by JoAnn Ross
“If I remember where it is,” he said, although he knew exactly where Aimee had turned off the road.
He was thinking the problem was that hanging out on the beach with your mom would be even more humiliating than having her drive you to school, when she dropped a bombshell. “Coach Slater is staying for dinner.”
“Shut up.” The words were out of his mouth before he could pull them back. “I mean… really?”
Why? He couldn’t remember the last time his mother had gone out to dinner with a guy. Let alone invited one home.
“He may be saving you from food poisoning.” She answered the question he’d managed not to ask out loud. “I picked up some clams and crab cakes from the fish market, but even though the woman who owns the market gave me instructions, I was still worried. But Dillon—Coach Slater—knows how to cook them, so I invited him to stay.”
That kind of made sense. After all, even his mom had to be getting tired of takeout. And it wasn’t like there was a Thai or Chinese restaurant on every corner that’d deliver. But something was different.
She was different. A bit edgy. And, now that he looked at her more closely, either she was wearing some makeup on her cheeks or she was blushing. He sniffed. And she had definitely put on perfume.
Matt couldn’t decide whether her going to all that trouble for the guy who was holding his high school and college basketball future in his hands was a good or bad thing.
“Okay,” he said, figuring that was a safe enough answer. “I guess I’d better get started on my homework. And my paper for your physics class,” he told the coach.
Coach Slater arched a brow. “You’ve already picked out a topic?”
“Yeah.” Matt decided he owed Aimee for this one. “The physics of basketball… like how, if I catch a hard pass into my chest, it’s less likely to knock the wind out of me.”
“And that’s physics?”
Matt knew the coach knew the answer to this and was just testing him to see if he did. Again, thanks to Aimee, he was ready.
“Everything all around us is physics.” Okay, that part was sucking up. “The ball coming at me has momentum. If I increase the time I decelerate the ball, by holding it against my chest, I lessen the force. Increasing T, time, causes F, force, to get smaller.”
“Is that true?” his mother asked.
“Absolutely,” Coach Slater said. From his narrowed-eyed gaze, he was probably trying to decide whether Matt was blowing smoke or actually knew what he was talking about. “It’s the same theory that makes an airbag in a car work. The time it takes to decelerate is lengthened, which results in a lower force when the bag hits you in the face.”
“I’m impressed,” his mom said.
She was easy. He glanced over toward Coach Slater, who was still studying him like he might’ve looked at one of those bombs he was going to have to detonate. He was working on figuring him out.
“Of course,” he said finally, “catching the ball into your chest also makes it less likely you’ll drop the ball and turn it over.”
Which was true.
“Too bad you decided against playing, where you could put all that basketball physics knowledge to a practical use.”
Damn. There it was. What Matt had been afraid of the minute he’d walked in the door and had seen the coach sitting there.
“About that.” He’d practiced what he was going to say when he got to school tomorrow. The groveling part and the sucking-up part. Aimee had even helped him edit his words so he wouldn’t sound so full of himself. But the carefully rehearsed words had totally flown out of his mind.
And he wasn’t getting a freaking bit of help from the coach, who just sat there, arms folded across his chest, looking at him. Waiting.
“I need to apologize. For walking out that way.”
Another long silence. Matt could feel the sweat rolling down his back, and his palms were soaking wet. He could also feel the waves of sympathy coming from his mother and didn’t dare look at her.
“I disrespected you.” There. Hopefully he’d hit on what the coach wanted to hear.
“True. But you also disrespected your teammates. Which is equally important. Give me one reason why I should give you a second chance.”
Because you need me? Because I can turn your program around? Because if I don’t play ball I’ll die?
Knowing that the first two reasons wouldn’t fly, he decided to go with a version of the truth. “I need to play.”
After another long pause that had Matt’s gut twisting up in knots, the coach nodded his satisfaction. “That’s a start.”
18
Feeling as if she were walking on clouds, Phoebe Tyler basked in the pleasure of her new home. The one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of one of Shelter Bay’s Victorian houses probably could have fit into the kitchen of the McMansion she’d lived in before escaping her abusive marriage.
But the size didn’t matter. What mattered was how free she felt. And how, after so many years as a virtual prisoner, she was finally safe.
She also had a job as a sous chef at the Lavender Hill restaurant and cooking school, which allowed her to move out of Haven House, the shelter she’d first lived in when she’d arrived in Shelter Bay after fleeing her abusive husband. And she had friends who’d thrown her a surprise party and filled her empty apartment with furnishings and other necessities. It had been, she’d thought, a bit like a wedding shower, but certainly more fun than the one where her deceased husband’s controlling mother had held court shortly before Phoebe had made the worst mistake of her life—walking down that white satin runner and marrying Peter Fletcher.
“Bygones,” she reminded herself firmly as she picked up a globe that had been a housewarming gift from Kara Conway Douchett, Shelter Bay’s sheriff. Inside the clear glass, swirls of various blues and greens were reminiscent of the sea she could see in the distance from the widow’s walk at the top of the house. “You survived. And you’ve moved on.”
