Nantucket Romance 3-in-1 Bundle (83 page)

Do you still love him?

After he hit Send, regrets of all sizes and shapes crowded into the room. What if she did? She still wore that infernal bracelet, and he was sure it was a gift from Jared. Why would she still wear it if she was over him? He considered writing back.
Never mind
, he’d say. But before he could act on the thought, another message appeared. Maybe he should delete it without reading.

Who was he kidding? He wanted to know
.
Needed to know. He felt sick as he opened the email.

Why do you ask?

Well, duh. Wasn’t it obvious he had feelings for her? Maybe he’d never come out and said he loved her—she might think it was weird or pathetic.

Why didn’t you answer my question?

He tapped his fingers on the keys, waiting. It had been over a year since she’d seen Jared. Could you love someone that long from a distance? Could you even be certain of your feelings?

A new message arrived.

My aunt and uncle seem to have given up on reaching me. Part of me is relieved, but I admit the victory feels a little hollow.

She was changing the subject. Not a good sign. He replied,

Maybe they haven’t given up. They’re probably distracted by the wedding.

He hated the loneliness her words implied. She knew he was there for her, didn’t she? A message appeared.

Maybe.

And no, I don’t love Jared.

Relief filled him. If she didn’t love Jared, there was room in her heart for him, wasn’t there? Feeling renewed, he changed the subject to current news events, secure in the knowledge that, while her heart may not fully belong to him, it didn’t belong to someone else either.

Sweetpea: I got the name Sweetpea from my mom. I don’t remember much about her, but she was always working in our garden. I can still hear the soothing sound of her voice as she whispered “Goodnight, Sweetpea” from my bedroom door.

Chapter Eleven

A week later Sabrina was grabbing her bag from the kitchen counter when she noticed the blinking light. Checking the time, she decided she could spare an extra minute before leaving for Tucker’s. Char had been queasy when Sabrina left the café. Maybe Gordon needed her to finish Char’s shift. Truth was, she’d welcome the opportunity to avoid Tucker.

The stress was eating her alive. Sitting there, pretending to work, desperate to escape before she did something stupid, like grabbing the man and kissing him full on the mouth. One of these days, her facade was going crack wide open and she’d find herself chin deep in a pit of humiliation.

She pushed the machine’s button and listened.

“Hey, Sabrina! It’s Arielle. I left a message last week, but you didn’t
return my call. A-hem! But my feelings aren’t hurt. Really. Not hurt at all.
Anyway, call me back, okay? For real this time. I’ll keep pestering you until
you do. You know I will . . . Bye!”

Sabrina deleted the message and headed out the door. She wouldn’t return this message either. And yes, her cousin would continue leaving messages and sending emails. Sabrina knew what Arielle wanted, and her cousin wasn’t getting it.

She pushed up the kickstand, hopped on her bike, and began pedaling down the lane. The incident with Jared and Jaylee had drawn a line between Sabrina and her family. And Arielle stood on the line, trying to pull everyone to the middle. Arielle had always been the mediator, but never had her job been so impossible. Maybe that skill served her well in class, but they weren’t three-year-olds fighting over a canister of red Play-Doh. Sometimes there was no good resolution.

When she reached town, she stopped to let pedestrians cross. Town was packed when the summer people arrived. She couldn’t fathom having a vacation home and six free weeks to spend at it. If she did, she would put up a hammock on her back porch and read all day. But the summer people seemed to prefer sunning at the beach, spending money in the boutiques, and being waited on in the restaurants. Sabrina would rather learn to cook her own gourmet food. But what was the point when she was only feeding one?

Two black Labs were leashed to the bench outside the Even Keel Cafe, and a little girl stopped to pet them. Her parents nudged her along; then her dad swooped her into his arms, and the girl wrapped herself around him. The mom laughed at something the girl said. They looked like the all-American family.

Had she ever had that? Her mom had died of ovarian cancer when Sabrina was five. All she had of her mother were a few foggy memories and a handful of photos. Her dad had seemed like a ghost in the house after her mom died, and then he was gone too.

A horn blared, and she saw that the pedestrians had cleared. She pressed on the pedal and accelerated through town, passing the quaint shops and milling tourists, the wheels of her bike bumping along the cobblestone streets.

When she arrived at Tucker’s house, Cody was sitting on his porch, reading a book.

“Hey, Sabrina.”

“Hi, Cody.” She stopped by Tucker’s stoop, swung her leg around, then set the kickstand with the toe of her tennis shoe.

“Invitation for dinner’s still good. We’re grilling chicken fajitas, and my buddy Ron is making his famous homemade salsa.”

Tucker was at the door, on the stoop really, glaring in Cody’s general direction. “She’s working tonight.”

Sabrina tossed Cody a smile of consolation, though by the cocky look he was giving Tucker, he didn’t need it. “Guess I’m on the clock,” she said.

Tucker followed her to the office. The house didn’t smell like supper as it often did, but maybe he’d been in a hurry and had grabbed takeout. Instead of savory scents, she relished the familiar woodsy fragrance of his cologne.

“You should be nicer to the tourists,” she said. “It’s good for the island economy.”

“What am I, the welcome committee?”

Sabrina shrugged, then, settled at the desk, checked her notepad to see where she’d left off.

“How far along are you in terms of the emails?” Tucker asked from the doorway.

She opened the program and compared the date of the one she’d last read with the date of their first letters. “About five months from the time you began writing.”

The tablet with her notes was open on the desk, so she started with the next email, hoping Tucker would leave.

“I was thinking we could have another brainstorming session. I have some steaks that I need to cook. How about I grill and we can have dinner while we chat? We can eat out by the water.”

