“Yes, ma’am.” Lacey gave a crisp salute as she picked up the ice cream, her grin misty. “Wish me luck?”
Tess’s smile was soft. “Oh, honey, you don’t need luck if prayer and faith are involved, so go get ’em, Lace, and don’t take no for an answer.”
With a shaky nod, she drew in a cleansing breath and turned toward the street, hoping to quell the storm of fireflies flitting in her stomach.
“Wait!” Darting past Lacey, Tess ducked into the house for several moments before she reappeared with two pieces of cooked bacon in a baggie. “There—that should do it. Trust me—Beau has a sniffer that will make your father miserable if he doesn’t answer the door.”
A hoarse chuckle tripped from Lacey’s lips. “Thanks, Tess—so much!” Swallowing a knot of nerves, she made an about-face to march down the driveway.
“And make him invite you in,” Tess called in a loud whisper, hand to her mouth. “Tell him no visit, no pie—Tess’s rules.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lacey’s return whisper carried a trace of a smile, easing some of her trepidation on her lonely trek towards the street to get her father’s pie out of the car. Skirting the hedge, she wished her confidence loomed as large as her shadow fanning across her father’s lawn. Somewhere faraway an owl screeched, and the eerie sound pebbled her skin.
Inching her way up the steps, she braced herself with a hefty dose of oxygen, the smell of marsh, honeysuckle, and peach pie merging to create a new scent that suddenly buoyed her spirits: hope. Finger on that obnoxious bell, she suddenly felt it—a surge of peace that assured her that not only could she do this, but she wouldn’t do it alone. Away from this house, she was a woman who was successful, witty, and bold, possessing a fun and vibrancy that seemed to draw both students in her class and the people in her life. But the moment she’d crossed that narrow bridge into Isle of Hope, her past had sucked all confidence dry, flinging her back into the abyss of being her father’s daughter again.
A disappointment. A failure. A whore.
“No!” she hissed, finger strained white against the bell, “I will succeed.” A lump shifted in her throat. “Eventually.” Squaring her shoulders, she rammed the button again, determined to forge a relationship with her father no matter how long it took.
Bong-Bong-Bong.
The silly thing groaned like a ghoulish death knell, and Lacey steeled her jaw, butting her thumb to the bell and not letting go. A death knell, indeed.
For her fear.
Chapter Twenty-One
Peering into his state-of-the-art fridge, Ben wondered why he even bothered—there was never anything decent to eat unless Tess paid a visit. His stomach growled in rebellion as he surveyed the shelves with a grim press of lips. Week-old Hamburger Helper, a couple of moldy sandwiches from the cafeteria at work, and condiments galore. His mouth zagged sideways. Not exactly fine dining.
He started to grab a bottled water and paused, his gaze zeroing in on the half-empty carton of Blue Moon that Mort had brought over with a pizza a month ago. His salivary glands suddenly kicked in like they used to after Karen had left him, when he’d started drinking more than normal, graduating from beer to the hard stuff in record time. At the point of three highballs before bed, he began waking up with the shakes, the kiss of death for a heart surgeon who needed rock-steady hands.
That had been the day he’d quit alcohol altogether, unwilling to risk the lives of patients or his career to dull the pain of a failed marriage and family. A maniacal exercise regimen at the gym had helped some, as had racquetball games to the death with surface friends. And tournaments with fishing buddies who didn’t go deep unless it was to hook a fish at the end of the line. But what had helped the most was steering clear of feeling anything at all, both in the workplace and at home, earning him—as Tess had so rudely pointed out—names such as Dr. Doom and Dr. Snark.
Jaw set in stone, Ben snatched a beer, silently blaming this sudden relapse on none other than Tess O’Bryen, who had so blatantly forced her way into his life. The first night she’d invaded his yard with that stupid package had unnerved him completely, rattling him so much he’d swiped one of Mort’s Blue Moons after he went inside. He’d bolted the sucker so fast he’d gotten a headache. That had been his first beer in years, and his next one had been the night she’d invited him for pizza. The thought of spending time on the patio of the ex-best friend who’d betrayed them both was too much to handle on his own. Since then, he’d popped a Blue Moon the next two times Tess appeared at his door, to get on her teetotaler nerves if not to help take the edge off of a pushy neighbor who refused to leave him alone.
