by Hope Ramsay
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Robin Lanier
Excerpt from The Cottage on Rose Lane © 2018 by Robin Lanier
Cover design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes. Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBNs: 978-1-5387-0174-4 (mass market); 978-1-5387-0172-0 (ebook)
E3-20200401-DA-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
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About the Author
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Acknowledgments
I was warned, before I started work on this story, that writing a Beauty and the Beast trope might be harder than I thought. I ignored this sage advice and ended up mired in a mess of my own making. And so I must acknowledge all of those who pulled me out of the quicksand, starting with the anonymous blogger at You Call Yourself a Film Critic (youcallyourselfafilmcritic.wordpress.com) whose wonderful blog about Beauty and the Beast finally helped me realize that my main character was a great deal more like Fiona from Shrek than Belle from the Disney version of Beauty and the Beast.
Also, many thanks to my longtime editor, Alex Logan, who had to read the first draft of this story, an experience that was probably quite painful for her, and stuck with me until we had fixed the problems. She once again helped me figure it all out as only she can do. Her advice is nothing short of brilliant.
I’d also like to thank my good friends and critique partners J. Keely Thrall and Carol Hayes for their thoughts about the hero as this project was first coming together and my writing pal Jamie Beck for listening to the whole plot line during a three-hour drive from New York to Vermont and for helping me brainstorm the ending.
Finally, my heartfelt thanks go to Elizabeth Turner Stokes for capturing my vision of a lighthouse and giving Return to Magnolia Harbor the best cover ever.
Chapter One
Jessica Blackwood patted down her hair, hoping the humidity hadn’t frizzed it too much. Granny would probably comment on it anyway, even if she’d managed to smooth it into the most perfect pageboy in the universe.
She stood on the sidewalk outside Granny’s house in the historic district of Magnolia Harbor. Built in the mid-1800s in the Georgian style, the house was a study in geometry and symmetry. The plants in the garden were set out in careful rows too. Granny would have it no other way.
Jessica hurried up the brick walk, fixing a proper Southern-lady mask on her face. She rang the doorbell and waited.
It was funny, she’d once called this house home, but now it felt more like the scene of a crime, where her parents had abandoned her and disbelieved her and then sent her away.
So she didn’t love the house because she’d never been loved here. And yet, like a good girl, she came back every Saturday out of obligation. Granny lived alone now that Momma and Daddy had died.
When Granny finally opened the door, Jessica drew some comfort from the fact that, like her own hair, Granny’s looked like a frizzy nimbus around her thin face. But that didn’t stop Granny from frowning. The fold in the middle of her forehead could intimidate anyone, and frequently did. Granny had spent a lifetime frowning and had worn that groove deep.
“Darling,” Granny said in a slow drawl, “you’re late.” And then the old woman inspected Jess. “Why do you insist on wearing that dress? The color isn’t good on you.”
The dress in question had been purchased at Daffy Down Dilly, the boutique that occupied the retail space below Jessica’s brand-new office. It had a border of roses along the hemline in shades ranging from pastel to hot pink. Jessica loved the dress, but Granny had a thing about pink. Jessica should have remembered and worn something else.
Jessica said nothing because Granny didn’t expect explanations or apologies. Instead the old woman turned away, and Jessica dutifully followed into the front parlor, which was furnished with Victorian antiques that had never been comfortable.
As if to punctuate the point, Granny’s sister, Donna Cuthbert, who was about a hundred pounds heavier than Granny, perched precariously on the edge of the balloon-backed sofa. Aunt Donna looked as if she might slide right off that thing at any moment, and her purple jungle-print blouse clashed horribly with the sofa’s red damask upholstery.
Granny gave her older sister one of her disapproving looks, with the eyebrow lowered just so. “Donna dropped in unannounced,” she said. “I had to put another cup on the tray.”
As if putting another cup on the tray was a major trial. Granny could complain about anything, even an unexpected visit from a member of her much-diminished family.
“Hey, darlin’,” Donna said, hopping up from her unsteady seat and giving Jessica a big, warm hug.
“What brings you to tea?” Jessica asked, sitting down in one of the side chairs.
Granny took a seat beside Donna. There was a faint family resemblance between the two sisters, despite the fact that one was rail thin and the other quite large.
“Gossip, my dear,” Aunt Donna said in a conspiratorial tone.
