Caelyn poured an egg mixture into a pan on the stove. “How are things on Harbor?”
“Good. Weather’s taking a turn again, so my days are a little chillier.”
“You’re telling me. I had to force Mia into her coat this morning. The way she dresses, you’d think it was eighty degrees out there.”
I grinned at the image of Caelyn’s little sister refusing to cover one of her brightly colored ensembles with a jacket. “How are the rest of the tiny terrors?”
“They’re good. We all are. It’s taken some time, but things have finally settled down.”
I studied Caelyn’s face. Her expression held nothing but peace and happiness. You never would’ve known the hell she and the siblings she had custody of had been through just months ago. “You know, if you ever need to talk, I’m a good listener.”
Caelyn paused in her chopping and looked up. “Thank you. That means a lot. But I promise, I talked this out until I was blue in the face. Griffin made sure of it.”
“That’s a good man you snagged there.”
She winked at me. “Why do you think I put a ring on him?”
I choked on a laugh. “Because you’re not a stupid woman.”
“Dang straight.” She slid the egg and cheese goodness onto an English muffin and then proceeded to put all other sandwiches to shame by adding her secret blend of spices, some caramelized onions, and arugula. “Here you go.”
My stomach grumbled. “You know, I’ve tried to replicate this at home. I fail every time.”
Caelyn picked up her jar of the spice mixture. “This is the key. I’ll put some in a little jar for you to take home.”
“You’re a goddess.”
“Don’t I know it. But you’ll have to bring me some of your greenhouse tomatoes in exchange. I miss good tomatoes in the winter.”
I picked up my sandwich. “You’ve got yourself a deal. I’ve got a huge crop of them this year.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” The bell over the door jangled. “Let me make sure they don’t need any help. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time.” I bit into the sandwich and had to hold back a moan. The concoctions Caelyn created were out of this world. She didn’t need the culinary classes she was currently enrolled in. Hell, she could be teaching them.
I forced myself to eat slowly, enjoying every bite. My culinary skills had vastly improved since I’d moved to Harbor, but I couldn’t compete with this. I’d learned how to use the ingredients I grew in the gardens and the greenhouse. I’d mastered creating sauces and stews to freeze for later. And I’d fallen in love with the process of it all. The slower pace of life that existed just a bit outside what the regular world demanded.
My work phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I saw an email notification flashing across the screen. Opening the message, I scanned the first few lines and froze.
Shay,
I hate doing this over email, but I know how spotty cell service is out there. We recently got an offer on Harbor that’s too good to refuse. It breaks our hearts, but the kids want to be on the mainland this summer, and it just doesn’t make sense to keep it if we’ll be spending all our time in Seattle. The good news is the buyer is interested in keeping you on if you can agree on terms for responsibilities and salary. He’s arriving next week. I’m including the number for his assistant below so you can arrange a phone call to discuss things further.
We’ll miss you terribly. Please do keep in touch.
Lots of love,
Rebecca
My hand trembled as I set my phone on the counter. Selling. A new owner. One week. The Dowds had talked about selling before, but they’d never actually gone through with putting the island on the market. I’d thought for sure that if they did move, I’d have time to prepare. To consider all of my options. To plan.
My ribs seemed to tighten, making it just a bit harder to breathe. A million thoughts flew through my head, what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. I reached into my pocket, searching for the small, smooth stone that always grounded me, reminded me that I was safe.
Everything would be fine. The new owner still needed a caretaker. It was rare for someone to live on one of these small private islands full time.
I took a deep, steadying breath. I wouldn’t lose my haven. The one place I’d felt safe since that night eleven years ago. I’d just have to prove how indispensable I could be.
2
Brody
Carson let out a puff of smoke as he leaned back on the chaise lounge, the stream filtering up from my terrace and melting into the New York skyline. “Stop making that face.”
I took a pull from my beer. “What face?”
“The one that says you’re judging me for polluting the air around you.”
I grinned. “You said it, not me.”
“You used to have a pack-a-day habit.”
I grimaced at the reminder. “I was twenty-two and stupid.”
Carson stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his combat boot and then laid the butt on the table between us. “Maybe you are made for clean air and country living.”
I played with a frayed thread on my jeans, twisting it around my finger until the digit lost blood supply. “Let’s hope I am.”
“You couldn’t do what a normal person would and take a vacation. No, you had to go off and buy a fucking island.”
The string around my finger snapped. “You know me, go big or go home.”
Carson stayed silent, studying me. My friend of over a decade peeled back layer after layer as he stared. “How can you leave New York? It’s like another limb. It’s seared into our marrow at this point.”
He wasn’t wrong. New York had become a part of me over the years. From the first time I escaped the suburbs of Connecticut and tore through the city with friends leaving our spray-painted tags in our wake, trying to become the next Banksy. Most had grown bored of the hobby the way most teenagers do. But I’d become obsessed. The burning desire to find a way to express everything inside me, the way I saw the world. It took over my life.
I’d left Connecticut for good the moment I could. Abandoning suburbia for the raw realism of the city. It had been everything I’d dreamed of for a long time. All-nighters with friends just as passionate about leaving their mark on the world through art as I was. Not art that was expected, either. Art that had no barriers and talked about real issues.
It was the highest high. Until it wasn’t.
I let the string in my hand fall to the ground. “It’s time for a change.”
“Running across the country won’t change what happened.”
My jaw worked as I struggled to form words. “I know it won’t. I just—I feel trapped. Claustrophobic.”
“Probably because you haven’t left your apartment in three months, other than to talk to the cops.” Carson swung his legs around so he sat up, facing me. “Listen. And really hear me. None of what happened was your fault. I get that it messed with your head. It couldn’t be any other way. But you’re not giving yourself a chance to get over it by locking yourself away, completely alone, thousands of miles away from your friends.”