Chapter One
Jessica Blackwood patted down her hair, hoping the humidity hadn’t frizzed it too much. Granny would probably comment on it anyway, even if she’d managed to smooth it into the most perfect pageboy in the universe.
She stood on the sidewalk outside Granny’s house in the historic district of Magnolia Harbor. Built in the mid-1800s in the Georgian style, the house was a study in geometry and symmetry. The plants in the garden were set out in careful rows too. Granny would have it no other way.
Jessica hurried up the brick walk, fixing a proper Southern-lady mask on her face. She rang the doorbell and waited.
It was funny, she’d once called this house home, but now it felt more like the scene of a crime, where her parents had abandoned her and disbelieved her and then sent her away.
So she didn’t love the house because she’d never been loved here. And yet, like a good girl, she came back every Saturday out of obligation. Granny lived alone now that Momma and Daddy had died.
When Granny finally opened the door, Jessica drew some comfort from the fact that, like her own hair, Granny’s looked like a frizzy nimbus around her thin face. But that didn’t stop Granny from frowning. The fold in the middle of her forehead could intimidate anyone, and frequently did. Granny had spent a lifetime frowning and had worn that groove deep.
“Darling,” Granny said in a slow drawl, “you’re late.” And then the old woman inspected Jess. “Why do you insist on wearing that dress? The color isn’t good on you.”
The dress in question had been purchased at Daffy Down Dilly, the boutique that occupied the retail space below Jessica’s brand-new office. It had a border of roses along the hemline in shades ranging from pastel to hot pink. Jessica loved the dress, but Granny had a thing about pink. Jessica should have remembered and worn something else.
Jessica said nothing because Granny didn’t expect explanations or apologies. Instead the old woman turned away, and Jessica dutifully followed into the front parlor, which was furnished with Victorian antiques that had never been comfortable.
As if to punctuate the point, Granny’s sister, Donna Cuthbert, who was about a hundred pounds heavier than Granny, perched precariously on the edge of the balloon-backed sofa. Aunt Donna looked as if she might slide right off that thing at any moment, and her purple jungle-print blouse clashed horribly with the sofa’s red damask upholstery.
Granny gave her older sister one of her disapproving looks, with the eyebrow lowered just so. “Donna dropped in unannounced,” she said. “I had to put another cup on the tray.”
As if putting another cup on the tray was a major trial. Granny could complain about anything, even an unexpected visit from a member of her much-diminished family.
“Hey, darlin’,” Donna said, hopping up from her unsteady seat and giving Jessica a big, warm hug.
“What brings you to tea?” Jessica asked, sitting down in one of the side chairs.
Granny took a seat beside Donna. There was a faint family resemblance between the two sisters, despite the fact that one was rail thin and the other quite large.
“Gossip, my dear,” Aunt Donna said in a conspiratorial tone.
Jessica didn’t rise to the bait because she avoided gossip at all cost. She’d been scarred by the stories people had told about her over the years.
She turned her attention to the tea tray, filled with Granny’s pride and joy: her Lenox china in the Cinderella pattern. Jessica picked up the teapot and started pouring. From the time she’d been ten years old, she’d been expected to manage a teapot without spilling, as if this ability was an indication of her worth as a human being.
“What gossip?” Granny finally asked, unable to resist the lure Donna had set.
“About Christopher Martin,” Aunt Donna said.
The teapot jumped in Jessica’s hand, and she sloshed tea into Granny’s saucer. Christopher, who was widely known by the nickname Topher, had been a hometown hero ever since he’d led the Rutledge Raiders to the state football championship sixteen years ago.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Granny said, reaching for a cloth napkin to mop up the spill.
“Sorry,” Jessica said in a tiny voice and carefully put down the pot. “What about Topher Martin?” she asked, picking up her cup and saucer, hoping that neither woman noticed the slight tremor in her hands.
“The poor man has shut himself up in Ashley’s cottage,” Donna said.
“Oh, the poor dear,” Granny said.
Jessica looked up from her tea. The poor dear? Really? “What do you mean, he’s shut himself away?” Jessica asked aloud.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” Donna asked.
“I don’t gossip,” Jessica said in a tight voice, although technically she was gossiping right this minute.
“Well, it’s not exactly gossip. I mean, it’s practically common knowledge,” Donna countered.
“Maybe only to the members of the Piece Makers, sister,” Granny said. The Piece Makers were the local quilting club. The ladies had been meeting for decades to make charity quilts while they discussed everything and everyone in Magnolia Harbor.
She didn’t ask what the heck Granny and Aunt Donna were talking about. She refused to give them any encouragement. She simply sat and sipped her tea and tried, without success, to think about something that would change the course of the conversation.
“Christopher was horribly disfigured in a car accident about nine months ago,” Granny whispered in the same tone she often used when talking about someone diagnosed with cancer or having a heart attack.
“I hear it’s a challenge to look him in the face now,” Donna said.
“So have I. Such a pity. He’s still unmarried, and a Martin. A rich one, evidently, since he was the CEO or something for one of those hedge funds. They say he made billions,” Granny said.
“It’s such a shame, and after the way he led the Rutledge Raiders to the championship that time.” Aunt Donna let go of a long sigh.
Jessica kept her expression impassive while her emotions churned in her gut. Just yesterday, Topher Martin had called her office and asked her to design a house for him out on a remote island in the bay. She’d refused at first, but he’d been very persuasive, offering her a fee that was twice her going rate.
He hadn’t really explained why he wanted to build a house so far off the grid. But now maybe she had her answer. Maybe he wanted to hide. Maybe he’d become a monster.
Although in Jessica’s book he’d always been one of the villains—a member of the football team that had started the vicious rumors about her sixteen years ago. Now maybe everyone would get over their hero worship and see him for who he truly was.
If her architectural firm wasn’t desperate for new business, she would never have considered his commission. But she was trying to move on in her life. And a girl had to eat.
“Have you seen him since he was disfigured?” Donna asked, pulling Jessica from her thoughts.
Granny shook her head. “No. But he was such a beautiful boy once.”
“Well, it’s water over the dam now,” Donna said. Her aunt placed her empty cup down on the tray. “The juicy bit is that I understand he’s so disfigured that he wants to build some kind of hideaway on Lookout Island.” Donna paused here for impact before turning her gaze on Jessica. “And I understand from the word on the street that he’s hired you.”