Laurel called after Peter again. When Peter didn’t stop or turn around, she dug fingers into her hair, obviously torn about whether to run after him or let him go. The girls had stopped singing, now zeroing in on their mother and gathering close to her. She put a hand on both of them, giving a motherly rub and pat, which immediately eased the tension in their sparrow-sized shoulders. Then she steered them back toward the porch.
Looking downcast, but not defeated, Laurel glanced back at Mark. “Welcome to my world.”
Chapter Two
Ten minutes later, Mark kept to himself as he tested the key that Laurel had given him in the stubborn front door lock. The scene with Peter had been unpleasant to say the least, and he’d had to bite his tongue to keep from butting in and telling the kid what he thought. Really thought—listen, punk, you don’t talk to your mother like that. Ever! But it wasn’t his place, and keeping it real, he’d heard a similar warning—without the punk part—from his father a long time ago. Disrespecting parents must be some teen rite of passage. From the way Laurel had mostly kept her cool, she’d probably been down that road with Peter before.
While he fiddled with the lock, Laurel went about distracting the little ones with a snack and a promise to watch one afternoon kid’s show. He was pretty sure “yay” meant they’d accepted her deal.
A minute later, he’d squirted powdered graphite into the keyhole, moved the key in and out a few times, then retested the sticky mechanism. The lock opened and closed just fine. For good measure, he repeated the process on the bolt lock, since her guests would most likely be using their keys after hours, and Laurel might appreciate their not waking her up to get in.
Before The Drumcliffe had switched to card keys, he and his brothers had become experts with fixing sticky locks. They’d learned the hard way that vegetable oil and WD-40 helped for the short term, but eventually made the problem worse. Then they’d discovered graphite, the non-gummy way to fix a lock.
On his knees with the door open, Mark surreptitiously watched Laurel wander his way, carrying a small plate of cookies. She sat on the nearest rocker in the row along the porch, stretching out her sleek legs, then offering him the plate.
“Do you barter?” she toyed, waiting for him to catch on.
“Work for chocolate chip cookies? You bet.” He took one and popped it whole into his mouth. Holy melting deliciousness, it was good. “Pretty sure I got the better deal, too.” He should’ve waited until he’d finished chewing and swallowing. He probably still had chocolate teeth.
She laughed gently. At least he’d done that for her. Made her smile. And a nice one it was, too, wide, straight and lighting up her eyes.
“You know he’s grieving, right?” she said, growing serious, her eyes seeking his, needing him to understand why her kid had shot off his mouth earlier.
“I figured something was going on. I get the impression a lady like you wouldn’t put up with that behavior otherwise.”
She put her head against the back of the rocker, nibbling on a cookie. “He blames me for everything. Sometimes I think he even blames me for his father getting cancer.”
“From what I recall, being a teenager is hard enough. Losing a parent on top of it, well, that’s got to bite. Hard.”
“He was only twelve when Alan died, but for so many years before that, Alan’s being ill was the focal point of our family. He missed out on a lot of things other kids his age took for granted. And the insecurity of it all, that I know firsthand. Must have been devastating for him, because it nearly killed me.”
Moved by her opening up so easily, Mark sat on his heels, wanting to give back, to make this an interchange somehow, but he was out of practice. “He’s, what, fourteen now?”
She gave a thoughtful nod without looking at him, taking another small bite of cookie. “Who invented adolescent angst, anyway?”
Mark made one quick laugh. “He probably doesn’t know how to move on. Maybe he’s in a rut and needs a nudge or something.” This conversation had edged into familiar personal territory. He could say the same thing about himself—not sure how to move on, feeling in a rut—but for the sake of Laurel he focused on her problem and her son.
