Hearing the bite in his tone, I realized my dad was kind of pissed about that and had been holding it in. It distracted me from the thought of Michael taking care of me from a distance. “Dad, I’m sorry. All I seem to do is worry you.”
“I’m a parent.” His eyes shadowed with grief. “Who’s already lost one kid. Believe me, you could be living the safest, happiest life and I’d still worry about you.”
My heart ached for him. He was always so strong that sometimes I forgot he dealt with Dillon’s loss every day too. And it was every day. I knew that. The intense, suffocating pain of grief could lessen and dull over the years, but it never went away. Especially not for a parent. I knew Dillon was always with my mom and dad.
“Will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” he promised, and I knew he meant it.
“Do you think …” I hesitated, hoping I wasn’t out of line with my next question. “Do you think you might consider dating?” After Darragh mentioned it, I’d thought about it a lot. I’d decided it would be a travesty if Dad didn’t date. My parents had us young, so my dad was only in his mid-fifties, and he could definitely pass for his mid-to-late forties. And he was amazing. “Maybe get yourself a hot, young thing?” I teased. “And by young, I mean a maximum of twenty years younger than you.”
Dad gave a huff of laughter. “You think a woman Darragh’s age is going to be interested in me?”
“Dad, don’t be self-deprecating. You know you look good.”
“And you’re advocating that I date a younger woman?” he grinned.
“Yes! Why not? I have done the dating thing. After years of terrible dates with guys my age or younger, I moved up ten years, and they’re still morons. You’ll be catnip to women Darragh’s age, Dad. Trust me.”
My father seemed amused by this, but I could also see the wheels turning in his head, and I smirked to myself. I wasn’t trying to drive the wedge deeper between him and my mom. No, I only wanted him to be happy. Maybe dating someone with fewer issues than Sorcha McGuire would be a welcome change for him.
“Will you think about it?”
He gave me a small nod. “I’ll think about it.”
“Dermot can set you up on the dating apps but whatever you do, do not take any dating advice from him.”
He snorted. “He’s my son, Dahlia. I already know to switch off when he talks about women.”
We shared a chuckle, and I almost thought I got away with changing the subject. Very naïve of me.
“So, Michael?” he asked abruptly.
“Oh, Dad.”
“You don’t want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing left to talk about. We got a lot off our chests last night.” I studied my mug, trying not to blush at how much we’d “gotten off our chests.” “Ultimately, although we both have a clearer picture of what happened, we decided there are too many issues between us to move forward. Plus, Michael lives here, and I live in Hartwell. The long-distance thing on top of our issues is a disaster waiting to happen.”
Dad didn’t bother to ask if I’d think about moving back to Boston. He knew I loved my family, but he also knew I was genuinely happy living in Hartwell, making and selling my jewelry.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. You know I care about Michael. I would like you to have someone like him in your life. I’m not worried about you being alone anymore,” he hurried to say. “You’re strong and independent, and I couldn’t be prouder of you. I just want you to find someone.”
“I promise to try if you promise.”
Dad grinned, his dimple indenting his left cheek. “I promise.”
I got up and hugged him. He held onto my arm and leaned into me when I kissed his cheek.
“I can’t wait for Christmas. It’s so nice to be excited about coming home.”
“It’s so nice to know you’ll be coming home.”
Hearing the gruffness in his voice, I hugged my dad harder.
At that moment, I felt nothing but peace, and I breathed even easier than I had yesterday.
Hartwell
Three Months Later
It was still dark when I let myself into Hart’s Inn, the large beautiful building next door to my gift shop. Architecturally, Bailey’s inn was similar to my store. They were both clad in white-painted shingles, and each had a porch. However, Bailey’s porch was a wraparound and mine was not. Bailey’s inn also had two balconies off two of the guest rooms at the front overlooking the North Atlantic, and there was a widow’s walk on the top floor. The inn was massive compared to my gift store, and my place wasn’t tiny.
