No Home Like Nantucket (Sweet Island Inn Book 1)

by Grace Palmer

  How could they?

  A different woman might have cried in this circumstance. The old Eliza would have marched into the Manhattan headquarters of Goldman Sachs and crucified every man who dared look at her wrong, from the janitor all the way up to the chief executive officer.

  But the new Eliza just hung up.

  She let the phone fall from her hand onto the bedsheets. Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling fan. It needed to be dusted. How had she not noticed that? She’d been staying in this room for almost four months now, and she’d just now noticed the thick layer of dust coating the tops of the blades. It was one detail out of a million that she’d missed. She’d been too busy thinking about what—Clay? Work? New York? Oliver?

  Oliver. Now there was a jolt to the heart. Just a few hours ago, she’d been sitting on the beach with Sara and contemplating what it would feel like to go back home to New York and leave Oliver in her past. If she’d done that, he would be nothing more than a fun memory. He’d go on to sweet talk some other woman in the bar, maybe, or a different bar. Maybe he’d marry that woman and they’d have beautiful, green-eyed children with slender pianist’s fingers. He and Eliza would probably never cross paths again.

  But now she had a choice. Well, a choice forced on her by the absence of a choice, if she wanted to get technical about it. New York wasn’t a home anymore for her. That door had been closed. Slammed. She thought about calling Clay. But she knew already what he would say, as if the conversation had already happened.

  I had to get through to you somehow, didn’t I?

  You told me not to call you, so I didn’t. I called Marty instead.

  Her fist curled in anger.

  But then, just as suddenly, she let it go.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t find any hate in her heart for Clay. He wasn’t a bad person, at least not in the way that most people thought of bad people. He wasn’t outwardly malicious or cruel for the sake of being cruel. Cruelty implied that he’d had a choice between doing good and doing bad, and he’d chosen the latter. That wasn’t the case. Clay was just a shark. He feasted when there was blood in the water and he could not wrap his head around the idea of caring for children and he had never been physically or emotionally capable of loving her in the first place. She had merely deluded herself into thinking there was even a possibility of that.

  The only real possibility left to her had sharp, sparkling green eyes and liked to ask her what her story was. Oliver was a possibility. Maybe nothing more than that, and maybe he never would be. But right now, where Eliza sat—in the bedroom in the house on the island where she’d grown up—the path that Oliver was offering to her seemed sunny and well-lit. The alternatives were dim at best.

  She made up her mind. She was going to stay on Nantucket, and she was going to walk that path with him.

  She picked up her phone again, found Oliver’s name in her contacts, and texted him.

  Hey, she typed. Wanna hang out?

  34

  Brent

  Brent closed his eyes and let out a long, rattling sigh.

  He was nervous. He was finally willing to admit that much, at least. He’d spent the whole afternoon telling himself that he wasn’t nervous, but that was a bold-faced lie. That whole “do a backflip” sensation of pride he’d been feeling when he ran towards Rose on the beach this morning was long gone. In its place was the same gut-churning nausea he’d had back in sixth grade, when he’d waited after school with a ring pop and a handmade card to ask Cristina Suarez to the school sock hop. He felt like puking. He’d put on too much cologne. This outfit—a Nantucket red button-down and jeans—was so ridiculously stupid that he might as well just turn around and go home now because—

  The door opened.

  Brent’s eyes flew open, too. But he found himself staring at empty space. He was confused for the briefest of moments. Then he adjusted his line of sight a little lower and realized there was a little girl standing in the doorway.

  She had her mother’s dark hair, pulled back into pigtails and tied with violently pink scrunchies. Her dress matched her hair tie, and she had a half-dressed Barbie in one hand. She looked up at Brent with nothing but pure curiosity in her eyes. “Who’re you?”

