Sanctuary

the game room while drinking good southern bourbon and smoking fat Cuban cigars. They had lazed on the veranda on hot summer afternoons while slaves brought them cold glasses of lemonade.
    Sanctuary had been an enclave for privilege, and a testament to a way of life that was doomed to failure.
    More fortunes still had gone in and out of the hands of the steel and shipping magnate who had turned Sanctuary into his private retreat.
    Though the money wasn’t what it had been, Sanctuary still stood. And the island was still in the hands of the descendants of those cotton kings and emperors of steel. The cottages that were scattered over it, rising up behind the dunes, tucked into the shade of the trees, facing the wide swath of Pelican Sound, passed from generation to generation, ensuring that only a handful of families could claim Desire as home.
    So it would remain.
    His father fought developers and environmentalists with equal fervor. There would be no resorts on Desire, and no well-meaning government would convince Sam Hathaway to make his island a national preserve.
    It was, Brian thought, his father’s monument to a faithless wife. His blessing and his curse.
    Visitors came now, despite the solitude, or perhaps because of it. To keep the house, the island, the trust, the Hathaways had turned part of their home into an inn.
    Brian knew Sam detested it, resented every footfall on the island from an outsider. It was the only thing he could remember his parents arguing over. Annabelle had wanted to open the island to more tourists, to draw people to it, to establish the kind of social whirl her ancestors had once enjoyed. Sam had insisted on keeping it unchanged, untouched, monitoring the number of visitors and overnight guests like a miser doling out pennies. It was, in the end, what Brian believed had driven his mother away—that need for people, for faces, for voices.
    But however much his father tried, he couldn’t hold off change any more than the island could hold back the sea.
    Adjustments, Brian thought as the deer turned as a unit and bounded into the concealing trees. He didn’t care for adjustments himself, but in the case of the inn they had been necessary. And the fact was, he enjoyed the running of it, the planning, the implementing, the routine. He liked the visitors, the voices of strangers, observing their varying habits and expectations, listening to the occasional stories of their worlds.
    He didn’t mind people in his life—as long as they didn’t intend to stay. In any case, he didn’t believe people stayed in the long run.
    Annabelle hadn’t.
    Brian rose, vaguely irritated that a twenty-year-old scar had unexpectedly throbbed. Ignoring it, he turned away and took the winding upward path toward Sanctuary.
    When he came out of the trees, the light was dazzling. It struck the spray of a fountain and turned each individual drop into a rainbow. He looked at the back end of the garden. The tulips were rioting dependably. The sea pinks looked a little shaggy, and the ... what the hell was that purple thing anyway? he asked himself. He was a mediocre gardener at best, struggling constantly to keep up the grounds. Paying guests expected tended gardens as much as they expected gleaming antiques and fine meals.
    Sanctuary had to be kept in tip-top shape to lure them, and that meant endless hours of work. Without paying guests, there would be no means for upkeep on Sanctuary at all. So, Brian thought, scowling down at the flowers, it was an endless cycle, a snake swallowing its own tail. A trap without a key.
    “Ageratum.”
    Brian’s head came up. He had to squint against the sunlight to bring the woman into focus. But he recognized the voice. It irritated him that she’d been able to walk up behind him that way. Then again, he always viewed Dr. Kirby Fitzsimmons as a minor irritation.
    “Ageratum,” she repeated, and smiled. She knew she annoyed him, and considered it progress. It had taken nearly a year before she’d been able to get even that much of a reaction from him. “The flower you’re glaring at. Your gardens need some work, Brian.”
    “I’ll get to it,” he said and fell back on his best weapon. Silence.
    He never felt completely easy around Kirby. It wasn’t just her looks, though she was attractive enough if you went for the delicate blond type. Brian figured it was her manner, which was the direct opposite of delicate. She was efficient, competent, and seemed to know a