by Irene Hannon
Now it was gone.
Christopher had stayed to console Henry. But later, over strong cups of coffee and a stubby candle—the electricity had also been a victim of the storm—he’d found their roles reversed when Henry asked him about his own life and what had brought him to Nantucket. As the wind howled and the world was reduced to the diameter of a candle flame, he’d opened his heart—and sealed their friendship.
In the ensuing months, Christopher had come to value the man’s insights and advice. About everything except Denise.
“I’m not sure the problem was all hers, Henry. Besides, you didn’t know her.”
“I know you. That’s enough.”
Though he was gratified by his friend’s loyalty, Christopher was far less certain where the blame lay.
“Well, gentlemen, how was your tea?”
They both looked up. Marci stood beside their table, a small white box in hand.
“Best tea I ever went to,” Henry declared, beaming up at her.
Christopher quirked an eyebrow at him. As far as he knew, this was the only tea Henry had ever gone to.
The older man ignored his skeptical reaction. “What did you think, Christopher?”
“Very nice.” He smiled at Marci, appreciating how the simple but elegant white silk blouse showed off her figure. “Thank you again for the invitation.”
“It was the least I could do. I was in desperate straits the day you stopped by. The antibiotics worked magic.” Transferring her attention to Henry, she set the small white box on the table. “Julie told me you were partial to the chocolate tarts, Mr. Calhoun. Here are a few more to take home so you can extend your birthday celebration.”
He laid a gnarled hand on the box and gave her a pleased smile. “That’s mighty sweet of you. And it’s Henry, please. Now tell me, how are you enjoying Nantucket?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen much yet. But I intend to make up for that as soon as my brother and sister-in-law get back.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“I have five weeks left. One more to work, and four to play. I plan to take a month of vacation before I get serious about looking for a job. I just finished my master’s.”
“In what?”
“Social work.”
“My, that’s impressive.”
“Hardly.” She gave him a wry grin. “Most people my age are already well-established in their careers. I was a late bloomer.”
Henry cocked his head. “Couldn’t have been that late. You don’t look more than twenty-four, twenty-five.”
She chuckled. “Try thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one.” Henry shot his host a speculative look. “That’s a perfect age.”
The sudden gleam in Henry’s eyes reminded Christopher of the one he’d seen in Edith’s the day he’d made the house call. It was time to steer the conversation to a safer topic. Like sightseeing.
“It’s nice that you’ll have a chance to enjoy the island at leisure,” he offered, keeping his tone conversational. “A lot of people only stay for a weekend, or make it a day trip. You’ll be able to explore all the beaches. And be sure to visit the lighthouses.”
“Especially Sankaty,” Henry said, jumping back in. “That’s real close to where I live, in ’Sconset.” His expression grew thoughtful. “Tell you what. Why don’t you ring me if you’re out my way, and I can ride along and give you some history? I could take you on a tour of the Lifesaving Museum, too. I’m a trustee there. Then you could come back to my place and have some of my homemade banana-nut bread. It can’t compare to these—” he tapped the box in front of him “—and I don’t make it as well as my wife did, but I like to keep it on hand. I think of her whenever I have a slice.” His voice choked, and he cleared his throat.
Marci’s features softened, effecting a subtle, appealing transformation in her face that tugged at Christopher’s heart. “I’d like that, Henry. And banana-nut bread is one of my favorites, too.”
“It’s a date, then.” He extracted a pen and small scrap of paper from his jacket, speaking as he wrote. “Here’s my phone number. You give me a call anytime.”
“I’ll do that.” Marci slipped the piece of paper into the pocket of her skirt.
“Maybe I can convince Christopher to join us, if he’s not working. He’s partial to my banana-nut bread, too.”
That suggestion seemed to fluster her, Christopher noted, still focused on her face. She took a small step back and clasped her hands in front of her. “Dr. Morgan is probably very busy, Henry. I’m on vacation. He’s not.”
“He works too hard. A little R & R would do him good. And you can call him Christopher. We don’t stand on formality around here.”
When Marci shot Christopher an uncertain glance, he cleared his throat and spoke up.
“Please do.” He smiled, and as they stared at each other, his pulse tripped into double time.
It was Henry who finally broke the charged silence. “I think we’re overstaying our welcome, Christopher.” He gestured to the deserted tearoom, where Julie was beginning to clear tables. “These lovely ladies have work to do.”
Dragging his gaze away from Marci, Christopher pushed back his chair—and willed the warmth creeping up his neck to stay below his collar. “Thanks again.”
Marci gave him a stiff nod. “It was a pleasure. I’ll call you, Henry.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
In silence, Christopher followed the older man to the front door, taking his arm as they descended the steps.
“She’s a sweet girl,” Henry offered.
“Yes, she is.”
“Great legs, too.”
A smile tugged at Christopher’s lips. “Yeah, I noticed.”
Henry grinned up at him. “That’s the best news I’ve heard in a month of Sundays.”
Christopher’s smile faded, and he sent his landlord a stern look. “Don’t get any ideas, Henry.”