Jessica didn’t rise to the bait because she avoided gossip at all cost. She’d been scarred by the stories people had told about her over the years.
She turned her attention to the tea tray, filled with Granny’s prid
e and joy: her Lenox china in the Cinderella pattern. Jessica picked up the teapot and started pouring. From the time she’d been ten years old, she’d been expected to manage a teapot without spilling, as if this ability was an indication of her worth as a human being.
“What gossip?” Granny finally asked, unable to resist the lure Donna had set.
“About Christopher Martin,” Aunt Donna said.
The teapot jumped in Jessica’s hand, and she sloshed tea into Granny’s saucer. Christopher, who was widely known by the nickname Topher, had been a hometown hero ever since he’d led the Rutledge Raiders to the state football championship sixteen years ago.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Granny said, reaching for a cloth napkin to mop up the spill.
“Sorry,” Jessica said in a tiny voice and carefully put down the pot. “What about Topher Martin?” she asked, picking up her cup and saucer, hoping that neither woman noticed the slight tremor in her hands.
“The poor man has shut himself up in Ashley’s cottage,” Donna said.
“Oh, the poor dear,” Granny said.
Jessica looked up from her tea. The poor dear? Really? “What do you mean, he’s shut himself away?” Jessica asked aloud.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Donna asked.
“I don’t gossip,” Jessica said in a tight voice, although technically she was gossiping right this minute.
“Well, it’s not exactly gossip. I mean, it’s practically common knowledge,” Donna countered.
“Maybe only to the members of the Piece Makers, sister,” Granny said. The Piece Makers were the local quilting club. The ladies had been meeting for decades to make charity quilts while they discussed everything and everyone in Magnolia Harbor.
She didn’t ask what the heck Granny and Aunt Donna were talking about. She refused to give them any encouragement. She simply sat and sipped her tea and tried, without success, to think about something that would change the course of the conversation.
“Christopher was horribly disfigured in a car accident about nine months ago,” Granny whispered in the same tone she often used when talking about someone diagnosed with cancer or having a heart attack.
“I hear it’s a challenge to look him in the face now,” Donna said.
“So have I. Such a pity. He’s still unmarried, and a Martin. A rich one, evidently, since he was the CEO or something for one of those hedge funds. They say he made billions,” Granny said.
“It’s such a shame, and after the way he led the Rutledge Raiders to the championship that time.” Aunt Donna let go of a long sigh.
Jessica kept her expression impassive while her emotions churned in her gut. Just yesterday, Topher Martin had called her office and asked her to design a house for him out on a remote island in the bay. She’d refused at first, but he’d been very persuasive, offering her a fee that was twice her going rate.
He hadn’t really explained why he wanted to build a house so far off the grid. But now maybe she had her answer. Maybe he wanted to hide. Maybe he’d become a monster.
Although in Jessica’s book he’d always been one of the villains—a member of the football team that had started the vicious rumors about her sixteen years ago. Now maybe everyone would get over their hero worship and see him for who he truly was.
If her architectural firm wasn’t desperate for new business, she would never have considered his commission. But she was trying to move on in her life. And a girl had to eat.
“Have you seen him since he was disfigured?” Donna asked, pulling Jessica from her thoughts.
Granny shook her head. “No. But he was such a beautiful boy once.”
“Well, it’s water over the dam now,” Donna said. Her aunt placed her empty cup down on the tray. “The juicy bit is that I understand he’s so disfigured that he wants to build some kind of hideaway on Lookout Island.” Donna paused here for impact before turning her gaze on Jessica. “And I understand from the word on the street that he’s hired you.”
Jessica’s face heated as the two old women stared at her. Granny glowered as if Jessica had been caught in a lie just because she hadn’t rushed in to tell her that she had a new client. Aunt Donna leaned in ready for the next juicy morsel.
“I’m meeting with him on Monday to discuss the house he wants to build.”
“So you’ve seen him?” Donna asked.
Jessica shook her head. “No. We had a phone conversation. And it would be an exaggeration to say that I’m his architect. I have no idea, really, what he wants to build. He hasn’t signed any paperwork, either. We’re meeting for a site visit. That’s it for now. And since he might be paying me a lot of money to design a house for him, I’m not going to gossip about him.” Although, way back in her mind, it struck her that maybe there was justice in the world. Let the old biddies of Magnolia Harbor gossip about him all day long. She hoped all that talk would make him miserable, and then he’d realize what he’d done.
