Peony Red (The Granite Harbor Series Book 1) Read online

  “I never asked. Are you both traveling for business or pleasure?”

  Randall says, “Business.”

  Clay says, “Pleasure.”

  Randall gives Clay the look. Clay is shorter than Randall but not by much. Same look—dress shirt, slacks, expensive shoes, and belt.

  “Both,” Randall says. “Where are you staying?”

  I pull up the confirmation email on my phone. “33 Eastward Road.”

  Clay plugs the address in his phone. “We will lead; you will follow. We can’t let our latest tourist go missing like the last seven.”

  I stop. “What?”

  “Kidding!” Clay pulls me by the arm. “It was one. And she wasn’t a tourist.”

  For whatever reason, I don’t ask for further story on the matter. Maybe because it’s late and I’m tired. Maybe because it’s dark. Maybe because Eastward Road, according to Google Maps, is by itself on a cliff, overlooking the ocean. It’s all a bit creepy.

  “Why on earth would you bring that up, Clay? Now, she’s scared.”

  “What’s in the hardcover container?” Clay asks.

  “A gun.”

  Randall stops. Clay smiles and continues on, following my lead toward the rental car.

  Kyle and my dad made me get a concealed weapons permit. With all the travel for book stuff—walking through airports and staying at hotel rooms—and being home alone at night, Kyle made me take gun classes. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, no matter how many excuses I came up with. I hate guns, but I did it anyway.

  Kyle was always a just-in-case type of guy. Maybe because he’d seen a lot of bad in the world, the ugly part of life, with being a firefighter. Maybe it was also because he wanted to be prepared for anything, like: the 9.9 earthquake that California keeps predicting, wildfire—which seems reasonable—flood, an active shooter, and the zombie apocalypse.

  Kyle had a plan for everything.

  Clay touches my arm. “Oh, honey, the only reason you’ll need a gun in Granite Harbor is to scare off the wildlife here in our great state. Not a serial killer or something.”

  “Granite Harbor doesn’t have serial killers. All the serial killers live in Bangor, Maine, with Mr. King,” Randall adds.

  “Noted. Don’t go to Bangor.” I click the button on the key fob in the dimly lit indoor parking garage and see the taillights illuminate. I stop, drop my head, and sigh.

  Bryce, seriously? A brand-new Tahoe? I roll my eyes. Why would I need a brand-new Tahoe? A sedan. A four-door sedan would have been practical.

  “We will take the lead,” Randall says.

  We pull up to the well-lit house. A hint of seaweed, salt, and cotton candy lingers. It’s different, the smell of the Atlantic. It’s almost sweeter, less salty than the Pacific.

  The house looks far more practical than the beast in the driveway. I get out and grab my bag.

  “I don’t know what you do for a living, Alexandra, but the Malcomb Place is exquisite.” Clay whistles as he eyes the house.

  “Huh?” I look back toward the moderate one-level house. Maybe it’s a Maine thing? Maybe we have different standards in California? At any rate, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, so I ignore the comment. “Thanks for your help tonight.”

  “It was our pleasure, and welcome to Granite Harbor. What’s your number?” Clay leans over Randall from the passenger side. “Just in case you need two debonair, ruggedly handsome tour guides.”

  We exchange numbers.

  They don’t leave the driveway until I’m safely inside. Mood lights are set on low through the entryway. The house smells new yet borrowed, as if the owners remodeled.

  I turn on the lights, and my jaw falls to the floor at the work, extravagance, and beauty the homeowners have put into this house.

  The entryway, with a timeless black light fixture, opens up to the living room with a wall of windows past that. Dark hardwood floor runs the length of the house. Soft white furniture matches the makeup of the kitchen aside from the slab granite countertops.

  A massive fireplace, also made of granite pieces, runs up the wall, touching the top of the vaulted ceiling. Wide white bookshelves line the sides of the fireplace with inset lighting, illuminating book titles. I run my fingers over the book spines. Some names as modern as Patterson and Hoover to the king of horror to classics like Fitzgerald and Hemingway.

