the cottage had been left to him—so that he might find his way “home” again.
Rourke had spent summer vacations working on his uncle’s fishing boat, making the long trip up from New York City, where his parents lived. His father, Paul, had wanted Rourke to experience a working-class job, hoping that it would make him more interested in college and a business career. As he got older, Rourke found himself drawn to the business Paul had founded with two friends. During high school, he spent his summer vacations with his father, learning the ins and outs of civil engineering. Uncle Buddy was relegated to a couple weeks at the end of August.
Rourke felt a familiar twinge of guilt assail him, but he brushed it aside. He’d spent the past three months renovating Buddy’s place, making it habitable for a modern family. Now it was ready. He’d talked to a few real estate agents and made plans to list it, but he hadn’t made a final decision. Perhaps it might be better to rent it out.
“A single decision can change the course of your life,” he murmured to himself. Buddy had always offered sage advice with pithy sayings or old proverbs. That was one of his favorites.
When Rourke was young he used to tease his uncle. Yeah, I’ll make sure to embroider that on a pillow, he’d say. But now that he was older, he’d begun to realize the impact of that advice—and the truth of it as it applied to his own life.
After high school, he’d decided to join the firm. He worked nights and weekends as a draftsman at Paul’s office and took engineering classes during the day. Though it was never said out loud, he knew that the company was in trouble and that his father needed his help. And with every year that passed, the stress took more of a toll on Paul’s health.
He’d continued to work at the company, even after his father’s sudden death of a heart attack, hoping to save his dad’s legacy by getting the firm back on track. But without the support of the other two partners, Rourke knew it was a lost cause. He quit the day after he heard of Buddy’s death.
Rourke stared at the selection of batteries. He wished he’d had one last chance to talk to Buddy, to ask him the questions that had been plaguing him for the past few years. Where is my life going? What do I really want? Am I ever going to be truly satisfied?
“So you’re putting the place up for sale, are you?” Betty asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Rourke replied as he pulled a package of batteries off the rack and dropped it on the counter. “I don’t want to make any hasty decisions.”
“Is this it?” she said, pointing to the batteries.
Rourke nodded, then reached into his pocket for his wallet. But as he was pulling out the money to pay for the purchase, the patrons around him suddenly went silent. Betty’s gaze fixed on a spot over his shoulder and Rourke slowly turned.
Annie Macintosh was a familiar figure to everyone in town. Her family had lived on the eastern shore as long as the Quinns had. Her great-grandfather had built and kept the lighthouse on Freer’s Point.
Annie’s life had been more tragic than most. Her parents had died when she was young, both of them drowned under mysterious circumstances. She’d been brought up by her grandmother in the old light keeper’s cottage, set on a beautiful piece of property overlooking the Atlantic.
As a shy child, she’d been the target of the local bullies, their taunts focused on her stammer, on her mismatched clothes, on her tangled auburn hair or her pale complexion. Recalling the torment as an adult, Rourke had to wonder why no one had stepped in to help her. He’d stood up for her once, only to get pummeled for it by a group of six townies.
He could see her now, surrounded by the six bullies, her stance defiant, struggling to express her anger even through her stutter, which invited more derision from the boys. It had been the most courageous thing he’d seen in his young life and it had been one of those moments that Buddy had talked about. That day, he’d realized that he wouldn’t spend his life being led by others. He was a leader, not a follower.
Annie silently walked to the row of freezers and refrigerators on the far wall that held bait for the sport fishermen. When she returned to the counter, she was carrying two large boxes of frozen herring.
Rourke stepped aside, giving her a hesitant smile. “Go ahead. I can wait.”
She smiled back at him and for a moment, Rourke forgot to breathe. The dirty, disheveled girl had grown into an incredible beauty. Her eyes had always been an odd shade of blue—almost teal—ringed with dark lashes, but they had an unexpected effect on him now. Her hair, thick and wavy, hung just to her shoulders, and though tousled by the wind, seemed to be well tended. She wore simple clothes, a pair of jeans that hugged her long legs, a faded shirt and a canvas jacket.
But it was that heart-shaped face, so unusual and so captivating. He couldn’t seem to bring himself to look away. He took in as many details as he could before she finished her transaction. After she paid, she hefted the two boxes into her arms and turned for the door.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, her gaze meeting his and then lingering for a moment. The corners of her mouth curled up slightly in what he could only take as a hesitant smile.
Somehow, he sensed that her gratitude wasn’t for the cut in line, but for what had happened all those years ago. “Can I help you carry those out?” he asked, reaching for the box under her left arm.
She shook her head and tried to walk by him, twisting her body away. The box slipped from her grasp and hit the floor with a thud, then slid across the hardwood like a giant hockey puck.
Rourke made a move to retrieve it, but so did she, and when they reached the frost-covered box, they bumped heads as they squatted at the same time. He grabbed the box, then helped her to her feet. “Where are you parked?” he asked.
Cursing beneath her breath, she took the box from him, struggling as she tried to tuck it under her arm. Then, without giving him another look, she turned and hurried out of the store. Rourke stared after her, speechless, wondering at her odd behavior. The rest of the patrons had watched her retreat in silence, as well.
Drawing a deep breath, he returned to the counter and laid out the money for the batteries. “That was odd,” he murmured.
“You’re tellin’ me,” Betty replied.
“What do you think she’s going to do with all that herring?”
“The locals use it for crab pots,” Betty said. “But that’s not what’s odd.”
“What is, then?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard her speak.”
Rourke frowned. “Really? I know as a kid she didn’t say much, but I hadn’t realized that was still going on.”
“She doesn’t talk to anyone. Just goes about her business. Gotta wonder about that. She must get a little lonely out there, living all by herself.” Betty made a little circle with her finger beside her temple. “Some of us think all that solitude has made her a bit crazy.”
“I haven’t been out to the Freer’s Point light in years,” Rourke said. “Not sure I could find it if I tried.”
“You take the turn by the Banner Realty sign on the coast road,” Betty said, frowning. “You planning a trip out there?”
Rourke
