The One Who Stays Read online

  Lose your heart to Summer Island, where summers are easy, winters are cozy and friends welcome you with open arms

  Summer Island has always been home to Meg Sloan. She runs the Summerbrook Inn, like her grandmother did, and she loves the laid-back pace of life and the close-knit community the island offers. Meg also loves Zack Sheppard, but what she doesn’t love is Zack’s refusal to commit to an exclusive relationship.

  Seth Darden arrives on Summer Island in search of summer work, but also in search of something else—his past. There are secrets buried at the Summerbrook Inn, secrets that forged the path of Seth’s life. But he wasn’t counting on falling for the lovely innkeeper, Meg.

  When Meg meets Seth, she can’t ignore the sparks that fly between them, even though she feels like her heart has been torn in half. But if Zack won’t commit, should she take the leap with Seth? And can she even have a future with him if he can’t reckon with his past?

  Praise for the novels of Toni Blake

  “Toni Blake’s romances are so delicious, so intoxicating and addictive, a good night’s sleep isn’t even an option.... No one does it like Toni Blake.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr

  “The perfect small-town romance.”

  —Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author of Born To Be Wilde, on One Reckless Summer

  “With sizzling sensuality and amazing depth, a book by Toni Blake is truly special.”

  —Lori Foster, New York Times bestselling author of Driven to Distraction

  “Toni Blake’s One Reckless Summer is one wild ride! This is just the book you want in your beach bag.”

  —Susan Wiggs, New York Times bestselling author of Between You and Me

  “Sexy and emotional.”

  —Carly Phillips, New York Times bestselling author of Dream, on Letters to a Secret Lover

  “A wonderful story of friendship, love and a surprise that will keep readers turning the pages of this well-written tale. Blake is a master of small-town romances.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Christmas in Destiny

  “Whisper Falls is the enemy of productivity. You start this novel, and nothing will stop you until you finish.”

  —USA TODAY

  “A sexy yet also sweet romance that beautifully celebrates friendship, family, and the true spirit of the holiday season.”

  —Booklist on Christmas in Destiny

  Also by Toni Blake

  The Destiny Series

  One Reckless Summer

  Sugar Creek

  Whisper Falls

  Holly Lane

  Willow Springs

  Half Moon Hill

  Christmas In Destiny

  Coral Cove

  All I Want Is You

  Love Me If You Dare

  Take Me All the Way

  The Rose Brothers

  Brushstrokes

  Mistletoe

  Heartstrings

  Swept Away

  Tempt Me Tonight

  Letters to a Secret Lover

  The Red Diary

  Wildest Dreams

  For a complete list of books by Toni Blake,

  please visit www.toniblake.com.

  Toni Blake

  The One Who Stays

  To Blair,

  for staying

  Contents

  PART 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART 2

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PART 3

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  PART 4

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  EXCERPT FROM THE GIVING HEART BY TONI BLAKE

  Part 1

  “You people with hearts,” he said once,

  “have something to guide you, and need

  never do wrong; but I have no heart, and

  so I must be very careful.”

  —L. Frank Baum,

  The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

  CHAPTER ONE

  HER GRANDMOTHER HAD always claimed the secret to living on Summer Island was owning a good sweater. “The kind that feels like an old friend when you put it on, warm and comfy. One that always feels a little like...coming home.”

  Meg Sloan had collected a few such sweaters over her fifteen years here and she wore one now—a thick cable-knit cardigan of cornflower blue. She wrapped it tight around her as she stood on the wide front porch of the Summerbrook Inn, looking out over Lake Michigan, watching as a fishing boat named the Emily Ann disappeared into the silvery morning fog like a ghost.

  It was cold—but then, mornings here were almost always cold, the small island being situated off the northern tip of Michigan’s mitten, near the spot where Lakes Michigan and Huron met. She told people she was used to the cold and didn’t feel it anymore—but sometimes it snuck up on her, surprised her, and today the chill seeped right through the cable-knit and into her bones.

  She watched the boat until no trace of it remained in sight, and even though it wasn’t much farther away than it had been a moment before, the distance was palpable—and that seeped into her bones, as well. He was gone.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered to herself.

  Of course, it did matter—when you have to talk yourself into something, obviously it matters. But she didn’t want it to matter, and she knew that if you told yourself something enough times, it started to become true. “It doesn’t matter.”

  It doesn’t matter, even if you already thawed the steaks.

  It doesn’t matter, even if you need help with the shutters.

  It doesn’t matter, even if the bed feels colder now.

  It always did on the first night Zack was gone, no matter how many blankets she added.

