And despite the fact that he wasn’t exactly pleading for her heart, he was so earnest, so desperate in his petition, that she wanted to say yes.
Scotty pulled away, shoved her hands into her pockets. “I don’t know what I can do. It’s not like the Deep Haven sheriff’s office is going to let me in on their investigation.”
Owen fell silent beside her. A loon called, low, moaning over the lake. The trees cast their own offerings into the fire.
“You know why Casper and I fight so much?” he said, picking up a stick, poking it into the fire.
“Because you’re brothers?”
“Because he’s always right.” Sparks scattered as a log fell. “My earliest memory is actually of him, right out here on the lake, bossing me around as I tried to handle a hockey puck. Even when I could skate circles around him, he egged me on, acted like he could outskate and outshoot me. I only recently realized that it was his way of making sure I was the best.”
In memory she saw Casper standing above Owen’s bed, his face so tight as if holding in an emotion he couldn’t bear to free.
“I made a mess of everything because I was angry and bitter and, most of all, knew I couldn’t be the guy Casper—or any of them—wanted me to be. I still can’t believe they welcomed me back like . . .” He shook his head.
“Like they missed you? Like you’re a part of the family?”
Her words elicited a sigh. “I don’t deserve it; I know that. But I’ve been thinking that maybe God spared us in the ocean and then brought us both here because we’re supposed to get Casper out of this mess. Ever since I met Carpie on the dock and started looking for a way back to the man I wanted to be, I prayed for a second chance. I knew I’d sinned—really sinned—and I feared that there was no going back for me. But here I am—here we are. Alive and yeah, with a second chance. I have to believe God heard my prayers. At least I want to.”
A rueful smile twitched one side of his mouth. “Like I said, I’m not a detective, but I do have enough stupid grit to keep trying until we figure out who did it—or maybe just raise enough doubt about Casper’s guilt.”
His face became solemn then. “Please help me?”
Please. She had no defenses against please. Or against his voice, the softness in it, or the way he made to reach for her hand, then pulled back. “I promise not to propose or even . . . kiss you. Although—” a smile dragged up his face—“I did like kissing you.”
She couldn’t breathe past the boulder in her throat. “About that . . . why did you kiss me?”
“Because I didn’t in the boat. And I should have. And . . . because you’re so beautiful, I couldn’t stop myself.” He shrugged.
Then something mischievous, even sweetly dangerous, sparked in his gaze. Oh no. If she just leaned over or even let her eyes show what she was feeling, she knew in a blink he’d be kissing her again.
And she wouldn’t have a bone inside her to stop him.
Wouldn’t that be painful, come the inevitable moment when she extricated herself from his life? His family? This strange sense of happily ever after he kept dangling in front of her?
So she rushed into her words, clung to them. “No more breaking the rules. You can’t kiss me, Owen. You can’t hold my hand. It’s over. What we had kept us alive. But it was impulsive and . . .” And why hadn’t he figured out what seemed to be glaringly obvious to everyone else? “I’m not the marrying kind.”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She hated how he said it, the same way she had when Carpie implied it. But she’d seen the truth and so would he. She reached over to grab the stick he was holding and moved it into the fire, toppling one of the logs. “I’m not . . . I’m not soft and sweet . . .”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No!” She turned to him, more spark in her voice than she intended. “Did you see Raina? Or Grace? They love being mothers, taking care of their family. That’s not me. I don’t have the first clue how to take care of someone. I never had a mother. I had Red and a bunch of grimy-mouthed fishermen for brothers. I don’t know the first thing about being in a real family.”
She looked away from him toward the house, where light glowed out from the deck. “I guess I’m like Red. I’m no good with emotion. Or . . . faith. It doesn’t make sense to me. Yeah, I got desperate on the boat when you were dying, might have done some praying, but that’s not real faith.”
“I disagree. Faith is reaching out, believing in what you can’t see . . . But really? You prayed?”
