Chesapeake Bay Saga 1-4

by Nora Roberts

  He found he enjoyed the way her voice took on a lecturing tone that brought out brisk Yankee. “The O’s are in a hot pennant race, and you’re deep in Orioles’ territory. Maybe it’s the game.”

  “The game is the vehicle. The pattern would remain fairly constant whether the vehicle was football or basketball.” She shrugged. “The typical male gains more enjoyment from sports if he has at least one like-minded male companion with him. You have only to observe commercials aimed primarily at the male consumer. Beer, for instance,” she said, tapping a finger on his glass. “It’s quite often sold by showcasing a group of attractive men sharing some common experience. A man then buys that brand of beer because he’s been programmed to believe that it will enhance his standing with his peer group.”

  Because he was grinning, she lifted her eyebrows. “You disagree?”

  “Not at all. I’m in advertising, and that pretty much hit the nail.”

  “Advertising?” She ignored the little tug of guilt at the pretense. “I wouldn’t think there would be much call for that here.”

  “I work in Baltimore. I’m back here on weekends for a while. A family thing. Long story.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  “Later.” There was something, he thought, about those nearly translucent blue eyes framed by long, inky lashes that made it nearly impossible to look anywhere else. “Tell me what else you see.”

  “Well . . .” It was a fine skill, she decided. A masterwork. The way he could look at a woman as if she were the most vital thing in the world at that one moment. It made her heart bump pleasantly. “You see the other waitress?”

  Phillip glanced over, watched the frivolous bow on the back of the woman’s skirt swivel as she walked to the bar. “Hard to miss her.”

  “Yes. She fulfills certain primitive and typical male-fantasy requirements. But I’m referring to personality, not physicality.”

  “Okay.” Phillip ran his tongue around his teeth. “What do you see?”

  “She’s efficient, but she’s already calculating the time until closing. She knows how to size up the better tippers and play to them. She all but ignores the table of college students there. They won’t add much to her bill. You’d see the same survival techniques from an experienced and cynical waitress in a New York bar.”

  “Linda Brewster,” Phillip supplied. “Recently divorced, on the prowl for a new, improved husband. Her family owns the pizza place, so she’s been waitressing off and on for years. Doesn’t care for it. Do you want to dance?”

  “What?” Then that’s not Grace either, she thought and struggled to tune back in. “I’m sorry?”

  “The band’s slowed it down if they haven’t turned it down. Would you like to dance?”

  “All right.” She let him take her hand to lead her through the tables to the dance floor, where they shoehorned themselves into the crowd.

  “I think this is supposed to be a version of ‘Angie,’ ” Phillip murmured.

  “If Mick and the boys heard what they’re doing to it, they’d shoot the entire band on sight.”

  “You like the Stones?”

  “What’s not to like?” Since they could do no more than sway, she tilted her head back to look at him. It wasn’t a hardship to find his face so close to hers, or to be forced to press her body firmly to his. “Down-and-dirty rock and roll, no frills, no fuss. All sex.”

  “You like sex?”

  She had to laugh. “What’s not to like? And though I appreciate the thought, I don’t intend to have any tonight.”

  “There’s always tomorrow.”

  “There certainly is.” She considered kissing him, letting him kiss her. As an experiment that would certainly include an aspect of enjoyment. Instead, she turned her head so cheeks brushed. He was entirely too attractive for an impulsive and uncalculated risk.

  Better safe, she reminded herself, than stupid.

  “Why don’t I take you to dinner tomorrow?” Skillfully, he slid a hand up her spine, back down to her waist. “There’s a nice place right in town. Terrific view of the Bay, best seafood on the Shore. We can have a conversation in normal tones, and you can tell me the story of your life.”

  His lips had brushed her ear, sending a shocking ripple of reaction down to her toes. She should have known, she thought, that anyone who looked like he did would be damn good at sexual maneuvers.

