Change of Address Read online

  Maybe his mother had arranged for the caretakers to air out the house before Michael’s arrival? That would have been unusually thoughtful of her. More likely, her personal assistant had taken care of it.

  Perfectly normal explanation, Baldwin. Get a hold of yourself. And this was a good reminder that the caretakers would be around every week or so. Michael would have to find out their schedule so they couldn’t catch him by surprise.

  Upstairs, he opened the door to what had been his childhood bedroom and froze. His classic sci-fi movie posters and framed comic books were gone, replaced by a blandly tasteful painting of the island’s crumbling lighthouse. Instead of his old bed, there was a queen-size bed lost under decorative quilts and throw pillows. One of them, instead of being square or round like the rest, had a familiar contour.

  Was that his pillow? The one shaped to help ease his tense neck and shoulders? Suspicious all over again, he went into the room and picked it up. Definitely his, though it was in an unfamiliar ivory pillowcase that matched the rest of the linens.

  He spun and opened the wardrobe tucked into one corner of the room. His clothes, few as they were, hung from the rod. The drawers revealed his socks and underwear, along with the plastic box that held his service ribbons. Looking back into the room, he spotted the wooden box with his Purple Heart on a shelf near the valet stand.

  Why the hell was his stuff unpacked?

  Sure, he’d shipped most of his belongings to the house a couple of weeks ago, along with the SUV he’d picked up last winter in DC. But the caretaker was supposed to store the boxes in anticipation of his arrival—not unpack them. And sure as hell not unpack them into this impersonal room.

  His skin crawled at the invasion of his privacy. If he’d been willing to put up with people in his room—in his territory—he would’ve stayed at a hotel.

  He crouched, resting a hand on Kaylee’s back, as the world rocked around him. This was supposed to be his anchor, more than just somewhere to stay. More than just a house. He needed a home. Somewhere he could continue to nurture the fragile civilian identity he’d begun to construct back in DC, after he was discharged from the hospital.

  Kaylee shuffled around so she could rest her muzzle on his shoulder, a comfort behavior that she’d developed on her own. Michael wrapped his arms around her and breathed deeply, pretending to be calm until he fooled his body into complying. He had a safe place to stay, even if it wasn’t secure, and he had his meager belongings, even if someone else had fucked with them. This was nothing he couldn’t work with. Nothing he couldn’t overcome.

  “Okay.” Another deep breath, and he straightened, braced against Kaylee for balance. He looked at the house keys with their neat labels: front door, back door, kitchen door, garage door, barn. “Okay, Kaylee. Let’s go scout out somewhere better to live.”

  She wagged her tail in answer.

  “Will you look at that?” Michael asked Kaylee, slowly grinning as he took in what used to be a gaping space full of cobwebs and mold-rotted wood. Somewhere along the line, his dad must have pulled strings to get a building permit for the barn. It was nothing like what he remembered from the few memorable occasions he and Amanda had managed to pick the lock on the doors—usually it was Amanda, with her more dexterous fingers, who succeeded—and creep inside the deathtrap full of splintered beams, spiders, and garter snakes.

  Now, though, the barn was a light and airy refuge, despite having only a few tiny windows. The space by the doors was a high-ceilinged living area with an antique wood-burning stove in the corner and a massive television on the front wall. Quilts covered a plush sofa and the armchairs. In the back, a rustic dining set divided the living area from a single-story kitchen with a loft bedroom overhead.

  As he led Kaylee inside, the tension drained from his shoulders and back. He explored every inch of the rebuilt barn, thinking this was where he belonged—a place with one entrance, one lock that he’d change as soon as possible, so only he would have the key. A place where childhood memory and his need for sanctuary could comfortably, safely intersect. Very comfortably, in fact. The bathroom tucked behind the kitchen had an extra-deep claw-foot bathtub as well as a luxuriously modern steam shower, and the bed in the loft was king size, big enough for Kaylee to sprawl at his feet.

