The Coast Road Home (A Pelican Pointe Novel Book 13)

by Vickie McKeehan

  When he tried to tuck her legs and body under the covers, she barely moved, merely flopping over on her side.

  Watching her sleep, he realized he should probably head down the hall to one of the other rooms. Or maybe sleep on the couch downstairs. But as he gathered up a blanket and pillow, he changed his mind.

  It was his house. He’d be damned if he ended up sleeping anywhere but in his own bed.

  He stripped down to his boxers and slipped under the covers next to her. Within minutes, he fell into a sound sleep.

  Ten

  Morning light blasted through the bank of windows to jolt the sleepyheads awake.

  Gideon stirred first, lifting his hand to cover his eyes, hoping to block out the bright light. With one eye open, he glanced over at the female form snuggled next to him.

  Sometime during the night, she’d stolen most of the cover, leaving him nothing but the top sheet to keep warm. She’d not only taken over her side of the bed but his as well. After roaming way across the imaginary line into his territory, his ass teetered on the edge of the mattress. One wrong move and he’d end up on the floor.

  His bedmate seemed oblivious to his predicament. Not three inches from his chin, she snored lightly into his pillow. Using his legs, he wriggled off the bed until he could stand up. He went to the dresser, slowly opening a drawer and trying not to make too much noise. Reaching in, he grabbed a pair of sweatpants.

  The movement—or maybe it was the sound of the drawer opening—brought Marley out of her stupor. She sat up, pushing her disheveled hair out of her face so she could see. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m thinking about getting dressed, or maybe taking a shower. But now that I’m up, I realize I need coffee.” He stuck one leg into the sweatpants, then another, tied the string at the waist.

  “What exactly happened last night?”

  “You tell me. You didn’t go home.”

  She looked down at what she had on. “Aww, I slept in my brand-new outfit. Now it’s all wrinkled.”

  “That’s what you’re concerned about?”

  “You sound upset. Why are you upset?”

  “You stole all the cover. You’re a cover hog.”

  Amused at his mood, she swung her feet to the floor and tried to smooth out the creases in her dress. “Jeez, did anyone ever tell you that you’re grouchy without your coffee? What’d I do anyway? Uh, did we…you know…the two of us…?”

  Gideon rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and tried for patience. He rummaged through another drawer until he pulled out a T-shirt and yanked it over his head. “You’re still wearing the same dress you had on last night. At no time did I attempt to get you out of it, so no, we did not have sex. I came home, and you were passed out in my bed.”

  “You could’ve slept in one of the other bedrooms. Why didn’t you?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Fair point. About that coffee. Since you’re in such a rotten mood, I’ll take mine to go.”

  “Look, you don’t have to leave. I’ll make breakfast, and then we’ll talk.” He started to storm out but stopped when he got a better look at her face. He walked over, lifted it up to the sunlight. “Is that a new bruise on your chin? What did you do last night after I left?”

  “Could you lower your voice just a bit and stop yelling at me? I’ve got this hangover. My head’s throbbing. It turns out, I might’ve been slightly tipsy when I made my way upstairs. Which is why I might’ve bumped into the wall, or maybe it was the bedframe. I forget which. Things are kind of fuzzy for sure after I finished off the bottle of chardonnay, and, well, basically, I hid the evidence in the trash on the side of the house.”

  “How long have you had this affection for wine?”

  “Oh, shut up. You don’t have a right to ask that question. Why does everyone think I have a problem?”

  “I’m not everyone. Besides, if you’re copping to hiding evidence, I’d say that’s a problem, deep down you know it.”

  “I don’t have to stand here and get insulted.”

  He grabbed her hand as she tried to march past him. “I’m worried about you. That’s all.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  She let out a sigh and turned in his arms, burying her head in his chest. “Okay. I drink too much. But for the past three years, it’s all I have going for me. That, and anger. And maybe grief.”

  “That’s your go-to line, isn’t it?”

  “What if it is? You try coping!”

  “Point taken.” He raised her chin and placed a kiss on the new bruise. “Why don’t we spend the day checking out the houses around town? Maybe something you like will jump out at you.”

  “What? No long-winded lecture?”

  “If I’d been through everything you’ve been through, I might not even be able to get out of bed every day. So, no. No long-winded sermon. But surely you realize you can’t use alcohol as a crutch forever. You’re in a different place than you were. It might be time to think about starting over for real. Isn’t that why you left the only home you’ve ever known trying to put all those memories behind you?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure it’s even possible.”

  “You have to try. Leo and Riordan, they’d want you to try.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Sure, I do. Your kids wouldn’t want you hurting yourself. Your parents and brother wouldn’t want that either.”

  “See? These days I’m always messing things up.”

  He kept her hand in his as he led her down the stairs. “Come on, I’ll make that coffee and fix you pancakes. Then we’ll get in touch with Logan and see if he can suggest a place to start looking.”

  When they reached the kitchen, he knew he had to get her talking about something else. “Did you sell your house back in New Glarus?”

  “I did. If you point me to the ingredients, I can make the pancakes. I make delicious pancakes from scratch.”

