Sea Swept (13 page)

C
am was scowling at a basket full of pink socks and Jockey shorts when the phone rang. He knew damn well the socks and underwear had been white—or close to it—when he’d dumped them in the machine. Now they were Easter-egg pink.

Maybe they just looked that way because they were wet.

He pulled them out to stuff them in the dryer, saw the red sock hiding among the pink. And bared his teeth.

Phillip, he vowed, was a dead man.

“Fuck it.” He dumped them inside, slapped the dryer on what he hoped was broil and went to answer the phone.

He remembered, just in time, to turn down the little portable TV tucked in the corner of the counter. It wasn’t as if he was actually watching it, it certainly wasn’t that he was paying any attention at all to the passion and betrayals of the late-morning soap opera.

He’d just switched it on for the noise.

“Quinn. What?”

“Hey, Cam. Took some doing to track you down, hoss. Tod Bardette here.”

Cam reached into an open bag of Oreos on the counter and took out a handful. “How’s it going, Tod?”

“Well, I have to tell you it’s going pretty damn good. I’ve been spending some time anchored off the Great Barrier Reef.”

“Nice spot,” Cam muttered over a cookie. Then his brows shot up as an impossibly gorgeous woman tumbled into bed with a ridiculously handsome man on the tiny screen across the kitchen.

Maybe there was something to this daytime TV after all.

“It’ll do. Heard you kicked ass in the Med a few weeks ago.”

A few weeks? Cam thought while he munched on a second cookie. Surely it had been a few years ago that he’d flown across the finish line in his hydrofoil. Blue water, speed, cheering crowds, and money to burn.

Now he was lucky if he found enough milk in the fridge to wash down a stale Oreo.

“Yeah, that’s what I heard too.”

Tod gave a rich chuckle. “Well, the offer to buy that toy from you still holds. But I got another proposition coming at you.”

Tod Bardette always had another proposition coming at you. He was the rich son of a rich father from East Texas who used the world as his playground. And he was boat happy. He raced them, sponsored races, bought and sold them. And collected wives, trophies, and his share of the purse with smooth regularity.

Cam had always felt Tod’s luck had run hot since conception. Since it never hurt to listen—and the bedroom scene had just been displaced by a commercial featuring a giant toilet brush, he switched off the set.

“I’m always ready to hear one.”

“I’m setting up a crew for La Coupe Internationale.”

“The One-Ton Cup?” Cam felt his juices begin to flow, and he lost all interest in cookies and milk. The international race was a giant in the sailing world. Five legs, he thought, the final one an ocean race of three hundred grueling miles.

“You got it. You know the Aussies took the cup last
year, so it’s being held down here in Australia. I want to whip their butts, and I’ve got a honey of a boat. She’s fast, hoss. With the right crew she’ll bring the cup back to the U S of A. I need a skipper. I want the best. I want you. How soon can you get Down Under?”

Give me five minutes. That’s what he wanted to say. He could have a bag packed in one, hop a plane and be on his way. For men who raced, it was one of life’s golden opportunities. Even as he opened his mouth, his gaze landed on the rocker outside the kitchen window.

So he closed his eyes, listened resentfully to the hum of the pink socks drying in the utility room behind him.

“I have to pass, Tod. I can’t get away now.”

“Lookie here, I’m willing to give you some time to put your affairs—pun intended,” he said with a snorting laugh, “in order. Take a couple weeks. If you’ve got another offer, I’ll beat it.”

“I can’t do it. I’ve got—” Laundry to do? A kid to raise? Damn if he was going to humiliate himself with that piece of information. “My brothers and I started a business,” he said on impulse. “I’ve got a commitment here.”

“A business.” This time Tod’s laugh was long and delighted. “You? Don’t pull my leg so hard, it hurts.”

Now Cam’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t doubt Tod Bardette of East Texas would be joined by others of his friends and acquaintances in laughing at the idea of Cameron Quinn, businessman.

“We’re building boats,” he said between his teeth. “Here on the Eastern Shore. Wooden boats. Custom jobs,” he added, determined to play it to the hilt. “One of a kinds. In six months, you’ll be paying me top dollar to design and build you a boat by Quinn. Since we’re old friends, I’ll try to squeeze you in.”

“Boats.” The interest in Tod’s voice picked up. “Well now, you know how to sail them, guess maybe you’d know how to build them.”