“I wasn’t the one with ideas back there.” His eyes twinkled. “I may be old, but I’m not blind. I saw the way you looked at her.”
“She’s a very pretty woman. But appreciating beauty isn’t the same as pursuing it.”
“True.” Henry’s grin widened. “But it’s a start.”
Shaking his head, Christopher opened the car door for his neighbor. Henry could be as tenacious as a Nantucket deer tick when he got a notion into his head. And he doubted there was anything he could say to dissuade the older man from his fanciful conclusions. The best he could do was avoid talking about Marci in Henry’s presence.
Except he had a sneaking feeling Henry wasn’t going to cooperate with that plan.
Chapter Three
“I feel bad about putting you to this expense, J.C.”
Pushing through the gate in the tall privet hedge surrounding Edith’s backyard, J.C. shot Marci a disgruntled look over his shoulder as she trailed along behind him. “We’ve been over this a dozen times. After seven years of nonstop work and school, you deserve a vacation to celebrate your graduation. Since you won’t stay with Heather and me, this is a good alternative.”
“I can’t stay with you. You’re newlyweds. But this doesn’t feel right, either.” Marci followed her brother down a flagstone path through the well-tended yard. Considering the high prices on the island, her big brother was probably spending a fortune on the month’s rent for the little outbuilding that Chester had turned into a guest cottage.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, J.C. stopped, set Marci’s bags on a wooden bench and took her shoulders in a firm grasp. She had to tip her head back to look up into his dark eyes. “It’s a gift, okay? All those years you worked long hours at the diner to support yourself while going to school, you wouldn’t take a dime of help. None of the checks I sent you were ever cashed. I want to do this.”
“I appreciate the gesture, J.C. And I’m grateful.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But I don’t need my own cottage. The youth hostel would be fine. This is
too expensive.”
His intent gaze locked on hers. “You’re worth every penny.”
That was the real problem, and they both knew it. While Marci’s self-image had improved over the years, deep inside she still felt unworthy of such generosity and kindness.
When she didn’t respond, J.C. shook his head. “I’ve never understood why you have such a hard time valuing yourself.”
And he never would, not if she had anything to say about it, Marci vowed. With his law-enforcement background, he could have discovered the truth long ago. But when she’d dropped out of school at nineteen and hit the road, promising to stay in touch if he gave her space, he’d kept his word.
Five years later, when she told him she’d come home if he’d leave her past alone, he’d agreed. And he’d never reneged on that promise. Never used his resources as a police detective to invade her privacy. That’s why she loved him—for his honor and integrity and unconditional love. He was the only person in her whole life she’d been able to count on, no matter what. The only person who had believed in her, who trusted in her basic goodness. She could never jeopardize his opinion of her by telling him the truth.
It wasn’t worth the risk.
Hugging herself tighter, she shrugged. “I just think you have better uses for your money.”
He continued to study her for a few moments, then released her shoulders and picked up her bags again. “If it makes you feel any better, Edith gave me a great deal. A bonus for my long tenure, as she put it. Most people only take island cottages for a week or two. I rented for a whole year—even during the quiet season, when she’s normally closed. According to her, I was a bonanza.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that was a new one.”
As they approached the tiny clapboard cottage surrounded by budding hydrangea bushes, Marci stopped protesting. It wouldn’t do any good, anyway. J.C. was determined to give her a month of fun, and obsessing over the cost would ruin the gift for both of them. For once in her life, she needed go with the flow.
Besides, J.C. had probably already paid the bill.
Setting the bags by the door, J.C. turned the knob, grinned and motioned her inside. “You’re going to love this.”
Easing past him, Marci stepped over the threshold—and froze. “Wow!”
J.C.’s grin broadened as he nudged her farther in with his shoulder and snagged her bags. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”
He edged around her as she took in the space she would call home for the next month. Though the structure was small, the vaulted ceiling and white walls gave it an unexpected feeling of spaciousness, and the blue-and-yellow color scheme created a cheery mood.
The compact unit was well-equipped, too, Marci noted. A queen-size bed stood in the far corner, while closer to the door a small couch upholstered in hydrangea-print fabric and an old chest that served as a coffee table formed a sitting area. To the right of the front door a wooden café-sized table for two was tucked beside a window in a tiny kitchenette.
The whole place looked like a display in a designer showroom.
In other words, it was a far cry from her tiny, decrepit apartment in Chicago, with its chipped avocado fixtures, burn-damaged Formica countertops and stained linoleum. The same apartment she’d be returning to in a month, when this magical sojourn was over.
“Did you notice the pumpkin bread?”
J.C.’s question distracted her from that depressing thought.
Looking in the direction he indicated, she noted the plastic-wrap-covered plate on the café table.
“Edith left some for me, too, my first day here. And trust me, there will be more. She’ll take good care of you.”
Marci shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I can take care of myself.”
Shaking his head, J.C. pulled her into a bear hug. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Love me.” The words came out muffled against his shirt as she hugged him back.
“Always.”
