Wind Chime Café (A Wind Chime Novel) Page 3

  Besides, she had Taylor to think about. She knew what it was like to have a mother who paraded a different man into her life every few months. It was confusing and unsettling, and Taylor had enough to worry about right now.

  Maybe once things settled down on the island. Once the restaurant was open and Taylor wasn’t afraid of school anymore. Once they’d made a few friends of their own. Then, maybe she would think about dating.

  But not now. Not yet.

  Will rose and Annie took a step back, putting a safe distance between them. The expression on his face was so smug, she wanted to throw something at him. But then three things clicked into place. He’d said he was from the island. He hadn’t been back in a while. And he didn’t know Becca was a teacher.

  During one of their first meetings, Shelley had told Annie that Becca had been working at the school for over five years, to reassure her that they could handle Taylor’s situation.

  Which meant…Will hadn’t been home in five years.

  Maybe even longer.

  “Will,” she began uneasily, “does your family still live here?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you home visiting friends?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then, what are you doing here?”

  “Fixing up a home to sell.”

  “Which home?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  He pointed to the road leading west, where there was nothing but fifty acres of undeveloped land—the land where the resort was supposed to be built. “It’s down that way.”

  “There’s only one home down that road.”

  Will smiled.

  “But last night, when I told you about the resort, you acted like you didn’t know about it.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Annie heard a faint whistling in the wind, like the sound of all her hopes and dreams on a train about to derail. “The sale’s still going to happen, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head.

  Annie stood, rooted to the ground, as Will turned, striding back to the parking lot.

  “I hope you have a backup plan for that fancy restaurant of yours,” he called back over his shoulder. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting a developer tear down my grandparents’ inn.”

  Will drove down Main Street, thinking about the expression on Annie’s face after he’d kissed her. For a woman as attractive as she was, he was surprised she didn’t date. Even single mothers deserved to have some fun now and then.

  He’d enjoy helping her get back in the game.

  The traffic lights of the drawbridge blinked red as a tall sailboat navigated down the narrow curve of water. It was too bad the fate of her restaurant was tied to his plans for his grandparents’ inn, but the way he figured it, he’d just saved her a lot of time and money by telling her the truth.

  He might have to work a little harder to convince her to go out with him now, but there was nothing he loved more than a good challenge.

  He turned into the parking lot of The Tackle Box as the heavy jaws of the drawbridge creaked open to let the sailboat pass. He rolled up beside a beat-up silver Chevy with Ravens decals and a bumper sticker that read, “There’s no life west of the Chesapeake Bay.” Two labs were in the back, wagging their tails.

  Will grinned as a man with dark blond hair stepped out of the market. There were a few people he wished he’d done a better job of keeping in touch with. Ryan Callahan, his best friend from childhood, was one of them.

  Ryan took one look at him and his face broke into a matching grin. He set down the two bags of ice he was carrying as Will stepped out of the SUV and walked toward him.

  Ryan held out his hand. “It’s good to see you, man.”

  “You too.”

  “How long are you here for?”

  “Just long enough to get the inn fixed up and ready to sell.”

  Ryan released Will’s hand and picked up the bags of ice again. “I heard you were thinking of selling.” He walked to the back of his truck, setting the ice in a cooler. “You have any offers yet?”

  “Only one, but it didn’t work out.”

  The dogs barked, their nails scraping against the metal bed of the truck until Ryan lowered the hatch so they could jump out. They raced toward Will, barking and batting their tails back and forth. Will reached down, wrangling a wet stick from the chocolate lab’s mouth.

  The parking lot dipped into a marina filled with workboats and a boat ramp that led down to the water. He tossed the stick toward the water and the dogs took off after it. The yellow lab was faster and she reached it first, carrying it back and dropping it at his feet. He picked it up and threw it again, further this time so it landed in the water.

  The dogs chased after it, splashing into the Bay to retrieve it.

  “Why don’t you jump in and give them a run for their money?” Ryan said, leaning back against the truck. “They teach you guys how to doggie paddle in SEAL training, right?”

  Will laughed as the dogs swam back to the shore, climbing up the rocks and bounding over the pavement toward them. “Something like that.”

  The stick landed at his feet and the dogs circled him, barking for him to throw it. He picked it up again, tossing it back into the water.

  He could do this all day.

  A red-tailed hawk soared over the bridge, stretching its wings toward the sun. The bells of the drawbridge rang as it slowly lowered back into place. He glanced over his shoulder, noticing the cages stacked up in the bed of Ryan’s truck for the first time. “What’s all that?”

  “Oyster restoration project,” Ryan explained. “I’m working with the Department of Natural Resources to reestablish the species in the Bay.”

  Will snagged the stick from the chocolate lab’s mouth when she brought it back. “I thought you were working at the lab in Baltimore?”

  “I was.” Ryan reached into the bed of the truck, adjusting one of the cages. “But I was bored out of my mind. I finally realized I wasn’t going to save the Bay by testing water samples. I was going to save the Bay by talking to people and living near the ones who are still working the waters.”

