eventually, and when she thought of the clear, cool water and the breeze flowing through the open window in her favorite room in the house, the one on the third floor that had the desk in the alcove, looking out over the lake, she felt her spirits lift.
“A change might help me to focus,” she said. Stop her from thinking of Sean at every turn, picturing their life in the four walls of the apartment they had all too briefly shared. “And it might help to spend some quality time with Ellie. If she’ll let me come.”
Hope gave her a smile. “Of course she’ll let you come. Besides, she sort of has to. It’s our family’s house, even if we never get back there.”
Gemma considered this. Why couldn’t she go back to Evening Island? The house was theirs to share. It wasn’t like she had any responsibilities keeping her in Chicago—no kids, no husband, no pets. Not even a houseplant.
She pursed her lips and shifted to less self-pitying thoughts.
Evening Island, where the sun seemed to shine every day and even on the days that it didn’t, the smell of lilacs and grass just grew stronger. The island where she’d run free as a child, allowed to skin her knees and ride bikes on all the dirt roads, and swim out as far as she dared in the icy water. The place where she could run free, allowing her mind to take flight and her heart to soar.
Gemma nodded. Evening Island. She’d go tomorrow. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t thought of it sooner.
Chapter Two
Ellie
Ellie finished washing her paintbrushes in the stainless-steel sink in the back room of her studio, wondering if she should stay and finish that landscape she’d started of the South Bay lighthouse instead of heading home early.
Her stomach rumbled, providing an answer for her. She dried her hands on the skirt of her cotton sundress, flicked off the lights, and locked the door behind her.
Her studio, where she not only painted but also offered a painting class on a weekly basis, was located near the island harbor. It was tucked away at the edge of Main Street, but far enough from the center of town where she wouldn’t be disturbed from her work. She’d rented it with her inheritance, selecting it for the beautiful views that always gave her something new and interesting to observe. Occasionally people from the bed and breakfast across the street popped in, usually just to check things out, and the guys docking their sailboats too, even if they were only hoping for a mug of the fresh coffee she kept brewing. Still, she was happy for the company. Life on Evening Island was quiet. Sometimes, even too quiet.
It was the cost of being surrounded by so much natural beauty, she thought, as she hopped onto her bicycle and cycled into town. It was a late Saturday afternoon in the spring, meaning that the street was filled with tourists, and that while this might be good for business, she wasn’t exactly looking for a big crowd tonight. Her bike creaked beneath her, not completely uncommon given how much she rode the thing, but she frowned as she pulled to a stop outside Main Street Market and crouched down to inspect the situation.
She muttered to herself as she stood, all too aware that talking to herself had become a regular (and slightly worrisome) occurrence since Gran had passed. She’d be lucky to get this bike home tonight given the air pressure in the front tire.
With a sigh, she walked into the grocery store, which had been around since the turn of the twentieth century. The pine floors were original: wide planks, each scratch telling a story. The aisles were narrow, and carts were not even an option. She grabbed a wicker basket and went straight for the deli counter, where the current owner, Donna Carlisle, prepared fresh soups and sandwiches every day.
For some inexplicable reason, Ellie’s heart was heavy as she considered her options, even though she usually loved the spinach wrap and lentil soup, and both were still in stock. Some nights she ate in town, or got together with some of the other locals who had become friends over the years, but tonight there were no plans. The truth was that she was getting a little lonely sitting out on the front porch watching the sun go down. The painting helped; after all, how could she not be inspired by such colors and lighting? But she’d painted enough for today, and tonight…Well, tonight she was bored out of her friggin’ mind. There. She’d said it. She was bored to tears!
With surprise, she realized that actually, she was crying, that a tear was running down her cheek and that more were sure to quickly follow. She brushed it away, darting her eyes to the right in the hopes that no one would see, but it was just a sea of tourists, murmuring over how quaint everything was.
It was quaint. And beautiful. And her happiest memories were here on this island. When they came up here as children, she and her sisters would play all day, while for once their mother wasn’t fussing over them getting their hair messy. She was too busy drinking what she called lemonade (but the girls knew better) and playing cards to notice. Evening Island brought out the best in her too. In all of them, really. Well, except for their father, but his stays were brief: two weekends per summer, one at the start and one at the end.
Back then, Ellie couldn’t understand how her father was so restless here, so unable to just relax and take in the surroundings. She still couldn’t understand it, but Gran had, and that was why she had left the cottage to her three granddaughters when she’d died.
Because there was no other food in the house and she’d managed to kill the vegetable garden last summer when there was a dry spell and she had sheer forgotten to water that patch of lawn back near the shed (Please forgive me, Gran), Ellie grabbed the spinach wrap and a big bag of salt and vinegar flavored potato chips and then, because hey, it was Saturday night, a bottle of white wine. And a pint of double chocolate chip ice cream. Maybe she’d call Mandy or Naomi and see if they were up for something—but she knew that shops held longer hours on the weekends once the ferries started bringing people in from the Blue Harbor dock four times an hour, and most locals worked to serve the tourists.
