March 2012. . . .

The death of his grandfather felt like a footnote in the story of William Brandt's life. Of course, he was in Dubai at the time, so he was more than a little surprised to find a letter from an estate attorney in his mailbox. He snorted. None of his family knew where he lived. Up until a week ago, he hadn't known where he'd live.

Setting aside the letter, which asked him to contact the attorney at his earliest convenience, Will wandered into the bedroom of his Washington, D.C. apartment and crawled onto the bed. He'd just come from the office, having finished filing the myriad of reports and giving the umpteenth debriefing on events surrounding Hendricks' attempt at starting nuclear war. The world was scrambling to recover from the close call, and the President had finally lifted Ghost Protocol. Brandt and his entire team were once again claimed by the United States. It felt great to be legal.

The apartment, however, looked like he'd just moved in. He had leased the place a week ago, after India, and had been fortunate enough to have his belongings shipped from Virginia. The IMF had chosen to move their headquarters after Ghost Protocol, and Will was happy to make the change.

Other things had changed for Brandt. Before Moscow, before Dubai and India, he'd never planned to enter the field again. Then, in only a few moments, Ethan ferreted out the truth of what he was and prompted Will to think about the choices he'd made. He still didn't want to go back into the field, and he doubted Ethan would want him on the same team if given a choice. But the new Secretary had already expressed a desire to use Will as an agent, preferably with the team that had just finished saving the world.

Now that the debriefs and reports were finished, the team had scattered. It had been two weeks since he and the rest of them had climbed onto a plane in India to return to the United States. Two weeks of repeating the same story, of writing the same reports, and of seeing the same doctors. Jane had required minor surgery for her bullet wound, and she'd been placed on medical leave for eight weeks. Just like Ethan, who had nearly lost his field status following an injury to his knee during his fight with Hendricks. The team was worn out and in dire need of vacations. So, had the medical doctors not placed them on a six-week hiatus, the shrinks would have.

Will woke around three the next morning with one arm hanging off the bed and his shoes still on his feet. Pushing himself up, he forced his eyes to stay open long enough to change into pajamas. Then, he returned to bed for another five hours. At eight, he rose and took a long shower, reveling in the ability to relax. He didn't have to go back to work or look at files or listen to the news or any number of things associated with his job as an analyst. Never mind the physical conditioning he'd need if he chose to go back into the field. He was exhausted, and his battered body had already begun thanking him for the time off.

The letter from the attorney called to him after he made coffee and sat down to read the paper. It had to be a practical joke. He no longer had the same name as his family—something he always saw as a layer of protection for them—and they hadn't cared enough to attend his mother's funeral. So why would any of them care to mention him in their wills?

Knowing he wouldn't be able to get on with his day until he resolved the matter, Will picked up the phone and dialed. As he waited for an answer, he mentally reviewed everything he knew about this particular law firm. One drawback to being an analyst as well as a field agent was his inability to shut off his mind or his obsessive need to know everything about everyone.

This law firm was good. As soon as Will identified himself, the receptionist connected him to the attorney mentioned on the letter. That man requested a meeting with him for that afternoon, just after lunch, and Will was able to enjoy the rest of his lazy morning. He washed laundry, unpacked a few boxes, and moved the rest into the guest room so the apartment felt more like a home. He hadn't really bought groceries yet, so the kitchen had stayed relatively organized. Deciding that he wanted to get out, he left his apartment and drove to a coffee shop known for their gelato and paninis.

With lunch out of the way, Will finally arrived at the attorney's office. He smiled politely at the receptionist—same one he'd talked to on the phone—and was escorted immediately into the attorney's office. John Michaelson was an older gentleman, small-framed and slightly shorter than Will. He wore a very expensive three piece suit and wire-framed glasses. When Will appeared, he gave him an assessing stare that had the IMF agent wondering just what this estate issue concerned.

"Well," Michaelson said after introducing himself, "you're certainly not what I expected."

