Page 43 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

Elbowing a curious Marvin out of the way, Stevie dove to investigate and emerged victorious with a cranberry orange muffin.

The ferry was significantly larger than Morgan’s boat, but not large enough to carry vehicles and small enough to feel the slight swells. Stevie and Angie sandwiched Stormy between them, Marvin at their feet, and did their best to distract her.

Stevie asked a series of increasingly ridiculous questions, all beginning with “Would you rather . . .” and Angie held Stormy’s hand.

The oven scars on Stormy’s hands and arms reminded Stevie of Jaq, and despite her upbeat tone she fretted.

She hoped the weekend would give the kid some time to get away from things.

She’d told Jaq that her sister could stay with her at the house as long as there was no underage drinking, which would force Stevie to fire Jaq.

The expression on Jaq’s face at those words convinced her she had nothing to worry about although she would worry anyway.

Friendly chatter from the predominately white passengers drowned out the throb of the engine, and the announcer gave a tour as they chugged over the water. Stormy’s breathing held steady. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

“Would you rather have a pet ostrich or a pet llama?”

“One would peck my eye out, and the other would spit in it,” said Stormy. “But an ostrich would lay me an entire frittata’s worth of eggs in one sitting.”

“But llamas have those ears!”

Angie had clearly never met an angry llama with its ears flattened against its skull and its long neck snaking toward her, or she would not say such things.

“More llama, more drama,” said Stevie, speaking from experience. “The nice ones are really cool, though. Ange, show Stormy your sketches.”

She hadn’t wanted to put Angie on the spot, but the novelty of “would you rather” was wearing off, and Stormy looked a little panicky.

“Sure. And don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing, Stevie.”

“It’s not my fault you got me hooked on your story and won’t show me!”

Angie withdrew her watercolor sketchbook from the satchel at her feet and flipped it open. Stormy brightened.

“The colors. Oh my god. Baby girl, this is incredible.” Stormy took the sketchbook from Angie’s hands and pored over the pages, leaving Stevie free to watch Angie shift with embarrassed pleasure. When Angie caught Stevie watching, Stevie raised her eyebrows, communicating “ I told you so .”

Rabbit Island was every bit as WASPy as Angie had imagined.

She hadn’t originally understood what WASP meant when she’d first heard the term from Lilian: White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.

Now she got it. Repressed white New Englanders had clearly built and populated this place, though not the same ones she herself claimed as ancestors.

Her bloodline was muddled and full of criminals, or so the family stories went, and that tracked.

The houses lining the shore near the boat dock in the island’s small cove were not exactly grand, but the kind of summer home favored by the well-off: tasteful with water views and shingles that were for the most part new, or at least not dilapidated , unlike the ones in the harbor.

They probably didn’t leak either. Fresh paint marked some, and the lawns were all meticulously maintained, even the ones that favored a more natural approach.

Lupine dotted the hillside, flowers closed now, and going to seed, but she could imagine how it might look swathed in blues and purples.

Rosa rugosa and wildflowers bloomed instead.

Above them vaulted a sky so pure and blue no movie filter could have done it justice.

“Uh,” Angie said to Stevie, edging away from the rest of the group where they’d met up at the dock, “this is . . .”

“Incredible? Insane?” Stevie supplied.

“Yes, and yes.” She wanted to hold Stevie’s hand. The impulse brought her close enough to touch Stevie had she allowed herself, but she settled for inhaling the smell of salt in her blond hair.

“I’ll show you to the mooring,” Ivy said to Morgan, and after acquiring a little red skiff from the dock they set off to tie up Morgan’s boat.

Angie watched them. The boat made very little wake on the small swells.

Both Morgan and Ivy carried themselves with such confidence; even Ivy in an MS flare seemed to view the world with more self-assurance than Angie had felt a single day in her life.

They’d bottle it up and give her as much as she wanted if they could, she knew, which made her feel like an ass for feeling jealous, but envy flooded her anyway.

If she had an eighth of that faith in herself, could she also trust herself with Stevie?

The wind toyed with Stevie’s ponytail, blowing soft strands across her face.

Angie watched their flight out of her peripheral.

Emilia, Stormy, and Lilian chatted nearby about the view, the weather, the gulls, and whether they’d brought enough food for the weekend.

