Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (22 page)

A balding, portly man in a blue uniform shirt and dark work pants set his sledgehammer down and smiled. “Hi, Missy. I’m Jackson, and this is my son Oscar.”
 

The tall, lanky young man named Oscar wore a white t-shirt and gray shorts. He kept his head down, and his stringy brown hair covered his eyes. He shuffled his feet and waved, barely. She supposed that was code for hello in his world.

She faced Jackson and gave him a curt nod, hoping to establish that she wasn’t in the mood for a bunch of nonsense. “Sam Carlisle.”

“Please to meet you, Miss Carlisle. We’re here to install the elevator Mr. Knight ordered a couple of weeks ago. He said if his vehicle wasn’t in the driveway we should begin our work, and he’d touch base with us later.” Jackson looked over at Sam’s truck. “That ain’t what Mr. Knight drives, so I figured we’d just get to work. We’ll be done with the downstairs portion today. It don’t take all that long, but tomorrow we’re gonna need to get into that utility closet by the laundry room and that loft area with all the bookcases on the top floor.”

An elevator. Brock was installing an elevator in the guest quarters without even telling her? He obviously had no intentions of renovating the guest quarters so she could move down there like they’d talked about.
 

The thought of an elevator sent a shiver down her spine—closed tight space, no fresh air, potential for malfunction and being trapped inside. She preferred to take the stairs, avoided tall buildings, and always asked for a room on the lower level of hotels.
 

Sam stared at Jackson until he started fidgeting like he was uncomfortable. She stepped back. “Fine. If I need to leave the house before you get here tomorrow, I’ll put the key in a conch shell by the door.” She would make damn sure to be out of the house when he got there. In fact, she might be moving out tonight.

She headed back upstairs and heard footsteps behind her.
 

“Ma’am. Ma’am.”

She turned around and eyed a skinny guy about fifty years old wearing white coveralls splattered with paint. He reeked of paint thinner. She looked out toward the road and saw a work van. “Pete’s Paint” was lettered on the side of the van.
 

“Let me guess. You’re Pete, and you’re here to paint the house.”
 

“Yep. Is Mr. Knight in?”

“No. Mr. Knight is not in, and I don’t know where he is or when he’ll be back.”

“I see. That’s fine. No problem. I can go ahead and start. I just wanted to be sure the color was what he wanted. It’s dead on to the sample he chose, so I feel sure it’s right. I just make it policy to swatch it on an exterior wall and give the customer a chance to see it in natural light before I paint the whole house. It’s always better to be safe than sorry.” The man scratched at the dried paint on his hands and looked at her like he expected her to say something.

“What color did he pick out?” She had to admit, the high-lighter yellow hue the house currently sported wasn’t her favorite shade.

“If you don’t mind stepping out to the van, I’ll show you.” Pete led the way.

She followed him. He pulled a can of paint from the back of his van and opened it. Navy blue. A hazy, grayish, navy blue. It was dark. Really dark. It didn’t go with the bright colors of the neighborhood. It looked too...serious.
 

She hated it. “No. No. That’s almost black.” She couldn’t let Brock paint the house that color. “Would it be too much trouble to lighten it?”

Pete took off his ball cap and wiped his brow. “It wouldn’t be too much trouble, but to get every gallon the exact same shade I’d have to take it all back to the store and alter the formula, but basically all I’d have to do is add more white. Let me do a test run now and have you look at it, and tell me what you think.”

“Don’t you need to wait for Mr. Knight’s approval?”

“When did you say he’d be back?”

“I didn’t. He’s left town.”

Pete twisted his mouth. “I’m on a tight schedule. I’m going to take my chances with you. I think this dark blue is too dark myself. I agree with you that it needs to be lighter. Look around. No one has a dark colored house on the island. Tell you what, you help me find a nice shade, and I’ll go with that. If Mr. Knight decides he doesn’t like it, I’ll repaint without charge. Most times it’s the woman who chooses the color anyhow. If you ain’t happy with it, he’ll never be happy with it.” Pete started mixing up a new batch of paint right there in the back of his van.

When he added enough white to turn the navy to a Carolina blue, Sam stopped him. "That’s perfect."

