The morning sun hadn’t made its first appearance over the wide berth of the bay when Marie closed the front door behind her. The latch fell into place with a soft snick, and she tiptoed down the steps in case her movement inside had stirred Jack or Seth.
She closed her eyes and sniffed the air. The breeze carried a familiar scent, but not quite like the Atlantic shore she’d grown up with. Even the sound of the waves was different, the force of the sea a gentle rocking against the coastline. She could hear the waves from wherever they lapped at the beach, singing a sweet song of peace.
The one thing she hadn’t been able to find in Boston after that night.
The waves called to her, and she let her feet guide her across the street and then down the set of stairs she’d seen Seth use on his ice cream run.
Oh, how she’d wanted to go with him, to treat herself to her favorite dessert, the one her Boston friends had considered too pedestrian. Her school friends were crème brûlée and tiramisu. And her father’s business partners were more edible gold than waffle cone.
After three long days, caged by the rain and surrounded by paint fumes, all she’d wanted was a scoop of strawberry on top of a classic sugar cone.
But she’d turned down the offer.
She stomped her running shoes harder than necessary on the boards worn smooth by thousands of feet, lit by the brilliant moon and fading lamplights.
Why had she refused Seth’s invitation?
He wasn’t a threat to her. A bit grumpy maybe. What had Jack called him? Sour milk? Yes, that was about right. He could certainly be sour, and she didn’t appreciate his nosy questions about her past. But those were easy enough to dodge. Besides, they would have been in public the entire time.
She’d sworn never again to put herself in a situation like New Year’s Eve. But this wasn’t the Old Liberty Hotel.
Her feet moved quicker, punishing the ground for her regrets.
And they hadn’t been sipping champagne for hours.
Sweat beaded across her upper lip, and she wiped her sleeve across it.
And she hadn’t gone to Seth’s room to see the view.
Her heart thudded, building speed to equal the rhythm of her feet, matching the echoes of her shoes.
And she hadn’t let him kiss her.
The wind chapped her lips, and she bit them together, pressing harder, pulling from somewhere deeper as the evergreen trees and a white gazebo flew past.
And Seth hadn’t pushed her onto his bed. And then again after she stood, trying to slip to the door.
She had ears only for the waves, only for the never-ending ebbs and flows.
And he hadn’t ripped the strap off her golden dress, sending a shower of beads across the hotel room’s carpet.
She squinted at a cluster of brightly painted buildings beginning to take shape ahead and leaned toward them. Her arms pumping faster and stronger. Her breaths coming sharper and harder.
He hadn’t whispered slurred commands to her to be quiet as he pawed at what was left of her dress.
Even when the wooden boardwalk turned into the paved road, she never stopped running. Answering the call of the waves. Craving that song she’d heard even a mile away and the peace it promised.
Seth hadn’t held her shoulders down, his forearm pressed against her throat.
Her shoe caught a patch of loose sand spread over the pavement, but she didn’t slow down as she crested the gentle hill before a white shoreline.
He hadn’t pushed his hand over her mouth and slapped her face when she bit him. Or ignored her sobs as she begged him to stop.
Seth hadn’t done any of those things. He wasn’t Derek.
She fell to her knees at the cusp of the wet sand. Through pinched eyelids, tears somehow managed to leak down her cheeks, mingling with the spray of the waves. Her heart still thumped painfully, and a familiar tightness in her chest promised another panic attack.
She sucked in several quick breaths, waiting for the air to turn off and the pain she knew so well to begin. She’d wait it out, kneeling before the lapping waves.
Pressing crossed hands to the base of her throat, she prayed the ache wouldn’t come. That it wouldn’t leave her more depleted than the memory had already.
Still she waited. It was useless. Prayer hadn’t stopped Derek from stealing her hope and leaving her broken. God hadn’t even been listening when her mom died. Maybe he just didn’t hear her anymore.
If he did hear her, he didn’t care enough about her pain to step in.
Once Father Niles, with his clipped British accent and handsome flourish of salt-and-pepper hair, had told her God was her heavenly Father. He’d compared God’s love for people to the love fathers have for their own kids.
