The Marine's Holiday Harbor

by Kirsten Lynn

  “Nana and Papa got home okay, right?”

  The fear in his voice breaks my heart. Taking the bag of marshmallows, I tweak his nose. When he doesn’t frown, I know how frightened he is, whether his sister thinks he never gets scared or not.

  “They’re fine. Remember, they called an hour ago, safe and snug. They already can’t wait to see you again at Thanksgiving in a couple days.”

  “That’s right,” he mumbles. I put extra marshmallows in his chocolate and hand him the mug, then carry over my and Ella’s mugs.

  Setting her smaller mug in front of her, I cover her hands, “Just a minute, baby, let me add a little cold milk to cool yours down.”

  Her mouth opens in an O and she takes her hands back, nodding like she almost touched lava. Grabbing the milk, I study the two children at the table for a minute. For a year and almost four months they’ve been my wards, my charges, my children…mine. A family formed at the cost of my sister and brother-in-law. Just when it finally seemed they could settle into a new life in Bar Harbor and Mark could start spending more time with the children since his studies were over, one night on a curvy road snatched them from us all.

  Joining them again, I pour a little milk in Ella’s mug and we all start drinking our treat in quiet. The wind continues to push against the windows and doors, and I refuse to think about the amount of snow we’ll wake up to if the large flakes continue to fall.

  I know what will come later, and I know all the warnings against it, but they can add it to their therapy later in life. “Why don’t you guys sleep with me tonight?”

  “Yes,” Ella confirms.

  “If you want us to,” Michael agrees, but he’s fooling no one as his body deflates in relief. He jerks his head to the window when a scream pierces the night as if the storm resents our plan. “Aunt Brynn, there’s a boat!” He shoves a finger at the lower frame of the window.

  Pushing out of my chair, I snatch the handheld radio I keep on the counter. “Brian, this is Brynn, out. I swallow a curse. I should have radioed Brian the first time I thought I saw the boat. Brian, Brynn out!”

  A million years seems to pass before the radio cracks to life. “Go for Brian.”

  “Boat approximately three kilometers off Curtis Light.”

  “Shit. We’re on our way. You stay in, out.”

  “Hurry, out.”

  “You. Stay. Inside. Out.”

  Frowning at the radio, I don’t respond. My brother wouldn’t like the truth and I don’t want to lie. Turning to the children, I point a finger between them. “You two stay right there until I come get you.”

  Michael’s eyes widen. “But Uncle Brian told you to stay inside.”

  “You don’t worry about me, you just worry about doing what you’re told.”

  “But…”

  “Michael, do as you’re told.” I use my corpsman voice and it must still work.

  He sinks back in his chair watching me as I tug on my boots and rain slicker. I cut a look between Michael and Ella, both staring at me with big eyes and hot chocolate mustaches. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Right back.” Michael whispers.

  “Right back, I promise.”

  They both nod and I grab the LED lantern, making my way over the grassy area now covered in snow, toward the rocks. The silhouette of the sailboat bobs closer. I can’t see the condition of the boat itself, but from sailing and boating all my life I can say with certainty after this it will have to be scuttled.

  A light in the sky draws my attention to the Coast Guard helicopter. I squint as the shadow of my brother repels down from a rope and to the boat just meters from the rocks.

  With careful steps, I go from rock to rock. Brian brings the boat to a natural ramp and hops out. I make it to him in time to help him tug the boat farther onto shore. When he lifts his gaze, even in the driving snow and wind, his face is the scariest thing in Maine.

  “Glad you stayed inside.” The sarcasm is so thick someone who didn’t know him as well would miss the hostility simmering below.

  “Thought there might be injured.”

  “And we’d fly them to the hospital.”

  He walks around the bow and offers a hand to the person inside. The man emerging is tall and a bit broader than Brian. “Take him inside and get him warmed up. Got a cut on his forehead.” Brian practically tosses the man at me.

  “Brian, I can’t take a stranger into the house.”

