Restoring Hearts

When Rachel Shaw and Jack Fletcher meet on a sunny Georgia beach, it seems like the perfect start to a romance. There’s just one problem—neither one is the least bit interested in falling in love. They’re just looking for peace, and time to work through their losses. But Rachel’s aunt Eleanor and Fletch’s Gram have other plans. Their meddling matchmaking would drive Rachel and Fletch nuts if they weren’t busy restoring a house for one of Gram’s charities. Yet as they repair the house, it’s their hearts that begin to mend. Soon Rachel and Fletch realize they might be able to build a second chance at a great love.

“We meet again.”

As he parroted her words from Sunday back to her, she came to an abrupt halt.

Fletch gestured toward the overstuffed tote bags. “You look like you could use a hand. Where are you parked?”

Rachel finally looked up—and his breath jammed in his lungs.

Her jade eyes shimmered, and when she swallowed and moistened her lips, a twinge of some unidentifiable emotion tugged at his heart.

He cleared his throat—and softened his tone. “Your car?”

Rachel gestured to her right. “The silver Focus.” As she led the way soft wisps of hair that had escaped her braid whispered at the neck of her sleeveless knit top, calling out to be touched.

While she popped the trunk with the remote, he took a deep breath.

Don’t go there, Fletcher. Rachel Shaw might be attractive, but you don’t need a summertime romance. She’s the niece of your grandmother’s best friend. This would only complicate your life.

IRENE HANNON,

who writes both romance and romantic suspense, is the author of more than forty novels. Her books have been honored with two coveted RITA® Awards, a National Readers’ Choice Award, a Carol Award, two HOLT Medallions, a Retailers Choice Award, a Daphne du Maurier Award and two Reviewers’ Choice Awards from RT Book Reviews magazine. In addition, she is a Christy Award finalist, and Booklist named one of her novels a “Top 10 Inspirational Fiction” title for 2011. A former corporate communications executive with a Fortune 500 company, Irene now writes full-time from her home in Missouri. For more information, visit www.irenehannon.com.

Second Chance Summer

Irene Hannon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Many are the plans of the human heart,

but it is the decision of the Lord that endures.

—Proverbs 19:21

To the Hannon clan—

Mom & Dad

Jim, Teresa, Catherine & Maureen

My husband, Tom (an honorary Hannon!)

And to Jekyll…our special island

Thanks for the memories.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Chapter One

Man, could that guy swim.

Under cover of her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses, Rachel Shaw kept a discreet eye on the powerful shoulders cutting through the water a hundred feet beyond the crashing surf. The swimmer was moving as fast and effortlessly as the ubiquitous Jekyll Island dolphins that had been cavorting in almost that same spot yesterday.

And he’d been at it since before she’d arrived on the beach twenty minutes ago. Yet other than the few brief times he’d floated on his back while switching strokes, he showed no sign of tiring or slowing down.

Impressive.

A soft, snuffling sigh sounded close to her ear, and she looked over at the golden retriever flopped down next to her low-slung beach chair. He, too, was watching the figure in the water—until he turned to her with a pleading “Can we please swim, too?” look.

“Sorry, boy.” She patted his head. “I promised Aunt Eleanor I wouldn’t bring you home sopping wet. But we’ll play a quick game of Frisbee in a few minutes.”

At the word Frisbee, his ears perked up and his tail began to sweep the sand.

“I thought you’d like that. But give me five more minutes to veg.”

Leaning back in her chair, Rachel tossed her book into her tote bag, abandoning any pretense of reading. It wasn’t every day a woman got treated to such a demonstration of athletic prowess. And a quick scan left and right confirmed she had the show all to herself. Ah, deserted beaches—one of the beauties of summering on an off-the-beaten-path barrier island in Georgia.

Well, not quite deserted.

Her gaze swung back to the man in the water—who suddenly changed direction and headed for shore.

As Rachel followed his progress, her canine companion put his chin on her knee.

“Getting anxious, are we?” She gave him a distracted pat, her focus still on the dark-haired swimmer as she waited for him to stride from the sea like some mighty Greek god, all muscles and brawn and sinew.

Didn’t happen.

Instead, he washed up on shore like a limp piece of seaweed, then scuttled backward with his hands, away from the frothy surf.

Sheesh.

Talk about a letdown.

Adjusting her glasses, Rachel watched him fiddle with his ankle as he sat at the waterline. Maybe he’d had a close encounter with one of the jellyfish that were sometimes a painful nuisance here.

At the soft whimper beside her, she tugged the Frisbee out of her tote bag. Whatever was going on with that guy, he seemed well able to take care of himself.

“Okay, boy. You’ve been patient. Time for a quick game.”

After settling her hat more firmly on her head, she stood and moved away from her chair. Throwing against the stiff breeze would be nuts; better to face the swimmer and aim the Frisbee his direction.

As she made the first toss, the man rose to his feet, diverting her attention.

Squinting into the sun, she peered at his left knee. Was that an elastic bandage?

Even as the question echoed in her mind, he sent her a quick look, picked up the towel that was draped over his duffel bag...and turned his back without the merest hint of appreciative interest.

Huh.

That wasn’t the usual male response when she wore her swimsuit.

At the unexpected twinge of disappointment, Rachel huffed out a breath, straightened her shoulders and smoothed a hand over her hip. She might not be eighteen anymore, but her thirty-three-year-old body had held up fine.

Besides, why should she care whether a stranger noticed her? It wasn’t as if romance was on her agenda for this visit. Her goals were the same this year as they’d been for the past three summers: rest, recharge and renew. And a broad-shouldered guy who swam like a fish wasn’t going to change that—no matter how good-looking he might be.

She took the Frisbee from her eager companion and tossed it again, doing her best to give the other occupant of the beach the same I-couldn’t-care-less treatment he was giving her.

Except a gust of wind snatched the Frisbee and hurled it straight toward the man’s back as he pulled a T-shirt over his head—and her canine friend, in hot pursuit, was focused only on the soaring blue plastic disk.

Uh-oh.

“Hey!” Rachel jogged forward, waving her arms. As the distance between man and dog shrank at a frightening pace, her pulse tripped into fast forward and she doubled her volume. “Hey, mister!”

Just as the man turned, seventy pounds of golden fur took flight toward the broad chest.

Rachel came to an abrupt halt, cringed and closed her eyes.

Five seconds ticked by before she had the courage to peek at the scene.

It wasn’t pretty.

The man was flat on his back. Her aunt’s dog—not her dog, she’d be clear about that—was nosing through the guy’s stuff, which must have flown out of his duffel bag in the melee.

“Bandit! Get back here! Right now!”

Excellent retriever that he was, her aunt’s dog snatched up the Frisbee and streaked toward her, leaving the guy in the dust...er, sand.

“Hey! Bring that back!” Anger nipped at the man’s voice as he righted himself, yanked down his T-shirt and slammed on a pair of sunglasses.

Bandit bounded up, tail wagging, and sat at her feet—holding a flipper that was the same color as the Frisbee.

Great.

But, hey. Anyone could make a mistake, right? The flipper looked a lot like the Frisbee at first glance. Sort of. To a dog. Maybe.

Somehow, though, Rachel doubted the man striding toward her was going to see it that way.

Especially since he’d just been flattened by the dog in question.

Better to jump in fast and get the apologies over before he reamed her about losing control of her dog and threatened a lawsuit for bodily injuries. Although other than that bandage on his knee, he appeared to be in fine condition.

Her gaze lingered on the bandage. Dropped lower.

Wait.

It wasn’t a bandage.

It wasn’t even a real leg.

The man was wearing a prosthesis.

Good grief.

Her aunt’s dog had tackled a man with one leg.

Was there any possible way she could transform herself into a sand crab and disappear into the beach?

As Rachel stared at his leg, a blue Frisbee held by long, lean, sun-browned fingers appeared in her field of vision.

She jerked her head up, heat rising on her cheeks.

Smart move, Rachel. Add insult to injury by gawking.

“I think this is yours.” He passed her the Frisbee.

She couldn’t read his eyes behind his dark glasses, but she had no trouble deciphering his tone.

He was ticked.

Big-time.

Clenching the fingers of one hand around the edge of the disk, she leaned down, took the flipper from Bandit and handed it over. “Look...I’m really sorry about this. Are you hurt?”

“I’ve had more painful falls.”

Her first instinct was to glance back at his leg.

She quashed it.

“That flipper does look kind of like a Frisbee.” She aimed a distracted wave toward the appendage in his hand.

“A swim fin doesn’t look anything like a Frisbee.”

At his correction, her chin lifted a notch. Flipper, fin, who cared? “Maybe it does to a dog. And for the record, Bandit is very friendly. But when he’s focused on retrieving, he tends to be oblivious to everything else.”

The man regarded the dog. “Bandit. An apt name. I can see why you picked it.”

Rachel appraised him. Was that a touch of amusement in his voice?

Maybe.

