Barefoot Summer

by Denise Hunter

  “I said no! How many times do I have to say it?” Madison’s voice.

  A shot of adrenaline propelled him forward.

  “You don’t mean it. You know you don’t. Don’t walk away from me!”

  Beckett reached the entrance, his blood pumping hard.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Come here!” Drew was grabbing Madison’s arm. He spun her around.

  Something red and hot exploded in Beckett’s head. He shot forward, reaching Drew in a blink. Beckett grabbed his shirt, spinning him. His fist connected with the man’s jaw in a satisfying pop.

  Drew flew backward, staggering.

  But Beckett wasn’t satisfied. He grabbed Drew’s shirt, shoved him against a thick tree. “You wanna push someone around? Huh, punk?”

  “No, Beckett!”

  Drew pushed back, futilely, his eyes wide. “We were acting!”

  Beckett jerked him forward, then back, the red-hot fog spreading through him. Drew’s head smacked against the tree. “Not so tough now, are you?”

  “Beckett, stop!” Madison pulled on his arm. “We were rehearsing. We were just rehearsing.”

  Rehearsing.

  The word seeped into the mass of emotion. The fog began to clear. Beckett stilled, his hands still clenching fistfuls of shirt.

  Madison shook his arm. “The play. We were rehearsing, that’s all.”

  The play. The hot mass inside cooled. His fists released.

  Drew pushed him. “Get off me.”

  Beckett’s hands fell. He stepped back.

  The play. Rehearsing. His breaths came in gulps.

  The blood that had rushed through like a flash flood seemed to pool into a chilly sludge in the center of his gut.

  Drew rubbed his jaw, shooting daggers at Beckett. “I should sue you for that.”

  Madison’s hand fell from Beckett’s arm. “He didn’t mean . . . ”

  As the adrenaline petered out, something new was moving in. Something that made him wish he could puddle right into the soil. “Sorry . . .”

  Madison touched his arm. “It’s okay—”

  Drew nailed her with a look, gave the hem of his shirt a sharp tug.

  “I mean—”

  “I should go.” Beckett backed away, lifting his hands. “I’m sorry.” He turned and strode toward the exit.

  “Are you okay?” he heard Madison asking Drew. He didn’t wait for an answer.

  Stupid! He was a fool, rushing in like that, busting a guy’s jaw. Not just any guy—Madison’s date. Had he thought himself a knight in shining armor? What a joke. He was the last person to save Madison—if she’d needed saving—and she hadn’t.

  Did you ever think to stop and ask a question, O’Reilly?

  He’d done just as he would’ve in his younger days, rushed in, acted on impulse. His old nature, rearing its ugly head.

  And look where that had gotten him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MADISON STEPPED ABOARD THE BOAT, WAITING FOR BECKETT. She’d slept late after tossing in bed for hours, the night replaying in her mind like some hideous movie. By the time Drew had walked her to her door, he’d sported a puffy red bruise on his jaw. Looking at the tender flesh, she felt bad, and for so many reasons. Bad that he’d been mistaken for a bully, bad that she’d asked if he was okay so belatedly.

  But she’d also felt terrible for Beckett. He’d charged into the park like an avenging angel, fists flying. To protect her. She couldn’t forget the look on his face when he’d realized his mistake. The hard planes of his face softening, his eyes shuttering. It was that look, if she were honest, that kept playing in her mind.

  And that only made her feel worse. Shouldn’t Drew be the one drawing her sympathy? It had been the guilt that prompted the quick kiss at the door. Not the best reason for a first kiss.

  She turned her head at the footsteps on the pier. Beckett approached, his face inscrutable.

  She braced herself for awkwardness. “Hi there.”

  He stopped at the bow cleat, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t even know what to say, Madison,” he said finally.

  His voice, deep and quiet, made her want to ease his conscience. “You meant well.”

  He untied the boat and stepped aboard. “I feel like a jerk.”

