by Irene Hannon
His jaw hardened, and he focused on Brian as the boy worked to gain control over the unruly bodyboard. “No.”
“Why not?”
He bunched some sand in his fist, wishing she’d drop the subject. “It’s a long story, Heather.”
“I’m not going anywhere. And Brian seems like he’ll be occupied for a while.” She let a few beats of silence pass. When she resumed speaking, her voice was soft—and caring. “I noticed it the first day at Ladies Beach, too. Was it a line-of-duty injury, J.C.?”
His throat tightened as he gazed at the distant horizon. He hadn’t mentioned the shooting incident to anyone since Burke had pressed him into a discussion about it the day after he’d arrived on Nantucket. But maybe he needed to talk about it. Neither the change of scene nor prayer had alleviated the guilt, which continued to cling to him with the tenacity of a Nantucket deer tick. Perhaps by sharing it with someone who was sympathetic, he’d stumble onto some insights that had so far eluded him.
Taking a deep breath, he gave a curt nod. “Yes. I was shot in a drug-ring sting operation that went bad.”
“Was anyone else hurt?”
His gut twisted at her gentle question. “Two cops died.” The words came out raw and raspy.
For several moments, only the raucous caw of a gull broke the silence.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her quiet empathy seeped through his defenses, and he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat. “Me, too.”
“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Because you feel guilty you survived and they didn’t. And you needed some time to work through that.”
Impressed by her insight, he pulled his knees up and rested his forearms on them, gripping one wrist with the other hand. “Partly.” He hadn’t planned to say anything else, yet all at once he heard more words coming out of his mouth. “But that’s not all I feel guilty about.”
“What do you mean?”
Why had he said that? J.C. wondered. He never talked about emotional stuff. The counselor in Chicago had tried her best to get him to open up, to share his feelings about the incident. Instead, he’d simply closed up tighter. If a professional had failed to wedge open his heart, why had Heather succeeded?
One look at her gave him his answer. The soft compassion in her hazel eyes reflected genuine, not professional, concern. She’d told him Friday that she liked him a lot. More than she wanted to. And her intent posture, caring demeanor and total focus demonstrated that. While she might be as averse to the notion of romance as he was, she was nevertheless reaching out to him—with the hand of friendship, if nothing else.
As his fingers began to tingle, he loosened his grip on his wrist. And took the plunge into the murky waters of emotion. “It was an ambush. I made a mistake somewhere along the way. Tipped my hand. That’s why two people died.”
She frowned. “Why do you think that?”
“An internal investigation didn’t turn up any leaks. Until the last minute, only a few people knew about my deep-cover assignment or the details of the bust. The ones who did are all longtime cops who know how to keep their mouths shut.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “It had to be my fault. But I’ve gone over and over everything I did, and I keep coming up blank. It’s been eating at me for weeks.”
Fingers brushing the sand beside her, Heather focused on the pattern she was creating. “May I ask you a personal question?”
His lips lifted into a mirthless smile. “What do you call the ones you’ve been asking?”
She conceded his point with a shrug. “Different subject, then.”
“Okay.” He gave her a wary look.
“I saw you with a Bible that day on the beach. So I assume you’re religious. How come your faith hasn’t helped you get through this?”
The unexpected twist in the conversation threw him. The last thing he’d expected to talk about today was theology. Nor did he consider himself the most articulate spokesperson on matters of faith.
But her question was a good one. And since it suggested she was a seeker, it deserved his full attention.
Doing his best to switch gears, he angled more toward her. “I take it you aren’t a believer?”
She shrugged and smoothed out the flawed geometric pattern she’d created in the sand. “No. My mom got religion toward the end of her life and tried to pull me along with her, but to be honest, I was turned off. While she and my dad were married, he handled everything business related…finances, bills, home maintenance. When they separated, she had to learn how to do it all herself. The hard way. As a result, she always preached the gospel of self-reliance. Yet in the end she sold out and put everything in God’s hands.”
Heather gave him a troubled look. “But she suffered and died, anyway. And your faith doesn’t seem to have taken away your anguish over what happened in Chicago.”
She’d nailed a key argument of skeptics, and he searched for the words that would help her understand.
“Believing doesn’t take away suffering and doubts, Heather. Mother Teresa is a good example. She labored most of her life under terrible conditions to bring love and compassion and hope to the poorest of the poor. She was praised by everyone for her great faith. Yet after she died, her letters revealed a soul in darkness. For most of her life, she felt distanced from God. Surrounded by blackness. But she continued doing what she felt called to do, despite her despair.
“That’s what faith is all about. Believing, hoping, trusting even in the darkest hours. I trust the Lord, and I know He’ll provide the answers I’m searching for in His time if I put everything in His hands.”
“It would be nice to have such a sense of certainty.” There was a wistful quality to her words. “But I don’t think I could relinquish control of my life to anyone. I’d feel…smothered. Shackled.”
“Believe it or not, the opposite happens. It’s freeing when God is in charge.”
She sifted the sand, watching the grains slip through her fingers. “Have you always believed?”
