Chapter 6
Morning arrived with the particular golden brilliance that belonged exclusively to Seeker’s Island summers. Sunlight poured through the guest room windows like warm honey, creating pools of light on the hardwood floor that crept steadily toward the bed where Jessie lay, one arm flung above her head, caught between wakefulness and dreams.
For the first time since her return, she’d been granted a morning off. Miguel had insisted she take advantage of it, claiming that a proper islander needed to reacquaint herself with the rhythm of the place during daylight hours. Luke had remained suspiciously silent during this exchange, but the slight quirk of his mouth suggested Miguel’s campaign for her free time had received prior approval.
The bed was sinfully comfortable, the sheets smelling faintly of sea air and sunshine—Luke must have dried them outdoors on a line rather than in a machine. It was a simple pleasure she’d forgotten existed in her years of high-rise apartment living where laundry rooms were located in windowless basements.
Jessie stretched luxuriously, muscles pleasantly achy from a week of physical work that had gradually stripped away years of desk-job lethargy. Her body felt more alive, more present, than it had in as long as she could remember. Perhaps it was the island air. Perhaps it was something else entirely.
Something like the conversation on the beach last night.
They’d stripped away the first layers of misunderstanding, revealed the first hidden piece—Reece’s apparent betrayal with the note. But when Luke had asked why she’d been so desperate to leave that night, she’d been saved from answering by Miguel’s freezer crisis. Saved or thwarted, she wasn’t entirely sure which.
Outside, a mockingbird delivered a melodic declaration of territorial rights, cycling through its repertoire of stolen songs with the confidence of a seasoned performer. A counterpoint of waves provided bass notes to the avian soprano.
Jessie swung her legs over the side of the bed, toes curling against the cool wood floor. Today was for exploration, for reacquainting herself with the island that had shaped her earliest years. She couldn’t avoid the past forever, not when it surrounded her at every turn. Better to face it on her own terms, on a day when the sun shone brilliantly and the sky stretched endlessly blue.
She showered quickly, the ritual now familiar in Luke’s guest bathroom. The lavender-scented soap was locally made, according to the handwritten label—another island touch she’d cataloged with unexpected pleasure. She pulled on a red bikini, slipping a pair of black nylon shorts and a loose white tank top over it. The outfit was a far cry from her corporate wardrobe, but perfect for a day of island exploration with the option to dip into the ocean if the heat became too intense.
The house was empty when she ventured into the kitchen. Luke had left before dawn for a meeting with suppliers on the mainland, according to the note propped against the coffee maker. The pot was still half full and warm, thoughtfully left for her alongside a covered plate containing a blueberry muffin. The simple considerateness of the gesture tugged at something behind her ribs, creating an ache she refused to examine too closely.
She poured coffee into a travel mug she found in the cabinet and wrapped the muffin in a napkin. The morning was too glorious to spend indoors.
Her golf cart waited beneath the house, keys dangling from the ignition—another small island courtesy that would have been unthinkable in the city. She slid behind the wheel, placed her breakfast in the passenger seat, and set off toward the main part of the island with no particular destination in mind. The journey itself was the point.
Seeker’s Island had changed dramatically in some ways, remaining steadfastly the same in others. The road that wound along the coastline had been widened and paved properly, replacing the rutted sand track of her youth. Glimpses of the azure water appeared between trees and buildings as she drove, flashing like precious stones in sunlight.
She passed the turnoff to her father’s property without slowing. That particular confrontation could wait for another day when she felt stronger, more grounded in the present rather than vulnerable to the past.
Rental cottages dotted the landscape where once there had been only dense vegetation—charming cedar-shingled structures painted in cheerful coastal colors with welcoming porches and colorful Adirondack chairs positioned to catch the breeze. A discreet sign identified them as Seeker’s Cottages: Island Hospitality Since 2015. Clearly someone had capitalized on the tourism boom Luke had mentioned.
The main part of the island—what locals had always called “Town” despite its minuscule size—came into view as she crested a small rise. New businesses had sprouted alongside familiar landmarks, giving the central area a quaint, carefully curated charm that had been absent in her youth.
Jessie parked near the newly expanded marina, where sleek pleasure craft now outnumbered working fishing boats three to one. She sipped her coffee as she wandered along the boardwalk, nodding at strangers who greeted her with the easy familiarity of island residents.
Island Treasures, the gift shop that had sold cheap shell necklaces and plastic souvenirs during her childhood, had transformed into an elegant boutique offering hand-crafted jewelry, locally thrown pottery, and island-themed artwork that actually deserved the name. Through the window, she could see Mrs. Bennington—now well into her seventies, her silver hair arranged in the same precise French twist she’d worn for thirty years—arranging a display of sea-glass earrings with meticulous attention.