  “I’ll think about it,” she murmured and, deciding to give as good as she got, skimmed her fingertips over the back of his neck. “And let you know.”

  When the song ended, and the next picked up on a blast of sound and speed, she eased away. “I have to go.”

  “What?” He leaned down so she could shout in his ear.

  “I have to go. Thanks for the dance.”

  “I’ll walk you out.”

  Back at the table, he pulled out some bills while she gathered her things. The first step outside into the cool and quiet air made her laugh. “Well, that was an experience. Thank you for adding to it.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it. It’s not very late,” he added, taking her hand.

  “Late enough.” She pulled out the keys to her car.

  “Come by the boatyard tomorrow. I’ll show you around.”

  “I might just do that. Good night, Phillip.”

  “Sybill.” He didn’t bother to resist, simply brought her hand to his lips. Over their joined fingers, his eyes locked with hers. “I’m glad you picked St. Chris.”

  “So am I.”

  She slipped into her car, relieved that she had to concentrate on the task of switching on the lights, releasing the brake, starting the engine. Driving wasn’t second nature to a woman who had depended on public transportation or private car services most of her life.

  She focused on reversing, on putting the car in drive to make the turn onto the road. And she firmly ignored the faint echo of pressure on her knuckles where his lips had touched.

  But she didn’t quite resist glancing in the rearview mirror and taking one last look at him before she drove away.

  Phillip decided that going back into Shiney’s would be absurdly anticlimactic. He thought about her as he drove home, the way her eyebrows arched when she made a point or enjoyed a comment. That subtle and intimate scent she wore that told a man that if he’d gotten close enough to catch a whiff, maybe, just maybe, he’d have a chance to get closer.

  He told himself she was the perfect woman for him to invest some time in getting closer to. She was beautiful; she was smart; she was cultured and sophisticated.

  And just sexy enough to make his hormones stand at attention.

  He liked women, and missed having time for conversations with them. Not that he didn’t enjoy talking with Anna and Grace. But let’s face it, it wasn’t quite the same as talking with a woman when you could also fantasize about taking her to bed.

  And he’d been missing that particular area of male-female relationships just lately. He rarely had time to do more than stumble into his apartment after a ten- or twelve-hour workday. His once interesting and varied social calendar had taken some large hits since Seth had come to the family.

  The week was dedicated to his accounts and consultations with the lawyer. The fight with the insurance company on payment of his father’s death benefits was coming to a head. The resolution of permanent guardianship of Seth would be decided within ninety days. The responsibility of dealing with the mountain of paperwork and phone calls that sprang from those actions was his. Details were his strong point.

  Weekends were consumed by household duties, the business, and whatever had slipped through the cracks during the week.

  When you added it all up, he mused, it didn’t leave much time for cozy dinners with attractive women, much less the ritual of slipping between the sheets with those women.

  Which explained his recent restlessness and moodiness, he supposed. When a man’s sex life virtually vanished, he was bound to get a little edgy.

  Th
e house was dark but for the single beam of the porch light when he pulled into the drive. Barely midnight on Friday night, he thought with a sigh. How the mighty have fallen. There would have been a time when he and his brothers would have been out cruising, looking for action. Well, he and Cam would have dragged Ethan along, but once they’d hounded him into it, Ethan would have held up his end.

  The Quinn boys hadn’t spent many Friday nights snoozing.

  These days, he thought as he climbed out of the Jeep, Cam would be upstairs cozied up to his wife and Ethan would be tucked into Grace’s little house. Undoubtedly they both had smiles on their faces.

  Lucky bastards.

  Knowing he wouldn’t be able to sleep, he skirted the house and walked to where the edge of the trees met the edge of the water.

  The moon was a fat ball riding the night sky. It shed its soft white light over the dark water, wet eelgrass, and thick leaves.

  Cicadas were singing in their high, monotonous voices, and deep in those thick woods, an owl called out in tireless twotoned notes.

