Second Chance Summer

by Irene Hannon

  The story just kept getting worse.

  A tear spilled out of her eye, and she placed her hand over his white knuckles. “I’m so sorry.” Her own words came out ragged.

  A shudder rippled through him, and he tugged free of her comforting clasp. But before she could retract her hand, he caught it, twined their fingers together...and held on tight.

  Only then did he look at her. “Sorry. It’s not a pretty story.”

  The light was too dim to offer a clear view of his features. But the tremor in his words spoke volumes. She’d met the man beside her a mere handful of days ago, but she’d read enough about Navy SEALs to know they didn’t shake easily. They learned to control their emotions and possessed both physical and mental strength. She also knew they never showed weakness of any kind, never exposed their vulnerabilities. An Achilles’ heel could be used against you.

  Yet Fletch had taken the risk of opening up to her tonight, sending a clear message. He trusted her—and cared about her more than such a brief acquaintance should merit.

  She felt the same way.

  And that was scary.

  This trip was supposed to be about relaxation, not romance. She had too many unresolved issues of her own to even think about getting involved with anyone.

  Like it or not, though, tonight’s story had linked her with Fletch.

  “You probably wish you’d left after the soda.”

  At his comment, she refocused on him. “No.” She hesitated, trying to organize her thoughts. “It’s just a lot to process. But my instincts tell me you made the best decision you could, based on the information you had. And now that I’ve heard your story, I’m more impressed than ever by how you’ve managed to go on with your life. A lot of people would never get past that kind of trauma.”

  Like her.

  After three years, she still hadn’t come to grips with her culpability in Mark’s death.

  Or the death of her child.

  Her throat tightened, and she forced herself to swallow her tears. Those were not subjects she wanted to think about right now. Tonight, the focus needed to stay on Fletch.

  “I moved on with the externals. Not so much with the internals.” He stroked his thumb over the back of her hand, watching her with a disconcerting intensity. He might not be wearing night-vision goggles, but she had a feeling he was seeing her face a lot more clearly than she was seeing his. “I’m thinking that may be starting to change, though.”

  Because of you.

  The unspoken words vibrated between them, as potent—and unsettling—as if he’d given voice to them.

  A wave of panic rippled through her. “Look, Fletch, I’m not...”

  “Hey.” He held up a hand. “I stopped speaking where I did for a reason. We only met a couple of weeks ago. I don’t even know your favorite color or your birthday or what flavor of ice cream you prefer or whether you like sports. None of that important stuff.”

  One side of his mouth twitched, and the touch of humor helped smooth out the tension in her shoulders as he continued. “But I do know I’m glad our paths crossed, even if our first meeting was memorable for all the wrong reasons. So why don’t we take this a day at a time? We can paint together here. Maybe try the beach thing again. Bring Bandit if you like. We’ll keep it low-key and casual. If we decide to part ways at the end of our stays on Jekyll, so be it. If we don’t...we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What do you say?”

  Rachel tried to examine his proposal logically, but the lean, firm fingers interlaced with hers had somehow disengaged the left side of her brain. Might as well go with the flow.

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t a hard sell.” There was the tiniest hint of laughter in his inflection, a welcome reprieve from the somberness of moments before.

  “What you’re suggesting makes sense. Besides, I have some issues of my own to work through.”

  “Maybe we can talk about them sometime.”

  “Maybe.” Fletch might be brave enough to share his feelings of guilt, but she’d have to dig deep to find that kind of courage.

  “Ready to call it a night?” He stood, his hand still linked with hers.

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her to her feet.

  She waited for him to release her.

  He didn’t.

  As they stood under the jasmine-draped arbor, the sweet scent filling the night air, Rachel tipped her head back and looked into his dark brown eyes. Now that they were standing sideways to the porch light, she could make out his features. Though their conversation had lightened during the last exchange, traces of pain and remorse and blame were etched into his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. None of those lines had been there earlier in the evening.

  “Could you use a quick hug?” Her offer came unbidden, surprising her.

  Without hesitating, he reached out and pulled her close.

  Rachel stepped into his embrace, against a rock-solid chest where a heart thumped hard and a bit too fast against her ear, into arms that were strong yet gentle as they held her.

  Far too soon, he eased back. Then he lifted one hand, plucked a spray of jasmine and handed it to her. “Let’s end the night on a sweet note.”

  She lifted the blossoms to her nose and inhaled, knowing the scent of jasmine would be linked to this night for the rest of her life.

  Only after he walked her back to her car did he release her hand. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  She fumbled the key, but after two tries she managed to insert it in the lock and start the engine. Once she backed onto the street and accelerated toward Aunt El’s, she glanced in the rearview mirror.

  Fletch was still standing in the driveway, looking after her.

  A few seconds later, she turned onto the road to Aunt El’s and he disappeared from view.

  But his final words lingered in the jasmine-infused air.

  Be careful.

  Good advice—and it applied to far more than her short drive home.

  Chapter Eight

  His let’s-keep-things-low-key-and-casual-but-move-forward plan wasn’t working.

