Carolina Man (A Dare Island Novel)

by Virginia Kantra

  He nodded once, stone-faced now. Total Marine. She recognized the look from her childhood. “They’re in the kitchen. Want to tell me what this is about?”

  She could. He was Taylor’s father. Now that he was home, she really should share her news with Luke rather than his parents.

  But not all at once. And not on the front porch. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

  “Sure. This way.” And before she could object or explain, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hall, leaving the door open behind him.

  The dog padded after him, its nails clicking as it crossed from the faded antique rug to the hardwood floor.

  Leaving her no choice but to follow them into the house. Not the alpha dog, obviously. Somewhere at the back of the pack.

  The entry hall of the Pirates’ Rest was warm with woodwork and rich with color. A square, spindled staircase wrapped around a built-in bench. Garland decorated the bannister, filling the air with pine. A banner draped the second-floor landing.

  WELCOME HOME.

  Got back today, he’d said.

  Kate winced. Homecomings in her parents’ house had rarely been joyous. That didn’t mean she should spoil his. “I’m sorry. I can come back another time.”

  “You’re here,” Luke said over his shoulder. He pushed open the door at the end of the hall. “You might as well say what you came to say.”

  And go. Her mind supplied the words he was too polite to say. He must be looking forward to time with his family. He could hardly welcome a visit from his baby mama’s mainland lawyer on his first night home.

  Kate squared her shoulders. She owed it to Taylor—she owed it to Dawn—to finish what she started. She walked past Luke’s outstretched arm, his stretched-out T-shirt, his muscled chest.

  And stopped dead on the threshold.

  The kitchen was full of people. Family. Fletchers. She recognized the broad-shouldered man with the big hands and quiet eyes as Luke’s brother, Matt, the charter boat captain. The petite brunette in designer jeans and boots was their sister, Meg.

  All of them subtly united, looking at her with nearly identical blue eyes and identical expressions of surprise.

  She felt like a crasher in a Norman Rockwell painting.

  “Luke? Is everything all right?” asked the thin, auburn-haired woman at the head of the table.

  “Everything’s fine. This is Kay Dolan,” Luke said. “My mother, Tess.”

  Kate hid her wince. “Kate. We spoke on the phone.”

  The older woman’s smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Dawn’s lawyer friend. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “You, too. Please don’t get up,” Kate said, observing the cane resting against the arm of Tess’s chair.

  “My father, Tom,” Luke said, indicating the spare, gray-haired man beside Tess.

  “We’ve met. Hi, Mr. Fletcher.”

  Luke’s sister Meg stepped forward. “Kate let us wait in her office the day we went to court. Thanks for that, by the way.” She smiled at Kate, guarded but polite.

  Meg was in PR, Kate remembered. She must be used to putting a good face on things.

  “You’re welcome,” Kate said.

  Okay, this was awkward. Everyone was still staring, including a tall, handsome teen with a sandy mop of hair, and two adults Kate had never laid eyes on before, a pretty blonde next to Matt and a dark-haired man with Meg. Also tall, tanned, and beautiful, dressed with a casual ease that spoke of money and privilege.

  With an effort, Kate restrained herself from fingering the scar on her cheek.

  Taylor curled in a chair between her uncle Matt and the blonde.

  Kate smiled. “Hi, Taylor.”

  She didn’t expect a response. She was just “Mommy’s boss” to Taylor, just another grown-up on the periphery of her life. The last time they’d met, outside the courthouse, had hardly been a pleasant occasion.

  But Taylor smiled, cautiously. “Hi.”

  The table in front of her was littered with bottles of beer and half-full glasses, bowls of chips and dip, platters of cheese and meat and olives.

  A real family party.

  Kate’s stomach sank. Coming here had been a mistake. She should have waited. Should have called again.

  Never get personally involved.

  The teenager reached over Taylor’s shoulder for a handful of chips, knocking her camouflage cap askew. She made a grab for the hat, twisting in her chair to make a face at him. He grinned. Kate watched Taylor’s smile melt into unguarded adoration.

