Shelby, of course, had no secrets at all, as every one of her sins had already been witnessed and discussed by the entire population. It was both irritating and liberating. She wasn’t sure she wanted to examine why too closely.
“How’s . . .” Molly’s brow wrinkled as she thought. “Oh, what’s his name? Donovan?”
“Declan,” Shelby supplied.
“Declan, that’s it. How’s Declan after his adventure?”
“Fine. Wait, how do you know Declan?”
“I don’t really know him—he’s come in a couple of times for coffee to go. But he seems like a nice enough guy.”
“Yeah. I think he is. Nice, I mean.” She didn’t have a lot to go on really, but Rusty had given her a full report of what happened at the police station yesterday.
“Just FYI, Helena says Ryan’s not too happy about him living at the marina with you there so close.”
“Yeah, well, Declan’s been there over a month, so Ryan’s concern is a little tardy at best.”
Molly laughed, then got up as the bell over the door announced her next customer. Shelby picked up the pink cake pop and licked at the sprinkles. Whether it was the sugar or the caffeine or the atmosphere—or a mixture of all three—her blood pressure was equalizing and she felt much better.
This was what the marina needed. Well, not exactly this—it would need to be more café than coffee shop, but expanding this idea to include breakfasts and light lunches would work. They could offer little picnics for people to take out with them on day trips, and maybe attract some of the tourists over. And it would be a nice place to be a sort of Welcome Center for Magnolia Beach, attracting people in from the water. It wouldn’t have to be fancy, just cute, like Latte Dah.
She took a bite of the cake pop. Of course, having easy access to treats like this all day long would play hell with her waistline, so maybe it was a good thing that that idea was doomed from the get-go.
Sam Harris, Molly’s soon-to-be-sister-in-law if things between Molly and Tate continued at their current rate, arrived then, dropping her purse behind the counter and tying on an apron. “Hi, Shelby. Need a refill?”
“How about one to go? I need to get back to the marina.”
“Will do. By the way . . .” Sam grinned at her. “I heard about your high-seas rescue.”
Ah, the joy of living in a small town. “It’s not nearly as exciting as that.”
“It sounded pretty dramatic to me.”
“Then whoever told you exaggerated a lot.”
Sam’s face fell. “Darn. I heard he sent you flowers and everything.”
Damn. “That part’s true . . .”
“Oooh, and?” Sam snapped a lid onto the go-cup before passing it over and leaned down on her forearms, ready to listen.
“There’s no ‘and.’ It was just a friendly gesture.”
Sam frowned. “That’s a pity. He’s cute. A little scruffy, but . . .”
“You’ve met him, too?” Maybe Declan had been coming into town more than she assumed.
“Just once when he came in for coffee.” She sounded a little disappointed that they hadn’t met more often.
“I’m sure Declan will be happy to hear he’s so memorable.”
“A guy coming in all by himself in the off-season tends to stick out. That’d be true even if he wasn’t cute, and Declan is.”
“True.”
“I wonder what his story is?”
Sam was fishing, but Shelby wasn’t taking the bait. “I couldn’t tell you. You didn’t ask?”
Sam shrugged. “It was early. He didn’t seem real talkative.”
“That’s never stopped you before,” Shelby teased.
Sam grinned in return. “Let me know what you find out. Like, does he like girls with Southern accents?”
“Will do.” She pulled a twenty out of her back pocket. “Two cake pops and the coffee.”
Sam nodded and went to get her change.
Outside, the sun was bright and the temperature was perfect. Buoyed by the snack and the coffee, her mood was much better than it had been earlier.
She might as well let Daddy handle Pee Wee. It was galling, but she couldn’t change the mind-set of one old redneck. And it wasn’t worth the stress for her anyway.
One day, things would be different, but today was not that day.
Damn. Now she needed another cake pop.
* * *
It had taken Declan a while to get used to the constant movement of the Lady Jane, but he had to admit it gave him a good night’s sleep. That was the upside to living on a boat. The downside, though, was living in a marina, which on some days, could rival the city with the amount of noise. It was a different kind of noise, though, not the sirens and garbage trucks he’d long since quit hearing. One freaking seagull looking for his breakfast could be equally as disturbing as the morning traffic through the marina.
And, good Lord, these people got up early. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’d known that fishermen and other outdoorsy people started their adventures early in the morning, but it hadn’t been a real thing until the first time a fishing boat had puttered past around dawn. He could only be thankful that the marina wasn’t busier than it was. Summers had to be a zoo.
The occasional early-morning awakening only added to the time warp he lived in, keeping him constantly confused as to both the day and the time, so when his phone woke him up and he saw Suzanne’s name on the display, his first reaction was panic. Then he realized it was nearly noon. The panic was replaced with confusion and wariness about answering.
He hadn’t spoken to her in two months. Hell, she hadn’t even been there when he’d moved his stuff out, and he’d simply left his key on the kitchen counter in lieu of saying good-bye. What would cause her to break her silence now?