  Fletch wiped a smear of pale green paint off his hand and looked across the living room. Rachel was back on trim detail—but so was Marilyn Cooper. In the adjacent dining room, Delores and Al were tackling the walls. Hank had spent most of the evening hanging a swing on the front porch.

  According to the countdown board posted in the kitchen, the Mitchell family was arriving in eighteen days—and the place was crawling with volunteers for the third session in a row. With much work still to do, the ranks swelled day by day.

  That was good for the project.

  Not so good for him.

  He hadn’t had two minutes alone with Rachel since the night he’d spilled his guts.

  Instead of quiet evenings under the jasmine vine out front, sharing a Coke and getting to know each other better, they’d been eating the ice cream Hank hauled in every night for the crew.

  At least he’d learned her favorite flavor: mint chocolate chip.

  Despite the frozen treats and the now-functioning air conditioner, however, he was getting hot under the collar. Gram’s wrist was progressing well. Soon she wouldn’t need him anymore—if she’d ever needed him at all—and his clients were clamoring for more face time. In less than a month, he’d be on his way back to Norfolk.

  Where were Gram and Eleanor’s matchmaking schemes when he needed them?

  Apparently the next move was up to him.

  Tossing the rag aside, he crossed to Rachel. She was intent on the woodwork, lower lip caught between her teeth, faint creases scoring her brow.

  “You have the concentration of a SEAL.”

  Her hand jerked, leavin
g a white slash on the new green paint. She grabbed the damp rag that was draped over the tray of the ladder and scrubbed it away before she gave him a disgruntled look. “And you have the stealth.”

  “Our stock in trade.” He smiled.

  She smiled back.

  The lady had a killer smile—and he wanted to see a whole lot more of it.

  Fletch checked over his shoulder. Marilyn was on the far side of the room, painting the molding around the door of the coat closet, ear buds firmly in place as she listened to the golden oldies she favored. Perfect. The congregation at Gram’s church seemed close-knit, and he didn’t want any spies reporting to her.

  He turned back to Rachel. “I was hoping our painting sessions would give us a chance to get to know each other better, but it’s beginning to feel like Grand Central Station in here.”

  “I noticed.”

  “So why don’t we spend a couple of hours on the beach tomorrow? I’ll supply the snacks and drinks. You can bring Bandit and the infamous Frisbee.”

  She grinned. “If food is involved, a Bandit-less outing would be better. His mooching can get annoying.”

  “Sold.”

  “And let’s make it South Dunes. I’m manning Aunt El’s gallery tomorrow morning, so why don’t I meet you there at one?”

  “That should work—but why don’t you give me your cell number in case anything comes up?” He jotted the numbers as she recited them, then pocketed the slip of paper. “I’m fine with South Dunes, but wouldn’t it be more convenient for you if we went to the beach by your place?”

  “Yes—but far less comfortable. Aunt El’s supposed to be on duty at the gallery all afternoon, but I wouldn’t put it past her to stick the ‘gone shelling’ sign in the door and sneak home for an hour to spy on us from her sky room.”

  That was a new one.

  “What’s a ‘sky room’?”

  “Her living room has a vaulted ceiling, and there’s a balcony near the top with two chairs and a big window that overlooks the ocean. The arthritis in her knees keeps her at sea level most of the time, but she might make the climb if she gets suspicious—a strong possibility, since I haven’t been to the beach a whole lot except for the first few days.”

  Fletch studied the faint shadows under her eyes. “This hasn’t been much of a vacation for you, has it? Teaching classes at the hotel, helping out at Eleanor’s gallery, pitching in here, visiting the hospital.”

  “At least the hospital part is over.”

  “What’s the latest with Madeleine?”

  “I got a note from her mother yesterday.” She tucked some renegade wisps of hair back into her braid. “It sounds like she and her husband had some long talks while they kept vigil at the hospital. She’s going to request a position at work that requires less travel and has more reasonable hours, and they’re going to give their marriage another try.”

  “So your prayers were answered.”

  “Yes—though not in the way I expected. Appendicitis wasn’t on my wish list.” She shrugged. “But that’s how God works sometimes.”

  The front door banged open, and Hank entered with a large white bag and a grin. “The Good Humor man is here.”

  As the other volunteers converged on him, Fletch steadied the ladder so Rachel could descend. “Your mint chocolate chip awaits.”

  “What did you get tonight?”

  “Rocky road.”

  She stepped onto the floor and looked up at him. For a moment he thought she was going to comment on his flavor choice. Instead, she wiped her hands on a rag and headed for Hank. “Better get it before it melts.”

  Propping his fists on his hips, Fletch watched her walk away. She was still being careful around him. Still feeling her way and trying not to offend.

  They needed to get past that—even if he had to deep-six his low-key-and-casual plan and ratchet things up, take a more aggressive approach.

  Because before he left Jekyll Island, he intended to log some serious miles in this relationship.

  * * *

  “The house is coming along wonderfully, isn’t it?” Eleanor poured a glass of orange juice as she monitored the waffle iron, a hopeful Bandit planted by her side.

