Tides of Hope: It's Never Too Late For Second Chances (A Nantucket Island Romance Book 1)

by Dawn Tomasko

  "No kidding,” his voice dripped sarcasm. A muscle twitched in his jaw. She noticed, and it made him glad. Let her see his displeasure.

  "Yes.” Sara dug a glass bowl out of a cabinet, filled it with warm water and dumped a half cup of antiseptic soap solution into it. When she pulled his hand into the solution, a lock of hair slipped from the ponytail and brushed his ear. His gaze dropped to her chest, then down to the bowl where his hand oozed blood into the water. Steeling himself, he pulled in a deep, slow breath.

  "Soak your hand in this. Then we'll see what's what."

  Sweat and dirt coated Gabriel's red face. Lines bracketed his mouth and he held his body rigid. She knew the signs. His presence once again seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air. Her mouth went dry, so her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips.

  Steely-eyed, Gabriel stared at her. A trickle of sweat slid down the side of his face. Sara sighed, and quickly retied her hair into a ponytail. "Are you okay?”

  "I don't get you,” he stated. “First, you race down Madaket road to ditch me and now you're administering first aid."

  Shame at her behavior heated her cheeks. "Do you expect me to stand by when you get hurt working on the house?” Expertly, she snapped on purple medical gloves. The dark hair matted to his head. Sweat and dirt smeared his face. Empathy flooded her heart. A patient deserved the best possible care. Aware he watched as she lifted his hand to examine the wound, she probed the cut. Fresh blood welled.

  “That’s what I’m saying. I don’t know what to expect from you.” After their gazes held for long moments, he shook his head. "Well, Doc, do I need stitches?” his voice rasped, his voice heavy with pain and irony.

  It took her a few moments to answer. "I don't think so. The cut's jagged, so if you're concerned about how it will look when it's healed, you can go to the Cottage Hospital. Otherwise, I have wound closing strips. The wound is clean, and I can dry it and apply the strips. Bleeding should stop pretty quickly. If not, we can go to the hospital. Of course, it’s your choice."

  One dark brow arched high. "Cottage Hospital? I don't think so. Doesn't sound like a state of the art healthcare facility to me.” He sank back in the chair. Those dark blue eyes bored into hers. "Do you think I can skip the hospital?"

  "If that's what you want, but honestly, you shouldn't worry about the quality of the facility. More than thirteen thousand year-round residents rely on it to say nothing of the summer tourist population.” When he didn't speak, she shifted her feet. "Well?"

  After a nod, he gave a wry smile. "Fix me up."

  “Okay,” Sara reached for a clean white towel. "Are you having a hard time out front? That's difficult work."

  "You think?” Lightly, he wrapped his fingers around her wrist. After a quick jerk of surprise at his touch, she swallowed hard. “You can help me if you want to. If I got the chance to speak with you this morning, I could have asked if there’s room in the budget for me to hire a kid to help out now and then.”

  Unmoving and silent, blood roared in her ears. His eyes moved down to her mouth and her breath hitched.

  “Uh, yes, you can hire someone if you want to.” Those dark blue eyes bored into hers for long moments before he finally released her. With shaky hands, she dried his skin with the absorbent towel. When she applied a solution to the wound, he picked up the small glass bottle to study the label.

  "What's this?"

  "Tincture of benzoin. It forms a cover over the wound and keeps the strips in place.” After a few cuts to size the strips, she laid them along the edges and closed the wound. The closures held, and the seeping of the blood slowed. Sara wrapped his hand with gauze and secured it with surgical tape. "There, that should do it."

  "Thanks. Not a bad job.” Gabe held up his hand to examine her work. Then he made a move to get up, but she pressed a hand to his firm shoulder. Good God, those muscles were hard, and his skin was hot and damp with sweat. Long dormant parts of her anatomy stirred in response.

  “Why don't you sit for a few minutes?” she asked in a voice too husky for her liking. “Can I make you something to eat? Earlier, I made lemonade. I’m sure it’s been a long morning for you and it’s hot outside.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. “Sure, thanks.”