“Not to the extent I do now. But my mother had a strong faith. And I had a very persistent college buddy who dragged me to services one Sunday after he watched me struggling to keep my family together. That visit got me started on the right road.”
A capricious breeze ruffled Heather’s hair, and she brushed the silky strands back from her face. “Brian told me Nathan is in prison.”
“Yeah.” J.C. felt the familiar twinge in the pit of his stomach as he thought about the train wreck that was his brother’s life.
“You’ve had a lot of tough things to deal with for a lot of years.”
Compared to her, he supposed that was true. There might be troubled marriages in Heather’s background, but there was a lot more bad stuff in his. Yet dwelling on it was an invitation to bitterness.
He lifted one shoulder. “You cope with the hand you’re dealt.”
“Some do it better than others.”
That, too, was true. He’d managed to rise above his past, for the most part. Marci had, too. Nathan was still mired in muck. And perhaps always would be, he thought as a wave of despair washed over him.
It was time to change the subject.
Gesturing toward Brian again, he brought the conversation back to the reason for this outing. “I’d like to think your nephew could learn to do that. He appears to be getting back on track.”
To his relief, Heather followed his lead. “I agree. He seems to do better when he’s occupied.” Shifting into a cross-legged position, she tucked her skirt around her legs. “I wish I knew some good, solid young people his age to introduce him to while he’s here. That kind of positive peer influence could be helpful.”
An idea took shape in J.C.’s mind. “I have a thought. The church I’m attending here has a high school–age youth group that does service projects during the summer, mixed in with social activities. It’s designed to teach kids real-world skills, while instilling a sense of social responsibility. This Wednesday they�
��re going to do some painting for an elderly resident in ’Sconset, with a beach party afterward. If you don’t mind the church affiliation, I could invite Brian. I volunteered to help part of the day.”
Gratitude warmed her eyes. “That sounds perfect. And we know he’s had some experience painting.”
“Are you guys talking about me?” J.C. and Heather turned in unison as the dripping teen bounded up the beach.
“Yes, we were.” Heather flipped up the lid of the cooler. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.” He flopped onto his towel as she passed out sandwiches and soft drinks. “Do you have another painting job at the house?”
“No, but J.C. has one.”
When Heather looked his way, J.C. took the handoff. “A youth group at the church I’m attending is going to paint a picket fence for a senior citizen this Wednesday, and I thought you might want to help. You did a great job on your aunt’s house.”
Brian scrunched up his face. “Church kids are dorks.” He took a huge bite of his turkey sandwich.
“Why do you say that?” J.C. snagged a bag of chips and opened the top, keeping his tone conversational.
“My mom’s been dragging me to church lately, and she forced me to go to a youth group meeting.” He kept chewing as he spoke. “It was the pits.”
“Your mom goes to church?”
From Heather’s startled question, it was clear this was news to her, J.C. concluded.
“Yeah. And the kids are all losers.”
“That might be true there, but the kids at my church are pretty awesome.” J.C. spread some mustard on his sandwich. “One of the guys is a fantastic hockey player. A lot of college scouts have come out here to look at him.”
“Yeah?” Brian shot J.C. an interested glance.
“And last year one of the girls was a national finalist in the Junior Miss program.”
Brian stopped chewing. “That’s pretty cool.”
“Another guy teaches at one of the island’s surfing schools.”
Brian swallowed his bite of sandwich and adopted the carefully indifferent, “I’m interested but I still want to appear cool” attitude J.C. often observed in young teens. “So how many kids will be at this painting thing?”
“I think fifteen have signed up. Afterward, they’re going to have a barbecue and play a little beach volleyball. I’ll be there part of the time, too. I was going to go out later in the day, but I could make a quick stop in the morning and introduce you to a few of the kids if you want to go.”
“I guess that would be okay.” Brian took another bite of his sandwich.
Heather stepped back into the conversation and directed her question to J.C. “Are you working nights again this week?”
“Yes.”
“When do you sleep?”
He grinned at her. “After I introduce Brian around, I’ll come back and crash. I was going to go out again about five and help supervise the wrap-up party. We could use a few more chaperones for that if you could squeeze it in.”
Uh-oh. Bad move, J.C. berated himself. Manufacturing reasons to interact with Heather was not a good idea.
But maybe she’d follow the prudent path and decline.
No such luck.
“I could help out after the tearoom closes.”
“That would be cool, Aunt Heather,” Brian chimed in. “What’s for dessert?”
She shifted sideways to rummage through the cooler, withdrawing a plate of assorted tea pastries. “These are leftovers from yesterday. I didn’t think you guys would mind.”
“I’ll take these kinds of leftovers any day.” Brian helped himself to three different pastries.
When she extended the plate toward him, J.C. took a chocolate tart. “Thanks.”
Weighing the tart in his hand, he watched as she selected a miniature éclair for herself and took a bite. A few specks of the custard filling clung to her lips, and J.C. found himself fixated on her mouth.
Oh, brother. This was not good.
Forcing himself to turn away, he popped the whole chocolate tart into his mouth and tried to figure out how the woman beside him had managed to totally disrupt his equilibrium in the space of a few short weeks.