  “You couldn’t have known. It was kind of sweet, you coming to my rescue—don’t you dare tell Drew I said that.”

  His laugh was a mere exhale. “Don’t think he’ll be talking to me anytime soon.”

  Beckett’s actions had probably cost him a boat order. But he obviously hadn’t been thinking about that when he’d rushed at Drew.

  “He’s okay?” Beckett asked.

  “He’s sporting a bruise, but he didn’t think anything was broken. I’m sure he didn’t mean it about the lawsuit.”

  “Doubt I have anything he’d want anyway.”

  “Except maybe your right hook.”

  “Funny.”

  Madison smiled. “Just thought I’d bring a little levity to the situation.”

  Once they were out on the water, they hoisted the sails, the moment of awkwardness passing. Madison worked the sheets, trimming the main, adjusting the traveler.

  “Okay, let’s talk line bias,” Beckett said, back to business. “A good start is critical, and knowing what position to take is crucial. The starting line will be slanted, with one end closer to the first windward mark. First off, whatever you do, don’t be over the line when the horn blows. You’ll have to sail back and cross again—hard to recover from that. Now, line bias. Which side gives you the best line for the first mark?”

  “The closest end?”

  “Well . . . depends.”

  “On the wind?”

  “Exactly. Let’s say you start on the north end of the line. You might be closer to the mark, but if the wind is stronger on the south end, the boats down there will be sailing with more speed. Also, you have the right-of-way on a starboard tack and have to give way if you’re on a port tack.”

  “So it’s a race-day call?”

  “That’s where good tactical thinking and prerace preparation come in. Most likely Evan will be out on the water early, deciding on the preferred side. But you should understand what’s going on.”

  He ran through various possibilities, illustrating the best starting positions in each instance and why. Then they sailed both sides of the river, assessing the conditions. With the wind coming from the north side, that was the preferred start side today.

  “Okay, let’s do a dry run on the first mark. It’s three boat lengths ahead,” Beckett called. “Give me something,” he reminded her as they approached it.

  “Boat four on starboard tack,” Madison called. “We’re not crossing.”

  “Continue on port tack.”

  “Roger that. No ease on the jib.”

  As soon as the jib started to back, she flipped the port sheet loose and pulled in the starboard sheet.

  “Nice job,” he called after they rounded the imaginary mark. “Let’s do it again, only a little smoother this time.”

  Cappy’s Pizzeria was a hole-in-the-wall disguising the world’s best pizza. Beckett took a whiff of garlic as he navigated full tables toward an open booth in the back corner. The green overhead pendants were always dim, and little light permeated the tinted windows. Probably to hide the fact that the place wasn’t exactly sterile.

  He slid into a red vinyl booth. TVs blared from the walls, and in the back room a rowdy game of pool was under way. Through the kitchen window he saw Cappy lumbering around, giving orders to frazzled teenagers, his bald head catching the glare from the kitchen fluorescents. A rumble of thunder sounded, barely audible over the chatter, the televised game, and the clattering of forks on plates.

  Beckett pushed the menu aside and ordered drinks when the server came by. A few minutes later he saw his sister skirting the deserted salad bar—a place where few dared to eat.

  Layla slid into the booth, tossing her bi
g silver bag into the corner. She brushed the raindrops from her arms. “Sorry I’m late. It’s cats and dogs out there.”

  He was glad he and Madison had gotten the lesson in before the storm hit. “You’re not. Just ordered you a root beer.”

  “Perfect. Let’s order the Whole Shebang. I’m starving.”

  “Sounds good.” He was hungry himself, having worked through lunch.

  “I went to see Dad this morning,” Layla said a few minutes later after the server took their order. She brushed her damp hair over her slender shoulders and took a sip of her root beer.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “You know Dad. He didn’t have much to say. He’s working his way through his Hemingway novels, hoping to get paroled.”

  Beckett started to ask when, then changed his mind. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

  “How are rehearsals going?” he asked. His sister had a bit part in the production.

