The One Who Stays

by Blake, Toni

They talked a few minutes longer, and after Audrey departed, Suzanne said, “Planning to keep him around all summer, aren’t you?”

  Meg considered that. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I have more he can do.”

  “I’ll say you do,” Suzanne replied.

  Meg rolled her eyes and kept right on acting as if she were offended at Suzanne’s ongoing innuendos. But did she plan to keep him around all summer? She wasn’t sure, and she wasn’t even certain she wanted to keep thinking about it. Maybe she’d thought about it too hard and too long already. Maybe she should just live in the moment—as her grandma likely would have advised if she were here—and see where those moments led without worrying about it so much.

  She supposed, as shocked as she remained by how Gran had let the ruffian Ace kiss her, that even then her grandma had lived in the moment. Margaret Adkins had always immersed herself in experiences without looking forward or back, for better or worse.

  Beck Grainger never showed up, though Suzanne kept a nervous eye on the door all night after the suggestion that he might.

  And they were both a little drunk on too many Island Splashes by the time they strolled home, in different directions. One of the upsides of having no cars—you could drink like a fish on Summer Island if so inclined and never have to worry about driving afterward.

  She wanted him to touch her. As she made that slightly tipsy walk up Harbor Street, quiet and lit only by the moon and a few streetlights, she couldn’t deny that desire. She wanted Seth Darden to touch her. And if he’d been there, she might even have told him so. Good reason to never, ever drink with him again.

  Pushing the unlocked front door open, she indulged in a small fantasy. What if he stayed earlier, never went home? What if he’s in here right now waiting for me?

  In her current condition, the idea sounded...almost appealing. On every level. Like there’d be no reason to say no, no reason not to follow her impulses.

  And as she stepped into the foyer, it struck her that he was so bold sometimes that it actually seemed like something he might do. Could he? Would he? She even called out, “Hello?”

  No answer. Okay. I can keep breathing.

  But as she padded into the kitchen and flipped on the overhead light, she caught the scent of lilacs—and found something that hadn’t been here when she’d left. Three billowing sprigs of Pocahontas lilacs jutted from a bud vase she kept in the cabinet above the fridge. The vase rested atop a slip of paper that read:

  So you don’t have to go outside to enjoy them.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE NEXT MORNING found her curled up in the easy chair in the nook in drawstring pajama pants and a tank top, morning sun at her back, cat in her lap. A hint of lilac perfume hung in the air, and outside, birds sang. It was a new day.

  She’d decided to have Seth paint the woodwork in the nook today, even though it wouldn’t make Miss Kitty happy. Although the cat roamed the house freely, the nook was her favorite area, and also where her little cat bed resided, right next to the chair. Meg stroked her fluffy calico fur and said, “You’re going to be so mad at me.” She’d had to lock the cat in one of the downstairs guestrooms during some of the kitchen work, letting her out only when surfaces being painted or glazed or varnished were completely dry. “But it’s for your own good. You don’t want paint-covered paws, trust me.”

  The cat responded by standing up and pouncing down onto the floor, swishing her furry tail as she sauntered away.

  Cats. They were so aloof and self-sufficient.

  I should be more like her. She likes me, but she doesn’t care much if I’m not around. She doesn’t get lonely. She doesn’t think too much. She’s endlessly content. Well, except for when she was locked in a room for a long time, but anyone would have a right to feel disgruntled over that.

  Meg had fallen asleep fantasizing about Seth being here when she’d come home last night. However, she’d awakened resolved to put such silliness behind her. Suzanne acted like it would be so easy to indulge in some wild affair with him, but there were so many reasons not to.

  He was younger, and somehow, in her mind anyway, younger equaled wilder. He intimidated her. Sexually. She knew without having to ask that he’d been with a lot of women and she felt inexperienced in comparison.