“That there’s Tar Heel blue. Mr. Knight a Carolina fan?”

“Yes. Die hard.” Sam didn’t know if Brock was a loyal sports fan to Carolina, State, or Duke, but she loved the color, and no one else on the island had painted their house that shade, so Carolina blue it was. She couldn’t wait to see the transformation.

Pete pulled out another gallon and opened the lid. “Still want the doors painted this gray color?”
 

She looked down at the liquid version of cement. “No. That’s ugly. Let’s go with some of that navy instead.”

“Navy door on a Carolina blue house with white trim...that’ll look nice. You got good taste. I bet money he’s gonna love it.” He sat a couple gallons of navy paint on the carport. “I’ll be back in about an hour. A house this size takes about a week if I do it by myself, but tomorrow a couple of guys will be joining me. We’ll have this thing knocked out in three days.”

Would Brock be back before the work was completed? She didn’t know, but since he wasn’t around, as far as she was concerned, she was in charge. It felt good to be the queen. Bwahaha. Served him right.

BROCK LOOKED OUT the window of the plane, the expanse of green below tugged at his heart. As frustrated as the paparazzi in Wales made him, the land had the opposite effect on him. He had fond childhood memories of visiting his grandmother during summers. The grassy knoll where he’d rolled downhill as a child, laughing, racing his brother to the bottom. The sheep in the meadow, their furry, cloud-like coats dotted across the lush emerald countryside so vast it seemed endless. The castles near the coast, their stony exteriors standing strong against the wind and water for centuries. The pubs, where young and old gathered on any given night of the week for jovial conversation. Poetry being recited by townspeople of various professions from the brick mason to the scholar. The melodic speech of the Welsh who preserved the language of their ancestors while embracing English, every sign bilingual—Welsh listed first.
 

Born and raised in England, his heritage differed from the majority of his friends, but he shared their desire to preserve the landscape and honor Welsh traditions. No, he was not Welsh per se, but his grandmother had moved there when she was a teen as he did decades later. Wales was a part of him now, a part he didn’t wish to forget.
 

A bitter-sweetness filled him. Coming home meant immersing himself in the community that praised him and stifled him at the same time. So many friends with whom he’d shared wonderful experiences lived in and around Cardiff. He looked forward to seeing them.
 

He didn’t look forward to seeing the disappointment in their eyes as they poured on the sympathy and lamented about the fact he could no longer play rugby. He didn’t look forward to hearing about how his team had hit a losing streak since he retired. And he certainly didn’t look forward to the paparazzi hiding with camera in hand, at the ready to snap his picture and broadcast it, no matter how inappropriate the photo might be.
 

And above all, he dreaded becoming the rabid dog of a man he knew he'd become once his privacy was demolished by reporters. He'd left Cardiff because frustration and anger had made him someone he didn't want to be.

His mother was in the hospital, and paparazzi would be lurking around the perimeter, hoping to catch sight of an emotional moment. He’d faced their invasive onslaught when his grandmother died. The mob at the funeral, staring at him, each reporter and photographer wanting to be the one to capture a tear sliding down his cheek, a heartfelt moment to cash in on.

His connection with his grandmother had been strong. The connection he shared with his mother was quite different. Yes, he was concerned for her well-being, and he wished no harm to befall her. But that didn’t mean he harbored the same affection toward her as he had for his grandmother.
 

Sadly, he felt quite detached from the gravity of the situation, which left him ashamed, ashamed that when he considered the possible outcome of her stroke, he wasn’t stricken with intense concern. It was the kind of concern one would feel toward a distant relative one had spent little time with. At least it was a sincere concern, a desire to see the relative make a full recovery, the hope that there would be no paralysis or brain damage, and the wish that their lives would be spared.
 

But this was his mother. He should be unraveling at that thought of what may happen to her.
 

He wasn’t.
 

He was unraveling, as he wondered if Sam had called, texted, or emailed him yet, since he hadn’t been able to check his phone on the plane.

