Chapter 4
“They’ve settled in well.”
Noah sighed as he lifted his gaze from the snowy vista of the Andes mountains on the screen of his elliptical trainer.
“Who has?” he asked wearily, even though he already knew the answer. He was going to make Isaiah work for it.
“Grace Wyatt and her son Jacob,” his assistant replied promptly, clearly glad for the opportunity to elaborate.
“She’s quite young, you know. I wouldn’t put her much past thirty.
And the boy is only around six. Quiet. Very quiet, and shy.
” A pause, laden with meaning and memory. “He reminds me a little of—”
“Don’t,” Noah cut him off tersely. There was only one person whom quiet and shy would remind Isaiah of, and he was not willing to talk about him. At all.
“All right,” Isaiah replied equably. “But you should meet them, Noah. She seems…” He paused, his nose wrinkling in thought. “Damaged,” he finally finished. “Or maybe just bruised—”
“Damaged and bruised?” Noah arched an incredulous eyebrow. “You make her sound like a bad banana.”
“Don’t,” Isaiah replied quietly, parroting the injunction right back at him. “That kind of quip is beneath you—and her.”
Noah looked back at the view of the Andes as he continued his manufactured climb.
It irritated him how Isaiah could make him feel like a scolded eight-year-old boy with just a few words.
And yes, maybe that quip was beneath him, but he didn’t want to get to know the damaged and bruised Grace Wyatt, and he certainly didn’t need daily updates about her or her son. Her quiet and shy son who reminded…
No. He was not going there. Not even in his head. Especially not in his head.
It was time, Noah decided, to put Isaiah in his place.
He switched off the trainer and reached for a towel, slinging it about his sweaty shoulders as he pushed his dark hair out of his eyes.
“Look, I appreciate you’re trying to look out for me,” he told the older man.
“And I know you’re worried that I’m not going out or seeing anyone, but honestly, that’s how I like it.
” He gentled his voice. “It’s what I need right now. The time and space to… to heal.”
Isaiah’s eyes flashed with what Noah suspected was both humor and annoyance. “You trying to fob me off with that therapy speak, son?” he asked and a rusty, unexpected laugh erupted from Noah before he shook his head.
“No… all right, maybe a little.” A sigh escaped him after the laugh. “I mean it, though.” At least he meant that it was what he needed right now, and maybe forever. Whether any amount of time or space would help him to heal remained another matter entirely, but he wasn’t holding out much hope.
“I think what you mean is ‘butt out,’” Isaiah replied wryly, before his expression turned serious, even grave.
“This isn’t good for you, Noah, whatever you think.
You can’t heal, as you say, when you don’t talk to anyone.
See anyone or even anything. You stay in this house, you go on your damned computer—”
Noah pointed to the elliptical trainer. “Hey, I get exercise.”
“It’s not the same. You need to get outside of all this.
” He gestured to the gym, but Noah knew he meant Grayhaven.
The house that had become his world, because he hadn’t trusted himself out in the real one.
Yes, he walked the estate’s gardens to get some fresh air, but with every day he spent here, his desire to expand his universe shrank a little more.
He didn’t want to face any of it—the news articles, the blogs and posts and reels and what have you combing over what had happened.
Or not, because it had been a year and a half and everyone had forgotten. Moved on.
He never would, though. He’d never let himself.
“Please, Isaiah,” he said quietly, and now he was being genuine. “Please, just let me be.”
Isaiah sighed, his face drawn in lines of sorrow that made Noah feel worse. The last thing he needed was more responsibility for another person’s feelings, as well as more feelings of his own, of failure and guilt. He had more than enough to be getting on with already.
“All right,” Isaiah relented reluctantly before he gave Noah a shrewd, narrowed look. “But I think this warden might be staying around for a while. She may have been through the wringer, but I have a feeling she’s made of tougher stuff. She came here for a reason, and she’s going to find it.”
“And you got this all from a five-minute conversation while you showed her the house?” Noah asked skeptically. Isaiah was making Grace Wyatt sound like a cross between a saint and a superhero.
“Sometimes,” Isaiah replied with a sage nod, “you just know.”
Under the spring sunshine, Lighthouse Cove Island was transformed.
Grace walked down the lane back toward the cluster of houses, holding Jacob’s hand as they strolled along.
They’d had a delicious breakfast of blueberry pancakes after their hot chocolate and then dressed and gotten ready to explore.
Now they were finally stepping out, and it was into a world that took her breath away.
The ocean alone was enough to have her jaw drop at the sight of that sparkling stretch of water, its surface dancing with a dozen different lights.
A few gulls circled high above, their caws echoing on the still-chilly spring breeze.
Up here winter was only just loosening its grip on the world; the grass was tender and a vivid green, a few bright-headed crocuses pushing up through the rich black earth.
On the right side, the grassy hills led to steeper cliffs of deep gray granite shot through with sparkling quartz.
Jacob paused to trace his finger along the glittering line in the rock, and Grace’s heart lifted to see him show even just a flicker of interest in something, anything.
For far too long he’d been as flat-eyed as she’d felt, both of them barely able to slog through their days, traumatized in different ways by everything that had happened.
It felt good—no, it felt wonderful—to finally have a spring in their steps.
“Pretty cool, huh?” Grace remarked as they studied the streak of quartz. She lifted her gaze to follow the streak to the top of the cliff, surprise jolting through her when she glimpsed above it what looked like the crenellated towers of an honest-to-goodness castle.
Grace stepped back to take in a fuller view, and yes, there, looming above the clifftop, was a massive house perched on a rocky crag, looking like something out of a fairy tale, and not necessarily the nice kind.