Whether it was curiosity or masochism that caused him to hit the accept button, he didn’t know—and he didn’t want to examine it too closely either.
“Hi, Suz.”
“Declan. It’s good to hear your voice.”
That was funny. She’d said she never wanted to speak to him again. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Feeling strong and whole again. How about you?” She was chipper, yet censuring at the same time. How did she manage that trick?
“I’m fine,” he answered carefully. “I’m just surprised you’d call.”
“Well, I’ve got some mail here for you,” she explained. “Mostly magazines, things like that. I was wondering if you wanted me to forward it on to you.”
He’d filed a change of address with the post office, forwarding his mail in care of the marina. To date, he’d received approximately two things. “Unless it’s something that looks important, you can trash it.”
There was a moment of silence. “I guess none of it’s important enough, then.”
Which Suzanne had to have known already and therefore had nothing to do with this call. If he waited just another second or two . . .
“Reid says you’re living on a boat in Alabama. I couldn’t believe it.”
“Believe it.”
“That’s got to be . . . interesting.”
“It’s fantastic. So peaceful. Everyone should try it.”
Suzanne laughed. They both knew she wouldn’t last more than a couple of days outside the city. Hell, she panicked after a few days in the suburbs. Then she fell silent again. He didn’t say anything, just let the silence draw out instead. Whatever the actual reason for this call was, she was about to get to it. He’d lived with her for nearly five years; he knew how this worked. And frankly, now he was curious to see what she’d say.
“Are you happy?” she finally asked.
He couldn’t tell if that was a genuine question or a sarcastic one. Her tone wasn’t clear. “Excuse me?”
“Did mov
ing away make you happy?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I guess. Things are a little strange right now—I’m kind of in limbo until I get to Miami—but I’m not unhappy.” That was true, even if he wasn’t sure it was the right answer.
“Dr. Stewart says . . .”
He rolled his eyes because Suzanne wasn’t there to see it. To this day he didn’t know where Dr. Stewart had received his medical training, but it couldn’t have been an accredited school. The man was a quack, and Suzanne had been seeing him weekly for about twelve years. He fed her poor-little-rich-girl problems, massaged her ennui, assigned blame to everyone but her, and then purchased himself a summer home with the proceeds instead of simply telling her the truth: everyone had problems, but her life didn’t exactly suck.
That had been Declan’s job—at least for a little while. It hadn’t gone over well with Suzanne or Dr. Stewart, and eventually, he’d given up.
“. . . and that it’s probably not even your fault that you’re selfish like that.”
Part of him wished he hadn’t spaced out in the middle of that comment, but at the same time, it was probably a good thing he had. He’d never been on the couch with Dr. Stewart, but the man had diagnosed him via Suzanne’s reports years ago. Whatever it was that had driven her to call, it was entirely his fault and due to a serious flaw in him—and probably something to do with his mother, too.
But he didn’t live with Suzanne anymore, so arguing with her about the condition of his psyche seemed beyond ridiculous. “Suz, why’d you call?”
He heard her take a deep breath. “I need closure. I deserve closure.”
Huh? “You broke up with me. You kicked me out. I’m literally on the opposite end of the country from you, and we haven’t spoken in months. How much more ‘closure’ do you need?”
“Emotional closure, Declan. I need to know where we went wrong so I can heal and move on.”
He gritted his teeth. “You just said you were feeling ‘whole’ again.”
“Almost whole. There’s a difference. I gave you five years of my life. I can’t get that time back.”
He hadn’t considered it a waste of time . . . until now, and only because she seemed to. “Well, neither can I.”
“Declan . . .”
He heard her voice break and that made him feel bad. Suzanne was self-centered, vain, and spoiled, but he had cared about her, lived with her, and even considered marrying her. “I’m sorry, Suz.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
She was on the verge of tears, but what else was he supposed to say? Well, actually he knew his role and his lines, and he had nothing to lose by giving her the victory she needed. “It’s my fault. You deserve better.”
“That’s true. You’re selfish and narcissistic, and . . .”
And obviously, a masochist. They’d already had this fight. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “All I wanted to do was move. It’s a better job and a great opportunity.”
“For you. You never once discussed it with me. Asked me whether I wanted to leave my home, my family, my friends . . .”
“I made a choice. Just like you made a choice.”
“You chose a job over me.”
“And you chose your family and friends over me.” It wasn’t quite the same weight, but all choices came with costs, and neither of them had chosen the other. It was quite telling.
That silenced her. He could hear her breathing, so he knew she was still there. Finally, he heard her inhale. “That’s not the same thing. At all. People are more important than some job.”
A statement only an heiress could make.
“You need help, Declan. Serious help. At least I have family and friends to lean on. You have no one now. You’re out there looking for something, but you don’t even know what it is. That’s why you can’t be happy.”
“I am happy, damn it,” he snapped.
“Yeah, right. That’s why you’re living on a boat in some redneck town, alone, with no job and no friends.”
That was not why he was here. “Maybe after living with you for so long, I need the break.”
