Authors: Barbara Wallace
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Contemporary
The sharpness in his voice made her jump.
He whipped around. “I said drop it!”
Suddenly Zoe understood. There, in the confines of his pickup, she saw what he hid beneath the layers of inapproachability.
Not physical pain, like his hip. No, this kind of pain ran deeper and stronger. It was the kind of pain medicine couldn’t help. The kind that ripped a man’s insides apart.
Zoe’s own insides hurt for him. “I’m sorry,” she replied, meaning far more than her earlier intrusion.
She watched as he dragged a shaky hand across the back of his neck. Maybe it was her tone, or the fact that she’d apologized, but some of the edge left his voice. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Okay.” She’d do what he wanted and let the subject drop. For now.
You won’t find the tiny island of Naushatucket on any map. When my heroine decided to escape the world, she did so to an imaginary representation based on several local islands. However, while her home base might be a product of her imagination, the breathtaking views she sees from her rooftop aren’t. In my opinion, Cape Cod and its islands have some of the most gorgeous ocean views in the world. Then again, being a lifelong Massachusetts resident, I might be a tad biased.
This book was a really hard book to write, mainly because I felt it so very important to portray Jake Meyers’s experiences with dignity and realism. Hopefully I did him justice.
The more I got to know Jake, the more I also wanted to give him the happy ending he deserved. Enter Zoe Hamilton. She’s not looking for love any more than Jake is. Who better to help a broken man heal than a woman who’s dedicated herself to helping others? Of course, Zoe’s got her own baggage—baggage she hopes to escape with a summer at the shore. And even though neither of them is looking for a relationship, they’re about to find out fate thinks otherwise.
Finally, there’s dear sweet Reynaldo. Zoe’s beloved pet has trials of his own. I think reality was inspiring me. Turns out I have an even bigger soft spot for animals and sob stories than Zoe. I wrote this novel while nursing our own sick cat back from a brain infection.
I hope you enjoy Jake and Zoe’s story. Please drop me a line at [email protected] and let me know. I love hearing your feedback.
has been a lifelong romantic and daydreamer, so it’s not surprising she decided to become a writer at age eight. However, it wasn’t until a coworker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mom. At the urging of her family, she finally chucked the day job to pursue writing full-time, and she couldn’t be happier.
Barbara lives in Massachusetts with her husband, their teenage son and two very spoiled, self-centered cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com, and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.
To my editors—for being so patient while I
worked to get this story just right
To the gals at the Medway Starbucks—
for keeping me caffeinated at all hours of the
day and night
And as always, to my boys Pete and Andrew—
you’re my heroes.
woke with a start, the smell of blood and sulfur still in his nostrils, his eyes searching the shadows for enemies who minutes before had been crystal clear. Kicking off his sweat-soaked covers, he focused on his heart slamming against his ribs. He willed his breathing to slow like they showed him in the hospital. Slow and easy. In. Out. Until the steady intake of air filling his lungs erased the sounds of screams.
After three and a half weeks without a nightmare, he’d thought they were behind him. No such luck.
With a ragged breath, he looked at the clock on his nightstand, ignoring the shudder triggered by the crimson glow. Five-fifteen. Well, at least this time it was close to dawn. His hip throbbed. The pain always flared more following a nightmare. If he were inclined to examine the reasons, he was sure he’d find some psychosomatic component, but in fact the reasons didn’t really matter to him. Pain was pain. He
grabbed the bottle of prescription painkillers off the nightstand and knocked over the photograph propped against the lamp as he did so. Reverently he put it back in place. The darkness obscured the image, but he didn’t need light to see. He had the faces memorized. Every last one had been etched in his brain for eternity.
Hobbling into the kitchen, he saw a half pot of yesterday’s coffee remained. Too tired and still too hazy from his dreams to make a fresh pot, he poured himself a cup and, as the liquid reheated in the microwave, stared out his back window. Outside, the island hung on the edge of morning, silent and gray, the world still except for the occasional screech of a gull diving toward the waves across the street.
And, of course, his thoughts. His thoughts were never silent.
The microwave beeped. Jake grabbed his coffee and stepped onto the back step, letting the overcast dampen his skin as he breathed in the silence. Dew dripped from the pine trees dotting his backyard, their green needles sparkling. A chipmunk poked its head out from beneath a root.
His purgatory shouldn’t be so serene, he thought, not for the first time. As far as he was concerned, the world was wasting its early morning splendor on a dead man.
Give yourself time.
That’s what the doctors at the
VA hospital had told him.
Some wounds don’t heal overnight.
They were wrong, he thought, as he raised the cup to his lips. Some wounds don’t heal at all.
“This hideaway of yours, does it have internet access?”
From behind her blue-rimmed glasses, Zoe Hamilton rolled her eyes. “Naushatucket’s off the coast of Massachusetts, Caroline, not off the grid.”