  “Yes, it is.” Rachel closed the refrigerator door and set the butter and syrup on the table. “I don’t think you have to worry anymore about disappointing the rest of the families scheduled to visit.”

  “A lot of the credit for that goes to you and Fletch.”

  “Not true. More volunteers show up every day. There were six of us last night.”

  “I have to tip my hat to Reverend Carlson for that. He’s been making a plea from the pulpit every Sunday and at every event during the week, lathering on the guilt in that subtle way of his. But Hank tells me you two young people are running circles around everyone else.”

  “He’s exaggerating.” Rachel peeked at her watch as she dug through the utensil drawer for knives and forks. Five hours until she met Fletch at the beach.

  A lifetime.

  Lucky thing she was working at the Painted Pelican until noon. Dealing with the customers in Aunt El’s gallery should help pass the morning.

  “No, hyperbole isn’t Hank’s style. He’s a call-’em-as-I-see-’em kind of guy. He says you and Fletch make a great team, by the way.”

  Rachel let that pass.

  “But I must say, you’re looking a bit tired. I hope you’re planning to take it easy this afternoon.”

  Rachel passed out the silverware, keeping her tone casual. “I’m weighing a few options. I haven’t made much progress on the suspense novel I brought with me, and I want to stop in and see the new exhibit at the Sea Turtle Center Louise told me about after services last Sunday. What are you going to do with your free morning?”

  Sending her a shrewd look, Eleanor snagged the waffle with a fork, plopped it on a plate and set it on the table, Bandit on her heels. “I’m weighing a few options, too.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  As Rachel slid into her seat and cut off a pat of butter, she sent the older woman a surreptitious glance. Had someone at Francis House overheard her and Fletch setting up their rendezvous and reported back to Eleanor?

  Or had she given it away herself just now with her evasive answer?

  She spread the butter over the waffle, watching it melt and infiltrate the grooves as Bandit licked his lips. Either explanation was possible. Everyone in the small congregation knew everyone else, and the grapevine was no doubt as active as the Energizer Bunny. Plus, Aunt El had an uncanny ability to ferret out subliminal messages.

  On the other hand, maybe she was being paranoid.

  “There’s some of that tasty almond chicken salad left, if you want to have it for lunch when you get back.” Eleanor rooted through the fridge. “Potato salad, too.”

  She didn’t need lunch, not if Fletch was bringing snacks.

  “I might grab a bite somewhere while I’m out.”

  Eleanor closed the refrigerator, retrieved her own waffle and sat beside her, breaking off a piece for Bandit. The retriever scarfed it down, and she patted his head. “Eating alone isn’t much fun. There’s plenty in the fridge for two, if you want to ask someone to join you.”

  “Someone” being Fletch. She didn’t know anyone else on the island well enough to invite to lunch.

  So her aunt might not suspect anything about the beach outing after all.

  “I don’t mind eating alone.” Rachel opened the bottle of syrup and squeezed it over her waffle.

  “Louise told me Fletch is partial to potato salad—and blondes.”

  Her fingers tightened on the bottle, and syrup spewed out.

  “Oh, my word.” Eleanor stared at the glob of sticky maple sweetness oozing in all directions from the cen
ter of the waffle. “Isn’t that a little much?”

  Yeah, it was.

  Both the syrup and the commentary.

  Eleanor might not know for certain that she had a rendezvous planned, and she and Louise hadn’t tried to set them up since that first night at Francis House, but it was clear they hadn’t lost interest in promoting a match between their respective younger relatives.

  Rachel set the bottle on the table and tried to barricade the widening pool of syrup with her knife.

  Curious thing about their well-meaning interference, though. She no longer minded it as much as she once had—because she liked Fletch. Enough that, if the right opening came up, she might consider sharing with him the parts of her past she never talked about.

  Maybe even today.

  Tipping the waffle on its side, Rachel scraped away the excess syrup as best she could, cut off a bite and gave it a tentative chew.

  Yuck. Too sweet.

  But it wasn’t sweet enough to offset the sudden acrid taste of fear.

  If the opportunity did arise, could she be as open and candid with him as he’d been with her?

  More important—should she be as open and candid? Was it smart to step into the future while she still had one foot in the past?

  The answer eluded her.

  She could only pray that when the time came, God would give her the guidance she needed to make a wise choice.

  * * *

  Talk about slim pickings.

  No wonder Gram did the bulk of her shopping in Brunswick.

  Fists planted on hips, Fletch surveyed the aisles of the island’s single, small grocery store. There wasn’t much chance he’d find a selection of gourmet cheeses in this bare-bones places. As for a fancy paté to impress Rachel—forget it. He’d be lucky if they stocked more than saltines, American cheese and summer sausage. A few strawberries would be a nice touch...but he wasn’t holding his breath for those, either.

  His phone began to vibrate against his hip as he approached the dairy section, and he pulled it off while scanning the meager cheese display. A fast trip to Brunswick might be in his immediate future. Too bad he’d waited until eleven o’clock to round up provisions for their beach date.