Twisting the top, he took a deep glug, telling himself an occasional lousy beer wouldn’t hurt. He wasn’t an alcoholic after all—he’d already proven that when he quit cold turkey. Besides, he had no intention of buying anymore when these were all gone, and the thought appeased him as he foraged in the produce drawer for an orange. He grunted when he found only one, shriveled and sporting green and white mold on the lower half. “Figures,” he muttered, “even Vitamin C is giving me problems now.” He sailed it across his spacious stainless kitchen into the “gourmet’s dream” sink, craving Tess’s homemade pizza to go along with his beer if he couldn’t have a slice of orange. It landed with a loud thump, causing Beau to come up for air from his dinner bowl and bark. Ben raised his beer in a toast to man’s best friend and his. “At least one of us is eating well, Big Guy, so bon appétit.”
Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he slogged into his den and turned on the TV, caving into his oversized recliner. He glanced up and groaned, noting he’d forgotten to close the shutters after letting Beau back inside. His mouth quirked as he took a swig, flicking through the channels. Motorized teak plantation shutters he used to keep open all the time before Tess had bulldozed into his life. A faint smile lifted the edges of his mouth as he stared mindlessly at the TV, finally settling on a show with Tim Allen while he put his feet up. He rested his head on the back of his chair and sighed. She was a pushy little thing, he’d give her that. Gushing with Pollyanna hope and so much life and energy.
A scowl tainted his tongue as he slugged down more beer. Too much. The first invasion had been when she’d delivered the package and cookies, followed by the invite for pizza. The week after that it was a taco casserole she claimed to have leftovers on, and then last night she showed up again with brownies so addicting, they should be considered illegal. Apparently she was settling into a cozy routine of tempting him with delicious concoctions, claiming her family was usually busy on Thursdays and she hated to eat dinner or dessert alone. Somehow he suspected she was just plain stubborn in pushing a friendship, so he’d hoped the new padlock on his gate would be subtle enough. But apparently not for a woman who simply bypassed the gate altogether to blaze a trail to his back door via a hole through the hedge, pounding on the glass until he’d finally relent and open the door. And then, despite the annoyance that always twisted his lips, she would waltz in with wonderful smells that hooked him as neatly as a catfish on Velveeta.
He’d been content with his life before she’d started sticking her nose in it. Happy with Beau, his career, and his select group of friends. He didn’t have a family, but he had hundreds of kids whose lives he impacted through overseas trips for the Save a Child’s Heart Foundation twice a year, not to mention a hoard of little ones he bonded with weekly through The Children’s Heart Foundation. True, he had no woman to share his life, but he’d already found out just how dangerous that could be. He much preferred casual dates with bright and beautiful doctors, lawyers, and the occasional too-young pharmaceutical saleswomen just to mix it up. Setting his beer on the table, he reached to rub Beau’s head after his closest friend had ambled over to collapse beneath Ben’s chair.
No, a ray of sunshine like Tess O’Bryen only made him realize just how dark and dismal his life really was, and he didn’t like that one lousy bit. Not when after three straight Thursdays, he was starting to look
forward to her visits like Pavlov’s pup with a 20-oz T-bone. He upended his bottle, chugging way too fast. Working late on Thursdays was looking better all the time. His mouth crooked. Or maybe he should just break his own cardinal rule and invite a date. That way when Miss Perky bounced over, she’d think twice before doing so again. Some of the tension eased in his shoulders as he mulled the idea over in his head. Yeah, that could work, he decided, a little awkwardness to keep his neighbor on her side of the fence.
Bong-Bong-Bong.
