The Hero Next Door. Irene Hannon
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into a more comfortable position, pulled the Nantucket town map out of the back pocket of his jeans and perused the maze of streets. In one more block he’d be at Lighthouse Lane—and the cottage he’d be calling home for the next three months.
Refolding the map, he shoved it back into his pocket, hefted his duffel bag and continued down the sidewalk. As he’d already discovered on his trek from the wharf, unlike the dirty, decaying back alleys of Chicago, Nantucket was clean and well kept. The people he’d passed, many on bicycles, had been dressed nicely, and they’d smiled at him. A welcome change of pace from the suspicious looks he was used to, cast by questionable characters as they slunk into dark doorways.
Nantucket wasn’t crime free, Justin knew. But he doubted he’d have to worry about double crosses here—or mistakes that could snuff out lives.
A lump rose in his throat, and he paused at the corner of Lighthouse Lane to blink away the sudden film of moisture that blurred his vision. With memories so fresh and raw, maybe coming to Nantucket hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. Maybe he should have used the last three months of his four-month leave to veg. Rent a cabin in the woods and disappear. Or borrow a boat and hang out on Lake Michigan.
Yet prayer had led him here, back to his roots as a beat cop. He’d asked the Lord to help him find answers—and direction. To give him some quiet time to work through the issues that weighed him down. So this summer job opportunity had seemed providential.
Things would be better here.
They had to be.
Crossing the street, he turned left onto Lighthouse Lane. His landlady, Edith Shaw, had said hers was the third—and last—house on the right, and he had no trouble spotting the Federal-style home she’d described.
But far more impressive was the two-story structure on the corner. Constructed of clapboard, like the Shaw house, but painted white instead of yellow, it featured black shutters. Thanks to a Greek Revival roofline with a deep frieze—along with a small, elevated, white-pillared front porch—it had a grand, stately air. A discreet sign beside the door said The Devon Rose.
Squinting, Justin could just make out the elaborate script below the name: Serving Wednesday through Sunday. Sounded like a restaurant. And mere steps away from his new digs. Pretty convenient. Once he dropped his bags off at his cottage, he might come back here for a quick bite to tide him over until he stocked his kitchen.
His stomach growled, and taking the cue, he picked up his pace, passing a snug, weathered clapboard cottage with sage-colored trim that was sandwiched on a shallow lot between The Devon Rose and the Shaw house. The backyards of the two larger houses must adjoin in the rear, he concluded.
Continuing to Edith Shaw’s house, he found an envelope bearing his name taped beside the doorbell. The note inside directed him through the gate in the tall privet hedge to a spacious private backyard. From there he followed a flagstone path across the thick carpet of grass to the cottage, which was surrounded by budding hydrangea bushes. It was tucked into the back corner, separated from The Devon Rose property only by the privet hedge.
As he’d been warned, the structure was small. But that was okay; he didn’t require a lot of square footage. At six-one, however, he considered headroom important. He hoped the compact accommodations wouldn’t be too claustrophobic.
Much to his relief, when he stepped inside, he realized the outward appearance had been deceptive. Or perhaps the sense of spaciousness was due to the vaulted ceiling. A queen-size bed stood in the far left corner of the room, while a small couch upholstered in hydrangea-print fabric stood against the wall to the left of the front door, a brass reading lamp beside it. An old chest, topped with a glass bowl of hard candy, served as a coffee table.
In the tiny kitchenette to the right, a wooden café table was flanked by matching chairs with blue-and-yellow plaid seat cushions. A quick peek confirmed that the bath was behind the kitchen. No tub, but a decent-size shower, Jason noted.
Setting his luggage on the polished pine floor, he spotted a plate of what appeared to be homemade pumpkin bread in the middle of the café table.
His stomach growled again and, stripping off the plastic wrap, Justin devoured one of the slices. But it barely put a dent in his appetite. He needed real food.
Rewrapping the plate of sweet bread, he freshened up and headed back out the door to the closest restaurant.
The Devon Rose.
“Table six asked for more scones. And nine wants a refill of Earl Grey.” Julie swept into the kitchen carrying a china teapot.
Heather arranged three more scones on a small serving plate. “I’ll deliver these if you’ll handle the Earl.”
“Will do.” Julie headed toward the shelves above the counter, where an array of canisters held white, black, green, oolong and herbal teas.
Plate of scones in hand, Heather pushed through the swinging door into the dining room. As she emerged from behind the ornate wooden grill that blocked patrons’ views into the more functional areas of the house, the calm oasis of The Devon Rose soothed her, as always. Soft classical music provided a genteel backdrop to the muted conversation and tinkle of silver spoons against fine china cups. Silk draperies at the tall windows and crisp white linen tablecloths helped absorb the echo produced by the ten-foot ceilings, marble mantels and polished hardwood floors in the three rooms where tea was served.
Here in the original dining room, a century-old hand-painted mural of a Tudor garden lent a touch of elegance. Her great aunt’s antique mahogany table still stood under an ornate crystal chandelier and accommodated larger groups for special occasions. Today it was set for eight, and Heather stopped to exchange a few words with the guest of honor, who was celebrating her eightieth birthday.
Crossing the foyer, with its elaborate stairway that hugged the wall as it wound up to the second floor, Heather passed through an arched doorway into twin parlors connected by open pocket doors. Intimate tables for two lined the walls of both rooms, with a table for four in the center of each. Table six was beside the mantel on the far wall.
“I understand I have some scone lovers here.” With a smile, she set the plate on the pristine linen, checking to confirm that the couple had a sufficient quantity of wild strawberry jam and the clotted cream she imported from Devon.
“My dear, they’re divine! Just like the ones we had in Cornwall last year,” the older woman gushed.
“Mighty fine,” her companion seconded as he reached for one of the scones.
Heather made a leisurely circuit of the room, exchanging a few words with the customers at each table. As usual, she had a full house. Tea was by reservation only, and she was often booked weeks in advance. It was rare to have a no-show.
Today, however, table four was the exception to that rule. A tourist reservation, Heather assumed as she passed it on her way to the foyer. Visitors to the island often changed their plans on a whim. That was one of the reasons she preferred her local clientele.
The front door swung open as she exited the parlor, and she stopped in surprise. Tea began at two, and it was well past that now. Perhaps tardy arrivals for table four?
But the tall, dark-haired man who stepped into the foyer was alone. Attired in jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt, he was nothing like her typical male customers—older men accompanying their wives. This guy was in his midthirties, she estimated—and very masculine. With brown eyes so dark they could pass for black, he was well built and radiated an intense, ready-for-action energy.
The tranquil mood in the tearoom suddenly shifted. The clatter of spoons and forks ceased, and an expectant hush replaced the quiet conversation.
If the man who’d crossed her threshold noticed the newly charged atmosphere, he didn’t let on. Instead, he closed the door behind him and gave Heather a swift scan. She had a feeling he missed nothing—from her black leather pumps and slim black skirt to her short-sleeved silk blouse, her single strand of pearls and the tortoiseshell barrette that restrained