by Jacie Floyd
“Not tonight, Jake,” Mrs. Lattimer said sternly. “Let them eat in peace, please.”
“I’m finished here, anyway.” Clayton lurched to his feet. “Are you coming with me, Gracie, or staying with him?” He jerked his chin at Dylan.
“If David will make sure Gran gets home...” Gracie looked to the older doctor for confirmation.
“She can ride with me.” Dylan smiled benignly, eager to rile his supposed half-brother a bit further.
“Don’t worry, Gracie,” Mrs. Lattimer said. “Someone will make sure I get home safely.”
Gracie removed her plastic bib and came to her feet. Her napkin slid from her lap to the floor. When she leaned down to pick it up, her shoulder jostled the table, and her plate skittered toward a glass of water. The glass wobbled and Gracie, Dylan, and Clayton all reached for it.
“Whoa there,” Dylan said.
“I’ll get it,” Clayton said.
“Aah!” Gracie squeaked as three hands collided, and water splashed down her front.
Wet T-shirt time all over again.
“Oh, dear.” She dabbed at the ribbed cotton with one of the napkins thrust her way. “At least it was water and not butter. Come on, Clay, let’s go before I get up close and personal with David’s cherry cobbler.” She stopped and gave her stepfather a peck on the cheek. “Take care. I’ll call you tomorrow. See you later, Gran. Dylan, enjoy your lobster.”
“I’ll be along shortly, Gracie,” Mrs. Lattimer answered. “‘Night, Clayton.”
Dylan wasn’t sure if it was because she had elected to go with Clayton, because he knew how pissed Clayton was about him staying at Liberty House, or because he plain didn’t like Clayton, but he couldn’t resist adding, “See you at home, Gracie.”
But when Clayton responded by looping his arm around her shoulder in an all-too proprietary—and non-brotherly—way, Dylan regretted opening his big mouth.
“I don’t want him staying here,” Clay grumbled again as they pulled up outside the carriage house. His tone conjured up memories of the insecure boy Gracie had met all those years ago, overshadowing the accomplished doctor he’d become. Few others saw that abandoned-child side of him anymore.
“I know.” She was hanging on to her patience with a thread. “But it isn’t up to you.”
She had been in kindergarten and Clay in first grade when his mother disappeared and David took him in. He had been in desperate need of a friend, and even then Gracie liked being needed. If he had grown up wanting their relationship to be more than that, she had told him repeatedly that it would never happen. Still, he persisted. Most of the time, the attention was more annoying than flattering.
“Thanks for the stirring display of loyalty.” He slapped his palm against the steering wheel and turned toward her. “Whose side are you on anyway?”
“Yours, of course. Always.” She unhooked her seatbelt and opened the car door. “Why would you think otherwise?”
“You’re aiding and abetting someone who’s here to discredit me.” He joined her at the front of the car.
“I’m not aiding or bedding anyone,” she said, but Clayton scowled at the attempted humor.
“Don’t be shortsighted. Dylan can make it possible for you to get the real family you’ve always wanted. Remember when you wrote to Mrs. Bradford? This is what you hoped would happen.”
“I don’t know why I let you talk me into mailing that letter.” He followed her up the outside stairs to her apartment.
“Oh, come on.” She opened the door to an ecstatic MacDuff. He frisked about in a welcome-home-puppy-dance while she retrieved his leash from the hook by the door. “I encouraged you to write to her when you asked my opinion. I didn’t talk you into anything.”
“You could’ve tried to talk me out of it.”
An exasperated sigh slipped past Gracie’s lips. For a person of such exceptional intelligence, sometimes he was really dense. They trooped back down the stairs to walk MacDuff in the garden. “You’ve wanted your biological father’s identity confirmed your entire life. You need to know and you deserve to know. You know how important family history can be to your physical and psychological well-being.”
“Dylan doesn’t believe I’m his father’s son.” He kicked a clump of grass like a little kid. “He won’t even listen to my side of things.”
“Give him a chance. He doesn’t know anything about you except that you threaten the memory of the father he probably idolizes. At least he’s here. Letting him stay at Liberty will give you the opportunity to get to know him and present your case.”
“I thought I could do that when he showed up, but everything about him—his snotty attitude, his designer clothes, even his expensive haircut, for God’s sake—all make my blood boil.”
“But it’s in your best interest to set that aside. And while he’s staying here, I can keep an eye on him.”
Clay dropped down onto the gazebo steps and stretched out his long legs with a bark of disbelief. “What? You intend to spy on him?”
She pulled on the leash to bring MacDuff to heel. “I might.”
Clay’s displeasure undulated toward her like a snake in the water. “You’re too honest to be a good spy. And you’re not used to men like him. He goes through women faster than MacDuff goes through kibble.”
Gracie didn’t see what Dylan’s reputation had to do with anything. She had about as much in common with the women he dated as cottage cheese had to ice cream—opposite ends of the same basic food group. “I’d never be attracted to a man who treats women like a commodity. Besides, he’s not interested in me.” Perish the thought.
“He wants you to think he’s not, but when you start to trust him, bam! He’ll make his move.”
