Helen Brenna - Her Sure Thing

“Oh, no,” Sean interrupted before the thought could take root in the old man’s stubborn mind. “My life’s fine the way it is, thank you very much.”

Sean took great pains to make sure no one on Mirabelle had a clue he was looking for a wife. The last thing he needed was any of his well-intentioned friends setting him up with every single available female on the island. He could do his own vetting, not that there was much to vet on a small island like Mirabelle.

Besides, Grace Kahill wasn’t even close to what he was looking for in a woman. A pretty package was a good start, but more than anything he wanted a full-fledged partner in life. A woman who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty and who loved Mirabelle as much as he did. A woman who would not only be content living in this small community for the rest of her life, she’d be happy to do so. Forever.

Arlo chuckled. “I got news for you, son. You don’t know it yet, but your life ain’t as great as you think it is. Find yourself a good woman, and then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

He knew. “Yeah, well, she’s married, anyway.”

“Separated, is what I hear.”

“He came to the funeral.”

“Appearances, I guess.”

A marriage on the rocks? Only made for more baggage. “Doesn’t matter. I have absolutely no interest in a relationship with that woman. My summer’s going to be busy enough as it is.”

“Speaking of which…how’d things go down at the pier?”

“Fine.”

“Then where’s your son?”

Sean looked away. “Not exactly sure.”

“That doesn’t sound to me like everything went fine.”

“He left the ferry and took off toward town. Other than making sure he knows where I live, what was I supposed to do? The kid’s as communicative as a mule.”

“Go after him? Talk to him? Explain your side in this whole thing?”

“Yeah. I thought about all of those options.”

“And?”

“What do I know about being a father?”

“What does any man know about being a father until he is one?” Arlo nodded toward the main gate. “That him?”

Sean glanced down the drive and nodded. “Austin, can you come here a minute?”

The boy hesitated before finally skulking toward them.

“This is Arlo Duffy. You ever need anything or have any questions and you can’t find me, he’s the one you want.”

Arlo put out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Austin.”

Grudgingly, Austin shook his hand and mumbled a hello, then he cocked his head to the side. “That your house?”

Sean nodded. “Your suitcase is on the porch.”

“So where the hell am I supposed to sleep?”

Add a mouth to that chip on his shoulder. Sean bit his tongue, but the kid’s attitude was already wearing on him. “Take the hallway to the right before you get to the kitchen. Last door on the left. Bathroom’s next door.”

Austin walked away, and that was that.

“See what I mean?” Sean said the moment the front door to the house slammed shut.

“Can you blame him? He just found out his dad isn’t really his dad. He’s confused and angry.” Arlo sighed. “Give him a chance to settle in. Might end up not being as bad as you think.”

Sean grunted.

“Be patient. With him. Yourself. You’ll figure it out, son. You’re a smart, compassionate man.”

“Not according to some folks here on Mirabelle.” There was no doubt his bedside manner had been slipping of late.

“A woman just might improve your mood some.”

“Let it go, Arlo.” Sean headed toward the stables. He had to get back to work. “The last thing I need is more complications in my life this summer.”

And Grace Kahill was nothing if not complicated.

HER FIRST MORNING ON MIRABELLE.

The sun already streaming through the open window, Grace lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The sound of squirrels scrabbling up and down the trees filtered in, along with the chirping of robins and chickadees, cardinals and finches. There were no traffic sounds to interfere with their songs, no smog to ruin the fresh-smelling spring air. She should’ve felt rested and relaxed. Instead, she was tense and edgy.

Rather than the restful night she’d hoped for, even after taking two pain pills, she’d slept fitfully, if that’s what you could call that flip-flopping, sweaty tussle in the sheets she’d suffered through for the last six hours. No point in lying here any longer. That was about all the decadence she could handle for one morning.

Flipping back the covers, she padded into the bathroom, unzipped the compression shirt and stepped into the shower. Once finished, she quickly dried herself off and smoothed some medicated cream over her scars. The tube was nearly empty, but she’d be damned if she’d call her doctor for a refill. No doubt, he’d want her to come in for an exam.

Briskly, she slathered lotion on the rest of her body. Once upon a time, she’d actually enjoyed this part of her daily routine. She would’ve lingered, taken time covering every inch of skin and luxuriated in the feel of rich, scented cream. Since her accident, though, she hated the feeling of being naked and exposed. The sooner she got clothing on, the better. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d seen herself nude.

Spur of the moment, she spun around and stared at herself in the large mirror over the sink, took in every angle, every inch of skin. My God, what happened to you? That skinny, damaged body could not be hers.

Grabbing the bath towel, she strategically placed it over her left side. There you are. Almost. With the right clothes on, covering the right spots, no one would be the wiser.

But she knew. She always knew.

The memory of the look on Jeremy’s face when he’d seen her scars flashed through her mind. No wonder he’d filed for a divorce the day after her long-term prognosis. Scarred for life is what the doctors had said. No amount of plastic surgery would ever completely erase the injuries caused by the fire. Her usefulness to him had gone up in flames, along with the leather seats in her Bugatti. She was now damaged goods.

Quickly, she pulled on a clean custom-fitted compression shirt, zipping it up the front. For a moment, she imagined going about her day without the tight elastic fabric, but the thought had been immediately followed by a sense of panic. She’d gotten used to ever-present pressure around her upper body. There was an odd sense of security, she supposed, in the feeling.

In order to ensure her scars wouldn’t spread, she needed to wear the compression garment over most of her torso at least twenty-three hours of every day. That meant she slept and exercised in one and would be wearing one until the day her doctor said her scars had matured.

Matured. How ridiculous was that term? As if a burn scar could ever be anything except ugly.

She was stepping into a pair of white thong underwear, when the front doorbell chimed. Inching out into the hall, she glanced downstairs through the sheers on either side of the front door. A young man, more than likely a college student, stood at the door holding two bags of groceries.

“Newman’s delivery,” he called out, setting the bags down and knocking. “Hello? Mrs. Kahill?”

She hadn’t ordered any groceries.

The boy squinted through the windows on either side of the front door, trying unsuccessfully to see into the house. “Well, okay then. Call the store if you need anything else.” Shrugging, he set the bags down on the porch, turned and left.

Her stomach grumbled and she wondered what was in those bags and who had ordered her food. As if in answer, her cell phone rang. That had to be either Suzy or Amanda, but she didn’t want to talk to either one of them.