One Summer

by JoAnn Ross

  He frowned at the collar. “Didn’t you have anything plainer?”

  Yes! One didn’t get that particular about a collar for a dog he didn’t intend to keep.

  “I’m sorry.” She flashed him her sweetest smile. “But we’re all out of the manly black-leather-with-steel-studs model.”

  She tapped some more. “And the antibiotic. And the cream for his burns, and medication to prevent heartworm, which is, unfortunately, all too common, and—”

  “It’s a damn good thing I don’t have a house,” he cut her off. “Because it’s sounding as if I’d have to mortgage it to pay your bill.”

  Okay. That barb hit home. She tossed up her chin. “My rates are actually less than a lot of vets along the coast. And much less than in the cities.”

  “I wasn’t challenging your prices,” he said mildly. “Just pointing out that owning a dog isn’t cheap.”

  “No. But much of this is a onetime charge. Besides, look at it this way—having a dog will save you money on doctor bills.”

  “And how, exactly, do you figure that?”

  He did not, she noted, point out yet again that he had no intention of having a dog.

  “There’s a growing body of scientific evidence supporting the theory that pets are beneficial to people in a multitude of physical ways. Not only did researchers at the State University of New York at Buffalo find that pet ownership is better than medication for lowering blood pressure under stress situations, other studies at UCLA found that having a pet corresponds to overall better health and fewer medical visits. As many as twenty-one percent fewer trips to the doctor.”

  “I haven’t been to a doctor since my preseparation exam when I left the military.”

  “Well, you never know. Think of him as a preventative measure. Also, moving around as much as you do, you probably don’t have much chance to interact with people.”

  “That’s actually one of the best parts of moving around as much as I do.”

  He wasn’t making it easy on her. Fortunately, Charity enjoyed a challenge.

  “There have been bunches of other studies showing loneliness reduces fruit-fly life spans and increases the chances of mice developing diabetes.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not a fruit fly or a mouse.” Balancing the dog on his hip, he pulled out his wallet and handed her a credit card. “Besides, you can be surrounded by people and still be lonely.”

  “Got me there.” She ran the card and handed him the receipt to sign. “Which goes along with another study that suggests just the mental perception of isolation is enough to cause adverse effects in humans, including cardiovascular disease, obesity, and weakening of the immune system.”

  He scrawled his name on the paper, took his card back. But he hadn’t yet put down the dog. “You have an endless supply of those, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t say endless. But I did recently read that they’ve also had success using companion dogs to treat veterans suffering from PTSD.”

  “What make you think I’ve got PTSD problems?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t referring to you.” But he had answered just a bit too swiftly. Almost defensively. “Merely repeating what I’d read.”

  “Well, for the record, I don’t.”

  “Good for you.”

  They fell silent as they looked across the counter at each other. Meanwhile, the dog continued to gaze up at him like a religious pilgrim looking into the face of his god.

  “If you’d just keep him for a couple days. While I try to find him a family,” she said.

  “Two days.”

  “Oh, that’s great. Thanks. I promise you won’t regret—”

  “Two days,” he repeated. “If you haven’t found anyone by then, you’re getting him back.”

  “Two days is better than nothing. And maybe you’ll just find that you won’t want to give him back.”

  “Don’t bet your practice on that, Doc. Is the food any good at the Sea Mist?”

  Surprised by the sudden change in subject, but not wanting to say anything that might have him changing his mind about taking the Shih Tzu with him, Charity said, “It’s great, actually. And the view from the patio is one of the best in town.”

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “What?” Was he actually asking her out on a date?

  “Dinner. You.” He pointed at her. “Me.” At himself. “Together.”

  He was talking date. “I can’t.” But, heaven help her, she wanted to. Even as common sense warned against it. “My mother,” she reminded him, with a glance toward the stairs Amanda had disappeared up.

  “She’s an adult. She can’t spend a few hours on her own?”