“And his move will be right back to New York, not in my direction.” She was more than a little annoyed that Clay thought she’d be gullible enough to fall for a line as practiced as Dylan’s. Too much like Baxter, by far. She took a seat on the step beside him while MacDuff sniffed around the daffodil shoots. “You’d be more receptive to him if you got past this idiotic jealousy. And there’s absolutely no basis for it. There’s nothing between you and me—or Dylan and me—to warrant it.”
“Nothing between us? How can you say that?” He pulled her into his arms and captured her mouth with his.
And here we go again. Clayton always wanted the man-woman stuff to supersede their true friendship. She knew the biology behind the sexual exercises backwards and forwards, but the ethereal magic celebrated in songs, books, and movies continued to elude her. Maybe Baxter was right and there was something fundamentally wrong with her.
After the initial surprise had worn off, she tried to stop thinking and let herself get caught up in the moment. But instead of the fabled heat and desire everyone raved about, nothing but a twinge of distaste remained. Not that Clay’s technique was at fault, but the idea of kissing him always seemed slightly incestuous. She could’ve broken the contact easily enough, but she waited it out, hoping he’d realize as she did that no spark flared between them.
When he lifted his head, he frowned down at her. “You call that nothing?”
For the good of their relationship, she’d try to explain it to him one more time. “I call it friendship and history and the affection of two people raised almost as brother and sister. I’m sorry you want more than that, but the sooner you accept that it will never happen, the sooner you’ll find the one person who really is right for you.”
“You’re right for me.”
“No, I’m not.” She got to her feet, evading him as he tried to pull her to him again. “I’m bossy and stubborn and don’t know enough to snatch up an exceptional guy like you when I see one.”
Clay took her hand, anchoring her in place. “Now that your engagement to Baxter is over, won’t you give me another chance?”
His pleading tugged at her heart. They’d always been a team. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. But wouldn’t giving him false hope be
worse? “We can spend time together, as friends, as almost-relatives, as we always have, but that’s all.”
“If you say so.” His noncommittal response and look of adoration created doubts that he’d taken this rejection any more seriously than the previous ones. “Want to go to a movie tomorrow night? I should be finished at the hospital about seven.”
“Okay, but it’s not a date. I’ll meet you at the movie house.” She raised a hand to silence him when he started to object. “See you tomorrow. Come on, ‘Duff.” She left Clay at the gazebo and led the dog back to the carriage house.
Normally, when she stepped inside her apartment, its walls wrapped around her like a haven and refuge. But when she was really upset, nothing made her feel better than retreating to her mother’s pottery studio on the lower level.
The scene with Clay, on top of everything else, left her less contented than she cared to admit. After his car pulled away, she put on old jeans and a work shirt and went back down to the studio.
She kept some clay on hand to throw when she needed to sort out her problems. Wetting, kneading, and working it on the wheel calmed her down better than a Xanax.
As she filled a bucket with water, she compared her mediocre talent against her mother’s creative brilliance. Mimicking her abilities had been enough for Gracie once. But now, on her own for so long, she sometimes felt that if she could only duplicate her mother’s artistic skills, then maybe she would be as successful in other areas, too.
The repetition of wedging the clay into a malleable consistency began to work its magic. Press, fold, turn. Press, fold, turn. If only everything could be handled as easily. Time... work... men...
Obviously, she didn’t have her mother’s knack with any of those subjects. Especially men. Marlene O’Donnell Collier had handled the two loves of her life as effortlessly as she threw a bowl on the wheel. Or she had handled David that well, anyway. Gracie wasn’t as sure about her father.
He’d died before she had a chance to know him, to remember seeing them together, or to analyze the closeness they’d shared. But share it they did, or so everyone said.
They’d married right after her mom graduated from high school. They spent one year together before her father joined the Navy. He’d been killed in a plane crash right after basic training, on his way to his first assignment.
He’d spent a total of thirty days of his life with Gracie. Days her grandparents had done their best to capture on camera.
Sometimes, late at night, she looked at those fading images. But she took small pleasure in the fact that the handsome daredevil with the brilliant eyes who tossed her in the air was her father. Instead, watching the movies made her sad and angry to know the potential, the liveliness, the joy that existed in Bobby O’Donnell had been extinguished before she could experience it firsthand.
Gracie slapped the ball of clay onto the turntable. With a sharp gesture of impatience, she wiped away a tear with a muddy finger.
Kicking the wheel furiously, her thoughts turned to David. He’d courted her mother for eleven years. Slow and sure, that was David. Apparently, the gentle doctor was as different from Bobby O’Donnell as sunlight to shadow, but he became a steady fixture in Gracie’s life. One that never failed her. He’d brought both Clay and medicine into her life.
With the wheel spinning around, her thoughts whirled from the past into the present. She worried that Clay would never realize his true potential if he couldn’t establish his biological identity. It meant that much to him. Therefore, it meant that much to her. She would do whatever she could to promote that outcome. Even if it meant keeping a close eye on Dylan.
An image of his solid flesh, bone, and muscle formed in her mind. She grew warm with the realization that keeping her eye on him didn’t revolt her as much today as it had yesterday.
