Page 28 of Beachfront Pages

He reached over and put his hand over hers. Over her father's name and her own cold fingers both.

His palm was warm, and heavier than she remembered. A man's hand now, spotted and creased, the knuckles thick. She looked at it lying there on top of hers and didn't pull away.

Just for a moment. She let herself have the one moment.

The sea glass at her wrist caught what light was left. She'd worn it forty-five years. Through every season since she'd sent him off.

His thumb moved once across her knuckles.

She could stay. That was the thing she told herself she couldn't afford to think, and thought anyway. She could sit on this bench in the dark with this man and let the years be the years and let her father's promises keep themselves. The lamp would still turn. The town would still stand. Nobody would die of Winnie Lockhart resting her hand under Sam Copeland's for an hour, would they?

She stood.

The loss of his hand was its own small cold, and she made herself pay it no mind.

"I've got a pot on," she said. "It'll scorch if I leave it much longer, and then I'll have wasted good soup over an old paper that's likely nothing at all."

"Winnie."

"Stay for supper if you want it. There's plenty, there always is." She was already moving, already a woman with somewhere to be, because that was easier than being a woman on a bench with her whole heart showing in the bad light. "Or don't. Suit yourself, you always did."

"I'll think about it," he said behind her, and she heard the smile in it.

The breeze met her halfway across the courtyard. The sea glass at her wrist caught the last of the sun off the water and threw it back. Behind her she heard Sam's footsteps following her to the cottage.

Chapter 10

The bell over the door at Harbor Brew gave a bright little jangle, and the smell hit Fiona all at once. Dark roast. A hint of cinnamon underneath it. The good kind of warm that made a person forget it was ninety degrees outside.

She'd walked past the place a dozen times. Today she'd finally gone in, mostly because the bookshop was three doors down and she had a theory. A man like Marty Fuller would never turn down coffee he hadn't paid for.

The shop was small and bright. Nautical bric-a-brac covered the walls. A bulletin board by the register sagged under three layers of flyers. And in the corner, a cluster of older women had claimed a table, and they went quiet the moment she stepped in. Quiet in the particular way a room goes when it's just been talking about the person who walked in.

"Well, look who finally wandered in." The woman behind the counter had a dish towel slung over one shoulder and a grin that took up most of her face. "I was starting to think you didn't drink coffee."

"I drink an alarming amount of it," Fiona said.

"Knew it. You've got the look about you." She wiped her hands on the towel. "Jan. I'm always here. And you're the writer out at Sea Glass."

It wasn't a question. The old reflex pulled tight inside her, the same one that woke up every time a stranger knew her business before she'd offered it.

"Word travels," Fiona said.

"Honey, in this town word doesn't travel. It teleports." Jan pulled a cup off the stack. "What can I get you?"

"Two coffees. Both black."

"Two." Jan's eyebrows lifted a friendly notch. "One of those wouldn't be headed three doors down, would it?"

Fiona kept her face neutral. "It might."

"Mm-hmm." Jan started pouring. "Marty Fuller doesn't let just anybody bring him coffee. He's particular. Some folks'd call him a snob. I won't, on account of he tips." She slid the first cup across the counter. "So. How long are we keeping you?"

"Through the fall. For now." And suddenly she realized she was planning on staying for a while. When had that happened?

"For now." Jan repeated it like she was tasting it. "Sally said you came down to write something. Big and important, she figured, the way you keep to yourself."

"Sally figures a lot."