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“Only when she’s lonely or bored. Lately that amounts to about three days a week, for an hour here or an hour there. She has Nancy now, who manages it for her.”
“So you spend your afternoons...”
“Going to my NA meetings. I hate having to catch the ferry for those. It all takes up so much time.”
She could believe that. But they were an important part of his recovery. He wouldn’t want to spend all day at the flower shop, anyway. And it wasn’t as if he could find other work. The island had a population of only 2,500, so jobs weren’t easy to come by. His temper and drug use would preclude him from maintaining a steady job, no matter where he lived. He’d proven that in the past.
“I’ll go to the meetings with you,” she said. “Give you some company.”
“You don’t want to come.” He grimaced. “‘Hi, I’m Keith Lazarow, and I’m an addict.’ Why would you want to listen to that bullshit?”
“Because I care about you, and I’m hoping that having a companion will make attending those meetings more...tolerable.”
“What about your career? Don’t you have a new children’s book under contract?”
Feigning preoccupation with the scenery flying past, she turned her face to the window. “My career’s on hold for the time being.”
“On hold? You haven’t said anything about that before.”
“Because it’s not a big deal. I’m just taking a break.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she couldn’t do it anymore. That the drawing, the ideas, the words, the enthusiasm...it was all gone. She couldn’t come up with another Little Molly Brimble book, had no idea how she’d created her other books, since that kind of creativity seemed so out of reach to her now. To make it official and to escape the pressure she’d felt, she’d even fired her agent. “For the next few months, I’m going to figure out something else I can do.”
He pushed aside the hank of dark hair that fell across his forehead. “Sounds to me like you’re giving it up.”
“Not necessarily.”
“You can’t quit creating, Maisey—not because of Ellie or Jack or me. You love what you do. You’re good at it. And famous!”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not famous.”
“You were making a name for yourself. You were on your way.”
Acutely conscious of the absence of her wedding ring, which had represented an important part of her identity for nine of the past ten years, she laced her fingers together in her lap. “Doesn’t matter. Molly Brimble is on an indefinite leave of absence.” She sounded more absolute than she’d intended. She didn’t want him to continue prodding her since she was suddenly struggling to ward off tears. Lazarows didn’t cry, especially in front of other people, and that included family. She’d only embarrass herself and make Keith uncomfortable.
“It was Ellie who died, Maisey,” he said softly.
Her child’s life had been so short, only six weeks... “You think I don’t know that?” she said. “You think I haven’t missed her every minute of every day since that terrible morning when I found her?”
He set his jaw. “My point is that it was two years ago. You have to figure out a way to get beyond it.”
She couldn’t look at him, not without losing her battle with those tears. Because of her relationship with Josephine, she’d let Jack talk her into burying Ellie not far from where he’d been raised in Philadelphia. But since she’d never lived there, and he was now out of her life, that felt so strange and far away. She wished she’d insisted on burying Ellie on the island, as she’d initially requested. “Get beyond it?” she repeated as if that was impossible.
“Yes. Unless, of course, that only applies to me.” He was throwing her own words back at her.
“No, of course not. I am getting beyond it in the only way I believe someone can get beyond something like that. I told you, I’ll do something else until I’m ready to start writing again.” She couldn’t fall apart after all the encouragement and advice she’d offered him. She couldn’t even admit how close to despair she really was. She had to stand tall and lead the way, set an example for him.
They turned onto the narrow dirt road that led into Smuggler’s Cove and, about a quarter of a mile ahead, spotted a black pickup with a High Tide Construction placard on the door. It was parked outside the first bungalow on the back row—Unit 5. Maisey knew because of her familiarity with the cove; she couldn’t see the house through the trees that’d grown so much since she’d last been on the island.
“Looks like Mom’s contractor’s hard at work,” she said.
“Actually, he must be at lunch.”
“How do you know?”
Keith shrugged as he slowed to navigate the various potholes. “He lives there.”
Maisey gaped at him. “Only for the duration of the project, though, right?”
“Permanently—unless he decides to move. He told Mom he’d give her a heck of a deal on refurbishing the others if she’d sell him one. So she did.”
A wave of resentment washed over Maisey. Her mother had mentioned other interested parties through the years but Josephine had always refused them. “The bungalows aren’t for sale. They never have been.” And if it was up to her, they never would be. Her father had told her they’d belong to her.
“Since Dad’s gone, Mom’s in charge, and I have to admit that selling made sense.”
As soon as they passed the black truck, which was loaded with lumber, and the curved drive came into view, Keith pulled to the far side of the road.
“How do you figure?” she asked.