  The refrigerator and cupboards were empty, but he took care of that in a half-dozen trips to the main house. By the end of the afternoon, he had his belongings stowed away upstairs and the kitchen stocked. Obviously someone had given the caretaker a very outdated list, because along with staples—bread, eggs, milk—he’d found two boxes of sugary cereal and canned pasta right out of his childhood diet. Those he left behind in favor of keeping only the basics on hand.

  “What’re the chances the truck’s in the garage?” he asked Kaylee. The diner in town once had the best burgers on the planet.

  Kaylee, sprawled on the colorful rag rug by the sink, wagged her tail.

  “Yeah, probably. Come on,” he said, and she jumped up to follow him to the front door. At the click of her nails, he added, “Remind me to find the toenail clippers later.” One of these days, he’d take the time to dig into his phone and figure out how to set automatic reminders, but not now. He couldn’t let the phone distract him into avoiding going out in public.

  He’d hung Kaylee’s leash and vest on the coat hooks made from horseshoes—surprisingly kitschy for any decorator his mom would hire—along with the messenger bag that he kept stocked with dog care and cleanup supplies. Kaylee sat while he got her geared up, then walked with him back to the main house, where he let himself inside. He’d have to ask for the garage code; for now, he unlocked the interior door, stepping in just enough for the automatic lights to trigger.

  As he expected, his SUV had been parked on the far side of the garage, leaving room for whatever new cars his parents were driving this year. Michael stared at the SUV, clenching and unclenching his fists. He really hadn’t considered the layout of the island. The drive would be short and quick, but the roads were curved and unlit for the most part.

  Dark roads. Low visibility.

  Bad idea, Baldwin.

  After two days on the train and a sleepless night at a hotel in Boston, he was too tired to drive safely. But Hartsbridge Island was small enough that even tired—even dead-on-his-feet-exhausted—he could walk safely to town and back.

  “You up for another walk, Kaylee?” he asked, backing up a step so he could close and lock the interior door. She was in her vest, so she didn’t bounce happily in circles, but her tail wagged a little harder. He couldn’t help but smile in response as he ducked his head under the strap of his messenger bag, settling it across his chest. If only he could be so cheerful all the time.

  Rocky Shores Diner had never lost its one-step-above-a-trailer feel, even with the extended dining room the owners had tacked on a few years back. When the satellite college campus opened on the south side of the island, the menu had expanded to include wings and chili-cheese fries, but the locals all knew better than to stray from plain hand-cut steak fries.

  Josh picked up one of those fries now and used it to point across the booth at his dad. “This is me reminding you”—he took a bite of the fry—“to call the meat delivery guy first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Dad groaned dramatically and snatched the other half of the fry right out of Josh’s fingers. “You have to remind me in the morning. Otherwise, I’ll just forget.”

  In retribution, Josh stole one of the fries off his dad’s plate. “I’ll leave you a voice mail. But really, if he doesn’t get his shit together—”

  “Josh,” Dad scolded, dark brows drawing together.

  Josh ignored the reprimand. “We can’t keep putting up with late deliveries, Dad. Especially not when summer business really kicks off. What are we going to do? Tell people we don’t have corned beef? We’re the only supplier on the island.”

  Dad laughed and slurped some of his milk shake. “It’s corned beef, not heroin.”


  “And you’re not in Brooklyn anymore. Corned beef might as well be heroin, the way the tourists gobble it up.” Josh tried to sound stern, but he was struggling to hide his grin. “You too. Don’t think I don’t know about your stash in the back of the walk-in.”

  “A guy’s got to eat,” Dad pointed out, though he didn’t need to worry about his weight—not like Josh did. “Speaking of Brooklyn,” Dad continued, refilling his milk shake from the frosty metal cup, “I might take a trip down there this weekend or next. See your aunt. We’ll probably go to the cemetery to visit Bubbe.”

  “I’ll have things covered,” Josh said, looking up automatically when the bell over the door rang—a habit from running Bagel End.

  His dad’s answer was lost under the abrupt thump of Josh’s heartbeat when he spotted that afternoon’s customer—the one with the service dog. God, he was nice to look at in profile, expression soft and unguarded as he turned from one side to the other, taking in the scope of the diner. Josh couldn’t see if he had the dog, but he assumed so.

