The One Real Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 1)

I loved that answer. “Catcher in the Rye fan. Me, too.”

She smiled at me and I felt triumphant that I’d won a grin from her.

There was something about her, something in the back of her eyes, that made me sad, and I liked that I’d made her smile.

I glanced down through the store to the front window to see the rain had started coming down in sheets again. “I doubt you’re going to be busy anytime soon. Why don’t you grab a book and sit by the fire?”

Emery followed my gaze to the windows and I watched her chew on her lip as she thought about it. “I probably shouldn’t,” she muttered.

“If someone comes in, you just put the book down and go help them.”

It took her longer than it should have to consider it, almost like she was afraid to do the wrong thing. Finally, she gave me a small smile. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm.”

“Not at all,” I said encouragingly.

A few minutes later she was curled up on the sofa across from me and I watched with fascination as she seemed to get sucked into her book from the moment she opened it. In the time it would take me to snap my fingers Emery was immersed in the world of the story in her hands.

It took me at least a chapter before I became oblivious to everything around me.

But not Emery.

I had the fanciful thought that she was escaping, and that she’d escaped into pages and words so many times in her life that falling down the rabbit hole was like second nature to her. I wondered what she was escaping from.

This curiosity of mine was getting out of hand, I grumbled to myself as I bit into the ham and cheese sandwich Emery had brought me. In a way my curiosity had brought me to Hartwell. I didn’t need to get wrapped up in the mystery behind the shy sadness of Emery Saunders. And maybe there was no mystery! Maybe Sarah’s story had me imagining that everyone here had a tragedy hiding behind them.

Maybe even Cooper Lawson.

Don’t think about him!

I had no time for his kind of temptation.

On that thought, I stared down at the pages of my book and willed myself to get caught up in fiction.

After dinner at the inn that night I sat by the fireplace in the front room with a glass of wine in my hand. I was hoping to catch Bailey before I went to bed and was waiting on the diners to clear out so I could talk to her.

Staring into the flames, sipping my wine, I realized that I’d spent the most relaxing, peaceful day I could remember having in a very, very long time.

Emery hadn’t said much as we whiled the day away reading by her fireplace, but I didn’t need her to. As much as there was something sad about her, there was also something incredibly soothing about her company. I thought it funny that I’d experienced the same comfortable silence with Cooper on the same day, when I’d never experienced that feeling with anyone before.

I left Emery late that afternoon, vowing to return before my vacation was over. That sadness I saw in the back of her eyes seemed to grow as she was saying good-bye to me.

And there it was. Despite myself, I was intrigued by Emery Saunders and I couldn’t make myself not be.

And that intrigue only reminded me of Sarah’s letters, which had brought me to Hartwell in the first place.

I’d decided to ask Bailey about her after all.

As the last customers were leaving the inn, Bailey trailed behind them wishing them a warm good night. The bell over the door rang as they left and a few seconds later Bailey flopped down on the sofa beside me.

She looked exhausted.

I handed her my glass of wine and she accepted it with a grateful but very tired smile. She took a sip and handed the glass back to me. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Please tell me you don’t work these ridiculously long hours every day. “

Bailey shook her head. “No. Like I said, I had a deputy manager and we worked around one another. I used to have a day or two off, if you can believe it.”

“You need your own vacation.”

“Yes, yes, I do.” She grinned at me. “The rain didn’t frighten you away today?”

I smirked. “No. Actually I got caught in it outside of Cooper’s. The man himself let me into his bar to dry off until it calmed enough for me to venture back outside.”

Sitting up straighter, Bailey eyed me with a mischievous smile. “What did you think of Cooper?”

I could spot a matchmaker a mile off and so I avoided her gaze. “He didn’t say much.” I sipped at my wine, pretending disinterest.

“That’s because he’s a good listener.”

“You know him well?”

“I’ve known him my whole life. He’s single, you know.” She nudged me with another cheeky grin. “Divorced.”

I laughed. “You are so not subtle.”

“What’s the point in subtlety?” Bailey studied me. “Are you single?”

I opened my mouth to say no and then sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll take that as you’re single.”

“How so?”

“If you were really certain of this guy, whoever he is, your answer would have been a straightforward no.”

I guessed that was true enough.

It was time for a subject change. “You know how I asked about George Beckwith this morning . . .”

“Yeah.”

“There was a reason.” I turned on the sofa to face her. “I actually don’t know George. The reason I know of him is because I found letters in a book at the prison. They were addressed to George in 1976.” ed that answer. “Catcher in the Rye fan. Me, too.”

