Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1)

by J. Lynn Bailey

  What if it’s just sex we need to calm the energy between us?

  Does Eli need this? Us? Is he distracted with this thing we have between us?

  I’ve been around plenty of handsome men since Kyle died. And nobody has had this effect on me quite like Eli has.

  But what if sex takes care of this? Cleanses both our minds? Gets rid of the energy that sits between us?

  I want to see him one last time before bed. Biting my lip, I think of all the things I want to say to Eli.

  I’m guarded because my heart’s been broken before.

  I lied in the letter I wrote you. I have written since Kyle. It’s just been really shitty writing.

  I write because it’s the only thing that brings me comfort.

  Sometimes, heartbreak doesn’t allow us to see the light for a long time. I’m struggling with that right now.

  I like being here, and I like spending time with you.

  I look down at my purse and see the edge of the postcards.

  He’s got to be able to make sense of them.

  Before I know it, I’m standing at his door. Eli’s shirt dangles off my shoulders like an ill-fitting dress.

  My eyes stare at the space that exposes his skin between his white T-shirt and his pajama pants. The tight confines of his shirt tell me he needs to stick to this size shirt purely for my own needs.

  Snap out of it, Alex.

  I make it to his face. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

  Eli takes them off. “Just for reading.”

  You need to wear them more often.

  “I lied. With the note I gave you, I lied.”

  He beckons me with his hand, tapping the spot next to him.

  I take a seat on the edge of the bed to create some space between us, a gap of emptiness that will keep us on our own sides of the world. “I have written since Kyle died but nothing good—until now. I owe that to you.” I stall because I don’t want the next line to come out sounding cheesy or rehearsed. “I guess I just wanted to come say thank you.” I laugh. “Who would have thought I’d be in Granite Harbor, Maine, writing again, doing book research with a game warden, who unexpectedly lifted my spirits? Thank you for treating me normal.”

  “What are those?”

  “I need to ask you a question.” I slide closer, though I’m careful to keep a two-foot buffer between us. “I received these about ten days before I came out to Granite Harbor. Well, one came to my house, and the other went to my parents’ house.”

  Eli looks at the postcards, but there’s no reaction on his face. “Alex, I didn’t write these.”

  “I figured you didn’t,” I say, “but the weird thing is, they’re written in Kyle’s handwriting.”

  “May I?” he asks.

  I hand them over and watch as he looks at them.

  “My mom and Bryce are convinced that it’s fate that I’m here.” I laugh, feeling the nervous tension in my bones.

  “The postmark is in Brooklyn. If it came from Granite Harbor, it should say Granite Harbor.”

  “Why would they both be written in Kyle’s writing? And why use your name? As if the writer of these postcards knew I’d come? Knew I’d meet you?”

  “I’m not sure,” Eli says, taking a closer look at one postcard. “But you’re here now.”

  “You know I can’t stay here forever, right?”

  “You’re right,” he says, still holding the postcards with my name on them. “You’re a grown woman. I can’t keep you here. But it’s also my duty as a sworn law officer to protect the public.”

  I follow the imaginary line that outlines his lips, nose, and forehead.

  Why couldn’t I find an ugly game warden? One that had a potbelly, some age, maybe retirement coming. Why did Eli walk into my life, making everything mushy, gray, and hard to navigate? What if it doesn’t matter who wrote them? What if the most important part is, I’m here because of the postcards?

  I turn on to my back because of his stare. If he didn’t have eyes, this would make things a whole lot easier.

  “So, you’re telling me that you’d bring any community member back to your house to protect them?”

  He laughs.

  I really like the sound of his laugh and the grin he’s giving me right now.

  “Just you,” he whispers.

  After he says this, my body is on fire, but I also grow cold, all at the same time, feeling the ache in places I shouldn’t. My body breaks into chills.

  “Are you cold?” he asks.

  “Opposite.” My breathing staggers, and I try to allow my lungs to move, but my heart is in the way. “Now what?” I pant.

