The clouds lowered, smothering the vestigial layer of daylight. In the distance a thunderhead sent rain to the ocean in showers that moved like gauze veils over a window. A raven gained loft over the water, its black wing tips separated into feathery fingers as it rode an updraft and headed inland. The storm was heading this way—she should leave and take shelter. Except that she couldn’t seem to think of anywhere to go.
Through a salty blur, she saw a green glimmer among the pebbles. She bent to pick it up. Bottles thrown into the ocean from offshore boats were sometimes churned up and washed to the shoreline, tumbled by waves and sand into frosted pebbles.
Closing her hand around the piece of sea glass, she looked out at the water lapping against the shore in rough blankets. The ocean was a bruised gray, the color of regret and resentment and the deepest kind of loneliness. The worst part about having been deceived the way she had been was it made you lose faith in yourself. When your judgment was that wrong about something, you could never be fully certain of anything ever again.
Her fist was burning, a knot of fire. Feeling an odd squirming tickle against her palm, she opened her fingers reflexively. The sea glass was gone. In its place a butterfly rested on her palm, unfolding iridescent blue wings. It stayed only a moment before shivering into flight, an unearthly blue gleam as it flew away to seek shelter.
A grim smile tugged at Lucy’s mouth.
She had never let anyone know what she could do with glass. Sometimes when she experienced powerful emotions, a piece of glass she had touched would change into living creatures, or at least remarkably convincing illusions, always small, always transitory. Lucy had struggled to understand how and why it happened, until she had read a quote by Einstein—that one had to live as though everything was a miracle, or as if nothing was a miracle. And then she had understood that whether she called her gift a phenomenon of molecular physics, or magic, both definitions were true, and the words didn’t matter anyway.
Lucy’s mirthless smile faded as she watched the butterfly disappear.
A butterfly symbolized acceptance of each new phase in life. To keep faith as everything around you changed.
Not this time, she thought, hating her ability, the isolation it imposed.
In the periphery of her vision, she saw a bulldog making his way along the edge of the water. He was followed by a dark-haired stranger, whose alert gaze was fastened on Lucy.
The sight of him kindled instant unease. He had the strapping build of a man who earned his living outdoors. And something about him conveyed a sense of having been acquainted with life’s rougher edges. In other circumstances Lucy might have reacted differently, but she didn’t care to find herself alone on a beach with him.
She headed to the trail that led back up to the roadside turnout. A glance over her shoulder revealed that he was following her. That jolted her nerves into high gear. As she quickened her pace, the toe of her sneaker caught on the wind-scuffed basalt. Her weight pitched forward and she hit the ground, taking the impact on her hands.
Stunned, Lucy tried to collect herself. By the time she had struggled to her feet, the man had reached her. She spun to face him with a gasp, her disheveled brown hair partially obscuring her vision.
“Take it easy, will you?” he said curtly.
Lucy pushed the hair out of her eyes and regarded him warily. His eyes were a vivid shade of blue-green in his tanned face. He was striking, sexy, with a quality of rough-and-tumble attractiveness. Although he looked no more than thirty, his face was seasoned with the maturity of a man who’d done his share of living.
“You were following me,” Lucy said.
“I was not following you. This happens to be the only path back to the road, and I’d like to get back to my truck before the storm hits. So if you wouldn’t mind, either step it up or get out of the way.”
Lucy stood to the side and made a sardonic gesture for him to precede her. “Don’t let me hold you back.”
The stranger’s gaze went to her hand, where smears of blood had collected in the creases of her fingers. An edge of rock had cut into the top of her palm when she had fallen. He frowned. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my truck.”
“It’s nothing,” Lucy said, although the cut was throbbing heavily. She blotted the welling blood on her jeans. “I’m fine.”
“Put pressure on it with your other hand,” the man said. His mouth tightened as he surveyed her. “I’ll walk up the trail with you.”
“Why?”
