by Loree Lough
“There’s no need to explain. It’s a good idea. And I know just the place.”
A moment of silence passed between them as he slid into traffic.
“And by the way…you aren’t clumsy.”
“So I can add ‘comedian’ to the list of your talents?”
“Comedian…?”
“I’m not clumsy? Ha. Ha-ha! What would you call it, then?”
Parker tilted his head slightly. “Hmm,” he said, before pulling into a sub shop parking lot. Turning the key in the ignition, he faced her and draped one arm across the seat back. “You’re smart. Maybe too smart for your own good, and your poor little body can’t keep up with that goes-a-mile-a-minute mind of yours.” He gave her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Might be interesting to see how your life changed if you slowed down just a hair.”
As if on cue, he tucked her hair behind her ear.
“But just a hair, mind you. Because you know what?”
His big fingers were surprisingly warm and gentle, and she fought the temptation to press her cheek against them. “What?” she whispered.
“Because I like you just the way you are… .”
With that, he climbed out of the truck, raced around to her side, and opened the passenger door. As she hopped to the ground, he tucked her hair behind her other ear and added, “…bumps and bruises, broken fingernails, and all.”
Wow, she thought, grinning at her hardworking, neglected hands, this has to be a first. She followed behind him like a happy pup and never saw the curb until she tripped over it and landed face-first against his big, hard chest.
* * * * *
The ships’ clocks were sounding the eleven o’clock hour when Parker walked through his front door, and for the first time, he gave a little credit to the “time flies when you’re having fun” expression.
He couldn’t remember a time when Maude had laughed harder. It was good to hear. Good to see too, because working forty hours a week while fulfilling her duties as full-time mother and father to him hadn’t left much time for her to cut loose and enjoy life. Maybe that explained why none of her relationships with men had ever worked out… .
Maude got real serious real fast, though, when Holly told her about the elderly woman in the restaurant, and for a reason that made no sense to him, his mom’s laugh-rosy cheeks went pale as Holly described the man pushing the wheelchair. The reaction made him sorry that he hadn’t acted on his impulse to follow them and find out why the poor old thing had mistaken him for someone else.
“What’s done is done.” He sagged into his recliner and massaged his right thigh, which strained the right shoulder, also shredded by the IED. The doctors would have prescribed muscle relaxants and painkillers—if he’d asked for them. But the discomfort served as a reminder that he’d survived the attack, unlike three of his men. If he’d been made of sturdier stuff, he wouldn’t have been unconscious when he was airlifted to Germany, and would have been able to tell them about the boy… .
Holly had called him a hero. “Hero, my foot,” he muttered, grabbing the remote. Behnam, orphaned by sniper fire before Parker arrived in Afghanistan, had learned to survive by wits and charm, inspiring soldiers of every rank and gender to contribute to his daily food supply. Since none could provide Ben a proper home, Parker took it upon himself to build him a hut from cast-off lumber and corrugated tin. After caulking every crack and crevice, he fashioned a door from thick Plexiglas and bolted it in place with hinges borrowed from the tailgate of a defunct truck. He traded a penknife for a blanket and sunglasses for a pillow and taught Ben how a fat candle, standing in a sand-filled coffee can, could provide heat and light.
Unless Parker was leading a mission, the two were inseparable. Soon Ben could speak broken English and taught Parker some Arabic. While Ben dreamed aloud of going to school and living in a proper house, Parker secretly planned for the day when he’d go home…and bring Ben with him.
The boy’s big-eyed, trusting face flashed in his mind. Groaning with regret and concern, Parker heaved himself out of the recliner, limped over to his desk, and fired up the computer. Maybe this would be the day he’d find a reply in his e-mail in-box, telling him that the State Department had found Ben and that the paperwork granting him permission to adopt the skinny eight-year-old was in the works. He’d been patiently working toward that goal since arriving home from overseas.
Ten minutes and twenty-seven messages later—spam, mostly, promising a free credit check or a meeting with the girl of his dreams—he shut the computer down. He felt like a moron admitting it, but he’d already found the girl of his dreams. He’d never admit it to her, of course—how selfish would that be?—because Holly had way too much going for her to get saddled down with a has-been half-crippled ex-soldier whose main ambition in life was fulfilling a promise to a curly-haired boy.
