by Toni Blake
Both Allie and Dahlia looked in the general direction Suzanne pointed in the crowd, but Dahlia reminded her, “Everyone’s holding a kite today.”
“The hot pink one,” Suzanne said. “Who’s that delicious confection of a man?”
Allie focused on the handsome dishwater blond guy talking with Meg Sloan and Zack Sheppard across the lawn, and said dryly, “That would be Trent.”
“Oh,” Suzanne said. Then, “Wow. He’s…phenomenally hot.”
Allie sighed, something in her solar plexus warming despite herself. “Tell me about it.”
“Got even better with age,” Dahlia commented.
Allie felt Suzanne’s cautious sideways glance slide her way. “Are you sure you two couldn’t, you know, somehow work things out? Because not taking advantage of all that man has to offer seems like a waste to me.”
“Yep, I’m sure.” She left out having already taken advantage of at least some of what he had to offer, still torn between how amazing it had been and how deeply it was going to haunt her for the foreseeable future. And she had no idea why he was holding a heart-shaped kite—covered with writing of some kind—but maybe one of the kids had needed last-minute help with theirs or something.
Though that didn’t matter. What mattered was what she now told her two friends. “The guy left me high and dry ten years ago without a word. So even if I’ve forgiven him for it—I can’t forget about it. I mean, it devastated me. Took me forever to get over it. I can’t put myself at risk that way again.”
* * *
TRENT HAD BEGUN to feel like Summer Island was made of quicksand. Like he was sinking here, and every way he fought against it only made it worse. First, the whole closing debacle—he hadn’t heard from Linda in days and she wasn’t returning his calls. And then there was Allie. He was falling for her all over again, and last night had sealed it. The only problem with that being how she wanted nothing to do with him. Yep, he was in over his head here—what had started out seeming like a simple trip to sell a house and get over the past in the bargain had ended up swallowing him whole.
So what was he doing about it? Struggling some more—against that quicksand. And it would probably do no good at all. But he’d done a lot of thinking last night and decided he had to at least try to get what he wanted out of life—and that while he had taken some wrong turns and detours, he finally knew what that was. And hell, even if the quicksand consumed him, he wouldn’t go down without a fight.
And that fight had led him to the Fourth of July Kite Fly on the southeastern tip of the island, where he stood making small talk with Meg, who’d just introduced him to Dahlia’s nephew, Zack. Small world here on Summer Island. “I think your aunt told me you were a fisherman?” Trent asked the other man.
Zack, who sported slightly curly brown hair and a weathered yet chiseled sort of face, offered a short nod. “Catch lake whitefish, mostly in Huron. Eco problems have made it a tough industry these days, but it’s all I know. I’m on the water from April to November. Just home for a few days right now to grab some supplies and see Meg.” He then dropped his gaze to the kite Trent held. “Made a kite for today, huh?”
Trent was pretty sure Zack didn’t make kites—a guy’s guy to the bone. “When in Rome…” he said by way of explanation. “And Meg was kind enough to offer up some supplies.”
She shrugged. “A few of the other guests were interested in making them, too, so I bought some materials and everyone put them together on the patio this morning.”
“Got stuck with a pink tablecloth, I see,” Zack observed.
Trent just chuckled lightly. “It’s kind of an old tradition with…a friend I hope to run into here today.”
“Trent! Trent!”
Hearing his name called, he spun to see Linda Weatherby rushing toward him. In plaid walking shorts and a sweater set, it was the first time he’d seen her outside of a navy business suit, but she still struck him as being stuck in a slightly bygone fashion era.
“I was just about to call you. Good news! I just hung up with the buyer’s agent. Poor man’s finally on the mend and we’re set for tomorrow afternoon. He’s driving up in the morning and we’ll meet at my office at three. Isn’t that great?”
“Yes—it’s a relief. If it really happens.”
Linda put her hands on her hips in a playfully scolding way. “Now, let’s not be negative. I know this has been fraught with problems, but I’m sure tomorrow it will all come together.”
“It kinda has to,” he told her, “since tomorrow’s Friday and I’m due back in Chicago on Monday. I’ll be leaving this weekend, whether the house closes or not.” Of course, a lot had changed for him, and in fact, he was no longer really all that eager to leave. And God knew he hadn’t gotten any closure here—more like the opposite. Part of him was holding out for a miracle, but unless one occurred, he would have to return to his job next week. Even if he’d started realizing it wasn’t necessarily the life he wanted, it was the one he’d built—for now anyway.
Linda gave him more assurances about the closing, after which they chatted about kites, and fireworks, and the hot dog stand set up across the way. When he spotted Allie, near the gazebo with Dahlia and another woman, he told Linda he had to go—and made a beeline for his ex-fiancée.
That was the precise moment she spotted him too, looked horrified, and promptly broke away from the other ladies to go marching off in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible.
When he reached the party of two, he said to Dahlia on a sigh, “She’s obviously as crazy about me as ever.”
“Maybe she is,” the woman at Dahlia’s side suggested. Then held out her hand. “I’m Suzanne, by the way.”
