Authors: Mariah Stewart
The Long Way Home (12 page)
“Thanks, Steffie, but Grace mentioned she was saving one for me.”
“Well, I guess we’ll see you on Sunday. Great. Look for us when you get to the square, okay? We all hang out together, so you should join us, unless you have other friends to go with.”
Ellie shook her head. “No other friends. And if I can make it, I’ll definitely look for you.”
“Great. We’ll probably be toward the right side of the square, toward the corner where Jesse’s law office is. You know where that is, right? Violet Finneran always has coffee on in the morning and sandwiches
later in the day. Brooke is bringing cupcakes, so we can sneak in and grab a snack.”
“Sounds like fun.” Ellie nodded noncommittally and ate the last bit of ice cream. She stood and pitched the cardboard bowl and plastic spoon into the trash receptacle near the door. She wanted out before the questions became more personal. “I’ll put it on the calendar.”
“Oh, do. I know there’s someone who’ll be happy if you show up,” Brooke teased.
Ellie tilted her head and asked, “What?”
“Jesse told me that Cam O’Connor thinks you’re hot.” Brooke grinned.
Ellie felt a flush creep up her neck to her hairline.
“Cam’s hot,” Steffie said. “Always has been.”
“Stop it. You’re married,” Vanessa admonished.
“He is what he is. Marriage has not made me blind, nor has it erased my memory,” Steffie replied.
Vanessa rolled her eyes and lifted her baby from the confines of the stroller. “Cam’s hotness aside, join us on Sunday. We’ll watch for you.”
“Thanks for the invitation.” Ellie turned to Brooke. “Great seeing you again.”
“See you.” Brooke went to the counter and Steffie met her there.
“Hey, Ellie, you should try one of Brooke’s cupcakes before you go,” Steffie called to her.
“I have a personal stash at home, thanks to Brooke. Best I ever tasted.” Ellie smiled and opened the door to leave, the bell tinkling overhead.
“I dropped off a few yesterday,” Ellie heard Brooke say as she closed the door behind her. “You know, a welcome to St. Dennis …”
Ellie walked to the edge of the wooden boardwalk that ran from Scoop to the marina. She mentally debated whether to take the time to walk its length or to go back to the house and polish silver. Because the sun was so warm and the afternoon so inviting, she continued past the boats, past the brown cedar-sided building that housed Captain Walt’s, home of the best seafood on the Eastern Shore, according to its sign, and all the way to the marina. Gulls circled overhead, scolding one another for who knew what infraction, and the air smelled faintly of salt and gasoline. She stood at the end of the dock, looking across the Bay, thinking she hadn’t realized how broad it was, how dark its waters. She watched the whitecaps, blown at a slight diagonal by the rising winds, and wondered what had brought those first settlers to this place, what they had found when they got here, and what hardships they’d faced in order to stay.
She thought of the pirates, and tried to imagine them coming up around the cove to drop anchor before they came ashore. How the people who lived in town must have shuddered when they saw the sails of those big ships billowing across the Bay.
For the first time that day, she began to consider the possibility of showing up on First Families Day after all, just for the hell of it.
Diary
Well, I was certainly right about something changing in our world but I couldn’t have guessed what was coming! After all these years, Lynley Sebastian’s little girl has come home
.
Of course, she’s not a little girl anymore, and she has no idea that I know who she is. Why she’s calling herself Ellie Ryder, I can only guess that she fears that the sins of her father—and there have been many—have followed her and would cause folks to judge her in his light. She forgets that it’s her mother whom St. Dennis remembers, not that scoundrel her mother married. I hope that in time she discovers that we all remember her dear mother with much affection
.
I recognized her the minute I laid eyes on her
.
She’s fixing up Lilly’s house—plans to sell it, she says. I don’t know how Lilly or Lynley would feel about that. I think Lynley had hoped that one day her girl would find the same peace here that she herself found, the peace that kept bringing her back year after year. I do hope the girl gives us a chance. She’s clearly a child who needs a place to belong
.
I remember how Lynley would come back to relax—never with the husband, though, and only rarely would she bring the girl. She was Ellis then, not Ellie, but what’s in a
name? Lynley stopped bringing her when she was maybe three or four
.
Back in those days, Lynley was still a celebrity. Sometimes she and Lilly would bring the girl to the inn for afternoon tea, and more often than not, Lucy and I would join them
.
There are photographs somewhere—I should look
.
Lynley Sebastian was a lovely woman—a very good woman who never forgot where she came from. From what I can see, in spite of all the terrible things her father has put her through, Ellis—Ellie—has rolled up her sleeves and set to work to do what needs to be done. I believe Lynley would be proud of the woman her daughter has become
.
Grace
E
LLIE
turned on the faucet to fill the pot with water for her morning coffee when movement in the yard caught her eye. She leaned closer to the window and saw a man in a blue and brown flannel shirt ministering to one of the bird feeders. His shoulders were broad and the untucked shirttails hung over the back of his jeans in a nice curve. It was hard not to admire the view.