“There’s no maybe about it.”

“That’s an interesting enterprise, but come on, Cam,
you’re not a businessman. You’re not going to stay stuck on some pretty little bay in Maryland eating crabs and nailing planks. You know I’ll make this race worth your while. Money, fame and fortune.” And he chuckled. “After we win, you can go back and put a couple of little sloops together.”

He could handle it, Cam promised himself. He could handle the insults, the frustration of not being able to pack and go as he chose. What he wouldn’t do was give Bardette the satisfaction of knowing he was ruffled. “You’re going to have to find another skipper. But if you want to buy a boat, give me a call.”

“If you actually get one finished, give me a call.” A sigh came through the receiver. “You’re missing the chance of a lifetime here. You change your mind in the next couple hours, get in touch. But I need to nail down my crew this week. Talk to you.”

And Cam was listening to a dial tone.

He didn’t hurl the receiver through the window. He wanted to, considered it, then figured he’d be the one sweeping up the glass, so what would be the point?

So he hung up the phone, with careful deliberation. He even took a deep breath. And if whatever he’d put in the washing machine hadn’t chosen that moment to spin out of balance and send the machine hopping, he wouldn’t have slammed his fist into the wall.

“I thought for a minute there you were going to pull it off.”

He whirled, and saw his father sitting at the kitchen table, chuckling. “Oh, God, this caps it.”

“Why don’t you get some ice for your knuckles?”

“It’s all right.” Cam glanced down at them. A couple of scrapes. And the sharp pain was a good hold on reality. “I thought about this, Dad. Really thought about it. I just don’t believe you’re here.”

Ray continued to smile. “You’re here, Cam. That’s what matters. It was tough turning down a race like that. I’m grateful to you. I’m proud of you.”

“Bardette said he had a honey of a boat. With his money behind it. . .” Cam pressed his hands on the counter and stared out the window toward the quiet water. “I could win that bastard. I captained a crew to second in the Little America’s Cup five years ago, and I took the Chicago-Mackinac last year.”

“You’re a fine sailor, Cam.”

“Yeah.” He curled his fingers into fists. “What the hell am I doing here? If this keeps up I’m going to get hooked on soap operas. I’ll start thinking Lilac and Lance are not only real people but close personal friends. I’ll start obsessing that my whites aren’t white enough. I’ll clip coupons and collect recipes and go the rest of the way out of my fucking mind.”

“I’m surprised at you, thinking of tending a home in those terms.” Ray’s voice was sharp now, with disappointment around the edges. “Making a home, caring for family is important work. The most important work there is.”

“It’s not my work.”

“It seems it is now. I’m sorry for that.”

Cam turned back. If you were going to have a conversation with a hallucination, you might as well look at it. “For what? For dying on me?”

“Well, that was pretty inconvenient all around.”

He would have laughed, the comment and the ironic tone were so typically Ray Quinn. But he had to get out what was nibbling at his mind. “Some people are saying you aimed for the pole.”

Ray’s smile faded, and his eyes turned sober and sad. “Do you believe that?”

“No.” Cam let out a breath. “No, I don’t believe that.”

“Life’s a gift. It doesn’t always fit comfortably, but it’s precious. I wouldn’t have hurt you and your brothers by throwing mine away.”

“I know that,” Cam murmured. “It helps to hear you say it, but I know that.”

“Maybe I could have stopped things. Maybe I could have done things differently.” He sighed and turned the
gold wedding band around and around on his finger. “But I didn’t. It’s up to you now, you and Ethan and Phillip. There was a reason the three of you came to me and Stella. A reason the three of you came together. I always believed that. Now I know it.”

“And what about the kid?”

“Seth’s place is here. He needs you. He’s in trouble right now, and he needs you to remember what it was like to be where he is.”

“What do you mean, he’s in trouble?”

Ray smiled a little. “Answer the phone,” he suggested seconds before it rang.

And then he was gone.

“I’ve got to start getting more sleep,” Cam decided, then yanked the receiver off the hook. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Hello? Mr. Quinn?”

“Right. This is Cameron Quinn.”

“Mr. Quinn, this is Abigail Moorefield, vice principal of St. Christopher Middle School.”

Cam felt his stomach sink to his toes. “Uh-huh.”

