Rising Tides

by Nora Roberts

  looked over her little patch of yard. "I don't know if we can be friends the way we were before. I know it's hard to be at odds with someone you care about. I made up with my father tonight."

  "Did you?" He stepped forward, then stopped because she'd shifted away. Just a little, just enough to tell him he no longer had the right to touch. "I'm glad."

  "I suppose I have you to thank for it. If I hadn't been so mad at you, I wouldn't have let myself be mad at him and get everything out. I'm grateful for that, and I appreciate your apology. Now I'm tired, so—"

  "You said a lot of things to me today." She wasn't going to brush him off until he'd finished.

  "Yes, I did." She shifted again, met his gaze straight on.

  "Some of it was right, but not all. Not acting on how I felt about you before… it's the way it had to be."

  "Because you say so."

  "Because you couldn't have been more than fourteen when I started loving you, and wanting you. I was close to eight years older. I was a man when you were still a girl. It would have been wrong to touch you then. Maybe I waited too long." He stopped, shook his head. "I did wait too long. But I'd had time to think it through and I'd promised myself I wouldn't get you tangled up with me. You were the only one who I wanted enough that it mattered. Part of it was for me because I knew if I ever had you I wouldn't want to let you go."

  "And you'd already decided that you would."

  "I'd decided that I was going to live my life pretty much alone. I was managing that well enough until recently."

  "You see it as a noble sacrifice. I see it as ignorance." She lifted her hands, knowing she was heating up again. "I guess we'd better leave it at that."

  "You know damn well that if we were to get married you'd want more children."

  "Yes, I would. And while I'll never agree with your reasoning for not making them together, there are other ways to make a family. You of all people should know. We could have adopted children."

  He stared at her. "You… I figured you'd want to get pregnant."

  "You figured right. I would want it because I would treasure your child living inside me, and knowing you were there with us. But that doesn't mean I couldn't find another way. What if I couldn't have children, Ethan? What if we were in love and planning to be married, and we found out I couldn't have babies? Would you stop loving me because of it? Would you tell me you couldn't marry me?"

  "No, of course not. That's—"

  "That's not love," she finished. "But it's not a matter of can't. It's a matter of won't. And I could have tried to understand your feelings if you hadn't kept them from me. If you hadn't turned me away when all I wanted was to help you. And I won't compromise on everything. I won't be with a man who doesn't respect my feelings and who won't share his problems with me. I won't be with a man who doesn't love me enough to stay. To make a promise to me to grow old with me and to be a father to my child. And I won't spend my life having an affair with you and then having to explain to my daughter why you didn't love and respect me enough to marry me."

  She stepped toward the door.

  "Don't." He shut his eyes, fought down panic. "Don't turn away from me, Grace."

  "I'm not doing the turning away. Don't you see, Ethan? You've been doing the turning away all along."

  "I've ended up right back where I started. Looking at you. Needing you. I'm never going to be able to stop now. I made so many promises to myself about you. I keep breaking them. I let her put her hands on this, too," he said slowly. "I let her put her mark on what we have. I want to clear that mark away, if you give me the chance."

  He lifted his shoulders. "I've been doing some thinking."

  She nearly smiled. "Well, there's news."

  "Do you want to hear what I'm thinking now?" Following instinct, listening to his heart, he started up the stairs. "I'm thinking it's always been you, Grace, and only you. It's always going to be you, and only you. I can't help it if I want to take care of you. It doesn't mean I think you're weak. It's only because you're precious to me."

  "Ethan." He would make her give in. She knew it. "Don't."

  "And I'm thinking I'm not going to be able to give you the chance to live without me after all."

  He took her hands, holding them when she tried to tug them free. And keeping his eyes on hers, he drew her out and down the steps to catch the last gilded light of the setting sun.

  "I'll never let you down," he told her. "I'll never stop needing you to stand beside me. You make me happy, Grace. I haven't valued that enough, but I will from now on. I love you."

  He touched his lips to her brow when she trembled. "The sun's setting. You said that was the best time for daydreams. Maybe it's the best time to pick the dream you want to hold on to. I want to hold on to this one. I need you to look at me," he said softly and lifted her face to his. "Will you marry me?"

  Joy and hope blossomed within her. "Ethan—"

  "Don't answer yet." But he'd seen the answer, and overcome with gratitude, he brought her hands to his lips. "Will you give Aubrey to me, let me give her my name? Let me be her father?"

