But then the moment seemed to pass, and she took her hand off his arm. She’d said enough, and hopefully had given him something to think about. “Good night,” she whispered, then went inside and shut the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR THREE DAYS Branson watched as Jessica sketched at the lighthouse. After the first day, he left the gate open so she wouldn’t have to walk so far. He’d spent his time doing some research. Not for a book, but on the lighthouse he now owned. He wanted to know more about the history of it, and so he’d dug into Google, visited the local library and accessed the provincial archives. The lighthouse was over a century old, made defunct after World War II, and most importantly, he’d found a book from the seventies with ghost stories and local lore at the library that he found most intriguing. His lighthouse had a history, with enough mystery to have his mind turning a plot over and over in his mind.
“You are a wonderful storyteller,” she’d said. The compliment had taken him by surprise. He wasn’t even sure why he’d felt compelled to recount the incident at all; maybe to prove to Jeremy that he wasn’t the hermit everyone said he was. Maybe because he’d missed it. Or maybe just because he’d enjoyed the evening so much, and seeing the gleam in Jessica’s eyes.
Her eyes were rather extraordinary.
He took his glass of iced water upstairs and went out on the balcony. He could see the point so clearly here, and Jess had started bringing a folding chair rather than perching on a rock to do her sketching. He’d been watching her for a few hours now, wondering if she’d put sunscreen on her fair skin; the spring sun was still capable of delivering a sunburn even though the temperatures were cool, particularly near the water. After a while he wondered if she’d eaten anything all day. He certainly hadn’t seen her put her work aside to break for lunch. Did she get a crick in her neck sitting like that, as he did when he sat at his computer too long?
And why was he standing here thinking of all these questions?
It was going on two when he emerged from the house carrying a plastic bag in lieu of any sort of picnic basket. The wind buffeted his shirt and the chill reached inside him, even as the sun warmed the top of his head. Jessica didn’t hear him approach until he was a handful of steps away from her, then she looked up and a smile lit her face. It had been an unconscious response, he realized, and the idea that she’d been glad to see him sent a spiral of warmth through his body.
It was only some lunch. Nothing major. He didn’t need to feel...guilty. They were friends. Maybe not even friends. More like friendly.
“Hi,” she greeted, putting down her pencil. “What brings you out here?”
He lifted his hand. “Food. I don’t think you’ve eaten, and the last thing I need is you fainting and falling off a cliff and me having to rescue you again.”
She laughed, that light, easy sound he’d enjoyed the other night, too. He even smiled a little in response.
“I promise I would not faint. Or fall off a cliff. I’m made of tough stuff. But I am hungry. What time is it?”
“Nearly two.”
“Oh, my.” She stretched her neck, first lifting her face to the sky, then leaning it toward her right shoulder. “I had no idea.”
Bran lifted the bag. “It’s not much, but I thought you could use a bite.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
He handed her the bag and then moved away, turning to face the house again.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
He shouldn’t want to. That he did—very much—was exactly why he shouldn’t. He turned back to face her and hesitated, long enough for her to nod at the flat rock nearby. “There’s room for both of us there, and I’ll share.”
A part of him said, What would it hurt? while a second part reminded him that Jennie and Owen would never again have picnics on a cliff on a spring day.
Jessica got up from her seat and tucked her sketch pad and pencils away in her bag, then grabbed the lunch bag and went to his side. “You have that hermit look on your face again. What is it?”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?”
She asked the simplest and hardest questions.
Then she reached down and took his hand. “Is it because it feels too much like living again?”
He pulled his hand away. “Stop it. Stop trying to get into my head.”
She didn’t get upset. Didn’t get mad or sad or indignant. That might have been easier. Instead, she just looked at him, her face open and honest and dammit, compassionate. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was quiet and sincere. “You have to get through this on your own time. Thank you for the lunch. It’s very thoughtful.”
He started walking back to the house. Got about fifty feet and turned back, his stomach churning. She was sitting on the rock, peering inside the bag and looking lonely. He’d snapped at her when she hadn’t deserved it. “Yes,” he called out, and she lifted her head. “Yes, because of that.”
Jessica nodded, then shifted over and patted the rock beside her. “The invitation is still open, and I’ll mind my own business.”