Next door, the old hardware store had expanded to include a small garden center specializing in native coastal plants. The scent of jasmine and gardenia wafted from containers arranged artfully on tiered shelves, mingling with the ever-present salt air.
The post office retained its original facade, though the faded blue paint had been refreshed to a crisp nautical navy. The bench outside—traditionally occupied by the island’s oldest residents, who gathered daily to dissect everyone else’s business—was currently hosting three elderly men engaged in what appeared to be a heated debate about fishing lures.
“Well, I’ll be darned. Jessie James, in the flesh.”
The gruff voice from behind made her turn. Herbert Wilson, who had been ancient when she was a child and somehow managed to remain perpetually ancient without actually dying, squinted at her from beneath bushy white eyebrows. He leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane that looked more decorative than functional, given the sprightly way he navigated the uneven boardwalk.
“Mr. Wilson,” she acknowledged, surprised by the warm rush of affection she felt for this cantankerous fixture of island life. “Still telling everyone exactly how to run their business?”
“Someone’s got to maintain standards.” He sniffed, though his rheumy eyes twinkled with unmistakable pleasure. “This place would fall apart without proper oversight.”
“I’m sure the island is grateful for your service.”
“You bet they are.” He jabbed his cane toward Island Treasures. “Ruthie in there wanted to start selling those ridiculous…” He waved his hand vaguely. “Gnome things. With the pointy hats. For gardens.”
“Garden gnomes?”
“That’s them. Tacky things. Told her they weren’t dignified. Seeker’s Island has a certain reputation to uphold.”
Jessie bit back a smile. “And what did Mrs. Bennington say to that?”
Mr. Wilson’s weathered face split into a grin that revealed surprisingly perfect dentures. “Told me to mind my own business before she shoved my cane somewhere the sun doesn’t shine. Woman’s got spirit.”
“Always did.”
“Speaking of spirit…” He glanced down the boardwalk, then back at her, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Whole island’s buzzing about you and Luke Mallory. Back together after all this time.”
“We’re not?—”
“Together, I know.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “But working side by side at that bar of his? With all that history between you? Folks are making bets on how long it’ll take.”
“Actually, Mr. Wilson, Luke and I are just business partners. My father left me his share of Seeker’s Paradise, that’s all.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He didn’t sound remotely convinced. “And I’m Elvis Presley.”
“You’re looking good for your age, then.”
He cackled with delight. “Still sharp as a tack, aren’t you? Always liked that about you.”
His expression grew more serious, his gaze drifting to the bar logo on her beach tote. “Speaking of your inheritance… that’s quite the legacy your father left behind.” Mr. Wilson leaned on his cane as he gazed across the harbor. “Jesse James ran this place like his personal kingdom for thirty years. Set the ferry rates to suit himself, decided which businesses could open and which couldn’t.”
His rheumy eyes fixed on Jessie with unexpected sharpness. “Your daddy was the kind of man who’d foreclose on a widow’s mortgage during a hurricane and sleep like a baby that night. Made the bank give him first look at any distressed properties. That’s how he built half his holdings—buying desperate folks out at pennies on the dollar.”
The old man’s voice dropped. “Changed after that cancer diagnosis though—like a different man those last six months. Stopped blocking the new medical clinic, even donated that waterfront land he’d been sitting on for years. Too little too late for some folks’ taste, but still…” He shrugged one bony shoulder. “Even the meanest shark might remember it was once something else before it grew teeth.”
With a thoughtful nod, his expression softened into something almost wistful. “Speaking of changes for the better… Island’s been good for Luke, these past years. Steadied him, gave him purpose. He needed that, after you left.”
The casual revelation about Luke needing stability after her departure struck a nerve she hadn’t realized was exposed. “I’m not here to disrupt anything, Mr. Wilson.”
“Nobody said you were.” He studied her face with unexpected keenness. “You’re looking for something, though. Everyone who comes back is.”
“Maybe I’m just handling my inheritance.”
“Maybe pigs fly.” He grinned again, then glanced at his watch. “Nearly time for my medicine. Doctor’s orders, unfortunately.” He patted the pocket of his shirt where a flask-shaped bulge was clearly visible. “Good to see you, Jessie James. Don’t be a stranger.”
He tottered off with more speed than seemed possible, leaving Jessie with the distinct impression she’d been thoroughly, if affectionately, cross-examined.
