Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (9 page)

He looked around. Sure enough, about a third of the pretty painted tables were occupied, mostly by women, most of them staring.

He liked women, but he was clearly outnumbered. He stuck his thumbs in his jeans, stubbornly standing his ground. “That’s why I’m here. I want to take some measurements while the guys are at lunch. I won’t get in your way.”

She frowned. Hell. She was going to throw him out. “What about your lunch?”

Not throwing him out. Nope. Not at all. She was concerned about him.

Or concerned about having to feed him.
Let’s not lose our heads here
.

He grinned at her. “Tomás is bringing me something. I’m good.”

He was great. He was in. He pulled the tape measure from his pocket, aware of her watching him as he crossed to the far wall, as he stretched to measure the height of the ceiling, as he crouched to run the tape along the floor. He turned,
angling his body for her. Possibly he even flexed a little.
Look all you want, cupcake.

He felt her come up behind him, a subtle rise in temperature, a whiff of cinnamon and sugar floating on the air. He took a deep breath, his muscles swelling for her attention.

“Why are you measuring the whole wall? You said the door wouldn’t take up more than two tables.”

He exhaled.
That’s right, dickhead, she’s watching to make sure you don’t screw up.
“When it’s installed, yeah. But I need to build a frame first to brace the weight of the roof when I take out those windows.”

Her brows pleated. “But you’ll take it down tonight, won’t you? After the door is in?”

She wasn’t busy enough that the loss of a few tables would make a damn bit of difference. But . . . Okay. He could see how it might bother her, having some stranger messing up her space, knocking a hole in her wall. He knew how it felt to have everything you’d worked for wrested away. Maybe she needed reassurance. Maybe she wanted to reassert control.

“I can. Or I can leave it up until the inside wall is finished. If I tack up some plastic, it would keep most of the mess out of your shop.”

Those big gray eyes regarded him gravely. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“Hey, I’m a thoughtful guy.”

Her gaze stayed steady on his. The corners of her mouth curved in a tiny smile. “You know, I think you might be.”

She retreated behind the counter, leaving him stunned and staring after her.

*   *   *

B
Y
THE
TIME
Webber and Tomás were packing to go, the side yard of Jane’s Sweet Tea House resembled the bombed-out rubble of an Iraqi town. Swathes of plastic and rocks covered the ground where the new deck would go. Piles of lumber, dirt, and sand edged the perimeter.

Progress, Gabe thought with satisfaction, stretching his tired muscles.

He wondered if Jane would see it that way.

Webber emerged from the construction trailer. “We’re outta here.”

Tomás waved, pitching an empty water bottle to the ground with the construction debris before heading to the truck.

Gabe thought of Jane’s neat-as-a-pin bakery, the planters bright with flowers on the front porch. Imagined her reaction to trash practically on her doorstep. “Pick it up,” he said quietly.

“What?” Tomás asked.

Gabe sighed. The boy wasn’t much older than Gabe had been when he reported to Parris Island. He jerked his chin, indicating the discarded plastic bottle.

Tomás grinned and scooped it up, shooting it overhead in the direction of the trash can like a basketball player at the buzzer. It rattled to the ground. Close enough.

“Boss says he’ll be by later with the door.” Webber winked. “Have fun tonight.”

The truck rumbled away, giving a wide berth to some kids walking three abreast along the side of the road. On their way home from school, Gabe guessed. They were messing around the way boys do, with large gestures and piping voices that wouldn’t change for at least a few more years.

As Gabe watched, the big boy in the Charlotte Panthers cap said something to the small, skinny one.

The little kid’s hands curled into fists. The third boy bumped his arm, nudging between them. Normal kid stuff, Gabe told himself. Nothing to do with him, nothing he had to get involved in.

Panthers Hat said something else, and the smaller boy dropped his book bag on the grass and lunged, knocking his pal in the middle to the ground. The big kid fended him off, laughing.

Gabe laid his two-by-four on the ground. “Hey, guys.”

The three boys looked over, startled.

“We got a problem here?” Gabe asked.

The kid on the ground scrambled to his feet.

“This little twerp shoved me,” the Panthers fan said.

The little twerp was red-faced and breathing hard, clearly close to tears.

“He hurt you?” Gabe asked.

“Hell, no,” the bigger kid said, affronted.

