Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove)

by Donna Kauffman

  He stood there, staring at her, saying nothing. His expression unreadable, but his eyes searching, and his chest rising and falling, perhaps, just a little bit faster.

  She almost opened her mouth to apologize for making such a dramatic, emotional plea. She was a professional and she was damn good at her job, despite the fact that, with him, she seemed determined to appear anything but. She’d never once begged for a job and she’d be damned if he would make her feel as if she had to do so now. But there was a lot riding on this, more than even she’d realized until she’d opened her mouth and all of that had simply tumbled out straight from her heart. She’d overcome far worse than being denied a contract, but she’d never once wanted one as badly as she wanted this one. Something about the epiphany she’d had out by the stacked stone wall was beating inside her, fueling a rebirth of confidence. Moving forward was painful, and hard, and downright terrifying, but in every possible way it still beat the living hell out of staying where she’d been for the past year.

  “Let me do my job, and give me the time to do it right. I know that means you have to put up with me being under your roof, but you’re about to have workers climbing all over the place, so, by comparison, having me here will be a cakewalk. I’ll be lost in the crowd, so to speak. I’ll stay out of your way as best as I can. But I’m here. And I can do this. I’m damn good at it. Let me stop telling you and start showing you.”

  He held her gaze for another long moment, too long; then she saw his chest move, heard the low escape of a long, steady breath. “Part of what else I know about you is that you are cocky, stubborn, even a little arrogant.”

  She took the comment in stride. “It’s not arrogance when you can back it up.”

  “Big words.”

  Okay that dig was harder to take. She hated that those two little words had the power to ping her the way they did. But he knew. He knew about her father. Knew she hadn’t been up on a tower since his death. Knew she actually might not be able to do it, despite what she was saying. Knew just how big, in fact, those words were.

  And then he was standing right in front of her. “Alex. That was—you’re right, I haven’t been happy about this, any of this, and I’ve said as much. Bluntly. But that wasn’t—I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t ever be sorry for being honest.” She made herself look up at him and meet his gaze. “You’re right. They are big words. Huge words. The biggest. But I wouldn’t have said them if I didn’t believe they were true. If I didn’t believe in myself. And I do. I do now.”

  She was stunned to see the corner of his mouth kick up ever so slightly. He thought this was funny? Maybe she’d been wrong about his sense of humor.

  “Who are you trying to convince?” he asked. “Me? Or you?”

  The mad went out of her before it even worked up a good head of steam. He was frustratingly rational. “Both,” she said, with maybe a little huff afterward.

  “More honesty. I respect that.”

  “So do I,” she said, hearing the grudging note in her tone. She really wanted to be mad, or at least seriously annoyed. It would make it easier to sustain her energy. She was quickly realizing just how drastically she’d allowed the stress of the past year to take a toll, not just physically, but mentally. Her instinct was to hide that from him, hide any weakness, with bluster and bravado, then work like the devil to do whatever it took to get herself back up to speed, so he’d never have any doubts. Except he already had doubts. Big ones. Because he already knew her weaknesses. She’d laid them all, literally, right in his lap.

  “Did Fergus tell you about Jessica?”

  Surprised at the sudden topic change, she looked up at him again, into those eyes. And found him staring deeply into hers. The combination of that intensity and that velvety smooth baritone all but rippling over her skin made her throat get all tickly. It might have made her thighs quiver, too. He was standing too close to be having those thoughts and have him not see how they were affecting her. She shook her head, not trusting her voice at that moment.

  “The other part of what else I know about you is that maybe I have more insight into what you’re going through and how it feels to take the steps you’re taking than you know.”

  Her eyes widened. That was pretty much the last thing she’d expected to hear him say.

  It was his turn to momentarily avert his gaze. He took a breath and looked back at her. “Seeing as we’re being cheerleaders for honesty here, I’ll also admit that that was why I was somewhat abrupt with you this morning.”

  “Somewhat?”

  He lifted an eyebrow at that, but it made her want to smile. What was it Fergus had said? That his nephew could use a good nudge every once in a while? She was finding it came quite naturally to her to want to help him out with that. The thing was, Logan nudged back. Though, much as she hated to admit it . . . maybe she needed it, too.

  “Okay, maybe more than somewhat. It was just . . . you remind me of . . . well . . . of a lot of things. Things I don’t think about anymore because I don’t have to think about them. Things that—” He broke off, then seemingly made himself hold her gaze. “Things I thought I didn’t think about because I had overcome them. When, in truth, I didn’t think about them because they still have the power to bother me. A great deal more than I wanted to know they did.”

  “I didn’t mean to dredge up old memories. Especially painful ones.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You didn’t even know. Your first night here, I didn’t know about your past, about your father. And you still shook me up. Just the idea of you being here at all meant I’d have to deal with the tower and the cottage, and I’m not talking about costly renovations, but about the other reasons I’ve found every excuse in the book to put off dealing with them.”

  “And all of that has to do with . . .”

  “Jessica Tate. My late fiancée.”

