That Thing Called Love

by Susan Andersen

  But, jeez.

  The guy didn’t resemble any of his friends’ dads. He was younger, for one thing. And even if he wanted to talk to him, it wasn’t like he’d have the first idea what to say. Jake had like a billion-dollar camera slung around his neck—and between the hot-shit globe-trotting photographs he took for some famous magazine and the way he looked—like an action-movie guy or something—well, it could be sorta intimidating. If Austin gave a rip about that kind of stuff.

  Which he didn’t.

  Jake turned to Nolan. “Your mother called Jenny,” he said. “She had to take your little brother to the doctor. It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he assured the boy, “but because she’s hung up, I’m here to give you two a ride.”

  Crap! Still, there wasn’t a lot they could do about this plan—not when it had the parental stamp of approval. So by unspoken agreement, he and Nolan tumbled into the back of Jake’s Mercedes BlueTEC SUV that everybody and his brother had asked Austin about, as if he would be the first to know anything about it—not!—and visited with each other, ignoring their driver.

  When Jake pulled into the driveway at Austin’s friend’s house a short while later, Nolan opened the back door but stopped to say, “Thanks, Mr. Bradshaw.”

  Austin, who was damned if he’d thank Daddy Dearest for anything, simply nodded. “Yeah,” he said, climbing out of the SUV in Nolan’s wake. He met Jake’s eyes when he reached back in to grab his pack. “Tell Jenny I’m doing my homework with Nolan,” he said, and slammed the door shut. Then he turned and stalked away.

  He refused to feel guilty over the flash of disappointment he’d spotted on the face of a guy he’d assumed didn’t need anyone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JAKE WATCHED UNTIL THE KIDS disappeared through the front door of Nolan’s house. “Well, that went fucking swell.” Blowing out a breath, he put the Mercedes in gear and backed down the driveway. Now what did he do?

  He’d expected to get a little more out of the opportunity Jenny had presented him in the wake of Rebecca Damoth’s frantic phone call than to receive the invisible chauffeur treatment. Grumbling to himself to avoid acknowledging the hollow that had formed in his gut when his son resolutely ignored him, he drove aimlessly around Razor Bay.

  He had to admire the irony. When he’d heard the news about Emmett and realized that this was his final chance to take responsibility for the parenting he’d abdicated so many years ago, what should have been a cut-and-dried decision wasn’t. He hated to admit it, but part of him had been seriously tempted to simply continue doing what he’d been doing. In the end, however, not a damn thing wasn’t an option. He was tired of the guilt. He might be able to shove it aside for blocks of time, but it always came back to haunt him.

  Maybe he was like those chicks who were only drawn to men who treated them like shit. Because the more his kid ignored or tried to avoid him, the more fascinated he found himself.

  Spotting the sign for the public access to the canal at the north end of town, he turned off the road into its long parking area and drove through the lot to the double-wide boat ramp, not stopping until his tires were a few feet shy of the water. The tide had turned but was only about halfway to high. He turned off the ignition and, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, stared out at the canal.

  Not only was it midweek with most people at work, the day was gray as a bucket of day-old fish guts, the mountains obscured by liverish rain clouds too dense and weighty to push beyond the stratum of those stacked upon them. The parking lot didn’t contain a single vehicle with attached trailer, and Jake had his doubts that even the most intrepid, boat-happy sailor from Bangor—the naval station on the other side of Kitsap—would be hauling a boat down to the launch today.

  He climbed out of the SUV, stepped off the paved launch and walked to the water’s edge.

  It had been windy during the week and a half he’d been in Razor Bay, but today not so much as a breeze stirred. The skies looked as though they might open up at any minute, but for now they were dry. Squatting, he selected a few flat stones from the rocky beach then surged back upright, took a step back with his right foot and skimmed one across the water’s flat, mirrorlike surface. It skipped four times before sinking. He pulled another out of his jeans pocket and let it fly, as well.

