by Irene Hannon
“Family conflicts are difficult.”
“Also avoidable, if people are willing to let each other live their lives as they see fit.”
“I won’t argue with that.” His aunt’s tone remained conversational. “Yet there can be extenuating circumstances. A person’s history can skew their view of the world.”
He straightened a crooked chair and pushed it under a table with more force than necessary. “I know all about the bankruptcy that upended your world when you and Dad were kids—and I get how an experience like that can make a person crave security. But it doesn’t justify shutting out people who choose a different path. That’s not what love’s supposed to be about.”
“Again . . . no argument. And I appreciate the heads-up, though I’m not certain the subject of your relationship will come up. He was never one to discuss feelings.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Frowning, he planted a fist on his hip. “What do you mean?”
“I was just curious about whether the two of you have tried to talk through the issue.” Her tone remained mild. Nonjudgmental.
That didn’t keep his blood pressure from spiking.
“I tried. He shut me out. By his definition, a conversation means he talks and you listen. If you don’t agree with his opinion, end of discussion.”
A soft laugh came over the line, defusing the tension. “That’s Richard. He was pigheaded as a kid too. Maybe he’ll eventually mellow.”
Zach snorted. “That would take a miracle.”
“They do happen. In the meantime, watch for a text with my travel plans. It’s been great to talk with you, Zach.”
“Likewise. Enjoy your visit with Dad.”
After they exchanged good-byes, he did one final circuit of the modest shop that gave him more satisfaction than any of the multimillion-dollar deals he’d negotiated in his previous career.
This business wasn’t going to make him rich—but as Charley had said, life shouldn’t be all about accruing money. He’d devoted himself to that goal for eight long years, and while his sixty-hour weeks had put him on the fast track to success and padded his bank account, they hadn’t fed his soul as this shop did.
He paused at the door, fished out his keys, and gave the welcoming space a scan. There was nothing more satisfying than creating a place that gave all who entered a brief respite from their cares and worries. That left them refreshed and reenergized.
Well . . . all except one customer, whose image continued to strobe through his mind with annoying regularity.
He hadn’t learned anything more about the mystery woman, despite a fair amount of subtle digging with his regular clientele. No one had seen her, other than Charley—and she hadn’t stopped by the taco-maker’s stand either.
For all he knew, she’d already left town.
He secured the door and wandered down Main Street toward his car, absorbing the warmth of the sun.
This was the kind of day that put a sparkle on Hope Harbor and drew tourists from far and near during the summer months. The kind of day meant for leisurely pursuits. And The Perfect Blend’s six-days-a-week, seven-to-one hours gave him ample opportunity to enjoy each and every one.
Another perk of his new life—and he intended to relish every second of this glorious weather.
Too bad he didn’t have a special someone to share it with.
Once again, the image of the woman hiding behind sunglasses flashed through his mind.
He expelled a breath and mashed down the unlock button on his key fob.
Letting a stranger get under his skin was stupid. He should forget about her and whatever troubles Charley had concluded she was dealing with. She—and they—were none of his concern.
Yet as he slid behind the wheel and started his Jeep, he couldn’t help but wonder where his mystery customer was—and what she was doing on this beautiful day.
3
The sun was shining at last—and the beach was beckoning.
Katherine pulled the roomy, long-sleeved T-shirt down over her denim-clad hips, shoved her feet into her sand shoes, and exited onto the deck of her rental cottage. Brilliant blue sky greeted her, and she paused to inhale a lungful of the briny air.
Bliss.
Under the radiant solar warmth, the tension melted from her shoulders. It had taken ten days, but the peace of this coastal haven was finally beginning to permeate her psyche.
Even the annoying phone calls from Simon, initiated three days into her trip and now a daily irritation, were losing their ability to stress her out. And she was done answering them, as she’d told him yesterday. Until she settled on a direction going forward, there was no point in talking to him.
Whether he would honor her request for radio silence remained to be seen—but as long as they were separated by more than eight hundred miles, the odds were minuscule he’d drop in unannounced. Hope Harbor wasn’t the easiest place to get to, and Simon’s aversion to driving long distances should keep him at arm’s length.
For the immediate future, her solitude ought to be secure.
Settling her sunglasses on her nose, she stepped onto the small plot of manicured lawn that extended to the edge of the bluff. From there, according to the property management agent, a path led down to the trail for the beach. Since the secluded stretch of sand was only accessible from a handful of cottages, she should have it to herself most of the time.
As Katherine traversed the perimeter of the bluff, seeking a trailhead, the unbroken tangle of natural flora suggested that few renters ventured down to water’s edge, preferring instead to admire the view from on high.
She did a second pass.
Aha. There. That was sort of a path, tucked in among the brambles—wasn’t it?
She moved closer.
Yes.
As she prepared to plunge into the undergrowth, she gave her surroundings one more appreciative survey.
