Half Moon Harbor (36 page)

By the time he'd graduated and taken over operations on the island full-time after Dr. Pelletier had taken ill, Ford had figured out every last detail of how the tree house would be constructed. Multileveled at the core, then spread out through a sturdy group of perfectly matched pine, naturally spaced, so as not to overly burden any one of them. It had taken him eighteen months, and that was with a mild Maine winter in the midst of it. He'd added to it over the ensuing years, with connected outbuildings, most connected by a combination of decking and rope bridges, others only by swing rope. He'd hewn every log, driven every nail, so he knew every last nook and cranny. It was his aerie and his bunker. It had given him the one thing he'd known he needed to survive—the freedom to feel completely safe for the first time in his life.

Even his safe haven couldn't save him from the entirely different set of images that flashed through his mind as he stood under the tree canopy. Images he'd kept tightly sealed, away from all conscious and subconscious thought. They weren't filled with horror, weren't the seeds of endless nightmares suffered while asleep and while wide awake.

No, he'd kept these particular memories under lock and key for entirely different reasons. Polar opposite reasons. He'd learned to live with his past, with the things he'd done. He'd made a certain kind of peace with himself, a deal of sorts, that he was giving back, balancing a score that could never be measured, much less rectified. It was carefully constructed with the knowledge that his work was where he funneled whatever passion he had left in him, where he gave whatever might resemble a heart, if not a soul. It was the only place he could allow himself the luxury of caring, of wanting, of being needed or necessary to something other than himself.

The flip side of that deal was that he'd never allow those same parts of himself to be touched by another person. He would never let someone in, allow them to rely on him, to need him, or, God help him, want him. He'd most definitely made certain he'd never want those things for himself. He didn't deserve them, for one, and he sure as hell hadn't earned the right to them.

Images of that long-ago night roared in—the storm lashing the windows of the small rooms above the tiny restaurant on the other side of Half Moon Harbor, the lightning strikes illuminating the walls, the twisted linens on the fold-out bed . . . and the woman astride him, gloriously naked, her red hair glowing in the light flashes like some kind of flaming, otherworldly halo. She was completely unapologetic about taking her pleasure from him, wrenching his release in return. Mother Nature relentlessly pounded the shores of the harbor, unleashing her fury, while the two of them pounded just as relentlessly against each other as if the delirious pleasure of release could somehow liberate them from the ripping grief threatening to drown them both.

Delia, sinking because she'd lost her brother, her only sibling, her only anchor. And Ford, going under because he'd known even then that his grip on what made him human, maybe his grip on his very soul, had already begun to slip away. Tommy was gone . . . yet Ford had been left to live another day so he could take more Tommys from the world, so he could cast more families into the devastating throes of grief he was witnessing firsthand on Delia's beautiful, heartbroken face.

She'd been gone when he'd woken up the next morning. When he'd made his way downstairs, she'd already been hustling in the kitchen. Her grandmother had been the one to push his breakfast plate onto the bar, her expression neither open nor shut, but simply vacant. She'd lost a grandson . . . but there was work to be done, one foot in front of the other. Delia hadn't so much as looked his way, so he'd stayed out of hers. He'd eaten his breakfast, paid the bill, said his good-byes . . . and gone back to hell.

He'd returned to the Cove nine years later far more broken and damaged than he'd had any awareness was even possible. He wasn't even sure why he'd ended up there, except . . . there just hadn't been . . . anywhere else to go.

Delia had her own place by then, her grandmother having gone on to her peaceful reward and their old restaurant having burned down. She hadn't seemed all that surprised to see him. Her eyes were the color of the deep, sparkling sea and her hair still a fiery halo. Her grin seemed more naughty angel than pure, but he'd noticed straight off that it was a natural part of her, simply how she took in the world around her . . . not something private, something reserved specially for him. She'd asked after him, friendly, sincere, caring, and yet quite clearly one step back, all the while looking into his face, into his eyes, and finding far more there than he'd wanted her to find. He'd been unable to hide from her the way he'd long since learned to shield himself from everyone else.

