Wind Chime Café (A Wind Chime Novel) (3 page)

“Fair enough,” he said, laughing. “But can I ask you one question?”

“
One
question.”

“The menu I saw earlier—is that the kind of restaurant you’re planning to open?”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t been home in a while, but I can’t imagine a single local who can afford those prices.”

“It’s not for the locals.”

“Who’s it for?”

“The tourists.”

Will glanced over his shoulder at the deserted street. “What tourists?”

“They’re not here yet.” Annie rolled her eyes. “They’re coming with the resort.”

Will’s smile faded. “What resort?”

“The Morningstar Resort,” she explained, “the one that’s going to be built on the island.”

The faintest sound of copper wind chimes drifted into the room as Will held her gaze. “Who told you this?”

“My realtor.”

“Did he happen to mention where this resort would be built?”

Annie nodded. “There’s an old inn at the end of the island sitting on fifty acres of undeveloped land. The owners passed away six months ago and apparently the guy who inherited the property is anxious to sell.”

Will looked down at the can of soup, testing the weight of it in his palm. His expression had gone carefully neutral.

“It’ll take time,” Annie said. “But things are changing. And I’m going to be right here, ready to take advantage of it when they do.”

Will lifted his eyes back to hers. They were even darker now, the color of bitter chocolate. He kept his expression blank, but she sensed a shift in him, something simmering just beneath the surface. “It was nice to meet you, Annie.”

He tipped his head and turned, walking out the door and down the porch steps.

Annie stood in the doorway, watching him walk away. The sound of wind chimes floated toward her again, and she gazed up at the beams of the porch, searching for the source of the sound. But there were only a few hooks and some wire. She turned, walking back into the café as the scent of falling leaves swirled through the autumn air, carrying the promise of change.

Will drove down
the long flat road leading to the western tip of the island. He passed soybean fields, white pine forests, and marshes until the paved road turned to gravel and the yellow farmhouse rose up to greet him.

As if he hadn’t been gone for the past ten years. As if nothing had changed.

His grandfather’s Ford pickup truck was still parked in the same spot, the same rust stains crawling along the bumper, the radio probably still tuned to the same local country music station.

His grandmother’s gardens still took up half the back yard, and the same hackberry tree, with its sagging branches almost touching the ground, still marked the beginning of the path leading down to the beach.

Will slowed the SUV to a stop beside his grandfather’s truck and cut the headlights. He sat in the driver’s seat with his hands resting on the steering wheel, gazing at the house that had been in his family for five generations.

This was only supposed to have been a weekend trip. He’d planned to go through the house one last time, grab a few things from his past, sign the contract, and pass the deed to the buyer. He’d planned to walk away after this weekend and never come back.

But could he sign this house, his family’s history, over to a developer?

He stepped out of the SUV. His boots crunched over oyster shells as he walked slowly up to the porch, past those same five wicker rockers that had been there since he was a child. They used to sit there in the afternoons—his mom, his sister, his grandmother, his grandfather and him—waiting for guests to arrive.

He walked into the foyer of his old home and breathed in the musty air with a hint of Old Bay Seasoning. A thick layer of dust clung to every flat surface, and he would bet the raccoons and possums were having a field day under the porches.

Across the room, a layer of pollen coated a framed picture of him in his first t-ball uniform, which still sat on the mantel above the fireplace, right beside the picture of his little sister in a pink dress blowing bubbles in the grass. Something twisted deep inside him, and he turned away from the photographs.

What was the point in looking back, when you’d lost everything?

He bypassed the hall leading up to the stairs and walked into the big open kitchen. Moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating the worn wooden counters and gas range stove. A chopping block that doubled as an island sat in the middle of the room. The same wooden stools were lined up around the counters.

He remembered how this room had always smelled of his grandmother’s cooking: fresh baked bread, homemade vanilla ice cream, oyster fritters, and steamed crabs. It felt wrong to be here without her, without everyone. This house had always been filled with people. Laughing, chattering, happy people.

Now it just felt empty.

Setting the food on the counter, he crossed the dining area to the back porch that ran the length of the house. He opened the screen door, letting it slap shut behind him as he wandered outside, down the sloping lawn, past the tulip poplars and the abandoned swing that still hung from the thickest branch of the black walnut tree.

He walked out onto the dock, strolling to the edge of the pier.

He had some time. Not much, but enough. It wasn’t going to be easy. The house needed a lot of work. But he could roll over a few weeks of leave that he hadn’t taken from the previous year, in addition to the two weeks he was already taking. If he could restore the inn back to a state where it would at least pass inspection, he might be able to attract a regular buyer, one who wouldn’t tear it down.

He ran his hand over a rotted piling.

He’d have to clear it with his CO, but his new boss had already suggested that he take some time off to “get his head straight” before rejoining the teams for a pre-deployment training in November.