“Then stop whining. And you . . .” Gabe turned to the skinny boy. This wasn’t his first fight, Gabe observed. He had a fat lip, still scabbing over, and a bruise on his cheek. “What are you, stupid? This kid’s twice your size. He’ll kick your ass.”

“Yeah, twerp,” the big kid said.

Gabe shot him a look.

The kid turned pale. Any second now he’d start bawling for his mother.

Gabe shook his head in self-disgust.
Big tough Marine terrifies nine-year-old boy
. Wouldn’t Officer Clark love to hear that one?

This was why he should never get involved.

The bakery door banged open.

Jane stood on the porch. “Aidan! What happened? Are you all right?”

The skinny boy hung his head, his brown fringe of hair falling in his eyes, his shoulders rising around his ears.

Busted
. All of them.

“He started it,” Panthers Hat muttered.

Yeah, it’s the little kid’s fault,
Gabe wanted to say, but as the only other adult present, he figured that probably wasn’t appropriate. “You know these kids?”

“Ryan Nelson, Christopher Poole, and Aidan.” Jane met his gaze, her soft chin lifting slightly. “Aidan’s my son.”

Her son. Hell.

Gabe looked at the skinny kid with the bangs. “Nice to meet you, Aidan.”

Aidan scowled.

“Does somebody want to tell me what’s going on?” Jane asked.

Aidan cast Gabe a wild look.

Gabe could relate. He remembered—
God
, did he remember—what it was like when the adults around you didn’t understand, when you were always getting into fights, when your own mother was disappointed in you.

Aidan held his gaze, his expression caught between furious and pleading.

Yeah, Gabe remembered.

“Oh, you know,” Gabe said, although he was pretty sure Jane didn’t have a clue. “Just guy stuff.”

J
ANE
LOVED
HER
customers.

But at the end of the day, she wanted them all to go home.

At the table she reserved for the island’s seniors, old Leroy Butler was working his way slowly through a slice of carrot cake and the daily Sudoku. A group of teenagers sprawled around the two four-tops in the corner, pretending to study.

Jane knew they were only here because they didn’t have anything better to do. Nowhere else to go.

Like poor Aidan, settled in the corner, smearing cookie crumbs over his spelling homework.

And, yes, okay, there was that pang. She had built this bakery from—well, from scratch, taking on a terrifying amount of debt to start, working all hours while Aidan napped in his crib or played behind a makeshift barrier of flour sacks. No matter how exhausted she was, or how much Aidan’s presence sometimes interrupted her work, she took a bone-deep satisfaction in knowing that she could keep her baby with her, she could be the mother her own mother had chosen not to be. Jane’s Sweet Tea House was her dream, made in the image of
the home she had yearned for as a child, full of warmth and acceptance and the smell of baking cookies.

She wanted desperately to re-create that mother-child bond, to get it right at last, from the other side. But the older Aidan got, the less confident she was. Jane had no model for how to be a mother to a growing boy now that hanging out at the bakery with Mom wasn’t cool anymore.

Other children had parents who worked, of course. Christopher’s mom was a teacher, his dad, Jimmy, a park ranger. Cynthie Lodge, another single mom on the island, had two kids, held down two jobs, and was going to school for an associate’s degree in dental hygiene. So, yes, Wonder Woman. But then, Cynthie could count on her boyfriend’s support and her mother’s help.

Travis hadn’t liked it when Jane started working.
Your job is taking care of me
, he had said, his eyes glittering.
All of a sudden that’s not good enough for you?

At the time, with bills stacking up and the eyes of the town on her, she had really believed she didn’t have a choice. They needed the money.

But there was no escaping the fact that Jane’s job had contributed to their marital problems.

Maybe her dreams were selfish. Maybe Travis had sensed even then that there was a small part of Jane that wanted to escape what her life had become, that was relieved to slip out of their apartment every day to wash dishes and scrub vegetables in the Brunswick’s kitchen. Maybe he realized that her job gave her a measure of freedom, a sense of worth. She knew he resented it when she started to bring home more money than he did.

And maybe Lauren was right, and the nights when Travis drank too much and exploded had nothing to do with Jane, with what she did or didn’t do.

Jane topped off Leroy’s coffee and straightened, her free hand rubbing the small of her back.