  Tears began to swim in her eyes. She willed them back. She wanted to see him clearly as he stood watching her with his face so serious, lit by the last quiet light of the day. "You know—"

  "Not yet," he murmured and this time touched his lips to hers. "There's one more. Will you have my children, Grace?"

  He saw the tears she'd been struggling to hold back spill over and wondered that he could ever have thought to deny them both that joy, that right, that promise.

  "Make a life with me, one that comes from love, one that I can watch grow in you. Only a fool would believe that what comes from what we have together would be anything but beautiful."

  She framed his face with her hands, took that picture into her heart. "Before I answer, I need to know that this is what you want, not just for me but for yourself."

  "I want a family. I want to build what my parents built, and I need to build it with you."

  Her lips curved slowly. "I'll marry you, Ethan. I'll give you my daughter. I'll make children with you. And we'll take care of each other."

  He drew her close, just to hold, while the sun slipped away and the light shimmered into evening. Her heart beat quick and light against his. Her single quiet sigh echoed seconds before the whippoorwill began to sing in the plum tree next door.

  "I was afraid you weren't going to be able to forgive me."

  "So was I."

  "Then I figured, hell, she loves me too much. I can get around her." The laugh rumbled out as he nuzzled her throat. "You're not the only one who can reel somebody in like a damn rockfish."

  "Took you long enough to bait the hook."

  "If you take your time about things, you end up with the best at the end of the day." He buried his face in her hair, wanting the scent and the texture. "Now, I've got the best. Good, solid stoneware."

  Laughing, she leaned back so she could see his eyes. The humor there, she thought, was aimed at both of them. "You're a smart man, Ethan."

  "Few hours ago you said I was stupid."

  "You were." She pressed a noisy kiss on his cheek. "Now you're smart."

  "I missed you, Grace."

  She closed her eyes and held tight, thinking it was a day for forgiveness. And hope. And beginnings. "I missed you, Ethan." She sighed, then gave the air a puzzled sniff. "Peanuts," she said and snuggled against him. "That's funny. I could swear I smell peanuts."

  "I'll explain it to you." He tilted her head up for one soft kiss. "In a little while."

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  INNER HARBOR

  Nora Roberts's trilogy about the lives and loves of three brothers continues with a captivating new novel…

  Phillip Quinn would always remember the generosity of the couple who took him in and gave him a second chance at life. And he vowed to keep his promise to his father by helping to raise young Seth. Even through the difficult times, the Qu
inn family had never been so strong. Until Phillip falls in love with a beautiful woman who holds a secret that could destroy everything…

  phillip quinn died at the age of thirteen. Since the overworked and underpaid staff at the Baltimore City Hospital emergency room zapped him back in less than ninety seconds, he wasn't dead very long.

  As far as he was concerned, it was plenty long enough.

  What had killed him—briefly—was two .25-caliber bullets pumped out of a Saturday night special shoved through the open window of a stolen Toyota Celica. The finger on the trigger had belonged to a close personal friend—or as near to a close personal friend as a thirteen-year-old thief could claim on Baltimore's bad streets.

  The bullets missed his heart. Not by much, but in later years Phillip considered it just far enough.

  That heart, young and strong, if sadly jaded, continued to beat as he lay, his blood pouring out over the used condoms and crack vials in the stinking gutter on the corner of Fayette and Paca.

  The pain was obscene, like sharp, burning icicles stabbing into his chest. But that grinning pain refused to take him under, into the release of unconsciousness. He lay awake and aware, hearing the screams of other victims or bystanders, the squeal of brakes, the revving engines, and his own ragged and rapid breathing.

  He'd just fenced a small haul of electronics that he stole from a third-story walk-up less than four blocks away. With two hundred fifty dollars in his pocket, he had swaggered down to score a dime bag to help him get through the night. Since he'd just been sprung from ninety days in juvie for another B and E that hadn't gone quite so smoothly, he was out of the loop. And out of cash.

  Now it appeared he was out of luck.

  Later he would remember thinking, Shit, oh, shit, this hurts! But he couldn't seem to wrap his mind around another thought. He'd gotten in the way. He knew that. The bullets weren't meant for him, in particular. He'd caught a glimpse of the gang colors in that frozen three seconds before the gun had fired. His own colors, when he bothered to associate himself with one of the gangs who roamed the streets and alleys of the city.