  “My son, Josh,” Matt said.

  The boy flashed the grin in Kate’s direction. “Hey.”

  She smiled helplessly back, as charmed as the child.

  “Miss Dolan.” Matt’s voice was deep and cool. His arm rested protectively along the back of Taylor’s chair. “What can we do for you?”

  Meaning, What are you doing here?

  Good question, Kate thought.

  The blonde laid her hand on his arm in a silent gesture of support. The fiancée, Kate thought. She’d heard Luke’s brother was recently engaged. They looked like a couple, like a unit, with the child between them. Kate wondered if that would change now that Luke was home.

  “Sam Grady.” The guy with Meg introduced himself with a smile. His bottle green eyes held a hint of sympathy. “Can I get you something? A drink?”

  Kate pulled herself together. She didn’t need his drink or his sympathy. “I’m fine, thanks. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” she said to Tess.

  The teenager laughed. “This isn’t dinner. This is a snack.”

  “But . . .”

  “We’re cooking ribs tonight,” Tess said.

  Kate glanced at Matt, the fisherman. Not seafood?

  Luke’s eyes gleamed in unexpected understanding. “No pork in Muslim countries,” he explained. “Or beer.” He raised his bottle in salute. “Want one?”

  “Or there’s tea,” Tess offered.

  Sweet tea, the wine of the South.

  Their hospitality, after she’d shown up like ants at a picnic, made Kate feel more like an intruder than ever. She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t belong here. She never belonged. But she had to get through her errand.

  Next to her uncle, Taylor snuck a chicken wing off her plate to give to the dog and then reached for the chips. Kate grimaced. Shouldn’t she wash her hands? But the child was obviously happy, smiling, one of the family. After her mother’s death, Taylor needed love, warmth, and support. It was clear the Fletchers gave her all that in abundance.

  “No. Thank you.” She cleared her throat, meeting Luke’s gaze. “I was hoping to speak with you alone.”

  His blue eyes narrowed. He nodded slowly. “Sure. Out on the deck.”

  “Anything you can say to him you can say to us,” Meg said. “We’re family.”

  “What’s wrong?” Tess asked.

  The question hung in the air like a whiff of something burning, spoiling the mouth-watering scent of ribs in the oven.

  Taylor sat very still, her eyes dark as bruises in her thin face.

  Kate’s gaze went from face to face, a knot tightening in her stomach. The Fletchers didn’t dislike her. But they had clearly closed ranks in the face of bad news.

  And there was no way to pretend this was anything but bad news.

  Matt pushed back his chair, the sound scraping against the sudden silence.

  “It’s okay.” Tom spoke from his position at the head of the table. “Luke’ll handle it.”

  Meg scowled. But no one spoke, no one interfered as Luke tugged open the back door and gestured for Kate to precede him outside.

  She walked around the table and through the silent kitchen, feeling the Fletchers’ collected attention like a knife between her shoulder blades.

  • • •

  THE EVENING SKY looked warm, all fluffy pink clouds and golden haze, but a cool, damp breeze blew off the sea and rose from the sound, carrying the tang of water.
The smell of home.

  Luke held on to his beer. Not because he needed the alcohol, but because he wanted the prop. Something to do with his hands, some action to combat the adrenaline surge in his blood. In spite of the peaceful setting, he felt jazzed, his palms damp, all his senses on alert. Outside the wire, facing the enemy.

  Luke’ll handle it, his father had said.

  So he would.

  Even if he didn’t have a fricking clue what to say or do next.

  He watched Kate Dolan’s butt as she walked past him in her neat navy suit, her sensible heels clacking on the wood deck like gunfire. He’d handle her, too, given a little encouragement.

  He shook his head. Obviously, he’d spent too long in Burqa Land. He was not hitting on his dead ex-girlfriend’s lawyer. Even if she did have great legs. And—despite the stick up her butt—a really nice ass. Hard not to notice that.

