Chapter 3

Willow

"Sleep. You need sleep and tomorrow this should all be over, Willow." The stressful breath that leaves my lips as I exit the small-town bar I stumbled upon when I arrived in Carrington Cove a little less than an hour ago has me feeling unsure about being here all over again.

And the owner—all broody and judgmental from the moment he laid eyes on me—he's the exact kind of person I want to avoid while I'm here.

One of the things I like about living in the city is the fact that people don't give a rat's ass about who you are or what you're doing. Everyone is too busy with their own lives, their own to-do lists and priorities, to be bothered about what's going on in the lives of others.

But in small towns like Carrington Cove, people make it their business to know your business, and that is not something I want to flirt with while I'm here, especially if those people look anything like that man, someone I definitely wanted to flirt with.

I've watched enough Hallmark movies to know what to avoid in a small town, and the man in question was wearing a freaking flannel.

That's like red flag number one!

It's not as if I've never seen a good-looking man before. I mean, I live in the capital of our country. They're everywhere—dressed in custom tailored suits, clutching briefcases like they hold all their power, smirking over cups of gourmet coffee, and eye-fucking you as you walk down the street in your heels and pencil skirt. Until they find out you're the owner of a multimillion-dollar business, and they only see you as a threat to their manhood.

Speaking of manhood, the image of that restaurant owner pops back into my mind for the fifth time since I left his bar, including the noticeable bulge in his jeans, indicating the size of his own manhood.

Jesus, Willow. Get a grip.

Ogling the citizens of this town while I'm here is definitely not on my to-do list, so I do my best to block out our brief interaction, start my car, and pull out of the parking space I found down the small one-way street near the building. I just needed a drink to take the edge off after the six-hour drive from Washington, D.C., and the eerie feeling I got as I crossed into the town limits—like this place held secrets and feelings, both of which I've been avoiding most of my life.

Turns out two drinks still wasn't enough to keep those feelings at bay.

After receiving that letter, let's just say unresolved feelings are all I've been able to focus on for the past few days—feelings a woman like me doesn't have time for.

I make my way down the two-lane road that winds along the coast, passing by small shops and businesses nestled tightly together along the boardwalk while the cove that offers the town's namesake glistens under the moonlight.

Part of me wonders what it would have been like to grow up in a place like this, where everyone knows your name, life is a lot slower, and people born here rarely ever leave.

Would my life be different if I grew up here?

The sign for the Carrington Cove Inn comes into view on my right just another mile up the road, so I take the exit and then pull into one of the empty parking spaces left in the lot. For a small inn, this place sure seems to be popular.

"Good evening." The cheery gray-haired woman behind the counter greets me as soon as I step inside.

"Hello. I have a reservation." I reach into my purse for my wallet.

"Okay, great. Can I have your name, please?"

"Willow Marshall," I reply, pulling out my credit card as the woman clicks away on the keyboard.

"I'm Dolly," she offers with a smile before glancing back at the screen. "Ah, yes. There you are. Good thing you called ahead. We're booked solid for the weekend."

"It did look like the lot was full out there."

"Tourists. Our little town depends on them for survival."

"Well, I'm not here for a vacation, that's for sure," I mutter under my breath.

The woman narrows her eyes at me, but a smile remains on her face. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"What gave me away?" I grin, appreciating how friendly this woman is compared to the bar owner from earlier.

Her eyes dance up and down my body. "Business attire, a purse that costs more than my mortgage probably…"

I decide not to give her a response to that remark because I'm pretty sure the answer is a resounding yes.

"What brings you to town then?"

I hand her my credit card and she finishes checking me in. "Just tying up some loose ends," I reply.

"Loose ends? Sounds messy."

"Messier than I need it to be or have time for." I flash her a tight-lipped smile as I take my card back from her. "So what room am I in?"

"104. It's the fourth room down that hallway to your right."

