Endless Night

by Maureen A. Miller

  Megan’s chest heaved beneath her white tank top. Jake jerked his eyes away from the hypnotic motion. His glance traveled up to tense shoulders and down slim arms crooked at her hips. A rim of pale flesh was revealed between the waist of her gray sweats and the white top. The gap increased every time her chest heaved, and he caught a glimpse of the small indentation of her belly button.

  “Are you even listening to me?” she demanded. “Don’t make more out of what happened here. We were just two people stuck together in a storm. It happens. Now it’s time for you to leave.”

  Jake wondered if Megan was even aware that every testimony she made was negated by the plea in her eyes.

  “Is that so?” he asked evenly.

  It seemed the calmer he was the more anxious she became. “Yes, dammit, that is so. Look, you’re a good-looking guy—” her eyes dipped down his body, and then her shoulders jerked as she cleared her throat, “—but I’m just not interested.”

  Jake rubbed a hand over his mouth, perhaps to muffle the retort, “Bull.”

  “Alright, Meg.” He took a step forward, concerned by her panic.

  But his strategy of closing in paid off. His body a whisper away from hers, Jake bet that she would not retreat, and he won. Megan’s pupils grew large so that only the faintest rim of blue eclipsed them. Her head tipped back as if she drew in his scent, and her lips grew slack, so soft and tempting he had to strive for every curse word in his head to keep from kissing her.

  “I’ll go then,” he whispered as his head dipped. His mouth was close to hers, so close he could smell cinnamon tea.

  Megan made a strangled moan. Her arms dropped to her sides, and he waited, God how he waited for her to touch him. He stood as stoic as a monk before an altar and wanted her to make a move, but she didn’t. Megan stood her ground. As still as she was, he could see her body quiver on the cusp of surrender, and the flare of her eyes betrayed what her body concealed.

  “Jake.” Her voice was husky.

  He wasn’t sure if that soft wrench of his name was a plea, a command or a ragged gasp of emotion. When she didn’t elaborate and just stood there watching him, Jake finally drew back. For a moment he held her stare until finally he dragged out the words, “Okay, I’m leaving.”

  Her breath drew in and Jake swore she appeared on the verge of protesting, but she held her tongue.

  “You know,” he said, “regardless of whatever it is you think we shared here, Meg, I’m not happy about leaving you alone. I’ll be at O’Flanagan’s for a few more days. Just call—”

  Megan seemed to snap from a trance. Wide eyes narrowed, and her arms intersected defensively across her chest. Not defensive. Combative.

  “I’ve been here for a year and so far I’ve been fine. I like my solitude, Jake. I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression the past couple days.”

  It was going to kill him to walk out of this house right now. Megan had her secrets, and it had to be on her terms when or if she chose to share them.

  It was a gamble.

  He just wondered how high the stakes would become.

  He was gone.

  Megan watched the red Jeep jolt across the rough trail, a splash of crimson on an austere plateau. The vehicle was a credit to its name as it bucked and shuddered until it twisted out of view. Even then, she stayed at the window and listened to the distant hum of the engine until it faded with the morning fog and left only stillness in its place.

  Jake.

  No, it was too late to call him back. The damage was done. She had all but slapped him in the face and told him their kiss meant nothing and that their time together was insignificant. He would never be back. Why should he? What one small thing had she done to encourage him?

  Nearly made love to him.

  Megan yanked her hand from the frigid windowpane and wished she could as easily wrench that memory from her mind.

  Gordon was coming. That notion was sobering enough to make her focus. With Jake gone she was left to fend for herself, and in that capacity she felt assertive.

  In the past few days, she had tasted life. She had tasted Jake. If she ever hoped for a relationship with a man, this trauma would have to be put behind her. She simply couldn’t spend the rest of her life hiding from Gordon Fortran.

  You know where I am, Gordon?

  Then come get me.

  Jake slammed the gear into Park.

