Carolina Blues (14 page)

The kitten lurched as the trap swung, pressing its skinny gray body against the wire. Separated from its—
litter? nest? colony?
—the poor little thing was frantic for contact. Even human contact.

Jack reached through the bars, rubbing the scruffy head with one broad finger, and Lauren’s heart turned into this gooey mass in her chest that
hurt
.

She cleared her throat. “Will I see you later?”

“Probably.” He set the cage on some newspaper inside the cabin door. “Unless Marta’s made coffee for the staff meeting.”

“Who’s Marta?”

“New dispatcher,” he said as he went inside.

She watched the shadow of his head, the silhouette of his shoulders, as he moved efficiently in the small galley. Getting food and water, she guessed, for the cat.

She gulped her cooling coffee. She’d only known Jack a week. She’d only slept with him once. (
Four orgasms
, her body whispered.) Pride, practicality, and hookup etiquette all demanded that she let it go. Let him go.

But wasn’t the whole hookup thing a retreat from intimacy, too? To accept sexual pleasure while ignoring any emotional connection. To pretend she didn’t care.

You care in an uncaring world
, Jack had said.
That takes a kind of courage most people will never have.

He came out on deck, buttoned up and beautiful in that controlled masculine way, and she took one ragged breath for courage and said, “I meant tonight. We could do dinner or something.”

“Can’t.” At least he had the manners to look briefly regretful. “I’m tied up. Matt Fletcher’s throwing some kind of bachelor party for Luke tonight.”

“Oh.” She exhaled, deflated. Well, she couldn’t argue with that.

“Things should wind down on the early side. I’d like to stop by. Or call.” Jack’s eyes met hers, and her heart betrayed her by skipping a beat and then rushing to make up for lost time. “If it’s not too late for you.”

Her smile started in her chest and radiated outward, a big goofy glow that spread all over her face. She was getting mushy over a booty call. But she was so glad she got to see him again that she mostly didn’t care. “Not too late at all.”

*   *   *

“L
AUREN, DO YOU
know where the other sugar dispenser is?” Jane asked as Lauren moved through the tables, cleaning up after the lunch crowd.

Sugar dispenser?
Lauren tried to focus. It was like there were two Laurens today, Lauren the stirred-up mind and Lauren the thoroughly satisfied body, both absorbed in remembering and processing the unfamiliar events of last night. Neither focused on the bakery at all. Every breath, every stretch, every thought recalled Jack.

She struggled to keep herself together. “Yeah, sure, it’s in the . . . It’s not on the coffee station?”

“You put it in the refrigerator,” Thalia said. She took out the dispenser and grinned. “Right next to the milk.”

“Oops.” Lauren smiled apologetically. “I guess I’m a little distracted today.” An understatement.

“I’m really sorry,” Jane said. “It’s my fault.”

Lauren blinked.
Concentrate
. “Why?”

“I should have given you the passcode. You must have totally freaked when the alarm went off.”

Sirens blaring, stabbing, vibrating through her like electric shocks . . .
Lauren took a careful breath. “Why should you? You had absolutely no reason to think I would need to be in the bakery after hours.”

“Besides,” Thalia said cheerfully, “she got rescued by Hot Cop Rossi.”

Jane’s distressed frown stayed in place. “I still should have warned you. I’m so sorry.”

“Jane, it really is all right. He was very . . .”
Professional?
“Reassuring.”

“Is that all? Because when he came in this morning?” Thalia put her hand on her chest and mimed a thumping heart. “Major vibes. I thought he was going to order coffee to go and you on the side.”

Heat swept through Lauren. He’d already had her on her side. And on her back. And . . .

“Oh, wow, he did, didn’t he?” Thalia asked in an awed voice. “You and Chief Rossi? Seriously?”

“Thalia, that’s none of our business,” Jane said firmly.

“I think it’s great,” Thalia said. “I mean, you’re both single, healthy adults.”

