by Toni Blake
After finalizing her cat shoe order, she set her tablet aside, then headed for a linen closet, grabbing up the most worn-out towels she could find. As she bundled up in Meg’s parka and boots to head outside, old guilt haunted her—memories of her dad encouraging her to call Meg, back when Meg had been going through chemo. It had been Meg who lived in Chicago then, and their mom had gone there to help her through it. Lila had always found a reason not to. Not to call, not to visit with Dad on weekends. Maybe she’d been afraid, as Suzanne had suggested. Or maybe just selfish. It had been more fun to think about cheerleading and high school dances than the horror her sister had been enduring. And when Meg had come here to Summer Island afterward, to recover under the care of their grandma, her parents had urged her to go up with them for a week in the summer, and on a few additional weekends—but she hadn’t done that, either.
She had no idea what had made her open up to Meg’s friends about that at lunch today. Or...maybe she did. They were kind, and she was desperate and depressed and exhausted. It had felt like a safe space.
And maybe such unexpected comfort had been a balm to her. And what she’d actually come here seeking—comfort. None of her spaces in Chicago felt safe anymore—and she feared they might not for a very long time, if ever.
As she toted the small table, then the chairs, to the gardening shed just across the creek from the hillside of trees that made the yard feel somehow sheltered and protected—even now, with everything covered in snow—part of her knew it was futile to wage war with Beck Grainger and his ugly hat.
But the ace up her sleeve was that Beck Grainger didn’t know what he was up against in her. That she was a woman with little to risk right now. A woman who’d lost control over her life—and was on a mission to get some of it back. She had nothing left to fight for—except the trees behind the house.
She had the key to a bulldozer and the weather on her side. And she had his affinity for Meg’s best friend—which indeed might not change things, but it couldn’t hurt for Suzanne to let him know she didn’t support his plans. Lila understood that none of those things would save the trees for long—but they were each little stopgaps that bought a bit more time. The real thing Beck Grainger should fear was that she had nothing else to do but watch the snow fall and keep working to find a way to stop him.
As she wiped down the tables and chair, then the gardening tools, she knew the safe money was on him. But every now and then a dark horse came from behind and won the race. She’d come here beaten and down—and now, unbeknownst to him, he’d given her something to stand up and do battle for.
Coming back inside, she shed now-wet boots and mittens, placing them and the towels near the fireplace to dry. She held out her hands, letting the heat warm them, and a few minutes later went to the kitchen—to the pantry, thinking about chamomile tea. She’d never actually drunk any, but it was supposed to help you sleep, right? And it seemed exactly like the type of thing her very thorough innkeeper sister would keep on hand for guests.
She was determined to get some sleep tonight, once and for all. She’d been so sure the peace and quiet here would make that happen. And then she’d even tried sleeping in different guestrooms. She’d started in one of the twin beds in the blue room, where she’d always stayed as a girl. When sleep hadn’t come there, she’d tried Meg’s lovely turret room, which had been her grandmother’s when Lila was young. Tonight she might try the yellow room, or the lilac room. Mellow tones of lavender sounded relaxing.
Looking through the pantry, she discovered a selection of teas—and aha! Chamomile was among them. “Come to mama,” she murmured, plucking up a tea bag.
Tonight she would sleep. And tomorrow she would conquer the world. Starting with Beck Grainger.
* * *
THE DAY AFTER he’d met Cade, snow still fell on Summer Island, and Beck was still shoveling it. And it didn’t surprise him when his new little friend joined him again. “Figured you could use the help,” Cade told him, once more sounding like a miniature adult, and of course Beck assured him that his assistance would make the work much lighter.
After parting with the little boy, Beck made himself a grilled cheese for lunch, pairing it with some chips—having just remembered the simple goodness of such a meal—and then he tackled a few unwelcome business calls to explain that clearing the land for Bluffside Drive was on hold. Due to weather. He’d left out the protest of a cute-but-crazy woman in pajamas or the fact that he no longer had a key to the bulldozer. And it was true that the weather would prevent progress for the immediate future—but hopefully a little time would clear the way, in more than one respect.