Will raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I was led to believe you were quite different." Michaelson showed no remorse for his words.

Will settled into the chair the attorney motioned toward, adjusting his beige suit coat as he did so. Given that this meeting involved business, he'd dressed the part: light suit, white shirt, and light blue tie. Just enough to be professional without seeming too pretentious. It helped that, due to his lack of time, his suit had wrinkles in it that made him seem hardworking and committed to his office job. "Let me guess. They told you I was the unknown member of the family, they didn't know where I was, and wouldn't be surprised if I was a bum somewhere."

Michaelson merely hummed at that. "I asked you to come in, Mr. Brandt, because there's a slight matter with your grandfather's estate that needs to be settled."

Will blinked. "My grandfather's estate? I wasn't aware he'd passed away."

Michaelson's expression changed to one of disbelief. "Three months ago. I'm sorry you weren't informed."

Will did the math in his head. Three months ago, he'd been standing at the Secretary's side in France, solidifying some agreement or another that seemed completely inconsequential now. "I was out of the country on business." He didn't add that his grandfather's death really didn't sadden him. He'd never been close to the man, and grieving now would seem wrong somehow. "I also wasn't aware he'd named me in his will."

"Uh. . .he didn't." Michaelson finally showed the first sign of discomfort. "It appears your cousins have decided to pass something along to you, and they've done so under the guise of your grandfather's estate. While he didn't leave anything to you, the people he did leave it to have the authority to bequeath the property to whomever they wish. Once they located you, I was retained on their account to facilitate the transfer."

Will ran a hand over his mouth. "Let me get this straight. My grandfather left me nothing—which doesn't really surprise me—but my cousins felt sorry for me? So they gave me something?"

"I really cannot speak to their mindset concerning your state in life, Mr. Brandt. I merely have a job to do, both for you and your family."

Will couldn't stop the ironic laugh that escaped. He glanced around the elegantly appointed office and shook his head. This was just like his family. Leave something undesirable to the disowned cousin just to appease their consciences. It smacked of charity. "And if I don't want it?"

"Then you are free to sell the property to whomever you wish."

"Wait. Property?"

"Yes. A beach house in Ephraim, Wisconsin, and its adjoining beachfront property."

"The beach house?" Will laughed again. "They left—gave—me the beach house?"

"Is this a problem?"

"Do you know. . .Of course you don't." Will stared at the attorney. "That house is probably falling down. Last time I was there was. . .twenty years ago, at least." He frowned. "Besides, what do I want with a beach house?" Then, he held up a hand. "Never mind."

"Mr. Brandt, I understand this is a bit of a shock to you, and I apologize." Michaelson shrugged. "I am merely here to help you through the legalities of transferring the deed into your name and such."

Will nodded and stood. "Can I have a few minutes?"

"Sure." Michaelson also stood. "I'll be in the break room down the hall."

As the door closed behind the attorney, Will wandered over to the window and looked out. The elite business section of Washington spread out in front of him, and he propped his hands on his hips. Ironically, the news that his grandfather had died and left him nothing didn't bother him. After all, the last thing Joseph William Hayes wanted was to leave any of his hard-earned money to an illegitimate grandchild. No, it was his cousins' arrogance. What were they thinking? We don't want the beach house, so let's let poor little Billy have it?

Will rolled his eyes. He'd worked hard to get away from that nickname, from anything related to a childhood spent with family who hated him. He'd only ever had his mother, and she had done everything in her power to see that he was happy. The rest of the family had struck a tentative truce through his mother's life. Once she'd died, however, everything changed.

Yanking his mind away from that precipice, Will rubbed his head and tried to figure out what to do. He could reject the beach house, sell it, or move into it. Right then, none of those options sounded great. But he did have six weeks to figure out what to do about it. And he'd never been one to allow his emotions get in the way of a sound judgment. Even in the heat of the moment, he tried to think through all contingencies. Yet another curse of being an analyst.

