Girls of Summer (Shelter Rock Cove - Book #2)

by Barbara Bretton

  Her right brow formed a graceful arch. “So you’re not as tough as you look.”

  “Nobody said I was.”

  “Every time I think I’ve managed to get a read on you, you throw me a curve.”

  Like right that moment. She didn’t know if he was blowing her off or simply hadn’t heard her. He adjusted the binoculars, then handed them to her.

  “Ever looked at the moon?”

  A couple of snappy one-liners occurred to her, but she ignored them. “Only with the naked eye.”

  “Give it a try. She won’t grab you the way she would through a ’scope, but you’ll get the idea.”

  She prepared herself to be underwhelmed. The moon was the moon. She was a toddler when Armstrong planted the flag on the lunar surface, so there had never been a time in her life when that glowing rock held any mystery. No little green men. No green cheese. By the time she was old enough to care, it was all over.

  He handed her the binoculars and told her how to adjust them to her own specifications. She focused on the lighthouse, spun the dial the way he showed her, then laughed out loud.

  “I can read the rededication plaque at the base of the lighthouse!”

  “Okay,” he said. “Now turn to your left and aim for the moon.”

  “Story of my life,” she said as she swiveled to her left. “Aim for the moon, hit Jersey City instead.”

  No laugh from Scott the Mechanic. Or should she start thinking of him as Scott the Stargazer? Neither one of them seemed to find her particularly amusing. She brought the binoculars up to her eyes again and moved across a blanket of fuzzy stars.

  “This isn’t very impressive,” she said, sliding through the constellations. “Everything looks kind of blurry and—”

  Time stopped. So did her breathing. She felt as if she were falling headfirst through the galaxy into the arms of the waning moon.

  “My God,” she breathed as the roundness of it, the sensuality, filled her head. Now she understood why the moon was female. Her lushness, her ripeness, the play of light and shadow on her undulating surface. The sensations came at her so quickly she marveled that she didn’t swoon like an eighteenth-century maiden. She had no words for what she was feeling. The sense of wonder took her breath away.

  Moonstruck, that’s what she was. Moonstruck.

  Dazzled, she lowered the binoculars and turned to him. “Thank you,” she whispered. She barely recognized her own voice. So needy... so terribly needy.

  His face was partly in shadow. He revealed so little, gave nothing back at all to her. Come on, Mechanic. Show me you’re human.

  She leaned forward and kissed him lightly, playfully, on the mouth, prepared to laugh off both the kiss and his surprise.

  Except he wasn’t surprised.

  He made a sound deep in his throat, a sound of such deep pain and longing that something inside her broke free and the playful mocking kiss turned serious. She melted against his strong body, aware of the places where they fit and the places where they didn’t, aware of the binoculars digging into their chests, of his heat. He cupped her face between his hands and asked more of her with a kiss than she had ever given to any man.

  This wasn’t a game. There was nothing light or playful about it. She felt herself being drawn closer than she wanted to be, feeling more than she wanted to feel, wishing for all the things she pretended not to care about but longed for just the same.

  If this kiss went on a second longer, she would end up doing something foolish, something she would regret the same way she regretted so many of the things she’d done along the way. She wanted him. The heat between her legs wouldn’t let her lie to herself. But she wasn’t a bulletproof twenty-year-old girl anymore. She had learned that, one way or the other, everything—even this delicious heat—had its price, and it was a price she was no longer willing to pay.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Ellen begged off a long-standing dinner date with Sweeney and two other members of the Artists’ Co-op that rented space in Annie Butler’s flower shop. She hated doing it, both because she liked the women enormously and because they were as committed to encouraging women toward early detection of breast cancer as she was, but time with Deirdre was limited. “You don’t have to explain,” Sweeney said when Ellen called to apologize. “She’s your sister. Sisters always come first.”

