Tilly spent the next four days in a cleaning frenzy. Dusting, scrubbing, wiping, spraying, mopping, and freaking out at the many locally grown creepy crawlies that’d made themselves at home in Mary’s B&B.

Once the main house was again habitable, meaning one pissed-off weta relocated to the garden and spiders flushed down the toilet, Tilly sat at the kitchen table with her notepad, laptop, and a maple walnut coffee muffin she’d picked up from the little wharf café. The day before, she’d discovered a bicycle in the garage. It was an old-fashioned pushbike with a wicker basket attached to the front and fire-engine-red paint. She’d pedaled it into town—wobbly at first since she hadn’t been on a bicycle since she was a kid—and picked up a few necessities at the grocery store. That morning, having grown in confidence and not so wobbly anymore, she’d returned to the grocery store and then made a trip to try one of Erin’s muffins at the suggestion of the store’s cashier.

She started her laptop and opened a fresh document.

Character name, she typed. Start with the basics, easy-peasy.

Tilly crinkled her nose at the screen. Guess she’d better decide whether this new character Christophe wanted would be male or female. Male, she decided. Less complicated. She snorted softly and tilted the kitchen chair back on two legs. Some men weren’t complicated, but then there were the Noah Danielses of the world.

Drumming her fingers on the tabletop, she narrowed her eyes. Character name. The two words seemed to mock her. She laid her fingers on the smooth keypads and let them take over, an all-around bad idea since the letters N-O-A-H D-A-N-I-E-L-S appeared in twelve-point Times New Roman.

Awesome. Now she was writing the man’s name like a twelve-year-old girl.

Her phone buzzed and Tilly snatched it up off the table gratefully, barely glancing at the caller ID before she took the call.

“How’s the deep south treating you?” Jonas asked after Tilly said hello.

“Great,” she said. “The commute to work is a breeze.” A wasted joke because Jonas had the same sense of humor as a pickled onion. 

“What have you got for me? I assume you’ve made a start since I don’t imagine Oban has much in the way of nightlife.”

“Ah, no. Not much.” Tilly’s gaze shot to her blank-but-for-Noah’s-name document. “I’ve been thinking about a cop for the show. A big, broody, sexy beast of a cop with a really juicy backstory we can use to create endless drama with.”

“We’ve done cops before. What else’ve you got?”

Tilly ransacked her brain. Drug-addicted single mum? Done that. Stalker after one of the prostitutes? Done that, too. Military guy with a chip on his shoulder? Wouldn’t be believable in the K-Road world.

“Not just any cop,” she blurted. “Something more elite. Like a…” Her mind flicked back to dinner with Noah two nights ago and something he’d said about Piper Westlake. “Police diver. You know, the ones who retrieve the bodies of drowning victims and find weapons at the bottom of a canal. Or a member of the Special Tactics Group. That sort of thing.”

She could almost hear the wheels in Jonas’s brain chewing through her suggestion. “Mmmm. You could be onto something there. Keep me updated.”

After a few more insincere pleasantries, Jonas disconnected, leaving Tilly to once again stare blankly at the computer screen. She backspaced over Noah’s name and typed in Trevor Marshall. That was a good Kiwi bloke’s name. He sounded hardworking and straitlaced, the kind of cop who’d follow every rule to the letter. The kind of cop that a Machiavellian writer could wreak havoc on his boring, everyday life.

Tilly typed like a demon for the next hour, mainlining coffee and the muffin—which really was to die for. Finally she powered down her laptop and stood to stretch the kinks out of her spine. She needed to mull over a few of the ideas she’d come up with, and, from past experience, the best way to accomplish that was to do something mindless. Like cleaning or, in this case, something she’d put off for the past four days: tackling her great-aunt’s bedroom.

Stepping into Mary’s room felt like an invasion of privacy. Like the rest of the house, the décor was a mismatch of the swinging sixties and seventies. Faded orange and brown swirly wallpaper, brown shag carpet, and a multicolored granny-square afghan draped over the bed. Dad had often told Tilly his aunt’s B&B was stuck in a time warp, that he doubted it’d changed in the all the years she’d lived in Oban. It certainly hadn’t changed on the occasions that he’d visited as a young man, and later, when he’d taken Tilly on her first and only visit to her great-aunt on the island.

