Gage sighed deeply.
He’d give anything to have those kinds of problems.
* * * *
The first thing he did, once Quinton dropped him at home, was leave messages. “I’m at the cabin. Call me,” he spoke gruffly to the automated voice of Frankie’s answering machine.
He moved slowly across the cabin floor and fired up his computer, sent her an e-mail with roughly the same demand. He was too exhausted to make it up the stairs to the loft, so he threw an extra log in the fireplace and curled up on the sofa under a thick blanket.
He slept for thirteen hours straight.
The following morning there was still no word from her. He pounded a furious fist into the opposite palm and began to pace. The old fir floor creaked with every step.
“Damn it, Frankie! Where did you run off to?” he mumbled out loud.
He paced awhile longer, contemplated the wretched unfairness of life and made a pact with his own impatience.
He would give Frankie until the end of the day to make contact. Then the hunt to find her would be on. Gage would call in every favor owed him. Shaking his head in disgust, he wandered into the bathroom for a shower.
The warm water did little to change his temperament. His appetite had returned so he cooked up some scrambled eggs and toast. He skimmed the newspaper reporter’s version of the accident. The story was peppered with conjecture and facts Gage couldn’t remember.
He blinked and stared across the kitchen table at an empty chair. He’d never noticed how eerily quiet his house was. He took a bite of toast. It tasted metallic. He spooned a bite of scrambled egg into his mouth and found the same aftertaste. Gage pushed the plate away and scowled. He tossed the dishes into the sink and stared out the kitchen window, brooding.
* * * *
The cedar shingled cabin his grandfather built in the early nineteen hundreds was unchanged except for a dark green metal roof and full bathroom added after Gage claimed his inheritance. Open and enormous inside, the one-room cabin was decorated in hardwoods and shades of green and brown.
Outside, mixed pine and broadleaf trees cradled the cabin in a fond embrace. Situated on forty acres of fertile land, a creek wound its way across the entire length of the property. New trees and old fencing surrounded land that had once been a working farm. Tall grass blanketed the horse pasture. Feral cats roamed the dilapidated red barn unmolested.
The ghosts of his childhood were warm and friendly. He had fond memories of biking through town almost every day to help his grandfather with farm chores, listening to the old man’s lively banter while they worked.
Gage never knew his father. The drifter abandoned his wife and son shortly after the birth and was never heard from again. His mother had done what most women in that situation, were forced to do—she carried on. To support herself and young son, she taught first graders at the elementary school in New Harbor. It was a good job and she was brilliant at creating a fun learning environment. In her spare time, she steeped her son in love.
He had grown up strong and healthy.
He had grown up self-sufficient.
He had grown up with a deep admiration for women.
Like the best of friends, he and his mother did everything together. Played, laughed, and sang. When he started through the rigors of puberty, she reluctantly gave him the freedom he needed while maintaining a stable, secure home to fall back on when peer-pressure precipitated poor decisions.
Two days before her thirty-ninth birthday, Stella Adams stepped into the deadly path of an oncoming school bus. One week after her funeral, Gage joined the military. Two months after enlistment, his beloved grandfather died of a heart attack. Life as Gage had known it disappeared in a cloud of crematorium dust.
The sweet ghosts of his past.
Gage rubbed his chilly arms. Outside was a sunny morning with the promise of turning into another spectacular spring day. He needed to get away, now, and surround himself with the noise of the living.
* * * *
The royal blue sail covers of Spare Change weren’t hard to spot as he drove into the marina parking lot. She was easily the prettiest boat in the harbor. “Great lines,” the old salts liked to say.
Gage was astounded to find her halyards tied off properly, ensuring ropes wouldn’t flap loudly against the mast. Extra fenders had been placed between the boat and dock to prevent excessive grinding. She was even plugged into the electrical outlet to recharge her batteries! There was nothing left for him to do but clean up the bloodstains in the cockpit and on the transom where he had dragged Damon into the back of the boat.
When he finished, Gage wandered down the street to the Pioneer Brewpub and found Edgar sitting on a barstool, tallying the previous night’s receipts.
“Ahoy there, Edgar,” he called out.
“Good morning, Lieutenant!” Edgar clasped his hand in a firm shake. “I heard you and the boy got into some trouble the other day.”
Word traveled fast. Undoubtedly, with Edgar’s connections, the man knew more details about the accident than Gage was able to remember.
“We were lucky,” he shrugged.
“So I hear.” His face was warm with compassion. “Have a seat and let me treat you to a beer.”
“Thanks.” Gage scooted onto the barstool next to him. The bartender, listening to their exchange, pulled a tap and filled a glass. He set it in front of Gage.
“The crew of the Buffy Marie spent most of last night patting themselves on the back,” Edgar said casually.
Gage smiled.
“Speaking of them, could you do me a favor?”
“Name it.”
“Would you send a keg of your best microbrew and a couple of extra-large pizzas to them when she gets back from fishing this afternoon? Put it on my tab.”
“All of my microbrew is the best,” Edgar joked.
