Jack

Storming out of her shop in a rage, I almost flatten Wyatt standing on the porch unlocking his door. “Sorry,” I growl, hopping off the walkway and onto the street.

“Where you going?” he calls after me.

“I’ll be right back.” I’m walking fast in the direction of the cottage.

I’m furious, but I can’t put my finger on one single reason why.

I’d walked up to the door for a courtesy call—just to let the business owner know I would be painting and setting up scaffolding.

Just to give a heads up.

When I’d seen Tabby inside with the little girl, I’d gone in and been greeted with a repeat performance of Saturday night—inexplicable bitchiness. I wasn’t putting up with it anymore, and I told her as much…

Then everything changed.

Ember walked in the room looking like everything good in the world I’d ever lost as a nervous teen starting out on my own in a new city. She was the only dream I’d ever wanted. She was the only thing I’d ever regretted leaving behind, and she was just as beautiful as ever.

Her dark hair hung in waves around her shoulders. Her brown eyes flecked with caramel held mine. Her body was covered up by some brown apron-thing, but her slim arms were bare, her long legs were bare… Her skin was still so smooth. She was still so damn perfect, my fingers longed to touch her.

Slamming open the door to the cottage, I snatch the phone off the base and hit call back. It rings twice before my father answers.

“Randall speaking,” he says, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“It’s me, Jackson.”

“Oh, hello, son, what’s on your mind?”

“She’s here, Dad. Living in Oceanside. She has a business and a child. She never left.” Even I can hear the rage seething in my tone. I’m ready to rip someone limb from limb. I’m just trying to figure out who. “Why did you lie to me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His casual tone fuels my anger.

“Emberly Warren. I just saw her. She’s here in Oceanside.”

“So what?” He exhales a dismissive laugh. “You’re there in Oceanside. Are you trying to say you never left?”

“You told me she was sent away after I went to college. Her mother had arranged for her to marry a preacher’s kid or some kind of bullshit, and she’d moved on without me.”

“I told you the same story I was given.” His condescension is almost more than I can tolerate right now, but he continues. “Either way, it’s in the past. That town gave you nothing but grief—”

“And you made millions destroying it.”

“Karma is a bitch.” He has the nerve to gloat.

“Don’t act like you did it for me. I never took a dime of that money—”

“Still, you left Oceanside poised for greatness. You focused on your studies and made it all the way to the top of your class. You went to one of the most prestigious law schools in the country and became the youngest partner to join the ranks of the oldest firm on the East Coast. Do you think you would have done all those things holding onto a little girl back home?”

I don’t need him to recite my résumé to me. He can’t begin to understand what I wanted when I left this place. Only Ember knew. She’s the only one who listened to me when I talked and looked at me like I could rule the world—even if it was just from a little bedroom community on the coast.

My father thinks I want all these things. He has no idea how once I’d lost her I didn’t have anything else. He’ll never understand how I buried the pain in the grind of studies and research and cases and claims.

“She wasn’t meant for you,” he concludes.

It’s the only thing I might possibly accept—if I were in the mood to accept any of this.

“She has a little girl.” My voice is quieter, my mind returning to the small child leaning over the table.

Her dark hair and eyes are just like Ember’s. The sun shining through the window had lit her porcelain skin, highlighting her olive features chiaroscuro.

“It must be his. Perhaps it’s why she’s back in Oceanside. To be near her mother.” He says it like it’s the logical response.

Only it’s not logical.

Ember never got along with her mother.

None of this is logical.

None of it makes sense.

When I saw her today, she looked at me with all the shock and pain and hurt and anger I’ve felt these last ten years as though I’d betrayed her. There’s more to this story.

“I’m going to find out what happened.” My voice is calm, but I hear the edge. I know he hears it as well.

“I love you, son.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

I slam the phone down and walk the short distance to town fast, burning off the excess anger. I can’t talk to her now—she doesn’t want to talk. Her words burn in my stomach like acid. There’s nothing here for you. Not anymore.

I’m at the Pack n Save, and my pulse has slowed. Pausing, I look toward the cake shop. It’s quiet and still, in direct opposition to how I feel inside, to what I’m sure is happening behind those walls. It takes all my willpower not to storm in there and take her, pull her in my arms and force her to tell me the truth, tell me what happened, what made her give up on us.

The tension is back, burning hot in my chest, and I start walking again. Following the road, I make quick progress to the end of the short strip of businesses. I pass the small bank that’s been here since I was a kid, a little retail and knickknack store, an antiques store, and the post office. The last building on the corner is a gas station. I hesitate long enough for a car to pull up to one of the pumps, then turning on my heel, I storm all the way back up the street.

My head is full of thoughts—ten years is a long time. While I spent it losing myself in work, neither of us are teenagers anymore. Ember has always been smart and strong. She’s always known what she wanted. I remember how she was with me. Telling me to kiss her. Telling me to teach her everything. I won’t take that for granted.

