“One of those big places out on West End Road?” he asked.
She laughed at that. “Don’t look too impressed. The homes are big, yes, but they’re old, and most are in bad upkeep. Our kitchen is practically from the turn of the century. The windows, too.”
“Prime real estate,” he pointed out, and she thought of Gemma’s idea to list the property.
“So I’ve heard,” was all she said to that.
The man checked his watch and stood. “Well, unfortunately my time is up.” He tossed his paper cup in the nearest bin and extended a hand to her.
She took it, wondering if the disappointment she felt in her chest was noticeable on her face. It had been nice talking with him, another adult, and an interested one.
A handsome one.
A strange pull in her chest gave her pause. It was that feeling—that feeling that she had envied seeing in Ellie just last night. No, it couldn’t be the same, she told herself. It was the company, she told herself. It was nice, easy company.
His hand was warm, his grip less firm this time, but still strong, and, well, almost tender. He treated her as if he knew her. As if, she dared to think, he cared about her.
“I hope to see you again, Hope,” he said, grinning at his word choice.
He’d remembered her name. She liked the way it sounded coming off his lips.
“It’s a small island. I’m sure we will,” she said as their hands slipped away.
She sat in the ice cream shop, watching her girls, whose faces were now covered in chocolate, their dresses stained possibly beyond repair. And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel tied down with stress and anxiety and the burden of more baths and more laundry or even the conflict waging inside her about what she was going to decide about her future or what would make her happy. She felt lighter. And free.
And she was looking forward to the promise of tomorrow and what it might bring, not fearing it.
Chapter Thirteen
Gemma
On Monday, Leo came back. Gemma watched him through the window, telling herself that she was allowed a ten-minute break after each five pages that she produced. Sometimes this took an hour. Sometimes it took three. Sometimes it took all day. Still, it was progress, and it was far more than she had been accomplishing in a week back at her apartment in the city.
Hope had been right. But then, Hope was always right. A change of scenery had done her good. And right now, she couldn’t complain about her view in the slightest.
Leo was next door, at the Taylors, with a can of paint and a brush he was using to touch up the white trim on the front porch. Yes, Gemma did have to crane her neck to see all of this, but she was a writer, she needed to observe the world, not just sit and stare at a screen, which she’d done too much of lately. Really, she told herself, this was practically research. She had added a gardener into her story just this week, allowing for a plot twist that she hadn’t seen coming and which opened up an entire spread of new turns and story development that just might help her finish this thing once and for all.
So really, she should be watching him, even how his muscles pulled at his shirt as he carried his toolbox up the stairs. And right now, he was the only thing to observe, other than the calm, still lake waters or the remnants of the breakfast that Hope had brought up to her that morning, before saying that she would be out with the girls most of the day.
She was certainly taking the girls out more, not that Gemma was complaining.
So that left Leo. He was someone to watch. Someone that might spark another random idea that she could use in her book. Watching him had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that today he was wearing a shirt, one that pulled tightly across his broad chest and shoulders and made his biceps look even bigger than she remembered them.
Her phone pinged, pulling her attention away, and she did so reluctantly. On her screen was an alert, one she must have forgotten to delete five months ago when her world fell apart. Final dress fitting. One hour from now.
She wasn’t even aware that she was shaking until she accidentally dropped the phone, letting it hit the wooden floorboards with a thud. Her wedding dress was still in her closet back at the apartment, zipped in its dress bag, hidden from view. She had held onto it for reasons she couldn’t explain, even to herself. It had been expensive, but that wasn’t a reason to keep it. It was hope, perhaps, that she had clung to. Hope that as the days ticked by, something would change. That her wedding would still go forward, as planned.
Only it wouldn’t. She knew that now. And the dress just served as a hurtful reminder of everything that might have been and wouldn’t be.
She had no idea if it fit or not anymore. She had let the shop know when she went to pick it up—when she tried to return it and was told that she couldn’t, since it was custom made. But she hadn’t deleted the appointment from her phone. And now…now she knew that she wouldn’t get any more work done today.
She closed out of her document and went to the bathroom to run a brush through her hair. It was after lunch already, late afternoon really, and she hadn’t been outside all day. She’d take a walk, and if that walk happened to lead to a chat with Leo, then so be it. She should probably thank him for raking out that vegetable garden, after all. She’d watered it as he’d instructed, letting Rose and Victoria assist, and she thought there might just be a chance to save some of the summer crop after all, if she worked hard at it.
What was she saying? She was selling this house! What did it matter if she saved some squash?
Because it mattered to Gran, she realized. And therefore, it mattered to her.
And even though she knew it was impractical to hold onto this property, she wanted to be sure that it was shiny and polished, taken care of, and loved.
They wouldn’t just sell to anyone. They’d sell to another family, a family who would have the time to come here every summer, just as they all once had.
And then… Then she hadn’t gotten much further.
Deciding she couldn’t think about this anymore right now, especially when Ellie was still avoiding any mention of the subject—and her, at all costs, it would seem from her continued absence—Gemma went downstairs and stepped out onto the front porch, deciding she would take a walk along the beachfront if Leo didn’t happen to catch her eye first.
Admittedly, she was darting her gaze in that direction.
Catching her stare, he held up an arm in a wave, and damn it if her stomach didn’t flip over a little at that. Honestly, how ridiculous was this? She’d been holed up in her apartment for so long that she now got all weak in the knees over the slightest kindness from a random man?
Only he didn’t feel random. He felt…well, like a friend.
“Nice day out!” she said.
He set down his toolbox and took the steps down to the grass. She swallowed hard as he crossed the lawn toward Sunset Cottage. “I don’t see you out much.”
She grinned, wondering if he had been looking for her and then telling herself that this was ridiculous. It was an observation, and a fairly obvious one.
“Work keeps me busy. I’m under a tight deadline.”
“What do you do?” he asked, tipping his head.
“Oh…” She dreaded this part, when she had to state her profession. Once, she had said it with pride. Made the announcement with no hesitation. But lately, she felt like a fraud, like people could see through to her struggle. “I’m a writer.”