“In case you fall again.”
“I’m not going to fall.”
“It’s steep ground. And from what I’ve seen so far, you’re not exactly sure-footed.”
Lucy let out an incredulous laugh. “You are the most … I … I don’t even know you.”
“Sam Nolan. I live at False Bay.” He paused as an ominous peal of thunder rent the sky. “Let’s get moving.”
“Your people skills could use some work,” Lucy said. But she offered no objection as he accompanied her along the rough terrain.
“Keep up, Renfield,” Sam said to the bulldog, who followed with apoplectic snorts and wheezes.
“Do you live on the island full-time?” Lucy asked.
“Yes. Born and raised here. You?”
“I’ve been here a couple of years.” Darkly she added, “But I may be moving soon.”
“Changing jobs?”
“No.” Although Lucy was usually circumspect about her private life, some reckless impulse caused her to add, “My boyfriend just broke up with me.”
Sam gave her a quick sideways glance. “Today?”
“About an hour ago.”
“Sure it’s over? Maybe it was just an argument.”
“I’m sure,” Lucy said. “He’s been cheating on me.”
“Then good riddance.”
“You’re not going to defend him?” Lucy asked cynically.
“Why would I defend a guy like that?”
“Because he’s a man, and apparently men can’t help cheating. It’s the way you’re built. A biological imperative.”
“Like hell it is. A man doesn’t cheat. If you want to go after someone else, you break up first. No exceptions.” They continued along the path. Heavy raindrops tapped the ground with increasing profusion. “Almost there,” Sam said. “Is your hand still bleeding?”
Cautiously Lucy released the pressure she had been applying with her fingers, and glanced at the oozing cut. “It’s slowed.”
“If it doesn’t stop soon, you may need a stitch or two.” That caused her to stumble, and he reached for her elbow to steady her. Seeing that she had blanched, he asked, “You’ve never had stitches?”
“No, and I’d rather not start now. I have trypanophobia.”
“What’s that? Fear of needles?”
“Uh-huh. You think that’s silly, don’t you?”
He shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “I have a worse phobia.”
“What is it?”
“It’s strictly need-to-know.”
“Spiders?” she guessed. “Fear of heights? Fear of clowns?”
His smile widened to a brief, dazzling flash. “Not even close.”
They reached the turnout, and his hand dropped from her elbow. He went to the battered blue pickup, opened the door, and began to rummage inside. The bulldog lumbered to the side of the truck and sat, watching the proceedings through a mass of folds and furrows on his face.
Lucy waited nearby, watching Sam discreetly. His body was strong and lean beneath the worn bleached cotton of his T-shirt, jeans hanging slightly loose from his hips. There was a particular look about men from this region, a kind of bone-deep toughness. The Pacific Northwest had been populated by explorers, pioneers, and soldiers who had never known when a supply ship was coming. They had survived on what they could get from the ocean and mountains. Only a particular amalgam of hardness and humor could enable a man to survive starvation, cold, disease, enemy attacks, and perio
ds of near-fatal boredom. You could still see it in their descendants, men who lived by nature’s rules first and society’s rules second.
“You have to tell me,” Lucy said. “You can’t just say you have a worse phobia than mine and then leave me hanging.”
He pulled out a white plastic kit with a red cross on it. Taking an antiseptic wipe from the kit, he used his teeth to tear the packet open. “Give me your hand,” he said. She hesitated before complying. The gentle grip of his hand was electrifying, eliciting a sharp awareness of the heat and strength of the male body so close to hers. Lucy’s breath caught as she stared into those intense blue eyes. Some men just had it, that something extra that could knock you flat if you let it.
“This is going to sting,” he said as he began to clean the cut with gentle strokes.
The breath hissed between her teeth as the antiseptic burned.
Lucy waited quietly, wondering why a stranger would go to this amount of trouble for her. As his head bent over her hand, she stared at the thick locks of his hair, a shade of brown so rich and dark that it appeared almost black.