  “Not bad. Dottie’s a good director. Kind of demanding though. It’s eating up a lot of my time.”

  “What else do you have to do?” Beckett asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Work, volunteering, VBS . . .”

  “Poor baby.”

  She cocked her head. “You better stop or I’m not paying.”

  “It’s my turn anyway.”

  Layla’s face lit up. “Oh yeah. Rats. I knew I should’ve ordered breadsticks.”

  “Too late.”

  “It’s never too late for breadsticks.”

  “You’ll be lucky to finish your half of the pizza, little girl.”

  “I can hold my own just fine, thank you.” Layla tucked the menus into the holder and put the paprika shaker in the metal cubby. “Oh, meant to tell you . . . I ran into Drew Landon at the pharmacy this morning. You know, he’s the guy who—”

  “I know who he is,” he said, his tone gruffer than he’d liked.

  She hiked a brow. “Okay, then. Well, anyway, his jaw was all black and blue and puffed up. Looks awful. I hope it heals in time for opening night. A patient must’ve gotten hold of him or something.”

  Beckett looked down at the paper place mat. Straightened it. Brushed a few crumbs from the table. He took a sip of Coke, trying to ignore the heat climbing his neck.

  “Beckett . . . it was a patient or something, right?”

  “Or something.”

  Layla’s mouth dropped open. “You didn’t.”

  “It was an accident.”

  Layla smirked. “You accidentally clocked the guy.”

  He explained what happened in the park the night before, finishing with, “You could’ve told me Madison and Drew were lovers in the play.”

  She snorted. “So this was my fault?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She stared at him until he looked away. His sister had a way of looking into his eyes and reading his every thought. It was annoying.

  “I didn’t think you’d want a play-by-play,” she said when she’d finished dissecting his brain. “But I have noticed them getting pretty friendly at rehearsals.”

  Something twisted inside. Stupid play. Bad enough the doctor was going out with her, and now all this time together practicing at being lovers . . .

  “If you’re going to make a move—finally—you’d better do it soon, bro.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried.”

  “Taking her sister to the banquet and breaking her heart doesn’t really count.”

  “Low blow.”

  She shrugged. “I call it like I see it.”

  Deep down he guessed he’d thought, with them working together on this sailing thing, that if it was meant to be, it would somehow happen. He hadn’t counted on Dr. Perfect showing up and sweeping her off her feet.

  Layla set her hand on Beckett’s arm. “I think you should go for it. I know you get hung up on the person you used to be, but you’ve changed, Beck. You have a lot to offer. I mean, I know I’m just your sister, but you’re a good man. You’re loyal and fun. You can even be charming when you decide to smile. And I’ve heard other women say you’re nice-looking.” She put up her hands and settled back in the booth. “I don’t see it, but whatever.”

  He gave a wry smile. He wasn’t sure his sister was right about any of it, but she didn’t have all the facts. He’d never told her about his part in Michael’s death. There was only one person who knew, and he was in jail.

  Layla squeezed his arm. “Seriously, it’s now or never. I mean, you know I think you’re tops, but a doctor, Beck. In single-girl world that carries a lot of weight. And he seems like a nice guy too. I won’t mention how I feel about his dreamy good looks because that would just be mean.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Yes, it would.”

  Layla took a sip of her soda. “So how did Madison react last night when you pummeled her date?”

  “It was one swing.”

  Layla made a face. “Impressive. So did she get mad at you and fawn all over her fallen hero or what?”

  He thought back, skimming the scene in his mind, something he’d avoided all day. “No, she just, I don’t know. She wasn’t mad exactly. And she was pretty cool about it this morning.”

  “You talked to her? Good job.” Layla patted his hand as if he were a child.

  “We had a sailing lesson.”

  “Oh. Well, at least she’s not mad.”

  “She even joked about it a little.”

  Layla smiled. “I like this girl.”

  “She said it was sweet that I came to her rescue, or something like that.”

  Layla pressed her hand to her heart, smiling. “Awww. She felt protected.”