“If I can’t read the label on a map, it might as well be.” There was the muffled sound of a register on the other end of the phone. Caroline was out getting her midday latte. “Couldn’t you hide out on one of the bigger islands, like Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket?”
“My family didn’t own a rental property on Martha’s Vineyard or Nantucket. Besides, isn’t
a hideout requirement?”
Judging from the extended sigh on the other end, her assistant disagreed. Zoe half listened to the noise while scanning the air around her. Caroline’s check-in, though welcome, came at a bad time. “If you’re worried about my column getting in on time, I have everything I need to work from here.”
“I hope so. ‘Ask Zoe’s’ readers will be distraught if they don’t get regular posts from their favorite answer lady.”
Answer fraud, more like. “Don’t worry. They’ll get their responses.” Poor trusting saps.
A flash of black caught the corner of her eye; she spun around, eyes following the trajectory.
Success. Her target had landed. The rest of the phone call would have to wait. “I hate to hang up on you, Caroline, but unless there’s anything else, I was in the middle of something when you called.”
“Fine,” Caroline replied with another dramatic sigh. “I know a brush-off when I hear one. Just promise me you won’t spend all your time on that island crying your eyes out. That bastard isn’t worth the effort.”
“I won’t.” On that point, they both agreed. Thinking of Paul churned up a lot of responses these days, but tears weren’t one of them. At least, not anymore.
After making a few additional promises, including assuring Caroline she wouldn’t become a complete hermit, Zoe said goodbye and clicked off the phone. “Okay, Birdy, now it’s your turn.”
From its perch above the open sliding glass door, a swallow, her nemesis for the past half hour, stared back unflinchingly. The creature had been circling the room through her entire phone call, steadfastly ignoring the escape route Zoe had provided. Finally, the bird stopped to rest, giving Zoe her chance.
“I really don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.”
She slipped off the silk scarf she’d been using to hold back her thick dark hair. Immediately a shock of bangs flapped over her glasses. She blew them out of her field of vision and took a step closer, careful not to move too quickly.
“The door is open. All you have to do is fly out and you’ll be free.”
Her plan was to wave the scarf, using the color and motion to steer the bird off the molding and out the patio door. The swallow, however, had a different plan and, as soon as Zoe lunged forward, decided to dart straight for her. Letting out a screech, Zoe ducked. The bird flew overhead, careening off a ceiling beam before knocking into the mantel and flying up the chimney.
Zoe rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
When she had first decided to hide out for the summer, buying her parents’ Naushatucket property sounded exciting, romantic even. What better place to heal a broken heart than an isolated cottage by the sea? Visions of long reflective walks along the shore and cozy nights by campfires came to mind. Instead, she discovered that her mother had let the property deteriorate since remarrying. Her childhood vacation paradise had become a sorely neglected Cape house with dusty furniture and sand-crusted windows. Screenless windows, she might add, a fact she had discovered when she tried to clear the house of stale
air. Enter Birdy, who apparently had been lying in wait for someone to open one of them.
Pushing her glasses back on the bridge of her nose, she knelt down on the hearth and readied herself for round two.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the company and all,” she called up, “but Reynaldo and I weren’t planning on sharing the house with a bird, and I’m guessing you’re not keen on sharing with us. So what do you say you fly out the nice wide door I opened for you?”
Her answer was a panicked flutter of wings against brick.
“Fine. Don’t listen to reason.” Moving on to Plan B—or C as the case might be—she grabbed the poker from the fireplace set. A loud noise ought to do the trick. Reaching up into the flue, she rattled the poker back and forth. The commotion set off more fluttering, followed by a rustling sound. Zoe looked up.
A shower of creosote, dust and feathers rained down.
Soot covered her from head to toe, clinging to her sweaty skin like iron filings on a magnet. Dust filled her nose. Her mouth tasted like the inside of an ashtray. Coughing, she backed away into the fresh air. Meanwhile, the swallow continued flapping inside the chimney.
Great. This was what she got for trying to help. Hot, sweaty and soot-on. You’d think she’d learn.
“This isn’t over, Birdy,” she muttered. She reached for the abandoned scarf to clean off her glasses.
Zoe jumped. Either Birdy had some serious testosterone issues or she had a guest. A blur in the doorway told her the latter. Slipping her glasses back on, she saw a man standing in the doorway. Tall and lean, with ruddy, weathered skin, he wore the standard island old-timer uniform—faded jeans and an equally faded long-sleeve T-shirt.
He lifted a guilty-looking dachshund to eye level.
Zoe recognized the dog immediately. “Reynaldo! You’re supposed to be sleeping in the kitchen.”
“I found him digging around my backyard.” From the look on his face, he wasn’t happy about it, either.
“Sorry about that. He normally isn’t a wanderer. Must be the new location.” She moved to retrieve the squirming pooch from the stranger’s grip before something else happened. “I’m Zoe Brodsk—I mean, Hamilton.” She had to stop using her married name. “I just bought the place. I’d shake your hand, but as you can see…”
No need finishing the explanation; the soot spoke for itself. He didn’t look like he wanted to shake her hand anyway.
