by J. L. Berg
I finished assessing a child’s small leg. “Don’t move, okay?” I said, turning my attention to his mother. “Keep pressure on his leg. Help will be here soon.”
But even the blue-eyed child, covered in his own blood, knew that was a lie.
We were all going to die here.
Even me.
But like hell I’d stop trying.
Jumping over a scrap of metal, I made my way to Dean’s cries of help. When I got there, it took everything I had not to lose my shit as my eyes took him in.
“Hey,” I said, analyzing the situation as I drew closer.
Dean’s arm had been nearly severed. How? I wasn’t sure, but I was guessing what remained of his pickup truck next to him was to blame.
Pulling the shirt off my own back, I did what I could. I tried to stop the bleeding, I checked for other wounds, and most importantly, I kept him awake, even when his dark expression told me it was the last thing he wanted to do.
I’d seen this look before, more times than I could count in my days of working as a resident in the ER. The will to live was waning. Dean was giving up. His eyes began to look skyward as he reasoned with God.
“Hey,” I said, tightly pulling the scraps of fabric around his biceps.
His focus fell back on me.
“Remember when we were little, and Terri used to bust our hides for running off to the beach?”
He gave me a ghost of a smile as his eyes went glassy. “Yeah,” he choked out. “We never seemed to be able to do what we had been told.”
“Remember how we made fake pirate swords out of driftwood and practiced battling each other as the tide receded?”
“I bested you every time.”
“I wasn’t made for fighting, I recall.”
He coughed a strangled cough that made my insides burn. “No, you were always suited for something better. Something bigger. I’m glad you found it, and I’m fortunate I was able to see it before—”
“No,” I said. “Don’t you dare say it, Dean. You and I are going to get off this trash heap of a boat and walk into town as heroes, you hear me? You’ll be the talk of the entire island. Hell, you might even get laid.”
He laughed, and I could see the struggle in his gaze as he did so.
“Tell Molly I’m sorry.”
My eyebrows furrowed as I tried to decipher his words. “Tell Molly you’re sorry for what?” I asked, not knowing if he was still here with me or lost in a memory.
“Tell her I’m sorry for not being enough. For not being you. Take care of our Molly for me.”
I shook my head as I looked down at him, disbelief invading every molecule of my body.
“It was always you and her, Jake. Now everything will be as it should.”
His words swam around me like piranhas as I tried to make sense of it all. I looked into his eyes one last time, remembering the moment before the explosion.
Molly and I are getting ma—
Married.
My chest burned as I watched Dean’s eyes shut tight and I was left holding the limp body of my oldest friend.
The man who’d stolen the only woman I’d ever loved.
BITING INTO THE RIPE STRAWBERRY, I moaned as the sweet juice hit my tongue. “Terri, you are too good to me. These are amazing.”
She smiled quickly before turning back toward the kitchen counter. “It’s all in the soil,” she said, shrugging.
“Well, whatever it is, you’ve got it in spades. I’m lucky to keep herbs and house plants alive.”
“You do well with what you got,” she replied, her thick familiar accent brining a smile to my face.
I nodded, watching as she packaged up all my purchases. Terri had been my go-to for fresh, local produce for well over a year now. After taking over the family business, a cozy inn my parents had inherited from my mother’s side of the family, I’d found this wonderful old lady and friend with the bright green thumb was truly the key to my success.
“Anything else for you today?” she asked as we sat at her kitchen table drinking homemade sweet tea.
I looked around, trying to remind myself to think with my brain, not my stomach.
“Maybe some peaches?” I said, my mind suddenly whipping up heavenly visions of peach cobbler fresh from the oven.
“You know, Greta over on Ocean View carries pretty good produce. Fresh, too.”
I nodded. “Yes, but she’s not you. And, besides, who would you talk to if I didn’t come and visit?”
She just shook her head, bagging up a few jars of peach preserves since fresh peaches wouldn’t be in season for another few months. “It’s a wonder how your guests don’t roll out of that place when they’re done.”
“Some of them do,” I answered with a laugh.
“Business still good?” she asked.
I began writing her a check for the exact amount I owed. I’d once tried to add a tip to her total, knowing for a fact that she seriously undercharged me, and she’d ripped the check in half, right in front of me, saying I wasn’t doing her any favors.
At least, not with my money.
I made it up to her, running errands and weeding her flowers from time to time.
Whatever I could do to keep that old woman going.
“It’s great actually,” I replied. “Mama and Daddy are amazed at the progress I’ve made since taking charge.”
“Well, it’s no surprise to me,” she answered.
I grabbed several of the sacks from the table before she could. She let it go, just shaking her head, as we walked out the front door and toward my car.
I lifted the tailgate, and she waited as I filled the back with more fruits and vegetables than most people ate in a month.
Too bad it would last me only a week. Two, tops.
“You’ve always had a knack for that place. Saw it years ago when you came here for fresh lemons, pigtails down your back and tiny freckles under your eyes. Even then, you knew how to take care of those guests. Better than your parents, I’d wager.”