Gage took a long draw off his beer, and closed his eyes in appreciation. “You won’t get an argument from me on that one,” he answered. “With the exception of this brew, everything I’ve tried to eat or drink today tastes like a rusty nail wrapped in aluminum foil.”
Edgar let out a loud belly laugh. “Then you better have some more of it and reset those faulty taste buds.”
Gage downed the brew in one big gulp and leaned closer. “You haven’t seen Frankie today, have you?”
“No,” he replied. “Not since Monday.”
Gage’s dejected look told the story.
“Everything okay between you and the little captain?”
“I’ll let you know in a couple of weeks,” Gage responded quietly. “Right now, it’s looking pretty grim.”
Edgar nodded in understanding.
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’re not so good at talking with women, are you, son?”
Gage shook his head.
“You’re the second person to tell me that in the last twenty-four hours. I’m starting to get a complex.”
“My wife used to say the same thing about me,” Edgar confessed. “All it takes is practice and some research.”
The bartender set another beer down in front of Gage.
“I would wait until my wife left for work,” Edgar continued. “Then I would sneak upstairs to the attic where she kept her old romance novels. There were so many boxes of them up there it was a fire hazard. Good thing we got insurance.”
“You read your wife’s bodice-rippers?”
“Every last one of them. I gained a lot of insight into the female psyche reading those books.”
Gage was stunned by Edgar’s candid revelation.
“What did your wife say when she caught you?”
“Who said she caught me?” Edgar paused to take a long look at the younger man. “What’s the matter, son? You look a little pale around the gills.”
“I think I need to go back to the hospital for a CT scan,” he mumbled. “My concussion must be worse than I thought.”
Chapter 17
TDY
Two lucrative weeks of double time pay. A sprawling Atlantic Coast station urgently needed a qualified pilot when one of their own collapsed with chest pain. Frankie snatched up the offer. The temporary assignment would keep her busy and if Damon should, by some obscene stretch of the imagination, score with Sophia, she was going to need the extra cash.
The voice of her new co-pilot sounded in her ear.
“Engines at full power. Ready for take-off.”
Frankie glanced over at him. His pointed chin jutted out from beneath his helmet. She blinked against the morning sun, thumbed the controls and lifted them smoothly into the air. They headed east over the water and then veered south.
The station had received a distress call from the skipper of a fishing trawler after its propane water heater exploded and consumed the boat in flames. With the fire burning out of control, the skipper placed the mayday call and abandoned ship.
A myriad of thoughts ran through her brain, competing with the rescue call for attention. For the millionth time that morning, deep sadness swamped over her. Her mind filled with the echo of someone she left behind in her haste to get away.
Gage.
How was he doing? Did he remember the accident? Was he safe at home? Frankie had called the hospital to find out if Damon was okay. He explained the reason for their disastrous dive. She blinked back a tear. Damon also told her that Gage had been discharged from the hospital and was angry to find her gone. When Frankie called Quinton, he told her succinctly to, “phone Gage” and left it at that.
Frankie heaved a deep breath.
If she hadn’t crashed Zena into the ocean, Damon and Gage would never have been injured. It was her fault they’d gone after the dog tags. She’d almost killed them twice in less than a week.
Frankie started to feel sick again. She bit down hard on her lip. What was happening to her lately? She’d cried more these last few days than in her entire life. She felt terrible for running out of the hyperbaric chamber yet hadn’t been able to work up the nerve to call Gage. She knew he was pissed and couldn’t face him just yet.
Frankie swiped a gloved hand across her eyes. The voice of her co-pilot forced her to pull it together.
“I have smoke in sight.”
She spotted a thin black column and angled the helo towards it.
“I count three in the water,” he announced.
“Affirmative.”
In the back, procedures were underway by the rescue swimmer and crew chief. Frankie gnawed on her lip. In her judgment, this new team was technically proficient but lacked camaraderie.
“Ready for hoist power,” the crew chief spoke.
“Power to hoist engaged. Awaiting instructions.”
“Forward five. Hold.”
They hovered above the life-jacketed survivors.
“Swimmer away.”
Frankie glanced down at the white-capped Atlantic. In a few hours, trade winds would whip the ocean into an inhospitable state. Frankie stared straight ahead and suddenly realized she could not remember the names of her present crew. She glanced down. Carl, or was it Russell, coaxed a fisherman into the rescue basket and signaled the crew chief.
“Hoist in progress.”
One at a time, the fishermen were pulled to safety. She kept her gaze on the horizon, watched the blazing trawler with an odd detachment as it burned itself out and sunk.
“Basket is in the helicopter. Boom stored. Ready for forward flight.”
A crisp thumbs-up signal from the co-pilot and Frankie angled them back to the base.
As usual, the moment the mission adrenaline began to ebb, wrenching sadness returned. She went through the ritual of congratulating the crew for a job well done, then wrote the official report before politely excusing herself.
She wandered into her temporary duty quarters, eager for solitude. A light blinked on the answering machine. “Quinton must be calling to chew me out again,” she whispered. Frankie shrugged off her flight suit and gave the machine a curious frown. She hit the ‘play’ key.
