Page 1 of Hush (The Seaside Saga #25)

THE DARK NIGHT PRESSES CLOSE.

Outside the weathered cottage, a hitching autumn wind has kicked up.

Shane hears it toss dried leaves against the old paned windows.

Surely that salty breeze skims the cold waters of Long Island Sound beyond.

If he and Celia had sat out on his back porch, they’d see the heavy moon rising above.

It would cast its light on that vast expanse of seawater rippling beneath the wind.

It’s different inside. It’s quiet here. Still.

Here, there is only that letter.

Only that white envelope clasped in Celia’s fingers.

What little illumination there is in the living room seems to land right on that letter. The glow of the fat candle burning in a tarnished lantern on the mantel. The wavering light of flames flickering in the fireplace.

Shadows fill in the rest of the old cottage.

Shadows from behind the half-drawn window shades he’d pulled down earlier.

Shadows of the night pressing against the paned glass.

Shadows reaching from the dark hallway. From the fireplace, too.

Its snapping flames sending sparks up the chimney also send dancing shadows onto the drab painted-paneled walls.

In the corner, the hanging blue and green glass fishing floats glimmer—caught in the light of the fire.

Then there is Celia.

She still sits on the sofa. Her eyes don’t leave Shane’s as he stands at the mantel. Since he’d given her Heather Gray’s letter, the silence between them takes up the rest of the space in the room.

Until Celia’s voice reaches him.

“What is this?” she asks of the letter in her hand now.

Or in her hand finally . At last. Come what may.

That’s the scary part, Shane knows. The come what may.

Because no matter what Heather penned on the paper inside that blessed envelope, some reaction will be had. Some emotion. Some new questions.

So now Shane sits on the painted trunk in front of the sofa. He’s facing Celia.

Celia, Celia, beautiful Celia. Her soft auburn hair frames her face; his gold mariner-chain necklace loops over her beige sweater. The light from the fireplace washes her face in gentleness.

Shane leans forward and touches her knee.

“Like I mentioned… Your mother was actually waiting for me last night. When I got back from your father’s, her car was in my driveway.

And yes, Heather told me she was leaving today.

But she also left that letter with me,” he explains, nodding at the envelope still in Celia’s fingers.

“She admitted, too, that she wasn’t even sure I’d deliver it—but took a chance that I might. ”

Celia just listens before sitting back on the sofa. She turns the envelope over once, then again.

“I was going to give that to you before,” Shane quietly goes on. “But you needed your space. And then I thought… well, doesn’t matter. Because that’s it. I respected Heather’s wish and you have her letter.”

The letter that Celia seemingly can’t stop looking at. Fidgeting with. Turning. Flipping.

“My God. Now what do I do?” she asks more of herself than of him.

“Can’t answer that, baby.”

“Damn it. This is the last thing I wanted.” She falters some. “I wanted… a fresh start. I wanted a coming together, maybe. Recognition. A hug. I wanted a few special words between me and my mom, you know? Not a letter.” Celia looks from that envelope—to his face. “Did you read it?”

“No.”

She looks long at him, then at the envelope in her hand.

“Do you want me to read it to you?” Shane asks. “Or… take you home and you can read it alone there?”

There’s no response from Celia. Nothing. Nothing but her drawn face as they sit—he on the trunk, she on the sofa. He shoves up his sweater sleeves and waits. The fire crackles; a log falls apart beneath the flames and sends more sparks up the chimney.

“Celia,” Shane persists, standing and moving beside her on the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and looks back at her. “Help me out here.”

Celia gives him a sad smile. The living room is dimly lit with just the burning fireplace logs and that lantern flickering atop the mantel. “Please understand,” she softly pleads then.

And his heart sinks. Understand? Understand what? That this changes everything?

“In the past few minutes,” Celia continues, her tone level, “my mind’s gone back and forth on so much.

I’ve changed it and changed it again. And again .

What’s right? What’s wrong? How do I know?

Do you know? Does Heather know? Does family come before all else?

Were you wrong to step in? Was Heather right to reach out?

Or vice versa.” Celia, tightly holding that envelope, walks to the mantel now. Eventually, she turns to him.

Shane looks at her standing there stocking-footed in her jeans and pretty beige sweater.

Her hazel eyes are moist. Her fingers clutch that envelope.

In his quiet cottage living room; beneath the unpainted beamed ceiling; while sitting on the shabby gray rattan sofa; as the fire dies down—Shane can’t read her.

“Indecision is awful,” she explains. “And the rare times I’ve felt it this strongly, it’s because something’s wrong with a situation.

Something’s wrong that I’m resisting. Well, no more.

I’ve made up my mind, Shane. Made my decision to right this situation.

For certain , this time. And for good. So please …

” she whispers. She looks away, too, then back at him.

“Please what, Celia?” he barely manages to ask.

“Please don’t get mad.”

A moment comes between them. A moment when there’s only the night. Only shadows. Only waiting.

“Mad?” Shane’s voice is low. “At what?”

Celia presses a hand to her mouth to stifle some difficult emotion. “At what I’m about to do.”