A working supper. It was on the tip of her tongue to say she’d already eaten. But she’d been in a rush after staying a few extra minutes to help Evan bus tables and hadn’t had time. The last thing she wanted was to sit face-to-face with Tucker. She’d rather be next door with Cody and company.

That’s not true, and you know it.

Truth be told, Tucker was just tempting. To know him so well and pretend as if she didn’t . . . to care so much and pretend as if she didn’t. It was too hard. She needed to get through these letters faster.

“Sabrina?”

If he wanted to use the time to brainstorm, who was she to argue? He was paying for her time.

“That’s fine.” She could do this. She’d done it on the boat; she could manage supper alone with him. All alone, on the tiny, secluded square of his deck.

“Great. How do you like your steak?”

She started to say well-done. But she’d put that on the Sweetpea list a few weeks ago. Plenty of people liked their steaks well-done, but the fewer similarities between her and Sweetpea, the better.

“Medium well,” she said, grimacing on the inside. The thought of pink meat nauseated her.

“Give me half an hour?”

“Sure.”

With that, he was gone, allowing Sabrina to work. Now she had a supper and an uncooked steak to endure. She wondered how she was going to control herself and her wayward thoughts through a romantic supper for two.

Shaking the thought, she delved into the next batch of messages. They were full of banal tidbits, so she noted the details on the sheet. How could she sidetrack him later? Sweetpea had made few comments regarding her residence, but now Sabrina had no way of misleading him.

She settled back in the chair and opened the next email. She remembered receiving the original message, and her heart tripped at the memory. They’d been exchanging emails late one night about mundane things, joking around, and then he’d sent this message:

Do you ever think about meeting in person?

She’d frozen in response to the words. What should she say? She had to answer. He was waiting.

Not really, she typed, and sent the message. Would he press her further? What would she say if he asked more about where she lived?

Why not?

Fear curled inside her, thick and hot. Her fingers poked at the keys.

What’s with the twenty questions?

Her mouth was as dry as the sand at Jetties Beach. She didn’t have to wait long for his reply.

I really want to meet you.

And there it was. Tossed out like a water bomb from a second-story window, and just as unrescindable.

Suddenly their correspondence didn’t seem safe at all. It felt immediate and threatening. Like waking from a dream to find it was real after all. Her heart knocking against her rib cage, she’d closed the message, closed the program.

The next morning a message had been waiting in her inbox.

I’m sorry if I overstepped a boundary. Let’s forget I said that, okay?

He changed the topic, telling her about a customer who’d been terrified of the water. Sabrina had been relieved at his change of heart, and he hadn’t mentioned meeting again until months later.

“Dinner’s ready.” Tucker leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, as if he’d been there a while. She’d been so absorbed in the emails, she hadn’t heard him. So much for remaining detached.

Shaking the remnants of trepidation, Sabrina followed Tucker down the hall and out the sliding door. Three stairs led down to a water-level porch where a plank deck nestled against the back of his house. A wooden railing was the only barrier between them and the boat-dotted harbor.

He gestured toward the round wicker table, set for two. A terra-cotta pot with a cluster of purple pansies graced its center.

“I hope you like iced tea,” he said after they were seated.

“That’s fine.” A steaming baked potato accompanied the steak. And beside it, corn. Her stomach turned. She retrieved her fork and knife and cut into the steak, then felt like a heel when he bowed his head in prayer.

“I think I may have overcooked your steak,” he said when he finished praying. “The timer for the potatoes went off, and I got distracted.”

The steak was brown throughout. “It’s perfect.” Thank God for distractions. What was she going to do about the corn? Everyone liked corn. Everyone except her. It only took her right back to seventh-grade gym class, where she’d vomited her lunch on her favorite Nikes in front of everyone.

“So, tell me about yourself.”Tucker stabbed his meat. “You work at the café, do some editing and research for Renny Hannigan. What else is there to know about the mysterious Sabrina Kincaid?”

She took her time chewing the meat, then sipped her tea. “There’s no mystery. I grew up in the South and went away to college. I visited Nantucket on my—vacation—and decided to stay. I guess you could say the beauty of the island lured me.”

In truth, it had been weeks before she’d come out from her depression enough to notice the beauty. Slowly, she’d noticed the sweet scent of hydrangea, the rugged, scraggly brush, the beauty of the marina. Initially her only reason for staying was she hadn’t wanted to return to Macon. The island felt isolated from the rest of the world, an incubator, and she’d been in sore need of the respite.

He was waiting for her to continue.

“I saw a Help Wanted sign in the window of the café for a server and got the job.” She wondered if he thought that was a lame job for someone with a college degree. But he’d quit law school to follow a less lucrative passion.

“I’d intended it to be temporary until I found something more fitting with my degree, but the tips were good, and then I found Renny. My work with her is fulfilling, and it could turn into full-time eventually.” She regretted mentioning her degree and hoped he wouldn’t inquire further. “Either way, I’ve enjoyed working with her and have even considered getting into editing someday.” See, she had ambitions.

“Tell me about your work with Renny. We attend the same church, but I didn’t know she was an author.”

“She has an agent, but she’s not published yet.” Sabrina eyed Tucker. “I thought we were going to brainstorm.”

“Are you in a hurry?”

She shrugged, then wiped her mouth. “It’s your dime.”

“That’s right, it is. About Renny . . .”

His eyes twinkled. Why was he curious about her boring life? For a man so rushed to find his lady friend, he was sure taking his time.

“I struck up a conversation with Renny at the café when she was reading a book I’d recently read. We started talking about plots and characters; then she invited me for supper to pick my brain about her work in progress. When my ideas worked for her, she asked if I’d be interested in exchanging room and board for help on her stories.”