He hadn’t gone out of his way to endear himself to her or the community, but then he had his own agenda. She appreciated that. If family loyalty prevented him from believing his father had sired an illegitimate son, she hoped he’d man enough to admit the truth when science confirmed it.
Some men had trouble admitting the truth. Baxter hadn’t wanted to even when she’d caught him with his pants down. And once he had admitted his indiscretions, he’d tried to deflect the blame for his infidelity onto Gracie.
She flinched away from his final hurtful comments on her sexual inadequacies. The inclination to accuse Baxter of worse disabilities loomed pointless and childish. She preferred to concentrate on ailments she could cure instead of on the hopeless.
After dampening the drying clay with her sponge, she reduced the form to a round blob. She slowly pushed her fingers inward, the way she would press against the abdomen of a child with a tummy ache.
The indention deepened and transformed the clay into a lopsided bowl. Pulling outward, she reduced the object into a plate, then brought her fingers up, creating a ridged vase and fluting the rim outward until the sides collapsed.
She slowed the wheel to return the shape to a lump then cupped her hands around it, kicking up speed while the clay climbed into a thick cylinder with a bulbous top.
It reminded her of the day she and her best friend Tanya had created outrageously large penises. They had tried to pass off their handiwork as an anatomy project, but Mother had dubbed the day their Phallic Period. She said no female artist worth her salt could resist the temptation to create the perfect male organ.
The same temptation gripped Gracie again. She extended the height and refined the shape. Leaning back, she assessed the result from arm’s length. Not bad. Bigger, better than any real one she’d ever seen. A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
Absorbed in the moment, she only noticed the exterior door standing open when a draft began drying out the clay. She turned rather guiltily to face her grandmother. But Dylan stood with one foot crossed over the other, a broad shoulder propped against the doorframe.
A smirk on his otherwise gorgeous mouth made Gracie’s cheeks flame, much more embarrassed than she’d been when her mother had caught her red-handed at the same activity. In one motion, she flattened her design.
“Ouch,” he said with a wince. “I hope that wasn’t symbolic of some deep-seated need to emasculate.”
Chapter Seven
Gracie dreamed big, Dylan would give her that. He admired women with great expectations. But if she’d actually known a man of such epic proportions, he’d have to admit to the classic case of penis envy.
“If only it were that easy.” A flare of defiance replaced her embarrassment. “Ever notice how many men think having a dick gives them a license to act like one?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets instead of forming a protective shield over his jean-clad crotch. “A Bradford,” Grandfather always said, “never allowed himself to show fear.”
“You have anyone specific in mind?” Dylan asked.
She ticked off a list on her muddy fingers. “Sexual predators who prey on innocence, doctors who think that earning a medical degree turns them into gods, and my former fiancé.” The forced smile became a grimace. “Oops, the last one was redundant.”
Former fiancé? Interesting. Dylan tucked that information away for future reference. “I’ll try to remember not to get on your bad side.”
“Smart man.” Gracie reformed the squashed clay into a ball. “What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
After he’d brought Mrs. Lattimer home, he’d been drawn into the night as thoughts about his father and Clayton tumbled through his head. He’d headed toward the shore, but beyond the well-lit perimeter of the inn, the dark, unfamiliar coastline appeared sinister and threatening. The glistening tail of a skinny sliver of moon turned the water into a cold, remote, and endless force.
He’d moved toward the light in the carriage house like a masochist gravitating toward pain. Half expecting to find Gracie entertaining Clayton, Dylan had been relieved to look through the window and discover her alone.
Now, as she scraped the blob off the wheel, disappointment tugged at him. “Don’t stop on my account. I was enjoying the show.”
She peeked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “I’m done for tonight.”
“You’re very good with your hands.” Her calm, efficient movements as she stroked, massaged, and manipulated the clay were more erotic than the suggestive subject matter.
While she’d been absorbed in the creative process, he had studied her face. Expressions ranging from melancholy to delight chased across her features as her hands morphed the clay from one utilitarian shape into another. Not until she began forming the fantasy-sized cock did the work really grab her attention. Total concentration had required her to hold the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth.
“My technique’s not bad, but the finished product doesn’t have any real... passion.” She held out her hands as if trying to grasp an invisible object just outside her reach.
“That last piece looked passionate as hell.”
Instead of laughing as he’d hoped she would, her lips compressed into a disapproving line while she moved around the work area, cleaning and storing her equipment.
Most other women would’ve shot back a flirtatious response, but he’d already noticed that Gracie wasn’t like other women. She held her own in any conversation, but there wasn’t a drop of coyness about her. She wouldn’t put up with any foolishness. Was that her natural response or a defense erected after the breakup with the boyfriend?
He peeked into the cold, empty kiln. “This is a pretty elaborate set-up for someone without talent.”
“My mother was the artist, not me.”
“Are those her pieces displayed in the house?” Fabulous examples of freeform and traditional pottery decorated every room of the B&B.
“For the most part.” Pride radiated from her eyes as Gracie rinsed out her bucket and sponge.
“They’re excellent.”
“See? That’s what I mean about passion. She breathed emotion into the clay as she shaped it.”
