“Anytime,” he said as he rested an arm over my shoulders. “I mean it. Anytime.”
I clapped him once on the shoulder, and then I left him to his polished glasses and unexpected wisdom.
“Hey, Austin?” he asked, and I turned to look at himover my shoulder. “Just because the truth is complicated doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
I gave him an acknowledging nod, then stepped out into the humid air.
As I got into my truck, Braden’s words echoed in my head, unsettling and strangely comforting all at once.
“You’re more alive than you’ve been in thirteen years.”
The thought was a double-edged sword. I’d made progress with Braden, and more importantly, with myself. I had, after all these years, articulated the true shape of my fear.
It wasn’t a ghost I was chasing. It was a ghost I was running from.
And it was time to stop.
But that realization also made things more complicated. How could I explain it? That I was terrified of loving Iris, not because of who she was, but because of what could happen to her. Because of a cosmic punishment I felt I still deserved.
How did you tell the person making you feel alive again that you were terrified your very presence might be a curse?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
IRIS
The third-floor Sea Turtle Suitewas a study in beautiful contradictions. The walls, now a serene, calming seafoam green, provided a modern backdrop for the original, ornate plaster medallions on the ceiling, which Gus’s crew had painstakingly restored. Wires coiled neatly from junction boxes, waiting for the elegant, contemporary light fixtures I’d chosen—a promise of new light for an old space.
And the floors… the floors were my favorite part.
“I can’t believe these are the same boards.” I ran my bare foot over the original mahogany. Gus and his crew had painstakingly sanded away decades of grime, neglect, and questionable varnish. The deep, reddish-brown wood now gleamed with a lustrous, almost liquid sheen that spoke of old money and bygone eras, of times when things were built to last.
Gus stood beside me, his hands on his hips and quiet satisfaction on his dark face. He nodded toward theelegant, framed-in doorway that would soon lead to the en-suite bathroom. “You made the right call here, Iris. A Jack-and-Jill bathroom between two suites always feels like a compromise, like you’re telling your guests they aren’t quite important enough for their own private space. This,” he gestured to the generous dimensions of the future bathroom, “this feels like luxury.”
“I’m so glad you suggested we sacrifice that small ninth bedroom.” It had been a difficult decision, giving up a potential source of revenue, but Gus had been firm in his professional opinion. “You were right. It’s given us the space to do this properly.”
“Well, when you bring a place like this back to life, you do it right,” he said with a reassuring smile. “We brought the house up to modern standards but kept its soul. That’s what matters. The custom vanities should be delivered by the end of the week.”
“I can’t wait to see them.” For the first time since I’d inherited this glorious, terrifying money pit, the vision in my head was starting to match the reality in front of me.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Gus said, giving me a nod. “I’m going to go check on the boys out on the porch. Make sure those new support posts are going in correctly.”
“Thanks.”
As he left, a feeling of profound gratitude washed over me. He and his crew were worth every single penny. They were competent, they were professional, and most importantly, they treated Heron House with the same reverence I did.
I thought of the letter, safely tucked away in its drawer under the window seat. “Aunt Constance, I hope I’m doing you proud. I’m sure trying.”
I moved to the expansive, newly installed window and looked out over the backyard. It was no longer theuntamed jungle I’d first encountered. Gus’s crew had cleared away the years of overgrown brush and invasive pepper trees, revealing the true, graceful lines of the property. It was still mostly just trees, dirt, and potential, but I could already see a lush green lawn, winding stone paths, and overflowing beds of fragrant gardenias and bougainvillea shaded by stately trees.
A sanctuary.
My gaze drifted to the property line, to the vibrant red hibiscus hedge that bloomed like a crimson ribbon laid neatly between my chaos and his order. The hedge was full and lush, dotted with those spectacular crimson blooms. We’d worked on it together one afternoon last week. He’d shown me the proper way to prune and fertilize, his large, capable hands guiding mine.
A wistful smile touched my lips. That was the new Austin. Or maybe the old Austin—the one who lurked beneath the layers of grumpy, solitary sea captain. The one who made me coffee in the mornings and grilled fresh fish for me at night. The one whose rare, quiet smiles could make my heart soar nearly out of my body.
He was still guarded. He still held a part of himself back, a part that was locked away in a room markedDo Not Enter. I knew that. After his devastating confession and our tentative adjustment to the new reality, I understood the shape of his ghosts. I understood that his walls were built of something far more substantial than simple grumpiness. They were built of grief. Of guilt.
But as he held me, as his actions spoke a language of fierce possession and surprising tenderness, three small words remained unspoken between us. And my foolish, hopeful heart was beginning to ache for the sound of them.
