by Sophie Moss
Taylor looped the yarn through the links of the bracelet and the charms jangled as she held it up, like a tiny wind chime. “They called me Cinderella.”
Annie’s heart sank. Because of the broom. “Did you tell Miss Haddaway?”
Taylor looked down, fiddling with the strings on the charm. “She overheard and made them apologize. She said I was supposed to tell her if they did it again.”
“Good,” Annie said. “I want you to tell me, too.”
Taylor nodded and Annie added a silver bell to the end of the string. The quiet tinkling brought her back to the day, over a month ago, when she’d first seen the ad for this property online. It was the day after the shooting, and Taylor hadn’t spoken a word since it happened. She’d been curled up on the sofa in their tiny D.C. apartment with this same box in her lap, picking out the bells and making a pile on the cushion beside her.
All Annie had been able to think about in the days following the shooting was getting Taylor out of D.C. and taking her somewhere safe and far away from that school and those memories. When she’d made the initial offer on the building on Heron Island, her co-workers had sat her down and told her she was overreacting. They’d told her to give it time.
But she’d already made up her mind.
Between the small amount she’d put away from each paycheck, and selling off the rest of her mother’s paintings after she’d passed away last year, Annie had had just enough for the down payment. But she didn’t have anything to fall back on now. Every future payment was going to have to come from income that she earned.
Annie ran her fingers over the ginkgo leaves in her lap. Chase Townsend had made it perfectly clear on the phone earlier that the bank had made a gamble based on the assumption that Will would sell his grandparents’ property to the resort company and tourism would pick up on the island. If that wasn’t going to happen, neither was Annie’s dream restaurant.
“Taylor,” she said slowly. “I’ve been thinking…”
Taylor glanced up.
Annie took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking that maybe we should open a café instead of a French restaurant.”
“Why?”
“Well,” Annie said, reaching into the box for a piece of purple ribbon, “if we opened a café, I’d be free at night. We’d be able to hang out together.”
Taylor’s eyes lit up. “Cafés are only open during the day?”
“This one would be,” Annie said. “We could keep the downstairs basically as it is now. We’d have to find some fun things to decorate the walls and maybe pick up a few more tables and chairs, but we wouldn’t have to live through months of messy renovations.”
“Can we keep the walls pink?” Taylor asked.
Annie sat back, surprised. “You want to keep the walls pink?”
Taylor nodded.
Annie wasn’t in love with the color pink, but if it made Taylor happy, they could always repaint later. “I guess we could try it.”
Annie’s gaze shifted to the window, where the leaves of the giant oak tree were beginning to change from green to orange. She didn’t know the first thing about opening a café, but she did like the idea of being home for Taylor at night. It was possible, if they worked fast, that they could open in two weeks.
They just needed to come up with an irresistible menu, a cute name, charming décor, and a fantastic chef.
“What should we name it?” Taylor asked.
“I don’t know,” Annie said. “It’s got to be something cute and catchy.”
Taylor held up her strand of yarn. The charm bracelet, three reindeer bells, and a silver whistle dangled from the yarn. They twirled in the wind blowing through the window, making a soft sweet sound as they knocked into each other. “How about Wind Chime Café?
A fishing boat cruised up the channel. Annie looked back out the window. Over the churn of the motor, she could hear a faint tinkling…but not from the chimes Taylor held. It was as if they were coming from outside. As if they were right under the window, hanging from the roof of the porch.
But she knew there weren’t any wind chimes down there.
“We can decorate the porch with them,” Taylor said.
Outside, the wind chimes sang louder. Annie turned back to her daughter. “Wind Chime Café it is.”
Will strolled into Rusty’s a little after five o’clock. The bar was already packed. Men in sun-bleached jeans and T-shirts sat on the barstools, drinking Budweiser and Miller Lite. Families with young children were tucked into the booths facing the windows and a group of women sat outside on the deck, sipping wine and watching the sailboats glide over the Bay.
He nodded at two men in their early twenties playing pool in the corner and headed for the bar. He made it three steps past the hostess stand when the cheerful jumble of conversation faded to hushed whispers. Bar stools squeaked as men turned. Women glanced up from their tables, their mouths falling open.
“Will Dozier?” Billy Sadler pulled his faded ball cap off his head. “Is that you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My God, son.” Billy climbed off the barstool. His thinning white hair stood up around his ears in tufts and he hobbled on arthritic legs over to Will, holding out his hand. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you.”
“How long are you here for?”
“Just long enough to fix up the inn and find a buyer.”
Billy released Will’s hand and stepped back. The skin around his blue eyes, tanned and leathery from years spent working on the Bay, fell in deep creases. “You’re really going to sell it?”
“I am. It’s too much for one person. Besides, my life is in San Diego now.”
“But what if you decide to leave the service? You might want to come back home, start a family.” Billy’s voice grew wistful. “That big house deserves a new family.”
“I agree,” Will said. “I’m going to wait until I find the right buyer, one who will appreciate it as much as I did.”