"Perfect. I'm guessing there's no room service in a little place like this, huh?" I'm partially teasing, but the other part of me is becoming increasingly aware that I'm not in the big city anymore and that means certain amenities I'm used to will be few and far between.

The woman winces through her smile. "No, dear."

"Didn't think so. Thank you, though." I hold up my silver key—not an electronic keycard like most modern-day establishments—and then turn toward the front door of the small lobby that smells of stale carpet and ocean air.

"We do have fresh muffins and coffee for our guests in the morning, though!" she calls after me. "Think of it as a continental breakfast, if you will."

"Good to know. Thank you." I tell her over my shoulder before I head for my car. I grab my suitcase from the trunk and stop to take in my surroundings. The vast, dark sky is a breathtaking expanse of twinkling stars.

Stars—gosh, when's the last time I saw actual stars, or even bothered to look up at them?

I shake off the thought and the twinge of sadness that resonates in my chest and wheel my suitcase to the door of my room, inserting the key in the lock, and jiggling it around a little before it finally turns and the door creaks open.

Oh my God. This is where I'm going to die.

As I take in my surroundings, all I can picture is the scene of movie where a woman stays alone in a cheap motel and answers the door when someone knocks, only to be kidnapped and murdered just for the main character to search for her body throughout the rest of the movie.

"This was a mistake," I mutter to myself as I close the door and lock it behind me, walking further into the room. The bedspread is made of rough cotton in a classic paisley fabric of reds, blues, and greens. The walls are a dark beige, and I can't tell if that's the color they were painted, or that color is a product of salty ocean air and age.

The bed is centered on the wall to my right, with a nightstand on each side complete with bedside lamps, and a red cushioned chair in the corner under the window. The room has one of those AC units under the window with the vents that blow up into the curtains, and on the wall to my left is a small tv stand and a box television that looks like it escaped from the '80s and is still surviving.

"I'm definitely not in D.C. anymore."

Once I'm changed, showered, and my teeth are brushed, I open my laptop, respond to emails that came in during my drive down here, and make sure my schedule is clear for tomorrow.

When I'm done, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking back over the last few weeks—how I ended up here in the first place, how this meeting tomorrow might go, and the letter that started it all.

And as I drift off to sleep, those familiar images come back to my mind—a woman with blonde hair like my own, a man whose smile I swear I can still remember, and the other memories I allow my brain to conjure up every once in a while—the ones I would have had if my parents hadn't died.

***

"There's not a Starbucks around here?" I ask Dolly when I make it down to the lobby, ready for the meeting I came all the way down here for.

She shakes her head. "Nope. Carrington Cove residents shut that idea down before it even made it to the town council."

"How did that happen?"

Dolly flashes me a knowing grin. "You'd be surprised what a group of strong-willed people are able to accomplish when they set their mind to something."

I try not to react, but instead swallow hard. "Noted."

"Anyway, that coffee on the table is the best you're going to get in town. Keely delivers it fresh every morning. She owns Keely's Caffeine Kick, the coffee shop on the boardwalk."

"Charming." I spin around to see a stack of Styrofoam cups and black plastic lids next to two insulated coffee dispensers, along with a basket of muffins complete with a red and white checkered cloth lining the inside.

"And the muffins are made fresh each morning by Greg and Jenny over at Sunshine Bakery."

"Well, okay then." I move to the table and help myself to the goodies as I feel the heat of Dolly's stare on my back.

"So what are you up to today?"

"I have a meeting," I mutter as I fill my cup to the brim with coffee.

"With whom?"

"Timothy MacDonald."

"The attorney?" There's a note of surprise in Dolly's voice.

I twist to see her eyebrows reaching her hairline. "Is there another one?"

"No. Just odd for an out-of-towner to be meeting with Tim."

"Well, like I said, I'm here on business."

Dolly hums in thought. "Well, you best get along. Traffic will start to back up along the parkway at this hour—tourists headed toward the beach and all that."

