The Red Door Inn by Liz Johnson Page B

her.
    The pianist pounded out a lively tune, his foot stomping with the crescendo. He sounded like he belonged at a piano bar rather than a Sunday morning church service.
    There had been a pianist at the New Year’s Eve party two months before. Of course, he’d been playing classics in the hotel ballroom. He hadn’t even deigned to play a Billy Joel or Elton John song. Too bawdy for the tuxedo-clad guest list. Too common for the exceedingly expensive tastes of Boston’s elite.
    She’d heard that music deep in her toes. Her laughter had mingled with it as she let him kiss her, let him dance her out of the room. Let him lead her to the elevator. He’d promised to show her the view of the fireworks from his balcony.
    From the penthouse the city shone like a sparkler on the Fourth of July. They could even make out the roiling, teeming crowd in the square. Another year about to begin. Another year—
    â€œNow. Turn the page.” The whisper in her ear and poke in her side sent her nearly to the ceiling, and she pawed at the page, ripping it at the top near the center.
    Caden’s niece scowled at her, but she could only shrugand mouth her apology before it was time to flip the page back for the start of the second verse.
    There’d be no tuning out during this song. Or the sermon either, given the pointed fingers and even more pointed glares of her pew neighbor.
    That was all right. She’d rather not dwell on New Year’s Eve. She was much better off forgetting Boston. For the moment she could rest in Rustico. And when she needed to leave, she’d go. If the memories got too close or the nightmares too strong, she’d go.
    If she stayed put too long, her father would track her down and convince her that he needed her help to close the land deal. That he needed her presence in his office in order to make his threat viable.
    She couldn’t let that happen. She’d find the right time to move on, before it was too late.
    But in this moment she’d turn the page. Very carefully.

    After the service ended, Aretha bid Father Chuck a good day before sailing down the stairs. She brushed past Betty Robertson with little more than a pat on the back, her gaze never wavering from Marie, her tall young man, and the silver fox next to them.
    She was still several meters away when they turned toward the parking lot. Throwing decorum aside, she waved and hollered, “Marie, honey.”
    The girl’s chestnut waves flopped over her shoulder as she turned, clearly surprised at first. Then she bestowed a rich smile, as though she’d long missed having a friend with whom she could share it.
    Aretha hustled across the lawn, her breaths coming in quick gasps.
    A woman her age was inclined to avoid exercise at every opportunity. But a single man in Rustico, well, he was worth a bit of a jog.
    â€œAretha.” Marie greeted her with an outstretched hand that she quickly pulled back then held forward again. As though to cover her indecisive movements, she hurried to add, “I wasn’t sure I’d see you here today.”
    â€œAnd why not? Did you think me such a heathen that I wouldn’t even attend a church in my own backyard?”
    Marie’s eyes opened wide, her mouth pumping like the handle on an empty well and her cheeks turning red. “I just meant, maybe we wouldn’t bump into each other.”
    The poor girl thought she was serious. Aretha tossed her head back and let her laughter bubble over. For several seconds, she could only pat Marie’s arm as she let the mirth overtake her.
    Finally she wiped the pool of tears from her eyes and leaned into the mute girl. “I’m only teasing you, child. We must teach you to loosen up.”
    Fear flickered in Marie’s eyes, and Aretha’s humor vanished. Whatever had caused this girl so much grief still haunted her. It had probably chased her all the way to the island. All the way to North