by Hope Ramsay
God, he wished he’d pleased her. He wished he’d done better. But that summer he’d been too little. Nothing about sailing had come easily. And Mom had never said a word about his failures.
But what if he’d been good? Would Mom have given him pointers? Would he have taken the advice or seen it as criticism?
He didn’t know.
“What’s going through your head, Dylan?” Ella asked.
“Nothing,” he said, anxious to shut down the conversation. It seemed wrong to compare his mother to Brenda. Except he’d been doing it for weeks, hadn’t he?
“I should never have tried to compare Mom to your mother,” he said. “That wasn’t fair.”
“True, but probably inevitable. Since you’re human. You are human, aren’t you?”
“I’m trying.”
“Good.” She turned away, staring out over the bay.
“And what are you thinking?” he asked, employing the question as a cheap trick in order to keep his thoughts private.
“To be brutally honest, I was thinking about my father.”
“What?”
She blew out a sigh and glanced at Dylan out of the corner of her eye. “I was thinking that we both have an absent parent.”
“Yeah. But your father is still alive, isn’t he?”
She shook her head. “No. He died right before Christmas. I looked him up a few years ago. We had a relationship for a little while.”
“I’m so sorry, Ella. Was that this past December?”
She nodded.
“Right before you came home?”
“Dylan, Magnolia Harbor isn’t my home. It’s yours. It’s Mom’s. I grew up in Indiana, but I don’t have any family or real connection there. For a long while, I wanted Cody to settle down on this piece of land near El Paso. But that didn’t happen either. I’m starting to think I’m the proverbial rolling stone.”
He studied her as Synchronicity Too’s engines fired to life, and the crew went to work on the mooring lines. It seemed important, suddenly, to remember that Ella was only visiting Magnolia Harbor and would leave one day. She needed to go someplace where she could play her violin and make a living at it.
So they were having a summertime fling. And maybe it wasn’t worth it in the end. He’d like to believe they’d end up friends, especially if she came visiting on holidays or in the summer.
The thought deepened his depression, just as the yacht slipped away from its berth and headed through the channel markers. The crew got busy raising the gaff-rigged mainsail, so the yacht was moving under wind alone by the time they reached the channel.
“Oh my goodness. It’s amazing,” Ella said in a bright, happy voice, bending backward to look at the wind-filled sails. The yacht shot forward, heeling a tiny bit to leeward, and Ella stumbled as the deck shifted beneath their feet.
Dylan caught her by the shoulders for the second time that evening, the heat of her body flowing through his palms and into his core. Desire almost blew him over. But his hunger for this woman was tempered by something else much stronger.
He wanted to keep her safe right here beside him. But she was more like Lauren than he’d thought, the dress notwithstanding. Neither Lauren nor Ella would ever be happy living here in Magnolia Harbor.
Chapter Nineteen
The cruise had been lovely, the bay had been calm, and the sunset had been gorgeous, lighting up the sky in shades of yellow, pink, and magenta. But Dylan’s melancholy seemed to hang over it. What was wrong with him?
As the schooner turned back toward the harbor with the day turning toward twilight, a deep exhaustion seeped through Ella. She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but even a simple question like that seemed dangerous, especially after the conversation they’d had about his mother and her father. They needed to keep it light between them.
So when Jude St. Pierre handed the ship’s wheel over to one of his crew and strolled over to where Dylan and Ella stood, she was thankful for the interruption.
“If y’all would like to take a tour below decks, feel free. I left a couple of brochures on the table in the salon about evening party rentals and catering details. You better jump quick though because I only have a couple of evening sailings available. Charter sailings can be booked any Tuesday or Wednesday evening.” He shook their hands and then strolled away to chat with other passengers, like any good ship’s captain.
“Come on,” Dylan said. “I’ve seen the salon, but you should take a look. If you think the decks are beautiful, wait until you see the woodwork down there.” Dylan snagged her hand and pulled her toward the ship’s ladder.
Damn. Holding his hand was nice, even though the touch of his skin against hers made fireflies spark to life in her middle. That simple touch, and her deep reaction to it, was a warning she chose not to heed. She probably shouldn’t have held his hand in public, but she didn’t let go until she had to climb down the steep steps to the salon.
The space was paneled in gleaming mahogany with porthole windows and skylights that provided views of the rigging and the dusky blue of the twilight sky beyond. The salon wasn’t cavernous like Grace Church, or ordinary like Cibo Dell’anima. Decorated in beautiful shades of blues and greens, it had an intimate feel. It wouldn’t hold many guests, though.
“I love it,” she said, turning to inspect the comfortable furniture, all of which was built into the bulkheads. She had a Goldilocks moment. After all the searching, she’d finally found the right place.
“We should book it for the first available Wednesday. We can’t have a party on Tuesday because of the Piece Maker meetings. I have discovered that nothing stands in the way of those.”
“And what if it rains or storms?” Dylan asked, repeating his concerns like some oracle of doom.