“Which doesn’t make her private life a suitable topic of discussion for you. You’re sixteen.”

“Mom says adolescence is a modern invention of wealthy industrial societies, and that I’ve been a woman since menses,” Thalia said. “She feels I should be free to explore my natural sexual impulses before deciding if a monogamous heteronormative relationship would be personally fulfilling.”

“Bless her heart,” Jane said.

Which Lauren had learned could mean anything from
You poor thing
to
Your mama is an idiot
. She bit down on a laugh. “Did she also talk to you about the importance of using protection while you’re, um, exploring?”

Thalia grinned, apparently unfazed by a relative stranger quizzing her on birth control. She was a
very
self-possessed sixteen. “No, that was my dad. He told me the frontal lobes of boys my age aren’t fully connected yet, and I shouldn’t waste my time on them.”

“And what do you think?” Lauren asked, falling into counselor-speak.

“I’m going to college—Chapel Hill—in another year. I don’t really want to get serious about anybody yet.”

“What about Josh Fletcher?” Jane asked.

Matt Fletcher’s son, Lauren thought. Meg’s nephew. Meg had mentioned the two were dating. Lauren had seen the teen around the Pirates’ Rest, a handsome boy with broad shoulders and big hands and a mop of tawny hair.

A cloud passed over Thalia’s round, sunny face. “He understands. We’re friends.”

“‘Friends’ is good,” Lauren said gently. And probably hard to pull off when you were sixteen years old and spending time with a boy who could have modeled for Michelangelo’s
David
.

“Yeah.” Thalia wiped her hands on her apron, looked at Jane. “Would it be okay if I took off now? Camille wants some Mommy-and-me time with Océane, and I told her I’d take Chloe to the pool.”

“That would be fine. Thalia works for a French family in one of the big houses on the beach,” Jane explained to Lauren.

“It’s not
work
work. I’m babysitting.”

“Still . . . Two jobs,” Lauren said.

Thalia shrugged. “More money for college. Anyway, I like kids. I’ve got four younger brothers and sisters.” She hesitated. “I can watch Aidan, too, if you want. Camille won’t mind. She wants Chloe to practice her English.”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you, both of you, honey, but Aidan’s got camp ’til five. Anyway, I’m taking him to the beach later.”

“Mommy-and-Aidan time,” Thalia said.

Jane smiled. “Something like that.”

Thalia left. Customers came in, three laughing, chatting women who settled at a table, a couple who took coffee and pastries outside, a family picking up a cake. Lauren pulled shots and watched as Jane expertly boxed a Chocolate Seduction with Bavarian cream for the young mother’s birthday.

Jane was a mother
. How could she have missed this important piece of personal information? But Jane never talked about herself.

“So, Aidan is your son?” Lauren asked when the shop was quiet again.

Jane nodded.

“How old is he?”

“Almost seven.”

“So . . . starting second grade?”

“First.” Jane wiped unnecessarily at a spot on the counter, as if disclosing even that much information made her uncomfortable. “His birthday’s in October.”

“How long have you and his father been . . .” She trailed off deliberately, leaving a space for Jane to define any way she wanted.

“Separated?” Jane asked.

Lauren nodded.

“Forever. He took off right after Aidan was born.”

Lauren winced in sympathy. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. I was stupid.” Jane shrugged. “I’ve always been stupid about men.”

“When I first got here, I thought maybe you and Jack Rossi . . .” Another pause Lauren wasn’t sure how to fill. A space she hoped would stay empty.

Jane shook her head. “I would never marry a cop. My dad’s a cop. If I ever take a chance on another guy, it won’t be somebody who always puts his job ahead of me.”

Lauren drew a relieved breath. So, no romantic attachment on either side. That was good news.

She should drop the whole subject right there, Lauren thought. She and Jane worked well together, but the other woman had no particular need or reason to trust her. To confide in her. Jane had lived on Dare Island all her life. For all Lauren knew, she could have this great, giant support system of friends to laugh and talk with, to cry and confide in.