He spent some time staring out the window into the falling snow—irritated that he’d spent months of good weather making plans and getting permits, and now that the plans were in place, the weather was not. Of course, he’d known weather would be a factor when he decided to move here to develop some of the untouched land.
His development wouldn’t change the feel or charm of Summer Island—even if the cute pajama lady acted like he was the devil incarnate, that wasn’t his goal. Luxury homes made sense here. There weren’t enough of them—and when one went on the market, it typically sold fast. That kept prices high—but not as high as on neighboring Mackinac Island, which made such a commodity a little more affordable here for someone seeking solitude in a picturesque setting.
He’d been lucky to get his own home here—he’d missed out on one that had sold on East Overlook by just a few days the summer before last, and nothing else had come available for months. Even people who only summered here tended to hold on to their property for a long while. So when an island real estate agent let him know 135 West Bluff Drive was going on the market this past spring, he’d headed over from the mainland quickly, toured the large cedar shake home, and put in a bid for the asking price that very day, not wanting to risk losing it.
Set back in the trees, the home was too large for him, but he liked it anyway. He liked space, he liked nice surroundings, and he could afford it. And maybe Emma and Mike would bring the kids up in the summers. This past summer had been hectic, with Dad having just died—but they’d probably welcome some free vacations and he’d enjoy giving them that. And maybe...maybe one day he’d have a family of his own.
Not that it looked promising at this point. Thirty-nine, divorced, living on a quiet, isolated island with low population, and he couldn’t get Suzanne Quinlan to look at him. He was pretty sure Lila Sloan wasn’t going to be beating his door down for a date anytime soon, either. But as his father had been fond of saying, sometimes God worked in mysterious ways. And as hard as Beck had toiled to leave most of his upbringing far behind him, some of it was ground in too deep. That particular belief, about God and mysterious ways, though, didn’t seem like a bad one to have held on to.
When he’d killed about as much time as he could, he turned reluctantly to the box now adorning his dining room table. He didn’t want to open it. And hell, maybe he shouldn’t—nothing to say he couldn’t just stick it up in the attic and let it rot there.
But opening it would prevent tenseness with Emma at Christmas. And he saw no need to mar the gathering in the house she shared with her husband and their kids, Tara and Grant, in Kentucky, not far from where Beck and Emma had grown up. She’d gone to the trouble of sending it, so whatever it was, he’d take a glance—and then shove it in the attic.
Grabbing a steak knife from a butcher block on the long, granite kitchen counter, he sliced through the packing tape, then folded back the four lids. Inside, another box. A much nicer box. Wooden—cedar to be exact. Lifting it from the cushioning of packing peanuts, he found that the top and sides bore carvings—and looking closer at the top, he made out a relief of the Nativity scene. If the box had come from anyone else, perhaps he’d have only seen a hut-like structure with people beneath it—but knowing this had belonged to his father, it was the manger for sur
e.
Also floating within the packing material, he discovered a blue envelope bearing his name in his sister’s handwriting. It wasn’t sealed—he extracted the matching blue sheet of stationery and opened it.
Beck,
This was in Dad’s office, with a note saying it was for you. I’d have waited and given it to you at Christmas, but I know how you still feel about him, and I didn’t want Christmas to be sad for you. It will be hard enough for Mom and the kids—the first year without him. No reason to make it hard on you, too. I know you said you didn’t want anything of his—but under the circumstances, I couldn’t not give it to you. Love you.
Em
He let out a long sigh, indeed unable to fault his sister, and even appreciating her forethought in not making the holidays any more awkward by handing him some big box to take home. Even if it must have cost her a mint in postage—which he’d insist on repaying since she and Mike didn’t need any extra expenses. Clearly he wasn’t the only one strategizing to make Christmas as drama free as possible.