"Good to know. Thank you for the coffee and muffin," I say, and the memory of the bar owner chastising me about my manners pops up. But I don't have time to go down that road right now.

"Happy to oblige. Have a good day, Willow."

With one last smile in her direction, I hustle out of the lobby and back down to my car. Once I'm settled, a loud growl from my stomach reminds me I should probably eat, so I break off the muffin's crumble topping and plop it in my mouth.

"Holy crap," I mumble around the bite, letting the sugar and fresh blueberries swirl around in my mouth. That is, by far, the best blueberry muffin I've ever had.

I guess there is one perk about this place after all.

Once I finish chewing, I carefully take a sip from the coffee that is still steaming hot. And when the liquid hits my tongue—smooth and not too bitter—I let out a moan.

Okay, make that two perks.

Now I can see why a Starbucks isn't needed here.

"What kind of caffeine crack is this?" I take another sip, surrendering to some of the best coffee I've ever tasted before I start the car and pull out of the parking lot, following the signs to get back on the parkway.

And Dolly was right. It's stop and go traffic for miles, which feels like an eternity as I slowly roll along the coast.

But I take the opportunity to stare out at the water when traffic's stopped. Might as well.

In the distance, white reflections of light gleam off the dark-blue water. As my eyes veer closer to the shore, the blue lightens into patches of light turquoise. Green brush and grass pop up along the coast too, giving way to white sandy beaches and kids running around near the water, full of energy and laughter.

A deep breath of relief hits me all at once.

I can't remember the last time I saw the ocean, or felt the cool, salty water against my skin. I can't remember the last time I took a few days off from work either.

Running a company means your personal life often takes a backseat since you're more wrapped up in the lives of your clients and employees. And being one of the best in your field definitely means you don't get much of a break. I'm constantly grinding, pushing myself and my company to be the best because my job is my life.

It's the one thing that no one can take away from me.

But this trip is rattling the solid foundation I've built my life on, a realization that hit me hard as I fought sleep the night before.

When I arrive at Timothy MacDonald's office with five minutes to spare, I flip down the visor to check my appearance once more. Every hair is in place, swept back into my signature low bun. My lips are painted a deep rose color today and the black, square-neck dress I chose is professional and appropriate, given the circumstances.

"I'm here to see Timothy MacDonald," I say to the receptionist as I step into the office and up to her desk.

The woman, who can't be much older than me, stares up at my face over the rim of her round, black framed glasses. From what I can tell between last night and this morning, this town probably doesn't get many people dressed like me waltzing around here.

"And what is your name?" she asks with a slight southern drawl.

"Willow Marshall."

She flicks her eyes at me one more time with an assessing stare, and then clicks through the page on her computer screen. "Ah, yes. I see you here. If you want to take a seat, I'll let Mr. MacDonald know you're here."

"Okay. Thank you." I say as she stands and steps down a narrow hallway.

A few moments later, a balding man in a blue plaid shirt and khaki pants walks into the reception area.

"Thank you, Mable," he says to the receptionist as she returns to her desk.

"Of course, Mr. MacDonald."

He turns to face me, and his eyebrows rise as he takes in my dress. "Well, hello there."

"Hello." I stand to greet him, extending my hand. "Willow Marshall."

And then his eyes widen in recognition. "Well, what a pleasure it is to meet you in person, Miss Marshall. Please, follow me."

He takes a seat behind a cluttered desk as we enter his office, file folders stacked high and papers strewn about. In a rush, he clears a few stacks to the side and pulls a file from the stack, slapping it on his desk.

"I have to say, you are not what I was expecting." He rests his hands over his bulging belly.

"How so?"

"Well, when Mr. Sheppard made this decision, he always spoke of you as this little girl." He shakes his head and then chuckles. "I guess that was a long time ago. But in my mind, I guess I still pictured you as that little girl with pigtails."

"No pigtails for me these days, sir." A twinge of sadness grips my chest, but I unclench the hold it has on my heart and push it away.

