Harbor
Page 22
His gnarled hands gripped the curved black railing in front of him, and he let the moisture wick onto his skin. The tide was ebbing. Curls of foam stuck to the white sand as the water receded along the shoreline. The bubbles grew and popped in time for the next roll of waves to stretch toward them.
In between the gusts of wind, the sounds of those waves washed through the air. Marcus was lost in thought as his eyes drifted past the shoreline and toward the rising sun.
In his mind, he saw the treehouse he’d built for Wesson’s ninth birthday. He’d painstakingly designed and constructed the fort by hand. He remembered stepping onto the front porch of their home, his boy tackling his leg.
“Is it finished?” Wes asked. He craned his neck to look up, almost vertically, into Marcus’s eyes.
“Yes,” Marcus told him. “You’ll be able to play in the fort until you shove off to college.”
Wesson had buried his head in his father’s leg and squeezed. Tears had welled in Marcus’s eyes then, as they did now, standing on the lighthouse balcony.
He couldn’t remember Wesson’s face anymore. Not the finer details, only the vague shape of his head, the mop of hair atop it, the gangly arms and legs. The same was true for Sylvia. The shape of her, the sound of her laugh, her beautiful smile were there in his memory, but he couldn’t smell her anymore. He didn’t remember her voice or the color of her eyes. Where were her freckles? She had freckles, didn’t she?
They’d named their son after her maiden name.
He leaned forward on the railing, letting the breeze drive through him. It took his breath away and he closed his eyes. His elbows resting on the railing, his mind drifted to the small burial plot behind their home near Rising Star.
For five years he’d built his life around their graves, their ghosts, unwilling to let go or move along. He was going crazy, no doubt about that. If Lola hadn’t happened onto his ranch, he might have gone completely mad. If she hadn’t insisted, begged, cajoled him into finding her son, Sawyer, he’d have died alone.
In some ways their deaths were worse than Sylvia’s and Wesson’s. It wasn’t because he loved them more. He didn’t; he loved them differently. It was because the pain of their loss reignited the pain he’d never fully extinguished from the loss of his wife and son.
Marcus’s vision blurred as he thought about this. He couldn’t be sure if the sheen of tears on his eyes was from the wind or from his soul.
“Hey.” A voice startled him. “Whatcha doin’?”
Marcus spun around, blinking back the tears. Sniffing in the salty air, he smirked. “Morning, Lou. What are you doing up?”
She moved toward him, adjusting the Astros ball cap on her head, and tightened the ponytail at the back of her head. She had the groggy look of someone who’d been startled awake. “Looking for you.”
They stood next to each other, staring out at the semicircle of a blazing sun and its mirrored reflection in the water at the ocean’s edge.
She leaned on her elbows. “That’s not true,” she admitted, bumping his side with her hip. “I knew where to find you.”
“Did you? How’s that?”
“You’ve been doing this every morning for days now,” she said. “The baby wakes up before sunrise. It’s like he’s a rooster or something.”
“Rudy the rooster?”
She laughed. “Exactly. I’m sure Norma would love to hear you call the baby that.”
“Rudy would like it.”
“Probably.”
Another thirty seconds of silence passed between them. Another breeze gusted past them, through them. Marcus stole a glance. The feral little girl he’d nearly killed at the gas station so many years ago was a smart, confident woman now. She was still feral, and she had serious anger issues, but Marcus thought that was part of her charm.
“So you’re stalking me, then?” he asked.
“Sort of. I guess I’m making sure you’re not leaving.”
“Leaving?” He asked the question like her suggesting it was an inconceivable possibility.
Lou shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t think that’s an unreasonable fear. You’re known to disappear.”
Marcus watched the bottom of the sun, warbling against the edge of the atmosphere, lift above the horizon. The golden water was taking on an orange hue. It was spectacular.
“I guess so,” he said, “but you don’t have to worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
Lou’s hand found his on the railing. It was warm, somehow. “Really?”
Marcus heard the break in her voice. She was looking up at him, tears rolling down her bronze cheeks. Her eyes were wide with hope.
Marcus put his hands on her shoulders and held her gaze. “I’m staying,” he said. “You’re my family, Lou. I never should have left. No matter what anybody else thought or reasoned, or how I thought I might do the right thing by leaving, I should have stayed.”
Her face brightened despite the tears. A smile threatened to broaden across her face. “What changed your mind?”
Marcus thought of a dozen different ways he could answer her. He might have said it was because he was old and tired. He might have said it was because he loved her like a daughter, and of all the people left on Earth, she was the only one who truly understood him. He might have told her it was because he wanted to see her children grow up. Or it was because he knew, even in his old age, he could help protect her against whatever might come. He chose none of those reasons, even though each one was valid in and of itself. Instead, he offered her four words, and they were enough. They would tell her everything she needed to know, everything that would assure her he would stay until the day he died.
A breeze swirled around the two of them, sending another chill through his body. He lifted his aching fingers from her shoulders and placed them on either side of her face. Her cheeks were wet against his palms. She smiled. He smiled.
“Because, Lou, I’m home.”
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Acknowledgements
Thanks to the fans who’ve made this series what it is. I am forever grateful for the life you’ve given these stories and characters who lived (and died) within the pages of an epic tale.
To my team of wonderful experts, big props and fist bumps; Felicia Sullivan, Pauline Nolet, Patricia Wilson, Stef McDaid at Write Into Print, and Histro Kovatliev. All of you played critical roles in getting these books into the hands of voracious readers. Bless you.
To Steve Kremer for your guidance and vast knowledge of all things, I’m appreciative. To author friends, Steven Konkoly, Franklin Horton, Nicholas Sansbury Smith, R.E. McDermott, AR Shaw, Lisa Brackmann, Anthony Melchiorri, G. Michael Hopf, and Russell Blake, Murray McDonald, Rhett Bruno, and countless others—thanks for your guidance and support.
To Kevin Pierce, the voice of Marcus Battle…wow. You’ve brought to life the stories that bounce around in my head. And now I hear them in your dulcet tones. Thank you.
To the real Rudy and Norma-you inspire me with your grace and courage. And to both Johns—Mubarak and Carreon—I love talking Marcus Battle with you. It’s the most fun I have talking about what hell I’ve dragged him through.
Thanks to my parents, siblings, and in-laws for their viral marketing efforts and their shouts-out to the masses. And to my Aunt Jane Daroff, always the defender of my work, you have my love and appreciation.
Finally to my family, despite being a writer I have no words for the support you offer through long days and nights of writing, editing, and plotting. Courtney, Sam, and Luke—you are my harbor and my home.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
Acknowledgements