“We’ve tried therapy. He went to a teen grief group for a while. Then he stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to force him to go.” She glanced at Mark for understanding. He assented. “I think he’s afraid of his feelings. He’s hurt so much for so long, he can’t imagine going over everything again, examining the pain of losing his dad.” She sighed. “I don’t know.” Now she looked at him, really looked at him, her eyes searching his, waking up some dark and forgotten place. Did she sense his pain? “And you probably never thought you’d get sucked into my family problems when you offered to help fix my locks today, did you?”
He pushed out a smile, just for her, because he figured she could use a friendly face right about now. Sticking to the superficial, rather than let himself feel something, he concentrated on how her hair looked resting on her shoulders. “It’s okay. Every family has issues.”
She lifted her brows, in a prove-it kind of way, but soon exchanged that for a quizzical expression. “I have no idea why I’m telling you my life story.” She leveled him with a stare. “Just strike that part, okay?”
“No worries. You feel like talking, go right ahead.” A long moment followed where they quietly assessed each other, and she must have decided she’d spilled her guts enough for the day. She took another bite of her cookie, which, for some crazy reason, looked sexier than it should. He couldn’t take the intimacy of watching her mouth, or sharing concerns and feelings, especially if she expected him to open up about himself or his family in return. So he deliberately changed the topic. “And if you give me another cookie, I’ll throw in checking all the guest room locks.”
As though relieved, she smiled, pushing the plate toward him. “It’s a deal.”
As he went through the rest of the house, he noticed all six of the guest rooms were on the second floor. Laurel and the kids must have taken up residence on the first floor, in the back part of the house.
Out of the blue he wondered what she’d look like with that top layer of stress erased from her pretty face. And then he stopped himself from going a single thought further. What was the point? She had her hands full, and the last thing he needed was to pursue a woman with kids.
He grabbed his small workbag, went downstairs and found Laurel in the kitchen slicing apples and carrots. He stopped for a second to enjoy the view.
“I’m all done here.” He set the small bottle of graphite on the long central island. “If you have any more problems with locks, just use this.”
She stopped slicing. “Thanks so much.”
In rushed the twins. “We’re hungry,” Claire, the spokesperson, said.
“Yeah, my tummy’s qweezin’,” said Gracie.
She tossed them both a piece of carrot and apple. Surprisingly, they accepted her offer and scuttled off for the backyard like contented bunnies. Intuition must be part of the job description for a mom. Another thing about her that impressed him.
“You may be wondering about Gracie’s speech.”
“She does have an interesting way of saying things.”
Laurel sighed as she leaned forward, elbows and forearms resting on the kitchen island countertop. The pose shouldn’t be appealing, but it was. “During Alan’s illness, I was so caught up in his needs, I didn’t realize that Gracie’s unusual speech was a sign she had fluid in her ears. I thought it was baby talk. It wasn’t until after Alan died I snapped out of my trance and took them both to the pediatrician. Gracie needed tubes in her ears, and Claire flunked her three-year-old vision test. I didn’t have a clue about either of them.”
She looked defeated, and it bothered him. “You had a lot on your plate. The main thing, nothing was life-threatening and you fixed the problem.” Listen to me, Mr. Logical. He stepped closer to her end of the island. “Maybe quit being so hard on yourself?�
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She blinked and sighed. “I might have to hire you as a life coach.”
“Ha! First you’d have to find me one.”
“And what’s your story?” Her inquisitive stare nearly pushed him off balance.
“Ten years in the army. Tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Need I say more?”
She looked horrified at first. That was the only way Mark could explain her expression, then it changed.
They gazed at each other, her manner seeming sympathetic, understanding. Mark was almost positive she thought the same thing—they were two people who’d come through tough times humbled and haggard. He’d worked out a drill to deal with his, but had she?
Mark’s usual routine was to work all morning and through the early afternoon, then grab his board and head down to the beach to catch a few waves. What used to be his passion had now become his solace, better than a doctor’s prescription or a cold beer. Funny how time changed things like that—passion to solace. He figured the PTSD had a lot to do with needing to be alone, at sea, man against nature, at least once a day. Plus, other than the noisy seagulls, it was amazingly quiet out there, and was the perfect place to shut down all the clatter in his life. Whatever it was, surfing was still a lifeline for him and he needed it. Especially today.