Now that she had a closer view, she realized her neighbor was younger than her initial impression implied. Hair she’d mistaken for silver was really sun-bleached blond. And what she thought was aged ruddiness was really a series of pale scars, several small ones running across the bridge of his nose and one along the curve of his cheekbone. The most prominent was a deep mark that cut from his left temple to the center of his left brow, stopping just above a pair of hard, emerald eyes. Eyes whose intense gaze currently had her rooted to the spot.
Reynaldo squirmed in her arms, sniffing and trying to lick at her ash-covered cheeks. Since adding dog drool to her already filthy face wasn’t on her to-do list, Zoe set him down. In a flash, the dachshund ran to the fireplace and began barking. His dancing around reminded her how she’d gotten soot-covered to begin with.
Turning back to her neighbor, she asked, “You don’t know anything about capturing birds, do you?”
“Why, you got one of those that escaped while you weren’t watching, too?”
“No.” For the sake of neighborliness, she decided to ignore the comment. “I’ve got one stuck in my fireplace that needs rescuing.”
He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, a posture that accentuated a pair of long muscular arms. “How do you know?”
“That I have a bird in the chimney? I saw it fly up there.” No need to add that she was the reason why.
“No, I mean how do you know it needs rescuing?”
I can hear his wings flapping against the brick.”
“Doesn’t mean he wants your help.”
Was this guy serious? “How else is he going to get free?”
“How about on his own?”
“You’re assuming he’s capable of freeing himself.”
“You’re assuming he isn’t.”
Zoe brushed at her bangs, more to prevent herself rolling her eyes than anything. Who cared what she was assuming? The poor bird needed her help. She wasn’t getting into some pointless argument with a man who couldn’t be bothered to introduce himself.
“Either way, I need to help this bird out,” she said, dismissing the man. Hey, she was from the city; she could be as abrupt and unsocial as the next person. “Thank you for bringing Reynaldo home. I’ll make sure he stays out of your backyard.”
Somebody needed to work on his people skills. Her “neighbor’s” dearth of social graces, however, would have to wait. She had more important tasks to focus on. Assuming their
conversation had ended, she returned her attention to the fireplace.
“Leave the room.”
“Excuse me?” She frowned at the man from over her shoulder.
“Noise will keep the bird riled up,” he replied. “Especially the barking. The two of you should leave. Once the room settles down, the bird will come out.”
“What if it doesn’t?” From the way the bird was flapping, it might beat itself to death before calming down. “What then?”
“Then I guess you’ll find out the first time you light a fire.”
Zoe’s mouth dropped open. She whirled around to protest, but the stranger had already slipped out the door. So much for the friendly neighborhood welcome wagon. First time you light a fire, indeed.
“No way I’m waiting until the thing burns up in a fire to know if he escaped,” she told Reynaldo. “He needs our help now.”
With that, she grabbed the poker and readied for another round. “Time to come out, Birdy!” She clanged the poker around the chimney a second time. Then a third.
A loud rustling sound replied, followed by several high-pitched whistles. There was a rush of noise and the swallow came bombing out.
“Ha!” Triumphant, she wiped away the fresh
batch of soot with the back of her hand. The bird
needed her help. She watched as it circled the room once, then twice, before heading for the open patio door.
Where it promptly landed on the door-frame molding. In the exact place this rescue mission had begun.
Jake stomped across the yard, up his steps and straight to his refrigerator for a cold beer. Who cared if it was before noon? The day was already shaping up to be a damn lousy one, and that was before he found the dachshund digging around his yard.
He’d come to Naushatucket for solitude. Which was why living next to a rental property suited him just fine. Temporary vacationers seldom offered more than a wave and a nod, too busy cramming their visits with summer fun to attempt conversation. He didn’t need a neighbor moving in with her pet and her cheery smile. Hopefully, she’d only stay the summer.
The letter he’d been reading was on the counter where he’d dropped it, the opening paragraph still visible.
Dear Captain Meyers,
As you may have read in the local paper, the Flag Day Committee is honoring our area heroes….
He crumpled the paper in his fist. Heroes, huh? Then they didn’t need him.
I’m in love with a man I work with. He’s wonderful. Handsome, funny, smart. Problem is, no matter what I do, I can’t get him to see me as anything more than the woman in the next office. I know if I can just get his attention, he’ll see what a terrific match we would make. He’s not dating anyone. In fact, I’ve overheard him complaining he can’t find the right woman. What can I do to make him see the right woman is me?
What can I say? Guys are blind idiots. They can’t see a good woman even if she’s under their noses. And when they do meet the right girl, they’ll treat her like dirt and dump her for the first blonde with big breasts that crosses the fairway. Might as well learn this now and save yourself the heartache. If you want love, get a pet.