Two years earlier

Cape Cod, Massachusetts

 

 

The summer Simon Bremmer met Amelia Langston he’d been two months out of the Army and feeling freedom for the first time in a dozen years. His days dodging rocket-propelled grenades or ground fire or seeking out serious threats from the other side had run their course. He was done going on alert in places like Baghdad or Badakhshan or Kyrgyzstan or any of the other stans and was ready to get on with his life.

As an Army Ranger he’d spent enough time in dusty desert outposts and in Afghanistan’s rugged provinces near the Pakistani border, that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to blow the better part of a day simply lounging around or sleeping late. He’d forgotten what it was like to have the time to do whatever he wanted. Even if all the downtime was making him slightly edgy, maybe even a little cabin-fever crazy.

Thanks to his mother and his aunt Lorraine, they’d let him transition and unwind at the family’s summer home on Nauset Beach. His period of adjustment, of reconnecting, meant enjoying everything the Outer Cape had to offer. Like beautiful, tanned, shapely females sunbathing in skimpy bikinis everywhere he looked.

So far, only one stood out from the rest. The one who always had a camera in her hand wherever she went. He’d seen her at the store, at the post office, and at several of the eateries in town. She was the one with rose-gold hair down to her waist, the one who took dozens of day trips around the Cape and always seemed more curious than the rest. The one who asked a million questions of the tour guides.

He knew because he’d decided to take in the Cape’s scenery for himself. They kept bumping into each other wherever he went.

For three days he’d explored all the tourist spots before getting up the nerve to approach her. At the end of the third day, the alluring female took care of any awkward introductions herself. In the crowd of vacationers, she’d simply turned her body toward his, locked eyes, and struck up a conversation. “Are you as confused about upper, lower, and outer Cape Cod as I am? I’ve got this map, but it doesn’t do much good.”

Simon grinned. Maybe now would be a good time to admit he wasn’t a typical tourist. “If you don’t know your way around, it can befuddle the brain, and would be a problem if I hadn’t spent every summer here as a kid since I was in diapers.”

“But I’ve seen you on almost all the tours I’ve been on, sightseeing just like me.”

“I haven’t been here for at least a dozen years or more. I wanted to reconnect. Who am I kidding? I wanted to meet you for the past week. I thought this would be the best way. The name’s Simon Bremmer.”

She held out a delicate hand, silver jewelry on each slim finger. “Amelia Langston. If you’re familiar with the area, then maybe you could be my personal tour guide.”

“That’ll work. I see you never go anywhere without your camera.” He recognized the brand of expensive Nikon draped around her neck. “What brings you to Cape Cod?”

“I’m a travel photographer. I’ve already sold a few of my pictures to National Geographic. But I’m here mostly to document the lighthouses from the mainland to the tip of the Outer Cape. Oh, and I want to see all the historic houses in between, and the National Seashore. Then I want to see Woods Hole.”

“That’s a very aggressive agenda. With so much on your plate you’d benefit from a tour guide, certainly if you plan to be here for a while. Getting up close and personal with all the things to see and do will take a local.”

She ran a hand through her thick bronze tresses. “Good thing I have the entire summer then. We might have to work extra hard and not leave anything out.”

Simon may have been out of practice with females, but he caught the come-on, especially when it was accompanied by the look in her sultry green eyes. “Works for me. We could start tonight over dinner at the bistro on the main drag.”

She twirled her finger around a lock of hair, part of the waterfall he could get lost in. And after that day, he often did. Spending time with her made him forget the dozen years he’d spent alone on foreign soil, sleeping on rock or anywhere else he could catch forty winks.

From that moment on, they rarely spent any time apart. They didn’t want to. He took Amelia to all the places she wanted to see and more. He pointed out where the pilgrims landed before ever setting out for Plymouth. “Sorry to burst any historical bubble you’ve adhered to over the years, but it’s true. Pilgrims reached Eastham first, long before heading off anywhere else. It’s where they encountered the Nauset tribe.”

She looped her arm through his. “Now see? That’s why I need someone who knows the area. I’m lucky to have such a handsome guide.”

Simon felt just as fortunate.

They explored every lighthouse from P-town to Bourne. They walked the beach where a German U-boat had once attacked the US by shelling tugboats and barges and, inadvertently, cottages along the Orleans and Chatham shorelines. The year was 1918. The U-boat, number 156.

He showed off the Woods Hole Aquarium, spending an entire day marveling at things like blue lobster and a wolfish with teeth like a canine.

When they weren’t sightseeing on foot, they were biking around the spit of land like gawkers.

They perused art galleries and quirky antique shops. They went to wine tastings, enjoyed the local brewpubs, and dined on fresh crab. Wherever they ended up, Amelia’s ever-present camera documented the fun and the scenery.

He loved the fact that she didn’t want to sit in one spot and pour oil all over her body to soak up the sun. Not this stunner, who could put Aphrodite to shame.

After all the sightseeing, she had no problem lounging in bed until late in the morning, enjoying lazy brunches on the terrace with the sea air wafting over their meal. It was nothing compared to the bouts of lovemaking that might last all afternoon.

Simon found himself enthralled, caught up in the sex and the novelty. For a guy who hadn’t experienced much domesticity up close in his lifetime, Amelia was a breath of fresh air. She never made demands, didn’t seem to be high maintenance, and often seemed too good to be true. They discussed politics in a civil manner and didn’t fight or argue about much of anything.

Their time spent together was centered on sultry days and nights where they never left the house. During those times, it was sheer bliss to wake up with her next to him.

To a military man who’d done four tours overseas, Amelia heated his blood like no one ever had.

Until one morning near the end of August, as Labor weekend approached, he woke to find the space beside him empty. When he got up to search for her, she was nowhere in the house. Sometime during the early hours, she’d packed up what little she had and was gone. Just like that, it was over. No messy breakup. No emotional blowup over their differences---there didn’t seem to be any. No disappearing after an argument. She was simply…gone…and not in his life anymore.

It wasn’t until later that morning that he found an envelope on the front porch with his name on it, the briefest of notes inside. Written in beautiful script, the sentiment seemed short and sweet, summing up their brief time together perfectly: “I hope you understand that I have to get back to Boston and to my life there. Please don’t try to get in touch. We’re on different paths, Simon, and it will always be that way.”

Of course, he hadn’t been able to let it go and tried calling the only phone number she’d ever given him. It was no longer a working number.

Amelia Langston was gone.

And he didn’t even know how to find her.