  He’d envisioned making at least a little progress with his son by now, but Austin avoided him like a case of the Asian clap. How was he supposed to get to know him if the boy was either impossible to find or faded like smoke in the wind the few times Jake could locate him?

  It didn’t help that he was getting that closed-in feeling Razor Bay inevitably generated in him and, agitation building, he abandoned the lightweight skipping stones and culled some honest-to-God rocks—several with razor-edged oysters attached—from the beach. He hurled them, one after the other, as far as he could throw them. Each made a nice, solid kerplunk, sending up a decent splash as they struck the water.

  That was where his satisfaction ended.

  At the rate he was going, Austin would be thirty before he was ready to move with him to New York. Jake needed to get things moving at a faster clip than he’d managed so far.

  Frustration at his failure to make progress bit deep. Dammit, he was accustomed to dealing with problems in a brisk, competent manner. He spent a good deal of every year in far-off places where situations without easy solutions regularly arose. Yet, when faced with dilemmas, he was the guy you could count on to dig in and find ways to fix them.

  That wasn’t what he’d been doing here. And the hell of it was, whenever he bent his mind toward finding a way to break the ice with his son, instead of working with its usual efficiency, his brain turned into a barren moonscape.

  Tires crunched over the scattering of pinecones that had dropped from the evergreen trees dotting the parking lot, but Jake had no interest in seeing who’d arrived. What did he care if someone decided to overlook the less than ideal weather conditions? Hell, as far as that went, why shouldn’t they? It might be a butt-ugly day, but the canal was calm for the first time since he’d arrived in this godforsaken town.

  Hunkering down on the beach next to the paved boat ramp, he culled a new arsenal of the largest rocks he could find. The mood he was in, he’d welcome the opportunity to lob a boulder or two, but the beach wasn’t exactly littered with those.

  He was aware in a disinterested corner of his mind that the vehicle hadn’t swung around to back a trailer down the ramp alongside his SUV. Instead, a car door opened and closed behind him and, as he rose to his feet to throw the first rock, he heard the gritty sound of shoes kissing sand-dusted pavement. Ignoring it, he hurled another rock, then another.

  “Tourists pay big bucks for access to that water,” Max said from behind him. “They expect it to be there the next time they show up. So keep that up and I’m gonna have to write you a ticket for reef building within twenty feet of the shoreline.”

  Hearing the deep tones of his half brother’s voice gave him the usual screw-you jolt of irritation—but laced this time with a new, unexpected thread of pleasure. He shrugged off the latter as a fluke, since his pleasure receptors and Max were a foreign pairing.

  “Twenty feet?” he demanded, turning to face Max. “Please. I could throw these babies thirty in my sleep.”

  Max’s mouth curved up on one side. “I’m guessing algebra wasn’t your long suit.”

  “True.” His own lips quirked. “Business majors don’t need no stinkin’ algebra.” A degree he’d pursued in order to prove he was the financial achiever his father wasn’t. Not that Charlie Bradshaw hadn’t provided for his family—whoever that might have been at any given moment. But where he had been a middling salesman, Jake had an intrinsic knack with money. More important, he’d had an urge to be more successful than his father. To be better in every way.

  The rec
ollection wiped the smile from his face. Because look how well that had worked out for him. His precautions had failed, Kari had gotten pregnant and he hadn’t stuck around to be a father.

  He wasn’t the least bit better than the old man. And in some ways was maybe even worse.

  He eyed Max as he approached. His half bro wore a khaki shirt and black tie under a military-style black wool V-neck sweater with reinforced shoulders,

  elbows and forearms. Velcro-closure cotton epaulets decorated each shoulder, a badge was pinned to his chest, and gold, black and green shield-shaped patches, each sporting a spread-winged eagle and the Razor Bay Sheriff’s Office designation, decorated the sweater’s upper arms. He wore jeans and a black web utility belt that bristled with the tools of his trade—not the least of which was a serious-looking gun. “You following me, Deputy Dawg?”

  “Yeah, because I live in awe of the wonder that is you.” Max let the absurdity hang in the air a moment, then made a rude noise. “Get over yourself.