Below her, the glittering expanse of water stretched to the far horizon, where indigo sea and turquoise sky melded. Sea stack sentinels flanked the far edges of the sweeping curve of hillside that formed the cove below. In both directions, overlapping fingers of steep headlands jutted progressively farther out into the water. On the southernmost one, hazy in the distance, Pelican Point light presided.
The sheltered crescent of beach below was mostly hidden from this vantage point, but it was easy to visualize from the multitude of photos the agent had provided—and now that the weather was cooperating, she was itching to explore it in person.
Giving the edge of the property on either side of her a quick scan, she let out a slow breath. While there were a few other houses on this stretch of coast, the insulating layer of Sitka spruce, pine, and hemlock trees between them gave her absolute privacy.
Heaven.
Lips curving up, she pushed through the thigh-high foliage and began her descent.
Within fifty feet, the rough track dead-ended at a wider, more discernible trail.
Wind ruffling her newly shorn locks, she hung a left. As she strolled along, two gulls wheeled overhead and a chipmunk scampered across the path a few feet in front of her, a . . . blackberry? . . . in his mouth.
While the critter disappeared into the brush, she gave the brambles on either side of the narrow trail a closer inspection.
Good heavens.
There were blackberries everywhere.
In light of the name of the beach, their presence wasn’t a surprise—but this was a mother lode.
She stopped to examine one of the bushes laden with ripe, juicy-looking berries. Plucked one. Popped it in her mouth.
Oh.
My.
Word.
Intense flavor, amplified by an infusion of solar warmth, exploded on her tongue, sending sweetness ricocheting through her taste buds.
Store-bought berries never came close to offering such a sensory overload. And there were hundreds . . . thousands . . . here for the taking.
On
her next beach visit, she’d have to bring a bowl and claim a small portion of the bounty.
In the meantime, why not eat her fill during the trek down?
Ten minutes later, fingers stained with berry juice, she emerged onto an empty stretch of beach that was utterly quiet save for the gentle lull of the placid surf in the protected cove and the occasional caw of a gull.
She stopped to drink it in.
Yes.
This was what she’d come to Hope Harbor for.
Striking out across the sand toward the water, she glanced toward her left. Jolted to a stop.
Well, crud.
She wasn’t alone after all.
Farther down the beach, a solitary man was sitting on a piece of driftwood, his back to her.
Katherine hesitated.
It was possible he wanted seclusion as much as she did—and if she walked the opposite direction, they could both enjoy their solitude. The expansive stretch of sand was plenty big for two people. They didn’t have to interact or invade each other’s space.
And on the off chance his presence wasn’t as innocent as it seemed? That he was the type who might be inclined to prey on a lone woman in this isolated location?
Katherine felt her pockets.
Cell in one, pepper gel in the other.
Check.
Her arsenal was in place.
It was always wise to be prepared, even in a peaceful place like Hope Harbor—a lesson learned after one too many dicey encounters in the world she’d fled.
Paranoid, perhaps—but better safe than sorry.
Pulling out the small canister, she continued to assess the baseball-cap-wearing man who remained oblivious to her presence.
He appeared to be harmless. No bad vibes were wafting her direction.
So she’d stay. Explore the intriguing flotsam that lined the surf line. Let the aerial acrobatics of the pair of gulls swooping overhead and the antics of a belching silver-white harbor seal on the rocks offshore entertain her.
But in case the guy perched on the sun-bleached log had more on his mind than innocent relaxation, she kept her finger on the trigger of the pepper gel.
And if he made one wrong move . . . if he came one inch too close . . . he was going to be sorry he’d ever ventured onto Blackberry Beach on this bright Tuesday afternoon.
The mystery woman was on his beach.
Zach stared at the slender figure in the distance as he did the math.
Since he knew the handful of other residents in this neck of the woods . . . and the house next door to him was the only rental property in this area . . . and there wasn’t any evidence of a boat indicating Kat had accessed the beach by water . . . that meant she was his temporary neighbor.
It also meant she didn’t have any money problems. The Clark house occupied the prime location above the beach, and its expansive views and amenities merited top dollar.
At least that’s what Charley, who lived farther up on this curving stretch of coast, had told him.
He propped his hands on his hips as he watched her peer into one of the pools that formed in the rocks at the far end of the beach during low tide.
Was the proximity of her accommodations to his home due to benevolent providence—or plain old good luck?
Based on her skittishness and attempts to remain anonymous, it wasn’t likely she’d consider the coincidence to be either.
Should he disappear back up the trail and leave her to her solitary endeavors . . . or try again to breach the wall she’d erected around herself?
In view of Charley’s conclusion that she was in need of a friend, there was no question what the renowned artist would recommend.
But in all likelihood, she’d rebuff an approach. She must have noticed him when she’d arrived at the beach—yet she’d walked the other direction.
Not a positive sign she’d welcome company.
On the other hand, she may have thought he was a stranger. It would have been difficult for her to identity him from the back. If she’d realized they’d met, it was possible she’d be receptive to an overture.
