The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

  How many women had he seduced with that smile, that Southern drawl?

  As she pondered that, though, while they entered the house together, another question came to mind: What would it be like to be one of those women? A woman who lets herself be seduced? With no further idea of where things will go, with no further care about it, either. What would it be like to be that woman—the one who just lived in the moment, appreciated the passion for what it was worth?

  And then a certain irony struck her. If you could do that, you’d be Zack’s dream woman.

  Only it was too late with Zack—she already loved him. Once you loved, it all came with stakes.

  “You decide what you want me to do first?” Seth asked as they stepped into the foyer.

  She pointed toward the kitchen. “The cabinets. And kitchen floor. I have some ideas to run by you.”

  “Sounds good,” he said. Then chivalrously held out his hand. “After you.”

  He followed her with his toolbox, and only when they reached the kitchen did she remember scrambled eggs still sat in a skillet on the stove, left over from the breakfast she’d made for herself a little while ago. “Um, have you eaten? There are extra eggs.”

  She watched his face, wondering at the indecipherable emotions flitting swiftly across it. And when he finally said, “I’m not much of a breakfast eater, but thanks,” she understood.

  Pride. That was what she saw. One of the things anyway.

  She wondered if he was hungry. And wondered a million other things, too—among them, where he’d really come from and what his life was about. “They’ll go to waste,” she said, “so I wish you’d eat some. But if you really don’t want them, I’ll throw them out.”

  She tried not to look at him then. Because of the pride. She didn’t want him to feel studied. Men were so...odd about that. Zack was the same way. So she moved toward the counter, started tidying things up—lowering her dirty plate into the sink, brushing some toast crumbs into her palm—acting as if she couldn’t really care less if he ate the eggs or not. But there was something about men, men who in ways were surely still little boys inside, that made her want to take care of them a little.

  “Well, if you’re gonna throw ’em away, I’ll eat ’em,” he said. As if he were doing her a favor. And in a way, he was. She liked that he’d let the bit of pride go. And that he’d let her give him something he’d at first been reluctant to take.

  “Good,” she said, turning to him with a quick, short smile. “I hate to waste food. And this way I won’t have to hear your stomach growling up until lunchtime.”

  And with that, she dumped the remaining pile of eggs on a plate, and without asking him, dropped two slices of bread in the toaster.

  Rather than argue about that, he was gracious. “You’re a mighty fine hostess, Meg darlin’.”

  She blew it off. “I run an inn, so it’s second nature to me.”

  A minute later, she set the plate before him, along with a fork—and then went so far as to pour him a glass of orange juice, also without asking—indeed following that innkeeper’s instinct to attend to people’s needs and make them comfortable. But after that she joined him at the table and began telling him her ideas for the room’s makeover while he ate.

  “I’m thinking of having you do the cabinets and table in a pale farmhouse vintage sort of yellow—lighter than the outside of the inn but in the same general hue—and adding some sort of antiqued or distressed look like you mentioned. And then refinishing the hardwood, maybe staining it a warm, matte pine shade. Does that sound like...it works at all?” She wasn’t sure and truly wanted his opinion.

  He shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth while appearing to think it over. “Yep, I like it. It’ll bring a lot more character to the space. I can show you some treatments—glazes and such. Might have to order ’em online, but shouldn’t take long to get ’em.” Then he glanced in the general direction of town and pointed with his fork. “Anyplace to buy paint here?”

  She nodded, smiled. “Fulton’s Hardware.”

  “Good—I can start painting while we’re waiting for other supplies to arrive.” And though he’d sounded all business for a minute, now his expression softened, and he looked at her more like...like he was really trying to see her. “So after a couple days’ thought, you’re still moving forward with this? Putting the inn up for sale?”

  She pursed her lips, remaining uneasy at the idea but remembering that moving forward in life often meant pushing beyond one’s comfort zone. And maybe she’d gotten far too comfortable here. And far too comfortable with the circumstances and options life on the island had afforded her. “Yes. Though, just for the record, I’m not telling anyone yet.”

  “Except me,” he pointed out.

  “Except you.” The unwitting decision, she realized suddenly, made him seem...important. Like someone she confided in. No, not like someone—just someone. She’d made him her confidant without quite planning it. And now he knew a secret about her no one else did.

  “It’s none of my business, darlin’, but...what about your aunt you mentioned? If you move, won’t she miss having you here, having family nearby?”

  Meg swallowed back a lump of old mourning and shook her head. “No,” she said, the word coming out in a lower, darker tone than intended. But she pressed forward. “She died. A couple of years ago. Cancer.” She stopped, blinked, nodded. “I know. It’s touched my life more than once. But so it goes. And in fact...” She tried to smile. “Her being gone would actually make it easier to leave.”

  He tipped his head back solemnly. “Sorry about that. You loved her.”

  Stated as certainly as the fact that the sky was blue. And it reminded her how transparent she was in ways. “Yes,” she confirmed shortly. “And I have a lot of good friends here, but losing her changed things for me. After my grandma was gone, Aunt Julia was kind of...my cornerstone, you might say.”

