be the worst idea. Maybe she should take the advice she’d given Robert Collins. A new hobby could improve her whole outlook.
And if that hobby was restoring an old inn, the site of her favorite family getaways, she could also make another dream come true.
All she had to do was convince Dean Collins to hit the road again and she would have the Bluebird all for herself. How hard could it be?
DEAN COLLINS FOUGHT the urge to kick his feet like a bored four-year-old. After reading all the news he could get his hands on—old issues of the local paper, the state paper and his favorite online news sites—he’d come to sit on the edge of the dock while his father fished. Dean had wanted to start a conversation or make a connection or whatever the proper term was for two grown men talking about their feelings.
And they were sitting in silence.
Like they did most of the time, in fact. He raveled the edge of the latest pair of jeans he’d managed to destroy. For years, his wardrobe consisted of heavy boots, worn jeans and a collection of T-shirts that could fit in a backpack. No shorts. But these had a ripped knee and a bloodstain from an ill-fated trek from Dharamsala. That was the kind of thing he did for fun: climb mountains and shake off a skinned knee when the climb turned into a tumble.
Now he dangled his feet in the water and hoped for a nibble—anything exciting. Adjusting to the change of pace was harder than he’d thought it would be.
“Nice weather.” The whole world over, there was one topic of conversation everyone could fall back on: the weather forecast. Maybe they were on different sides of hot vs. cold or wet vs. dry, but everyone had an opinion about the weather. Tall Pines was no exception.
In fact, the weekly forecast enjoyed some prime real estate on the last page of the Times. Most of the world had gone to infographics. Not so here. He’d actually had to read the forecast so he was prepared to converse.
Obviously, there was no need yet. His father’s grunt could be taken as either agreement or disagreement, but it didn’t do much to pick up the conversational ball and run with it.
Even if they’d had a rousing conversation about precipitation, he’d still be bored.
Or maybe restless, antsy. Thinking could be trouble, but the urge to move usually kept him distracted. Outrunning bad memories was a habit he’d picked up early. His problem now was that, no matter how fast or far he went, they were catching up.
So, with his first strategy failing, he’d come back to the place it all started: home.
“How’d the doctor visit go?” A question that required either an answer or outright rudeness. That ought to open the door.
“Good.”
So the question wasn’t as foolproof as he thought. “Sheesh, no need to talk my ear off.”
His dad glanced in his direction. “You’re one to talk. Ready to tell me about this concussion and why you don’t sleep?”
Dean pulled his feet out of the water and stood. “You know the military. Bunch of worriers.”
His dad’s lips formed a thin line, and Dean was afraid he was coming up with questions Dean had no answers for. “Right. They do love to coddle the journalists they cram in beside their delicate soldiers.”
Dean rolled up the sleeves of the flannel shirt he’d pulled on over his ragged jeans and stepped into flip-flops that looked as though they’d been feeding a small family of rodents. “The unit I was with got caught in a firefight with a small band of rebels. There was an explosion. No one was killed, but I hit my head. Saw stars. That was enough for the army doctors.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know me. I’ve had way worse.”
His dad was quiet for too long. Finally, he said, “At least it brought you home for a few days.”
His father never had been good at guilt trips, but he might be getting better.
“I’m glad you had a nice visit,” Dean mumbled and turned to go...somewhere. He had no idea where, but he’d made his effort for the day.
His father’s voice stopped him. “Invited her out. She’s coming to take a look around.”
“Who? The doctor? Why?” The place definitely would not show well, not yet. He’d get to work on that soon, but not today. Today was for forcing himself to take it slow. He had to learn sometime, and the sooner, the better.
His dad sighed and pulled his pole out of the water to set it on the dock. “She used to visit. Loved the tearoom and the inn.”
Dean looked over his shoulder at the house he’d grown up in. When his mother was alive, she’d settled for nothing less than pristine white paint with bright blue shutters, precisely manicured gardens and flags snapping in the breeze to welcome visitors.
The gray boards and peeling paint, ragged flower beds and air of general fatigue almost made it hard to believe it was the same place.
Except the beautiful bones were still there. He counted six windows across the front of the house, the finest guest rooms, and wished he’d thought to camp in one of those. The view of the lake might have helped calm some of his anger and irritation and just...overwhelming emotion.
Something had to or he might have a meltdown, lose the control he’d worked so hard to hold on to. Sometimes, when he was staring out the window in the middle of the night, he wondered if he was already there.
“Hope she’s not too disappointed,” his father murmured, and Dean turned to see his dad’s eyes were locked on him.
“I wish I’d known, Dad. I might have been able to help.” And the guilt he’d been buried under when he’d lurched to a stop under the old oak tree would have been much lighter. But he hadn’t known. Because he hadn’t been home in a long time.
Without his mother to hold them together, he and his dad had struggled. It was easier to take the next story, jump on a plane and tell himself it was all for his career. His father never complained about missing him and never mentioned needing help. He’d thought they were both satisfied.
Until that career nearly killed him, and he had nowhere else to go.
“Well, I’m here now, and I think I know what to do to get this place up and running. We’re going to make some changes.” He tried to infuse the statement with confidence. The last time he’d suggested changes, he’d been too young and unstable to convince his father. Now both of them and the Bluebird were in desperate need of a change.
“About that...” His father turned to look out over the shore next to the short dock. “She wants to buy the Bluebird. Renovate it. Maybe we should consider that. Neither one of us should be tied down by the past.”
Speechless, Dean stared at his pale feet and the weathered boards of the dock. He’d never really thought about a life without the inn. Knowing it would always be here when he was ready made it easier to brave the most dangerous spots on the planet. He’d trusted his father to make sure he had a home just in case he ever needed somewhere safe.
