Page 49 of These Summer Storms

Don’t,Greta pleaded, silently.Don’t say it.

For years, she’d been certain that if she shared Tony, made him public, he’d be taken from her. If there was one thing people knew about Franklin Storm, it was that he didn’t like to share. So, for years, Greta had kept Tony a secret and consoled herself with the fact that in doing so, she was keeping him hers. With her. Private. Safe. Comfortable.

Even after yesterday’s letter from her father, she’d told herself she had time. That she could keep everything with Tony the same for another day/hour/minute, but of course, that wasn’t possible. There was no savoring these moments any longer. Franklin wouldn’t have it. Elisabeth wouldn’t have it.

Greta wouldn’t have it.

The spring began to wind again, awareness of the world on the otherside of the island. Of the responsibilities there, even as Tony took her hand in his and lifted her fingers to his lips. Fingers that she’d never thought of as bare until that moment. She pulled away from the caress, smoothing over the rough stubble of beard he hadn’t shaved that morning. Because he didn’t have to. Stubble that matched the sleek slate gray at his temples.

Gray, like the cedar planks of the cottage, weathered by storms.

“I told him that, you know. That I had other things keeping me here.”

“You did?” Her touch stuttered over the line of his jaw.

“I didn’t say it was you. But I think he knew it.” He pulled her close. “And he didn’t stop us.”

But Franklin had stopped them. He’d just waited to do it. “How long ago?”

Tony sighed. “A few months ago. Greta, I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about—” He paused, and for a wild heartbeat, she thought he might do something crazy. Like propose.

And maybe he did. “What if I dedicated my life to you, now? To us?”

She sucked in a breath at the question he’d never spoken before, the one they’d silently agreed never to voice. Her throat was tight, working to find words. To hold them back.

“Shit,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “I didn’t mean to do it today.” He shook his head. “Forget it. It’s not important.”

It was, though.

Greta stayed quiet, waiting, the silence stretching between them until he had no choice but to fill it. “You never wanted to tell them. I understood, honey. I did. Ido.The last thing I wanted—Iwant—is to be a burden to you. I want to be the only person in your life who doesn’t ask you for something. But…if you wanted to ask me…to carry the load…just know…I can. I would.”

He couldn’t, though. That was the point.

Greta was in that fucking Porsche again. Soaring toward the dunes.

Only, this time, it felt like she might not survive it.

Chapter

8

“Aunt Alice? Are youin here?”

From her place on the floor of the darkened pantry, Alice looked to the sliver of sunlight beneath the door. “Yes! In here!” she called, banging on the door. “Saoirse! I’m in the pantry!”

There was a pause, and the knob jiggled. “It’s stuck,” her niece said, an edge of panic in the fourteen-year-old’s voice. “What do I do? Should I get help?”

“Better look for someone we’re not related to.”

“What?”

“Yes, please!”

A pause, and then her niece said, “Um. Well…don’t go anywhere, I guess?”

“Funny.”

Saoirse was already headed for help; Alice listened to her footsteps disappear, only then realizing she should have asked the teenager to turn on the overhead light. With a sigh, she put her back to the door and resumed waiting, wishing that she had some of Emily’s skill for meditation.

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