  “Of course. But as you probably caught on, from her refusal to face her telephone, she’s here because of a personal problem we need to talk about. I can’t just run off and desert her.”

  He considered that while rubbing a dented jaw broad enough to park his motor home on. “Tomorrow,” he countered.

  “Okay,” she said.

  He nodded as if he hadn’t expected any other outcome. She should have been annoyed by his male arrogance, yet for some reason, Charity wasn’t.

  He paused at the door, the dog still under his arm like a sack of potatoes. “I hope things work out for your mom.”

  And with that, he was gone. Leaving Charity with no choice but to go upstairs and face her mother.

  14

  Bon Temps was the type of Cajun restaurant/bar/dance hall that one could expect to find down in the Louisiana bayou. Established by Cole Douchett’s parents, it had been refurbished and was now run by Cole’s brother Sax.

  Mardi Gras masks hung on walls the color of boiled crawfish, and colorful beads, like those thrown from parade floats, had been strung between the light fixtures. But the best thing was the aroma that hit the minute a customer walked in the door.

  It was the middle of the day, not exactly rush hour anywhere in sleepy Shelter Bay, yet the tables were filled. Two old men, former fishermen, judging from their weathered skin, were sitting by the window overlooking the harbor, nursing beers and eating their way through a mountain of scarlet crawfish. Another guy was playing pool at a table on the far side of the room.

  “So,” Sax said as Gabe took a stool at the bar, “I see she got you, too.” He pushed a bowl of bar mix toward Gabe.

  “Who would that be?” Gabe took a bite of what the younger Douchett brother called Cajun devil peanuts. Which fit, since the things were as scorching hot as hell.

  “The vet. Charity Tiernan.”

  “Word gets around fast.”

  “That it does,” Sax agreed. “Of course, the mutt sitting in the passenger seat of your Jeep did give me a clue. You want the regular?”

  Not accustomed to being anyplace long enough to have a “regular,” Gabe said, “Why don’t you surprise me?”

  “You gonna eat?”

  “Thought I’d have an oyster po’boy.”

  “Got just the thing.” Sax reached into the cooler and brought out a bottle. “Rogue’s Captain Sig’s Northwestern Ale goes great with fish,” he said. “And it’ll cool those flames burning your tongue.”

  “You saying I can’t handle some damn peanuts?”

  Cher, you may be a Marine, but you’re not Cajun.”

  The malty ale, deep red in color, went down smooth and did soothe the flames. But Gabe wasn’t about to admit that to a damn Navy frogman.

  “I’m only keeping the mutt for a couple days. While she finds someone to take him off her hands.”

  “She’s good at that,” Sax said as he whipped an egg, dropped an oyster into the egg, then coated it with a mix of cornmeal, flour, and seasoning. “Haven’t seen anyone who can say no to the woman when she sets her mind to something.” While the oyster sizzled in the deep fryer, he spread mayo on one side of a baguette, some sort of red sauce on the other.

  “She’s like a damn pit bull,” Gabe complained. “What’s that stuff?”


  “Come-Back sauce.” Sax piled layers of shredded lettuce, tomato slices, and pickles on the bun. “It’s an old secret family recipe my grand-mère came up with. It’s the chili pepper that gives it a kick.” He pulled the golden brown oyster out of the fryer, layered it on top of the dressings, and tossed on some thick-cut fries.

  “This is a test, isn’t it?” Gabe asked as he eyed the plate Sax put in front of him.

  “What it is is the best sandwich you’ve ever tasted.”

  It sure smelled great. As the flavors exploded on his tongue, Gabe decided it tasted even better than it smelled. “Okay,” he said around a mouthful of deep-fried seasoned oyster. “You’re not going to get any argument from me about that.”

  “It’s the Come-Back sauce,” Sax said with a grin. “Gets them every time. I’m thinkin’ of bottling the stuff and selling it to tourists. Maybe even set up shop on the Internet.”