She softened her tone. “Actually, he belongs to my great-aunt. So on behalf of both her and Bandit, I apologize again. You’re sure you’re not hurt?” Hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep her gaze from flicking down to his leg.

The sudden stiffening of his posture was subtle but unmistakable. “I’m fine. But you might want to keep that guy on a leash around kids. A forty-pound child wouldn’t have fared as well.” He leaned down and patted Bandit, but his cool tone suggested he was far less willing to forgive her faux pas. “And for the record,” he parroted her own words back at her, “I’m no more prone to injury than a man who has two good legs.”

With that, he turned away and headed toward his towel.

Rachel watched his retreating back, fanning her burning cheeks with the Frisbee.

That had gone really well.

Bandit nudged her leg, and she looked down at her canine friend. At least her aunt’s dog liked her.

“Sorry, big guy. I think we’d better cool it for a while.”

Tail drooping, he skulked back to the beach chair and flopped down, chin on paws, angled away from her—the same cold treatment she’d gotten from the other occupant of the beach, who was packing up his gear to make a fast exit.

With a sigh, Rachel trudged back to her chair and sat. As she did, one of the slats emitted an ominous crack.

Three seconds later, she found herself sprawled on the sand, staring up at the dark clouds invading the blue sky.

And hoping her rocky start to this year’s vacation wasn’t an omen of things to come.

* * *

Why in the world had he gotten so bent out of shape because some stranger had been taken aback by his prosthesis?

Jack Fletcher strode toward his SUV, stabbed the remote on his key clip and tossed his beach gear into the backseat.

After two and a half years, he should be past all that. He was past all that. It had been months since an awkward or uncomfortable or shocked reaction had rankled him.

So what had happened back on the beach just now?

He slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine and cranked up the air. Instead of putting the car in gear, however, he rested his arms on the wheel and considered that question.

Most of the women he’d socialized with since reentering the dating game a year ago had never suspected he had a prosthesis. Why would they? After months of painful practice, he’d mastered a natural gait. And the couple of women he’d told—the ones who’d seemed as if they might have potential for more than a few laughs on a Friday or Saturday night—hadn’t appeared to be too bothered by the news.

Then again, they’d already known him when he’d dropped the bombshell. He’d made certain of that.

Too bad he hadn’t had an opportunity to lay the same groundwork with the woman on the beach.

Expelling an annoyed breath, he shifted the SUV into drive. What did it matter, anyway? His mission here was straightforward and twofold: help Gram until she regained use of her broken wrist and try to keep his clients happy, despite the remote location. That was more than enough to occupy him for the next six or eight weeks. Impressing a shapely blonde with a friendly dog wasn’t part of the plan.

Besides, the woman had been wearing a wedding ring. In all likelihood, she was here for a short family vacation. Maybe she’d dropped her kids at the Sea Turtle Center for one of the youth programs and decided to grab a few rays while her husband played golf. Assuming she was like most Jekyll Island visitors, she’d be gone in a week.

If he was smart, he’d forget about her.

Fletch pulled onto the main drag—such as it was—and pointed his SUV back toward Gram’s. Not a single car passed him as he cruised down the island’s two-lane circular road...a nice change from the Norfolk traffic. And in less than five minutes, he was swinging into the driveway of the tidy cottage Gram now called home. The short distances between destinations were also nice.

He set the brake, snagged his duffel bag and exited into the heat. All was quiet in this octogenarian neighborhood. That, too, was welcome. He’d heard enough loud noises to last a lifetime.

Still...this island’s gentle, laid-back nature could drive someone who was used to action stir-crazy—unless there was an interesting diversion or two.

Like an attractive blonde.

Not going to happen, Fletcher. Suck it up and just do your duty.

Duty.

A twinge of regret echoed in his soul as he closed the car door and started for the house. Duty...obligation...responsibility—yeah, he knew all about those. They were part of Navy SEAL DNA, on and off the job. Forever.

He stepped up onto Gram’s porch on his artificial leg.

He was here for the duration. That’s how SEALs operated. They didn’t let people down. No matter the cost.

* * *

“Did you have a pleasant time, dear?”

Rachel pushed through the outside door to the screen porch and dropped her tote bag onto a wicker chair before responding to her great-aunt’s greeting. “It doesn’t get much better than an afternoon on a Jekyll Island beach.”

“True enough. Why do you think I moved here twelve years ago?”

She surveyed the woman across from her. Eleanor Kavanagh’s driver’s license might list her age as seventy-four, but one glance at her trim figure, wedge-cut blond hair and fashionable capris busted any stereotypical notions of the term elderly. “Don’t you ever miss Cincinnati?”

Her aunt let loose with an unladylike snort. “Not a lick. I didn’t have any complaints about my life there, mind you. I had a fine job that provided a steady income and a comfortable retirement—but being an accountant can’t hold a candle to running an art gallery.” She patted the retriever as he settled at her feet. “I see you kept Bandit dry.”

“It was a struggle.”

“I imagine.” Her features softened as she stroked the dog. “Good thing I didn’t go. Once he turns those dark brown eyes on me, I’m a goner. They’re impossible to resist.”

For some reason an image of the man from the beach materialized in Rachel’s mind. Though his eyes had been hidden behind sunglasses, she had a feeling they were hard to resist, too.

“Rachel?”

She blinked and refocused on her aunt. “Sorry. I drifted for a minute.”

“I noticed. I asked if there were many people on the beach.”

“No. I had it almost to myself.” She claimed one of the wicker rocking chairs on the porch.

“I thought you might. I’ve been sitting here for a while and I only saw one other person cross the access bridge over the dunes. He was leaving.”

Rachel set the chair in motion. “Yes. I noticed him.” No need to recount the whole incident with the Frisbee—or to mention her brief, charged interchange with the man.

“I couldn’t get a clear look at him from this distance, but he seemed fairly young...from my perspective, at any rate.” Her aunt swirled the ice in her glass of lemonade. “I don’t see many solitary young men around here. I wonder if he’s married.”

“No.” At her immediate response, Rachel frowned. For some strange reason, the image of his bare left hand was clear in her mind. “I mean, he wasn’t wearing a ring. But a lot of guys don’t. His wife might have gone shopping.”

“That’s not a big draw here.”

“True. There isn’t a mall in sight.”

“But we do have a century-old hotel that serves high tea and hosts croquet tournaments on the lawn, plus a wonderful restored historic district. I’ll take charm over shopping any day.”

“I’m with you.” At least her aunt was off the subject of the muscular swimmer.

“Speaking of charm...from the glimpse I had, that young man appeared to be quite handsome. You must have gotten a close-up look, if you could check for a ring.”

So much for any hope of changing the subject.

As warmth rose on her cheeks, Rachel leaned down to brush a few grains of sand off one of her flip-flops. “I didn’t check for a ring. I just happened to notice his bare hand when we exchanged a few words.” Maybe Aunt El wouldn’t spot the telltale flush.

No such luck.

“I do believe you might have gotten a bit too much sun.” Eleanor appraised her. “Your face is pink. Remember to take it easy for the first few days, until you get acclimated. And don’t forget the sunscreen.”

“Duly noted. With my fair complexion, I make liberal use of it at home in Richmond, too.”

Her aunt dismissed that comment with a wave. “Sun in the city and sun on the beach are two very different things. That young man certainly had a nice tan.”

Oh, brother.

Rising, Rachel reached for her tote bag. “I think I’ll go ahead and change. I have to be at the hotel in an hour.”

“When’s your first program?”

“Next week.”

“You’ve only been here two days—I wish you’d take some time to unwind before you dive into work again. That’s why I didn’t schedule you at the gallery right away.”

Rachel slung her tote bag over her shoulder and bent down to pet Bandit as she passed. “I’ll have a week off. Any more downtime, and I’d go crazy. Besides, I love being around children, so it’s hardly work. And I’m used to being busy.”

“Too busy, if you ask me.”

“Busy is good.”

“Not when it’s an excuse.” Her aunt gave her a shrewd look over the rim of her lemonade glass as she took a sip.

Straightening up, Rachel planted one hand on her hip. “For what?”

“Getting on with your life.”

She exhaled slowly. This was not a discussion she wanted to have during this vacation—but her aunt’s serious expression told her that while she might be able to escape it today, the topic was going to come up again.

“I have gotten on with my life. I have a great job helping kids discover their inner artist. I’m active at church. I have a lovely circle of friends. I prefer to think of my life as full rather than busy.”

Her aunt watched her for a moment. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”

Ah. So that’s what this was about. She should have guessed. Aunt El had dropped a few subtle hints last summer about the importance of romance, which she’d ignored. But there was a disconcerting determination in her manner this year.

Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a relaxing summer after all.

“It’s only been three years, Aunt El.” She tightened her grip on the strap of the tote bag, her voice subdued. “Someday I might go down that road again. But I’ve only just begun to entertain that idea. I’m nowhere near ready to act on it.”

