Bo had fallen asleep in his chair, but the sound of breaking glass and creaking timbers woke him instantly. Convinced he was still in prison and the siren had gone off because a fight had just broken out in the yard, he brought his head up quickly and his fists, too.
There was no human adversary. But when he sprang to his feet, he dropped his phone and his book, and the book landed on his foot.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled, shocked that something falling such a short distance could cause so much pain. He didn’t have time to focus on it, though. He wasn’t in prison, fighting off a shank to the throat. He was in his small cabin on Mariners, looking at the sky and feeling the wind and rain hit him almost as hard as if he were standing outside.
“What the hell?” He blinked. Another tree had gone down, only this one hadn’t fallen as propitiously as the one that’d broken the fence surrounding the garden. This tree had crashed through his roof and was lying on top of the house. Because he had only the dying embers of the fire to help him see, it took a moment to realize the extent of the damage. But soon he could make out the wet dripping branches reaching down toward him. Apparently, the wind had only grown stronger since he’d fallen asleep.
He searched where he’d been sitting for his flashlight. It’d rolled off his lap and into the crack between the cushion and frame. He found it with the beam angled into the fabric. But even once he turned it around, it didn’t show him much. The light was so dim it’d almost gone out. He needed to replace the batteries, figure out how to get the tree off his house, and patch the hole it’d made before he was facing significant water damage.
But the second that thought went through his mind, he realized he wouldn’t be able to do anything until the storm was over. He’d be a fool to even try.
Afraid the frame of the house would give way, and he’d be looking at an even more dangerous problem, he picked up his phone and saw a text he’d missed while sleeping. The woman staying in the cottage had messaged him.
You doing okay over there?
That text had come in three hours ago. And then, more recently, he’d received another message from her. Hey, you haven’t answered me. Can you just confirm that you’re okay?
And just a few minutes ago: I’m really getting worried.
What should he say in return? That he wasn’t okay? That a tree had just taken out part of his house?
She’d think he expected her to let him stay in the cottage, and he knew Annabelle and Mort would not like that, never mind Remy. He didn’t like the idea, either. What if she accused him of doing something he didn’t do, something inappropriate, and he had no way to defend himself?
He was an ex-con. If a question like that ever arose, his conviction and the fact that he’d lied about his past would make him look guilty even if he was innocent.
He wouldn’t risk returning to prison. He didn’t really know Ismay Chalmers, would be a fool to trust her.
After carefully navigating around the tree and the chunks of wood, Sheetrock, and roofing that were now on the floor, he made it to the kitchen and replaced the batteries in his flashlight before responding. Sorry, fell asleep. He peered around the corner at the hole where the rain was pouring in before adding, I’m fine, and sent the message.
He’d figure out something to survive the night, he told himself—hang out in a back bedroom and hope the rest of the house didn’t go down, he supposed. He didn’t have any better option.
He was once again edging around the tree so he could make it down the hall when he heard someone banging on the door. At first, he thought it was the storm knocking things around outside. But then he heard his name.
“Bo! Bo Broussard, are you in there?” Bam, bam, bam. “Are you hurt? Should I break a window?”
“Oh, my God,” he said. “She’s at my door!”
Ismay watched Bo out of the corner of her eye. She’d insisted he leave his cabin and come to the cottage with her, but she could tell he wasn’t happy about it. Now he was sitting at the kitchen table with a blanket around his shoulders, soaked to the skin, while she made coffee.
She wasn’t much drier. She’d borrowed a coat from Annabelle’s closet before making the harrowing trek to his place. When she’d packed for Mariners, she’d been expecting a mild spring and part of summer on the beach and brought only a lightweight jacket. But she hadn’t taken a hat or gloves or boots, and she definitely should have.
“I can’t believe you went out in this mess,” he muttered as he shot a disgruntled look at the storm ravaging the island outside the window.
She had a towel draped around her shoulders, which she used as she moved around the kitchen to dry the water dripping from her hair. “Would you have preferred I didn’t?”