  She took a deep breath, drawing the brisk morning air into her lungs, letting it wake her up a little more. A glance up Harbor Street revealed just how early it was—no one stirred, every business and home sitting quiet and still. A robin twittered somewhere behind the inn, reminding her spring had come and summer would soon follow. Life went on, with or without Zack, and as the island’s name suggested, summer was everything here.

  When a bit of movement drew her gaze to the flower shop up the street once run by her great-aunt Julia, she saw Suzanne Quinlan unlocking the front door. With her dark hair drawn up into a messy bun and wearing a thick sweater of her own, the current owner waved at Meg. “Someone’s up and out early!” she called.

  Regretting the reason for that, Meg forced a smile. I could have stayed in bed, should have stayed th
ere. Watching him go didn’t change anything—it was simply a compulsion, a silent goodbye. “I was thinking of making some pancakes,” she called back impulsively. “You should come over—we’ll have breakfast before you open.”

  Suzanne tilted her head, looking pleased by the suggestion. “Yum! Be down in five.”

  Meg was about to turn and head inside the inn—empty of patrons this early in the season—when she heard a familiar voice. “Is this pancake soiree a private party, or can anyone join?” She leaned forward past the wooden porch railing to see Dahlia Delaney pedaling her lavender bicycle up the street. The older woman owned a quaint lakeside café named after herself, which sat almost directly across the street from the flower shop—and she also happened to be Zack’s aunt, the person who had introduced them five years ago.

  Dahlia was a woman of her own, one who’d perfected the fine art of being both pragmatic and flamboyant at the same time, and Meg never minded spending time with her. “I think we can squeeze a third plate on the table,” she informed Dahlia, this smile coming easier. A pleasant morning with friends would distract her from Zack’s departure—at least for a little while. And as she walked in the door, her heart lifted at simply knowing her kitchen and sunroom would soon be filled with laughter.

  The inn had been her home since the age of twenty-four. And it had been her beloved grandmother’s home before that. It got quiet during the long winters. Quieter still it seemed when Zack took to the water, even though she knew it wasn’t really any quieter than before he’d arrived in her life. She just noticed it more now, and maybe she was happy to postpone that quiet a bit longer.

  But this is what you signed up for. She’d taken over the inn after her grandma’s unexpected death in her early sixties, and at a dark moment in her own life when isolation had seemed...safe, and easier than other alternatives. And though it wasn’t the life she’d planned, she’d never regretted the decision. Even if it meant a very particular, secluded sort of existence.

  But soon the ferry would begin bringing tourists for the season and the streets would bustle with bike and foot traffic and the house would be filled with guests, old and new. The lilacs and honeysuckle would burst into fragrant bloom, their sweet scents competing with the aroma of fresh corn on the cob and hamburgers from the grill on the back patio.

  Trevor Bateman would be back at the Pink Pelican playing his guitar for tips on the little stage above the bar and Cooper Cross would begin making his daily morning runs past the inn. Mr. Hankins would bring his fresh produce over from the mainland on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, selling it at the little wooden stand near the bicycle livery. Now-empty flower boxes would overflow with color, and Adirondack chairs would be filled with people escaping their busy city lives somewhere far away.

  Summer brought life of so many kinds back to the island, and if she needed a little more life, summer would bring it back to her, as well.

  * * *

  JUST PAST NOON, Meg stood on a small ladder, attempting to unscrew a peeling white shutter from the front of the sunny yellow inn and trying not to be angry. She shouldn’t have waited so late in the season to paint, but she couldn’t put it off any longer. And in fairness to Zack, she’d only mentioned wanting to start the project once a few weeks ago, in passing, so he had no way of knowing she’d been counting on his help.

  Nor had she told him about the steak. She’d bought two New York strips at Koester’s Market a week ago to surprise him with a special dinner to celebrate their five-year anniversary.

  Anniversary of what?

  They weren’t in a committed relationship. They were...undefined. When his fishing boat was docked here, he lived in the apartment above Dahlia’s—and he spent a lot of nights in Meg’s bed.

  Though everyone on the island thought of them as a couple. “Are Meg and Zack coming?”

  “I saw Meg and Zack at the Pink Pelican.”

  “Meg and Zack put in a gorgeous new firepit on her patio.”

  And he’d been there for her when Aunt Julia had gotten sick. And sicker. And then died. He’d been her rock in those days. Maybe that was when they’d become Meg and Zack. So many times during Aunt Julia’s illness just over two years ago, she’d wanted to crumble, but he hadn’t let her.

  “You’ll get through this, Maggie May,” he would say. He’d long called her that, at first teasingly, from the old Rod Stewart song, but then it had become habit. “You’ll get through this because you don’t have a choice. That’s how these things work. But I’m here. And you don’t have to be strong when it’s just you and me, honey.”