What the hell had the old man set aside for him on his deathbed? Bracing himself, Beck went to lift the lid—only to find that the box possessed a lock.
Which made one thing finally clear.
Walking back into the large, open kitchen and living area, where a wall of windows in back overlooked woods and—currently—the still-falling snow, he headed toward the little row of hooks where he kept keys. It was old-fashioned, but they’d had one in the house where he’d been raised, and it was another of those little things that had stuck: keys are kept on hooks in the kitchen, and that way they don’t get lost.
From it, he drew a tiny, ornate silver key which had arrived inexplicably in his mailbox well over a year ago, before he’d moved here. Return address: his parents’. Handwriting: his dad’s, albeit looking more scrawled and shaky than it used to. He’d noticed that, but hadn’t taken the time to wonder why. Inside the envelope, no note of any kind, just the key, wrapped in a tiny piece of flowered cloth, likely a scrap from Mom’s quilting basket.
He hadn’t picked up the phone to ask what the key was for—maybe sending it without a note had been a ploy to orchestrate such a call, or maybe it was only his dad being mysterious, just like God. But he’d brought it with him on the move, figuring sooner or later he’d find out what it opened, and the answer had just arrived on the postal sleigh.
Though as he walked back to the box and slipped the key into the tiny lock—whoa. A blizzard of unanticipated memories washed over him. Keys, locks. Magic.
Despite himself, a small smile stole over him at the memory of Johnny’s Toys in Latonia, a northern Kentucky suburb of Cincinnati. Every year, the store had mailed gold keys to members of its “birthday club.” When Beck’s birthday came, Dad would drive him to the store, where he’d use the treasured key to unlock the door to the castle—a full fairy-tale castle inside a toy shop—where he was allowed to pick a toy, or game, or action figure from the shelves.
It was a damn good memory, so good that it surprised him. Most of his memories weren’t about things he got but more about things he’d lost. Yet when they went to Johnny’s, every year like clockwork—same for Em on her birthday—he knew whatever he picked was really his, his to keep, and the whole thing had been...special.
“Damn, Dad,” he murmured into the quiet air. Because he’d almost forgotten—about any good times—and through the mystical, magical turn of this key, his father had brought them back, even if unwittingly, even from the grave. You did have your gifts. Even if most of ’em weren’t for me.
He realized his heart beat a little harder than usual as he lifted the lid—but more from that remembered anticipation, that return to childhood, than from wondering what was inside.
And good thing, because otherwise he might have been disappointed to find merely a pile of papers. Folded sheets of loose-leaf notebook paper like he’d used in school, folded pieces of fancier stationery, one small spiral notebook, some paper in envelopes, some not. The box was a good six inches deep and filled to the top.
Beck reached down and drew out the first set of several sheets of stationery, folded in half, and opened them. His eyes fell on a Bible verse written in his father’s hand, John 3:16. For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son...
He quit reading. He already knew the damn verse—he’d had it and many others ground into his head at an early age. His father had always seen signs in Bible verses—claimed that when he had a question in life, or needed to learn something, the right, perfect Bible verse appeared before him. Divine guidance, literally.
Below the verse on the page, more of his father’s precise handwriting in black ink—a sermon.
Hell, his dad had sent him a box of sermons? Still trying to save his soul from the other side, even if it wasn’t especially lost in Beck’s opinion. And the sermon was, as always, about giving. Giving, giving, giving. Give unto others. Give until it hurts. Give all your worldly possessions. The story of his life. His childhood anyway.
Talk about a disappointment.
But then, not really. He hadn’t expected the box to contain anything wonderful, after all—or at least not until that unlikely memory of the toy store had colored his vision for a moment. Well, moment over—back to reality. Back to now.
According to the weather app on his phone, the snow was expected to slack off tonight, ebbing into intermittent snow showers tomorrow. Might be a good day to try making some peace with Lila Sloan—and his new buddy, Cade, had given him an idea of how to at least take a stab at it, one that would lead him to see Suzanne in the bargain.