Tilly walked to the beautiful oak dressing table and stared down at the scattering of personal female clutter on it. An old-fashioned paddle hairbrush with a few wispy strands of iron gray hair caught in it. A neat line of medication bottles. A small wicker basket with an assortment of lip balms, deodorants, clear nail varnishes, and a manicure set. Three framed photographs. One of Mary and a group of elderly women—Mrs. Taylor among them. Another of Tilly and her father, taken at Mary’s sixtieth birthday party. The last was a shot of a much younger Mary with her arm slung around the shoulders of Tilly’s dad. He looked to be in his early teens, and he was holding up a big fish to the camera. Tilly chuckled at the proud look on her dad’s face.

She picked up a half-empty fat bottle of Yves Saint Laurent’s Paris perfume and sniffed, the lingering scent waking her olfactory memory of Mary giving her a fierce hug at her dad’s funeral. How the old woman had cupped Tilly’s face in her hands for a moment and locked both their red-eyed gazes together.

“You’ll get through this, Tilly,” she’d said. “And you’ll live, really live. Make sure you do.”

She’d nodded with a watery smile, her heart too swollen with grief to argue that she already was living. She had a great life, a satisfying life—up until three days earlier when she’d gotten a phone call from her mum at just after two in the morning.

Tilly set the perfume bottle down and swiped her fingers across her wet cheeks. The pit in her stomach grew to unsettling proportions as she gazed around at someone’s life cut unexpectedly short. She crossed to the nightstand next to the double bed. On it was a stack of paperback novels and another framed photograph.

This one was of a solitary man who looked to be in his early thirties. It was an old photo, and she didn’t recognize the man. It was taken outside Due South, with the slightly out-of-focus wharf in the background. Tilly cocked her head, studying the portrait. The man was of Māori descent, with thick dark hair starting to gray at the temples. From the way he was smiling into the camera, Tilly would bet a week’s pay that he liked the person taking the picture.

Liked them a lot.

Tilly pursed her lips. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary. And maybe living la vida loca once upon a time. Good for you, Aunty.” 

She turned away from the nightstand and got to work, sorting her aunt’s belongings into boxes—trash, donate to charity, offer to Mary’s remaining friends in Oban, and a much smaller box with a few family keepsakes for Tilly and her mum. It was uncomfortable, intrusive, and emotionally exhausting work. It sat heavily on her heart, painfully reminding her of having to help her mum clear Dad’s things out of the room they’d shared for thirty years. 

After going through Mary’s dresser drawers and closet, Tilly grabbed her marker pen and labeled another box I can’t deal with this right now. That one she used to stack a shoebox full of handwritten letters and other bits of paper and greeting cards she’d found on the top shelf of the closet.

She eyed the nightstand drawer, saying a silent prayer that she wouldn’t find anything mortifyingly embarrassing inside. Rolling her eyes, she slid open the small drawer. A purse pack of tissues and half a roll of antacids hit the trash. Two pairs of reading glasses she set aside for a charity she’d heard of that delivered spectacles to those who desperately needed them in third world countries. Underneath all that was a leather-bound book. Bible?

Tilly removed it from the drawer and flipped it over to reveal the word Journal embossed in gold lettering. She flicked through the pages yellowed with age. Neat handwriting covered every page except the last dozen or so. She flipped to the front and written on the inside first page in her aunt’s beautiful script were the words: The secret journal of Mary Duncan.

Well, hell.

Crinkling her nose, Tilly moved the book over to the I can’t deal with this right now box because a secret journal certainly qualified. But for some reason, her fingers wouldn’t open to release the book she had no idea what she was going to do with. She sank down to sit on the bed, resting the closed journal on her lap and fighting with her inborn writer’s curiosity. 

After a brief but futile battle, Tilly made a bargain with herself. One page, picked at random, then she’d put the journal aside and seek advice on what to do with it.

