by Blake, Toni
Before heading to the kitchen, though, she remembered she hadn’t checked the mail yesterday. And sometimes, during the busy season, she found it nice to step outside if she was up early and just soak in the stillness before Harbor Street filled with bicycles and walkers and the occasional horse-drawn carriage.
Heading down the front walk, she lifted her gaze to see a misty fog rising from the water in the distance, already dissipating with the sunrise, the sky caught between orange and pink. And through the haze she caught sight of a fishing trawler, its white wheelhouse gleaming beneath the first rays of sunlight—the Emily Ann was headed into port.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
MEG INSTINCTIVELY CROSSED her arms over herself, pulling her loose shirt tight around her in the morning air even though she wasn’t exactly cold. Zack was home. A familiar elation spread through her veins—a habit, an almost Pavlovian response. But it wasn’t the same as it used to be. She felt as lost inside as she had when he’d left.
She drew in a deep, cool breath of sweet Summer Island air. Blew it back out. Went inside to make pancakes.
Mixing up the batter felt mechanical in a way, as did setting out the plates and heating the griddle. He stayed on her mind. Yes, she was lost in so many ways, but her gut reaction was that of her man coming home, of things being a little bit closer to right in the world. Whether or not that was actually true.
Before pouring batter on the griddle, she made the rounds, quietly knocking on doors, gently telling her guests breakfast would be ready soon.
Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen and sunroom bustled with people eating buttermilk pancakes, some plain, others sporting blueberries or chocolate chips. It was a happy gathering—she could tell the breakfast was appreciated and enjoyed, and she liked that familiar feeling of guests who were excited to be here on her little island on their relaxing summer getaway.
She’d just poured hot maple syrup over her own plate when she heard the front door open. A few seconds later, Zack’s rugged figure filled the kitchen doorway. “Morning,” he said to the guests at large, not appearing surprised to see them. It was summer, after all. Then his gaze fell on her, warm and possessive. “Hey there, Maggie May. I’m home.”
Her heart blossomed in that old, familiar way. And yet it felt a bit new, too. She’d been through a lot since he’d departed, some good and some bad, and to have him suddenly back in her kitchen was an instant source of comfort, like a bed to a weary traveler. She met his gaze, gave him a soft smile. “You’re just in time for breakfast.”
He returned it. “So I see. Smells great.”
“Grab a plate.”
“Sure there’s enough?”
She nodded. “Of course. You know I always make too much.”
He chuckled softly. “That I do.” And as he came to where she stood, eating on her feet at the counter due to lack of seating, to take a plate from the stack there, he leaned near her in a way that felt like touching and spoke low in her ear. “It’s good to be home, honey.”
* * *
ZACK LOOKED BACK from the bicycle he rode, toward Meg, rolling along behind him. He wasn’t much of a bicycler—but when she’d asked him to go biking today after they’d cleaned up the breakfast dishes together, he’d gotten himself over to Trent Fordham’s livery and rented one.
Meg’s was carnation pink, sporting a cream-colored silk rose on the handlebars, and she looked good on it—pretty, sporty. She’d packed a lunch for them which now rode in the wire basket above her front wheel. “Looking good, Maggie May,” he called to her.
“I’ve been trying to make a point of riding more.”
“Good habit to get into—and you look pretty with the wind in your hair.”
“It feels good, too. Freeing or something, I guess.”
“Maybe the way I feel on the water,” he said—but instantly regretted the comparison when a little of the light faded from her eyes.
“Maybe.”
“I should see about buying a bike of my own so I can ride with you,” he said—and it was the right way to turn things around. Her eyes sparkled again.
“That would be nice. But I thought you didn’t like bicycling.”
“Times change,” he said simply, then refocused on the thin tree-lined road in front of him, growing busy with other bikers now that it was late morning.
Something had indeed changed in him, undeniably. He’d been realizing that more and more the last couple weeks, but it had hit him square in the face when he’d walked in and seen Meg in the kitchen. He’d never before felt quite that same...hell, what would you call it? Some kind of completeness? Or just a warmth—like when you came in out of the cold and felt that immediate relief, like you could relax again.
Meg had always been a good cook, but he’d sworn to her as they’d stood eating together that her pancakes had never tasted better.
“Why, Mr. Sheppard, you flatter me.”
Damn, he loved when Meg was flirty. It wasn’t every day—she wasn’t a naturally flirty woman. But when she was, it made him want her all the more. And it reminded him how good things were between them in bed. In bed, Meg loved to flirt. In bed, Meg let go of her usual self. And he hoped to get her there very soon.
He knew they probably had some talking to do. Things had been tense when he’d left. But they seemed better now. God knew he was better now—just clearer on how he wanted things to be with her. He wanted more. More like what he knew she’d always wanted.
There were plenty of places to picnic along the solitary road that circled the island—the trick in summer was finding one that wasn’t already taken. The pebbly shoreline beyond the thick, tall trees was dotted with parked bikes, their riders wading in the cold Lake Michigan water or sunning on large rocks or sitting on blankets.
