Jack didn’t see a choice. He sat down at his computer, pulled up a blank page, and started his story. In a bookstore. There, that trip into town hadn’t been a complete waste of time. Still, he couldn’t spend his days wandering the shops if he expected to be productive.
He set his egg timer for an hour, vowing not to stop typing until the alarm went off, even though he knew this was a cheap trick. Over the years, he’d played a variety of games like this, tactics designed to motivate himself, but he couldn’t outsmart his own mind. And for the life of himself, he couldn’t stay focused either.
Once he could sit at his desk for hours, from afternoon until evening, sometimes not even realizing that the room had grown dark. Erin would come in, bringing him cups of coffee, and later, a glass of wine, her subtle way of telling him it was time to stop for the day and come pay her a little attention.
But he hadn’t paid her attention, had he? Instead, he’d pointed out his deadline, the words that needed to be written, the work that needed to be done.
He closed his eyes at the memory. Well. No use thinking about that now.
What was done was done. And it wouldn’t be repeated.
He stared at the screen, his fingers hunched over the keyboard, motionless. The egg timer was doing its thing, but he still wasn’t doing his. Where was he? Oh, yes, a bookstore. A small bookstore in a small town. His readers liked small towns. So did his editor. And right now, that was all that mattered.
He’d get the words down, tell a story that readers wanted to read, and then…Then he didn’t know. The world felt open, but it didn’t feel full of possibility, not anymore. He had money to live on for a while, and there were times when he’d considered transitioning his skills into something else, like journalism, or even editing, but he hadn’t given into that daydream in a while. Dreams were for those who believed they might actually come true.
A daydreamer, he thought, jotting that thought down in the notebook he always kept next to his keyboard, but which was frequently blank these days. A daydreamer in a bookstore in a small, Maine town.
It would have to do.
Somehow, he managed to write until the egg timer went off. He looked down at his word count, at the bit of work he’d chipped off of what sometimes felt like an overwhelming task. He’d written nine hundred eighty-two words.
He didn’t want to calculate how many more words were left to go.
Still, it was a start, and that was something. He didn’t have another hour-long sprint in him, and soon it would be time for dinner anyway. Maybe he’d go down early, read in the lobby near one of those big fireplaces.
He jotted something down in his notebook. Perhaps he’d set the bulk of the story in an old house, like this one. Yes, yes, that was an idea he could work with.
With that in mind, he went off to explore.
Oh, who was he kidding? He was going downstairs, to the lobby, and no amount of telling himself otherwise could make up for the undeniable fact that he was hoping to see Bridget again.
***
Bridget set the oven to three seventy-five and looked over at Emma, who was in charge of sprinkling the cheese over the top of the lasagna—a job she took quite seriously, if the pinched expression on her face said anything.
“That’s perfect,” Bridget said, swooping the dish away before Emma could empty the rest of the bag over the top. “Why don’t you go finish your homework while I get dinner ready?”
“We don’t usually have guests for dinner,” Emma said suspiciously as she stepped away from the counter and walked over to the kitchen table.
“Of course we do! Sometimes Margo and Abby come over.”
“No, a guest.” Emma opened her unicorn pencil case and took out a sparkly pink pencil.
Bridget didn’t know whether to feel proud or sad at how astute her daughter was becoming. Sometimes, she couldn’t help but miss the days when Emma still played with building blocks and loved nothing more than to crawl into her lap. Back then she still believed that broccoli were little trees. Now, Bridget couldn’t pull anything past her.
“Well, we only have one guest today, so it’s the hospitable thing to do.” Yes, that’s all it was.
Still, she’d put on her best pair of jeans and her newish top, the one Margo had insisted she buy on rare a shopping trip last month.
She reached up and touched her hair. Usually she wore it up during the day—it was easier to keep it off her face when she was running around—but tonight she’d left it down, and now she felt self-conscious, wondering if it appeared like she was trying too hard.
She eyed the bottle of wine she’d set on the center island. Too much?