  He left from behind the bar to deliver the check to an elderly couple wearing matching blue I went whale watching in Shelter Bay T-shirts. The woman, who appeared to be at least in her eighties, giggled like a schoolgirl at something Sax said. Oh, yeah, the guy definitely had a knack with women. Which had Gabe wondering if he’d ever turned that smooth charm toward the town’s veterinarian before hooking up with the sheriff.

  “So,” he asked, when Sax came back with a handful of bills, “what do you know about her?”

  “Who?” He put the bills into an old-fashioned metal box.

  “Charity Tiernan.”

  “Not much.”

  “Did you know her that summer she spent here when she was a kid?”

  “Nah. It’s a small town, but summers here, as you can see, bring in a lot of strangers. Besides, she and her stepbrother were rich and wouldn’t have been likely to hang out with guys like Cole and me.” He rubbed the bar down with a towel. “But here’s a small-world thing. I ended up serving with him downrange.”

  “He was a SEAL?”

  “A medic. The best I ever worked with. He was like a walking trauma center. If any military from anywhere in the world had better medical supplies, you know that somehow Chaffee was going to get his hands on it.”

  “He ever talk about her?”

  “Not that I recall.” He lifted a dark brow. “You sound like you’re interested.”

  Gabe shrugged. “She’s not my type.”

  “Sure. Not many guys are going to be attracted to a long, smooth drink of water with legs up to her shoulders, forest green eyes, a heart as big as all outdoors, and brains, to boot.”

  “I wasn’t talking about her looks. Or her brains. It’s the heart thing. The woman has marriage, two-point-five kids, and a picket fence written all over her. Hell, she even has a damn picket fence.”

  “So do I.” It was Sax’s turn to shrug. “It came with my house.”

  A huge white cliff house with a million-dollar view, Gabe remembered. He’d gone there with Cole a couple nights before the wedding and spent some time sitting out on the porch, drinking beer and sharing war stories. The kind of down and dirty guy stuff you didn’t share with civilians.

  “My point”—Gabe tilted the neck of the bottle toward the other man—“is that she’s not a one-nightstand type of woman.” The thing to do was to get back into military mode and practice some serious strategic avoidance.

  “My guess would be you’re right about that. My other guess is that she’s got enough going for her, a guy, were he interested, hypothetically speaking, might want to stick around for a while. See how things played out.”

  “I’ve got a contract.” Gabe polished off the Sig’s Ale. “Once I’m done shooting scenes here, I’m moving on to Washington.”

  “You going to settle down there?”

  Gabe saw where he was going with this. “No.”

  “Then there wouldn’t be anything keeping you from coming back. After you’re done shooting your pictures.” Sax took away the empty beer bottle and replaced it with a nonalcoholic brew. With an eye to detail Gabe figured SEALs, like Marines, needed, he’d obviously noticed that his brother’s war buddy was a one-beer guy.

  “I’m also not into commitment.”

  “Which is why you’ve got that dog sitting in the front seat of your rig.”

  Gabe followed Douchett’s gaze out the window, where the mutt was waiting patiently for its rescuer to return.

  “I’m just taking it off her hands for a couple days. Until she can find someone to adopt it.”

  The other man’s deep, rumbling laugh drew the attention of every woman in the joint. “Good luck with that.”

  15

  Amanda jumped on Charity the moment she entered the guest room her mother had commandeered.

  “Darling,” she said as she snapped her phone shut, “I was just telling Peter the exciting news about you dating the Gabriel St. James!”

  “I’m not dating him.”

  “You’re going out to dinner.”

  “You were listening?”

  “The window was open.” Appearing unconcerned at having been caught eavesdropping, Amanda waved airily toward the windows framed with white gauze curtains. “And I do think you were very wise not to accept his invitation for tonight. It’s always good tactics to make a man wait.”

  “It wasn’t a tactic. It was the truth. We need to talk.”

  “I don’t know what about.”

  “How about the fact that you left your husband without even discussing the reason with him?”