Or not. Maybe familiarity carried the same cost as fame. Maybe a small town was like the online community, everybody thinking they knew you, that they had the facts to judge, the right to comment . . . Hard to sustain friendships when every move was under the microscope. When every neighbor remembered your mistakes. Maybe Jane needed a friend.

Maybe Lauren was ready to be a friend again. “It’s tough,” she said. “Raising a son and running a business on your own.”

“We do all right,” Jane said.

“You do a great job. I’m impressed. When my dad died . . .” Lauren’s chest tightened.
Positive thoughts
. But being friends wasn’t about having all the answers or even asking the right questions. Friendship required making yourself vulnerable. Admitting weakness. Opening yourself to the possibility of loss.

Jack’s words glowed inside her.
You’re not afraid to get involved. You’re not afraid to get hurt. That takes a kind of courage most people will never have.

“My mom had a lot of trouble coping. I had to leave school to look after things for a while.”

Jane’s smooth face creased in sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. Shit happens, right? I’m just saying, if you ever need someone to talk to . . .”

“Thank you.” Jane’s gaze met hers. “I mean that. But it’s not the same. Aidan’s father isn’t dead.”

Lauren leaned against the counter, refusing to be turned away. “Maybe it would be easier if he was.”

A shocked laugh broke from Jane. “Maybe.”

“That guy who came in last week,” Lauren said. “Was that him? Aidan’s dad?”

“Travis is incapable of being anybody’s dad.”

“Oh.” Okay. She hadn’t seen that coming.

Jane slid her a sideways glance. “It’s not what you’re thinking. What I mean is, Travis doesn’t care about Aidan. He never has. Leaving was the best thing he could have done, for Aidan and for me. Anyway, Travis has some job lined up in Florida. He just needs a stake to get down there.”

A stake?
The errand at the bank, Lauren thought. “So basically you’re paying him off.”

Jane bit her lip. Nodded. “I don’t want him to have any contact with Aidan. I don’t even want Aidan to know that he’s here. Especially now that Aidan’s old enough to ask questions.”

“He’s going to ask anyway,” Lauren felt compelled to point out. “Or his friends at school will.”

“I know. But they’ll be easier to answer when Travis is gone.”

“Jane.” Lauren searched for the right words. “You can’t pay to make your problems go away.”

“How do you know?”

Because I’ve tried
. The thought caught her under the ribs like a missed breath. Every month, a check to Ben’s mother. Every week, a letter to Ben with a credit to the prison commissary for pens, for paper, for candy bars and shaving supplies.
How is Joel? Did you read the book I sent? Have you forgiven me yet?

“I’m just saying money doesn’t solve your underlying issues. You still have to deal with your feelings.”
The guilt
.

Jane smiled wryly. “I have a six-year-old depending on me. My feelings are the last thing I’m worried about.”

Lauren inhaled slowly. “Okay.”

“So you won’t say anything to Aidan?”

“Of course not.”

Jane relaxed. “Thanks. That’s all right, then.”

But it wasn’t. Not really. And Lauren didn’t know what she could do to help.

T
HE LAST BACHELOR
party Jack attended, a twenty-year-old stripper named Brandi ground on the bridegroom’s lap—big Mike Malone from Vice—while a bunch of wasted cops stuffed bills into her G-string.

Jack was no Boy Scout. But he was too old for that shit.

Marriage was enough of a crapshoot. A guy who kicked off the whole I-Do deal by getting high, drunk, and laid days before his wedding was just worsening the odds.

But for Luke, Jack could put up with the ritual boobs-and-booze fest. Sam Grady had offered his family’s restaurant, the Fish House, for the party. Jack figured he’d sip a beer for a couple of hours and then play cabbie before giving Lauren a call. He walked into the bar’s back room feeling pretty good about life in general and positively optimistic about the way his night would end.

