Those Cassabaw Days

“Oh, well, that’s just supergreat.” Emily could do many things, but working on cars was not one of them.

Ahead on the right was the same old Chappy’s IGA and Fuel Stop. As she approached, Emily noticed the brightly colored beach towels, the foam wakeboards and the variety of kites that still lined both of the wide picture windows of the storefront. Up ahead and around the big curve to the right she knew were the beachfront, pavilion, pier and boardwalk. Had it changed in fifteen years? She could hardly wait to find out.

Emily’s heartbeat quickened as she hit the left-turn signal and downshifted again. This time, the Jeep simply sputtered. She passed the lively little cottages from the twenties and thirties that hadn’t changed a bit. Painted in colors varying from pink to green to baby blue, and decorated in nautical themes, they sat nestled beneath oak trees draped in Spanish moss and aged wisteria vines. Scrub palms graced every yard. Yes, everything was exactly as Emily had remembered. She, Reagan, Matt and his brothers had trick-or-treated here every single Halloween. Made out like bandits, too. They’d last been zombies, walking through the streets, moaning and dragging their legs. God, what fun they’d had.

Just then, the Cassabaw Station Lighthouse came into view, jutting skyward. Sitting directly across from it was old Fort Wilhem—the Civil War fort. How many times had she and Reagan climbed those spiral steps clear to the top and looked out over the Atlantic? She and Matt, too.

Emily continued around the curb. Soon the cottages grew sparse, and through the canopy of moss and live oaks, the sunlight blinked in and out. She slowed and scanned the mailboxes that sat at the entrance of each long, shady driveway. Clark. Harden. Malone.

“Quinn,” she whispered as her gaze found the large rural mailbox. The name was faded now, painted in big swirling letters so long ago by her mom. Great-Aunt Cora had lived in the house after the accident, unmarried and without kids, and had run the café until she passed at seventy-six. Emily drew another deep breath as she eased onto the narrow driveway.

More recollections swamped her as she crept down the azalea-lined driveway, and they were fond ones. Happy. And so thick you had to brush them away with your hand like a swarm of gnats. Massive oaks and magnolia trees with blooms the size of softballs formed a shady awning over the two Quinn acres and, before long, the old whitewashed river house came into view.

Just then, the Jeep’s engine coughed, sputtered and died. Close to the wide, raised porch, Emily coasted to a stop and threw the Jeep into Neutral. Yanking the emergency brake, she leaned back against her seat and blew out a breath of relief. Barely made it. She would need a mechanic sooner than ASAP. But for now, she was finally home. With excitement, she pulled her shades off and drank it all in.

Crickets and cicadas chirped a deafening chorus. The saw grass rustled as the wind rushed through the salt marsh. The oyster shoals bubbled in the low-tide mud. And although it was only late May, the moisture hung so thick that it stuck to Emily’s skin like a sopping wet blanket. Her eyes drifted to the front porch, where her mom’s hydrangea bushes still sat, full of wide green leaves and almost-ready blooms. God, she loved it here. Why had it taken poor Aunt Cora’s passing for her to come back? She’d been so busy with school, then college, then she’d met Trent, work... Time had just flown by. With her eyes closed, she inhaled, and let her senses take over.

Emmie! Reagan! Time for supper!

A sad smile tugged at Emily’s mouth as she recalled her mom’s sweet voice. It seemed like forever ago that she’d heard it. Blinks in time, those memories. She cherished every single one.

Male voices rose from the river, interrupting Emily’s reverie. She peered through the trees in that direction. Easing out of the open door, she slid her iPhone into the pocket of her vintage sundress and started across the hard-packed dirt path that wound to the marsh. Flip-flops smacked her heels as she walked, and the voices cleared.

“Owen! Dammit, boy, I told you it was that check valve on the bilge pump through-hull! Christ almighty!” The voice was old, graveled and familiar.

“Dad, calm down. Eric’s picking up the valve on his way home. We’ll have it fixed tonight.”

“Can’t take ’er out with a busted bilge pump.”

“I know that, Dad.”

Emily smiled as she made her way to the marsh. Those voices belonged of course to the elder Malones. The wood groaned beneath her feet as she stepped onto the sun-faded dock and started out across the water. Picking her way carefully, she noticed every third board was missing, others were rotted and, finally, she had no choice but to stop. A big gap of sheer drop-off to the salt water, maybe ten feet or more, lay between Emily and the rest of the dock. Beyond that, the tin roof of the little dock house had faded from red to salmon in the blazing sun. It, too, had seen better days.

Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered over at the anchored shrimping trawler and the two older men standing beside it. They both looked in her direction, and she waved. “Hey there!” she called.

“Little Emily Quinn, is that you?” Owen Malone hollered back.

Even though fifty feet or more stood between them and Emily, his deep voice carried over the water, strong and clear. He wore a dark cap, khaki shorts and a dark T-shirt. Years of being in the sun had bronzed his skin.

“Didn’t expect you till next week.”

It had already been over a month since she’d flown in for Aunt Cora’s funeral. For some reason, Emily had resisted driving out to Cassabaw to see the old homestead before. She hadn’t been ready then, she supposed.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I decided to come a little early. Just got in.”

“Who is it?” Jep Malone grumbled, peering in Emily’s direction. He wore the same white cap and light blue short-sleeved coveralls she remembered. She was surprised he hadn’t worn the same thing to the funeral. Quite a character, Jep Malone.

“It’s Alex and Katie’s oldest girl, Dad,” Owen told his father. “Cora’s niece. Emily. We saw her at the funeral.”

Old Jep stared in Emily’s direction and waved a hand. “’Bout time you came back home. Your dock’s got a big hole in it, missy.”

Emily laughed. “I see that!” she called back. “I’ll add it to my fix-it list. My Jeep just died on me, too. You wouldn’t happen to know a good mechanic?”

“Sure do,” Owen hollered back. “One of the best.”

“Great!”

“What about that dock?” Owen asked.

In reality, Emily had thought she would do as much of the work as she could. But now, staring down at the missing planks, the rotted ones and the water below, she wondered how successful she’d be. It was a bigger job than she had thought, and the café entered her mind. She definitely had a lot on her plate. “I’ll probably need someone for that, too.”

“I’ve got just the man for both jobs. I’ll send him over directly.”

Emily smiled and waved. “Thanks, Mr. Malone!”

“You bake, Emily Quinn?” Jep asked.

She cocked her head, still smiling. She liked the Malones. Nice men. “Yes, sir, I do.”

Jep stared in her direction. She didn’t need to see his face. Digging back into her memory, she had a perfectly picture of the tanned, weathered skin and lines around his eyes from the sun. He may have looked like an old sea dog, but she recalled that his startling emerald gaze held a lot of warmth. And mischief. Just like Matt’s.

“Good. I like pie.”

“Dad,” Owen chided.

“Well, I do!” Jep grumbled. “You any good at it?”

Emily chuckled. “Pretty fair.”

Owen shook his head and waved. “Ignore him. Let us know if you need anything, Emily. And you should stay off the dock until it’s fixed. It’s too rotted. I’ll send your man around directly. And don’t let him charge you too much.”

“No, sir, I won’t. And thanks!”

Emily started back down the dock. She had been home for only twenty minutes, and already had a mechanic and a fix-it man. She made a quick plan to bake a couple of pies to take over to the Malones after she’d settled in.

As she stepped off the dock and back onto the dirt path, Emily pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and made her way through the shade to the front porch. Grabbing her travel bag and a box of renovation magazines from the Jeep, she climbed the steps. Looking to the left, she took in the porch, scattered with dead leaves. The swing she and Reagan used to spend hours playing on with their Barbie dolls sat on its bottom; the white paint was faded, and the chains hung limp. Poor old Cora must’ve had a hard time keeping the place up by herself. Although, the property itself looked to be in decent shape. The azalea bushes were trimmed, and the grass cut. Pulling the key out of her shorts pocket, Emily unlocked and opened the front door and set her belongings down. Keeping it open, she stepped inside.

The aroma of lemon hung in the warm interior, and hazy sunlight filtered in through the windows. The estate attorney had arranged for a cleaning crew to go through the house, and they’d done a pretty good job.

Painted wood walls reminded her of Irish cream, and the ceiling rafters were exposed. Upon a polished wide-planked wood floor sat sheet-covered furniture, still as ghosts. A fairly new sixty-inch flat-screen TV filled the space above two bookcases. A small brick-faced fireplace with a white-and-green painted mantel faced the opposite wall, its gaping mouth dark and hollow. Above it sat a large photo in a frame. Emily moved toward it, and swallowed hard. She grazed the polished wooden frame with her fingertips, and her eyes roamed the faces staring back at her; herself, Reagan and their parents, sitting on their dock at sunset. Emily sat in their father’s lap, while Reagan sat in their mother’s. Their mom rested her head against their father’s shoulder.