  “Sit anywhere you like, hon,” Betty called from behind the counter, giving a friendly wave with the coffeepot that always seemed to be stuck in her hand. As the guy walked between the booths, Betty frowned, though it melted into a sappy smile almost immediately. “Aww, what a pretty boy!”

  Wasn’t the dog a girl? Josh couldn’t remember, and the guy didn’t answer her, at least not loudly enough for Josh to hear. He just walked to the corner booth, as Josh guessed he would, and sat where he could see the door—and Josh, who quickly slouched down and gave his dad a somewhat scrambled smile.

  “Sorry, what?”

  Dad’s eyebrows did a slow creep toward his hairline. “I didn’t say anything.” He turned to look over his shoulder. “Someone you know?” he asked, which really meant Someone you’re dating?

  Josh snorted. His dad was more of an interfering matchmaker than any twelve yentas from Brooklyn. “A customer, that’s all. He came in this afternoon. Stop staring.” Please, he added mentally, sinking another inch. Too bad the booths were low, not the super-high style popular in the seventies, making it easy for Dad to take a nice long look at the guy.

  “Uh-huh.” Dad finally turned back, a sly grin on his face. “Early in the season for a tourist, isn’t it?”

  Josh didn’t roll his eyes, but it was a close call. “Mainlander, with a family house here, yeah. He’ll be here for a while, I think.” He was proud he didn’t say, I hope.

  “Uh-huh,” Dad repeated, stealing another of Josh’s fries. But then he got back to business, saying, “The meat delivery guy. Any other issues we need to deal with?”

  Josh shook his head, trying to focus again—these dinnertime business meetings were crucial to keeping the shop running smoothly, as well as being the only real time he and his dad could relax and catch up with each other. But he kept stealing glances at the guy, who’d settled down to look over the menu.

  While wearing glasses.

  The sight made Josh’s knees go a little weak. He liked glasses, even though he’d never needed them himself—and he wasn’t hipster enough to get plain lenses just so he could try to look hot. It wouldn’t work. He was about as far from “sexy librarian” as possible.

  Remembering that his dad was expecting a coherent answer, he said, “Uh . . . no, I think we’re good. Lizzie and I did the books, and the schedule’s set for the next couple of weeks. Speaking of . . .” He glanced past his dad again before he could stop himself. Glasses. His voice wavered a bit as he said, “Why don’t I open tomorrow? You can sleep in.”

  Dad let Josh’s distraction pass, though not unnoticed, judging by the grin still plastered on his face as his eyebrows went up again. “Not that I’m arguing, but why?”

  Because Hot Tourist Guy might be an early riser, and I don’t want to miss the chance to see him, Josh thought. “To deal with the meat delivery guy.”

  Dad shrugged. “You got it.” He slurped up the last of his milk shake and didn’t bother stealing another fry, a sign that he was done for the night.

  Damn. There went Josh’s opportunity to maybe make first contact—second contact?—with his handsome customer. His gaze slid past Dad to Hot Tourist Guy, no longer obscured by his menu. Unfortunately, he was also no longer wearing the glasses. He just needed them for reading, then, which was still hot as hell.

  Their eyes met, and Josh quickly looked away, not wanting to be seen as a creepy stalker, even though he’d been in the diner first. God, he was terrible at making the first move. Or responding to one, for that matter. He was terrible with potential dating interests in general. His people skills were top-notch only in the bagel-pushing field. Otherwise, he got self-conscious with girls and nervous about triggering homophobic idiocy with guys, and there wasn’t even a hint of a queer community on the island.

  Well, maybe there was something at the college, but Josh wasn’t one of them.

  Defeat made his shoulders slump. The hot guy with the dog would fit in great with the college crowd, even if he looked to be a few years older than them. He would have no trouble turning heads no matter where he went. A dumpy, boring, dropout-turned-bagel-guy didn’t stand a damn chance with someone like him.