He hadn’t counted on Luke’s dad, Tom, being there, tall, weathered, and tough as a telephone pole. Or Luke’s seventeen-year-old nephew Josh, nursing a Coke at the poker table. Jack had routed the town’s teens out from under the pier enough times to guess the boy had snuck a few beers before. But at Luke’s party, in Sam’s bar, everybody was on their best behavior.

The only bills seeing any action tonight were in the pot in the center of the table.

Jack’s muscles relaxed. He was glad he wouldn’t be breaking up a bar fight tonight. Or talking the groom back into his pants.

Luke introduced him to some guys from his old squad who had made the trek from Camp Lejeune and a couple of buddies from boot camp. There was talk of a third, Gabe Somebody, who had left the Corps and couldn’t be reached. But all in all, a nice group. Nice guys.

It seemed almost a shame to take their money.

“Seven-card stud,” Matt said, shuffling the deck in his work-hardened hands.

“What’s wild?” Josh asked.

His grandfather, Tom, snorted.

One of the Marines smothered a grin.

“Seven-card stud,” Matt repeated quietly. “No wilds.”

“Unless I get trash all night,” Sam said. “Then it’s deuces, eights, and one-eyed Jacks.”

Josh shot him a grateful look.

Jack sat with his back to the wall, angling his chair to keep an eye on the entrance. Like a cop. Or, he thought, looking around the table, a guy recently returned from a war zone. Luke and his Marine pals had already commandeered the chairs on the other side, facing the door. Guarding their backs, watching the entrance. Clearly, they’d had the same idea. The same training.

Matt dealt the cards.

Sam, Jack thought as the game progressed, was his only competition, the only one watching as the others picked up their cards, the one who understood that you played your opponents and not your hand.

Matt was shrewd but conservative, betting the cards he was dealt, never taking the big risks that rake in the pot. Tom’s expression never changed, but he had a significant tell, glancing at his stack of chips on every strong hand. Josh threw everything he had into the game, betting, bluffing, and losing with boyish enthusiasm. The Marines had skills. In a Muslim country, cards were pretty much the only acceptable vice to while away the long hours of tension and boredom. But they drank more than the others, and young Danny Hill kept texting his wife.

“Sorry,” he said, looking up. “This is the first night I’ve been away since we got back.”

Luke was a fine player, alert and careful, but his heart wasn’t really in the game.

When Jack bluffed him with a pair of threes, Tom rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Shit, son, didn’t I teach you better than that?”

Luke grinned, unapologetic. “Guess I’ve got other things on my mind.”

Matt smiled. “Understandable.”

Sam, who was sitting out this hand, set another plate of sandwiches on the table. “I’ve got orders to keep you away from the inn until eleven. Deal.”

Eleven
, Jack thought. He’d told Lauren it would be an early night. But
eleven
?

Get over it, Rossi. You’re not in Philly anymore.

Not too late at all
, Lauren said in his head, her warm eyes glowing, her lips curving, and his dick surged behind his fly. Like he was Josh’s age again, when every random thought gave him a hard-on.

Jack dropped his gaze to his cards, shifting in his chair, giving himself a moment to recover.

“You betting? Or playing with yourself?” Tom wanted to know.

Jack grinned and tossed the required bid into the pot.

Rafe Slater, one of the Marines, reached a long arm for another beer from the bar, offered a bottle to Luke.

Luke gave a quick shake of his head. “I’m good for now.”

“Jesus, pal, you’re getting married in four days. You can’t be whipped already. Gotta drink up while you can.”

Jack knew, because Luke had told him, that Kate Dolan’s old man was a hard-drinking Marine who took his career frustrations out on his wife and daughter until he died. Obviously Luke didn’t intend to provoke bad memories in his bride by stumbling home to her reeking of alcohol.

But this was his bachelor party. It wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out.

The last hand ended near midnight when every man but Jack and Sam was out. Jack got a queen on the final deal and won with an ace-high straight.

Sam shrugged philosophically as he turned over his two pair. “You got lucky tonight, pal.”

That was the plan.