Emily remembered the day Aunt Cora had taken that photo, three weeks before the accident. For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut. Could she do this? Could she make it through all this? By herself?

Yes, yes she could. She had to. Stop questioning yourself, Quinn. Sheesh.

Emily drew a few deep breaths and moved slowly through the small, quiet river house, down the hallway to what used to be her and Reagan’s bedroom. From the shapes beneath the sheets, Aunt Cora had turned it into an office, more than likely running the Windchimer’s finances from home. She would have to dig in right away and see if she could make heads or tails out of all that paperwork. Emily’s eyes roamed the room, to where their twin beds used to be. Reagan’s had been all pink and frilly; hers was Scooby-Doo. She continued down the hall, peeking inside the bathroom and then her parents’ old room. More white ghosts sat dormant in the filtered light. A huge sheeted bed, minus the mattress and box spring, rested catty-corner, and a small pair of French doors opened up onto the covered porch. Emily turned and headed back up the hallway. Aunt Cora hadn’t been a pack rat—that was for sure. Just the bare necessities, so it seemed. The movers would arrive tomorrow with Emily’s belongings, and then she could start settling in. For tonight, though, she had her overnight bag, a pillow, sheet and blanket.

Across from the living room, Emily walked through a white-trimmed archway leading into the kitchen. Everything was just as she remembered. A smile pulled at her mouth as she made her way to the mammoth white porcelain sink, its vast picture window facing the marsh and Morgan’s Creek. With her eyes closed, she could easily see her mom, clear as day standing there, baking oatmeal-raisin cookies, or cooking supper.

Slowly, Emily opened her eyes. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the magnolias and shot right through the window. Dancing bits of dust swirled in the light like so many diamonds. She waved her hand through it—

“Ma’am, the front door was open and—”

“Whoa!” With her heart in her throat, Emily spun around, and backed up until her rear end bumped against the sink. Fear and adrenaline surged through her veins as she gawked, wide-eyed.

The man was a beast. Heavily muscled. Close-cut hair. He just stood there, like a solid rock. Muscles flexed at his jaw. An emerald gaze stared right back at her.

Then, Emily looked—hard. Dark hair—although buzzed short. A scar through his brow over very familiar eyes. She’d know those eyes, and that scar, anywhere, no matter how long it’d been. “Holy moly, I can’t believe who I’m looking at.” Then she simply shook her head in shock and gave a light laugh. “Well, you’ve grown. I still really love the color of your eyes, Matt Malone. They remind me of the green mossy algae that sticks to the sand at low tide.”

Something Emily deemed as confusion flared in Matt Malone’s eyes. Then, they widened. “Emily Quinn?” he asked. His matured, slightly deep and raspy voice filled the small kitchen.

Emily moved then and gave her old best friend a hug around the neck. No longer lanky, his body was warm, thick and hard as solid stone. “You remember!”

Then, she backed up and couldn’t help but stare some more. Matt Malone had really, really changed quite a lot in fifteen years.

Well over six feet, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, Matt loomed over her. He had the same long dark lashes that framed those trademark Malone eyes. Although his hair was shorn, the cowlick remained just off the center of the hairline near his forehead, and was as obnoxious and untamed as ever. The gash through his brow still stood out, like a brilliant bolt of lightning, just as fresh as the day Emily had given it to him when she tripped him during a race to jump off the dock. It now gleamed silver, intriguing. Gangly had turned into lean. Confidence, maybe arrogance, wafted off him in waves.

His black T-shirt was just snug enough that she could see his chiseled chest and biceps. Muscles flexed at his unshaven cut-in-stone jaw as he studied her. How had her prank-playing, skinny little childhood friend turned into this man?

Then his handsome face hardened. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Emily blinked, stung by his brusque, sharp tone. Hard, somewhat cold, Matt’s eyes did not welcome her. Not at all.

What had life done to her old best friend?

CHAPTER TWO

EMILY. QUINN. WHAT the hell? Matt couldn’t say anything. Couldn’t do a damn thing but stare. She was the last person he’d expected to find. Green mossy algae?

