Barefoot Summer (31 page)

Layla kicked the bed. “She’s on her way to the hospital, along with a few others.”

He froze inside. “Is she okay?”

“Smoke inhalation. They were giving her oxygen and taking her in for X-rays and stuff.”

Beckett pulled her into the living room, his mind on Madison.
He wanted to be with her right now. Wanted to see for himself that she was all right.

“Sit down. Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

“I was one of the first out. I’m fine.”

“And Madison . . . You sure she’s going to be okay?”

“That’s what Drew said.” She paced across the room. “I can’t believe him!”

“Why do they think he had anything to do with this?”

“How long’s he been home?”

“’Bout half an hour.”

“He was at the theater. Gary saw him smoking backstage.”

Beckett pinched the bridge of his nose. Please, no. Hadn’t his dad caused enough trouble? “Maybe it wasn’t the cigarette. Was anyone backstage ironing or anything?”

“No, we were all rehearsing. It was him, Beckett, you know it was. It always is.” She dropped into a chair and let out a long breath. “Why don’t you go check on Madison?”

Beckett was the last person Madison wanted to see right now. “How bad’s the fire?”

She shrugged, the fight seeming to have drained out of her. “I don’t know. It seemed pretty bad. There sure was a lot of smoke.”

“And you got checked?”

“Just by Drew.”

“And you’re sure Madison’s okay?”

Layla tilted her head. “Beckett. Just go to the hospital.”

He wanted to. He wanted to look her in the face, run his hands over her, know for himself she was okay. Then he remembered the look on her face when he’d told her the truth. The shades of pain and betrayal that had colored her expression.

Even if she could forgive him, it was still hopeless. Whatever
made him think he was good enough? His dad had gone to jail just long enough to make Beckett forget his place. Somewhere down with the muck at the bottom of the river. That Madison had ever looked twice at him was a miracle. It had never been clearer that the two of them were on different playing fields.

“It’ll be all over town by midnight, what Dad did,” he said.

He was tired of living with the black cloud hanging over his head. He prayed no one had been seriously hurt tonight, but it was only a matter of time. A man could only get lucky so many times. Beckett was going to have to do something. Something drastic.

Layla quirked a brow. “We should be used to it by now.”

He pushed the plate back on the coffee table and settled into his chair. He couldn’t eat now.

Layla eyed the burger. “You gonna eat that?”

He handed her the plate. The girl could outeat a sumo wrestler. He wasn’t sure where she put it.

“Anger makes me hungry.” She bit into the burger with gusto. Beckett brought her a washcloth, and she wiped the soot from her face.

“Thanks. How long will he be out? So help me, I’m gonna have it out with him when he wakes up.”

“Won’t do any good. He probably won’t even remember being there.”

“What about liability? Good grief, if the building burns to the ground, are we liable?”

“Let’s take one thing at a time.”

She set down the burger and pulled out her phone, dialing.

“Who you calling?”

“Sara Beth. She’s in the play with— Hey, Sara, it’s Layla. How’s it going over there? . . . Uh-huh. Yeah . . . That’s good . . .
Yeah, I know what they’re saying. He’s fine. He’s here at his house . . . Okay. Well, thanks, Sara. Go home and get some rest.” She hung up the phone.

“They’re still fighting the fire. She said it looks bad. A couple more of the crew were taken to the hospital just to be on the safe side.”

“But of course Dad comes home unscathed.”

“Of course.”

Layla tucked into the burger again and Beckett turned on the TV. He didn’t even want to think about tomorrow.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

B
ECKETT PUT THE PLYWOOD ON THE TABLE AND SET THE
saw’s blade depth. He’d already marked the curve, now he just had to make the cut. The boat was coming along nicely.

The regatta prize money still sat in his bank account. He had big plans for his business, but he didn’t feel right about taking the money. Hadn’t felt right about it when Madison had given it to him, and he especially didn’t feel right about it now.

He put on his goggles and turned on the circular saw. Rigsby scampered from the building. Beckett guided the wood, easing the blade along the outside of the line.

He’d slept restlessly until Layla had called him early and let him know Madison and the others had been released from the hospital.