He heard her gasp at the insult, and he regretted lashing out at her like that. It was just easier—for her and for him—to shoulder the blame and let Suzanne get her closure. “Suz, I’m sorry. For everything. You’re right. You deserve better than me, and I hope you find the right guy soon.”
“I will. I hope you’re sorry it’s not you.”
Well, that was about the best I could hope for. “I am,” he lied.
Suzanne took a deep breath and sighed heavily. “Have a nice life, Declan. I don’t know what you’re looking for, but I hope you find it.”
“Take care, Suz.” But he was talking to a dead phone. Dropping it beside him on the bed, he stacked his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.
Suzanne’s need to overpsychoanalyze everything always frustrated him, but it was just how she was. He knew that—and at first it had been amusing. A not-quick-enough-replied-to text showed a lack of respect for her. An offhand joke that fell flat was a sign he didn’t appreciate her enough. And then she’d trace those slights back to his underprivileged childhood through a flow chart that made zero sense to anyone other than her.
She’d spent so much time examining his childhood and psyche that he certainly didn’t feel the need to. What it came down to was that Suzanne needed to be adored and he wasn’t doing that correctly. Or enough.
Suzanne was right, though: he had chosen a job over her without much thought. And although it sounded terrible, he sort of knew, deep down, that Suzanne wouldn’t make the move with him. It made him wonder now if that deep-seated knowledge had led to his accepting the job in the first place.
He shook his head to clear it. Good Lord, he was getting as bad as Suzanne, looking for reasons that didn’t exist because there were actual reasons that decisions were made—none of which had anything to do with anything other than the right job offer.
Miami. Sun, beaches, all that great art deco . . . Who wouldn’t choose Miami over Chicago? All that snow and ice and weeks where the temperature would make Santa want to move to Florida versus sun and surf? Miami had all the art and culture and nightlife of Chicago set to a salsa beat.
It wasn’t like he’d asked Suzanne to move somewhere like . . . well, like Magnolia Beach. He snorted. Suzanne wouldn’t be able to even imagine living in a place like Magnolia Beach. The only place to get sushi was run by a guy named Bubba, which didn’t sound very authentic, and the few red lights the town boasted all went blinky at ten o’clock. Granted, the marina wasn’t exactly in the center of the action, but he wasn’t sure there would be much to do even if it was. He wasn’t sure there even was any action in Magnolia Beach. Or a center, for that matter.
You’re living on a boat in some redneck town, alone, with no job and no friends.
While all technically true, Suzanne’s jab lacked oomph. Well, too much oomph. He was starting to get a little bored. But being alone didn’t mean he was lonely. Suzanne was the one who needed to surround herself with people all the time, not him. She was the social butterfly; he was perfectly happy in his cocoon.
It was a carefully constructed cocoon, and he didn’t need a shrink to explain that it traced back to his lonely days as a child, only to be perfected as he grew into a bookish, nerdy teen. That cocoon had been his shield against the teasing and bullying of the neighborhood kids and, later, the kids in his fancy prep school.
In college, he’d discovered the cultural idea of a hipster, and it had been an easy slide from awkward nerd to aloof hipster. Hipsters were at least somewhat cool.
While Suzanne needed to be the center of attention, he’d been perfectly happy on the perimeter. He didn’t really like people—in general—all that much. Being stuck in the boonies would be a nightmare for Suzanne, but he
had come down here looking forward to it.
But suddenly, the next eight or so weeks—which had seemed so short and easy to dismiss six weeks ago—loomed large.
And boring.
It wasn’t that he didn’t need or hadn’t earned the time off. He just wasn’t used to the inactivity. He’d spent his whole life with his eyes on his goal, and he’d worked damn hard to achieve it.
Study hard, get good grades, get a scholarship to get him the hell out of Detroit.
Study hard, get good grades, land a good job.
Work hard, move up the ladder, make a name for himself, get a better job.
Find the right girl, make the right friends, meet all the right people, get an even better job.
And if he did it all right, kept his eyes on the prize and his nose to the grindstone, eventually it would all pay off.
But now that he was almost there, the whole plan had ground to a halt, leaving him cooling his heels here and killing time.
Waiting.
And that was the problem. He was so damn tired of waiting, of getting ready for his life to actually start.
He should have just gone on to Miami, even if it would have meant multiple moves. He could be on a beach right now, making contacts, living the life he’d worked so hard to earn.
But in reality, that would be more waiting, just in a more expensive spot. And while his savings account was healthy, the cost of living in Miami without an income would burn through a hefty chunk of that pretty quickly. And he was not going to be poor again.
So he was stuck here, in Magnolia Beach.
Waiting.
His stomach growled, giving him a reason to get out of bed, and he pushed himself upright. His hand landed on the book he’d been reading last night. When he’d gotten home from the police station yesterday, he’d found it propped against the cabin door—a thin, dull-looking book with a badly Photoshopped cover picture of a family on a pontoon boat and the uninspiring title of Responsible Boating.
More Than Anything Page 6