She continued her exploration, passing the newly expanded Seeker’s Inn with its fresh coat of butter-yellow paint and wraparound porches festooned with hanging baskets of ferns. The wooden sign swinging gently in the breeze bore the silhouette of the island itself, along with four stars—an ambitious rating for a place that had once been little more than a glorified motel.
A chalkboard easel on the sidewalk announced ISLAND MEDICAL CLINIC: DR. MARGARET WINTERS, MD—WALK-INS WELCOME . The weathered clapboard building had once housed the island’s only lawyer—a semiretired alcoholic who had dealt primarily in wills and property disputes. The transformation into a medical practice was unexpected; in Jessie’s youth, islanders had to ferry to the mainland for anything more serious than a splinter or sunburn.
Curiosity propelled her through the door into a waiting room that managed to be both professional and distinctly island-like. Rattan furniture with navy cushions replaced the standard-issue plastic chairs of most medical offices. Framed photographs of island landscapes adorned pale blue walls, while educational posters about sunscreen and hydration offered practical advice rather than dire medical warnings. A small play area in the corner held toys that appeared to have been sanitized sometime in the current century—a far cry from the bacteria-laden objects that usually populated pediatricians’ waiting rooms.
“Can I help you?”
The woman behind the reception counter couldn’t have been more than twenty, with a spray of freckles across her nose and red hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Her scrubs featured tropical fish swimming across a turquoise background.
“I was just looking around. I grew up on the island but moved away a long time ago.”
“Oh! You must be Jessie.” The young woman’s face brightened. “I’m Kaitlyn. You’re working with Luke at Seeker’s Paradise, right? My brother Miguel says you’re a natural behind the bar.”
“Miguel’s your brother?” Jessie searched for family resemblance and found it in the shape of their eyes and the particular animation of their expressions.
“Half brother, technically. Same mom, different dads.” Kaitlyn shrugged as if this were entirely unremarkable. “Anyway, he says you’ve really livened things up over there.”
“I’ve only been serving drinks for a week.”
“That’s like a decade in island time.” Kaitlyn glanced down at an appointment book. “We’re pretty quiet this morning if you’d like to meet Dr. Winters. She’s finishing paperwork in her office.”
Before Jessie could formulate a response, a door opened and a woman emerged carrying a medical chart. She was perhaps thirty, with the kind of striking beauty that turned heads without trying. Her golden-blond hair fell in loose waves to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face with bright blue eyes. Her white coat was worn over a simple sundress that couldn’t quite disguise her enviable figure—curves in all the right places that somehow enhanced rather than undermined her professional authority.
“Kaitlyn, do we have any more of those brochures about heat—” She stopped, noticing Jessie. “Hello there. Not a patient, I’m guessing?”
“Just exploring. I’m Jessie James.”
Recognition flashed in the doctor’s bright blue eyes. “Ah, the prodigal bartender. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.” She extended her hand. “Maggie Winters. Island doctor, gossip repository, and occasional shoulder to cry on.”
Jessie shook the offered hand, immediately warming to the woman’s straightforward manner. “All that and medicine too?”
“The medicine’s the easy part.” Maggie grinned. “Island practice is ninety percent listening and ten percent actual healthcare.”
“I thought it was ninety percent jellyfish stings and sunburns,” Kaitlyn chimed in.
“Those too.” Maggie checked her watch. “I’ve got forty-five minutes until my next appointment, and I was just about to grab coffee. Want to join me? Island Coffee at the end of the boardwalk makes the best Cuban coffee this side of Miami.”
“I’d love to,” Jessie said, surprised by how quickly the offer appealed to her.
“Perfect.” Maggie slipped off her white coat, revealing more of the sundress beneath—a vibrant blue that matched her eyes and highlighted her curves. She hung the coat on a hook behind the door. “Kaitlyn, I’ll have my phone if anything comes up.”
“Like last time when Mr. Simmons thought he was having a heart attack but really just ate too many jalapeno poppers?”
“Exactly like that.” Maggie winked at Jessie. “The glamorous life of an island physician.”
They stepped out into the sunshine, Maggie slipping on stylish sunglasses as they joined the flow of pedestrians on the boardwalk.
“Three years here and I still can’t get used to this heat,” Maggie said, gathering her blond waves into a quick ponytail. “Tampa was hot, but something about island humidity is next level.”
“I’d forgotten what it’s like to walk through warm soup all day,” Jessie agreed.
They strolled past several shops toward a small stand at the end of the boardwalk. A chalkboard sign proclaimed ISLAND COFFEE: WAKE UP TO PARADISE in artistic lettering. The line was short but moved slowly, as the barista engaged each customer in animated conversation.
