The Giving Heart

by Toni Blake

  When she looked up at him, two things struck her simultaneously. First, he was ridiculously handsome—with dark hair peeking out from beneath that dumb hat, and dark stubble on his chiseled jaw to match. And second, his warm brown eyes wore that same confused, cautious look as the man on the bulldozer’s as he said, “I’m Beck Grainger. And...there seems to be some sort of problem here?”

  Lila drew back. This was Beck Grainger? Who Meg had spoken of so fondly? And even Suzanne, too, during their short visit yesterday, had mentioned him as a friend. Meg had told her he’d been interested in dating Suzanne and she’d declined, but they both still thought he was a great guy.

  “Well, I’m Lila Sloan,” she said. “And yes, there’s a problem. I’m not letting you destroy Meg’s property value like this.”

  Beck Grainger’s dark eyebrows shot up beneath his leathery brim. “You’re Meg’s sister?”

  She gave a terse, crisp nod.

  The handsome man sighed, shifting his weight from one work boot to the other. “Look, no one is trying to destroy anyone’s property value. And I assumed Meg knew about this. It’s not a secret. It was brought publicly before the town council and zoned for residential use back in the spring.”

  Ugh. None of this was good news. But Lila was certain Meg didn’t know. Her sister had been dealing with a lot this past year and perhaps hadn’t been paying attention to island business. They’d actually discussed these very woods over the Thanksgiving table last week, recalling how they’d played here as children when their grandmother was still alive and running the place. Meg said that a couple of years ago she’d crossed the stream to plant some shade-loving trillium and blue cranesbill among the trees, and that the small blooms had added color visible from the patio each of the last two summers. Meg loved and valued these trees. And Lila brimmed with anger that no one had made Meg aware of this—but that was neither here nor there. “I can assure you she doesn’t know.”

  The handsome man’s brow narrowed skeptically. “Well, if it’s a problem for her, why didn’t she just pick up the phone and call me?”

  “Because she’s away right now—traveling. And even if she were here, she wouldn’t have known you were the person to call. And maybe she would have done something sensible—because Meg is definitely sensible—like contact someone on the town council. But I, being less sensible and more rash, took a more direct approach. Meg left me in charge of the inn while she’s away—and I can’t let you do this. I just can’t.”

  The tilt of Beck Grainger’s handsome head told her he was going to try reasoning with her. “You know, it’s not gonna be that bad. Luxury homes. With big yards. They’ll fit into the landscape.” He even ended the sentence with a wink. Was he serious? Given what Lila had been through recently, he was definitely barking up the wrong tree with an elitist suggestion that rich people made better neighbors.

  “I don’t care what you’re building—you’re doing it at the expense of my sister’s inn. People stay here because of the ambiance and atmosphere. They stay here to listen to crickets in the trees and see fireflies blinking in the woods. We played in these trees as kids. They’ve been growing here since...well, since before Summer Island was even Summer Island. I can’t let you tear them down.”

  Again, the tree-murderer was shifting his weight, clearly trying to figure out how to get the crazy woman to go home. And maybe she should. Hell, maybe she was crazy. She was standing in pajamas in the snow in front of a bulldozer, after all, a place she couldn’t have imagined herself even an hour ago. But if she had to go back inside the inn and hear the hideous sounds of these trees being destroyed, if she had to face Meg with the news that she’d let some rich developer ruin the inn’s picturesque setting, she didn’t think she could handle it. And she was still in no frame of mind to let some entitled, wealthy man run roughshod over her.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’m sorry Meg didn’t know. Sincerely. We’re friends.”

  “Some friend,” she muttered.

  He went on. “But it’s freezing out here and you’re soaking wet.”

  “Thanks for that newsflash,” she murmured again.

  Which he continued to ignore. Since she probably appeared to be insane. “I understand your compulsion to run out here and try to change the situation, but standing in front of this bulldozer isn’t really gonna fix anything, so I’m afraid you’re just getting wet and cold for nothing.”

  She simply glared at him. “You’re not as nice as Suzanne said you were.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You know Suzanne?”

  “Yes.” Suzanne, whom he’d previously expressed romantic interest in. Maybe she should have mentioned Suzanne sooner. “She claimed you were a good guy—but she may change her opinion when she finds out what you’re doing to Meg’s inn. People here love Meg, you know. You may not have any friends left if you go through with this.”

  At this, however, he just let out a sigh. “Well, guess that’s the chance I’ll have to take.” Another shift back to the other boot—which reminded Lila her own feet were in that painful place between freezing but not quite numb. “Look, this is just business, nothing personal—and I’m afraid it’s a done deal. It’s not something that can be stopped.”

  “Done how?” She didn’t even know what she was asking—but she would grasp at any straw.

  “This land is valuable and plans are already in place.”

  This gave her an idea. “I could buy it. Or we. Meg and me. The land.”

  But Beck Grainger simply cast her the sad look one bestows on a delusional child. “The land has already been bought. Zoning’s in place, and permits have been obtained. Plat maps have been drawn and lots marked off by surveyors. Sewers and utilities will be going in by spring. And don’t take this the wrong way, but I doubt you’d want to pay me the amount I’d have to ask to make up for the loss incurred by not building homes here. I’m sorry, Ms. Sloan, but this is happening, with or without your blessing.”