  And then there was Zack. It had surprised her to find a short voice mail from him while walking home from the Pink Pelican last night, and she couldn’t deny that it was nice just to know he’d been thinking about her. Sometimes it took so little to make someone feel cared for. She owed him nothing, she knew. But having loved him for so long kept a soft spot in her heart for him despite everything—it kept her remembering the hurt in his eyes when he’d found her with Seth on the patio. She had nothing to feel bad for, and yet she still did—a little.

  And then there was the whole island. Dahlia. Clark. The Fishers. Cooper Cross. Everyone. They would talk. Maybe judge. They’d assume she was cheating on Zack—because they assumed Zack was hers to cheat on. Of course, maybe they already did, if people were asking about it behind her back.

  Even so, though, the idea, while pleasant to think about, would be a lot more complex if she let it become real. It would make an already complicated situation even more so. And who wanted that?

  That was when she heard the front door open. Damn—he was here already? Time had gotten away from her. She was usually dressed when he showed up. She instinctively pushed to her feet—just as he approached down the hall and caught sight of her in the nook. “Mornin’,” he said.

  She wasn’t wearing a bra. And knew it showed. As their eyes met, her arm rose on impulse to cover her chest. His gaze dropped there. Then rose back to her face. “Am I early?”

  “No—I’m late. Sorry. I’ll be back down in a minute.” She rushed past him to the stairs, warmth filling her cheeks.

  Oh Lord. She felt like a little girl. Or worse, an irresponsible woman. How hard was it to watch the clock and make herself presentable by the time he arrived for work? And covering herself with one arm had seemed a better alternative than letting him see, but neither felt like the height of class. And there had been heat. And awareness. Undeniably. Even as she’d wallowed in quick embarrassment and then made her escape, there’d been heat.

  Shutting herself into her bedroom, she hurried to dress. Usual “uniform” for this time of year—blue jeans and a tank with an unbuttoned shirt over top. She hurried to wash her face, brush her hair, reach for a ponytail holder.

  But then, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror, she stopped. Be like a cat. A cat wouldn’t sweat this. A cat would just go about its business acting as cool and confident as usual. So he caught you in your pajamas. Big deal. Life goes on.

  And for some reason, she put the ponytail holder down and let her hair hang loose. Because she thought it looked sort of pretty, even if in a messy way. Tousled. And then she even reached for a little makeup. Her makeup bag remained on the bathroom counter from last night, when she’d rushed to meet Suzanne. She typically didn’t wear any with Seth, but, well...maybe she would today. Just a little. A touch of eye shadow, a bit of mascara. A quick swipe of lip gloss.

  “Hi,” she said after walking back downstairs. She found him in the kitchen, Miss Kitty weaving figure eights around his ankles. Uncharacteristic clingy behavior. So much for wanting to mimic the behavior of her cat.

  “Hi,” he returned. He grinned a little, perhaps acknowledging the awkward moment just past. “Sorry to catch you off guard.” Now fully acknowledging it.

  She gave her head a slight shake and tried not to worry if she was blushing a little. “No problem. Ready for a new project?”

  “Yes ma’am. Your wish is my command.”

  She dropped her gaze, tried not to hear the double entendre in that, and pointed toward the nook. “I’m going to have you do a little touch-up painting over the next few d
ays, before the guests start arriving.”

  “And when is that?” He pointed vaguely over his shoulder toward the bulletin board just inside her office. “When does that old man come?”

  “Mr. Carmichael, an elderly gentleman whose granddaughter and her family live here year-round, is due late Saturday morning. And Mr. McNaughton arrives Saturday afternoon,” she said with a smile. “Then the Eastmans, a family of four, on Sunday. And another couple, younger and first-timers here, are due a few days after that.”

  Leading him to the nook, she pointed out all the woodwork to be painted in the small room. Then she asked him to walk up to Fulton’s and get a gallon of white, explaining, “Just tell them it’s interior trim for the Summerbrook Inn. They have all my colors on file.”