A ruckus outside brought Parker’s pity party to a close. “High time,” he said, wincing as he rose from the desk chair. “Spend another minute feeling sorry for yourself,” he mumbled, flipping on the back porch light, “and you’re likely to get—”
There, in the halo of the yellow bug bulb, was the biggest, orangeest tomcat he’d ever seen. It had overturned a clay pot, which had rolled into the railing. He half expected the cat to bolt. Instead, it sat on its haunches, squinting and licking its chops. He knew better than to feed a feral cat. Why, that was as good as handing it an engraved invitation to come back, day after day, for more of the same. But it looked hungry. And tired. And lonesome. And its eyes were the same shade of pale brown as Ben’s. “Don’t go anywhere,” he said through the screen. “I’ve got some bologna in the fridge with your name on it.”
As he peeled off a slice, Parker shook his head. “Should I, or shouldn’t I?”
A sorrowful meow was all it took to answer that question.
Easing open the door, Parker stepped onto the porch, crouched, and tore the lunchmeat into thin strips. “Now don’t go making a pig of yourself,” he said when the cat wolfed down the first ribbon. “Hard to tell when you last had a meal. You’re likely to give yourself a bellyache.”
When the animal finished its meal, it flopped onto its side and proceeded to groom itself. “Feeling pretty much at home, are you?”
It stopped licking its paws to look at Parker, as if to say, “Well, yeah. And why wouldn’t I, Bologna Man?”
“I don’t see a collar… .”
This time, the cat’s wide-eyed stare put him in mind of the woman in the restaurant, who’d scanned Parker’s face as if looking for some telltale proof that she knew him. Yet again he wished he’d gone after her and the guy pushing the wheelchair. “Probably would’ve turned out to be nothing anyway,” he said. “But at least you’d have known, one way or the other.”
Then, calm as you please, the cat sauntered across the porch and hopped up onto Parker’s favorite chair, where it curled into a ball on the plaid cushion and promptly went to sleep.
If the cat was still there in the morning, he’d take it to a vet. With a clean bill of health, it could become the cottage cat Maude could advertise in her next B&B brochure. “And maybe I’ll just keep you myself.” Might be nice to have someone to talk to besides himself for a change.
The cat raised its striped head and chirruped something that sounded an awful lot like “Hero.”
“Been talkin’ to Holly, have you?”
The tabby only blinked.
“Well, once you get to know me, you’ll realize I’m anything but.”
When the cat yawned, Parker shrugged. “Yeah, self-pity is an ugly emotion, isn’t it?” Self-depreciation had never been part of his makeup before. So why was it now?
Maybe because he did feel sorry for himself—a little, anyway. Because despite two years of phone calls and e-mails and paperwork, he hadn’t been able to find Ben. He’d been unsuccessful in keeping Stephanie from descending on their table. And when the old woman insisted that Parker looked like a younger version of the man pu
shing her wheelchair, he’d failed to get to the bottom of it. According to Maude, Parker’s father had been an only child and, near as she could recall, his parents had died before he’d enlisted in the Air Force.
But what if she’d been mistaken? What if Parker had a grandmother or an aunt, an uncle or a cousin, out there that Maude didn’t know about? Is that why he’d pretended the woman’s words hadn’t affected him, that he hadn’t noticed the resemblance between him and the man—especially around the eyes—because he was afraid of learning the truth?
As he trudged up the stairs, Parker shook his head. If he did have family out there, he hoped they were happy and healthy. Hoped the same thing for Ben, though he was helpless to know for sure. It dawned on him as he stood brushing his teeth that adopting the cat might take the edge off his feelings of powerlessness. With a pet, he’d have some control. Selfish? Possibly. But at least the cat would benefit from his conscience-easing exercise.