Giving her one more squeeze, he stepped back. “Don’t forget that Heather and I are taking you to dinner tomorrow.” He held up his hand as she started to protest. “No arguments. You’ve been outvoted.” A yawn caught him off guard, and he grinned. “The jet lag is catching up with me.”
“Go home. You guys must be dead on your feet after flying all day. I need to settle in anyway.”
“Okay. Want to join us for church tomorrow?”
She folded her arms across her chest and arched an eyebrow.
“Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying. We’ll see you later, then. Sleep well.”
As he exited and shut the door, Marci once more surveyed her new digs. Though she still felt guilty about the expense, she couldn’t stop the small smile that tugged at her lips. Maybe all this would disappear in a month, as Cinderella’s coach had vanished at the stroke of midnight. But in the meantime, she felt like a princess. The only thing missing was the handsome prince.
An image of Christopher Morgan suddenly flashed through her mind. He certainly fit that description, she conceded. Tall. Handsome. Confident. Charming.
Looks and manners could be deceiving though. A practiced rake could hide a callous, selfish heart until he got what he wanted. And princes could turn out to be scoundrels—leaving broken hearts, shattered dreams and wrenching regrets in their wake.
Her instincts told her Christopher wasn’t like that. But those same instincts had led her astray once.
And no way did she intend to trust them a second time.
Three days after the honeymooners returned—and two days into her vacation—Marci kept the promise she’d made to Henry two weeks before. After a morning spent soaking up rays on the beach, she’d headed for ’Sconset. True to his word, the older man had given her a tour of the area and invited her back to his home for refreshments.
“That was great banana-nut bread, Henry.”
He topped off Marci’s coffee mug as they sat on his back porch. “Glad you liked it.”
“The tour was fabulous, too. I can’t believe they actually moved Sankaty Light.”
“Yep. It was quite a feat. Made the national news, even. Cost a bundle of money, but that was the only way to save it from tumbling into the sea, what with all the erosion over there. Moved it inch by inch. Slow and steady.”
“Slow and steady is a good thing. With lighthouses—and life.” Marci took a sip of her coffee as she gazed at the sea, separated from Henry’s backyard by only a white picket fence and a stretch of beach.
“I expect that’s true, most of the time. I know my Marjorie felt that way about her garden. She had the patience of Job with all these plants.” Henry gestured toward the curving, overgrown flower beds that hugged much of the picket fence and porch, leaving only a small bit of lush green grass in the center and back of the yard.
“She tucked them into the ground, nurtured them, gave them time to flourish. Started most everything from seeds and cuttings. I often told her it would be a whole lot faster to buy established plants, but she claimed things grew better if they had a stable home from the beginning.”
A sudden film of moisture clouded her vision, and Marci blinked to clear it away. “Your wife was a wise woman.” Sensing Henry’s scrutiny, she shifted in her seat. She’d already learned that the older man was an astute observer; she didn’t want him delving into her life. “Did she spend a lot of time in her garden?”
“Practically lived out here in the summer. Not that you’d know it now.” He inspected the weed-choked beds and sighed. “I tried to keep up with things for the first few years after she died, not that I was ever much of a gardener. But arthritis finally did me in. Bending isn’t as easy as it used to be. Makes me sad, how much it’s deteriorated.”
“How long has your wife been gone?”
“An eternity.” He drew in a slow breath, then let it out. “Feels that long, anyway, after more than half a century of marriage. But
to be exact, ten years and two months.”
It was nice to know some relationships lasted, Marci reflected with a pang as she studied the garden in which Marjorie Calhoun had invested so much labor and love. Despite the neglect, hints of its former beauty remained. Here and there, hardy flowers poked through the rampant weeds. Although out-of-control ivy was attempting to choke a circle of hydrangeas in one corner, the bushes were sporting buds. And a climbing rose in desperate need of pruning competed for fence space with a tangle of morning-glory vines behind an oversized birdbath.
“What was over there, Henry?” Marci indicated the hydrangeas, which rimmed a spot bare except for some low-growing foliage she assumed was weeds.
“Used to be a gazebo. I built it for Marjorie years ago. She loved to sit out there with a glass of lemonade after she worked in the garden and enjoy the fruits of her labors. Lost it in a storm winter before last.”
Marci rubbed a finger over the peeling white paint on the arm of her wicker rocker and mulled over all Henry had told her during their sightseeing outing. About Nantucket—and his life. He hadn’t dwelt on his problems, focusing instead on all the good things he’d experienced in his eighty-five years.
But she’d learned about the bad, too, through offhand comments or in response to questions she’d asked. Henry had watched friends die in battle. Nursed his wife through a cancer scare. And now he struggled to maintain the life he loved as his vigor and strength ebbed and the cost of living on the island soared.
Long life, she supposed, was both a blessing and a curse.
As if he’d read her mind, Henry looked over at her, the afternoon sunlight highlighting the crevices on his face. “I’ll tell you something, Marci. Growing old isn’t for sissies.”
Her throat constricted, and she leaned over to place a hand on his gnarled fingers. “Your body may be old, but your spirit is young. And I suspect it always will be.”