Billy stepped back, and another man walked up to shake Will’s hand. More men came, circling around him. The two younger men in the corner had stopped playing pool and were watching him now with something like awe in their eyes.
He felt a familiar prickling sensation crawl across the back of his neck. He shouldn’t have come here. He forced a smile as Neil Johnson, another one of his grandfather’s friends, pumped his hand enthusiastically and thanked him for his service.
These people didn’t know the truth. There was nothing special about him, nothing noble. He hunted down terrorists in the worst hellholes in the world to get revenge on the people who’d killed his mother and sister in 9/11. That was it. End of story.
He’d joined the SEALs straight out of college because he’d wanted to be the one to put the bullet between Bin Laden’s eyes. He’d known that if anyone was going to take out the bastard who’d planned those attacks, it would be a SEAL.
“Is that Will Dozier?” a woman whispered from behind him.
“I heard he was back in town,” another woman whispered.
“I heard he looks even better than he did when he left,” a third woman whispered.
“Is that even possible?” the first asked.
Will scanned the room for Ryan, acutely aware of every sound in the bar: the silverware and glasses clattering into the bus bins, the pots and pans clanging around in the kitchen, the bartender dumping ice into a blender, the whir of the blades drowning out the Hank Williams song playing from the speakers.
More people surrounded him, looking up at him like he was some goddamn hero. He ran a hand over the back of his neck. His fingers came back damp.
“We’re all so sorry about your grandparents,” Neil said sadly.
“Thank you,” Will said.
“What a shame you couldn’t make it back for the funeral.”
Will nodded as boat motors revved up outside in the marina. Sails snapped in the wind like whips. The air grew thick. He tasted dust. Desert dust. Afghani
dust.
Not now.
His muscles clenched as gunfire erupted inside his head. His hands, slick with blood, twisted a tourniquet around what was left of Colin Foley’s leg. On the other side of the rocks, their youngest team member was fighting off the insurgents with one eye blown out. They were surrounded, ambushed.
The man bleeding out beside him fumbled with the radio, fading in and out of consciousness as he made the call for help. Will secured the cord around Colin’s leg and shouldered his rifle, in time to hear his best friend’s primal scream, in time to watch him fall as he took a round of bullets straight to the chest.
Something cold and hard pressed into Will’s hand. He looked down at the Budweiser bottle.
“All right folks, that’s enough for now.” Ryan clapped him on the back. “We wouldn’t want all this talk to go to Will’s head, would we?”
Everyone laughed and Will lifted the bottle to his lips, taking a long pull.
“We’ve got the Rockfish Tournament coming up in two weeks,” Neil said. “There’s room for one more on my boat.”
Will forced the dust down his throat, into his lungs. “Sounds good.”
Ryan steered him away from the crowd toward the back deck overlooking the water. The cool salty air beckoned and they were almost outside when a woman with long blond hair and wolf gray eyes stepped into his path.
Grace Callahan crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you forget how to use a phone?”
“Grace—”
“What about email?” Grace asked. “Did you forget how to use email?”
He could still hear the gunshots, the faint echo of rotor blades in the distance. Grace let out a muffled protest as he hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her in for a hug. He held on until the last remnants of the flashback subsided and he was back in the bar, able to breathe again.
“How do you think it felt to hear that you were back in town from a woman who’s only lived here for two days?” Grace demanded.
Annie. Will’s arms tightened around Grace. She must have met Annie.
“Two days!” Grace dug her heels into the toe of his sneaker. “And she knew more about you than what I’d been able to squeeze out of your grandparents over the past ten years!”
Will looked down at her flashing gray eyes. Grace had been trying to find out what he was up to from his grandparents? He’d figured Grace and Ryan would have forgotten about him years ago.
She shoved at him. “You think you can walk back in here after all this time and expect to pick up where we left off without a single call or email?”
She was right, Will thought. Grace and Ryan had been his closest friends when he’d lived here. How could he have let ten years pass without getting in touch?
He surprised her by releasing her and letting her step back.
She let out her breath in a huff, but some of her anger deflated with it. “I hate it when people leave and don’t call.”
“I know.” He winced as he remembered that that was exactly what Grace and Ryan’s mother had done to them. She’d left them when they were little kids and they’d never heard from her again. How could he have done the same thing to them?
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She snatched the beer from his hand, narrowing her eyes. “I’ll take your apology into consideration.”
Will watched Grace take a long sip from his bottle. She had the same sun-streaked blond hair and pale eyes as her twin brother. They both sported the same lanky athletic builds. But while Ryan was easygoing, Grace’s temper was legendary.
Ryan waved at someone across the crowded barroom and Will turned, spotting Becca making her way toward them. Her pretty heart-shaped face was drawn, her big brown eyes troubled.
“What’s wrong?” Grace asked when she got to them.
Becca did a double take when she spotted Will standing beside them. “Will?” Her eyes went wide and her face brightened slightly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m back in town for a few weeks.”
She smiled, lifting up on her toes to give him a hug. “It’s really good to see you.”
“You too,” he said as she drew back and a flash of light on her left hand caught his eye. He glanced down at the diamond ring, surprised. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
Becca blushed. “Tom Jacobson.”