She’d been mildly concerned when he didn’t respond to her first text, but Bo was a stranger. She had no idea what his habits were like, whether he was good about replying to his messages or not. She’d thought it was also possible he was busy and not checking his phone. So she’d opened a bottle of wine, continued surfing the internet, and called her brother Jack to pass the time. He was the second oldest in the family, next to her in age, and they’d always been close.
It wasn’t until Bo didn’t answer her second message and then her third that she’d finally set her computer aside so she could go to every room in the cottage that had a window facing the back to see if she could spot his cabin.
There were so many trees in the way that she couldn’t catch even a glimpse of another building until she’d reached the master bedroom. Then she could barely make out the corner of what looked like a small cabin in a copse of trees beyond the garden and was fairly certain that had to be where he was living.
Once she’d spotted it, she’d debated whether to go check on him. She’d told herself that he was obviously a strong man and would be safe enough on his own. But something terrible could happen to anyone, strong or not, and when she’d spotted the tree that’d fallen, she’d been glad she’d checked. She’d been terrified she’d find him hurt, possibly bleeding to death, in the freezing dark, pinned beneath a tree branch or debris from the roof. So she’d felt incredibly relieved when he’d answered the door.
“I would’ve been okay,” he said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But at the very least, you would’ve been a lot less comfortable.” With his shelter compromised the way it was, he would’ve been cold and miserable. And what if that tree fell any lower? The rest of the roof could cave in! He wouldn’t want to be there if that happened...
She poured him some coffee, offered him cream and sugar, which he declined, and set his cup in front of him.
He thanked her but made no response to her comment. She got the impression that if he’d said something, it would’ve been, “That depends on what you mean by comfortable.” Bo Broussard wasn’t the most social person in the world. That was becoming obvious. He seemed skeptical of others, including her. She could easily guess he preferred to remain on his own, regardless of the risks.
“You hungry?” she asked.
When he opened his mouth to answer, she put up a hand to stop him. “Never mind. You’ll probably say no. You say no to everything.”
“Because yes can get you into trouble,” he said.
“In what way?”
“I won’t elaborate.”
He’d initially refused to come to the cottage, even though it was safe and dry and had power. And he’d refused to have a glass of wine with her, agreeing only reluctantly to let her make him coffee when she offered that instead.
“Well, I’m hungry, so I’m going to make pasta carbonara. If you’d like to have some, there’ll be plenty.”
“Pasta carbonara?” he echoed.
“Pasta in a white sauce with pancetta—an Italian bacon—parmesan cheese and peas.”
He let it go at that but watched her warily, as if she could be as unpredictable as a fox or raccoon or other wild animal.
Where had the Windsors found this man? He certainly wasn’t anything like the spoiled, wealthy designer-brand-wearing frat boys who’d gotten off the ferry with her when she’d arrived. Of course, those young men were here to be served; they weren’t among those who’d be doing the serving. But still... The difference was marked. “You told me you were from Louisiana,” she said as she got out a frying pan for the pancetta. “Did you like it there?”
“It has its attractions.”
“What brought you to Mariners?” Although she’d asked once before, she hadn’t gotten much of an answer.
He set his cup on the table. “I came for a lot of reasons.”
When he left it at that, she chuckled. “A lot of reasons? What? Are they all secret?”
He didn’t crack a smile, even though—in her opinion—he couldn’t miss that she’d been joking. “Of course not. I have nothing to hide.”
She studied him more openly. This man was different from anyone she’d met before. He was polite, hadn’t said anything out of line, and yet, he was so guarded. “Okay. So...you came to Mariners because...”
“I knew this place had to have more opportunities than where I come from.”
The pancetta she’d put in the frying pan began to sizzle and pop and fill the kitchen with the sublime smell of frying pork. “What about the uncle who raised you?”
“What about him?”
“He still around?”
“He’s getting old, but he’s still there.”
“I bet he hated to see you go.”
“I was an adult.” He took a drink of his coffee. “I’m sure he expected me to leave at some point.”
She got out a pan and filled it with water so she could boil the pasta. “I’ve never been to a swamp. Are they truly like how they’re depicted on TV?”