“You’re not in bad shape, considering,” she heard him murmur.
“Are you talking about my hand or my breakup?”
“Breakup. Most women would be crying right now.”
“I’m still in shock. The next stage is crying and sending angry text messages to everyone I know. After that is the stage when I’ll want to rehash the relationship until all my friends start avoiding me.” Lucy knew she was chattering, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “In the final stage, I’ll get a short haircut that doesn’t flatter me, and buy a lot of expensive shoes I’ll never wear.”
“It’s a lot simpler for guys,” Sam said. “We just drink a lot of beer, go a few days without shaving, and buy an appliance.”
“You mean … like a toaster?”
“No, something that makes noise. Like a leaf-blower or chain saw. It’s very healing.”
That drew a brief, reluctant smile from her.
She needed to go home and think about the fact that her life was entirely different from how it had been when she woke up that morning. How could she go back to the home that she and Kevin had created together? She couldn’t sit at the kitchen table with the wobbly leg that both of them had tried to fix countless times, and listen to the ticking of the vintage black-cat clock with the pendulum tail that Kevin had given her for her twenty-fifth birthday. Their flatware was a jumble of mismatched knives, forks, and spoons from antiques stores. Flatware with wonderful names. They had delighted in finding new treasures—a King Edward fork, a Waltz of Spring spoon. Now every object in that house had just become evidence of another failed relationship. How was she going to face that damning accumulation?
Sam applied an adhesive bandage to her hand. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about stitches,” he said. “The bleeding’s almost stopped.” He held her hand just a fraction of a second longer than necessary before letting go. “What’s your name?”
Lucy shook her head, the shadow of a smile still lingering. “Not unless you tell me your phobia.”
He looked down at her. The rain was falling faster now, a fabric of droplets glittering on his skin, weighting his hair until the thick locks darkened and separated. “Peanut butter,” he said.
“Why?” she asked, bemused. “Do you have an allergy?”
Sam shook his head. “It’s the feeling of having it stick to the roof of my mouth.”
She gave him a skeptical glance. “Is that a real phobia?”
“Absolutely.” He tilted his head, studying her with those striking eyes. Waiting for her name, she realized.
“Lucy,” she said.
“Lucy.” A new softness edged his voice as he asked, “You want to go somewhere and talk? Maybe have coffee?”
Lucy was amazed by the strength of the temptation to say yes. But she knew that if she went anywhere with this big, good-looking stranger, she was going to end up weeping and complaining about her pathetic love life. In response to his kindness, she was going to spare him that. “Thanks, but I really have to go,” she said, feeling desperate and defeated.
“Can I drive you home? I could put your bike in the back of the truck.”
Her throat closed. She shook her head and turned away.
“I live at the end of Rainshadow Road,” Sam said from behind her. “At the vineyard on False Bay. Come for a visit, and I’ll open a bottle of wine. We’ll talk about anything you want.” He paused. “Any time.”
Lucy cast a bleak smile over her shoulder. “Thank you. But I can’t take you up on that.” She went to her bike, raised the kickstand, and swung her leg over.
“Why not?”
“The guy who just broke up with me … he was exactly like you, in the beginning. Charming, and nice. They’re all like you in the beginning. But I always end up like this. And I can’t do it anymore.”
She rode away through the rain, the tires digging ruts into the softening ground. And even though she knew he was watching, she didn’t let herself look back.
Three
As Sam drove along Westside Road toward False Bay, the English bulldog nudged against the closed window.
“Forget it,” Sam told him. “I don’t want rain to get in the truck. And you’re so damn top-heavy, you’d fall out.”
Settling back into his seat, Renfield gave him a baleful glance.
“If your nose wasn’t half buried back in your head, you might be able to help me track her down. What exactly are you good for?” Keeping one hand on the wheel, Sam reached over and scratched the dog’s head gently.