“I live here now,” she began. She seemed...unchanged. Bouyant. Beautiful. But he saw the flash in her eyes at his sharp tone. “Can you believe it? After all these years. And what are you doing here?” She cocked her head to the side and looked up, studying him, so it seemed, her strawberry-blond ponytail sliding over her shoulder. Her face drew closer, her gaze narrowed. “Why do you look so cantankerous?”

Matt Malone stared into the soft hazel eyes of his childhood friend.

Not a kid anymore. But apparently still as unfiltered as before.

His face pulled into an even deeper frown. “I’m not...that.” Even as a kid she’d used words no other kid did. Seemed to be a trait she hadn’t lost. Taller than most girls, but not as skinny as she used to be. Same long tanned legs. He spotted some ink on her shoulder. A tattoo. Free spirit. She’d had that same spirit as a kid—that was for damn sure. Apparently, she’d never lost it, either. He was glad of that, for some reason.

Her head tilted more. “Matt? Why are you here? And how did you get here so fast? I just spoke to your dad a few minutes ago.”

He cleared his throat. “I just got home. Dad sent me over. Said it was an emergency. I took the path.” Running his hand over his stubbled hair, he drew in a slow breath and exhaled. “They didn’t tell me it was you.”

Emily hadn’t taken her eyes off him, waiting for his answer, he guessed, so he hooked his thumbs into his jeans pockets and studied her hard. This was Em. They went way back. Back before Iraq, Afghanistan. Just...Emily.

“It’s been a damn long time, Emily,” he finally said. “You look...different.”

Without thought, his eyes dropped to her breasts, which were pushing against the material of her shirt. Those definitely weren’t there the last time he saw her.

Emily’s giggle made Matt snatch his gaze back to hers. “Well, I hope I look different,” she said.

Her smile widened, and her eyes softened. She still had that deep dimple in one cheek. As a kid, he remembered thinking it was kind of weird. Maybe not so weird anymore.

“Since I was only twelve when we last saw each other,” she added. Her gaze moved over him, and she crossed her arms. “You sure look different, too, Matt Malone.” She pointed at his arm. “I used to have bigger muscles than you.” Her lips quirked. “And I see that scar never faded.”

Idly, his finger grazed the mark through his left brow. “Nope.”

“Forever proof of my victory that day on the dock.” The laughter was still there in her voice.

Matt pursed his lips to keep a straight face. Which was a new sensation for him. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Emily’s lips curved up.

He could hardly believe he was standing here, in her old kitchen, talking to her.

Just then, her cell phone screeched. She pulled it from her pocket and looked at the caller. She glanced up. “Sorry, just a second.”

Matt nodded, and waited.

“Hello,” she said as she answered the call.

Matt looked at her and jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the open front door, indicating her Jeep. She understood and nodded, and while she continued her conversation he wandered over to the doorless driver’s side, popped the hood latch and moved to the front. While he peered at the engine, he couldn’t help but catch pieces of Emily’s discussion with the estate attorney as she walked outside. She smiled, nodded and thanked him for sending out a cleaning crew.

She ended the call, stuck her phone into her back pocket and rested her forearms against the Jeep’s fender. “So, any idea what’s wrong with it?” Her ponytail slid over her shoulder.

“Why don’t you start her up and let me listen to it?”

“Okay,” she said. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she turned the key. The engine sputtered a few times, then started. After a little more inspection, Matt stepped around the hood.

“All right, you can turn it off.”

She did, and slid back out. “Well? I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

He rubbed his hand over his head and looked at her. Her eyes were wide, soft. “Might be your alternator.”

“Oh, man,” she said. Then, her brow lifted. “Your dad signed you up to be my fix-it man and mechanic. You still up for the job?”

Matt rubbed his chin and studied her. “Yep. Won’t be cheap, though.”

Emily fake scowled, with her brows slashing together. “Your dad said not to let you charge too much or else.”

God, the way her face screwed up into that silly frown, it made her look twelve again.

“I’m the cheapest you’ll find. But you’re going to need a loaner car for a few days until I can order the parts and get the job done.”

She smiled. Instant relief softened her features. “Deal. I’ll call my insurance company right now.” Pulling her cell from her back pocket, she started to tap the front of it.

