for you to have it, and at least itâs something to do. An action to take.
An action it was high time she did take.
Walking to the window, she caught a glimpse of Wyatt heading toward the marina and flagging down Butch, who, waiting in the Holy Terror, waved back.
âGreat,â she said under her breath, and chalked off another person sheâd allowed into the âCan Be Trustedâ column of acquaintances in her life.
Staring through the glass, she watched Wyatt settle into the very seat sheâd occupied earlier as the Holy Terror headed into the waters of the bay. Ava was left with the unsettling truth that she couldnât trust anyone associated with the island. Worse yet, she couldnât shake the feeling that Wyatt, the man she should trust above all others, wasnât the man sheâd thought sheâd married.
Then again, was she the girl heâd fallen in love with?
Not a chance, she thought as she caught a glimpse of her ghostlike reflection in the windowâs watery glass. That girl had died long ago. . . .
Then who the hell are you?
She swallowed hard and felt a rising sense of panic. Somehow, somewhere sheâd lost herself. Not that sheâd been a sweet innocent when sheâd met Wyatt, but in the years since, she had definitely changed. No longer was she the hardheaded, sometimes even ruthless, businesswoman. Okay, maybe she was still hardheaded, but once sheâd been athletic and bold, nothing like this shell of a person who stood at the window now.
She placed her hands on the pane, as if trying to grab hold of something of the woman sheâd once been. Staring through the pale ghost of her reflection to the surly sea beyond, watching as the boat her husband was aboard grew smaller, she felt a silent rage steal through her blood, a fury at the impotent person sheâd become.
âNo more,â she whispered, her hand sliding down the glass to clench into a fist. No more weakling crippled by her own fears.
It was time to take control of her life again. If that meant going against all of her âwell-intentionedâ relatives, then so be it.
It was time to fight back. Hard.
CHAPTER 8
T he next day, Ava felt stronger, ready to take on the world, a part of her that had been missing surfacing for the first time since sheâd been released from the hospital.
If sheâd had nightmares during the night, she couldnât remember anything about them this morning, though there was a lingering worry hovering around her brain. She tried to shake it off. Today she wasnât going to let any stupid dream shackle her, remembered or otherwise.
Tossing off the bedcovers, she got to her feet, ignoring the headache pounding at the base of her skull as she showered, then slipped into her favorite robe and cinched the belt around her waist.
With her hair barely towel-dried, she walked to the bedroom window, threw back the curtains, and opened the blinds. Her stomach clenched, anxiety twisting her nerves, but when she stared through the old glass this morning, she didnât see her son standing on the dock. There was no terrifying image of her boy teetering over the dark, swirling water.
âThank God,â she whispered, one hand still wrapped around the cord of the blinds, her shoulders slumping with sudden, nearly overwhelming relief.
Maybe she was getting better.
This morning as she peered through the window, she saw a rising mist and the shivering fronds of dew-covered ferns. The damp stone pathway split, one branch leading to the private apartment in the basement, the other curving past the garden and toward the closest pasture. It was that walkway that wound around to the side of the house, the one that was just visible from her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of Austin Dern rounding up the horses. Dun, palomino, black, and bay, the animals were shrouded in the thickening fog and seemed to appear, then fade as they followed the tall man out of
An action it was high time she did take.
Walking to the window, she caught a glimpse of Wyatt heading toward the marina and flagging down Butch, who, waiting in the Holy Terror, waved back.
âGreat,â she said under her breath, and chalked off another person sheâd allowed into the âCan Be Trustedâ column of acquaintances in her life.
Staring through the glass, she watched Wyatt settle into the very seat sheâd occupied earlier as the Holy Terror headed into the waters of the bay. Ava was left with the unsettling truth that she couldnât trust anyone associated with the island. Worse yet, she couldnât shake the feeling that Wyatt, the man she should trust above all others, wasnât the man sheâd thought sheâd married.
Then again, was she the girl heâd fallen in love with?
Not a chance, she thought as she caught a glimpse of her ghostlike reflection in the windowâs watery glass. That girl had died long ago. . . .
Then who the hell are you?
She swallowed hard and felt a rising sense of panic. Somehow, somewhere sheâd lost herself. Not that sheâd been a sweet innocent when sheâd met Wyatt, but in the years since, she had definitely changed. No longer was she the hardheaded, sometimes even ruthless, businesswoman. Okay, maybe she was still hardheaded, but once sheâd been athletic and bold, nothing like this shell of a person who stood at the window now.
She placed her hands on the pane, as if trying to grab hold of something of the woman sheâd once been. Staring through the pale ghost of her reflection to the surly sea beyond, watching as the boat her husband was aboard grew smaller, she felt a silent rage steal through her blood, a fury at the impotent person sheâd become.
âNo more,â she whispered, her hand sliding down the glass to clench into a fist. No more weakling crippled by her own fears.
It was time to take control of her life again. If that meant going against all of her âwell-intentionedâ relatives, then so be it.
It was time to fight back. Hard.
CHAPTER 8
T he next day, Ava felt stronger, ready to take on the world, a part of her that had been missing surfacing for the first time since sheâd been released from the hospital.
If sheâd had nightmares during the night, she couldnât remember anything about them this morning, though there was a lingering worry hovering around her brain. She tried to shake it off. Today she wasnât going to let any stupid dream shackle her, remembered or otherwise.
Tossing off the bedcovers, she got to her feet, ignoring the headache pounding at the base of her skull as she showered, then slipped into her favorite robe and cinched the belt around her waist.
With her hair barely towel-dried, she walked to the bedroom window, threw back the curtains, and opened the blinds. Her stomach clenched, anxiety twisting her nerves, but when she stared through the old glass this morning, she didnât see her son standing on the dock. There was no terrifying image of her boy teetering over the dark, swirling water.
âThank God,â she whispered, one hand still wrapped around the cord of the blinds, her shoulders slumping with sudden, nearly overwhelming relief.
Maybe she was getting better.
This morning as she peered through the window, she saw a rising mist and the shivering fronds of dew-covered ferns. The damp stone pathway split, one branch leading to the private apartment in the basement, the other curving past the garden and toward the closest pasture. It was that walkway that wound around to the side of the house, the one that was just visible from her bedroom. She caught a glimpse of Austin Dern rounding up the horses. Dun, palomino, black, and bay, the animals were shrouded in the thickening fog and seemed to appear, then fade as they followed the tall man out of
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