The stairs creaked—a sound that was usually drowned out by other noise in the house—but tonight, it was crystal clear. Bridget felt herself pale. My God, he was coming down. Early! Quickly, she shoved the lasagna into the oven.
“Emma, stay right here,” she said, her eyes darting from the doorway to the dining room to the doorway to her living quarters, wondering which choice was a better bet.
Too late. There he was, in jeans and a rugby shirt and, God help her, a five o’clock shadow. Did the man never shave? He gave her a lazy smile and shame on her if her stomach didn’t roll over.
Immediately his eyes went to the table, and he gave a puzzled look at Emma before giving a small smile. “Hello,” he said.
“Are you the guest who is having dinner with us tonight?” Emma asked, pencil still poised over her math sheet.
“If I’m still invited,” he said, cocking an eyebrow in Bridget’s direction.
“Mom took out a bottle of wine, just for you,” Emma informed him.
Bridget felt her back teeth graze against her smile. No explaining that one away. Still. She’d try.
“Mr. Riley is our guest, Emma,” she said pointedly. To Jack she said, “Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
“Actually, that would be great,” he said, much to her relief.
Grateful for a reason to keep busy, she walked around to a drawer and pulled out the corkscrew.
“I’m afraid the lasagna still has a ways to go,” she said.
“I don’t mind waiting,” he said with a friendly grin. “I needed a break.”
A break? What was it he was doing up there in that room all day? “Keeping busy?” She popped the cork free and poured two glasses of Cabernet.
“I’m trying,” he said, a little sheepishly. “I came here to get some work done.”
Ah, well that explained things. Sort of. He wanted peace and quiet. No wonder he was complaining about all the noise from the wedding. “What is it that you do?”
She was only making conversation, but she was surprised when he replied, “I’m a writer.”
“A writer?” She blinked.
“That surprise you?” He took the glass from her hand and took a sip.
“A little,” she admitted. “I might have pinned you for a businessman.”
At this, he laughed. “No, definitely not.”
“So a creative type then.” She couldn’t help but be a little pleased. She glanced at the timer. They still had quite a bit of time until dinner. “We could go onto the back porch, or into the lobby, if you’d like.”
“The porch,” he said, nodding. “I could use the fresh air.”
Bridget took her wine glass and gave Emma one last glance to make sure homework was actually being done. Then she led Jack into the hallway and out the back French doors of what used to be the sunroom and now had turned into a second lobby—a conservatory of sorts, with walls of windows that lent a view of the ocean.
The temperature had dropped since she’d come back from picking Emma up at school, and a salty breeze blew off the water.
Jack hovered near the doorway, one hand thrust in his pocket, the other clutching his wine glass. The sea rolled in behind him, but Bridget wasn’t admiring the view for once.
“I owe you an apology,” he said, glancing up at her. “For the other night. It was…out of character.”
Bridget felt her face heat and wished that she wasn’t standing a mere two feet from him, with no way to create distance but to back up straight against the exterior wall of the house. “It was a party…” She gave an uneasy smile, wishing that he hadn’t brought up the kiss almost as much as she was relieved he had.
“Anyway,” he said, stiffening. “I can assure you that it won’t happen again.”
Bridget felt the air deflate from her as fast as a popped balloon. “Well. Thank you for making that clear.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “Oh. Please don’t…It’s not that I don’t find you attractive.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to blush. Bridget couldn’t help but smile. At the compliment. And at how awkward this seemed to make him.
“It’s that…”
She held up a hand, deciding to let him off the hook. “You don’t believe in romance. I get it.”
“No. I mean…No, I guess I don’t believe in it, no.”
There was a time, she had to admit, that she hadn’t believed in it either. Still, hearing those words spoken aloud…it should be all she needed to hear. The man was a guest. He was only passing through town. And he didn’t believe in love.
Seriously, Bridget, the facts are on the table. How was this any different than all the red flags Ryan was waving before she eloped with him? The dates he’d stand her up on, the endless talk about his career and not about family.