  She hugged her arms across her body, as if the chill had penetrated the blue jacket she wore like body armor. “It’s nice out here.”

  He breathed in the smells of salt, sea grass, and pine. Took a pull of his beer, as if he could permanently wash away the dust of Afghanistan. “Yeah.”

  She turned to face him, the sun behind her firing her curly coppery hair to gold. “Quiet,” she offered.

  “No snipers,” he said.

  She looked at him, startled.

  Ah, shit. “You didn’t come here to talk about the weather,” he said, covering. “Or the view.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  He was jet-lagged and exhausted. But at least he was all here. Ten fingers, ten toes. No right to complain. “Fine.”

  Her gaze searched his face, uncomfortably perceptive. What color were her eyes? Blue? Green? With the light behind her, it was hard to tell. “Because we can do this another time.”

  “You must have thought it was urgent,” he pointed out. “Or you wouldn’t have driven out here.”

  She took a deep breath that expanded her chest, parting the lapels of her jacket. She wore some kind of lace thing under it, and a thin gold chain that dipped between her breasts and caught the light. Nice. “I had the evening free.”

  “Lucky for me,” he drawled.

  Under her makeup, she flushed to the roots of her hair like only a true redhead could. Which set off another line of speculation he had no business pursuing.

  “I received an e-mail today from a colleague. A friend, Alisha Douglas,” she said, still picking her words like each one cost a hundred bucks. He forced himself to focus on what she was saying instead of the fine glint of metal on her skin or the color of her hair. “She works for the county department of social services.”

  The short hairs raised on the back of Luke’s neck. “Okay,” he said cautiously.

  “She wanted to know how to reach you. I told her you were expected home soon.”

  “Not expected. Home.” Luke leaned against the deck rail, affecting a casualness he did not feel. “What does she want?”

  Her brows twitched together. “She’s sending you a letter that will explain. Basically, she wants to meet with you, with all of you, to assess Taylor’s situation.”

  She sounded like a medic, wrapping bad news in big words and a soft tone to lessen the blow. “Her situation is her mother’s dead. She lives with me.”

  “Pending her permanent placement. Unfortunately, Alisha’s office received a complaint about your ability to care for Taylor.”

  His tired brain struggled to keep up. “What do you mean, a complaint? Who complained?”

  “Alisha couldn’t tell me. Reports to social services are confidential.” She hesitated. Moistened her lips. “However, Child Protective Services is often called in custody cases.”

  “Wait.” His tired brain struggled to keep up. “You’re saying the Simpsons called social services?”

  “Sadly, not everyone makes reports due to real concerns for the well-being of a child. Ernie and Jolene may be retaliating because their motion for temporary custody failed in court. Or they may believe that accusing you of neglect will help them get permanent custody.”

  It took a moment for him to process what she was saying. For outrage to ignite. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  She didn’t flinch. “It’s a common legal strategy.”

  “It’s bullshit.”

  “Yes.” That one word, short and uncompromising, made him feel better than any amount of soothing. “Alisha is certainly prepared to keep an open mind. But she’s concerned because your family hasn’t let Taylor have any contact with the Simpsons.”

  Instant denial seized him. He shook his head. “My parents wouldn’t do that.”

  “The Simpsons kept a log. Unreturned phone calls, times Taylor was ‘unavailable’ to speak with them.”

  He struggled to make sense of the unthinkable over the rising buzz of anger in his head. “They want to see the kid more often, let them call me.” Right now he’d rather tell them to pound sand, but . . . “They don’t need to get a damn social worker involved.”

  “Unfortunately, once an allegation is made, social services is required to respond.”

  “What allegation, for Christ’s sake?”

  She shrugged. The angrier he got, the cooler and calmer she became. “I haven’t seen the intake report. Alisha only contacted me because she knew Dawn worked in my office.”

  “Did you tell her Dawn wanted the kid to be with me?”

