Island Time

By Susan Wiggs

A workaholic and a free spirit collide at a Pacific-Northwest island getaway in this romantic short story by a #1 New York Times–bestselling author.

Off the coast of Washington lies Spruce Island, home to Rainshadow Lodge, the perfect summer retreat. Neither Mitch Rutherford or Rosie Galvez expect to find romance during their month-long visit to the rambling Victorian getaway. Mitch, an architect, is a workaholic on a deadline, while Rosie’s determined to relax and enjoy the scenery while preparing an environmental report. But despite—or perhaps because?—of their differences, they find themselves drawn to each other, and their lives are irrevocably changed by their stay at the lodge.

Originally published in 1998 in That Summer Place anthology.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jun 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781460399583

Susan Wiggs

Susan Wiggs is the author of more than fifty novels, including the beloved Lakeshore Chronicles series and the recent New York Times bestsellers The Lost and Found Bookshop, The Oysterville Sewing Circle, and Family Tree. Her award-winning books have been translated into two dozen languages. She lives with her husband on an island in Washington State’s Puget Sound.

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New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs sweeps readers away to Spruce Island with a beloved summer romance.

Off the coast of Washington lies Spruce Island, home to Rainshadow Lodge, the perfect summer retreat. Neither Mitch Rutherford or Rosie Galvez expect to find romance during their month-long visit to the rambling Victorian getaway. Mitch, an architect, is a workaholic on a deadline, while Rosie’s determined to relax and enjoy the scenery while preparing an environmental report. But despite—or perhaps because?—of their differences, they find themselves drawn to each other, and their lives are irrevocably changed by their stay at the lodge.

Originally published in 1998 in That Summer Place anthology.

Praise for the authors:

[Susan Wiggs writes] a flawless story touched by real emotions.

—Publishers Weekly

ISLAND TIME

SUSAN WIGGS

MIRA

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Spruce Island, the 2015 edition. It’s been a while since Mitch and Rosie found their happy ending at this beautiful summer place. In their fictional world, as in life, some things have changed a lot, others not at all.

The kind of love these two found together is as rare as a sandhill crane in the San Juan Islands. I’m sure Mitch and Rosie have had their ups and downs, as any loving couple might experience. Ultimately, they will decide that putting themselves together and staying together forever is their true calling in life. It’s what gives meaning to an ordinary day. It’s the emotional resonance that makes them part of the world around them.

I like to think that Rosie traded in her vintage Volkswagen Bug for a newer model that runs on biodiesel made from recycled vegetable oil. It was probably recycled from all the fish-and-chips consumed by Mitch, who has the maddening gift of staying slim no matter what he eats. It’s a guy thing.

As the end of the story implies, the two of them started a family. I’ll leave it to you to populate their world. A girl? A boy? One of each? Twins? I think they’re up for anything. It’s a no-brainer that the kids are bilingual, and that they embody the best of both worlds.

Although the world has changed since the first edition of this collection, some things are eternal—the sound of the waves lapping gently at the shore of a storied island, the scent of the forest on a summer’s day, the sounds of birds at twilight…and the sighs of lovers in each other’s arms every night, finding home.

Best wishes,

Susan Wiggs

To my grandmother, Marie Banfield,

who celebrated her birthday every summer.

I love you, Gram.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 1

There was nothing Mitchell Baynes Rutherford III hated more than missed appointments. As he watched the ferry from Anacortes discharge the last of its cargo, he gritted his teeth and started to pace. A low-slung Corvette zoomed off, followed by a Winnebago the size of a Third World country. A station wagon crammed with squabbling kids and harried parents, followed by a convertible filled with college students. And then…nothing.

Not the person Mitch had been waiting for in the blistering August sun for the past hour. The so-called expert he had hired was nowhere to be found.

He stopped pacing, reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and grabbed his cell phone. Flipping it open, he speed-dialed his office in Seattle, wondering if the unreliable island signal would work this time.

Rutherford Enterprises, said a familiar voice.

Miss Lovejoy, this Dr. Galvez person didn’t show.

I’m fine, Mr. Rutherford, and how are you today? his secretary said pointedly.

He scowled, watching as a derelict Volkswagen bug, its exhaust pipe coughing up toxic smoke, limped off the ferry, the last of the last. Salsa music blared from the open windows of the little tangerine-colored car. Mitch covered one ear with his hand so he could continue his conversation.

