The last time I would ever face the memory of my father.
The streets were still quiet when I pulled my car into Mission Cove. I was early, my lawyer not arriving until ten, and without conscious thought, I drove to the east end of town, pulling up in front of a place that used to feel like home.
The small house was gone now, replaced as most of those in the neighborhood were, with newer, larger homes. Mission Cove had prospered in the past three years, and I had made sure all areas were developed. My father would roll over in his grave if he knew how his money was being used.
That thought alone was the one thing that brought a tight smile to my face.
I kept driving.
The deserted campground was now a playground for children, with a picnic area for families. It was well maintained, with safe equipment and a pool for the hot summers. It had been aptly named The Sunny Place. I blinked at the onslaught of emotions that threatened to engulf me as memories I kept locked away attempted to break through. I shook my head and pulled away, knowing the entire day was going to be the same.
One sad, aching reminder of all I had lost.
In town, the streets were clean, a few stores already open and getting ready for the day. Tourist season hadn’t hit yet, but as always, there would be some travelers around. Most of the old businesses were gone, replaced by newer ones. But the diner was still there, although it had been upgraded and modernized. The local dry cleaner was already open, the windows clean and bright. They had added a self-serve laundromat, which I was certain was very busy in the tourist season. It was a good addition. Around the corner, the animal shelter had a newer, larger building, completely subsidized by an anonymous donor. They never had to worry about it being shut down again.
I parked the car and glanced up at the overhanging vista. My father’s house still stood on the hill, overlooking the town. The sun bounced off the windows, reflecting the light in a thousand directions—the only light that house ever had to it. That would change soon.
I climbed out of the car to take a stroll, unable to sit any longer. I slid sunglasses on to my face, not that I was worried about being recognized. The boy who left this town ten years ago was unrecognizable now.
My light hair had darkened, and I wore it longer than I used to, the back hitting the collar of my suit jacket. I had filled out completely, thanks, first, to the summer camp, then the two years at the “private school” where I’d lived. The gym, working out, and my ongoing plans for revenge were the only ways I had to cope with the isolation I endured, and I made full use of it. Now my shoulders were wide, my muscles tight and strong, and I walked with my head high, no longer hiding. All my suits were custom made to fit my shoulders, and I wore them like a cloak. Dressed in them, I was powerful and untouchable. No longer the scared, beaten boy—son of Franklin Thomas—but my own man. Lincoln Webber.
I had rejected everything that was my father and taken on my mother’s maiden name, changing it as soon as I could once I returned to Canada.
Today was the final step in dismantling my father’s legacy.
I walked along once-familiar streets, looking in windows and pleased with the changes I could see. Changes I had instigated that would benefit this town. Memories surrounded me at every turn, and I gave up trying to fight them off.
It wasn’t a surprise that she was everywhere. All my good memories were tied to her—this entire town was tied to her. Her ghost followed me with each step, whispering memories in my ear. I paused at the corner and raked a hand through my hair, wondering if this was a mistake. I should have let my lawyer handle it all, but I had wanted to do this.
I inhaled, a sweet smell wafting through the air hitting me. Across the street was a bakery—new since I’d lived here. The door was open, the scent of fresh baking inviting. I read the sign with a smile. Biscuits and Buns. My stomach rumbled, and I headed in the direction of the tempting smell. I would grab a snack then head up to the house.
I stepped in, the aroma intensifying. There was one thing that smelled that good. Biscuits. I hadn’t had one in years, but the scent alone was enough to bring back the most bittersweet of memories.
Sunny baking. Looking happy as she handed me a plate of warm biscuits soaked in butter and laden with jam. Her grandmother had taught her how to make them, and they were my favorite thing to eat. I shut my eyes as the feelings the memory stirred began to overwhelm me.
A throat clearing broke through my scattered brain.
“May I help you?”
My eyes flew open, and I stared at the mirage in front of me.
It had to be a mirage, right? I had been thinking of her so much that morning, it couldn’t possibly be real.
But there, standing behind the counter, was Sunny. Her hair was still as bright, her beautiful eyes dark, setting off the ivory color of her skin. The girl was gone, replaced by a woman so lovely, it made my chest ache.
She frowned and spoke again in a voice I would recognize until my last breath. “Are you all right? Can I help you?”
I stepped closer, trying to find my voice. She tilted her head, studying me, wary. Up close, I could see more changes. Her eyes, once so bright and alive, were dimmer. Sad. Her hair was swept into a thick coil at the back of her neck—Sunny always hated to wear her hair up. She was as tiny as I recalled, and there was a coolness to her manner she’d never projected before. Reserved and formal.
Her brow furrowed as she looked at me. She began to worry her lip the way I remembered her doing. Her breathing picked up, whether in fear of the stranger in front of her, or some long-forgotten recollection of the boy I was to her surfacing—I didn’t know.
I pulled off my glasses and met her confused stare. Her eyes widened in shock as we locked gazes. Years fell away, and the warmth of her stare that always filled me up hit me all over again. I was seventeen, staring at the girl I was in love with.
The girl I still loved, now a woman, a virtual stranger, who could still bring me to my knees with a glance.
“L-Linc?”
I sighed at the way my name sounded on her lips. How the letters sounded when she said them.
“Sunny,” I replied, my voice low.
Then her expression changed. Bewilderment and anger brought her shoulders up and a scowl to her face.
“What are you doing here?” she snapped.
I cleared my throat. “Ah, some family business.”
She barked out a dry laugh. “Family business. Yes, I know all about your family business. What are you doing in my shop?”
Her anger wasn’t unexpected, but I had never heard Sunny’s voice be so cold.
“When did you move back here?” I replied.
“How do you know I ever left?” she shot back.
I leaned on the counter, incredulous. “I looked for you. You had disappeared.”
Her eyes widened, but before she could retort, a young girl came through the door at the back.
“The last batch is done, boss. You want me to start on some cookies?”
Sunny moved back. It was then I realized how close we had moved toward the other. I rose to my full height, stepping away from the counter.
“Yes, Shannon. Let’s do the ginger ones today.”
Shannon eyed me curiously, then smiled at Sunny, before disappearing through the door. “On it, boss.”
We stared at each other.
“As much as I’d love to go down memory lane with you,” Sunny informed me, her voice icy and filled with sarcasm, “I have a business to run. Do you want anything, or did you come in here to bring more upheaval into my life?”