As he shook Suzanne’s hand, Dahlia told him, “Don’t mind Allie—sometimes the girl doesn’t know what’s good for her.”
He shrugged, getting used to the quicksand. “It’s okay—she has every right to keep her distance from me if she wants.”
“Just between you and me,” Dahlia said, leaning forward slightly, “I’d hoped you two might patch things up.”
There was a lot he could say about that, but he kept it simple. “Guess it’s not to be.” He’d always heard death by drowning was easier if you surrendered to it—maybe quicksand was the same way. He’d planned to take a shot at reclaiming the happiness he’d once let slip away, but it took two to want it—and one of the two had just gone darting away from him like a woman on fire. Looked like no miracles today.
“Well, Suzanne and I will keep you company,” Dahlia said, then glanced down. “Say, that’s a nice kite.”
“I made it for Allie,” he confessed, “and was hoping to give it to her—but guess I’ll be flying it without her.”
* * *
THAT NIGHT, ALLIE sat on a blanket in Lakeview Park with Josh’s wife, Michelle, and their two girls, watching fireworks burst and sparkle overhead. The little girls oohed and ahhed. Allie had learned with relief that Josh’s mom, who she’d known her whole life, was home from the hospital after an emergency appendectomy, and Josh would return to the island tomorrow.
Earlier, she’d watched the kite fly, celebrating cute little Mimi’s win in the kids’ division—and making sure to stay away from Trent the whole time. Though her eyes had been drawn repeatedly to his kite. She wondered what it said—small writing spanned the entire heart-shaped space. It looked like their kite from ten years ago, but not exactly—leaving her thankful. If he’d put their names on it, made it an exact replica, it might have shattered her. As it was, she’d held strong. Though it would be easier when he was finally gone.
Returning her focus to the cascades of light exploding and dripping down through a dark sky on a clear summer night, she sent up a fresh burst of gratitude for her life here, and for everything that made Summer Island home. It could have been more perfect—love, a family, a companion to go through li
fe with, all would have made it…well, more like what she’d expected and what she supposed most young girls hoped for. And Trent had unfortunately reminded her of that this past week. But she still had an incredible life. And now I just need to get him back out of my system. And hope it doesn’t take forever. And hope I don’t die an old woman still loving him and pining for him.
She hated having been so cold toward him. But all that getting over him and pining for him business had left her no choice. She simply couldn’t get in any deeper, and every single moment with him did that, drew her further into the attachment, made her more in love—with the boy he’d been then and the man he’d become.
As the fireworks finale blasted overhead, and then ended, the sky going quiet and dark, the crowd in the park applauded, then began standing up, folding their blankets, collecting children and belongings to disperse back toward their homes or inns or hotels. Another Summer Island Fourth of July in the books. Allie said goodbye to Michelle and the girls, waved to her parents across the way, then headed toward her bike at the park’s edge.
She’d just wrapped her fists around the handlebars and lifted the kickstand—when a hand closed over her shoulder.
She turned to see Trent.
Then sucked in her breath.
Because he was so…everything. Hot, like Suzanne said, but also handsome and sexy and sweet, and blessed with the most beautiful blue eyes. And her responses to just seeing him were becoming…more impactful. Each time. Which was why this was bad, bad, bad.
“Allie, I know you’ve been avoiding me all day, so I’m sorry to bother you…but I have to think it’s because you care, not because you don’t.”
“It’s…self-protection, Trent.” That simple.
His sigh sounded sad—but maybe resigned. “I understand.” Then he pressed his mouth into a firm, straight line and raised the upside-down heart-shaped kite to say, “I made this for you.”
The sentiment tugged at her heart, yet she had to stay tough. “That’s nice, but…”
“Please take it,” he said. “You can throw it away if you want—just please take it.”
“But…”
“Please.”
She pursed her lips. She didn’t want the kite—she already had too much to remember him by. Though maybe she’d just do what he’d said and throw it away—whatever it took to end this conversation. “Fine.” She accepted the kite from him, making sure their hands didn’t touch in the process. No more touching. No more anything.
“The closing is tomorrow,” he told her.
God, why should that sting? When she wanted him to go? But it did. Like a tiny little puncture wound right in her soul. Though she swallowed back the lump in her throat to say, “Then I guess this is officially goodbye. I hope you have a nice life—I really do.” After which she crammed the kite into her bike’s basket and pedaled away as quickly as she could.
* * *
SHE WASN’T GOING to bother reading whatever was written on the kite because it didn’t matter. And in an effort to move on with her life once and for all, she left it in the basket when she got home—then went inside, took a shower, and put on her coziest summer pajamas. Cozy seemed in order right now—even the smallest comfort would be welcome.
But as she curled up on the couch, she changed her mind. No, she shouldn’t just leave the kite out there in the basket. Because she’d have to see it tomorrow and be reminded of it all over again.
So she slid her feet into furry slippers, walked out into the cool night air, grabbed up the kite, and walked it to the large garbage can at the side of the cottage. Removing the lid, she shoved the kite inside atop a full trash bag from her kitchen and a pizza box. The lights from her windows burned just bright enough that as she started to put the lid back in place, her eyes fell on the words still love you.