Squeezing her eyes into slits so she couldn’t cheat, Tilly slid a finger into the pages somewhere near the middle of the book and opened it. Her gaze zeroed in on the first line of neat text. 

Jim Akurangi is the most obstinate, stubborn fool, but I will never love anyone with every cell in my body the way I love that man.

Tilly blinked at the page then reread the sentence. Who was Jim? Was he the man in the nightstand photo? And if so, how come neither her parents nor Aunt Mary herself had ever mentioned him? As far as she knew, Aunt Mary was a die-hard, never been married, happy with her own company, strong single woman.

She snapped the book shut, stared at it for a moment then set it gently inside the box. Her mouth was parched, her heart thudding inside her chest as if it were trying to break free. She couldn’t bear to read any more of Mary’s words, yet she burned with an uncomfortable curiosity.

Rising from the bed, she brushed damp palms down her legs and left the bedroom. She stood in the hallway, the old house creaking and settling around her, and from somewhere outside came the raucous screeches of kākā squabbling. Who was her great-aunt, really? Not just a gray-haired old lady who loved gardening and had terrible taste in home décor.

Apparently she was also a woman who was madly in love with a man called Jim. That was a woman she was dying to learn more about. And she knew just the person to ask.

Tilly grabbed a jacket and ran out of the house.

“Tilly! What a lovely surprise,” Betsy Taylor said with a scarily big smile. “Come on in and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Tilly followed Betsy down the hallway and took a seat at her kitchen table. Today the old girl was wearing a 1980s era purple and silver tracksuit with purple sheepskin-lined Ugg boots. The kitchen was cosily warm and something that smelled divine was baking in the oven. An old-fashioned egg timer ticked on the kitchen bench, and a black cat sat beneath it, its eyes glued to an empty food bowl. 

Betsy lit a gas ring on her stove and set the kettle on it. She caught Tilly’s gaze as she was smiling at the black cat, who sniffed at the bowl then let out an accusing meow. 

“That’s Diablo, my friend Dixie’s cat.” Betsy picked up the empty bowl and tossed a small handful of kibble into it from a container kept on the bench. She returned it to the floor and Diablo’s furry face disappeared into it immediately. “Greedy boy.” She stroked the tip of her walking cane along the cat’s side but he ignored her, continuing to crunch enthusiastically.

“Doesn’t your friend mind you feeding him?”

Betsy’s mouth puckered in and she shook her head. “Dixie had to move to a nursing home on the mainland a while back, and they didn’t allow pets, so Diablo stayed here. We all feed him a little bit when he does the rounds. Makes him think he’s getting a treat.” She cocked her head at Tilly. “Mary was one of his favorites, even when Dixie was here. He knew she was a soft touch under all that gruffness.”

“It’s Mary I’ve come to talk to you about.” Tilly rested her arms on the table and leaned forward. “I found a journal while I was sorting through her things.” 

Betsy sank into a chair on the opposite side of the table and hooked her walking cane on the edge. “I wondered if one would turn up.”

“You knew she kept a journal?”

“Not for sure, but an educated guess. You’re a lot like her, you know? She always had a funny or sad tale to tell about her guests, and she told me she loved making up stories about their lives. Wouldn’t surprise me if she wrote some of them down.” Betsy’s wrinkled eyelids creased into narrowed slits. “Did you read it, dearie?”

Heat prickled under Tilly’s sweater and crawled up her throat. “No. Of course not. I didn’t want to invade her privacy.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “But I did open it to a random page. It wasn’t about past guests. I spotted the name Jim. The context suggested she had, ah, feelings for him and I was curious as to who he was. I thought you might know.”

“Feelings? You could say that.” Betsy let out a soft snort, her gaze turning speculative. “Quite a position you’ve put me in. Yes, I know who Jim was and something of their history.” A sigh gusted out of her and she closed her eyes, muttering, “Ah, Mary. What would you have me do now, then?”

The kettle began to wail and Tilly stood and turned it off. When she looked around, Betsy had opened her eyes and pinned her to the spot with a teary gaze.