  After she cleared the supplies, she washed her hands. She poured lemonade over ice into a tall glass and then made a big ham and cheese sandwich on Portuguese bread. The entire time, Gabriel watched every move. She didn’t need her eyes to tell her he watched, she simply knew. The intensity of his attention caused the fine hairs to lift on the back of her neck.

  Since meeting him, her senses came alive. Acutely conscious of details, the yeasty aroma of the bread, the slide of the knife as she spread the mayonnaise, the coldness of the ham as she layered it on the sandwich. She couldn't ever remember such…awareness.

  On the need to snap out of it, she asked, "Do you want pickles?”

  "Pickles?” A glint of humor returned to his eyes. Did he find this funny? "Sure, why not? Pickles would be great."

  Sara grabbed the jar from the refrigerator and set two spears on his plate. Before setting lunch on the table, she handed him a hot, damp washcloth. Heat emanated from him. Sara wanted to brush back the glossy hair on his forehead. He smelled of hard work and testosterone, and she nearly groaned out loud. After a thorough scrub over his face, neck and hands, he let out a heavy sigh.

  "Thanks, that felt good.” In record time, he wolfed down the sandwich, pickles, and lemonade. She tossed the washcloth into the washing machine. "Delicious, especially the bread."

  "It’s from Nantucket Bake Shop. Best Portuguese bread you'll find anywhere. I buy it every week."

  "I'll have to make sure I go then."

  Sara refilled his glass. This one he sipped at, silent as she poured a glass for herself and took a seat at the table.

  Gabriel seemed mollified, less edgy. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome,” Sara replied, her voice intentionally cool.

  "I don't understand you,” he announced, his voice gruff. The skin between his eyes furrowed. The silence stretched out between them.

  Good, Sara thought, let’s keep it that way because I don’t want to do this. She didn’t wish to answer questions, banter back and forth, or build a friendship with this man. "Do you need to understand?"

  Looking perplexed, he leaned back in the chair, studying her. Apparently he didn't expect such a response. After he had mulled it over, he answered. "I don't know. Maybe I want to. You're a contradiction."

  Ice cubes clinked in her glass, and she drank deeply. The tart lemonade soothed her ferocious thirst. Even with the windows open, the warmth of the day pervaded the house. Condensation formed on her glass, and he watched her fingers trail along the moisture. She stared across the living room, out the front window to the horizon where the sun glinted on the waves.

  "Don't say much, do you?"

  Best get the cards out on the table, create boundaries, maintain them. She rested her chin on her palm, looked him straight in the eye. "No."

  "Why? Don't have anything on your mind?” Faint amusement played on his face. He baited her, they both knew it. What she didn't know was why he enjoyed it so much.

  "You ask too many questions.” How in the world would she put up with the man day after day? Gabriel Donovan had an intensity about him. He seemed to pay more attention than other men. Gary and Charlotte extolled his virtues. Well, he'd make some woman happy one day. Maybe he already had, she thought, glancing at his injured hand. No ring.

  As his gaze followed hers, he flexed his hand, the long, tanned fingers fanned out. Then he clenched it. "No, I'm not married."

  Caught, her face flamed. "Me either, not anymore."

  "Ah.” He leaned forward on his elbows, narrowed his eyes. "Is that what's bugging you?"

  Sara stood up so fast her chair toppled over, smacking on the floor. As she turned to fix it, Sara deliberately let her voice frost over. "Mr. Donovan,
I have work to do. Do you need my help out front or should I move onto my cleaning?"

  The chill in her voice did the job. Storm clouds gathered in his eyes. "Lady, I don't need any help. I’m just trying to make friendly conversation. Since it seems to be a problem for you, I'm out of here.” He reached to pick up his plate and glass, and she moved to take them from him.

  "I have it."

  He stared down at her, his expression thunderous. "It's no problem. You fixed my hand, made me lunch. I think I can pick up my dishes."

  "I have it,” she repeated in a voice unfairly brittle even to her ears.

  "I'm not going to fight over a damn dish with you,” he glowered at her and let go of the glass and plate. The sudden release made her step back to maintain her balance. Embarrassed and off-kilter from their exchange, her face flushed. Sara didn't know if she hurt or insulted him, or made him mad. She didn't care. Did. Not.