She wiped the counter with a sponge, and he was ready to leave, but something made him stop. It was like his body had quit listening to his brain. Don’t get involved. “Just call if you need anything, okay?” Now his mouth had gone rogue. Seeing a notepad on the adjacent counter, he scribbled out his cell phone number, then left.
“You might be sorry!” she teasingly called after him.
He already was. Why walk in on someone else’s life as a fix-it guy, when he’d yet to fix his own mess? He really didn’t need the frustration.
But when he hit the street, he grinned. Like an idiot. Because he’d just given a woman his phone number for the first time since getting discharged from the service.
*
A half hour later, dressed in red board shorts and an old stretched-out, holey T-shirt, with surfboard under his arm, Mark strode toward the beach where the sun cast a golden orange tint on the ocean. Being the middle Delaney brother, he’d opted out of the role of peacekeeper by default early on. Instead, he’d elected to become an attention-getting surfer. It’d paid off in spades, too. Popularity. Girlfriends. Respect.
He’d intended to sign up for the army right after high school, but his father and mother had convinced him to try the local community college first. He did, without an inkling of what he wanted to major in, for two years, but didn’t get a degree because the classes he took didn’t add up to one major’s requirements. Then that faraway Middle East war got personal. A good friend since grammar school had been killed in Iraq. It might not have been logical thinking, but after that he felt called to serve, so, without his parents’ blessings, he’d enlisted. After voting in a presidential election for the first time, signing up for the army had been his next major life decision. And he was still re-adjusting to civilian life.
A predictable afternoon breeze had kicked up and the water was choppy, but he smiled at the swelling of sets forming in the distance. A few of the usual guys in wet suits were out there, most of them half his age. They’d probably been there all day. One with long sun-bleached hair caught the next wave, road the crest, then wiped out.
Halfway down the beach, he passed a group of loud teenagers talking trash to someone. He turned his head to check things out. Five guys ranging from tall and buff to short and heavy, wearing board shorts and brand-name skateboarder T-shirts, were getting their jollies by bullying someone much smaller. He looked closer, saw the shaggy brown hair, the nose he was still growing into and that oversize T-shirt with Bart Simpson on the front. It was Peter with a frown cast in iron on his face, staring at his flip-flops. Obviously hating every second, he let the jerks taunt and tease him, but what choice did he have, one against five?
Mark dropped his board and headed their way. “Hey, Peter, I was lookin’ for you, man! It’s time for your surfing lesson.”
Peter looked up, surprised. So did the other kids.
He walked right up to the group as if everything was A-OK, but making eye contact with the leader let him know he understood what was going on and it was ending right now.
One perk—or pain, depending on what kind of mood he was in—of being Sandpiper’s very own surfing champion was the whole town knew him. His first-place regional championship trophy and a larger-than-life picture of him at eighteen with awful peroxided hair, at the height of his competition days, were on display at the local high school. He’d been the captain of the Sandpiper High surf team—hell, he’d been the guy to organize the team—and had led them to regional victories for two years. Then he’d moved on to statewide and a few national competitions where more was at risk, but with respectable success. From the reaction of these losers and tough-guy wannabes, even they knew who he was. Or used to be.
“We wus just horsin’ around with the new kid.”
“Didn’t know he knew you.” The tallest nudged Peter toward Mark.
“Yeah, I’m mentoring Peter. He’s a natural. See you boys around,” he said, making sure the kids understood he’d be watching them, and escorted Peter toward his board. So much for not getting involved.
“Want to tell me what was going on?” he asked when they’d retrieved the board and, out of earshot, were heading toward the ocean.
“I was just sitting on the beach, reading a book on my phone and they came out of nowhere. Started giving me a hard time. Bully a-holes.”