Or not.
He took off his cap and scratched his head. Either option could be the wrong one. There was no way to predict the outcome.
So instead of standing around debating his strategy, why not say hello? Give her an opening to display the latent sociability Charley was certain lay under her frosty surface.
Decision made, he tugged his cap back on and strode her direction.
She continued to explore the tide pool, giving no indication she was aware of his approach.
Ten feet away, he stopped. Should he wait until she noticed him, or call out a greeting?
Whichever approach he chose, she was going to be startled—and if he waited for her to spot him, she might not be happy to find him standing here gawking at her.
Best to take the initiative.
“We meet again.”
She gasped and swung around, arm extended, finger on the trigger of a canister aimed at his face.
“Hey.” Pulse surging, he held out his hands, palms forward, and took a quick step back on the hard-packed sand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just trying to be neighborly and welcome you to the area. No harm intended. My name’s Zach Garrett—and we happen to share this beach.”
Several slow, silent seconds ticked by as she inspected him from behind her dark glasses.
The canister never wavered.
Was it possible she didn’t recognize him from the shop?
If he didn’t remind her of their encounter last week—fast—he could end up with burning eyes and balking lungs.
“We’ve met, you know. At The Perfect Blend, in town.”
After a few more beats passed, she lowered the canister. “I remember.”
“You must be renting the Clark house.”
She didn’t respond.
Geez.
Either Charley was uncharacteristically off base in his assessment and this woman was more cold than cautious—or she was super freaked out and gun-shy for traumatic reasons.
“If you’re wondering how I know that, I live next door.” He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, keeping his posture casual and nonthreatening. The tension radiating from this woman was almost palpable. “It’s also the only house with access to Blackberry Beach that’s rented out. I know all the other residents.”
Her rigid stance relaxed a hair. “Thanks for the explanation. Sorry if I overreacted.”
“No worries. It never hurts to be too careful these days. We live in a crazy world.”
Her throat worked. “Yes, we do.”
He waited for her to put the canister away.
She didn’t.
Find a more innocuous subject, Garrett.
“Is this your first trip to the beach?”
“Yes.”
“I see you sampled the namesake berries during your descent.” He smiled and tapped the corner of his lips.
She lifted a hand, as if to scrub off the offending stain, but paused as she spotted more telltale blemishes on her fingers. “Guilty as charged. I can’t dispute the evidence.”
“It’s no crime to pick the berries. We all do. You’re fortunate to be here during peak season. Depending on the length of your stay, you may be able to enjoy them for your whole visit.” Not the most subtle attempt to find out the duration of her trip—but it did give her an opening to offer additional information.
She didn’t take it.
“I plan to bring a container in the future and fill it.”
The woman was as hard to pin down as a burrowing razor clam.
“Join the crowd. I have a bowlful in the kitchen myself, waiting to become blackberry cobbler. It’s one of my late-summer specialties.”
She cocked her head. “You bake?”
“Yes. Among other leisure pursuits.”
She slid the canister into her pocket. “I know a few men who enjoy cooking, but most prefer t
o let their wife or girlfriend do the baking.”
While her body language and inflection implied her comment was inconsequential, it wasn’t. She was digging for background information too.
That was promising.
And unlike her, he didn’t mind disclosing a few personal facts. Perhaps that would encourage her to reciprocate.
“If I had either, we’d have to share the kitchen now that I’ve been bitten by the culinary bug.”
It was difficult to judge her reaction with her eyes hidden, but his gut told him she was relieved by his answer.
Or was that wishful thinking?
Maybe she was just glad he was a relatively normal guy rather than a serial killer who stalked women on secluded beaches.
“Well . . .” She rubbed her palms on her jeans. “I think I’ll explore the other end of the beach.”
The conversation was over.
He held on to his smile despite his disappointment. “And I’m heading home. If you watch for it, you can spot the turnoff to my place from the main path on your walk back, a couple hundred feet before you reach yours—unless you’re too busy eating blackberries.”
Her mouth bowed a few degrees. “I’ve had my allotment for today.”
“So have I—but that won’t stop me from picking a few more on the hike up. I tend to overindulge while they’re in season.” He swept a hand over the beach. “Enjoy yourself down here. It’s a little piece of heaven—and a great place to touch base with the Almighty, if you’re so inclined.”
As the comment tripped off his tongue, he frowned.
Where had that come from?
Given his present relationship with God—or lack thereof—dispensing that sort of advice was disingenuous at best.
Besides, while it appeared she could use someone to talk to, a fair number of people were turned off by any reference to God. Until he learned this woman’s story, it would be wise to refrain from doing or saying anything that would shut her down.
As if she could be any more shut down than she already was.
Again, the glasses masked any clues to her reaction, and her tone remained neutral. “I agree that the quiet and space and fresh air and solitude are a little piece of heaven.” She emphasized solitude.