  Eli scoots closer, his look hooded. “Get under the covers.”

  I obey. I know what he needs because I feel the same carnal need. Maybe we should just have sex, and all this would go away. I want him to slide on top of me, and I want to feel him between my legs.

  Hesitantly, with the blanket between us, he carefully brushes the strands of my hair out of my face and then slides his hand down my neck. My body is fully aware of his presence, and I want nothing more than to feel him.

  My breathing quickens.

  With a layer of feathers between his hand and my body, his hand grazes over my breasts, my nipples knowing full well the seriousness of this situation as they tingle and expand, creating an ache.

  His hand slides down across my stomach, and his eyes ask if this is all right.

  I know this is not Kyle but Eli. Someone new. The only other man I’ve allowed to touch me like this. The feathers provide the buffer that I think we both need.

  My lips part, and I lick them because they, too, desperately need attention. My legs fall to the sides, providing Eli with space that he needs and me with more want.

  I need to resist him.

  I need not to want him.

  I need to gain clarity in my mind of what this looks like, this situation we’re both agreeing to, but I can’t. Because all I see is his face, which is full of concern, but I think it’s also something he can’t stop.

  Eli’s hand stops right before he reaches the center of my body, the part that has only been claimed by Kyle. It isn’t because Eli wants to; it’s because he has to.

  “I can’t do this with you, Alex.”

  Thirteen

  Eli

  October 14, 2017

  I lean in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing only a towel across my middle, staring at her while she sleeps in my bed, her body against my sheets.

  Her dark hair is strewed across the pillow where she fell asleep. But it’s hidden—just beyond her playfulness, her banter, her confidence—something sad. Something that time will only heal.

  When I told her I couldn’t, she said I was right. I didn’t ask her why she’d said that, maybe partly because I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to be right.

  But, fuck, it had taken everything in me to push the words out.

  My dick said, Go.

  My head said, Stop.

  And my heart said, Hold on.

  I need to take her home today. I’ve thought of a million excuses as to why she should stay here, but I know she came here to do something in Granite Harbor, something on her own, and I don’t want to mess with that.

  It’s just past six in the morning. I’d love to take Alex to Acadia National Park, show her some of the tourist sites that Maine has to offer. Though it’d be crazy. It’s a Saturday during leaf peepers season. Scratch that idea. Maybe we’ll drive down to Bar Harbor, and I can show her my favorite place to eat lobster rolls. Not something we Mainers do, but it’s a tourist thing. She might enjoy it. That’s if she’ll have me.

  I told her I didn’t want to do things with her last night. But I did. I wanted to so badly. Maybe this is for the better—her going back to her place. But we will still work together. I agreed to take her on.

  Quietly, I walk downstairs in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and I pour myself a cup of coffee. I should make her a cup. B
ut what does she take in it? Instead, I put out a mug for her, just in case.

  I pull up Bangor Daily News and scroll through the headlines.

  It’s on the fifth page, under Entertainment. The headline reads, New York Times Best-Selling Author Alex Fisher Poses with Lydia White, Bookstore Owner in Granite Harbor, Maine.

  I read the headline again, and again. I read the brief article, listing Alex’s successes. And then the part where locals have said … seen with game warden Eli Young.

  “Hey.”

  Jesus Christ. I jump. “What are you? Some sort of Navy SEAL or something?”

  Alex laughs.

  She can see what I’m reading.

  “Why didn’t you say anything, Alex?” I ask.

  She shrugs as she walks to the coffee pot. “What’s there to say?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. That you’re an extremely successful author, and, according to this article, several of your books have been made into movies.”

  “Would it have made a difference?” She sits down next to me, nonchalant. “Would it have made a difference about what you thought of me?” She takes a sip, and her eyes burrow into mine.

  No. “No.”

  “Did you want me to introduce myself as Alex Fisher”—she glances at the headline—“New York Times best-selling author and say that Hollywood makes movies with my books?” Alex laughs. She laughs as if nothing happened between us last night. “Besides, Eli, I told you that I wrote books.”