  Together, they unloaded the books and knick-knacks from the built-in shelves, carrying them into the foyer to stack them on tables and the edges of some of the lower stairs. When they were done and the cat still shadowed Seth, Meg bent to scoop Miss Kitty up into her arms. “And now I’m going to put this young lady in the same room she’s already been shedding in lately.”

  Seth reached out, scratching behind the cat’s ear. It put his hand close to Meg’s breasts. “I think she likes me.” His voice came out a little deeper than usual.

  “Seems that way.”

  “Hoping she’ll put in a good word for me with her owner.”

  Meg started down the hall then, but tossed over her shoulder, “You don’t need a good word. I already like you, too.”

  He called after her, “Well, maybe I’m hoping you’ll get more affectionate, like her.”

  She stopped at the guestroom door and glanced back to find him standing at the end of the hall, looking cute as hell. “Are you saying you want me to rub up against your ankles?”

  He gave her a grin. “Something like that. But I can think of better places to rub up against.”

  She met his pointed gaze for only a second—before carrying the cat into the room. She could have just lowered Miss Kitty to the floor and shut the door on her, but she needed to escape him for a moment after that.

  Yep, no way could she handle sex with him. No way at all. She looked down at the cat she still carried and whispered, “Afraid I’m gonna have to leave the affection to you.”

  A moment later, she’d exited and closed the door, securing the now-meowing kitty inside. The hallway was empty, and she assumed—hoped—Seth had headed for the hardware store. She’d wondered the whole time they were together if he was thinking about her breasts—because of her covering them so openly earlier. And when he’d petted the cat while she held it, she’d certainly thought about them.

  She was glad guests would soon arrive—for many reasons. The house felt so alive in the summer—when people were here, enjoying it, inside and out. It made the island feel less isolated when the seasonal visitors came. And it would be much harder to entertain the idea of having a summer fling with Seth once there were guests sleeping right down the hall from her bedroom.

  * * *

  SETH ENJOYED PAINTING. It was among the simplest kinds of work he knew how to do, but he did it well and liked the methodical act of it. Maybe it quieted his brain watching the brush go back and forth, applying just the right pressure, giving just the right touch at edges so that the paint wouldn’t seep under the tape. Mostly, in all his work, he found it satisfying to make something new again. And a big old house like this one—well, nice to think he was helping to keep it in good shape.

  Funny thing—most people hated work as far as he could tell, but his whole life, working was when he’d been the happiest. Or at least found the most peace. Getting lost in the brushstrokes—or whatever else he was doing.

  But he’d found more peace in other things lately, too. Even just those walks around the island. Even just going to sleep at night with a clear conscience. As clear as it could be anyway, under the circumstances. He wondered if his grandfather’s arrival would mess that up—the peace part.

  Damn, why had he come here again? But once more he told himself: Just get whatever answers there are to get. Then you can move the hell on from it forever.

  Unloading all those books, he’d watched for the one he’d been looking for. But still no sign of it. Still a lost memory.

  He’d opened the window behind the easy chair to let some fresh air in, and now a soft breeze carried in the sweet scent of Meg’s lilacs. He’d heard the door a while ago—and wondered if that was where she’d gone, out to smell her lilacs some more.

  He liked thinking about Meg a hell of a lot better than some of the other shit in his head right now, so when he finished the first coat and it was time to reload the paint tray, he decided to take a break. A glance at a nearby clock told him she would probably be making sandwiches for lunch soon. Sweet how she did that.

  He still wanted her in bed. And every time he was sure it wasn’t gonna happen, that she just wouldn’t let it, something renewed his hope. It was the chemistry between them that did it, over and over. He wondered how long she’d keep fighting it.

  Deciding to turn the tables on her a little just now, he headed to the pantry, then the fridge, and made a couple of ham and Swisses. He knew his way around her kitchen at this point.

  He even knew where she kept the picnic basket, so he got it from the cupboard and loaded it up with the sandwiches, a big bag of corn chips, and a few pieces of fruit. A couple cans of soda and a picnic blanket, also from the closet shelf, finished his packing.