His eyelids sank closed in a groan even as his pulse spiked in his veins. And then, maybe not … Nobody dared violate his self-imposed seclusion except Tess, so it could be no one else. Even the Girl Scouts and Jehovah Witnesses didn’t bother him anymore, which was just how he liked it. Relaxed dinners with friends or peers after work were one thing—he could sparkle and shine with the best of them on the surface. But once he crossed the threshold of his inner sanctum, he wanted to be left alone, he and Beau, immune to relationships that could wreak havoc with his life. His lips compressed into a thin smile. Which was why it irked him beyond belief that a part of him wanted it to be Tess on the other side of that door. Barging into his life—again—with something wonderful to feed his empty stomach while her easy banter and sweet spirit fed his empty soul.
Woof, woof, woof! Beau bolted, then pranced in circles in front of the carved double teak doors, obviously more excited than he at the prospect of edible gifts.
“Calm down, Big Guy,” he said with an upraised palm, “stay.” Feigning a low growl, Ben unlatched the deadbolt and gripped the knob hard. “This late, you darn well better have food …” he groused in a gruff tease, tempering his smile as he swung open the door.
“Wouldn’t dream of coming without, Daddy.”
His blood turned to ice water as he stared at his daughter. She stood there on his porch bold as you please, chin high with a dauntless smile despite the hint of caution in her eyes. Lifting a decadent-looking pie in her hands, she rattled a paper bag clutched beneath, the smell of fresh peaches all but cramping his empty stomach. She tilted her head in a playful manner he remembered from when she was a little girl, searing his heart with memories he’d much rather forget. Her voice baited him in a sing-song tease. “Mamaw’s homemade peach crumble pie baked fresh this afternoon, Daddy, topped with Tess’s homemade vanilla bean ice cream, of course.” Her teeth tugged at the edge of her smile as she stared back, obviously waiting for him to invite her in.
Which was the last thing he wanted to do. But his stomach was growling and Beau was whining, and he was obviously outvoted two to one, so he opted for the next best thing. “Tell your grandmother and Tess thanks,” he said in a clipped tone, extending his hand through a foot-and a half-long crack in the door while he reached for the pie.
Her chin nudged up an inch while she apparently waited for him to open the door.
His eyes narrowed. “What, you taking lessons from Tess now?”
A smile flickered at the edge of her lips. “As a matter of fact, I am, and she said, ‘no visit, no pie—Tess’s rules.’”
“Tess’s rules, my backside—then give her the pie.” He flung the door closed and turned the lock, temper singed over Tess coaching his daughter. Women! Give ’em inch, they take a mile, and that was one road he had no desire to travel again. “Can it, you big sissy,” he said to Beau over his shoulder, who stood whimpering at the door while Ben strode back to his chair. “If I can do without peach pie and ice cream, you can do without bacon.”
Bong-Bong-Bong.
Jaw grinding, Ben snatched the remote to turn up the volume, glaring at Tim Allen like it was all his fault. He scowled when he realized what he was watching. Last Man Standing, Allen’s new TV show. How appropriate. Because, so help him, if it took a steel-plated door and a house like a bunker, he’d be the last man standing in this war of wills.
Bong-Bong-Bong.
Woof, woof, woof!
He burrowed deeper in his chair and cranked the volume up.
Bong-Bong-Bong.
Woof, woof, woof!
His mouth pinched along with his patience as he aimed the remote at the TV, thumb knuckle white on the volume till he thought his ears would explode.
Bong-Bong-Bong.
Woof, woof, woof!
A dull ache started to throb beneath the sockets of both eyes, and crushing his thumb to the mute button, he hurled the remote into the sectional. With a hard yank of the recliner handle, his feet bottomed out along with his temper. Jumping up, he stomped to the door, lashing it wide. “What the blazes do you want, Lacey?”
The pie quivered in her hands despite the firm thrust of her chin. “Just to talk, Daddy, nothing more.”
His glower could have melted the plastic wrap on top of the bloomin’ pie, which taunted with mouthwatering bubbles of peach oozing between chunky crumbs of sugar topping. The gurgle of his stomach merged with Beau’s pitiful whining, sealing the deal.
And his doom.
He grunted, the sound more of a growl as he shoved the door open with a crack to the wall. “Looks like I need a hedge all the way around. Put it in the kitchen, and I’ll take it from there.”
