by Nora Roberts
“People need to get away from their own routines and pick up someone else’s. Most that come here are looking for quiet and solitude or they’d be in Hilton Head or on Jekyll. Still, they want clean linen and fresh towels.”
Kate tapped her fingers, thinking briefly of the work stretched out before her that afternoon. “Lexy’s been lending a hand,” she continued, “but she’s no more dependable than she ever was. Just as likely to run off for the day as to do what chores need doing. She’s dealing with some disappointments herself, and some growing-up pains.”
“Lex is twenty-four, Kate. She should be grown up by now.”
“Some take longer than others. It’s not a fault, it’s a fact.” Kate rose, always ready to defend one of her chicks, even if it was against the pecks of another.
“And some never learn to face reality,” Jo put in. “And spend their lives blaming everyone else for their failures and disappointments.”
“Alexa is not a failure. You were never patient enough with her—any more than she was with you. That’s a fact as well.”
“I never asked her to be patient with me.” Old resentments surfaced like hot grease on tainted water. “I never asked her, or any of them, for anything.”
“No, you never asked, Jo,” Kate said evenly. “You might have to give something back if you ask. You might have to admit you need them if you let them need you. Well, it’s time you all faced up to a few things. It’s been two years since the three of you have been in this house together.”
“I know how long it’s been,” Jo said bitterly. “And I didn’t get any more of a welcome from Brian and Lexy than I’d expected.”
“Maybe you’d have gotten more if you’d expected more.” Kate set her jaw. “You haven’t even asked about your father.”
Annoyed, Jo stabbed out her cigarette. “What would you like me to ask?”
“Don’t take that snippy tone with me, young lady. If you’re going to be under this roof, you’ll show some respect for those who provide it. And you’ll do your part while you’re here. Your brother’s had too much of the running of this place on his shoulders these last few years. It’s time the family pitched in. It’s time you were a family.”
“I’m not an innkeeper, Kate, and I can’t imagine that Brian wants me poking my fingers into his business.”
“You don’t have to be an innkeeper to do laundry or polish furniture or sweep the sand off the veranda.”
At the ice in her tone, Jo responded in defense and defiance. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t do my part, I just meant—”
“I know exactly what you meant, and I’m telling you, young lady, I’m sick to death of that kind of attitude. Every one of you children would rather sink over your heads in the marsh than ask one of your siblings for a helping hand. And you’d strangle on your tongue before you asked your daddy. I don’t know whether you’re competing or just being ornery, but I want you to put it aside while you’re here. This is home. By God, it’s time it felt like one.”
“Kate,” Jo began as Kate headed for the door.
“No, I’m too mad to talk to you now.”
“I only meant ...” When the door shut smartly, Jo let the air out of her lungs on a long sigh.
Her head was achy, her stomach knotted, and guilt was smothering her like a soaked blanket.
Kate was wrong, she decided. It felt exactly like home.
FROM the fringes of the marsh, Sam Hathaway watched a hawk soar over its hunting ground. Sam had hiked over to the landward side of the island that morning, leaving the house just before dawn. He knew Brian had gone out at nearly the same hour, but they hadn’t spoken. Each had his own way, and his own route.
Sometimes Sam took a Jeep, but more often he walked. Some days he would head to the dunes and watch the sun rise over the water, turning it bloody red, then golden, then blue. When the beach was all space and light and brilliance, he might walk for miles, his eyes keenly judging erosion, looking for any fresh buildup of sand.
He left shells where the water had tossed them.
He rarely ventured onto the interdune meadows. They were fragile, and every footfall caused damage and change. Sam fought bitterly against change.
There were days he preferred to wander to the edge of the forest, behind the dunes, where the lakes and sloughs were full of life and music. There were mornings he needed the stillness and dim light there rather than the thunder of waves and the rising sun. He could, like the patient heron waiting for a careless fish, stand motionless as minutes ticked by.
There were times among the ponds and stands of willow and thick film of duckweed that he could forget that any world existed beyond this, his own. Here, the alligator hidden in the reeds while it digested its last meal and the turtle sunning on the log, likely to become gator bait itself, were more real to him than people.
But it was a rare, rare thing for Sam to go beyond the ponds and into the shadows of the forest. Annabelle had loved the forest best.
Other days he was drawn here, to the marsh and its mysteries. Here was a cycle he could understand—growth and decay, life and death. This was nature and could be accepted. No man caused this or—as long as Sam was in control—would interfere with it.
At the edges he could watch the fiddler crabs scurrying, so busy in the mud that they made quiet popping sounds, like soapsuds. Sam knew that when he left, raccoons and other predators would creep along the mud, scrape out those busy crabs, and feast.
That was all part of the cycle.
