Don't Let Go

by Marliss Melton

  “G’bye, Mith Blith,” Silas whispered, lisping her name.

  “Good-bye, Silas,” she replied, finding that it wasn’t difficult at all to smile at him. He was adorable.

  His father was another story. Watching him retreat to a big, black truck, she took in the khaki shorts that clung to his narrow hips, revealing taut buttocks and powerful, hair-dusted calves. What was it about him she found so attractive? He hefted the boy into the passenger’s side and rounded the truck to get in, holding her gaze captive.

  “By the way, you need to get him a booster seat,” Jordan called out to him. “And he’s supposed to use it till he’s eight years old and eighty pounds.”

  “What he needs is a teacher,” Solomon retorted, ducking into his truck without severing eye contact. I choose you, said his expression.

  Jordan tore her gaze away to watch Silas buckling his seat belt. He looked up and shyly waved as his father revved the engine. She found herself waving back.

  Then she thought of Miguel, who also needed her, Miguel whose hope for a better future was draining away like sand through an hourglass. I’m coming, baby. I’m coming to get you, she thought, turning back into the house. All she needed was someone to help her come up with the money.

  From one of the dozens of lounge chairs framing the kiddy pool at Ocean Breeze Water Park, Jordan watched Agatha frolic in water that went up to her knees. Graham and Cameron were off tackling the adult-sized water slides, and Jillian was enjoying a well-deserved day of rest at the ranch.

  Jordan wasn’t in the mood to frolic with her niece. Seated on a lounge chair in the only patch of shade at the park, she waited on pins and needles for her accountant’s call.

  Memories of Miguel played over and over in her mind, much like the mushroom fountain that sluiced young Agatha’s slender frame as she stood beneath it.

  The jangle of her cell phone had her reaching into her pool bag. “Anita,” she said, recognizing her accountant’s phone number. Her heart stilled with fearful anticipation.

  “Okay, Jordan. I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  Jordan broke out in a cold sweat. “The good news,” she begged, clutching the phone tighter.

  “Well, your loan’s been approved. You can withdraw your money as early as Monday morning.”

  The tension rushed out of her on a gust of air, but then she remembered. “Then what’s the bad news?”

  “I could only approve twenty-five thousand dollars for you. Your debt-to-income ratio is just too high, hon. You just don’t have enough equity on the condo to borrow more. This also pushes your monthly mortgage up another three hundred dollars. Are you sure you can afford that?”

  Jordan swallowed hard. Twenty-five thousand dollars ought to be enough to pay for Miguel’s adoption and fly her in and out of Venezuela, but on her meager teacher’s salary, a mortgage that ate up two-thirds of her paycheck was absurd. “I don’t have a choice,” she replied, thinking she would face that challenge later, maybe rent out her condo and move in with her sister.

  “Okay, then.” The accountant sighed. “Swing by tomorrow, and we’ll process your loan.”

  “Thank you, Anita.” Jordan immediately dialed her travel agent. “Hi, Carol? It’s Jordan. You know that flight I asked you to look into? I can pay for it now.”

  “Oh, great. Let me pull it up for you. Okay, I have you flying out of Norfolk on August ten into Mexico City and switching over to a Venezuelan airline, arriving at Maiquetía International the next morning. You do realize your visa’s about to expire, right?”

  “My visa?” Jordan hadn’t given a thought to her visa.

  “Yes, by the time you arrive, you’ll only have five days left on it, so there isn’t much time in there for red tape.”

  The phone went slippery. Five days! Could she jump through all the necessary hoops in just five days? “I see,” she said, her stomach clenching uneasily. Encountering red tape was the norm in virtually any third-world country. “Can you get me out of the country any sooner?”

  “Um, let me look.” Jordan listened as the woman’s fingers tap danced on the keyboard. “I can fly you out the same way on the sixth. That’s in two weeks. Do you want me to book that flight?”

  “Yes,” Jordan confirmed, praying Miguel’s dossier would arrive by then. “I’ll come by the office and pay for it tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Jordan. See you then.”