That made sense. Her dad didn’t care much for her either. At least he didn’t care enough to stand by her when she’d tried to tell him the truth. He’d told her they’d find a way to make it right. And she’d believed him. She’d thought they would go to the police station together, that he’d hold her hand while she made her statement. Each time she suggested it, he told her it wasn’t the right time. They’d have to wait.
That was what she’d done. Despite her therapist’s encouragement to report the crime, she’d waited.
Until she’d overheard his phone call with Derek’s dad and the threat to use her pain as leverage for the land he wanted.
He’d picked a business deal over her, profit over his only child.
And she couldn’t wait anymore. She wouldn’t be a pawn in her father’s sick game.
If that was how God cared for her, no amount of prayer could stave off the dizziness and narrowed vision or the knot in her stomach. No amount of begging would heal what had been broken. No amount of crying would restore her heart.
If God was like her father, he cared only about himself.
She focused on the orange glow peeking over the horizon as it slowly broke free of the fog. As the sun rose, donning all of its pink and purple glory, she didn’t move. One little movement could trigger the attack, one hiccup could make the world black.
Then again, waiting helplessly for its imminent arrival wouldn’t make the assault any less painful or end any faster. Delaying the inevitable wasn’t her style. Better to just get it over with. So she took a slow breath through her mouth.
The misty air swirled inside her, filling her chest, pushing against the restrictive band.
Strange.
After exhaling through tight lips, she risked another breath that pushed even harder against the crushing pain in her chest.
With each gulp of air, the weight lifted until it vanished like the darkness as the sun displayed its power.
“Good morning.” Marie nearly jumped into the water at the sound of another voice. “Isn’t it beautiful today?”
She nodded mutely at the woman in a black wetsuit, who dipped her toe into the water before yanking it back quickly and wrapping her arms around her middle.
“It’s a bit cold, eh. But there’s nothing like the North Shore in the morning.” Her gaze was curious but kind as she nodded toward the water. “Are you swimming today?”
Marie shook her head, and the woman smiled widely before wading into the water. “Well then, have a good one.” Then she was gone, her flapping arms heading toward the end of the rock jetty the only trace of her.
Pushing to her feet, Marie stumbled in the loose sand and backed away from the waves with each easy breath. And they were so easy. Unencumbered by the usual tightness.
Her panic attack hadn’t come. For the first time in more than two months, her body hadn’t shut down at the very thought of Derek or hint of danger.
Maybe there was something special about this place. Just like the books had claimed.
She’d return to this spot, but she couldn’t linger just now. She hadn’t told Jack where she was going, and if she disappeared, he’d worry. And Seth would assume the worst of her—whatever he thought that was.
As she hurried back along the boardwalk, she took the time to soak in the island’s beauty. The majestic green trees thrived even this early in spring. And the sun reflected on the water, leaving the inlet a rich sapphire that belonged in the best Tiffany necklace money could buy. The sputtering hum of a fishing boat on the far side of the water set a rhythm for her slow jog, the whistle of the morning birds a bright soundtrack.
Prince Edward Island. It was at once everything that she had imagined as a child and far beyond anything she’d dared to hope.
Could any place be so beautiful and have the power to lift the weight of her nightmares and a father’s betrayal from her shoulders?
As she climbed the steps to view the Red Door Inn, she sighed. Only time would tell if the island’s magic held more than pretty views and rolling ocean swells. If they were to have the inn ready to open in two months, there would be little time to think about it.
She swept through the front door into the foyer, only realizing the force of the wind when she was free of it. Her cheeks stung in the warmth of the home as she hung up her jacket, thankful she’d left Boston with at least some protection from the elements. She’d only brought three pairs of pants and four tops. That was all that would fit into her backpack. Running away with a Louis Vuitton roller bag just hadn’t been inconspicuous or practical.
People always assumed that a woman with designer luggage would have more than three hundred dollars to her name. But that’s all the ATM had allowed her to take out before hopping that bus to Bangor. She didn’t need bus drivers asking why she was taking the bus toward Canada while raising their eyebrows about her bag. As far as the border agent who had checked her passport in Woodstock, New Brunswick, was concerned, she was just another tourist visiting his country, traveling in a bus full of the same. Anything more would have raised a few eyebrows.