He laughs louder this time. "I understand." I watch him take out a few papers from the folder, turning them to face me so I can read them. I lean over the desk, placing my hands on the surface as I peer down at the words on the paper. "Well, let's get down to it. Obviously, you've already read the letter since you're sitting here before me." I nod. "So, let's take a look at what you've inherited."

"I don't need anything from this man, Mr. MacDonald." I shake my head, feeling my nerves build with uncertainty the longer I sit here. "I don't even know him."

"Willow," he says, reaching over and placing his hand on mine, the gesture so foreign that I instantly retreat, pulling my hand back. "I'm sorry, dear. I'm not trying to be overbearing…"

"Just tell me why I'm here, please," I say over the lump in my throat, growing more anxious the longer I sit here in limbo.

"Mr. Sheppard, upon his death, wished to leave you with something." He pulls a paper from the stack and places it closer to me. "This is the deed to his house."

"What?" I gasp as my heart begins to hammer harder.

"The property sits right along the coast. It's isolated and a very sought-after piece of land."

"I—I don't understand." My eyes continue to scan the paper as my brain scrambles to absorb the words Mr. McDonald just uttered.

"Now the house needs some work," he says, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands on his belly again, intertwining his fingers and completely disregarding my response. "But I have to tell you, I think it's worth the investment. Even if you don't keep it, fixing it up and selling it will get you top dollar in this real estate market."

I slink back in the chair, my jaw dropping slightly. "He left me a house? Why?"

Mr. MacDonald nods. "He did. Brand new appliances have been installed per another stipulation upon his death. The electricity, gas, and water have also been activated. I have no idea what else is inside, but if you'd like to take a look, I have time to take you there." He pulls a key from a small envelope and places it in front of me.

"I…"

"I know you must have many questions, but you read the letter, dear." He tilts his head to the side, smiling softly at me.

And then the words from the letter replay in my mind.

And a fresh new wave of anger mixed with guilt comes crashing down on me.

***

"See? The bones are good." Timothy—he insisted we be on a first name basis as we left his office—leads me deeper into the home that has seen better days as he knocks on a wall that separates the kitchen from the living room. And as soon as the sound rings out, all I can think about is how that wall would look better with a hole cut out so you can see through the two rooms. Layers of dirt cake the floors and counters, and sheets cover old furniture in the open space. I honestly feel like I'm walking through a haunted house, even if it does have a beautiful view of the ocean rather than a forbidden forest.

"Um, sure," I respond, taking it all in.

"It originally belonged to Mr. Sheppard's grandparents. He loved this house, but it couldn't accommodate his growing family, so he just held on to it. It's been empty for years."

I turn to see him watching me as I stand in the center of the room. "I just…I'm still having a hard time wrapping my head around this."

"Understandable." He shrugs. "But my job was just to draw up the paperwork so his wishes were carried out. Beyond that, I'm afraid I can't offer much."

I nod, thinking back to the letter that started this entire adventure. And that's putting it optimistically—because right now, I feel like I'm living in a nightmare. What I hoped would be a quick, easy trip down to Carrington Cove and back in a weekend after learning of a random inheritance, has now turned into property ownership and a multitude of decisions to make.

Spinning around to take it all in, I decide I should probably get the full scope of what I'm working with. "Can I see the rest of it?"

"Of course." Timothy leads me up the staircase to three bedrooms—a master that has a balcony with a beautiful view of the ocean and two small bedrooms that would be perfect for an office or kid's room. The master bedroom is smaller than the one in my penthouse back in D.C., but it's also more welcoming.

The house is definitely not big enough for a large family, though, as Timothy pointed out, but it is enough for someone like me—unattached and kid free.

"So, what do you think?"

I shake my head, still perplexed by all of this. "I honestly don't know what to think, Timothy. This is the last thing I expected. My life is back in D.C."

"This could be a nice vacation home, somewhere to retreat to in the summer when you want to get out of the city," he suggests.