So, what were the contingencies? Spend a month deciding what to do. Sign paperwork today, visit the house, and then decide what to do. Reject the offer of charity and maybe never see his family again. Every single option had pros and cons. But the only one that would accomplish something was the second.

Sighing deeply, Will yanked the office door open and made his way down the hall. The "break room" was more of a lounge, complete with a bar designed to allow wealthy clients the freedom of discussing their estates in comfort. Michaelson had poured himself a cup of coffee and was watching the news from a couch. As soon as he saw Will, he jumped to his feet. "Would you like a cup?"

Will shook his head and shrugged. "I'll take it. The house, I mean."

Michaelson gave him another assessing stare before nodding. "Very well. I've got all the paperwork ready. All we need is your signature, and it'll be yours. Free and clear. There are no outstanding liens on the property, and all property taxes have been paid for the next five years."

Will nodded and then sighed again. He'd just inherited a house. What on earth was he supposed to do with that?

oOo

The first time he'd ever visited the beach house, he'd been five. At that age, everything seemed big, and his cousins had been young enough to accept him. They ran around in shorts with bare feet, went swimming in the lake every day, and brought home stones and driftwood as gifts for parents. And, presiding over it all, their grandparents watched with indulgent smiles from the wide back porch.

Things changed through the years. The beach house slowly shrunk until it was a fraction of the size that Will remembered. His grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and wasted away until she could barely breathe while sitting on the back porch. The paint started chipping, and the cousins ultimately realized why he wasn't to be accepted. The last time he visited the beach house, he'd been sixteen, angry, and rebellious enough to make his presence known. The arguments that arose from that visit echoed through the years and ended their "family" vacations. Will couldn't have been happier about it.

Now, nineteen years later, the house seemed smaller. Decrepit. Made of white clapboard siding, it desperately needed a new coat of paint and a little TLC. Set quite a ways from the beach, the house had windows that looked through an opening in the trees to Lake Michigan. Inside, the two outside walls of the living room were floor-to-ceiling windows. Will remembered those windows covered in lacy curtains with couches and chairs pushed up to them. In the morning, the sun would pour through them and warm whoever sat there. The carpet, now tattered and flattened by years of use, covered the beautiful hardwood floors of his memories, and Will found himself saddened at the state of the house. He remembered that his mother and grandmother had loved the beach house and, even if he didn't want it, he hated to see it let go.

Standing in the living room, with a myriad of memories playing through his mind, Will made a decision. He couldn't stay in Wisconsin, fixing up the house and living in it. But selling just wasn't the right option, not at the moment.

That evening, he wandered the beach and tried to decide what to do. Spring break had come and gone, leaving Ephraim somewhat deserted until summer. Even then, this stretch of the beach didn't generally see a lot of traffic. He could have the house maintained for his use when stateside between missions. Or he could rent it. Turning to where the white bungalow peaked through the overgrown trees bordering the beach path, he sighed. It needed a tenant, not an owner who barely visited.

Once the sun set, Will made his way to the large bedroom at the back of the house. It had always been his grandparents' room, and the old iron bed was the only piece that remained. Spreading a sheet purchased at the nearest Walmart over the mattress, he settled in for the night and tried to sleep. He wound up staring at the ceiling with memories playing through his mind. When the sun finally rose the next day, he went to work.

A week later, the house had been thoroughly cleaned and assessed. The front and back porch needed new boards as time and weather had rotted the old ones. Plumbing was still in good condition, though not the newest. And the water heater rumbled. Given that it was nearly thirty years old, he made the decision to replace it as soon as possible.

He also decided to rent the place out. Given the off-season, it could take some time, so he visited the bed and breakfast for lunch and put up a flyer advertising the bungalow. He set the rent at what he thought was a reasonable rate and then stopped in at the local hardware store for the supplies to refinish the hardwood floors. That night, he slept with a fan blowing the fumes through the house and outside while the floors in the living room and second bedroom dried.