Bridget dropped onto one of the rocking chairs, and Jack did the same.
“So, despite this sentiment, do you make a habit of crashing weddings?”
He grinned, a bashful, boyish grin that had to go and make her feel all soft and swoony despite her misgivings. “No. And I didn’t realize I’d be caught, either.”
“I suppose the party was a bit loud, if you were trying to work…”
“Maddening,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “What choice did I have but to come down and see what all the fuss was about?”
“I think you’re forgiven. Weddings can be a fun time,” she said with a small smile.
“They can,” he said, and the faraway look that took over his expression made her wonder, for one, fleeting moment, if all his protestations about love and romance were just an excuse.
Nonsense. What did it matter? He’d made his thoughts clear. He was a nice man, who had kissed her, and who clearly didn’t plan on taking it any further.
“So,” she said, wanting to get back to the topic they’d reached in the kitchen. A safe subject, surely. “What do you write?”
“Fiction,” he said. Then, after a pause, “Fantasy.”
“Novels?” Well, this just got better and better. She’d been expecting him to say that he wrote for a newspaper or magazine.
He nodded. “But after this one, I’m taking a break. Maybe I’ll travel for a bit. I haven’t really thought that far ahead.”
“That sounds nice.” Bridget leaned her head back wistfully.
“Traveling?”
“And not thinking ahead.” She grinned. “I’m a planner. Always have been.”
His mouth seemed to thin. “The problem with planning is that life rarely goes to plan.”
“My, you’re cynical!” she exclaimed. And she was a fool for doubting his declarations, for wanting him to be someone he clearly wasn’t.
That kind of thinking only led to trouble.
He just shrugged. “But I’m right, aren’t I?”
She had to admit that yes, he was. After all, where had all her grand plans taken her? She’d never imagined she’d be divorced, a single mom with a baby under the age of one. She’d never imagined a life without more children, either. No siblings for Emma.
But then, she’d never even dared to imagine that she might someday have the fortune of owning this house, rather than selling it to a complete stranger, either.
“Sometimes the surprises turn out okay,” she said with a smile.
He grumbled something inaudible under his breath and took a long sip of his wine.
“Look at me, for example,” she said. “I grew up in this house. I left it, got married, made a dozen plans for myself, most of which didn’t happen, and now here I am, back where I started, but in a different role.”
“You’re happy.” His voice was filled with wonder as he pondered the statement.
Bridget nodded. “Very much so. I love this house. A year ago, my sisters and I didn’t think we’d be able to hold onto it.”
“What about your parents?” he asked, and even though the question was natural, she couldn’t help but look away.
“They died in a car accident. Right after Emma was born.” She took a sip of her wine.
“Wow.” He had the same shell-shocked reaction everyone did when they learned this. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s been a long time.” But somehow, she thought to herself, it still felt like yesterday. “My grandmother was like a parent to me and my sisters for years. My middle sister and I handled it well enough, but my youngest sister, Abby…” She trailed off. Just thinking of Abby made her need another sip of wine. “Abby needed parents. Still does.”
“She has you,” Jack pointed out.
“Yes, but I’ve never been able to give her the attention she deserves. Ryan—my ex—and I split soon after my parents died, and being a single mother with an infant was, well, a challenge.” She felt sad, still, thinking back on that time. It was a dark time, when life felt so bleak even though she knew that it should have been so happy. It was never how she’d imagined the first year of Emma’s life to be, overshadowed by life’s trials.
All the more reason to make up for it now.
“Abby comes over for dinner sometimes.” It wasn’t much, and she always felt guilty, thinking that she should be doing more, but Abby kept busy, and well, there wasn’t any other time. Now that she was running the inn, she seemed to have less time than more, but at least she was settled.
