by Sophie Moss
“We should be going,” Annie said.
“It’s just a beer, Annie.”
And as soon as you sell this house, you’re leaving. “I’ve still got a lot to do tonight.” She turned, raising her voice over the wind. “Taylor, it’s time to go.”
Taylor dragged her feet, reluctantly climbing back up from the beach with the dogs.
Will smiled down at Annie. “You’ll say yes, eventually.”
Annie looked up at him. It would be too easy to say yes, to slip into a routine of saying yes to Will. But she refused to get involved with a man who was leaving, especially one who had no intention of ever coming back.
Grace had told her on Friday that the last time Will had left this island he hadn’t looked back. He’d completely cut off his friends and the few family members he had left. If that was how he’d treated his family and friends, what would stop him from doing the same thing to a woman he’d only known for a few weeks?
Taylor walked up to them and Annie lifted the flower wreath, setting it on her daughter’s head. “There. Now you’re the Queen of the Butterflies.”
Taylor smiled shyly and looked up at Will. “Can I come back and see your dogs again?”
“They actually belong to a friend who had to go to Annapolis for the day.” He reached down, scratching the yellow lab behind the ears. “But I’m thinking of asking if I can borrow this one for a few weeks. If he says yes, you can come back and see her anytime you want.”
Annie noticed that Taylor’s broom dangled from her fingertips now, almost as an afterthought. All her attention was focused on the dogs, and patting them both on the head to say goodbye. She thought about what Will had said last Friday, ‘Sometimes the only way to get over your fears is to focus on something else.’
Annie put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “It’s time to go.”
Taylor gave each dog one last pat on the head and they turned to leave. Will walked over to the blackberry bushes, holding the brambles up so they could get through without their clothes getting snagged.
“How’s the restaurant coming along,” he asked.
She ducked under his arm. “I hired a chef this morning.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Actually, yes,” she said. “Your aunt.”
Will smiled—that slow, easy smile that had her heart fluttering like butterfly wings. He was close, much too close. She could smell the salt on his skin and see the little spot of his pulse beating in his throat.
She forced her gaze up from the dark vee of sweat staining the front of his shirt.
“Let me know if you need a taste tester,” he offered.
Her eyes flickered briefly down to his mouth. A rush of heat swam through her as she tore her gaze away, combing the fields for Taylor. She spotted her a hundred feet from them, catching butterflies with her broom. “I think we can manage.”
Will laughed as she walked away. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
She wasn’t going to change her mind. Not now. Not after she’d seen that inn.
Annie lay in her daughter’s bed, running a soothing hand over her hair. Taylor had woken up from another nightmare, the same one she had almost every night now.
Hadn’t she suffered enough? Did she have to relive that tragic day over and over again in her dreams?
It was still dark outside, but Annie could hear the voices of the fishermen rising up from the water, the low hum of the workboats motoring through the narrow channel that cut through the marshes to the Bay.
She wished there was something more she could do to make her daughter feel better, to make her heal faster. The grief counselor had said it would take time. It could be months before the nightmares went away. And the memories would most likely haunt her for the rest of her life.
All Annie could do was be comforting and supportive and take things day by day. She gazed up at the paper butterfly Taylor had made in class two weeks ago. They’d strung it up from the ceiling as soon as they’d returned from their walk and they’d made a dozen more since then. Paper butterflies in every color hung from tiny hooks now, their wings fluttering in the breezes that snuck in when they cracked the windows at night.
Taylor had insisted on going back to see the butterflies every afternoon, and Annie had taken her. But she’d been careful to keep her a safe distance away from the inn. Just like the monarchs that would leave in a few weeks, the inn wasn’t going to be there for long. She didn’t want Taylor getting attached to it…or to Will.
She’d done everything in her power to avoid him since that day.
There was a time, once, when she’d been young and naive enough to believe that a handsome man with a big home and a big family and everything she’d ever wanted could be hers.
The last time, he’d been tall and blond with blue eyes and a southern accent. She’d been seventeen when Blake Hadley had walked into the restaurant where she’d been working on Bourbon Street. She’d waited on him and a table of his fraternity brothers from Tulane. He’d been charming and flirtatious and when he’d invited her to come out with them after her shift, she’d said yes.
A week later, they were dating.
By the end of the summer, she’d fallen in love.
When he finally took her back to his family home, to the majestic mansion with the sprawling yard leading down to the Mississippi River with the Spanish moss dripping from the trees like jewels through the setting sun, she had slept with him.
His parents had been out of town at the time, but she’d seen their pictures on the mantel. She’d imagined herself in one of those pictures, wrapped in Blake’s arms. Safe, protected, sheltered, loved.
Three weeks later, she’d found out the truth—she had been nothing more than a summer fling. His real girlfriend, the one that his family knew and approved of, would be returning to take her place as soon as the new semester began in the fall.
When she’d told him she loved him, he’d laughed.
In the end, the only thing he’d left her with was Taylor.