In bed now, on his side, Parker stared into the darkness and pictured Holly. Clumsy, cute, caring Holly, who seemed to have sensed how badly Stephanie’s appearance had rattled him. Parker punched his pillow. If he didn’t get a handle on his emotions, fast, he’d need a shrink—not a cat to talk to.
Rolling onto his back, he slapped a hand over his eyes. How much simpler things would be if Holly had been the grandmotherly matron he’d imagined, instead of the pretty, sweet-tempered young woman who’d stumbled into his life!
“Yep,” he groaned into the dark, “it’s gonna be a long summer, all right.”
And unless he pulled himself together, a long and heartbreaking summer.
Chapter Eight
“Well, good mornin’, sunshine.”
Startled by the sudden, happy voice, Holly nearly sloshed hot coffee on her hand. “Good morning, yourself,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “My, but it’s quiet around here today.”
Maude wheeled herself into the kitchen and parked beside the table. “Midweek is usually slow. Except at the height of the season.” She pointed at the percolator. “Mind pouring me a cup?”
Holly was only too happy to oblige. “Last time I saw one of these was at my grandmother’s house.” She delivered a mug, cream and sugar, and a spoon to her host.
“That one belonged to my sainted mama.” Maude stirred sugar into her cup then added a dollop of milk. “I’ve tried those newfangled coffeemakers, but you can’t beat this one for consistency.” With a wink, she added, “Besides, I love every lid-rattling bubble that jumps up the tube.”
“I was just about to pour myself a bowl of cereal. What can I get for you?”
“Cereal’s fine. Cornflakes, if there are any left.” She shook her head. “That son of mine is just about addicted to them.”
“Speaking of that son of yours,” Holly said, sprinkling flakes into a bowl, “where is he this morning? I thought he’d be here at first light. He said we’d get an early start today.”
“Oh, I imagine he got an early start. No telling what he’s doing to that boat of his. If he doesn’t roll in by the time we’ve finished breakfast, I’ll tell you where he parks that monstrosity.”
After delivering the cereal and a napkin, Holly sat across from Maude. “So how are your feet this morning?”
“Oh, they’re all right, I suppose.”
She supposes? Holly leaned forward. “Are you in pain?”
“No, nothing you wouldn’t expect after surgery. You know the old saying. Guess I’m just sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
“Well, you know the other old saying: ‘All in good time.’ ”
Maude laughed softly. “I was supposed to be back on my feet weeks ago. It’s bad enough that I feel like a helpless old woman, having to rely so heavily on Parker.”
“I don’t know him very well, of course, but it doesn’t seem to me that he minds a bit.”
“Oh, he’d never complain, even if he did! It’s just that he has so much to do, what with the charter business and all. And then there’s helpless old me.” She sprinkled sugar over her cornflakes. “And this writing project, of course.” Maude shook her head. “I was stunned when he told me about his plan to write a book and donate all the money to the lighthouse and turtle projects.”
Odd, Holly thought, that despite her smile and jovial laughter, Maude seems so…sad. “You’re sure you aren’t in any pain?”
“I’m sure.”
Holly put their bowls in the dishwasher then refilled Maude’s mug. “Will Opal be here with you today?”
“No, it’s Henry’s turn.”
“Ah, your beau…”
Maude harrumphed. “So he’d like to think.”
Holly didn’t know how to respond. “Can I get you anything before I leave?”
“No, but thanks. Henry is nothing if not punctual.” She glanced at the tail-wagging cat clock above the sink. “He said he’d be here at six forty-five, so I expect him in two shakes of a cat’s tail.” Laughing at her own joke, Maude slapped the table.
“I just need to run upstairs and grab my purse. Is it a long drive to Parker’s boat?”
“To be honest, it’ll take less time to walk, and you have the perfect weather for it.”
Holly looked out the window, where white-gold sunbeams shimmered from every gentle wave that slapped the beach. In a few hours, seashell hunters, dog walkers, and joggers would pock the smooth sand with fingers, feet, and paws, but for now, the sand glowed pale blue, thanks to the cloudless sky overhead. “You know, that sounds like a lovely idea,” she said. “I’ll just grab a sweater, and then you can give me directions.”
