“Damn,” he muttered. “What am I going to do about you?”
“Why are you fighting so hard to stay away from me?”
“Because I don’t want someone like you.”
She drew in a quick, painful breath. He had no idea she’d heard those words before. Not exactly in this context, but they still stung. Turning quickly, she walked down the street to Joe’s truck. As Nick followed her down the sidewalk, she dug into her purse for her keys.
“I’m sorry, Isabella. That didn’t come out the right way.”
She turned, and looked directly into his eyes. “The reason you stopped tonight, Nick, is that you want someone exactly like me. Someone who shakes that cage you’ve locked yourself up in, someone who reminds you of who you really are.”
“And who are you, Isabella? A woman who changes jobs and men and addresses every other week? You think that’s living life? That’s called running away.”
She swallowed hard, his words hitting a little too close to home.
“You’re afraid of being left behind, so you leave first,” he added.
“Exactly.” She got into the truck and slammed the door. She turned the key in the ignition and drove off, her stomach churning, her body shaking, her emotions boiling over.
Nick didn’t have her pegged exactly right, but he was damn close. And it was sheer hypocrisy to call him out for pretending to be someone he wasn’t. Hadn’t she done the same thing for most of her life? Hadn’t she hidden away the part of herself that she didn’t like? But it was so much easier to analyze someone else than to analyze herself.
She let out a breath. Their relationship was getting too intense, breaking all the rules she’d set for herself after Tony. She’d wanted to get close enough to Nick so that she could help him but not so close that she could get hurt. But the lines were blurring. And she was afraid that by coming to Angel’s Bay, she’d put something in motion that couldn’t be stopped.
What the hell was wrong with him? Nick fumed as he walked briskly down the street. The second he’d seen Isabella in the bar, he’d known that he wouldn’t be able to leave her alone. Since he’d rescued her from her car, he’d felt an incredible pull toward her, as if saving her life had tied them together in some powerful and elemental way. He didn’t like it. And he didn’t want to like her.
She was challenging his decisions, the way he led his life, making him think that he’d gone too far in his goal to be an adult. Yet she was just like Kendra, ready to jump at the best offer.
No, that wasn’t true. Isabella was softer, kinder, warmer, with a smile that lit up her eyes. A man could drown in her gaze, die a long, slow death in her arms. Shit! He hadn’t felt so consumed by desire in a very long time.
He blew out a breath and picked up his pace, breaking into a jog. He ran for a mile before his cell phone rang.
Breathless, he answered, “Hello?”
“It’s Colleen. I just dropped Megan off at your house. I didn’t see your car, so I wanted to let you know that she was there.”
“I’m on my way,” Nick said, grateful for the distraction. “How did the babysitting go?”
“Great. Alina was fast asleep when we got home, and the house was still in one piece. I consider that a successful night.”
“I’m happy to hear it.”
“Megan isn’t as bad she makes herself out to be. She even did some dishes for me.”
He was surprised. His daughter hadn’t shown any tendency toward neatness at his house. When he’d suggested that she pick up her things, she’d retorted that she was used to having housekeepers do that. He wasn’t poor, but Kendra got ten million plus a movie. Megan must feel as if she was living in a shack.
“So I’ll see you on Sunday, right?” Colleen asked, bringing his attention back to the conversation.
“What’s Sunday?”
“The annual sand-castle-building contest. I told Megan about it. You should enter it with her.”
“They still have that contest?” he asked in amazement.
“Yes, and I remember when you and your father won it. Maybe that’s a family tradition you can share with Megan.”
“Do you seriously think my punked-out daughter is going to build a sand castle with me?”
“You won’t know until you ask. See you later, Nick.”
He didn’t have to ask to know Megan’s answer; she’d laugh in his face. But he supposed he could put himself out there. Maybe he’d at least get points for trying.
When he got back home, he heard the television on in the living room. As he entered the room, Megan switched it off.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said. “It’s not a school night. What were you watching?”
“Nothing,” she said, guilt flashing through her eyes. She stood up. “I’m going to bed.”
“Wait. How was your night?”
“Fine.” As she walked by him, she gave him a curious look. “Why are you sweating? Where were you?”
“I took a run down by the harbor.”
“At midnight? In those clothes? You don’t have to lie. You can tell me you were having sex. It’s not like Mom wasn’t doing it whenever she could.”
“I wasn’t doing it,” he said, uncomfortable being quizzed about sex by his teenage daughter. “I went to the bar and saw some friends, then I took a run to clear my head.”
“Whatever,” she said, leaving the room.
He sighed, wondering if he’d ever say the right thing to her. He sat on the couch and turned on the television, wondering what Megan had been watching to make her look so guilty, and he was shocked when Kendra’s face lit up the screen.
It had been a long time since he’d seen her. He’d buried his memories as deeply as he could, but here she was with her luminous eyes and perfect skin and sensual, catlike smile. Kendra oozed sex appeal, from her long legs to her big breasts—breasts he was sure she’d enhanced after he’d been with her. Her lips looked fuller, too. She was a good actress; the emotions flowed effortlessly. She’d always been able to be whoever she was supposed to be and do it convincingly. She’d played the part of his wife for a few years and the part of a mother for a few years longer, but she’d moved past both of those roles.