"With all due respect, Timothy, this is the first trip I've taken out of D.C. in eight years. I'm not exactly the vacationing type."

He tsks. "That's no good, Willow. You have to take a break from life every once in a while. Soak up the sun, bask in the breeze, visit somewhere you've never been," he says fondly, waving his arm around.

"Some place like Carrington Cove?" I ask sarcastically.

He nods, his smile growing. "Exactly. There's a reason people visit our town, travel far and wide for this kind of peace."

I scoff. "Does anyone ever truly find peace in their lives, Timothy?"

The way he narrows his eyes at me makes me think he can see right through me. "I think it's perfectly attainable, Willow. And perhaps you can find some while you're here." He moves toward the front door, turning his back to me. "I left the key on the counter for you."

"So that's it?" I call after him, desperation filling my voice.

He's just going to leave me here?

"The house is yours now. I did my part. Mr. Sheppard told me what his last wishes were, so I made them happen. I'm glad you're here, though, and I'm honored I could be a part of this story. But my role is done."

And I guess that's all I'm getting out of him.My eyes veer around the space. "And what if I want to sell it?"

"Pam over at Cove Real Estate can help you." He gives a mock salute and walks out the door. I'm normally comfortable being alone, but standing in this empty, strange house with all my unanswered questions magnifies the solitude somehow.

Standing in place, I survey the house once more, looking directly out the front windows toward the sandy shore just a few feet away.

I have no idea what to do with this.

A house? What in God's name was this man thinking? And if he had a family, why wouldn't he leave it to them?

Guilt overwhelms me, making each breath I fight to take burn my lungs.

This can't be happening.

How is this part of my past popping up right now?

Within seconds, I find myself numbly walking out of the house, pausing at the top of the staircase that leads down to the beach desperate for oxygen to fill my lungs as emotions barrel into me all at once.

As the salty ocean air whips against my face, I struggle to decide what I'm going to do.

I feel helpless, drowning in emotions and memories, flashes of a life I could have had if not for this man and his connection to my parents.

Reaching up, I yank on the neckline of my dress that feels like it's suffocating me the longer I stand here in view of the house that just flipped my world upside down.

I must be a sight for sore eyes, ever the professional businesswoman, standing on the porch of a beach house looking as if the world is ending.

I stick out like a sore thumb, an outsider if there ever was one.

I don't belong here.

This isn't where my life fits.

But do you even know where you fit, Willow?

That's always been part of the problem, hasn't it?

Before my thoughts spiral any further, I kick off my heels, pull my hair free from my bun, shaking out the strands, and then I make my way down the steps of the house and across the sand toward the water. I let my feet carry me faster, outpacing the whirlwind of thoughts trying to piece this puzzle together—running from the problems, the emotions, the decisions I have to make.

My arms hang limp beside my body, my legs ache as I step off-balance on the sand, but I just keep going, inching closer to the ocean that is calling to me right now.

I could run into that water and drown, and no one would know the difference. I could disappear and take all this mental chaos with me.

But I slow down as I approach the water's edge, watching the waves slide up the sand and kiss the tips of my toes. A stark reminder that leaving this earth isn't really what I want, even though everything feels so heavy right now that irrational thoughts crowd my mind.

The water is cold and frigid—mirroring how I often feel inside. But being here and absorbing what just happened makes me feel like a volcano is about to erupt.

And then I crumble, falling to my hands and knees as the sand digs into my skin. The simple task of breathing, of existing, suddenly feels monumental.

My lungs constrict and I gasp for breath, leaning back with my legs folded beneath me. I stare off at the water and let a few tears spring free, each one underscoring the deep sense of loneliness this place has brought to the surface.

I remain there on the beach for an unknown length of time, gazing off into the distance across the ocean in contemplation—until my soul hardens again, until my mind buries the anger and resentment six feet under, and I push myself back up on my feet. As I've done so many times before, ready to weather yet another storm life has thrown at me, refusing to let it sweep me away.