Will sat up, his heart pounding, a cold sweat trickling down his back. It was dark out, but the TV was still on, flashing eerie bands of silver light through the den. He grabbed the remote off the floor and switched it off.
The silence pressed down on him.
The nightmares were getting worse.
Will rubbed his hands over his face. He’d fallen asleep in his clothes again, as he had every night recently. He’d been going to sleep later and later, trying to avoid the memories that would creep in as soon as he nodded off.
But it didn’t matter what room he slept in, or what station he left the TV on; they still found him. Pushing to his feet, he walked out of the den. He’d been holed up out here for two weeks, pouring all his energy and frustration into fixing up the inn. But tearing up rotted plywood wasn’t doing a damn thing to help scrub out the memories of his dead teammates.
He climbed the stairs to his room and pulled out a pair of shorts and a clean T-shirt from his bag. Lacing up his sneakers, he jogged back down the stairs and took off out of the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him as he broke into a run.
Voices drifted over the water—watermen talking to each other as they set their morning traps. An ebbing tide rubbed at the muddy shoreline, and the shadow of a blue heron stalked through the marshes.
He passed the dark homes and shops lining Main Street. When he spotted the small crowd gathered outside The Tackle Box, he remembered that today was the day of the annual Rockfish Tournament. The shop was already packed with tourists buying bags of ice, beer, and bloodworms.
He crossed the street to avoid the crowds, picking up his pace over the drawbridge connecting the island to the mainland. Below, tourists and fisherman crawled over the docks of the marina. He ran until their voices faded. Until the wind swallowed the roar of boat motors. Until the sun peeled back the night, and the first hints of dawn painted the eastern horizon a pale muted pink.
By the time he turned around and crossed back over the drawbridge to the island, his shirt was soaked with sweat but he’d managed to chase away most of the nightmares.
At least, for now.
He jogged back down Main Street, slowing to a walk when he spotted the woman climbing onto a wooden stool outside the house with the purple shutters. He hadn’t seen much of Annie over the past two weeks. The few times he had seen her she’d been in a big hurry, too busy to stop and talk. He cut quietly across the grass to where she stood. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Annie jumped, almost dropping the sign she’d been trying to hang.
He steadied the stool, gazing up at her. Her long red hair hung loose around her shoulders, but her green eyes were guarded. She was wearing a pair of black leggings and an oversized National Zoo sweatshirt. She looked like she’d just crawled out of bed and gotten to work.
She went back to hanging the sign. “I’ve been busy.”
A gust of wind blew through the street and a soft tinkling sound filled the air. Will turned, glancing at the porch. Dozens of wind chimes hung from the beams. Silver spoons, aluminum flutes, and oyster shells spun in circles, catching the early morning sunlight.
Annie stretched up on her toes, hooking the left side of the sign to the metal ring drilled into the roof. “There.” She leaned back. “Does it look straight to you?”
Will looked up at the sign, at the words, Wind Chime Café, painted in purple across the sanded plank of driftwood. A strange prickling sensation crawled across the back of his neck. “How did you choose that name?”
“Taylor came up with it.” Annie glanced down at him. “Does it look straight?”
Will nodded as he steadied the stool for her to climb down. As soon as she was on stable ground, he walked over to the steps where more boxes of wind chimes sat beside the freshly potted yellow mums and purple pansies. “Where did you get these?”
“I made them.” She walked to the end of the sidewalk to look back at the sign and confirm that it was straight. “Well, Taylor and I made them.”
Will picked a set of wind chimes out of the box. It was a tiny teakettle with silver sugar cubes hanging from the spout. “You made these?”
Annie nodded, walking over and taking them from his hand. She climbed the steps to the porch and dragged a chair over to an empty hook to hang them.
She acted like it was no big deal, like it wasn’t something special, almost like it wasn’t something she was particularly proud of. He looked down at the box full of items strung together so carefully, put together with so much love. “My sister used to make wind chimes.”
Annie glanced down. “Really?”
Will nodded, pulling out a long string knotted with feathers and bells.
“I’d love to see them,” Annie said. “Does she live on the island?”
“No.”
“Where does she live?”
“She died a long time ago.”
“Oh.” Annie paused, her voice softening. “I’m so sorry.”
Will laid the string of feathers and bells carefully back inside the box. Not a day went by that he didn’t miss her, that he didn’t wish he’d been on that plane instead of her, that he didn’t wish there was some way to bring her back.
He walked up the steps, peering in the open door of the café. The tables and chairs had all been painted white. One pink wall was covered in silver netting woven with sea glass and driftwood. The others held photographs of marshes, beaches and workboats. A shiny silver espresso machine sat beside the glossy dessert case. Inside, little printed name cards labeled where the pastries would go.
How had she managed to pull all this off in two weeks?
“I had to use what we had on hand to decorate,” Annie said uncertainly, watching him for a reaction.
He turned, looking back up at the wind chimes strung across the beams of the porch. “You and Taylor made all of these?”