He turned off the television and walked down the hall. Stopping at Megan’s open door, he found her still awake. She was in bed with the headphones on, but her eyes were open. He moved some clothes off the chair next to her bed and sat down.
She pulled her earphones out. “What?”
“Do you want to build a sand castle with me on Sunday? There’s a contest.”
She scowled at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He just smiled. “How about an answer?”
“I’m not a baby.”
“It’s not for babies, it’s for families. That’s you and me. And don’t say whatever,” he added as she opened her mouth. “I’d like you to participate.” It was risky to let her know how much he wanted something; it usually had the opposite effect on her.
She stared at him for a long moment and then sighed. “Fine, I’ll do it. Can I go to sleep now?”
He met her gaze. “It’s okay to miss your mom, you know.”
“I don’t miss her. I hate her.”
“You only hate those you love. And I know you love her, even though you’re angry at her. Whatever she’s done, she’s always going to be your mother.”
“Don’t you get it? She doesn’t want to be my mother,” Megan said with a sniffle. “That’s why she sent me away. She couldn’t put me in a puffy pink dress anymore and show me off as her adorable little girl.”
“Is that why you dyed your hair and pierced your nose?”
“I wanted to look like myself and not her dress-up doll.”
“You accomplished that.” He got to his feet. “And for the record, Megan, I don’t care what you wear or what color your hair is. You’ll always be my daughter. And I will always be your dad.”
“How am I supposed to b
elieve you? You were just fine not being my father when there was an ocean between us.”
“I was young and stupid, but that’s not an excuse. I need a second chance, Megan.” A knot of emotion choked his throat. “I don’t deserve it, but I really want it.”
His words hung in the air for a long moment.
Then she said, “Whatever,” her mouth curving into a mischievous grin.
“Whatever?” he growled. “I’ll show you whatever.” He grabbed a pillow. “War,” he declared.
Her eyes lit up, and she scrambled into a sitting position, picking up the pillow she’d been lying on. “War!”
As they pummeled each other with pillows, Megan squealed with delight like the little girl who’d once shared this game with him. He didn’t know if she remembered, but he didn’t care. For one moment, this wasn’t about anything but pure fun.
Finally, they collapsed from exhaustion.
“I beat you,” Megan declared proudly.
“No way, I won,” he teased.
Her silence made him turn his head.
“You used to let me win,” she said, a faraway look in her eyes.
His breath caught. “Yes, I did.”
“You used to sit on the end of my bed until I fell asleep.”
“That’s because I was too tired to move.” He grinned.
She smiled back as she slid under the covers and put a pillow under her head. “You used to tell me that stupid story.”
“About Princess Dandelion,” he remembered. “God, I forgot about that.”
“And Prince Phillipe,” she added. “They hated each other at first. But then they lived happily ever after . . .” Megan’s voice drifted away, her eyes closing, her fist tucked under her chin the way she’d done as a little girl.
Nick stayed on the end of her bed until she was fast asleep, holding on to the moment for as long as possible. Tomorrow she’d be back to her trash-talking, rebellious self. But tonight—tonight she was his little angel again.
TEN
“What have you done?” Nick shouted. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you. You’ve messed up everything. Why didn’t you go?”
“Nick.” She put out a hand to him, but he was storming into the darkness, into the shadows.
There was a beckoning light, voices in the night.
He didn’t want her with him, but she couldn’t let him go alone. He needed her. He didn’t know how much.
Isabella sat up with a gasp, her heart racing, sweat dampening her cheeks. She glanced at the sun streaming through the part in the curtains and was relieved to see it was morning.
As she got up and showered, remnants of her dream floated through her mind. Was it really a vision of something to come, or was she turning Nick’s rejection from the night before into something more? Was she trying to convince herself that he needed her, because she wanted a reason to stay, because she wasn’t ready to walk away from him?
She hadn’t felt such physical attraction to a man in a long time. And aside from that, she liked him. She admired the way he’d pulled his life together after his divorce, his desire to become a good father, his loyalty to a family who hadn’t always been there for him. He’d made his mistakes, but he was trying to do better, and who couldn’t appreciate that?
Wishing she had answers instead of questions, she stepped out of the shower, dried off, and got dressed.
When she entered the kitchen, she found hot coffee and a note from Joe saying that he was at work if she needed anything. He was really pushing hard to find Annie. The girl’s disappearance had affected a lot of people who were becoming her friends, such as Tory and Erin and Charlotte. It was amazing how much she already felt a part of the community; no wonder Joe hadn’t been able to leave. She could see how his bruised spirit had healed in Angel’s Bay. He’d grown cynical and hard during his years working for the LAPD, and there’d been a dangerous edge to him that now seemed softened. She was surprised that Rachel hadn’t seen it and welcomed it. Instead, she’d turned away from Joe. Or maybe it was Joe who had turned away from her. Either way, Isabella didn’t see anything changing unless one of them took a step to breach the distance between them.
