The impact jarred the phone in his grip. Owen caught his balance, his head snapping up as he tucked the device into his palm. "My apologies. I wasn't looking where I was going."
The other man was tall, easily matching Owen’s six-foot-two, with broad shoulders, clad in an expensive, unstructured linen blazer that screamed corporate wealth. He held a sleek, latest-model phone in his right hand. A brief, easy smile touched the stranger’s face, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement.
"Not a problem at all," the man said, his voice smooth and untroubled. "I see we’re both guilty of the same crime."
Owen managed a polite, tight nod and smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Texting while walking."
"It is a modern plague," the man laughed, his tone light as he stepped aside to give Owen the right of way toward the far end of the parking lot. "Have a good afternoon."
"You too," Owen murmured.
He didn't look back as the man walked toward the diner entrance. His mind was already pulling toward the text message that had just buzzed against his palm. He reached his vehicle, a faded, slate-blue 2012 Volvo estate. A vehicle that had spent the last eight years hauling ground-penetrating radar equipment, shovel test kits, and muddy plastic crates across the county. It was a reliable workhorse, entirely anonymous, and devoid of anything that hinted of his old life back in Charleston, South Carolina.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, the leather warm against his back, and opened the message from the contact he had labeledProf 1.
Owen, I’m nearly here. The flight is ahead of schedule. Are you still able to fetch me from Southwest Florida International?
Owen shifted his phone to his left hand, typing a rapid response with his thumb.Of course. I’m on my way now. I’ve arranged for you to stay at Hearts Hotel. Linda has the room ready.
The three little dots appeared immediately, dancing across the bottom of the screen before vanishing. Then the reply popped up.
Owen, I am not sure that’s a good idea.
Owen let out a long, heavy sigh, his forehead leaning briefly against the top of the steering wheel. He knew the reason for her hesitation. Of course he did. He and Linda had met decades ago at the university, where Linda had deliberately enrolled to study under Dr. Anna Caldwell’s legendary anthropology department. The three of them had formed a tight, protective bond through shared fieldwork and late-night theorizing.
He tapped the screen again.Of course it is. Linda, her brother, and Rosa are excited to see you.
The response was instantaneous.It is not them I am worried about.
Owen turned the key in the ignition, the Volvo’s engine turning over with a familiar, low rumble. Before he took off, he typed:
We’ll talk when I get there. I am leaving the bay now.
See you soon,Anna replied.
He dropped the phone into the cup holder, shifted the car into reverse, and backed out of the space. As he navigated the sweeping curve of the Sanibel Causeway, the sparkling expanse of the Gulf of Mexico opened up to his left, the deep blue water catching the midday sun like crushed diamonds. Under normal circumstances, the view would have settled the restless edge in his chest. Today, it did nothing to ease the cold knot forming in his stomach.
His mind kept switching back to the diner. Seeing Dr. Debbi Wineberg walking in there, her perfect Charleston pedigree masked behind a veneer of academic curiosity, had set off every alarm bell in his academic training.
His mind ticked over.What was she doing here, and who was that man with her?
Owen stared through the windshield, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel as he tried to place the stranger's face. He had seen that sharp, corporate profile somewhere before—perhaps in a business journal or a developer's prospectus.
A cold feeling crept up his spine. If Dr. Debbi Wineberg was on Sanibel Island, she wasn't here for the beaches. She was a bloodhound for high-stakes preservation conflicts. Right now, he and Linda couldn’t have anyone mess with their plans to save the hotel. Linda, her family, and the people of Sweet Blossom Bay were the entire reason Owen had survived the wreckage of his old life. This town had accepted him when he was nothing more than a ghost running away from a scandal that had stripped him of his career, his joy, and the only woman he’d ever loved.
He remembered the day he arrived, completely lost, driving aimlessly down the Florida coastline with nothing but twosuitcases and an old map in his passenger seat. He’d been angry, newly divorced, deeply deceived, and mourning the absolute destruction of the woman he had truly loved. He’d sold his historic home, severed ties with the Charleston elite, and simply driven away from the wreckage.
Before he knew he was heading to Sweet Blossom Bay, Owen had no direction or thought of where he would end up. Tired of driving one day, he’d booked into a generic roadside motel near Tallahassee, staring at the popcorn ceiling, wondering how a man of his age could lose his entire foundation in the span of a single semester. It was then that an idea formed. He could write the book he’d always wanted to and look into the history of the towns he was traveling through.
Owen had sat up and then opened the bedside table drawer, looking for a complimentary pen and paper to write down his ideas when he’d found it—his destination. Tucked beside a phone book, he’d found a faded tourist pamphlet for Sweet Blossom Bay. Memories of Linda, whom he hadn’t thought of in years, flashed through his mind. How she’d talked about the small town in Florida where she was raised. Then he’d thought about Dr. Anna Caldwell and how she’d spoken of the small town and the reason that she’d found herself there when she was younger.
His heart had jolted, and his mind had spun as he realized this was a sign. His destination was the place where he could disappear and heal far from the pressures of his previous life and obligations. The next morning, he’d found the directions and started heading that way. Within forty-eight hours of arriving, he discovered the Sweet Blossom Bay Historical Society was searching for a permanent curator to manage their archives.
Owen had taken it as a sign that it was most definitely fate that had led him there. He had arrived in the dead of summer, the island slow and heavy with heat, and Linda had been there to greet him at the marina. Her delight at seeing him had been the first warm thing he’d felt in months. Their old college friendship had resumed without a single missed beat, and before Owen fully understood what was happening, her entire extended family had claimed him as their own.
Maggie Sullivan had even offered him the small, two-bedroom cottage on the opposite side of the lighthouse from her own property. Owen had tried to negotiate a standard lease, telling her he was perfectly content with an indefinite rental agreement until he sorted out his permanent plans.
Maggie had shaken her head, her laughter bright against the sound of the surf. "Absolute nonsense, Owen. Having real roots in Sweet Blossom Bay is what makes this town's foundation so strong. We don't do indefinite rentals for family. You buy the cottage, you plant your garden, and you stay."