The following morning, Will heard a car roll to a stop in front of the house. The road leading to the beach passed to the right of the house, so traffic wasn't that uncommon. But few people stopped. Most just slowed down, particularly today when he worked in the yard.

Walking around the side of the house, Will watched as the driver of a worn green minivan double-checked the address on the flyer he'd posted in town. When the numbers matched, she turned off her vehicle and climbed out. Will immediately began assessing her: five-five, long blonde hair, slender, about one-twenty soaking wet, graceful, and a little lost. That last observation made him blink in surprise. She tucked her hair behind her ear as her brown eyes swept the area and settled on him. She smiled. "Am I in the right spot?"

"Depends." He wiped his hands on a rag from his pocket and walked over. "What can I do for you?"

She stood only an inch shorter than him thanks to heeled ankle boots. Her jeans were somewhat tattered but comfortable, contrasting with the black top with slashed sleeves that showed off her shoulders. "I'm here about this," she said, brandishing his flyer before offering her hand. "Noelle Blake."

"Blake. . . ." The name seemed familiar. He blinked himself from his thoughts and shook her hand. "Will Brandt. You caught me doing yard work."

Her smile relaxed just a bit. "No problem. I can come back if this is a bad time."

He shook his head briefly. "Come on in."

She followed him up the steps onto the porch and eyed the missing slats. But she didn't ask if he intended to replace them. The new lumber leaned rather obviously against the side of the house. At the door, she stepped inside and glanced around. The living room was empty and echoed with every step, but she smiled yet again. Will quietly watched as she fell in love with the house.

"This place is incredible!" She whirled on her heel. "Are you sure about the rent?"

He shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. "No," he replied honestly. "I'm from DC, and that's actually a fraction of what we pay there. But. . . ." His voice trailed off as she walked into the kitchen.

"No way!" Her delighted voice floated back to him. He wandered in to find her staring at the vintage stove. "Does all of this work?"

"Yes." His amused answer brought her up short, and he watched the transformation as he leaned one shoulder against the door jamb.

She straightened and turned to him. "I'm sorry to be so rude. It's just. . ." She let out a deep sigh. "This house is amazing, Mr. Brandt."

He smiled at that. "It is. And it's 'Will.'"

Her eyes turned toward him again, this time sharp and assessing. He got the feeling she was looking for signs of subterfuge or a reason to push him away. When she saw neither, she nodded. "Thanks. Um. . .how soon would I be able to move in? If I decide to stay here."

"Are you planning on leaving Ephraim any time soon?"

"No." A shadow crossed her face. "Just. . . .I really need to find a place, and this is the first one in my price range."

He nodded. "Well, I can have it ready for you to move in this evening." He shrugged. "But there's a lot of work still left, and I'd be around a lot. So it's really up to you."

She wandered through the rest of the house, and Will had the sudden thought that he'd not made the bed that morning. He knew it wasn't true since he was obsessively neat, but it made him chuckle.

Noelle finally came back to the living room, where he waited in the same door as earlier. "Okay. But only if I'm not pushing you out or something."

"You're not." He straightened and met her eyes. "Five this evening? I'll have the contract here."

"Sounds good." She shook his hand one more time and climbed into her van.

Will watched her go. The back of the van was packed with boxes, leaving only a small tunnel for her to see through. The bench seat had blankets on it, with a pillow obvious through the windows. Various items like a coffee pot, a few dishes, and a hot plate filled the front seat. She's living out of her van? The realization made him glad he could up and move at a moment's notice.

Deciding to leave the rest of the yard work for another day, Will headed for the bathroom and a shower. Afterward, he cleaned the house as well as he could, typed out a contract, and packed up his few belongings. The bed and breakfast in town looked nice, and he didn't mind shelling out the rent if it meant this woman had a place to live.

oOo

Noelle Blake nearly squealed as she drove away from the beach house. She could not believe her good fortune in finding a place to live within the first hour she'd been in town. And it was perfect! Hardwood floors, worn paint, vintage. . . .That house had everything she'd wanted for years. And then some.