Sorry to be short with you, he said, not sorry at all. That marine biologist you sent didn’t show.

Oh, dear. Miss Lovejoy sounded distressed, but Mitch knew her well. She was examining her manicure and looking out the window at the Seattle skyline. In front of her she probably held a voodoo doll in his shape, stuck with pins because he’d canceled her annual August vacation due to the current project. I wonder what could have happened, his secretary added innocently.

The Volkswagen lurched along the exit ramp, then sputtered and died just past the ticket kiosk maybe twenty feet in front of Mitch. The driver, in a floppy sun hat and rhinestone-studded shades, banged her fists on the steering wheel and let loose with an angry monologue in rapid-fire Spanish. A pair of skinny dogs, their eyes bulging, stuck their lightbulb-size heads out the window of the car and started yapping over the tinny shriek and dull thump of the music.

Mitch turned away, pressing his hand harder to his ear. What’s that, Miss Lovejoy? I didn’t hear you. I might be losing the damned signal.

I said, ferry service is so unreliable in the summer. My son-in-law had a twelve-hour wait in Victoria— The signal crackled, then died.

Miss Lovejoy? Mitch shouted into the phone.

But she was gone. Swearing, Mitch killed the power and flipped the phone shut. The woman with the Volkswagen had gotten out and lifted the rear hood, exposing a steaming and cantankerous engine. He took a perverse comfort in seeing someone whose troubles far surpassed his own. Sure, it was irritating that his newest hire had missed the ferry, but he should be getting used to it by now.

Island time, the syndrome was called. He hadn’t taken the expression seriously the first couple of days, but the concept was beginning to make a sort of annoying sense. People in the San Juans lived by their own inner clocks, not following any standard set by—God forbid—the business world. Workers came and went as they pleased, leaving a job half-finished if they got a better offer—like digging razor clams off Point No Point or climbing the Cattle Point lighthouse tower to watch a pod of whales swim by.

The tourists seemed to find the lackadaisical pace charming, but Mitch had a job to do and a limited time in which to do it. He had rented Rainshadow Lodge for the month of August. That meant he had just four weeks to get going on his latest project—planning a new forty-slip marina at the waterfront of Spruce Island.

Already the local planning inspector had stood him up. The marine architect had faxed some preliminary papers—and then everything had simply ground to a halt. The island sat like an emerald in the crystalline waters of a highly sensitive marine ecosystem. Before any work could be done, the entire area had to be evaluated to make sure the project wouldn’t affect the local wildlife.

Now, it seemed, the latest contractor had let him down, as well.

And the clock was ticking on a very expensive project.

Mitch was about to go back to his boat—a 45-foot Bayliner he’d chartered for the month—when he walked around the rear of the Volkswagen. Glancing at the stranded motorist, he did a double take.

She wore a short tight red dress that fit like a halter on top, tied behind her slim neck. The hemline fell short enough to be declared illegal in some places but not, luckily, in the anything-goes San Juans. High-heeled sandals enhanced the effect of long slender legs, their polished olive hue rich and gleaming in the sunlight. When she bent over to inspect the engine, the pose made his mouth go dry.

And he hadn’t even seen her face yet.

Who cares what her face looks like? his inner adolescent asked.

Apparently a few other inner adolescents had kicked in, too, because a handful of ferry workers started walking toward the damsel in the red dress. Propelled by a caveman territorial instinct, Mitch strode forward, reaching her first.

Need some help, miss? he asked.

I guess I do, she replied, one slim arm propping up the rear hood, red-painted fingernails drumming on the metal.

The yappers in the car trebled their barking frenzy as Mitch drew near.

Freddy! the woman said sharply. "Selena! Hush up! Silencio!"

Surprisingly the rodents complied, glaring at Mitch but no longer barking.

So, she said, pushing up the brim of her hat to reveal a face that more than did justice to the lush body. She took off her shades and folded them, tucking one earpiece down between the cleft of her breasts. With a frank sweep of her dark-eyed gaze, she studied him. She seemed faintly amused. Something in her expression made him wish his shirt wasn’t quite so crisply tailored, his trousers not quite so perfectly creased, his shoes not quite so gleamingly polished.

You know how to fix cars? she asked.

I don’t know the first thing about fixing cars, he admitted. We should push it out of the ferry lane, though.

She lowered the hood. Good idea. With a flash of her extravagantly gorgeous legs, she got in the driver’s side and, mercifully, flipped off the radio. "You push and I’ll