  "Thanks for the doctoring and lunch, Ms. Shepard.” His booted feet stomped through the living room. Sara jumped when the screen door slapped shut behind him.

  Hands shaking, she cleaned up the lunch dishes and waited for the pounding of her pulse to slow. When Gabriel's injury occurred, naturally her old instincts kicked in. She fell back on her training. Of course, she would help him.

  This morning, she acted like an ass and did it again this afternoon. Now in addition to family issues she currently dealt with, a new one cropped up. A contractual job should be simple, yet it clearly wasn’t the case. It’s just a home renovation. Donovan pushed into her life with a sudden force she resented and couldn't seem to fight off. What in the world was happening? With David, there hadn't been such a strong pull, verbal swordplay, and sexual chemistry hot enough to set a room on fire.

  Through tear-blurred eyes, she stacked the dishwasher. On island less than a week, and her carefully laid plans unraveled at the edges. Against her will, something altered. Control sifted through her fingers like sand. In spite of her best efforts, it gave her the impression she no longer owned her destiny.

  All because of a carpenter named Gabriel Donovan.

  Toward sunset the air chilled. Sara pulled on a faded red sweatshirt and brought a glass of white wine out to the back porch. Weary from the day, she sat in the shade of the yard to enjoy the soft, sweet breeze and watch the shadows lengthen as the sun made its slow descent. To get her mind off her poor behavior and Gabriel, she took stock of the back yard.

  The grounds would demand a lot of attention. Too many weeds, not enough color. A project she would do alone, at her pace, and would enjoy immensely. Tomorrow she would visit the local farm for containers, plants and flowers to brighten the yard and porches. Maybe they would have a good selection of herbs for cooking. The plants would give the place a lift, and maybe she’d get one, too.

  From the kitchen counter her cell phone rang, so she hurried inside to get it. Brianna's cell number flashed on the screen. Excitement and apprehension clashed in her heart, which rocketed off at trip hammer speed.

  "Hey, honey,” she said brightly. “How's it going?"

  "Okay. I'm real busy getting ready for finals. I'm up half the night studying. Some of the professors are clear about what they want, but others just tell us to know everything. Summer break can't come soon enough."

  Brianna sounded distant and tired. "I'm so happy you called. You work hard and doing a terrific job. I'm proud of you."

  "Thanks,” she replied, her voice flat. The now-absent closeness they shared in the past left a gaping hole in her days. Their long history of shared laughter and tears, movie dates, long walks, sharing ice cream and talking long into the night became harder and harder to hold in memory. The chill in her daughter's voice brought the unspeakable pain to the forefront. "Have you spoken to Dad?"

  Sara frowned. "Not since I left. Is anything wrong?” After a short walk to the fridge for a water bottle, she flipped the top open and guzzled to soothe her suddenly parched throat.

  "Yeah, whenever I talk to him he seems unhappy. I think he might be depressed. Up here in Boston there isn’t anything I can do to help him. But you could have, Mom. I think it's gotten worse since you left.” Again, the implication of blame set the tone of their relationship.

  These conversations are getting old. David found a girlfriend, even though he wouldn't admit it. After what went down between them, she'd cut him off permanently. In short order, he'd found someone else. Maybe he'd done it in the past. Their numerous and lengthy separations could certainly have left him lonely and in want of female company. Little clues left in a pair of his pants pockets, or in the trash told the story. Receipts to a lingerie shop, restaurants, a jewelry store with no gifts forthcoming said a great deal. In spite of the fact their relationship could never be what it should, it still hurt.

  Since he didn't think Sara knew about the woman, he hadn't told Brianna about it. Bree's impression remained firmly rooted that David loved her and the selfish decision to divorce him and leave the state aggravated her father's condition.

  "PTSD does terrible things to people, so I’m not surprised he may be feeling worse. We're divorced now, and our history is complicated. Sometimes you can work through it, and sometimes not. In the end, I felt I didn't have a choice. I'm sure it's you he misses. We're all adjusting to the changes."

