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“I saw the way you were eyeing her. As if she’s like every other woman you knew growing up out in California. Bitchy. Demanding. What do they call them? Divas?” Arlo brushed the bay’s shoulder. “Grace is none of those things.”
That wasn’t all Sean had been thinking about as he’d been sizing up Grace, but he sure wasn’t going to enlighten Arlo anytime soon.
“Growing up the pastor’s daughter wasn’t the easiest thing here on Mirabelle,” Arlo went on. “Especially not for a young one as feisty as Grace.”
“Feisty? That what you call it?”
“Keep an open mind. That’s all I ask.”
“Sure. As long as you remember you don’t own this operation anymore. Deal?”
“Deal.” Arlo patted Sean’s horse and grinned. “Now that I think about it…you and Grace. You never know. You two might hit it off—”
“Oh, no,” Sean interrupted before the thought could take root in the old man’s stubborn mind. “My life’s fine the way it is, thank you very much.”
Sean took great pains to make sure no one on Mirabelle had a clue he was looking for a wife. The last thing he needed was any of his well-intentioned friends setting him up with every single available female on the island. He could do his own vetting, not that there was much to vet on a small island like Mirabelle.
Besides, Grace Kahill wasn’t even close to what he was looking for in a woman. A pretty package was a good start, but more than anything he wanted a full-fledged partner in life. A woman who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty and who loved Mirabelle as much as he did. A woman who would not only be content living in this small community for the rest of her life, she’d be happy to do so. Forever.
Arlo chuckled. “I got news for you, son. You don’t know it yet, but your life ain’t as great as you think it is. Find yourself a good woman, and then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”
He knew. “Yeah, well, she’s married, anyway.”
“Separated, is what I hear.”
“He came to the funeral.”
“Appearances, I guess.”
A marriage on the rocks? Only made for more baggage. “Doesn’t matter. I have absolutely no interest in a relationship with that woman. My summer’s going to be busy enough as it is.”
“Speaking of which…how’d things go down at the pier?”
“Fine.”
“Then where’s your son?”
Sean looked away. “Not exactly sure.”
“That doesn’t sound to me like everything went fine.”
“He left the ferry and took off toward town. Other than making sure he knows where I live, what was I supposed to do? The kid’s as communicative as a mule.”
“Go after him? Talk to him? Explain your side in this whole thing?”
“Yeah. I thought about all of those options.”
“And?”
“What do I know about being a father?”
“What does any man know about being a father until he is one?” Arlo nodded toward the main gate. “That him?”
Sean glanced down the drive and nodded. “Austin, can you come here a minute?”
The boy hesitated before finally skulking toward them.
“This is Arlo Duffy. You ever need anything or have any questions and you can’t find me, he’s the one you want.”
Arlo put out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Austin.”
Grudgingly, Austin shook his hand and mumbled a hello, then he cocked his head to the side. “That your house?”
Sean nodded. “Your suitcase is on the porch.”
“So where the hell am I supposed to sleep?”
Add a mouth to that chip on his shoulder. Sean bit his tongue, but the kid’s attitude was already wearing on him. “Take the hallway to the right before you get to the kitchen. Last door on the left. Bathroom’s next door.”
Austin walked away, and that was that.
“See what I mean?” Sean said the moment the front door to the house slammed shut.
“Can you blame him? He just found out his dad isn’t really his dad. He’s confused and angry.” Arlo sighed. “Give him a chance to settle in. Might end up not being as bad as you think.”
Sean grunted.
“Be patient. With him. Yourself. You’ll figure it out, son. You’re a smart, compassionate man.”
“Not according to some folks here on Mirabelle.” There was no doubt his bedside manner had been slipping of late.
“A woman just might improve your mood some.”
“Let it go, Arlo.” Sean headed toward the stables. He had to get back to work. “The last thing I need is more complications in my life this summer.”
And Grace Kahill was nothing if not complicated.
CHAPTER THREE
HER FIRST MORNING ON MIRABELLE.
The sun already streaming through the open window, Grace lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The sound of squirrels scrabbling up and down the trees filtered in, along with the chirping of robins and chickadees, cardinals and finches. There were no traffic sounds to interfere with their songs, no smog to ruin the fresh-smelling spring air. She should’ve felt rested and relaxed. Instead, she was tense and edgy.
Rather than the restful night she’d hoped for, even after taking two pain pills, she’d slept fitfully, if that’s what you could call that flip-flopping, sweaty tussle in the sheets she’d suffered through for the last six hours. No point in lying here any longer. That was about all the decadence she could handle for one morning.
