Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (30 page)

“Aye,” Nora said. “But isn’t that how she finally succeeded in getting Sister Bernadette canonized?”

“Your grandmother got a nun canonized?” J.T. asked.

“She did,” Nora answered. “Tell him the story, Mary.”

He could tell Mary was frustrated by the way her sister had sidetracked the conversation, but apparently not wanting to start an argument, she complied. “The entire time I was growing up, even before I was born, she pretty much dedicated herself to getting Sister Bernadette Mary—a Sisters of Mercy nun who’d worked to bring about peace during the Anglo-Irish War for independence—declared a saint. Sister Bernadette had been killed by the Black and Tans.”

She’d been looking out the window during the drive, but now she turned toward him. “How much do you know about the sainthood process?”

“I must’ve missed catechism class the day that was taught, so pretty much next to nothing.”

“Well, an important part of the judicial process is to document a candidate’s life, holy works, and, most importantly, to provide proof of two miracles.”

“While the first two parts were easy, it was the miracles that were difficult,” Nora said. “Especially since the bishop at the time was no fan of women becoming saints and kept refusing to pass Gram’s documents to the Vatican’s Congregation for the Causes of Saints. She used to always complain that the only thing that would impress him would be a modern-day repeat of the wine-at-the-wedding miracle.”

“She’d always said if Bernadette could only make whiskey flow out of the bishop’s water tap, he’d recommend her before you could say Bushmills malt,” Mary remembered.

And although her eyes were still heartbreakingly
sad, that memory caused a faint curving of her lips. She reached over and for the first time since that phone call from Nora, it was she who took J.T.’s hand.

“But she finally got her second one after a person in Ulster, who’d claimed to have been cured of leukemia, went thirteen years without a relapse.” Nora jumped back into the conversation. “Apparently ten years is required to even be considered for a cancer cure.”

Although J.T. found that all a little bit off-the-wall, no way was he going to criticize what sounded like a good woman taking on a David-versus-Goliath cause, which had to take a lot of guts.

“To tell the truth, I think the real miracle was getting Gran’s case past all those men in the Vatican,” Mary said, showing that, once again, their thoughts were going in the same direction. “And getting back to her illness, how did bronchitis end her up on life support?”

“Apparently it turned into some sort of viral, fast-acting pneumonia that’s resistant to antibiotics. But why don’t we let John and Erin explain that?” Quinn suggested mildly. “Since they’re her doctors.”

Although he could tell Mary wasn’t happy with that idea, neither did she argue. Instead, she just leaned back against the seat and looked out the window as silence settled like fog over the car.

As the road twisted through a maze of hedgerow-separated fields, over narrow stone bridges, past whitewashed, slate-roofed houses, peat bogs, and cottages, which, even in these modern times, still possessed iconic thatched roofs, J.T. understood why
Sax had always been so charmed by the country of their mother’s roots.

They passed the sign welcoming them to Castle-lough—home to the legendary Lady of the Lake. A second sign proclaimed the village to be the sister city of Shelter Bay, Oregon, America.

The tidy, medieval town of Castlelough, with its brightly painted shops reflecting optimism in this land of soft days and rainy nights, reminded J.T. of his hometown. If he and Mary had been here for any other occasion, he would have been charmed.

The hospital had, Nora told him as Quinn pulled into the car park, once been a workhouse. Before Quinn had settled in Ireland, townspeople had been required to drive to the district hospital in Enniscorthy. Apparently scaring the bejesus out of people with his horror novels paid very well, because the author had provided the seed funds for Castlelough to have its own medical facility. Taking in the gleaming white building with its tall Palladian windows, J.T. decided Mary’s brother-in-law undoubtedly also contributed a bunch to its operation.

And not just Quinn, he noticed as they entered a lobby that had been painted in a buttery yellow he imagined would look like sunshine year-round. A small bronze plaque on the wall listed Mary as one of the hospital’s patrons and a member of the board of directors.

Which was readily apparent by the warmth in how she was greeted by the nurses at the front desk. Not as some local girl who’d gone away and become rich and famous, but still one of them.

They were walking down a hallway lined with photographs of Irish scenery, which by now J.T. was guessing had been taken by Michael Joyce, when Nora paused and turned to her sister.