  She glances at the article again, and I see when she gets to the part in the article where it talks about the death of Kyle. Alex looks away and takes a sip of her coffee.

  I gently take her chin in my hand and move her head, so she’s facing me. “Grief can define us, if we allow it to. Don’t let it get in the way of what you can do, what you’re capable of.” I pause.

  Alex slowly nods, still staring at me. Her chin wobbles, but she swallows, gaining more solidarity with herself.

  “When my mom died, Ida, who was a lot younger at the time said, ‘Allow yourself the space and tears. Because, if we’re not done crying, we’re not done grieving.”

  A single tear falls from her eye.

  I don’t reach out to catch it, and neither does she. We both let it fall.

  All of a sudden, what happened between us last night has become so much more less intimate than this moment right here.

  “Listen,” I say, “I have to go to my dad’s tonight for dinner. Come with me?” I give her space. It’s a day off. She doesn’t have to work alongside me. “You can write for the day, and then I’ll swing by and pick you up about five thirty p.m. tonight.”

  “Your dad’s?”

  “As friends.”

  “As friends,” she repeats.

  The conversation needs to be had. “I let things go too far last night.”

  Alex takes her hand and gently rests it on my arm. “I haven’t been with anyone since Kyle, Eli.” Her eyes dance from side to side. “I think I let my needs get the best of me last night. I just … haven’t been intimate with anyone since him.”

  I want to tell Alex that it’s the same for me, too. I want to tell her that Grace is only a memory and that I was—am—still married. That it’s over. That I cannot touch Alex in ways I want to touch her, be with her, until she’s all right with moving on—and Grace is out of the picture completely.

  “Look, I leave here in three weeks. I’ll write the book, and we won’t have to do this whole awkward dance around each other.”

  I don’t have words to fill the silence between us right now because I’m partly confused, but partly, I expected this. Right? I mean, she’s here to do a job. I’m here to give her some assistance. The part I’m confused about is, does she think I want her gone? It’s quite the opposite.

  You did tell her no last night, Eli.

  Does she really believe I don’t want to see her anymore? Does she think she’s a nuisance?

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Look, Eli, you don’t owe me an explanation.”

  I don’t want to say things and confuse her. So, I don’t answer her.

  Because, really, what I want to say is, I want to give you time to fall in love with me. And, sometimes, timing is the goddamn devil.

  “Pop?” I push the door open for Alex.

  “In here,” he says from the kitchen. “About time you got here. I was just about—” He stops. “Oh, you must be Alex, the writer.” My dad tosses the dish towel over his shoulder and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Brand.”

  “You have a beautiful home, Brand.” She looks around at the various head mounts on the wall.

  It’s the home I grew up in. Absolutely nothing has changed since I was ten. It’s the same exact house, same decor, as when Mom left.

  “What can I help with, Pop?” I move toward the stove and check the meat. “Can I get you something to drink, Alex?”

  “Just water, please.”

  “Talked to Merit today. Coming home for Thanksgiving,” Pop says, stirring the rice on the stove. “Will you be joining us for Thanksgiving, Alex? We’d love to have you.”

  “No, Pop, she’s heading back to California in a few weeks.” The only reason I say this is so that she doesn’t have to feel awkward. I say it as if she were moving across town. I say it so that it sounds unforced, natural, even though every fiber of me wants to tell her to stay.

  “What part of California does Merit live in?” Alex asks.

  “Oh, they have that big aquarium back there. The one with all the otters. What’s it called, Eli?”

  “Monterey Bay Aquarium.” I hand Alex her glass of water.

  “Yeah, Monterey. Loves it. Doesn’t come back home too often.” Pop smiles with his eyes.

  My dad has always been the provider, the worker. Even at seventy, he still brings in the wood and takes care of the ten acres he lives on. Refuses to slow down.

