Bridget stood on the front porch of her childhood home, heart thumping nearly as fast as it had the first time Ryan had pulled up in his dad’s navy blue sedan to pick her up for dinner. It was strange to think of how young they’d been then. How exciting each interaction had been. How she’d hung on his every word, delighted in his laugh, shivered at the slightest touch.
My, how much had changed.
Sometimes she wondered, looking back, what she would have done if she knew what she did now. Would she still have married him? The answer was, of course, yes. Ryan had given her Emma—and all the heartache and hardship that followed was worth it for that one, perfect gift.
Still, it would be nice if their life was a bit more settled. She couldn’t help but want her daughter to have all the comfort she’d been given growing up right here, in this old house, that had been in their family for generations. She’d taken for granted that she could wake to the sound of waves crashing on the rocks as she came down the stairs on Sunday mornings to sit at the old farmhouse table in the kitchen, a stack of pancakes being passed around, everyone and everything she loved and needed right beside her.
But now, most of those people were gone in some way or another. Margo lived across the country, Abby was in her own world half the time, Mimi was a ghost of the person she’d once been, and their parents…She blinked quickly, desperate to compose herself. Her parents hadn’t lived to see what a mess her life had become, and she was glad for that. And they hadn’t lived to see the day that she would sell this house, and she was grateful for that, even if it still broke her heart, now, after all these years, to think that they were gone and never coming back.
But she had Emma. Her sweet, funny little girl who wrote her letters and drew her pictures and was always happy to offer a hug. And that was all she needed now.
And this, she told herself firmly, was why she would sell this house. And focus on her future. Not her past. Each house she sold meant more opportunities for her daughter. And this was her biggest listing ever.
She cleared her throat, waiting for the blur in her eyes to evaporate, and straightened her shoulders as a black convertible drew closer on the gravel drive. A flutter of panic swam through her stomach, but there was no time to dwell on that now. Game face. Go time. This was her chance for a better future. For all of them.
The door opened and out stepped a man. Tall, lean, in dark jeans and a quarter-zip charcoal grey sweater. He grinned when he saw her and this time her stomach flipped from something much worse than panic. If she didn’t know better, she might say it was from plain and simple desire.
“Mr. Fowler, I presume?” Her voice was high and her palms were sweating. As discreetly as possible, she brushed her right hand against her pant leg before extending it.
Lordy, he was even cuter up close, with warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled.
“Welcome to Oyster Bay.” Stay professional, Bridget. Eye on the prize.
“It’s a charming town you have here,” he said.
“It is, it certainly is.” Not exactly witty, but she couldn’t think clearly from the strength of his grip. How long had it been since a man—make that an attractive man—had touched her?
His eyes took on a slightly puzzled look, as if reading her mind. Crap. She was still holding his hand, much longer than necessary.
Quickly, she dropped it. “How was the drive up?”
“Light traffic, can’t complain.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned back on his heels to look up at the house behind her. “The photos didn’t do this place justice.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.”
“A very good thing,” he said, locking her eyes as a wide grin took over his face.
She smiled back, felt her eyelashes flutter in a way she hadn’t been sure they could anymore, and…giggled.
Uh-oh.
“Well.” She cleared her throat, feeling her cheeks heat as she turned to the door, which was already unlocked. “Let’s hope you like the inside as much you like the outside.”
“I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” he said, and Bridget frowned as she opened the door wide. It was an odd comment. Still, she wouldn’t read into it. This was a beautiful, well-loved house on the waterfront. Of course there wouldn’t be a problem.
She stepped back to let him pass, but he held out his hand and said, “Ladies first.”
And she might have swooned. There was that grin again. Her sweaty palms were back. Couldn’t he just stop…smiling for a minute? Or better yet, couldn’t she? She didn’t smile. Not like this, at least. She smiled with her daughter, or when Jeffrey said something funny at work, but other than that…She was serious, Abby had always accused. No fun, Ryan had claimed. What neither of them understood was that someone had to be the responsible one.
But now she felt downright giddy. Misplaced excitement, she told herself firmly. She’d been anticipating this meeting for two weeks, since the email first popped up from the man standing right here, claiming he saw her listing on the MLS and wanted to come to Maine for a look. She’d been anticipating this meeting with every sense: dread, fear, with more emotions than she could dare to process. She’d try to check each one, keep herself focused and professional, but now she was starting to unravel, and that wouldn’t do.
She briskly walked by him and led him straight into the front living room, glancing at the piano in the corner, which Margo had insisted on propping open, even though the thing was painfully out of tune. Last Christmas, Emma had begged her for lessons and Bridget had spent most of December researching her options, thinking she could budget for it if Ryan went in on the gift with her. But then Mimi had taken a turn for the worse, leaving on the burner on the gas range, which Bridget luckily discovered when she stopped by to drop off dinner one night, and Bridget knew it was time to move her into Serenity Hills. The piano would never fit in her apartment, or Ryan’s, and so all talk of lessons had been shelved for now.