“Please,” she said, “be gentle. Because as hard as this is on all of us, it’s been ten times as difficult for John.”

Mary’s face was as pale as the whitewash on the cottages they’d passed. “I don’t doubt that,” she said, her voice tight. “Which is why he has to save her.”

Back home in Shelter Bay, unaware of the drama taking place with Mary Joyce, Phoebe had taken the day off Maddy had given the kitchen staff and was spending it with Ethan.

“It was so wonderful,” she was telling him, as they strolled on the wet sand between the surf and the cliff. Evening fog had come in, which, to her mind, only added to the romanticism.

“You were wonderful,” he said.

Not wanting to let her out of his sight, he’d stayed in the new kitchen Chef Madeline had designed and Lucas had built. At first she’d been nervous, with him watching her, as if she’d been performing for an audience of one. But then, as she got into the rhythm she’d been taught, she’d almost forgotten he was there.

“I’ll bet once the execs at the Cooking Network see that video, they’ll want to spin you off onto your own show.”

She laughed at his exaggeration, even as she felt so happy, she could float right up to the sky. “Hardly. But we did keep service running smoothly, just the way Chef Maddy taught us.”

Not once had the staff of women from Haven House allowed any of the buffet servers to go empty. Phoebe knew that part of their diligence had been a lingering fear of imperfection, which many, if not most, might never completely overcome. But she also knew that the main reason for the successful reception had been the pride they’d all achieved. Pride that had once been cruelly stripped away.

“You know what?”

He smiled down at her, his heart in his eyes and on his sleeve. “What?”

“At first I was nervous with you in the kitchen.” She’d learned that she could share her insecurities without having them be used against her. She’d also learned, by saying them out loud, they no longer possessed as much power. “But then I felt proud to have you see how far I’ve come since I was that terrified mess the day you first showed up at the house.”

“Not a mess.” Taking her hand, he helped her over a log that had fallen from the top of the eroded cliff. “You were so beautiful, you stopped my heart.” He put the hand that wasn’t holding hers over his chest, as if to make his point.

“I was too thin, I shook like a leaf in the wind, and my face was bruised.”

“You weren’t as strong as you are now,” he allowed. “But you were special. So much so, you frightened me to death.”

“Me?” She stopped and stared up at him. “How on earth could I have scared you?”

He might be a farmer now, but she’d immediately sensed the strength and power that lay beneath the surface. The steely core that had made him a good
Marine. The same strength that had allowed him to overcome such personal tragedy.

“Because I knew I was going to fall in love with you. And I wasn’t certain I could ever be so lucky to have a woman like you love me back.”

“Oh, Ethan.” Her eyes misted as her arms lifted up to twine around his neck. “Don’t you know?” She went up on her toes. “I’m the lucky one.”

Just as her lips touched his, there was a loud sound, like a firecracker going off on the beach. Or a car backfiring, Phoebe thought.

Until she saw the bright red stain blossoming on Ethan’s chest.

He cursed. A rough, harsh curse she’d never heard from him. And then, as his legs began to fold, he said, “Call 911. Tell them you’re on Moonshell Beach. And while you’re calling, Phoebe, run. Run like hell.”

“I won’t leave you!” She was looking around, frantically trying to get her bearings and see where the shot had come from as she struggled to hold him up. But he was so heavy. And the blood was flowing all over her hands. “You need to come with me, Ethan. So we can get you to a hospital.”

He yanked her hands from his arms. “Dammit, this isn’t any fucking time to argue.” Another word she’d never, ever heard escape his lips. Lips that had turned the color of the whitecaps. “Don’t worry about me. Just run.”

That said, he collapsed onto the wet sand at her feet, atop a pile of tangled green kelp.

As she’d feared when she’d seen that blood on Ethan’s shirt, Peter came walking out of the swirling fog, an ugly black pistol in his hands. He was, inexplicably, dressed like Johnny Depp’s Captain Sparrow.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he said.

“The police are looking for you, Peter,” Phoebe said. “You’ll never get away with this.”