  Brent opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He closed his mouth, opened it, tried again. Still nothing. He was sweating, he realized. The night wasn’t even that hot. Good Lord, what was happening? He’d been smooth once upon a time, hadn’t he? He was no hermit. He’d been on his fair share of dates. He’d had girlfriends—nothing serious, but still, it wasn’t like he’d spent the last twenty-two years cloistered like a monk. But here he was, babbling and befuddled by the first female he encountered tonight. And this one happened to be four years old.

  He swallowed hard, bent down on one knee, and gave Rose’s daughter a big smile. It felt forced and fake, but he stuck with it anyway. No one likes a quitter, his dad used to say. Brent wanted very badly to start liking himself again, and that started here. He wasn’t gonna quit on anything.

  “Hi, you must be Susanna,” he said. “I’m Brent. It’s nice to meet you.” He held out a hand for her to shake.

  “My mom says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” she said solemnly. She rocked back and forth from toe to heel and clutched her Barbie doll to her chest.

  He nodded. “That’s smart. I’m not a stranger, though. I’m a friend of your mommy’s. Hey, do you like puppies?” He winced as soon as the words were out of his mouth—it sounded like he was trying to entice her into an unmarked van and kidnap her. But there was no turning back now. He drew his phone out of his pocket and showed her some pictures of Henrietta. “This is my puppy.”

  “She’s pretty,” Susanna replied. She was still uncertain about him, he could tell. He supposed that was a good thing.

  “I think so too,” Brent said with a wink. “Her name is Henrietta. I found her behind our house. She’s my best friend now.”

  “Can I meet her?”

  “Absolutely. Tell you what—next time I’m in the neighborhood, I’ll bring Henrietta by, and you guys can be best friends, too.”

  “Suz! Suz!” called a voice from the back. Rose came hustling out, fixing one earring. She saw it was Brent standing at the door and relaxed. But she wasn’t going to let her daughter get away without a lecture. “Susanna Maria, what have I told you about opening the door when I’m not around?”

  “You said don’t do it.” Susanna looked at the ground with sad eyes.

  “That’s right. You don’t know who’s on the other side.”

  “But Mr. Brent said he’s your friend!”

  Rose looked over at Brent and grinned. “Four-year-olds, am I right?” She chuckled. She turned back to her daughter. “He is my friend. Well, I’ll let it slide this time. But no more, okay?”

  “Okay,” murmured the little girl.

  “Go play now, hon.” She shooed Susanna into the interior of the house and turned back towards the front door. “Sorry about that,” she said.

  Brent rose from his half kneel, groaning. “Oof, I forgot how hard it is to get up and down from their level.”

  “Tell me about it. I do it all day long at school. They oughta issue kneepads to kindergarten teachers.”

  “My kindergarten teacher probably would’ve preferred a helmet,” he said. “She told my mom I was, and I quote, ‘an unholy terror.’”

  Rose smiled. She had on a bright red lipstick, and Brent was having a hard time looking at anything else besides that. “Well, good to see that nothing has changed then.”

  Brent smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. “You look great,” he murmured.

  “What’d you say?” Rose asked. She’d been turning back into the house.

  “I said, uh, you look amazing.”

  “Oh! Thanks. I’m scarily out of practice for this. You wouldn’t believe how many times I had to wipe off my makeup and start over. It’s been ages since I went on a date.”

  F
or some reason, that put Brent at ease. “You and me both.”

  She laughed. It was such a musical sound every time. “I don’t believe that for a second, wise guy. Good-looking man like you on a vacation destination like this? You must be a big hit with the ladies.”

  He wandered in, shutting the door behind him and leaning up against the wall while Rose stocked up her purse for the night. He took a second to admire her. She wasn’t very tall, more like petite. But she looked great in slim black jeans that ended with a frayed hem at her mid-calf. The knit, salmon-colored top she was wearing showed off her arms, which were toned and tan. “You’ve got me pegged all wrong,” he said. “I’m just a lonely guy looking for love in all the wrong places.”

  “Well, keep looking elsewhere then,” she said with a wry smile. She tapped him on the nose as she walked past him. “I’m just using you for the free ride to the movies.”