  “Cornerstone,” he repeated, clearly taking that in and thinking it over, and she could tell the metaphorical concept was a new one to him.

  And in an odd way, it was new to her, too—at least in terms that were so personal. She’d not realized before she said it that Aunt Julia had been the linchpin, the thing that held her so firmly here. That and the memories of her grandma. But memories were...mist. You couldn’t touch them. You couldn’t hold on to them or depend on them.

  She loved her friends and neighbors. She loved Dahlia’s unique and quirky nature and the easy way she looked at life. She loved Suzanne’s affection, her irreverence, her loyalty, and even sometimes her advice. She loved the sense of community she felt all around her here. And she loved the coming of spring, and further, the arrival of summer—perhaps more than she had before she lived here because it was so long in coming that it made you value it more, hold on to it with greater reverence. But despite all she had here, she still missed her aunt.

  Meg sometimes even puttered around in Petal Pushers, watering flowers and such. She pretended she was just being helpful to Suzanne, killing off-season boredom. But it was really about memories of being there with Aunt Julia over the years, and it always forced her to think about the passage of time, and that no matter how much things stayed the same, anywhere, they were really always changing, a slow and constant shift of circumstances that moved forward whether you wanted them to or not.

  “I’m beginning to realize,” she said to Seth, “that no matter how simple a life you build, nothing stays the same forever. So I think I’m ready to...start something new.”

  “Well, darlin’, you know I’m more than willing to help you out with that.” And when he ended on a playful look, she realized she’d set herself up for it, and that peering into his sexy eyes right at this moment made it—him—seem like...a possibility. A thing that could be easy if she let it.

  But even as she suffered a tender ache in her breasts that rip
pled all the way down through the small of her back, she again pushed the notion aside. For all the same reasons.

  His youth. Or maybe the fact that she felt older than she really was.

  And that she already had a man. Sort of.

  Reasons that actually didn’t sound very convincing. No wonder Suzanne had argued.

  Rather than respond to that, she asked him, “Who are your cornerstones, Seth Darden?” He’d finished eating, so she stood up from the table, picked up his empty plate, carried it to the sink.

  “Not sure I’ve ever had any, darlin’,” he said, and though it struck her as sad—sad enough that she turned toward him, unplanned—he wore his usual confident, pleased-with-life expression as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “And if nothing stays the same, just fine with me that I don’t.”

  Could a man really be that content to have no ties? She tilted her head, looked him in the eye, deciding to dig a little. “No family?”

  “Not really.”

  She teased him. “So you, what, hatched from an egg?”

  A small grin curved the corners of his mouth. “Well, let’s just say none worth making cornerstones of—how’s that?” He softened it further with his trademark wink. Sometimes that wink was a flirtation—but other times, like now, it was an assurance, his way of promising you everything was okay, that he had it all under control.

  “You don’t talk much about yourself,” she boldly pointed out. He was bold as hell with her, after all.

  “Not much to tell,” he claimed, tossing his napkin on the table.

  “I don’t believe that,” she countered. “And I feel like I’ve told you a lot about me, so it hardly seems fair.”

  But her handyman, true to form, just replied with an arresting grin that moved all through her. “You’re a far more interesting subject to me, darlin’.”

  It wasn’t self-deprecation—he was paying her a compliment. It felt thin, since he was diverting. But charmers gonna charm.

  “Now let’s talk about this kitchen. You have your yellow picked out yet or do we need to walk down to Fulton’s and get some paint swatches?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE THING SETH remembered most about this house was the nooks and crannies. Loose floorboards, secret holes in cupboards. Places to hide things.

  At ten, creating mysteries had seemed like important business. Now he was more concerned with unraveling them.

  The truth was, it was a beautiful old house filled with details. Unique hand-carved crown moldings. Built-ins throughout. A home clearly constructed with loving care, and though he’d had few attachments in life, he could understand Meg’s to the inn. Part of him was even sorry she might sell it. If he were ever going to let himself be attached to anything—a place, a home like this—seemed worthy of it. Safer. Than other things. Like money. Or people.

  After giving the kitchen a thorough looking-over, they’d decided he’d redo the floor first. Taking up the linoleum and sanding the hardwood would give Meg a little time to select colors, and also clear the cabinets and counters. Fortunately, the fridge could be moved into her office and stay plugged in.

  And though he liked being around her, he was glad that at the moment she’d gone outside to work in a flower bed by the mailbox. It was important she get comfortable leaving him alone in the house. It was important he earn her trust, and with it the private time he’d need to look for what he’d come here to find.

  It was likely upstairs somewhere, though. In one of the bedrooms. He wasn’t sure which, because he couldn’t remember any details other than a hiding place. A good hiding place for secret things. So he hoped she’d have some work for him to do on the second floor after he finished other projects.

  Though it seemed like a good idea to take a hard look at all the house’s bookshelves, too. Just in case. If someone else had found the book—and they might have, because he’d hidden it a long damn time ago—possibly it could have ended up in such a spot. And hell, by that logic, he supposed any room in the house was fair game.