  Sexual tension, that’s all it was. It was almost a relief to acknowledge the source, as if that simple recognition could dispel the effect. He nearly became wrapped up in Megan Summers and lost that cool perspective that served him so well over the years. A woman had once tried to worm her way into his heart and learned the hard way that his heart, along with every other inch of him, was wrapped up in his work. It must have been spite that prompted her to find the one crack in his armor. His wallet.

  Early this morning, both Boston and the Tower project, along with all the tension of his harried life and newfound understanding of his heritage, were so far removed from his thoughts. His feelings were consumed by Megan. Fear for her. Frustration over what she refused to impart. Sexual tension. That was what confused him, and it was why he spent the whole drive down Grayson Path trying to calculate an excuse to return to Wakefield House.

  Pulling into the pub’s parking lot, Jake wrenched open the door and ducked his head into the wind. Overhead, the wooden O’Flanagan’s sign swung back and forth on sturdy black chains, the screech and banging trumped only by the roar of the ocean. That sound captivated him as he listened to the waves pummel the craggy cliffs. Their impact caused an occasional spout of mist to puff up into the air and spill across the pavement. He dragged the collar of his jacket up tighter around his neck and tried to shake off a chill that had nothing to do with this mist and had everything to do with the effects of Megan’s spell.

  Correction, Meg.

  Jake opened the door and, not even two steps through it, was assaulted by Harriet’s booming voice from across the room.

  “Back here solo, are ya?”

  Did the woman ever leave this place?

  “The sun’s out,” he grumbled and took up a stool on the opposite corner of the bar. “I’m not stuck in the haunted house anymore.”

  Jake chose to ignore Harriet’s arched brow, and instead nodded when Serena hefted an empty beer mug.

  “Still surprised to see ya, though.”

  She wasn’t going to let up, but he could be just as stubborn. He lifted the freshly poured beer to his lips and made a point of staring at the television, though he could care less about the Tennessee fishing program that seemed ill-fitted for this time of year, or this geography.

  “Coop. Coop!” Harriet barked. “Bitty field, goddammit, you know I’m talking to you.”

  Jake was not about to take the bait and see who Harriet was yelling at this time. Great, let someone else fall prey to her rampant curiosity.

  “Cooper, this Yank is the one who’s up here looking for his parents.”

  Dammit to hell, why did he open his mouth that night?

  Jake glared across the bar at Harriet and the gnarled man beside her hunched over an empty mug. White hair fluffed out of the bottom of a black wool knit hat. The man’s face was craggy, and eyes that might have once been blue, stared through a yellow veil directly at him.

  “You asking about Crow, boy?”

  Okay, let’s remember why you were here to begin with, Grogan. “Yeah, I’m asking about Crow Musgrave. What do you know about him?”

  The man known as Coop shoved his empty mug forward and cleared his throat repeatedly when Serena did not respond expeditiously. He scratched at the white stubble on his chin with a hand that looked like it had once been put through a meat grinder.

  “Best damn lobsterman in town.” Cooper shook his head in awe. “Used to come back with traps piled so high they nearly fell off the deck. Heck, he’d have an entourage of boats follow him into port, just looking for any scraps that dropped
overboard.”

  Jake sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued.

  “The day he died they say the ocean heaved a sigh of relief.” Coop raised his mug in salute.

  “You’re full of shit, Bittyfield.”

  A sardonic grin was all the man bestowed on Harriet before he climbed off his stool and carried his mug down to the short end of the L-shaped bar where Jake sat. With an unsteady hand he set the glass down hard enough to spill beer. Out of nowhere, Serena appeared with a towel to mop up the mess.

  “Coop Littlefield.” He held that knotted hand out, and Jake hesitated before he accepted it, surprised by the forceful grip.

  “Jake Grogan.” At this close perspective, Jake determined that Cooper Littlefield had the weathered look of a man who had probably been born at sea and rarely made landside appearances, except for beer. “You knew my—you knew Crow Musgrave?”

  “Knew him? Who the hell do you think he learned from?”

  It was nearly comical—the look of affront on the pursed lips, but Jake felt that this man commanded respect. Hell, from what he had learned so far, if Crow Musgrave walked into this bar right now, he would have exacted admiration as well, and somehow that notion pleased him.

