More money, Gemma thought as she wandered down the road, taking in her surroundings, trying to push away the nagging worry that she had only written fifteen pages since she had been here, and while that was better than what she’d accomplished in five months, most of it was just scenic description. She couldn’t bring herself to get to the heart of the story, to bring two people together, when she was no longer convinced that any promises were real. Not long ago, she’d dared to think of getting another contract after this book was handed in; now she didn’t know what would be worse, no contract, or another deadline looming over her?
But her savings wouldn’t last forever. And unless she found another stream of income, writing was her best bet. It was the only thing she had left, she thought, pushing back the heaviness in her chest. Without Sean, what else was there?
He had been a part of her life for the better part of her twenties. They’d started dating when she was only twenty-two, and he was just a year older. That was the problem, he’d told her when he ended things. They were too young to know better then. Too young to know what they wanted.
In other words, he now knew what he wanted. And it wasn’t her.
Sighing, she walked south toward town, past the robin’s egg blue Victorian where the Taylors summered with their three girls, each redheaded and pale skinned, requiring their mother to lather their arms and legs and cheeks with so much sunscreen that their skin would be slick for the entire morning. The Taylors hailed from the Detroit area, a wealthy suburb not much different than the one that the Morgans had grown up in.
But that was where the similarities stopped. While both families had daughters, lived comfortably, and summered on Evening Island, Mrs. Taylor was warm and funny, with a laugh that was infectious, and the girls all had a giggle that was contagious. The whole family was happy and smiling, whereas the Morgans felt uptight by comparison—a little uncomfortable when it came to expressing emotion or being casual. Unless they were here, away from the stern gaze of their father. Did their mother pull them into their arms and braid their hair and have pet names for them the way the Taylors did? No. But at least up here, she wasn’t nagging them to stand with their shoulders back or straighten their hair bows or parade them around like a trio of dolls either. Here they could be themselves, their own individuals. Back in Cleveland, that wasn’t allowed.
Even now, she thought, thinking of Ellie, it was thinly tolerated.
Ellie. She really had been too hard on her. And no one ever said that it was her job to take care of the house. Now that they were all here, they should all share in the work. It was just that Gemma hadn’t factored in just how much work that would be. She’d talk to Ellie, once Ellie was around long enough to talk to. The past few days Gemma had rarely left her room other than to eat the meals that Hope was forever cooking and offering, and usually Ellie was out, at her studio, or somewhere else she hadn’t made known.
Maybe she was with Simon, Gemma thought, thinking about what Hope had said about finding love again. Contrary to what Gemma led her readers to believe, it just wasn’t that easy. At least, not for her.
She stopped to admire the annuals that were popping into full bloom beside the tulips in various shades of pink, purple, and white that lined the path to the Taylors’ porch. She knew the property as well as Sunset Cottage—soon there would be peonies, big, puffy balls of gorgeous pale pink and fuchsia flowers, and cream ones, her personal favorite.
The very kind that were supposed to be tied together with a blue ribbon for her wedding bouquet.
She must have been standing outside the gate to the Taylors’ home for quite some time, because she hadn’t even seen the man come around the side of the house. Now, feeling his stare, her eyes shifted, and her cheeks heated at what she saw. A tousle-haired man not much older than herself, in jeans and work boots and, God help her, nothing else.
She tried to pull her eyes away from his chest, but that would have made her not human. He was broad in the shoulders, and his muscles were lean, and on full display. Even though it was only May, his skin was bronzed from the sun.
“Can I help you?” the man asked in a tone laced with enough amusement that Gemma had to wonder if she’d actually been gaping.
Being holed up with her sisters and alone in her apartment before that clearly hadn’t been good for her. It was just a man, and many men in this world were good looking.
Her mouth felt dry as she tried to look natural. “We own the house next door,” she explained. She got a better look at his face as he approached. Yes, focus on the face, Gemma. Piercing green eyes, nut-brown hair, and a strong jaw. But it was the grin that made her stomach do something funny. She tried to compose herself and had a bad feeling that she was failing. “Do you work for the Taylors?”
As if that wasn’t obvious. She hadn’t seen him before, and she thought she knew all the locals on the island, but then she hadn’t been back in a long time either. Caretakers usually required year-round residency, because by the summer season, the houses were occupied by owners or renters.
“I do.” He grinned, but his look was suspicious. “I’m the new caretaker.”
“What happened to Edward?” she asked, thinking of the sweet old widower who used to bring her Gran a bouquet of flowers once a week, even if she insisted that nothing was going on between them.
The man raised an eyebrow. “He retired. Spends his time fishing now. It’s a physical job.”
She blinked. Of course. Quite physical, she thought, forcing her gaze to remain on his face. She felt flustered, like he was waiting for her to say something. She blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Do you mind if I ask what you do for them?”
She realized by the squint in his eye that this had come across as suspicious, maybe even interrogating. “I’m not checking up on you. I just…Well, my sisters and I are staying in our house for a bit and we might need some help.” That was an understatement.
He didn’t look surprised by this omission. She wondered if he’d already noticed the place, formed an opinion about the state of it.
“I do whatever they ask,” he said with a shrug. “Keep the furnace going in the winter, and make sure the pipes don’t freeze. Clean the windows in the summer. Rake in the fall. Keep an eye on tenants that they aren’t so sure about.” He grinned. “I’m pretty new here, though. This is my first season.”
“Do you mind me asking how much you charge to mow the lawn?”
He glanced at the cottage and back at her. “For you? Twenty bucks.”
Twenty bucks or two hours of writing time. “It’s a deal,” she said, feeling relieved.
His eyes held hers until she felt the need to look away. “I’ll stop by today if I have time.”
“Tomorrow is fine. We’re not out to impress.” At least she wasn’t until now. Now she wished she’d changed her clothes from the comfy but not exactly flattering T-shirt and leggings that she lived in most days, and sometimes slept in, too.
“I’ll be by tomorrow then,” the man said. “I’m Leo, by the way. Leo Helms.”
“Gemma Morgan,” she replied, smiling shyly. He held out a hand and she extended hers, her stomach tightening at the contact, before she abruptly pulled her hand back. The racing of her heart was pure nonsense. Honestly!