Page 14 of Moonlit Hideaway
Carl Thompson and his wife, the town’s two biggest gossips, perked up as Jane dragged Hank through the door.
“Hey, Hank, ol’ boy, you going to introduce us?” Carl’s assessing gaze slid to Jane. “You found her on your last trip up the coast?”
“Uh, this is Jane, a guest at the inn,” Hank said. “Jane, Carl and Martha Thompson.”
“A guest at this time of the year?” Martha asked. “Jane, it’s nice to meet you. What or who brings you to Moonlit Harbor?”
Jane lifted her chin and shot daggers at the Thompson’s. “I’m a songwriter, and I’ve been told Hattokwa Island is a quiet and peaceful retreat for artists and writers. Looks like the hardware store is an exception.”
“Well, well, my dear, I wouldn’t walk around so proud wearing someone else’s clothing,” Martha replied. “We’re a close-knit town, and we watch out for each other.”
“Darn right we do,” Carl added.
“That’s enough,” Hank stepped in. “Jane is a paying guest at the inn, and you two know better than to make assumptions.”
“Not if a lover’s quarrel wearing your wife’s clothing walked through the door,” Martha retorted.
“Now you know why I drive off-island to get my building supplies.” Hank signaled to Jane. “Let’s go.”
They walked the short distance to his truck in silence.
The drive back to the inn was short, but Hank didn’t stop, and he was heartened that Jane, seemingly more mature than her age, stayed quiet about it. He couldn’t face his mother at the moment—not until he was able to school his emotions and put his grief away.
He turned onto a narrow, tree-lined road, pulled into a small clearing, and parked near a weathered stone monument.
“Come on.” He held the door for Jane. “I have something to show you.”
He couldn’t explain why it was so important for her to understand him. She was, as she said, a stranger passing by.Perhaps it was more for him to rein in his uncontrollable urges and a way to get her to pull away from him, to understand that he was not the type of guy who would ever take his daughter to a rock concert, no matter how much he loved her.
The waves of grief sweeping over Hank’s strong shoulders dragged Sierra into the maelstrom of his despair. Even though he wore the wedding ring, something must have happened to his wife. She’d been about to bite Martha Thompson’s head off when she’d made that rude remark about a lover’s quarrel wearing his wife’s clothing when Hank abruptly departed the store.
Every egg carton had its rotten one, and Moonlit Harbor was no exception. Whatever they insinuated had hurt Hank badly, so she remained quiet as she followed him to a monument engraved with names and dates. Atop the weathered stone structure stood a bronze statue of a stoic figure gazing out to sea, a lantern held high in one hand and the other outstretched as if reaching to pull someone from the waves.
Around the base of the statue, subtle elements of the sea were incorporated—waves, a hint of a ship’s bow, and the textured representation of a sandbar.
A stiff breeze whipped her hair as they faced toward the wild Atlantic side of the island. Seawater churned with cross-cutting froth that broke in high, arching waves, and Sierra sensed the chill of the life-threatening ocean under stormy clouds.
Hank took her hand and led her up the steps, where she traced her fingers over the rough stone and stared at the figure of a man—a dramatic and moving representation of a rescuer in action.
“Wow,” she breathed. “This is incredible.”
And then she waited for an explanation.
“Isn’t it?” Hank agreed, his eyes distant as he stared at the monument. “These are the names of the brave men and women who risked their lives to save shipwreck victims. They shot lifelines out to the floundering ships. They also patrolled the beaches looking for people who washed up on shore, and when conditions allowed, rowed boats out to the ships torn apart by the relentless wind and sea.”
“They must have been brave and selfless. Risking their lives to save strangers.”
“Yeah, it’s the way people are on this island. Isolated, self-sufficient, and always prepared for unexpected visitors.” Hank looked down at her, his gray eyes filled with a quiet intensity that sent warm tingles over her skin. “They believe in treating people the way they’d want to be treated.”
A jolt of electricity pass between them, leaving her breathless and more than a little flustered. She cleared her throat, and heat rose in her cheeks. “You’re trying to tell me something?”
“I don’t know how to say this—but my wife’s family—their legacy is etched in these stones.” He paused, a catch in his voice. “Just as she’s in my heart.”
He was telling her to back off. Did that mean he possessed the same crazy stirrings she had, and he was now backpedaling as fast as he could?
“The inn belonged to her ancestors. It started with shipwreck survivors washing up on the beach.” His gaze was far away over the breakers. “One Christmas Eve, one of the many Mrs. Baxters got it in her head to bake pies. She baked pies for her tiny, isolated family all night, and no one knew what had gotten into her. The winds picked up, and a nor’easter roared outside, but she kept the hearth warm and the oven baking.”
Sierra waited, finding herself drawn into Hank’s world—of the lonely outpost guarded by a lighthouse warning shipcaptains to stay away—where visitors didn’t come because they wanted to but because they were stuck and rescued.
