Bullshit. I wouldn’t. Not if Marjorie would have me.
“I’m done.”
That’s how it ends. Decades in the CIA. Countless hours on the edge of death. A trail of dead bodies all across the planet. My entire career.
Over.
I turn in my gun and my badge. There’s nothing else to give. I wait an hour for a go-between at the CIA to supply me with the first ID in years that has my real name. I sign a hundred sheets of paper. Multiple transfers are made into my bank accounts. And then the man who gave my final interview drives me to a used-car lot on the edge of town.
I buy the first decent-looking vehicle in cash, get behind the wheel, and drive toward Eben Cape. It’s enough of a distance that I have time to come to terms with what I’ve just done. There’s a chance Marjorie won’t want anything to do with me.
As the miles disappear behind me, so does my fear. The chance of the pretty little innkeeper turning me away is almost nothing. And if she does, I’ll survive. I’ve spent my life learning how to do it. All that matters is that she’s safe and happy.
It’s late afternoon when I pull up in front of the Lighthouse Inn. Almost sunset. The door opens as easily as it did the first day I met Marjorie Dunn.
Just like that day, she’s behind the scarred oak desk.
Just like that day, my heart stops at the sight of her.
She’s hopeful and beautiful, and I’m in love with her. Every part of her. The way her eyes light up when I enter the room. The way her cheeks flush. The way tears glisten in her eyes.
I approach the desk. “I’d like a room, if you have one available.”
“Of course. Any one you’d like.” Her chin quivers as she takes out the ledger and pushes it across the countertop toward me.
I take the pen in my hand and write my real name.
Sam Brewer
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”
I’m here for my life. That’s what I’m here for. “Pleasure.”
“How long will you stay?” Marjorie’s voice trembles.
“Forever,” I tell her. “If you’ll let me.”
Marjorie scrambles up onto the desk, climbs over her ledger, and throws herself into my arms.
Chapter Nineteen
Marjorie, six months later
A toddler in a high-chair laughs, the whole inn lighting up with the sound. It’s a baby belly laugh and it might as well be the soundtrack of the whole summer. That joyful laugh, along with so many other voices. A newlywed couple teases each other on the way out to the beach, bathing suits on and towels slung over their shoulders. The toddler’s mother leans in with a damp cloth to wipe the little one’s cheeks. It’s loud and chaotic and everything breakfast should be on a day like today.
I got their food out just in time. It’s all on the table now. The day has officially begun.
They’re happy.
I slip away into my workroom. When we have a full house like this, I have to get up just before sunrise to have all the food finished on time. It’s a real accomplishment. It counts for something, putting a meal on the table. It counts for these people especially. Even if they never stay at the Lighthouse Inn again, they’ll have the memory to take with them. No one had to worry about breakfast when they got up. It had already been prepared and set out.
It feels good to see the happiness on their faces.
It feels good to feel my own happiness.
I sit down at the worktable and open the cover of my latest project.
This scrapbook isn’t from a family on Etsy.
This one is for me.
The day after Sam came back, he drove me to a little camera shop in Eben Cape and spent an hour asking the owner a thousand questions about cameras and lenses and memory cards. We walked out that day with a camera that might as well be a spaceship. It’s one of our projects together. He’s better at photography than I am, but I’ll give him a run for his money. I took a picture of him last month standing in the water in a patch of orange from the sunset that takes my breath away.
It’s already in the scrapbook, alongside a block of my own handwriting. I don’t always include the date the photo was taken, but I did for that one. We’d stolen away from the inn after dinner and come to the shore.
The best part was afterward, when we walked back home. No need to run. Not anymore. Sneaking away is an act of pleasure because we have the Lighthouse Inn to come back to. We have each other.
Today’s page is about a trip we took to the antique store. Emily and Mateo went with us. Maybe antiquing isn’t the most exciting double date, but I’ve never been happier to watch my friends poke through aisles of treasure. After a while, I found Sam in a secluded corner by himself.