Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

  Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.

  Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

  Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

  “Want some help?” she called up.

  He snorted.

  “Four hands, and you’d have that right up,” she advised.

  “Two hands’ll do.”

  Charlotte looked past him toward the cupola. She didn’t see any bats yet, didn’t feel any ghosts. If Cecily’s spirit was floating around, it hadn’t cast a spell to keep Charlotte here. She remained because she was stubborn herself.

  “I’ve done this before,” she said now.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have. I’ve built houses.”

  “That so.” He didn’t believe her.

  “Half a dozen in El Salvador after the big quake there, and at least as many when tornados decimated parts of Maryland. I know how storm shutters work.”

  He continued to stare.

  “All you need,” she said, freeing a hand to hold back the hair that fluttered loose again, “is someone to steady it while you fit the pins in the hinges.”

  “Really. I didn’t know that.”

  “Okay,” she granted. “So you did. But you could’ve had that hung and been down five minutes ago. Aren’t you cold?” She was appreciating every thick inch of her sweater, while his arms were ropy and bare.

  “I’m a man.”

  She waited for more. When nothing came, she said, “What does that have to do with it?”

  “Men run hot.”

  “Really.” Refusing to be baited, she returned her hand to her armpit, shifted to a more comfortable stance, and smiled. “Great. I’ll watch while you get that shutter hung. Maybe I can learn how you do it alone.”

  Apparently realizing he’d been one-upped, he said, “Fine. Since you know it all, here’s your chance.” He backed down, put the shutter on the ground against his leg, and gestured her toward the ladder.

  “I’m not lugging that thing up,” she said.

  “No, but if you get up there, I can hold the shutter while you do the fitting. Assuming you can see. Your hair’s a mess.”

  “Thanks,” she said brightly and gripped the rail. Two ladders would have been better. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of climbing this one with him at her butt. She would be at his mercy. But she did have a point to prove.

  So she began to climb, looking back every few rungs to see where he was. When she reached the top, she felt his shoulder against the back of her thighs. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said he was making sure she didn’t fall.

  But she did know better. Leo Cole had no use for women, or so the story went. If he was standing that close, he was toying with her.

  She didn’t like being toyed with—and, yes, her hair was in her eyes, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of pushing it back. Fortunately, she knew enough about hanging shutters to do it, hair and all. While he bore the weight of the wood, she easily lined up both pairs of hinges and pins, and that quickly it was done.

  Nearly as quickly, he backed down the ladder. By the time she reached the ground, he was stowing the hammer in a tool box. The instant she was off the last rung, he reached for the ladder.

  “You’re welcome,” Charlotte said.

  He shot her a flat look.

  “I’m Charlotte Evans.”

  “I know.”

  BARBARA DELINSKY is a New York Times bestselling author with more than thirty million copies of her books in print. She has been published in twenty-five languages worldwide. A lifelong New Englander, Barbara earned a B.A. in Psychology at Tufts University and an M.A. in Sociology at Boston College. Barbara enjoys knitting, photography, and cats. She also loves to interact with her readers through her website at www.barbaradelinsky.com, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/bdelinsky, and on Twitter as @BarbaraDelinsky.

  Also from Barbara Delinsky

  ESCAPE

  NOT MY DAUGHTER

  WHILE MY SISTER SLEEPS

  THE SECRET BETWEEN US

  FAMILY TREE

  COAST ROAD

  LAKE NEWS

  THE WOMAN NEXT DOOR

  MORE THAN FRIENDS

  THREE WISHES

  Available wherever books are sold

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Previously published as Whispered Promise

  CALL MY NAME. Copyright © 1982 by Barbara Delinsky.

  Excerpt from Sweet Salt Air copyright © 2012 by Barbara Delinsky.

  All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Cover art © Huntstock/Getty Images

  eISBN 9781250019219

  First eBook Edition: August 2012

 

 

  Barbara Delinsky, Call My Name

 

 

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