The theater fire had been the talk of the town all day. The building had been reduced to a heap of smoldering brick. The disaster had been plastered over the front page of the
Chapel Springs Gazette.

Word was also out about his dad’s possible role in the fire, though the official report wouldn’t be out until next week. Beckett spent the day lying low, as he always did in the wake of one of Dad’s incidents.

He turned the wood, following the drawn-on curve. A shadow fell over the table, and he looked up.

Madison came to a halt a few feet away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her khakis, the other resting on Rigsby’s head. The sight of her was like a sucker punch. She could be dead right now if things had gone differently. A lot of people could be. All because of Dad.

Beckett shut off the machine, removed the goggles. The sudden silence was sharper than the blade of the saw. He ran a hand through his hair, and sawdust flittered to the floor.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi there.”

“Sorry to drop by like this.” Her voice sounded husky. The smoke inhalation. She didn’t seem angry, though she had reason. More than one.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“I’m glad.”

There was the understatement of the century. Layla’s reassurances had only gone so far. Seeing Madison there in the flesh was balm to his soul. He looked her over, taking in the sweet curve of her cheeks, the delicate slope of her shoulders.

“It was a little scary.”

“Freaked Layla out. Everyone’s okay though, right?”

She nodded, scratched Rigsby behind the ears. The dog gazed up in half-lidded adoration. Lucky dog.

“Sad about the theater though,” she said. “It was a fine old building. So much history.”

“And the play?”

“There’s talk of using the town square. Maybe next weekend. It won’t be the same, but . . .”

He nodded. Speculation about his dad’s part in the fire
hovered between them like a heavy fog, neither acknowledging it. No way was he bringing it up. Wished he could forget it altogether. That and so many other things.

“You have a minute?” she asked.

“Ah, sure.” He looked around. This was no place to talk. Nowhere to sit. Dad was in the house. Beckett walked past her into the yard, where darkness had begun to fall. Twilight silhouetted the trees against a pink sky. He wondered if she was going to bring it up now, his dad’s role in the fire. Maybe she didn’t know he was aware of the gossip.

He gestured toward the picnic table. An empty beer bottle perched on the edge. He knocked it over, and it thumped onto the ground, silencing a nearby cricket.

He lowered himself onto the bench across from her. His first mistake. It put them face-to-face. He could smell her subtle perfume. Her bangs draped over her eyes, and his fingers itched to brush them back. He clenched his fist. Those eyes, wide and vulnerable, only made him want to take her in his arms. He swallowed hard.

“How are you otherwise?” he asked, remembering the painful night he’d put her through. That’s all he really needed to know. All he’d wanted to know since they’d parted three days ago. He could get through this. He could lose her, if he just knew she’d be okay. But, man, she’d had a hard week.

“I’m good. I’m—I didn’t handle the other night very well. I’m sorry.”

She owed him nothing. “You had every right to be upset. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

She looked down, bit her lip. She began picking at a loose fleck of wood on the table. “I was going to come over last night
after rehearsal, but then the fire . . . A lot’s happened since we talked. I’m not sure where to start.”

For some reason his mind went straight to Drew Landon. Maybe she’d hooked up with him again. Maybe she’d realized she could do a lot better than Beckett O’Reilly.

His gut ached at the thought.
He’s a good guy, Beckett. Doesn’t she deserve that? A man who isn’t an embarrassment? A man who’d be a good husband someday, a good father?

“I got some things straightened out with God, for starters,” she said. “You were right about all that. I’ve been journaling the last couple days about stuff. I guess I have a lot of grieving I never really got out.”

He didn’t deserve any credit, but her decision warmed him on the inside. “I’m glad for you. That’s great.”

Her eyes flickered to his, then back to her fingers. “I have a long way to go, but it’s a start.”

No thanks to him. Since she was looking down, he took the opportunity to look at her, memorize her features. He loved her perfect nose and her little elfin chin. He’d seen it set before, so stubborn, but even then she was adorable. Love for her welled up inside, expanding until he felt he’d burst with it.

“There’s something else . . . ,” she said.