He barely knew Sam. The woman who brought him into this world was fighting for her life. What sort of selfish, heartless bastard had he become? No matter how little affection his mother had shown him as a child, he was a grown man now, not a little boy who needed the warmth of a mother. He should have a more visceral reaction to the situation. Shouldn’t he?
 

His nerves were frayed. He was eager to disembark the plane, turn his cell phone back on, and check his voicemail. An hour had passed since he’d checked it while switching planes at the terminal in London. It was approximately 2100 in North Carolina. Surely Sam had called him or emailed him by now.
 

As Brock walked toward the terminal after exiting the plane in Cardiff, he saw his brother Graeme standing on the other side of the window. He could tell by Graeme’s grave expression, things were not going well. He entered the small waiting area of Gate 12B, and Graeme rushed to his side.

“Welcome home, brother.” Graeme didn’t bother with a smile. The dark circles under his bloodshot, brown eyes, and the ragged sound of his voice indicated he needed rest. His muscular frame was slouched, and his chestnut hair fell in messy waves about his angular face. In a rumpled, plaid button-down and loose fitting jeans, he reminded Brock of someone who’d partied too hard the night before, but Brock knew that was far from the truth.

“Thank you. How’s Mum?” Brock half expected dreadful news. There was such somberness in the way Graeme hesitated to respond, as if he were at a loss for words. Maybe he was just struggling to gather his thoughts from a brain that had turned to mush due to sleep deprivation.

“She’s pulled through, but had a rough go of it.” Graeme scrubbed a hand over his face. “The right side of her mouth is droopy, and her speech is difficult to comprehend, but the doctor said all her vital signs are good.”
 

Brock said, “She’s a strong woman.” They walked toward the baggage claim area. A group of women were clustered together by the gift shop. Two of the women pointed toward Brock and whispered to one another.
 

Bollocks
. He’d been spotted.

Graeme nudged him and said, “Go hide in the loo. I’ll get your luggage.”

A few minutes later, Graeme entered the restroom with Brock’s suitcases in hand. “Here you are. I’ll distract the ladies. Disguise yourself and go to the car park. I’m parked near the ticket booth.”

Brock quickly rummaged through his luggage, stuffed a wad of clothes under his shirt, and tucked his shirt in. He threw on a hoodie and zipped it up, hood pulled over his head, sunglasses on. He peeped around the doorway of the restroom and eyed Graeme, who waved his arms in animated conversation as he held the women’s attention.
 

Suitcases in hand, Brock made a run for it—out the door and into the car park, zeroing in on Graeme’s old white Passat. He tossed his suitcases in the backseat, and jumped in, panting and sweating. His sunglasses had steamed up, and he ripped them off his face.
 

How long would it be before the paparazzi got wind he was back in town? An hour? Five minutes? Would they already be staking out the hospital, anticipating his return?

WHEN THEY ARRIVED at the hospital it was drizzling. About a dozen members of the paparazzi huddled under umbrellas stationed around the perimeter beneath street lamps. Brock decided to leave his disguise on and hoped it would be enough.
 

Graeme dropped him off a block away from the hospital. As Brock approached the hospital’s back entrance, he thought about his childhood and tried to remember a time when he felt close to his mother. He had no memory of such a moment. He decided it was time to change that. His mother may not be capable of it, but he needed to try to reach out to her while he had the chance.

He made it into the hospital without being spotted. Graeme had written his mother’s room number on a piece of paper. Brock pulled that piece of paper out of his pocket and read it again. Room 323. He took the stairs to the third floor, then walked to the room.

Graeme leaned against the wall just outside the room door. He pushed himself away from the wall as Brock neared and said, “You made it. Security is keeping the paparazzi off this floor, so you’re safe here.”

Brock removed his hoodie and the extra clothing stuffed under his shirt. He placed the ball of clothes inside the hoodie, zipped it up, and tied the sleeves together. As he entered the room, he placed the bundle of clothes on the floor near the doorway.

The room was painted white, but appeared to be gray due to the dim light filtering through the closed blinds. His mother slept with oxygen tubes in her nostrils and an IV drip attached to the back of her hand. She had no color in her cheeks at all, and her hair seemed more salt than pepper since the last time he’d seen her.