Slumped over the stack of mail piled on the ancient trestle table, Bethany Miller hovered her pen over her checkbook.

"Are you expecting any guests this week?" Debbie stood gazing out the kitchen window, her arms buried in a huge pottery mixing bowl.

"Not until Friday," Bethany answered. "Why?"

"Someone’s pulled in. I don’t know the car." The older woman stretched her slim body across the counter for a better view. "Could be someone looking for a place to stay."

Bethany’s answering chortle held no humor. "I wish! Until Friday, our only guest is Mr. Gibb."

"Humph. Don’t you mean Mr. Glib?"

"Debbie! Lower your voice." Bethany shook her head. "Although, I agree, he isn’t exactly the conversationalist."

"It’s a shame. I thought he was cute." Debbie stood on tip-toes now, the dough she’d been kneading forgotten. She twisted her neck and pressed her cheek against the glass pane. "I was just wondering who this guy is with the Indiana plates. Now he’s getting out."

"Indiana, eh? That wouldn’t be the Reynolds couple. Anyway, they aren’t due in until Friday." Bethany joined Debbie at the window, flattening her face against the cool, hard glass. A late model car pulled even with the front of the house; a low palm tree blocked her view of the driver. "Is there a television crew behind him? Maybe I’ve won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes."

"Sorry. No TV cameras in sight."

"That’s too bad." She ran a hand through her unruly curls as she turned away from the sink. "I ran out of money after the electric bill. There’s still the November mortgage payment and I’ve yet to pay October’s. Then there are the groceries--"

"He’s coming to the door," Debbie broke in, spinning from the window. "You’ll have to handle this. I’m up to my elbows in flour."

"Sure." Bethany arched her back in a stretch, then headed toward the front door. "Thank goodness the mortgage company isn’t in Indiana."

~ * ~

Kevin O’Brien approached the front of Miller House Bed and Breakfast, carefully stepping through the sand that might have once been a yard. He’d seen better. Gingerbread trim hung loose or broken from the eaves. Two-story porches wrapped around the front and sides of the house. The weathered siding begged for paint. Winds from the nearby ocean had bent the few trees and untrimmed shrubbery.

At a loss to explain why the sad house drew him, he stepped onto the plank floor of the porch. A wooden swing with bright, red-checkered cushions invited him to sit. He resisted, and walked the length of the porch toward the entrance.

He lifted his hand to ring the doorbell, but paused to admire the carved inlay surrounding the beveled glass in the door. Compared to the rest of the house’s exterior, the door was a treasure.

Kevin blinked. No longer examining the door, he stared into a pair of eyes rimmed with long, curled lashes. Glints of sunlight danced across slate-blue irises. A soft fragrance, a mixture of vanilla and soap, teased his nostrils.

"May I help you?"

Kevin’s gaze slid down the slender woman. Her hair, the color of cinnamon, cascaded over her shoulders in disarray. Her delicate mouth curved into a smile as a gentle pink flushed her neck and face. A faint sprinkling of freckles covered her cheeks and dainty, upturned nose. She wore no make-up, and none was needed. Her beauty was natural, refreshing.

"Yes, I--" Simple sentence structure escaped him.

A quick glance downward revealed a firm, petite body dressed in blue shorts and a white knit top. Freckles scattered on the exposed skin above her neckline hinted at freckles covering other body parts. Hmm. He dragged his gaze from the swell of her breasts.

"I wonder if you might have a vacancy," he managed to say, forcing his eyes to focus on the woman’s face. She must think I’m dazed. Well, wasn’t he?

"Sure," she said, opening the door wider. "Come on in." She seemed to ignore his blatant staring, except for her tell-tale flush.

He stepped into the foyer and looked around, unprepared for what he saw. The inside of Miller House had a scrubbed, polished look. Hardwood floors gleamed from recent waxing. The fluted door jambs and decorative moldings appeared to be original. An antique sideboard stood at the bottom of the wide staircase, set up as the registration desk.

"This is really beautiful." He ran his hand along the oiled staircase railing and post. "What kind of wood is this?"

The woman thumbed through a large book, probably the guest register. She looked up and smiled. "Cypress. Everything in this house is made of cypress."

"Nice," he murmured. Grandfather Patrick, a career carpenter, would have appreciated the quality of the cypress and the finishing work.

"How many nights?"

"Pardon me?"

She smiled again, and Kevin’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. An unfamiliar emotion surged through him, an odd combination of comfort and tension. There was also a brief flicker of something more. Attraction? Sexual awareness? Well, it had been a while...