  Kate gave a little nod. “I did. I also reminded her that the Simpsons had already challenged custody after your mother’s accident and that the judge at the temporary hearing ruled it was in Taylor’s best interests to remain with your family.”

  “Right. Thanks,” he said belatedly.

  She was not the enemy, he told himself. She’d come here tonight as an ally to warn him. To help. He’d worked with allies before in Iraq and Afghanistan. He could trust her . . . at least until her own self-interest was threatened. “So now what?”

  “Alisha will contact you to set up a time for a home visit. She’ll want to talk to Taylor. To everyone. There’s another minor child in the household?”

  His blood went from hot to cold faster than the desert at night. “You mean, Josh?”

  “That’s your nephew? He lives with you?”

  “Out back,” Luke said reluctantly. “My brother has a cottage.”

  “She’ll need to speak with them as well.”

  “Fuck.” He set down his bottle, reached for his cigarettes. He needed time. He needed . . . “Mind if I smoke?”

  Her nostrils pinched together. “Not at all.”

  He lit up, releasing a long white plume into the cool December air. Met her eyes over the curl of smoke. “I’m quitting,” he said. He quit after every deployment.

  “That would be wise,” she said.

  “You worried about my health? Or Taylor’s?”

  “I’m concerned about your home assessment. Your hearing date is already set. Alisha is motivated to resolve this complaint as quickly as possible. It’s important that she likes you. There’s no reason she won’t like you. But you have to be absolutely cooperative. You need to answer everything she asks, even questions you think are none of her business.”

  He stared at her, appalled. Speechless.

  Kate met his gaze, her expression softening. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot to hit you with your first night home. I’m just trying to prepare you.”

  “Yeah.” He closed his eyes a moment, willing away the headache throbbing against his temples. “Thanks a lot.”

  • • •

  HE LOOKED TIRED, Kate thought with a liquid tug of sympathy. His Captain America face was drawn, his jaw roughened by stubble, his eyes bruised with exhaustion.

  Thirty hours from Kandahar to Lejeune, he’d told her when she first called to inform him of Dawn’s death.

  But he came.

  Even when Kate had given him reasons not to, he’d come home for Taylor. She still didn’t know wh
y Dawn never told him he was a father. But he was no deadbeat dad.

  She risked a touch on his forearm. His skin, bronzed by the desert sun, felt very warm under her fingertips. He opened his eyes, startlingly blue, and her nerves jumped, low and quick in her stomach.

  Kate swallowed. She was not going to be flustered, damn it. This was about Taylor. She would not be distracted from her duty by an inconvenient hormone surge. “Look, the Simpsons’ challenge to the temporary custody order failed. It’s obvious that you provided appropriate care for Taylor while you were overseas.”

  “My family did.”

  “And they did a wonderful job. Taylor’s clearly adjusting. In most circumstances, absent a finding of unfitness, you would be entitled to the care and custody of your child. But the Simpsons will argue that you haven’t established a parental relationship with Taylor.”

  “I’m her father.”

  Kate suppressed a sigh. “A continuous, meaningful relationship,” she said. “You need to prove that you maintained contact.”

  “I called.” His tone was defensive. “Skyped.”

  “That’s good,” she said encouragingly. She hesitated. “I don’t suppose you kept a phone log?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “No.” Of course not. She’d learned that good families, normal people, didn’t obsess over documenting every interaction, no matter how small. “Well, if you have anything else—doctors’ bills, receipts for clothing purchases . . .”

  “I don’t keep track of every dime I spend on the kid. She’s my daughter, not a tax deduction.”

  Kate sympathized with his frustration. But she worked with these cases every day. Good intentions weren’t enough. They needed proof to back them up in court. Her job was to explain the law, to guide her bewildered and defensive clients through the seemingly senseless system.

  “I’m simply saying a judge will look for evidence that you can provide for Taylor. Her physical needs. Her medical care. Her emotional well-being.”

  “I can take care of her.”

  “Now,” she said. “What happens when you’re deployed again?”