They’d ridden leisurely for half an hour—Zack realizing he actually did enjoy the ride more than he’d ever let himself before—when he spotted the perfect place. A hidden strip of pebbles-and-sand beach behind a line of thick oaks, the little stretch flanked by boulders that ensured privacy. He slowed his bike and pointed. “Good?”
A glance over at the woman on the pink bicycle to his right found her nodding and braking, as well. “Yeah.”
The sky was more clouds than blue, but still a nice day on Summer Island. Ripples of water lapped gently at the shore, the Great Lakes being sizable enough bodies of water to possess a tide. They’d always taken care of him, these wide, expansive lakes—they’d provided a refuge in his youth that had lasted, become a habit, a safe place. But being on their shoreline, on the very edge of the water, was the next best thing for him—and even better when Meg sat down next to him on the thin blanket they’d just spread there.
They ate—sandwiches, some grapes, and pretzels dipped into a jar of peanut butter she’d brought along—then shared a piece of chocolate fudge from Molly’s. They talked—about business at the inn, Miss Kitty’s summer adjustment period to having guests, the fact that he needed to stop in and let Dahlia know he was home since he’d gone straight to Meg’s from the Emily Ann. She offered to help him with his laundry later while he cleaned out the boat. He thanked her. Kissed her. The kiss filled him up with being glad he’d come home sooner than he normally would have.
Then she turned to him, looking into his eyes—trying to look deep, he could tell. Trying to see beyond their simple conversation. “Can I ask you something?”
His chest tightened slightly. He’d known the more serious stuff would come, knew it had to. “Sure.”
“I’ve never wanted to pry, but on the other hand, maybe I should have asked this long ago, when we first met. Who’s Emily Ann?”
The question caught him off guard. He’d never told her? But then, probably not—because the answer was both simple and complex. “She was my baby sister.”
Meg’s eyes widened, her jaw gone slack. It had never be
fore occurred to him, but... “All this time, you thought I’d named my boat after another woman.”
She bit her lip, looked sheepish. “Yes.” It came in a whisper.
He gave her a soft smile. “Naw, Maggie May—that’s not really my style.”
She blinked, tilted her head. “You’re right. I guess I should have known that. You just never mentioned...” She stopped, giving him a chance to say more, but he didn’t. Not much else to say on the subject. But she found something anyway. “So...you said was?”
A slight nod. He refocused on the water, the horizon, the tiny shape of the East Bend Lighthouse off the shoals a half mile down the curving shore. His chest tightened further.
Of course, she was waiting for more than a nod. And damn him to hell for still being so uncomfortable talking about this. But he’d just never had to. And it seemed a little late to start. He didn’t like dredging up past sorrows. So he kept it simple. “She died.”
He heard Meg’s sigh next to him, a wisp of air expelled. “I’m sorry, Zack. How old was she? And how did it happen?”
He shut his eyes. Aw, Maggie May, don’t. Don’t make me go there. “She was just a baby. Not quite two years old. I was eight, a pretty little kid myself at the time.”
“So...you don’t remember exactly, I guess?”
“Yeah.” Thank you. For assuming that. He actually remembered all too well, but refused to revisit it in his head. Dark times were best left in the past.
“I’ve always felt,” she began, “that there are things you’ve never told me, things from when you were young.”
He still kept his focus on the water. The ferry from St. Ignace to neighboring Mackinac Island created a tiny silhouette crossing the horizon. “Suppose that’s true.”
“All I really know about your youth is that you ran away to work on a fishing boat at sixteen. And this now—that you once had a baby sister.”
Taking a deep breath, he turned to meet her gaze. “I want to be what you want me to be, Meg—I want more with you now. But I’m not good at talking about stuff I’d rather forget—that’s all.”
Next to him, she stayed quiet a moment. And he felt like he’d yelled, even though he hadn’t. When she spoke again, it came out cautiously. “I guess I find it...therapeutic at times. To talk about hard things I’ve come through.”
“I know you do. And I’ve always been glad to listen. I’ll always listen, Meg, if you need to talk. But we’re not all put together the same way. You get something from talking about it. But me, my stuff... I’d rather not think about it, so I don’t. I wish...”
“You wish what?”
“That you could accept that. Just let me be me.”
“Is...that why? Why you always leave? Why we’re not, you know, in an official relationship?”
“No,” he told her. “And I didn’t mean to make it sound that way. It’s just...something I’m asking of you. I’m...really trying, honey—really trying to repair things between us. And that’s the only thing I’m asking for—that you accept that about me.”
Damn. It had been such a nice outing, such a nice day. Now a cord of tension stretched taut between them. Yes, there was bad shit in his past, a ton of it. But he didn’t see why the hell she pushed him to talk about it when he didn’t want to. If he told her everything, it would take a damn long time, and would be damn painful. What the hell was the point of that?
“The thing is,” she said, “I just feel like... I don’t know you. Like how can I really know you if I don’t know the things you’ve been through. It’s not that I’m trying to put you through anything unpleasant, it’s just...how people connect, Zack. People who care about each other anyway.”
