She hurried into the women’s locker room and quickly changed. Caroline had been right about one thing: she should stop and pick up a six-pack. Maybe a twelve-pack. Gary had a few employees working overtime right along with him.
She managed to escape without getting into further conversation, because when Caroline came in, she headed straight for the showers. Was she primping so hard for Will? Maybe. The two of them had always liked one another, but Sarah had never seen any signs that their relationship was anything beyond friendship. Then again, who knew? They said that friends made the best spouses. She certainly didn’t know.
She’d fallen in love once, and it had been a brief and poignant affair. Clay Jenner had been a soldier. They’d met in Newport News, and had quickly discovered they both loved Buddy Holly, Peggy Lee, lounge music and historic ships. They’d spent a few months laughing, talking, listening to music and exploring historic sites. Then he’d been deployed. He’d been wonderfully romantic, going down on one knee when the cherry blossoms had been exploding all over the park, and he’d offered her the diamond she now wore on a chain.
He hadn’t come home. That had been three years ago now, and although she would probably never get over the pain of losing him, she had accepted that he wasn’t coming back. He had gone into the military for the schooling and the benefits, but, as he had told her, he’d signed the paper swearing that he would obey his superior officers and defend his country. It would have been nice if he could have served out his time somewhere safe, like Germany, but it hadn’t happened that way.
He had been killed in a sniper attack. A bullet straight through the brain. He had probably never known what had hit him.
For that she was grateful. As her dad had told her once, every man and woman would die. An easy death was something that meant even though God might take a man early, he loved him enough to keep him from suffering.
Now she was glad to be home, where there were no memories of Clay, and glad to have moved into her house.
She didn’t drive to work anymore; her house and the museum were in the area that was referred to as Old Town. After stopping for a twelve-pack and walking another four blocks through enclaves of tourist-centric businesses, she was thinking that a six-pack would have been fine.
She was almost at the walk that led up to her house when she saw him. The man she had noticed during her lecture.
While many buildings in Old Town sat right up near the sidewalk, there was actually a stretch of lawn in front of her place, along with a front walk and driveway—they’d needed a place for the cars and hearses to go. The man was only on the sidewalk, but he was right at the start of the coquina shell walk that led to her front porch. And he was staring at the house.
He must have sensed that she was watching him, because he turned, looked at her gravely, then smiled as she walked toward him, eyeing him carefully.
“Well, hello. It’s Ms. McKinley, right?” he said. “Excellent lecture—thank you.”
She nodded, staring at him warily. “Can I…help you?”
“I was admiring the house,” he said.
She wasn’t sure if she should say that it was hers or not. People had a tendency to be friendly in St. Augustine. In fact, there were dozens of B&Bs in the city, most of them homes that were open to strangers. In fact, she couldn’t wait for her own house to be one of them.
But at the moment, she apparently had a bigger-city attitude going. And the first rule was never let a stranger know where you live.
He didn’t look like a stalker. In fact, he was extremely attractive.
She reminded herself that many a serial killer had been attractive. They weren’t all wild-eyed Charles Mansons. Ted Bundy had traded on his boy-next-door good looks.
She decided she was being ridiculous. The odds were strongly in favor of his being a tourist, one with an interest in history, given that she’d first seen him at the museum. Plus, there were still plenty of people about on the streets, and though the day was dying, there was still lots of light.
He didn’t seem to need a reply. “The architecture is striking. It’s quite a compelling place. Haunting, even.”
“Thanks,” she said. When he looked at her curiously, she added, “I own it.”
He studied her for a moment, then laughed. “Of course, I shouldn’t be surprised that a historian owns a piece of history. I see you have a lot of work going on.”
“When you buy an old building, you have to be prepared for a lot of work,” she told him. The twelve-pack was getting heavy but she fought against shifting the weight. She didn’t want him offering to carry it and walk her up to the house. It wasn’t a B&B yet, just a big old place without an alarm, and she didn’t own a dog—not even a teacup Yorkie.
Of course, he didn’t seem the menacing type. He looked far more likely to go after what he wanted with wit and charm. My, how her thoughts had quickly wandered.