Chapter 8
CHAPTER 8
N ash checked on Jenna at least every hour throughout the rest of the day, his concern for her outweighing her insistence she was fine. Despite her protests that she could take care of herself, he brought her a sandwich to eat and some tea, making sure she was comfortable and had everything she needed.
As the afternoon wore on, Nash decided to check on Jenna once more. When he entered the living room, he found the couch empty, and a twinge of worry settled in his chest. “Jenna?” he called out, his voice echoing through the quiet house.
“Back here,” came her reply, guiding him down the hallway.
He followed the sound of her voice and found her in the guest bedroom, standing with a paintbrush in hand. Relief washed over him, seeing that she had at least wrapped an ace bandage around her injured ankle. However, the relief was short-lived as he saw her wince when she took a step.
“What are you doing?” His words came out more accusatory than he’d meant for them to.
She looked up at him in defiance. “I thought I’d at least finish cutting in around the closet, the door, and the windows.” She shifted her stance, and he noticed her wince again.
He shook his head, a mixture of admiration for her tenaciousness and exasperation at her stubbornness. “Jenna, you need to rest that ankle. Pushing yourself too hard will only make it worse.”
“I can’t just sit on the couch and do nothing.”
Nash sighed. “Yes, you can. The painting will wait for another day.” He reached out, hoping to take the paintbrush from her hand.
She snatched it away from his grasp, her face wrinkling with pain as she stepped away from him. She let out a long breath. “Okay, you’re probably right. I should rest my ankle.”
He reached for the paintbrush again. “Here, I’ll go clean that up.”
“No, I’ve got it. I know you have work to do outside.” Her look was more one of dismissal than anything else.
He searched her face, wishing she’d let him help her. “Then you’ll rest?”
“Then I’ll rest again. I promise.” Though she darted a glance over to the uncut-in window.
A slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he shook his head. “I’ll be back in to check on you.”
“Of course you will. You need to make sure you get your check-ins up to an even dozen.” She rolled her eyes.
He grinned at her as he walked out the door, unable to resist one last quip. “Only three more times to make that dozen,” he called over his shoulder as he headed back outside, determined to finish replacing the trim on the back window so the painters could paint it.
As he measured and cut the boards, his thoughts kept popping back to Jenna. She was one stubborn—okay, a nicer word might be determined—woman. He admired that about her, even if she exasperated him by not staying off her ankle like he’d suggested. In truth, it was more like he told her what to do. She probably didn’t appreciate that. She was clearly an independent woman.
The next time he checked on her, she was sitting on the couch, working on her laptop. He brought her another glass of iced tea.
“That’s one more time.” That was all she said to him as she concentrated on her work.
Later, he went in and she held up a hand. “I’m fine.”
He turned and walked back out and started back to work. When he’d finished, he stood back and wiped the sweat from his brow as he surveyed the newly installed trim around the back window. Satisfied with his work, he gathered his tools and headed back inside.
He was pleased to find her reclining on the couch, her injured ankle propped up on a pillow. “Can I get you anything? How about I go out and pick you up something for dinner?” He couldn’t shake his protective instinct after her fall.
Jenna shook her head. “I’m going to make something simple, like pasta. I’ll be fine.”
He wasn’t convinced, but it was clear there was no use arguing with her. He frowned. “You have my cell phone if you need anything. Call me.”
“I’ll be fine,” she repeated. Then she looked up at him and grinned. “An even dozen check-ins today. Impressive.”
He laughed. “Couldn’t help myself. You took quite a tumble, and even though you say you’re fine, I know that ankle has to ache.”
“A bit. I’ll take some aspirin before bed if it’s still bothering me.”
“If you’re sure you don’t need anything, I guess I’ll go.” But he didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave her here all alone.
She gave him a shooing motion. “Go. You’ve put in a long day.”
“You’re sure.”
She sighed in exasperation. “Don’t make me say I’m fine again.”
He nodded. “Okay, I’m leaving. But call?—”
“If I need anything. I know.”
He didn’t miss her rolling her eyes at him yet again. He reluctantly walked to the door and took one last glance at her before heading out to his truck. Seemed wrong to leave her alone and injured.
He sighed heavily as he climbed into his truck, still feeling unsettled at leaving Jenna. But then, she was one of the most capable women he’d met. She probably didn’t need—or want—him hovering over her. But the protectiveness lingered, and he vowed to pick up breakfast for her at Coastal Coffee on his way back to work tomorrow.
But by tomorrow, she’d probably be insisting she was ready to run a marathon. He scowled, thoroughly vexed by her.
Vexed. One of his grandfather’s words. Funny how those words would just pop into his mind sometimes. Do people even use the word vex anymore?
He could almost hear his grandfather lecturing him. “Leave the woman alone. She’ll ask for help if she needs it.”
But would she? He was fairly certain his phone would never ring with a call from her.
Jenna exhaled slowly and gently set her laptop on the coffee table. Nash’s hovering had started to annoy her. And yet, it was kind of charming in a way. But she couldn’t have him thinking she was some kind of weak damsel in distress.
Determined to prove her point, she gingerly eased herself off the couch, grimacing as her injured foot made contact with the floor. She surveyed the expanse between her and the kitchen, steeling herself for the journey. With cautious steps, she hobbled across the room, a dull ache radiating through her ankle.
As she navigated the short distance that now felt like miles, a twinge of regret poked at her, making her wonder if perhaps she should have accepted Nash’s offer to bring her dinner. But her stubborn pride propelled her forward, unwilling to concede defeat.