  In three bites, he wolfed down the rest of his burger and fries. His dad put a twenty on the table, and Josh added a five for the tip. They left together, and he heroically refrained from throwing one last look at the corner booth. Hot or not, the guy was a customer, and it wasn’t as if Bagel End could afford to have Josh scaring away anyone. Besides, if the guy came back or called for a delivery—as he’d implied he would—maybe they could at least become friends. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

  Six a.m., and Hartsbridge was a ghost town. Michael stood next to the deer statue on the green, wrapped in a windbreaker that was fine for DC but insufficient for the chilly wind blowing in off the Atlantic, and stared out at the emptiness. Only the twenty-four-hour diner was open, and even that looked ominous, almost dystopian. With the sun rising behind the low building, the front was in shadow, lit by the red neon sign over the door. The extended dining room was night-dark; the lights were on over the long counter and booths, though they were deserted.

  Kaylee’s leash twisted in Michael’s grasp. Free of her vest, she dove headfirst into the grass and writhed over onto her back, kicking her legs, tail wagging madly. He smiled down at her—at the reminder that he wasn’t alone in a postapocalyptic world—and made a mental note to look into local dog ordinances. Growing up, he’d never had a dog, so he wasn’t sure if it was legal to have one off-leash or not.

  The tinkle of a bell, too faint to really startle him, made him turn to the other side of the green. All the shops there were still dark, except for Bagel End. The door was propped open, and someone had sneaked out long enough to set up a sandwich board outside.

  “Diner or bagel place?” Michael asked Kaylee, though he’d already made his decision. Yesterday’s lunch bagel had been a little wheel of heaven—not to mention the cashier.

  What were the chances that the blond guy from yesterday was on the opening shift? Six a.m. was an unholy hour for most civilians, but the guy seemed to be a manager type, so . . . maybe.

  Recognizing Michael’s tone of voice, Kaylee got to her feet, giving a good whole-body shake. A cloud of grass poofed around her, only to be swept away by the sea-salt breeze. She stood still while Michael took her vest down from his shoulder, and as he fastened it around her body, he could see her brain kicking into high gear. Her ears perked forward, eyes going sharp and alert. Much as she loved to play, she was a working dog, happiest when she had a task to perform.

  When he said, “Let’s go,” she paced beside him, no longer sniffing everywhere, and paused at the curb to get his okay to cross the deserted street. Growing up in the city had given her good street manners.

  The wind went briefly still, filling the air outside the shop with the warm scent of fresh baking. Michael’s stomach growled, and Kaylee’s
nostrils flared as she sniffed. She didn’t surge ahead, but her steps went springy and light until they reached the open door, where training kept her from rushing inside.

  At this hour, it was a formality to check for anyone coming through the doorway, but the key to training was consistency. After verifying no one was in the way, he told her, “Go through,” then followed her in.

  “Be right—” The blond guy from yesterday popped into sight behind the glass case half-full of bagels; his smile was breathtakingly sincere. “Hey, be right with you.” He turned to take a wire basket of bagels from a rolling rack taller than he was.

  “No rush.” Michael hung back, not wanting to seem like he was demanding immediate service. Six months ago, he might’ve slipped out and come back later, but his DC therapist had worked with him on that. Not that he still didn’t wish for the ability to turn invisible, to disappear and avoid confrontation of any kind. He was just conscious of the desire and able to push past it most of the time.

  Besides, this was what he’d wanted, right? A chance to see the blond guy again, maybe figure out if his smile was friendly or genuinely interested.

  So he stood his ground and petted Kaylee, who sat at his left side and leaned against his leg with just enough pressure to reassure him without pushing him off-balance. But instead of focusing entirely on her, he kept sneaking glances at the guy behind the counter. Cute was the first word that came to mind, with messy blond curls and the little smile playing around his mouth. Awake, too, judging by how quick he was at setting up the baskets, smoothly sliding each one into place until the bagel case was full. His eyes—hazel, Michael guessed, though he didn’t want to stare—were bright and free of dark circles and drooping lids. Most civilians didn’t have half this much energy at six in the morning. Hell, most soldiers didn’t.