“Actually, I made a lot of them before Taylor was born. I’ve been making them since I was a kid. They’re one of the few things my mother used to let me bring with us when we moved. ”
Will watched her twist the loop of the wind chime around a hook in the beam. He tried to picture her as a child, packing up her boxes of wind chimes every time she was forced to move to a new place. She’d said she’d gotten used to her mother’s gypsy lifestyle, but it couldn’t have been easy on her.
He had chosen an uncommitted, unattached lifestyle as an adult because he couldn’t deal with the pain of losing someone he loved again. But he couldn’t imagine not having had a home when he was growing up. “You said your mother was an artist.” He crossed the porch slowly to where she stood on the chair. “Did she make wind chimes, too?”
“No.” Annie laughed, but it sounded forced. She busied her fingers by working out a knot in the string. “Making wind chimes was something I did to get out of her hair.”
He surprised her by taking her hand and helping her down from the chair. “What do you mean?”
Annie started to pull her hand back, but Will held on. He liked the feel of her small hand in his.
“My mother never considered my chimes real art,” Annie explained. “She was a classic oil painter, mostly landscapes and portraits. She would sell her paintings in galleries for thousands of dollars. This,” she said, gesturing to the chimes with her free hand, “was just junk I found on the street.”
Junk? Will tightened his grip on her hand.
“My mother was very talented, but her inspiration came and went. When it came, she needed a lot of space to paint, so I would leave and take long walks through the city and look for things on the streets to bring back. I’d wash them and string them up in the windows, over the beds, in the doorways.”
She gazed up at the wind chimes. “I can’t remember when I first started making them, but the sound always made me feel like I was home. Every time we left, I brought them with me, like I was bringing a little piece of that place with me. I know it’s silly, but I used to dream of living in a house with a porch so I could hang wind chimes all over it.”
“It’s not silly.”
She looked back at him.
“Is that why you moved here?” he asked. “To put down roots?”
“I moved here to get Taylor out of D.C.,” Annie said. “I wanted a place where we could start over. But, yes, I want to stay here. I want us to build a life here, to make this island our home.”
“I like the café,” he said quietly.
Annie blew out a breath. “Thanks, but it’s only temporary.”
“It suits you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
He reached up, cupping his hand lightly around her small chin and tipping her face up to his. “I would like to get to know you.”
“I told you,” she said, trailing off when he slipped his other hand around her waist.
Will watched something flicker deep in her eyes. He could feel it, the tension simmering between them.
She wanted him as much as he wanted her.
He had no doubt about that now.
“Come over tonight at sunset.” He pulled her closer. “Bring Taylor. I’ve got fifty acres of shoreline we can walk. I bet you’ll find all kinds of things to make wind chimes out of.”
She started to shake her head, and he bent down until his lips were a breath away from hers. “Say yes,” he murmured.
“Will—”
He touched his mouth to hers.
He couldn’t help it.
He needed to taste her, to feel her soft lips mold with his.
It was only supposed to be a persuasion tactic, a little tease to entice her to say yes. But when her palms skimmed up the muscles of his chest and her fingers curled around his shoulders, he felt something inside him shift out of balance.
The wind chimes danced, singing their sweet song as her lips moved under his, warm and soft and eager.
He deepened the kiss, and inhaled the scent of her�
�vanilla, apples, cinnamon.
Annie.
He wanted more of her, all of her. Her soft breasts pressed into his chest. He could feel the warmth of her thighs in those barely-there leggings brushing against his. He dipped his fingers into her silky red hair. He wanted her out of this sweatshirt, out of these clothes. He wanted to run his hands over every inch of her body.
Annie pulled back, suddenly. Cold air filled the space between them. But when she lifted her eyes back to his, and he saw the desire swimming in them, he was lost.
“Say yes,” he breathed.
She unwound her arms from his neck, placing her palms on his chest. His heart pulsed into her hands. He felt desperate and thirsty, like he’d been traveling for miles and all he wanted was to stop. Right here. And rest. With her.
He kept his arms around her waist, holding her against him, unable to let her go. “Say yes.”
She wanted to say yes. He could see it in her eyes. Why was she being so stubborn?
“I can’t.”
“Why?” He needed a reason. He wasn’t walking away until she’d given him a reason.
“Because you’re leaving,” she said quietly.
“Because I’m leaving?”
“In a matter of weeks.” Annie stepped out of his arms. “I can’t do that to Taylor. I won’t bring a man into her life who I know isn’t sticking around.”
“That’s why you won’t date me?” Will asked. “Because I’m not sticking around?”
She nodded.
“What if I was…sticking around?”
“Are you?”
No, Will thought. And it wasn’t fair to lead her on. She didn’t do casual, and he didn’t do serious for the same reason: because he was always leaving. He’d decided a long time ago not to get married, not to get serious with anyone because there was always a chance, on any given mission, that he could die. Every time he left this country, he put himself in the most dangerous situations imaginable. He knew what it was like to lose the people he loved most in the world. He wouldn’t put anyone through that.
