Chapter 7
SEVEN
PRESENT DAY
Josie
Ian parks the truck in front of a modest craftsman bungalow with a low-pitched gabled roof, a wide front porch, and simple cedar-shingle siding. I glance in his direction in confusion.
He pulls the key from the ignition. “Here we are.”
“This is your house?” I ask, staring at the slate pathway leading up to the turquoise-painted front door, the matching Adirondack chairs, and the pots of colorful cosmos and zinnias.
I wasn’t quite expecting the grand, gated estate where he grew up, but he does own the largest development company on the island, so I wasn’t expecting something quite so modest either.
The only thing grand or opulent about this house is the large lot right on the ocean.
“Is this one of the original houses on the island?” I ask, looking up at it in awe. There weren’t many left, even when I was a kid. The increasing number of hurricanes have wiped out some, and developers buying up lots and building huge three-story rentals took the rest.
Ian shoots me a grin. “Isn’t it great? When it came up for sale, I had to have it.
Got in a bidding war with three other companies because the lot is right on the beach with a path directly out to the water.
Zoning doesn’t allow too many of those anymore.
I paid entirely too much for it and—after all the improvements I had to make—shoring up the foundation and lifting the frame on pilings to protect it from flooding—I definitely would have been better off just building a brand-new place.
Pretty much everyone but Garrett thought I was nuts.
” His smile is so genuine and his delight at his vintage home is so evident that I can’t help but smile in return.
“It’s perfect. It reminds me of the house I grew up in.”
“Good,” he says in a low voice, his gaze lingering on mine. “Then you’ll be comfortable here.”
His words send me crashing back to my present predicament. I’ll never be comfortable here, not with Ian sleeping down the hall and walking around shirtless and giving me that crooked smile. Suddenly, the cab of this truck feels as oppressive as the overheated motel room, and I’m desperate for air.
As I grab for the door handle, I can’t miss the flicker of bewilderment crossing Ian’s face. From his perspective, having me stay at his house probably seems perfectly reasonable. His best friend is marrying my sister, and we’re in the wedding party together. We were even friends once.
Or that’s what we’ll call it anyway.
Why wouldn’t I want to spend Madeline and Garrett’s wedding week hanging out together, helping the people we love get ready for their big day? That’s what a normal best man and maid of honor would do.
Ian has no idea that none of this is normal.
I round the truck bed, but by the time I get there, Ian is already hauling my bags from the back.
I follow him inside where a short entryway opens up to a bright airy living room with wide French doors that lead onto a deck that seems as big as the house.
As Ian described, a small wooden path leads through the dunes to the beach, and beyond that, the ocean stretches out in all directions.
Ian parks my suitcase in the doorway. “Would you like a tour of the house?”
My head jerks up, and my spine stiffens. A chill comes over me, and my breath hitches as his words make the hair on the back of my neck stand up like a ghost drifting by.
Would you like a tour of the house?
What if I’d said no back then? What if I’d turned around and left? How would my life be different now?
Ian cocks his head to look into my eyes. “Josie? Are you okay?”
I blink. “Yes. Sorry. Just a little jet lag.” I force a smile. Over a decade has gone by since that fateful day. “I’d love a tour, thanks.”
Ian gives me one more lingering glance and then indicates I should follow him into the living room.
It’s decorated in shades of white and cream with wicker accents and royal blue.
The furniture looks comfortable and modern.
I take a moment to admire the art on the walls—simple, almost abstract paintings of the sea that highlight rather than detract from the ocean view.
I remember the interior of his childhood home.
Though the sun shone in like this, there wasn’t any warmth.
The rooms were huge, cavernous, laid out to show off the expensive furniture and art instead of the natural beauty outside.
We continue through the house, and Ian reveals a kitchen in the same light, airy colors before waving me up the stairs to the bedrooms. “There are three bedrooms up here,” he says.
“And I guess I should have mentioned that the house was built in 1930. When I renovated it, I didn’t want to mess with the original layout, so there’s only one bathroom. Are you okay with sharing?”
“I shared a bathroom with my sister for my entire childhood,” I say. “I can probably manage it for the next week. Unless you plan to use up all the hot water.”
He grins at me. “I’ll let you shower first.”
We peek inside the bathroom, and just like the rest of the house, the bones of the original structure are there, but with light, airy, modern touches.
A giant bathtub rests in front of the window, and a steam shower sits along the far wall.
I have a sudden flash of memory of Ian jumping in the pool with me, the lines of his muscles flexing, the water droplets shimmering on his golden skin.
My mind transposes that image into this room with steam rising around him.
I quickly shove that thought aside and step back into the hallway.
“This place really is nothing like where you grew up,” I say to further rid my mind of the thought of Ian in a steam shower. “One bathroom? Didn’t that house have at least two on the first floor alone?”
His brow furrows. “Did I take you inside the house that day you came by?” Ian shakes his head. “That whole time is such a blur for me. I thought we just sat outside.”
My heart flips. He’s referring to the day I came by uninvited and found him sitting on the dock, staring out to sea.
It was the last day we saw each other for a decade.
How could I let it slip that I once had a tour of the interior of that house?
He’s right—he never took me inside. But someone did, and it marked the beginning of the end.
“Oh, no, you didn’t take me inside,” I blurt out, too loudly.
“I’ve never been inside that house. I—” Why did I bring it up at all?
It’s the place I’d most like to forget. “I saw it once in an article in the New York Times,” I improvise.
“The one about the art collection—remember?” I have no idea if there were photos or mention of the house’s interior in that article printed over a decade ago, but I’m banking on the fact that Ian doesn’t either.
He nods. “Right. I forgot about that article. We sold that house after my dad died. It was too painful for my mom to stay there without him.” His face clouds over with something that I can only interpret as sorrow.
I press my lips together. I want to ask more about that time.
When his dad died. When we last spoke. When everything came crashing down.
But I can’t bring myself to open up that painful part of my past. I worked too hard to get here, to a place where I’m standing in front of Ian Langley and don’t feel like I’m going to fall apart.
So, instead, I murmur, “I’m sorry.” And I am, for my part in causing him pain.
I’ll always be sorry for that.