Eleanor took another sip of her lemonade. “Well, you know best, of course. I just don’t want to see you end up alone. The way you love children, you should have a houseful of your own.”

A twinge of pain echoed in her heart. That had been the plan, once upon a time. But she and Mark had barely gotten past the launch stage.

She didn’t want to talk about that, either.

“Maybe it’s not in the cards.”

“The only way to find out is to play the game.”

Time to go on the offensive.

“But you never married, and you’ve always been perfectly happy.”

For one tiny second, a shadow darkened Eleanor’s eyes, come and gone so fast Rachel would have thought she’d imagined it—except for her aunt’s next words.

“I’ve been happy because I chose to be. Sometimes you have to accept what life hands you and make the best of it. But if I’d had the chance to marry and create a family, I’d have done it in a heartbeat.”

Rachel stared at her, speechless. Everyone in the family had always assumed Aunt El had been a confirmed bachelorette from the get-go. Spunky, independent, smart, witty—she’d always been viewed by the female side of the family as proof a woman alone could march to the beat of her own drummer and lead a joy-filled, productive life.

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry you never met the right man.”

A whisper of sadness echoed in the depths of Eleanor’s eyes. “I didn’t say that.”

Rachel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

The sadness evaporated, and Eleanor was once again her upbeat, no-nonsense self. “That’s a story for another day, my dear. You best get ready for your meeting at the hotel.”

A few minutes ago, Rachel had been anxious to break away from her aunt. Now she hesitated, her curiosity piqued.

Eleanor’s eyes began to twinkle. “You know, we all have our secrets, good and bad. Close as the two of us have always been, I daresay you haven’t told me all of yours, either...old or new.”

Her encounter with the man on the beach replayed through her mind, and once again her neck warmed.

“I thought so.” Eleanor sent her a smug look.

She was out of there.

“I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Rachel called the comment over her shoulder as she flip-flopped into the house. How in the world had they gotten on the subject of secrets?

And what secrets did her aunt harbor?

Yet as she dropped her tote on the bed and selected an outfit to wear to the hotel, thoughts of Aunt El’s secrets gave way to the solitary man on the beach. A tanned, fit swimmer with an artificial leg and no wedding ring who wouldn’t have given her a second look if Bandit hadn’t intervened.

We all have our secrets, good and bad.

What secrets did he have? Were they mostly good...or bad?

She pulled the puckered seersucker sundress from its hanger, running her fingers over the alternating rows of textured stripes. Smooth, bumpy, smooth, bumpy. Kind of like life—smooth patches followed by lots of bumps and wrinkles.

Based on his artificial leg, the guy at the beach had had his share of rough patches. Maybe more than his share. What had happened to him? Why was he alone? What had brought him to Jekyll Island?

Shaking her head, Rachel tossed the dress on the bed and detoured to the bathroom to touch up her French braid. She needed to switch gears and psyche herself up for her meeting with the new activities director at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. She hadn’t come here to think about strangers on a beach or dates or whether her busy...full...schedule at home was healthy.

She’d come here to relax.

And neither her aunt’s prodding nor an unsettling encounter on the beach were going to interfere with that plan.

Chapter Two

“Did you have any problem finding the beach access?”

As Louise Fletcher stepped from the house to the patio, a plate of cookies in hand, Fletch tried not to stare. Last time he’d come for a visit, his grandmother had been her usual self—short hair neatly coiffed in the tight curls she’d always favored, sensible flat shoes, modest-length dark skirt and crisp blouse.

Now she looked like an aging hippie. What was with the spiky blow-dried hair and the bare feet and the floor-length muumuu thing?

“Young man, you’ve been inspecting me like I’m an alien ever since you arrived yesterday.” She set the plate of cookies on the table beside him and eased into the adjacent chair, cradling the cast on her left wrist. “What’s the problem?”

That direct approach was new, too. Gram used to be much more soft-spoken and discreet.

Clearing his throat, he helped himself to a cookie. “You just look a lot different than when I came for Thanksgiving.”

“I should hope so. It took me a while, but I finally got with the program.”

“What program?” He took a bite of the cookie, letting the warm chocolate chips dissolve on his tongue. At least one thing hadn’t changed. His grandmother’s baking skills were still top-notch—though how she’d managed to make these one-handed, he had no idea.

“This is island living, my boy. We’re casual here. Throw out the girdle. Throw out the pantyhose. Throw out the curlers. I might be seventy-seven, but I’m not too old to learn a few new tricks.”

Aiming a dubious look her direction, Fletch shoved another cookie in his mouth.

“What?”

“You’re...different. That’s all.”

“I prefer the word better.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“I am—and that’s all that counts.”

Truth be told, her new feistiness was kind of a hoot. She and Gramp had enjoyed a long and happy marriage, but she’d really come into her own in widowhood and done things he’d never expected. Like taking that around-the-world cruise on a freighter a year ago, then moving here last fall without consulting anyone.

Not that he was certain he approved of this latest adventure. She was almost eighty, after all, and the closest hospital was miles away, on the mainland.

But Gram didn’t need his approval. She liked the changes in her life, and she was right—that was all that counted.

Even if this latest one had produced a broken wrist.

As if reading his mind, Gram leaned forward and fixed him with an intent look. “Now see here, young man.” The slight Southern twang of her Nashville roots was another thing that hadn’t changed. “I could have tripped over a shopping cart in any parking lot in any grocery store in this country. It just happened to be in Brunswick. And Eleanor Kavanagh, bless her soul, took fine care of me until you got here.”

She settled back, her expression thoughtful. “Funny how you can go through your whole life and then, in the last stages, find the best friend you ever had.” She shook her head. “All part of God’s plan, I guess.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing her again. We didn’t have much chance to get acquainted at Thanksgiving.”

“You can say hello at church on Sunday. You’re going to services, aren’t you?”

Fletch shifted and gave the task of selecting his next cookie more attention than it deserved. “No, but I’ll be happy to drop you off.”

“Still at odds with the Almighty, I see.”

He settled on a cookie he no longer wanted. “Let it go, Gram.”

Several beats of silence ticked by.

“We don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want to—but I intend to keep praying. And I can get a ride with Eleanor to church. So...you never answered my question. Did you have any problem finding the beach access?”

He leaned back in his chair. Good. She’d let the subject of his lapsed faith drop—for now. “No. Your directions were excellent. I would never have guessed there were access points tucked into the residential streets.”

“Most people wouldn’t. That’s why those beaches are usually empty. Did you have it all to yourself?”

“Almost.” Fletch chewed the cookie, visualizing the blonde. “I only had to share it with a woman and her dog.”

“That sounds about right. I walked that beach every day before I broke this,” she wiggled the fingers protruding from the cast, “and I never saw more than a couple of people. They were always friendly, though. Seems like beaches bring out the best in people. Did you have an opportunity to chat with her?”

Their brief exchange didn’t qualify as a chat, and as for friendly...not even close.

“I went there to swim, not talk.” He washed down the last of the cookie with a swig of soda.

Twin furrows creased her brow. “I hope you’re not turning into a recluse.”

One side of his mouth hiked up. “Trust me, Gram. The accident might have sidelined me for a few months, but in the past year I’ve led an active social life.”

The furrows diminished a bit. “So in other words, you’re just waiting for the right woman to come along.”

It wasn’t quite that simple...but close enough for this discussion.

“More or less.”

Her forehead smoothed out. “Nice to know. Because your brother doesn’t seem in any hurry to get married, and I want to enjoy some grandbabies before the good Lord calls me home.”

Fletch’s fingers tightened on the empty aluminum can, the crinkling noise echoing in the sudden silence. After a moment, he set it on the patio table, pulled his cell off his belt and stood. “I need to return a call. Would you like me to take the cookies inside?”

“Please. Otherwise, I’ll eat too many—and I made them for you. That’s not a chore I plan to tackle again until this comes off, by the way.” She lifted her cast. “So enjoy them.”

“I appreciate the effort.” Fletch bent down and kissed her forehead. “But no more heavy cooking. I can take over a lot of the KP while I’m here. It won’t be up to your standards, but we’ll get by.”

She waved the offer aside. “I can prepare simple things. The least I can do is feed you after disrupting your life. I don’t know what I’d have done if your work wasn’t portable.”

“Well, it is and I’ll manage fine with the island as a temporary base.” Not quite true, but no need to lay any guilt on Gram about the inconvenience.

“You have to promise me you’ll build in some social time, though. I don’t expect you to wait on me hand and foot. Besides, you’re not getting any younger. You need to think about settling down and starting a family.”

Gram’s new lifestyle might be casual and laid-back, but she clearly hadn’t dialed down her determination see him married.

“Thirty-five isn’t exactly over the hill.”

“No...but you don’t want to be dealing with night feedings and diapers in your forties if you can help it.”

Fletch forced his lips into the semblance of a smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Juggling the plate of cookies in his hand, he reentered the house. Only then did he allow the corners of his mouth to flatten.