  He wasn’t surprised to find her sitting silently in her usual white Adirondack chair. But he didn’t walk right up—for some reason, he stopped quietly and watched her for a minute. He took in the curve of her cheek, the waves in her hair. She wore flip-flops with jeans. He’d noticed her toenails were painted pink. Not a bright pink, but a soft shade, like cotton candy.

  When he entered the lilac garden and she lifted her gaze, he held up the basket and raised his eyebrows hopefully.

  A smile made its way onto her pretty face, but it came with cautious eyes. “Why, Mr. Darden, I do believe you’re trying to seduce me.”

  “Is it working?”

  Rather than answer, she kept eyeing him speculatively, drawing her chin down. “I meant to thank you for the lilacs this morning. The ones you brought in.”

  He offered up a soft grin. “Guess they didn’t do the trick, though, since here you are.” He lowered the basket to the carpet of grass beneath his feet, then spread out the thin blanket he’d carried under his arm.

  “Silly, isn’t it?” she said thoughtfully, gazing off into the blossoms, thick and abundant now. “I’d never thought about it before we discussed it, but I’ve realized it’s true that every year I mourn their demise before they even bloom. Because their season is so short and they’re so lovely.”

  She stood, then joined him to sit on the blanket. “They remind me of my grandmother. She loved them so much, and she tended them faithfully after my grandpa died. She never wore perfume because she said nothing a man could invent in some laboratory could ever smell as good as spring on Summer Island—and that anything less would be settling.”

  As Seth passed her a sandwich and a drink, then got out his own, he took in her words. He didn’t want to be some guy who thought he had all the answers, but... “Have you ever thought about making lilac water? To keep the scent around even after they’re gone?”

  She gave her head a short shake. “I’ve never had much luck with that. The water never really holds the fragrance.”

  Narrowing his eyes on her playfully, he said, “Maybe you’re just doing it wrong.”

  “Are you telling me you’re an expert on lilac water now?” She arched one skeptical brow in his direction as she popped the top on her soda can.

  And he almost felt a little embarrassed admitting this, but the truth was, “Believe it or not, I know an old family recipe. I us
ed to help my grandmother with it every spring when I was little.”

  He couldn’t read her expression when she said, “Here we’ve had all this discussion about lilacs and you never mentioned it.”

  He just shrugged. “A lot of people like lilacs, darlin’. Guess it’s something our grandmas had in common.”

  “And you still remember how to do it?”

  He tilted his head, thought back. “Been a while, but I think so.” His memories from that time were spotty, sparse, but for whatever reason, this one had stuck. “We made it for my mother’s birthday every year—it was my present to her, something that didn’t cost anything.”

  Across from him, Meg smiled. “I bet she loved it more than anything you could have bought.”

  A notion that made Seth offer up a wistful smile. “Fact is, I don’t recall. I just remember making it, and bottling it up, and writing on the labels.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asked, seeming more intent on the issue than he would have expected.

  He gave another shrug as he reached for an apple, taking a big, crisp, crunchy bite. “Don’t know. Didn’t seem important.”

  “You never tell me much about you. I feel like I tell you a lot about me, but you never reciprocate.”

  Oh—that’s why she was pressing on this. Most people didn’t call him on that. Most people weren’t as observant as her. Or maybe most people were more self-involved, happy to talk about themselves, happy to have someone listen and ask and give them attention. “Maybe I think you’re more interesting than I am,” he told her, adding another grin.

  “I think everyone’s interesting,” she said. “Fifteen years of running this inn has taught me that everyone has a story worth hearing. And...maybe I’d be more open to...um, being seduced...if I knew more about you.”

  Damn, look at her, just putting it on the table like that. It impressed him. And created one of those moments when he thought maybe something hot and heavenly could still happen between them. Maybe when he least suspected it.