The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  “And again, I don’t see why not. Since you’re in an open relationship and all.”

  She thought that through. And she kind of liked being reminded once more that she was free to do whatever she wanted. Though she explained, “Most people don’t really know Zack and I aren’t exclusive. So it could make me look bad.”

  Now it was him with the sideways glance. “Oughta get that cleared up then. Not really fair to you otherwise.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly that she almost felt foolish. Because it made so much sense. She’d just never before had a reason to concern herself with it. And maybe she’d liked people assuming Zack cared enough about her to make it exclusive.

  Seth Darden was definitely forcing her to rethink some things—even if having a fling with him wasn’t one of them. “You’re still too young for me,” she said bluntly. Already, she could be blunt with him. She supposed last night’s wine and accompanying confessions had opened that door.

  But like earlier, his answer came out fully confident. “I don’t think you really feel that way.”

  Lowering her Coke can from her lips, she let her eyes go wide on him. “You don’t?”

  He shook his head. “In fact, I think you seem...” He stopped, narrowed his gaze on her, as if trying to size her up. “Different than you did last night. Ever since I got here today. More...relaxed. Or open. Or something.”

  Maybe that was showing a little more than she’d meant it to. But maybe she also didn’t really mind. In some ways, she didn’t feel she had much to hide with Seth—at least not after last night, after she’d bared her soul in so many unexpected ways. “Maybe I am,” she said. “But not about dating you.”

  “Then about what, darlin’?”

  Borrowing a page from his book, now it was she who took her sweet time answering. They’d finished eating and had just stood up to start back across the street. She carried the picnic basket looped over one arm. And as she glanced up at the Summerbrook Inn and thought of the summer about to begin, a summer that suddenly seemed destined to be about change, she said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “NOW THAT’S WHAT a guy likes to hear.”

  She glanced over to see his grin and returned it. Because it was hard not to; there was something infectious about him. “I told you, it’s not about that.”

  He appeared intrigued. “What’s it about then?”

  She stopped on the front walk, again to peer up at the inn her grandmother had made a staple on this island, the inn she had made a vacation home for so many guests over the years, some who returned every summer. She looked up at this house she loved, this house that really was a home, in so many ways to so many people, past and present, herself included. And she gave voice to the notion that had been floating around her brain through the night and this morning—though it was difficult to actually say it out loud. “I’m thinking of selling the inn.”

  When he looked at her, she sensed he felt the gravity in her words. After all, she’d told him enough last night for him to know this was big. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  “Neither did I, actually. But...maybe it’s time for a change.”

  He continued eyeing her. Possibly with admiration. Perhaps she suddenly seemed adventurous, or unpredictable. “Where would you go?”

  She shrugged. “I have no idea. Just somewhere new.” Then she drew her eyes fully down from the house and onto him, to get to the practical part. “But it’s a new idea, so I’m not going to rush into it. I’m going to use the summer to think it over.” Use the summer to see if anything changes. With Zack. With my feelings. With anything else relevant here. “And I’ll decide for sure at the end of the tourist season.”

  “What’s the proposition part, darlin’?”

  Ah, yes, the proposition part. “I keep the place in pretty good repair, but if I were to put it on the market, I’d need to spruce some things up to get top dollar. So I want to hire you to do some more work.” She wasn’t rolling in dough, but if she was serious about this, investing in improvements would be worth it, especially since she’d surely get it back when the inn sold. It would be worth dipping into her savings for. “Are you interested?”

  He cocked his head and shot her an amused look.

  And she lowered her chin, her expression chiding him as she added, “In the work. Are you interested in the work?”

  In reply, he laughed and said, “It’ll be my pleasure to do whatever you need done, Meg darlin’. On the house—or otherwise.”

  He winked, and she rolled her eyes at him—but a flutter of warmth rippled through her stomach and headed south, right into her panties.

  * * *

  BY THE END of the day, all the shutters were rehung. The muscles in Seth’s arms and shoulders ached, but it was a good ache, the ache of an honest day’s work. He found himself smiling down at Meg from the ladder as he tightened the last screw. She was turning out to be an interesting woman, and the smiling came easy.

  Not only because she was interesting, though. Because she was helping him out more than she knew by hiring him to make improvements on her house. He watched as, down below, she gathered up paint supplies and started carrying them away. This morning, he hadn’t known much about his future beyond today, or at least he hadn’t known how he was going to get access to the house, but this was working out better than if he’d planned it, proving that sometimes plans just got in the way. Seemed downright serendipitous, in fact.

  Serendipitous—that was a word his grandpa used to use. His grandpa on his mom’s side. Funny that he remembered certain little things about his maternal grandparents—he hadn’t seen them since he was ten.

  But he remembered his grandpa had liked those kinds of big words. Liked sounding smart, but not in a pompous way. Liked feeling as if he was teaching you something that might help you out along the path of life. And game shows. The man had loved game shows. Liked trying to say the answers before the players could.

