by Liz Johnson
“Pretty terrible,” he said, keeping his voice low. “How about yours?”
Suddenly she didn’t care about the cold air or freezing her fingers. She slipped her hand out from her cocoon and reached for his, finding it wrapped in the silky lining of his sleeping bag. “What happened?”
His bag swished and hissed, and his hand disappeared beneath her grip only to reappear a moment later, his long fingers twining with hers. She gave him a soft squeeze, and he met her gaze.
“Something’s going on with my brother.”
“Levi?”
“Everyone forgets I have another one.”
Her forehead wrinkled beneath the soft wool of his cap. “Eli?”
He nodded slowly, his face twisting with grief and uncertainty as the story spilled out. Expelled from the NHL. Everyone keeping silent. And Oliver was worried it might mean the worst.
“Professional athletes get a pass at most things. Steroids? Oh, he made a mistake. Make him sit out a few games.” His tone made it clear that he didn’t agree with such leniency. “Hit your spouse? We forgive you. You can still be a role model to kids. Whatever he did was worse. So much worse. And there’s not a thing I can do about it.”
“Would you?” she asked. “If you could?”
He sighed, rolling onto his back and staring into the starry night. He never let go of her hand. “I know I told him to never come back, but what I really wanted was for him to want to stay.”
“I know. And it’s all right.”
He leaned toward her, turning his head to look right into her face. “What if he’s lost everything and still doesn’t come home?”
“What if he does?”
He flopped his free arm over his face. “Oh, man. How am I going to tell my mom?”
“You don’t have to tell her tonight.”
Oliver took a deep breath, the first in hours. He didn’t have to tell his mom right away. There was no deadline, no fire under him that said it had to be done immediately. Timetables and calendars had no part in this. He’d tell his mom when the time was right. And at the moment, he’d just lie next to Meg under a sea of starlight.
“When’d you get so smart?” he asked.
“I came by it naturally.” The sweetness in her voice was better than honey on a homemade biscuit. And almost as good as her kiss.
He hated that he knew that. He loved that he was certain of it. When he closed his eyes, he saw only the image of her against the side of the house, hair tousled and face glowing. He could nearly feel her against him, taste the strawberry of her lip balm.
And he wanted more. He didn’t care how it would end. If there was a chance for them, he would make all the memories he could. That was what she was doing with her mom, and it was what he’d do with her.
“Meg?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I’ve missed you.”
Her nose wrinkled, but not in the way it did when she smelled bait or heard something she didn’t like. It was cute and sincere and completely adorable. “You saw me this morning.”
“I know. It wasn’t enough.”
She tugged on his hand, pulling it under her blankets as a shiver shook her. “I’ve missed you too.”
Suddenly his free hand was in her hair, his lips crashing into hers. She whimpered, and he almost pulled back, except her hand was fisted into his hoodie and wouldn’t let him go. She smelled of moonlight and fresh air, and her skin was intoxicating.
This moment. He wanted to cling to this moment for the rest of his life. If this was the only memory he had of her, it would be enough.
Liar.
It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. He wanted more. More memories. More days. More kisses. Mostly, he didn’t want to waste a single day. And the truth crushed him, stealing his breath.
He was in love with Meg Whitaker.
He couldn’t put his finger on the moment it happened, only that it had. If love meant comforting and trusting and caring for the other person, he was in it. Neck deep.
Other guys groused about women crying, but Oliver didn’t mind Meg’s tears. So long as she came to him to dry them. He loved that she shared her worries and fears with him and invited him to tell her his secrets.
And he certainly didn’t mind the sweet moments locked in her embrace. When he pulled back, he rested his head against hers, his arms around her back. She snuggled against him through layers and layers of blankets and bedding. But he could feel warmth radiating from deep in his own chest.
“Oliver?”
“Hmm?” He felt too lazy to form a full response.
“Can I ask you a favor?”
“Anything.” He meant it. Literally whatever she asked for.
“I need the boat.”
All his relaxed, languid thoughts spun into a sharp blade that sliced straight through his belly. The reminder that they couldn’t be together. That they weren’t meant for forever. That no matter what, the boat would always come between them.
“I want to take my mom to see the bridge at sunrise.”
His breath came out choppy with relief. “But you don’t have a license.”
She ducked her head, chewing on her lip and wrinkling her nose. “I know. It’ll just be for one morning. But it would mean a late start one day.”
He opened his mouth to say she could wait until after the season—they only had a few more weeks left. But in her eyes, he saw the fear that her last chance would be soon. She didn’t know when her mom would no longer be able to make such an outing. She was getting worse, and no one knew how fast. If he were Meg, he wouldn’t want any regrets either.
Smoothing his thumb over her cheek, he said, “Sure. I’ll take you and your mom out. Whenever you want to go.”
Her smile could have lit up the night sky.
Meg woke slowly at first and then all of a sudden when she squeezed her empty hand. Every time she’d woken throughout the night, his hand had been locked in hers. But when she looked over, he was gone, his sleeping bag rolled and stored.