  As he pried up the old linoleum with a crowbar, he was glad to see the hardwood remained in great shape. In fact, he might even recommend to Meg that she leave it as is, without stain. Refinishing the aged wood in its natural colors would make it feel even more rustic. Hard to understand why someone would cover it up. He liked the idea of letting it see the light of day, making it new again.

  It was something that sustained him these days—bringing things back to life, putting damaged things back in good repair. He wished he’d appreciated that all along, but at least he did now. Better late than never.

  He soon opened a door to a small broom closet, which Meg had already emptied, and began ripping up the linoleum inside. And that was when he felt something peculiar—the wood giving way beneath the pressure of the crowbar. Once the linoleum was gone, he could see that two corner boards were loose, broken.

  Funny, it brought back a memory. Of that hiding place of his. Only on the wrong floor of the house. And he supposed he would need to repair the boards to do a good job, but part of him wished he could just leave them as they were—a further little piece of character, history, authenticity.

  Slipping the edge of a large screwdriver in beside one of the planks, he applied a little leverage and it raised freely. Lifting it out, he set it aside, then easily removed the broken piece next to it, as well.

  Underneath, a subfloor, about four inches down. And a dark shadow toward the cupboard’s edge, underneath adjoining boards.

  Grabbing a flashlight from his toolbox, he shone it on the shadow—and made out a flat wooden box, an old cigar box. Rose-o-Cuba.

  He pulled it out. And knew he should probably give it directly to Meg, because it was technically her property, but he was too drawn to the mystery of it—so he opened it up instead.

  Inside, he saw the belongings of...well, he’d guess it was the keepsakes of a young girl. Ribbons tied around letters. A couple of very old greeting cards, including a vintage-looking Valentine. Two pictures of Elvis Presley cut from a magazine, one from the blond hair days. And a small red leather book with the word Diary embossed in faded gold on the front.

  He closed the lid. Now that he’d seen what was inside, his curiosity had been fed and he’d give it to Meg. But he felt an instant if unlikely kinship with the girl who’d once hidden the box beneath these floorboards. How odd to know he wasn’t the only one who’d ever hidden secrets in this house.

  * * *

  MEG PLANTED WHITE alyssum and lavender petunias around the white wooden mailbox post, the loose dirt cool on her fingers. As she worked, she thought about other outdoor tasks for the coming weeks—more flowers to be planted around the porch and in the bed along the brook, garden paths to groom, lilac bushes to be pruned after their blooming season. But she was getting ahead of herself. The lilac buds were just now taking full shape, hadn’t even opened yet. She loved the lilacs—they were a special part of the place, and a real measuring stick in her mind. They marked the transition of spring into summer, and by the time all the blooms faded each year, summer had begun in earnest.

  She thought more about the colors for the kitchen, the precise yellow hue for the cabinets and the exact shade of stain for the floor. Digging in the dirt always grounded her, helped her make good decisions—and it wasn’t long before she knew which shades from the swatches were the winners. And nothing about that digging was changing her mind about moving forward with this plan.

  How strange it had felt to walk up Harbor Street with Seth to the hardware store. She’d felt obligated to introduce him to a number of people who’d been out and about, including Dahlia, who’d been busily planting her usual, colorful trademark dahlias around the café’s white wooden sign and front walk. And a pattern had developed. She’d felt people’s stares, confusion, that she should suddenly be strolling through town with a handsome guy they didn�
�t know. But the second she introduced him as a handyman doing some improvements on her place, the muscles in their faces relaxed, all the tension fading away. And when Seth shook hands and turned on the Southern drawl with all the nice-to-meet-yous and offers of his services later in the summer, most people were welcoming—while just a few stayed pleasant but notably, visibly, more wary.

  Which surprised her at first. Islanders were usually trusting, just as she’d tried to explain to Suzanne over and over. But then she understood. He was a little too handsome. A little too perfect. A little too good to be true. Even with her vouching for him. And that...said something. Reminded her. Was he a little too good to be true? And what made him so secretive about his family, his past?

  Of course, if he’s just your handyman, as you keep claiming to yourself and everyone else, his past is none of your business and why should you even care?

  It was just impossible not to be curious. There were ways in which they’d gotten...personal rather quickly, after all. But the better she got to know him in some ways, the more of a complete mystery he seemed in others.

  She’d tried to read Dahlia’s reaction to meeting him, but hadn’t been able to. If she thought anything was fishy about Meg’s new handyman, she hadn’t let it show. And she, more than some people, probably understood that Meg might need some help since Zack had left without warning, as usual.

  And so the seed has been planted. Just like the flowers she’d picked up at Petal Pushers a little while ago. The seed had been planted around Summer Island that Meg had a new handyman, and word would travel down Harbor Street and beyond quickly. What remained to be seen was if anyone thought there was any more to it than that.

  “I missed him?” Suzanne had groused when Meg stopped in for her first batch of flowers for the year a little while ago.

  “You can come meet him if you’re dying to so badly,” Meg had offered.

  But Suzanne had simply shaken her head. “I’m sure it’ll happen soon enough—but I do look forward to seeing what I think of him.”