here for fun. But the way she frowned and kept to herself suggested she didn’t know much about fun anymore. Not that it was any of his business.
Bubba gave a short bark of greeting, happy to run around for a few minutes before hopping into the cab. Kyle watched him, but his thoughts were on his senior year in high school. They’d all had fun then. Pete the quarterback, him the running back. Annie, in her short-skirted cheerleading outfit, her shining hair caught up in a big blue bow. Postgame parties on the beach, sparks from a bonfire spiraling into the starry sky, beer flowing freely. Sometimes Pete brought his guitar and, accompanied by the rat-a-tat of makeshift driftwood bongos and the cadence of the surf, they would all sing along until gradually, one by one, the couples slipped off into the darkness.
Almost as a self-protective device, he realized now, he’d cultivated a devil-may-care, bad-boy image, and there had been no shortage of willing girls climbing all over him. But none of them had been Annie.
A burning sensation filled Kyle’s throat. He fought the disturbing images.
And what about his own weekends these days? Compared to Annie, he had only minimal bragging rights. How many alcohol-buzzed evenings could a person spend at the Yacht Club playing pool and flirting with the barmaids? Or, big deal, watching ESPN until his eyes glazed over?
At least tonight he had the softball game to look forward to. That was the good news. The bad news? Rosemary’s birthday party, where subtly and not so subtly the matchmakers would be zeroing in on him.
“Bubba, I swear to God, I’m gonna die a bachelor.”
ANNIE PULLED a deck of cards from the pocket of her overalls and sat down across from her aunt. “Gin rummy tonight, Auntie G.?”
“No, petunia. I want to start on the family history.” From the chest, which had remained by her chair, she reached for a stack of photographs. “We’ll begin with my father and mother.” She drew out a picture of a handsome, dark-haired young man, wearing a World War I uniform and looking directly into the camera. “This is my father. He went over to France with the first wave of Yanks. In all the years I knew him, he never once talked about his war experiences. Only about the fine friends he’d made, many lost in the trenches.” She paused, thinking of all those soldiers who never returned home. “One of those friends gave my father a wonderful piece of advice in early 1929. ‘Sell your stock,’ he said. Because of my father’s respect for the man, he did exactly that, only a few short months before the October crash.”
“I’ve always wondered how he managed to build this house during the Depression.” Annie fingered the faded photograph. “What about your mother?”
“Lucy Windsor was from a wealthy Connecticut family that summered in Maine. Shortly after the war, she fell madly in love with William Greer and, despite her parents’ objections that he didn’t come from the ‘proper’ stock, she defied them by marrying him and, in essence, living happily ever after.”
The ghost of a smile teased Annie’s lips. “I’m beginning to see where your independent streak may have originated.”
“You come from a strong line, my dear.” Geneva pointed to a photo of a blond beauty with bobbed hair, clad in a fringed flapper-style evening gown. “My mother. People always loved being around her. My father built the cottage for her. She longed for the sea of her childhood, and he gave her the next best thing. Even though we lived in Portland, we spent every summer here. Happy times.”
“I’ve always thought this house had ghosts, the good kind.”
Geneva nodded. “That’s why it’s so important to me to preserve this place.”
In her great-aunt’s words Annie heard the plaintive melody of nostalgia. “I hope new owners love and honor the cottage the way you do.”
“New owners? I’m not fixing up the house to sell it.” Geneva smiled, then picked up Annie’s hand and held it in her own. “Oh, my little petunia, this place will be yours.”
Annie’s mind reeled. Hers? That would mean staying in Eden Bay. “Auntie G., I’m not sure—”
“This is your home. In time, I pray you will come to embrace this place.”
What could she possibly say to her great-aunt? The gift of the cottage was more than generous. How could she disappoint Auntie G. by telling her she had no desire to remain in a town with such distressing memories? “I can’t promise anything.”
The older woman nodded in understanding. “Not now, maybe. Just promise me you’ll give Eden Bay a chance.”
It was a lot to ask, but under the circumstances she had little choice but to murmur, “I’ll try.”
Later, as Annie snuggled under the comforter that smelled vaguely of lavender, she pondered how different things might have been for her in Eden Bay, if only…She shuddered and drew the spread up over her shoulders. So much had changed, and her future was a huge question mark. In another world, she might have been the one to continue the line of Greers living in the cottage. Now they would die out with Geneva.
Perhaps that was just as well.
BY THE TIME Kyle raced home from the softball game, showered, changed and drove to the Nemecs’ house, the party was in full swing, the celebration enhanced by the Nemec Construction Tigers’ 10-3 win. “The conquering hero arrives,” trumpeted Wade Hanson, the finish carpenter. The men clustered around a beer keg looked up and cheered. “Great pitching, Becker,” one of them said.
“You guys weren’t too shabby yourselves. Fifteen hits, no errors. You know what?” He grinned and ambled toward the keg. “I think we all deserve a beer.” Somebody thrust one into his hand. He made quick work of it and refilled the cup. It was a clear, cool night, and if he had a choice, he’d stay out here talking about the upcoming NBA playoffs and shooting the breeze with the fellas. He pictured the women gathered in the family room, undoubtedly talking about kids and recipes and stuff. Times like this, he was glad he wasn’t married.
As if that thought had summoned her, Wade’s wife, Carrie, appeared, hooked her arm through Kyle’s and started toward the house. “Come on in, you guys. It’s time for the cake.”
With Kyle in tow, Carrie walked through the kitchen, past the dining room table laden with assorted appetizers and into the family room. “Here he is,” she called to the assembled throng, as if she’d just reeled in a prize salmon. “The winning pitcher.”
Bruce Nemec sidled up behind him and whispered, “Into the frying pan, son.”
The women cooed their congratulations. One stood outside the circle, smiling, never taking her eyes off him. Rosemary. “Sit down,” Bruce’s wife, Janet, urged. “There. Next to the birthday girl.”
Kyle complied, even throwing in a gentlemanly kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, Rosemary.”
“It is now,” she said, lowering her voice and laying a hand on his knee.
Someone dimmed the lights and Pete and Rosemary’s older sister, Margaret, entered the room, bearing a sheet cake with lit candles. The crowd began singing “Happy Birthday,” and when Margaret set the cake on a table, Kyle could finally read the message written in frosting. This is the year! Happy twenty-fifth!
The year for what? The girl had only one