  I make my way through the house and realize it goes on forever and that the wall of windows line every room on the east side of the house, including the master bedroom and the two spare rooms, each having their own bathroom and walk-in closet.

  The house must be at least three thousand square feet. I lean against the counter after my self-guided tour and smile, biting my lip. Leave it to Bryce to do this trip up. Maybe it’s her attempt to make the trip beautiful and wonderful, so I’ll find my different.

  I pull out my phone and look at the time—12:32 a.m. I text Bryce, knowing she’s three hours behind.

  Me: Just want to say thank you. The place is amazing.

  I wheel my suitcase into the master bedroom where the curtains are already drawn, and two bedside lights sit on either side of the plush California king with a cream-colored duvet. The whole house is warm and inviting, not like mine. White and sterile. But, if I rewind the story, our home didn’t used to be like that. After Kyle died, I had to change the house, and I thought, by doing that, it would change the memories or keep them at bay. Keep them as far away from my mind as possible. But there was always just one more reminder that I hadn’t taken care of. His ashes. My ring. Those are things I wasn’t willing to part with.

  I open my suitcase, trying to distract myself from my thoughts, and my eyes fall to the designer jeans, tops, sweaters, and shoes along with the bag that Bryce packed, which I threw in at the last minute. I roll my eyes. Under the new clothes Bryce purchased is the sticky note she’d written with the package she’d sent. I’d thrown in my bag as a gentle reminder: Yoga pants, sweatshirts, and T-shirts OFF-LIMITS. I laugh to myself, and it makes me miss her.

  I grab my phone.

  Me: And thanks for the clothes. :)

  She texts back.

  Bryce: Welcome. Love you. This is going to be good. What do you think of the place? Nice, right?

  Me: Very.

  I let my head fall to the soft pillow and close my eyes. “Please, God, let this be what I need.”

  Four

  Alex

  October 11, 2017

  It was too late to grab coffee when we pulled into town last night. Pulling myself from the flannel sheets and pillow-like mattress that my body somehow melted into, I pad down the hallway to the kitchen in search of the life-changing brown substance.

  Above the coffee pot, I find a brown bag full of coffee. Thank God. I’ll take it black, knowing there’s nothing in the refrigerator due to my investigative skills last night.

  I glance at the clock, and it’s just after seven in the morning, Maine time. Stealing a cup of coffee before the brew is complete, I hit the switch on the curtains and watch as they slowly make their way open.

  When my eyes focus on the windows, I’m taken aback by the Atlantic Ocean, its vastness, its powerful ebb and flow. The waves sit, waiting for their turn upon the coast. The sun casts its rays, shining through a small opening in the dark clouds that hover below, lightening up the dark water on a chosen spot. To the right, the mainland houses, with quiet lights that hug the coast like a wet blouse, sit along the shore like an abstract painting, choosing where they pick to view the ocean.

  Once I figure out how to unlock the slider, I’m met with a cool blast that gives my entire body the chills. The deck wraps around the house with a table and two chairs and three chaise lounges. I quickly retreat back inside to grab a sweatshirt. After I do that, the morning chill greets my feet as I set foot on the deck, and I take a seat on one of the chaise lounges.

  In the distance, a boat horn sounds.

  Change things up, Alex. Do something different,
my head sings.

  I look down at my wedding ring, the one I still wear on my left hand, hanging on to memories, promises left unmet, a reminder of my commitment to a man whose body doesn’t exist anymore.

  A light breeze picks up from the east, allowing the wisps of my hair to take flight and tickle my face. Kyle used to gather those and push them behind my ear.

  My phone sounds.

  It’s a text from Clay.

  Clay: Good morning, beautiful! We own Hello, Good-Pie bakery in town. A left from your house and down Main Street. Come down when you’re ready. We’ve got a cinnamon roll with your name on it.

  What could be the harm, right? A new different.

  Me: I’ll be there soon. ;)

  After a few minutes, I walk inside to shower.

  I decide on jeans, dark brown boots, an oversize cream knit sweater that shows my neckline, and a light-pink camisole underneath.