  Alex’s lips parted in a short gasp, and she felt pain—sympathy pain, but very real nonetheless—for his loss. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “It was a long time ago. More than ten years. It’s not a fresh wound. Or at least, it hasn’t felt that way in a very long time. What I realized was that it hasn’t felt that way because I’ve been damn good at not thinking about anything that could make me remember.”

  “You said the cottage . . . the tower . . .” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t—she didn’t—”

  “No, no.” He cupped her shoulders with his hands, real concern etched all over his face. “I’m sorry, no. I didn’t mean for you to make that connection. They were very special to her, to us, but more to her. In a sentimental way, which I wasn’t. Not then, anyway. But they weren’t the reason she died.”

  “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter, not really. I mean . . . any circumstance when you lose someone you love, no matter the cause . . . they’re all equally terrible. You don’t have to explain.”

  She felt his hands tighten slightly on her shoulders, only she wasn’t sure whom he was bolstering just then, her or himself. She thought maybe they both could use it, so it didn’t really matter.

  “I want to. Or maybe I need to. So you understand what I know about where you are. She didn’t fall. She drowned. We were on her father’s fishing trawler. It was summer, and we were both home from college, working for her dad. We got caught up in a summer squall. She was trying to help save the catch we’d just pulled in and got caught in the nets. The storm was fierce, the waves were cresting over the boat. She was dragged over before we could do anything about it. We tried to pull the nets in to get to her, but it was too late.”

  “Oh, Logan, that’s awful! I—” She reached up to cup his cheek with her palm, instinctively needing to soothe the very real pain she saw in his eyes. She didn’t even realize she’d done it until he moved his head and she felt the bristle of his morning beard brush against the tender skin of her hand. She pulled it away. “I’m so sorry,” she said, not bothering to clarify exactly what for.
She was just . . . sorry.

  “As I said, it was a long time ago. And yet, to be honest, I haven’t been up in the tower since. Or in the cottage. We spent a lot of time together in both. It was a place we could go and be alone. It was never a draw for me like it was for her, and it’s been falling apart for so long, no one really went up there anyway, even back then. I told myself it was just not something I’d have done anyway. But . . .”

  “It’s all part of it. I know about how twisted up it can be, and not entirely rational.”

  “More to the point, it was two years before I could go out on a boat again. Any kind of boat. So, in that way . . .”

  “You know about me,” she finished. “What that tower represents. The horse I have to climb back up on.”

  He simply held her gaze and she saw the truth in his eyes. “I guess I really didn’t want to know what you were dealing with, because it meant I had to deal with what I knew, and why it made me feel the way it did, and all the other tangled parts of my own loss.”

  Before she could say anything, he lifted his hands from her shoulders, and she felt suddenly bereft.

  “But that’s on me. In all the more obvious ways, I have moved on. It happened a lifetime ago and almost feels like it happened to someone else, in some other life.”

  Alex sighed. “I’m still sorry I stirred it all up again. I don’t know what I’ll feel like in two years, much less ten, but I imagine being reminded of how I feel right now isn’t something I’m ever going to welcome.”

  “Still, it’s not an excuse. At the very least, I should have been sympathetic, empathetic, and instead I’ve been . . . resentful.” He paused, then shook his head. “It was selfish. And now I feel foolish.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for feeling. Good or bad, it’s what makes us human.”

  “Famous quote?”

  “One of my dad’s.” She smiled. “He was a big one for never holding anything in. He could read me like a book, and he made it his business to drag out any problem I might have, big or small.”

  “He sounds like a good man.”

  Her eyes sheened a little, but she was still smiling. “The very, very best. Of course, I’m a little biased.”

  “You should be. Sounds like he earned it.”

  She nodded, not trusting herself to say more. She’d cried enough in front of this man. Still, it struck her that it was the first time she’d spoken out loud about her father in a fond, reminiscent way. It was a little sad, because it felt so . . . past tense. But it also made her feel, well, not good, but . . . better, healthier, for being able to speak the words and honor him fondly, proudly.

  She blew out a breath and smiled through the ache inside her chest. “He’d have been so angry with me . . . for keeping it all in like I have and for making myself sick with it. I guess I just . . .” She trailed off, shaking her head.

  After a moment, Logan said, “Just what?”

  “I just didn’t have anyone to tell. Or at least, no one I trusted to hear me. No one I needed to tell. It sounds pathetic, and I don’t mean it that way. It’s just the truth.”

  “I know. It’s your new reality,” he said quietly.

  “Yeah.” That he got it—got her—intimately was clear. Disconcertingly so. It forced her to reassess entirely what she thought of him, who he was, and what he was made of. “It’s an adjustment. A transition I obviously haven’t handled well.”

  “You’re doing what you can, the best way you know how. It’s a lot and it’s all on you. You two weren’t just father and daughter—you had a family business together. When Jessica died, I had a family—hell, a whole town—behind me, and I floundered pretty badly. I didn’t do well at all when I went back to school. Stopped playing sports, everything. Cost me a full semester and would have cost me my degree if I hadn’t finally pulled myself together. My family didn’t hold it against me. Nor did hers. Their love and solid support was a big part of why I was able to finally move forward.” He held her gaze, searching her eyes. “I didn’t know the man, but if he was half of what you say, and I’m guessing he was all that and more, then your father doesn’t hold it against you, either.”