Stevie made the occasional comment, placing herself between Angie and the larger group as if sensing Angie’s mood.

She watched Morgan row Ivy back in, the oars slicing cleanly through the water.

Angie wanted to move. Standing around made her fidgety.

Stevie’s hand brushed the small of her back, out of sight of the rest of the group.

She leaned into the caress. It was almost irritating how well Stevie knew her body, another chink in Angie’s armor.

It was impossible to keep a safe distance from someone like that.

Lilian took the rope Morgan tossed her and helped Ivy out of the skiff with tender hands. Angie read Lilian’s awareness of Ivy’s pain in that gesture and felt even worse. How dare she complain, even internally, about her own small problems when Ivy dealt with that?

Something tickled her neck. She jerked her head around to see Stevie standing innocently, a bit of dried seaweed twirling between her fingers. Angie fought the smile and lost.

“Follow Darwin,” Ivy said, waving at her Jack Russell terrier, who had set off in a determined trot.

The group obeyed. Angie and Stevie brought up the rear by silent agreement.

She linked her fingers loosely through Stevie’s.

It would be easy enough to drop them should someone look back without it looking like anything more than the casual swing of her arm.

She decided not to analyze the recurring compulsion that had driven her to take Stevie’s hand in the first place.

It felt too good to walk like this. Too—

No, she would not use the word “right” even to herself. Of course it felt right. It was Stevie.

Ivy’s family home was one of the nicer ones they’d passed and that was saying something.

Wide white arches crowned the deck, and balconies spanned the second level.

She pictured enjoying a private cup of coffee with Stevie on such a balcony and wondered if they could make that happen without rousing suspicion.

The walk up to the house, though, was steep.

She was puffing by the time she got to the top with her bag, regular workouts notwithstanding.

Stevie put a hand on her butt and gave her a little boost.

“Talk about a walk-up.” Stevie grinned. Dogs milled about their feet.

“Mock me at your peril.”

“I’ll take the risk. Up you go, girl.”

“Thank you all so much for coming,” said Ivy when they’d gathered in the living room with its light wood-paneled walls, model ships, painted ships, ship-themed coffee table books, piano complete with nautical-themed painted front panel, and massive fireplace, along with a secondary, cozier sitting room with a wood stove.

“It means a lot to me that I get to share this place with the people I love. Rooms are upstairs. Lil and I are in the blue room on the left, but the rest are up for grabs except for the room next to ours at the end of the hall and the room with the two twins. Stevie, Angie, that’s you. ”

“Discriminatory,” said Stevie. “Just because we’re single.”

“I have my own lovely queen.” Stormy shot down Stevie’s argument. “Perhaps it has something to do with the maturity level of your humor.”

“How dare you.”

Angie listened to their bickering with a smile crooking the corners of her mouth.

“Come on, Ange.” Stevie rolled her eyes and hoisted her bag. “Off to our dormitory.”

Their room was at the back of the house and filled with light from the wall of windows. Most importantly, the headboards were set against the external wall.

“It will look weird if I shut the door,” Stevie pulled Angie out of sight and behind the door, “but—”

Angie cut her off with a kiss to the corner of her mouth, perilously close to her lips. Stevie’s breath caught and she half turned, bringing their lips just barely together.

“Ange,” she said, her voice a plea.

Angie couldn’t speak. She wanted to kiss Stevie so very, very badly.

This was a stupid rule. A kiss wasn’t going to protect her.

Stevie wasn’t the heroine of some fairy tale, and Angie wasn’t a frog nor was she in a spelled sleep.

What could a kiss really change? Their mingled breath filled her ears alongside her pounding heart.

“Can I see your room?” asked Stormy from the hallway. Angie jumped back and opened a dresser drawer, pretending to snoop.

“Jealous?” she said. “You can share. I’ll let you be the little spoon.”

“As generous an offer as that is, I’ll have to decline.” Stormy waved haughtily, then shot them both a wicked smile. “Awfully tight quarters in here.”

They weren’t, really. The room was spacious and graciously appointed, the carved wooden headboards and old wooden dressers barely faded by the sunlight streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows.

“I showed you mine so let me see yours,” said Angie.