She shot past him faster than Beau after a rabbit, darting down the hall with Benedog Arnold on her heels. His glare could have singed the dog’s tail. A shameless turncoat completely corrupted by his pesky neighbor.
“Thanks, Daddy. You go, sit, and I’ll serve it up, okay?”
“No, it’s not okay,” he muttered, slamming the door hard so she knew he was ticked, both at his estranged daughter for pushing her way in and the bossy neighbor who egged her on. It now appeared he would have to get tougher regarding his desire to be left alone, both with Lacey and with Tess. Huffing out his annoyance, he plodded back to his recliner and dropped in with a loud whoosh of leather, quickly changing the channel to an NCIS marathon. Arms cushioned behind his neck, he faked total absorption when she returned with his pie.
“Here you go, Daddy,” she said in a perky tone that reminded him of the pretty pest next door. “It’s to die for, I promise.”
To die for. He issued a silent grunt as he snatched the plate from her hand. Yeah, well his pride had already expired, buried in a pine box six feet under. Grunting his thanks, he swallowed the drool that pooled in his mouth, maintaining a Gibbs-like scowl while he shoveled in the first bite. He fought the urge to moan when Mamaw’s pie grazed his tongue, but the cool swirl of Tess’s ice cream took him down as it melted in his throat. Against his will, his eyes shuttered closed in a moment of pure ecstasy.
“You want something to drink? Decaf, milk?”
He gave a curt shake of his head, gaze returning to DiNozzo and Ziva sparring over something to which he hadn’t a clue.
“Well, then how ’bout you, Mr. Beauregard?” she said in a cheerful tone that got on his nerves. “Would you like some dessert too?” Standing in Ben’s line of sight to the left of the TV, Lacey waved two pieces of bacon, causing Beau to leap into the air with the most pitiful noise Ben had ever heard.
NCIS lost him on that when he glared at his daughter, jaw gaping. “For crying out loud, she sent bacon too?” He shook his head and scooped another bite in his mouth, his annoyance robbing his pleasure over one of his favorite desserts. “And she calls herself a God-fearing woman. Somebody needs to tell her bribery’s a sin.”
His daughter chuckled. “I’ll be sure to give her the message,” she said as she disappeared into the kitchen. To clean up, he assumed.
Wrong. Sporting a large piece of pie and an even larger smile, she moseyed in and made herself comfortable in the center of the white leather sectional, feet tucked under as if she planned to stay.
He scarfed down the rest of his pie and tossed the empty plate and fork onto the end table with a loud clunk, then rested his arms on the chair, gaze glued to the TV. “What do you really want, Lacey?” His jaw hardened to rock, like his tone.
“To talk, Daddy,” she said quietly. “To cle
ar the air and heal our relationship.”
“We don’t have a relationship. That ended the night you cursed me at your mother’s funeral, saying you wished it were mine instead, and that I was dead to you.’”
“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, “I was angry.”
He jerked his head in her direction, the acid in his tone burning as much as the fury in his eyes. “You ignored any attempts I made to salvage whatever pathetic relationship we had.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but he fought the emotion that tugged at his heart. Placing her unfinished dessert on the coffee table, she shifted to face him, perched on the edge of the couch with arms clutched to her sides. “I’ve changed, Daddy, I promise.”
“Yeah? Well, I have too.” He saw her lip quiver at the coldness of his tone. “I’m through with the grief of so-called family, kiddo, so you can pack up your good intentions and go home.”
“I’m here to make amends, not give you grief,” she whispered.
He arched a brow. “You’re giving me grief right now. I’m tired, I don’t want to talk, and I want to be left alone.”
She winced before she engaged that familiar lift of her chin. “Fine, we won’t talk.” Snapping her dessert up from the table, she continued to eat while she watched NCIS, gaze glued to the screen like it was that silly Gone with the Wind movie her mother and she used to love. During the commercials she tossed Beau’s tattered duck for him, laughing and teasing with him like she used to when he was a pup. The silly mutt promptly deserted him once the show came back on, cozying up to her on the couch like she’d never abandoned them both. His eyes thinned to slits as his mouth went flat. Traitor.
Isle of Hope Page 21