If only Abby could do the same…
“Room Four actually used to be Abby’s room,” Bridget said, thinking of the way the room used to look, with purple walls and posters of celebrities all over the walls. “When I renovated the house into an inn, we obviously changed things a bit. My sister Margo helped with that. It’s still home, but it’s different.”
“Margo.” He seemed to frown on the name. “I met her, I think. Was she at the front desk on Saturday?”
“Yes!” Bridget couldn’t help but feel flattered he would remember. “You have a good memory.”
“Or a sharp eye for detail,” he said, but she could tell he was pleased. “So it’s a family business then?”
“This? Oh, no. Margo’s an interior designer, but she helped me renovate the place. And Abby…” She sucked in a breath. She still had to talk to Abby. No doubt Abby was latching onto another random idea, this time brought on by Bridget calling in a favor Saturday night. Honestly, she appreciated Abby’s enthusiasm, but she’d believe in it more if it wasn’t so waning. “Abby’s a free spirit,” she said, summarizing Abby’s lifestyle.
“And this drives you crazy,” he said, with a knowing smile.
Bridget started to protest, but he clearly saw through it. “How’d you guess?”
He shrugged. “I tend to have a good read on people.” His jaw tensed. “Most people.”
Bridget wondered just who he failed to relate to when the door opened and Emma stood there, clutching a pencil and announcing that the timer had gone off.
“Already?” Bridget could hear the disappointment in her tone. She’d been enjoying this one-on-one time, outside on the porch. Tomorrow more guests would arrive and by Friday, they’d have a full house. “Well, I suppose we should go in.”
“I already washed my hands,” Emma announced. “And I set the table, too.”
Bridget reached for Emma’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you!”
“You’re busy,” Emma said sagely. Looking up at Jack, who was right behind them, she said, “My mom has a lot of laundry to do. And errands. And then there’s my great-grandmother to worry about, and Aunt Abby, who can’t get her life together and really needs a steady job…”
Jack laughed, and Bridget shot Emma a warning look. “Remember what we talked about, Emma? What we discuss as a family, stays within the family?”
“Like what we talk about at our family dinners?”
“Exactly,” Bridget said, releasing her daughter’s hand as they entered the kitchen. Sure enough, the timer was beeping, and as Bridget opened the oven, she could tell that the lasagna was ready. Grabbing two oven mitts, she slid the heavy dish from the rack and set it on the stove top.
“We can start with salad while it cools,” she said, noticing that Jack had already taken his place at the table.
Ryan’s place, she realized with a pang. For some reason, she always kept the head chair empty, choosing instead to sit across from Emma, her sisters taking their own side chairs when they stopped by for a meal.
It was silly, she knew. After all, she and Ryan had split long before family meals had started. Their relationship was ending when Emma was barely able to sit in a highchair. But still, their places had been established. Ryan cooked—when he was home to cook and not at the restaurant—and Ryan sat at the head of the table.
And for eight long years that chair had remained empty.
Until tonight.
“Well!” Bridget cleared her throat, and before she could think any more about the way life had turned out, she lifted the salad bowl and set it on the center of the table. When she pulled back, she noticed Jack looking up at her, and a guilty flush seemed to spread over his face before he looked away.
Had he been…checking her out? She hadn’t been checked out since, well, not counting Saturday night, since before Emma was born. Now in her mid-thirties, she sort of assumed that phase of life was over.
Self-consciously, she tucked herself into her own chair, lifting her wine glass to hide her smile.
“So, Mommy, how was your day?” Emma asked, and Bridget glanced over at Jack to see his brow furrow in confusion.
“Very good, Emma. How was yours?”
“Well…” Emma’s eyes became round with excitement. “Mary Alice had to go to the principal even though it was her birthday!”
Jack served himself some salad, fighting off a grin.
“Oh my.” Bridget exchanged a smile with Jack as he passed her the salad. “What prompted that?”
“She told Rebecca to shut up. Twice!”
Bridget turned to Jack. “Mary Alice is the third-grade troublemaker.”
“So I’ve gathered,” Jack said, his eyes gleaming.