Her landlord wasn't too shabby either. Will Brandt looked tired, but that could have been the yard work. His sweaty, dirty appearance didn't bother her so much as his assessment had. His striking blue eyes seemed to see right through her facade. It didn't help that she'd always been a sucker for blue eyes.

Best to stay away from him as much as possible, she decided. Of course, she wouldn't be able to completely avoid him. As beautiful as the house was, it needed a lot of work. She didn't mind a bit of elbow grease, but replacing old decking went a little beyond her abilities. And it meant she'd be able to look out the window and drool over the man.

Rolling her eyes, Noelle pulled into the parking lot of a small thrift store near the center of town and got out. She'd changed into a new outfit in the Walmart bathroom one town over, and she needed to walk around. Besides, it looked like she had a house to furnish, and she didn't really have the money to invest in brand new furniture. Coming back to Ephraim was an easy decision, and she didn't regret it in the least. Ever since she'd left in high school, she'd wanted to come back. But Travis wouldn't hear of his wife returning to her roots. In his world, everything had to be modern, perfect, and new.

Noelle pushed away her bitter thoughts and checked her watch. She still had plenty of time before the business day ended, and she had a lot of things to consider. Her belongings had been packed into her van for so long she didn't quite know what all she had. Sheets, pillows, blankets, clothes, a few knickknacks and books. That summed up everything she had to her name. In addition to a monthly stipend, the divorce settlement had included her vehicle and personal savings account. Nothing else. Not that she wanted anything else. Just having a working vehicle to her name—never mind if it wasn't the newest or didn't have air conditioning—and the extra boost from her savings meant she didn't have to completely start over.

But she would need a job. The monthly alimony check would help a great deal, but only for three more years. After that, Noelle needed to have herself set up so the loss of the alimony check wouldn't affect her lifestyle. That factor had gone into her decision to come back to Ephraim. Here, she should be able to find a job and live on her income alone, stashing her alimony checks in the bank for future use. Since she couldn't depend on Travis in the least, she figured living off of his "charity" would be a bad call.

And again with Travis. Stop thinking about him!

But she couldn't. Not with the changes in her life about to take place.

Their divorce had been final for two years, and Noelle had to be honest. She was lonely. In that two years, she'd been ostracized and treated like the one at fault when, in reality, she'd been completely innocent. But ten years of misery did not equate to two years of carefree living. Those two years had been anything but carefree, and, no matter what Travis or her family said, she didn't like being a gypsy.

It wasn't that bad! She returned to her van as she scolded herself. For nearly two years, she'd held the same job and lived in the same apartment. When her employers downsized and cut her position, she took to the road. Feeling it better to cut her losses before she was evicted, she left Chicago and its memories behind, returning to a place that had good ones.

Noelle often wondered what would have happened if her family had never left Ephraim. She'd never really taken the time to think it through. Life was about choices, and choices always came with regrets.

The thrift store was crowded with furniture and not a lot of people. Which suited her just fine. She smiled at the lady behind the register and proceeded to sit on each of the couches. She found one: a beautiful white couch with accent pillows of blue-and-white linen. The upholstery was dirty, and the wooden support structure of the Queen Anne couch needed some TLC, but it had the worn vintage look that Noelle needed for inspiration. She immediately saw it positioned against one of the windows, just where she could lie on it and look at the sunrise over the beach.

Smiling, she paid the slightly higher price for the couch and made arrangements to have it delivered the next day. She found a few more pieces to go along with it, including some Blue Willow dishes for the kitchen. By then, the clock had crept toward five, and she needed to drive back out to the beach house.

Will Brandt waited for her, leaning his elbows against the worn railing around the wide front porch. He straightened, and Noelle noticed he'd cleaned up. He still looked tired, but he now wore a pair of light-colored slacks and a white shirt. The shirt was wrinkled, and it made her smile. Somehow, the imperfection made him even more attractive.

