GABBY FOLLOWED THE scent of coffee downstairs the next morning. She could only hope Adel and Zhanna hadn’t made it a point to stop by the B and B to rat her out to the owners. Their reaction to the news she wanted to write a book about Jamison was startling, and took her completely off guard. She understood wanting to protect a friend’s privacy, but their instant hostility had been extreme. Even after explaining she wasn’t some seedy journalist from a trash magazine, or a person looking to earn a quick buck by writing a lurid tell-all, the two women had still been cold. They’d accepted payment for the food, but had refused to take any tip.
Gabby had left the café with her head down and her enthusiasm for a new start somewhat diminished.
She’d left without a taste of that gorgeous pie, too.
Based on their conversation last night when she’d checked in, the inn’s owner Susan had seemed like a nice middle-aged woman with a gift for making people feel welcome. Gabby didn’t peg her as the type to withhold essentials such as coffee and toast simply because she didn’t like what Gabby was planning to do.
Unfortunately there really was no way of knowing. If Zhanna and Adel were any indication, Gabby probably wasn’t going to be the most welcome person on the island.
But this was a new day and she’d woken herself up with a pep talk.
She’d been fired. Nothing remained to go back to so she needed to make this new job work. If she could accomplish what no editor had accomplished to date, maybe she could leapfrog over a few people in the company and have an above entry-level position. If she actually convinced Jamison to tell his story to her while she wrote it, maybe the publishing company would line up more biographies for her. That was a role she could get behind.
Jamison’s biography, as written by her, would hit bestseller lists. She would be back on the talk-show circuit, only this time as the interviewee. A sneaky thought drifted through her conscience, pointing out this crazy need to have more instead of being happy with what she had, but she squashed it before it fully formed.
Gabby stopped at the bottom of the stairs and poked her head into the dining room. There was one table for all the guests and on it sat a pitcher of juice and what appeared to be a pot of coffee. With not a little awkwardness, she took the seat over the single place setting laid out and hoped it was for her. Then the door on the opposite wall—that presumably lead to the kitchen—opened and Susan entered wearing a crisp white apron which made her look like a young Julia Child. She set a basket of assorted breads next to Gabby and smiled.
“Good morning.”
Gabby felt a little more confident now. The diner women had not been in contact. “Good morning.”
“I hope you don’t mind eating alone, but you’re my only guest right now.”
Actually, Gabby preferred it. She’d been living on her own since she was eighteen—except for that brief stint with Brad—and she’d always felt mornings were sacred time. Silence was needed to get your head straight for the events of the day. Silence was also needed until the coffee kicked in.
“Not a problem.”
“Now there is juice and coffee…”
Gabby didn’t wait for the rest. She turned over the cup in front of her and reached for the pot. The smell of it as it poured out was life changing.
“Here are some pastries. But what can I make you? I can do eggs and bacon. Or, if you don’t mind waiting a bit, I can do homemade French toast.”
Gabby tried to pretend her mouth wasn’t watering over the French toast. Strength. Willpower. “Just wheat toast if you have it. Dry.”
Susan’s expression fell. “Dry wheat toast? That’s it?”
“I’m watching my figure.” Gabby patted what she considered to be an only slightly larger than average hip.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Your figure is fine.” Susan sighed. “But I suppose if it’s all you want, then that’s easy enough. You know, this isn’t a normal time of year for vacationers. Not that I’ve ever had that many. Even in the summer the water is too cold to swim in, which puts us low on most people’s lists of vacation spots. But in the fall folks like to come for the foliage. You’re darn near my first guest in the month of April.”
“Do you run this whole place on your own?”
“Yep. Just me. My husband—sorry ex-husband—used to be around to help, but it wasn’t his life. He said, ‘Susan, I’m not living my life.’ I said, ‘George, then you go do what you need to do.’”
Gabby nodded as she sipped her coffee. Her separation from Brad had been slightly more acrimonious with a great deal more foul words.
Even before Susan spoke next, Gabby could sense her purpose. “Back to you, April is somewhat of a strange time to take a trip north.”
“Actually, I’m here working.”
“Oh. That makes more sense. Working on what, dear?”
“A novel,” she lied. “I’m a writer. Fiction. Pure fiction. I want to set my story on an island, so I came here to do some research.”
Susan clapped her hands. “Oh, isn’t that fascinating. A writer. Have I heard of you?”
Gabby wondered how much trouble she would get into if she lied and said her pen name was Nora Roberts. Best not to go too far out on the limb. “No, I’m just starting.”
“Well, good luck to you. You’re welcome to stay with me as long as you like. I’ve got no reservations for at least the next six weeks, which means you’re going to be spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. I hope you don’t mind.”
Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled. That would be a first for Gabby. One of the downsides of living alone was you had to do everything for yourself. She never minded it really, but she also had no problem trying on spoiled to see how it fit.
Susan left Gabby to her coffee and thoughts. She’d gone to sleep last night thinking about what her next step should be. Obviously, Jamison wasn’t open to the idea of his story being told. And as obviously, some of the locals were hostile, too. That meant she was going to have a hard time getting people to talk about him. It would be a lot easier to write this book with his buy-in.
A story like the one she imagined McKay wanted would have to be big in scope. It would need the color and depth of the perceptions from the locals who he’d lived among for the past eight years to help shape it. That wasn’t going to happen, not unless she got him to trust her.
The next step was clear then. She needed to get to know Jamison Hunter—not as an editor who had an agenda, but as a person he might consider working with. She needed to let him see she didn’t intend to sensationalize him or vilify him. Gabby wasn’t interested in salaciousness for the sake of selling books. Of course, McKay might have a different view—scandal sold. But she imagined anyone interested in the story of Jamison Hunter was looking for more than a few sordid facts about his infidelity.
People wanted the truth. They knew what he did. What they wanted to know was why. Why a man of seemingly high honor and definite bravery could become a lying, cheating scumbag. It was the contradiction that made him so fascinating. That’s what she wanted to write about. That’s what she wanted to read about.
She needed to go to his house. At the very least she wanted to get a sense of how he lived and why he chose to live here. Not that it was all so far-fetched. Hawk Island was a perfect backdrop for a recluse. Accessible from the coast only by ferry, it was almost its own country separated from the U.S. by a couple of miles of cold north Atlantic water.
Where else would a man hunted by the world go to hide? Anyone not a local was easily identifiable. And if he’d done something to win over the locals here, which he’d obviously done with Adel and Zhanna, they could take extreme measures to make life difficult for anyone trying to pursue him.
Like