  Bree let out a childish sound of exasperation. "Mom, you're not fair! He’s sad and miserable. I can hear it in his voice. What’s worse is you don’t even care! Dad worked real hard in counseling, but you didn't try hard enough."

  "How would you know? You haven't sat in on one session.” Where did she get her information? From David? If he was trying to get revenge for her staying in Connecticut with Bree during their marriage, he was doing a fine job of it. "Brianna, I did try to work with your father, for months."

  "No!” her daughter’s screech drilled into her ear. “If you did your part, you'd be home with him where you belong. Marriage is for life. That's what you always preached to me."

  With the heel of her hand, Sara rubbed the burgeoning ache behind her eyes. "Yes, it's the way it should be, but life isn't always cut and dried. People change, or a situation isn't what you anticipated. Sometimes it can't be made right. I'll always care about your dad. I know you're mad at me, but as many times as we repeat this conversation it won't get us anywhere. We need to move on."

  "You're selfish.” Bitter accusation lacing her daughter's voice cut deep.

  Eyes closed, she took a deep breath. "Right or wrong, I made choices, and so did your Dad. When you're a parent, you'll understand. Being your mom is the highlight of my life, and always will be. It should count for something I did the best I could for you, for our family. There's nothing I can do to change things now. Bree, I love you. We've always been close. I miss you."

  Bree’s breaths came fast and hard through the phone. "You didn't put Dad first. We should have been with him all through his military career. Like the other families.” Brianna's voice turned petulant.

  Exasperated, she plunged a hand into her hair. "Did you want to move every couple of years? New schools, work at making new friends only to leave again a few months later? I didn't want that for you. Most stories I've heard from military families is how hard it is for them.” Maybe not following David had been a mistake, a huge one. But she was human, for crying out loud.

  "I don't want to hear this,” Brianna complained bitterly, and before Sara could respond, she hung up.

  With shaky hands she set the phone down on the kitchen table, and sank into a chair. The scattered shards of her former life pierced her from all sides. The doomed marriage, the house she’d loved and worked on for years, the drastic reduction of income. All important, but the loss of them meant little compared to the situation with Bree.

  Sara needed to find her compass, solid ground to build on, and somehow, find a way to bridge the gap between them.

  Brianna insisted on living in the past. All her married life, Sara tailored her decisions and actions to the fa
mily's needs, made those decisions based on information available at the time. As careful as she’d been, life back in Connecticut fell apart in her hands.

  Living on Nantucket felt right. Could she get Bree to understand why she couldn't stay with David? There must be a way to salvage their relationship. This time, it needed to be different, apart from David. They needed to redefine the direction they would take. Only then would they be able to move forward in a positive way. With time and patience, it would happen.

  Sara couldn't allow herself to believe otherwise.

  Charlotte poured a glass of orange juice for Gary. The top of his head showed over the edge of the newspaper he held at the breakfast table. Sadie sprawled under the kitchen table, playing possum, no doubt with her eyes pinned on Gary because she knew eventually, some food would hit the floor. He couldn't resist her for long.

  "Gary.” Under the table, she rubbed a bare foot along the top of his warm one.

  "Hmm?” His sandy hair stood on end, tousled from sleep. He looked adorable and sexy at the same time. Cat-like, she smiled.

  "Gary."

  The paper lowered. She basked in the soft look of love in his eyes. "What babe?” Shirtless, his rounded shoulders, and well-defined biceps made her toes curl. After many years together, he still remained the hottest man she’d ever laid eyes on.

  "I think something's going on between Gabe and Sara. He seems irritated, and she tenses up if I so much as mention his name."

  Gary grabbed his glass, sipped his orange juice. "Really? I didn't notice."

  A sound of exasperation escaped her. "Of course, you didn't. You're a guy."

  "What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, and tossed a bit of bacon to Sadie. “Do you know what would happen if I used that line on you? ‘You’re a woman’.” Gary shuddered theatrically, and she chuckled.

  "Will you please stop feeding that beast?” Sadie's tail beat a rapid tattoo on the floor. The dog wagged it incessantly, and her chunky butt swung right along with it. To ensure future treats, she rewarded Gary with an adoring doggie grin.