  The babysitter rang the doorbell before Brent could think of anything clever to reply to that. He hung back while Rose gave the girl instructions. Rose had initially thought that she wouldn’t be able to get anyone to watch Susanna for the night while she and Brent went to the quaint drive-in movie installation that someone had erected for the summer. But then Brent had remembered that Eliza’s friend Maggie ran a babysitting company, and everything had come together nicely.

  “Ready?” Rose said to Brent once she’d wrapped it up.

  “Ready,” he confirmed.

  They went outside to his old truck. He’d scrubbed the heck out of her and she was shining as good as he knew how to do. Brent opened Rose’s door for her and helped her up. “Careful, it’s a steep one,” he said, holding her hand to get her into the seat.

  “No kidding. This thing has seen a lot, huh?” She blanched. “I didn’t mean for that to sound rude. I’m sorry. Jeez, I’m nervous.”

  Brent laughed out loud and patted the hood as he walked around to the driver’s side and clambered in. “No offense taken. This old girl has definitely seen a lot. She was my dad’s old ride. She and Jenny Lee were both his.”

  Rose gave him a weird look. “Wait a second. Jenny Lee? Do you have a wife or a girlfriend or something?”

  Brent suddenly realized what had confused her and burst out laughing. “No, no! Nothing like that. Jenny Lee is my boat.”

  Rose pretended to mop some sweat off her forehead. “Woo, that’s a relief. This was about to set a world record for the shortest date of all time.”

  “You ain’t getting out of it that easy,” Brent said with a wink as they pulled out and headed down the road.

  They chatted about all kinds of things on the ride over and while they waited for the movie to start at the drive-in. As a kindergarten teacher at the local elementary school, Rose was up on all the parental gossip and had loads of funny stories about kids saying the darndest things.

  Dad’s truck was as old school as they came, old enough that it still had a flat bench seat that ran all the way across the front. After they’d parked and gotten some popcorn from the stand at the entrance, Rose slid over towards him.

  “Can I put my arm around you?” Brent asked her sheepishly.

  She smiled, then curled up against him with her head on his shoulder. Right then, the movie started—an old-school John Wayne cowboy flick, one of Brent’s favorites—and they fell quiet.

  It felt more right than Brent could ever have imagined to have Rose curled up against him. She’d come virtually out of nowhere, but now that she was next to him, breathing softly and smelling like perfume and with her skin so soft against his fingertips, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d ever gotten by without her. Nothing had ever felt so right so fast. He knew he was being delusional. “Love at first sight” was a Hallmark marketing slogan, not a real thing that happened in the real world. Anyone who believed otherwise was a sucker, and his dad hadn’t raised him to be a sucker.

  But there was no denying that it felt good. He loved how easily they’d fallen into a banter. He liked that she was as nervous as him—she’d turned to him halfway to the theater and admitted she was already sweating—and that she laughed at her own goofs. He liked that she laughed at anything, ever, because her laugh was maybe the sweetest sound he could ever remember hearing.

  Brent Benson, you are being a dang fool, he scolded himself. Pull yourself together. She was just a woman, yes, but then again, he was just a man, and maybe it was okay for them to enjoy each other’s company more than expected at such short notice. Maybe the universe had conspired to throw them together at exactly the right moment. Brent had never believed in that fate garbage before, but he’d also never had a reason to believe it. If fate was real, then it had dealt him an awful hand—up until now. Maybe now it was making up for what it had done to him before. If fate was real, it had taken his father and given him Rose. There was no weighing those two against each other—they were each their own separate thing—but he decided to just stop thinking in circles and enjoy the moment.

  After all—life was meant to be enjoyed, wasn’t it?

  They talked throughout the second movie, some 1950s noir with a quippy, fast-talking detective delivering awful puns to a blonde bombshell. “A dame walked into my office one rainy night. She had legs longer than a bad date”; that kind of thing. Eventually, the clock struck eleven, and Rose reluctantly said that she had to be getting back home to relieve the babysitter.