Matt stilled her hand with his. Her skin felt soft beneath his fingers. Soft, and warm. “Nope,” he said. “You’d have to go to King’s Ferry to pick one up. You can use Jep’s old truck for a few days.”

“You’re sure he won’t mind?” she asked.

Matt shook his head. “That old dog lives on the water. He’s out on the trawler with Dad and Nathan every day.” He pressed his lips together to keep from smiling at her like an idiot. “He won’t even miss it.”

The uneasy lines by her eyes and mouth relaxed. It almost completely transformed her face. Funny, how worry did that to a person. He’d seen enough of it to know.

“That would be so supergreat,” she said. “Thanks, Matt.”

“No problem,” he answered.

“And did Owen tell you about the fix-it part of the job?”

“He said you had a crater-sized hole in your dock.”

Emily’s laugh hadn’t changed too much over the years. Not too loud, or obnoxious, but definitely infectious. “Yeah, that’s true.” She turned her head toward the marsh, and Matt studied her profile. Slender neck, straight little nose, firm jaw, full lips. And not a lick of makeup on. Little Emily Quinn had grown into a natural beauty.

“I’m afraid the whole dock needs repairing.” Her eyes returned to his. “And the dock house. And from what the estate attorney said, minor repairs need to be made to the house and to the café.”

Matt lifted a brow. “So you’re taking over the Windchimer?”

A bright smile lit up her face. “Sure am.”

“I guess you’re moving back to Cassabaw?” Stupid question, Malone.

She glanced at the house, and back at the marsh before answering. “I am.” Pride shone in her eyes. Made her smile widen. Made his damn heart lurch.

“For good?” he repeated.

Emily’s eyes softened again and she glanced around before returning her gaze to his. “I can’t see myself ever leaving again. This is home.” Her slight shoulders lifted. “Always has been, I guess. It just took me a while to remember that.”

A breeze came in from the marsh and brushed Emily’s ponytail off her shoulder, exposing the tattoo.

Matt rubbed his chin. “You’re going to be a busy girl, then.”

She cocked her head. “I sure hope so. And what about you? I didn’t see you at Aunt Cora’s funeral.”

Matt rubbed his jaw and shrugged. “Wasn’t here. I’m on a day-by-day agenda at the moment.” What it really depended on was whether his ex-commander proposed any special-op missions to him. Matt missed the corps. Missed his role in it.

“Well,” she said, fidgeting with the charm on her necklace, “now that I’m lined up with who Owen Malone claims is the best mechanic and fix-it man around Cassabaw, I’m all set.” She nodded at the house. “The power will be turned on by five this afternoon. The truck will arrive tomorrow with all of my stuff.”

Matt fought a grin. “Stuff, huh?”

That barely there laugh left her throat and shot straight through him, leaving his insides feeling...weird.

“Yeah, all my spectacular stuff. I need to take inventory at the café, order supplies and check on repairs.” Her hazel eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re up for all this? I mean, do you have other work planned on that day-to-day agenda of yours? Your dad said you were in the marines?”

Emily probably thought he was some sort of loser drifter. He didn’t know how much of his special-ops past Owen and Jep had told her, but the less she knew, the better.

“Been in the corps since I turned eighteen. Two tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan. The last one left a load of shrapnel in my shoulder from a blast. Was just released a few weeks ago.” That’s all she’d need to know about his military history.

“God, Matt—I didn’t know. I mean, Owen didn’t say you’d been injured.” Her gaze moved over him, and her eyes softened again. She chewed on her bottom lip and leaned a little closer, as if she wanted to touch him. Instead, she hugged herself. “Looks like we made it back home together then, huh?”

He met her gaze and held it. “Looks like it,” he responded.

A quiet stretched between them. Beneath the shade of the trees, the breeze grazed the back of his neck. The brine of the marsh ran through his lungs, and it reminded him of simpler times. He ran his hand over his head, breaking their trance.

“Well,” he said, and cleared his throat. “We’ve got work to do.”

“We do!” A spark lit her eyes. “What to tackle first? I guess you’ll want to go over everything and then give me an estimate?”

Matt grabbed the hood and closed it. “Yep. But I need to take your Jeep for a spin, see what’s up, then get it over to our place and on the lift so I can see what’s going on with it.” He glanced out over the way he came. “Let’s drive it on over and you can bring Jep’s truck back.”