Beach House No. 9 (20 page)

What a meal he had ready to dish out.

He shoved himself up, his fourth beer still half-full. Tipping his hand, he drained the bottle, then let it drop with a clunk.

Jane jumped.

“Nervous now? Thinking about all those eels that are lurking in the corners of my soul?”

Her head moved from side to side, though her eyes didn’t leave his. “I’m not nervous. I’m not scared of you.”

Those fucking eels, he thought, swiping a hand over his face. He couldn’t get them out of his head. The memory was there, Jane in his arms, the way she’d clung to him as he’d almost tossed her to her greatest fear.

Her pretty wavy hair, tickling his chin as they sat together on the beach. He didn’t think she’d realized that a little tremor had run down her spine when she’d confessed her phobia. He’d been holding her that close to his heart. It had made him want to be a better brother to her than her own. It had made him want to be her hero.

Her brother. Her hero. What a crock.

He could never be anyone’s hero, and he didn’t feel brotherly toward her in the least. He’d been dying to fuck her again since that night in L.A. By God, she was going to understand that by the time he was through. Then she’d stop looking at him with those beautiful eyes filled with compassion.

“I didn’t love Erica,” he said. “I didn’t love her, and the fact of that drove her to her death.”

“Griffin…”

“Don’t take that placating tone with me. You want the facts, don’t you? And the emotions, right? That’s what you’ve been asking for. That’s what you want on the page.”

“I—” She hesitated, and he thought she might bolt. But then she clasped her hands together like a little girl at Sunday school. “Okay. I want it all.”

He pushed to his feet and threw himself into his desk chair, which screeched as he swiveled to face her. It arrested him a moment, the sight of Jane at his feet, her expression expectant.

Innocent.

Could he tell her and ruin whatever pretty story she’d made up in her head? But it was his dishonesty that had been the beginning of Erica’s end.

“Erica and I were…together before we left the States. We met through the assignment, hit it off, so to speak, started seeing each other as we prepared for Afghanistan.”

He rubbed his face again. “I thought it was all fun and games, but she…”

“Wanted more.”

“I didn’t lead her on.” Hell, why he wanted Jane to believe that, he didn’t know. “At least I didn’t intend to.”

“But then she started leaving you little notes.”

“After the first couple of weeks in Afghanistan, I realized her feelings had turned serious. I should have been honest with her immediately, but Christ, we’d agreed to be embedded with thirty guys for the next twelve months, and I didn’t want that kind of awkwardness in the mix.”

“Makes sense.”

“Makes me an effing idiot. The close quarters meant we weren’t having sex—at least I can claim some nobility there—but we were going out every day, getting shot at, being mortared…. It was pretty intense.”

In his mind, Griffin heard the high whine of an incoming mortar round, then its thunder-boom and sharp jolt of impact. The smell of it was in his nostrils and on his tongue, rotten eggs mixed with cordite and red dirt. “You never knew if the thing you were doing—eating, on patrol, taking a leak—was the last thing you’d ever do. So I think for Erica, the last man she might ever be with became the man she had to love. The danger gave me a little shine.”

“Because clearly you were pretty dull without that.”

He waved Jane’s dry comment away. “When we first started dating in L.A., I tried telling her how it was. That I wasn’t looking for anything serious. I don’t do serious with women, never have. But she didn’t listen. She didn’t listen to anyone about anything.”

“You told me what happened to her—the ambush. That wasn’t your fault, Griffin.”

“She wanted to impress me,” he said, his temples beginning to ache. He needed another beer. “That’s why she went with the guys that morning, even though I had told her not to do it. Everyone had told her not to do it.
I
wouldn’t have done it. But she went anyway to prove something to me.”

“Who said?”

He thought of the note he’d woken to find in his hand. Jane was holding it now. He nodded at it. “She wrote ‘You’ll see.’”

“You’ll see…what? You’ll see leprechauns? You’ll see
Firefly
shouldn’t have been canceled? You’ll see that the coffee stain will come out of your khakis?”

She was being deliberately obtuse, and it made the knocking at his temples intensify. “You’ll see I’m good enough to love. You’ll see that I’m fearless enough to love. I don’t know exactly.”

In a quick move, Jane stood. Before he could stop her, she leaned over to turn on the desk lamp. Though the bulb was low wattage, it still felt like an interrogator’s tool. He blinked against the light, one hand shading his eyes.