She downed some coffee, then grabbed her bag and headed into town. She wanted to stop by the quilt shop before going to the theater. Maybe Fiona Murray could tell her something about Leticia and her family history that would give her some clue to how the past and the present were connected.
Fiona Murray was an older, more fiery version of Kara, with red hair, blue eyes, and freckled, weathered skin. She was in her eighties, but her eyes were sharp, her voice was brisk, and she shook Isabella’s hand with a firm grip, then waved her to the couch in her office at the back of the quilt shop.
“I was expecting you,” Fiona said. “Kara told me you’re interested in your family history. Now that I’ve seen you, I can understand why. You have the look of Beatriz.”
“I do?”
“Oh, yes.” Fiona set a photo album on the coffee table in front of them. “I have some photographs of Beatriz taken in her later years, but let me tell you a little about her story first.”
“I’d love to hear it.”
“Beatriz and her husband, Miguel, made it to shore with their two sons, Isaac and Nathaniel, who were toddlers at the time. The Cardozas were one of the few families to survive the wreck intact. Beatriz and one of my ancestors, Rosalyn Murray, were the creators of the memorial quilt that you might have seen downstairs.”
“I did. But I couldn’t figure out which square belonged to Beatriz.”
“Beatriz didn’t make a square.”
Isabella was surprised and confused. “I thought all of the survivors had a square.”
“Beatriz didn’t lose anyone, but she wanted to honor those who were gone, so she sewed the squares of the families who had no survivors to memorialize them. Unfortunately, the ship’s manifest was also gone, so she had to rely on the other survivors to determine who had been onboard. She spent many decades trying to find the names of everyone. She traveled back and forth to San Francisco, not wanting to miss anyone. Those names are sewn along the sides of the quilt, mixed in with the pattern of the stitching.”
Fiona opened the album. The first photograph was an eight-by-ten of the quilt, and Isabella scooted forward so she could see better.
Fiona moved her finger along the stitching design that ran around squares on all four sides. “If you look closely, you can see the names.”
“I can,” Isabella replied. In fact, as she stared at the picture, her eyes blurred, and she felt as if she were going back in time.
Despair and guilt filled her heart as she pulled the needle in and out of the fabric. So many names. So many lives lost. She could hear the screams in her head when she went to sleep at night. She could see the fear in the eyes of everyone around her as the ocean threatened to swallow them whole.
“She really cared about them,” Isabella murmured, lifting her gaze to meet Fiona’s. “Beatriz felt tied to those who didn’t make it.”
Fiona was watching her closely. “Yes. There was a reason for that.” She paused. “Beatriz had your eyes, Isabella.”
Her pulse leaped. “How do you know?”
Fiona turned several pages until she found the one she wanted. “This photo is in black and white, but even so, her gaze jumps out at you.”
Isabella put a shaky hand to her heart as she stared at Beatriz’s image. She could see herself clearly in the eyes and the face of a woman who’d lived a hundred and fifty years ago. It seemed surreal.
“Beatriz told my great-grandmother that she’d seen the wreck coming,” Fiona continued, “that she’d tried to tell the captain, but he thought she was hysterical. She was able to convince her husband and a few others, including my great-grandmother, and they got to the first lifeboat while everyone else was trying to ride out the storm. She saved my family and hers, but she felt guilty for those who didn’t make it.”
Isabella
knew exactly how Beatriz had felt, the frustration and anguish at not being able to prevent something horrible from happening.
But at least Beatriz’s family had believed in her, and she had saved their lives. That was something.
“Beatriz wasn’t the only one who had your eyes.” Fiona turned the page again.
This photo was in color and taken in front of the theater in what was probably the early 1950s, judging by the clothing, the hair, and the nearby cars. The scenery faded into the background as Isabella stared at the young woman with long black hair and unusually blue eyes who gazed straight into the lens, straight into Isabella’s eyes. There was a sadness there, or maybe it was weariness.
“Leticia,” Isabella murmured. “It has to be her. He said I looked just like her.” She raised her gaze to Fiona. “Harrison Hartley almost fainted when he saw me. I think he loved her.”
“I always thought he did,” Fiona said with a nod. “But Harrison married Alice shortly after Leticia left town. No one spoke of her again.”
“You actually knew Leticia?” Isabella asked, eager to hear more about the woman whose pendant had called her to Angel’s Bay. “What was she like?”
“She was quiet, almost like a shadow.” Fiona’s gaze perused her face. “Like you, and yet not. Your features are similar, but you have a life, a strength, an energy in your eyes that she lacked. It was almost as if she was afraid of herself.” Fiona drew in a breath. “Leticia left town after a fire at the theater in which Harrison’s younger sister, Caitlyn, died. She was in the costume shop, I believe, or somewhere close by. The Hartleys were devastated, and I’m sure Leticia was, too. Caitlyn was a beautiful girl, so full of life—a wonderful actress and a bit of a wild child.”
“My grandmother said that Leticia killed herself. Do you know how she died?”
“Her car went off the road around Big Sur. There were no other vehicles involved, but it could have been an accident.”
At Hidden Falls (Angel's Bay Novel) Page 16