  He went over and opened the door to the pantry, set out the flour and sugar, and took out a carton of eggs and milk from the fridge. “This should get you started. I’d planned on using mix, but pancakes from scratch are even better. Mixing bowls are in the cabinet over the toaster. I’ll get the coffee going.”

  They worked on opposite ends of the island. While he fiddled with the grinder, she lined up all she needed for the batter. “You do have baking powder, right? And vanilla? I’ll need pure vanilla. And a lemon.”

  “Lemon? For pancakes? I’m not sure I have one.” He dug out a can of baking powder from the depths of the pantry and handed it off along with a small bottle of pure vanilla. “The lemon would be in the fridge. Check the vegetable bin.”

  “Not there,” she muttered, getting back to the task at hand. “That’s okay. I’ll make do. I’m impressed you had the other stuff. Do you do a lot of cooking?”

  After pouring fresh water into the coffeemaker, he started the brewing process. “Necessity sometimes means cooking for yourself. It’s not always feasible to rely on takeout.”

  “Is it always busy at the hospital?”

  “Seems like. The ER is always dealing with accidents, not just car-related either. But I guess it figures a town this size located near a huge body of water would see its fair share of boating accidents, water-related injuries, and near-drownings. And just last week, before you came skidding onto the scene, Hollis Crow slipped off his garbage truck and suffered a compound fracture, bone ripped right through the skin. He even tore the tendon in his right leg. The injury meant he needed emergency surgery.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’ll be laid up for a few weeks, but he’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks to your surgical skills.”

  He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “They do come in handy sometimes. Like for this.” He slipped his hands around her waist, then leaned down and nibbled her neck.

  Because her hands were busy stirring batter, she let him nip and gnaw and th
en elbowed him out of the way when it came time to move to the stove. “You can’t do that while I’m cooking.”

  “Otherwise, you didn’t seem to mind?”

  “No, it felt…fabulous.”

  “Good to know.”

  When it came time to pour the batter onto the griddle, she deftly handled the chore by dropping scoops that sizzled and then turned a golden brown. He peered over her shoulder, sniffing the air. “Those are fluffier than the ones that come out of a box.”

  “Goes without saying. Wait until you taste these.” She flipped a stack onto a plate and handed it off. “You get the syrup, pour the coffee, and we’re ready to chow down.”

  They chowed down, inhaling the food with gusto.

  “These are the best pancakes I’ve ever had,” Gideon noted. “How did you make these with what I had on hand?”

  “Easy. I keep the recipe up here,” she said, tapping the side of her head near where the stitches were. “I’ve made these a hundred times. This was Leo’s favorite breakfast. Sometimes he even begged me to make them for supper. Riordan always preferred waffles.”

  He put his hand over hers. “You can talk about them all you want, you know?”

  “I’ve spent three years trying not to.” Forking over a generous bite, she stuffed her mouth so she wouldn’t go into detail.

  “Do you ever wonder if keeping your feelings bottled up is the reason you aren’t…”

  “Moving on faster?” she tossed out with a snarl.

  Gideon shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. No one should set a time limit on how long it takes to grieve. That’s a ridiculous notion. I don’t blame you for wanting to leave what was familiar behind, yet hurtful, for a chance at something else. You should really stop beating yourself up for feeling like you’ve abandoned them.”

  “Don’t do that. Don’t…” Her voice trailed off as she picked up her coffee mug. “Am I really that transparent all the time?”

  “You just seem so sad to me.” He stood up to clear the mess off the table. “You cooked, it’s up to me to clean up.”

  “You really don’t like messes to sit for longer than five minutes, do you?” She watched him scuttle to the sink and back, trying to figure him out. “Gotta be the doctor in you, right?”

  “Are you calling me a clean freak?”

  “If the shoe fits. You did insinuate that I’m a Sorrowful Susie most of the time.”

  He started to protest that description but realized it hit close to the mark. “I didn’t mean to throw shade.”

  “Why is it people say they mean well when it’s the opposite? What they’re really doing is aiming poison darts at your back. It doesn’t matter. I need to get going and get out of this dress.”

  “I’ll take you home, then we can meet with Logan.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  He blew out an irritated breath. “Why is everything a battle with you? I’m just trying to facilitate a meeting with someone who actually might have a house for you to see. But you do it your way.”

  Tossing a dishtowel on the counter, he stalked out of the room.

  “Well, that was inevitable,” Marley mumbled as she tried to remember where she’d left her purse. And maybe her shoes.

  She found her handbag next to the front door and her sneakers near the back. She let herself outside, remembering the pang of panic she’d experienced the night before. She took out her phone and for the first time realized Keva had sent her half a dozen frenzied text messages about not showing up at the bar. And later, not answering the door at the house.

  Marley quickly replied, sending assurances to Keva that everything was fine. She decided on the spot that last night had turned into an embarrassing attempt to get closer to Gideon. Instead of acting like a normal person, she’d made a fool of herself from start to finish. Circling back to the front of the house, she had to make things right. After all, like it or not, the man was her physician. Before she lost her nerve, she rapped on the door.

  As soon as Gideon opened it, she swallowed her pride and stepped closer. “Look, I’m sorry. You should probably know that I’m used to doing things by myself. I’ve been independent for so long I might not know how to…rely on others for anything.”

