Second Chance Summer. Irene Hannon
up, Rachel planted one hand on her hip. “For what?”
“Getting on with your life.”
She exhaled slowly. This was not a discussion she wanted to have during this vacation—but her aunt’s serious expression told her that while she might be able to escape it today, the topic was going to come up again.
“I have gotten on with my life. I have a great job helping kids discover their inner artist. I’m active at church. I have a lovely circle of friends. I prefer to think of my life as full rather than busy.”
Her aunt watched her for a moment. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”
Ah. So that’s what this was about. She should have guessed. Aunt El had dropped a few subtle hints last summer about the importance of romance, which she’d ignored. But there was a disconcerting determination in her manner this year.
Perhaps it wasn’t going to be such a relaxing summer after all.
“It’s only been three years, Aunt El.” She tightened her grip on the strap of the tote bag, her voice subdued. “Someday I might go down that road again. But I’ve only just begun to entertain that idea. I’m nowhere near ready to act on it.”
Eleanor took another sip of her lemonade. “Well, you know best, of course. I just don’t want to see you end up alone. The way you love children, you should have a houseful of your own.”
A twinge of pain echoed in her heart. That had been the plan, once upon a time. But she and Mark had barely gotten past the launch stage.
She didn’t want to talk about that, either.
“Maybe it’s not in the cards.”
“The only way to find out is to play the game.”
Time to go on the offensive.
“But you never married, and you’ve always been perfectly happy.”
For one tiny second, a shadow darkened Eleanor’s eyes, come and gone so fast Rachel would have thought she’d imagined it—except for her aunt’s next words.
“I’ve been happy because I chose to be. Sometimes you have to accept what life hands you and make the best of it. But if I’d had the chance to marry and create a family, I’d have done it in a heartbeat.”
Rachel stared at her, speechless. Everyone in the family had always assumed Aunt El had been a confirmed bachelorette from the get-go. Spunky, independent, smart, witty—she’d always been viewed by the female side of the family as proof a woman alone could march to the beat of her own drummer and lead a joy-filled, productive life.
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry you never met the right man.”
A whisper of sadness echoed in the depths of Eleanor’s eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
Rachel cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
The sadness evaporated, and Eleanor was once again her upbeat, no-nonsense self. “That’s a story for another day, my dear. You best get ready for your meeting at the hotel.”
A few minutes ago, Rachel had been anxious to break away from her aunt. Now she hesitated, her curiosity piqued.
Eleanor’s eyes began to twinkle. “You know, we all have our secrets, good and bad. Close as the two of us have always been, I daresay you haven’t told me all of yours, either...old or new.”
Her encounter with the man on the beach replayed through her mind, and once again her neck warmed.
“I thought so.” Eleanor sent her a smug look.
She was out of there.
“I’ll be back in time for dinner.” Rachel called the comment over her shoulder as she flip-flopped into the house. How in the world had they gotten on the subject of secrets?
And what secrets did her aunt harbor?
Yet as she dropped her tote on the bed and selected an outfit to wear to the hotel, thoughts of Aunt El’s secrets gave way to the solitary man on the beach. A tanned, fit swimmer with an artificial leg and no wedding ring who wouldn’t have given her a second look if Bandit hadn’t intervened.
We all have our secrets, good and bad.
What secrets did he have? Were they mostly good...or bad?
She pulled the puckered seersucker sundress from its hanger, running her fingers over the alternating rows of textured stripes. Smooth, bumpy, smooth, bumpy. Kind of like life—smooth patches followed by lots of bumps and wrinkles.
Based on his artificial leg, the guy at the beach had had his share of rough patches. Maybe more than his share. What had happened to him? Why was he alone? What had brought him to Jekyll Island?
Shaking her head, Rachel tossed the dress on the bed and detoured to the bathroom to touch up her French braid. She needed to switch gears and psyche herself up for her meeting with the new activities director at the Jekyll Island Club Hotel. She hadn’t come here to think about strangers on a beach or dates or whether her busy...full...schedule at home was healthy.
She’d come here to relax.
And neither her aunt’s prodding nor an unsettling encounter on the beach were going to interfere with that plan.
Chapter Two
“Did you have any problem finding the beach access?”
As Louise Fletcher stepped from the house to the patio, a plate of cookies in hand, Fletch tried not to stare. Last time he’d come for a visit, his grandmother had been her usual self—short hair neatly coiffed in the tight curls she’d always favored, sensible flat shoes, modest-length dark skirt and crisp blouse.
Now she looked like an aging hippie. What was with the spiky blow-dried hair and the bare feet and the floor-length muumuu thing?
“Young man, you’ve been inspecting me like I’m an alien ever since you arrived yesterday.” She set the plate of cookies on the table beside him and eased into the adjacent chair, cradling the cast on her left wrist. “What’s the problem?”
That direct approach was new, too. Gram used to be much more soft-spoken and discreet.
Clearing his throat, he helped himself to a cookie. “You just look a lot different than when I came for Thanksgiving.”
“I should hope so. It took me a while, but I finally got with the program.”
“What program?” He took a bite of the cookie, letting the warm chocolate chips dissolve on his tongue. At least one thing hadn’t changed. His grandmother’s baking skills were still top-notch—though how she’d managed to make these one-handed, he had no idea.
“This is island living, my boy. We’re casual here. Throw out the girdle. Throw out the pantyhose. Throw out the curlers. I might be seventy-seven, but I’m not too old to learn a few new tricks.”
Aiming a dubious look her direction, Fletch shoved another cookie in his mouth.
“What?”
“You’re...different. That’s all.”
“I prefer the word better.”
“I’m not sure about that.”
“I am—and that’s all that counts.”
Truth be told, her new feistiness was kind of a hoot. She and Gramp had enjoyed a long and happy marriage, but she’d really come into her own in widowhood and done things he’d never expected. Like taking that around-the-world cruise on a freighter a year ago, then moving here last fall without consulting anyone.
Not that he was certain he approved of this latest adventure. She was almost eighty, after all, and the closest hospital was miles away, on the mainland.
But