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At the left, she could see a small kitchen and eating area through a wide arched doorway.
“It came furnished, down to the kitchenware and linens, so I can’t take any credit. All of my things are in storage back in St. Paul.”
But everything was spotless, down to the kitchen sink, with no clutter in sight. “How long will you stay here?”
“There’s six months left on my one-year lease, with an option to extend it. Now and then I fly to another island for a few days or fly home to see my daughter, but I’m always happy to be back here. At this point, I think I’ll stay here for good.”
“I can see why.”
He grinned. “Let me give you a thirty-second tour. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen—sodas and juice are in the fridge, with deli meats and cheese in one of the drawers. Fresh fruit is in the other. The Keurig pods are in the drawer beneath it.”
“Do you mind if I let Sniper out into the backyard?”
He unlocked the back door and Sniper eagerly rushed outside, his tail wagging.
“He’ll be fine. The fence is solid and the only gate out there is padlocked.”
He led Lucy through the living area, pointing out the full bath, with his office and a guest bedroom to the right and his own bedroom and a linen closet to the left.
She lingered at the door to his office—the smallest bedroom—where he’d set up a desk and floor lamp in front of the window. A low bookshelf held a variety of books and a box of files. “So is this where the magic happens?”
He snorted. “That would be nice. But it’s actually a lot of work. Self doubt. Research. Second-guessing, and then sometimes starting scenes all over again.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”
A corner of his mouth lifted with amusement. “No one could ever pay me enough to do it, if it wasn’t something I love. But I do. I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little boy.”
“And now you finally have time,” she said softly. “It must be wonderful to have this chance to follow your dreams. What are you writing?”
“A World War II suspense. It’s almost half done. I wrote another one while still running my practice that will need considerable editing.”
“That’s so impressive. Back in college, I belonged to a little critique group and started writing a romantic suspense novel, but drifted away when I had to increase my class load to graduate early.”
“Did you ever get back to it?”
“No. After that, raising kids and twelve-hour shifts at the hospital took all my time.”
She took a step into his office and tipped her head to read the titles of the books on the shelves. “You must be a history buff.”
“European and British history, mostly.” He shrugged a little. “But also fiction and non-fiction in almost any genre. I can’t walk past a bookstore without buying something. Are you a reader?”
She laughed. “I try to never leave home without my Kindle in my purse. It’s filled with biographies, autobiographies, history, romantic suspense, thrillers—you name it. I love reading about European and British history, too.
“Was your Kindle stolen?”
“No, thank goodness. My flight home would be interminable without it. I left it, my iPad and my billfold in the room safe.”
A quarter-smile deepened the long slash of a dimple in his left cheek. “I know the feeling.”
“Tomorrow I need to see if my cell provider has a store here. And I need to figure out how I can fly home without showing my driver’s license.”
“A friend of mine visited a few months ago. He had his driver’s license in his cargo pants, and it disappeared somewhere along the Mount Ka’ala Trail. But he was still able to fly. Was your boarding pass on paper or in your phone?”
“Paper. It’s still in my carry-on luggage.”
“Good, since your phone is gone. You still have proof you were cleared to fly here.”
“But surely that isn’t enough.”
