Rainshadow Road

wheelchair.

Unperturbed, Justine followed as Sam carried Lucy around the truck. “I put together an overnight bag for you, Luce. Zoл or I will drop off more of your stuff tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Lucy had wrapped her arms around Sam’s neck as he lifted her with astonishing ease. His shoulders were hard against her palms. The smell of his skin was delicious, clean with a hint of salt, like ocean air, and fresh like garden plants and green leaves.

Sam placed Lucy in the truck, adjusted her seat back, and buckled the seat belt. Every movement was deft and efficient, his manner impersonal. He kept glancing at her, taking measure. Unhappily she wondered what Justine had said to persuade him to take her. “He doesn’t want to do this,” she had whispered to Justine in the hospital, and Justine had whispered back, “He does. He’s just a little nervous about it.”

But Sam didn’t seem all that nervous to Lucy. He seemed quietly pissed off. The drive to the vineyard was silent. Although Sam’s truck had excellent suspension, there was an occasional bump in the road that caused Lucy to wince. She was sore and exhausted, and she had never felt like such a burden to anyone.

Eventually they turned onto a private drive that led to a Victorian house adorned with gables, balustrades, a central cupola, and a widow’s walk. A lazy sunset turned the white-painted house the color of Creamsicles. The foundation was skirted with a profusion of red shrub roses interspersed with white hydrangeas. Nearby, a stalwart gray barn chaperoned the vineyard rows, which frolicked across the terrain like children being let out for recess.

Lucy stared at the scene with bemused wonder. If San Juan Island was a world apart from the mainland, this was a world inside that one. The house waited with its windows open to catch sea breezes, moonlight, wandering spirits. It seemed to be waiting for her.

Taking in Lucy’s reaction with an astute glance, Sam pulled the truck to a stop beside the house. “Yes,” he said, as if she had asked a question. “That’s how I felt when I first saw it.” He got out of the truck and walked around to Lucy’s side, reaching in to unbuckle the seat belt. “Put your arms around my neck,” he said.

Hesitantly Lucy complied. He lifted her, mindful not to bump her splinted leg. As soon as his arms closed around her, Lucy was aware of a new, baffling feeling, a sense of yielding, something dissolving inside. Her head drooped heavily to his shoulder, and she struggled to lift it again. Sam murmured, “It’s okay,” and, “It’s fine,” which made her realize she was trembling.

They ascended the front steps to a wide covered porch with a light blue ceiling. “Haint blue,” Sam said, as he noticed Lucy looking upward. “We tried to match the original color as closely as possible. A lot of people around here used to paint their porch ceilings blue. Some say it’s to fake out birds and insects, make them think it’s the sky. But others say the real reason is to ward off ghosts.”

The rush of words made Lucy realize that Sam actually was a little nervous, just as Justine had said. It was an unusual situation for both of them.

“Does your family know that I’m visiting?” she asked.

He nodded. “I called them from the clinic.”

The front door opened, allowing a long rectangle of light to slide across the porch. A dark-haired man stood holding the door, while a blond girl and a bulldog came to the threshold. The man was a slightly older, more heavyset version of Sam, with the same roughcast handsomeness. And he had the same dazzling smile. “Welcome to Rainshadow,” he said to Lucy. “I’m Mark.”

“I’m sorry to impose. I—”

“Not a problem,” Mark said easily. His gaze flicked to Sam. “What can I do?”

“Her bag’s still in the car.”

“I’ll get it.” Mark brushed past them.

“Make way, guys,” Sam said to the child and the dog, and they scuttled to the side. “I’m going to take Lucy upstairs.”

They went into an entrance hall with dark floors and a high coffered ceiling, the walls covered with cream paint and hung with framed botanical prints.

“Maggie’s making dinner,” Holly said, following them. “Chicken soup and yeast rolls, and banana pudding for dessert. Real pudding, not from a box.”

“I knew it smelled too good to be Mark’s cooking,” Sam said.

“Maggie and I changed the sheets on your bed. She said I was a good helper.”

“That’s my girl. Go wash up for dinner now.”

“Can I talk to Lucy?”

“Later, gingersnap. Lucy’s exhausted.”

“Hi, Holly,” Lucy managed to say over his shoulder.

The child beamed at her. “Uncle Sam never invites anyone here for a sleepover. You’re his first one!”

“Thanks, Holly,” Sam said under his breath as he carried Lucy up the sweeping mahogany staircase.

A breathless laugh shivered in Lucy’s throat. “I’m sorry. I know Justine made you do this. I’m—”

“Justine couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

Lucy let her head fall to his shoulder, unable to look at him as she said, “You don’t want me here.”

Sam chose his words carefully. “I don’t want complications. Same as you.”

As they reached the landing, Lucy’s attention was captured by a huge window that afforded a view of the front drive. It was a striking stained-glass work, a bare tree delicately holding an orange winter moon in its branches.

But when Lucy blinked, the colors and patterns disappeared. The window was bare. It was nothing but clear float glass.

“Wait. What’s that?”

Sam turned to see what she was staring at. “The window?”

“It used to be stained glass,” Lucy said dazedly.

“It could have been.”

“No, it was. With a tree and a moon.”

“Whatever was in there was knocked out a long time ago. At some point someone tried to make the house into apartments.” Sam carried her away from the window. “You should have seen it when I bought it. Shag rug in some rooms. They’d knocked out support walls and put in some flimsy chipboard ones. My brother Alex came in with his crew to rebuild load-bearing walls and put in support beams. Now the place is rock solid.”

“It’s beautiful. Like something from a fairy tale. I feel like I’ve been here before, or dreamed about it.” Her mind was tired, her thoughts not connecting properly.

They went into a long rectangular bedroom paralleling the bay, the walls paneled with wide beadboard, a fireplace in the corner, abundant windows revealing the shining blue flat of False Bay. The window on either end of the row had been fitted with screens and opened to let in the outside air.

“Here we go.” Sam set her on a large bed with a seagrass headboard and quilted blue covers that had already been folded back.

“This is your room? Your bed?”

“Yes.”

Lucy tried to sit up. “Sam, no—”

“Be still,” he said. “I mean it, Lucy. You’re going to hurt yourself. You’re taking the bed. I’m going to sleep on a rollaway in another room.”

“I’m not going to kick you out of your own room. I’ll sleep on the roll-away.”