  As she ended the call, a sense of foreboding sat heavily on Jordan’s chest. The tickets she’d just bought were nonrefundable. Once paid for, there would be no going back, no changing her mind. She was going to risk everything to get Miguel out of Venezuela.

  God help me, she thought. ’Cause nobody else will.

  Chapter Six

  She was almost broke.

  That evening, Jordan sat in her kitchen with the scent of burned toast hanging in the air, her bills spread across the dinette table, pen bleeding ink onto her checkbook. She needed considerably more cash flow.

  Being trapped in Venezuela had led her utility companies to slap late fees on all of her accounts. Apparently, they’d heard every excuse under the sun. They hadn’t believed she’d been hiding from rebels in the basement of a mission in a foreign country—who would? She couldn’t begin to cover all her bills, let alone start paying three hundred more per month on her mortgage.

  Nor was she eating or sleeping as she should. She watched television compulsively, praying for the most up-to-date news coming out of Venezuela, but the news was sparse. Running out of money was yet one more obstacle between her and Miguel. At this rate, she was going to have a nervous breakdown.

  The memory of Silas McGuire’s hesitant farewell wave summoned a peculiar feeling in her. She hadn’t been able to get his sweet, needy gaze out of her mind. Of course, each time she thought of the boy, she envied his father for having him back.

  How much would Solomon McGuire pay her for teaching his son to read? With her trip to Venezuela just two weeks away, it wouldn’t be much, but every little bit would help at this point.

  Would he hire her, though, for such a short amount of time? Maybe she should keep the date of her departure to herself.

  Standing up, she went to fetch the Post-it note she’d stuck onto her refrigerator. He’d scrawled the directions to his house but not a phone number, of course. He would have to make this harder on her, more humiliating.

  An hour later, Jordan found herself following his instructions, driving toward Virginia Beach with the sun shining in her rearview mirror, telling herself this decision had nothing to do with the man, himself. Yes, he was attractive. A woman would have to be dead not to notice that, but he was also extremely annoying. She didn’t like him enough for him to pose a threat to her carefully reconstructed heart.

  Turning her Nissan into an established waterfront community, she scowled at the oaks and magnolias lining mansions on either side. If he could afford a home here, why not hire a full-time nanny, she groused, coming to a house on a cul de sac. Follow drive to rear, Solomon had written.

  What was at the rear, she wondered, the servants’ entrance?

  She spied his truck parked beneath a carport and eased her car in alongside it, then followed a walkway to the rear entrance to knock and wait.

  “Hello,” answered a teenage boy.

  “I’m looking for Solomon McGuire,” Jordan said, angry that his directions weren’t more explicit.

  “Oh, he lives down at the dock,” said the youth.

  At the dock.

  “Yeah, he used to live here, but now he just rents the pier.”

  The pier.

  With rising concern, Jordan followed the walkway down the hill, away from the house, to a pier that jutted out into a glistening swathe of water, violet in hue, given the arrival of dusk. An osprey flapped into the skeletal remains of a tree. Insects chirped in the marsh grass. A fish jumped, leaving ripples on the water’s still surface. Beautiful.

  There, moored to the
dock, was a houseboat named Camelot. Its surface was shiny and new, but the lines of the craft belonged to an earlier era. Lights shone warmly in the various-shaped windows.

  What a shame, she’d come all this way for nothing.

  She turned to leave. “Where are you going?” called a voice that made the hair on her nape prickle. She turned around and finally caught sight of him lounging behind a deck rail on a raised portion of the boat, as if awaiting her arrival.

  “I don’t do water,” she called, turning away again.

  A rustle and thud suggested that he had leapt off the boat and was coming after her. She squelched the urge to run.

  “You can’t leave yet,” he said, catching up to her with speed that made her breathless. He caught her elbow and swung her around. “Come on, now. The boat’s not going to sink.”

  “I get seasick,” she added, unsettled by his touch.

  “Do you see any waves? You won’t even know you’re on a boat.”

  She yanked free of his sure grasp. The reminder of his physical strength made her inexplicably furious. “Where is Silas?” she gritted. He was the reason she’d come—him and the hope that she could pay off her bills.