“That’s certainly an interesting interpretation,” she said.

His hand dropped, and he squinted at her face. The lamplight caught the gold tips of her eyelashes. He looked away from them. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

“Maybe there’s another meaning to her note.”

“Like what?”

“Have you considered that she was saying ‘I’ll land this story’? Have you thought for just a teeny, tiny second, Mr. Ego, that maybe she wasn’t taking risks for you, but for her job. For her career. For herself.”

Mr. Ego.
His head pounded harder. “Nice spin.”

“Why are you so sure it’s spin?”

The annoyed note in her voice pissed him off. “Mr. Ego” pissed him off. There was a cup of pens and pencils on the desktop, and he swiped at it, sending the Bics and No. 2s flying. “Damn it, I don’t know!”

Private rushed to his side. Griffin felt like shit for scaring the dog. He stroked his soft fur as the Lab pressed hard against his legs.

Jane crossed to his side too, and knelt on the other side of his knees. “I’m sorry, Griffin. I know that whatever her motivation, it was a horrible event. A tragedy for her family and something that hurts you terribly.”

He drew back, blinking at her. “Jane,” he began, then shook his head. “Jane, you’re wrong. I don’t know if it’s my reporter training or just a tic of my particular personality, but I don’t feel anything close to terrible.”

A moment of silence passed, and then he dropped the truth on her. “Ninety-nine percent of the time I don’t feel anything at all.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
ESS
SANK
ONTO
the couch in the small, low-lit living room at Beach House No. 8 and watched the flames lick the Pres-to-Log she’d put a match to before checking on the boys. It wasn’t cold, really; she was dressed warmly enough in a pair of yoga pants and matching top with long sleeves and a collar that she’d zipped to a point above her cleavage. But she’d decided the fire would be nice company for the night. Rebecca was sleeping over at a friend’s, and her sons had slipped into dreamland not long after dark. An inflatable canvas raft had occupied Duncan and Oliver all afternoon. Riding the small waves near the shoreline had so worn them out that they’d almost been asleep before Russ.

She propped her bare feet on the coffee table, bumping the framed photo of the kids that she’d brought from home. With the four either asleep or absent, it was time to think of herself. It was time to decide what she wanted to do with her life.

A knock on the front door startled her. Griffin or Jane, she supposed, needing to borrow a cup of sugar or something similar. But it was Teague White standing in the dim glow of the porch light, his athletic build nearly filling the opening. He smiled, a flash of white in his tan face that struck her somewhere below her heart.

She placed her hand there. “Hi.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “I was at Captain Crow’s…and then I thought of you. Would you like to share a drink with me?”

Oh, to be so free! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to take off for a drink or anything else without making plans and backup plans and backup for the backup plans. Was that what she wanted for herself? she wondered. More freedom? She had divorced friends and knew it was an unexpected by-product of shared custody. When the kids were with Dad, Mom had hours and hours of alone time.

“Tess?”

“Oh.” She laughed. “Sorry, took a hike on a mind trail.”

“Mind trail?”

Her next laugh wasn’t as amused. It was a phrase that she and David had coined long ago. One of those private codes that came out of a long marriage. “I was daydreaming.” She took a breath. “But as to your offer—I’m sorry, I can’t go anywhere. The boys are asleep and—”

“Even if I brought the drink to you?” He held up a chilled six-pack of Mexican beer.

Her favorite brand. She hesitated only a second, then held open the door. “I have limes.”

As he stepped inside, she hurried to turn on another lamp. She didn’t want to send the wrong message with a romantic ambience. In the kitchen, she sliced a Mexican lime into quarters and placed them on a small plate that she set on a tray beside a basket of tortilla chips and a bowl of mango salsa.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble,” Teague said as she slid the items onto the coffee table.

Embarrassed heat washed up her neck. Was he thinking she’d misread the situation? That she considered it some kind of date?

“But now that you did,” he said, giving her another of his easy grins, “thanks.”

From their opposite corners of the short couch, they both slipped a wedge of lime into their golden brew. Then their gazes met, and with tacit agreement they held out the longneck bottles. It seemed a natural thing to do. But at the click of glass against glass, it suddenly felt datelike. Another wash of heat climbed up her neck, but Tess ignored it and forced herself to relax against the cushions.
Try this out,
she told herself.
Your life could be like this. A romantic evening. A different man.

