Page 6 of Moonlit Hideaway
“Thank you, sir,” Jane said as they finally reached her room. As he put her things inside, he noticed her checking the dressers and doors and then flipping up the corners of the mattress.
“Is everything okay?”
She stifled a yawn. “I’m sorry, but I’m about to drop dead. Can you see that I’m not disturbed?”
“Sure. If you need anything…”
His nervousness or whatever was wrong with him brought a kind smile to her face. “Thanks, Mr. Whitman. I’ll look forward to the sandwich.”
“What would you like on it?”
“All the fixings, whatever you have.” She smiled again and licked her lips as she turned from him, and Hank didn’t know what was wrong with him. He hadn’t acted so stupid since…
The crushing blow slammed his heart when he realized his first date with Chloe was at a make-your-own-monster sandwich shop.
Chapter Four
Sierra blinked and stretched, rolling in the unfamiliar bed, as a slapping sound broke her out of a restless nap. It took a moment for her to get her bearings as the constant swish of the surf scratched through her head. The room was dim but not entirely dark, and rain lashed against the windows. Yawning and feeling groggier than after an all-night gig, she swept aside the curtains fronting the sliding glass door. It overlooked a stormy beach. To her left, the spire of the black and white diamond lighthouse rose from a grassy knoll. Its rotating light arced around, passing over the balcony before sweeping back out to sea.
She drew the room-darkening curtains back and secured them to the rail. This location had a view, and she was accustomed to being under the spotlight, although it could be unnerving at night—like the searchlights of a prison. Her father used to tell her bedtime stories about escaping from a correctional facility—the tunnels, the dogs, beams of light, and leaving behind bodies. She’d believed they were fairy tales, told to scare little children to sleep. Tears threatened as she thought of her mother—so frightened and dependent on the safety of “the family.” However, a dead capo couldn’t offer protection frombeyond the grave. Sierra knew exactly why Mom wanted her to marry Marco.
She’d done the impulsive bratty thing and ran. Now what? The rain’s percussion was oddly soothing, covering the tapping of her heartbeat. She had to fit in with the islanders and keep a low profile—hope everything blew over. If one of her sisters’ husbands won the war, she’d be free and clear. Just another ex-family member who wanted no part of the “businesses” her dad left her.
Her stomach growled as she glanced at her wrist before remembering she’d discarded her Apple watch and all her electronics in a river back in West Virginia. The old-fashioned digital alarm clock read 2:47, and since dinner wasn’t provided, she might have to head out to a diner to face another set of strangers.
After freshening up, Sierra headed downstairs, reminding herself to appear like a typical guest—curious, engaging, and calm. As she emerged from the narrow staircase, she caught sight of the cozy dining nook. Hank’s mother was setting the table and singing a hymn to herself. Were they having a late lunch or early dinner?
Sierra hesitated, not sure she wanted to intrude on the family. Rain pattered steadily against the large bay windows overlooking the beach, and she’d forgotten to grab an umbrella. The last step gave a loud creak as she froze, hoping she hadn’t given herself away.
No such luck. Mabel’s voice rose from the nook. “Is that you, Jane? Did you sleep well? The rain didn’t bother you, did it? You’re in time for dinner as soon as Hank and Emma arrive.”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Mabel emerged from the nook, wiping her hands with a dish towel. “Come, come, have a seat.”
“I’m not sure dinner is included with the rent,” Sierra said, fighting the urge to melt into the cozy setting. A pot-bellied stove filled the corner with a pleasant fragrance, and every chair had a floral chair pad—not to mention the mouthwatering aroma from the oven.
“Oh, hush, child, of course, you’re welcome for dinner,” Mabel said in a mock scolding manner. “You’re our guest. Hank went out looking for old Howie, and Emma, my granddaughter, will be here as soon as the school bus drops her off. We only have to set the table for five, and we have six seats. Grab a place setting and help me set the table. Make yourself at home. Want a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.” Sierra was grateful that Hank was gone for the moment. Something about him both energized and frightened her. He was observant and suspicious, and yet, there was this strange way he had of filling the room and making it hard for her to breathe. It was as if his presence was penetrating her in ways that she’d never experienced.
He noticed her.
Oh, of course, she was used to being a star and being on stage, and people looked at her all the time. But that was different. A performance, and she was playing a role—the pop star there to entertain. She had the image they expected. Her singing, dancing, and performing were energizing but done for show.
They saw her as an act—but they didn’t see through her—the way this stranger did at first glance on the ferry.
“Would you like cream and sugar with it?” Mabel offered, and Sierra felt terrible that she was fetching things for her.
“I’m good with black,” she said. “Thanks.”
She hadn’t even taken a sip when the front door banged open, letting in a gust of cool, damp air. Heavy footstepsstomped down the hall, and two men’s voices carried to the nook.
“Here, let me hang your coat,” Hank said while the other man grunted an assent.
A grizzled older man with a bushy beard and wet hair appeared in the archway.
“You catch any fish?” Mabel asked.