The days were short in February, and the weather was cold. We were at the beginning of the month and hadn’t been able to break past forty-three degrees yet. Closing the stained glass door behind me, I shut out the smell of salty sea air I loved so much and wasn’t surprised to find Bailey at reception to greet me. She only had two rooms rented, but she was an early riser and liked to be ready in case her guests were too.
“Guests are still abed,” she said without preamble.
“The coffee’s ready, though, right?” In truth, Emery made the best coffee in town, but her place wasn’t open yet.
“And Nicky’s in the kitchen this morning, so we have pastries, pastries, and more pastries.”
While Mona was the main chef at the inn, Nicky was the sous/pastry chef, and her treats were to die for. I groaned. “You know I’ve been good since Christmas. Don’t tempt me.”
“You look great,” she scoffed.
“Says the woman who never seems to gain a pound even though she’s thirty-five this year. Your metabolism is supposed to slow down, you know.”
“I’d say that bitterness sounds a lot like envy, but I know that can’t be right considering I would kill for your figure.”
I made a face as I sat at the table Bailey gestured to. We were total physical opposites, and I guessed it was true what they said: you always wanted what you didn’t have. “Well, I put on ten pounds over Christmas. Dad feeds me like he’s trying to fatten me up for the whole year.”
“I thought you said you’d lost those ten pounds?”
“On a cleanse, yes. And I don’t want to put them back on.” It was a constant battle of balance for me. I’d always been curvy, but I’d never had a weight problem per se until I turned thirty and could no longer eat that extra candy bar without it ballooning out my ass! Now it was a case of not denying myself but watching that I didn’t overindulge.
I glared balefully at the plate of mini-pastries Bailey put on the table. “This is just mean.”
“Oh, shut up and eat.” She sat down as she placed our coffee mugs on the table.
I took the one she offered and watched as she delved straight into the pastries.
Usually, my ear would be hot from my best friend trying to talk it off, but Bailey had been distracted for weeks. She was worried about Ivy.
“Spoken to Ivy lately?”
She grimaced. “Ivy’s still doing the hermit thing at her mom and dad’s.”
After the police closed the case on Oliver Frost as a heroin overdose, Iris and Ira packed up an emotionally destroyed Ivy and brought her home to Hartwell. Bailey was convinced there was more to the story. Iris and Ira had aired their concerns over the last few years about how distant Ivy had grown with everyone. They’d never liked Oliver. I suspected they suspected some kind of abuse, but that was merely speculation on my part. I think Bailey had similar suspicions, but neither of us had said it out loud. You never knew who was listening in. I loved Hartwell, but it was a small town and rumors spread like wildfire.
Bailey scowled. “Did you know Ian Devlin asked the Greens if they were considering selling the pizzeria so they could concentrate on their daughter’s needs? Direct quote!”
I made a noise of disgust. “That man is a vulture. Every time someone has something vaguely horrible happen to them, he swoops in to manipulate them when they’re vulnerable.”
“He’s th
e devil,” Bailey decided. “I’m convinced of it.”
Maybe she wasn’t far off the mark. Ian Devlin had four sons and a daughter. No one had seen or heard from Rebecca Devlin in a few years. She’d left town for reasons unknown and had not returned.
I didn’t blame her. I hadn’t known her well, but she seemed to be a sweet person, which would make her the complete opposite of her siblings. Well, the youngest Devlin, Jamie, was only eleven years old and hopefully played no part in the devious plans of his three older brothers and father.
We ate in silence for a while and then Bailey said, “That new restaurant couldn’t be opening at a worse time for Iris and Ira.”
Bailey was referring to George Beckwith’s old tourist gift store. He used to sell the traditional Hartwell tourist stuff I secretly considered junk. However, tourists wanted the mugs and rock candy, keyrings, postcards, and all that jazz. So when he sold his store to a fancy French chef who used to work in New York, I’d incorporated the traditional gifts into my store.