  And he’d squeeze her hand and hold her tight and let her cry until his shirt was wet, and it had made all the difference not to have to go through it alone.

  So it’s almost ironic that here you are now, fretting about being alone.

  He was there when it counted, after all.

  Or...doesn’t it always count? Being there?

  Still, she tried to push down the rise of anger swelling in her chest.

  She didn’t begrudge him his work. He’d been a commercial fisherman long before he’d been half of Meg and Zack. Despite a serious decline in the Great Lakes fishing industry, he caught boatloads—literally—of lake whitefish, supplying restaurants and seafood distributors all along the lengthy Lake Huron coastline. She just hated when he left with so little warning.

  This morning it had come before dawn—with a kiss on the cheek.

  At first, she’d thought the kiss was about sex, that he’d woken up wanting it. But then she’d realized she lay in bed alone and opened her eyes to find his ruggedly handsome face above hers, his body bending over her, fully dressed. “I’m heading out, Maggie May,” he’d said softly. As if not really wanting to wake her, as if slipping out quietly like a thief in the night would somehow make it better.

  “Oh—I...” She hadn’t needed to ask heading out where. Her heart had sunk.

  When will you be back? How long will you be gone? She’d wanted to ask—always wanted to ask, because they were reasonable questions—but she knew better. There was a reason he’d become a fisherman. He liked being alone for long periods. It wasn’t about her, it was about him. He’d assured her of that many times. And if she’d asked those questions on the tip of her tongue, he’d simply have told her he didn’t know.

  But this time hurt worse than usual. Because of tonight. Their anniversary. Of...something. Meeting. Their anniversary of meeting. And it had been...a memorable meeting. Filled with a palpable chemistry. Which had lasted. Grown. It was powerful still—had never faded.

  Perhaps because absence made the heart grow fonder, because reunions kept things feeling somehow new and fresh? Or was it because she loved him? And she did. She loved him like crazy. And she’d wanted this evening to be something special. Even if they were...undefined. So she’d heard herself saying, “But what about tonight?”

  He’d blinked. Let his brow wrinkle, just a little. “What’s tonight?”

  And something inside her heart died a little. He was a guy—guys didn’t remember dates, so she shouldn’t be hurt. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  He’d hesitated. Tilted his head slightly. The first hints of daylight had shone in the window behind him just then, making him look a little ethereal. “You sure?”

  She’d swallowed back anything else she might have wanted to say and left it at, “Yeah.”

  “Bye, honey,” he’d said, and then he’d lifted one warm, rough palm to her cheek and lowered a long, slow kiss to her acceptant mouth. Always acceptant, always hungry for a little bit more, even in darker moments like that one. Maybe with a man you know will always eventually leave again, you feel the lack even before it comes. And then he’d walked out the bedroom door.

  She’d gotten up behind him, tossed on jeans, a tank, and a cotton blouse, covering it with her blue sweater, and wandered out onto the porch a few m
inutes later—in time to watch the water carry him away. She still didn’t know why she’d bothered. Maybe seeing the Emily Ann drift into a distance that grew greater each second made it more real, made it so that she wouldn’t accidentally expect him to be here later.

  Even so, she still felt that kiss on her lips—and knew she would miss it tonight when there were none.

  She let out a frustrated breath, still struggling with the shutter—then fought down the sudden urge to violently stab her screwdriver into the window frame. Because he left, damn it. Again. And this time did hurt worse. He’s thoughtless. Selfish. And somehow managed to arrange things so that, technically, I can’t even be mad at him.

  But she was anyway. She was mad as hell. Despite the cool temperatures, the work had her sweating.

  You took care of this place long before you had Zack’s help, though—you’re a capable woman and can take down some shutters on your own.

  This morning’s breakfast in the sunroom had indeed had the desired effect of brightening her spirits—at least for a while. “So what has you up and at the griddle so early today, my dear?” Dahlia had asked as she’d forked a bite of pancakes into her mouth. Her lips had been painted a shade of pink few women in their sixties could pull off, but she managed it fine.

  Meg had hated to answer—but it was useless not to. Though she’d tried to smile as she’d said it. “I was watching the Emily Ann...go.” She’d pointed vaguely east.

  Suzanne had let out an audible sigh as Dahlia admitted, “Thought it might have something to do with my nephew leaving.”

  Bristling inside, Meg had attempted not to sound resentful as she asked, “Then you knew? That he was going?”

  “Told me yesterday.”

  Another stab at a tight smile. “Well, he didn’t tell me until about thirty seconds before he walked out the door.”

  “Oh...” Dahlia said.

  “More like—oh my God,” Suzanne added, rolling her eyes, and despite herself, Meg appreciated someone just putting it on the table and acknowledging that it was a crummy thing to do.