Page 84 of The Guest Cottage

Hope. Purpose. And acceptance. She’d offered a guiding hand, had become both a resource and an emotional supporter.

In the process, Marlow had completely stolen his heart.

It wasn’t easy to remember, so Cort had to continually remind himself that she’d moved here to escape the chaos of conflict and emotional pain. She was here to ground herself, to start anew. In no way did Marlow appear a victim. A little wounded sometimes, but she’d shown herself to be practical, capable, quick-witted, and fun loving. She embraced life, taking from it what she could but giving back so much more.

And she’d shared that outlook with Pixie.

He thought of his mother, how broken she’d been, emotionally, spiritually, as well as physically. Thanks to Marlow, Pixie now had better prospects, an admirable role model, and her confidence grew every day.

For years, rage would infuse Cort whenever he thought about what his dad had put them through, how badly his mother had suffered, but the Marines had helped him get that anger under control. Now when memories gripped him, which they did far too often, he gave thanks that the two of them had moved here, that his mother had had good friends who’d loved her and helped her to heal.

These people had all championed her, and it had made a world of difference.

Pixie, on the other hand, had Marlow, and Cort thought that relationship just might be as impactful as the love of an entire town.

He was so lost in thought, it took him a moment to realize that the women were smiling at him. “Did I miss something?”

Marlow laughed quietly.

Pixie said, “You cleared your plate—and you’re still holding Andy.”

Yes, he was, because he’d insisted. The baby was a warm, gentle weight against his chest. Eating one-handed hadn’t been a problem. “I like holding him.”

“You’re good at it. Have you been around a lot of babies?”

What an idea. “No.”

Pixie tipped her head. “You’re a natural, then.”

Marlow shrugged. “He’s a Marine, remember.”

That seemed to be her go-to explanation of his thoughts, or his abilities. True, most of his Marine brothers were strong, honorable men who’d taken to family life. His best bud . . .

No, he blocked that thought. Or tried to.

Now it was there, digging in and bringing along the familiar guilt.

Marlow touched his shoulder. “What is it?”

Usually he would play it off, avoid the truth. He didn’t want to lie to Marlow, though. Not ever. So he said, “Just a bad memory.”

Pixie crossed her arms on the table and studied him. “From your time as a Marine?”

Again, surprising himself, he said, “Yeah,” and then he looked down at Andy’s angelic face. “He has the cutest little nose.” The attempt to divert them didn’t work, at least not completely.

Pixie asked, “Do you have a good memory you could share?” To explain her question, she said, “That’s what I do. When I start to remember how scared I was when I was sick, not knowing where to go or what to do, I try to think of a good memory instead and then concentrate on that.”

Slowly, Cort nodded. It was a solid plan, so he went with it. “Good memory it is.” He thought for only a second, then knew what he’d share. “When we first came here, I wasn’t sure what to expect. We’d never been part of a real community before.” No, they’d lived in places that forced a person to concentrate on survival—but that was another bad memory. “Everyone was quirky, open, and friendly in a way I hadn’t seen before. Folks were good to Mom, and good to me.” Without thinking about it, he cuddled Andy a little closer. “In no time at all, Bramble felt like home, when nothing else had before.”

Pixie and Marlow shared a look, and then Pixie said, “To me, too. It confused me at first.”

“You weren’t used to trust,” Marlow said. “Either of you. I’m glad Bramble is the kind of place that lets you trust again.”

Did he trust? Cort trusted her, definitely. And Herman, who in many ways was like a father figure to him. The siblings could easily be his eccentric aunts and uncle. Letting the realization sink in, he nodded. “You’re right. The people here are easier to trust.”

“They’re good people,” Marlow agreed. “Not perfect, because no one is, but I’ve found them all to be genuine.”

Pixie looked down for a moment. “After Dylan . . .” Her voice faded, but when neither he nor Marlow pressed her, she started again. “I felt really used, and that made me feel gullible, too. Like the biggest stooge alive.”

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