She smiled at me and I felt triumphant that I’d won a grin from her.

There was something about her, something in the back of her eyes, that made me sad, and I liked that I’d made her smile.

I glanced down through the store to the front window to see the rain had started coming down in sheets again. “I doubt you’re going to be busy anytime soon. Why don’t you grab a book and sit by the fire?”

Emery followed my gaze to the windows and I watched her chew on her lip as she thought about it. “I probably shouldn’t,” she muttered.

“If someone comes in, you just put the book down and go help them.”

It took her longer than it should have to consider it, almost like she was afraid to do the wrong thing. Finally, she gave me a small smile. “I guess it wouldn’t do any harm.”

“Not at all,” I said encouragingly.

A few minutes later she was curled up on the sofa across from me and I watched with fascination as she seemed to get sucked into her book from the moment she opened it. In the time it would take me to snap my fingers Emery was immersed in the world of the story in her hands.

It took me at least a chapter before I became oblivious to everything around me.

But not Emery.

I had the fanciful thought that she was escaping, and that she’d escaped into pages and words so many times in her life that falling down the rabbit hole was like second nature to her. I wondered what she was escaping from.

This curiosity of mine was getting out of hand, I grumbled to myself as I bit into the ham and cheese sandwich Emery had brought me. In a way my curiosity had brought me to Hartwell. I didn’t need to get wrapped up in the mystery behind the shy sadness of Emery Saunders. And maybe there was no mystery! Maybe Sarah’s story had me imagining that everyone here had a tragedy hiding behind them.

Maybe even Cooper Lawson.

Don’t think about him!

I had no time for his kind of temptation.

On that thought, I stared down at the pages of my book and willed myself to get caught up in fiction.

After dinner at the inn that night I sat by the fireplace in the front room with a glass of wine in my hand. I was hoping to catch Bailey before I went to bed and was waiting on the diners to clear out so I could talk to her.

Staring into the flames, sipping my wine, I realized that I’d spent the most relaxing, peaceful day I could remember having in a very, very long time.

Emery hadn’t said much as we whiled the day away reading by her fireplace, but I didn’t need her to. As much as there was something sad about her, there was also something incredibly soothing about her company. I thought it funny that I’d experienced the same comfortable silence with Cooper on the same day, when I’d never experienced that feeling with anyone before.

I left Emery late that afternoon, vowing to return before my vacation was over. That sadness I saw in the back of her eyes seemed to grow as she was saying good-bye to me.

And there it was. Despite myself, I was intrigued by Emery Saunders and I couldn’t make myself not be.

And that intrigue only reminded me of Sarah’s letters, which had brought me to Hartwell in the first place.

I’d decided to ask Bailey about her after all.

As the last customers were leaving the inn, Bailey trailed behind them wishing them a warm good night. The bell over the door rang as they left and a few seconds later Bailey flopped down on the sofa beside me.

She looked exhausted.

I handed her my glass of wine and she accepted it with a grateful but very tired smile. She took a sip and handed the glass back to me. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Please tell me you don’t work these ridiculously long hours every day. “

Bailey shook her head. “No. Like I said, I had a deputy manager and we worked around one another. I used to have a day or two off, if you can believe it.”

“You need your own vacation.”

“Yes, yes, I do.” She grinned at me. “The rain didn’t frighten you away today?”

I smirked. “No. Actually I got caught in it outside of Cooper’s. The man himself let me into his bar to dry off until it calmed enough for me to venture back outside.”

Sitting up straighter, Bailey eyed me with a mischievous smile. “What did you think of Cooper?”

I could spot a matchmaker a mile off and so I avoided her gaze. “He didn’t say much.” I sipped at my wine, pretending disinterest.

“That’s because he’s a good listener.”

“You know him well?”

“I’ve known him my whole life. He’s single, you know.” She nudged me with another cheeky grin. “Divorced.”

I laughed. “You are so not subtle.”

“What’s the point in subtlety?” Bailey studied me. “Are you single?”

I opened my mouth to say no and then sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“I’ll take that as you’re single.”

“How so?”

“If you were really certain of this guy, whoever he is, your answer would have been a straightforward no.”

I guessed that was true enough.

It was time for a subject change. “You know how I asked about George Beckwith this morning . . .”

“Yeah.”

“There was a reason.” I turned on the sofa to face her. “I actually don’t know George. The reason I know of him is because I found letters in a book at the prison. They were addressed to George in 1976.”