  Deirdre loved Chinese food, the hotter the better, and she hoped that a spicy feast would smooth things over. Not that they had argued or anything. Neither one of them felt passionate enough about the relationship to argue, but there was no denying she had hurt Deirdre’s feelings when she said she wouldn’t be home until nearly midnight. They saw each other so infrequently that the least she could do was make an effort to spend some time with Deirdre on her last night in town.

  Sweeney’s words lingered with her as she drove home from Hunan Garden with her bag of delicious goodies. Sisters always come first. Did they? What if sisterhood had come along as an afterthought, a “by the way, we forgot to tell you” kind of surprise you were supposed to embrace without missing a beat? Despite their differences, Mary Pat and Deirdre had that kind of connection. She had no doubt they would both deny it, but their shared background and experiences linked them together in a way that would never include Ellen.

  She wasn’t a fool. She knew that it wasn’t a burning desire to spend quality time with her beloved sister that had brought Deirdre to her doorstep. Deirdre showed up when she needed something: a shoulder to cry on, a source of ready cash, or a place to leave a one-hundred-fifteen-pound dog. She was invariably charming, amusing, exasperating, impossible to pin down, equally impossible to understand, and just at the point when her casual indifference to the rules imposed on the rest of humanity was about to turn infuriating, she waved goodbye and left you wishing she never had to leave at all.

  She knew Stanley was the reason for her sister’s visit. Deirdre hadn’t suddenly been overcome with longing for Ellen’s company any more than she had been struck with a sudden yearning for lobster at Cappy’s. When Mary Pat refused to take Stanley in, Deirdre aimed her aging Hyundai toward Shelter Rock Cove and the sister who hadn’t quite mastered the art of saying no. She couldn’t have shown up at a worse time. Hall. The move. Her work. The visit should have been a total disaster, but to Ellen’s surprise she realized she would miss Deirdre when she left for Bar Harbor tomorrow. The other night they had let down their guard with each other in a way they hadn’t since they were fourteen years old and trying to figure out where they ranked in the revised family tree. Deirdre dropped her flaky musician persona while Ellen slipped out of her competent doctor disguise, and for a little while they met in the middle as women and sisters with thorny problems and irrational fears and a common loneliness neither one knew how to cure.

  So maybe hot-and-sour soup and a double portion of Kung Pao shrimp wasn’t the answer, either, but it couldn’t hurt. Most of the women Ellen knew believed in the magical powers of chocolate, but Ellen knew better and so did Deirdre. Chocolate came in a distant second to Chinese food.

  Her mouth was watering with anticipation as she pulled into the driveway. Deirdre was going to flip when she saw the assortment of familiar white containers. Unless she missed her guess, Stanley would probably flip, too. She turned off the engine and was about to gather up her stuff when she realized that the house was dark. The porch light was off. So were the lamps in the front rooms. Her heartbeat accelerated just enough for her to notice. She told herself not to read anything into it. Deirdre and Stanley were probably out on the deck, sipping margaritas.

  Nothing to worry about.

  She grabbed her purse, her satchel, and the bags of food, then hurried up the walk to the front door. She didn’t need to fumble around with her keys because the door was partly open.

  Now this might be something to worry about.

  “Deirdre!” she called as she moved through the darkened hallway toward the kitchen. “Hey, Dee, wait’ll you see what I’ve got!�
��

  No answer.

  Her heartbeat took another leap. She set her packages down on the countertop and glanced around the room. There were no signs of trouble. No broken windows. Nothing out of place. The sliding doors that led out to the deck were closed.

  It would be just like Deirdre to grab Stanley and leave for Bar Harbor without saying a word to anyone. Maybe she tracked down an old friend who owed her a favor or hitched a ride with a passing stranger. Anything was possible where her sister was concerned.

  The phone rang as she stepped out onto the deck. She raced back inside and picked it up midway through the outgoing announcement.

  “This is Dr. Markowitz.”

  “This is your sister.” A slight pause. “Mary Pat.”

