“It’s Alex and Katie’s oldest girl, Dad,” Owen told his father. “Cora’s niece. Emily. We saw her at the funeral.”
Old Jep stared in Emily’s direction and waved a hand. “’Bout time you came back home. Your dock’s got a big hole in it, missy.”
Emily laughed. “I see that!” she called back. “I’ll add it to my fix-it list. My Jeep just died on me, too. You wouldn’t happen to know a good mechanic?”
“Sure do,” Owen hollered back. “One of the best.”
“Great!”
“What about that dock?” Owen asked.
In reality, Emily had thought she would do as much of the work as she could. But now, staring down at the missing planks, the rotted ones and the water below, she wondered how successful she’d be. It was a bigger job than she had thought, and the café entered her mind. She definitely had a lot on her plate. “I’ll probably need someone for that, too.”
“I’ve got just the man for both jobs. I’ll send him over directly.”
Emily smiled and waved. “Thanks, Mr. Malone!”
“You bake, Emily Quinn?” Jep asked.
She cocked her head, still smiling. She liked the Malones. Nice men. “Yes, sir, I do.”
Jep stared in her direction. She didn’t need to see his face. Digging back into her memory, she had a perfectly picture of the tanned, weathered skin and lines around his eyes from the sun. He may have looked like an old sea dog, but she recalled that his startling emerald gaze held a lot of warmth. And mischief. Just like Matt’s.
“Good. I like pie.”
“Dad,” Owen chided.
“Well, I do!” Jep grumbled. “You any good at it?”
Emily chuckled. “Pretty fair.”
Owen shook his head and waved. “Ignore him. Let us know if you need anything, Emily. And you should stay off the dock until it’s fixed. It’s too rotted. I’ll send your man around directly. And don’t let him charge you too much.”
“No, sir, I won’t. And thanks!”
Emily started back down the dock. She had been home for only twenty minutes, and already had a mechanic and a fix-it man. She made a quick plan to bake a couple of pies to take over to the Malones after she’d settled in.
As she stepped off the dock and back onto the dirt path, Emily pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and made her way through the shade to the front porch. Grabbing her travel bag and a box of renovation magazines from the Jeep, she climbed the steps. Looking to the left, she took in the porch, scattered with dead leaves. The swing she and Reagan used to spend hours playing on with their Barbie dolls sat on its bottom; the white paint was faded, and the chains hung limp. Poor old Cora must’ve had a hard time keeping the place up by herself. Although, the property itself looked to be in decent shape. The azalea bushes were trimmed, and the grass cut. Pulling the key out of her shorts pocket, Emily unlocked and opened the front door and set her belongings down. Keeping it open, she stepped inside.
The aroma of lemon hung in the warm interior, and hazy sunlight filtered in through the windows. The estate attorney had arranged for a cleaning crew to go through the house, and they’d done a pretty good job.
Painted wood walls reminded her of Irish cream, and the ceiling rafters were exposed. Upon a polished wide-planked wood floor sat sheet-covered furniture, still as ghosts. A fairly new sixty-inch flat-screen TV filled the space above two bookcases. A small brick-faced fireplace with a white-and-green painted mantel faced the opposite wall, its gaping mouth dark and hollow. Above it sat a large photo in a frame. Emily moved toward it, and swallowed hard. She grazed the polished wooden frame with her fingertips, and her eyes roamed the faces staring back at her; herself, Reagan and their parents, sitting on their dock at sunset. Emily sat in their father’s lap, while Reagan sat in their mother’s. Their mom rested her head against their father’s shoulder.
Emily remembered the day Aunt Cora had taken that photo, three weeks before the accident. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. Could she do this? Could she make it through all this? By herself?
Yes, yes she could. She had to. Stop questioning yourself, Quinn. Sheesh.
Emily drew a few deep breaths and moved slowly through the small, quiet river house, down the hallway to what used to be her and Reagan’s bedroom. From the shapes beneath the sheets, Aunt Cora had turned it into an office, more than likely running the Windchimer’s finances from home. She would have to dig in right away and see if she could make heads or tails out of all that paperwork. Emily’s eyes roamed the room, to where their twin beds used to be. Reagan’s had been all pink and frilly; hers was Scooby-Doo. She continued down the hall, peeking inside the bathroom and then her parents’ old room. More white ghosts sat dormant in the filtered light. A huge sheeted bed, minus the mattress and box spring, rested catty-corner, and a small pair of French doors opened up onto the covered porch. Emily turned and headed back up the hallway. Aunt Cora hadn’t been a pack rat—that was for sure. Just the bare necessities, so it seemed. The movers would arrive tomorrow with Emily’s belongings, and then she could start settling in. For tonight, though, she had her overnight bag, a pillow, sheet and blanket.
Across from the living room, Emily walked through a white-trimmed archway leading into the kitchen. Everything was just as she remembered. A smile pulled at her mouth as she made her way to the mammoth white porcelain sink, its vast picture window facing the marsh and Morgan’s Creek. With her eyes closed, she could easily see her mom, clear as day standing there, baking oatmeal-raisin cookies, or cooking supper.
Slowly, Emily opened her eyes. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the magnolias and shot right through the window. Dancing bits of dust swirled in the light like so many diamonds. She waved her hand through it—
“Ma’am, the front door was open and—”
“Whoa!” With her heart in her throat, Emily spun around, and backed up until her rear end bumped against the sink. Fear and adrenaline surged through her veins as she gawked, wide-eyed.
The man was a beast. Heavily muscled. Close-cut hair. He just stood there, like a solid rock. Muscles flexed at his jaw. An emerald gaze stared right back at her.
Then, Emily looked—hard. Dark hair—although buzzed short. A scar through his brow over very familiar eyes. She’d know those eyes, and that scar, anywhere, no matter how long it’d been. “Holy moly, I can’t believe who I’m looking at.” Then she simply shook her head in shock and gave a light laugh. “Well, you’ve grown. I still really love the color of your eyes, Matt Malone. They remind me of the green mossy algae that sticks to the sand at low tide.”
Something Emily deemed as confusion flared in Matt Malone’s eyes. Then, they widened. “Emily Quinn?” he asked. His matured, slightly deep and raspy voice filled the small kitchen.
Emily moved then and gave her old best friend a hug around the neck. No longer lanky, his body was warm, thick and hard as solid stone. “You remember!”
Then, she backed up and couldn’t help but stare some more. Matt Malone had really, really changed quite a lot in fifteen years.
Well over six feet, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, Matt loomed over her. He had the same long dark lashes that framed those trademark Malone eyes. Although his hair was shorn, the cowlick remained just off the center of the hairline near his forehead, and was as obnoxious and untamed as ever. The gash through his brow still stood out, like a brilliant bolt of lightning, just as fresh as the day Emily had given it to him when she tripped him during a race to jump off the dock. It now gleamed silver, intriguing. Gangly had turned into lean. Confidence, maybe arrogance, wafted off