  He remembered his grandma puttering around the kitchen, sweeping the floor all the time—she’d swept that floor every day, and had sometimes made him do it, too. She’d made pie crusts by hand while he’d watch. Their house had been tiny, not big and sprawling like this one, but she’d kept it nice and always had it smelling good with something from the stove or oven. Country food like cottage ham and green beans or chicken and dumplings or homemade pie from fruit the whole family would go picking from an orchard. Peaches, apples. Or from the blackberry bushes along her back fence.

  He and his mom had lived there after his parents broke up when he was little. He didn’t even remember them being married—his whole childhood had been at his grandma and grandpa’s in a little town in northern Pennsylvania he couldn’t recall the name of.

  Memories were funny things. They could play tricks on you.

  Sometimes you think you know something, but it turns out to be wrong. And other times what you remember is spot-on, exactly the way it lived in your head.

  He remembered his mother’s smile. Her hugs, the kind that came with a little extra squeeze at the end. He hugged people—women—that same way, a habit she’d left him with. Because he’d always been aware it made the other person feel a little bit more special.

  Her voice had been deep for a woman, throaty. She’d smoked. But then she’d stopped after a big fight with his grandma about it. He remembered the perfume she wore, too. Not the name of it, but the smell. Musky. Nothing light or flowery—not a girl’s perfume, but a grown-up woman’s.

  He and his grandfolks had gone away for a week every summer, whether they could afford it or not, because, “Ya gotta have special things in life, Seth, special moments and special places,” Granddad would say. “Ya gotta do things and see things that expand your horizons and make ya a little more than you were before.” That was what he’d said, wasn’t it? That was what S
eth remembered anyway. But he had reason to doubt. Not having seen the man since he was ten.

  He hadn’t seen his mother since he was ten, either. That was when she’d died. And everything had changed. Everything.

  He backed down the tall ladder, then carefully pulled it away from the inn, maneuvering it until it lay on its side in the thick spring grass. A soft breeze danced across his skin and drew his gaze out to the water, to that lighthouse. He could see why Meg felt isolated here, why she might want to leave—but at the moment he thought he wouldn’t mind staying awhile. It felt so far away from...everything else. And it felt like a place where someone could start over. Meg had done that here, after all.

  But don’t go getting ahead of yourself. He had no idea what his future held—only what it didn’t. Only the bad shit he’d walked away from. And that the coming few weeks, or maybe longer, would be spent in this quiet place that felt much farther away from the rest of the world than it really was, making some money—and looking for what he’d come to find.

  He’d taken something from Meg’s family a long time ago—or at least his memory told him he had. And it seemed pretty damn ironic that now he had to take the very same thing a second time, right when he wanted to stop taking. But sometimes life held necessary evils.

  Hefting the ladder up into one hand, he carried it around the back of the house toward her storage shed. She didn’t see him coming; kneeling, she folded up the drop cloth very neatly with precise little movements he couldn’t help thinking were damn cute. He didn’t like having—at least in certain moments—to see her as a pawn, a target, but if things went well, she’d never find out he was anything more than a handyman.

  “This go back here somewhere?” he asked.

  She looked up, her brown hair tousled, falling in her face. He liked it.

  She pushed it back from her eyes and pointed. “There are hooks on the back wall in the shed.”

  He wasn’t surprised to find the shed—situated near a little stream behind the house and also painted yellow with white trim—possessed a tidy and organized interior. Like her. He barely knew her, but he could already tell that about her.

  “Ready to give me that tour?” he asked, stepping back outside.

  “Sure.”

  They entered through the front door into the same foyer he’d been in several times already to use the bathroom. He’d caught glimpses of a living room with antique furniture, but now got a better look. “Gran always called this the parlor, so I do, too,” she said. “I use it as my living room during the off-season, but during the summer I open it to the guests.” The flat screen TV on the back wall blended in shockingly well to the decor—he’d almost failed to notice it.

  Across the parlor another door opened into a small circular room—the bottom of the tower, underneath her bedroom. “This is the library,” she told him. Curved built-in shelving from ceiling to floor held books of all kinds, old and new, and he instantly found himself scanning them, trying to take them in, read the sideways titles on all the spines. The room boasted several small easy chairs and two windows that overlooked rosebushes.

  From there, she led him back to the hallway, pausing at a wall full of pictures beneath the stairs. She pointed to the largest, most central one in a polished wood frame. “This is Gran.” The woman’s hair was white, her eyes kind, and the frame boasted a little gold placard that read:

  Margaret Adkins.

  Founder—Summerbrook Inn.

  The other pictures included family photos and one that looked to be from Margaret Adkins’ wedding, but his eyes stayed locked on the big portrait of Meg’s grandma. He’d seen her before, a very long time ago, and until this moment, her face had been a vague blur in his mind. The photo filled in the gaps.