  She felt tears prickle again and moved to brush them away, but he beat her to it. Using the side of his thumb, he caught them before they fell. His skin was warm, a little roughened.

  “Sorry,” she said, the word throaty with emotion.

  “Don’t ever apologize for feeling,” he said, and there was kindness in his tone as he echoed her father’s words. “Something I picked up from someone smarter than me.”

  She sniffled a little inelegantly. “Thank you,” she said, then added a watery, wry laugh. “God, I’m so tired of crying. I never used to cry.”

  “That changes. In its own time.” He ran the side of his thumb down her cheek and along her jaw. “After my parents died—I was seven—my grandfather told me each tear shed is a tribute two times over. Once to the ones you lost, and a second time as tribute to how deeply you loved and were loved in return. And what a blessing that is. It took me a while longer to truly appreciate that, but he was right.”

  “Sounds like we both knew some pretty smart people. I’m sorry. About your parents. That’s . . . a lot.”

  “It was like losing my whole world. But my grandfather was a larger-than-life kind of man, and he made it his business to become our whole world, while making sure we still honored our parents. My sisters were younger, and they don’t remember them. They just remember all the stories. But I do. He made it . . . well . . . not okay, but he helped it to make sense. He was there when Jessica died, and Fergus was there by then, too. I knew I could trust them because we’d been through hard things together before. And that helped. A lot. Did you—do you—have . . . anybody?”

  She shook her head. “My mom died when I was little. Pneumonia. I was only four, so my memories . . . it’s probably like your sisters. I’m not sure what might be a direct memory or I remember because their stories—my dad, my grandfather, my great uncle—were so vivid.”

  “Cousins, distant or close?”

  She shook her head again. “My dad raised me, along with his dad and his uncle. I was—” She broke off, surprised by the smile and the ease with which it came. “I might have been a handful.”

  “No,” he deadpanned, but there was the most delightful gleam in those eyes. It was downright dazzling.

  “I might have also been spoiled.” She put her fingers close together. “Wee bit. But I started working with them as soon as I could swing a hammer. They might have kept me somewhat in a protective bubble, but on the other hand, I was a pretty worldly kid. I traveled all over and met kids from everywhere, but most of my time was spent with adults. We took jobs here, Canada, overseas. It was . . . well . . . it was pretty much awesome. I loved it.”

  “It’s an education I imagine only a few ever get, but, yeah, it sounds pretty incredible.”

  “I never went the traditional college route. Heck, I never really went to school. I mean, I did spend time in this one or that depending on where we had our jobs. In the end, I just studied and got my GED at sixteen, mostly because it was important to my dad, then called that a day. I knew my life’s path and I loved it. Everything about it called to me.”

  “I can see that.” With his thumb propping up her chin, her gaze drifted from his eyes to his mouth. She felt the oddest flutter in her stomach as an echo of a memory floated through her mind. About not just wanting to bite that bottom lip of his, but of actually doing it. Then doing a lot more. That had been a dream, right? One of her Sex-god Voice dreams. Hadn’t it?

  She blinked, glanced away, and grabbed at the thread of their conversation. It was easier, less confusing than . . . whatever it was she was kind of remembering. Not to mention all of the things he was making her feel.

  “After—after the accident, when it was over and it was past that horrible day, I was suddenly dealing with everything that came next. It was all so abrupt and it felt so . . . rude
and intrusive. I just wanted to be left alone to make some sense out of it. Only there was no sense to be made. I wanted to curl up and die, or find someplace I could go where I didn’t feel so much pain. I didn’t even know a person could feel so much pain, not like that.

  “But I couldn’t leave, and there was nowhere to go, anyway. There were things that had to be done right away and decisions to be made. So I shoved it all inside. After his funeral, from that day on, I didn’t cry.

  “I was numb at first, when everything started to unravel about the accident, all the legal stuff. That was almost a relief. I just focused on the decisions and the avalanche of other things that had to be taken care of. The lawyers, the lawsuit . . . God, it was all so awful. But it did one thing. It made me mad. And angry was a far easier thing to be than devastated, so I clung to that. It was an emotion I understood, one I could willingly grab hold of. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t let myself feel anything except anger, because if I let one part of me even start to crack, it would be like a rock striking a windshield, and I’d just shatter completely. If I started crying . . . how would I ever stop? If I let myself go, give in to that crushing vise grip of grief, wouldn’t it just squeeze my heart to a stop? And, even scarier . . . did I want it to? If for no other reason than to end the pain?”

  As soon as the words were out, she regretted giving voice to them. There was opening up, and there was being vulnerable, but it was not the time or place for that. She’d been lulled by their shared tragic background, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear—

  “Stop it.” He framed her face with his palms, tipped it up to his.