Gram was right.

He wasn’t getting any younger.

But he had secrets she didn’t know. Guilt that ate at his soul. Grief that remained raw after two and a half years.

It would take a very special woman to deal with all the baggage he carried.

And so far, he was batting zero.

Leaving him less than upbeat that his chances were going to improve anytime soon.

* * *

As Eleanor slowed the car to a stop on a tiny lane that bisected the interior of the island, she gestured toward a small bungalow. “That’s Louise’s house.”

Rachel surveyed the well-kept cottage, the tidy yard and the flower-rimmed sidewalk that led to the front door. “It’s charming. How’s she adjusting to island life?”

“After only eight months, you’d think she was a native. Took to it like a duck to water. I knew she would the day we met at church.” Eleanor glanced from her watch to the door. “That broken wrist must be slowing her down, though. Louise is always punctual—and she hates to be late for services.”

“Would you like me to ring the bell?”

Eleanor tapped her finger on the steering wheel. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. Maybe she could use a hand with a zipper or something.”

“No problem. We should be fine. The church is only five minutes from here.”

Her aunt chuckled. “Everything’s five minutes from here.”

“Good point. I’ll be back in a sec.” Grinning, Rachel slid out, followed the path to the door and pressed the bell.

Fifteen seconds ticked by.

She tried again.

Another fifteen seconds passed.

A flicker of alarm nudged up her pulse.

Had Louise fallen again? Was she ill? Had she forgotten Aunt El’s offer of a ride and made other arrangements? Should they...

At the sound of a lock sliding on the other side of the door, she exhaled. There wasn’t a problem after all.

As the knob turned, Rachel lightened her expression, prepared to greet her aunt’s new best friend...and froze.

What on earth was the man from the beach doing here?

While she stared at him, he stared back.

She found her voice first. “We meet again.”

He looked past her, toward the car where Aunt El waited. “I take it you’re somehow connected to Eleanor.”

“Great-niece. I take it you’re connected to Louise.”

“Grandson.”

She tried to think of something else to say. Failed.

He seemed to be having the same problem.

“Is that you, Rachel?” Louise’s cheery greeting sounded from within the house, and a moment later she hurried into view.

Once again Rachel found herself staring.

Was this flower-child senior with the mod hair, funky sandals and colorful knee-length caftanlike garment the same quiet, conservatively dressed woman who’d shared Christmas dinner with her and Aunt El?

The woman gathered her into a one-handed hug as Rachel tried to process the transformation.

“Let me look at you.” Louise backed off to scrutinize her. “Pretty as a picture, just like I remember. How do you like the new me?” She did a pirouette, her eyes twinkling.

“Um...it’s different.” Rachel studied the older woman. “But I like it.”

Louise laughed. “The very thing Fletch said. The different part, anyway. I’m not sure he’s sold on the updates, but life’s full of surprises, isn’t it? By the way, let me introduce you two.”

“We’ve met.” The swimmer’s face was unreadable.

“Is that right?” Louise swiveled her head from one to the other.

Since the man in question didn’t seem inclined to offer any more information, Rachel spoke up. “We ran into each other at the beach on Wednesday.”

“Literally.” He folded his arms. “Her dog knocked me down.”

“Aunt El’s dog,” Rachel corrected.

Louise’s eyes widened. “Rachel was the woman with the dog you mentioned?”

“Small world, I guess.” Fletch leaned a shoulder against the door.

“True enough. Especially on Jekyll Island.” Louise beamed at him. “Now isn’t this nice? Two young people at loose ends for the summer.”

Her grandson straightened up at once, annoyance tightening his features. “I’m not at loose ends, Gram. When I’m not helping you, I’ll be working.”

“Not 24/7.”

Warmth stole onto Rachel’s cheeks. It was obvious to her, if not to Louise, that this Fletch guy had zero interest in her. And that was fine. If she ever decided to go out on a date again, it would be with someone who wanted to spend time with her, not someone shoved her direction by an overeager if well-meaning relation.

And he’d been shoved, no question about it. Why else would he have shown up on Aunt El’s beach, halfway around the island, when there were perfectly fine beaches much closer?

If his sudden scowl was any indication, he’d come to the same conclusion.

As the silence lengthened, Rachel edged away from the door—and the man. “I think we’d better leave or we’ll miss the opening hymn.”

Louise consulted her watch. “Goodness, you’re right. Fletch, are you certain I can’t convince you to come?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation there. An aversion to church—or to her?

Rachel straightened her shoulders and crooked her elbow. “Why don’t you take my arm, Louise, just to be safe?”

“Don’t mind if I do. It doesn’t hurt to be extra careful until I ditch this thing.” Louise lifted the cast. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Fletch.”

“No rush. I’ve got some work to do.”

Louise shot him a pointed look. “In my day, people didn’t work on Sundays.”

“Times change.” Fletch edged the door closed as Louise exited, as if he couldn’t be rid of them fast enough.

“And not always for the better.” The door clicked shut before his grandmother finished her reply. She frowned at the closed door. “Now where are that boy’s manners? He didn’t even say goodbye to you.”

Rachel guided her down the walk. “Maybe he has a lot on his mind.” Or he’s just plain rude.

The latter seemed more than plausible.

“That doesn’t excuse bad manners. I’ll have to have a talk with him after I get back.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. That would go over real well. Louise’s grandson struck her as a take-charge kind of guy who wouldn’t appreciate criticism. A scolding from his grandmother wasn’t likely to endear Eleanor’s niece to him.

But who cared? There was no reason for their paths to cross again. Now that they were both on to his grandmother’s—and perhaps Aunt El’s—transparent beach strategy, he’d no doubt get his rays elsewhere. It didn’t sound as if she’d run into him at church, either. Nor did he seem like the gallery-visiting type, so the odds he’d stop in to Aunt El’s shop were nil. They could each go their separate ways and spend their summers exactly as they’d intended.

Everything was good.

Rachel helped Louise into the front passenger seat, glancing back at the older woman’s cottage as she reached for the back door. For one tiny instant, she thought she detected a shadow at the window, as if someone had been watching them. Not much chance of that, though, given the man’s reaction to her today—and on the beach.

But if everything was good, how was she supposed to explain the little wave of disappointment that suddenly dimmed her spirits?

* * *

Fletch finished setting the table and strolled over to the stove, giving the simmering pot an appreciative sniff as he stopped beside Gram. “That smells fantastic.”

“Shrimp and scallop risotto. It’s one of my staples these days—but I must say, it’s wonderful to have someone to share it with.” Gram added more liquid to the mixture and continued to stir. “You missed a fine sermon today, by the way. Reverend Carlson talked about...” The jingle of the phone cut her off.

“Want me to get that?”

She shot a dark look toward the portable in its cradle. “If you wouldn’t mind. Risotto needs constant attention.”

He moved down to the other end of the counter, grateful for the reprieve from a recap of the minister’s remarks, and picked up the remote. After exchanging hellos with Eleanor, he carried the phone back to his grandmother and held it out. “She says it’s important.”

Gram shoved the heavy spoon into his hand. “Keep stirring or the rice will sink and stick to the bottom and we’ll end up with a burned mess instead of dinner.”

Without waiting for a reply, she took the phone and greeted her friend.

Leaning one shoulder against the adjacent wall, Fletch kept the spoon moving as Gram talked.

“No, I have a minute. I put Fletch in charge of the risotto.” In the silence that followed, her brow wrinkled. “Oh, my. That is a problem. We were counting on them.”

More silence as she paced over to the rear window by the sink. Although she looked out, Fletch had a feeling she wasn’t seeing the stately live oak dripping with Spanish moss that dominated her backyard.

“Yes, I do understand. These things happen.” Gram sighed. “I guess we’ll have to cancel the second half of the summer, too. Everyone will be so disappointed.”

Fletch continued to stir as Gram went back into listening mode. As he watched, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth, and her expression shifted from troubled to pensive. “Yes, I see what you’re saying. Everything does happen for a reason.” More silence. “That sounds like a plan. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow morning and put the committee meeting on my calendar for tomorrow night at seven. Talk to you soon.”

After replacing the handset in the cradle, she rejoined him at the stove.

“Problems?” He handed the spoon back to her.

“Yes. Such a shame.” Gram leaned close to the pot to gauge his diligence with the risotto, gave a satisfied nod and resumed stirring. “Last year, around Thanksgiving, some of us in the congregation got to talking about how Jekyll Island is such a wonderful family vacation spot. We thought it would be lovely to see if we could find a fixer-upper island house for sale, refurbish it and then invite twelve needy families to come for a week’s stay each summer.” She gestured toward the refrigerator. “Would you mind handing me the bowl of scallops and shrimp on the second shelf?”

“Not if that means I get to eat soon. My salivary glands are working overtime.” He crossed to the refrigerator and found the bowl.

“It’ll only be four minutes once I add those.” She gestured toward the bowl in his hands.