  Oh, God, her mother was tearing up again. “You know how I dislike conflict.”

  “Perhaps some things—and some men—are worth fighting for.”

  “And Ethan wasn’t?”

  For someone who so loved being at the center of attention, her mother was an expert at turning the spotlight in a different direction when it suited her purpose.

  “No. Ethan definitely wasn’t.”

  “I didn’t think so, either. I also thought you were incredibly courageous, doing what you did. When you did it.”

  Charity shrugged. “It seemed a better idea than going through with the ceremony, only to end up getting divorced six weeks later.” She belatedly realized how that sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know. My record on marriage is right up there with Liz Taylor’s. Which is why I’m so angry. I really did believe I’d chosen a life partner this time.”

  “I believed that, too.” It was the truth. “I also believe that you owe it to Benton to discuss it with him. There may be a simple explanation.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’ve no idea. But things aren’t always what they appear on the surface.”

  “True.” Amanda sighed heavily. “But I need time. . . . Meanwhile,” she said, perking up considerably, “what are you planning to wear on your date with that handsome young man?”

  Charity was about to repeat that it was not a date, merely dinner, when something her mother said sidetracked her. “You think he’s handsome?”

  “Absolutely. Don’t you?”

  “Not like Brad Pitt handsome.” She thought about the harshly hewn scarred face, the heavily hooded, shuttered eyes, the too-broad chin, which hinted at an overdose of testosterone. “Compelling, maybe.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

  “He reminds me of your father. When we first met.”

  “Really?” Her father was George Clooney/Cary Grant smooth. Nothing like Gabriel St. James.

  “Oh, that’s right. You only know him from after he’d had a lot of work done.”

  “My father had work done? Plastic-surgery-type work? Why?”

  Darling, give it some thought. Although he’s always spent several weeks every year performing free and admirable reconstructive surgery for children in Third World countries, your father’s driving career goal was to be the surgeon to the stars. Which would have been very difficult to do if he hadn’t been Hollywood handsome himself. So he had some surgery to fit the image he needed to proj
ect to the public.

  “When I married him, while he was in his final year of surgical residency, he had a scar much like Gabriel’s. But his ran up the side of his face. Apparently he’d gotten it while serving in Vietnam.”

  “Wait a minute.” Charity held up a hand. “My father was in Vietnam? And I never heard a single, solitary word about it?”

  “Your father was drafted,” Amanda said. “But he was much like Peter in that he never talked about the war, either. Then or now. But as a matter of fact, he was a medic who did three tours there. That’s how he put himself through medical school.”

  Charity was honestly floored. “Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?”

  “Charity, dear.” Her mother could have been talking to a six-year-old. “We all have secrets. Even you, I suspect. Besides, your father’s story wasn’t mine to tell.”

  He could have told me.” Was she actually pouting? She never pouted. That was her mother’s forte.

  “I suspect he’d put it behind him because it was too painful to dwell on.” Amanda’s eyes sharpened. “Something I’d imagine you could identify with.”

  She had her there. After all, Charity never had shared with her mother the total story of why she’d called off the wedding.

  It was also time to turn the focus away from herself. “When’s Benton coming home?”

  “I’ve no idea. He told me he’d be gone for a week. Then again, why should I believe anything the man says? But, whatever his schedule, if he wants to speak with me, he’s going to have to come here. Because I’m not setting foot back in that house until he explains his behavior.”

  Oh joy.

  Her mother brushed her hands together, as if ridding herself of a particularly vexing problem, and said, “So, what are you going to wear for your dinner with Gabriel?”

  “I hadn’t given it any thought.”

  “I passed the Sea Mist on the way here. It looks lovely.”

  The brown-shingled building on the bay was, indeed, lovely, with every table facing the harbor, and patio seating that proved popular on sunny days. “It is. But it’s not dressy, like a lot of places in Seattle.” She could see her mother’s plan, like a freight train barreling toward her.