He was afraid to speak. Afraid if he opened his mouth, his love for her would spill out. He locked his teeth together.

She put her hand over his. Despite the warmth of the evening, it was ice-cold. He took it instinctively and warmed it between his own.

“Something you don’t know,” she said. “Something I didn’t know until—” She closed her mouth, her eyes drilling into his. “Michael didn’t drown, Beckett. He didn’t dive off that cliff after you left. His death had nothing to do with you.”

She wasn’t making sense. Of course Michael had drowned. They’d dragged his body from the river.

He shook his head.

“He didn’t drown. Michael had a medical anomaly, a metabolic disorder of some kind. That’s how he died. It was in the autopsy report.”

“But you said . . .”

“I didn’t know. Not until yesterday. My parents never told us.”

He had nothing to do with Michael’s death? He tried to wrap his mind around it. “Are you sure?”

“My parents didn’t know anything was wrong with him, and once they found out, after the autopsy, they didn’t tell us because . . . they didn’t want us to worry. It’s genetic, that type of disorder, but they couldn’t identify the specific type, and they didn’t want us kids living in fear we’d just, you know, drop dead someday.”

Drop dead? The words were a jolt of electricity. Did Madison have the condition too? “Are you okay? You need to get tested.”

She shook her head.

“I mean it, Madison, don’t mess around with this.”

Her head tilted, her eyes softening. She squeezed his hand. “It was something the pathologist hadn’t seen before. There’s no way of testing for it that we know of. But that’s not the point. The point is . . . you had nothing to do with Michael’s death. I’m so sorry about the things I said, about the way I reacted. It was wrong of me, regardless of how he died.”

He wasn’t responsible. Michael wasn’t gone because of him. It was beginning to sink in. He drew in a deep breath and let it out, letting himself savor the rush of air, the rush of serenity. It was a good feeling.

“Can you ever forgive me? I was so mean. I know I don’t
deserve it.” The smallness of her voice put a crack in his heart. Her eyes sparkled. She blinked, and a tear spilled over.

“Of course. Of course I do. You’re fine, Maddy. All’s forgiven.”

He realized he’d just called her a pet name, that he was stroking her hand with his thumb. He let go, and her hand fell to the table. He shoved his own hands under the table where they wouldn’t be tempted to touch her again.

He wouldn’t lead her on when it was time to let her go. He was relieved to hear the truth, but it didn’t change things between them.

A frown creased her brow as she pulled her hand back. Her brown eyes, like dark chocolate in the evening light, studied his face. “Well . . . thanks. I appreciate it. I . . . didn’t know what to expect when I came over.”

He read the hope in her eyes. She was waiting for him to reach over and kiss it all better. And God help him, he wanted to. So badly his heart was beating up into his throat, closing it off. He clenched his fists.

Help me be strong enough to let her go, God. To do what’s best for her when I want nothing more than to—

“Beckett . . . ?”

He had to get out of there fast. He stood. “I should, ah, get back to my boat . . . I have a lot to do on it yet.”
Stupid. She knows you don’t have a buyer.

A flash of hurt flickered in her eyes as she slowly stood and stepped out from the table. “Sure. Sure, I’ll, uh, let you get back to it. Sorry I interrupted your work.”

Rigsby nestled against his leg, and he set his hand on the dog’s head. “You’re not an interruption. Thanks for coming, for clearing things up.” He winced at his formal tone.

“No problem. I . . . guess I’ll see you later.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and as she turned, he saw a shimmer of tears in her eyes.

He locked his jaw in place, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and turned away before he did something he’d regret.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

W
HEN THE KNOCK SOUNDED AT THE DOOR
, M
ADISON
’
S HEART
froze. She set the spoon inside the half-empty cereal bowl and followed Lulu to the door. Her conversation with Beckett the evening before had filled her night with restlessness. Her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep and unshed tears.

But hope bloomed inside as she reached for the handle and pulled it open.

“Morning.” Ryan stood on her stoop, holding two to-go cups from the Coachlight.

She opened the door, pushing back disappointment. “Come on in.” He handed her the coffee. “Thanks.”