He flicked off the lights in the shop. “Believe it or not, I’ve become a decent chef. Don’t expect Le Cordon Bleu fare, but you won’t go hungry.”
“I’ll look forward to whatever you concoct—but I’d also be satisfied with sandwiches or takeout. Don’t go to any trouble on my behalf. And I promise not to overstay my welcome. If I decide to extend my visit, I’ll find other accommodations. You know what Ben Franklin said—after three days, guests, like fish, begin to smell.”
Zach’s lips twitched. Typical Aunt Stephanie. On the rare occasions they’d connected through the years, she’d been a hoot. Blunt, funny, and adventurous, radiating an almost palpable joie de vivre and spouting a live-and-let-live philosophy.
Too bad his dad hadn’t inherited a few of those qualities. While he shared her bluntness, he was too opinionated for his own good . . . or the good of parent-child relationships.
“I doubt that will be a problem. Text me the details of your arrival once your plans are set.”
“Will do.”
He hesitated, propping a shoulder against the wall in the shadowed shop. Did she know about the situation between him and his dad?
Unlikely.
While brother and sister had always talked by phone on a regular basis, his father tended to keep difficult topics close to his vest.
In person, however, it was possible he’d be tempted to vent.
Without a heads-up, she could stumble into a hornet’s nest with an innocent comment or question—putting both her and his father into an uncomfortable position.
“Aunt Stephanie . . . there’s something you ought to know before you visit Dad.”
“You mean about the rift?”
So she did know.
But how much?
“Um . . . yeah. I wasn’t certain he’d clued you in.”
“Clued me in would be stretching it. After he stopped mentioning you during our phone conversations three years ago, I realized there must have been a falling-out. He never offered any details, but I assumed he was disappointed about your career switch.”
Disappointed?
Far too mild a term.
More like shocked. Angry. Bitter. Confused. Distraught.
And his attitude hadn’t softened in the intervening years.
“At the very least.” Zach let his gaze linger on the poster-sized photo on the wall across from him. The shot of a tiny seedling growing in the crack of a boulder, pushing toward the sky as it struggled for a foothold on the inhospitable surface, never failed to encourage and uplift him.
“Family conflicts are difficult.”
“Also avoidable, if people are willing to let each other live their lives as they see fit.”
“I won’t argue with that.” His aunt’s tone remained conversational. “Yet there can be extenuating circumstances. A person’s history can skew their view of the world.”
He straightened a crooked chair and pushed it under a table with more force than necessary. “I know all about the bankruptcy that upended your world when you and Dad were kids—and I get how an experience like that can make a person crave security. But it doesn’t justify shutting out people who choose a different path. That’s not what love’s supposed to be about.”
“Again . . . no argument. And I appreciate the heads-up, though I’m not certain the subject of your relationship will come up. He was never one to discuss feelings.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Frowning, he planted a fist on his hip. “What do you mean?”
“I was just curious about whether the two of you have tried to talk through the issue.” Her tone remained mild. Nonjudgmental.
That didn’t keep his blood pressure from spiking.
“I tried. He shut me out. By his definition, a conversation means he talks and you listen. If you don’t agree with his opinion, end of discussion.”
A soft laugh came over the line, defusing the tension. “That’s Richard. He was pigheaded as a kid too. Maybe he’ll eventually mellow.”
Zach snorted. “That would take a miracle.”
“They do happen. In the meantime, watch for a text with my travel plans. It’s been great to talk with you, Zach.”
“Likewise. Enjoy your visit with Dad.”
After they exchanged good-byes, he did one final circuit of the modest shop that gave him more satisfaction than any of the multimillion-dollar deals he’d negotiated in his previous career.
This business wasn’t going to make him rich—but as Charley had said, life shouldn’t be all about accruing money. He’d devoted himself to that goal for eight long years, and while his sixty-hour weeks had put him on the fast track to success and padded his bank account, they hadn’t fed his soul as this shop did.
He paused at the door, fished out his keys, and gave the welcoming space a scan. There was nothing more satisfying than creating a place that gave all who entered a brief respite from their cares and worries. That left them refreshed and reenergized.
Well . . . all except one customer, whose image continued to strobe through his mind with annoying regularity.
He hadn’t learned anything more about the mystery woman, despite a fair amount of subtle digging with his regular clientele. No one had seen her, other than Charley—and she hadn’t stopped by the taco-maker’s stand either.
For all he knew, she’d already left town.
He secured the door and wandered down Main Street toward his car, absorbing the warmth of the sun.
This was the kind of day that put a sparkle on Hope Harbor and drew tourists from far and near during the summer months. The kind of day meant for leisurely pursuits. And The Perfect Blend’s six-days-a-week, seven-to-one hours gave him ample opportunity to enjoy each and every one.
Another perk of his new life—and he intended to relish every second of this glorious weather.
Too bad he didn’t have a special someone to share it with.
Once again, the image of the woman hiding behind sunglasses flashed through his mind.
He expelled a breath and mashed down the unlock button on his key fob.
Letting a stranger get under his skin was stupid. He should forget about her and whatever troubles Charley had concluded she was dealing with. She—and they—were none of his concern.
Yet as he slid behind the wheel and started his Jeep, he couldn’t help but wonder where his mystery customer was—and what she was doing on this beautiful day.
3
The sun was shining at last—and the beach was beckoning.
Katherine pulled the roomy, long-sleeved T-shirt down over her denim-clad hips, shoved her feet into her sand shoes, and exited onto the deck of her rental cottage. Brilliant blue sky greeted her, and she paused to inhale a lungful of the briny air.
Bliss.
Under the radiant solar warmth, the tension melted from her shoulders. It had taken ten days, but the peace of this coastal haven was finally beginning to permeate her psyche.
Even the annoying phone calls from Simon, initiated three days into her trip and now a daily irritation, were losing their ability to stress her out. And she was done answering them, as she’d told him yesterday. Until she settled on a direction going forward, there was no point in talking to him.
Whether he would honor her request for radio silence remained to be seen—but as long as they were separated by more than eight hundred miles, the odds were minuscule he’d drop in unannounced. Hope Harbor wasn’t the easiest place to get to, and Simon’s aversion to driving long distances should keep him at arm’s length.