“You were dying. What was I supposed to do?”
She didn’t mean for it to come out quite so sharp. So she sighed, tempered her tone. “Homer had this little church bus, and sometimes they’d stop by and pick me up. I heard all the Sunday school stories, bought into the fairy tale of heaven. I liked to think of my mom up there with Jesus. But then I grew up and realized—what kind of God would separate a baby from her mother?”
“Aw, Scotty.” He looked like he wanted to reach for her, but she held herself back.
“Or maybe God had nothing to do with my mom’s death. Maybe that was just life. Life is cruel and harsh, and sometimes you survive, but sometimes you don’t. Either way, you have to keep going. There is no happily ever after. There’s only now, and trying not to get blown overboard, and doing your job.”
She closed her eyes before the memories piled up, spilling out. Took a breath, hardened her voice as she stared again at the fire.
“Faith is . . . very messy and emotional. It’s for people who can’t face reality. Who want to believe that things are going to miraculously get better. But they don’t. And I’m certainly not going to drop to my knees and start beseeching heaven for help. I don’t owe God anything, and that works just fine for me.”
Owen was silent beside her, his mouth a tight line.
“What?”
“It’s just that . . . I used to think that way. In fact, when I first got hurt, I wanted nothing to do with God. Later, I couldn’t face the colossal mess I’d made of my life. But then I realized I couldn’t fix myself, that I needed help. When we got washed overboard—I’m sorry, Scotty, but God did step in and save us. He brought me—us—home. It’s got me thinking that there’s a chance I’m not a total screwup, or if I am, God can help me fix it.”
His words settled upon her. “Owen, you’re not a screwup.”
He managed a smile. “When you say it like that, I almost believe you.”
And that was just enough. “Fine. Okay. If only to prove to you that you’re more than you see. Whether God brought us here to save Casper or it’s simply circumstances, I don’t care. I have three weeks until my job kicks in in Anchorage, so until then I’ll do what I can. Which might not be anything. But if I can help you fix this, I will.”
“Thank you.” He nodded, glanced at her sideways, the rising moon turning his hair to gold. “There you go again, being my hero.”
But when he met her gaze, she wasn’t exactly sure who should be called the hero. Because he’d bared his soul in order to get her to stick around and help him save Casper.
That kind of family loyalty had her staring at the fire, a stirring, unfamiliar hum under her skin as the night descended. And as Owen sat beside her, dressed in that letterman’s jacket, smelling of the woodland forest, dark and wild, she realized that she wouldn’t have minded terribly if he’d pulled her, just for a second, into another impulsive, rule-breaking kiss.
Today was the day for second chances. Today Owen would track down Monte Riggs’s killer and figure out how to woo Scotty back into his arms.
Today he’d steal pucks, score goals. Become a superstar again, if only in his own eyes.
Woken by the sun, he rose early in the quietness of his old bedroom, the three beds—two bunks and Darek’s single—shoved into the attic. He’d always had the top bunk, and it had felt a little weird to choose Darek’s bed last night.
Owen picked up his clothes, still smelling o
f the smoky fire, and stood at the window, staring out at the lake.
He should have kissed Scotty last night. Why did he make that stupid promise? She’d looked at him with those amazing gray-green eyes, and he’d wanted to call her a liar.
It’s over. What we had kept us alive. But it was impulsive and . . . I’m not the marrying kind.
He didn’t know what the marrying kind might be, but he didn’t believe for a second that it was over. Not by a long shot.
Okay, fine. He wouldn’t kiss her again, not until she knew—really knew—that it wasn’t an impulsive, shot-in-the-dark kiss, but a kiss that he meant, a kiss that told her exactly how he felt.
Which, at the moment, he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She’d thrown him with her words about God. I don’t owe God anything, and that works just fine for me.
In his estimation, he owed God everything. And yes, he could agree that in the face of his sins, grace felt a bit too overwhelming. It almost seemed easier to live like Scotty—alone, unbeholden to God.