  “That’s no stranger and you’re both asses.”

  Brian waves down the rope and disappears back inside the helicopter before I can offer any more fight. The man is hunched over and it’s clear his coat wasn’t made for what he endured. I’m certainly not going to let anyone freeze on my watch.

  Going to him, I inhale a sharp breath when he lifts his tired gaze to mine. Staff Sergeant Caleb Quinlin stares back at me.

  Without a word, because my mind can’t form a clear thought, I drape his arm over my shoulders and start walking toward the house. As we trudge along, the shudders from his body shake me in their violence. What he was thinking will have to wait. Any questions, and there will be many, will have to wait.

  “Saving me again?” he says through chattering teeth.

  “Seems like it!” I scream over the howling wind.

  “How’d you get so lucky?”

  “Patron Saint of Idiots.”

  I slide just a bit under him, so I can keep him propped up and open the door. Once the door is ajar, though, I practically shove him inside the kitchen. I slam the door and sit on my heels in front of him removing his boots when the shuffle of small feet catches our attention.

  The moment they recognize the tall figure is clear by their scream of joy. “Uncle Caleb!”

  They start running, but I hold up a hand. “Your uncle needs some attention first, then you can attack.”

  They step back and immediately their gazes shoot to the gash on his forehead and the blood on this face. He must notice their faces turn the color of parchment the same time I do and beats me to reassuring them. “I’m fine, guys. Just give me a couple minutes.”

  I nod to the living room. “Go watch some TV.”

  They keep their eyes on him as they walk away and until the archway conceals us. I tug off one of his boots and then the other and then his wet socks. Standing, I yank off my slicker. He rests his arm over my shoulders again, sinking against me.

  When we get to the bottom of the stairs, I finally meet his gaze again. “There’s not room for both of us like this. You climb up and use the rail, I’ll be behind you if you need me.”

  “Brynn.”

  “Not now. Just do this.”

  He grabs the railing and his knuckles are white as he takes each step. With as cold as he is, his joints will be rejecting the motion, and I cringe with every step knowing he must be in pain.

  At the top of the stairs we resume our previous position. I glance left, then right. The children’s beds would be way too small. He gives me a half-smile. “Wherever.”

  I lead him to my room and use my shoulder to cut on the lights. Taking him to the bed, I ease him down slowly to sit on the edge. “You need to get out of those clothes. You need help?”

  His gaze holds mine, and I move forward touching his forehead around the cut. “I’ll get my kit.”

  He shivers under my touch and I don’t know if it’s the cold, pain, or my hand on him. I take his hands examining each finger and then, kneeling in front of him, I take his feet and examine his toes. “Can you feel my touch?”

  “God, yes.”

  His voice is rough with a familiar tinge of desire. Pushing to stand, I turn and walk into the bathroom. Grabbing my kit, I take the opportunity to gather some brain cells and also come to terms with the fact Caleb Quinlin will once again be in my bed.

  When I return to him, I step between his legs. He doesn’t move or even flinch as I wash the wound and then start sewing the cut. “Sorry, I don’t have any local.”

  �
�It’s fine.”

  “Aw, I forgot Marines don’t feel pain.”

  “We feel it, that’s what Motrin is for.”

  His breath his warm on my neck and I want to ask if Motrin works for a broken heart. Instead, I force a chuckle, but it ends with a strangled sound as he rests his hands on my hips. “What are you doing?”

  “You smell good.” He slides his hands under my sweater and rests them on my belly. “And your skin is so warm.”

  “Caleb, stop.”

  “I thought this was the best way to warm up.”

  “Are you seriously trying to feel me up after I just dragged your ass out of a storm?”

  One touch, just one, and already the fire for him was one thousand percent hot as hell, but I’ve got so much more going on in my life I can’t think of adding another complication.

  He drops his hands and stares at them like he wasn’t sure what he was doing. “Just wanted to touch you.”