“Have you read Where the Crawdads Sing?”
She paused from cooking to take a sip of her wine. “No.”
“You might like it. I did.”
“Because...you grew up where that book was set?” she guessed while topping up his coffee.
“No. It’s set in the marshes of North Carolina, but there are marked similarities.”
With the water on the stove set on high heat, she returned to frying the pancetta. “What’s the name of the village where you lived? And how far is it from New Orleans?”
He arched an eyebrow as he looked at her over the rim of his cup. “Do you always ask so many questions?”
“I’m an attorney,” she said. “I’ll be starting my own practice in July. Talking is a tool of the trade, I guess.”
“What kind of attorney?”
“Nothing too glamorous. Wills and trusts.”
“You’re smart to stay out of the criminal system.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s a tough world.”
“Too dark for me. Anyway, since we’re both here with nothing except time on our hands, would it be so bad to get to know each other?”
He didn’t reassure her. His eyes narrowed a bit, as if he was taking her measure. “That depends...”
“On...?”
He asked a question instead of answering. “Where’d you meet Remy?”
“At UCLA.”
“You had a class together?”
“No. I tried to avoid the classes he had to take.” She grimaced. “I’d pass out if I had to dissect a cadaver.”
“That sort of thing doesn’t bother him?”
“Not in the least.” As she heard her own answer, she cringed inside. Her fiancé’s level of comfort with corpses didn’t mean anything, did it? Because when she put that fact together with what she’d found in his closet, and those gruesome pictures, a chill ran down her spine.
“So... I know where you didn’t meet,” Bo said, essentially pointing out that she hadn’t answered his question.
“Oh, right.” She forced a fresh smile. “I studied in the same place at the library almost every day. One afternoon, he sat down at my table, and we struck up a conversation. Then he returned the next day, and the next, and eventually asked for my number.”
The blanket fell from Bo’s shoulders as he leaned forward, his large hands cradling his cup. “How long have you been together?”
“Three years.”
“You must get along well.”
“We do okay.” He was so tight-lipped it made her tight-lipped, too—at least on complicated subjects like her relationship with Remy. There was so much she admired about her fiancé. She didn’t want to lose him and the good things, the good times. But she definitely had her misgivings...
“When’s the wedding?”
“Haven’t set a date yet. See?” she joked. “You asked, and I answered.”
“Even you seem reticent about certain subjects.”
Reticent wasn’t a word she’d expect a handyman to use. And there’d been other words... Was he well-educated? He seemed intelligent. “I wasn’t reticent—just distracted,” she explained. She had good reason to be. She wasn’t going to mention what was in the closet of Remy’s bedroom, but she was keenly aware of having a picture on her phone of the girl whose photograph was in the duffel bag. “Ask me anything. What else would you like to know?” She grinned at him, but he remained wary. She was beginning to wonder what it would take to get him to relax and smile.
“Okay,” he said. “Are you really going to marry Remy?”
She froze with the spatula she was using in her hand. He’d said that as if it would be a mistake, which surprised her. Most people considered marrying a handsome athletic young man from a wealthy family—who was going to be a doctor, no less—a major catch. “You don’t think I should?”
He pulled his gaze away from her. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what you meant, though, wasn’t it?” Apparently, when Bo did finally speak, he didn’t bother with small talk.
“It was merely a question. You were the one who wanted us to get to know each other.”
That was a dodge. Bo seemed tempted to open up and really talk to her. But for some reason, he wouldn’t. “We’re thinking a spring wedding might be nice,” she said.
“Next year?”
That suddenly seemed too soon. “Unless I put it off.” Or call it off...
He held his cup halfway to his mouth. “Are you thinking about doing that?”
She scowled at him.
“What?” he said, spreading out his hands. “It’s not as much fun when you’re the one answering personal questions?”
“I don’t mind. It’s just...” He didn’t know how shaken she was by what she’d found, and she couldn’t tell him about it without feeling disloyal to her fiancé. Even if those items didn’t signify the worst, they had to mean something, and she couldn’t think of a good reason for them to be there. “Never mind. It’s not your turn anymore. That’s all.”