  “He’s sleeping.” This was said with such weary relief that her anger subsided. “Please, come in and we’ll make arrangements suitable to both of us.”

  Jordan cocked an ear at the odd turn of phrase. She eyed the houseboat. It didn’t look like it would sink, and it didn’t rock at all on the placid inlet. “Fine,” she agreed. “But if I start to feel sick, I’m leaving.”

  He preceded her down the wide dock and across a gangplank with rails, holding out a hand to help her across. Wary of touching him, she ignored it and stepped briskly onto the boat. “What’s with the name of your boat?” she asked. The deck was spotless, gleaming.

  He smiled a cynical smile. “Camelot? Why, this is my castle, of course,” he answered, pulling open a door with a stained-glass centerpiece.

  Jordan edged inside and caught her breath.

  The interior was a woodworker’s paradise. From the paneled walls to the built-in cabinetry, every whimsical nook served some utilitarian purpose. Thick area rugs softened the gleaming wood floor. Recessed lighting lit the inviting seating areas. “Wow,” Jordan breathed, noting both a hallway and a flight of steps disappearing into darkness. It was a bit of a castle, only where was Guinevere, the Queen? “Where does Silas sleep?” she asked.

  “For now, in my bed,” Solomon retorted, wryly. “He didn’t want to sleep alone belowdecks. Can I get you something to drink?”

  His presence in the cozy space abraded her senses. “Water would be nice,” she said, moving to a window seat to put distance between them. “This is some library you have,” she remarked, as he brought her a glass, fingers brushing in the trade-off. The contact sent a spark up her arm.

  “I know,” he answered, casting a pride-filled look at the crowded shelves. “I’ve read them all,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Really.” Jordan peered more closely at the dented and worn spines. “Gulliver’s Travels?” she asked him. “Moby Dick?”

  “Two of my favorites,” he replied, lowering himself onto the sturdy coffee table by her feet.

  Jordan resisted the urge to draw her knees up. There was something about this man that disturbed her—not that she thought he would hurt her physically. It went deeper than that.

  “What did you think of my poem?” he asked her.

  She took a quick sip of her water. “Well written,” she answered, guarding how deeply the poem had touched her; how she’d sobbed into her pillow on several occasions after reading it again. “How did you lose Silas for so long?” she asked him.

  “My late wife ran off with him,” he answered, with a deep freeze in his voice.

  Ah, thought Jordan, now having an answer to her earlier question.

  “I spent five years looking for him,” continued Solomon on that same cold note. “Turns out he was with his stepaunt in nowhere, Mississippi, abandoned by a mother who loved herself more than she loved her son.”

  There wasn’t a trace of regret or grief in his expression, though she hadn’t missed the fact that his Guinevere was now dead.

  “So,” she continued, steering the conversation back to his proposal, “what kind of suitable arrangements did you have in mind?”

  Beneath the black moustache, his smile was mocking. “I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour,” he added, lowering a lingering look at her breasts.

  Jordan drew an uncertain breath. Was he serious or was he being deliberately crass? Thirty an hour was extremely generous, unless, of course, his bold gaze was an indication that he expected something more. That had to be it. Her blood flashed to a boil. She shot to her feet to glare down at him. “You said you needed a tutor for Silas,” she reminded him accusingly. She started to stalk past him.

  Fast as a trap, he snared her wrist and rolled to his feet. That put less than an inch between her heaving chest and his broad one. Jordan’s head spun at the familiar, musky scent surrounding her. “What an interesting assumption,” he murmured, his gaze sliding to her mouth. “Though why sell yourself short? I’m sure you’d be worth more than that.”

  “Oh!” she sputtered, even as liquid heat flooded her entire body. “You . . .” she groped for a word that captured how maddening he was. “. . . you jackass!”

  He quirked a mocking eyebrow at the epithet, but then his expression turned serious. “I take my son’s inability to read very seriously,” he explained. “And I’m not above bribery to keep you in this country.”