  For the first time in a long time, I decide to dry my hair. Usually, after I wash it, it sits in a bun on top of my head until I go to bed that night. I go back to my bag in search of any product I can use to tame my mane and the hair straightener. I throw on some lip gloss and some mascara.

  I read the alarm instructions sent to my email and double-check the entrance code before I lock the door behind me.

  It’s half past ten when I pull out of the long driveway. I see the sign before I pull onto Main Street.

  GRANITE HARBOR, MAINE, WELCOMES YOU!

  If I had a dollar for every time I heard that. Can you tell me where to find an Eli? I laugh to myself as I pull the wheel left. I creep down Main Street. Mid-sized maple trees line Main Street, and fall wreathes adorn each post. The vibrant reds, sinful oranges, and magnetic yellows draw me in. Storefronts run along each side of Main. People stop and chat, walk their dogs, wave at me, carry their mail, run, talk or text on phones. Smile. Wave.

  As I crawl down Main Street, I read the business signs as I look for Hello, Good-Pie. Granite Harbor Cuts and More, Harbor Theater, State Farm of Granite Harbor, Granite Harbor Opera House, a sign for the Indian Island Light Station—which I saw a sign for last night on my way into town—Granite Harbor Mutual, Merryman’s Restaurant, The Angler’s Tavern, Rings Pharmacy, and a bookstore called Rain All Day Books are all I can capture before I reach my destination, a colorful sign that reads Hello, Good-Pie.

  I pull in front. It looks more like a house plucked down on the corner of Main and Shell Street that sits just off the road. It has outside seating, which I assume will not last long with winter coming and the fall leaves taking color. A small white A-frame with black shutters and a brick walkway make you feel like the most important customer they have. A rainbow flag hangs from a wooden pole that is attached to the side of the bakery, slowly billowing in the wind as though it, too, is on vacation.

  Taking the walk path, I notice the lawn. It’s kept trim and neat without a blade out of place. I wonder who mows their lawn. Pulling the screen door open, I’m met with an overwhelming scent of cinnamon, freshly made dough, and coffee.

  “Alexandra!” I hear Clay say in a singsong voice. He reaches over the glass display and hands me a warm plate of doughy goodness. “You could use some meat on your bones. Coffee is to your left with all the fixings.”

  “Thank you, Clay.” I set my plate down at a table next to the window that looks out onto Main Street and go back and grab some coffee with half-and-half. “This place is perfect, Clay, really. It’s so—”

  “Touristy?” Clay says, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “I was going to say, inviting.”

  He shrugs. “That, too. What did you think of downtown?”

  “Quaint. Lovely. I can’t believe the fall colors here.”

  “It’s the fall-leaf peepers who keep us in business until the middle of November. So, thank you, Alexandra, for contributing to the season. Feel free to make yourself at home.” Clay walks to the professional oven in the far corner of the kitchen.

  I take my seat next to the window, take out a small notebook and a pencil from my purse, and start a grocery list.

  I notice a woman walking a little dog outside, both dressed in matching sweaters. Behind her, a couple holding hands, in their early twenties, make their way down the street. They stop and talk to the woman who’s walking the dog. They exchange hugs and go about their separate ways. Beyond them is the Granite Harbor Post Office. I think about what passes through there. Like postcards. Maybe Clay and Randall know an Eli. I glance at the two postcards, which are shoved into a pocket on the side of my purse, that I pulled from my trash can next to my desk at home.

  I sip my coffee and hear the screen door open again. A green uniform catches the corner of my eye, and I turn my head only slightly.

  “Good morning, Eli,” Clay says in a flirty tone. “Usual?”

  I choke, spitting coffee from my mouth onto my grocery list, onto the table, and onto the chair on the other side of the table. I cough.

  Clay peeks around Eli, and Eli turns to face me.

  “Are you all right?” Eli asks.

  I wave my hand, coughing, my face beet red, nodding, signifying that I’m still breathing and no mouth-to-mouth is required. I cough a few more times, trying to be as quiet as possible, embarrassed.