“Punks are always gonna be punks.”
“Nah. They think I’m a nerd because I’m different. I’m skinny and I’ve got a big nose.” His anger radiated toward Mark, making the ocean air seem thicker. They walked on.
Mark also understood, since talking to Laurel, that Peter was still grieving and working through the stress of losing his father, which also made him an easy mark. For some reason, jerks had special radar for vulnerable kids. “Hey, first off, they should talk, if that’s the reason. Did you look at them? Listen, it could be something as dumb as the fact you’re the new kid and they know you don’t have any friends yet to stick up for you, which will change soon enough.”
“And I keep getting stuck watching my sisters. It’s not exactly cool to hang out with four-year-olds.”
So that was why he’d put up such a fight earlier with Laurel. Mark figured it was worth mentioning to her. In the meantime, he’d practice treating the boy like a young friend.
“Yeah, but I bet girls love that, in an ‘aw’ kind of way.”
Peter screwed up his face, like Mark had said the dumbest thing in the world.
“What’s with the Bart shirt, man? He back in style?”
“It was my dad’s.” Peter looked at his chest as if reconsidering the meaning.
What was he supposed to say to that? The kid still missed his father. They continued on, quiet for another few moments, watching the waves as they strolled.
“Well, now that I’ve announced you’re my student, I guess we better get started. Take Bart off. You got trunks under those cargos?”
Peter nodded.
“Wearin’ sunscreen?”
He nodded again, but Mark suspected it was a fib, so he grabbed the small bottle from his back pocket. They both put it on.
“Let’s hit the waves.”
Whether it was because Peter was shaken up from what had just transpired and was grateful, or the kid had always secretly wanted to learn to surf, Mark hadn’t a clue, but highly out of character, from what Mark had witnessed of Peter so far, he did what he was told. And gladly!
After the initial “how to” lesson, and a discussion of strength and balance exercises Peter needed to do to get into shape for surfing, Mark used the time waiting for waves, both sitting on the board, to get to know a little about Peter. “Where’d you go to school last year?”
&
nbsp; “Paso Robles Middle School.”
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Art, I guess.”
“Are you good at it?”
“Kind of.”
“Have a girlfriend?”
He got a killer “as if” glare for that.
“Who’s your best friend?”
Peter stared down at the board, silent.
“No friend?”
“My dad was sick all the time, okay?”
Mark didn’t react to the kid spitting the words at him. He could only imagine how hard it would be to maintain a friendship when his world was wrapped tight with worry and a fatally sick father. Or maybe parents were hesitant to let their sons sleep over at Peter’s house, like cancer was contagious or something. Who knew. “Must’ve been hard.”
“I hated it. I mean I loved him, but everything was so crappy all the time.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Peter’s guard was coming down. “I hear ya. Must have been a bitch.”
“They made me go to some stupid group. We were all a bunch of losers.”
“You mean you’d all lost someone you loved?” He needed to reframe it for Peter—something Mark himself had learned when he went into group therapy—because he couldn’t let Peter get away with the negative opinion of himself and other grievers, or anyone in therapy.
The kid’s mouth was tight, in a straight line, and he looked on the verge of crying.
“This anger you’re feeling all the time is real. It’s part of grieving. When we lose someone we love, we grieve for them. Sometimes it makes us angry as hell.”
“How do you know?” He spit out the words, challenging Mark.
“I lost more military buddies than I care to count in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know what I’m talking about.” His grief had been the single hardest part of coming back to Sandpiper Beach, because he no longer had the distraction of fighting a war. He was faced head-on with all the loss and horrifying memories. They’d crashed against him every single day and knocked him down. Made him want to either strike out or withdraw, so he chose to pull back, lie low, until he felt fit enough for society again. When it came to anger, he knew what he was talking about. Yet dealing with Peter, he already felt in over his head.
Soldier, Handyman, Family Man Page 3