Flipping back the covers, she padded into the bathroom, unzipped the compression shirt and stepped into the shower. Once finished, she quickly dried herself off and smoothed some medicated cream over her scars. The tube was nearly empty, but she’d be damned if she’d call her doctor for a refill. No doubt, he’d want her to come in for an exam.
Briskly, she slathered lotion on the rest of her body. Once upon a time, she’d actually enjoyed this part of her daily routine. She would’ve lingered, taken time covering every inch of skin and luxuriated in the feel of rich, scented cream. Since her accident, though, she hated the feeling of being naked and exposed. The sooner she got clothing on, the better. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen herself nude.
Spur of the moment, she spun around and stared at herself in the large mirror over the sink, took in every angle, every inch of skin. My God, what happened to you? That skinny, damaged body could not be hers.
Grabbing the bath towel, she strategically placed it over her left side. There you are. Almost. With the right clothes on, covering the right spots, no one would be the wiser.
But she knew. She always knew.
The memory of the look on Jeremy’s face when he’d seen her scars flashed through her mind. No wonder he’d filed for a divorce the day after her long-term prognosis. Scarred for life is what the doctors had said. No amount of plastic surgery would ever completely erase the injuries caused by the fire. Her usefulness to him had gone up in flames, along with the leather seats in her Bugatti. She was now damaged goods.
Quickly, she pulled on a clean custom-fitted compression shirt, zipping it up the front. For a moment, she imagined going about her day without the tight elastic fabric, but the thought had been immediately followed by a sense of panic. She’d gotten used to ever-present pressure around her upper body. There was an odd sense of security, she supposed, in the feeling.
In order to ensure her scars wouldn’t spread, she needed to wear the compression garment over most of her torso at least twenty-three hours of every day. That meant she slept and exercised in one and would be wearing one until the day her doctor said her scars had matured.
Matured. How ridiculous was that term? As if a burn scar could ever be anything except ugly.
She was stepping into a pair of white thong underwear, when the front doorbell chimed. Inching out into the hall, she glanced downstairs through the sheers on either side of the front door. A young man, more than likely a college student, stood at the door holding two bags of groceries.
“Newman’s delivery,” he called out, setting the bags down and knocking. “Hello? Mrs. Kahill?”
She hadn’t ordered any groceries.
The boy squinted through the windows on either side of the front door, trying unsuccessfully to see into the house. “Well, okay then. Call the store if you need anything else.” Shrugging, he set the bags down on the porch, turned and left.
Her stomach grumbled and she wondered what was in those bags and who had ordered her food. As if in answer, her cell phone rang. That had to be either Suzy or Amanda, but she didn’t want to talk to either one of them.
The phone stopped ringing and indicated a voice mail had been left for her. Then, surprisingly, the house landline rang. She hadn’t given that number to anyone.
The answering machine speaker sounded through the house. “Dammit, Grace, pick up.” Suzy Lang’s unique accent, not quite British, but not entirely Indian, echoed strongly through the house. “Okay, fine. Be that way. I ordered you some groceries because I have this sneaking suspicion that you have nothing but celery to eat in that house. Believe it or not, that Newman’s store had some decent organic stuff. So eat, okay? Don’t make me come there and force-feed you.”
At that, Grace smiled as she pulled on a pair of white capris, topped with a T-shirt over her compression garment and finished off with a dark heather-gray hoodie and a lightweight scarf around her neck, effectively hiding the rest of her scars.
“You know I don’t have the time. The photo shoot for that new magazine spread has me running around like a runway wannabe.” Her long, soft sigh came over the line. “I miss you already.”
Grace missed her best friend, too. Apparently, there was one thing left in L.A. that Grace still cared about and that still cared about her. She answered the phone. “Hey, Suze.”
“I knew you were there. What the hell?”
“Sorry. Having an awkward time settling in here, I guess.”
“Amanda called me,” Suzy said softly. “What are you doing back on Mirabelle?”
“I needed some R & R.”
“R & R, my ass. You’re going to be bored out of your mind in a week.”
“I’ve been working full-time since I left this place. I think I’m due for some time off. Besides, my dad needs the company.”
“Okay, okay.” Suzy sighed. “Amanda’s worried about you.”
“Oh, really?” Grace was a paycheck to her assistant. Nothing more, nothing less.
“Grace, don’t be that way. You do have people in your life who love you.”
Bullshit. Suzy had been the only one who truly cared. The rest had all been using her. Designers wanted her to wear their latest lines. Friends wanted appointments with her agent for their daughters, nieces, nephews, you name it. Editors wanted exclusive photo ops. Photographers wanted in with up-and-coming models. The truth had been revealed when her usefulness to them had ended with her accident.