He pulled off the plastic wrap and rejoined her. “Want me to dump them in?”

“Yes, thanks. This one-handed thing is getting old.”

Once that task was completed, she went back to stirring and picked up her story. “Anyway, an older gentleman who lived on the island died last winter, not long after the congregation formed a committee to investigate the idea. He hadn’t updated his house in years, and since his family was eager to sell, things moved quickly. We got it at a bargain price, so we had enough donations to cover the full cost of the house. But the plan was for members of the congregation to do most of the renovation work. Then our retired carpenter had to have his hip replaced. Our retired electrician had a heart attack. Now I’ve broken my wrist.”

Fletch leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “It almost sounds like the project is jinxed.”

Gram sent him a stern look. “Don’t even say such a thing. Of course it’s not jinxed. It’s a wonderful project that could do a world of good for a lot of families. We’ve had a few setbacks is all. We got way behind on our timetable, and we had to cancel the reservations for the first six families. Still, we were confident we could wrap things up by mid-July.”

“But...?”

She sighed. “Eleanor’s the chairwoman of the committee, and she just got a call from the youngest couple in our group who we were relying on for some of the heavier cosmetic stuff—stripping wallpaper, painting, cleaning grout...that kind of thing. They’re only in their early sixties and much more agile than some of us. But her parents are in their late eighties, and her father’s had some sort of medical crisis. So they’re going back to Michigan for a few weeks.” She passed the spoon to him again. “That pot’s too heavy for me to deal with one-handed. Would you dish this up while I get our drinks?”

“Sure.” They switched places, and he scooped generous portions onto plates as she filled glasses with water and added a platter of sliced tomatoes to the table.

By the time he joined her and settled into his seat, she’d taken her place, as well.

“So the project is at a standstill.” He draped his napkin over his lap and picked up his fork.

“Not quite, but progress will be slow. I’m afraid we’ll have to cancel the remaining reservations.” Distress tightened her features. “I hate to disappoint those families, but I don’t know what else we can do. Let’s pray about it, shall we?”

His fork froze in midair, the aroma of the risotto tantalizing his nostrils. With a concerted effort, he forced it back to his plate.

Gram bowed her head. “Lord, we thank You for this wonderful food and for family ties. We thank You for allowing us to call this beautiful spot in Your creation home, whether for a lifetime or for a vacation. We pray that You’ll allow our church to find a way to give this gift of beauty and respite to the deserving families who need a break from the daily grind and who may also be in need of an infusion of hope. Guide us, Lord, and inspire us so that we can find a solution to this dilemma. Amen.”

Fletch picked up his fork again and dove into the risotto, which was every bit as tasty as the aroma had promised.

“This is great, Gram.” He wedged in the compliment as he shoveled in forkfuls of the hearty concoction.

“I’m glad you like it. That was another thing we were going to do for our guests—take turns providing meals. I was planning to make this for dinner one night each week for the family in residence. I figured it would be an upscale treat for most of them. Our pastor sifted through candidates he gathered from his clerical friends in economically troubled parts of the South, and they’ve all had some tough breaks. I expect most of them subsist on very basic fare. It reminded me how very blessed people like you and I are to have plentiful food on the table every night.”

Fletch slowed his pace. Gram was right—and he too often took his comfortable life for granted. “I’m sorry about the program. It sounds very worthwhile. Maybe some sort of solution will present itself and you won’t have to cancel out on the rest of the people.”

“Trust me, I’m adding that to my prayer list.”

He half expected her to ask him to pray, too—but she didn’t. Perhaps she’d finally reconciled herself to the fact that her grandson and God had parted ways.

Still...he hoped God listened to the devout woman across from him, who’d always had such a firm belief in the power of prayer.

And he hoped He gave her exactly what she asked for.

Chapter Three

As Rachel finished emptying the dishwasher, Aunt El pushed through the door from the attached garage, a thick file folder in hand. “Thank you for taking care of that, dear. I didn’t expect the meeting to run this late or to have to eat early and leave you on your own for dinner.”

“I wasn’t on my own. I had Bandit for company.”

At the mention of his name, the golden retriever appeared from the living room and padded straight for Eleanor, who stroked his head.

Rachel wiped her hands on a dishtowel. The usual sparkle in her aunt’s eyes had dimmed a few watts, and there was a slight slump to her shoulders. Even before she asked the question, she had a feeling she knew the answer. “How did it go?”

Eleanor set the folder on the glass-topped kitchen table and sighed. “Not great. If we had any additional money, we could pay people to do the renovations. But we needed every penny in the fund to buy the house, even though the sellers gave us a great deal and took part of the value as a tax write-off. With some of our key volunteers sidelined, we just don’t have the manpower to get the job done.”

“I’m sorry. I know how important this project is to you.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Her aunt patted her hand. “I guess I’ll make the cancellation calls to the rest of the families in the morning, between customers at the gallery. Right now, I believe I’ll take a bath and call it a night. Are you all set for your first program tomorrow?”

“Yes. Organizing the art supplies I hauled down from Richmond and getting the lay of the land at the hotel were my priorities today.”

“Did you work in any beach time?”

“A couple of hours—only because Bandit made me go.”

The golden retriever looked up at her and wagged his tail.

“Good for him. R&R is wonderful for the soul. Did you see Fletch again?” A spark of interest kindled in the older woman’s eyes.

“No. He probably found a beach closer to Louise’s house.”

This was the perfect opportunity to discuss last week’s obvious setup...but in light of the problems her aunt was dealing with, Rachel didn’t have the heart to bring it up. Besides, it was a moot point. If she’d read him correctly on Sunday, Louise’s grandson had been as miffed about their respective relatives’ manipulation as she was—which had flopped, in any case. There wasn’t much chance he’d want anything further to do with the rude woman who’d gawked at his artificial leg and sicced a seventy-pound dog on him.

“I suppose so.” Eleanor positioned the folder in the middle of the table, opened it and riffled through the sheaf of papers. “Such a pity to disappoint so many people.” She expelled a long breath and turned away. “Waffles at eight?”

“You don’t have to spoil me. A bowl of cereal is fine.”

“Nonsense. You can eat cereal at home. A visit to Jekyll Island should be filled with special treats.” Her aunt winked. “But if it makes you feel better, I’m glad to have an excuse to eat real breakfasts myself for a few weeks a year. The rest of the time I subsist on cereal, too.”

They had the same conversation every summer, and as usual, Rachel capitulated. “In that case...I’ll look forward to it.”

“In the meantime, sweet dreams. Bandit, are you coming?”

The dog rose from his sitting position and trotted after his owner.

As Eleanor disappeared down the hall, Rachel drummed her fingers against the countertop. It wasn’t even ten yet. Too early for bed and too dark to go for a walk on the beach. TV held no appeal, and if she dived back into the taut thriller she’d taken to the beach earlier she’d stay up far too late reading just one more page.

Maybe she’d end the day with a soothing cup of herbal tea.

Choosing a bag from her aunt’s large selection, she eyed the folder on the table. It was a shame about the church project—though she’d always thought it too ambitious for the aging congregation. Still, she couldn’t fault their generous spirit. They were living the values Reverend Carlson preached from the pulpit every Sunday and doing God’s work.

So why had He allowed obstacle after obstacle to disrupt their efforts to serve Him?

She tossed the bag in a mug, answers about the Almighty eluding her, as usual.

But she wasn’t going to let herself grow bitter. She would cling to the belief that He had plans for her welfare, not her woe. Plans to give her a future full of hope. Holding fast to that verse from Jeremiah was what had gotten her through the losses. That, and the love and support Aunt El had offered once her parents and brother had returned to their far-flung homes.

After filling the mug with water, she set it in the microwave, strolled back to the table, and leaned over to examine the contents of the open file. Twelve sets of stapled documents were on top, each containing two or three pages. The six at the back were held together with a binder clip. Those must be the people who’d already lost their chance to visit Jekyll, based on the arrival dates noted at the top of the cover sheets.

Rachel refocused on the set at the top of the pile. It was background information on the family slated to participate in the program beginning on July 14—in less than five weeks.

Joseph and Sarah Mitchell, ages thirty-seven and thirty-four, and their four children—Aaron, nine; Nicole, seven; Angela, four; Peter, six months. Joseph was an IT technician who’d been out of work for eight months...a victim of overseas outsourcing, according to the write-up from his minister. Hard-worker, regular churchgoer, loving father, devoted husband—the accolades were abundant. He was taking odd jobs to make ends meet, but they were struggling. On top of all that, they’d lost their oldest son in a bicycle accident a year ago. The stress had extracted a toll on everyone, and the family was in desperate need of a brief respite.

The microwave beeped, and Rachel wandered back to retrieve her tea.

If every story in the file was that heartrending, it was no wonder the sparkle in her aunt’s eyes had flagged at the thought of having to deliver more bad news to families who’d already borne more than their share of difficulty.