Getting out of her van, she walked over to him. He met her halfway down the steps, shaking her hand again and motioning her inside. "Sorry to keep you waiting like that, but I had to. . . ."

"I understand." Noelle knew she'd interrupted him, but she felt bad that he wanted to apologize all the time. Just like the first time she'd been inside this house, she breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn't explain it, but it felt like home. "I'm just glad I found this place first."

A genuine smile turned his lips upward and lit up his eyes. It changed his entire appearance from a weary man to a delighted child. "Well, I wanted someone here who would appreciate it."

She narrowed her eyes. His tone of voice indicated something deeper. "You sure you want to rent this place?"

"Yes," he said decisively. "It's been in my family for years, and I recently inherited it. But I live on the East Coast. Once I get the repairs done, I'll be headed back there and turning this over to a property management company. Knowing the person living here has a fairly high regard for the place is just. . ." He shrugged. ". . .peace of mind."

Noelle eyed him again, but he seemed determined. So, she pulled a pen out of her purse and turned her attention to the contract he'd given her. It seemed fairly reasonable and allowed her to have a pet in the house. It also stated that the rent was not to change without a written agreement between the tenant and landlord, which caused Noelle to breathe a sigh of relief. By putting that clause in there, Will had committed to not jerking her around on the rent.

Happy with the provisions and terms of the agreement, she signed the contract and watched as he checked over her information. One eyebrow rose, and he blinked at her. "F. Noelle Blake?"

She felt her cheeks heat. Out of everything that could have embarrassed her about this entire situation, he picked her name. "My first name's Francesca."

"Francesca." He seemed to be trying the name out, almost tasting it. A slight smile tipped his lips upward for a brief moment, and Noelle wondered why she noticed every little thing about him. Then, he frowned. "If I can ask, why not use it?"

"I. . . ." Noelle stopped what she'd been about to say. For so many years, she'd lied and told people that she didn't like her first name when, in reality, she kind of did like it. Well, she had, years ago. Before Travis. "I've gone by my middle for so long it's habit."

He accepted that answer with a thoughtful expression. She could almost see the way his mind worked. Somehow, he'd picked up on the truth that more had happened to change her opinion of her name than not. "Then, Noelle, it's been a pleasure to meet you."

"Likewise." She shook his hand and walked him to the door. "If I can do anything to help around here—besides just living here—let me know."

He rolled his eyes slightly at her tongue-in-cheek comment. "There'll be a lot. And I'm sorry the house is in such poor condition."

She waved his concern away. "Please. This is better than anything I've lived in for three months."

He accepted that with a nod and left a moment later. She watched him back out of the driveway and head toward town, her eyes narrowed. Will Brandt wasn't like most men she knew. Even when they didn't want something from her, they typically had to ogle her hair or some other aspect of her appearance. But Will Brandt seemed intrigued by her first name. Why, out of everything, had he chosen that name to attract him? Or was it just unusual enough in his world that he liked it?

Pulling her mind from her landlord, Noelle began unloading the boxes crammed into the back of her van. She carried them into the smaller of the two bedrooms, stacking them neatly along the wall until she could get through them. Her clothes went into the large bedroom, and she took another moment to look around. This room had a queen-sized iron-framed antique bed, complete with fresh white sheets and a vintage chenille bedspread. It caused the room to be rather bland and in dire need of color, but it fit the entire house.

Tired from traveling most of the day and the nerves of renting the house, Noelle collected clean clothing and moved into the bathroom. The water heater rumbled as she drew a bath in the cast iron claw foot tub, but she smiled as the steam filled the bathroom and the sound of the lake came through the window she'd cracked to let the steam escape.

She had a home, and she would build a life. And she'd do so in the town where she'd grown up. Finally, she had something she wanted.

And she planned to enjoy every minute of it.

~TBC