“Was that the good part or the bad part of your day?” Bridget asked, and then realized that this too required some explanation. She turned to Jack, her heart skipping a beat when their eyes met. “We like to tell each other the good parts and the bad parts of our day, just as a way of communicating.”
“I see.” Jack nodded in approval. “So, Emma, which was it?”
“Oh, the best part!” Emma giggled, and Bridget couldn’t help it, she started laughing at the same time as Jack.
“What was the best part of your day, Mommy?” Emma asked, and Bridget felt her pulse skip a beat.
“Right now,” she said, honestly, not daring to look in Jack’s direction. “You know how much I love sitting down to a family meal.” It was something she’d valued so much, growing up, here in this house. Something Ryan had never prioritized, and seemingly never would. Never did.
“Must be nice to have family meals,” Jack said with a sad smile.
Bridget studied him, wondering if she should ask what he meant by that, when Emma cut in, “Don’t you have a wife?”
“Emma!” Bridget scolded, feeling her cheeks heat.
But Jack just laughed. “It’s okay,” he reassured her, before turning to Emma. “No, I do not have a wife.”
“Mommy doesn’t have a husband either,” Emma said sagely. “Daddy has girlfriends. Mommy calls them flavors of the month.”
“Emma!” Bridget closed her eyes, but the sound of Jack’s laughter forced them open again. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re going through a strange phase now where you can’t say anything without it coming back at you.”
“Do you have any kids?” Emma asked.
Bridget had to admit, that despite Emma’s rudeness, she was just as eager for the answers.
“No, but I do have a goldfish.”
Emma giggled, and Bridget found herself laughing. “A goldfish?”
“That’s right. Fred. Fred the fish.”
“Where is he? I want to see him!” Emma said excitedly.
“Oh now, he’s back at my apartment in New York. But…maybe if I visit again, I’ll bring him.” Jack’s brow seemed to pinch as he took another bite of his food, but when he glanced up at her, his eyes were warm and so intense that Bridget had to tear herself away.
“More wine?” she asked, refilling his glass, and her own, before even waiting for an answer.
More wine, she thought, silently answering for them both. It was definitely time for more wine.
***
The last time Jack had dined with someone other than his agent was back when he and Erin were still together. The divorce had cost him more than just their Upper West Side apartment; it had meant that friends chose sides, and most seemed to follow Erin. He wasn’t surprised—Erin and the wives were friends first, and then Jack and the husbands were friends by default. Erin always used to say that when they had kids, they’d become friends with their children’s friends’ parents. But that day had never arrived.
“This was delicious,” Jack said as he helped Bridget clear the plates.
“Please, let me!” Bridget looked momentarily panicked as she took the lasagna dish from him. “You’re my guest!”
“Last I checked, dinner wasn’t included in the price of the room,” he reminded her, and was rewarded with a small smile. “Let me. Please. It keeps me from going back to my room and staring at my computer screen.”
“If you insist.” She sighed as she turned on the tap and rinsed the plates. “Writer’s block?”
“Guess you could call it that,” he said, though it was more than that, really. More like a life block. A dead end. He’d lost his momentum, his drive, his passion.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” she said. “The most I ever wrote was a twenty-page essay in college on the impact of birth order and personality.”
He laughed. “Psych major?”
“Gee, how’d you guess?”
“And where’d you fall in that scenario?” He couldn’t help it, he was eager to know more. It had been a long time since he’d wanted to get to know anyone. But Bridget…she was pleasant and kind and warm.
And pretty. Very, very pretty.
“First born. Classic Type-A personality.” She laughed. “How about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
“A half-sister,” Jack said. “But we’re fifteen years apart and she lives in California, where my dad is. I can’t exactly say we’re close.”
“And your mother?”
“She’s remarried too. No kids, though. She’s down in Florida. I don’t visit much.”
“Well, you’re an interesting cross between an only child and a first born, then.” Bridget gave him a mischievous smile.