“Tommy?” Will asked, shocked.
“He goes by Tom now,” she corrected.
“I see,” Will said, lifting his gaze to Ryan. His friend’s expression had darkened at the mention of Tommy’s name. Will didn’t blame him. Tommy was a jerk. “Is he here?”
Becca shook her head. “He lives in D.C. now. He’s a lawyer.”
“But you live here?”
She nodded, her eyes shifting away. “I’m moving to D.C. when we get married.”
Whoa. Becca was leaving the island? She was the last person in the world he expected to leave Heron Island.
Becca had dated Tommy for a while in high school, but he’d never thought they’d get serious.
“I’ll get us a round of drinks,” Ryan said, heading for the bar.
Grace and Becca went outside to grab a table on the deck, and Will walked over to join Ryan by the bar. He thought about asking his friend what was up, but decided against it. If Becca had a rock on her finger, it was probably too late. It was none of his business anyway.
They made small talk while they waited for their drinks, then walked out to the deck. As soon as they were settled around the picnic table, Grace turned to Becca. “Okay, spill it.”
“I’m fine,” Becca said, waving her off. She attempted a breezy smile but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I want to hear what Will’s doing here.”
Grace shook her head. “Will’s in the dog house.”
“Already?” Becca asked.
Will nodded. “It doesn’t take long.”
Grace ignored him. “Come on, Becca. We’ve been best friends forever. I know when something’s wrong.”
“All right,” Becca conceded, looking out at the water. “You know how I told you we were getting a new student—a girl from Mount Pleasant?”
Grace nodded and Will’s senses went on high alert. A girl from Mount Pleasant? In Becca’s second grade class?
“Her first day was today,” Becca explained.
“But you were ready,” Grace said. “You’ve been preparing for this day for two weeks.”
“I know,” Becca said, sighing. “I thought I was ready. The day started out great. When Taylor’s mom dropped her off, Taylor didn’t even want her to stay. She acted like it was a normal school day.”
Will looked down at the cracks in the wood on the picnic table. Was it possible Annie’s child was from Mount Pleasant, and that she’d been sitting on the bleachers outside the school this morning because she was afraid to leave her alone?
“I met the mother,” Grace said, lowering her voice. “I stopped by the old cupcake shop on my way into town. I wanted to see who’d bought the place.”
Will closed his eyes. It was possible. Annie was the mother of the sole surviving child of the Mount Pleasant school shooting. Instead of helping her get over her fear of leaving her daughter at school for the first time since the shooting, he’d kissed her. No, first he’d made fun of her for fretting over her daughter fitting in at her new school, then he’d kissed her.
He was a world-class asshole.
“Taylor’s a smart kid,” Becca continued. “She knew the answers to most of my questions, and she was happy to participate. I was starting to think that having her in class was going to be easy.” She picked at the label of her beer bottle. “Then we went out to recess and I overheard some of the kids making fun of her.”
“What were they saying?” Grace asked.
Becca took a deep breath. “This is going to sound strange, but she carries a broom around.”
“What kind of broom?” Grace asked.
“A broom,” Becca explained, “like the on
es we have at our houses.”
Will picked up his beer. “Why does she carry a broom around?”
“It makes her feel safe.”
“Safe?”
Becca lowered her voice. “She survived the shooting because she was hiding in a broom closet.”
Will set his beer down, the alcohol turning to acid in his stomach.
“She wouldn’t let go of the broom when they finally found her,” Becca said quietly. “She insisted on taking it home and Annie says she won’t take it away from her until she’s ready.”
“But the other kids don’t understand,” Ryan said, finishing for her.
Becca nodded, looking up. “How do I explain to a bunch of eight-year-olds why the new girl in their class is carrying a broom? I mean, I talked to them about the shooting after it happened. It was all over the news. All the teachers talked about it with their students. When I found out Taylor would be in my class, I told them about her and what she had been through and that I expected them to be extra nice to her. But they’re kids. They’re second graders. They can’t possibly understand what she’s been through. None of us can.”
That wasn’t entirely true, Will thought, looking out at the water. One of them could. Annie’s daughter was probably struggling with the same issues he was: flashbacks, nightmares, insomnia.
“What did they say?” Grace asked after several moments of silence. “How did they make fun of her?”
“Mostly by calling her names,” Becca said, rolling the neck of her bottle around in her fingers. “Some of them called her a witch when her back was turned. I overheard one boy call her Cinderella to her face and I made him apologize. But she withdrew after that and spent the rest of the time sitting under the tree, watching the other kids play.”
Seagulls circled the marina, cawing overhead. Will watched them dip and dive, thinking he’d like to have a nice long chat with whichever kid had made fun of Taylor after what she’d been through.
“I can control the kids as long as they’re in my classroom,” Becca said. “But on the playground and in the halls, sometimes I can’t always hear what’s going on.” She looked down at her hands. “It’s my job to make sure Taylor feels like school is a safe place for her to be. It shouldn’t be any harder for her than it already is.”