The thought occurred to her that she’d never seen her ex-fiancé, Henry, in a flannel shirt, doubted that he owned one. If he did, it surely wouldn’t be faded and worn like the one that fit Cameron’s frame so well. Henry’s flannel—should he ever have owned one—would have come from some high-end store and would have been pressed within an inch of its life so that not a wrinkle or fold showed. The colors would not have been faded because he’d wear it once—if he wore it at all—and it would have been tucked into neatly pressed khakis.
Of course, these days, Henry’s wardrobe consisted of orange jumpsuits, so the point of her mental meandering was pretty much moot.
Cameron turned to pick up the large bag of birdseed that he’d placed on the ground and hoisted it in one hand.
Real men, she decided then and there, wore well-worn flannel, and they never tucked it into their jeans.
Real men like Cameron, who, word had it, thought Ellie was pretty hot.
Likewise, my friend. Likewise …
Ellie hastily filled the coffeepot’s basket with fresh grounds and turned on the stove. Grabbing a sweater from a wall hook near the back door, she tossed it over her shoulders before stepping outside and leaning on the porch railing, which swayed in response.
“Hi,” she called. The morning was rich with scents from the Bay, brilliant sunshine, birdsong, and promise.
“Good morning.” He finished filling the feeder and walked toward the house, carrying the bag of birdseed, which he placed on the bottom step. His eyes were hidden behind dark glasses as he strode toward the porch. “I wouldn’t lean on that railing if I were you. I haven’t gotten around to fixing it yet.”
“It does have a bit of a sway to it.” She straightened up. “You’re up and out early.”
“Got a lot to do this morning.”
“Like driving around St. Dennis filling bird feeders?”
“Just these. Everyone else can fill their own.” He pushed his glasses on top of his head and fixed those blue eyes on her. “I put these feeders up a few years ago, and it’s become a habit to check on them, especially during the migration season and into the winter. I noticed they were getting low on seed when I
was here the other day.” He stared up at her. “Does it bother you …?”
“Oh, no. No. I think it’s really nice of you. I just don’t want you to feel obligated.…”
“I don’t. Well, maybe to the birds. They become accustomed to finding food at certain places, so I want to make sure there’s seed here for them. I’d suggest you continue filling the feeders yourself, except that I’ve hung them for my height. You’d need a step-ladder to do the job. Of course, I suppose I could lower the feeders.”
“Would that confuse the birds?” she wondered.
“They’ll adapt, though the lower the feeder the easier it is for the squirrels to raid them.” Cam smiled. “So we can leave them where they are and I can stop over once or twice a week and refill them.”
“That’s up to you. In the meantime, I’ll pick up some birdseed. I saw some in the market the other day.”
“You want the kind that has a high percentage of thistle and sunflower seeds. Anderson’s out on the highway usually has the best prices for the good stuff.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The good stuff?
She hadn’t known there were different kinds.
“The cheaper varieties usually are heavy on the smaller seeds and really light on the stuff the birds need,” Cam went on to explain. Perhaps he sensed her ignorance on the matter.
“Like thistle and sunflower seeds.”
“Exactly.” He stood with his hands on his hips, his sleeves rolled almost to the elbow. “You want to buy the right food for the birds you have.”
“What kind of birds do I have?” She frowned. She’d seen several flitting around the backyard, but none close enough that she could tell robin from blue jay.
“This time of the year, you have chickadees, nuthatches, wrens, tufted titmice, cardinals. The usual suspects.”
“Oh, right.” She nodded as if she knew. Through the door wafted the smell of percolating coffee. On impulse, she invited him in.
“I’ve got a minute, thanks. I was going to grab some takeout from Cuppachino on my way to the job.” He followed her into the kitchen and looked around. “Someone’s been busy.”
“I’ve cleaned out all the cupboards and washed up just about everything in this room and the dining room.”
“It’s looking like someone really lives here now.”
“I know, right?” She poured two mugs of coffee and placed them on the table. She added two spoons, the sugar bowl, and a container of milk. “Help yourself,” she told him.
“Thanks.” Cam added a teaspoon of sugar and just enough milk to turn his coffee a few shades lighter. “So you think you might be almost ready to paint the first-floor rooms?”
“Not quite yet, but I’m close. I thought I’d wait until I got the upstairs in better shape and then paint everything at once.”
Cam raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to get awfully tired of painting if you try to go from one room to the next until they’re all done. The only way I’d
ever recommend that would be if you had a crew come in and paint for you.”
“What would you suggest?” She fixed her own coffee and leaned back against the counter.
“I’d do one room at a time.” He looked around the kitchen. “I’d start here, maybe. Paint the cabinets, the walls and woodwork.”
“After I do the floor,” she added.