  He dug in the back pocket of his bleach-stained khakis and pulled out a business card. “I moved home a few months ago and started a nonprofit on the island. I do more outreach and project work now.” He handed Will the card. “But I get to keep the scientist title.”

  Will glanced down at the card, surprised. His friend had a PhD in Marine Biology from Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute, one of the best programs in the country, and he’d moved home to live and work on the island.

  “Listen,” Ryan said, whistling for the dogs. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll fill you in on the rest later.” The dogs scrambled up from the water, racing over the pavement and leaping into the bed of the truck.

  Will walked over to them, scratching the yellow lab behind the ears. He hadn’t realized how much he missed these dogs. He wondered if Ryan would be willing to leave one with him for a few weeks. He’d like to have a dog around while he was working on the house.

  Then again, it was probably safer not to get too attached. He had a tendency to get attached to dogs, and people for that matter, when he spent too much time with them. It was better to stay detached, to keep things light and simple.

  That way, he didn’t have to risk losing someone again.

  Ryan closed the hatch and walked over to the driver’s side. “Come by Rusty’s tonight. We’ll grab a beer, play some pool. It’ll be like old times.”

  Will picked a wet leaf off the dog’s dripping fur. He should have known he wouldn’t make it through the day without someone asking him to meet up at the island bar. But it was Friday and Rusty’s would be packed tonight. If he went, he’d run into everyone.

  He wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet.

  The dogs shook, spraying him with water, and he dropped the leaf on the ground. He hadn’t really thought about his decision to stay on the island for the
next several weeks. Once everyone heard he was back, people would want to ask him questions. They’d want to know why he hadn’t come home in so long, why he hadn’t at least come back for his grandparents’ funeral six months ago.

  The answer to the last question was relatively simple. He’d been overseas.

  But where he’d been, and what had happened in the mountains of Afghanistan while his grandparents had been laid to rest thousands of miles away, was another story. He couldn’t have the nightmares creeping in while he was standing in a crowded bar, surrounded by dozens of islanders.

  “Come by around five,” Ryan said, climbing into his truck.

  Will nodded, unable to come up with a viable excuse as to why he’d rather be back in BUD/S doing flutter kicks with his head in the surf than face all his old friends and neighbors tonight at Rusty’s. He gave each dog one last pat on the head before Ryan backed away.

  A white Mercedes turned into the lot, sliding into the empty parking space Ryan left behind. Will took one look at the driver and bit back the urge to haul Spencer Townsend out by his crisp, white button-down shirt and shove him head first into the water.

  Spencer was the same age as Will and Ryan, but they’d never been friends. His father owned the local bank and had almost put Will’s grandparents out of business twice by threatening foreclosure when they’d missed a few payments during the winter lulls.

  The only reason Will had even considered hiring Spencer as his real estate agent was because he knew he’d work his ass off for the commission. If there was one thing that motivated the Townsend men, it was money. And before coming back to the island, the only thing Will had cared about was selling the inn as fast as possible.

  Spencer flashed him a bright-white smile as he stepped out of the car. His light brown hair was slicked back and his hazel eyes were covered in a pair of aviator glasses. His white shirt was tucked into a pair of tailored khakis, and he wore loafers with no socks. He looked like he’d stepped out of a yachting magazine.

  “Will!” he said, striding forward like they were best friends. “Long time no see. How are you?”

  Will folded his arms over his chest. “It’s not happening.”

  Spencer stopped in his tracks. “What?”

  “The sale.”

  Spencer’s smile faded as he pulled off his sunglasses. “What are you talking about? Why not?”

  “You said the buyer was an experienced inn owner. I assumed you meant a person, or a husband and wife team, not a developer.”

  “What difference does it make?” Spencer asked, confused. “You said yourself you didn’t want the place.”

  “It matters when they want to tear it down.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Spencer waved him off. “This development will be huge for the island. Think of the jobs it’ll create.”

  “It’s not happening,” Will repeated. He was done with this conversation. He turned, striding into the market.

  Spencer trailed after him. “I guess that’s not your problem, is it? You haven’t been back in over ten years. You don’t really care about anyone on Heron Island.”

  “You don’t give a damn about jobs either,” Will growled as he spun around. “You want this sale for the commission.”

  Spencer took a step back, knocking into a rack of salt-and-vinegar potato chips. “Look,” he said, bending down to pick them up off the floor. “You asked me to help you with this and I found you a buyer—”

  “Find me another one.”

  Spencer looked up. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  Spencer stuffed the bags of chips back onto the rack. “You can’t walk away from this offer, Will.”

  “I just did.” Will turned, following the scent of fried eggs and bacon to the grill in the back. “If you still want the commission from this sale, find me another buyer.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like out there,” Spencer called after him, raising his voice. “The housing market is dead. This might be the only offer you’ll get—”

  “Find me a family who wants to run it as is, someone who’ll maintain the integrity of the place.”

