“The big question is, how will we get our luggage?”
Ivy flipped through his emails. “Here’s one with an address. But it’s just a post office box. Let’s try again tomorrow. We need to see Mom and Dad.” She opened her ride-share app to call a car. After a few taps, she said, “Ten minutes.”
Succumbing to a strange new desire, Ivy slipped off her loafers while they waited and dug her toes into the warm sand, connecting with the earth just to make sure she was really here and not imagining things. The sun blazed against her shirt, which now seemed too restrictive. She tugged at the stiff, medium-starch collar.
Ivy tented her hand against the sun and gazed back at the tired white structure that loomed on a point just beyond the village, once again wondering why her husband had never told her about this beachfront house. But then, Jeremy had always had his secrets. She breathed in the cool salt-tinged air blowing in from the sparkling bay. Summer Beach was a welcome respite from the cloying summer humidity of Boston.
She had come full circle.
Ivy swung around, drinking in the beach scene that she’d left years before for college. After her last summer on the beach, she’d been anxious to leave—thanks to Bennett Dylan.
Ivy’s parents were quintessential Californians, rooted in the soil they’d been born on, yet she’d grown up watching historical dramas and longing for what she perceived as romantic, old-world traditions. When she was ready for college, besides the local university, those in Boston were among her top choices in the United States.
And so, with her first broken heart, she’d left her hometown beach life behind, drawn to the east coast and the intellectualism of Boston. The summer vacations on Nantucket were the only brief reminders of the life she’d left behind.
She had been enrolled in a fine arts degree program when she’d met Jeremy, who worked for the French division of a major U.S. technology consulting firm.
She still remembered meeting Jeremy in a coffee shop in Harvard Square. He’d been pounding on a computer keyboard, his floppy, chocolate brown hair obscuring his eyes. Another patron bumped her, and she accidentally splashed hot coffee onto his black turtleneck sweater. He leapt up, exclaiming in French until he met her eyes. Later, they would laugh that this was the only way she could’ve drawn his attention from his work. He had a single-minded focus, and when he latched onto an idea, there was no dissuading him.
Is this how he’d felt about the house? If so, why? She wondered what mystery was at the heart of his intentions, or if she would ever know.
Ivy glanced behind her at the woman who’d been so rude to them. Darla, their new neighbor. She sighed. Jeremy had not made any friends here, and it would be up to her to repair the damage.
Chapter 4
BENNETT DROVE HIS SUV through Summer Beach, relieved to be rid of his infuriating client. As far as he was concerned, Ivy Marin was the most unappreciative, short-sighted, cheap client he’d ever had.
“Inconsiderate woman,” he muttered to himself. He rolled down his windows to vent the car and let the ocean breeze cool his anger.
Ivy had inherited a house on the beach from her husband of questionable merit, and now, with a looming property tax bill and without any discernable income, she’d decided to move into it. What on earth was she thinking? He couldn’t imagine or understand what went through her head.
Of all the days for a client to disturb his equilibrium, today shouldn’t have been that day. Bennett glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard. Ivy had wasted his precious time today. He was due at the Summer Beach marina soon, and he still had to stop at Blossoms for a bouquet of flowers.
As he drove, he rested a hand on top of the steering wheel, lifting it and nodding to folks he passed. He waved at George, who ran the hardware store, Nailed It, with his wife, and at Arthur from the antique shop, Antique Times. His wife Nan was the receptionist at City Hall.
Summer Beach was the kind of small town where locals and tourists alike still waved to each other. Of course, many people knew him, recognizing his face and name from the campaign and the televised city meetings. He had them to thank for his position, and he’d vowed to represent them to the best of his ability.
Even Ivy Marin, he begrudgingly acknowledged.
That woman hadn’t even had the professional courtesy to open the photos he’d emailed to her. As her real estate representative, his job was to represent her, market her property, and find a qualified buyer. But with the derelict condition of the house—thanks to Jeremy Marin, not Mrs. Erickson’s estate—he couldn’t take photos until it was cleaned. Ivy had refused to pay for anything, so he had no choice but to clean the property himself if he expected to attract a buyer and close a sale.
At first, he’d felt a certain kinship with her when Ivy told him that her husband had passed away. He’d worked with other widows to help them maximize the value of their property, or even advise them not to sell if they had a low tax basis and prices were escalating, helping them realize the most value from their asset.
He prided himself on putting the interests of his clients before his own, which was why he’d spent two weekends hauling debris from Ivy’s property and pulling weeds. Inside the house, he’d removed a thick layer of dust and cobwebs, and then cleaned the floors. Finally, he’d borrowed professional photography equipment and taken well-lit photos throughout the rambling house.
She hadn’t even looked at the photos. And she’d even admitted as much, which was beyond rude in his book. Never mind that she hadn’t thanked him.
Bennett banged the steering wheel. He should’ve known better than to take the listing. Referring it