  I heard the navy’s doing maneuvers out here this week, and I’ve stopped by every day to see if I can catch the show.” He gave Jake a comprehensive once-over. “What’s your excuse?”

  Resurrecting as it did his many recent failures, the query made him want to snarl. Jake did his best, however, to shrug the mood aside. He intended to give Max’s question the brush-off, as well. Their relationship was a long way from either opening an emotional vein in front of the other. He didn’t share that kind of relationship with anyone.

  So he was astonished to hear himself admit, “I’m trying to get to know my kid, but if he can’t outright avoid me, he acts like I’m see-through.” He looked over at Max. “Did you know he plays shortstop for the Junior League?”

  “Yeah. I’ve seen him play.” Jake must have looked as astounded as he felt, because Max said with cool authority, “I’m the deputy sheriff. It’s my civic duty to keep tabs on the kids in this town.”

  Aw, man, he was so full of shit if he thought Jake bought that. But before he could call him on it, Max said, “He plays the same position as you, huh? I heard between baseball and your grades, you got yourself a full-boat scholarship to some fancy East Coast university.” He hooked his thumbs in the webbed belt. “It can’t be easy, following in your footsteps.”

  Jake looked at him in surprise, then wasn’t sure why he was so bowled over. Both of them probably knew a great deal about each other. God knew that once upon a time he had kept close tabs on everything Max did, rationalizing that it was simply good business practice to keep track of the enemy. The truth was he’d always been unwillingly fascinated by this guy who shared the same blood but was a dedicated adversary.

  “I doubt there was ever a comparison,” he said now. “I was out of the local sport scene for probably half a dozen years before Austin even attended his first T-ball practice. It wouldn’t have been like trying to fill your big shoes when they were practically still smokin’.” He waved the comparison aside. “In any case, from what I saw today, he’s good.” A headache sent preliminary scouts to see about the possibility of setting up camp in his temples. “That’s no thanks to my influence, either.”

  Max gave him a level look. “So why did you walk?”

  Jake stilled, his heartbeat a solid thudthudthud in his chest. “You really interested in knowing?” Who would have thought Max, of all people, would be the one to come right out and ask? No one else had since he’d been back.

  “Not really.” Max started to turn away, but then stopped and gave his shoulders an impatient roll before meeting Jake’s gaze head-on. “No, that’s not true. I am.”

  Girding himself, Jake remained silent for a moment. Then he drew a deep breath and blew it out. “For as long as I can remember, I wanted out of this town.” He looked out at the glassy water. “Kari and I made a lot of big plans to move somewhere cosmopolitan, and I spent our entire junior year plotting ways to make it happen that wouldn’t end up with me flipping burgers for the rest of my life.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Truth is, I had plans long before I met her. I’d been working toward that scholarship since Junior high. When it came through, I thought we were finally on our way.”

  He looked over at Max. “Then, barely a month into our senior year, the fucking condom broke.”

  “You stepped up and married her, though. And from what I hear, took a job at the inn.”

  “Because I didn’t want to be another Charlie Bradshaw, y’know?”

  “Hell, yes. We’ve got that in common.” Max studied him for a moment. “You must have loved her a lot.”

  An unamused laugh escaped him. “Like that ever lasts,” he said dismissively. “She went almost overnight from the fun head cheerleader I knew to a cranky, complaining shrew who was convinced I’d ruined her life. Not that I was any better. I was miserable working the front desk at The Brothers, and it made me damn moody.”

  “Then she died.”

  “Yeah.” Digging his fingertips into a headache that now thumped full force, he turned his back on the water, feeling vestiges of the horror he’d experienced at the sight of the blood-soaked sheets when she’d started hemorrhaging. “They send people home from the hospitals too damn fast these days. If she’d still been there they probably could’ve stopped the bleeding. But they discharged her, and within the space of a few short hours, she was just...gone. And I found myself with sole responsibility for this wrinkly, leaky little creature I had no idea how to parent. When Emmett and Kathy offered to care for him while I got my degree, I jumped at the chance.”