  “Not happening, Marine.” He’ll never know how much I want his touch, but watching him put his life at risk, again, and patching him up, again, is twisting me up. I’ve needed him desperately for over a year, what he wants right now…I don’t give a shit. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.

  “No bullshit or innuendos—can you undress?”

  “Affirmative. But stay close.”

  All flirting is gone from his eyes and voice. He’s asking for help in the only way he’s going to, so I step back and lean against the dresser as he starts to strip. I try to think of anything and everything in an attempt to keep calm in the face of his body. But even thoughts of my mother’s sweet potatoes don’t diminish the broad chest uncovered as he tosses his sweater. I can almost feel the coarse dark hair smattered over his pecs, and my gaze drops to the happy trail tapering under the waistband of his jeans.—

  My professionalism returns when he starts to weave taking off his jeans and I move forward. “Sit.”

  He complies and I yank off the wet denim and his skivvies. Tugging down the quilt and blankets, I point, “Get under the covers.”

  “I’d like a shower, Brynn.”

  “Not tonight, you’re too unsteady.”

  His eyes narrow. “Would you wash me off then, Angel?”

  “Seriously?”

  He raises his hand like taking an oath. “No bullshit, no flirting. Just hose me down.”

  Going back into the bathroom, I grab a packet of body wipes they use in the hospitals. He’s sitting up, but by the way his eyes are fighting to close, he’s not lasting long. Taking a wipe, I start washing over the chest I admired earlier and then his back and arms. With another wipe, I wash over the hard ridges of his belly and then down to his legs and feet.

  My gaze locks on his thick cock for a second, before I hand him the wipe. “You can get there.”

  “There? Is that a medical term?”

  “Just do what you need to do.”

  He does and I watch. My face burns when he catches me. It burns more when I walk to the dresser and tug out a pair of his old sweats and one of his T-shirts. I toss them to him. “You need help putting those on?”

  “I can get it.”

  This time I remain with my back to him and stare out the window; watching the storm rage outside while fighting the battle inside me between anger and a love I’ve carried all my life. Thankfully he doesn’t make a comment about me still holding onto his clothes. The Marine sweats and T-shirt were always my favorite cuddle clothes on lazy days. Over the last year, they’ve become my go-to comfy clothes for pretending he’s holding me. There’s no way I could explain away that and not sound desperate and pathetic.

  “Have you eaten recently?”

  “Not since lunch.”

  “I’ll get some soup and grilled cheese.”

  “Sounds good. Better send the kids in.”

  “Oh, shit, that’s right.”

  When I turn, he’s under the covers. Leaning over him, I scan his face and he smiles. “This is familiar, only it was a lot hotter and you were in desert camo.”

  “Why the hell did you try sailing in a storm like this?”

  “Shit, Brynn, that storm came out of nowhere. Thought I might as well try to make it here than stop in Camden.”

  I press the back of my hand to his cheek. “Jarhead.”

  “Squid.”

  I smile. “I’ll get your food and send the kids in.”

  He holds onto my hand when I start to go. “If I shiver hard enough, will you strip and press close?”

  “We have plenty of blankets and heating pads.”

  He lets my hand go and shrugs. “Worth a try.”

  When he closes his eyes, I watch him as if he’ll disappear if I stop staring. Stop looking and definitely do not touch. Former lover or not, I’ve already been unprofessional enough tonight and Caleb doesn’t need an ogling nurse in his life.

  Curling my fingers into fists, I try to promise myself I won’t let him in, but the truth is he has never been gone. Our history will always melt us together into one memory and one heart. I don’t know what brought him here, but I know it’s going to change the family I’ve been building forever.

  “Either hit me, Brynn, or get my soup.”

  I want to scream at him for shredding us both two years ago. I want to rail louder than the wind. You barely even talked to me at the funeral, you didn’t hold me when I needed your arms so much. But what does any of that matter now…and yet, it does.

  He was supposed to be mine. I scan him from his dark brown hair cut high and tight, then down over the angles of his face and strong jaw. Dark stubble covers a scar he got at sixteen crawling out of my window one night and falling off the trellises.

