Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
IRIS
Once a splintered mess of sagging boards, the porch of Heron House was now a solid, welcoming expanse. I worked on a section of railing, the rhythmic swipe of my paintbrush a soothing meditation. Primer. A clean slate.
The scent of sawdust and the nearby sea filled the air, a perfume of progress and possibility that was finally feeling more like home than a challenge. This was the part of the renovation I loved—the tangible work of bringing something beautiful back to life.
In a way, it reminded me of Austin. A small, secret smile curled my lips, my thoughts drifting back to the other night. The day following his tense retreat after giving me the flower, he’d been true to his word and called me.
His voice on the phone had been its usual low rumble. “Caught some fresh yellowtail. Enough for two. Come over for dinner at six o’clock?”
The fact that he had called, that he was initiating contact, had sent a happy flutter through my chest. He was a man who couldn’t be rushed.
Like the hibiscus he’d given me, he’d open up on his own schedule.
At times, that was frustrating to me. But when we were together, the outside world didn’t matter.
Dinner at his place had been an education.
Everything had a place; every surface was clean.
We’d moved around each other in the space, a charged dance of awareness.
He’d grilled the fish, and I’d made a salad, the air between us comfortable, full of the low hum of undeniable attraction.
And in the darkness that followed, the storm we’d unleashed only grew in intensity.
But this time, it was different. There was a raw, almost desperate intensity to his lovemaking, a fierce possessiveness in the way he touched me, as if he couldn’t quite believe I was real and truly there in his arms, in his bed.
But it was tempered with a new tenderness.
Slow, lingering kisses that spoke more than his carefully rationed words ever could.
The feel of his calloused hands, so gentle as they traced the curve of my spine.
He’d held me all night, a solid, warm weight against my back, his breathing a steady rhythm in the darkness.
The soft crunch of boots on the shell path made me look up.
Austin walked with that familiar, easy stride, two sweating bottles of beer in one hand.
He didn’t say anything at first, just set one of the bottles on a sawhorse near me as we exchanged nods.
He leaned against a support post with his arms crossed over his chest and watched me for a moment.
“Are you painting that or just giving it a light dusting?” he asked, that dry humor filling his deep voice. “My grandmother moves faster.”
“This is called precision, Captain,” I said without looking at him, a smile touching my lips.
“Something a man who wrangles fish for a living likely wouldn’t understand.
Besides, look at you, over here and willingly participating in whimsical renovation.
” I dipped my brush and drew a clean, perfect line before gesturing with it toward his property line.
“That spite-flower hedge of yours is looking awfully friendly these days.”
He snorted. “Don’t get cocky. And again, it’s not a spite flower.” Pushing off the post, he came over. “Give me that. You’re holding it wrong.”
“I am not.” But I let him take my hand, his fingers wrapping around mine to adjust my grip. The simple, practical touch sent a now-familiar jolt straight to my core.
“Like this,” he said, his voice close to my ear. “Lets you control the stroke better.”
He grabbed his own brush, and we painted in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the whisper of our brushes and the chirping of songbirds. The work was easier with him here, the load lighter. I had to admit his advice on holding the brush made the job easier.
“So,” he said, breaking the stillness. “What are you going to call these rooms when you’re done? The Room of the Rodent Attack?”
I shuddered theatrically at the war I’d raged getting a family of squirrels to vacate the premises.
“Very funny. I was actually thinking of naming them after the things you can see from their windows. The third-floor suite, the one you, uh, found me in? That’ll be the Magnolia Suite.
And the one I was painting yesterday, at the other end of the hall?
The Sea Turtle Suite. I saw one from the balcony last week.
” My vision for the B&B looked sharper and more real as I said it out loud to him.
“I want Heron House to be a sanctuary. A place people come to feel peaceful and rejuvenated.”
I risked a glance at him, half-expecting a cynical grunt. Instead, his gray eyes were thoughtful, his expression open.
“It’s not just a business for you, is it?” he asked.
“No. It’s more than that.” The words were out before I could stop them. “It’s not just my dream, you know. It was hers, too.”
“Whose?”
I took his paintbrush and set it down with mine, the mood between us shifting from easy banter to something more intimate. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
He followed me without question, his boots thudding softly on the newly sanded floors. I led him through the demolished but promising great room to the window seat that overlooked the magnolia tree in the backyard.
I opened the drawer and set aside the dried magnolia sprig before pulling out the letter. “I found this a while ago.”
After unfolding the pages of cream-colored stationery, I handed them to him. It felt like handing over a piece of my heart. He took them carefully, his large hands gentle with the fragile paper.
I studied him as he read. His gaze slowed as he took in my aunt’s words, the confession of her regrets, the hope she had placed in me. A muscle in his jaw tightened, and his throat worked as he swallowed.
He was silent for a beat after he finished, his gaze still on the page.
Then he carefully folded the letter and handed it back to me.
His eyes, when they met mine, were full of deep, quiet understanding.
He didn’t offer platitudes. He didn’t say he was sorry for my family’s past. He just reached out, his thumb gently brushing across my jaw.
“A warm, determined heart.” His voice was quiet while he quoted the letter. He studied me, a whole world of respect and validation in his steady gray gaze. “Constance knew what she was doing, leaving it to you.”
“I sure hope so.”
He smiled and leaned over to kiss me, his lips soft and warm against mine.
It was a kiss of acceptance. Of seeing me and not flinching.
And in that sunlit room, with the presence of my aunt’s hopes hanging in the air between us, something new and solid clicked into place.
He wasn’t just my neighbor anymore. He was part of this. Part of my home.
The Sips and Pages book club meeting was winding down.
A few days after sharing the letter with Austin, I’d walked into Pam’s bungalow with a bottle of white wine and a confident stride.