“Of course I will.” He was calm. Seemingly reasonable. Insane. Or maybe, she thought as she glanced down at Ethan, unconscious at her feet, purely evil.

“I have two passports back at the inn.” When her eyes widened at that, he smiled. “Yes, the Whale Song. Where I’ve been able to keep a close eye on you and your dirt farmer.” He kicked Ethan with the toe of his black pirate boot. “You realize I have to kill him. For putting his hands on you.”

“That would make you a murderer,” Phoebe said. She stepped toward him, stopping when she heard the quick, deadly click of the pistol. “He’s nothing to me. I’ll go with you, Peter. Right now. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

“And where have I heard that before?” He cocked his head. “I remember. Right before you had me arrested.”

“You shot an elderly lady,” she reminded him.

“Because she got in my damn way!” The gun was steady, but wild hatred raged in his eyes. “I’d come to take you home, Stephanie.”

“I’ll go now,” she tried yet again to get him away from here. Then she’d figure out how to help Ethan.

“Too late. Do you realize what you did to my reputation? To my family’s good name? You made the Fletcher name a laughingstock all over the Internet.”

“Nobody believes anything they read online.”

“So you say. Then why did you testify in court that I was some sort of monster?”

Because you are.

When she didn’t, couldn’t, respond, he kicked Ethan again. This time hard in the ribs. When that drew no reaction, Phoebe’s heart sank.

“The tide will be coming in soon,” he said. “It’ll wash your farmer’s body away. And crabs and sharks will eat him.”

If a snake could smile, it would look exactly like Peter Fletcher did at that moment.

He bent over, pressed the barrel of the gun against Ethan’s head, and just when he looked as if he was about to pull the trigger, this time for real, Phoebe leaped on him at the same instant Ethan’s fingers curled around his booted ankle and pulled him off his feet, which sent the gun flying into the surf.

Which was the good news.

The bad news was that Peter had no sooner tumbled to the ground than a sneaker wave, which
Ethan had taught her was like a mini-tsunami, engulfed them all.

It was dark. And icy cold. Phoebe was tumbling in the water, totally out of control, sand scraping across her skin like shards of glass as she felt herself being pulled out to sea. Although she was a good swimmer, the power of the wave was too strong, and even as she fought against it, she couldn’t get up to the surface to breathe.

Just as she was certain that she and her baby were going to die, she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist.

Her first instinct was to fight; then, as she was pulled to the surface, breaking the water, she realized it was Ethan. Somehow holding her up with his single good arm.

“We’ve got to stay away from those rocks,” he shouted against the roar of the surf. “But don’t worry, Phoebe. I have you.”

And he did. As he held her and as he kicked his way down the beach, away from the outcropping of rocks and back to the shore, she kicked along with him.

Twice, they were sucked back under. Twice, he pulled them to the surface. Like when she’d been unable to tell which way was up as she’d been tossed wildly in the surf, time ceased to have meaning. Even when they were above water, it was difficult to know where they were because of the thickening fog.

Until they hit the beach and he pulled her to her feet with his good arm, and, staggering, began dragging her away from the water.

Out of nowhere, another man suddenly appeared. With his face indistinguishable from a distance in the fog, at first Phoebe feared Peter had somehow managed to survive.

“Dillon Slater,” the deep voice said as the man quickly took in the situation, braced Ethan beneath his wounded shoulder, and added heft to the rescue. “I was on the cliff when I saw the wave hit you guys and called 911.”

Just as they reached the grassy dunes, the sound of a siren cut through the fog.

“Thanks,” Ethan said. “Appreciate the help.”

The man shrugged. “You would’ve made it on your own. I just provided backup.”

“You called for help,” Phoebe said. “Which neither one of us could have done.” Then she turned on Ethan.

“How did you do that?” she gasped. “With a bullet in you?”

“No way was I going to lose you.” Breathing heavily, one arm hanging limp at his side, he lowered his head and finished the tender kiss that had been so cruelly interrupted.

The man who’d introduced himself as a basketball coach at the high school gave his report to a Shelter Bay deputy, and Ethan and Phoebe were put into the back of the ambulance. As they lay on the gurneys, the EMTs taking their vital signs and tending to Ethan’s wound, he reached over and took her hand.