  Perhaps he preferred the sounds of the city, voices and traffic muffled through glass. But he never failed to find this spot appealing. Though he missed the city’s pace, the theater and museums, the eclectic mix of food and people, he could appreciate the peace and the stability found right here day after day. Year after year.

  Without it, he had no doubt he would have found his way back to the gutter. And died there.

  “You always wanted more for yourself than that.”

  The chill washed through him, from gut to fingertips. Where he had been standing, staring out at the moonlight showering through the trees, he was now staring at his father. The father he’d buried six months before.

  “I only had one beer,” he heard himself say.

  “You’re not drunk, son.” Ray stepped forward so that the moonlight shimmered over his dramatic mane of silver hair and into the brilliant blue eyes that were bright with humor. “You’re going to want to breathe now, before you pass out.”

  Phillip let out his breath in a whoosh, but his ears continued to ring. “I’m going to sit down now.” He did, slowly, like a creaky old man, easing himself down onto the grass. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” he said to the water, “or reincarnation, the afterlife, visitations, or any form of psychic phenomenon.”

  “You always were the most pragmatic of the lot. Nothing was real unless you could see it, touch it, smell it.”

  Ray sat beside him with a contented sigh and stretched out long legs clad in frayed jeans. He crossed his ankles, and on his feet were the well-worn Dock-Sides that Phillip himself had packed into a box for the Salvation Army nearly six months before.

  “Well,” Ray said cheerfully, “you’re seeing me, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m having an episode most likely resulting from sexual deprivation and overwork.”

  “I won’t argue with you. It’s too pretty a night.”

  “I haven’t reached closure yet,” Phillip said to himself. “I’m still angry over the way he died, and why, and all the unanswered questions. So I’m projecting.”

  “I figured you’d be the toughest nut of the three. Always had an answer for everything. I know you’ve got questions, too. And I know you’ve got anger. You’re entitled. You’ve had to change your life and take on responsibilities that shouldn’t have been yours. But you did it, and I’m grateful.”

  “I don’t have time for therapy right now. There’s no place on the schedule to fit sessions in.”

  Ray let out a hoot of laughter. “Boy, you’re not drunk, and you’re not crazy either. You’re just stubborn. Why don’t you use that flexible mind of yours, Phillip, and consider a possibility?”

  Bracing himself, Phillip turned his head. It was his father’s face, wide and lined with life and filled with humor. Those bright-blue eyes were dancing, the silver hair ruffling in the night air. “This is an impossibility.”

  “Some people said when your mother and I took you and your brothers in, that it was an impossibility we’d make a family, make a difference. They were wrong. If we’d listened to them, if we’d gone by logic, none of you would have been ours. But fate doesn’t give a horse’s ass about logic. It just is. And you were meant to be ours.”

  “Okay.” Phillip shot out a hand and jerked it back in shock. “How could I do that? How could I touch you if you’re a ghost?”

  “Because you need to.” Casually, Ray gave Phillip’s shoulder a quick pat. “I’m here, for the next little while.”

  Phillip’s throat filled even as his stomach tightened into knots. “Why?”

  “I didn’t finish. I left it up to you and your brothers. I’m sorry for that, Phillip.”

  It wasn’t happening, of course, Phillip told himself. He was probably in the first stages of a minor breakdown. He could feel the air against his face, warm and moist. The cicadas were still shrilling, the owl still hooting.

  If he was having an episode, he thought again, it seemed only right to play it out. “They’re trying to say it was suicide,” he said slowly. “The insurance company’s fighting the claim.”

  “I hope you know that’s bullshit. I was careless, distracted. I had an accident.” There was an edge to Ray’s voice now, an impatience and annoyance that Phillip recognized. “I wouldn’t have taken the easy way. And I had the boy to think about.”

  “Is Seth your son?”

  “I can tell you that he belongs to me.”

  Both his head and his heart ached as he turned to stare out at the water again. “Mom was still alive when he was conceived.”

  “I know that. I was never unfaithful to your mother.”