  At a loss, Lila leaned her head back, peering up through the trees at a white sky, only to be smacked in the face by more big, wet snowflakes. Her voice came out more softly than it had so far—with an honest question. “You do this work in winter?”

  “When we can,” he answered, holding on to the same no-nonsense tone he’d used for the entire conversation. “Permits just came through a few days ago after a lengthy process. Thought we could get a good start on clearing the land today, but the snow’s coming down heavier than expected. The town council requested we halt work during the tourist season, so that means doing it anytime it’s reasonably dry and not subzero. After today we’re probably stalled until the weather gets a little better, but we’ll keep moving forward whenever we’re able.”

  “Like...gets a little better in the spring?” she asked, hoping to buy some time.

  But he shook his head. “Like gets a little better by next week, hopefully. It’ll be a day by day decision.”

  Another honest question from her. “What happened to there being no motorized vehicles on Summer Island? Isn’t this...against the law? Or something?” She didn’t really know the laws, but it seemed worth asking.

  He only shrugged. “They make exceptions in the name of progress and practicality.”

  That irked her—and also reminded her that the island authorities also possessed a few snowmobiles for wintertime emergencies, and a small SUV-sized ambulance. Summer Island talked a good game of simple living, touting streets filled with bicycles most of the year, but apparently simplicity came with limits.

  “I’m not leaving here,” she proclaimed, no matter how bad her feet hurt from the cold, no matter how wet and clammy she was beginning to feel—despite Beck Grainger somehow looking perfectly warm and dry next to her, “until you give me the key to that bulldozer.”

  He blinked. “Are you kidding?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Yo
u might freeze to death,” he pointed out matter-of-factly.

  “Then you’ll have that on your head.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re irrational.”

  “It’s not my fault you’re unreasonable.”

  He sighed, glanced heavenward, then drew his gaze back down. “Fine,” he bit off. Then glanced up to the man still on the bulldozer, who’d been quietly observing the entire exchange. “Jim, give the lady the key.”

  “Seriously?” Jim asked.

  “Yep. I can’t have her getting hypothermia and somehow blaming me.”

  When Lila stepped toward Jim, she realized that her feet had become painful nubs that didn’t work quite right anymore. She tried her damnedest to hide the discomfort as Jim passed the key down into her nearly numb hand.

  Then she turned and started down the hill on her nubs.

  “Taking that key isn’t going to stop this from happening, you know,” Beck Grainger called after her.

  “It’s going to stop it for today,” she called back, still moving forward, hoping she didn’t add insult to injury by slipping and sliding her way down the hill on her ass.

  She kept her footing, painful though each step was, and even when one foot landed in the frigid water of the brook, she just kept going, driven by knowing warmth lay only footsteps away and she had at least stopped the tree destruction for right now. Suddenly, she became grateful for the snow, grateful it would fall for days to come.

  Because turned out doom really had followed her to Summer Island. She’d let an entirely different kind of it drive her here, and now Beck Grainger was heaping still more onto her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BECK COULDN’T BELIEVE he’d given her the damn key. Twenty-four hours later, in fact, the whole bizarre incident remained on his mind even as he shoveled the front walk of his house on West Bluff Drive. Normally, the front yard afforded an expansive view of Lake Michigan and the mainland to the south, but right now, everything was white—from the sky down. Snow continued to fall as he worked, but he found shoveling a lot easier if you kept up with it, removing it every few inches.

  Of course, by the time he’d willingly surrendered the key, he’d determined that maybe he needed to handle this situation with some care. Try to show some empathy. He valued Meg Sloan’s friendship and Suzanne Quinlan’s esteem and didn’t wish to lose either. He’d only moved to Summer Island last spring and was just starting to become a part of the small community here, after all.

  And hell, with any luck Meg and Suzanne would be mature and sensible enough to understand that sometimes things changed, places evolved—nothing stayed the same forever. Maybe they’d see the value in it, same as the town council had, and as he did himself. Nice homes meant expansion, and he’d seen before how much a little expansion could improve a community. Beck liked adding to the world in that way. Maybe Meg’s cute but angry purple-pajama-clad sister had just overreacted, and once she told Meg about it, the innkeeper would give the project her blessing.

  And if not, and if worse came to worst—hell, he’d have to get another key. Lila Sloan probably had no idea that, unlike cars and houses, most large equipment took universal keys—she probably thought taking the one now in her possession would require having a whole different dozer ferried over to continue the work. That said, on the mainland getting another key would be easy—whereas here, it was no small feat. But it could be done with a ferry ride to St. Simon and a short drive.

  Normally, for a job this size, he’d be using more than just one dozer and would maybe even have an extra key or two on hand. But Summer Island would only make so many concessions to the practical business of building, so Beck’s equipment resources were currently pretty slim. He thought the island should make more given the tax revenue involved—and he knew good and well that was the main impetus to them approving his development—but he’d take what he could get.