And those sorts of things always had a way of getting back to her dad. He needed her in Boston, needed to dangle her in front of Derek Sr. He’d be looking for her, and flying under the radar meant giving up the amenities she’d long enjoyed.
Except she didn’t really miss them. Not at the Red Door.
She walked into the kitchen, surprised that she hadn’t heard the men’s voices, as they looked up over their cups of coffee.
“Up early?” Jack’s morning conversation was more clipped than usual.
She pointed over her shoulder. “Went for a run.”
Seth lifted his eyebrows. “So you found the boardwalk?”
What gave her away? She smoothed her hands over her wind-whipped hair and fought the urge to drop her gaze to the floor. That was what she would have done a week before. But today she’d already run more than two miles, seen the sun rise over the ocean, and conquered a panic attack.
It was going to be a good day. No matter what.
“We’re just making a plan for today.” From on top of his daily New York Times, Jack picked up a white sheet of paper, the simple kind she’d use in a printer. Or a typewriter.
Maybe she could track down a sheet of that and get to see the shiny black Underwood in action.
“What’s on the list?”
Jack pointed one corner of the paper in Seth’s direction. “He’s going to install a closet rod in the bedroom upstairs and finish the grout work in that first-floor bathroom.”
“I’m going to have to go pick up another tub of grout today.” Seth disappeared behind his mug, white curls of steam spiraling past his temples.
“What about you, Marie?”
She glanced toward the dining room. “I guess I’ll put another coat of paint in there. And then I thought I’d visit Aretha. After spending a day in the dining room, I realized that we don’t have any dishes or flatware. Maybe I can pick some out. And I can stop by the grocery store on my way home and pick up a few things.”
Seth’s eyes brightened, his brows disappearing into the wrinkles on his forehead. He looked surprised. Did he think she didn’t know how to fend for herself?
“Good. Good.” Jack nodded, scratching notes onto his list. “Been too long since we had enough decent food in the house.” He dug into his pocket and handed her several bills. “First week of work.”
He shoved the money at her, and despite suddenly numb fingers, she accepted it. The bills lying against her palm weren’t much, but they brought a smile to her face. She didn’t have a desk or her name on a door. She hadn’t swindled or coaxed this money from anyone. This was hers because she’d earned every penny.
Jack shoved another wad of cash at her. “And here’s for the grub.” Seth’s gaze came down heavily on her, but she did her best to ignore it. He couldn’t possibly be angry that she was going to stock their pantry. Then again, he might not appreciate it if she tried replacing his sour milk with something more fresh.
As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, upset at still being empty after a run. Marie chuckled, pressing her hand to her middle. “Maybe I’ll go shopping before I paint.”
Seth nodded, his eyes flat and the merest hint of a smile playing across his face. It was clear he didn’t feel it, but apparently he was trying. She offered him the same grin in response. She could try too.
He wasn’t Derek.
She blinked several times against the punch to her stomach and swallowed the bile that rose to the back of her throat.
It was best not to think about him. Best to forget Boston, except to stay a step ahead of it.
Folding the money carefully in half and then in half again, she backed toward the door. “I guess I’ll get going.”
“Do you want a ride?” Seth’s words were quiet and about as soft as cement. He wanted to offer her a ride about as much as he wanted to smile at her.
In spite of that apparent truth, the simple offer caught her off guard, and she bumped into the door in her hasty escape. Getting the groceries home would be a lot easier in his truck. It would also necessitate one-on-one time.
“No. Nope. I’m good.” Grabbing her jacket, she hurried outside before he could offer again.
She could spend time with him another day. No need to rush into these things. There would be plenty of togetherness between the auction and finishing painting.
As she hustled down the road, away from her beach, she yanked the zipper up to her chin. She’d been used to Boston cold, but PEI temperatures were an entirely new low.
She rounded the bend in the road at a pace that matched her frenzied run earlier. And just as her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten, the white bakery appeared.
A quick stop to see Caden couldn’t hurt.
Neither could a cinnamon roll.
The bell on the door jingled as Marie stepped inside.
“Be right there.” The voice didn’t belong to Caden or any other woman, the deep tones nearly rattling the shelves on the walls.