More of her tension dissipated as beer was sipped. Small talk was exchanged.

“I ran into your brother earlier today,” Teague said. “He didn’t look very happy to find me talking to Jane.”

“You know Jane?”

“Know all the pretty girls on the beach,” he said, tipping his bottle at Tess. “Always looking to end my bachelor status.”

“Right,” she scoffed. “You and all the other handsome firefighters are on the endless search for your better halves.”

He appeared to consider her remark seriously. “Can’t speak for everyone else, but I do know what
I
want.”

Tess could only feel envy. “What’s that?”
Maybe I can co-opt your same wish.

“You…”

Her swallow of beer almost went down wrong.

“…or should I say, what you have.”

She coughed now, clearing her throat as well as clearing her mind of any unbidden image that might be trying to form. “And what do I have that you want?” she asked, trying for rueful. “A crying baby, a rebellious teen, two little boys that… Never mind, just don’t ask me about Cheetos.”

He laughed. “All of the above…except maybe not the Cheetos since I don’t know where that’s going. But I grew up in a very lonely house without brothers or sisters.”

She thought of the quiet little kid he’d been, trailing after Griffin and Gage.

“I want the whole big, messy family.”

“We’re that, all right,” Tess said with a wry smile. Child clutter was everywhere, from the pairs of rubber thongs jumbled by the front door to the action figures locked in mortal combat by the built-in bookshelves. Surely there was a lurking plastic block or two somewhere, ready to wield brutal pain on an unsuspecting sole.

Teague settled into the corner of the couch. He wore ancient jeans, a Hawaiian shirt he could have stolen from Griffin’s closet and leather flip-flops. He looked a little lazy and a lot male, and she felt another small ping of awareness below her breastbone. Heat gathered where her hairline met the nape of her neck.

His eyes on her, Teague took a slow pull from his beer, and his swallow moved along the tan column of his neck. He settled more comfortably on the cushions, and as he stretched out one long leg, the edge of his sandal met the side of Tess’s bare heel, the contact as light as a butterfly kiss.

She froze, her gaze dropping to the label of the beer she held, though her peripheral vision didn’t miss their tiny point of connection. Did he know they were touching? It wasn’t flesh-on-flesh or anything, but wouldn’t a normal person pull back from even that small invasion of personal space?

Maybe he didn’t notice.

Maybe he was asking a question with that near-nudge.

She’d given him the answer before, though, hadn’t she? That first day on the beach she’d explained she was the mother of four. Married.

But how true was the married thing? And wasn’t she more than a mother? She was supposed to be figuring that out. Tonight.

Now the heat at her nape traveled around and down, and she automatically pressed the cold beer bottle to the thin skin below her collarbone, bared by the stretchy yoga top. She glanced over at Teague, found him staring.

A sheepish grin curved his mouth. “I told you about that crush, right?”

Another opening. She wasn’t such a wife and mother that she didn’t know it. The woman in her recognized that she could make a move of her own right now, twitch a toe, find something flirtatious to say, and this moment could possibly turn into something different.

Could turn into someone different.

Tess opened her mouth—

—and heard Russ begin to cry. She was up so quickly she stepped on Teague’s foot. But the contact barely registered as she hurried in the direction of the hall. “He’s been fussy,” she said over her shoulder. “I think he may be getting another tooth.”

Her guest was rising from the couch. “I should go?” But then Russ squawked again, and Teague answered his own question. “I should go.”

She didn’t bother seeing him out. It took twenty minutes to soothe her baby. Humming under her breath, she held his head against her shoulder and rocked back and forth, standing outside the room he shared with Duncan and Oliver. Once he was down again, she pulled a lightweight throw over his sailboat-printed jammies and arranged his special blanket under one arm. He reflexively gathered it close to his chest.

David used to do that to her when they were in bed.

David hadn’t touched her in bed in months.

Back in the living room, she cleaned up the bottles and snack and then returned to her original place on the couch. She stared at the photo of the kids in front of her. Her foot twitched, remembering that brief connection with Teague. Maybe she should have asked him to stay. Start that new life with a bang.

The stupid pun made her groan.

Over her own low-throated sound she heard another knock on the door. Her heart lurched. He’d come back!

Tess couldn’t pretend she wasn’t home. She also couldn’t pretend that her pulse wasn’t racing at a chance for…another bite of the apple.

Oh, God, she was full of wordplay tonight.