  “Fun can’t last forever, I guess,” Brent said as he fired up the truck and took them back towards Rose’s place.

  It was a short drive, less than twenty minutes before they were back where they started. Brent killed the engine in the driveway and they sat still for a minute, just looking at each other with silly grins on their faces.

  “I had a good time tonight, Ironman,” Rose said. She bit her lip like she was anxious.

  “Me too.”

  “I’m glad you worked up the courage to ask me out.”

  He smiled. “I just happened to call tails.”

  She punched him in the shoulder playfully. “If you actually flipped a coin to decide whether or not to ask me out, I’m going to be very upset.”

  “Of course not,” he said, laughing. He paused, then said, “I threw a dart at a board.”

  She whacked him over the head gently with her clutch, both of them giggling. Before she could lean away, though, he grabbed her wrist softly. The laughter died quickly. Both of them stared into each other’s eyes. His throat felt tight.

  “You know, I think you’re special,” Brent whispered. Her face was so close to his. He couldn’t stop staring at those lips.

  “I might think the same about you. Not telling, though,” she whispered back.

  “Can I kiss you?” he asked.

  She bit her lip again. “I think that’d be for the best.”

  So that’s exactly what he did. Her lips were as sweet as he’d known they would be. But the kiss lasted just a moment before she put a soft hand on his chest and pushed him away. “Brent …” she began.

  “Uh-oh,” he said. “This is where you tell me that you have a boyfriend and he’s about to come storming out here with a shotgun.” He expected her to laugh, but she just looked downcast for a second. When she looked back up at him, he could swear he saw the ghost of a tear in her eye.

  “Susanna’s father was … not a good man. It took me a long time to pick up the pieces after he left. He—shoot, I don’t even know where to start with it. It wasn’t good. It just wasn’t.”

  Brent leaned back. “I understand. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have crossed the line.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just—I like you. More than I should. More than anyone should like a guy after one date and some sweaty chitchat on the beach in the mornings. And that scares me. Can … can you promise me something?”

  He hesitated. He wanted to make sure he said the right thing here. She’d said she liked him. That alone was enough to put the biggest, dopiest smile on his face. He felt the same warm sensation in his che
st that he had while revealing the renovation that morning.

  But he knew this was a critical moment. A lot hung in the balance here. What exactly was hanging, he couldn’t say, but he could sense the importance, the tension in the air. “Whatever it is, I promise,” he said.

  “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask you yet.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s yours.”

  She touched his jaw. Her eyes flashed. “Just don’t break my heart, okay? That’s what I’m scared of. Promise me you won’t break my heart.”

  He laced his fingers through hers, just below his chin. “I promise.”

  He meant it.

  35

  Sara

  Sara was alone in the kitchen at the Sweet Island Inn. She had her elbows deep in sudsy sink water as she scrubbed plates, pots, and pans. She’d just finished cooking another dinner for the inn guests. On the menu tonight was Nantucket baked cod. She’d taken a few pounds of fresh cod fillets, bought earlier from fishermen who’d caught them offshore that morning, and brushed them with melted butter, lemon juice, and a top-secret blend of spices she’d sworn to her mother she would never reveal to another living soul. Once those were ready to be baked, she’d added tomato slices and a fine dusting of high-quality Parmesan cheese, then put them in the oven to cook perfectly. While they cooked, she whipped up a sautéed vegetable medley and rice pilaf for sides. Dessert was a Nantucket cranberry pie—another island specialty, and a recipe she was sworn to take to her grave. Mom didn’t take much seriously, but family recipes certainly qualified.

  She was singing softly under her breath—some silly pop song she’d heard on the radio while she was cooking—when her phone dinged. She looked over to where it sat on the countertop next to her. It was a text from Russell. She rinsed the soap suds off her hands, dried them off, and opened it up. Whazzzzupppp! it said.

  You know that joke is older than I am, she said.