  “Mary Pat,” she said, forcing her voice into an upbeat register. “It’s wonderful to hear from you.”

  “Surprising, no doubt.”

  “A little,” she admitted. “The flowers were beautiful. Thanks so much for sending them. I’m afraid I’m a little behind on my notes.”

  “I’m glad you liked them.”

  “How are you? How is everyone doing?” Like the husband I met a handful of times and all of those nieces and nephews I wish I knew better.

  “We’re well, thank you. And yourself?”

  “Just dandy, thanks.” Dandy? Where did that come from. “So what can I do for you, Mary Pat?” There was little point pretending her older sister had called to shoot the breeze.

  “I assume Deirdre told you about our conversation.”

  “Deirdre hasn’t told me anything. She’s not here.”

  “Billy’s back.”

  “From Ireland?”

  “We picked him up at Logan last week.”

  “Is he home to stay?” she asked politely. Conversations with Mary Pat often resembled tennis games. There was a very definite pattern of serve and return.

  Except this time Mary Pat missed the ball entirely and burst into tears. The sound of her cool, controlled sister in such obvious pain shocked her. Mary Pat kept her deepest feelings hidden away from public view. It was a trait they had in common. She knew exactly what those tears cost her in terms of pride.

  “What is it?” she pressed. “Is Billy sick?”

  Mary Pat struggled to regain control of her emotions. “I didn’t recognize him when he got off the plane. It had only been eight months since we last saw him and—” She coughed to cover up the quaver in her voice. “He’s lost a lot of weight. He says he has no appetite.” She drew in a deep breath. “The whites of his eyes look a little jaundiced.”

  A chill worked its way up Ellen’s spine as Mary Pat listed the symptoms. “Is he in pain?”

  “He says his stomach is a little tender.”

  “Above the navel or below.”

  “Above.”

  “Any digestive problems in addition to the loss of appetite?”

  “No, he—wait a second. I think he’s having trouble urinating.”

  “He’s almost seventy,” she reminded Mary Pat gently. “That comes with the territory.”

  But there was more, and as Mary Pat listed the symptoms, Ellen’s sense of dread intensified.

  “Has he seen a doctor?”

  “Not yet,” Mary Pat said. “I’ve been trying to get him to see our internist, but he claims he’s fine.”

  “He’s not,” Ellen said. And it was clear their father knew it or he would still be in Ireland. “He needs to see someone quickly.”

  “Quickly?”

  “Yes,” Ellen said, struggling to find a way to bridge the gap between compassion and urgency. “I think he should see someone Monday morning, if possible. He’ll probably need blood work, urinalysis, and a CT scan. You need to get him scheduled stat.”

  Mary Pat’s laugh was hollow. “You sound like one of those television doctors.”

  “I wish I did,” Ellen said. “Television doctors always know the right thing to say.”

  “You’re doing pretty good,” Mary Pat said, and Ellen’s heart twisted the tiniest bit in response to the unexpected words of praise.

  “He needs to see a gastroenterologist,” she continued, “preferably one who specializes in the upper digestive tract.”

  “Where do I find a good one?”

  “Your internist is a good place to start,” Ellen suggested.

  “Maybe you could recommend one?”

  “In Boston?”

  “Or New York. I want the best for—” Mary Pat started to cry again, but, like last time, she quickly brought her emotions under control. “He looks terrible, Ellen. Really terrible.”

  Ellen called on every skill she had mastered at med school and in private practice as she tried to comfort her distraught sister.

  “Let me make a few phone calls,” she said after Mary Pat had finally cried herself out. “I’ll find the best doctors for Billy. I promise.”

  “He’s in the living room,” Mary Pat said. “Would you like to say hello?”

  “No,” she said, more quickly than she should have. “I mean, I’d love to say hello, but if I’m going to start tracking down some names, I’d better not waste a second.”

  “Of course,” said Mary Pat. “I understand.”