Dipping the bag in the hot water, Rachel returned to the table. A quick scan of the remaining sets of pages confirmed her suspicion. Every family in the file could benefit from a relaxing, carefree week on Jekyll Island.

As she sipped her tea, the warmth in the ceramic mug seeped into her fingers—just as the stories of these deserving families had seeped into her heart.

Was there anything she could do to keep more of them from being disappointed? She wasn’t a carpenter or an electrician or a plumber, but she could wield a mean paintbrush, knew how to rip up carpeting and wasn’t afraid of heavy-duty cleaning.

Would that kind of contribution make a difference?

Not likely.

But first thing tomorrow, before Aunt El left for the gallery, she’d offer anyway.

And even if her efforts wouldn’t be enough to prevent more cancellations, she’d still pitch in. Because helping with a worthwhile project this summer suddenly held a whole lot more appeal than spending her free time lying on the beach.

* * *

“You’re up early.”

As Gram entered the kitchen, Fletch finished typing the email, hit the send button and angled his wrist. Seven already? Somehow he’d lost track of the time. “I have a client in Europe who burns the midnight oil. I’ve been back and forth with him since four-thirty.”

Gram’s eyes widened. “Mercy! Do you always keep such odd hours?”

Odd hours? After military life, when he’d often gone two full days with no shut-eye while dodging bullets and freezing on a harsh mountainside, getting up at four-thirty didn’t qualify as odd. “Not always. I made coffee, if you want some.” He gestured toward the half-empty pot on the counter.

“I see you’ve already put quite a dent in it.” She moved across the room. “I heard you typing in your room after I got home last night, too. What time did you get to bed?”

“Around eleven-thirty.”

“Five hours of sleep isn’t enough.”

“It is for me.” Especially when nightmares plagued his slumber. “So how did your meeting go?”

She filled a mug and joined him at the table, frowning. “I think we’re hosed.”

His lips twitched. Gram using urban slang—another first. What other surprises would this trip hold?

He covered his amused reaction by taking a sip of coffee, then grimaced at the tepid brew. As he rose for a warm-up, he spoke over his shoulder. “How much would it take to get things up and running?”

When Gram didn’t reply at once, he topped off his mug and turned to find her regarding him with an expression he couldn’t read. “What?”

“Are you thinking of making a contribution?”

“Maybe—if it will wipe that frown off your face.”

Instead of disappearing, the indentations on her forehead deepened. “I wasn’t angling for your money.”

“I know, but I have some excess cash and it sounds like a worthy cause.”

A few beats of silence ticked by as Gram stirred some cream into her coffee. He could almost hear the gears grinding in her brain. “That’s a very generous offer. But you should be putting your extra money into a house fund of your own for when you have a family.”

That wasn’t the response he’d expected.

He tightened his grip on his mug. “That could be a long way off. The need you have is more immediate.”

She tapped a finger on the polished oak tabletop. “I’ll tell you what. Let me call Eleanor at a more decent hour and see what she thinks. In the meantime, I’ll give you some information on the families who are scheduled to come. If you’re thinking about investing in the project, you ought to have some idea of who’s going to benefit.” She started to rise.

“That’s not necessary. If you and your church think this is worth doing, I’ll take your word for it.”

She kept moving. “I’d feel better if you gave the file a quick read. Writing a check for charity is all well and good, but it means more if you know who you’re helping.”

Before Fletch could reiterate his protest, Gram had already disappeared down the hall.

Settling back in his chair, he opened the new email that had come in during their brief conversation. The project in Newark was heating up. They were going to want him on-site sooner rather than later for a walk-through. Could he make it a day trip so he didn’t have to leave Gram alone at night, in case she needed help?

In truth, though, she seemed to be coping fine except for needing help with buttons and zippers and can openers. As for getting around, Eleanor appeared to be more than willing to act as a chauffeur when needed.

So why had she been so eager to have him come for an extended visit?

As he pondered that, Gram appeared in the doorway, crossed the room and set a file beside him. “Here you go. Why don’t you take it down to the beach this afternoon and look through it after your swim? And if you run into Rachel, you might think about apologizing.”

He arched an eyebrow. “For what?”

“You didn’t even say goodbye to her yesterday when we left for church—let alone ‘Nice to meet you.’”

That was true.

But since he didn’t plan to see her again, what did it matter?

Not that Gram would buy that excuse.

“Sorry. My manners must have tarnished while I was overseas.”

“Well, polish them up. You were raised better than that. And you’ll need them if you want to attract a nice girl—like Rachel.”

“I don’t want to attract a nice girl like Rachel.”

She sent him a surprised look. “Why ever not?”

“I prefer to date unmarried women.”

She stared at him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“Your friend’s niece wears a wedding ring. I assume she’s married.”

Gram lifted her good hand to her cheek. “Oh, my. You’re right, she does wear her ring. I’d completely forgotten about that. No wonder...”

When her voice trailed off, he tipped his head. “No wonder what?”

“Nothing.” She fluttered her uninjured hand. “Just to clear things up, she’s not married anymore. Her husband died.”

His blond beach mate was a widow?

Three seconds of silence ticked by as he digested that bombshell.

“I should have told you that upfront, I guess.” Gram patted his shoulder.

It was on the tip of his tongue to probe for details—but he bit back his questions as the light dawned.

The broken wrist might have been Gram’s excuse for pushing him to visit, but she had a second agenda.

She and Eleanor had concocted some sort of plan to match up their two younger relations.

No wonder she’d insisted he visit the off-the-beaten-path beach on Sunday.

He sent her a narrow-eyed look. One fumbled attempt to pair up the two of them he could handle. But if she intended to launch some sort of intensive matchmaking campaign, he was out of there—broken wrist or no broken wrist.

As if sensing she was on thin ice, Gram leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I’ll let you get back to work now...and I’ll pass on Eleanor’s input about your donation offer after I talk with her.”

She opened the sliding glass door, making a production out of the one-handed maneuver—as if to remind him of her temporary disability. Then she carefully picked up her mug and exited. Once she was settled at the patio table, her cast resting on the arm of her chair, she paged through the newspaper on the table in front of her.

The picture of innocence.

Except Fletch wasn’t buying it. He might not be certain who this new version of Gram really was, but he did know one thing.

Louise Fletcher had always been strong willed, albeit in a quieter, more genteel way. When she set her mind on something, she could be as tenacious as a gull following one of the Jekyll Island fishing boats. And while other things about her may have changed since his previous visit, he suspected her determination was as formidable as ever.

On the plus side, at least she was transparent. Whatever plans she and Eleanor had cooked up to throw him and a certain blonde together could be thwarted. He was well versed in evasive maneuvers...and he’d have no qualms about using them.

Because the last thing he wanted to do was spend time with a woman who was fixated on his disability.

No matter how attractive she might be.

* * *

Rachel took a swig from her bottle of water and surveyed the large round table in the hotel conference room, where her eight enthusiastic charges were gluing the shells and other beach flotsam they’d gathered onto sturdy art boards.

This year’s first “Art from the Sea” session was a rousing success.

Almost.

Her gaze shifted to six-year-old Madeleine on the far side of the table. From the get-go, the little girl with the solemn blue eyes and wispy strawberry blond ponytail had seemed indifferent. As the other children giggled and dashed about, collecting their treasures on the beach, Madeleine had trudged through the sand, eyes downcast, empty bucket in hand. If Rachel hadn’t tucked a few shells in the bottom, the child would have had nothing to work with during the second half of the session.

As it was, she’d simply glued one small shell onto a corner of the board—and then, only when prompted.

Nor had she shown any interest in painting. Her watercolor consisted of a black horizon line with a gray sky and grayer water—even though the heavens and the sea had been a brilliant blue today.

“Rachel...shall I start cleaning things up?”

At the prompt from the college-age summer hotel employee who’d been assigned to assist with the session, she nodded. “Yes. Thanks, Lauren.”

Bottle of water in hand, Rachel made one more circuit of the table, offering praise and encouragement. All the children beamed at her—except Madeleine. The little girl just sat quietly, fiddling with one of the unused shells in the small pile beside her.

Twenty minutes later, long after all of the other youngsters had been reclaimed by their parents, she was still sitting there.

Lauren finished clearing off the table, moved beside Rachel and spoke softly. “Would you like me to have the desk call her parents?” She gestured toward Madeleine.

“Yes. I’ll stay with her until someone comes. I know you have other things to do.”

Lauren grinned. “Lunch is first on the agenda.”

“That’s my next stop, too. I’ll see you Thursday.”

As her assistant disappeared out the door, Rachel slid into a seat next to Madeleine. “I’m sure your mommy or daddy will be here any minute, sweetie.”

For a long moment, the child didn’t respond. Then she raised her chin and looked up with sad eyes. “My daddy isn’t here. And sometimes my mommy forgets about me.”