Iris and Ira were worried when they learned George’s boardwalk property was being converted into a restaurant. Although I hadn’t glimpsed the enigmatic owner and chef, Bailey had. She begrudgingly admitted he was a good-looking son of a bitch. His name was Sebastian Mercier. The sign had just gone up for the restaurant, and it was called The Boardwalk, which was decidedly unpretentious. We all thought it would be some fancy-ass place that wouldn’t fit in, but apparently, Mercier was smarter than that.
“You said it will be a seafood restaurant, Lobster and all that stuff. That won’t cut into Antonio’s.” Iris and Ira weren’t Italian, but they did good Italian food in their pizzeria.
“It will.” Bailey shrugged. “Any other restaurant opening on the boardwalk will cut into their profits no matter what style of food it is. People who don’t want to wander off the boardwalk or want a meal with a view will have options now.”
“I still don’t think it’ll impact them as badly as they think. Not everyone likes seafood. Almost everyone loves Italian.”
“Hmm. Well, that may be true, but they’re still worried. They’re still stressed about it on top of worrying about Ivy. The last thing they need is Devlin harassing them.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I only wished there was more we could do to stop Ian Devlin from being such a pain in this town’s backside.
Bailey groaned. “God, I’m such a bad friend. I’ve been so distracted for weeks I haven’t even asked how you’re doing?”
Bailey had been anxious about my return to Boston for Christmas considering the way I’d left things with my mom and Michael. Thankfully, the trip home had been uneventful. I spent all my time with my family. We had a great Christmas together. I never heard from Mom or Michael. The former was a good thing. And I knew the latter was too. It was just harder to convince myself of that. I’d told him to let me go. He’d done it.
It was the right thing.
“I’m fine.” I did not divulge that I still dreamed about Michael. Hot, sweaty dreams that were driving me crazy with frustration and longing.
“Jess and Emery said you’re avoiding talking about it. You know I haven’t said anything about all the stuff that’s gone down with your family. I will, however, reiterate to you that if you don’t want to tell Emery, please consider talking to Jess. I think you two will find you have a lot in common.”
“Bailey, I’m moving on.” I didn’t intend to sound so short. I gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m moving on, and I’m happy. I don’t want to keep emotionally and mentally going back to that place. I’m good. I promise.”
If she wasn’t convinced, that wasn’t my issue and I was ignoring it.
After she’d fed me and given me coffee to start my day, I still had time before I opened the store. I kept different hours during the off-season because of the shorter days, which meant I had more time to myself. Bidding Bailey goodbye, I made her promise to call me if she needed me. These days she didn’t need me so much. She had Vaughn, and I was happy for her. I was. Yet I couldn’t help thinking maybe I should keep my promise to my dad and actively try to move on and find someone I could lean on too. Perhaps then I’d stop dreaming about the man I’d left behind.
Needing basics from the grocery store, I made the short walk to Main Street, bundled in my winter coat against the harsh wind off the ocean, and stopped in at Lanson’s.
I was lost in my own musings as I walked the aisles with a basket in hand when I overheard someone mention the sheriff. Sheriff-related news made my ears prick up, alert to any mention of Jeff, so I turned my head slightly and saw Ellen Luther talking to Liv, the receptionist at the doctor’s surgery where Jess worked.
“A detective?” Liv gawked. “You’re sure?”
Ellen nodded, her eyes alight with the joy of spreading news someone else hadn’t yet heard. “That’s right. You know Bridget, the station receptionist, well, she and I do knit night once a week, and she was telling me last night that Sheriff King has hired some fancy police detective from Boston to run the county’s Criminal Investigation Division.”
“Is this about those rumors that there’s something funny going on at the department?”
Ellen nodded eagerly. “No one’s saying it, but it’s got to be why they’ve hired this guy. Bridget says he is very handsome. Very. His name is Matthew or Michael something. Oh gosh, she told me his name. I’m getting so forgetful. I think it was Irish.”
My ears buzzed with a rush of blood as I turned away from the biggest gossip in Hartwell and her eager audience of one. I shook my head, feeling my knees tremble.
No.
