He pulled her door open and motioned for her to get in the truck, but she didn’t move. “It’s not a big deal.”
“I crashed into your truck,” she said.
“Twice.”
Her expression turned to amusement. “Twice.”
“Did you want to get in or . . . ?”
She seemed to be searching for a reply, but she must’ve come up empty because she passed by him and got into the truck. He closed the door and walked around the back, trying to calm nerves that had sprung up without his permission.
Women leave. He’d keep repeating it to himself until he stopped this childish infatuation with a woman who was way out of his league.
He slid into the driver’s seat, aware that it had been a long time since he’d had a woman in his truck—and now, in a matter of days, Charlotte had been in it twice. Would she expect conversation on the drive to Haven House?
He preferred the sounds of the road to the sound of his own voice. And it wasn’t like the two of them had anything in common. What was a high school football coach supposed to talk about with a ballerina?
And why did he care? He wore silence well. It was his comfort zone.
“I can find out how much that headlight cost.” It sounded like a dare.
He tossed her a sideways glance but didn’t respond. When he looked back to the road, he had to hide a smile.
Cole didn’t understand women, but there was something charming about this one.
“Where is Haven House?” she asked, staring out the window.
“Outside of town in the other direction,” he said, thinking of the big farmhouse that had come to feel like a second home to him over the years. “No lake view, but it’s still peaceful.”
“Peaceful,” she repeated. “That’s a good way to think of it.”
Silence enveloped them, and he wondered if she found it uncomfortable. He was uncharacteristically at ease.
“Usually when I would think of a quaint little cottage town, I’d picture brick pavers on the street, or even cobblestone—Nantucket has cobblestone. I was there once, but not for vacation. It was a work trip, but I wished I’d had time to explore that island. Have you ever been?”
Cole mumbled a quiet, “No,”
She watched the lake out the window like she’d never seen it before. “You see that red lighthouse out there?”
He glanced over at the familiar scene—one he mostly took for granted, now that he thought about it.
She didn’t wait for him to respond before continuing. “I can see it from my room in Lucy’s cottage. Julianna wrote about it a lot in her letters. I think she was enamored with it too—do you know the history of that lighthouse?”
“No.” Something inside him shifted, and he felt himself begin to relax. He did know the history, but he wanted to hear her version.
“It was built in the wrong place. They meant to build it off the coast of Safe Harbor, but somehow the plans were messed up and it ended up here. They talked about moving it, but there were so many reports that the lighthouse was helping sailors that they let it stand and built another one up on Safe Harbor. Isn’t that funny? That lighthouse is there because of a mistake—and it’s one of my favorite things about this place.”
He searched for a reply but came up empty.
“Sorry. Sometimes I talk too much,” she said quietly.
“Too much for who?” He glanced at her, then quickly back to the road.
“I’m annoying you, I’m sure. Telling you history of your own town.”
“I don’t mind.”
She looked over at him. “Really?”
He shrugged. “Really.” Eyes back to the road, where a large white sign that read Haven House was situated.
“Oh, we’re here,” she said.
His nerves settled at the sight of the property, the sign, the large farmhouse down the gravel driveway.
Haven House.
In many ways, this place was his home. Even now, that’s how he saw it.
Outside, two golden retrievers lolled on the front lawn.
“There are dogs,” Charlotte said. Her voice was so happy it reminded him of a child’s.
“Yeah, the bigger one is Ollie and the other one is Bob,” he said.
She laughed. “They named a dog Bob?”
Cole hid his smile. “I named him that. I hate when people name their dogs dumb names like Bandit or Sparky. Just name him something strong and sturdy.”
“But Bob?” She peered out the window. “He looks more like a Bandit.”
He didn’t say anything else. He’d brought the retriever home two years ago, as a gift for Gemma, who quickly said she wasn’t a dog person and told him to find the dog a new home. Naturally, he thought of Haven House, which had been taking in all sorts of strays—even human ones—for as long as he’d been alive.
Hildy fell in love with the dog the second Cole put him in her arms. “What’s his name?” she’d asked.
“Name him whatever you want,” Cole said.
“How about Rocky?” Hildy smiled.
“No, do not name him Rocky,” Cole said. “Just call him something simple. Like Bob or Mark or something.” He gave the dog’s ears a rub, then turned and walked away.
Cole was surprised, weeks later, when he returned to Haven House, to discover that the puppy now wore an engraved nametag that read Bob.
The farmhouse had been well cared for—you’d never know it was over a hundred years old by looking at it. With a traditional white exterior, the place had three giant outbuildings, a fenced-in field for horses and, on the opposite side of the house, a big garden where the kids who lived here learned to grow their own food.
Cole spent a lot of time in that garden. It was the main thing he oversaw when he volunteered.
Steve and Hildy were all about life skills. He supposed that’s what gave him the idea to offer Asher a job that summer. He’d done similar house projects out here over the years, and it always felt good to be the one to fix something that went wrong in his own house.
He parked next to the house, turned off the engine, and stuck the keys in the ashtray.
“You don’t talk much, huh?” She faced him.
He resisted the urge to tell her she’d talked enough for both of them, afraid his tone wouldn’t read “playful,” but rather “annoyed.” And he wasn’t annoyed with her at all—that said something because for the most part, people irked him.
But that was more his problem than theirs and he knew it.
Instead of responding, he simply shrugged, aware that he’d barely said two words the whole drive out here.
“I’ll try not to take it personally.” She opened the door and got out of the truck. “But only because you’re related to Jules.” She shut the door.
He got out and walked around to the front of the truck, watching her admire the house. “What’s Jules got to do with it?”
“If you and Jules have the same blood, then there must be good in you somewhere,” she said without looking at him. “Even if you’re hiding it from everyone.”
She muttered that last part under her breath. He wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or amused, but he didn’t get a chance to decide before the front door of the old house opened and a little girl appeared on the opposite side of the screen door.