  If he hadn't just popped out of the system, he wouldn't have been on that corner at that moment. He would have been warned to stay clear, and he wouldn't be sprawled on the street, staring into the dirty mouth of the gutter while his lifeblood pumped out of him.

  Lights flashed—blue, red, white. Dully, he watched them turn the gutter trash into bright, nasty gifts. The scream of sirens pierced through human screams. Cops. Even through the slick haze of pain, his instinct was to run. In his mind he sprang up—young, agile, street-smart and melted into the shadows. But even at the effort of the thought, cold sweat slid down his face.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, fingers probing until they reached the thready pulse in his throat.

  This one's breathing. Get the paramedics over here.

  Someone turned him over. The pain was unspeakable, but he couldn't release the scream that ripped through his head. He saw faces swimming over him, the hard eyes of the cop, the grim ones of the medical technician. Red, blue, and white lights burning his eyes. Someone wept in high, keening sobs.

  Hang in there, kid.

  Why? He wanted to ask why. It hurt to be there. He was never going to escape as he'd once promised himself he would. What was left of his life was running red into the gutter. What had come before was only ugliness. What was now was only pain.

  What was the damn point?

  He went away for a while, sinking down below the pain, where the world was a dark and dingy red. From somewhere outside that world came the shriek of the sirens, the pressure on his chest, the speeding motion of the ambulance.

  Then lights again, bright white to seer his closed lids. And he was flying while voices shouted on all sides of him.

  Bullet wounds, chest. BP's eighty over fifty and falling, pulse thready and rapid. In and out. Pupils are good.

  Type and cross-match. We need pictures. On three. One, two, three.

  His body seemed to jerk, up, then down. He no longer cared. Even the dingy red was going gray. A tube was pushing its way down his throat, and he didn't bother to try to cough it out. He barely felt it. Barely felt anything and thanked God for it.

  BP's dropping. We're losing him.

  I've been lost a long time, he thought.

  With vague interest he watched them, half a dozen green-suited people in a small room where a tall blond boy lay on a table. Blood was everywhere. His blood, he realized. He was on that table with his chest torn open. He looked down at himself with detached sympathy. No more pain now, and the quiet sense of relief nearly made him smile.

  He floated higher, until the scene below took on a pearly sheen and the sounds were nothing but echoes.

  The pain tore through him, an abrupt shock that jerked the body on the table, sucked him back. His struggle to pull away was brief and fruitless. He was inside again, feeling again, lost again.

  The next thing he knew, he was riding in a drug-hazed blur. Someone was snoring. The room was dark and the bed narrow and hard. A backwash of light filtered through a pane of glass that was spotted with fingerprints. Machines beeped and sucked monotonously. Wanting only to escape the sounds, he rolled back under.

  He was in and out for two days. He was very lucky. That's what they told him. There was a pretty nurse with tired eyes and a doctor with graying hair and thin lips. He wasn't ready to believe them, not when he was too weak to lift his head, not when the hideous pain swarmed back into him every two hours like clockwork.

  When the two cops came in he was awake, and the pain was smothered under a few layers of morphine. He made them as cops at a glance. His instincts weren't so dulled that he didn't recognize the walk, the shoes, the eyes. He didn't need the identification they flashed at him.

  "Gotta smoke?" Phillip asked it of everyone who passed through. He had a low-grade desperation for nicotine, even though he doubted he could manage to suck on a cigarette.

  "You're too young to smoke." The first cop pasted on an avuncular smile and stationed himself on one side of the bed. The Good Cop, Phillip thought wearily.

  "I'm getting older every minute."

  "You're lucky to be alive." The second cop kept his face hard as he pulled out a notebook.

  And the Bad Cop, Phillip decided. He was nearly amused.

  "That's what they keep telling me. So, what the hell happened?"

  "You tell us." Bad Cop poised his pencil over a page of his book.

  "I got the shit shot out of me."

  "What were you doing on the street?"

  "I think I was going home." He'd already decided how to play it. He let his eyes close. "I can't remember exactly. I'd been… at the movies?" He made it a question, opening his eyes. He could see that Bad Cop wasn't going to buy it, but what could they do?