  “So, to the best of your knowledge…” Jake fumbled to collect his thoughts, “…he never married, never had a—”

  “You askin’ if he’s your father?” Coop cut in impatiently after a slug of beer.

  “Well, ah, not exactly—” Ah, to hell with it. “Yes, yes I’m asking if you think he was.”

  The old man stared at him with foggy eyes, their corners wrinkled so excessively that he bore an enduring squint.

  “Dammit, Coop, just tell him,” Harriet barked from a few stools away.

  Cooper’s eyes sliced her way and Jake could make out a rather unique expletive on the man’s cracked lips. He looked back at Jake and nodded. “Yeah,” he said quietly, so quietly the sound was nearly obscured by the loud fisherman on the television. “Yeah, he was your father.”

  Jake’s hand shook. He wrapped it around the icy base of the mug and stared blindly at the lacquered bar. Above him, the southern drawl spoke of the art of fly-fishing.

  “You sound so sure.”

  Cooper snorted. “Well Christ, kid, you’re the spitting image of him.”

  Jake’s eyes jolted up to meet Cooper’s. The old man gave him what closely resembled a grin and revealed a hefty portion of a gold tooth. “Look.” His contorted hand swung across the bar to the mirror behind the cash register.

  Jake did not understand. He studied his reflection—the stern expression, the dark stubble from a morning without a razor, and hair that was messed by the wind. He was starting to look like one of the fisherman who lined these stools. It was a wonder Megan was even attracted to him. He looked like a wreck. But then again, in the black of night, there was only touch—

  “Not the mirror, dammit. The picture there in the corner.”

  Jake’s gaze snapped to the collection of photos taped around the frame of the mirror. They seemed to scope decades, with everything from tarnished black and whites, to fancy computer productions. Years of happy patrons, and there in the midst stood a somber man with a lobster trap in his hand.

  It was a black-and-white photo, and Jake could only estimate that the man was in his late twenties, maybe early thirties. He didn’t smile. In fact he looked sad, burdened actually. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders enhanced all the more by the bulky flannel jacket. Even in black and white, his dark hair gleamed under the sun. His eyes were narrowed into a squint.

  Jake didn’t even realize he had risen to stand before the photo till Coop’s voice jarred him from behind.

  “He wouldn’t talk about you.”

  Jake’s neck cracked when he wrenched it back in Coop’s direction. “What do you mean?”

  “It hurt him too much. That picture was probably taken about two months after you were born. You were long gone by then.”

  The tavern teetered around him. Jake latched on to the bar for stability. “Gone? Why—?” It was hard to even form the questions.

  “Oh, that’s private stuff. Crow wasn’t gonna talk about that with me.”

  “But you suspect?” he prompted.

  “I suspect that Estelle got her hands on you the moment you popped out of your momma’s belly.” Coop shook his head. “Gabby was already long gone. Gone to visit her relatives.” Sarcasm laced his words.

  “But I thought Gabrielle could not have children.”

  Coop snorted. “Yup, that’s what Estelle would say. I’m pretty sure that the situation with you and Crow destroyed that woman. If you want to call that ‘barren’ as Estelle refers to it, so be it.”

  Jake hefted his boot up on the rung of a barstool and cupped his hand around the back of his neck. “Why? Why did Estelle do that to them?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Because they weren’t married? Because Crow was blue-collar?”

  Coop looked past him at the somber photograph and whispered roughly, “You know why.”

  Following that glance, Jake stared at the photo again. He stared so hard that the figure on the dock nearly took on a three-dimensional form. The lobster boats bobbed behind him as he prepared to load his trap, but instead stood lost in thought. The man bore such a pensive expression that it made Jake stop and wonder what occupied his mind. What single thought made those brooding features so dark and grim?

  The color of his skin.

  He was Native American.

  He was not white.

  As Jake’s eyes slipped from the photo to his own reflection in the mirror, reality stared straight back at him.