She skimmed her hands over the top of the chest that Flynn McGrath had surprised her with. The retired stockbroker turned artist who worked with reclaimed wood had restored an old cannery into a workshop, with space he rented out to other artists and even some bakers from Haven House.
Like so many others in town, he’d taken her under his wing, and she suspected that Lucas Chaffee, who’d done the remodeling work and was married to Phoebe’s chef-boss, had suggested he donate a piece to help her set up housekeeping. Having seen the prices in his furniture gallery, she’d been floored when the deliverymen had shown up at the door.
Of course she’d bought a few things for herself with her salary from the restaurant, but the generosity of seemingly everyone in town still amazed her.
“You have friends.” Framed photos taken by Gabriel St. James of Kara and Sax Douchett’s and Maddy Durand and Lucas’s weddings shared space atop the chest with others of her previous life growing up on a ranch in Arizona—one of her at twelve, barrel racing on her beloved quarterhorse, Butterscotch. Another of her parents, celebrating their wedding anniversary in Sedona’s red rock country. The love they still shared for each another after forty years shone in their eyes and their smiles. It was what she’d always dreamed of having for herself.
“There’s still time.”
She was young and, as the therapist who visited Haven House every week had pointed out, she had her entire life ahead of her. A life she was becoming more and more impatient to share with her child. As if sensing her feelings, the baby turned a series of somersaults as she continued to study the family photographs that Peter had never allowed in their sprawling Tudor in Colorado. He’d been an expert at manipulation and, as she’d learned, even brainwashing.
Shortly after they’d married, he’d changed the checking account to solely his name. He did give her an allowance for personal spending—treating her like a child rather than an equal partner—but since he chose her clothing and her hairstyle and slowly cut her off from her frie
nds, she’d had nothing to spend any personal money on.
Which was how she’d been able to hide enough away to finally escape.
He’d made all their plans, often not telling her what those plans were until almost the last minute, which kept her not only unaware of what was going on, but also on edge and anxious.
He’d gradually isolated her so badly that even after he’d beat her, or, in his words, “discipline” her, she had absolutely no one left to turn to.
She’d lost more of herself every day, becoming quieter, never offering an opinion of her own, which would be ridiculed, but assuring him how smart, how clever, how right he always was.
Eventually, over time, she came to believe his accusations, that she was stupid, incapable of succeeding at anything she might want to try, and useless. Even in bed. As she lived in constant fear of displeasing him, the map of her world had narrowed to the gilded prison she’d known she’d be living in until the day she died. Which, she also knew, could be any day of her husband’s choosing.
And then life changed. In the bedroom where she’d first learned that a wife could, indeed, be raped, a new life had sparked.
And a strength she’d believed that he’d stolen from her forever rose, like a phoenix from the ashes, to protect her unborn child.
Which was when she’d risked her life by contacting an underground railroad of women who helped others escape danger and abuse. With the clandestine group’s help, she’d ended up here in Shelter Bay, where she’d been protected and, with a great deal of help, began to recover the strong woman she’d once been before her marriage.
Since her arrival she’d made friends. Close friends who cared about her. She had work she loved, and as much as she reveled in a weekly paycheck after all those years of having to depend on her husband for money, even more special were the compliments she received from diners about the food she’d prepared.
Lately, Chef Maddy had even begun letting her train new students, many of whom were new arrivals to Haven House; others were tourists and foodies willing to pay to learn how to cook the restaurant’s simple but delicious farm-to-table food.
And speaking of farm-to-table… when the doorbell chimed, she quickly checked her hair and makeup on the mirror hanging on the wall of the tiny foyer, then opened the door.
As always, Ethan Concannon took her breath away. When the former Marine turned organic farmer had first shown up in the kitchen of Haven House with a delivery of vegetables, he’d startled her. Having just escaped her husband, she’d found him too large and too male. Yet as soon as he’d smiled, Phoebe had been amazed to feel chords being strummed within her that she hadn’t believed still existed.
She been drawn to him at the same time the idea of getting involved with any man made her jittery. But after they’d spent more time together, she came to realize that any man who could coax a seed to bloom into gorgeous vegetables that looked as if they belonged on a Renaissance painting would possess a great deal of patience.
Over the months he’d let her know how deeply he cared about her. Including taking her into his house for protection when her husband had threatened her. But understanding how badly she needed to regain her independence, he’d never pushed her into a more intimate relationship than she was ready for.
Today he was taking her to veterinarian Charity Tiernan’s no-kill pet shelter. Having grown up with ranch dogs, Phoebe had decided that now that she was settling down into a stable relationship, she wanted her child to have the same opportunity to love a pet as she had. Charity had already chosen two young rescued dogs, both of which she thought would be a good fit.
“Damn, you look gorgeous,” he said as he entered the living room. Before she could complain that she was nearing the size of one of Shelter Bay’s whales, he gathered her into his arms, bent his head, and treated her to a slow, deep kiss that had her toes curling in her sunshine yellow rain boots.
“Flatterer,” she said after they’d come up for air.
“It’s not flattery. It’s the truth.” He nuzzled her neck. “And you smell good, too. Like spring.”