Because a God who dispensed grace was a God a person couldn’t bargain with.
Except perhaps that was the point. God didn’t want to bargain.
Owen watched the sun gild the lake. His entire life he’d wanted more than this view gave him. Hockey had given him that. And when he lost it, he’d run from the man he couldn’t be.
So what man was he now?
He went down to the kitchen, feeling the strangest sense of déjà vu at the sight of his mother flipping French toast on the stove. Grace stood in the entryway, bundling up Yulia against a nor’easter wind that rattled the sliding-glass doors and tumbled leaves onto the deck.
“Coffee?” he asked and headed toward the cupboard. Opened it to find baking spices.
“I moved the mugs,” his mother said, opening the opposite cupboard door and pulling one down. “But the creamer is still in the same drawer.”
“We’re off to school; then I’ll come back and make some cookies for Casper. I’m going to go visit him today,” Grace said as she left the house.
Owen poured himself a cup of coffee, made his way to a stool.
“Why is Grace living here, instead of down in the Cities with Max? I know the schedule is hectic—”
“The adoption hasn’t been finalized, and your father and I are technically still Yulia’s foster parents. In the meantime, Max sold his condo, and he and Grace are buying a house. Max is staying with Jace and Eden.”
Because that’s what teammates did. For a second an old jealousy flared. He noticed the door to the office open, so he went in and found Darek at his computer. He wore jeans and a green chamois shirt with the Evergreen Resort logo on the breast pocket. His brother seemed more serious than Owen remembered. Owen had often thought he was the blonder version of Darek, born with Darek’s stubborn resolve to bully his way to an answer.
“Any reservations for this weekend?” Owen said.
“We’re full,” Darek said, looking at him. Were those lines around his eyes? Dude, he was getting old.
Or maybe they were all just growing up. Everyone but Owen.
Except he might be growing up too because he hadn’t launched himself at Scotty like he wanted to when she said she’d stick around. When she told him that she’d help him fix this.
See, he didn’t have to be completely impulsive. Always.
“Is this baby Joy?” Owen picked up a picture of Darek on the sofa, a dark-haired baby dressed in pink lying on his chest.
Darek smiled. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” He took the picture, letting his thumb linger over it. “I’m not sure how I got so lucky.”
Owen wasn’t either because he remembered the summer Darek got his girlfriend pregnant, how Darek had acted like his life was over. “Sorry about what I said yesterday, about you and Felicity.”
Darek set the picture back on the desk. “Nah, I get it. I wasn’t the best example.”
Or maybe he was. Because here Darek sat, his life no longer in shambles. “How did you . . . how did you do this, Bro? Find the right girl, get married?”
Darek shook his head. “You’re under the impression that I have this figured out.” He turned to Owen. “Don’t think I don’t recognize the guilt that dogs you. I see your face, and I know what’s in your head. I was there, after Felicity. Even before she died, I couldn’t escape it. The only difference between you and me is the fact that I’ve finally let God forgive me and stopped believing that He’s got a perpetual frown pointed my direction. Believe me, I’m no saint. I’m just a little better at accepting grace.”
The phone rang, and Darek moved to pick it up as Owen backed out of the room.
“French toast?” His mother slid a plate onto the counter.
Owen bellied up, grabbing the syrup. “These smell good.”
“I have a new recipe for eggnog French toast. It’s a little calorie naughty, but for you . . .” She winked, then reached over, touched his arm. When he caught her eyes, they glistened. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
Aw, Mom. “Me too.”
And surprisingly, nothing of regret, no twinge of guilt, tempered his words.
“I’m going to figure out a way to clear Casper,” he added.
His mother offered a weak smile. “I believe you will,” she said, squeezing his arm.
He felt about sixteen, seeing his mother waving at him from the stands, hearing her cheer his name.
She leaned back to look over his shoulder. “Good morning, Scotty. Would you like French toast?”