  From there, Meg showed him a couple of small guestrooms on the first floor, and a little space she called the reading nook, which came with more bookshelves, doorways on both ends, a tall window, one overstuffed easy chair covered in a flowery print—and a calico cat. “Meet Miss Kitty,” she said, reaching out to scratch behind the cat’s ear. It sat on the shelf like a knick-knack.

  “Like from Gunsmoke?” he asked, scrunching his face slightly. He thought he was remembering that right, but wasn’t sure.

  Meg smiled, clearly surprised he knew. “Yes. My grandma was a fan, and she had a soft spot for the saloon girl.”

  He grinned. “I think I used to watch reruns with my grandpa when I was a little kid.” Then he touched a finger to the white molding around the built-ins. “Paint’s starting to peel some here.”

  “I know. It’s exactly the kind of thing I figured I could put off awhile longer, but now I want it taken care of.”

  From there, they entered a sunroom that held a white wicker sofa and chair to one side and a coordinating wicker table with four chairs. “I use this space mostly as my dining room, and to soak up some warmth all through the year on bright days. Gran added it to the house in the nineties. And last but not least on the first floor...” Then she led the way into a large eat-in kitchen that looked well kept but outdated.

  “I could paint those cabinets for ya way cheaper than replacing them. If you’re into a rustic, weathered look, I know some techniques you might like. And same for that table.”

  She stopped, glanced around the room, obviously weighing it. “Hmm—yeah, I might be interested in that.” After which she peered down at the floor, then back up at him. “Have you ever refinished hardwood? There’s wood under this linoleum—but Gran covered it up back in the seventies.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he answered her. “And do a pretty damn good job on it if I say so myself.”

  From there, she showed him her small office at the rear of the house, then led him back to the foyer, where they ascended a wide, dark wooden staircase with a turn and a landing halfway to the top. “Up here,” she said, “only guestrooms.” And she began pointing them out fairly quickly compared to the downstairs part of the tour. Which was a shame because he was trying to remember, remember which one he might have been in a long time ago—but they flashed by too quickly. All he took in was that they were decorated in quaint decor and springy colors that fit the mood of the island, and he wondered why she suddenly seemed in such a hurry.

  And then he understood. Oh, it’s the beds. And the quiet sense of seclusion up here that he hadn’t felt so much downstairs. Being empty of guests right now, it was a more intimate space.

  So he followed the urge to add, “And your room,” saying it low, over her shoulder—just in case she’d forgotten.

  When she turned to look at him, it put their faces close. “No need to show you that one,” she said smoothly. But underneath the smoothness, he thought she was a little nervous. About beds.

  “Why not?” he asked, giving her a grin. “I’m curious.” He truly wondered what sort of room Meg Sloan chose to sleep in. Frilly and soft? Simple and practical? Something in-between?

  She’d started to walk on, but now stopped, glanced back at him. He pulled up short—and again, it put them close. And something invisible moved between them—like the slight pull of a magnet. He knew she felt it, too.

  Her mouth curved into the smallest of smiles. “You seem a little too interested in my bedroom.”

  And he laughed. Because she was so up-front with him in ways. His grandpa, back in the day, would have called that being guileless. Seth called it keeping things real, and he couldn’t claim he was an expert at that—he knew how to keep his secrets—but he admired people who were comfortable enough in their own skin to just say what was on their minds.

  Despite the rebuff, he wanted to flirt with her. “What’s wrong with me being interested in your bedroom, darlin’? It’s just another room.” He arched one brow.

  And her eyes dropped bashfully just before she turned away and said, “End of tour. Let’s go back downstairs.”

  He was so
rry he hadn’t seen her room. But that magnetic tug between them remained, even as he followed her back down the wide steps, polished with time. It was a blunt awareness; he knew they were noticing things about each other—feeling things about each other—that came from a stark sense of attraction. Her eyes were the warm green of deep forests, her lips thin but pretty, the palest shade of pink. She wore her nails long but unpainted—though a few were short and had probably broken during the last couple of days working on the shutters. A small mole dotted her neck, a larger, darker one her chest. She concealed her breasts in modest clothes—another tank top covered by an open blouse today—but he could still see they were ample, round, touchable. Same with her hips—blue jeans covered them, but he’d found himself watching her ass nearly every time she’d walked away from him the last two days.

  And as they stepped back out on the front porch and she turned to face him, he knew with complete certainty that she’d noticed just as many things about him. She was taking in the color of his eyes right now, maybe noticing the width of his mouth, or that he hadn’t shaved today and that the stubble on his jaw came in darker than his hair.

  She was looking at his mouth, in fact—possibly wondering how it would feel to be kissed by it—until he asked, “About the work—tomorrow?”

  Her gaze rose to his. He almost regretted having shaken her from that silent connection.

  “Um, let me take a day to think through some of this,” she said then. She’d come back to herself—put her game face back on. Guileless, but in control of her moves. “The idea of selling, and of fixing the place up, is brand new. Day after tomorrow, though?”

  He answered with a short nod. “It’s a date.”