While Rachel struggled to process that poignant comment and come up with a reply, Madeleine spoke again. “You can leave me at the front desk, if you want to. That’s what people usually do. Mommy will look for me there.” She tilted her head. “How come you know so much about painting and stuff?”

It took Rachel a few seconds to switch gears. “I’m an art teacher. Most of my students are just a couple of years older than you.”

“Do you have any little girls or boys of your own?”

A jolt ripped through her at the unexpected question, twisting her stomach into an all-too-familiar knot. “No.”

“How come?”

Her lungs stalled. She didn’t talk about that subject. Ever. To anyone. “It’s a long story.”

The little girl heaved a sigh and poked at the shell she’d glued to the cardboard. “That’s what grown-ups always say when they don’t want to answer questions.” The still-soft glue gave way, and the shell popped off the board, leaving the space empty.

Rachel plucked it from the floor, struggling to come up with a response as she pressed it back into position, trying to repair the child’s artwork.

But a loud rumble from the youngster’s stomach gave her an excuse to change the subject. “Are you hungry?”

Madeleine nodded.

“Let’s see what I can find in my tote bag.” As she reached for it, Rachel took a mental inventory. The children in today’s class had been too occupied to think about food, so her snack supply was intact. Cheese crackers or a chocolate chip granola bar? She’d let Madeleine choose.

She rummaged around and pulled out the two items. Madeleine went straight for the salty snack.

By the time Rachel retrieved a bottle of water for her from the ice-filled tub on a side table, the girl had devoured half of the crackers. Twisting off the cap, Rachel retook her seat and set the bottle beside her. “What did you have for breakfast?”

“I dint hav brefus.” The words came out garbled as she wolfed down another cracker.

Rachel frowned. No breakfast? That meant Madeleine hadn’t eaten for fifteen hours, minimum.

What was wrong with this child’s mother?

She fished another pack of crackers out of her bag and handed them over, doing her best to curb her anger at the blatant neglect. “Do you skip breakfast a lot?”

“Not at home. I eat at day care.” She wrinkled her nose. “The food isn’t real good, though. In hotels, I only eat if room service comes before we have to leave.”

“It sounds like you travel around a lot.”

“Mmm-hmm. Mommy has lots of meetings in different places. She has a very important job.”

Apparently more important than feeding her child and picking her up on time.

As that thought flashed through her mind, the door to the conference room opened and a thin, thirtysomething woman in business attire, cell phone in hand, pushed through. Once she spotted them, she held up one finger and continued her phone conversation.

“I need the revised data in thirty minutes, max. Email a new PowerPoint slide to illustrate it, and send as much backup as possible.” Silence while she tapped her foot and huffed out a breath. “Look, it’s lunchtime here, too. Deal with it.” She jabbed a button and slid the phone back on her belt as she strode across the room. “Sorry I’m late. I thought this was an all-day program.”

Rachel rose. “The Club Juniors program runs a full day. Art from the Sea is a special half-day offering.”

A flicker of annoyance darkened the woman’s eyes. “Too bad someone didn’t bother to explain that when I signed Madeleine up. Now I’ll have to make other arrangements for the afternoon—and I have to be back at the convention center in half an hour to finish my presentation.”

“I can take care of Madeleine for the rest of the day if you’d like.” The words spilled out before Rachel could stop them.

The child’s mother did a double-take, clearly as surprised by the offer as Rachel was—but she wasted no time accepting. “That would be great. I’m sure you’re qualified to work with children or the hotel wouldn’t have hired you. Since I’ve arranged a sitter for my business dinner this evening, I’d only need you to take care of her until six.”

“Fine. We’ll meet you in the lobby then.”

“I’ll discuss compensation with you later and reimburse you for any expenses.” The woman swiveled around and started for the door.

“I drew a picture, Mommy.”

At her daughter’s soft comment, the woman looked over her shoulder without slowing her pace. “You can show me later. Be good for the nice lady.” She disappeared out the door.

The room went silent.

Rachel caught the slight tremble in Madeleine’s lower lip—and had a sudden urge to yank the mother back into the room by her trendy layered hair and give her a piece of her mind. Since that wasn’t possible, she’d do the next best thing. She’d put the little girl center stage for the next five and a half hours and lavish her with attention.

Adopting a bright tone, she stood. “Have you been to the Sea Turtle Center yet?”

Madeleine shook her head and rose more slowly, gathering up her watercolor and the art board with the single shell clinging tenuously to the corner.

“Then we’ll go there after lunch. It’s one of my favorite places on the island.”

The little girl didn’t respond as she walked over to the trash can in the corner and deposited her halfhearted attempts at art.

Rachel had no difficulty interpreting the child’s reasoning. Since no one was going to admire or gush over her handiwork, why bother saving it?

Taking her hand, Rachel led her from the room.

All the while wondering why God gave children to women who couldn’t care less about being a parent but snatched them away from those who yearned to be mothers.

Chapter Four

Fletch glanced in his rearview mirror, started to back out of the parking lot at the Sea Turtle Center—and jammed on his brake as an attractive blonde came into view.

She was some distance away, at the edge of the lot for the hotel, burdened down with two large tote bags and a shoulder purse as she wove among the cars. Yet he had no trouble identifying her.

Rachel Shaw.

But it was a different Rachel Shaw than the feisty woman he’d encountered on the beach and at Gram’s house.

This Rachel’s bent head and slumped shoulders communicated weariness—or discouragement...or both. What had happened to dampen her spunky spirit?

He frowned as he continued to follow her progress. He ought to just leave. The mental state of Eleanor’s niece was no concern of his.

Yet for some reason her dejected posture bothered him.

Fletch drummed a finger on the wheel as Gram’s admonition about manners echoed in his ears.

Polish them up. You were raised better than that.

He blocked out the part of her comment about attracting a nice girl. His impulse to go to Rachel’s aid had nothing to do with creating a more favorable impression on her. But Gram was right. He had been raised better than to let a woman carry heavy stuff without assistance. The influence of his Southern upbringing might have faded through the years, but enough remained to niggle at his conscience as he watched his beach companion from last week trudge along—especially after her purse slipped and she almost lost her grip on one of the tote bags.

With a quick shift of gears, Fletch pulled back into his spot, slid out of the SUV, and wove toward her through the cars.

Rachel was plodding along, head bowed, when he stopped a few feet in front of her.

“We meet again.”

As he parroted her words from Sunday back to her, her chin jerked up and she came to an abrupt halt.

Fletch gestured toward the overstuffed tote bags. “You look like you could use a hand.”

Her gaze flicked to his leg.

His temper flared.

What was with her, anyway? She’d seen him swim, watched him walk without any problem on the deep, shifting sand. If they’d met under any other circumstances she wouldn’t know he had a prosthesis. What did he have to do to prove he was fully mobile—dance the tango?

Since that wasn’t an option even if he had two good legs, Fletch settled for grabbing both bags from her before she could protest. “Where are you parked?” The question came out more clipped and curt than he intended.

Rachel looked up—and his breath jammed in his lungs.

Her jade eyes shimmered with distress, and that braid thing she did with her hair accentuated the taut planes of her face. When she swallowed and moistened her lips, a twinge of some unidentifiable emotion tugged at his heart.

He cleared his throat—and softened his tone. “Your car?”

Rachel gestured to her right. “The silver Focus.” As she spoke, she led the way, giving him an excellent view of sandaled feet with polished toenails, shapely legs outlined by white capris and a trim waist belted with a silky scarf. As for those soft wisps of hair that had escaped her braid...they whispered at the neck of her sleeveless knit top, calling out to be touched.

While she popped the trunk with the remote, he took a deep breath.

Don’t go there, Fletcher. Rachel Shaw might be attractive, but you don’t need a summertime romance—even if she could get past the leg issue. She’s the niece of your grandmother’s best friend. This would only complicate your life.

Check.

After setting the bulky bags inside the trunk, Fletch lowered the lid and faced her, searching for some innocuous comment to ease the tension that seemed to underscore their every encounter. “Must have been quite a shopping trip—though your frown would suggest it wasn’t successful.”

She positioned her purse in front of her and gripped it like a shield. “The Pier Road shops are more for tourists. Besides, I’m not a shopper.”

That was one thing in her favor, at least. How some women could roam through malls for hours with no agenda was mind-boggling. If you were going to a store, you made a list, bought what you needed and left. Anything else was a waste of time.

When the silence lengthened and Rachel didn’t pick up on his subtle offer to share what was bothering her, Fletch took the cue and stepped back. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

He expected her to return the sentiment and make a beeline for the driver’s seat.

Instead, she stayed where she was and caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Look...I’m sorry.”

At her off-script comment, he frowned. “For what?”

“I stared at your leg again.” Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks, but she didn’t break eye contact. “The truth is, I’ve never met anyone with an artificial limb. I always assumed it would be a major impediment, but you swim better than anyone I’ve ever met—and you have absolutely no limp. I’m awestruck...and totally impressed. But staring is rude, and I understand why you’d be offended. So I apologize.”