  He pulled her into the entryway. “I’m sorry, too. I’ve been grumpy since I woke up.”

  “The cover hog thing?”

  He cracked a grin. “Maybe. Probably more like sexual tension. But now that you bring it up, no one likes sleeping cold. So, you do admit to stealing my cover?”

  “Let’s see, compulsively neat and won’t let go of an argument. That’s…two annoying traits right there to overcome.”

  He scratched his chin. “Yeah, I’m not the easiest person to live with.”

  She put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. “Me either. We could drive each other crazy in five hours or less.”

  “I guess we’ll see. I called Logan. He’s agreed to meet us at his office at ten.”

  “I’ll go home and change, then you swing by and get me. Give me an hour to shower and do my hair. How does that sound?”

  “I’ll be there.” He leaned down and lightly placed a kiss on her mouth.

  She ran a hand up his chest. “Do I really have you all to myself today without treating patients?”

  “As long as I don’t get called to the hospital, I’m all yours.”

  Gideon’s words were enough to spook her into finally heading home.

  I’m all yours, he’d said.

  That troubled her as she headed into the bathroom for a shower. Stepping under the spray, she could only ponder what that meant exactly. An expression. He wasn’t really hers, no one belonged to her, not anymore. She was alone, probably forever, and she needed to start accepting that fact. Beginning today, she would embrace it. Keep it in the back of her mind while she looked at houses.

  Truth of it was that she was actually quite tired of being miserable. Fed up with dragging around grief wherever she went. In the past, she might never have been the life of the party, but at least she’d known how to enjoy herself in social settings. These days, she avoided social settings, pretty much avoided people.

  But hadn’t she left Wisconsin to start over? To put all that behind her once and for all? If that had been the point, then she was doing a horrible job of transitioning to happy. What was wrong with her, anyway?

  She soaped up, spending a lot of time practicing her breathing. With each deep breath, the pain seemed to level out. Somehow, she needed to find an appropriate time to ask Gideon if wearing bindings would help her get around better.

  She rinsed off, then shampooed her hair, ever careful to avoid the stitches on the side of her head. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror gave her shivers. Her body looked so banged up it was pathetic.

  Hoping she could recreate Abby’s cool hairstyle from the day before, she tried to recall all the steps the stylist had taken to get it to look so good. As unlikely as that seemed, it was too late anyway, as the water sluiced through her hair, wiping out everything Abby had perfected.

  Feeling cleaner, she turned off the water and toweled off, stepping gingerly out of the tub and onto a cute blue rug in the shape of a bear. No doubt an item left over from Gilly’s kids.

  In the bedroom, she checked the time, planning to take advantage of every minute she had to look her best. Cautious of the stitches, the first step was to tame her tangled hair. Dividing her head into sections, she layered the areas to blow-dry as Abby had done. With varying degrees of success, she managed to shape the mop into a reasonable facsimile from yesterday. Not as great as a pro maybe, but enough that it looked similar.

  Next, she applied makeup over her bruises, something that seemed easier today because the ugly purple had turned to a lighter shade of yellow.

  When she was satisfied that she looked as good as possible—minus the tiny bald spot on her head and the bumps on her face—she dug out a cropped pair of jeans and a cute litt
le button-down top in mint green.

  After slipping into her canvas sneakers, she looked ready for a day of house hunting. If one overlooked the apparent flaws, that is.

  By the time Gideon showed up, she was more put together than she’d been in three years.

  Gideon took notice. “You look fantastic. And you’re moving around better.”

  “I feel better. When can I get rid of these awful stitches though? They’re beginning to itch and be uncomfortable.”

  “Itching is a sign you’re healing. You need to keep the stitches hydrated, though. Didn’t the staff give you Vaseline for that before you checked out?”

  “Yeah, but it messes up my hair.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Trust me, this is one time you need to put vanity aside.”

  “I’m not that vain. And what about my ribs? Wouldn’t it be better if I had bandages around my ribcage?”

  “Nope. Compression bandages are a bad idea, an old, outdated method that limits the deep breathing, and therefore, increases the chances of pneumonia. Binders are generally used if you have multiple fractures there, which you don’t have. But feel free to get a second opinion,” Gideon suggested with a sly grin. “Mind if I lift up your shirt to see how tender the ribs are now?”

  “Sure. I’ve been doing that deep breathing stuff for days.”

  Gideon felt along her left side. “And it’s paying off. When it comes to ribs, there’s a process of natural healing that happens. You don’t want to mess that up. I wouldn’t want to surgically have to go in and put in metal plates. Get the point?”

  “I suppose. What’s the natural healing process? And why does it take so long?”

  “It’s normal to get impatient with recovery. But trust me, compression bandages wouldn’t make you any more comfortable. It used to be that doctors thought the tightness was a good thing to hold the ribs in place long enough for the periosteum sheath to naturally help the bones knit back together. But the bindings are unnecessary for that healing process to take place.”

  “That makes sense. I guess. Whatever you just said. I sound like an annoying bad patient.”

  “I think you’re beginning to feel better and that makes you impatient to get back to a normal routine.”