  Bribery? Was that his only reason for offering her such competitive pay? Surely he didn’t know how desperately she needed it. With humiliation pinching her cheeks, Jordan tugged her wrist free and carried her glass to the kitchen. “Just so you know, I still intend to leave for Venezuela sometime soon.” There, she’d given him fair warning without actually telling him when.

  He’d followed her and was now blocking her path to the door. “You’re leaving when you can stand to make thirty an hour for the rest of the summer?”

  “Yes,” she retorted.

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Then you’d better start tomorrow,” he recommended. “Come as early as you like.”

  “I can’t guarantee that Silas will be reading before school starts,” she said, aware that her knees were trembling.

  His eyes gleamed with private thoughts. “Just do your best.”

  “Very well. I’ll see you in the morning.” She gripped the car keys in her skirt pocket. “Do you have a cell phone number in case I need to call you?”

  “No,” he said.

  She just looked at him. “What about a house phone?”

  “No again. I carry a pager for work, and that’s it. If you intend to back out on me, you’ll have to tell me so in person.”

  It dawned on Jordan that he enjoyed pushing her buttons. “I’ll be here,” she said, tightly. “And, now that you’ve got your son back, I recommend you get a cell phone as a safety precaution. Now kindly step aside,” she added.

  He didn’t move. Her pulse jumped as he took a step closer, lifted his right hand, and captured her jaw with it. His touch electrified her. He pulled her gently to him, and she went, helplessly, as if under a spell. All she could do was stare at him as he lowered his head, parted her lips with his thumb, and silenced her belated, outraged gasp by diving inside her.

  He filled her mouth with undulations of his tongue that had her grasping his upper arms to keep from crashing to her knees.

  God in heaven! He was kissing her, and she was responding like a woman who hadn’t been kissed in three years, which was exactly the case. Which was the only excuse she allowed herself.

  Of its own accord, one of her hands went up to sink into the short, thick strands of his hair. Her hips curved toward his. She leaned into him, overcome by the unrelenting maleness that crowded her, threatening to steal her very soul.

  To her c
hagrin, he was the first to lift his head, to set her back on her heels. “Better go while you can,” he advised her, softly. “Unless you’d like to change your mind and earn that hundred.”

  With an outraged cry, Jordan shoved him aside and fled to the door. She slammed it shut and scurried across the gangplank, all but running to her car.

  “How much can you give me for these?” Ellie Stuart asked, sliding her wedding ring and Carl’s across the pawnshop counter.

  Mrs. Halliday, who ran the pawnshop, lifted the two gold bands, inspected them through the bifocals that hung from her neck by a chain, then directed her pitying gaze over them at Ellie. “Where’re your boys?” she inquired, glancing behind her, as nosy as always. “Don’t usually see you without ’em.”

  “At the Baptist church,” Ellie answered. “It’s mother’s day out.” Once a week she got two hours to herself, and the boys were assured a healthy snack.

  “I heard ol’ Carl ran off with a stripper, leavin’ you high and dry,” Mrs. Halliday added, proving that the grapevine in Mantachie was working better than ever.

  Ellie’s spine stiffened. She didn’t care to feed Mrs. Halliday’s perverse curiosity, but given the looks and whispers that followed her everywhere she went, there wasn’t much point to keeping secrets. “Cocktail waitress,” she corrected, firming her lips.

  “You found a new place to live yet?” persisted the crone, her bright eyes hungry for details.

  “Not yet,” Ellie answered on a quelling note. Unwilling to believe Carl’s threat, she’d confronted Eddie Levi herself, demanding to see the bill of sale. Sure enough, the trailer she lived in would be his in a matter of days. According to their do-it-yourself divorce, Carl’s property was his to do with as he pleased. Ellie hadn’t cared, as long as she got custody of the children.

  “Well, just so’s you know,” Mrs. Halliday added, leaning on the counter to impart her two cents with confidentiality, “I’m hearin’ talk that the state might come and take those boys from you.”

  Ellie broke into a cold sweat, but her features remained unchanged. “How much can you give me for the rings?” she demanded, her knees trembling in secret.