The Guest Cottage Read Online Free PDF Page B

booth next to a window. Trevor pointed out yachts, docks, sailboats, sand bars, and gulls as the ferry left the harbor. The trip took over two hours and once they were out on the open water, the window lost its appeal. Leo watched the other children chasing each other up and down the aisles. Trevor opened his laptop and caught up on some email. After a while, Leo opened his iPad and began to play a game.
    Finally, the island appeared, low and steamy on the horizon, like a mirage. The ferry drew closer, and houses appeared on the shore; boats sailed past on flashing blue water. It seemed to Trevor that the short Brant Point lighthouse on its rounded spit of land was an uncommonly welcoming sight—here was
safety.
The harbor was dense with sailboats, motorboats, kayaks, and windsurfers. Leo pressed his nose to the window as the town and island came into view. Nothing urban, nothing strange, everything storybook—piers and dogs and leafy trees. Pastel banners waving over shops. Gulls perched on the top of pilings, grooming themselves as if this were simply another day. Church steeples gleaming in the distance. Leo grinned.
    It was going to be okay.
    They returned to their car on the lower deck, Trevor buckled Leo in, and they bumped over the ramp onto dry land. Trevor turned on his GPS and followed it out of town and toward the house near Surfside. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.
    He was glad he had GPS on his car dashboard because the roads to Ivan’s house were poorly marked and obscured with shadowy stands of trees. Finally, he saw the name
Swenson
painted in white on a rock almost hidden by wild roses. He turned into the drive and headed forward. Here it was. A huge, slightly shabby old house that had once been the guest cottage for an even huger house that was now hidden by fences and hedges.
    A large green SUV was parked in front. That was a surprise. Maybe Ivan had paid someone to come clean the house. Trevor parked behind the SUV.
    “We’re here, buddy!” Trevor told his son as he lifted him out of the car.
    “Daddy, what’s that pretty noise?”
    Holding his son’s hand, Trevor listened. “Someone’s playing the piano,” he told Leo. “Let’s go see who it is.”

S ophie slowly stepped into the music room and stood in front of the piano. She raised the lid and gazed down at the ivory keys. The keys were moonstones to her, gleaming pearls, black diamonds, a wealth of romance and desire.
    Could she remember even how to play?
    Sliding onto the piano stool, she placed her hands on the keyboard. Instinctively, her fingers chose the spot, the notes: G, B-flat, C.
    “Greensleeves.”
    Without thinking, her hands found the keys, the chords, the rhythm, and she sang as she played.
    “Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously…”
    So courtly, so melancholy, the ballad written hundreds of years ago in England told of heartbreak experienced then, and now, in Sophie’s own heart. It was universal, being cast away; it surpassed time and space. It was said that Henry VIII composed the song for Anne Boleyn. Another discarded wife.
    At least Zack couldn’t shut Sophie in a tower.
    She hit a few clinkers, but it was a surprise how it all returned at once, how good Sophie still was. She played, her hands spontaneously embroidering the simple tune with evocative chords. As she played, her heart broke open. The tears she’d been holding back streamed down her face.
    “Mom?”
    Sophie flinched. In one awkward move, she rose, turning to see her son and daughter standing in the doorway of the music room, both her children staring at her as if she’d turned into green cheese.
    A man stood there, too, holding the hand of a little boy.
    What?
    For one frightening moment, Sophie thought she was hallucinating.
    “Hello?” the man greeted her, tentatively, carefully, as if she might start foaming at the mouth.
    “Sorry,” Sophie said, wiping the tears away. “Sorry. Got carried away. How can I