Page 1 of Letting Go

Chapter One

Chloe

The very first town crossing from Ohio into West Virginia, is Bethlehem. I always took it as a sign. Until I let that go—the whole idea of signs, and I returned to Maine.

At six-thirty, I'm prepping in the kitchen, up since four getting croissants ready to bake, making sure the goat's milk yogurt set, chopping cilantro and tomatillos for salsa. It's what our mother did when we five were kids. It's what I do now.

What I should have been doing all along.

But I didn't.

I disappeared for nearly a decade.

"Hey, these look great," says my younger sister, Claire, glancing at the tray of warm, golden croissants.

"Man, don't mind if I do," says Finn Colton coming up behind her, slipping an arm around her waist. Even in wetsuits they look adorable together. Like they were just meant to be. They swim together every morning, out in the cold, mid-coast Maine Atlantic. Now she's going to dry off and prep for surgery at her vet clinic next door and he's probably going to work out in the gym and then plant himself upstairs in the office. Finn manages the front, sort-of, and I manage the kitchen—and more. When I say sort-of, it's because that office upstairs is for security consulting services, not hospitality.

"Help yourself," I say and smile. This smile feels stiff, however, even to me. He grins and grabs one, but Claire senses the barrier. When she turns around to leave, without taking a croissant, I just feel empty.

"Bye," I offer to her back, but I don't think she hears me.

Finn, her boyfriend, owner of the Echo Bay Inn, is my boss. He's kind of my savior but in a real way, not some religious way. When I returned, he needed someone in the kitchen to help reopen The Inn at Echo Bay, our old home, and I showed up.

Our mother's recipe book is one of two things I took when I left. Now it sits on the kitchen counter, next to the landline phone by the entryway to the back hall.

I stare out at the garden flanking the hillside down to the water. As the late summer fog lifts, lobster boats head out with seagulls swirling above, their cries thin and piercing. Dinghies shift slightly along the peer, tethered close. Cranking open the little window above the sink, the heavy dew smells of ripe salt and sea marsh.

I'd almost forgotten that smell.

Tears begin to prick and I wipe my eyes quickly. The last thing I want Claire to see, is me dissolving. She's just a year younger, fourteen months to be exact, but she's been the acting older sister for a long, long time.

I forced her into that position. When I left, she had to take care of the other three and herself. Eight years later, they all just let me return because they're nice. Though they haven’t said it, they all act like they've forgiven me, but there's been no discussion.

I don't know if I can forgive myself. I wreaked so much damage on a damaged family.

Suddenly, set against the gray of fog, comes Bryce Tucker and I wipe my eyes again and hold my breath.

He's walking up from helping one of the older lobstermen, Brighty, untangle gear and bait traps, and he's hiking toward The Inn along the little shore path with sure strides.

There's a sudden sensation in my groin, deep in my sex just watching Bryce come up the path, cutting a dark, brooding figure, windbreaker hood up, those brown eyes, the color of caramel, flashing underneath.

The back screen door slams and I hear him shuck his boots and hang up the jacket on the peg rack.

He swings into the kitchen wearing faded jeans, a slightly holey, light green mock turtleneck sweater, all conspiring to try to hide his body and failing. The guy is tall, well over six feet, and built. His thighs are hard as rocks. I know because I danced with him a month and a half ago, at Claire's birthday party.

We haven’t really spoken much since.

When he sees me, he stops and does a kind of double-take, and with a hand on the doorjamb and his face in profile, he asks. "So, where's Finn?"

I gesture at the tray. "You can have one. Go ahead."

Frowning, he avoids both my eyes and the croissants. I don’t know which is worse, his or Claire's refusal to eat my baked offerings.

He just glances at me and I feel like an idiot. He's so quiet, so in control all the time and I feel like I'm always just blathering at him.

"They came in from their swim a few minutes ago." Cracking eggs into a bowl is very satisfying right now.

"Okay then," he says, tapping the doorjamb with an index finger and then he turns, disappearing into the library.