It was winter now, and everything looked different. Tom couldn’t recognize any landmarks until they arrived.
The Windward Inn was a sprawling, three-story, gray-shingled building on seven acres of land, built in classic New England cottage style. The white paint on the gutters and downspouts was peeling, and plywood covered several front windows. The entire effect was scabrous and injured, even setting aside the blue tarps on the roof.
As Rosie pulled up to the front of the circular drive, a flock of enormous brown birds scattered from where they’d been loitering near the unassuming entrance. There was a very dirty Prius parked at the other end of the drive, but it was empty, and the lights in the inn were off.
“Oh no,” Rosie said, surveying some loose paper and other trash swirling nearby. “I think they found the grocery bags.”
“What kind of birds are those?” Tom asked, eyes tracking the creatures to where they’d regrouped a dozen yards away to flap and hoot in a vaguely malevolent way.
“Wild turkeys,” she said, climbing out of the car and glaring at the birds. “I’ve seen them on the island before. Guess they’re hanging out here because nobody’s mowed since the storm.”
The inn was surrounded by tall, dead scrub grass. There was a little debris around the front drive, and one downed tree that Tom could see from his vantage point.
“And they’re cannibals too,” Rosie sighed, poking at what had been a paper-wrapped package of chicken thighs, torn open and mostly devoured by the birds. “Can you help me clean this up? There should be a bunch of garbage bags somewhere.”
“Of course,” Tom said, hopping out and wading through the scattered boxes and plastic bags. He popped open the trunk and began stashing the few things the turkeys hadn’t been able to rip up. Sacks of mandarin oranges. Some unbroken eggs. Frozen bags of hash browns and microwavable broccoli. All Rosie staples. A few surprises.
“I thought you were allergic to fish?” Tom said, finding a partially eaten salmon fillet.
“I am,” Rosie said after a minute. “But I—” She broke off.
“What?” Tom asked, spinning around to see her blushing.
“I happened to see a headline about the fitness routine for you and…Boyd. I figured maybe you weren’t eating Cheez-Its for as many meals a day anymore. So I got you some fish and veggies.”
Tom halted, chest swelling in a painful, enjoyable way. “You didn’t have to get my groceries. Especially stuff you can’t eat.”
“I figured the least I could do is feed you as long as you’re up here.”
That was a little deflating, but Tom tried not to lose thethread of gratitude. “I could have gotten the groceries though. I just did an Equity production. I’m not totally broke. And I can cook too.”
“I thought you liked my cooking,” Rosie said mostly to herself, her voice faint as she brushed through more garbage in search of salvageable food.
“I did. I mean I do—” While Tom was still filling trash sacks, he heard the front door of the inn open, emitting a barrel-chested man in chinos and sneakers from the dark foyer.
Tom hadn’t expected anyone, but Rosie apparently had—she bounded over and threw her arms around the man’s neck with a broad smile. Tom swallowed a surge of irrational jealousy—Kill?—before he recognized those pointy Kelly eyebrows on the other man’s face. Then Tom was only slightly guarded, because Rosie’s family had never been his biggest fans, and that situation was unlikely to have improved since their divorce.Florida Man murdered by irate in-laws.
“Do you remember my cousin Seth?” Rosie asked excitedly.
“Oh, yeah,” Tom said, belatedly sticking his hand out. “Hey, Seth.” He remembered that Rosie had fifty bazillion cousins and uncles, who all looked alike and were generally uninterested in talking about anything but sportsball.
“Um. You remember Tom. From when we got married. But—maybe you don’t need to mention to anyone that Tom is out here helping me with this?” Rosie asked her cousin, who squinted without curiosity at him. “Things are a little complicated.”
Ow.Complicated.His heart.
“Sure, no problem,” Seth said, confused.
“Seth works for the property management company that does all the day-to-day operations for the inn,” Rosie confided to Tom, although no property management was in evidence at the moment. “They’ve been off-site since the storm, but as soon as we get the repairs done, they’ll open it up for the summer.”
Seth scratched his neck and shifted his feet. “Maybe. It’s in bad shape, Rosie. We can’t get back in until you’ve got a certificate of occupancy, and it’s real run-down—I just took a peek inside and I see, like,monthsof work. I heard from my dad you’re thinking of selling? That might be smart.”
“Selling? I’m not selling.” That set Rosie completely off. As Tom collected the remainder of the groceries, she held forth on the extreme wrongness of Uncle Ken’s suggestion, all her plans for the inn, the binders and Pinterest idea boards she’d already created, and why the inn would be better than ever by the summer season. Rosie was magnificent when she was passionate about something, all flashing eyes and speaking hands.
“Uh,” said Seth. “I guess you’ll just let me know if you need anything, then? And you’ll tell me when I need to get the inspection scheduled with the county?”
Tom thought this was a bit of a non sequitur—the many things the inn needed were obvious. And the other man was already edging back toward his car.
“Aren’t you staying?” Tom asked. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. Rosie looked surprised too.