“He’s going to maintain and manage the properties once he’s finished with the refurbishing. Maybe you’ll wind up with one less house, but they’ll be in good shape when you take over.”
“And what does he get for staying on? Will he become one of her employees?”
“Not really. He just won’t have to make house payments.”
“That’s generous, considering the winter months are so quiet around here. Once he gets all the cottages fixed up, he won’t have much to keep him busy.”
Keith put the transmission in Park but didn’t turn off the engine. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s about cash flow. What she would’ve had to pay for the repairs she keeps as the down payment. What she would’ve had to pay for an on-site manager she keeps in lieu of a mortgage payment.”
“She’s sacrificed a valuable asset!”
“Sacrificed? It’s not a sacrifice if she receives fair compensation.”
“Is she that tight for money?” Would she sell the others? Maisey wouldn’t put it past her. What her father had brought to the marriage paled in comparison to what Josephine had contributed, so she wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever she wanted, despite his promises to Maisey.
“Not necessarily. It’s about being strategic.” He ducked his head to peer out her window. “Even if she was in financial trouble, unless it became so obvious we couldn’t miss it, we’d never know. She’s very private about her finances, as you know. Not only that, but she acts as if I’m too stupid to understand business.”
He’d never shown any aptitude. Maisey couldn’t fault Josephine there. So she pretended to be too preoccupied to respond to that comment. “Why’d Raphael pick Unit 5?”
“Mother wouldn’t let him have any of the first four. They’re closer to the sea, more in demand during the summer.”
Thank God for small favors! Maisey glared at the contractor’s truck. She’d never shopped for a Ford F-250, but it looked big, rugged and costly. “A mortgage is only part of the cost of living. He’ll have other bills to pay.” She’d learned all about those other bills when they’d quickly drained her bank account...
“I’m sure he’s got income. He still has his business, and Mom doesn’t care what he does as long as he keeps everything up around here. He probably plans to fold Smuggler’s Cove in with his regular work.”
“I see,” she said, but gripped her purse tightly—as if she wanted to fling it out the window at that truck, which was impeding the limited view through the trees.
“That’s okay, isn’t it?” Keith asked.
“It’s not what I would’ve done.”
“You’re sentimental. Mom is...less so. And that still leaves you with eight units.”
She was upset that he didn’t seem to care, because she knew how he’d react if it’d been his inheritance Josephine had diminished. What if she’d sold the flower shop, which they’d both been told would go to him?
He shifted the transmission and began to drive away.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” Maisey asked. “We’re not going to talk to the contractor?”
“I don’t want to interrupt the poor guy at home. I figure you should see what you’re getting into before we bother anybody.”
“Won’t we need keys?”
“Not to poke around a bit. You might take one look at the other bungalows and tell me to drive straight to Coldiron House.”
“They’d have to be a lot worse than this. The little I can see looks fine.” What if this guy had his sights set on owning the whole development one day? And if she ever tried to make the property complete again, what if he refused to sell and she couldn’t get the bungalow back?
“Unit 5 is in decent shape because he finished it right away, so he could move in,” Keith explained. “Now he’s starting on the seaside units. They have the highest priority since they go for the highest rents.”
She peered through the trees, craning her neck to see the next unit. “I don’t like that he’s here—or that he might become a permanent fixture.” She didn’t want anything to change, not in this place.
“You haven’t even met him.”
“I don’t need to meet him.”
When they turned in at Unit 6, she cursed under her breath. “Look at that.”
“Told you. Not quite what you saw at the last cottage, is it? And it’s the best of the ones that are left.” This time he cut the engine, but she didn’t get out. She stayed in her seat, gazing at the buckled porch, the sagging and missing shutters and the all-too-obvious water damage, which had left a mark halfway up the walls.
“Is it completely empty inside?” She hadn’t considered that...
“Everything’s been gutted, so Raphael can do what he needs to do.”
She began to worry that she wouldn’t be able to stay here, after all. “Where’s the furniture? Was it ruined?”
“Not all of it. Mom had me help move everything. She insisted we throw out the drapes, bedding and towels, stuff like that. They needed to be replaced, anyway. Most of the furniture, even some of the mattresses, were salvageable, though. What’s left has been stacked in the last unit.”
That was good news. Depending on what had been saved, Maisey could furnish whatever unit she chose. She could always buy bedding. Perhaps she’d make her own drapes—or order them online if she couldn’t come by a sewing machine.
But there was no denying that the bungalows looked worse than she’d expected. She’d been living in New York, newly single, when the hurricane hit, but she’d heard it was the worst Fairham had ever endured.
Now she could see that was true.