  “Screw integrity,” Spencer bit back. “No one else is going to offer you that kind of price. Think about the money, Will.”

  Will turned, looking back at him. “It was never about the money.”

  Annie gnawed on her fingernail, glancing up at the clock. The contractor was supposed to be here over an hour ago. She had a million errands to run, but she didn’t want to leave and miss him if he stopped by. He’d agreed to squeeze her in today, and she needed his estimate so she could start planning the renovations.

  She wasn’t sure how many changes she could afford to make before opening, and after the bomb Will had dropped about his grandparents’ inn that morning, she feared it would be a lot less than she’d originally planned.

  Breaking down an empty cardboard box, she added it to the growing stack in the kitchen. The way she saw it, she had two options: continue opening her restaurant as planned and have faith that everything would work out in time, or agree to go out with Will and try to seduce him into selling the inn.

  But did she even know how to seduce a man anymore? She knew how to flirt, how to turn on the charm when she was waitressing to maximize her tips. But she hadn’t had much of a love life since Taylor was born.

  Apparently, she was so out of practice, she’d forgotten how to react when a man kissed her.

  She groaned and walked over to the sink, fishing a wet rag out of the suds. She still couldn’t believe she’d just sat there when Will had kissed her that morning. She went to work scrubbing the grease spots off the walls over the stove.

  The kiss had only lasted a second, but it was long enough to learn that his lips were the perfect combination of soft and firm, that when he was that close his skin smelled like the ocean and sunlight, and the rest of him…

  Good God.

  What would it have felt like to lean in and run her hands all over those hard muscles?

  At the knock on the door, she stepped back from the sink. Get a hold of yourself!

  The last thing she needed was to start fantasizing about the man who had the power to destroy all her hopes and dreams.

  She dropped the rag in the sink and walked out of the kitchen, pausing when she spotted the woman peering in the glass with both hands cupped around her eyes. The contractor hadn’t said anything about sending someone else in his place, but maybe he’d gotten hung up on another job.

  The woman straightened and waved.

  Annie crossed the dining room and opened the door.

  “Hi,” the woman said, holding out her hand. “I’m Grace Callahan. You must be Annie.”

  Annie nodded, taking in the woman’s wide gray eyes and long blond hair tied back in a ponytail. She was dressed in running clothes and looked to be about her age. “Did the contractor send you?”

  “The contractor?” Grace walked into the dining room, looking around at the bare walls and boxes stacked up on the floor. “No. I heard someone bought this place and I wanted to get a look at you before the gossip mill churned out its own muddled version later tonight.”

  “The gossip mill?”

  “You’ll get used to it.” Grace flashed her a smile and strolled over to the empty display case, running a hand over the dusty glass. “There aren’t any secrets on Heron Island. People here know everything about everybody.” She looked back at Annie. “We make it our business to know.”

  “I see,” Annie said warily. She realized people were naturally curious. She wanted Taylor to grow up in a town where neighbors dropped by unannounced, where people cared enough to ask questions. But she didn’t like the idea of them gossiping about her later tonight, when she wasn’t there to defend herself. And she especially didn’t like the idea of them gossiping about Taylor.

  Grace leaned against the counter, sizing her up from across the room. “I heard you moved here from D.C.�
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  “That’s right.”

  “Did you work downtown? You look vaguely familiar.”

  “I used to work at a restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue, a few blocks from the Capitol.”

  “Which one?”

  “Citron Bleu.”

  Grace nodded. “That’s where I’ve seen you before.”

  “You’ve been there?” Annie asked, surprised.

  “I’ve been there tons of times.”

  Annie’s eyebrows shot up. Citron Bleu wasn’t the kind of restaurant you went to unless you were made of money or had serious connections to the top players in Washington politics. She hadn’t expected to meet someone on Heron Island who frequented her old restaurant.

  She looked closer at the woman’s running clothes—a threadbare T-shirt over nylon shorts and a pair of beat-up sneakers. The outfit didn’t exactly scream money. “Do you work in D.C.?”

  “I’m a reporter for The Washington Tribune.”

  Annie’s whole body tensed as Grace pushed off the counter and walked over to the stack of boxes along the far wall.

  “My father and brother live on the island so I come home a lot on the weekends,” Grace said, picking up a picture lying on top of one of the boxes.

  It was a wallet-sized picture of Taylor, taken about a year ago. The name of her school and her grade were printed on the back.

  “Is this your daughter?” Grace asked.

  “Yes,” Annie said tightly.

  Grace turned it over, her eyes going wide as she read the words on the back. “She went to Mount Pleasant?”

  A reporter from D.C.’s largest newspaper wouldn’t have any trouble recognizing that name. Taylor’s school had made national news three weeks ago when a shooter had walked into the building and killed seventeen second-graders before turning his semi-automatic weapon on himself.

  He’d murdered an entire class of children—all except for the one who’d been hiding in the broom closet.