Upstairs, Holly slathered on some sunscreen then tucked sunglasses and a white hoodie into a small backpack. After threading her ponytail through the opening at the back of her favorite Orioles cap, she tucked a twenty-dollar bill into the side pocket of her jeans. Halfway out the door, she dashed back into her room and grabbed an umbrella, hoping as she darted down the stairs that Parker would still be with his boat by the time she got there.
Holly had barely stepped into the kitchen when a handsome, gray-bearded man said, “Dr. Leonard, I presume.” Grinning, he stuck out one hand. “Name’s Henry. Henry Donovan, but my friends call me Hank. I hope that’s what you’ll call me, Holly. I’ve heard so much about you.”
Holly figured she had the rest of the summer to find out why Maude called him Henry and, grasping his hand, said, “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Headed down to the water, are you?”
Nodding, she smiled. “Hopefully, I won’t get lost.”
“You won’t.” Hank pointed. “You’ll see a path at the end of Maudie’s drive, and it’ll lead you to a small pier near the lighthouse inlet. It’s the only one out there, and so’s his boat. He painted the name SEA MAVERICK on her hull in blue and gold.”
Like the sunset? Holly wondered.
“Help yourself to some bottled water,” Maude invited. “And take one for Parker too.”
“Thanks,” Holly said, sticking her head into the fridge. “Don’t mind if I do.” She tucked the bottles into her bag. “Anything we can bring you when we get back?”
“Nothing comes to mind, but if it does, I’ll text Parker.”
Hank chuckled. “You know he hates that, Maudie. Why not just call him?”
She chuckled too. “Because that old-fogy son of mine needs to fall into step with the times, that’s why.”
Waving, Holly wished them both a good day and headed outside. She’d barely reached the bottom porch step when she heard Hank say, “Maudie, if that boy of yours lets this one get away, he’s out of his ever-lovin’ mind.”
If Maude replied, Holly didn’t hear it, because Hank’s comment increased her pace by twofold. Seashells, bleached white by the sun and shattered by time and nature, crunched beneath her tennis shoes. For an instant, a pelican soared overhead, casting a gray shadow as she hurried down the path, brushing aside reeds and ducking past sea oats. “Better look where you’re going,�
� she told herself, “or you’ll end up with a nose full of sand.” And wouldn’t Parker enjoy that!
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the tilting wood fence that lined the path came to an end. Beyond it, the beach lay just ahead, untouched save a trail of big footprints leading from Parker’s house to the weathered wharf that jutted out into the ocean, where, just as Hank had said it would be, the Sea Maverick’s blue-and-goldpainted hull gleamed in the sun.
The boat bobbed slightly in the Atlantic’s froth, and above the soft smack of waves slapping at the boat, the quiet refrain of a familiar song and the husky baritone that tried—and failed—to stay on key. As much as she wanted to find out which onboard chore had put him in such an agreeable mood, Holly didn’t want to startle him. “Ahoy, matey!” she called, laughing at the silliness of her greeting.
A moment of silence was followed by a ragged “Arggh, and who goes there?”
Parker peered over the rail, his grin the only part of his face visible in the shade of his cap. “Mornin’,” he said, waving a fat sponge over his head. “What brings you out and about so early?”
She hopped onto the pier. “Well, you said something about getting an early start but never mentioned a time.” Shrugging, she added, “I figured since I was up anyway, I might as well have myself a nice brisk walk and find out where, exactly, you do what you do.”
Standing, he dropped the sponge into a bucket. Holly knew, because she heard the quiet splash and then saw him look down and frown. “Got your feet wet, did you?”
“Hey. It’s a boat. Sooner or later, everything gets wet.” Then he held up a hand. “Hold it,” he said. “You just stay put, you hear? Don’t take another step until I get down there.”
“Why? Afraid I’ll trip and fall headfirst into the drink?”
“Something like that,” he said, grinning.
She watched him make his way to the side, marveling at how quickly and nimbly he descended the three steep wooden steps that led from the dock to the boat. You couldn’t do that on a bet, and there isn’t a thing wrong with your leg, she thought, frowning to herself.
