The notebook remained blank. Every time he opened it, he remembered her sitting across from him at their breakfast nook, reading his latest chapters with a red pen in hand. She’d been his first reader, his best critic, his partner in crafting stories that had kept millions of readers awake late into the night.
“Did you see that ending coming?” he’d ask her.
“Not until about page two hundred,” she’d reply with a smile. “That’s where you left that tiny clue about the muddy shoes.”
Now his characters felt like strangers. Their voices no longer whispered to him late at night. Their stories no longer unfolded like movies playing slowly in his mind until he captured them on paper.
He’d told Darlene it was writer’s block, but that wasn’t the whole truth. How could he explain that writing meant stepping back into a world he’d shared with Sarah? Every plot twist he thought of reminded him of their discussions over coffee. Every character description brought back memories of her thoughtful suggestions.
The porch’s peaceful atmosphere wrapped around him, but peace wasn’t what he needed. Peace meant quiet, and quiet meant memories. The memories he’d come here to escape. But they followed him everywhere, even to this small island and this quaint bed-and-breakfast.
His agent had suggested Magnolia Key. “Get away from the city,” she’d said. “Find somewhere quiet to write.”
But she didn’t understand. The words weren’t simply stuck—they were gone, buried in the same cemetery where he’d laid his heart to rest beside Sarah’s grave. The grave he visited weekly with fresh flowers to set by her headstone.
The breeze off the bay carried the salt-tinged air across the garden. A wind chime tinkled softly, its melody reminding him of the one that had hung on their back porch. Sarah had loved wind chimes. He took it down after she died, unable to bear hearing it any longer.
Mark clipped his pen to the notebook and shut it softly. Maybe Darlene saw him as just another writer struggling with a creative dry spell. It was easier that way. Easier than explaining how the simple act of putting words on paper now felt like betrayal—like trying to build a new life.
When the only life he wanted was the one he could never have back.
He knew that coming to the island was a desperate attempt to escape his grief, to find some semblance of inspiration amid the beauty. But now, as he sat there, he wondered if it had been a mistake. Could he really rediscover his passion for writing, for life itself, when everything seemed so gray, so bleak?
But maybe he should take Darlene’s advice. Explore the island for a bit. Not try to force the words. But could he give himself permission to do as Darlene said?
To just… be?
Chapter5
Eleanor walked over to the front window for the fourth—maybe fifth—time in the last ten minutes, scanning the street for any sign of Jonah. Not that he was late. She’d just been dressed and waiting for him for over an hour. She’d changed outfits twice, unsure of herself. Which annoyed her no end because she was never uncertain about anything. At least she hadn’t been until Jonah’s return.
She turned from the window and headed to the kitchen. Warmth radiated from the oven where Mrs. Paterson’s masterpiece of the day waited—chicken infused with fresh rosemary, tender green beans, and homemade rolls. A peach pie sat on the counter, its lattice crust a perfect golden hue. The sweet scent of peaches and cinnamon filled the room.
The kitchen felt different without her cook’s bustling movements. The house stood quiet now that she’d dismissed Mrs. Paterson for the evening. The privacy would allow her and Jonah to speak freely, without the sound of staff in nearby rooms or the gentle clink of dishes being washed. Although Mrs. Paterson, her cook of twenty years, had perfected the art of invisibility as she did her work, Eleanor preferred she and Jonah had the house to themselves tonight. While she trusted Mrs. Paterson’s discretion—she’d never hired anyone who didn’t understand the value of silence—she felt tonight’s conversation required privacy, the kind only an empty house could provide.
Now, if she could only manage to plate up their meals with as much finesse as Mrs. Paterson…
Reassured that everything was ready for their dinner, she headed back to the front room. Winston’s tail thumped against the floor as she crossed over to the window yet again. She peeked outside and spotted Jonah walking up the sidewalk to her front door. As she hurried to the door, the mirror in the entryway caught her eye. The silver-haired woman staring back at her seemed a stranger. So different from the young girl who had been so eager to meet up with Jonah in their youth. At the door, she smoothed her dress and waited for him to knock. And waited some more. Seconds stretched to minutes. She frowned and finally opened the door.
Jonah stood there, his hands in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face. The corners of his mouth lifted in that familiar half-smile she remembered so well. “I was just thinking how strange this was. That I could just walk up to your front door and knock. Your father never would have allowed that.”
“No, he wouldn’t.” She nodded. “But then, he’s long been resting in his grave.”
Jonah still stood outside on the porch.
“Well, come in, come in.” No use letting the whole town see him standing out there on her porch.
She closed the door behind him, her heart beating faster than it had any right to at her age. The familiar scent of his aftershave brought back memories she’d kept packed away for decades. The same crisp, clean scent.
He stood close to her, yet not too close. A small smile crept across his features. “You know, the house looks almost exactly like I remember it. Well, the front of it. It wasn’t like I was allowed inside all those years ago. But sometimes, late at night, I’d sneak over and look at your house, wondering which room was yours, if it was one with the light on.”
“My room was on the back of the house, overlooking the gardens. It still is. I moved back into it after Theodore passed away. I much prefer it to the master suite.” She wasn’t sure why she told him all that. “Anyway, some things don’t need changing. Just fresh paint on the front of the house and keeping up with the garden is all that’s needed.” Though plenty had changed, whether they wanted to acknowledge it or not.
Winston padded over to investigate their guest, his tail wagging in a slow, dignified manner. Jonah bent down to scratch behind the dog’s ears.
“Shall we have a drink before dinner?” She gestured toward the front room. “And Mrs. Paterson left everything ready in the kitchen when we’re ready to eat.”
“I drink sounds nice.” He followed her into the front room, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.
