Page 4 of Moonlit Hideaway
Trees surrounded the cove, none very tall but resilient with low and wide canopies and missing limbs, bearing the scars of past storms. A black-and-white checkered lighthouse stood on the point of land behind the inn, and the entire setup looked like a scene out of a picture postcard.
The inn itself looked deserted. It was built on stilts like most homes in the area and featured a carport below the two-story house and several sheds in the cleared yard. It was smaller than she imagined, having seen the triple-level beachfront homes advertised in the brochures, but charming in its own right.
A blue tarp covered half of the structure, and a faded hand-painted sign read, “We’re fixin’ the place, but welcome your stay.”
Sierra smiled at the down-to-earth nature of the signs. No fancy graphics or marketing slogans. Just to the point.
She climbed the steps to the front porch and pushed the rustic wooden door aside. The interior was cozy and homespun, with a vintage chandelier casting a soft glow over plush, well-loved armchairs near a bookshelf lined with well-thumbed novels.
Sierra stopped short when she heard voices coming down the narrow staircase.
“I’m worried about Howie,” a woman said. “He didn’t show up for breakfast, and when I went to clean his room, he wasn’t there.”
“He likes to keep to himself,” a man replied, his voice steady but with a touch of concern. “After I finish the invoices, I’ll walk down to the inlet; he enjoys the view there. With the weather turning, well…”
The woman, holding a duster, came down the stairs. “Do you think he’s all right?”
“He’s a tough old bird, but I’d feel better knowing he was safe and sound,” the man’s voice drifted closer. He emerged at the foot of the stairs, causing Sierra to gasp. It was the man from the ferry.
She took an involuntary step back, and her heel caught on the edge of a tall coat rack with brass hooks.
The coat rack teetered toward her, but the man leaped forward and caught it just before it crashed down on her. With his other hand, he pulled her into the safety of his chest.
The entire scenario was so unexpected that Sierra found herself gazing into his eyes—gray like a murky storm yet filled with a warmth that seemed to flicker a welcome just for her.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, as the gray-haired woman with the duster interjected, “I’ll fetch you a drink of water, dearie.”
Sierra nodded, unable to find her voice for a moment that stretched between them like a delicate thread. Had he recognized her, or was his knowing look only from seeing her on the ferry?
“Yes, thank you,” she stammered as he released her and ushered her to one of the plush armchairs.
“Not the welcome I was hoping to give,” he admitted with a rueful half-smile. “This old place is full of surprises.”
“Uh, yes.” She caught herself before admitting he was indeed one of those surprises—including the note of attraction simmering beneath her flustered state of mind.
“What can I do for you?” His voice was the pleasant baritone of a man who didn’t lose his cool.
Sierra’s gaze flickered up to meet his, and for a fleeting moment, the world seemed to pause…
The rosy-cheeked woman returned with a glass of water. “I’m Mabel, and this is my son, Hank. Welcome to Moonlit Inn.”
The last time Hank spotted this woman, she wore oversized sunglasses and a slim black dress more fitting for a funeral than driving to the Outer Banks. He didn’t know where she’d come from, but arriving at the ferry terminal at eight in the morning meant she’d driven through the night from the nearest city and an even longer journey if she were truly from West Virginia.
His simple question, "What can I do for you," left her flustered, sporting a deer-in-the-headlights look of being caught or found out. Hank, an experienced innkeeper, knew that most off-season visitors to Hattokwa Island sought a retreat from the outside world.
He was grateful his mother broke the ice with a glass of water, allowing him to give her a friendly nod as he repositioned the coat rack and returned to the front desk.
If the mystery woman was debating whether to retreat and find another bed-and-breakfast, she didn’t stand a chance with Mom hovering over her.
“You must be exhausted driving through the night,” his mother said. “Lucky you got here before the weather changes. I see you have an oiled barn coat and boots. Always better to beprepared. Would you like to skip the check-in and have a nap? Hank can get your stuff from your car. You’re allowed to park under the house. We don’t have any other guests but one, and he has no car.”
He couldn’t hear the woman’s quiet answers but left it up to his mother to make the sale.
“It’ll be quiet here, unlike the high season. We’ll leave you to your work and whatever else you’re dealing with.” Mom put a kind hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I’m sure you’ll work through it. Just take your time.”
Hank kept his eyes on the computer screen so as not to stare. The mystery woman had stopped at Patty’s Thrift Shop for a change of clothing to blend into the island. The chambray shirt she was wearing was one he’d recently consigned there. It had taken the leak in the roof that damaged Chloe’s closet to force him to let go of her things. And now, the irony of irony, not only the shirt but also the silver turquoise necklace and the vintage Outer Banks bucket hat he’d won for her at their first county fair, were back sitting in the lobby.
He’d done a double-take as he spotted her, and no, he didn’t believe in ghosts, although everyone who grew up here, like Chloe and increasingly Emma, did.