He probably should have completely given up on Suzanne Quinlan by now, but for some reason he still held out a little hope. She was pretty, wry, forthright, feminine, and even if she had shot him down from the start, she’d slowly started being nicer to him since summer. Maybe something good would happen between them yet.
Christmas was a time of miracles, after all. One more ground-in belief he hadn’t quite surrendered.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE VERY FACT that the snow had stopped drew people out onto Harbor Street the following morning. Sure, that meant trudging through eight inches or so of fresh powder, but for a year-rounder, that was child’s play. Suzanne decided to grab something to drink at the Cozy Coffee and Tea Shop before heading to Petal Pushers—she suspected this might be a big day for tree and wreath shoppers who hadn’t gotten their Christmas decorations hauled home before the storm, and she might need the caffeine a big cup of coffee would provide.
All of Harbor Street seemed aflutter with holiday cheer. Clark Hayes, who owned the Huron House Hotel, stood up on a ladder—its legs planted deep in the snow—draping strings of lights across the building’s front awning. And Jolene, a waitress at the Skipper’s Wheel, currently hung a wreath on the restaurant’s front door. To the east, against the backdrop of a bright blue sky, a crew of men worked to erect a giant Christmas tree in the middle of the street between Lakeview Park and the marina. On an island with no cars, the street could be used for any purpose desired in wintertime. She’d volunteered to help with the decorations as time permitted in the coming days—another form of purpose, and one that would provide far more of a distraction than the one Lila had assigned her.
As she stepped into the coffee shop, she found the mood as festive inside as out. A tree glowed in one corner, a fire roared in a hearth, and Nat King Cole sang from hidden speakers about tiny tots finding it hard to sleep tonight.
Dahlia waved from a table near the fire, bringing a smile to Suzanne’s face. It was nice living someplace where unexpected meetings with friends happened often. She slid into a chair across from Dahlia, slipped out of her parka, and ordered a double mocha latte when the owner, Josh, came by with an order pad.
“Can’t stay long,” Dahlia told her. “Audrey Fisher’s bunco club is having a holiday lunc
heon at the café. And I suspect we’ll have a few more customers today anyway, during the break in the snow. I even called in a couple of cooks and waiters.”
“I can’t stay, either,” Suzanne informed her. “Nothing as exciting as a luncheon, but I think the weather will draw out the tree shoppers today, too.”
“Speaking of which, did you notice the tree going up in front of the park?”
Suzanne nodded. “Meet me later this afternoon to hang some ornaments?”
“Absolutely.” Dahlia glanced back in the general direction of the large tree. “I volunteered Zack to spearhead the effort this year. He was spitting nails at me about it, but it’ll be good for him. He’s got to get over this Meg funk sooner or later, and I’m voting for sooner.”
“Good luck with that,” Suzanne offered up dryly. She’d seldom met a man more stubborn or set in his ways. “Probably giving hell to the other poor guys trying to get that tree up.”
“No doubt,” Dahlia agreed. “I’m hoping it will give him a little holiday cheer, but could be it’s a lost cause.” Then she shrugged. “I do what I can for the boy.”
The boy was in his early forties and—in Suzanne’s opinion—indeed a lost cause. But she never went so far as to say so, knowing how much Dahlia cared for him.
“Have you given any thought to this Beck situation?” Dahlia asked—and Suzanne flinched. How did Dahlia know he was on her mind so much lately? The woman was known to have hidden powers, but this was ridiculous.
“Well, I don’t know what I’m going to do—if anything. Because I’m not sure if my feelings for him have really changed—or if I’m just looking to fill some unexpected gap in my life. Feelings can sneak up on you and even be hard to interpret at times—or at least that’s been my finding, particularly when dealing with matters of attraction and affection. And as you said yourself, we don’t really know him all that well, so who’s to say we’d really have anything in common or truly hit it off? And I’m well aware that both you and Meg, and probably this entire island, think we’d make a lovely couple, but romance really just isn’t as simple as that.”