She filled a pot with water, set it on the stove, and then rummaged through the pantry until she found a box of pasta. A simple dish of pasta tossed with olive oil, vinegar, and a sprinkle of seasoning sounded perfect for her current mood and energy level. As an afterthought, she decided to add some parmesan cheese on top for an extra burst of flavor.
While the pasta bubbled away on the stove, she leaned against the counter, favoring her uninjured foot. She absently watched the steam rise from the pot, lost in thought, as she waited for the pasta to cook. The timer’s sudden beep jolted her back to the present, and she carefully hobbled over to the sink to drain the al dente noodles.
How come whenever she made pasta, there was always too much? Estimating the right amount of pasta had never been her strong suit, but at least she’d have leftovers to reheat later.
She took her bowl over to the table and sank gratefully onto a chair, glad to be off her feet. She was about to dig in when she realized she had forgotten to pour herself a drink. With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself up from the chair and limped to the cabinet, selecting a wine glass. She then opened the fridge and retrieved a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio, pouring a generous glass before making her way back to the table.
When she’d finished her meal, she put her bowl in the dishwasher, the extra pasta in the fridge, and took her wine glass out to the living room. She plopped down on the couch and looked around the room, feeling restless, not wanting to just sit there doing nothing. She could read—if she got up and got a book. She could watch TV, but she really wasn’t much of a television enthusiast. She frowned as another idea sprang into her mind.
She could get the box Nash found in the guest bedroom. Just to look at the photo again. Nothing more.
She limped down the hallway, grabbed the box, and made her way back to the couch, her curiosity growing with each wobbling step. After settling onto the welcoming cushions, she slowly opened the lid to the box and took out the vintage photograph with care.
She traced a finger over the faded print, studying the faces of the couple captured in a moment of happiness. Who were these people? What was their story? Her gaze drifted to the bundle of letters tucked beneath the photograph, their presence tantalizing. If she read them, she might be able to uncover the identity of the writer and return these mementos to their rightful heirs. Surely, the family would cherish this glimpse into their ancestors’ lives, wouldn’t they? The temptation to dig into the mystery was hard to resist.
Jenna’s fingers hovered over the box, her conscience warring with her curiosity. No, just leave it alone , she chided herself, setting the box down and carefully placing the vintage photograph back inside. She leaned back against the couch cushions, her uninjured foot tapping a gentle rhythm on the floor as her gaze wandered around the cozy living room. Despite her best efforts to distract herself, her attention kept drifting back to the mysterious box and the secrets it might contain.
Her curiosity won, and with a resigned sigh, she reached for it again, her pulse quickening in anticipation.
One letter. She’d read just one letter. That couldn’t hurt anything, could it? Gently, she unfolded the first letter, the fragile paper crackling softly beneath her fingertips. As her eyes began to scan the elegant, faded script, she felt herself being drawn into the past.
My Dearest,
I’m so grateful you found a way to safely receive my letters. It seems like an eternity since I’ve seen you. Held your hand. Listened to your laughter.
It is so hard to be here so far away from you. My heart broke into tiny jagged pieces, as sharp as the point of sea glass we found, as my ship pulled away from the island and you got smaller and smaller until I could no longer see you. I don’t know when I’ll be able to make it back to the island, but I promise you I will return. But just know that my love for you is real. I’ll miss you with every breath I take.
All my love forever
Jenna studied the letter, searching for a signature or any clue to the writer’s identity, but found none. Carefully, she examined the envelope, hoping for an address or name that might shed light on the mystery, yet it too offered no answers. So many questions swirled in her mind. How did this letter find its way here, seemingly untouched by the passage of time, without any indication of its intended recipient? And who had written these heartfelt words, their love and longing poured onto the page, yearning for a reunion with the one they loved on this very island? She couldn’t even tell if the author was a man or a woman, their true self hidden behind the eloquent script.
A twinge of guilt washed over her as if she had eavesdropped on their private conversation, and she gently returned the letter to the box. She pondered the fate of the mysterious writer and the recipient, wondering if they had ever made their way back into one another’s arms.
The answers to her questions might lie within the other letters, each one a piece of the puzzle waiting to be uncovered. The temptation to dig deeper into the unknown love story tugged at her curiosity, the allure of unraveling the secrets held within those pages growing stronger with each passing moment. The familiar tug of needing to know the truth poked at her, just like when she was deep into an investigation.
She’d leave the letters alone. They weren’t hers to read.
And hadn’t she made a promise to herself? A vow born from the painful lessons of her past, to never again interfere in the lives of others. The last time she’d insisted on uncovering the truth at any cost, it had nearly destroyed someone’s life. She’d learned the hard way that sometimes, not everything was as it seemed.
She firmly closed the lid. No more reading letters or trying to figure out who wrote them. They were not her business.
With a sigh, Jenna pushed herself up from the couch, her body suddenly heavy with exhaustion. The day’s events had taken their toll, and all she wanted was to retreat to the comfort of her bed and rest her injured ankle.
As she made her way back to her bedroom, she flicked off the lights, casting the cottage into darkness. She paused briefly at the guest room door, peering inside at the splash of moonlight spilling across newly repaired flooring. Thanks to Nash’s handiwork, there was no trace of the hidden compartment that had once held the box of letters. It was just an empty guest room.
The silence of the cottage overwhelmed her as she entered her bedroom. She turned on some soft, soothing music on her phone and let the gentle melodies fill the space as she got ready for bed. She crawled beneath the covers, then reached for the book on her nightstand in the hope that it might provide a welcome distraction from the thoughts that plagued her. With any luck, she would get lost in the story.
The book was good, the story compelling, but still thoughts of the mysterious couple danced in the recesses of her mind.