  Before he went to the trouble of chasing down another key, though, he’d at least take a shot at getting the first one back. He didn’t know how yet. But, in spite of the ire she’d spewed at him, he couldn’t deny the strange—under the circumstances—urge to see Meg’s little sister again.

  Which was more than a little surprising to him.

  He’d harbored an attraction to Suzanne, the flower shop owner in town, since the day he’d met her last spring—but it had gone pointedly unrequited. As in she’d completely shot him down, eventually taking an it’s-not-you-it’s-me approach that had dulled the sting only a little but had at least left them being able to say hi if they passed on the street.

  So now he felt an inkling of interest in an irate woman who’d hated him on sight? Yeah, that’ll go well.

  You really know how to pick ’em, Grainger.

  But maybe Lila Sloan’s intense determination and loyalty appealed to him despite himself. While it wasn’t exactly convenient given the problem between them, he liked people who didn’t let anything stand in their way. He saw himself as that kind of a person, in fact. But at the same time, he wondered what she was like without the pajama-clad raving involved, and when she wasn’t angry. Would be easier to find out if you weren’t the source of that anger.

  Still, maybe he could navigate these waters to a good outcome for all involved—and if he got to see Lila Sloan under improved conditions, all the better. Of course, maybe he wouldn’t even like her—it was hard to say given their limited interaction so far. But maybe he would. And maybe she’d hate him anyway. Or maybe she wouldn’t. He only knew she’d stayed on his mind.

  Glancing across the street, he noticed the unshoveled walk at his neighbors’, the Waltons. George and Marie—who were probably in their seventies—had left the island at the end of summer but come back just a few days ago. According to George, whom he’d run into on the street one day, they were taking care of a young grandchild while the kid’s mom recovered from back surgery, and they’d all be back home for the winter in northern Ohio by Christmas.

  After finishing his own shoveling, he headed across the street, figuring he’d help George out a little. He was halfway through the job when one of the double doors opened on the front of the big island house and out came a tiny kid, bundled up and carrying a plastic snow shovel of his own. Beck could barely see the little boy’s eyes between his hat and the bright red scarf looped numerous times around his neck.

  “Well, who might you be?” he asked the child. “I’m Beck.”

  “My name’s Cade Walton. My grandma said I could come out and help you shovel. Oh, and she also said thanks.”

  “Well, I appreciate the help,” Beck told him. “It’s a big job.” It actually wasn’t a big job at all. Fifteen minutes at most.

  “My dad said I should bring my shovel on the trip, that it would probably snow,” announced the little boy. Not shy, this one. Which Beck appreciated. He never knew how to communicate with shy children. This kid seemed easier than most.

  “Good thinking on your dad’s part,” he replied. “And it’s a nice-looking shovel.” It was red plastic, with a blue plastic handle.

  “I’ll get a bigger one like yours when I’m older,” Cade informed him. “But I’m just a little boy right now, so this one is the right size for me.”

  Beck grinned. Clearly the kid remembered and repeated everything the adults in his world told him. “How old are you?”

  Cade stopped shoveling and held up a mittened hand. Beck was pretty sure underneath he was displaying a set of fingers that answered the question, but the mitten kept them hidden. So it helped when Cade said, “Five.” Then he started shoveling again. “Until next June. Then I’ll be six. And then I’ll go to school.”

  Ah, to be five again. Beck could barely remember it, but it brought back a general sense of...ease. He hadn’t started knocking heads with his father yet. He hadn’t realized they were poor yet. At five, life had been mostly about cartoons and tricycle
s and grilled cheese sandwiches. Yep, to be five.

  But he wouldn’t want to be ten again. Or fifteen. Or even twenty for that matter. So he didn’t stay wistful for long—instead he shoveled the walk, and when he saw that Cade didn’t actually know how to use the snow shovel, he stopped to give the little guy a lesson. “See, you push it forward and it scoops the snow out of the way. Later, when you’re a grown-up,” he said with a wink, “your back will thank you for pushing instead of lifting.”

  He watched as Cade did his best to mimic Beck’s motions, sliding the shovel forward on the walk. “Like this?” he asked hopefully, stopping to look up, wide-eyed. Was the kid trying to impress him? Make him proud? It tugged at Beck’s heart a little.

  “Absolutely,” he was quick to answer. “Good job.”

  And the big smile that peeked out over the top of Cade’s scarf confirmed Beck’s suspicions.

  They worked in silence a few minutes, Cade focusing on the push-and-scoop method of snow removal, until he announced, “My grandma said maybe after it quits snowing I can build a snowman in the front yard.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Beck told him.

  Cade flashed wide crystal blue eyes. “You could help me if you want.”

  Hmm—the kid really liked him for some reason. “Tell you what,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready, just come knock on my door, or have your grandpa give me a call. He has my number.”

  Cade’s mouth had disappeared behind the scarf again, but Beck could tell by his eyes that the little boy was smiling. “Okay, Becker, I will.”

  Beck laughed and told him, “It’s just Beck.”

  “Whatever,” Cade said, and Beck laughed harder. Ah, to be five again, without a care in the world.