“My turn?”
“What does your uncle do for a living?” she asked, taking over the questioning.
The way he looked at her suggested he’d allow her the lead but would tolerate only so much of an invasion of his privacy, and she was interested in learning just how far he’d let her go. There was something understated and mysterious about this man. He reminded her of an iceberg. He showed only about 10 percent of who he really was. The other 90 percent remained hidden deep below the surface. “He does what everyone else in the village does. He fishes for crawdads, shrimp, crab. That’s how he gets by.”
“You don’t have any other family?”
“I have a younger sister.”
She hadn’t expected that. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
Was he serious? She couldn’t even imagine what would cause her to lose touch with her siblings to that degree. Despite all the chaos and competition they’d known growing up, they loved and supported each other when times grew hard. “You’re not close?”
“My mother died when I was ten.” He lifted his cup again. “Things would probably be a lot different if that hadn’t happened.”
With the generator keeping the lights on, Bo sitting at the table looking powerful enough to protect her from almost anything, and the steam from the water, which was starting to boil, floating up to warm her face, she could almost forget about the storm outside. She felt safe, comfortable, and eager to eat the meal she was preparing. “I’m guessing you’d like me to let it go at that.”
“And since you’re an attorney, I’m guessing you won’t,” he said wryly.
She started to laugh. “So you do have a sense of humor.”
“You were wondering?”
“I’m wondering about a lot of things.”
“Where I’m concerned?” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Why?”
“Not sure exactly.” He preferred to fade into the background, but there was something about this guy she found oddly appealing. He was good-looking, of course. Not many men were as muscular. He also had a beautiful shape to his mouth, with lips that were full, and the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man. Those two features softened a face that probably would’ve been too masculine otherwise.
Still, it wasn’t his looks that intrigued her. Remy was probably more handsome, in a classic sense, anyway. It was the intensity of Bo’s eyes. There was a fire inside them that burned bright even when he wanted her to believe he was relaxed. He seemed ever alert, ever watchful, always on guard.
The question was why? What kind of threat was he expecting?
“I’m just the handyman who takes care of your rich boyfriend’s future inheritance,” he said. “There’s nothing interesting about me.”
“Do you think it’s your job that defines you?”
His eyebrows snapped together. “I think Remy’s entirely wrong for you. That’s what I think.”
She felt her jaw drop. “Really? You’ll barely say anything, but you’ll say that?”
When he looked away, she got the impression he regretted the comment. “I have a tendency to focus on what matters.”
“Okay, then. What makes you think Remy’s wrong for me?”
“You’re nothing like him.”
“Some say opposites attract.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s none of my business,” he said, clearly backing away from the subject.
The pancetta was nice and crisp. Ismay set it on the back burner while she dropped the pasta into the water and prepared the sauce. “I’m sorry you lost your mother at such a young age. That must’ve been rough on you and your sister. You said you don’t know where she is, but are you assuming she’s in Louisiana?”
“Probably Florida, where we were born,” he replied with a shrug. “When my mother died, she went to live with my father in Tampa.”
Why hadn’t he gone with his father? What kind of father wouldn’t take both of them? “And you went to live with an uncle in the swamps of Louisiana.”
“Yeah. I was his favorite.”
She got out two big bowls. “I hate to ask about such a painful topic, but—”
“You’re going to anyway?” he challenged.
That response would have stopped her, except there was a slight curve to his lips that hinted at his first smile. He liked her in spite of himself. She could tell. “What happened to your mother?”
Ismay expected him to say it was none of her business. He’d be right. But the strange situation they found themselves in seemed to give license to questions she wouldn’t ordinarily ask someone she’d barely met. And with that bit about her not being right for Remy, he, too, had said things she couldn’t imagine he’d volunteer under normal circumstances.
“She died of a gunshot wound.”
Ismay almost dropped the bag of pasta she’d taken from the cupboard. “I assumed you’d say she died of cancer or in a car accident or something. I hope... I hope it wasn’t suicide.”
“No.”
“You’re saying she was murdered?”