He thought of the woman he’d just met, the forlorn gravity of her expression, that beautiful dark hair. Staring into those ocean-green eyes had been like sinking into moonlight. He wasn’t sure what to make of her, he only knew that he wanted to see her again.
The rain was heavier now, obliging him to increase the speed of the windshield wipers. So far it had been a wet spring, which meant he would have to keep an eye out for powdery mildew damage in the vineyard. Fortunately they had consistent breezes coming off the bay. Sam had planted his rows parallel to the prevailing winds, to allow the movement of air to run through the aisles and dry the vines more efficiently.
Growing grapes was a science, an art, and for people like Sam, very nearly a religion. He had started as a teen, reading every book about viticulture he could get his hands on, working at garden nurseries and apprenticing at vineyards on San Juan Island and Lopez.
After majoring in viticulture at WSU, Sam had become a cellar rat at a California winery, working as a winemaker’s assistant. Eventually he’d sunk most of what he had into buying fifteen acres at False Bay on San Juan Island. He had planted five acres with Syrah, Riesling, and even some temperamental Pinot Noir.
Until Rainshadow Vineyard could ramp up to mature crop levels, Sam needed an income. Someday he would be able to build a production facility to process the grapes from his own vineyard. He was enough of a realist, however, to understand that most dreams required compromises along the way.
He had found sources for bulk wine, took it to a custom crush operation for bottling, and had developed five reds and two whites to sell to retailers and restaurants. And he’d given most of them nautical names, such as “Three Sheets,” “Down the Hatch,” and “Keelhaul.” It was a modest but steady living, with good potential. “I’m going to make a small fortune with this vineyard,” he had told his older brother, Mark, who had said, “Too bad you borrowed a big fortune to start it.”
Sam pulled up to the huge Victorian farmhouse that had come with the property. A feeling of dilapidated grandeur hung over the place, enticing you to imagine the glory it had once been. A shipwright had built the house more than a hundred years earlier, framing it with an abundance of porches, balconies, and bay windows.
Over the decades, however, a succession of owners and tenants had wrecked the place. Inner walls had been knocked out to
make some rooms larger, while other spaces had been divided with flimsy chipboard partitions. Plumbing and electricity had been badly installed and seldom maintained, and as the house had settled, some of the flooring had acquired a slant. Stained glass had been replaced by aluminum-framed windows, and fishscale shingles and corbels had been covered with vinyl siding.
Even in its ruined condition, the house possessed a winsome charm. Unknown stories lingered in abandoned corners and rickety staircases. Memories had seeped into its walls.
With the help of his brothers, Mark and Alex, Sam had made structural repairs, gutted and remodeled a few of the main rooms, and leveled some of the flooring. There was still a long way to go before the restoration was finished. But this place was special. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that it needed him somehow.
To Sam’s surprise, Alex seemed to have a similar fondness for the house. “Beautiful old girl,” Alex had said the first time Sam had walked him through the place. As a residential developer, he was familiar with every possible complication of building and remodeling. “She’ll need a hell of a lot of work. But she’s worth it.”
“How much money will it take to get the place in decent shape?” Sam had asked. “I just want it shored up enough that it won’t collapse on me while I sleep.”
The question had brought a glint of amusement to Alex’s eyes. “If you flush hundred-dollar bills down the toilet continuously for a week, that amount would just about cover it.”
Undeterred, Sam had bought the property and started work on it. And Alex had brought his construction crews to help with the more difficult projects, such as replacing the header beams on the front porch and repairing damaged joists.
“I’m not doing this for you,” Alex had replied when Sam had expressed his gratitude. “I’m doing it for Holly.”
A year earlier, on a rainy April night in Seattle, their only sister, Victoria, had died in a car wreck, leaving behind a six-year-old daughter. Since Victoria had never given anyone a clue about who the father was, Holly was an orphan. Her closest relations were her three uncles: Mark, Sam, and Alex.