Thank goodness for her dad. Maybe Hank wasn’t very good at hugging or talking or doing laundry or braiding hair. But
he took Jane in when Travis left them, right after Aidan was born. When she got up at four in the morning to go to the bakery, when she worked late at night, when she drove to the mainland to deliver someone’s wedding cake, he never complained about watching his grandson.

Today, though, Hank’s shift didn’t end until five, and Jane was closing alone.

Or not closing.

Not exactly alone, either.

The bells over the door jangled, and Gabe strode in, bringing the smells of the outside with him.

She shivered in awareness.

He cocked his head, his long hair free around his lean face. “You ready for me?”

Her mouth dried. The rest of her flooded with heat.
So ready. Not ready. What was the question again?

“I can get started anytime.” Gabe smiled. “Sam dropped off your door.”

Of course. The door. Her construction project. Jane pulled herself together. “I still have customers.”

Gabe spared a glance toward the tables of teens, Leroy with his newspaper, Aidan with his homework. “Looks to me like you’re subsidizing study hall.”

“I don’t mind,” she said honestly. “It doesn’t cost me anything to have them here. As long as there aren’t paying customers waiting for a table.”

He stuck his thumbs into his belt loops. “You still have to pay rent.”

He’d surprised her. Again. Most people assumed that buying a cookie or a cup of coffee entitled them to sit in the shop all day.

“There’s not much for teenagers to do on the island in the off-season. No malls. No multiplexes.”

“They’ve got a whole beach right on their doorstep.”

“It’s still too cold to swim without a wetsuit. At least here they’re warm and with their friends. Hey, Leroy.” She turned
to smile at the older man. “Can I box up that leftover cake for you?”

Leroy Butler shook his head. “Didn’t leave anything but crumbs today.”

“Then how about a cookie to take home? On me.”

“That would be real nice. Thanks.” Leroy glanced at Gabe. “Everything all right?”

The old sweetheart. He was looking out for her. She patted his arm. “Everything’s fine. Gabe here is doing a little work for me.” She handed Leroy the bag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“So do you babysit the whole island?” Gabe asked when Leroy had left. “Or just everybody who comes in?”

“Leroy lost his wife right before Thanksgiving,” Jane explained. “Emphysema. He needs a cookie every now and then.”

Gabe shook his head, smiling. “You’re something, you know that?”

That’s what Travis used to say.
Jesus, Janey, you are really something.
But the words sounded different coming from Gabe.

His gaze warmed. “There it is,” he murmured.

“What?” She swiped self-consciously at her face. Flour? Chocolate?

“Your smile.”

“Oh.” She pressed her fingers to her hot cheeks.

“When you smile . . .” The look in his eyes warmed her all the way through. “You’ve got a great smile.”

“My dad says I have my mother’s smile,” Jane said before she stopped to think.

“Your mom must be a real pretty woman, then.”

Oh
. She just
melted
at the compliment, her insides as gooey as chocolate. Which was exactly the kind of reaction that would get her into trouble. “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen her in years.”

“How old were you when she . . . ?”

“Left us? Eight.” Six months older than Aidan.

“That’s rough.”

“It’s fine.” She was fine. She was over it. She wasn’t that confused child anymore, so hungry for attention, so desperate to be needed, that she would jump into another reckless relationship with another unsuitable guy.

“Still . . . Eight years old.” Gabe glanced at Aidan, bent over his spelling words in the corner. “That’s pretty young to be on your own.”

“I wasn’t on my own. Dad used to make me go to our neighbors’ house after school. I had to beg him to let me stay home alone.”

She had been so scared, she remembered. So determined to prove to her father that she could be trusted, that she wouldn’t let him down.

That she wasn’t like her mother.

“We had rules,” she said, counting them off on her fingers. “No friends over, ever. No going out, no answering the door. Homework first, only one hour of television, and call him in an emergency.”

His mouth twitched. “Sounds boring.”

“I wasn’t bored. Lonely sometimes.”
Shoot
. She hadn’t meant to say that.

“So you taught yourself to bake.”

She blinked, surprised by his perception. “Yes. Well, not all at once. At first, I just wanted to make dinner.”

But her efforts had seemed to make her father happy. She, Jane Clark, could make people happy with her food. It was a revelation. After that, she never wanted to do anything else.

“Ever burn the house down?”

