He had a hard time imagining the house without her. Imagining his days, his nights without her.
Still, when she urged him to come the next night she worked at the bar, he made excuses.
He did want to continue researching the dowry, the ship, he reminded himself. He carried books out to the terrace to read there while he still had enough light, and settled down near the big terra-cotta pots Abra had planted with purple and yellow pansies.
As his grandmother did, he remembered, every spring.
They’d take the cool nights, even a frost if they got another. And that was likely, he thought, despite the blessed warm spell they’d enjoyed the last few days.
People had flocked to the beach to take advantage. He’d even spotted Vinnie through his telescope, riding waves with the same flash and verve he’d had as a teenager.
The warm, the flowers, the voices carried on the wind, and the cheerful blue of the sea nearly lulled him into thinking everything was normal and settled and right.
It made him wonder what life would be like if all that were true. If he made his home here, did his work here, reclaimed his roots here without the nagging weight still chained around his waist.
Abra flitting in and out of the house, filling it with flowers, candles, smiles. With heat and light and a promise he didn’t know he could ever make, ever keep.
Thoughts and feelings on the table, he remembered. But he didn’t know how to describe what he felt with her or for her. Wasn’t at all sure what to do with those feelings.
But he did know he was happier with her than he’d ever been without her. Happier than he’d ever believed he could be, despite everything.
He thought of her—high heels, short black skirt, snug white shirt, gliding around the noisy bar with her tray.
He wouldn’t mind a beer, some noise, or seeing her quick smile when he walked in.
Then he reminded himself he’d neglected the research over the last couple of days, and buckled down to it.
Not that he saw what possible use it could be, reading stories—for what else were they but stories?—of pirates and treasure, of ill-fated lovers and violent death.
But the hell of it was, it was the only clear channel he had to real death, and maybe, just maybe, some remote chance of clearing his name.
He read for an hour before the light started to go. He rose, wandered to the edge of the terrace to watch the sea and sky blur together, watched a young family—man, woman, two small boys—walk along the surf, with the boys, legs pumping in shorts, dashing into the shallows and out again, quick as crabs.
Maybe he’d have that beer after all, take a short break, then put in another hour on the notes he’d taken, both on the legend and on his twisty reality.
Gathering everything, he stepped back into the house, then dumped everything to answer the phone. He saw his parents’ home number on the readout, and as it always did these days, his heart jumped at the fear his grandmother had fallen again. Or worse.
Still, he put as much cheer into his voice as possible. “Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” He relaxed again at the easy tone of his mother’s voice. “I know it’s a little late.”
“It’s not even nine, Mom. And not a school night.”
He heard the smile in her voice. “Don’t put off your homework till Sunday night. How are you, Eli?”
“Good. I was just reading a book on Esmeralda’s Dowry.”
“Yo ho!”
“How’s Gran? And Dad? Tricia?”
“Everyone’s fine. Your gran’s looking more like herself every day. She still tires quicker than I’d like, and I know she has some discomfort, especially after her therapy, but we should all be so tough at her age.”
“Amen.”
“She’s really looking forward to seeing you for Easter.”
He winced. “Mom, I don’t think I can make it.”
“Oh, Eli.”
“I don’t like leaving the house empty for that long.”
“You haven’t had any more trouble?”
“No. But I’m right here. If the police have any leads on who broke in, they’re not saying. So it’s just not smart to leave it empty for a day or two.”
“Maybe we should lock the place up, hire a guard until they catch whoever’s breaking in.”
“Mom. There’s always a Landon at Bluff House.”
“God, you sound just like your grandmother.”
“I’m sorry. Really.” He knew just how much holiday traditions meant to his mother, and had let her down there too many times already. “I needed a place, and she gave it to me. I need to take care of it.”
She let out a sigh. “All right. You can’t come to Boston. We’ll come to Whiskey Beach.”