“Hey, Ellie,” Donna said as she rang her up. She pushed a wisp of graying hair from her forehead and gave a friendly smile. Soon the summer staff would start, but lately, Donna always manned the counter. Ellie was starting to get a little uncomfortable by the fact that Donna probably kept a running tab of how many bottles of sauvignon blanc Ellie purchased in a week over the colder months. But there was no other option for shopping unless she wanted to take the ferry to the mainland, and that was just more trouble than it was worth half the time. Sure, Blue Harbor was a change of scenery, and the town was full of shops and people, some faces familiar enough, others new, but the ferry stopped running from January through March, and it only crossed twice a day in the off season, and you had to plan for it. And Ellie, well, she had never been one for planning. Just ask her father.
She pursed her lips at that, remembering that he was far away, that he never came to Michigan to visit, and that their phone calls had been further and fewer between. Lack of quality cell reception had been an easy excuse for that. Still, somehow it didn’t make the ache in her chest go away, try as she might. And oh, how she had tried. To tell herself that she didn’t care, when she did, deep down. So much. Too much, really.
She grabbed a plastic spoon for her ice cream. The dishwasher had stopped working last week, and she hadn’t the time nor resour
ces to call anyone to fix it, and there were quite a few dishes piled up by now…
That was the problem with island life, she decided. It made you lazy. Time slowed down, you went through the day at your own pace, and well, it was wonderful, really. Really, really wonderful. Except when it wasn’t.
Outside, she set her brown grocery bag in her bicycle basket. She eyed the front tire and decided that it wasn’t worth the risk. She’d walk the bike home and deal with it in the morning. Hopefully it just needed some air in the tires and not a patch. She had time…She may not have much else, but she had time.
At first, the thought of all that time to paint had been a dream come true.
Now…She stopped walking. Blinked. Felt her heart speed up and her stomach do something a little funny.
Now she was staring at the face of Simon Webber. Only it couldn’t be Simon. Simon hadn’t been back to the island in a decade, and sometime, long ago but probably not as long ago as she should have, she’d accepted the fact that he’d never be back.
And here he was, coming out of the bakery, as casually as if he had never left town, and for a second, she dared to imagine how that would have been. If he’d returned. Like he’d promised. How different life might have been.
That was one fantasy she had harbored for too long. Now, her heart was hammering in her chest. Why now? Why not then? And what would she even say?
He glanced up and down Main Street; his turquoise blue eyes were practically glowing, even from this distance. And that grin, broad and slightly mischievous—oh Lord, that grin!
She brought a hand to her hair, hoping that she didn’t have paint gumming up the ends, and wondering if she should turn, hop on her bike and attempt to get up Hill Street on that front tire, compose herself and seek him out another day. Or should she stand here and wait for him to see her? Wait for him to take the lead?
Oh, God. He saw her. He did a double take (be still her heart!) and his grin widened even deeper, making his eyes go all crinkly at the corners and his dimple quirk.
“Ellie? Ellie Morgan?” He was coming over to her in long, purposeful strides, and before she could even react, she was pressed against his chest. His hard, warm, thick chest, and oh, she couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes, and, ever so discreetly, gave a little sniff.
He smelled good, just like she remembered, and oh, how she remembered. He smelled like the cedar soap he’d always used, with only a slight undertone of sweat. And he felt warm, and sturdy, and she wanted to hold him even longer, she wanted to take him back to Sunset Cottage and…Well. A lady didn’t talk about those things. Not that Ellie had ever been much of a lady. Her oldest sister Hope was the lady. Gemma was the brain. Ellie was the wild child. The artist. The black sheep. The family disappointment.
But none of that mattered. Not when Simon was standing in front of her, looking as good as he had ten years ago, the last time she’d seen him. Even if it wasn’t supposed to be the last time.
“I didn’t know you were coming back to town!” she finally said, managing to find her words.
“I didn’t know you were still spending your summers here,” he said with a grin. His eyes were sparkling, and he seemed so happy to see her that she didn’t even feel nervous. It was exactly like she had once pictured their reunion to be, well, other than the missing kiss, of course. A kiss by now would have been nice…
“Oh, I live here year-round now, actually,” she corrected. She’d gotten used to the surprised reaction people gave to that. Evening Island wasn’t exactly a winter destination, especially when the only access became a small air taxi. The months leading up to spring were dark and quiet. Very, very quiet. But they were also ethereal, with frocked trees and the frozen stretch of water leading all the way to Blue Harbor. Some of her best paintings were inspired by the winter landscape. She had to remember that!
“I thought you went to art school in Chicago?”
She tried not to be too flattered that he remembered that. But then, that was all they had talked about that last summer here together. Their future.
The future that hadn’t happened.