“Oh, I do so miss the quirky old duck. She was a hard one to love, that great-aunt of yours. Prickly as a cactus at times, but I wouldn’t let her push me away. She needed friends. She certainly did.” Betsy angled her head toward a giant glass canister filled with tea bags. “You make us a nice cuppa and we’ll drink in her memory, since it’s too early in the day for the good stuff.”

Her own eyes stinging with tears, Tilly went about making the tea, following Betsy’s instructions of tea-bag-to-teapot ratio and carrying over a tray filled with the old woman’s pretty china tea set.

“Mary never had much time for these girlie cups and saucers, as she said.” Betsy finished timing the brew and poured the steaming hot liquid into the delicate cups. “She was a mug person. Practical, not fancy in the slightest, a little chipped around the edges.” 

She passed the teacup over the table, and it rattled slightly on the saucer as Betsy’s hands shook. Tilly took it and set it down.

“She was a mug person, and I’m a china cup person, but she was my friend.” Betsy took a sip of tea, watching her over the rim. When she replaced the cup on her saucer, there was no sound of a rattle. “And I believe my friend would want her only remaining blood relative to know the real Mary.” 

Steam curled out of Tilly’s cup, bringing with it the comforting scent of black tea and baking, both smells she related to her nana—Mary’s sister. Nana hadn’t told Tilly much about her younger sister either, and in hindsight, she suspected that there’d been a deep rift between the two that’d never been healed. Had that rift had something, anything, to do with Jim?

“Who was Jim? Can you tell me that much?”

Betsy blinked her lavender-painted eyelids. “Jim Akurangi was his full name. He was a third generation Stewart Islander, a good bloke. Mostly.”

“Was?” A tiny pit formed in Tilly’s stomach. “He moved away?” Please, please let her say he moved away. 

A stupidly futile plea, she knew. She didn’t have to be a professional storyteller or a supersleuth to guess that Mary having Jim’s framed photograph, the glass smeared as if someone often rubbed a finger over the surface, meant that Jim Akurangi was no longer part of her life. An older version of the man in the photo hadn’t been at Mary’s funeral in Invercargill, she was almost certain.

Betsy shook her head and blew out a breath. She didn’t need to explain the sudden sadness making her mouth droop in the corners. “Read the journal, dearie. Let Mary tell you her and Jim’s story.”

Tilly climbed back onto her bike thirty minutes later, her mind spinning with all the variations of Mary’s stories that her journal could contain. There was a damp chill rolling in off the sea as she freewheeled down the hill toward the main road, and she shivered beneath the light jacket she’d worn. A totally impractical jacket, considering what she’d learned about the island’s temperamental weather thus far.

She glanced along the foreshore road at the brightly lit windows of Due South as she waited for a slow-moving car to cross the intersection in front of her. For a moment she was tempted to storm the pub for some company but Mary’s journal called to her with a siren song. Plus, she still had this damn cop character to brainstorm.

Coasting around the corner, she spotted Noah’s marked ute parked ahead on the road verge. Her pulse sped up, tap-dancing through her veins as she pedaled closer and the driver’s door opened and Noah’s uniformed bulk unfolded out of it. He straightened into a typical cop-attitude pose, leaning against the side of his vehicle with arms folded over his stab-proof vest. His dark eyes would’ve nailed her to the spot if it weren’t for the momentum of tires on asphalt.

Thigh muscles trembling, even though the road was dead flat, Tilly squeezed the hand brakes and rolled to a stop by the rear of his ute. What was it with this knee-jerk shiver that raced through her when she saw him don his cop persona? A kind of guilty apprehension, as if she were a cocaine-carrying drug mule in an airport rather than a woman with a stash of Mrs. Taylor’s cookies in her bike basket. 

She braced a hand on the side of his vehicle for balance. “Hey, neighbor. Catch any bad guys today?”

“Not yet.” 

His gravelly response fried all the nerve endings in her arm, and the bike gave a lurching wobble. She took her booted feet off the pedals and slid down to straddle the bike. Feet firmly on terra firma—that’s what a woman needed when a big, bad-ass cop was looking at you like you were public enemy number one. Because she didn’t need psychic ability to know this wasn’t Noah taking advantage of a flirtable moment. On duty officer might as well be stamped on his forehead.