“I’m afraid there’s been some trouble here. I have Seth DeLauter in my office.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Seth was in a fight with another student. He’s being suspended. Mr. Quinn, I’d appreciate it if you could come to my office so matters can be explained to you and you can take Seth home.”

“Great. Wonderful.” At his wits’ end, Cam dragged a hand through his hair. “On my way.”

The school hadn’t changed much, Cam noted, since he’d done time there. The first morning he’d passed through those heavy front doors, Stella Quinn had all but dragged him.

He was nearly eighteen years older now, and no more enthusiastic.

The floors were faded linoleum, the light bright from wide windows. And the smell was of contraband candy and kid sweat.

Cam jammed his hands in his pockets and headed for the administration offices. He knew the way. After all he’d beaten a path to those offices countless times during his stay at St. Chris Middle.

It wasn’t the same old eagle-eyed secretary manning the desk in the outer room. This one was younger, perkier, and beamed smiles all over him. “May I help you?” she asked in a bouncing voice.

“I’m here to post bail for Seth DeLauter.”

She blinked at that, and her smile turned puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”

“Cameron Quinn to see the VP.”

“Oh, you mean Mrs. Moorefield. Yes, she’s expecting you. Second door down the little hallway there. On the right.” Her phone rang and she plucked it up. “Good morning,” she sang, “St. Christopher’s Middle School. This is Kathy speaking.”

Cam decided he preferred the battle-ax who had guarded the offices in his day to this terminally pert newcomer. Even as he started toward the door, his back went up, his jaw set—and his palms went damp.

Some things, he supposed, never changed.

Mrs. Moorefield was sitting behind her desk, calmly entering data into a computer. Cam thought her fingers moved efficiently. And the movement suited her. She was neat and trim, probably early fifties. Her hair was short and sleek and light brown, her face composed and quietly attractive.

Her gold wedding band caught the light as her fingers moved over the keys. The only other jewelry she wore were simple gold shells at her ears.

Across the room, Seth was slumped in a chair, staring up at the ceiling. Trying to look bored, Cam assumed, but coming off as sulky. Kid needed a haircut, he realized and wondered who was supposed to deal with that. He was wearing jeans frayed to strings at the cuffs, a jersey two sizes too big, and incredibly dirty high-tops.

It looked perfectly normal to Cam.

He rapped on the doorjamb. Both the vice principal and Seth glanced over, with two dramatically different expressions. Mrs. Moorefield smiled in polite welcome. Seth sneered.

“Mr. Quinn.”

“Yeah.” Then he remembered he was supposed to be here as a responsible guardian. “I hope we can straighten this out, Mrs. Moorefield.” He stuck his own polite smile into place as he stepped to her desk and offered a hand.

“I appreciate your coming in so quickly. When we have to take regrettable disciplinary action such as this against a student, we want the parents or responsible parties to have the opportunity to understand the situation. Please, Mr. Quinn, sit down.”

“What is the situation?” Cam took his seat and found he didn’t like it any more than he used to.

“I’m afraid Seth physically attacked another student this morning between classes. The other boy is being treated by the school nurse, and his parents have been informed.”

Cam lifted a brow. “So where are they?”

“Both of Robert’s parents are at work at the moment. But in any case—”

“Why?”

Her smile returned, small, attentive, questioning. “Why, Mr. Quinn?”

“Why did Seth slug Robert?”

Mrs. Moorefield sighed. “I understand you’ve only recently taken over as Seth’s guardian, so you may not be aware that this isn’t the first time he’s fought with other students.”

“I know about it. I’m asking about this incident.”

“Very well.” She folded her hands. “According to Robert, Seth demanded that Robert give him a dollar, and when Robert refused to pay him, Seth attacked him. At this point,” she added, shifting her gaze to Seth, “Seth has neither confirmed nor denied. School policy requires that students be suspended for three days as a disciplinary action when involved in a fight on school premises.”

“Okay.” Cam rose, but when Seth started to get up, he pointed a finger. “Stay,” he ordered, then crouched until they were eye to eye. “You try to shake this kid down?”

Seth jerked a shoulder. “That’s what he says.”

“You slugged him.”

“Yeah, I slugged him. Went for the nose,” he added with a thin smile, and shoved at the straw-colored hair that flopped into his eyes. “It hurts more.”