This drew his gaze sharply. “Maggie May, I love you. I don’t say it enough, but I do. And like I said, I want more. I want us to have what you just said, a real relationship. I’m yours and you’re mine, whether we’re together or apart. Something that lasts, something that matters. You’re already that to me. You’re the place I come home to, the thing I hold dear.
“I never even wanted anybody or anything to hold dear, Meg—but you’ve become that to me, like it or not. And if...if you need more, need to know about what happened when I was a kid...here it is.”
Spit this out. Not the details, just the highlights. Don’t feel it or remember it—just say the words and be done with it to give Meg what she needs. “My mom was violent. She beat the hell out of me when I was a kid. I eventually started fighting back, and by the time I was sixteen, I was afraid I might kill her—and I’d had more than enough of that life anyway. That’s why I took to the water, Meg. Nobody’s screaming there, nobody’s hitting. That’s what it gives me, what’s it’s always given me, why I’m a fisherman. That’s all I can tell you and I hope it’s enough.”
He went quiet, not sure if it would be.
But then she leaned over, warmly kissed his cheek. Slipped her hand into his.
He guessed it was enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I’M YOURS AND you’re mine. The words had stayed in her head all afternoon, through laundry, other chores, and checking in a new guest—and all evening, through dinner with Zack at Dahlia’s and as they parted ways for him to get settled back into the apartment. They were what she’d always wanted from him and now, finally, she had it. That and the story of his past.
It was hard to believe Emily Ann was his sister. Oh, the torturous stories she’d spun in her head over some fictional woman whom he’d loved so deeply he’d named his most treasured possession for her. The truth actually made so much more sense. Her fault, actually, for never asking. She supposed if you didn’t ask for what you wanted in this world, you could only blame yourself for not having it.
And so now she knew—Emily Ann was his sister who’d died as a baby. And his mother had been horribly abusive and driven him to run away. These were the things Dahlia knew but had asked her to be patient about. These were the things she’d waited to hear for five long, emotionally tumultuous years. And she could have easily enough guessed at the abuse, but it was different hearing it, knowing for certain, and feeling how deeply it still affected him no matter what he said.
She stood in the laundry room at the inn, long since done with Zack’s clothes but now folding her own—a load of underwear and pajamas.
To Meg, something you couldn’t talk about was something that still ruled you, controlled you. To talk about it was to face it, overcome it, make it so that it no longer owned you. That was why she’d always talked about her leukemia—it had been hard for a while, but got easier every time. Even now. It was how she conquered it—over and over again.
And now Zack had opened himself up to her. She’d felt the effort it took to reopen an old wound.
So was it crazy to still feel he was holding back, not telling her everything? Was it crazy to remain not wholly satisfied? He was trying, finally, to give her everything she wanted from him. So why did she still feel like he wasn’t—like he was only scratching the surface, telling her the bare minimum, and as if there was so much more lurking underneath?
I’m yours and you’re mine.
That should be the part that matters here, though. Commitment. Love. She was home to him. What more was a woman supposed to want from a man?
It was nearly dark when she finished. All the guests were in for the evening, so she made herself a cup of chamomile tea and took it to her bedroom. A light breeze wafted through open windows, making her appreciate summer once more. But it had been a full day and she was tired, emotionally and physically, and ready to turn in. She changed into summer pajamas, and had just turned back the covers and spritzed a mist of lilac water over the bed—when a light knock came on her door.
“Just me, Maggie May.” Zack. He opened the door a few inches to peek inside.
They hadn’t talked about sleeping arrangements, and she’d th
ought he, too, might be so tired that he’d just fall into bed at home after hauling some more things from the Emily Ann following dinner.
“Hey.” She smiled. Pleased to see him again so soon, despite herself. Pleased to truly feel like she was home to him, tired or not.
“Glad I caught you before you went to bed.” Then he smiled, winked. “Thought you might want a bed partner.”
She tilted her head, felt playful. “Maybe.”
The response led him to circle the bed toward her, ease his arms comfortably around her waist. It was so warm there, in his strong embrace. She peeked up at him from beneath shaded lids. “The things you said today, Zack—thank you. For all of it.”
He gave a nod. But answered more fully with a kiss. And kissing him was so easy. He was home to her, too.
Which led her to ask something that had been on her mind along with all the rest of it. “Do you plan on...being here more? Being home more?”
His brow knit, gaze dropping slightly. “During fishing season? Meg, you know I have to make a living.”
“I know,” she said, trying to sound understanding. “But plenty of fishermen come back to port each night. Couldn’t you cast your nets closer to home? Or even close enough to come home, say, every other night?”
He loosened his arms around her. They fell away. “Honey... I fish where I fish. I know those waters. I have relationships built up along the Huron shores with buyers.”
Part of her thought maybe she should just shut up because she was ruining this—this easy closeness, the joy of having that back, having him back. Zack had offered her a commitment today, the one thing she’d always wanted from him, the thing she’d been sure would be enough to make her happy.
And yet—hadn’t she just told herself to ask for what she wanted or she’d never get it? “You...couldn’t build new relationships? Closer to Summer Island?” She even managed a playful smile. “We eat fish around here, too.”
