He was unworthy of her. He might not have made up any stories about her all those years ago, but he sure as hell had been willing to believe them. He’d spread the gossip along with everyone else at Rutledge High.
He needed to back off and put her solidly into the box called “business associate.”
He stared out the bedroom window. Beyond the Bahama shutters, another glorious late-summer day had dawned. He wished he could be out on the bay sailing, instead of stuck here, thinking forbidden thoughts and longing for things that made his chest ache.
He couldn’t woo Jessica. She’d turn him away the way Marla had done after the accident.
No. He’d keep it professional. He’d pay Jessica handsomely for his house and then he’d tell all his friends and business associates what a great job she’d done for him.
Maybe a little positive word of mouth would cancel out all the negative stuff she’d had to endure as a kid.
It wouldn’t absolve him from blame for the damage his gossip had caused. And it sure wouldn’t do a thing about the longing that suddenly filled his chest. But at least it was an honorable plan. Much better than last night’s dangerous and out-of-bounds impulse.
Feeling a little better about himself, he got out of bed, gulped down a few ibuprofens, and headed to the beach, prepared to endure the stares of the other guests.
But the beach was deserted. Evidently, most of the other guests had gone out to sail. The swim improved his mood, and moving his dead leg made it feel better.
When he returned to the cottage, he showered and then decided he would go out for breakfast. He grabbed his cane and walked down Harbor Drive in the direction of Bread, Butter and Beans.
But before he got to the coffeehouse, he found himself walking into the barbershop across the street, where he got himself a shave and a haircut.
By midmorning, after a lazy cappuccino at the coffeehouse, he was feeling so much better about himself that he picked up his dirty clothes and took everything to the Laundromat on Lilac Street.
Later, he was cleaning up the dishes in the kitchenette sink when someone knocked at the cottage door. He opened it to the sight of Jackie Scott, standing there with his freckled face and his big eyes staring up at him with the worshipful gaze football fans used to turn on him.
He hated that look. And he wanted to tell the kid to knock it off, but he held his tongue. There was something fragile about the boy.
“What?” Topher asked.
“You were going to take me to the library. Did you forget?” The accusation in the kid’s voice was enough to make him take a step back. It hurt. Down deep. And it raised a fountain of shame.
He met the kid’s stare. “Yeah, I did forget,” he said.
The kid cocked his head. “So, we aren’t going?” Jackie’s voice shook a little.
“Of course we’re going,” he said. “I don’t have anything else on my schedule today. Why don’t we walk?”
Jackie’s smile made the summer sunshine a little brighter.
It took about fifteen minutes at Topher’s slow pace to reach the 1940s-vintage redbrick building on Oak Street. Inside, the air smelled leathery, and the well-worn cork floors creaked underfoot as Topher and Jackie made their way to the information desk.
The librarian, a fiftysomething woman, immediately assumed the stare as they approached. Topher fought the urge to rage at her. But it had been a mostly good day, and raging would probably spoil it and scare the kid.
So he pulled his punches and said, “Hi. I understand you have some original correspondence from Rose Howland in your collection. My young friend here is doing his Heritage Day project on Rose, and we wondered if we might view the letters.”
The woman stood in order to peer down at Jackie. One eyebrow rose, and then she reseated herself, squinting up at Topher. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You need to have permission to look at those materials.”
“We do,” Topher said.
The woman blinked. “I’m sorry. I haven’t received any written instructions about the Howland collection.”
Topher smiled at the woman, certain it would fold up the left side of his face into something quite horrible. Her eyes shifted to the right as he started to speak. “My young friend here”—he gestured toward Jackie—“is Ashley Scott’s son. Which means he’s the youngest Howland heir.”
The woman stood again in order to look at Jackie. “Is this true?”