Owen turned, and everything inside him became golden as Scotty came down the stairs, pulling her duffel bag behind her. She wore her hair down, long and lush, and a flannel shirt and jeans. “I need to find a Laundromat. I’m still dragging around my clothes from the boat.”
“Me too. I had to raid Casper’s stash.” He gestured to the orange UMD Bulldogs T-shirt he wore.
“You’re welcome to use our laundry facilities, Scotty,” Ingrid said. “Get her set up, Owen. And if you bring your laundry down, I’ll put yours in after hers.”
“Really?”
“I know you’re a grown man, but I remember you turning your hockey jersey purple.” She looked at Scotty. “They were supposed to be blue and washed in cold. Coach made him wear it the entire year.”
“I was in eighth grade, playing varsity, and it was humiliating.” He slid off the stool and led Scotty to the basement. The smells of the past embedded the paneled walls—so many parties with the team, popcorn ground into the green shag carpet, endless games of Nintendo on the old Panasonic still sitting on the built-ins. He opened the door to the laundry room and found a new pair of high-efficiency front-loaders. “I remember the washer being a green top-loader,” he said. “I’m not sure how to work this.”
“Stand back. I like my clothes their original color.” Scotty nudged him out of the way and dumped her duffel out on the floor. He averted his eyes.
“I don’t need help. Go pour me a cup of coffee.” She pushed him out of the room, and he refrained from grabbing her hands, pulling her to himself.
“Yes, sir.”
She narrowed an eye, and he backed away, hands raised. Upstairs, he poured her a cup of coffee, set it next to him.
“I like her,” his mother said, her back to him. When she turned, she held Scotty’s plate of French toast. “She’s a little dazzled by you.”
“No, Mom, trust me. Not dazzled at all.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She set the plate next to the coffee as Scotty appeared from the basement.
Scotty climbed onto the stool, reached for the syrup. “These look amazing.”
“Better than Carpie’s burnt pancakes.”
“Old shoes would be better than Carpie’s pancakes.” She dug in, making sounds of delight.
“My mother is a great cook. Grace inherited her abilities. A person could get fat living here—I mean, look at Darek.” He made a face and glanced behind her at Darek emerging from the office, holding h
is cup of coffee.
“I can still take you. Anytime, anyplace.” Darek set his cup in the sink and turned to Scotty. “He was scrawny until he was about seventeen. Used to score goals by skating under kids.”
“Not true. It just seemed that way because I was so lightning fast.”
Darek laughed. “Oh, that was it. Who was that kid on the team who hated you? Used to take your stuff, throw it out of your locker?”
“Rhino Johnson. A senior, about three times as big as me. He got it in his head that I took his spot—”
“You did. Hello, he was a starting wing before you skated in.” Darek fired up the stove, reaching for the French toast fixings. “Owen could skate circles around him.”
“And he made me pay. I would get to practice early, suit up, and be on the ice before anyone else. Then he’d get there, find my locker, and play hide Owen’s clothes in one of the other lockers, or maybe put them in the shower or in a toilet stall. As an eighth grader it was a little daunting.”
Owen soaked his toast in the syrup. “I would come home, sometimes in wet clothes, frozen and mad and frustrated.” He washed a bite down with coffee. “Then one day I couldn’t take it anymore. We were on the ice and I just . . . freaked out. I checked him as hard as I could, his helmet came off, and he broke his nose.”
“Wow.” Scotty stopped midbite.
“I know. I thought he was going to kill me. But he just avoided me after that. Maybe he realized I was tougher than he thought.”
“Or maybe he waited for you after practice the next day, planning to take you out at the knees, and Casper jumped him.” Darek flipped his French toast, turned to face Owen.
“He did?”
“Mmm-hmm. Told Rhino that if he went after you, he’d have to deal with Casper—and me.”
Oh. Now Owen felt about fourteen again.
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