Page 8 of Christmas On Anchor Island

Spending more time with Callie and the little ones would be nice, and Anchor Island was the perfect place for a writer. Even during the height of tourist season, finding a peaceful corner of the village was always possible. But that tranquility would wear thin eventually. A little hustle and bustle was needed from time to time. As well as fast food, of which there was none on the island. Not that Henri didn’t love a good Dempsey’s burger, but there were nights at the end of a stressful deadline when a woman needed to hit a drive-thru for something absolutely unhealthy.

“I’m looking for a sleek, contemporary loft with lots of light and open space, plus a street full of food options outside my front door.”

While Callie pouted, Sam said, “I’ll give Belinda Knight a call in the morning. If anyone is running that kind of project, it’ll be her.”

“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”

Eugenia yawned as she set the empty baby bottle on the table. Rachel made a few puckering noises but was fast asleep. “It’s time for this old bird to go to bed. Should I drop this one in her crib on the way?”

“Yes, please.” Callie popped a matching bottle from Roxanne’s lips. “This one is ready as well.” Tucking the child on her shoulder, she rose from her chair. “I’ll come back and clean up the dishes once she’s down.”

“Sam and I have this,” Henri said.

The man cut her an arched-brow glance but didn’t argue.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t give ’em time to change their minds, honey.” Eugenia rose from her chair with the agility of a woman half her age. “Get out while the gettin’ is good.”

Callie reluctantly followed her mother-in-law from the room, but not without turning back to Henri, who waved her on.

“I assume you have something else to ask me?” Sam said once the other women were gone.

Henri stacked Callie and Eugenia’s plates on top of her own and carried all three to the counter. This was the hard part. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention what I’m about to tell you to Cal.”

He looked understandably uncomfortable. “I don’t like keeping secrets from my wife.”

“I wouldn’t ask you without a reason. I don’t want her to worry.”

Now she had his attention. “Are you sick?”

Thankfully, her health was not the issue. “No, I’m fine.” She returned to the table for more plates. “I’m just not as… financially sound as I used to be. Like everything else these days, the publishing industry has shifted and what worked before doesn’t work now. Sales are down, and I’m not having much luck getting them back to where they used to be.”

“Do you need money?” Sam asked.

Charity was not what she needed. “I’m not that bad off. Yet. I’m considering buying a place that would serve as both a home base and an income property. A duplex, maybe. I know nothing about real estate so I’m hoping you can steer me in the right direction.”

Sam visibly relaxed. “You had me worried there for a minute. What was all that about a sleek new condo?”

“A bluff,” she said with a smile. “I’m serious about Callie staying in the dark on this. Once I find the right place, I’ll tell her it was a deal I couldn’t pass up.”

Rubbing his bristle-covered chin, he stared at the table before him. “What you’re describing might require some improvements and would likely be out of the area you’re used to, but we can find you something.”

“I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty, and a little distance from Mama wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

Rising to his feet, Sam shifted Conner to his other shoulder. “Let me see if Belinda has anything in the works. If not, I have a couple other contacts I can call.”

Henri let out a breath as she lowered the door on the dishwasher. She’d been dreading this conversation, but she knew that Sam was the best person to ask. “I appreciate that.”

“No problem. Now I’d better put this one to bed. I’ll come back down to help finish up.”

Henri carried the last of the empty glasses to the counter. “I’ve got this. We both know you’re dying to go see your wife.”

A grin split his chiseled features. “That I am.” Crossing to drop a kiss on her forehead, he said, “Thanks, Henri.”

“You’re welcome,” she said as he hustled toward the stairs.

In all the years she’d been visiting, Henri had never felt a ping of jealousy for what her cousin had here. The adoring husband. The tight-knit friends. The cute-as-a-button kiddos. But tonight there was a tinge of green in the air. Though she’d never admit as much, part of never getting her own place had been about not going home to an empty house every night. Even when spending a week in some hotel room, there were people around. Sounds in the hallway. A person a phone call away, ready with food or extra towels.

Being an only child, and nearly invisible to her parents, had turned Henri into an excellent writer. She’d spent years making up stories in her head long before committing words to the page. Random characters had kept her company on the lonely nights when her parents were schmoozing at dinner parties or charity events. But those nights had also embedded a deep aversion to being alone.

Solitude was good—beneficial even—in small doses. Continued silence was not. Not for Henri.

But she couldn’t avoid getting her own place forever, and if she had two places, with someone living next door, then she wouldn’t technically be alone. The need for extra income had not been a lie, but it was also not her only motivation to buy an investment property. A fact she would be keeping to herself.

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