He didn’t answer, but a muscle moved in his jaw that seemed to confirm it.
“You must’ve been devastated! Did the police catch whoever did it?”
He pulled the blanket back around his shoulders. “He got what was coming to him—eventually,” he added.
Although she could tell there was much more to the story, he didn’t elaborate. She wished she could ask, but she decided she’d found the line he wouldn’t let her cross and wouldn’t even attempt it. “Where’d you go to school?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity.”
While cooking frozen peas in the microwave, she grated some parmesan cheese. “No college?”
His cup clicked as it gently came to rest on its saucer. “No high school, either.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, putting down the grater. “But...isn’t that illegal? I mean...kids in America—at least in most states—have to attend school until they turn eighteen. Or did you drop out and get your GED?”
“I didn’t drop out. I made it mostly through middle school, but it was at that point my uncle got sick and couldn’t fish, and if we wanted to eat, someone had to put food on the table.”
“You had to work?”
“It wasn’t quite work. For the most part, it was absolute freedom, and I enjoyed it.”
“But...what about when your uncle got better? He didn’t make you go back to school?”
“He never fully recovered. I send him money to this day, or he wouldn’t make it. Besides, once you start that kind of life, it’s almost impossible to go back. I’d missed so much and was so big. Can you imagine being set back three years when you already look three years older than your age?”
“It seems like someone should’ve made that happen. The police, if no one else.”
“There wasn’t much oversight where I grew up.”
“In the swamp.”
“In the swamp,” he repeated.
“So you left your uncle’s house looking for more opportunity. But I’m still not clear on what made you choose to come to an island off Cape Cod.”
“I didn’t choose Mariners right away. I rambled around a bit, eventually came up here to see what it was like and...” he shrugged “...never left.”
“I see.” She strained the pasta and set it aside before mixing some of the water she’d boiled it in with the cheese and peas—all of which she added to the pancetta in the frying pan. “Has it been everything you’d hoped?”
“More or less.”
“You don’t get island fever in the wintertime?” she asked as she stirred everything together. “Remy told me there’re only about fifteen thousand residents year-round, which is a far cry from the number of people who come during the summer. And the nor’easters can be terrible.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the fewer people I have to contend with the better. And the nor’easters aren’t any worse than the hurricanes in Louisiana.”
She could see where crowds of tourists might be a bit much for a person who’d grown up in a backwater village in the swamps of Louisiana. But surely it had to get lonely spending a long cold winter in a cabin in such an isolated situation. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for island life. It’s too...unpredictable.”
“It’s not for everyone.”
“But it suits you?”
“For now.”
She piled some pasta in a bowl, poured the sauce she’d made on top, and added a spoon and fork before sliding it in front of him. “I hope you’re hungry.”
“Smells good,” he said but waited for her to sit down with her own bowl and glass of wine before taking his first bite.
“How long have you worked for the Windsors?” she asked as they ate.
“Almost two years.”
“How well do you know Remy?”
He paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Not that well. I’ve seen him around and spoken to him a few times; I’ve mostly heard what his mother has to say about him. She comes to the island more often than any other member of the family. I get the impression she needs to be alone sometimes.”
Ismay swallowed what was in her mouth. “What does Annabelle say about Remy?”
“She’s incredibly proud.”
“What about Bastian?”
He’d taken the bite of pasta he’d been holding and was now twirling a new bite against his spoon. “What about him?”
“I’ve never met him. I’ve had two chances—when they went skiing at Vale and when they went to Italy last year over Thanksgiving. I was invited. But I was with my own family both times. Is she proud of Remy’s twin, too?”
It took a second for Bo to answer. When he did, his voice was far less strident. “I’m sure she is.”
“Just not as much as Remy?” Ismay asked uncertainly.
When he hesitated again, she guessed he was being careful not to say something that could get back to Annabelle.
Leaving her fork and spoon in her bowl, Ismay finished her wine. “There’s no need to worry. I won’t pass along anything you tell me. You can trust me.”
“I hope you won’t take this personally,” he said. “But I don’t trust anyone.”