  “Yeah, Clay, thanks.” Eli grabs his wallet and hands over a ten-dollar bill.

  “Have you found him?” Clay’s voice is a whisper.

  Eli shakes his head. “Not yet.” His voice is smooth, deep. A terse sound escapes through his teeth, maybe a sign of pessimism. Maybe frustration. Probably both.

  Clay looks over at me again by leaning past Eli.

  Fuck me. Please don’t do it, Clay.

  “Eli Young, I’d like you to meet Granite Harbor’s newest tourist, Alexandra Fisher. She’s renting the Malcomb Place up on Eastward. She’s from California.”

  I wipe my mouth, hesitate, stare at the table, stall, pray he’ll get a call and leave. “Alex. You can call me Alex, please.” I wipe my hands on my jeans.

  “Eli.” He moves his hand toward mine.

  “You, uh, probably don’t want to do that. Coffee incident. Remember?” Shit. Did I just say that out loud?

  “I’ve handled worse.” He doesn’t break eye contact.

  My hand slides into his. Warm. Despite the chilly weather with the fall season in full swing. His hand is also gentle, rugged, and calloused. Big.

  I stare at his badge. Maine Warden Service, Warden Young. Then, my eyes meet his. They’re green with flecks of hazel. He has the type of eyes that tell you, when he makes a decision, it’s the right decision for the greater good. Confidence sits on his broad shoulders like a badge. Not a badge of honor because Eli doesn’t seem like he would wear any badge to promote himself. And he’s tall. He’s at least six foot three or six foot four. I try to pay no mind that he’s handsome. Extremely handsome. Pale complexion, strong jawline. Clean-shaven.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Alexandra.” Two lines on either side of his mouth frame his smile.

  “Likewise. And you might want to wash your hands. I added sugar to the coffee. Sugar is sticky.”

  “Noted.” He smiles again, turns, and calls back to Clay and Randall, “Thanks.”

  I slide back into my chair and watch him walk out to his dark gray truck, pull his seat belt on, and look in my direction. With the distance between us, I can’t tell if he is looking at me or just in my vicinity. Either way, I look away because I don’t like the way my stomach feels right now.

  You know how to interact with handsome men, Alex.

  But maybe it doesn’t have to do with Eli being handsome. It has everything to do with Kyle.

  It isn’t time to ask anyone about the postcards until I get more familiar with who is who in this town.

  After I leave Clay and Randall, I decide to walk down Main Street and go through the shops and get a feel for the town. Coffee in one hand, purse in the other, I purchase a heavier coat. If I’m going to be here for a
while, I’ll need something to ward off the cold. This makes me think of Warden Young and the temperature of his hands. The calluses I felt as my hand slid into his. My stomach explodes into a fit of butterflies.

  Oh my God.

  A book.

  A love story.

  Contemporary romance.

  Game wardens.

  No, not one. Three books.

  Wardens having their own book.

  I know nothing about game wardens or what they do. There’s only so much research you can do online before the writing becomes stale. What if I job shadow a warden here in Granite Harbor? It can’t be Eli. But why? Then again, why not?

  Enthusiasm leaks through my pores. The same feeling I used to get when I’d tell Kyle about a new story I’d worked out in my head.

  I can’t wait any longer, so I hop back into the Tahoe and dial Bryce’s number.

  She can’t even say hello because I’m already talking. “Contemporary romance. Second chance. Game wardens. Three-book series.” My breaths echo into my phone.

  There’s a long silence on the other end.

  “Bryce, say something.”

  “I haven’t heard you this excited on the phone since the prerelease of Come with Me.”

  “Bryce, I haven’t been this excited since then probably.” I look down at my neglected nails and wonder how I let them get this bad. I make a mental note to get a manicure at the shop I passed earlier this morning.

  I hear a sniffle on the other end of the line. I’m confused.

  “Are you … are you crying?”

  “No, I am most certainly not crying. I don’t cry.” Bryce blows her nose. “It’s allergies.”

  “You’re crying.” I smile.

  “It’s just been a long time. What I wouldn’t give to see your smile right now, Alex.”