Her heartbeat doubled. Was she really not going to read this now? Was she? Could she be that strong?
Oh, who was she kidding? Of course she wasn’t.
Heart pounding wildly now, she yanked the kite from the garbage and rushed back around the house, sitting down in the wicker chair on her small front porch, an outdoor light beaming down from above. And she began to read.
Dear Allie, I’m not sure about much in my life these days, but I’m sure I still love you. And I’m sure I love this place. And I’m sure I could be happy with you if we can just put the past behind us. I want to stay here with you. I want to buy the bicycle livery, and maybe open a law practice in the office above it. Who knows, maybe someone on Summer Island will need a lawyer someday. And if not, bicycles and you will be a grand enough life for me. I know what happened ten years ago was horrible, and I know now how it hurt you, and I realize I handled it all wrong. It’s my greatest regret. But I’m older now, and a hell of a lot wiser, and I promise if you give me a chance, I’ll never hurt you again. If you can’t forgive me, I understand. But if you think there’s any chance for us, any chance at all, meet me at the lighthouse tomorrow night at dusk. If you’re not there, I’ll take the last ferry back and will never bother you again. But either way, I love you forever. Trent
CHAPTER TEN
ANOTHER NEARLY SLEEPLESS night had led to a tired day at the knitting shop. Where she’d stayed mostly in her office on the second floor, feeling useless in terms of work, her stomach tied in knots.
Now she sat at home at her kitchen table with a cup of soup, staring out the window at the East Bend Lighthouse. And doing the same thing she’d been doing since late last night, replaying that letter in her head.
Trent had offered to stay. Said he wanted to stay. Here. With her. Forever.
They were bold—not to mention unexpected—statements. He had a job to return to, after all. His mission here had been temporary. He had a life in Chicago. How much stock could she put in the pretty words on that kite?
Was he wiser? Or was he ultimately a man who tossed around promises without realizing the weight they held? He didn’t seem like that kind of guy—and as a lawyer surely he had to be grounded, practical, responsible. And yet she’d had complete and perfect faith in him when they were twenty-one—which had turned out to be misplaced.
And was he serious? That he really wanted to stay here forever? Because that hadn’t been the plan when they were young, and it was a unique life, one not every person was cut out for—so did he truly even understand what he was promising her? And what if this was like before—promises made in earnest but which he’d be easily swayed from in the end? How could she trust that enough to put her whole future happiness back into his hands?
Funny how the letter had been on that kite all day, while he’d carried it around, while he’d flown it in the sky up above all those eyes, and yet no one had read it until she had last night. Funny how something could be right in front of you but you still don’t see it until you really look.
The late day light had gone flat, dull—the sun would set before long. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Not that the hour really mattered. Because she couldn’t go. She couldn’t.
To go would be madness. To trust him again, based on only a few days and a garbled set of circumstances from ten years ago that they still hadn’t completely managed to sort out, would be madness.
Back then, she’d thought she’d known him, understood him—her faith in their love had been so very solid and real to her. But what was real now? The promises on the kite—were they real? What about his claims of his ex-wife meaning so little to him—was that real? To hear him tell it, Allie had never ceased being important to him, all this time. But how could she know if that was real? Or if it was simply what he wanted her to believe? Or maybe something he himself believed but wasn’t actually true?
And with questions like that floating in the Summer Island air—leaving her with no idea what was reality and what was fabrication—how could she ever trust him again? Or even trust her own
judgment, for that matter?
Looking out on the top of the lighthouse from her window, her eyes fell on the platform where they’d had sex. She let out a small gasp, flinching in shock. The encounter had felt so private and hidden, but oh my God—who knew what other windows tucked away on the wooded island hillsides might also point in that direction?
Part of her thought hers was the only one. She knew this island like the back of her hand, after all. And she’d bought this house for a reason—a few reasons actually, but the lighthouse was one of them. Still, this little revelation took yet one more bite out of her vision of reality and what she’d thought to be irrefutable fact. She’d thought they were secluded up there, while clearly the truth had been something else. She peered out on that platform every day of her life—apparently without really seeing it.
She took a sip of her coffee, recalling the desire that couldn’t be pushed down, rising up in her like wildfire. And how safe she’d felt with him the other night. Safe to let him see her every passion. Safe even outside on a high, thin railing twenty or thirty feet off the ground. And safe emotionally—because it was Trent, and all else aside, she’d always felt comfortable being herself with him: her vulnerable self, her brave self, and every self in between.
Of course, that emotional safety had fled the scene afterward—when she’d started thinking again. While he’d been inside her, filling her with pleasure, everything had been good, right, perfect—and only when thought entered the picture had it sent her running.
Maybe you think too much. Maybe that abandonment ten years ago was to blame for it—or maybe you’ve always been that way. But maybe you think too much.
Maybe following your heart, following your bliss, without all that thinking, would ultimately make you happier.
Maybe.
That was when she got up from the table and went to find a comfy pair of flip-flops, good for walking.
She moved methodically, not letting herself think—grabbing her keys, shoving her cell phone in the back pocket of her denim shorts, and walking out the front door to then lock it behind her.
