Chapter 3

Kristi shook her head in disbelief. Could this man really be Ace Samson, the man she had spent the past two decades mourning? How was it possible? She had been at the funeral. She had watched his coffin be lowered into the ground in the cemetery outside Bangor, the same place she went twice a year to place flowers on his grave.

Seconds passed, stretching into minutes. Her mind raced, all the while the man who appeared to be her long-lost love stood patiently in her yard, hat in hand.

Finally, she managed to form words. “I don’t understand.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “May I come in?”

Certain she must be mistaken, she stepped forward. Her knees wobbled on the first step, her hand gripping the railing as she steadied herself. She descended slowly, her gaze remaining on him. Three steps from the bottom, she saw the dark circle around his irises and the spot of brown in his left eye that interrupted the green. Her own eyes flooded as reality came into focus. “Ace!”

Pure joy replaced her disbelief, and she rushed forward, her arms outstretched. Surprise registered on his face, replaced quickly by relief an instant before he welcomed her into his embrace.

Kristi’s fingers curled into his cotton sweatshirt, and she breathed in his scent. It wasn’t the familiar mix of Old Spice and ocean, but the arms holding her close brought back the rush of memories of life before Ace had died.

She let herself revel in his presence, in the strength of his arms around her. Her memories brought more tears to her eyes, their time apart creeping into her thoughts. Swallowing hard, she pulled back and looked up at the chiseled jawline and the two-day beard that shadowed his face. “It’s really you. I
thought . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she tried again. “The police said . . .”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Kristi reached up and pressed her hands to his cheeks, her eyes meeting his. The remorse she read there pierced her elation at finding him alive, questions surfacing along with the memories of the two decades she had suffered without him. Hurt and betrayal slowly overshadowed her other tangled emotions. “Where have you been?” she finally managed to ask. “Why did you let me think you were dead all this time?”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

The simple apology spurred a new flood of emotions, but none of them resembled forgiveness. She took a step back.

Her breath backed up in her lungs, every muscle tightening. Again, her words wouldn’t come. For two decades, he had been living a lie that had altered everything for both of them. New tears trickled onto her cheeks, and she repeated her question. “All these years. How could you let me think you were dead?”

“I couldn’t tell you the truth.”

“What truth?” she managed to ask. “Every birthday, every anniversary of your death, I’ve been at your graveside, wishing for what could have been. I mourned you all this time, and now I find out I was the worst kind of fool.”

“You’ve never been a fool.”

As though sensing her need for every ounce of support available, Samson left Ace and brushed against her leg.

A boat sounded in the distance, and Ace edged closer. “Please, can we go inside?”

Though part of her wanted to send him away out of spite, logic chased that instinct away. She wanted answers. She needed answers.

Her emotions were in turmoil, but she waved toward the house and started up the stairs. The sound of footsteps behind her reinforced the fact that Ace Samson wasn’t a ghost.