write your first novel, Ryan?”
“I was sixteen. But my first novel that caught a publisher’s attention I’d written in a walk-in refrigerator at an upscale restaurant in Miami.”
Angela dropped her fork onto the linen covered table. “What?”
“I was a struggling author, making ends meet by waiting tables at a fine French restaurant called Provence. Before my shift, I’d write in the walk-in refrigerator. My coworkers thought I was crazy. But there, with my fingers going numb and my flesh failing at combating the cold, I wrote the first book that sold. It’s titled Silent Ice. Critics called it a haunting tale and an ambitious first book. It’s about a young affluent woman whose murder was staged to look like a skiing accident.”
“It sounds like a page-turner. Why the refrigerator, Ryan?”
“It was quiet. And it was cold. I’d never been so cold in my life. But I’d had this idea about writing an icy, frozen, unforgiving setting. Growing up in Miami, what did I know about being cold? We don’t get snow. Or ice. Or cold of any kind.”
“So, the refrigerator put you in the story?”
He nodded.
“I like the title.” When Ryan reached slowly for his iced tea, Angela took his hand and guided him to the glass. “The server moved your drink when she placed our salads.”
“Glass and other things that are transparent are difficult for me to see—even if I’m looking right at them.”
“I noticed once. So, I hope you don’t mind my help.”
“You’re quite perceptive, Miss Reed. And exceedingly kind. You can guide my hand any day.” He gave her an appreciative smile that lingered as he lifted his glass and caused Angela to question if there was some hidden meaning behind his words. “Let’s drink to new beginnings.”
She swallowed the rock in her throat. “To new beginnings.”
“What about you, Angela? I could feel your interest when Sally mentioned volunteering. Do I detect a new beginning on the horizon of your life?”
Angela pulled in a long breath. It was time to make some real decisions. “I mean, I wouldn’t hate volunteering there.”
He chuckled. “Don’t get too excited.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. A few weeks back I was at Island Floral and I started imagining what kind of island business I might want to own.”
“Are you thinking of buying a business?”
She shrugged. “No. Not really. I just—you know, seeing Willow and her daughter Katelyn—they’re Jesse’s sister and niece—so in their element. It got me to thinking. What do I do?”
Ryan leaned toward her. They were tucked, side by side in a booth that overlooked the water. He was close. She didn’t mind.
“Ryan do you ever feel like the world is spinning around you and you’re just stuck in place?”
“Everyone feels like that sometimes.”
“I’m not sure what my purpose is. When I was married, I had a purpose. All of my siblings, they have their jobs and believe me they are supremely committed to them. Like you, they’re passionate about them.”
“Are you suggesting you’re not a passionate person, Angela? Because I find that difficult to believe.”
“Believe it,” she huffed.
Ryan reached over and captured her cheek with his hand. His thumb made long strokes down the side of her face. His fingertips rested along her jaw and the curve of her throat. “You’ll find your passion, Angela. Maybe this is the first time in your adult life when you’ve given yourself the opportunity to learn who Angela really is.”
She bit down on her bottom lip. “It’s scary,” she whispered. “Not knowing.”
“You’re up to the challenge. I guarantee it.” For a few moments, there was only his voice, his words, the scent of pepper and fresh soap that always seemed to linger around him. He was one of the most interesting men she’d ever met. And it felt wonderful to have someone view her as anything other than a wife and a step-mother. “Why did you decide to live here?”
She wished she knew. “It … feels … like home.”
“Forgive me for saying it, but you don’t really sound convinced. You’ve told me you have a history here.”
“Brice, my ex-husband owned the house I live in now. It had been a family getaway for his folks when Brice was growing up. My family’s winter home is a couple doors down on the cove. We spent Christmases there every year and a few weeks in the summer. Of course, Brice and I weren’t friends, not really until I hit high school and my awkward sharp angles became more womanly curves. Then I