Chapter 3 #3
The woman immediately sticks out her hand and cracks a smile too large for her face.
Her blonde hair looks unnaturally bleached, but there’s a healthy earthy vibe to her greeting that puts me more at ease.
“Hi, there! Are you the new owner?” Her smile looks bone-white next to the tan of her face and the sharp lines around her eyes. “I saw the car parked out front and I couldn’t help dropping by to say hello.”
I accept her handshake.
“Close enough. Margot Blackthorn, nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m Leonidas’ granddaughter, actually.”
“Oh, poor Leon.” The woman makes a sympathetic face.
Leon? I blink at her.
I’ve never heard anyone call him that.
“It was such a shame to hear about his passing. I’m Viola Babin, and this is my husband, Joseph. We own the big old blueberry farm next door.”
Ohhh.
I do have vague memories of the distant property, backing up to a farm many acres away, but I hadn’t given it much thought until now. There’s a lot of natural privacy around here from thick tufts of forest.
As kids, we spent so much time on the water or tromping through Acadia that we never strayed too far off PopPop’s land and onto anyone else’s.
“Neighbors, that’s nice. Glad to meet you,” I say. “How can I help you? Did you know my grandfather?”
“Oh, we just came by to introduce ourselves and see how you’re settling in.
Lord knows this old place sat vacant for too long, and Sully Bay doesn’t get a lot of new faces, even seasonal ones.
” Viola’s rattling laugh clashes with her tired cheeks and no-nonsense faded denim jacket.
“And yes, Leon was such a good neighbor to us. So humble for being stinkin’ rich and famous. ”
I wonder if my strained smile says I’m a little weirded out.
I’ve never heard anyone call my grandfather Leon in his life. It’s not even a proper nickname like Leo.
But… I can imagine him spending time with this denim-clad couple, inviting them in for cider on the back porch or maybe that Greek ouzo he loved.
He didn’t mind reminiscing about quiet country life, away from the buzz of business in the cities. When my grandmother was still alive, they might’ve had a very active social life here once.
The thought makes me ache, like there are parts of PopPop I never truly knew. Especially the days when Grandma was around, before I was born.
“So, are you moving in?” Viola asks, undaunted by my weird expression.
“Not yet. Right now, I’m just kind of feeling it out. I came up from Portland to look the property over since it’s mine now,” I say. “The place needs some work. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
Her husband nods briskly, a quiet lump of a man with a bushy mustache. He looks like he’s been dropped from the French countryside into northern Maine, but he carries himself like a lifelong Mainer from the sticks.
“I’ll be heading home in a few weeks or so,” I say.
Living here permanently was never the plan.
“Just in time to beat the cold,” Joseph huffs agreeably.
“Well, if you need anything—anything at all—you let us know.” Viola glances at her husband, who flashes the same wide smile like he’s on a delay. “We’d be happy to lend you a hand with clearing brush, raking leaves, patching up buildings, you name it. Wouldn’t we, Joe?”
“Sure would,” he says flatly.
Huh.
I fight the urge to squint at them.
Why does this feel oddly rehearsed? Like they’ve practiced their lines a few times before showing up here.
But why? If they knew PopPop, then they should be past the weird intimidation with the Blackthorn name some people feel.
I want to shake myself.
This is old habit, assuming the worst about everyone.
Hattie calls me out for it all the time. She’s one of those impossibly upbeat, sunny people who only see the good in the world.
“Thanks, I’ll do that,” I lie.
Joseph grins at me again, and I can’t help forcing a smile back.
“Actually, Miss Margot, we did come here with a little agenda, if you want to know the truth.” He clears his throat. “If you’re not thinking about moving right in, we wondered… any chance you’re selling?”
I wait for an emotional kick that never comes.
“Maybe,” I say quietly. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m planning yet. I just got here yesterday. There’s been a ton to sort out with Granddad’s estate the past year and I’m taking a good look around.”
“Of course, ma’am. It’s all so new and there’s a lot on your plate.” Joseph nods sympathetically. “Anyhoo, if you decide the old place is too much and you want to unload it, we’d be very interested.”
“For the land!” Viola interjects. “Not the house or the other buildings. We wouldn’t bother you with any fixes—it would be a simple teardown job. Makes it quick and easy for you.”
Tearing down the lake house?
There’s that delayed gut punch.
In theory, it makes total sense, but the sentimental value finally hits.
This place belonged to PopPop and I think his ghost still visits.
No, I haven’t been here much since I was a kid. Whatever ties I had earlier in life were dissolved.