  I like the way my dad is with Alex. Casual. Unafraid to ask questions. He wasn’t this way at all with Grace. Maybe Grace felt the tension. Pop never said anything about it. But I noticed.

  “You keep this property up all by yourself, Brand?” she asks.

  “Yes.” He turns off the rice while I grab three plates from the cupboard. “Take four out. Talked to Ryan in town. He’s going to try to swing by.” Pop sets a slab of moose meat and rice on the table. “Grab the cornbread from the oven, would you, Striker?”

  “I’ll do it.” Alex jumps in, grabs the mitt from my hand, gives me a wink, and takes out the cornbread. “Shall I slice it up, Brand?”

  “You shall. And grab the green beans would you, too, son?”

  “So, Striker, what’s with the nickname?” Alex smirks, trying not to laugh, looking up at me.

  “You gonna tell the story, Eli, or you want me to tell the story?” Pop asks.

  “Pop, your version is about an hour longer than mine, so I’ll tell it. My first year on the mound in baseball. I was about eight. I pitched most of the game. And, after the game, the other coach came up to me and said, ‘You’re quite the pitcher, Eli.’ And I said, ‘No, I’m a striker.’” I shrug. “Nickname stuck.”

  Pop explodes with laughter until tears start to come. “It was so cute, Alex. He didn’t have any front teeth and lisped when he said it. Oh”—he uses his fingers to wipe the tears away—“it was so goddamn funny.”

  I enjoy watching Alex laugh as she joins in with my dad. It makes me laugh.

  Alex, Pop, and I set the table, and we’re about to sit down to eat.

  “Well, I’d say someone cooked an incredible meal in here,” Ryan says as he walks in, but there’s an edge to it. “Alex, nice to see you. Brand.”

  “You’re just in time. Come on, have a seat. And you owe a dollar. You’re late,” Pop jokes.

  Ryan laughs as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket. “Two dollars, sir.” He places them in the jar up on top of the fridge.

  Pop keeps an ongoing jar for dinnertime. If you�
�re late, you owe a dollar. Guess he knows he can make a fortune off of game wardens. Pop retired from the Maine Warden Service after thirty years, so he knows the hours can be grueling, oftentimes unpredictable. I know the money is going back to us in the end.

  “Mind if I steal Eli before we sit down to eat?” Ryan still has his uniform on, which means he’s not through working. That means what he has to discuss with me is work-related.

  Alex and Pop begin to eat, and I follow Ryan outside to the porch.

  “What’s going on?”

  Ryan grabs the back of his neck and stares at the ground. “Found another body part.”

  “What? How come you didn’t call me?” I pull my phone from my pocket.

  “Like there’s something you can do? Eli, you have a day off. Take it. They don’t come that often.”

  “What happened?”

  “Camden Hills Campground. The campground closed for the season on October 7. Park ranger discovered a woman’s finger next to another black bear late this morning.”

  “DNA back on the breast? Same woman?”

  “We don’t know yet. Should know something later in the week.”

  “I let Alex go home today for a while.” I’m more talking to myself than anyone. Rubbing my forehead with my hand, I pace. “Did we get any hits on local missing person cases?”

  “A few. One in New Hampshire and a few out of Massachusetts. We won’t know until we can get the DNA back.”

  “I should go in tonight.”

  “Oh, really, Superman? Because you’re going to take down this crazy fucker overnight?”

  A loud crash inside makes Ryan and me jump and run inside.

  Alex is hunched over my dad, checking for a pulse, leaning over his mouth to feel or hear if he’s breathing. “He just collapsed, Eli.” Panic is clear in her voice.

  Ryan calls an ambulance.

  It’s been a long fucking night. Ryan went home to change and take a shower. Alex is asleep in the chair next to me, hunched over her jacket. I want to reach out and put my hand on her back, thank her for staying, but I don’t.

  A tall blonde comes through the waiting room doors, luggage in hand. Her eyes are tired, the color of red embers. She stalks toward me. My mind doesn’t comprehend what I’m seeing in front of me.