  “From her innocent date.”

  “Still. I’m sure she didn’t approve of you, you know, beating up her date and all, but a woman does love a protective man.”

  “Sounds old-fashioned.”

  “Not old-fashioned, timeless. Trust me. So pray about it, okay? ’Cause I think she’d make a great sister-in-law.”

  “You’re jumping the gun, little girl.” But he couldn’t deny the tiny thrill that coursed through him at the thought.

  The server slid a piping hot pie onto the table. “Enjoy!” she said before sashaying away.

  Beckett served Layla the first slice, then took one of his own, the fragrant smell of garlic and oregano teasing his nose.

  “So you’ll pray about it?” Layla asked again after he said grace.

  “You’re a pest.”

  “That’s not an answer.” She took a big bite from the end of a slice, wiping the tomato sauce that dribbled down her chin.

  “Fine. I’ll pray about it.”

  She shrugged. “All I’m asking.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  PLAY REHEARSAL WAS CANCELED ON MONDAY DUE TO AN electrical problem, and Madison found herself with a rare free night. The long night stretched ahead like a deserted country lane. Instead of relishing an evening of relaxation, she found herself weighing options to occupy her night and finally settled on a jog. Not wanting to fight with the leash, she left Lulu at home, feeling a tug of guilt as she strode down her drive. The evening air was cool, a nice breeze blowing in off the river. The sun dipped low in the sky.

  Ever since Jade had left, a night at home meant quiet. Quiet led to thinking, and thinking led to feelings. Feelings she was tired of shoving down. Even sleep was no escape. Once or twice a week the nightmare intruded, waking her in a cold sweat. Then she’d lie there, unable to shake the awful panic.

  Just two more weeks, Madison. Then the nightmares will be gone. She’d win the regatta, achieve Michael’s dream, and she’d finally have peace, finally move on with her life. Finally replace the bad dream with a good one.

  Even so, the dark feelings pressed heavily on her. They’d been coming more often lately, she realized, despite her busy schedule. Maybe because of the upcoming race. It was making her think of Michael more. She just needed to stay busy and on task. When she won, the rest would take care of itse
lf.

  She picked up her pace, wanting to clear her mind. She wished she could fast-forward to race day. She was eager to put it behind her. She ran faster, as if she could speed time along as easily. Her feet pounded the pavement in rhythmic thumps, her breaths came more quickly, making her lungs burn.

  A few minutes later she was ripping through Riverside Park. Halfway through, she saw Beckett on the concrete basketball court. He dribbled in for an easy layup, catching the ball after it swished through the hoop.

  As he turned with the ball, he spotted her. Madison slowed and walked toward him, huffing. He met her at the edge of the court.

  “Hey there . . . just out for a jog.” Duh. She winced.

  “I thought you were being chased by the hounds of hell for a minute. That’s quite a pace you set.”

  She shrugged. “Working on your game?”

  “Not really. Just clearing the cobwebs.” He dribbled the ball three times, then held it. “How’s Drew?”

  She frowned, then realized Beckett was talking about his jaw. “He’s fine. Just fine.” Several had commented on his bruise at church, and Madison had squirmed as he’d sidestepped the question.

  “I should let you get back to your run,” he said. “Target heart rate and all that.”

  She glanced in the direction she’d been headed, realizing the jog was doing nothing to clear her mind or change her emotional state. The realization made her shoulders slump and she pressed her heels into the concrete. Sometimes she wished she could run away from herself.

  “You okay?”

  She looked at him, ready with an easy answer, and found herself falling headlong into his dark eyes. The easy answer dissolved from the tip of her tongue.

  “No.” It was the most honest thing she’d said all week.

  His face showed no surprise as he held her gaze for a long minute. “Come on. I want to take you somewhere.”

  He took a few steps backward, and she followed, surprised when he passed the park’s walkway. He headed toward the wooded hillside behind the court, turning to make sure she followed. Their feet swished through the overgrown grass, then they started up a trail.