The air was a familiar, happy mix of wine, Liv’s incredible miniature lemon tarts, and the excited chatter of women who had found their tribe.
As we discussed our latest romance novel, a second-chance romance, I caught Brenna’s eye across the circle.
She gave me a wink. This was so different from my first meeting, where I’d felt like an outsider on display.
Now, I was one of the girls, debating the merits of fictional men and real-world desserts.
As the meeting began to break up, the conversation splintered into smaller clusters. A chic woman with sharp, stylish dark hair approached me, her smile warm.
“You’re Iris, right? The one tackling Heron House?
” She extended a hand. “I’m Suzanne Hainey.
I have a marketing firm in town. I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about your B&B plans.
It sounds amazing. If you get to the point where you’re thinking about websites or branding, give me a call. I’d love to help you tell the story.”
A surge of professional excitement rose within me. “I’m not quite there yet, but I absolutely will. Thank you.”
“Of course,” she replied with a warm smile. “And another tip from one business owner to another. If you need help with your financial planning, Dean Mercer on Main Street is the best. He’s a certified financial planner and fairly new in town. He was a huge help getting my firm on solid footing.”
“Thanks for the recommendation.” I made a mental note. Another piece of my new life was clicking into place, a network of support I knew I would need sooner than later.
As Suzanne turned to say her goodbyes to Pam, a soft touch lighted on my arm.
“Don’t run off yet!” Liv beamed at me, her brown curls bouncing. She held an empty platter, a single, eloquent crumb the only evidence of her tarts. “I’ve been dying for a real peek at the progress.”
I laughed, a rush of affection for this whirlwind of positive energy rolling through me. “You have to come see it! The floors are sanded in places, and I even painted some of the porch railing. I’ll give you the grand tour.”
“Fabulous! I’d love to!”
“How about coffee tomorrow?” I offered. “My treat this time, to thank you for the lavender-scone intervention.”
Liv’s eyes twinkled. “It’s a date! But I’m bringing the pastries. It’s the least I can do for the woman who will probably single-handedly boost my lavender supplier’s quarterly profits. I can swing by about one, if that works?”
Her easy, supportive friendship felt like another piece of my new life clicking into place. I wasn’t just building a house. I was building a home, a business, while surrounded by a community of strong, smart women who had my back. And the thought made me feel more capable than I had in years.
The next afternoon, the rich scent of coffee and fresh pastries battled with the aroma of sawdust and primer in my kitchen. Liv sat at my cluttered table, a pink bakery box open between us, her expression one of professional admiration.
“Iris, you are killing it,” she said before taking a sip from the World’s Best Proprietress mug I’d bought myself as a joke. “This place has incredible bones. I can totally see your vision now.”
My lips rose. We’d just finished the tour, and showing off the progress to someone who understood the grit and grind of building a business from scratch was incredibly validating. “It’s getting there. I love how the house is showing itself piece by piece since Gus started working.”
“It’s going to be gorgeous.” Liv took a bite of a flaky croissant she’d brought. “Listen, just a heads-up, the health inspector is a real stickler for hand-washing sink placement. He made me move mine twice. Make sure Gus has it exactly to code, or he’ll make you tear it out.”
“Oh, wow. Thank you for the warning.” I made a mental note to double-check with Gus. This was the kind of practical advice I needed. “See? This is why I need you in my life. You’re my construction fairy godmother.”
Liv laughed, a rich, throaty sound. “Us small-business gals have to stick together. Besides, I know a local woman who does custom linens for half the price of the big suppliers. She’s a genius. Here’s her number.” She slid a business card across the table.
I picked it up, and a wave of gratitude filled me to bursting. “Liv, thank you. I don’t even know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything. Just make sure you save me a room for a girls’ weekend when you open.
” Her gaze drifted to the window, which looked out over my jungle of a yard and, beyond the hibiscus hedge, to Austin’s neat, orderly conch house.
“So how’s the grumpy neighbor situation?
Has he called the noise police on you yet?
” I’d explained the situation in rather broad strokes when I sought her out for the lavender-lemon scone intervention.
A blush crept up my neck, and I busied myself by pouring more coffee. “Actually, things are better. After a lot of apology cookies and one very precarious ladder incident… we kind of figured things out. And now we’re a couple. I still can hardly believe it.”
“A couple? With the hibiscus guy?” Liv’s face broke into a wide, delighted grin. “Get out! Who is he?”
“Austin Coleridge.” It felt good to say it out loud to a friend who wasn’t a Coleridge. A sense of relief, of normalcy, washed over me.
“Austin? Really?” Liv’s face broke into a wide, delighted grin.
“Well, good for you! I’ve met him a few times when he’s come into the bakery.
He doesn’t say much, but you can just tell he’s a solid guy.
He has that quiet, dependable vibe, and he’s Brenna’s brother to boot.
A great reputation on the island, too.” She paused, her expression turning thoughtful.
“Thank God the Coleridge-Markham feud is officially over.”
“A feud?” My eyes widened. “Brenna mentioned something about that once. Oh my gosh, was it like the Hatfields and McCoys, but in flip-flops?”
Liv roared with laughter. “Not quite that dramatic, but close enough for Dove Key. Just old family stuff. But that chapter is closed. Brenna and Hunter’s romance basically forced a truce. You don’t need to worry about being involved with a Coleridge.”
Her easy acceptance, her positive view of Austin, was the final piece of the puzzle. It solidified the feeling that I was on the right path, both with the house and with him.
I stared out the window at the vibrant red of the hibiscus hedge, the one I had nearly drowned, the one he and I had worked on together.
Not that long ago, I’d been an outsider, an amateur wrestling with a haunted house.
Now, sitting here with a new friend and Austin’s strength just a stone’s throw away, I experienced something else entirely. A deep and wonderfully solid hope.