Movement along the dock meant the day had started, and she scratched her head, wishing she could scratch her fuzzy brain awake too.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.” Oliver squatted beside her, a tall cup of coffee in his outstretched hand.
She took a long sip. “Thank you. Isn’t this my job?”
“You just looked so cute all curled up this morning. I didn’t want to wake you.” In the barely-there light of dawn, his smile showed off his teeth. He looked boyish and free, like the weight he’d been carrying the night before was gone.
With a glance over his shoulder, he said, “Kyle will be here soon. Let’s get this cleaned up.”
They made quick work of folding and storing her blankets just in time for Kyle’s arrival. In no time they were out on the water, the hauler reeling in the catch better than ever.
Kyle thumped her on the back, his mustache twitching in the wind. “Nice work, Meg. I haven’t seen it move this fast since your dad bought it.”
Her chest filled at the praise, warming her from the inside out. She loved fixing motors and making machines work. She loved tinkering and playing around with gadgets. But when she took a deep breath through her nose, she caught a whiff of the bait, and her stomach heaved. She did not love fishing.
The motions had become habit over nearly six weeks. Snagging the buoy with the gaff, feeding the vinyl line through the hauler, setting the traps on the counter for Oliver and Kyle to empty and then reset before throwing them back into the water. She’d emptied a fair number of traps too. But the strength it took to put the rubber bands around the lobster claws still made her hands ache. And no amount of Mama Potts’s magic cream soothed it away.
Oliver’s big paws made it easy. He didn’t flinch when the lobsters snapped at him. He gave an easy toss back to the water for the mama lobsters flush with eggs and the little babies and crabs that had lost their way.
He made it look effortless. It wasn’t.
> Teaching wasn’t effortless either. It was just a different kind of effort—a kind she genuinely liked. She liked watching her students grasp a tricky concept or see their pride in making an A on a difficult test. Jenna had been one of her favorites—a student who genuinely loved the formulas and the math. Her big brown eyes had lit up, her smile radiating to every corner of the classroom as she waved her returned test with a red 100 circled at the top.
But this was Meg’s family history. And if she wanted it to be her family’s future, she had to keep going. Maybe she could learn to love the work. Maybe it was in her blood. It was just hidden.
After dropping off three crates of live lobster at the shore, Oliver steered them back into the harbor, gliding them right against the wharf. Kyle tied them off, and Meg pulled out her mop and bucket.
A phone rang, and it sounded like the corded green one her dad had had on the wall up until a year before. Oliver dug into his pocket. He pressed the phone to his ear and strode toward the far end of the boat. “Hello.” He dropped his voice, but it still carried over the calling gulls. “Thanks for calling me back.”
Meg didn’t try to eavesdrop, but after everything he’d shared about his brother the night before, she couldn’t help but wonder if the call held some sort of news. With one ear toward Oliver, she turned back to her task, her mop sloshing across the deck.
Oliver turned his back, his shoulders hunching and his voice dropping even lower. She could only make out about half his words. “It’s a ninety-nine . . . Right . . . As possible.” He paused for a long moment. “Is that all? . . . To get three.”
Her stomach rocked with the boat, and she gave up all pretense of actual mopping. The call wasn’t about Eli. It almost sounded like Oliver wanted to sell something.
What did he have to sell? And why did he want to unload it as soon as possible? Or maybe she’d misunderstood that. Except she was pretty sure she hadn’t.
He turned toward her, his voice returning to normal. “Let me know if you change your mind.” Slipping his phone back into his pocket, he sighed.
“Everything okay?”
He nodded, but the tight line of his lips told a different story.
She wanted to sidle up next to him and ask him for the truth, but she wasn’t privy to all of his secrets. Just because he’d shared some didn’t mean she had a right to the others.
Resting her hands on the mop handle and her chin on top of them, she gave him what she hoped was a soothing smile. “You want to talk about it?”
He gave her a quick shake of his head, then paused. She could see the battle in his eyes between a desire to share and needing to hold close whatever was bothering him.
His phone rang again. He stared at the screen for a brief minute, then pointed toward the ladder up to the dock. “I’m going to take this over there.”
twenty-one
When Oliver pulled up to the Whitakers’ home a few days later, Meg’s car was already parked in front of the garage. Darkness blanketed the house, save for one window alight with life and the moon’s glow from above.
That boded well for their outing. Clear skies and perfect weather. So it did not explain why his insides were tied so tight he could hardly breathe.
He wasn’t nervous about seeing Meg or upset about starting their fishing day later than usual. Kyle had had another commitment and decided to take the day off, but he and Meg would have no problem pulling in the catch on their own. As long as he could keep from pulling her into his arms and kissing her soundly between reeling in every trap.
Just imagining that made him smile. But it didn’t remove the snarled mess in his belly.
He wasn’t upset about spending time with Mrs. Whitaker. In fact, he was looking forward to it. He knew his feelings couldn’t be compared with Meg’s, but he would savor every minute he got to spend with the sweet woman before they couldn’t make any more memories. The adventures might be for Meg, but he didn’t mind taking advantage of them too.
That left only one thing responsible for the writhing in his guts. Seeing Whitaker.