  “Then how—”

  “You need to accept him, for himself. I know you care for him. I know you’re doing your best by him. You have that last step to take. Acceptance. He needs you, all of you.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him,” Phillip said grimly. “We’ll see to that.”

  “He’ll change your life, if you let him.”

  Phillip let out a short laugh. “Believe me, he already has.”

  “In a way that will make your life better. Don’t close yourself off to those possibilities. And don’t worry too much about this little visit.” Ray patted him companionably on the knee. “Talk to your brothers.”

  “Yeah, like I’m going to tell them I sat outside in the middle of the night and talked to . . .” He looked over, saw nothing but the moonlight on the trees.

  “Nobody,” he finished and wearily laid down on the grass to stare up at the moon. “God, I need a vacation.”

  FOUR

  IT WOULDN’T DO TO APPEAR too anxious, Sybill reminded herself. Or to get there too early. It had to be casual. She had to be relaxed.

  She decided not to take her car. It would look more like a careless visit if she walked down from the waterfront. And if she included the visit to the boatyard in an afternoon of shopping and wandering, it would appear more impulsive than calculated.

  To calm herself, she roamed the waterfront. A pretty Indian-summer Saturday morning drew tourists. They poked and strolled along as she did, dropping into the little shops, pausing to watch boats sail or motor on the Bay. No one seemed to be in a particular hurry or have a specific destination.

  That in itself, she mused, made an interesting contrast to the usual urban Saturday when even the tourists seemed to be in a rush to get from one place to the next.

  It would be something to consider and analyze and perhaps theorize over in her book. And because she did find it inter esting, she slipped her mini recorder out of her bag and murmured a few verbal notes and observations.

  “Families appear to be relaxed rather than harried or desperately seeking the entertainment they’ve traveled to find. The natives seem to be friendly and patient. Life is slow to reflect the pace set by the people who make their living here.”

  The little shops weren’t doing what she’d term a bustling business, yet the m
erchants didn’t have that anxious and slyeyed look prevalent among the vendors where the crowds were thick and the wallets tightly guarded.

  She bought a few postcards for friends and associates in New York, then, more out of habit than need, selected a book on the history of the area. It would help her in her research, she imagined. She lingered over a pewter fairy with a teardrop crystal hanging from her elegant fingers. But she resisted it, firmly reminding herself that she could purchase any sort of foolishness she wanted in New York.

  Crawford’s appeared to be a popular spot, so she strolled in and treated herself to an ice cream cone. It gave her something to do with her hands as she walked the few blocks to Boats by Quinn.

  She appreciated the value of props. Everyone used them in the continuing play of living, she thought. A glass at a cocktail party, a paperback book on the subway. Jewelry, she realized when she caught herself twisting her necklace around her nervous fingers.

  She dropped the chain, and concentrated on enjoying her scoop of raspberry sherbet.

  It didn’t take long to walk to the outskirts of town. She calculated that the waterfront area ran for barely a mile from end to end.

  The neighborhoods ran west from the water. Narrow streets with tidy houses and tiny lawns. Low fences designed as much for backyard gossiping, she mused, as for boundary lines. Trees were large and leafy, still holding the deep, dark green of summer. It would be, she thought, an attractive sight when they turned with autumn.

  Kids played in yards or rode bikes along the sloping sidewalks. She saw a teenage boy lovingly waxing an old Chevy compact, singing in a loud, just-out-of-tune voice to whatever played through his headphones.

  A long-legged mutt with floppy ears rushed a fence as she passed, barking in deep, rusty clips. Her heart did a quick dance when he planted his huge paws on the top of the fence. And she kept walking.

  She didn’t know much about dogs.

  She spotted Phillip’s Jeep in the pothole-filled parking lot beside the boatyard. An aging pickup truck kept it company. The doors and several of the windows of the building were wide open. Through them came the buzz of saws and the Southern rock beat of John Fogerty.