“Um . . .” Her gaze swept around the empty room three times. All with the same result. It was empty, and she was alone with another man—one she didn’t know. “No rush.”
Maybe she should just forget breakfast. She could get something to eat at the grocery store. She put her hand on the doorknob, ready to turn it, until the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar unfurled from the back room, keeping her feet grounded.
Suddenly the knob in her hand twisted, and the door swung open as she tumbled in its wake, still clinging to the handle.
“Whoa!” Caden jumped out of the way and then immediately reached out to steady Marie. Caden’s wide eyes didn’t overshadow her smile as Marie found her footing. Before she could move, Caden enveloped her in a hug that felt like she’d stepped inside all over again.
“Good morning.”
Marie shivered as Caden let her go with a pat on the back. “I’m so glad to see you. Aretha told my mom that Jack isn’t feeding you. They’re all so worried about you getting enough to put some meat on your bones. They keep talking about stopping by the inn to check on you. But really, I think they just want to see what you’ve done with the old place. It’s been empty for more than a year, you know. Are you hungry? Come inside. Dad is making pecan potato rolls. It’s one of our specialties. You’ll love them.”
Her mind swirled as fast as the words gushed from Caden’s mouth. But she’d definitely heard something about a pecan potato roll, so she followed Caden.
“Pumpkin? Is that you?”
“Yes, Dad. Are you done with—”
A man with a shock of red hair stepped from the kitchen. Maybe his hair just looked brighter against the head-to-toe white baker’s uniform. He was clearly related to the little girl with the pointy fingers who’d given Marie the evil eye for accidentally tearing the hymnal page. From the hair to the round blue eyes to the little clefts in their chins, they were obviously family.
He stuck his hand out, and she slipped hers into the giant mitt. “James Holt. You must be the girl everyone’s talking about.”
Marie’s jaw fell slack and her neck burned, the heat creeping up it faster than she could pull back her hand and make sure her jacket covered the blush.
“Dad.” Caden’s tone chastised her father, but the smile she added onto the end was anything but critical. “Be nice. This is my friend Marie. From Boston.”
How did Caden know she was from Boston?
Caden answered the unspoken question with a guilty grin. “Aretha really likes you. She and Mom are best friends, and she might have let it slip.”
“Very good.” James smiled at his daughter and winked at Marie. An unfamiliar warmth spiraled through her stomach, drawing her to the flour-covered man. “Now about the business at hand. I need your opinion on the new pecan berry potato roll recipe.”
Marie’s stomach growled again, and they all chuckled. “I guess my opinion might not count for much. I’m hungry enough to eat a hippo.”
“Well, we’re fresh out of hippo, so you’ll have to settle for sweet rolls. Be right back.”
Caden rolled her eyes and whispered, “Sorry about my dad. He’s been telling the same bad jokes for years. He’s so happy to have someone new to use them on. Feel free not to laugh. You know how dads are.”
Actually, this kind of father-daughter interaction was new to her. Her dad hadn’t been playful or ever cracked a joke in his life. At least not to her. Of course, that would have required them to spend time together.
“It’s okay.” In fact, it was better than okay. It was kind of nice to have a man want to tell her a joke.
When James reappeared with a plateful of golden rolls overflowing with purple berry juice and a brown sugar and pecan crumb topping, she forgot all about laughing. There was only the sweet goodness of the blueberry center surrounded by the melt-in-your-mouth roll.
“A-maz-ing.” The word was garbled by the second roll she was already stuffing in her mouth.
Her stomach finally appeased after her third treat, Marie bought a dozen to take back to the house and then bid them farewell. The sweets carried her through her grocery shopping, and despite balancing seven plastic bags, she still felt good when she reached the Red Door. Whether it was the sugar or seeing Caden or the fact that she’d managed to think about New Year’s Eve without a panic attack, she didn’t care. It was shaping up to be the best day she’d had in months.
She bounded up the steps, swinging a bag at Jack as he drove by. He rolled down his window. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
The house was silent as she filled the cupboards with her purchases. She put a roasted chicken breast in the fridge and caught another whiff of the fresh onion she’d chosen. They’d make a good chicken salad. Maybe she’d ask Jack to help her pull something together for lunch.
