Wind Chime Wedding (A Wind Chime Novel Book 2) (40 page)

“It’s not for the locals.”

“Who’s it for?”

“The tourists.”

Will glanced over his shoulder at the deserted street. “What tourists?”

“They’re not here yet.” Annie rolled her eyes. “They’re coming with the resort.”

Will’s smile faded. “What resort?”

“The Morningstar Resort,” she explained, “the one that’s going to be built on the island.”

The faintest sound of copper wind chimes drifted into the room as Will held her gaze. “Who told you this?”

“My realtor.”

“Did he happen to mention where this resort would be built?”

Annie nodded. “There’s an old inn at the end of the island sitting on fifty acres of undeveloped land. The owners passed away six months ago and apparently the guy who inherited the property is anxious to sell.”

Will looked down at the can of soup, testing the weight of it in his palm. His expression had gone carefully neutral.

“It’ll take time,” Annie said. “But things are changing. And I’m going to be right here, ready to take advantage of it when they do.”

Will lifted his eyes back to hers. They were even darker now, the color of bitter chocolate. He kept his expression blank, but she sensed a shift in him, something simmering just beneath the surface. “It was nice to meet you, Annie.”

He tipped his head and turned, walking out the door and down the porch steps.

Annie stood in the doorway, watching him walk away. The sound of wind chimes floated toward her again, and she gazed up at the beams of the porch, searching for the source of the sound. But there were only a few hooks and some wire. She turned, walking back into the café as the scent of falling leaves swirled through the autumn air, carrying the promise of change.

Will drove down
the long flat road leading to the western tip of the island. He passed soybean fields, white pine forests, and marshes until the paved road turned to gravel and the yellow farmhouse rose up to greet him.

As if he hadn’t been gone for the past ten years. As if nothing had changed.

His grandfather’s Ford pickup truck was still parked in the same spot, the same rust stains crawling along the bumper, the radio probably still tuned to the same local country music station.

His grandmother’s gardens still took up half the back yard, and the same hackberry tree, with its sagging branches almost touching the ground, still marked the beginning of the path leading down to the beach.

Will slowed the SUV to a stop beside his grandfather’s truck and cut the headlights. He sat in the driver’s seat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, gazing at the house that had been in his family for five generations.

This was only supposed to have been a weekend trip. He’d planned to go through the house one last time, grab a few things from his past, sign the contract, and pass the deed to the buyer. He’d planned to walk away after this weekend and never come back.

But could he sign this house, his family’s history, over to a developer?

He stepped out of the SUV. His boots crunched over oyster shells as he walked slowly up to the porch, past those same five wicker rockers that had been there since he was a child. They used to sit there in the afternoons—his mom, his sister, his grandmother, his grandfather and him—waiting for guests to arrive.

He walked into the foyer of his old home and breathed in the musty air with a hint of Old Bay Seasoning. A thick layer of dust clung to every flat surface, and he would bet the raccoons and possums were having a field day under the porches.

Across the room, a layer of pollen coated a framed picture of him in his first t-ball uniform, which still sat on the mantel above the fireplace, right beside the picture of his little sister in a pink dress blowing bubbles in the grass. Something twisted deep inside him, and he turned away from the photographs.

What was the point in looking back, when you’d lost everything?

He bypassed the hall leading up to the stairs and walked into the big open kitchen. Moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the worn wooden counters and gas range stove. A chopping block that doubled as an island sat in the middle of the room. The same wooden stools were lined up around the counters.

He remembered how this room had always smelled of his grandmother’s cooking: fresh baked bread, homemade vanilla ice cream, oyster fritters, and steamed crabs. It felt wrong to be here without her, without everyone. This house had always been filled with people. Laughing, chattering, happy people.

Now it just felt empty.

Setting the food on the counter, he crossed the dining area to the back porch that ran the length of the house. He opened the screen door, letting it slap shut behind him as he wandered outside, down the sloping lawn, past the tulip poplars and the abandoned swing that still hung from the thickest branch of the black walnut tree.

He walked out onto the dock, strolling to the edge of the pier.

He had some time. Not much, but enough. It wasn’t going to be easy. The house needed a lot of work. But he could roll over a few weeks of leave that he hadn’t taken from the previous year, in addition to the two weeks he was already taking. If he could restore the inn back to a state where it would at least pass inspection, he might be able to attract a regular buyer, one who wouldn’t tear it down.

He ran his hand over a rotted piling.

He’d have to clear it with his CO, but his new boss had already suggested that he take some time off to “get his head straight” before rejoining the teams for a pre-deployment training in November.

His CO wasn’t the only one who’d issued a subtle warning. Some of his fellow SEALs were starting to make comments. He wasn’t himself anymore. He wasn’t focusing.

Will knew they were only looking out for him. They didn’t want to lose him. He knew better than anyone that there was no room on the teams for an operative, no matter how skilled, who couldn’t focus.

He dipped his hands in his pockets, listening to the sound of the water lapping against the shoreline.

Maybe all he needed was a project to sink his teeth into. At some point, the nightmares would have to stop. And if they didn’t?

He was sure there was nothing wrong with him that a few weeks with a beautiful redhead couldn’t fix.

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