He'd known then that while the Cove had felt like the only safe harbor he knew, Delia O'Reilly could be part of that safe place only as past memories. The kind that needed to stay in the past. She never mentioned that night, and he'd been quite content to leave it at that. He'd eventually moved out to the island and turned his attention forward, always careful not to look back.

He heard the ping from the other side of the door he'd left open behind him and headed back inside, up to his office, drawn inexorably to the screen, feeling fate wrapping its long, clever fingers around his neck . . . except the tightness he felt was in his chest. He sat down, intending to find the words to explain to Grace that while he understood her concern, and appreciated her trying to help Delia, that he wasn't going to be of any help, not because he wasn't willing so much as he had no help to give. Only instead of typing, his fingers closed into fists instead as he read the words on the screen.

She reached out to help me before she even knew me. Because she cared enough about you to want you to have what you really needed. Family. We both should have listened to her then. We both need to help her have what she really needs now.

He reread Grace's latest message, unable to find a single thing that wasn't perfectly true with what she was saying. Another ping came, making him almost viscerally flinch. Memories, so long held at bay, roared in like thundering waves, breaching any and all walls, drowning his futile attempts to block them. Not just of that night, but of all the long mornings, afternoons, evenings, he'd sat in her diner, wallowing in the energy, the vitality, the
life
of her very presence. Her smile, her loud laugh, listening as she alternately goaded a smile out of a gruff fisherman or a grudging apology from a short-tempered townie. He'd lost count of the number of times she'd leant an ear, offered a hug or a free meal, scolded, sympathized, lectured, loved, bussed cheeks, and even pinched the occasional ass. Dozens, hundreds of moments he hadn't even been aware were there for the recalling.

Through the torrent, he read Grace's final message. This one was simply a cut and paste of a news story in the local Cove newspaper. He clicked on it, trying—failing—to keep his mind blank, open, and noncommittal.

He skimmed the article, and the tight clutch of dread in his gut was replaced with two fists clenched in anger.
Hasn't she lost enough in her life?
“He has every other goddamn thing. Why can't he just leave her the fuck alone?”

The
he
in this instance was Brooks Winstock. Descended from one of the oldest families in the Cove, he owned most of it and was richer than Croesus. He wanted Delia's diner. Or more specifically, the piece of prime harbor front property it sat on . . . for, of all things, a yacht club.

What in the fresh hell would Blueberry Cove do with a damn yacht club? It was a town with a three-hundred-year legacy of lobster fisherman, shipbuilders, and sailors. Hardly the yacht-club type.

The diner, he knew, just as Brooks Winstock damn well knew, was all she had. Not just to earn a living. It was the center and focus of the rich full life she'd carved out for herself with her own blood, sweat, and tears. She loved that life, and the town loved her right back. She had earned the right to enjoy it. Delia's was a Cove landmark . . . the diner and its colorful, saucy, outspoken owner.

Ford couldn't imagine her taking it lightly or well, much less going quietly. If he hadn't been so pissed off, the image of her taking on Winstock might have gotten what passed as a smile out of him.

He punched the screen dark, then went back down the ladder, stalked to the other side of the kitchen, grabbed his boat keys from the hook of the pot buoy attached to the wall, and took the fast exit, shimmying down the knotted rope to the forest floor below. He was halfway down the path that led to the only pier on the island before he realized what the hell he was doing.
Just what in the hell
are
you doing?

“Dammit, Grace,” he muttered again as he unknotted the ropes and jumped onboard the old lobster boat he'd bought off Blue years before and kept running with a combination of spit and sheer power of will.

So, he'd been wrong. There were apparently two people in the world he couldn't say no to.
Not that Delia asked me to stick my nose in her business.

In fact, he'd be lucky if she didn't bite it off and hand it back to him, wrapped neatly in a take-out box. Hell, he wasn't even sure what he thought he could do. But he'd stayed on the sidelines once before in his life. Every time he looked into Grace's pretty hazel eyes, he knew what his choice had cost her. He might not be able to do a damn thing to help Delia, but sitting on the sidelines wasn't going to be an option.

God help us all.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

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Copyright © 2014 Donna Kauffman

 

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-9279-7

 

 

 

First Electronic Edition: May 2014

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9280-3
ISBN-10: 0-7582-9280-5