Gage’s familiar voice filtered angrily across the room.
“I know you’re in North Carolina. If I don’t hear from you today, I’m flying out there to find out why you’re ignoring me.”
Frankie’s legs dissolved. She collapsed on the narrow bed as her tears flowed freely.
* * * *
“Skies clear with temperatures in the high seventies today. Get out the sunscreen, folks, it’s going to be a beautiful day.”
Gage reached over and clicked off the radio.
“Beautiful, my ass,” he grumbled. There was nothing beautiful about the weather report. In fact, the day had all the indicators of being down right shitty. A tight band of stress encircled his cynical skull and squeezed without mercy. Gage stood up, the bed creaked under the weight shift, and he tugged on his jeans in one fierce yank.
He’d set the deadline. She had blown it off. Not only had Frankie ignored his demand but she refused the strong advice of Quinton, as well. In the four years he knew her, that was a first. She always listened when the big man spoke and almost always took his advice. Gage’s good intentions had turned into the longest two weeks of his life.
He climbed downstairs from the loft and stalked into the kitchen. A cricket stopped its chirping at his approach. Sunlight warmed the spacious walls and infused the room in a woodsy scent of cedar. Gage glanced around and scowled. The home that had once been a sanctuary now seemed cold and empty.
Precious little in the way of artwork adorned the cabin. Only a framed photograph of the Harmony Bay crew standing in front of Zena, remained. The picture hung from a peg by the front door. He stared at it for a few moments. Frankie’s cheesy grin smiled back at him.
“Damn it!”
He grabbed a cereal box off the kitchen counter and shoveled a handful of flakes into his mouth. Gage chewed for a moment and swallowed the tasteless lump.
“What in the hell is going on with you, Frankie?” Gage shouted to the photograph. “Why won’t you call me?”
He strode over to his darkened computer and powered it up. A few moments of beeps and blips before the screen began to glow and a familiar “You Have Mail” voice greeted his pessimism.
He muttered a curse and opened his e-mail inbox folder. Gage scrolled down the screen impatiently deleting junk mail. At the bottom of the page was a message from Frankie. He opened it and stared, dumbfounded. She had written one simple question. Gage frowned and spoke the words out loud.
“Are you still in love with Robin?”
He blinked as the motive behind her bizarre behavior finally dawned on him.
Gage flew off the chair like he’d been shot out of a rocket. He picked up the phone and dialed her number. No answer except for the automated machine, again.
“Damn it!” He slammed the phone down and stormed out of the cabin.
Chapter 18
CALL ME
She dreamed of seashells and banana splits. When the noise of a truck engine pierced her colorful sleep, Frankie awoke in a cheerful mood for the first time in two weeks. Morning light slipped through the thin cotton curtains. She dragged the alarm clock into view.
“Seven o’clock?”
Reaching across the nightstand to her pager, she pressed the status key and saw the empty screen with its silent green face glowing back at her.
“Sweet,” she grinned at the white-speckled ceiling. She had slept for nearly ten hours without interruption.
Frankie yawned and stretched her stiff limbs. She shook her head and knuckled the sleep from her eyes. Her stomach grumbled.
Tomorrow she was going home and her temporary life in North Carolina would end. One more shift with Matthew, Curt and David. Or was it Brian, Keith and Daniel? Nice guys and conscientious, hard workers.
All in all, she was feeling better about herself and the sweeping decision she made the night before. After days of soul-searching and generalized moping around, Frankie concluded it was time to take
control of her own destiny. Gage had opened a new door to her sexuality that was too late to close. After much contemplation, Frankie decided to start dating again.
She enjoyed male companionship. She thrived on romance and had more than enough passion to share. It was time to get over the angst of coveting a man who didn’t belong to her and get on with her life. Her body clenched suddenly at the remembrance of the one who taught it about passion. Frankie let out a deep sigh and rubbed the chill from her arms. She remembered sending Gage an email during a moment of profound weakness. If she was lucky, the silly message would disappear into cyberspace and he’d never see it. The fact he hadn’t responded was a good sign.
“Living in a fantasy world accomplishes nothing,” she whispered. There were plenty of available men. If George Harvey was interested in taking her out for dinner and a movie, then she was game for it. The Sisterhood always had a spare brother or two to choose from. Why not broaden her horizons and take on several at once?
Frankie rolled out of bed and extended her arms above her head. Sweeping her hair into a ponytail, she tiptoed to the shower. The warm water felt marvelous on her skin so she lingered under the spray.
The flight line was alive with activity by the time she finished and wandered out of the officer’s quarters. Vehicles rumbled and maintenance crews scurried around aircraft, gearing up to meet the day. The rumble of propellers pierced the air as she crossed the tarmac. Across the highway, in an open field used for training, a dozen men and women were in the midst of a grueling exercise regimen.
Halfway to the mess hall, a Fed-Ex truck shot past her and screeched to a halt in front of the administrative office. The driver jumped out, sprinted inside to make a delivery and sped off to his next destination.
Guarding the Coast Page 20