She pushed back that never-ending guilt that she wasn’t giving her daughter the life she deserved, and stole another glance at her client.
“This is a large room,” he observed.
“It is.” She nodded. She was about to refer him to the dimensions on the listing sheet and realized with horror she had never handed him one. Good grief. Flustered, she fumbled in her handbag for her folder and quickly handed him the information. “I’ve always considered the fireplace in this room to be the prettiest in the house,” she said, walking over to the mantle. Until this morning, it had been lined with framed photos, but Margo had cleared those away, anchoring the mirror by two pillar candles she’d repurposed from the dining room instead. “There are three other fireplaces,” she said, turning.
But Ian Fowler wasn’t admiring the craftsmanship of the millwork from which red and green stockings hung every December, or the ornate iron grate that Bridget once feared would be too heavy for Santa to maneuver. He was rubbing his jaw, eyes scanning the room, as if he were making some mental calculation.
Furniture placement, Bridget thought, her heart skipping a beat. A good sign, technically.
Ian walked over to the far wall and pounded it with the side of his fist.
“The walls are plaster,” she said, frowning slightly.
He looked at the ceiling, following the wall to the where it met its end. “Might be able to open this up.”
“What?”
The alarm in her voice caused him to look at her sharply. “I don’t think it’s a support wall.”
She didn’t know what it was, other than the wall that housed the oil painting her grandfather had painted for Mimi on their twentieth wedding anniversary. A painting that should probably be with her in the nursing home, but which fit so perfectly into this room, she couldn’t bear to take it down just yet.
“It would certainly open up the space, bring in more light,” he was saying.
Bridget’s chest felt heavy. She supposed he was right.
She swallowed hard and willed herself not to give away her personal feelings. The man did not need to know that this was her childhood home. It was, legally speaking, her grandmother’s home. Professionally, none of that should even matter. She was commissioned to sell it, and sell it was what she would do. If not to Ian Fowler, then to somebody else. For everyone’s sakes, things would proceed smoother if she treated this listing as impartially as any other. It was a product, and she was going to move it.
“I love the windows,” Ian said, and Bridget couldn’t help but beam with pride.
“Original to the home, but very well maintained. Double paned,” she added. “The insulation here is very strong.”
Ian nodded. “Structure is very important to me. That and the view, of course.”
Of course. It was of no surprise that the land would be the selling point, but as Bridget led Ian through the dining room, curiosity got the better of her. This was a large house with six bedrooms and a full third floor with loads of potential. What did this man plan to do with so much space?
She glanced at his left hand. No ring.
And shame on her for being so pleased by that discovery.
She continued the tour into the kitchen, noting that Ian made no comment about the room. Bridget took that as a good thing, or an indication that as a bachelor, he might prefer takeout to cooking. She unlocked the French doors and led him out onto the back porch, with an expansive view of the grass that sloped down to the shoreline.
“This is a perfect backyard for a wedding,” he surprised her by saying.
At that, Bridget, who had been leading the way down the stairs to the lawn, missed the next step and managed not to fall flat on her back only by the quick reaction of Ian, whose sturdy hands were on her back and arm, righting her before the blood could even rush to her cheeks. But rush it did. She let out a nervous laugh, and muttered her thanks, feeling the heat of mortification spread down her neck.
Ian just gave her a pleasant smile in return, and for a moment she dared to imagine the two of them standing right here, at the base of the stairs, their friends and family gathered on the lawn, where a huge white tent would be set up for their reception. Her dress would be long and elegant, and the music would be low enough to still make out the rhythm of the waves in the distance, and he’d hold out his hand and crack that smile and they’d take their first dance to the delight of everyone who had come to witness their happy day.
A wedding. She hadn’t just imagined that he’d said that, had she? Was he…flirting with her?
“I’d like to take some pictures, if that’s all right with you.” He pulled out his phone.
“Of course.” She stepped back, while he took some shots of the back of the house.
A wedding. Hadn’t she always dreamed of that? A wedding right here in her own backyard? The sisters had all shared in that dream in their own unique way, imagining the flowers they’d chose (tulips for Margo, roses for Bridget, and not surprisingly, wildflowers for Abby). Instead, Bridget had eloped, Margo had been roped into the wedding of her mother-in-law’s wishes, and Abby…Abby seemed to have no interest in settling down.
That left Emma. And now Emma would never have the opportunity the rest of them had squandered.
“Should we see the rest of the house?” she asked. They hadn’t even been upstairs yet, and she was eager to get back inside, alone with this man. It might not even be so bad if he bought it. A single, attractive man of appropriate age who was clearly financially secure and successful and who was talking about a future and weddings. Why, if she played her cards straight, this house might just stay in the family after all!
“Let me just take a few more of the view,” he said, snapping another photo. He gave her a lopsided grin and oh, if her stomach didn’t roll over. “I promised my fiancée I’d send these to her.”
Fiancée.
Bridget’s smile tightened as she turned to go up the porch steps, her tread slow. She’d dared to hope, she realized. Something she hadn’t done in a long, long time.
Something she’d be careful not to do again.