She pushed back the pang in her chest. They were kids back then, she told herself. It would be irrelevant to bring it up now, to ask where he’d been, why he’d never come back, why he’d gotten busy with his new life and forgotten her. Because she’d never forgotten him.
Instead, she managed a breezy smile and said, “Oh, I did. And then I moved back to take care of Gran.” Or, as Gemma had said the last time she’d seen her, Gran had taken her in.
Ellie still felt the sting of those words.
Simon gave a look of sympathy. “I heard about your grandmother. I’m sorry.”
Of course he’d heard. The Webbers, like the Morgans, were summer stock, locals of their own right, people who came every summer, year after year, from Memorial Day through Labor Day. Well, most years. Islanders kept tabs on their friends, brought them fresh-cut flowers and homemade cherry pies, and they were up to date on all the gossip, which was how Ellie knew that Simon was a thriving attorney, living a successful life in Philadelphia.
The fact that Simon was coming back to Evening Island had not been mentioned. Surely, she would have heard. She would have prepared herself. She would have made sure she didn’t have the faint markings of paint on her dress, and she might have run a brush through her hair, too.
“She lived a long life,” Ellie said bravely, but the tears prickled the backs of her eyes again, damn it. She glanced away, forced a bright smile, but Simon’s was one of sympathy and understanding, making her feel connected to him all over again, because of course he knew. He’d spent endless summers with Gran just like she had, here on Evening Island. “Makes it feel like the end of an era, sometimes.”
And it was. Now, looking at Simon, and the fine lines around his eyes, and the way his chest had filled out from the boyish frame she knew so well, she was all too aware that time had passed. That the summers they once spent together were only a memory.
But a shared one.
“So what keeps you busy here year-round?” he asked, as one would, except that Ellie couldn’t help but think he should know this; if he’d asked, surely his mother might have told him?
“I have an art studio here in town,” she said proudly. “It’s down by the docks. Turquoise paint. Hard to miss.”
“We’ll plan on stopping in sometime,” Simon said with a grin.
Ellie narrowed her eyes for a moment. We? But then she thought, no doubt his parents had decided to get an early start on the summer. Wanted to air out the house. Maybe they hadn’t taken advantage of any renters for the upcoming lilac season the way other locals liked to do, choosing instead to return mid-June, when the festivities were over. The Webbers hadn’t been back for a couple of years; maybe they wanted to make up for time lost.
“You here for long?” she asked, shifting the weight on her feet. She hoped the eagerness didn’t register in her face. After all, he had a career. He had gone to Colgate, then onto law school. (Gran liked to gossip, it kept her busy, and when it came to Simon, Ellie had been all too happy to listen.)
“For the summer,” Simon replied, and Ellie felt the smile widen on her face.
The whole summer! And it was only May!
He glanced back over his shoulder into the crowd and then looked at her in apology. “I have to go, but…this was nice, Ellie. Really nice. I’m glad you’re here.”
She could only nod in response as she watched him turn and walk away, his shoulders broad, his nut-brown hair curling at the nape of his neck like it did when they were just teenagers. And somehow, Evening Island didn’t feel so lonely after all. In fact, it felt just as wonderful as it had all those years ago, when it was the one place she could be where anything felt possible.
Chapter Three
Hope
Hope stared at the dish towel that was hanging from her husband’s bathroom hook and forced a calming breath. She would bet anyone five bucks tha
t a bath towel (a thick, soft, embroidered bath towel) was currently hanging from the handle to the dishwasher at this very moment.
She reached out a hand and snatched the thin, flimsy, white dish towel from the hook and tossed it into the laundry basket, which was already spilling over with sheets, endless white undershirts that Evan seemed to change three times a day, and of course, the girls’ tiny clothes, most of them in various shades of pink.
Once, there had been a time when she could stare at those little clothes for hours. When she marveled in folding each floral-printed blouse, and ironed each and every pink cotton dress. She always dressed the girls in coordinating clothes but never matching. They were fraternal twins, but they looked enough alike to be mistaken for identical, with their honey-colored loose curls and big green eyes. She wanted them to each be unique. She wanted to foster their individuality. She wanted to give them all the opportunities her mother had never instilled in her.
And yet, despite her best efforts, she feared that she was slowly becoming her mother.
It had started with the house. A giant suburban thing that was far too much trouble to clean, and even when they’d hired a housekeeper to come once a week, still required some elbow grease for the sake of her own dignity. Then there were the neighbors who seemed to never run out of one-upping each other at the playground at the end of the block. Hope wouldn’t have minded so much if she’d found one true friend in the mix, or if Evan was around more often, or if the girls weren’t currently attempting to eat the piles of dirt that they had used to “bake” pies in the backyard playhouse that Hope had once found so charming (and yes, she actually tended to the flowers in the pink window box).
She dropped the laundry basket and flung open the window, hollering down at Evan, who was relaxing at the patio table with a coffee in one hand and the newspaper in another, “They’re eating dirt! Stop them! They’re eating dirt!”
