When Max Miller, literary agent to the semi-famous, had suggested he spread his wings and try his hand at fiction, Hunter had thought the man might have finally slipped his tether to reality. Hunter dealt in facts, facts caught by a camera and detailed by the words that flowed out of him as a result. But the challenge of doing something new had intrigued him. Even better, it excited him. Of course he’d locked in that promise seven months ago; three weeks later his entire life had been flipped upside down. His rather carefree, go-anywhere, film-anything lifestyle had ground to a screeching halt when Juliana and her husband had been killed. Now he was a single father living on the road, taking every freelance job he could in order to build up the coffers he suspected he was going to need in the very near future.
Coffers that could do with the serious dose of coinage a solid new publishing contract could bring.
Hunter’s chest tightened. The money was one thing. Time was another. He was down to one month. One month to deliver a saleable proposal to Max who, now that he was getting up in years and was culling his client list, was getting more difficult to please. So yeah. Hunter had four weeks left. And not a single, solitary idea.
The job offer from Gil had been a lifesaver, and while the project itself was going to take a tremendous amount of work, he knew one thing for certain: Butterfly Harbor could very well be his last chance for inspiration.
Phoebe was struggling with the strings of her new bag, trying to get her arms into them. Hunter quickly got her situated, then himself, and they headed out for their bikes.
Phoebe came to a stop on the top step, thumbs hooked in the straps of her bag. As she did every morning, she watched as Kendall reassembled her sawhorses and worktable and unloaded tools.
Phoebe pointed at Kendall and looked up at Hunter. “Yeah, I see her. Morning, Kendall.” He doubted he’d ever sounded cheerier in his life as he waved at their neighbor.
Kendall gave a quick wave before returning her attention to the plank-and-pipe scaffold erected around the lighthouse.
Why the gesture felt like a massive triumph, he couldn’t say. Still, she’d waved. Progress.
It wasn’t long before they reached the mayor’s office, currently housed in a two-story old saloon-style building that soared to the top of Hunter’s must-photograph list. Butterfly Harbor was fully awake. People strolled up and down the streets. Cars carrying daily tourists slid into parking spots as families and couples unloaded beach chairs, coolers and jackets to keep off the morning chill of California air. Personally, Hunter loved the brisk coastal mornings. It got his blood moving.
His cell phone rang after he’d checked in with Gil’s assistant. Hunter glanced at the screen, felt his body tighten at the familiar number. With Phoebe settled in one of the lobby chairs, he stepped outside to take the call. “Good morning, Lance.”
“Hunter. I believe you were supposed to check in once you and Phoebe got settled.”
Hunter wasn’t a man normally quick to temper, but Juliana’s in-laws’ lawyer had a way of triggering even the most calm of pacifists. “We only arrived in town a few days ago, so you saved me a call.” As if he’d been champing at the bit to report in.
“Is the child adjusting adequately to her new surroundings?”
“Phoebe is doing fine,” Hunter explained. “As the court-appointed social worker stated in an affidavit only three weeks ago.” A social worker he’d driven half a day out of his way to meet with.
“Has she returned to school?”
“Not yet, no.” But she would. Soon. At least he hoped she would. Otherwise her paternal grandparents were going to have even more ammunition to use against him. “But other than that, she’s functioning as she should be and within expected parameters.”
If Lance Dunbar, Esquire, picked up on Hunter’s sarcasm, he didn’t let on. “We would like the address of where you’re staying on record.”
Hunter rattled off the oddly structured address; it wasn’t as if the carriage house at Liberty Lighthouse had a street number.
“And how long will you be staying at this address?”
“For as long as the project takes me,” Hunter said as Gil’s assistant poked her head out of the door to wave him inside. He held up a hand and nodded. “I’d guess about two to three months.”
“And where will you be going next?”
“To be determined,” Hunter said. He could recite these questions in his sleep. When he could sleep. These questions, which were posed to him each and every time he took a new job, were what kept him awake most nights. “There’s a video-chat session scheduled for tomorrow evening with Stephen and Eleanor,” Hunter reminded the lawyer. “Can I assume this is a confirmation call for that?”
“My clients see no use in video chatting with their grandchild who refuses to speak to them. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.”
Hunter cursed himself for not having the forethought to record the call. “They could see her. She speaks just fine.” To people she trusts. When she feels like it.
“As I said, a waste of time. Please be sure to notify us of any location change as soon as it takes place.”
“Noted,” Hunter grumbled into the already-disconnected phone. These conversations were getting more abrupt and more disconcerting. Not for the first time, Hunter wondered how Stephen and Eleanor Cartwright had raised such a likable son. Brent had become one of Hunter’s best friends almost as soon as it became evident he and Juliana were serious. Hunter had served as one of his groomsmen at the wedding, and it had been Brent who had asked Hunter to be Phoebe’s godfather a few seconds after the little girl had entered the world. Losing both his sister and his friend had gutted Hunter, but he hadn’t been able to give in to the grief—not when Phoebe needed him. And she did need him.
No matter what Stephen and Eleanor might think.
Doubt crept in. A very small part of him wondered if she’d be better off with them, living a more traditional life with a home, school, friends, never wanting for anything because she’d have financial security. But then he remembered how Brent’s face would darken whenever the topic of his parents was raised, and how he’d say money didn’t equate with love and if it was the last thing he’d do, he’d raise Phoebe knowing she was utterly and completely accepted.
Which was why, no doubt, he and Juliana had designated Hunter as Phoebe’s legal guardian should anything happen to them.
Shaking off the unease that always descended after one of these calls, Hunter headed inside. “You okay, kiddo?”
Phoebe gave him a thumbs-up without even looking up from her book, the latest How It Works on astronomy.
“She’s good as gold,” the assistant told him. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“Thanks, I appreciate that. I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”
Another thumbs-up. Hunter headed up to the second-floor landing and the mayor’s office.
Had Hunter forgotten about Gil Hamilton in their years since college, it would have all come rushing back the instant he stepped into Gil’s space. The sports awards and medals lined highly polished redwood bookcases. Certificates of achievements, letters of commendation, photographs of Gil and his father shaking hands with some of the biggest political names of the time spoke of a life dedicated to...well, Hunter wasn’t entirely sure what. Clearly Gil had been busy in the last ten years.
But it was the sight of Gil Hamilton himself that had Hunter doing a double take. The man hadn’t aged a bit since they’d graduated college. Same sandy-blond hair, same classic polo shirt and khakis, although Hunter would bet he wore a suit more often than he’d be willing to admit. They’d cut classes a lot to surf,