  "What movie did you see? Who were you with?"

  "Look, I don't know. It's all messed up. One minute I was walking, the next I was facedown in the street."

  "Just tell us what you remember." Good Cop laid a hand on Phillip's shoulder. "Take your time."

  "It happened fast. I heard shots—it must have been shots. Somebody was screaming, and it was like something exploded in my chest." That much was pretty close to truth.

  "Did you see a car? Did you see the shooter?"

  Both were etched like acid on steel in his brain. "I think I saw a car—dark color. A flash."

  "You belong to the Flames."

  Phillip shifted his gaze to Bad Cop. "I hang with them sometimes."

  "Three of the bodies we scraped off the street were members of the Tribe. They weren't as lucky as you. The Flames and the Tribe have a lot of bad blood between them."

  "So I've heard."

  "You took two bullets, Phil." Good Cop settled his face into concerned lines. "Another inch either way, you'd have been dead before you hit the pavement. You look like a smart kid. A smart kid doesn't fool himself into believing he needs to be loyal to
assholes."

  "I didn't see anything." It wasn't loyalty. It was survival. If he rolled over, he was dead.

  "You had over two hundred in your wallet."

  Phillip shrugged, then regretted it, as the movement stirred up the ghosts of pain. "Yeah? Well, maybe I can pay my bill here at the Hilton."

  "Don't smart-mouth me, you little punk." Bad Cop leaned over the bed. "I see your kind every fucking day. Not out of the system twenty hours before you end up bleeding your guts into a gutter."

  Phillip didn't flinch. "Is getting shot a violation of my parole?"

  "Where'd you get the money?"

  "I don't remember."

  "You were down in Drug City to score."

  "Did you find any drugs on me?"

  "Maybe we did. You wouldn't remember, would you?"

  Good one, Phillip mused. "I could sure as hell use some now."

  "Ease off a little." Good Cop shifted his feet. "Look, son, you cooperate and we'll play square with you. You've been in and out of the system enough to know how it works."

  "If the system worked I wouldn't be here, would I? You can't do anything to me that hasn't been done. For Christ's sake, if I'd known something was going down I wouldn't have been there."

  The sudden disturbance out in the hall took the cops' attention away. Phillip merely closed his eyes. He recognized the voice raised in bitter fury.

  Stoned, was his first and last thought. And when she stumbled into the room, he opened his eyes and saw he'd been right on target.

  She'd dressed up for the visit, he noted. Her yellow hair was teased and sprayed into submission, and she'd put on full makeup. Under it, she might have been a pretty woman, but the mask was hard and tough. Her body was good—it was what kept her in business. Strippers who moonlight as hookers need a good package. She'd poured on a halter and jeans, and clicked her way over to the bed on three-inch heels.

  "Who the hell do you think's gonna pay for this? You're nothing but trouble."

  "Hi, Ma. Nice to see you, too."

  "Don't you sass me. I got cops coming to the door 'cause of you. I'm sick of it." She flashed a look at the men on either side of the bed. Like her son, she recognized cops. "He's almost fourteen years old. I'm done with him. He ain't coming back on me this time. I ain't having cops and social workers breathing down my neck anymore."

  She flicked off the nurse who hustled in to grab her arm and leaned over the bed. "Why the hell didn't you just die?"

  "I don't know," Phillip said calmly. "I tried."

  "You've never been any good." She hissed at Good Cop when he pulled her back. "Never been any damn good. Don't you come around looking for a place to stay when you get out of here," she shouted as she was dragged out of the room. "I'm done with you."

  Phillip waited, listening to her swearing, shouting, demanding papers to sign to get him out of her life. Then he looked up at Bad Cop. "You think you can scare me? I live with that. Nothing's worse than living with that."

  Two days later, strangers came into the room. The man was huge, with blue eyes bright in a wide face. The woman had a face full of freckles and wild red hair that escaped from a messy knot at the nape of her neck. The woman took his chart from the foot of the bed, scanned it, then tapped it against her palm.

  "Hello, Phillip. I'm Dr. Stella Quinn. This is my husband, Ray."

  "Yeah, so?"

  Ray pulled a chair up to the side of the bed, sat down with a sigh of pleasure. He angled his head, studied Phillip briefly. "You've got yourself in a

  hell of a mess here, haven't you? Want to get out of it?"