Keith opened his door. “Should we check the inside?”
She nodded, and they got out. But the bungalow was locked, as she’d predicted. They were trying to look through the windows when they heard the sound of an engine and turned to see the same pickup they’d noticed in front of Unit 5.
The driver parked behind the Mercedes. Maisey couldn’t see much of him, though, until he started toward them.
Then her breath caught in her throat. Not only did she recognize this man, she’d once had sex with him!
3 (#ulink_05183f6e-18f9-51ee-aac4-bdcc0215c5f7)
“OH, GOD, THAT’S RAFE,” she breathed, her voice low enough that the man approaching wouldn’t hear.
“Who?” Keith said, but there was no time to explain.
“Rafe” Romero wasn’t just someone she’d once slept with. At sixteen, she’d lost her virginity to him, rather unceremoniously, in the back bedroom of a party she’d been forbidden to attend (because there would be riffraff like him there), and she’d done it to spite her mother. She might’ve continued to sleep with him. The fact that he was four years older, reckless and without “prospects,” as Josephine would say, made him an appealing choice for her purposes—especially since all that “unsuitable” came in such an appealing package. But once he’d learned she wasn’t eighteen, like she’d said, he wouldn’t have any more to do with her. Even when she’d told him she was a Lazarow, thinking that might make the difference, he’d narrowed his eyes as if he had no respect for her family name or her money. He’d said that just meant she wouldn’t understand anything about the real world. She could still hear him laughing when she’d stomped off.
As he closed the distance between them, Maisey hoped he wouldn’t remember her. She’d had eighteen years to realize how self-destructive and ridiculous her behavior had been, and was embarrassed by it. Particularly when she recalled how brazen she’d been...
Pretend you don’t have a clue who he is and maybe he won’t recognize you, she told herself. He’d been so drunk that night she thought she had a chance—until their eyes connected and he hesitated midstride.
He definitely recognized her. Shit... “Something I can help you with?” he asked.
“There is if you have the key.” Grateful that he didn’t immediately give away their previous involvement, she pointed at the door.
“You’re Josephine Lazarow’s daughter,” he said.
She nodded politely but indifferently. “Yes. My name’s Maisey. And I’d like to see this unit.”
He smiled at Keith. “Good to see you again.”
“You, too. Sorry to come by out of the blue. We didn’t want you to think there was anything going on when we passed your place. It’s just that my sister’s considering moving into one of the bungalows for—”
Maisey felt certain he was about to say “for some strange reason,” and jumped in to finish the sentence for him. “The next few months.”
When Rafe’s golden-brown eyes returned to her, Maisey noticed that the acne he’d had as a teenager was gone. Other than a five-o’clock shadow, his skin was smooth and clear and almost as golden as his eyes. He’d also added quite a bit of muscle, mainly in the arms and shoulders, which made him look powerful. His dark hair, although shorter, retained a bit of curl at the ends, and thick black lashes framed his eyes.
The years had been kind to him, and he’d had more in the looks department than most men to start with.
“You mean after they’re rehabbed?” he said.
“No. Now,” she clarified. “I understand they need work. But as long as the place isn’t going to fall off its stilts or give way under my feet, I can make do. Or would you suggest another unit?”
“This one’s in the best shape,” he said. “I’d say you’re in the right place as far as that goes. But there’s nothing inside any of them.”
She ignored his bemused expression. “Keith tells me there’s furniture in the end unit. He’ll help me retrieve what I need. The utilities are on, aren’t they?”
“They were off until I had them turned back on last week. I figured I’d need power and water for the construction work. But—” Rafe motioned toward his own bungalow, even though they couldn’t see it for the distance and the trees “—it only took me two weeks to fix mine up. Wouldn’t you rather give me a chance to get this ready for you?”
“That’s okay. My mother wouldn’t want me to distract you from the seaside cottages. And I’d prefer not to wait. As long as you don’t mind a slight change of plans, I’d be happy to do some of the work myself—cleaning and painting and small repairs. None of which will affect your contract.”
He seemed at a loss as to why she’d be willing to do that. “If it’s what you want.”
He had to be wondering why she wasn’t moving into Coldiron House. Most people would expect her to stay in her family home. There was a certain cachet that went along with being a Lazarow and living in the mansion her grandfather had built. But the townspeople who envied her didn’t realize how difficult Josephine was, and that money and family history could only make up for so much.
Fortunately, Rafe didn’t come right out and ask why she preferred a water-damaged bungalow. He seemed to be a man who knew when to keep his mouth shut.
She gestured at Unit 6. “Would you mind letting us in?”