She left the bag of sweet rolls next to the bread box, but turned back to it before she could get very far. It wouldn’t hurt to have just one more.
As she tore the pieces apart, savoring each bite, she bumped her hip against an open drawer. But it didn’t budge. She glared at the white bottom before realizing that the white wasn’t actually part of the drawer. It was more of the computer paper that Jack had used to write his list.
This was her chance to try out the typewriter, to see if Aretha had been right.
“Seth?” she called, peeking out the window to the backyard. “Seth, are you here?” She raised her voice as hope bubbled in her chest.
The old home groaned, wind whistling along the paneling, but Seth didn’t respond. She looked into the pantry and poked her head into the laundry room just to be sure she was alone before reaching a sticky finger into the drawer, then stopped just short.
“Georgiana would have a fit if I didn’t wash my hands before using an antique Underwood.” The image of her mother’s friend with crossed arms and stern eyes danced across her mind, and she laughed out loud. Georgiana had loved design and antiques, and she’d have a conniption if she knew Marie was typing on the old black machine.
But Marie had to know. What did it sound like? How hard would she have to press the keys?
Some questions required answers.
Swallowing the rest of her roll in one bite, she hurried to the sink and scrubbed at the sticky residue. While she was at it, it couldn’t hurt to work at the paint-stained creases in her knuckles.
Her hands nearly shone as she snagged a piece of paper from the broken drawer and stole through the house to the back room where Seth had stacked their antiques. Dust motes danced in beams of morning light that illuminated the classic tomes. On the floor beside them sat her mission.
Tiptoeing toward it, she looked over her shoulder one last time to make sure she was alone. She kneeled before it, slipped the paper into place, and turned the roller to feed the paper. Butterflies filled her stomach.
This had been her fantasy since Georgiana first showed her one of the classic writing devices. They’d spent hours speculating about who had used the machine and what had been written on it. Was it government directives or love letters? Wildly fictitious stories or heartbreaking memoirs?
What had been written on this machine?
More importantly, what was yet to be typed on it?
She wrinkled her nose and scratched her chin as she stared at the blank page. She needed to write something short and true. Just a trial run. She searched every corner and crevice of her mind, hunting out something to type.
This machine deserved more than gibberish or random keystrokes. She wouldn’t use it just for the sake of throwing letters against a page to see what stuck. That would be a terrible waste of whatever life was left in the black buttons. Even if she was just going to throw the sheet of paper away as soon as she tried it out.
An idea came, slowly at first. Then it cemented into place, and she could see the words on the backs of her eyelids.
The truth. The very real and simple truth as it had struck her that morning.
She held down the shift button, the pressure required to budge it much more than she’d imagined. Then she pressed the I key. Then the funny little space bar.
Halfway through the single sentence, her fingers were tired, and she longed for the easy keyboard of her laptop, which was probably collecting dust on her desk at her dad’s house. Of course, her computer didn’t punctuate each letter with a sharp crack that made the paper tremble.
When it was all said and done, she leaned back, ran her hands over her thighs, and smiled.
I wish I had gone to get ice cream.
Georgiana would have been so jealous. She’d have been proud too.
Marie reached for the knob to scroll the paper out of the machine, but stopped short at a ruckus coming from right above her. A crash was followed immediately by a deep groan and a dull thud.
She jumped to her feet and ran up the stairs in the direction of the noise. “What’s wrong?” she called out, trying to decide which of the rooms the sound had come from. As she passed the open door to the bedroom she’d finished painting just a few days before, she spied Seth leaning against a wall, his chin hanging to his chest.
Skidding around the corner, she reached him with outstretched arms. She grabbed his elbow without a thought, spinning him in her direction. The screwdriver in his hands fell to the floor, the sharp note of the plastic handle against hardwood filling the room.
Seth squinted at her, the line of his mouth tight, and she felt the full force of his displeasure.
“What is it? What’s going on?”
“Why don’t you tell me?” He flicked his hand around the room, motioning to the walls.
As the midmorning sun illuminated the room through the window, she spun in a slow circle. Immediately the backs of her eyes burned and her stomach plummeted to her shoes.
Her mouth opened and closed, but she couldn’t get anything past the lump in her throat.
It was all her fault. Her good day had been ruined. By her own hand.