His CO wasn’t the only one who’d issued a subtle warning. Some of his fellow SEALs were starting to make comments. He wasn’t himself anymore. He wasn’t focusing.

Will knew they were only looking out for him. They didn’t want to lose him. He knew better than anyone that there was no room on the teams for an operative, no matter how skilled, who couldn’t focus.

He dipped his hands in his pockets, listening to the sound of the water lapping against the shoreline.

Maybe all he needed was a project to sink his teeth into. At some point, the nightmares would have to stop. And if they didn’t?

He was sure there was nothing wrong with him that a few weeks with a beautiful redhead couldn’t fix.

A
nnie squeezed Taylor’s hand as they walked the three blocks to the Heron Island Elementary School. The village was slowly waking up. Islanders were sweeping their front steps, clipping laundry to clotheslines, and taking their dogs for a morning walk. A man sitting on his porch reading the newspaper lifted his coffee cup in greeting.

Annie smiled and waved back.
Act normal. Act like everything’s fine.

The wind whipped at the Maryland flag flying outside the entrance to the school as they fell into step beside the other parents and children. Across the street, sailboats floated in Magnolia Harbor. Sunlight sparkled over the surface of the Bay and ospreys rode the salty breezes, their sharp cries piercing the air. They followed the bubbles of happy chatter into the brick building and made their way to the principal’s office.

A woman with curly gray hair pushed back from her desk when they walked inside. “You must be Taylor!” Her hazel eyes crinkled up in a smile. “I’m Principal Needham. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”

“Hi,” Taylor said softly, edging toward Annie and clutching her broom.

“Annie,” Shelley Needham said, keeping her tone light and friendly as her gaze flickered down to Taylor’s broom then back up to Annie’s face. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You too,” Annie said. She knew Shelley wouldn’t say anything about Taylor’s broom. She’d warned her about it two weeks ago when they’d had their first face-to-face meeting to talk about Taylor’s enrollment. Shelley had cleared it with Taylor’s teacher, but it wasn’t the teacher they were worried about. It was the other kids. The last thing either of them wanted was for Taylor to be made fun of on her first day back at school.

Annie had tried to convince Taylor not to bring it this morning, but she hadn’t had any luck. She didn’t have the heart to take it away from her. Not until she was ready.

“How are you feeling today, Taylor?” Shelley asked.

Taylor looked down at the carpet. “Okay.”

“Would you like to see your new classroom?”

Taylor nodded, without looking up.

Shelley motioned for them to follow her and they walked back out into the crowded halls. Annie put her hand on Taylor’s shoulder as they wove through the clusters of students to the second-grade classroom. She tried to focus on the student artwork, the bright colors and bubbly shapes decorating the halls, instead of the sudden tightening in her chest.

“Here we are,” Shelley said, pausing beside an open door filled with kids chattering and hanging up their coats in cubbies.

Annie felt the air grow thick. They’d arrived too fast. She wasn’t ready.

“Mommy?” Taylor whispered.

“What, sweetie?” Annie looked down, ready to pull her back down the hallway and run. “What is it?”

Taylor lifted her hand, the one Annie was holding. “You’re hurting me.”

“Oh,” Annie said quickly, loosening her grip. “Sorry.”

Shelley waved to a young woman with shoulder-length chestnut hair and brown eyes heading toward them. “Here comes your teacher, Taylor. This is Miss Haddaway.”

Becca Haddaway smiled briefly at Annie as she knelt in front of Taylor. Annie watched the scene unfold, as if she wasn’t really a part of it, as if none of it was really happening. She saw their mouths opening and knew words were coming out, but she couldn’t hear them.

When Becca stood and held out her hand, Annie lifted hers to shake it before she realized the teacher was reaching for Taylor.

To take her into the classroom.

Shelley laid a comforting hand on Annie’s shoulder. “You’re doing fine,” she murmured.

But the principal’s words did little to soothe her. Cold needles of fear pricked at the backs of Annie’s eyes as she slowly released Taylor’s hand. She watched helplessly as Becca guided her daughter through the maze of desks and children to the cubbies. Taylor took off her backpack—her brand new purple backpack they’d bought last week.

Because her old one was covered in blood.

The blood of all the other students who’d died that day.

Annie reached for the wall, her fingers curling around a construction paper swan as Becca steered Taylor to an empty desk in the front of the room. A few of the students grew silent, staring at the new girl. Taylor didn’t seem to notice as she listened to the teacher explain what was inside the desk and point out the various projects they’d been working on throughout the room.

When Taylor sat down, Becca helped her lean the broom against the plastic chair so it wouldn’t fall, as if it was perfectly normal for a second-grader to bring a cleaning tool into school. Then she stood, raising her voice. “Good morning, everyone. Let’s find our seats. It’s time to get started.”