Jack smiled and pushed the pot across the table.

Luke looked down at Jack’s winnings and raised his eyebrows. “What’s this?”

“Wedding present,” Jack said and stood. “Who needs a ride?”

“We’re good,” Matt said.

Josh grinned. “I’m designated driver.”

Tom winked at his grandson. “God help us.”

Jack looked at the four Marines. “How about you?”

“We’ve got an empty rental,” Sam said. “Sudden cancellation. I can put them up there tonight, see them on their way in the morning.”

Jack doubted Grady Real Estate had a cancellation at the height of the rental season. But Sam was generous that way. As long as the impaired Marines stayed off the road tonight, Jack was happy.

“Great. Let’s get you home then,” he said to Luke.

He waited patiently while the groom said good-bye to his buddies with as much sentiment as if they were all going off to war again. Matt caught his brother in a fierce, short hug. Backs were slapped, arms punched.

Seventeen-year-old Josh collared his uncle with one arm around his neck. Something about the way they stood together, almost the same height, Luke’s blond head against Josh’s tawny mop, grabbed Jack’s throat and wouldn’t let go.

“Unc Luke.” Josh’s voice was muffled against Luke’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll be as happy as my dad.”

Ah, Christ. Jack’s eyes stung.

It should have been corny.

But seeing their closeness reminded him of what he’d left behind, his father, his brothers, his nephews and nieces.

And it recalled in a worse way the things he’d once counted on and never really had at all. His hand curled in his pocket as if he could hold on to his illusions.

He missed Frank. Not the partner who had betrayed him, but the friendship he’d thought they had. The trust.

He missed the life he had planned with Renee, back when he’d believed they could make it. The Sunday dinners, the baptisms and first communions, surrounded by her family and his.

If she’d gotten pregnant on their honeymoon, the way she’d feared, their oldest kid would have been a few years younger than Josh by now.

Moving forward? Or running away?

He had moved out. He’d moved on.

But tonight, watching Luke with his family, he felt his foot caught in the door of the life he’d left behind.

*   *   *

L
AUREN SAT WITH
her back to the headboard, surrounded by the story of her life—
okay, the last eleven months
—in the form of two hundred and eighty printed manuscript pages.

Reading over the hard copy helped her evaluate the work differently. Or maybe she was responding to the memory of Jack’s voice echoing in her head like a drumbeat, like a call to action, encouraging her heart to a fresh cadence, rousing her to life.
All those feelings you say you don’t feel? They’re all in there.

But she hadn’t put them on the page. She turned down a corner to come back to later, frowned, read some more. The structure was good.
If I move this bit here
 . . . The events were all there.
That part with the therapist . . . The visit to the prison to see Ben
 . . .

Only the emotion, the way those events made her
feel
, was missing.

And the emotion was everything.

Her pulse quickened. She started to make notes, slowly at first and then with confidence, scribbling in the margins, jotting on the backs of pages, inserting more sheets when she ran out of room. Writing as if she had nobody to offend and nothing to lose.

She worked until the words streaming across the page blended with the paper in shades of gray.

She blinked, distracted, and looked up. The light was gone. The sky outside her windows was dark. She took a deep breath. Good heavens, it must be . . . Her glance fell on the clock.
Nine?

Shifting the piles of paper, she uncurled from the bed. Her legs trembled under her as she stretched her back and her fingers. Her stomach growled. She’d been up here for
hours
.

Writing.

She smiled.

Noises drifted up the stairs. Women’s voices. Meg, she wondered, come to visit her mother?

Lauren took another look at the notes spread out over the white duvet cover. Her grin broadened. She could tell Meg. She was
writing
. She couldn’t wait to tell Meg.

She stumbled to the bathroom and then downstairs. She felt tired and shaky, cramped and . . . Well, pretty fabulous, actually. But she needed a brain break. And carbs. She was starving.