Jessica leaned over and picked up the teapot. “Seconds, anyone?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.
“You know,” Donna said, holding out her cup, “I’ve heard Ashley, Sandra, and Karen talking about Topher. His cousins definitely don’t want him to build this house.”
“No?” Jessica asked.
Donna shook her head. “I gather he’s been deeply injured too. Has a problem with his leg.”
“The poor dear. He has no business moving out to that remote island,” Granny said, turning toward Jess. “You should tell him no.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t help him, my dear,” Granny repeated.
“Why not?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right.”
Jessica bit her tongue and just barely stopped herself from asking Granny the age-old question: Who elected her to be the arbiter of right and wrong, anyway? Because she was a really bad judge.
“It might not be,” Donna said.
Jessica stared down at the stupid Cinderella teacup. Here was the exit door. She could walk through it if she wanted. She could tell everyone that she refused his commission because he had no business building a house in a remote location.
So maybe doing the wrong thing was exactly what she needed to do. She didn’t care. Let him go live a miserable life in a drafty old lighthouse. It would serve him right.
The thought warmed her in some weird and unacceptable way. She looked up from the teacup and right into her grandmother’s judgmental stare.
“I really don’t care whether it’s right or wrong, Granny,” she said. “I need a client; he has money. And that’s the end of this discussion.”
* * *
The only berth available for Topher Martin’s newly purchased, forty-foot Caliber sailing yacht, Bachelor’s Delight, was way at the end of the Magnolia Harbor pier. When he’d first returned to Magnolia Harbor three weeks ago, he’d planned to live on the boat. But the long walk from the berth to the nearest convenience store had proved impossible for him.
So he’d thrown himself on his older cousin’s mercy. Ashley Scott, the owner of Howland House, the five-star bed-and-breakfast in town, had allowed him to rent Rose Cottage for the next six months, through March.
The long walk from the parking lot reminded Topher that his earlier plans had been half-baked. He was annoyingly winded, and his bad leg ached by the time he reached the berth.
Isaac Solomon, at the marina office, had fueled up the boat and stocked the small refrigerator in the galley with drinks and box lunches. Topher hobbled down the ship’s ladder and snagged himself a bottled water and gulped four ibuprofens.
Maybe that would take the edge off the pain.
But even if it didn’t, he would endure it. He’d done that before when he’d torn up his knee between his freshman and sophomore years at Alabama. That injury had ended his NFL dreams and taken months and months of recovery time.
But that old injury was nothing in comparison to the pain that lanced through his leg with every step. He lov
ed and hated the pain. It was a reminder of the alternative he’d narrowly escaped when he’d wrapped his Ferrari around a barrier when he’d swerved to avoid a deer on a blind man’s curve. At the same time, he often wondered why his life had been spared and reduced to this living nightmare.
He dragged himself back above deck and sat down in the cockpit behind the ship’s wheel. He checked his watch. He’d left himself plenty of time because he didn’t want Jessica Blackwood to see him winded and limping down the pier. Hell, if he could have dealt with her entirely by telephone or text, he would have.
But how on earth would she ever design him a house if he refused to go with her to the island? If he left her to her own devices, he’d get something ultramodern like the house she’d designed for Yoshi Akiyama.
Yoshi was one of his investment clients, and his new beach house was amazing. The technology was cutting-edge, and it had been built out of recycled and locally sourced, sustainable materials. But it was also avant-garde and looked a great deal like a bird taking to flight.
Topher didn’t want an ultramodern house. On the other hand, he wasn’t sure exactly what he did want. Just a place to escape to. Beyond that he had nothing.
He checked his watch again and rolled his neck, easing the tension. If he was scrupulously honest, he’d admit the truth. He was dreading the moment when Jessica Blackwood would give him the stare. She’d focus over his right shoulder and avoid eye contact. No matter how many times it happened, he’d never get used to the fact that people found his newly rearranged face disgusting and disturbing.
He checked his watch yet again, like someone with a compulsion. Anxiety clutched at him. Maybe he should call her and—
He looked up from his Rolex and caught sight of Jessica coming down the boardwalk. She was wearing a pair of sensible army-green camp pants, a plain white T-shirt that molded to her slender form, and a pair of boat shoes. With an Atlanta Braves baseball cap on her head, she looked like the epitome of the plucky girl next door. The one least likely to end up in trouble with the town’s most notorious bad boy.