She’s a mom…

My stomach burns when I think of how I felt when I left here. I had planned to come back and marry her after college. She was supposed to have my baby. A low growl rises in my throat, and I’m back at the scaffolding.

Wyatt is out on his porch. “I’m not paying you to walk around. I’m paying you to paint.”

Glaring at him, I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out with all the fury ripping through my chest.

Instead, I pick up the brush and climb the scaffolding to the second floor where I left everything. I crack open a gallon of sandy beige and get started.

---

My arm aches, and I’m covered in sweat when I finish the second floor exterior. Hours have passed, the sun is directly overhead, and my mind hasn’t stopped turning over what happened this morning.

Hour after hour.

Over and over.

Glancing up, a bead of sweat rolls down my cheek. The heat is blasting like an oven. It’s too hot to keep working, so I head down to get food from André.

I can’t stop my eyes from flickering in the direction of the third building on the row. It’s quiet. No one has come in or out since this morning. As much as I tried to stop, I kept watching for a crack in the door.

Grabbing a cloth, I wipe my face and step into the poboy shop. André is in his usual spot behind the register, only this time his expression is slightly more approachable.

“Jackson Cane,” he says, holding out a bottle of water. “You’re working hard.”

“Thanks.” I take it and twist the top off, finishing it in one long gulp. “What’s the special for today?”

“Today is California Reuben, or what some people call a Rachel.”

“A Rachel?”

“Roasted turkey and Swiss on rye with sauerkraut and Russian dressing.”

My eyebrows rise. “I’ll take it.”

He walks down behind the glass case and lifts a large sandwich into wax paper, placing it in a white bag with a paper napkin and a fork.

“Side of pickle,” he holds up what looks like a kosher spear in a skinny bag. “And a pot of my famous potato salad.”

“Damn,” I say with a laugh. “When word gets out, you won’t be able to stay here.”

“Then how will we keep this place integrated?”

I glance up, and his brow is lowered. “Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, feeling like an ass. “It was kind of a boneheaded thing to say.”

He stares at me a moment longer, until finally a crack in the wall. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Thanks.”

I dig in my pocket to pay him for the food. “Throw in a Coke and how much for the water?”

“Water’s on the house. Don’t want you dying of heat stroke out there.” He punches the register and hands me back my change. “So you’re from Oceanside?”

“Grew up here. Just me and my dad.”

“Is he still around?”

“He moved to Connecticut when I was in college.”

The bell rings, and none other than Betty Pepper walks through the door. Her jaw immediately drops, and I notice she clutches her purse. “As I live and breathe. Jack Lockwood?”

“Hi, Mrs. Pepper.”

She doesn’t move from the doorway. “When did you get back in town? Are you staying in the cottage? Does your father know you’re here? Does Marjorie?”

She speaks so fast, I’m surprised she doesn’t hyperventilate.

“I think that’s a…” Looking at the ceiling, I run through her list of questions. “Yes to all. You’ve got fifteen more to go.”

Her brow wrinkles. “Fifteen?”

“Questions.”

A short laugh turns into a throat clearing behind the counter. Betty scowls, and André leans back against the wall, arms crossed.

“Good morning, André,” she says, giving him a nod. “Is Thelma coming in today?”

“Yes, ma’am, she’ll be in after lunch. Any minute now, I guess.”

The old lady turns to me again, her eyes quickly scanning my clothes, my paint-stained hands. “Are you the man Wyatt hired to paint the buildings?” Her voice is pure astonishment. “Why aren’t you off somewhere being a lawyer?”

“I missed home,” I say, walking toward her to the door. She jumps out of my way quickly. “I saw the flier up at the gas station and asked Wyatt for the job. Since I was on the paint crew in high school, he knew I could do it.”

“When is the last time you painted anything?”

“Ten minutes ago.” My hand is on the doorknob, and I’m ready to end the inquisition. Twelve left.

Her eyes narrow. “I meant before today.”

Movement outside catches my eye. I look in time to see Ember placing her daughter in the back seat of a bike and fastening her belt. A large box is in the front basket.

“Is she married?” The question is out before I can stop it.

“Who?” Betty steps forward and peers out the window. “Emberly? Why, no. She never married.”

My lips tighten, and something shifts in my chest. I watch her climb on the bike, her toned legs flexing as she pedals. My throat catches, and I want to stop her.

She’s still dressed in denim cutoffs, but her white tee is gone. She’s wearing a maroon tank top with a short-sleeved cardigan over it. Just as I step out onto the long porch, she dashes past, standing in the pedals and disappearing quickly up the street in the direction of Oceanside Beach.

I watch as she disappears, not looking back. I’m left standing in front of the store, staring at the dirt rising from her tires.