She wasn’t looking for closure.
The door between them had been closed a long time.
CHAPTER THREE
CASTAWAY COTTAGE HAD stood at the edge of the curve of sand known as Shell Bay for over half a century. Built of clapboard and surrounded by a pretty coastal garden, it had been purchased by Brittany’s grandparents just after their marriage.
Brittany’s mother, Linda, had been born there and spent the next twenty years longing to escape the confines of island life. At that time the sole economy of the island, like so many in the area, had been fishing. It wasn’t until years later that a wealthy Bostonian had discovered the island by chance on a sailing trip and proceeded to build a home. Others had followed and, together with tax breaks encouraging people to live and work there, the fortunes and population of the island had been boosted. But for Linda, life had been all about the lobster and the never-ending cycle of worry that went with the business.
Marriage had been a way out. Brittany’s father had worked as an engineer for an oil company and was often away, leaving Linda alone on an island she couldn’t wait to escape.
Brittany was ten when her parents had divorced. Her mother had immediately remarried and moved south to Florida. Brittany, settled on the island, had stayed with her grandmother.
Occasionally her mother would visit, more to confirm her life choices than to spend time with her daughter. Her father she’d rarely seen. Wrapped in the warm cocoon of her grandmother’s love, Brittany had barely noticed their absence. She’d grown up knowing that families came in different shapes and sizes, and the island community was so small and close-knit, she’d taken for granted the support of a wider group of people who knew and loved her. She’d been taught to swim by Kathleen, her grandmother, but it had been John Harris, the harbormaster, who had settled her down on the edge of the quay one day and shown her how to tie a bowline. John was the first to take her sailing and Dave Brown, who had lobstered the waters around Puffin Island for three decades, had been the one to teach her about the business that had been a mainstay of the island’s economy for longer than anyone could remember. Along with other islanders, she’d spent time helping him get ready for the season. She’d scraped the buoys, pressure washed the hull of his boat and painted the side where the surface had chipped from hauling traps. In return he’d taken her out on the water. From him she’d learned about hydraulic haulers and bottom sounders, that the temperature of the water changes with the seasons and that lobsters migrate from shallow waters to deeper ones. And from her grandmother she’d learned how to cook the lobster in a fish kettle and eat it fresh, dripping with butter. Raising a child on Puffin Island was a communal activity, especially during the long winters when so much of the time was spent indoors, often without power. Brittany had understood that the fortunes of the island were linked with the waters that surrounded it, and she also understood why people were working to change that.
A thriving island needed people, and people needed work.
Some of the older islanders resented the large influx of visitors that swelled the population over the summer months, many of them wealthy Northeasterners from Boston, New York and Philadelphia, but most accepted them as necessary for the survival of the community.
It wasn’t until her late teens that the warm embrace of the community began to feel more like constriction and interest became intrusion. Instead of feeling soothed by island life she’d felt smothered, unable to breathe without at least ten people knowing the depth of each breath she took. She’d started to wonder what it would be like to live in a place where the whole population didn’t know what you had on your report card.
And then she’d fallen in love with Zachary Flynn.
Zachary Flynn.
With a groan, Brittany rolled over and opened her eyes, remembering the events of the night before. It hadn’t been a dream. He was really here, invading her home.
Outside dawn had barely broken and a quick check of her phone told her it was only 6:00 a.m.
Thanks to the time change, her body thought it was already after midday and as a result she was awake. Exhausted, but definitely awake.
After Emily had left the night before, she’d stumbled up the stairs and collapsed onto the bed, too tired to undress let alone wrap her mind around the problem of Zach. She hadn’t even bothered sliding into the bed her friend had made up with clean sheets. Instead she’d covered herself with the pretty patchwork quilt lovingly stitched by her grandmother as another layer of protection against the cold months and taken refuge in sleep.
Now, with sleep evading her and the gradual dawn lighting the gunmetal gray of the sea, she had no choice but to think a
bout the events of the day before.
Her head still heavy from the journey and the time change, she sat up and scooped her hair away from her face.
The quilt lay on the floor by the bed where she’d kicked it during the night. Probably a result of dreaming about Zach.
Crap.
When she’d made her decision to return home to heal, she hadn’t planned on finding him here. If she’d known, she would have stayed in Greece. In a moment of wild panic she contemplated flying back to Europe but dismissed the idea instantly. If she left now he’d know she was running away. And she didn’t run from anything. Her grandmother had taught her that.
You stood and faced things. You dealt with them.
So how should she deal with this?
Indifference. That was the way to go.
Whenever she saw him, which hopefully would be infrequently, she’d pretend indifference. She’d deal with this situation with quiet dignity.
How hard could it be?
Through the open windows she could hear the rhythmic crash of the surf on the rocks, and the pretty muslin curtains billowed in the breeze. Not for the first time she was grateful that Castaway Cottage was away from the main hub of the island. It meant that he would have no reason to come here.
She flopped onto her back and stared up at the same ceiling she’d stared at growing up.