He appraised her in silence. Was her explanation on the level?

Maybe.

The sincerity and contrition in her eyes seemed legit. There wasn’t a shred of deceit—or pity—in her expression.

Meaning he’d overreacted. Big-time.

Fletch relaxed his posture and summoned up a smile. “Apology accepted. Let’s just say we got off on the wrong foot and start over—pun intended.”

Her eyes widened, as if she hadn’t expected him to find any humor in the situation, and then her own lips wobbled up. “Thanks for being a good sport about it.”

“It’s either that or go through life feeling sorry for myself. So what brought you to the historic area today?”

Rachel’s tremulous smile faded. “I teach a children’s art class at the hotel two days a week every summer. Today was my first session of the season.”

“It didn’t go well?”

“Most of the kids had a great time. But there was one little girl...” Her voice trailed off and she gave him an apologetic shrug. “I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to my tale of woe.”

Yeah, he did. Newark was expecting an answer to a lengthy email, and he had some schematics to review for a new military aircraft manufacturing facility in Washington state. He also had to prep for a wee-hours-of-the-morning conference call with one of his European clients.

But as the dipping sun gilded Rachel’s hair and she looked up at him with those vivid green eyes, work was suddenly the furthest thing from his mind.

“To be honest, I’m at loose ends for a couple of hours. I dropped Gram off at the Sea Turtle Center for some special event she’s helping with, and I was going to grab a quick dinner. Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you what. If you keep me company during dinner, I’ll listen to your tale.”

As the words hung in the air between them, Fletch frowned. Where in the world had that come from?

Rachel seemed clueless, too. She gave him a wary look and played with the strap of her purse. “Aunt El had a meeting at church, but she was going to leave me a plate in the fridge.”

There’s your out, Fletch. Take it.

But once again, foolish words slipped out.

“Eat it for lunch tomorrow.”

What was going on here?

Before he had a chance to ponder that question, Rachel did that distracting lip-moistening thing again, drawing his attention to the soft curve of her mouth. The woman had great lips. Lush and full and very kissable...

“Okay.”

He jerked his gaze back to her eyes. “What?”

“I said I’d have dinner with you.”

Dinner. Right.

Fletch did his best to keep the heat on his neck from creeping above the collar of his sport shirt. “Great. Any recommendations? Everything was shut down when I came at Christmas, and I’ve only been here for a few days this trip.”

“Fins is pleasant. It’s on the other side of the island, but Shell Road cuts straight through. It has a deck that overlooks the beach, if you like to eat outside.”

“Works for me. I’ll follow you.” Fletch gestured across the parking lot. “I’m in the black Explorer.”

Rachel eyed it. “That looks very tactical—which seems appropriate for a former Navy SEAL.”

He folded his arms. “You know my background?”

“Only a few basics. Aunt El’s been dropping crumbs since Sunday. In case you haven’t figured it out, it was no accident we were both on that otherwise empty beach.”

“I figured it out.” But Gram had been far less forthcoming with information about the woman standing in front of him. It was hard to blame her, though, given his clear back-off messages. “What else did she tell you?”

Rachel lifted one shoulder. “Very little. I didn’t encourage her for fear I’d send the wrong message.”

“Which would be...?”

Her cheeks pinkened again, but she didn’t shy away from the question. “Aunt El’s decided I need some romance in my life, even though I’ve told her I’m not in the market. I have a feeling she’ll latch on to anyone I show the remotest interest in—especially if that person is someone she’s already decided might be suitable. So I’ve been playing down our meeting. All I know is that you lost your leg in the Middle East, you live in Norfolk and you’re involved in some kind of security work.”

“I know less about you. It seems I have some catching up to do.” Like finding out what had happened to her husband. He couldn’t ask Gram for the same reason Rachel couldn’t ask Eleanor about him, but maybe the woman herself would tell him.

She shifted and tightened her grip on her purse, her taut posture suggesting otherwise. “I lead a very quiet existence as a grade-school art teacher in Richmond. You’ll fall asleep in your seafood chowder if I tell you my life story. But I wouldn’t mind talking through what happened today, if you’re still willing to listen. It’s been eating at me for hours.”

Her message came through loud and clear: personal stuff wasn’t on the dinner menu.

And he couldn’t fault her caution. They were both here for brief stays. Their homes were in cities a hundred miles apart—not exactly convenient commuting distance. She was “geographically undesirable for dating,” as one of his buddies used to put it. Rachel, by her own admission, wasn’t interested in romance. The odds were against them even without throwing his own issues into the mix.

Yet he wanted to know more about her—out of curiosity, nothing more. And if he listened to whatever was on her mind about today, maybe she’d open up a little about the rest of her life.

“I’m still willing.” He circled her car, and she sent him a surprised look when he pulled the driver’s door open. “Gram reprimanded me for my lack of manners on Sunday. I feel compelled to prove I remember a few of the etiquette lessons she drummed into me in my youth.”

Without a word, Rachel slid into the car.

“See you in a few minutes.” He shut the door, worked his way back to his car...and found himself looking forward to sharing dinner with the lovely blonde.

Strange.

Much as he’d been annoyed at Gram’s and Eleanor’s orchestration of Sunday’s beach encounter, he suddenly wished he’d met Rachel Shaw under different circumstances—and that she wasn’t so averse to considering a new relationship.

* * *

Why in the world had she agreed to have dinner with Louise’s grandson—especially after he’d hinted he’d like to know more about her background?

Rachel guided her Focus along Shell Road, under the canopy of Spanish moss that clung to the towering live oaks, past the hotel’s golf course, alongside a family of bicyclists on a carefree holiday.

That was the kind of holiday she’d expected to have.

Instead, she was dealing with a well-meaning but misguided aunt who’d decided it was time for her to reenter the social scene, a forlorn little girl who was in desperate need of some TLC, and the tall, dark-haired man close on her tail whose sharp, insightful eyes told her he wouldn’t hesitate to introduce subjects she didn’t want to discuss and ask questions she didn’t want to answer.

Maybe she could just order a soft drink and an appetizer and make a quick exit—even if leaving him in the lurch to finish his dinner alone wasn’t the most polite thing she’d ever done.

But it would be safer. She knew that intuitively...and she trusted her instincts.

Settled on that strategy, Rachel pulled into a parking place, locked up and waited at the back of her car as Fletch angled in beside her.

As soon as he joined her, she started toward the restaurant. But at a touch on her arm, she stopped and turned.

“You know, it occurred to me during the drive here that we’ve never been officially introduced. I think Gram assumed we’d exchanged names on the beach.” He extended his hand. “Jack Fletcher. Fletch to my friends.”

She regarded his lean fingers. The mere thought of touching him set off a warning bell in her mind, but what choice did she have?

“Rachel Shaw.”

His fingers closed over hers—firm, strong and confident. It was the sort of handshake her father always referred to as a “John Wayne grip.” The kind that said I’m here, I’m wearing my white hat and everything’s going to be all right.

So why did she sense danger?

Taking a shaky breath, she tugged her hand free. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He gestured toward the restaurant. “Shall we?”

Without waiting for her to respond, he took her elbow and guided her up the slanting concrete walkway that led to the patio. It was a polite gesture, nothing more; the kind of thing some men did without thinking about it.

But it had been years since anyone had touched her that way.

And despite what she’d told Aunt El about not being in the market for romance, it felt good.

Her lips settled into a firm line. A reaction like that was all the more reason to end this evening as soon as possible. She carried enough guilt already about Mark. The least she could do was be loyal to him for another year or two. She owed him that.

Because if she’d been more attentive, he might still be alive.

Heart suddenly heavy, Rachel let Fletch lead her in silence as the hostess showed them to one of the umbrella-topped tables on the deck that offered a view of the beach beyond the dunes.

Fletch held her chair as she sat, then took the one at a right angle to her. “My compliments on your choice of restaurant. If the food is half as good as the view, this might become a regular stop for me.”

“I’ve never had a bad meal here.” She gave the menu a perfunctory scan and set it aside.

“A woman who knows what she wants.” Fletch picked up his own menu and smiled at her.

She found herself staring at the killer dimple that appeared in his cheek. How come she hadn’t noticed it before?

Then again, they hadn’t done a lot of smiling at each other up until now.

“Rachel?”

She tore her gaze from the dimple. “What?”

“I asked if you have any recommendations.”

“Oh.” She settled her napkin on her lap and dug around in her purse for her sunglasses. “You can’t go wrong with the catch of the day.”

“Sold.”

Fletch closed his menu as she slipped the glasses over her nose and hid behind the dark lenses. She would not be caught staring at that dimple—or anything else—again.

For a moment, she thought he was going to comment on her transparent strategy. But he let it pass as the waitress arrived to take their orders.

Fletch deferred to her.

“A Coke and shrimp cocktail.”

“And for your entrée?” The woman waited, pencil poised.

“That’s all I’m having.”

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