Susan Wiggs - Map of the Heart

The remote lowlands traversed a place of watery isolation, and the vibe felt entirely different from the pricey suburbs that clung to the western side of the Chesapeake. The road and town names reflected the region’s varied colonial heritage—Native American, Dutch, and English: Choptank, Accomack, Swanniken, Claverack, Newcastle, Sussex.

A series of winding, ever-narrowing roads took him past courthouse towns, fishing villages, and long marshy areas alive with shorebirds. Finally, crossing a narrow neck of land dividing the ocean and the bay, he reached the township of Bethany Bay.

The colonial-era town, with its painted cottages and old-fashioned buildings, had the lived-in look of a seaside village, the landscape and structures battered by wind and weather. Nearly every house had a boat in the yard, a stack of crab pots, and a web of netting hung out for drying or repair. The main street was lined with charming shops and cafés. He passed a waterway labeled EASTERLY CANAL, and a marina filled with pleasure boats and a fishing fleet. Then he followed the beach road along a three-mile crescent clinging to the Atlantic shore.

If he hadn’t been so annoyed at having to drive all the way out here, he might have appreciated the sable-colored sand and rolling surf, the smooth expanse of beach, where pipers rushed along in skinny-legged haste. A few surfers were out, bobbing on the horizon as they waited for a wave. A lone kiteboarder skimmed across the shallows under the colorful arch of his kite. A towering red-capped lighthouse punctuated the end of the beach like an exclamation point.

He was in no mood to savor the small-town charm of the remote spot. He had other things on his mind. Checking the business address on his phone, he came to a clapboard cottage about a block from the lighthouse. Gray with white trim around the small-paned windows, the cozy house had a front and back porch and a chimney on one end. It was surrounded by a picket fence and climbing roses, and a martin house on a tall pole.

He got out of the car, let himself in through the front gate, and promptly stubbed his toe on a garden stone carved with the words J.A. Always in my heart . Grabbing his foot, he let loose with a stream of cusswords he saved only for special occasions. Nothing said “You’re having a bad day” quite like a freshly stubbed toe.

He took a moment to compose himself before approaching the house. Under the brass mailbox was a logo that matched the one on her website—a line drawing of a vintage camera, with the name of her company—Adams Photographic Services.

He saw no car in the driveway. Maybe it was in the garage, an elderly structure with a sliding door on iron rails. He walked up to the front porch and knocked sharply. The air smelled of the sea and blooming roses, and was filled with the sounds of the waves and crying gulls. Two pairs of gardening boots stood on the mat.

He rang the bell. Knocked again. Called her number for about the fourth time and got no answer. Leaning toward the door, he thought he heard a ringtone inside.

“Do not do this to me,” he said to the voice mail. “It’s Finn—Malcolm Finnemore. Call me as soon as you get this message.”

He shoved a hand through his hair as if it would keep him from building up a head of steam. Maybe he could find a neighbor who would know how to get in touch with her.

Damn .

As she turned down the beach road toward home, Camille felt exhausted, her nerves worn thin after the ordeal in the ER. Julie was staring straight ahead, her face expressionless.

“Mom,” Julie said. “You can stop checking me out. They said I’m okay.”

“You’re right, but that doesn’t stop me from worrying. You have a contusion. You’ve never had a contusion.”

“It’s a fancy name for a bump on the head. Jeez.” Julie pointed at the house. “Who’s that guy?”

“What guy? Oh.” Camille turned into the driveway and parked. The guy Julie was referring to stood on her front porch, a phone clapped to his ear as he paced back and forth. He was tall, with a ponytail and aviator shades. His lived-in shorts and dark T-shirt revealed a physique of tanned skin and sinewy muscles. Shoot. Was this the courier sent by Professor Finnemore?

She got out and slammed the car door, and he turned to face her, taking off the glasses. And something unexpected happened—her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, yet she had no idea why. He was a complete stranger. But she couldn’t take her eyes off him. There was something about his stance and the way he held himself. He was just a guy, she thought. A stranger on her porch. There were a few glints of blond hair at his temples, framing gumball-blue eyes and a face that belonged in a Marvel Comics movie—he was that good-looking.

Well, hello, Mr. Courier Guy.

As she came up the walk, his eyes narrowed into a hostile squint. Clearly, he hadn’t felt a similar jolt of attraction.

“Can I help you?” she asked, stepping onto the porch.

He put his phone away. “Camille Adams?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Finn.” He hesitated. His eyes were now cold and flinty. “Malcolm Finnemore.”

Whoa. She took a second to regroup. This was not how she had pictured the nerdy history teacher. “Oh, uh, Professor Finnemore.”

“I go by ‘Finn.’”

She knew instantly the reason he was here, and why he looked so annoyed. “I missed the courier pickup,” she said. “I had a personal emergency, and—”

“You couldn’t have called? Sent a message?”

Julie came up behind her and mounted the porch steps, a surly expression on her face. “Hey,” she said.

“My daughter, Julie,” Camille said, her face turning bright red. “Julie, this is Professor Finnemore.”

“Glad to meet you.” Julie looked anything but glad. “Excuse me.” She edged past them, pressed the door code, and went inside.

“My personal emergency,” said Camille. Her stomach pounded. She had some explaining to do. “Please, come on in.”

His gaze assessed her, from her unkempt hair to her grubby work garb—stained shirt, cutoffs, flip-flops. Spilled developer staining one ankle. She held the door, feeling utterly self-conscious. Not only had she ruined his film, but she was totally unprepared to meet a client. She was dressed like a slob in her darkroom clothes, hair piled into a messy bun. No makeup. Not showered.

He gave a nod, passing close to her as he stepped through the door. Oh God, she thought, he even smelled good-looking. Ocean air and fresh laundry. And he exuded the kind of effortless grace she observed in the wealthy “come-heres,” as the locals called the summer people and power brokers from D.C. who came for the sand and sea. They tooled around the peninsula in their foreign cars, bringing their friends from the city for sailing trips and shore dinners, or cruising with the skipjack watermen to dredge for oysters while under sail.

Camille knew the type—arrogant, entitled, treating the locals like servants. She suspected he might be one of them.

Her house wasn’t ready for company either. Particularly not for a come-here whose film she’d destroyed.

Everything was just as she’d left it when the phone rang. Her morning mess was everywhere—yesterday’s mail, library books, towels that had yet to be folded, her bikini hung on a doorknob to dry, sand-crusted flip-flops kicked to the side, dishes waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher. Her now-scummy coffee cup sat abandoned on the counter next to her forgotten mobile phone, its screen indicating multiple missed calls.

“So … can I offer you something to drink?” she asked. Lame. She was always so tongue-tied around good-looking men. It was silly. She didn’t even like good-looking men. Probably because they made her uncomfortable. Particularly when she was about to deliver some bad news.