  “Never knew you were part Pasamaquoddy, did ya?”

  Passama-what?

  “No,” he said sullenly, “I never knew.”

  In the background, the bar phone rang. Overhead, a commercial boasted a tonic guaranteed to prevent hair loss. Cooper was still talking, and Harriet still interrupted.

  Jake didn’t hear any of it. He looked at himself in the mirror again. Did he feel different than he had ten minutes ago? Was he altered in some small way? Did foreign blood pump in his veins now—the blood of a tribe that forged this land?

  No.

  He felt the same.

  “Jake?”

  Splaying his hands out before him, Jake thought they looked tan, but never once had he considered—

  “Jake?”

  The soft voice cut in when the rest of the cacophony was still tuned out.

  “Hmm?” Distracted, he looked up at Serena and tried to ignore the sympathy in her gaze.

  “It’s for you.”

  “What?” Had he suddenly lost his grasp of the English language? He barely understood the bartender.

  “It’s Megan.”

  Absorbed with the trauma of what he’d learned, the notification that Megan was on the phone channeled his jumbled thoughts into one concentrated notion. Megan needed him.

  In the corner of his eye, he saw Crow Musgrave standing tall with his lobster trap in hand. That brooding expression meant more to him now. Maybe he understood a little better what lingered behind those troubled eyes.

  The questions regarding his heritage were not gone. The painful curiosity still lingered, but it was newfound knowledge that had yet to root itself in his psyche. Inevitably, the quest for answers would continue, but for now, this information was all too fresh and foreign to concentrate on when the woman who had clung to him and kissed him with a passion laced with trust was on the phone.

  Jake grabbed the phone and stared at it for a second before he hoisted it to his ear. “Meg?”

  “Jake, I—I know I have no place in asking this—,” she fumbled over her own words until a deep breath seemed to steady her, “—especially after some of the things I said, but—”

  “Are you okay?” Jake could read into the hitch in her throat.

  “Jake.”

  There was silence, and with it his concern mounted. But th
en her voice returned. “Could you—”

  “I’m on my way,” he said roughly.

  He barely heard her whispered thanks before he thrust the phone back at Serena.

  “Mr. Grogan.” Harriet’s puffy hand brushed at his arm as he stormed by. “Where are you going? There’s probably more that Coop can tell you.”

  Jake stopped. He turned around to face the curious stares of O’Flanagan’s patrons. Harriet, with her plump cheeks and sharp gaze, and Cooper with his permanent squint and flash of gold beneath a cagey grin. Serena, the pregnant bartender, whose eyes were full of compassion and whose stomach plumped up her O’Flanagan’s apron.

  Jake had come to Victory Cove to learn who his biological parents were. What he learned was that there was some validity to the phrase, ignorance is bliss. As much as the information he had gathered here today troubled him, he was still grateful to these generous townsfolk for taking the time out to help a stranger.

  His head dipped in a nod. “I’ll be back.”

  Chapter Eleven

  So much for bravado.

  Courage flew out the window by the second phone call. With the gun in one hand and the receiver in the other, Megan listened to the silence on the far end of the line. If she strained hard enough she could discern his breathing, and God help her, she thought she could smell his mint gum through the line.

  She recalled an occasion when she had walked into Gordon’s office unannounced to find two men sitting before his desk, one in his twenties, the other much older. The elder spoke with a heavy Eastern European intonation. It was not the first time that Gordon had hosted foreign clientele, yet he never discussed any of their cases with her. She was curious, but only mildly. There simply was not enough time in the day to keep tabs on Gordon’s significant client list that bolstered their firm’s cash flow.

  At the sound of her voice the two men wrenched around. For a fleeting second she thought the young man looked familiar, with his broad forehead, flat nose and cowlick-ridden blond hair. Her eyes jumped to the elder man with thinning gray hair, same ice-blue eyes and broad forehead, characteristics identifying him as the presumed father. That was about all she picked up in that brief analysis. Instead, she was rooted by the hatred glaring in Gordon’s expression. Not hatred. Accusation. Anger.