I shied away from the compliment. I was never able to take one without feeling uncomfortable. To me, taking care of people always came easily. After I’d grown up in a house filled with strangers, it could have honestly gone either way. But I had seen the joy my parents had in it.
How all their hard work had seemed entirely worth it just to see a person smile at the end of a long day. I had known even then that I was made for this life.
“Thank you, Terri, but I think I still have some work to do when it comes to living up to the legend of my folks. We still have guests coming back year after year, choosing our little place on the water over anywhere else. It’s a true honor.”
“Ah, well, I’m sure they’re proud of you all the same. You’re a good girl,” she said plainly, making me feel like the tiny young thing she’d described moments earlier rather than a grown woman of nearly thirty.
We said our good-byes, and I headed back to the house. Although it was still relatively quiet on the island, I did have a few guests lingering about the property, and I wanted to get a head start on breakfast in the morning.
Pulling up to the house gave me a sense of peace. I might have had an odd sort of childhood, meeting new strangers week after week, but this place, with its weathered gray cedar siding and bright red door, would always be home.
Grabbing the produce from the back of my worn pickup, I headed for the back door, hoping to give my guests time to enjoy their lazy day without me getting in the way.
Being an innkeeper was a tricky business. Too much interaction with those staying in the house, and they felt awkward and out of place. Too little, and…well, pretty much the same outcome. It was a balancing act. One I’d perfected in the year since my parents’ retirement. Not that it stopped them from coming by the house every now and then to check up on things.
And by now and then, I really meant, every day.
Every single day.
Why couldn’t they just have retired to Florida like normal
parents and bothered my younger sister for a change?
It had become an ongoing joke between us but one I knew would sting if they ever really did leave. As much as it annoyed me to see their two little gray heads poking about, I knew I’d be lost without them. And, as I rounded the corner into the large kitchen bright with the afternoon sun, I shook my head at my predictable intruders.
“Back so soon?” I said, noticing my mom was already elbow deep in bread dough.
Flour covered the marble countertops as she made it entirely by hand. It was a sight I’d seen hundreds of times in my life.
“Your dad wanted a scone and I knew you’d have some left over from breakfast.” She shrugged, barely glancing in my direction, as she continued to work on the dough, kneading it with care, as she’d done for decades.
I could see the changes, the need for her and my father’s retirement. Mom was slower now as she placed the dough in a clear bowl to rise. There was determination where it had once been second nature. Her hands looked smaller, frailer.
Yet she still showed up, wanting to carry on the tasks she’d reluctantly passed on to me. Neither of them had wanted to move on, and it had taken years of convincing them that I was ready.
But my time was finally here.
I smiled, knowing she was lying through her teeth about my father needing a scone, as I caught a glimpse of him through the window, dangling on the hammock. His eyes were closed, mouth hanging open, as he enjoyed his afternoon nap.
“A scone, huh?” I replied, setting down several jars of jam and the bag of tomatoes I’d bought.
“Yes,” she sighed dramatically as she placed the dough in the industrial-sized refrigerator.
“You know, they have amazing scones at the coffee shop down the road from your cottage, right? And, last time I checked, I don’t seem to recall bread dough as a necessary ingredient.”
She could hear the obvious laughter in my tone and turned around quickly, dirty hands and all.
“Okay, fine,” she admitted. “I wanted to come over and visit, and maybe bake up a loaf of bread. Is it so wrong of me to want to see my eldest daughter? I mean, soon, you’re going to have Dean around here to help with all these things.”
I scrunched my nose, imagining my Dean in my kitchen, trying his hand at baking. “Somehow, I doubt it.”
Grabbing a tea towel, I stepped forward and handed it to her. She looked down, slowly taking it before brushing away the remnants of flour.
“What is this all about, Mom? You can tell me.”
Her gaze firmly remained on the plaid towel as the tip of her finger traced a pattern. “Are you sure you’re making the right choice?” she asked.
My instant response was one of anger, but the moment her blue eyes met my own, I knew she meant well. She always wanted the best for me.
Even if it meant incessantly nagging me about it.
“We’ve been over this, Mama. I know what I’m doing.”
She nodded, but I knew she still had doubts. I could see them forming into words, even before she opened her mouth.
“Are you sure? Because when you’re with him, it’s—“
“It’s what, Mama?”
“It’s like you’re with your best friend,” she sighed.
I got defensive. It wasn’t the first time someone had mentioned it. My sister called me weekly as asked how my BFF was.
“Aren’t you supposed to marry your best friend?” I asked.
“Well, yes baby. Friendship is important in a marriage. But so is heat and passion.”
My arms folded around my waist as I began to turn away.
“What about—”
I held up my hand, immediately cutting her off.
“No, we’re not talking about Jake, Mama. Not again and not anymore. It’s history. It’s been history for well over a decade now.”