More voices, more noise as she rounded the beautifully restored banister. The hundred-year-old inn had been painstakingly restored with natural wood and warm, rich colors. But Tess Fletcher had a knack for the kind of homey touches that kept the Pirates’ Rest from feeling too much like a museum or another hotel. A sea grass basket filled with shells stood by the door; a vase of big yellow sunflowers nodded on the table; a stack of colorful towels under the stairs waited for guests going to or coming from the beach.

A burst of laughter penetrated from the kitchen. Lauren smiled at the sound and then hesitated outside the swinging door.
Homey
, but not
her
home. She didn’t want to intrude on the Fletchers’ family space or Meg’s time.

But the prospect of creeping quietly back to her room, away from the laughter, away from the
food
, was remarkably unappealing. She knocked once and nudged open the door.

“Oh.”

The kitchen was a rainbow of summer dresses and flowers and candles and food. A party.

Lauren stopped on the threshold, abruptly aware of her jeans, tank top, and outsider status. “I’m so sorry, I just . . .”

Meg, in bright red, came forward, champagne glass in hand. “Lauren! Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Lauren assured her.

Meg’s eyes narrowed.

Lauren held up her hand in I-swear fashion. “Honest. I, um, kind of lost track of the time. Working.”

Meg’s smile flashed. “Well, that deserves a celebration. Come have cake. I’ll introduce you around.”

She wanted to. The warmth of the room tugged her forward. The smells were amazing. On the table behind Meg, the cake, already sliced, shared pride of place with a loose arrangement of black-eyed Susans and fat orange roses. Lauren’s stomach rumbled.

“Is that Jane’s lemon mascarpone five-layer cake?”

“Nothing but the best.”

“Maybe I could take a slice upstairs? I don’t want to crash your party.”

A pretty woman with coppery hair came over. “It’s my party, and I’d love for you to join us. Kate Dolan.” She held out her hand, her grin as wide and shiny as the sea at dawn. “I’m getting married on Monday.”

Her joy was irresistible. Contagious. Lauren smiled back. “I heard. To Luke Fletcher. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. And this is Taylor,” Kate said, drawing the girl to her side.

“Yeah, we’ve met.” Lauren smiled at Meg’s eleven-year-old niece. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks. I have to wear one for the wedding, too. Do you want a sandwich?”

“I would, but—”

“Please stay. We have more than enough,” Tess said.

“Well . . .” She was engulfed by their kindness, swept up by their welcome.

“We’re going to watch a movie,” Taylor said. “I picked it out.”

“What did you pick?” Not
The Hangover
. Taylor was only eleven.
Bridesmaids?

“
Princess Bride.
”

Lauren’s confusion must have shown on her face.

“‘Mawwiage’!” Meg explained. “‘Mawwiage is what bwings us togethew.’”

“‘And wuv,’” Kate said.

“‘Twu wuv,’” caroled Taylor.

Lauren grinned in appreciation. “Got it. Excellent choice.”

“They’re all nuts.” A young black woman in an orchid-colored dress smiled at Lauren. “Hi. Alisha Douglas.”

“And I’m Allison.” A long-stemmed blonde introduced herself. “Matt’s wife. I married into this madness.”

“Nice to meet you both.” Lauren took a breath. She could do this. She wasn’t in disguise anymore. “Lauren Patterson.”

Alisha’s brows rose. “Yeah? Like that hostage girl.”

“Not ‘like,’” Meg said. “She is.”

“Have a plate,” Tess said to Lauren.

“Thanks.” She began to load up, aware of Alisha’s warm brown eyes watching her across the table.

“I saw you on
Dr. Phil
. You look different.”

Lauren took a breath.
Trauma changes you
, she’d told Jack.

Or it can show you who you really are.

“It’s the hair.” Lauren added a cookie to her plate. “What do you do, Alisha?”

“Social worker. Child Protective Services.”

“That’s how we met,” Kate explained. “I’m a family lawyer.”

Blond Allison looked around the table. “Wow. It’s like a family intervention meeting.”