Now, as spring came brilliantly into its own, the waving cordgrass was turning from tawny gold to green and the turf was beginning to bloom with the colors of sea lavender and oxeye. He had seen more than thirty springs come to Desire, and he never tired of it.
The land had been his wife’s, passed through her family from generation to generation. But it had become his the moment he’d set foot on it. Just as Annabelle had become his the moment he’d set eyes on her.
He hadn’t kept the woman, but through her desertion he had kept the land.
Sam was a fatalist—or had become one. There was no avoiding destiny.
The land had come to him from Annabelle, and he tended it carefully, protected it fiercely, and left it never.
Though it had been years since he’d turned in the night reaching out for the ghost of his wife, he could find her anywhere and everywhere he looked on Desire.
It was both his pain and his comfort.
Sam could see the exposed roots of trees where the river was eating away at the fringe of the marsh. Some said it was best to take steps to protect those fringes. But Sam believed that nature found its way. If man, whether with good intent or ill, set his own hand to changing that river’s course, what repercussions would it have in other areas?
No, he would leave it be and let the land and the sea, the wind and the rain fight it out.
From a few feet away, Kate studied him. He was a tall, wiry man with skin tanned and ruddy and dark hair silvering. His firm mouth was slow to smile, and slower yet were those changeable hazel eyes. Lines fanned out from those eyes, deeply scored and, in that oddity of masculinity, only enhancing his face.
He had large hands and feet, both of which he’d passed on to his son. Yet Kate knew Sam could move with an uncanny and soundless grace that no city dweller could ever master.
In twenty years he had never welcomed her nor expected her to leave. She had simply come and stayed and fulfilled a purpose. In weak moments, Kate allowed herself to wonder what he would think or do or say if she simply packed up and left.
But she didn’t leave, doubted she ever would.
She’d been in love with Sam Hathaway nearly every moment of those twenty years.
Kate squared her shoulders, set her chin. Though she suspected he already knew she was there, she knew he wouldn’t speak to her unless she spoke first.
“Jo Ellen came in on the morning ferry.”
Sam continued to watch the hawk circle. Yes, he
’d known Kate was there, just as he’d known she had some reason she thought important that would have brought her to the marsh. Kate wasn’t one for mud and gators.
“Why?” was all he said, and extracted an impatient sigh from Kate.
“It’s her home, isn’t it?”
His voice was slow, as if the words were formed reluctantly. “Don’t figure she thinks of it that way. Hasn’t for a long time.”
“Whatever she thinks, it is her home. You’re her father and you’ll want to welcome her back.”
He got a picture of his older daughter in his mind. And saw his wife with a clarity that brought both despair and outrage. But only disinterest showed in his voice. “I’ll be up to the house later on.”
“It’s been nearly two years since she’s been home, Sam. For Lord’s sake, go see your daughter.”
He shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. Kate had a way of drawing out those reactions in him. “There’s time, unless she’s planning on taking the ferry back to the mainland this afternoon. Never could stay in one place for long, as I recall. And she couldn’t wait to get shed of Desire.”
“Going off to college and making a career and a life for herself isn’t desertion.”
Though he didn’t move or make a sound, Kate knew the shaft had hit home, and was sorry she’d felt it necessary to hurl it. “She’s back now, Sam. I don’t think she’s up to going anywhere for a while, and that’s not the point.”
Kate marched up, took a firm hold on his arm, and turned him to face her. There were times you had to shove an obvious point in Sam’s face to make him see it, she thought. And that was just what she intended to do now.
“She’s hurting. She doesn’t look well, Sam. She’s lost weight and she’s pale as a sheet. She says she hasn’t been ill, but she’s lying. She looks like you could knock her down with a hard thought.”
For the first time a shadow of worry moved into his eyes. “Did she get hurt on her job?”
There, finally, Kate thought, but was careful not to show the satisfaction. “It’s not that kind of hurt,” she said more gently. “It’s an inside hurt. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there. She needs her home, her family. She needs her father.”
“If Jo’s got a problem, she’ll deal with it. She always has.”
“You mean she’s always had to,” Kate tossed back. She wanted to shake him until she’d loosened the lock he had snapped on his heart. “Damn it, Sam, be there for her.”
He looked beyond Kate, to the marshes. “She’s past the point where she needs me to bandage up her bumps and scratches.”
“No, she’s not.” Kate dropped her hand from his arm. “She’s still your daughter. She always will be. Belle wasn’t the only one who went away, Sam.” She watched his face close in as she said it and shook her head fiercely. “Brian and Jo and Lexy lost her, too. But they shouldn’t have had to lose you.”
His chest had tightened, and he turned away to stare out over the marsh, knowing that the pressure inside him would ease again if he was left alone. “I said I’d be up to the house later on. Jo Ellen has something to say to me, she can say it then.”
“One of these days you’re going to realize you’ve got something to say to her, to all of them.”