“I’m serious,” Suzy said. “You’re not just a boss to Amanda. She really cares.”
“If you say so.”
“She said you were supposed to have a doctor’s appointment the day you left for Mirabelle. I know you’re sick of doctors, but you may still need some attention.”
“I know.” She wasn’t entirely out of the woods yet, and she didn’t want to be ninety and still wearing this compression garment.
“So what are you doing about it?”
“Well, believe or not, this tiny island has a wonderful clinic. I promise I’ll make an appointment for some time in the next couple of weeks with Doc Welinski.” He’d give her a new prescription for any medicated cream she asked for and pain meds, if needed.
“Is he any good?”
“The best.”
Grace had never met a sweeter, more compassionate man than old Doc Welinski, except, quite possibly, for her father. Doc had tenderly and with unexpected humor put on her cast when she’d fallen out of the McGregors’ apple tree and broken her arm. When she’d gotten violently sick to her stomach after French inhaling an entire pack of cigarettes, he’d given her antacids and kept the secret from her mother. And when other mothers, mothers like Mrs. Miller, had complained about Grace and the trouble she always seemed to be getting into, Grace could still remember Doc Welinski standing up for her in the school lobby. She’d be in good hands here on Mirabelle.
“All right,” Suzy said. “I’ll tell Amanda she can stop worrying.”
“I gotta run. Talk to you again soon.”
“Don’t wait to answer the phone next time.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Smiling, Grace disconnected their call. Then she went downstairs and brought in the groceries the Newman’s delivery boy had left on her porch. She set the bags on the kitchen counter and put everything away.
The selection of groceries indicated Suzy was well aware that Grace snacked rather than cooked full-fledged meals. Tomato juice, low-fat yogurt and breakfast bars. Pita bread, hummus, sprouts and shaved roasted turkey. Romaine, feta cheese and an olive oil vinaigrette. Shrimp and fish. Blueberries, raspberries, avocadoes and an artichoke, all of them fresh. There were a variety of organic soups. And, lastly, a special treat. Two pints of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream.
Grace grabbed a spoon and dug out a chunk of ice cream before putting the containers in the freezer. As the chocolate melted on her tongue, she groaned. There were benefits to no longer modeling.
Grabbing a hat and sunglasses, in case she encountered any tourists, Grace grabbed a breakfast bar, left the house and set off down Mirabelle’s residential streets toward the house she’d grown up in. A strange sense of déjà vu filled her as she walked down the street. She’d spent far too much time here on Mirabelle for these neighborhoods to feel like anything other than home, but the trees were taller and many of the houses had been painted different colors.
In her head, she listed off the names of every family who used to live in every single house, but strangers mowed the lawns and picked up the mail. People had moved, died and retired. Mirabelle had changed. If the Duffys had moved out of their farmhouse, then it was also possible that the Setterbergs had, too. For all she knew the Grotes may have relocated, as well as the Hendersons and the Millers.
But as she approached the cotton candy-pink Victorian next door to her parents’ home, it was apparent Shirley Gilbert still owned the bed-and-breakfast. The grand old house was still in tip-top shape as were the gardens already overflowing with pink, white and purple petunias.
The house where she’d grown up couldn’t have looked more different from the Gilberts’. Grace turned up the front sidewalk to the modestly sized, but classically designed Victorian and noticed that very little had changed with either the structure or the yard in the years since she’d left home. The house still looked terminally white. What else could you call white shutters and trim on white siding? Virginal?
Her mother had even ensured the landscaping didn’t step out of line. Bridal veil spirea bushes. White petunias in the pots on the front porch. A white crab apple tree in full bloom on the front lawn. Other than the grass and leaves, the only color in the entire yard came from the shingles on the rooftop. Green, naturally, so as not to clash with the vegetation.
She glanced up to her old bedroom window in the second-floor turret to find white—of course—sheers hanging in the window. The pale pink polka-dotted curtains she’d had to stare at for most of her teen years were gone. Thank God. She’d always hated those damned frilly things.
A large honeysuckle—white again—climbed up the trestle near the corner. How many times had she climbed down the drainpipe outside her window? If she hadn’t been escaping off into the woods to meet some boy vacationing from Chicago, she’d been meeting up with groups of kids to hang around a fire and drink stolen liquor out at Full Moon Bay.
One childhood memory after another tumbled through her mind. More often than not her memories involved boring gatherings with boring guests. Their front door had practically revolved with the comings and goings of visitors. There were some fond memories, some of them involving Carl. Most of the time, she and her older—perfect—brother argued whenever they’d gotten within twenty feet of each other, but there’d been a few times when they’d connected.
