Safe In His Arms. Anna J. Stewart
before Juliana and Brent had been killed. Phoebe settled in, book on the table, fingers pressing the worn pages open, and pursed her lips as she dropped into the story.
Hunter took the time to catch up on his emails before pulling out his own notebook. He’d already taken a few pictures of the town with his phone during their ride into town, initial images that, when assembled, would give him a bit of a roadmap of what to concentrate on when he brought out the big guns. While camera phones were fabulous, they didn’t capture everything for him. Not the way a big, need-two-hands device with a long lens tended to. There was something about hefting that camera in his hands, feeling the weight of it, knowing the power it possessed to capture a moment, a fragment of time that never got old.
He loved the smell of this place. The hot, steamy grill. The promise of fried onions with a hint of bacon. The aroma of coffee wafting its way around the sugary sweetness of a cavalcade of pies lining the case by the register. Made him grateful they had their bikes. Too much time in Butterfly Harbor and he was going to gain fifty pounds.
And that was just the diner. Hearing former celebrity chef Jason Corwin had opened a restaurant at the historic Flutterby Inn, a building he was certain would take days to investigate and photograph to its fullest potential, had gotten his salivary glands going. The restaurant, Flutterby Dreams, wasn’t exactly Phoebe friendly, so he’d have to play that one by ear.
Scrolling through the city’s website, Hunter made note of the different businesses, the mentions of historic buildings that could be contemporaries of the lighthouse. He had a full day planned tomorrow at the library, searching through the archives for any events that might have included Liberty Lighthouse. Phoebe could get started on that new math unit he’d showed her.
He felt she should be back in school by now, but every time he even broached the subject, Phoebe resisted. No doubt the idea of being in a classroom again took her back to that day—the day when the police had come to collect her from school after the accident. Just that morning Phoebe had had parents who adored her, doted on her. Hours later, thanks to a drunk driver, her entire world had vanished.
No wonder she didn’t want to go back. But Hunter knew the time was coming when he wouldn’t have a choice. She couldn’t stay out of school forever. Something Phoebe’s paternal grandparents had begun to convey through their recently obtained lawyer. It was one more strike against him, the first being his job and the fact that he didn’t have a permanent address that wasn’t a PO Box. An uneasy nausea churned low in his stomach. He knew Eleanor and Stephen meant well and that they were concerned about Phoebe—not that they’d shown much interest in her before their son’s and daughter-in-law’s deaths. It hadn’t taken them longer than the reception after the funeral for them to suggest to Hunter that his rootless lifestyle wasn’t conducive to the raising of a seven-year-old. Their claims seemed bolstered by the fact that Phoebe had become withdrawn, but the therapist he’d consulted with shortly after the accident had given him the reassurance that it would just take time and encouragement from him to help her move beyond the loss.
Bringing up her parents in regular conversation didn’t illicit the hostile reaction it once had; Phoebe was getting used to hearing the stories or comments, and while she didn’t necessarily contribute to the conversation, he could see she was listening, processing. All positive steps toward healing.
Shaking himself out of his reverie, he blinked and found Phoebe watching him. Those brown eyes of hers seemed to see so much—far more than his jaded ones ever could.
Hunter gave her one of his trademark “everything’s great” smiles, and she returned to her book. The little tyke picked up on everything. Every mood he had. Every thought that passed through his mind. It was almost... spooky.
“Okay, here you go. One cheeseburger, one mini burger, a side order of onion rings and one green salad.”
Hunter scrambled to clear his stuff off the table as Paige set their food down. Phoebe shifted onto her knees and tucked her napkin into the collar of her shirt.
“Such a little adult,” Paige murmured, then turned surprised eyes on Hunter as Phoebe claimed the bright green tomato-and-cucumber-topped salad for herself. “I’m guessing the two of you have been through a lot.”
“A bit.” Hunter kept his tone upbeat. “But we’re doing okay, right, kiddo?”
Phoebe stuffed a grape tomato into her mouth and gave them both a thumbs-up.
“Yeah, well, you’ve definitely come to the right place. Just keep your eyes open for butterflies, Phoebe. They’re everywhere in this town.”
“Even now?” Hunter slopped ketchup onto his burger. “I thought monarch season wasn’t until—”
“Monarch season is all year round here in Butterfly Harbor. Trust me. It’s the magic of the place. And you know what they say about butterflies and luck, don’t you?”
She’d clearly caught Phoebe’s attention. Paige bent down. “It’s said if you whisper a wish to a butterfly, it’ll carry it on the wind and deliver it. But you have to be very careful and catch a butterfly right here.” She tapped the tip of one finger. “The butterflies will come when the time is right.”
Phoebe’s brows veed. Hunter had no doubt, if she’d been a teenager, she’d have rolled her eyes and muttered a bitter “whatever.” Instead, she smirked and returned to her salad.
“Well, it was worth a shot.” Paige pushed back to her feet. “Butterflies aren’t my specialty. Although my daughter Charlie’s becoming an expert. If you want the real skinny, head up to Duskywing Farm one morning and talk to Calliope Jones. Now she’s magic with those creatures.”
Phoebe stabbed her fork hard into her salad and looked out the window.
“I think we’re a little leery of magic right now,” Hunter explained. “But I appreciate the advice. I’m up for anything since we’re here.”
And if that happened to include a bit of magic, all the better.
KENDALL HAD SPENT the better part of the afternoon searching out Gil Hamilton. Granted, it wasn’t how she’d expected to spend the day, not when she had plastering and sanding to do on the exterior of the lighthouse. But at least, in the meantime, she was able to submit her new order for supplies to Harvey Mills at the hardware store and check the community bulletin board for any side jobs she could knock out quickly.
Abby Corwin’s grandmother Alice, who ran the Flutterby Inn before Abby took over, was looking to do an upgrade on the backyard patio she shared with her roommates before summer arrived full-on. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hastings, the former school principal, wanted shelves built for her dining room. A handful of other tasks ended up in Kendall’s phone, enough that she abandoned her original goal of hunting down the mayor and headed off to make contact with her new clients.
At some point the lighthouse was going to be finished and Kendall would be out of a job—and a place to live. The more money she could bank, the easier it would be when the time came. Not that she charged much beyond supplies, but every penny helped.
In the years since she’d been discharged, she’d lived in her car, in shelters and, for a few months that Matt didn’t know about, on the street. She’d been lost without Sam, without the life they’d planned. It was as if she’d been left utterly rudderless in an unending storm on the ocean. Those days, when the darkness got so bad, when everything above, around and beneath her felt too big to escape, there was little more she could do than just sit and breathe. And even then, breathing was an effort. So where she lived hadn’t meant a lot to her. She could have been in the most palatial of homes, surrounded by the best of friends, and it wouldn’t have made a difference.
But the medication had. Eventually. The therapy had. Somewhat. And she’d vowed to never have another day like those when the darkness had almost won.
Now, she knew as long as she remained in Butterfly Harbor, she would