Page 23 of When Summer Returns

She showered quickly, the ritual now familiar in Luke’s guest bathroom. The lavender-scented soap was locally made, according to the handwritten label—another island touch she’d cataloged with unexpected pleasure. She pulled on a red bikini, slipping a pair of black nylon shorts and a loose white tank top over it. The outfit was a far cry from her corporate wardrobe, but perfect for a day of island exploration with the option to dip into the ocean if the heat became too intense.

The house was empty when she ventured into the kitchen. Luke had left before dawn for a meeting with suppliers on the mainland, according to the note propped against the coffee maker. The pot was still half full and warm, thoughtfully left for her alongside a covered plate containing a blueberry muffin. The simple considerateness of the gesture tugged at something behind her ribs, creating an ache she refused to examine too closely.

She poured coffee into a travel mug she found in the cabinet and wrapped the muffin in a napkin. The morning was too glorious to spend indoors.

Her golf cart waited beneath the house, keys dangling from the ignition—another small island courtesy that would have been unthinkable in the city. She slid behind the wheel, placed her breakfast in the passenger seat, and set off toward the main part of the island with no particular destination in mind. The journey itself was the point.

Seeker’s Island had changed dramatically in some ways, remaining steadfastly the same in others. The road that wound along the coastline had been widened and paved properly, replacing the rutted sand track of her youth. Glimpses of the azure water appeared between trees and buildings as she drove, flashing like precious stones in sunlight.

She passed the turnoff to her father’s property without slowing. That particular confrontation could wait for another day when she felt stronger, more grounded in the present rather than vulnerable to the past.

Rental cottages dotted the landscape where once there had been only dense vegetation—charming cedar-shingled structures painted in cheerful coastal colors with welcoming porches and colorful Adirondack chairs positioned to catch the breeze. A discreet sign identified them asSeeker’s Cottages: Island Hospitality Since 2015.Clearly someone had capitalized on the tourism boom Luke had mentioned.

The main part of the island—what locals had always called “Town” despite its minuscule size—came into view as she crested a small rise. New businesses had sprouted alongside familiar landmarks, giving the central area a quaint, carefully curated charm that had been absent in her youth.

Jessie parked near the newly expanded marina, where sleek pleasure craft now outnumbered working fishing boats three to one. She sipped her coffee as she wandered along the boardwalk, nodding at strangers who greeted her with the easy familiarity of island residents.

Island Treasures, the gift shop that had sold cheap shell necklaces and plastic souvenirs during her childhood, had transformed into an elegant boutique offering hand-crafted jewelry, locally thrown pottery, and island-themed artwork that actually deserved the name. Through the window, she could see Mrs. Bennington—now well into her seventies, her silver hair arranged in the same precise French twist she’d worn for thirty years—arranging a display of sea-glass earrings with meticulous attention.

Next door, the old hardware store had expanded to include a small garden center specializing in native coastal plants. The scent of jasmine and gardenia wafted from containers arranged artfully on tiered shelves, mingling with the ever-present salt air.

The post office retained its original façade, though the faded blue paint had been refreshed to a crisp nautical navy. The bench outside—traditionally occupied by the island’s oldest residents, who gathered daily to dissect everyone else’s business—was currently hosting three elderly men engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate about fishing lures.

“Well, I’ll be darned. Jessie James, in the flesh.”

The gruff voice from behind made her turn. Herbert Wilson, who had been ancient when she was a child and somehow managed to remain perpetually ancient without actually dying, squinted at her from beneath bushy white eyebrows. He leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane that looked more decorative than functional, given the sprightly way he navigated the uneven boardwalk.

“Mr. Wilson,” she acknowledged, surprised by the warm rush of affection she felt for this cantankerous fixture of island life. “Still telling everyone exactly how to run their business?”

“Someone’s got to maintain standards.” He sniffed, though his rheumy eyes twinkled with unmistakable pleasure. “This place would fall apart without proper oversight.”

“I’m sure the island is grateful for your service.”

“You bet they are.” He jabbed his cane toward Island Treasures. “Ruthie in there wanted to start selling those ridiculous…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Gnome things. With the pointy hats. For gardens.”

“Garden gnomes?”

“That’s them. Tacky things. Told her they weren’t dignified. Seeker’s Island has a certain reputation to uphold.”

Jessie bit back a smile. “And what did Mrs. Bennington say to that?”

Mr. Wilson’s weathered face split into a grin that revealed surprisingly perfect dentures. “Told me to mind my own business before she shoved my cane somewhere the sun doesn’t shine. Woman’s got spirit.”

“Always did.”

“Speaking of spirit…” He glanced down the boardwalk, then back at her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Whole island’s buzzing about you and Luke Mallory. Back together after all this time.”

“We’re not?—”

“Together, I know.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “But working side by side at that bar of his? With all that history between you? Folks are making bets on how long it’ll take.”

“Actually, Mr. Wilson, Luke and I are just business partners. My father left me his share of Seeker’s Paradise, that’s all.”

“Mmm-hmm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “And I’m Elvis Presley.”

“You’re looking good for your age, then.”

He cackled with delight. “Still sharp as a tack, aren’t you? Always liked that about you.”

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