As the rich chocolate dissolved on his tongue, the sudden distinctive tang of peppermint kicked in, taking him off guard. That, in turn, gave way to a hint of spice—cinnamon, perhaps?
The innocent little chocolate tart wasn’t quite what it had appeared to be, he reflected. Beneath the surface, a subtle blending of flavors and ingredients had produced a dessert of surprising complexity.
Reminding him of its creator.
And the more he learned about her, the more intrigued—and attracted—he became.
Meaning that for the sake of his heart, he intended to spend the rest of this outing in the water with Brian.
Chapter Eleven
This is a mistake.
As Heather waited beside her garage for J.C., that refrain echoed over and over in her mind—as it had been doing ever since she’d agreed to accompany him to ’Sconset to help chaperone today’s youth group beach party.
What had she been thinking?
Now that they’d both acknowledged the spark between them—as well as their mutual aversion to romance—they should be avoiding each other, not seeking out opportunities to spend time together. J.C. shouldn’t have invited her to help chaperone. And she shouldn’t have accepted.
Meaning this thing between them was strong enough to short-circuit rational behavior.
And that was scary.
“Heather!”
At Edith’s summons, Heather tamped down her panic and moved to the half-moon gate in the privet hedge by her garage. The older woman was standing on the back porch of The Devon Rose, holding Heather’s wallet.
“You left this on the counter. Julie found it.”
Shaking her head, Heather met her neighbor halfway down the brick walk. “Thanks, Edith.” She slid it into her purse.
“A little distracted today, are we?” Edith arched her eyebrows and peered past Heather’s shoulder. “Is J.C. here yet?”
“No. He should be along any minute.”
“This was a brilliant idea, getting Brian involved with the youth group. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. I doubt anyone but J.C. could have convinced him to give it a try.”
“He does have a certain persuasive charm.” Her eyes began to twinkle. “Is it working on you yet?”
“Edith!” Heather shushed her. Checking over her own shoulder, she lowered her voice. “He and I discussed this, and we agreed that in light of his short stay, it would be inappropriate to pursue anything romantic.”
“Humph.” The older woman planted her hands on her hips. “If you ask me, you’re being way too analytical.”
“Better analytical than disillusioned. Or hurt.” Heather resettled the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “Thanks again for stepping in to help Julie with the cleanup today. I couldn’t have gone otherwise.”
Edith smirked at her. “Why do you think I said yes?” Leaning closer, she winked. “That man is a keeper, Heather. And I’m praying you come to that conclusion before it’s too late.” With a wave, she headed back to the house.
Huffing out an exasperated breath, Heather retraced her steps to the car—where she found J.C. waiting.
“I was about to come looking for you.” He flashed her an easy smile. “We were supposed to meet here, right?”
“Right.” She’d set it up that way so Edith wouldn’t have a chance to throw out any less-than-subtle innuendos to the pair of them.
Her strategy had half worked.
“Did you get some sleep?” Heather slid into the driver’s seat as J.C. held her door.
“Enough.” He shut her door, then joined her on the passenger side as she put the car in gear. “Any word from Brian?”
“No. And that’s good news. I told him not to use the cell phone u
nless it was an emergency.”
“He hit it off right away with two of the kids. I felt comfortable leaving him. And there are plenty of chaperones. Thanks for letting me use your car to run him out there this morning.”
“The thanks are all mine, trust me.”
To Heather’s relief, J.C. confined the conversation to innocent topics during the seven-mile drive to the east side of the island. Once there, he directed her to a small cottage that backed to the sea. A pristine white picket fence delineated the tiny front yard and extended to the back, where it enclosed the more spacious rear grounds, forming a line of demarcation between sand and grass.
The teens were clustered in small groups, intent on cleanup duties. She spotted Brian rinsing brushes as she pulled up, but he was too interested in talking to a girl with a perky blond ponytail to notice their arrival.
J.C. chuckled. “Why do I have a feeling you won’t have any problem getting him to stay involved with this group while he’s here?”
She gave him a rueful smile. “Yeah. But now I have other things to worry about.”
“No, you don’t. These are good kids. I’ve met most of them. They’ll keep him occupied with wholesome activities for the remainder of his stay.”
“Thanks to you.”
He shook his head. “I had no idea if this would work. But I’m glad it did.” He scanned the young people, watching as a wiry, wizened older man with thin, neatly combed gray hair walked among them. “That’s the owner, Henry Calhoun. I met him this morning. He won all the kids over immediately with his homemade banana nut bread.” The hint of a smile softened his lips.
As Heather watched, the elderly man stopped beside Brian and the girl. Whatever he said had them both laughing before he moved on. “I can’t believe that’s the same insolent kid who showed up here ten days ago with a huge chip on his shoulder.”
“The change is remarkable.” His expression grew melancholy. “It’s too bad Nathan didn’t get involved with a group like this when he was Brian’s age. It might have made all the difference.”
Heather’s heart contracted at the ripple of pain and regret that roughened his words. Without stopping to think, she laid her hand on his.