“And what does that make me?”
“Independent? I’d have to check my notes, though. It’s, uh, been a while.” She laughed again.
“Independent sounds about right,” he said. “I suppose that’s why I like New York. I can do my thing. Fade into the crowd.”
“Then you’d probably have a hard time in Oyster Bay,” she said, frowning a little. “In a town this small, well, let’s just say that some people know things about me before I even know.”
“Such as?”
“Oh, who my sister’s dating. Who my ex is dating…”
He grimaced. “Ouch.”
“In a way,” she said. “Sometimes it’s nice to be forewarned.”
“My ex is actually in the same city as me, too. Luckily for me, New York is a little bigger.” He froze. He wasn’t used to talking about Erin. Most days, he didn’t even like thinking about her. But talking to Bridget was easy. Natural, even.
Bridget frowned. “I didn’t realize you were married.”
“Was,” he stressed. “Never again.”
Bridget nodded, and looked away, and for a reason he couldn’t justify, he wished he hadn’t come down so hard on the idea.
She set the plates into the dishwasher and adjusted the settings. For a moment, there was a flicker of silence, and Jack wondered if he’d overstayed his welcome, if Bridget was eager to get back to her daughter, or whatever else it was she did when she had the house to herself and wasn’t at the mercy of a lingering guest.
“What do you usually do? For fun?” He wasn’t sure if he was dragging out the night because he didn’t want to go back to his room to work or because he didn’t want to be alone. Or, possibly, because he wanted to be with her. He was always alone, and usually he preferred it that way. But tonight was different. Tonight he’d felt right at home, in this kitchen, with Bridget’s soft laughter and Emma’s funny comments, and the thought of going up to his room now, closing the door, and hearing nothing but silence depressed the hell out of him.
Bridget picked up the bottle of wine, and Jack could see there was still a bit left. “Top you off?”
Jack nodded. “Only if you have a bit, too.”
“There you go, encouraging me again,” Bridget teased, and then her cheeks flushed as she evenly distributed the wine into both of their glasses.
It was awkward discussing the night of the wedding, for both of them, but Jack only half-regretted that kiss. It had been an indiscretion, a mistake. Something that couldn’t be repeated.
But it had been nice.
His gaze lingered on her mouth as she brought the glass to it. He swallowed, hard. No. It couldn’t be repeated.
“I suppose I’m encouraging my own,” he admitted as he followed her into the lobby and took a seat in one of the loveseats near the window. Bridget seemed to hesitate before coming to sit next to him, not quite within reach. “I should be working right now. But…I needed a break.”
“Is that why you booked a two-week stay here?”
He barked out a laugh. “Just the opposite. I couldn’t think straight in Manhattan. Too much noise, too much…distraction.” Too many memories was more like it. Everywhere he turned, he was reminded of a time and place that wasn’t his anymore, when New York felt fresh and exciting and his career felt as full of potential as life itself. He’d fallen into a rut, a bad habit of taking long, meandering walks and then stopping for a drink or dinner at the bar, where he’d linger, and then finally go home to an empty, dark apartment, tell himself it was too late to work, and that he’d get to it tomorrow. But he’d run out of tomorrows. “My agent thought a change of scenery would do me good.”
“And you chose Harper House Inn!” Bridget’s smile was so genuine, Jack felt something in him shift. He didn’t talk to people anymore. Somewhere in the past three years, he’d become a hermit.
“Well, I’m setting this particular story in an old house,” he explained. It was true, even if the order of events were skewed. He’d started out with a blank slate, nothing more than the standard formula of boy meets girl, falls in love, lives happily ever after.
He almost snorted into his drink.
“Well, I hope you’re finding inspiration then!”
Jack studied Bridget, suddenly feeling a desire in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time, as if something was awakening. A desire to talk, to discuss. And maybe even a desire to write, to capture something in life that had gone unnoticed recently.
“I am finding inspiration,” he said, realizing just how true that was.