“Small-town perk,” Maggie explained when Jessie commented on the unhurried pace. “Jason knows everyone’s order by heart and their life story to boot. Makes the best coffee and the worst puns. You’ve been warned.”
When they reached the counter, a young man with a sleeve of maritime tattoos and a wide smile greeted them. “Doc Winters! Your usual rocket fuel?”
“You know it. My brain needs jump-starting today.” Maggie turned to Jessie. “What’s your poison?”
“Cuban coffee sounds perfect.”
“Two liquid emergencies, coming right up!” Jason began working the elaborate espresso machine with practiced efficiency. “So you’re the famous Jessie James. Last time we had an actual outlaw on the island was when Judge Hamilton’s grandson stole all the pool noodles from the Cove Hotel.”
Jessie laughed. “My reputation precedes me, apparently.”
“Island telegraph is faster than fiber optic,” Jason confirmed, handing them each a small cup of intensely aromatic coffee. “On the house today. Welcome back to paradise.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“Island rules.” He waved away her protest. “First coffee’s always free for returning natives. Brings good luck.”
“He makes that up for every new customer,” Maggie whispered as they moved to a small table overlooking the water. “But the coffee’s worth it.”
They settled into chairs, the ocean breeze providing welcome relief from the heat. Jessie sipped the coffee, which was indeed strong enough to jump-start a small engine.
“So, you’ve returned to the island after—what? Fifteen years?” Maggie asked.
“News travels fast.”
“Small island, big curiosity.” She smiled. “Plus, Luke mentioned it when I was treating him for that cut on his hand last week.”
“He cut his hand? He didn’t say anything.”
“Occupational hazard for bartenders. Broken glass in the ice bin. He’s not one to make a fuss.
“No, he never was.”
“How are you finding island life after so long away? Culture shock?”
Jessie considered the question. “Less than I expected. Some things have changed dramatically, but the essence feels the same.”
“That’s Seeker’s Island for you. Constant reinvention on the surface, stubbornly unchanging underneath. Like most of the residents.”
“You’re not a native islander?”
“Mainland girl. Tampa, originally. Came here three years ago to escape a messy breakup and never left.” She shrugged. “I needed somewhere to lick my wounds. The island needed a doctor who wouldn’t leave after six months of isolation. Mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m as close to a local as anyone who wasn’t born here can be. Which is to say, I’ll always be ‘the doctor from Tampa’ even if I live here fifty years.” She smiled to soften the observation. “The island adopts you, but never forgets you’re not native stock.”
Jessie nodded, recognizing the truth in this assessment. Even as a child, she’d been aware of the subtle distinction between multigeneration islanders like the Mallorys and relative newcomers like her father.
“How did you and Luke cross paths?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
Maggie laughed. “He brought in old Mr. Pickford at three in the morning with a fishhook embedded in a location I’d rather not specify. The man had been night fishing after consuming what appeared to be a fifth of whiskey.”
“Sounds like Harlan.”
“Luke could have just dropped him off, but he stayed the whole time. Held the old man’s hand, distracted him with island stories while I worked. Never seen someone so gruff be so gentle at the same time.” She tilted her head, studying Jessie with an insightful gaze that likely served her well in medical diagnosis. “That’s why people follow him, you know. Not because he owns the most popular establishment on the island, but because he genuinely cares about this place and everyone in it.”
“I’m beginning to see that,” Jessie admitted.
Mid-sentence, Maggie’s expression shifted dramatically. Her bright smile vanished, replaced by a tightness around her mouth that transformed her entire face. Her spine straightened, shoulders squaring as if preparing for battle. The sudden change was so pronounced that Jessie instinctively turned to follow her gaze.
Sheriff Reece Wells had just approached the coffee stand, his dark uniform and commanding presence drawing attention even among the colorful tourists. He moved with the confident stride of a man who knew his place in the world and expected others to acknowledge it, joining the short line at the counter a few feet from their table.
“Let me guess,” Jessie said, noting Maggie’s reaction. “Not a fan of our local law enforcement?”
“Let’s just say Sheriff Wells and I have different interpretations of what constitutes an emergency.” Maggie’s voice had taken on a clipped quality, her fingers drumming a rapid rhythm against her coffee cup.
“He and Luke are best friends,” Jessie observed. “Have been since kindergarten.”
“Further proof that Luke’s judgment isn’t perfect.” Maggie rolled her eyes, then added with grudging fairness, “Though I suppose someone has to keep order around here.
“Anyway,” Maggie continued, “that’s island life for you. Ancient history never stays buried for long, especially when the principal players are still around.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Jessie murmured.
“Facing old ghosts?”
“Something like that.”