“How the hell did you do this?” he demanded. His voice was stern, but the way he held her hand as he examined the plaster was almost tender.
“It wasn’t my fault,” she insisted, not sure if that was indeed the truth.
“Does it hurt?”
“No, it feels great. Of course it hurts. It’s a broken arm,” she snapped.
“How did it happen?” he demanded grimly.
She tensed, unable to control the visceral reaction to the memories. Blindingly bright lights. Metal collapsing in on itself. Falling into the dark.
“I told you. It was a car accident,” she said, trying to pull her arm away. But he held her arm carefully, firmly in his grip as his fingers explored the tangerine plaster of her cast.
Those blue eyes focused on her as if they were peeling back the layers.
“What happened?” he asked again. His voice was rough and low, but his touch warm. That blue, pulsing light that surrounded him seemed to envelop her, too.
She was horrified when her eyes filled with tears.
This time, she was able to yank her arm free and turned away to face the windows and the water beyond. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You always want to talk about everything.”
“Not anymore,” she murmured.
“How much does it hurt?” he rasped, sounding as if he were in some pain himself.
She rested her cheek on her knee and willed the tears away. “Not so much anymore.”
“You do remember that I can tell when you’re lying,” he said, spinning her chair around and forcing her to look at him. She saw storms in his eyes. More gray than blue now. She wondered what he might see in hers.
Would he look past the bravado and see what lurked beneath the surface? The thing that hadn’t existed before. The thing that had changed everything.
“That was a long time ago,” she reminded him quietly. “We’re both different people now.”
He rose, straightening those mile-long legs of his and returned to the kitchen. “You’re gonna need to stock up on some essentials,” he observed as he loaded up his bags. He was leaving. She was relieved and sad. As much as he annoyed her, his presence chased away the shadows. And that pissed her off.
“I’ll get around to it,” she told him, quickly wiping a tear away when he wasn’t looking.
Groceries collected, he paused and gave her another once-over. “You look tired. You should rest.”
“Good-bye, Brick,” she said pointedly. He headed toward the door, and she waited until he’d opened it. “I like your beard,” she called after him.
With a clench of his jaw and one last smoldering look, he was gone.
3
“Remi Honey?” Not much surprised Chief Darlene Ford. Born and raised on Mackinac, she’d served the island as a cop for nearly thirty years. But finding her youngest daughter—who was supposed to be working and living in Chicago—standing on the front porch seemed to be enough to put a hitch in her step.
“Surprise!” Remi wrapped her mom in a too-tight hug and held on for dear life. The name badge clipped to the front of Darlene’s offseason uniform sweatshirt bit into Remi’s shoulder. She may have inherited the woman’s green eyes, but she hadn’t gotten any of the extra height.
“Well, holy hell!” Darlene breathed, squeezing her hard. “Why didn’t you call and tell me you were coming? I could have gotten your room ready. How are you? Are you taking your prescriptions? Is something wrong? How’s your painting going? Have you sold any?”
The motherly interrogation made Remi laugh as she released her. “I wanted to surprise you and Dad. I don’t need my room because I talked Agnes Sopp into renting me a place. And everything else is just fine.”
“Well, I’m just tickled!” Still gripping her shoulders, Darlene looked over her shoulder and bellowed. “Gil! Get your ass down here.”
“What’s wrong? It’s too cold for spiders,” Gilbert Ford called back from the second floor.
“It’s not a spider,” Darlene shouted.
Darlene Ford had been born fearless…except when it came to spiders. It was the one area in which she allowed her mild-mannered, English-teaching husband to ride to her rescue without complaint.
“Well, come on inside before we heat the whole neighborhood.” She ushered Remi across the threshold into the house she’d spent her teenage years escaping.
Small details were different. The rug under her feet was new. There was a sturdy desk in the cluttered study on the left. The old one, a rickety-ass card table, had finally collapsed last year under the weight of high school essays and half-empty coffee mugs. Across the hall, the living room boasted a bigger, newer TV.
But it still smelled like home. Coffee and furniture polish.
Her landscape of Mackinac’s shoreline, one of her first paintings, still hung in the hallway that led to a sunny kitchen and dining room. And her parents still yelled from room to room.
“Remi Honey!” Gilbert Ford was one inch taller than his wife and a little less athletic. His dark red hair was always slightly mussed, clothes just a little mismatched, but he had a way of really listening to people that made them forget all about his disheveled appearance.
In his excitement, he missed the last step and nearly bowled both women over at the foot of the stairs. He flashed a sheepish grin before wrapping Remi up in a tight hug.
She closed her eyes and let herself be loved. “Hi, Dad.”
“What a wonderful surprise,” he said, swaying them side to side. Gilbert was an expert-level hugger and just the right medicine for what ailed his daughter at the moment.
How was it possible, Remi wondered, to be homesick while standing in her childhood home wrapped in the arms of the first man to ever love her?
“You didn’t know either?” Darlene asked her husband, shooting him a calculating look.
He shook his head, releasing Remi. “I had no idea,” he insisted, giving her hands a squeeze. “Didn’t you?”
Her parents were notoriously busy and often forgot to relay messages of varying importance to each other.
“I didn’t tell anyone I was coming home. I wanted to surprise you both,” she assured them.
Gilbert’s smile faded a bit, and his eyes narrowed behind the tortoiseshell glasses he’d been wearing for twenty years. “What’s this?” He gave Remi’s wrist a gentle squeeze.
“Oh, that. That’s a cast,” Remi said.
“A cast? As in you broke your arm?” Darlene barked.
“I was in a little fender bender. It’s just a baby break. No big deal.”
Her dad’s brow furrowed. “Can you paint with the cast, sweetie?”
“I haven’t really tried yet.”
So many little white lies, and she hadn’t even made it past the foyer. It was a record.
“Well, come on back. You can help yourself to some coffee and tell us all about it,” Darlene insisted. “How long do we have you?”
“I thought I’d stay for a couple of weeks. Take a little vacation,” she said, following her mom into the kitchen.
It was her favorite room in the house. After spending two straight weeks arguing about stains, her parents had gone rogue and painted the cabinets a hunter green. Glossy blue tiles made up the countertops. An odd-shaped island angled its way between the workspace and breakfast nook, a booth with deep cushions and a rich maple table built into the bay window.