I dropped my basket, feeling my stomach roil. He wouldn’t. It was merely a coincidence. He wouldn’t.
He let me go.
Hurrying out of the grocery store, I sucked in a lungful of cold sea air.
It wasn’t enough.
I needed to know.
Rummaging through my purse, I yanked my phone out with shaking fingers and scrolled through my contacts to Michael. Dermot had texted me his number not long after I left Boston at Thanksgiving, and even though I told my brother I was deleting it, I never did. Hitting the call button, I felt nauseated waiting for Michael to pick up. I heard the click, and my breath caught.
“Hello?”
My eyes squeezed closed at the sound of his voice, the deep, beautiful rumble of it in my ear. Just that one word made my cheeks flush and my heart pound.
“Hello?” he repeated.
“Michael?”
He hesitated a second. “Dahlia?”
I stared up the street toward the ocean feeling stupid for calling him. Of course, he hadn’t taken a job in Hartwell. Now he would think I was nuts!
“Did you call for a reason?” His question was broken by the wind whistling through our connection, but I caught the gist.
“What are you doing right now?” I blurted out.
He gave a huff of laughter like he couldn’t believe I’d called him to randomly ask him what he was doing. And I didn’t blame him for his disbelief. “I’m about to start work.”
“I thought you were on night shift.” That suspicion crept in again. “Where are you about to start work?”
He was quiet, and then I heard, clear as day, not through the phone, but from behind me, “Hartwell.”
The breath expelled from my body, and for a moment I froze, afraid to turn around. I could feel him all around me. And like the magnets we were, I was forced to move, to turn, to face him.
He was as beautiful as I remembered.
The only difference was his unshaven face, his hair was slightly longer, and he wore a warmer coat than the one he’d worn in Boston. He kept it open, however, with a black scarf wrapped around his neck. I could see the police badge clipped to the belt threaded through his dark jeans.
Oh my God.
I took an involuntary step toward him. “Michael?”
His eyes were shadowed with a million emotions. “Sorry I took so long.
Uprooting your life takes longer than you’d think.”
I shook my head, completely discombobulated. “What are you talking about?”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “You left me again. But this time I’m not letting you go.”
Fear, outrage, confusion, panic.
It all bristled through me as I stormed down Main Street toward the boardwalk. Michael’s arm brushed mine as he fell into step beside me. It was frustrating that my quick steps were matched by his longer, slower ones.
“Dahlia, talk to me.” His voice was as calm as his strides.
“I can’t. I’m afraid I’ll scream.”
“Then scream.”
I didn’t. I sped up.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He grabbed my arm, halting me by the bandstand at the top of the street. Dawn had well and truly broken, and people were making their way to work. We were not alone, and I did not want to cause a scene. “Talk to me.”
Realizing if this man was determined enough to uproot his whole goddamn life (oh my God, I couldn’t even think about it!), then he was stubborn enough to keep at me until I talked. “Not here.” I yanked my hand out of his grasp. “And no touchy, no feely!”
A smirk curled the corners of his mouth, and I narrowed my eyes. Please tell me he did not find this amusing! If he found anything remotely funny about this, I would kill him.
With a growl of annoyance, I spun away and marched toward the boardwalk path that would lead to my gift store. Michael fell easily into step beside me again.
I hated how alive I felt. The truth was I must have been sleepwalking through life all this time because whenever Michael appeared, I was suddenly wide awake. My skin tingled, my heart raced, and no matter how I felt toward him in the moment, there was always this hum of anticipation in the air.
Goddamn him!
Thankfully my hands didn’t shake too much as I unlocked the front door to my shop. I flicked on the lights and locked the door behind Michael as he stepped inside. My wedged boot heels made a dull, soft sound across the blue-painted floorboards but Michael’s footsteps echoed loudly as he wandered around the store. When his footsteps stopped, I turned in the doorway that led to my workshop. He was staring into one of my tall glass display cabinets where my jewelry sat nestled on black velvet trays.
Things We Never Said: A Hart's Boardwalk Novel Page 19