  The sad thing was they both did.

  * * *

  Scott pulled up behind Ellen’s Cruiser and shifted into park. They hadn’t said a word to each other since they left the beach.

  Deirdre was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. “Thanks for the lift. You really didn’t have to. We could’ve walked back along the beach the way we came.”

  “High tide,” he said, drumming his fingers against the upper curve of the steering wheel. “I had to.”

  “Sorry if I kept you from anything.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Okay then.” She debated the wisdom of bringing up the kiss they had shared atop the cliff, then decided against it. She was almost thirty-five years old. If she discussed every kiss that came along, she would be seventy before she knew what hit her. The kiss was a mistake, but one she had managed to stop before it got out of hand. Whatever it was—or wasn’t—to Scott the Mechanic was his business.

  She climbed out of the truck and opened the back door for Stanley, who bounded out with a wild yip of excitement. She hugged the dog, straightened out his leash, then realized Scott was standing next to her. The world would be a better place if men were required to wear cowbells.

  “So what time should I be ready tomorrow?” She made sure to keep Stanley between them. Not because she thought her own allure was so powerful, but because her self-control wasn’t.

  “Around one,” he said, leaning against the truck. “Earlier if I can swing it.”

  “Great,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  He looked at her. She looked back at him. They could light Shelter Rock Cove for a year with the electricity crackling between them. She could feel it sizzling along her nerve endings, shooting through her like bolts of lightning in search of ground.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  “I’ll be ready.”

  Neither one of them made a move to leave.

  “Are you waiting for something?” she asked.

  “For you to go into the house. What are you waiting for?”

  “For you to leave so I can go into the house.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I have absolutely no idea.”

  They both burst into laughter, which broke the tension and set Stanley into a barking frenzy that threatened to wake the neighborhood.

  “One o’clock,” she said.

  “One o’clock.”

  She waved goodbye to Scott the Mechanic, then raced Stanley to the front door before somebody called the cops on them.

  * * *

  He drove from her house to Captain’s Landing. He wiped dog slobber off the telescope, slung the binoculars around his neck, then hiked up the rocky slope to his favorite spot.

  Only t
he old guy was there. They nodded at each other. The old guy was somewhere in his seventies, a widower who used to own the dry cleaners in town. He had a state-of-the-art ’scope that looked at first glance like a portable cannon, and if it gave him any pleasure at all, he was keeping it to himself.

  He hadn’t planned to set up tonight, but he also hadn’t planned to kiss Deirdre O’Brien back at the beach. He could still taste her, still feel the softness of her lips, hear her soft sigh when they finally broke apart. He couldn’t remember who had initiated the kiss... or who had ended it, for that matter. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d had control over any part of the process. His brain had shut down completely the moment their lips met, one of those complete meltdowns that reduced grown men to a bubbling cauldron of hormones.

  Jesus, it felt good. The rush of heat that went straight to his groin. The gut-level, mind-blowing need that made everything else fall away. Pain, sorrow, loneliness, it all disappeared.

  Yeah, it had been a long time. So long that he hadn’t been sure he’d ever feel that way again, wasn’t sure he wanted to or remembered how, but tonight it had all come rushing back at him with the first wave of desire.

  Snippets of songs, images, their wedding day, the day Colin was born, the summer they bought their first house, the year she decided to go back to work, the parties, the christenings, the good times with family and friends... there had been a lot of good times, so many that he hadn’t noticed when it all began to change. Maybe that had been part of the problem. He hadn’t noticed a lot of things. She had been growing away from him for a long time before she decided to leave. He had just been too fucking happy, too in love with their life together, to notice.

  He struggled to open the tripod and balance it on the rocky ground. He never struggled with the tripod, but tonight his hands were clumsy, as if he were wearing mittens.

  She used to tease him about his big mechanic’s hands, marvel how those callused fingertips could skim so gently across her skin—