She turned on him. “What is wrong with you? You’ve been Doctor Depressed all night. Was it me asking questions about your mother that put you into this mood?” Or was it her dress? She didn’t dare ask that because the dress had been a mistake. The arms were so tight they were cutting off circulation to her hands. She turned away from him and headed down a narrow hallway right off the salon.
“I’m sorry. I’ve been distracted,” he said, following her.
“By what?” she asked over her shoulder. This was too dangerous a question to ask when looking him right in the eye.
“One of my patients died today.”
“Oh. Gee. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot.” She turned, leaning against a bulkhead. “Was it sudden?”
“No, not really.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
He reached out and took her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers. Oh, his touch made her long for things she could never have. He shook his head. “She was an old lady,” he said. “Alone in the world. Her husband had died. She didn’t have kids. Not even any friends left. They’d all died and left her alone. She was suffering from heart failure, and the meds were starting to lose their efficacy. I thought she should go into a nursing home, and Dad was opposed to that.”
His voice got hard at the end. “If Dad had listened to me, she’d be alive today.”
She squeezed his hand. “But would she be happy about that?”
He met her gaze. “She’d be alive. Dead is dead.”
Spoken like a doctor who spent his life battling for life. She had to love him for caring so much, but if she were in the same situation, she’d be ready to meet her Maker.
She rocked up on tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Then she pulled away from him, putting space between them.
“Where are you going?” Dylan asked, following her down the hall.
She opened one of the hallway doors, which led to a cabin with a small bedroom. “I’m checking out…the bedrooms,” she said, and then regretted the way that sentence sounded, so she continued down the hall, opening doors until she found a large stateroom at the end of the hallway. A queen-sized bed sat in the middle of the room on a platform of highly polished wood with
drawers underneath. The bulkheads were paneled like the library at Howland House, with decorative inlays and millwork. Tongue and groove planking, painted a creamy white, covered the low, curved ceiling, and two porthole windows provided a view.
“Wow,” she said, leaning into the doorway. “I wonder how much it would cost to charter this boat and sail to the Caribbean.”
“More than either of us can afford,” Dylan said from behind her, his breath feathering against the nape of her neck. “It would be fun sailing away with you. If we went alone, we wouldn’t have to skulk around like sneaks.”
Time hung suspended as her mind spun off on a wild and crazy tangent in which neither Jim nor Mom existed. What would it feel like to be utterly free to simply let this thing—fling or relationship—unfold in its own time?
If she was free right now, she’d step across this threshold. She’d pull him into the room with her and give him the comfort he so desperately needed tonight.
Just then, his mouth touched the skin right below her earlobe, his lips hot against her skin. The kiss was like a spark dropped onto dry kindling. Her body burst into a rush of heat and fire.
She turned to face him. He took her by the shoulders and backed her up through the doorway as his mouth came down hard and hungry on her lips.
He closed the door. She pressed herself against him. He was sturdy and male and utterly delicious. He linked a string of kisses down her neck like fiery pearls.
In every spot where he touched her, she came to life, hungry and needy. She groaned out loud, and he turned the tables, pressing her up against the door, his body a welcome weight against her.
When he managed, with some serious effort, to tug the hem of her tight skirt up over her hip, she pressed into him and kissed his ear, her fingers roaming through the curly texture of his hair.
She was about to suggest a tumble into the beautiful bed when Jude St. Pierre’s voice pierced the fog of her desire. “Dylan? Are you down here? One of the guests just fell and gashed her head.”
Dylan stopped, pulling away from her, his eyes dark and hungry. “We’re not finished,” he said, then turned around, deftly straightening his bow tie as he opened the door and headed down the hallway.
“I’m here,” he said in a loud voice. “Ella wanted to see the staterooms.”
* * *
Dylan didn’t know whether to be annoyed about the young woman who had tripped and fallen or relieved that the accident had prevented him from getting caught with his pants down…literally.
As it turned out, the passenger’s scalp wound was superficial, and there were no signs of a concussion. So he doctored her with the medical kit on board and suggested that she contact her GP in the morning if she had any further symptoms.
He got a round of applause for this minor medical non-miracle. It seemed kind of stupid to be applauded for applying a Band-Aid to someone’s forehead when Coreen Martel had needed so much more from him. Why was the woman’s demise weighing so heavily on him?
He didn’t know. In medical school, they had taught him to remain detached, and he’d thought he’d managed that. Except that Dad was always telling him to care more. Because Dad cared. Dad had cared enough to let Coreen stay at home and be independent even though, strictly speaking, that hadn’t been the best medical advice.
There was more to being a country doctor than what they’d taught him in med school. And he was only starting to learn the truth.
The yacht made it back to dock without further mishap, and Dylan found himself below decks discussing its availability for the engagement party. He allowed himself to be distracted from his sadness and the tug of longing he felt every time Ella turned her big eyes in his direction.
He wanted to take her home because he didn’t want to be alone tonight in the big house he’d once shared with Dad. In fact, the loneliness of his future life weighed on him. He didn’t want to end up like Coreen.
He pushed the negative thoughts from his head as they discussed possible sailing dates with Jude St. Pierre. They didn’t have many choices, and they’d still be up a creek if the weather didn’t cooperate. But they booked the yacht for April twenty-second. Just two weeks away.