“Was I breaking the speed limit, Constable Daniels?” Oops. She’d been thinking snark but been aiming for don’t antagonise the long arm of the law when her smart-ass mouth took over.

Noah donned his obviously well-practiced stoic cop expression. “I don’t know. Were you?” 

“On Scotty? I think that’s unlikely.”

“You called Mary’s bike Scotty?”

“It suits. Scotty wore a red shirt in the original series.”

At Noah’s continued blank expression, she added, “You know, ‘Beam me up, Scotty.’ From Star Trek.”

“Right,” he said.

Tilly tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear. That’s when she figured out the reason for the police intervention. No helmet hair meant no helmet. Again—oops. He must’ve seen the penny dropping in her gaze because one of his eyebrows did this cocky little quirk upward. 

Yeah, yeah. Her bad. “I forgot to wear a helmet. I’m officially a lawbreaker.”

A muscle bunched in his jaw and his kissable but not at the moment lips pursed slightly. “It’s for your own safety. Oban roads are not the best for cycling; you need to be careful. The nearest hospital is a helicopter flight away and there’s nothing much Joe can do for head injuries at our little medical center.”

“I am being careful,” she said. “I was just in a hurry to get to—”

Jim is the most obstinate, stubborn fool…

Mary’s words ping-ponged around inside her brain. Huh, like someone else she could name. Suddenly she didn’t want to share with him where she’d been and why. Didn’t want to be around him. The initial excited buzz of seeing him again had fizzled into hurt irritation. So she wasn’t New Zealand’s next stand-up comedienne of the year, but after sharing a meal with him, she’d expected some kind of rapport. Maybe even a smile at her lawbreaker joke.

Instead she’d gotten Officer Antarctica and a lecture to boot.

“To where?”

None of your damn business. She lifted her chin to meet his steady stare. “Town. I was in a hurry to buy some tampons, if you must know.”

Again with that cocky eyebrow quirk, but no other visible reaction. “You seem to have forgotten them on your way past Russells’.”

“They were all out of my preferred brand.”

“Plus you left home without your purse.” He tilted his head and nodded in the direction of Scotty’s bike basket and the plastic container of cookies. “I see you’ve made a house call to Betsy’s.”

Was there anything this man didn’t notice? A puff of wind sifted past her, carrying a trace of eau de Noah in all its appealing yumminess. But instead of making her want to hop off her bike and sniff the collar of his starchy uniform shirt, it served to raise her irritation a notch. In what part of the Universe of Tilly Montgomery was it fair that she should be thinking of inhaling a man while he only thought of rules and regulations?

“It’s hardly associating with a known criminal,” she said. 

That comment did cause a ghost of a smile to crease his lips. A glimpse of humanity that was just a little too late to muzzle her tongue.

“But what the hell. Just write me a ticket and be done with it.” She gripped Scotty’s plastic handlebar grips hard enough to rip them off.

“You want a fine?” Noah pushed himself away from the body of his vehicle and stepped toward her, setting a big hand on the bike’s front basket to steady it. “I was going to give you a first offence warning.”

Oh, he’d already given her a warning. A warning that his far too attractive outer packaging covered a cold-as-ice core. She’d tried to thaw men like Noah before, and the only result was that she ended up getting burned. Feeling a tug toward the unobtainable was hardly a first offence.

“I don’t want a fine, but I don’t want any special treatment.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Write the ticket.”

He dropped his hand off her basket and returned to his former arms folded, authoritative stance. “I’m not going to give you a damn ticket. Just tell me what’s going on.”

For a second the Officer Antarctica mask slipped and his hard-ass stare softened along with his voice. This was Noah the man asking, but she couldn’t allow herself to drop her own mask to expose her vulnerability.

“Nothing’s going on. I need to get back and keep packing up my aunt’s stuff. There’s a lot to do.” She rolled the bike backward and repositioned her foot on the pedal. 

He studied her for a moment longer then nodded. “Next time remember the helmet.”