“It’s lotion from Lavender Hill Farm.” The fresh green scent carried an undernote of white flowers that made her feel pretty and feminine. Something she hadn’t felt during her marriage.
“Lotion?” He ran a broad, calloused hand down her side, from breast to hip. “Would you happen to have put it on all over?”
She felt the blush rise in her cheeks even as she lifted her arms and linked her fingers behind his neck. “I believe that’s for me to know and you to find out.” She allowed herself one more glorious moment of contact, then backed up. “After we check out Charity’s dogs.”
He shook his head in mock exasperation and skimmed a finger down the slope of her nose. “You do realize you’re a tease.”
“I know.” Imbued with a heady sense of freedom and female power, Phoebe laughed. “Come on.” She linked her fingers with his. “Play your cards right, Farmer Boy, and I may just let you play explorer later.”
“Be careful. I just may take you up on that.” He nodded with satisfaction at the thought.
And wasn’t that exactly what she’d been angling for? The idea of finally making love with this man she’d fallen in love with caused lovely gold ribbons of anticipation to flow through her body.
The bedroom was only a few feet away. And even as she appreciated him giving her these past months to regain her independence, Phoebe had come to the realization that if she didn’t make the first move, she and Ethan could still be playing this waiting game while waving her child off to college.
Which was why she already had her own plans for tonight.
“They say anticipation is a good thing,” Ethan said.
“So they do,” she agreed.
Thinking about the fresh sheets she’d rinsed with lavender before spreading them on the bed, the beeswax candles waiting on the dresser and bedside table to be lit, Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On” (recommended by Kara after Phoebe had shared her frustrations), designed to seduce, waiting in the CD player, had her heady with anticipation.
He helped her with her parka, then, hand in hand, they left the apartment. They’d just reached his truck when a man approached them.
“Ms. Stephanie Fletcher?”
The fact that this stranger knew her former name chilled her blood and caused every nerve ending in her body to screech an alarm. “It’s Phoebe Tyler.” She’d legally changed it after her husband’s arrest.
“Either one will work.”
He held out a piece of paper. “Have a good day,” he said as she took it from his hand. Then he turned and walked away. Like every process server she’d ever seen in the movies or on TV.
This can’t be good.
“Let me read it first,” Ethan said, proving that once again they were on the same wave length.
“No.” Her fingers had a death grip on the paper. “We’ll read it together.”
She hadn’t gotten past the first two lines when Phoebe’s head lightened and began to spin.
Right before everything went black.
19
The dinner went surprisingly well. Apparently wanting to get back into his coach’s good graces, Matt could have been the poster boy for manners. It also helped that they spent the entire time talking basketball, with Dillon Slater giving him a crash course on the new plays he’d be expected to learn.
It was, Claire thought, as she dunked a piece of bread into the tasty white wine, butter, and garlic clam sauce, as if a lightbulb had been turned on inside Matt. The dark cloud that had been hovering over his head for weeks had lifted, and he’d visibly brightened by the time they got to the marionberry pie she’d picked up at Take the Cake bakery for dessert.
As good as it was to see her son engaged and excited about something again, she was also pleased by how well the coach was bringing Matt out of himself. There were times, when they were arguing about who was the best point guard in history, when he a
lmost seemed like his old self.
“It’s gotta be Steve Nash,” Matt insisted. “He kicks ass in every category.”
“Which is why he was voted league MVP twice,” Dillon allowed. “I’ll bet a lot of college coaches are kicking themselves for not having seen his potential when he graduated high school. Santa Clara College was the only school that offered him a scholarship.”
“No way. That’s just wrong.” The shocked look on Matt’s face told Claire he hadn’t known that fact. She also saw a bit of worry move across his eyes.
“It’s a tough world out there,” the coach said as she topped off his coffee mug.
He had such pretty brown-and-gold eyes, Claire considered as she felt herself falling back into them yet again. And those long thick lashes were decidedly unfair to have been gifted to a man. While days would go by before she’d think to put on makeup, if she didn’t at least put mascara on her blond lashes, they didn’t show up.
“There are more than a million basketball players in men’s and women’s high school basketball programs,” Dillon said.
That dragged Claire back to the conversation she’d only partly been listening to. “That many?”
“Give or take. Some years more, some a bit less. Want to guess how many get college scholarships?” he asked Matt.
“Half?”
“On average, fifty thousand.”
“No—”
Claire knew that before Matt had wisely shut his mouth, he’d been about to argue that number. She also knew that the coach wouldn’t have any reason to make it up.
“That’s only five percent,” she said.
Despite the seriousness of the bombshell he’d just dropped on her kitchen, he smiled. “And she does math, too.”
“You got a scholarship,” Matt said, finding his voice again. Though it cracked slightly. And his complexion had paled.
“I did. Of course, I knew a trick.”
“What trick?”
“I knew I wasn’t big or tall enough to be all that attractive to the pros. So, right there, that diminished my odds, because college programs like having their players go pro because it adds to the number of students wanting to go there. And gets them better professors.”