  And, eaten up with guilt, he’d hated himself for it. He had turned into the very thing he’d sworn he never would: a chip off the old block. Here his wife had died tragically young—yet had he been crushed? Had he stuck around? No, sir. He’d never wished her dead, but his dirty little secret was he’d been beyond relieved not to be stuck in a nowhere position in a nowhere town with a wife he’d fallen out of love with.

  At least Charlie had loved him for a while. Jake hadn’t felt anything but panic when he’d looked at his son.

  Max looked as uncomfortable hearing all this shit as Jake was at telling it. No doubt his brother was on TMI overload, and his gaze slid past Jake’s shoulder. Then he stood straighter. “Hey, what do you know?” he said with a casualness that was a little overplayed. “There’s a couple of cutters. The Trident’s likely not far away.”

  Grateful beyond measure for the change of subject—for anything that would rescue them from this dangerous talking-about-feelings territory—Jake turned to look.

  There was nothing to see except a couple of midsize navy boats cruising a half mile or so from the far shore, but he went over to his car all the same to retrieve his camera from the passenger seat. Back on the beach, he watched with Max as the boats navigated an obviously circumscribed area.

  Nothing happened, and perhaps to fill the long silence between them, Max suddenly said, “I’m sorry about your mom. I heard about it when I was in Camp Lejeune.”

  Jake nodded, his eyes still on the glassy water. “Thanks. Her having a heart attack wasn’t something anyone expected. She was only forty-six.” He turned to look at Max. “I’m surprised anyone here even knew about it—she moved to California the same time I started college.”

  Max made a wry face. “Small-town connections, little Bradshaw. She kept in touch with Maureen Gilmore, who was friends with my mother.”

  “Is your mom still in town?”

  “No. She’s living in England, of all places.”

  “Why of all places?”

  “My mom is filled with a small-town prejudice against any town bigger than Razor Bay—never mind big cities in a foreign country. But she met a guy from London in the dining room of the inn one night, and that was all she wrote.”

  The Ohio-class black nuclear submarine suddenly surfaced fr
om the depths and they turned their attention to it. Nearly as long as two football fields, sleek as a shark and quieter than death, it was an impressive, ominous sight. “That doesn’t make me want to break into a chorus of ‘Yellow Submarine,’” Jake said, raising the Nikon D3 to his eye.

  Max laughed. “No shit. But I never get tired of watching it. It’s like the Darth Vader of submarines. Strategic deterrence at its best.”

  He lowered the camera long enough to shoot the other man a sardonic glance. “Spoken like a true soldier boy.”

  “Wasn’t a soldier, sonny. I told you before, I’m a Marine.”

  “Ex.”

  Max snorted. “No such thing as an ex-Marine. Former, maybe, if you wanna be picky about it.”

  “Whatever.” Jake shot a couple frames of Max, who immediately scowled at him. “So, tell me. I know there’s more than one of these subs stationed at Bangor—so why are they all called the Trident?”

  A bark of laughter exploded out of Max. “For a guy with a bachelor of business from a fancy u—”

  “I never actually got that degree,” he interrupted. “I interned with National Explorer my junior year, got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to show my photography skills when their usual photographer was laid low with dysentery, and never went back to school.”

  Max nodded. “Explains why you’re not the brightest bulb, I guess. None of the subs are named that. There’s eight of them out of Bangor, and except for the USS Henry M. Jackson, in honor of our late, great Senator Scoop Jackson, they’re all named after states. Alaska, Alabama, Nebraska—and who cares what all. Tridents are the missiles they’re packing.”

  “Huh. Who knew?”

  “Not you, obviously.”

  A short while later the submarine submerged as quietly as it had come up, and Max abruptly morphed from fairly friendly for a guy who “wasn’t ever going to be your bud” to blank-faced deputy. He stepped back. “I’ve got work to do,” he said and pointed to where Jake’s SUV was blocking half an access that nobody was using. “Get that off the ramp,” he growled. Then without another word, he turned and strode up the slope in question to his rig.