“So…” Ella said in a bright, happy voice as they left the yacht and headed down the long pier to the parking lot. “We need to check out caterers right away. We might have trouble booking one.”
“I’ll call around and make some appointments,” he muttered. Talking about catering was the last thing on his mind. What he wanted was to finish the kiss they’d started in the stateroom. But maybe that was a bad idea. Maybe he should disengage.
After all, their parents were getting married. With the yacht booked for the party, the reality settled in. Dad was never coming back to the house. Ella was just a momentary lapse of judgment. His future seemed to open up in front of him like a big, dark, lonely thing.
“We should have a chocolate fountain,” she said. “You know, with strawberries. Mom loves chocolate-covered strawberries.”
She was oblivious to his pain, and her excitement about the party left him sour. “A chocolate fountain on a yacht? Are you crazy?” he said.
She turned as they walked down the pier. “Oh my god. You are such a stick in the mud sometimes. You know that?”
“Do you want to come back to my place?” he asked abruptly. He didn’t want to talk about catering and chocolate fountains or champagne or any of that. He just wanted to finish the kiss. He just wanted company tonight.
She stopped dead in her tracks and hugged herself against the freshening breeze, which had turned chilly now that the sun had set. Was she cold or uncertain? He couldn’t quite tell, so he took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. “I told you to dress appropriately,” he said gently, resting his hands on her tiny shoulders.
“What?”
“In my message. Didn’t I?”
She threw back her head and laughed. He had no idea what was so funny, but suddenly he was laughing too. Not just a little chuckle or a giggle, but a big, fat belly laugh that had tears streaming from his eyes. The laugh eased something that had seized up in him this morning when the fire department had delivered the news about Coreen Martel.
When he finally caught his breath, he managed to ask, “What’s so funny?”
“I thought you wanted me to dress appropriately.”
“Well, I did. I looked at the weather forecast and…” His voice faded out, stilled by the look on her face. Her beautiful mouth had tipped up in a winning smile, and her big eyes danced with merriment.
“Right. And since you didn’t say one word about the weather, I interpreted your request to mean that you wanted me to, you know, dress conservative and boring. I thought either you were embarrassed by me or maybe you wanted me to wear something that wasn’t sexy.” She reached up and pulled the end of his bow tie, untying the knot.
“Really? That’s what you thought? Damn, Ella. I’m not sure I could stop wanting you even if you dressed in a gunnysack. And I do hate the dress.”
“Even though it’s got polka dots? We would have matched if you’d worn your navy tie.”
“You are not a polka dot kind of person, and I’m okay with that. I like you the way you are.”
She blinked. “Really? I didn’t think so at first.”
“Well, okay. I need to apologize for judging you when I first met you. I was wrong about it all.” He stepped a little closer. “What I want,” he said in a near whisper, “is to get you out of that dress.”
“I’m trying so hard to be good,” she whispered.
“I know. I am too. But I still want you to come home with me.” He cupped her head and kissed her. She tasted like spring flowers or something growing from deep, dark earth. Elemental. Perfect. He didn’t want it to end, so it lasted for a long time until someone said, “Y’all need to get a room.”
They jumped back as a sixty-something tourist in a loud Hawaiian shirt passed them on the way to one of the house
boats docked up the pier.
“Oh my god,” she gasped. “We need to be more careful.”
“He was a tourist. But you know, we might as well hang for a sheep as a lamb.”
She snorted. “Where do you come up with these sayings?”
“Dad mostly. Which is weird because he’s not originally from the South, but you’d never know it. I think he collects them from his older patients. Come home with me, Ella.”
Chapter Twenty
Louella Pender, the owner of A Stitch in Time, could be a difficult boss at times, but on Thursday, she surprised Brenda by agreeing to let her take a longer-than-usual lunch break. So today, instead of eating a bag lunch out on the boardwalk, Brenda strolled down to Rafferty’s deck, where Ella was waiting for her underneath one of the restaurant’s brightly striped umbrellas.
“Hey,” Brenda said, sprinting up the stairs to the deck and giving her daughter a kiss. Oh, what a beautiful day it was. The sun was shining, Jim had revamped her outlook on life, and Ella had returned to the family fold, at least for the moment. The day was so perfect that a multitude of mid-week sailors had skipped work. Sails dotted the bay in all directions.
“So,” Ella said once Brenda had seated herself, “I have good news and bad news.”
Her ebullient mood fell right into a pit. Brenda closed her eyes and braced for the inevitable. She fully expected Ella to tell her she was going back to touring with Urban Armadillo. “Okay, I’m ready. Lay it on me.”
Ella laughed. “Mom, it’s not that bad.”
Brenda opened her eyes. “I don’t care. I don’t want any bad news.”
“Okay, I’ll start with the good news. We’ve booked Synchronicity Too for the party.”
“What? Is it big enough for a hundred guests?”
“Right, that’s part of the bad news. We’re limited to no more than forty. And the only date we could get was April twenty-second.”