And nerves.

Her palms were so wet, her hand slipped on the doorknob. When she opened it, her breath caught.

Not Teague, but David. Her husband, David, carrying a carton, one of those portable file boxes. “I have something to show you,” he said.

She couldn’t help but compare him to her other visitor of the evening. Instead of being casually dressed, David appeared to have come straight from the office. His shirt was white, his slacks pale taupe, he wore the loafers she’d had resoled six weeks ago. She’d given him the paisley tie for his birthday. When everything had changed.

“Can I come in?”

She moved aside and watched, bemused, as he transferred the framed photograph to a corner of the coffee table, then removed file folders from the box. His long-fingered hands laid them on the flat surface, one after the other, until they were all on display. With a satisfied air, he stepped back.

Curiosity piqued, she came closer, trying to understand the point of his exhibit. It wasn’t immediately apparent, and he didn’t immediately offer up an explanation.

She glanced at his profile. He had a strong, masculine nose, and his lips were set in a serious line. There was a shadow of whiskers along his jaw that her fingers suddenly itched to stroke. His short hair was ruffled on top, and she knew he’d been forking his fingers through it, a gesture he made when he was in deep concentration or worried.

They stood without speaking, and she listened to him breathe, one of the dearest rhythms of her life. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as a heavy understanding settled over her. Familiar didn’t equal dull, she thought. New and different was not that big a draw.

At least not for her.

“What’s all this?” she finally asked, gesturing at the folders.

“I wanted you to look over our financials,” he said.

Her heart seized for a moment, then restarted at a dizzying pace. Look over their financials! That sounded like predivorce business. Though…maybe not. One of her friends had been given the divorce talk by her husband—but only after the bastard had siphoned off most of their accounts.

David wouldn’t do it like that, she assured herself. If she and David divorced, he would be excruciatingly fair.

If she and David divorced… There would be dates. A different man.

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. “I’m looking them over,” she said, her voice weary. “What about the financials should I be seeing?”

He took a seat on the sofa and tapped a finger on the front of each manila folder. “Statements for all our bank accounts. Your 401(k), my 401(k). College funds for the kids. Current mortgage statement. I had the house appraised yesterday and this is the report. We own the cars outright, but I have estimates for their value in this file. See? I’ve labeled it Big-Ticket Items.”

She stared at him. “What, no credit report?”

He slid out a folder from under another. “Right here.”

A few years back, new neighbors had moved in, and she and David had invited them to their New Year’s Eve party. The husband of the couple insisted on a midnight tradition: “Throw all the change in your pockets onto the street!” It was supposed to bring good fortune for the coming year, according to the man.

David had gone along with a smile.

Before breakfast the next morning, he’d re-collected every coin.

At least some things about him hadn’t changed—he was still careful about each penny. Looking into the face of the man she’d loved and married, while remembering that New Year’s, made her sure of something else that was unchanged as well.

Tess herself was still the same.
I still love my husband, my life as his partner. My work as the mother of our children.
That was what she wanted. The knowledge of it settled in her chest, a puzzle piece being reseated where it belonged. She could move away from the house she and David shared together, but that didn’t mean she could leave behind her love for him. The thoughts about dates and different men were passing fancies. A match flare compared to the steady light and heat that were her feelings for her husband.

She sighed and gestured to the table. “What’s all this mean, David?”

“It’s our net worth. What we’ve accumulated in the last almost fourteen years.”

She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“You thought I didn’t want you. Of course I do. I’m showing you what we’ve done together. What we’ve built.” He huffed out an impatient breath. “I’m trying to convince you to come home. To stay.”

“Do you want me or my 401(k)?”

He looked at her as if she was speaking in Russ’s babbling baby language. “Both. They go together. Your plan is in your name.”

He refused to understand. Instead of talking to her about what was going on with him and why he’d altered, he was trotting out paperwork. Exhausted, she dropped into the armchair adjacent to the sofa. “I don’t know, David….”

He rose, his expression panicked. “What? Tess, don’t you get it? Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

He threw a hand in the direction of the files. “This is what I have to offer,” he said. “This is what is on the table.”

But instead of the columns of numbers and the neatly compiled accounting of what David thought summed up their worth—his worth—Tess only saw that photograph. Their four beautiful, beloved children. The family that he had somehow reduced to file folders and appraisal forms. Rising, she picked up the frame and held it with both hands so he could see.