She hadn’t seen it in the dark last night, and it wasn’t visible from the warden’s lodge, but standing here now she had the sense that the huge house loomed over the little island like a large, dark shadow, or a bird of prey.
It had to belong to the Lawrences, but Ned had said they didn’t live on the island. So did anyone live there?
“Shall we keep going?” she suggested, and they walked on, down the little lane toward the jetty where they’d first landed.
They’d just reached the little cluster of fishing cottages when a woman came out on the back porch of one, the screen door banging shut behind her.
She looked to be in her mid-sixties, amply built with a full head of curly dark silver-streaked hair, her hands planted on her hips.
Even before the woman spoke, Grace was faltering in her step, wondering if she should call out a greeting.
“Hel—” she began uncertainly, only to have the woman cut her off.
“You’re the new warden?” Her Maine accent was thick, her tone incredulous, her narrowed gaze sweeping Grace from head to toe and back again.
“Ye-es…” Grace wished she didn’t sound so hesitant. Twelve years of marriage had turned her timid, and she hated that about herself. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes, I am.”
“Well, then,” the woman said, turning around to disappear through her back door, “you’d best come in and get acquainted.”
Again Grace hesitated. Did the woman really want her to come in, as in right now? Or had it been more of at-some-point kind of thing? She glanced at Jacob, who was watching her wide-eyed, clearly waiting for her to decide what to do.
Decide, Grace.
“All right, then,” she called back, her voice faltering a little, and squeezing her son’s hand in encouragement, she headed across to the porch steps, and then inside to the woman’s kitchen.
The cottage was small, the kitchen cramped, with a table covered by an oiled wax cloth taking up most of the space.
Unlike the warden’s lodge, which was up to date and felt like a fairly upscale Airbnb, this humble abode was far more modest. The kitchen was straight out of the 1970s, with mustard-yellow appliances and a floor of peeling linoleum, every surface cluttered with a variety of items—papers, old magazines, fishing lures, spools of thread.
The woman was standing at the sink, filling a kettle which she banged on the stove with decision. “I’m Margaret Babcock,” she told her. “But everyone calls me Bab. I’ve spent my whole life on this island.”
“Oh, I… I see.” Grace tried to smile although the woman—Bab—was giving her a rather belligerent look. “How lovely.”
Bab snorted. “I wouldn’t say so,” she replied frankly. “But when you’ve spent your whole life in one place, well, nothing beats the familiar.”
“No, I suppose not,” Grace agreed, and Bab snorted again.
“And where did you wash up from?” she asked with another frank inspection. “You look like a mighty fancy flatlander to be tramping through these woods and beaches.”
“Oh, well.” Grace glanced down at her outfit, one of her most lowkey ones—designer jeans and a cable-knit sweater in soft blue cashmere. Plus the Prada boots, which were probably a giveaway.
“I came from New York,” Grace told Bab. “And you’re right, I need some better boots.” She gave her a self-effacing smile. “I didn’t really think about the kinds of clothes I’d need up here.”
“Hmm.” Bab folded her arms across her ample chest, looking unimpressed by this admission. “The last warden backpacked solo through South America, and he only lasted a week. Do you think you’ll do better?”
“I hope so,” Grace replied as cheerfully as she could, trying not to be stung by her new neighbor’s seemingly complete lack of faith in her. “So far, we really like it here.” She drew Jacob forward, just a little. “This is my son, Jacob.”
“How do you do, sonny?” Bab gave him an encouraging smile while Jacob stared unblinkingly back. Grace saw the exact moment when the thought crossed the older woman’s face—what’s wrong with him?—before she ironed out her expression and turned back to Grace.
“Why’d you take this job, then?” she asked as she spooned instant coffee granules into two cracked cups. “Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing I’d imagine a woman like you would want at all.”
Grace did her best not to prickle at that assumption. “Well, it is,” she replied a little repressively, and Bab arched an eyebrow, clearly noting her tone.
“Hmmph,” she remarked, and after the kettle had boiled, poured hot water as well as some milk and several spoonfuls of sugar into Grace’s cup without asking before thrusting it at her.
“Th—thank you,” Grace stammered, a little startled by the older woman’s abruptness, as she put both her hands around the cup.
She decided this might be as good a time as any to get to know her new community, just as Bab seemed to want to get to know her, although what she’d learned so far didn’t seem to count for much.
“That house on the clifftop,” Grace ventured. “Is it owned by the Lawrences?”
Bab gave her a suspicious look. “Grayhaven? The whole island is owned by the Lawrences.”
“Yes, but I meant… do they live there? At Grayhaven? I thought maybe I should say hello, now that I’ve arrived.
” The idea had just popped into her head, but it seemed like the polite thing to do, and she realized she was curious about the family no one seemed willing to talk about.
Maybe they were a mystery she wanted to solve, or at least learn about, after all.
Bab’s dark eyebrows drew together. “They haven’t come up here for a long time,” she said in a tone that did not invite further questions.
“A long time. If you want to say hello to anyone, you can come up here.” She inclined her head, indicating, Grace supposed, the general vicinity of the fishing cottages and whoever, besides Bab, inhabited them.
“Thank you, that’s very kind,” she murmured and took a sip of the too-sweet coffee. Why, Grace wondered, did she get the sense from everyone she’d met that the Lawrence family was a no-go area?
And why should she care?
She’d come here for peace, privacy, quiet, solitude, all those good things. Not to act like some middle-aged Nancy Drew about some mystery that probably didn’t even exist.
“So, Bab,” Grace invited, determined to forget about the Lawrences, whoever they were. “Tell me about yourself. You said you grew up here?”