“But you know he’ll return now that his father has passed.”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m with Dean now. I love Dean. We’ve been together for four years. We’re happy,” I pressed, my mother appearing no less convinced than before. “And, besides, the way Jake tore out of here all those years ago, I doubt we’ll see his face around here again.”
“He was hurt and still grieving his mother,” she explained.
“Jake’s mother died after he started blaming this island for his problems. He just used it as an excuse to walk away. I just hope he’s found whatever he was looking for,” I said, my gaze shifting toward the window where my father slept.
How many times had Jake held me in that hammock? Told me there would never be anyone else—right before he tore out my heart?
“And have you?” my mother asked. “Found what you’ve been looking for?”
I forced my gaze from the window to the woman who’d been by my side my entire life and through every decision, even now, even when she didn’t agree with them.
“Yes, I have,” I answered firmly. “Dean and I have something real and reliable.”
She took my hands in her own, disregarding the flour and dough that remained. “Then, I’m happy for you, Molly. Truly.”
“Thank you, Mama.” I gave a weak smile as I tried to forget the past.
But I couldn’t.
Not here.
Not with his ghost following me around every corner of the house, under every oak tree on the property. Jake was ingrained in the framework of this house just as much as I was.
I’d never be rid of him, no matter how hard I tried.
After finishing several loaves of banana bread and a healthy batch of peach scones for the morning, I wiped down the kitchen and made myself a drink.
Nothing like a good glass of pinot noir after a long day.
Finding a quiet spot in the garden, I leaned back into the comfy lounge chair that was usually occupied by guests, and I soaked in the view.
By the Bay Inn had been in our family for generations. Long before my grandparents had decided to turn the large house into a place for visitors, it’d served as a boarding house for soldiers during the war. I still remembered the stories my grandmother would tell me from her childhood when she had a crush on a different officer every week.
Lucky for my grandfather, a local fisherman in town, none of those crushes had lasted, and they had gotten married soon after he returned from fighting on the front line in Germany.
How romantic it must have been back then.
“Lovely night it’s turning out to be.”
I turned, spotting one of my favorite guests walking up the path toward me. He was an elderly man, here with his wife of fifty years. They’d been regulars since I was a young girl, and it always warmed my heart to see the happy couple return year after year.
After I gestured to the empty chair beside me, I watched him take a seat. “Yes, it is.” I smiled. “Where is your bride, Mr. Lovell? Are you ditching your traditional night of cards to stare out at the stars with me?”
He chuckled, those dull green eyes of his disappearing behind his large cheeks. “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly do that. My Anne lives for card games. We’ve played at least one hand every day of our marriage. She’s convinced it’s the key to our success.”
“Card games, hmm? Well, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Your mama said you’d found yourself a nice fellow and a local boy? Big day coming soon?”
I nodded. “You remember Dean Sutherland? He used to run around with—well, he’s always been a good friend,” I said, clearing my throat. “We haven’t set a date yet, but I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, “I remember Dean well. Tall, lanky thing if I remember right.” He chuckled. “Haven’t seen him in ages, has he grown into a decent young man?” he asked, sounding more like a father than a houseguest.
I laughed. “Yes, he’s great—hardworking and loyal.”
He made a sound, something between a grunt and a laugh.
“What?” I asked, glancing over in his di
rection. I could see a smile creeping up his face as he looked out onto the bay.
“Sounds like you’re describing a dog, not a lover.”
My cheeks reddened. “Mr. Lovell!” I laughed. “I didn’t know you could be so crude.”
“I didn’t know you were such a prude.”
A snort escaped my lips as his smile broke into a deep laugh. The two of us filled the entire backyard with our laughter. Tears were running down my cheeks.
“I just feel sort of responsible for you in a way. You’ve always been special to Anne and me, and I don’t want to see you make the wrong decision. Marriage can be the most wonderful journey a person can take. Or it can be the most devastating. Whom you choose to share this life with truly makes all the difference.”
“And you think my hardworking, loyal fiancé doesn’t fit the bill?” I asked pointedly.
“I can’t say. I haven’t talked to the guy since he was a kid. But, even if I had, it wouldn’t matter what I thought of him. It’s what you think of him that matters. Is he worthy of you? When you look into his eyes, do you see the years melting away? Do you see a lifetime of happiness? Or years of struggle?”
“I-I—” I stammered as his ancient eyes found mine.
There was only one man in my life who had ever made me feel whole.
Not a man, I corrected myself.
A boy.
A boy with unrealistic expectations that had demanded he walk away.
From his home and from me.
“Yes,” I answered. “Yes, I do. See happiness, I mean.”
His gaze continued to bore into mine before a single blink broke our connection.
“Well then, good,” he said softly. “I wish you nothing but the best, and I look forward to visiting you both next year.”
I nodded, bidding him farewell, and he went back inside to find his wife.
No doubt, they’d stay up late into the night, laughing over cards, while the moon rose high in the sky.
When was the last time Dean and I had done something so simple?
I couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter.
Dean and I had made a life together, one that made sense.
One that would last.
Or at least, that was what I told myself.