She left him alone, hoping he would realize it soon.
FOUR
BRIAN stood in the doorway of the west terrace and studied his sister. She looked frail, he noted, skittish. Lost somehow, he thought, amid the sunlight and flowers. She still wore the baggy trousers and oversized lightweight sweater that she’d arrived in, and had added a pair of round wire-framed sunglasses. Brian imagined that Jo wore just such a uniform when she hunted her photographs, but at the moment it served only to add to the overall impression of an invalid.
Yet she’d always been the tough one, he remembered. Even as a child she’d insisted on doing everything herself, on finding the answers, solving the puzzles, fighting the fights.
She’d been fearless, climbing higher in any tree, swimming farther beyond the waves, running faster through the forest. Just to prove she could, Brian mused. It seemed to him Jo Ellen had always had something to prove.
And after their mother had gone, Jo had seemed hell-bent on proving she needed no one and nothing but herself.
Well, Brian decided, she needed something now. He stepped out, saying nothing as she turned her head and looked at him from behind the tinted lenses. Then he sat down on the glider beside her and put the plate he’d brought out in her lap.
“Eat,” was all he said.
Jo looked down at the fried chicken, the fresh slaw, the golden biscuit. “Is this the lunch special?”
“Most of the guests went for the box lunch today. Too nice to eat inside.”
“Cousin Kate said you’ve been busy.”
“Busy enough.” Out of habit, he pushed off with his foot and set the glider in motion. “What are you doing here, Jo?”
“Seemed like the thing to do at the time.” She lifted a drumstick, bit in. Her stomach did a quick pitch and roll as if debating whether to accept food. Jo persisted and swallowed. “I’ll do my share, and I won’t get in your way.”
Brian listened to the squeak of the glider for a moment, thought about oiling the hinges. “I haven’t said you were in my way, as I recollect,” he said mildly.
“In Lexy’s way, then.” Jo took another bite of chicken, scowled at the soft-pink ivy geraniums spilling over the edges of a concrete jardiniere carved with chubby cherubs. “You can tell her I’m not here to cramp her style.”
“Tell her yourself.” Brian opened the thermos he’d brought along and poured freshly squeezed lemonade into the lid. “I’m not stepping between the two of you so I can get my ass kicked from both sides.”
“Fine, stay out of it, then.” Her head was beginning to ache, but she took the cup and sipped. “I don’t know why the hell she resents me so much.”
“Can’t imagine.” Brian drawled it before he lifted the thermos and drank straight from the lip. “You’re successful, famous, financially independent, a rising star in your field. All the things she wants for herself.” He picked up the biscuit and broke it in half, handing a portion to Jo as the steam burst out. “I can’t think why that’d put her nose out of joint.”
“I did it by myself for myself. I didn’t work my butt off to get to this point to show her up.” Without thinking, she stuffed a bite of biscuit in her mouth. “It’s not my fault she’s got some childish fantasy about seeing her name in lights and having people throw roses at her feet.”
“Your seeing it as childish doesn’t make the desire any less real for her.” He held up a hand before Jo could speak. “And I’m not getting in the middle. The two of you are welcome to rip the hide off each other in your own good time. But I’d say right now she could take you without breaking a sweat.”
“I don’t want to fight with her,” Jo said wearily. She could smell the wisteria that rioted over the nearby arched iron trellis—another vivid memory of childhood. “I didn’t come here to fight with anyone.”
“That’ll be a change.”
That lured a ghost of a smile to her lips. “Maybe I’ve mellowed.”
“Miracles happen. Eat your slaw.”
“I don’t remember you being so bossy.”
“I’ve cut back on mellow.”
With what passed as a chuckle, Jo picked up her fork and poked at the slaw. “Tell me what’s new around here, Bri, and what’s the same.” Bring me home, she thought, but couldn’t say it. Bring me back.
“Let’s see, Giff Verdon built on another room to the Verdon cottage.”
“Stop the presses.” Then Jo’s brow furrowed. “Young Giff, the scrawny kid with the cowlick. The one who was always mooning over Lex?”
“That’s the one. Filled out some, Giff has, and he’s right handy with a hammer and saw. Does all our repair work now. Still moons over Lexy, but I’d say he knows what he wants to do about it now.”
Brian shrugged. “Maybe, but I think she’ll find him tougher to chew up than she might expect. The Sanders girl, Rachel, she got herself engaged to some college boy in Atlanta. Going to move there come September.”
“Rachel Sanders.” Jo tried to conjure up a mental image. “Was she the one with the lisp or the one with the giggle?”
“The giggle—sharp enough to make the ears bleed.” Satisfied that Jo was eating, Brian stretched an arm over the back of the glider and relaxed. “Old Mrs. Fitzsimmons passed on more than a year back.”