Oliver hadn’t said more than a brief greeting in passing at church the day before. Certainly not since he’d gotten that strange call.
Everything he knew told him he needed to tell Whitaker about the call, about the offer. But telling him that a broker had another interested buyer—a cash buyer at that—when Oliver wasn’t sure he was going to be able to scrape together the down payment did not bode well. In fact, it spelled devastation.
For him, at least. For Whitaker, it might be the good news he’d been hoping for. He’d make a pretty penny before the falling industry prices tanked the market. They’d swing back up. They always did. But it would certainly drop the going rate on a boat and a license. And right now was the best Whitaker could ask for.
The call had been cursory at best. The broker from Charlottetown had heard from his friend Jeffrey Druthers that Whitaker was looking to sell. And he knew someone looking to buy. The buyer would pay up front as soon as the season was over. Oliver was privy to all of that information because the business number had been forwarded to his phone.
He should have expected something like this—after all, Druthers had warned him—but it had knocked Oliver back, knocked him clear to the ground. He’d mumbled something about passing the message on to Whitaker and then hung up.
Why hadn’t he told Whitaker already? Why hadn’t he at least told Meg?
He hung his head and slammed his fist against his steering wheel. This was not the man he wanted to be. But apparently it was the man he was.
Suddenly the side door swung open, framing two silhouettes in bright light. Oliver jumped from the truck and ran up to them, reaching for Mrs. Whitaker’s hand. “Good morning.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Are you coming with us?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He held on to her elbow as she took the three steps down, her foot reaching and retreating with uncertainty. She was bundled up in a heavy parka, her joints frail and thin.
Meg stood on the far side of her, and Whitaker was at the threshold, watching his wife like an eagle watching her chicks. “You sure you have to go out this early?” he asked.
With a reassuring smile in her dad’s direction, Meg waved off his worry. “We’ll be back before you know it. This is an adventure that Mom needs to have. Oliver will take good care of us, won’t you?”
He nodded, a lump in his throat leaving no room for words. Whitaker and Meg trusted him with their most important things. Loves and legacies. And he was keeping a secret that could change both of their lives.
Whitaker looked at him hard. “Take care.” It wasn’t an admonition to care for himself but a warning to bring back the women he loved unscathed.
Oliver nodded. He could do that.
Mrs. Whitaker sat tense, shaking on the bench seat beside him as they rolled down the deserted street toward the marina.
Meg grabbed her hand. “You’re going to love this, Mom.”
Such a small reassurance was all it took for her to relax. “Water?”
“Yes. We’re going out on the water. On the Pinch.”
Her body grew stiff again. “I don’t want to . . . don’t want to . . .” Her lips moved and closed and opened again, searching for a word.
“Don’t worry, Mom. We’re not fishing.” Meg’s thumb made a slow sweeping circle over the back of her mom’s hand, her voice even and mellow. “You don’t have to fish.”
Mrs. Whitaker let out a pent-up breath between trembling lips.
Oliver caught Meg’s gaze over the top of her mom’s head. He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but her lip quivered too.
How he wished he could tell her it was all going to be all right.
By the time they reached the boat, Meg decided she’d made a terrible mistake. Her mom’s mood had swung from excitement to fear to wide-eyed anticipation to hand-wringing anxiety in only a few short minutes.
She tried to picture her mom’s smile as sh
e splashed in the ocean and to imagine how she would respond to the splendor that was coming. But all she could think about was how this disease was changing her mom. How she was no longer the woman who delivered groceries to Oliver’s family all those years ago, who comforted Meg after her robot had been destroyed, her chance at the scholarship shredded.
This PSP was turning her mom into someone Meg barely recognized. It was stealing her away.
Maybe it would be better to just turn around and take her home. Tuck her back into bed, keep her in familiar surroundings.
And miss out on the chance to see her face glow.
Nope. She wasn’t going to miss out on this. Maybe her mom wouldn’t always remember, but for as long as she did, she’d remember that Meg had brought her to see this.
After Oliver set her mom on the ground and made sure she was steady, he plucked three long canvas bags from the bed of his truck. Slinging their black straps over his shoulder, he linked arms with her mom and strolled toward the big gray pub.
“You haven’t been on the Pinch in a while, have you?”
Mom shook her head. “Can’t remember the last time. Walt . . . took me dancing once.”
Oliver nodded, shooting a questioning gaze over her head.
“For their anniversary one year, he strung white lights around the boat and took her out on the water,” Meg said. “They had dinner and danced under the stars.” She had thought it was maybe the most romantic thing in the world. How much her dad loved her mom.
“That must have been quite a night.”
Mom mumbled in agreement as they reached the boat. But she froze above the ladder, refusing to climb down. “I can’t.”
“It’s okay,” Meg said, wrapping her arms around her mom’s shoulders. “I’ll go first.”
Oliver stopped her, his big hand on her shoulder. “Let me.” He nearly leapt onto the deck, tossing his cargo down, and then reached back and lifted her mom in some sort of eighties-movie dance move. He even added a spin at the end that made her giggle.