"How many nights did you want to stay with us at Miller House?"

"Oh." How many nights or weeks did he have? "Well, I guess I don’t know. What I mean is, do you have monthly rates?"

"Monthly rates? Yes, of course. Let me see." She pulled a small calculator from the drawer of the sideboard. Holding her reddish curls away from her face with one hand, she stabbed numbers into the calculator with the end of an ink pen.

While she computed prices, Kevin studied more of the house. He could see two large rooms, one on either side of the foyer. The rooms had matching brick fireplaces graced with ornate wooden mantels. In the dining room hung an elegant chandelier with dangling crystal prisms. Kevin wasn’t an expert in antiques, but he knew enough to appreciate the rooms were suitably furnished.

His inspection was interrupted when the woman explained the rates, offering him a choice of rooms. He tried to concentrate on the information but found himself distracted by her mouth. Her lips were a perfect size and shape, a perfect rosy color. It was the first time he had noticed a woman’s lips since Paulina.

The familiar tightening in his gut returned and he pulled his gaze away. Now wasn’t the time to think about Paulina. He squeezed his eyes shut and inhaled deeply. As soon as he expelled the long breath and opened his eyes, he saw the woman’s questioning look.

"Sir?"

"Sorry." He smiled apologetically. "Long drive. I’d like your best room, one with a private bath, for at least two months."

"Great." She smiled again. He was immediately struck by the same feeling--what was it? For the first time in two years a woman had piqued his interest. "A continental breakfast is served every morning, as well as afternoon tea at four. That’s included in the price."

"Fine. I was hoping you offered dinner...for a price, of course."

"Sure. We’re flexible here at Miller House. I’ll let you talk with Debbie, our master chef and baker. You can run a tab for meals, if that’s all right."

"Great." He eased his worn leather wallet from the hip pocket of his jeans and pulled out several bills. "Here’s for two months’ lodging."

For a moment, the woman stood there, her smile gone. Had he said something wrong? When she shook her head slightly and chuckled, her soft laughter spread over him like a balm.

"Forgive me," she said. "It’s...that is, people usually give me credit cards. Cash is fine, though." She handed him the book and pen. "Just fill out the registration, sir, and I’ll show you to our best room. By the way, I’m Beth Miller."

"Kevin O’Brien," he said, giving his name as he wrote it in the registration book.

"You’ll be in the front corner room, number two. You can see a small piece of the Atlantic Ocean from one window and from the veranda."

"Wow! An ocean view." He turned his head toward Beth Miller and winked to let her know he was teasing.

Again, her pleasant smile illuminated her face. For a brief moment, he met her gaze. An uncomfortable flutter clutched his stomach and he quickly looked away.

A slender blond woman with blue eyes and long, straight hair leaned against the doorjamb, rubbing her hands on her apron. She pushed small wire-rimmed glasses against her straight nose and smiled. His attention was drawn to her neck, where a leather strip sporting a peace symbol rested against her throat.

"Kevin O’Brien meet Debbie Miller," Beth said.

"You don’t want to shake my hand right now," she warned when he extended his hand. "I’m baking."

Bethany smiled. "Kevin wants dinners. He’ll be speaking with you later about his dietary needs."

Dietary needs? He frowned, suddenly reminded of doctors and hospitals. The last thing he wanted to worry about was dietary needs. There hadn’t been a lot he had felt like eating, anyway.

~ * ~

Kevin arranged his clothing in the drawers of the antique bureau, which was slick from a generous application of lemon-scented polish. A small writing desk and chair filled the opposite corner of the room. The high-ceilings, antique furniture, and throw rugs were cozy and pleasant, making him feel at home.

At home? Now, there was a concept.

He stood for a moment, surveying his surroundings. He had known, from the moment he pulled his car into the coquina driveway, that this was the right place. This was where he should spend the little time he had left.

He unpacked the Smith and Wesson revolver, turning it over slowly in his hand, then spinning the cylinder. He put the weapon aside. For now. Scooping up his shaving kit, he carried it into the bathroom. Instead of unpacking his toiletries, he continued his exploration.

A door beside the bed, he discovered, led to the balcony. He stepped outside in search of the small piece of the Atlantic Ocean Beth Miller had promised him. The vast body of water spread for miles before fading into the horizon. A peacefulness descended upon him, washing over him like the waves on the shoreline below. Something had changed for him today. Maybe in stopping at Miller House he had finally done something right.

Yes, this was the place.

This was where he should die.