She shook her head. “I was always careful.” Which made her sound totally dull and meek and unexciting. Not that she was looking for excitement, she told herself. Oh, no.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I can heat soup from a can,” Gabe offered.

“That sounds very . . .” Words failed her.

“Healthy?”

“Efficient,” she said.

He grinned. “That’s nothing. You should see me order pizza.”

An answering smile tugged her lips, and just like that, his green-and-gold eyes went dark as molasses.
When you smile
 . . .

Oh, God.

She tugged the end of her braid, as if she could yank some sense into her head. “Actually, I wasn’t asking about your cooking skills.”

He looked interested. Like,
interested
interested. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean . . .” Her tongue tangled. What was she asking? What was she thinking? It wasn’t like they were friends. He was here to work on her enclosure, not swap stories of their childhoods.

“Go ahead. Ask.” His eyes met hers.
Definite interest
. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

She gazed at him helplessly, her heart thudding with possibilities.

Why are you helping me?

Did you really kill a man in a bar fight?

Do you want to have sex?

No, no, no
. She cleared her throat. “Tell me about you.”

“I grew up in Brightmoor. That’s Detroit,” he added in response to her obviously blank look. “Shitty neighborhood. Not much home life generally. Lucky for me, my uncle took me in.”

She tried to recall what Sam had said. “Is he the one who taught you to be a carpenter?” she guessed, ridiculously pleased when he nodded.

Gabe nodded. “Uncle Chuck. My mom’s brother. He took me around in his truck with him, kept me off the streets and out of trouble. Mostly.” His grin flashed, making nerves all over her body tingle. “I would have landed in jail a lot sooner if it weren’t for Uncle Chuck. He was a great guy.”

Ignore the tingling. Remember the jail part. Don’t be stupid.
“Was?” she repeated.

“He died of this massive stroke. When I was seventeen.” Gabe’s voice scraped as if he hadn’t used it in a while. As if he were sharing things with her that he didn’t usually say.

As if maybe her telling her story had made it possible for him to tell his, the way friends do.

Jane caught herself. This was wishful thinking, the kind of stupid fantasizing that got her into trouble. Seeing things in people that weren’t really there. Making up a relationship in her head based on yearning and attraction instead of reality.

“We were on a job together, fixing some rotten windows,” Gabe said. “Uncle Chuck didn’t feel so good, so I went up on the ladder.” There was still that trace of . . . something in his voice, deep and intimate. “He made this sound . . .” Gabe broke off, and Jane’s heart broke a little, too. “Nothing they could do, the doctors said.”

“I am so sorry.”

Gabe shrugged, so much like Aidan when he was pretending not to care that she wanted to put her arms around him and give him a big hug. Rub his back. Kiss the top of his head, his cheek, his . . .

Except he wasn’t Aidan, and she was an idiot. “You must miss him very much,” she said softly.

“Miss him. Missed having a job.”

“So instead of being a contractor, you decided to join the Marines.”

His face closed. “Something like that. Yeah.”

“How did your parents feel about that? Your mother?”

He gave her a funny look. Jane flushed. Because, yes, dumb question. What mother alive wanted her son to get shot at?

“She was fine with it.” He looked at the big wall clock hanging above the wedding cake display. “Aren’t you supposed to kick everybody out now?”

Subject closed, his tone said. End of discussion.

Okay.

She should have been relieved. She had Aidan and her
bakery. She had freedom and security. She wasn’t jeopardizing those for a man again.

Gabe Murphy was a threat to her in ways that had nothing to do with his broad shoulders and big hands, his muscled arms and history of violence. He made her feel things. Want things. That liquid tug of sympathy, those flashes of understanding, were more seductive to her than sex.

Not that she would turn down sex, if he offered.

That is, she would, of course she would, but . . .

Crap
. Heat swept her face.

Gabe stood watching her with that unreadable expression, a glint in his eyes that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

She couldn’t begin to guess what he was thinking.

Just as well, Jane acknowledged. Because her own thoughts scared her enough.

*   *   *

G
ABE
PRIED
THE
big double window from its frame. Son of a bitch must weigh three hundred pounds. Getting it out was a two-man job. But there was just him. Unless he counted Jane, inside doing some kind of prep work in the kitchen. And her son, taking half-assed shots at a rusty basketball rim attached to a pole by the carport. Outside its shadow, the dog dozed in the late afternoon sun.