  His jaw flexes and my gaze moves back to meet the ice-blue of his eyes, and in his eyes I see that memory and so many more.

  “Aunt Brynn?”

  Ella’s voice snaps my attention from Caleb to her. “Yes?” Her eyes, so much like his, cut to him then back to me. I sit on my heels in front of her. “You can go to your uncle Caleb, just be careful.”

  The little girl dashes to Caleb and I exhale a breath, grateful for the interruption bringing me back to the present. I step from the room to find Michael standing in the shadows. He lifts his head, trying to smile at me. Ruffling his hair, I nod to the room. “I’m sorry I forgot to get you. Go in and see for yourself, he’s fine. Cold, tired, and hungry, but fine.”

  His shoulders relax. “Do you need help?”

  “No, but thank you.”

  “Do you think Uncle Caleb would mind if I stay with him tonight? Just to make sure, you know.”

  “I know, and no, I don’t think he would mind, but ask him.”

  The boy, trying to be a man, walks into the guest room and I listen to the three of them chatter for a moment before walking down the stairs and into the kitchen. The second my feet hit the landing, my cell phone rings. Glancing at the screen, I sigh at Brian’s name blinking at me.

  I brace myself and answer. “Hi Brian.”

  “You two okay?”

  “Yes. Caleb’s a bit bruised up, but he’s been worse—” I stop myself from thinking of those times. “I’m sorry I came out on the rocks.”

  “You’re not Coast Guard, Brynn. And don’t give me that you’ve been in combat shit—”

  “I know,” I interrupt. “And you’re right, I could have caused more harm than help. I’m wicked sorry.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  I smile, realizing by agreeing with him I’ve ended the lecture he’d been planning. But my apology is sincere, it was stupid for me to go out there and I would have chewed his ass for doing the same.

  The storm still rages and he has a long night ahead. Watching young Marines die on the battlefield was a devastating reminder of how uncertain life is. Losing Liz and Mark brought that devastation right to our front door. “Hey brother, be safe tonight.”

  “Roger that.”

  Hanging up, I get the grilled cheese and tomato soup sta
rted at last. Glancing at the clock, I’m surprised to see it’s only nine o’clock; it feels like it should be two or three in the morning.

  I dish up Caleb’s food, setting the dishes on a tray. As I climb the stairs, giggles and chuckles echo from my bedroom. Yes, things are already changing in the small lighthouse keeper’s house, and there’s no beacon to guide me away from the rocks.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Caleb

  Watching Brynn drink her morning coffee is a study in how much a man can take before blowing his wad in his sweats. She swallows a drink and her eyes close. A small smile touches her lips and she exhales a sigh like she’s tasted the finest thing ever.

  I clear my throat, trying to clear my mind. Her hazel eyes open and all the colors of autumn dance in the orbs. Any sign of contentment disappears.

  Not wanting to watch the flashes of gold disappear completely, when looking at me used to bring them to life, I scan the kitchen. The white of the walls, cabinets, and appliances is broken with the black-and-white design of the tile. On the walls, she’s placed photographs of crates of blueberries and lobster boats against the various seasonal backgrounds.

  There’s no separate dining room, so she chose a table with a wooden booth bench set against the wall with the window and a chair on either end, and two on one side. I pretend to study the window above her, and the cloudy skies fit the mood in the room.

  Lowering my gaze, I meet hers. She drops her stare to my plate of eggs and toast and then back to me. “Is your stomach upset?”

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t taste good?”

  “It’s fine, Brynn, just not hungry.”

  I cup my mug of coffee and check out the living room through the arch separating the two rooms. I can’t see much but the fire crackling in the fireplace. When my gaze rests on the staircase, I tune my ears to the upstairs where the kids are still nestled in the bed they’ve shared with me for two nights, watching over me like little hawks. And then Brynn has come in each night resting her cools palms on my face and heating me up with reminders of all the times her touch brought comfort and healing.