But imagining everything gone?
The house erased and the path going down to the lake overgrown with blueberry fields?
That’s heavy.
“I haven’t made up my mind,” I tell them. “But if it goes that way, if I decide to sell, you’ll be the first ones I’ll call.”
“That would be amazing! Thank you,” Viola gushes. She bends down, picking up an enormous basket behind her I hadn’t noticed. It’s filled with packaged blueberries and jars of jam. “Here ya go, sweetie! And welcome to Sully Bay.”
Holy crap.
The basket nearly breaks my arm.
There are so many blueberry goods tucked in here they’re almost overflowing, straining the basket itself.
I stagger backward and set the basket down in the house. I watch them climb into an old, beat-up pickup truck to leave as I shake my arm to limber up.
How weird.
I don’t even know why meeting them feels a little freaky, but it was.
They were just—a bit too friendly?
Then again, I’m a New York girl at heart.
Even Portland feels small-town friendly with its cozy old cobblestone streets and gaggles of happy seasonal tourists.
I’ve spent a lot of time in the Big Apple and later on in places like Scottsdale, where people keep their distance and posture a lot.
They don’t do small talk.
They aren’t neighborly, not by nature.
This is country living as an adult, I suppose.
Having people pop in with gift baskets and random offers to help with housework.
That can’t be a bad thing, I guess.
The basket digs into my chest the second I hoist it up again with a grunt. I balance it on my knee as I twist around to kick the door shut behind me.
The weight of the heaping basket eases, and I spin around so I can march it into the kitchen.
But I only take two steps before I collide with a very hard, very firm, very present wall.
Okay.
Not what I expected.
Kane grabs the basket as I bounce off his chest with a slight oof.
His other hand flies out to take my elbow, helping steady me.
The next second, he’s releasing me again, his face totally blank as he holds that ridiculous pile of blueberries like it’s fresh laundry.
Show-off. Him and his big stupid arms.
Enormous, Hercules arms.
I try not to notice, but it’s like staring at the sky and pretending the sun isn’t there.
Who else has biceps big enough to threaten popping out of that oversized hoodie, anyway?
And his eyes, holy—
For a hot second, they drill through me.
They’re so effing green.
I didn’t know human eyes could rival the forest, but here we are.
There’s still something familiar about his face, too.
Like I’ve seen it before.
The hard lines, the way he goes from stormy to soft as cotton candy for his kids, the square jaw that looks like it could break the fist of anyone stupid enough to throw a punch.
He’s imposing in the way guys get when they’ve spent too much time working out and posing behind an Instagram filter.
Not that he strikes me as the model type, or even the type to want attention.
I just can’t figure him out and it’s infuriating.
Behind him, the kids zoom upstairs for their homework.
If it was me, I’d be dragging my feet and sulking, but they’re laughing now. Dan takes Sophie’s arm and drags her up faster.
I notice the chunky shoes she’s still wearing in the house while her brother goes around in his socks.
I didn’t pick up on them yesterday. She moves like she’s used to them on her skinny legs.
And I wonder if they’re the reason she shut down earlier.
I look back at Kane, who’s still staring at me. His dark brows draw together and his mouth slashes into a pointed frown.
“Thanks, but I’ve got it,” I say, gesturing to the basket. “Go enjoy your breakfast. Clean up. Whatever.”
He doesn’t let go.
Asshat.
“Dude,” I hiss. “I’ve got it. Back off.”
When he won’t relent and turns his back instead, I roll my eyes and follow him into the kitchen.
As tempting as it is, a scuffle in the hall would be undignified and possibly dangerous with such a heavy basket. I think he knows it, too.
I also think he knows I will fight him on this.
I don’t care if he fed me breakfast.
He sets the basket down on the counter and doesn’t look at me, grabbing a roll of paper towels instead.
“I know your ears work. I told you to let me handle the blueberries,” I bite off. “You know, just like I told you not to fix the railing.”
“You know, you don’t have to do much to this house if you’re selling,” Kane says from the stove, where he’s cleaning up the grease from cooking.
“Apart from how it’s falling down around us, you mean?”
“I can fix it.”
“What, you’re a builder and a plumber and electrician?” I huff loudly.
He shoots me a tired look.
“If there’s anything I can’t do, I’ll let you know. But I might as well stay busy while we’re here and the kids are occupied.”
So he can’t sit still.
Why am I not surprised?
I’m curious, though, and I lean on the counter as I watch him, against my better instincts. The muscles in his back flex deliciously as he scrubs.
Damn him.
“What do you do?”
“Huh?”