Beach House No. 9

by Christie Ridgway

  * * *

  JANE FELT THE WEIGHT of the sand on her chest long after Duncan and Oliver returned—crabless, thank God—and dug her out. She walked down the beach to the outdoor shower near the entrance to Captain Crow’s and rinsed off. Then, even though she didn’t have any money on her, she was able to smile a glass of iced tea out of the guy behind the beachside bar.

  Nobody goddamn knows me at all.

  She supposed Griffin was right, despite her earlier claims that they had an understanding. After that call from Gage, she’d expected to find him packing a bag and double-checking the expiration date on his passport. She’d promised herself she’d be happy for him. Shouldn’t she be happy for him?

  But now, well… Private was going to be thrilled that the man was sticking around.

  Later she wandered back down the beach. Tess’s Mercedes station wagon was stuffed to the gills, and it looked iffy that there’d be room for all the kids in David’s SUV. While Griffin was working with his brother-in-law to find places for the stroller, two skimboards and a mountain of beach towels, Jane slipped into No. 9 and quickly collected most of her clothes and personal items. Whatever she left behind could be retrieved later, since he’d decreed they’d still be working together on the memoir.

  Not fifteen minutes later, she was smiling and waving as the Quincy clan exited the cove. “I’m going to the office,” Griffin said.

  “I’ll be there in a little bit,” she remarked to his retreating back. When the door to No. 9 shut behind him, she located her stashed suitcases and reached into her pocket for the key to the cottage next door that Tess had handed over. When she turned the knob, she pushed one bag across the threshold with her foot. The other she deposited on the narrow bench that stood in the small entry.

  A gust of air blew through the open door, and she left it standing, allowing the salt-tinged breeze to mix with the mingled scents of crayon, baby powder and nail polish. It was so quiet without the minions.

  Which was why she heard the footsteps behind her. Startled, she whirled around, only to see a stone-faced Griffin stalk through the entrance. He brushed past her to grip one suitcase and then the other bag. Without a word, he turned back toward No. 9.

  “What are you doing?” she said, hurrying to keep up with him.

  “Do you think I’m blind? I passed by the laundry room, and the first thing I noticed is that your filmy bits of sexual torture are missing.”

  Her lingerie. She’d hand washed a batch the day before and hung it on the drying rack. Of course she’d collected the garments as part of her packing process.

  “This is kind of high-handed, you know,” she said, as he walked through the door of No. 9 without even looking to see if she still followed.

  “Pot, meet kettle,” he muttered.

  She trailed after him on his way down the hall. “Maybe I want some alone time.”

  “So take an hour next door when you need it. The rest of your days and nights you’re with me.” Then he dropped her belongings on the floor of the master bedroom and took her in his arms, making sure she knew exactly what he meant by “with me.” And Jane, seduced by that long, strong body enclosing hers, pressed her cheek into the delicious, heated skin of his throat and abandoned any more thoughts of escape.

  * * *

  DESPITE HER DECISION to remain at No. 9, Jane realized over the next few days that things didn’t go back to the way they’d been. He wasn’t the same Griffin as before. Though he was at turns teasing and seductive and brooding, there were times when he went even quieter now, as if every part of him stilled. Like a body submerging in deep waters, he would sink inside himself to a place that was unreachable.

  Nobody goddamn knows me.

  She kept coming back to that, and as more time went on, she acknowledged it was true. Though she read the pages of his memoir and thought she understood something of his experience while embedded in Afghanistan, there seemed to be a link missing in the connection between herself and Griffin. Between him and the world he lived in now. He wasn’t tethered to it in any meaningful way, and he didn’t seem in any hurry to make the essential attachment.

  She also began to suspect he was using sex as he’d previously used the television and his iPod and his solitaire games. It was a way to occupy his body without his brain actually being engaged.

  After a short while with this newly distant man, she longed for the distraction of Tess and the minions.

  She saw them not long after they’d left the cove, however, on the day that Griffin and Rex Monroe gave their talk to Rebecca’s history seminar as part of her final project. To accommodate working parents, the presentations were scheduled in the late afternoon. The entire Quincy family was there, though Duncan and Oliver were allowed to play on the grass just outside the classroom door. David held baby Russ in one arm as he and Tess sat together, fingers enmeshed. Skye attended as well, and she was in the car with Jane, Rex and Griffin as they headed back to Crescent Cove once the war reporters’ talk was over.

  Unsurprisingly, the men traded insults the entire return trip.

  “Your ugly mug frightened the kids,” Rex said from his place riding shotgun.

  Griffin’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he glanced over at his nemesis. “Give it up, you old crank. They looked scared because they never thought they’d meet a man who handed out prunes on Halloween.”

  “You shouldn’t have told them that.”

  “They were yawning,” Griffin said. “Your stuff was putting them to sleep.”

  The conversation continued in that vein despite how affecting their discussion had been. Rex’s experiences as a combat journalist in World War Two echoed Griffin’s sixty-odd years later. They’d both described surviving brutal temperatures, the tense boredom of waiting for action and the bonds of brotherhood between the soldiers. War was war, their accounts made clear to the teenagers, no matter what the weapons, the era, the prize to be won.

  A young man had raised his hand, wanting to know if war wasn’t also exciting. They’d glanced at each other, and then Rex had admitted that it was. “It’s not do or die,” he’d said. “Combat is die or live.”

  “Nothing will get your heart pumping more than that,” Griffin had added. “The adrenaline sharpens your senses in a way that can save you when you’re taking fire.” His voice had hushed, and he’d looked at Rex. “Civilian life can seem lackluster after war. Almost colorless.”

  The words had jolted Jane then, and they gave her another unpleasant shake remembering them now. Jerked back to the present, she listened to the two reporters continuing their exchange of insults.

  Skye spoke up for the first time, interrupting them. “I’d like to point out that forty summer-schooled teenagers gave you a standing ovation.”

  “That was for me,” the two men said together.

  Jane couldn’t help but laugh.

  Back at Beach House No. 9, she watched Griffin aid Rex up the path to his cottage. He said it was to make sure that the “crusty coot” didn’t try stealing his half of the photos they’d mounted on a display board that Griffin carried tucked beneath his arm.

  Though she couldn’t hear his voice, his tone carried. More verbal abuse. And yet his steps were slow and his hand steady on the older man’s elbow.

  Nobody goddamn knows me.

  But she knew enough, Jane suddenly thought, her blood starting to pulse in anxious chugs through her veins. Oh, God help her, she knew enough.

  How many times had she seen the contradiction of Griffin’s attitude and his actions? Complaining about the minions and yet brushing a kiss on a nephew’s hair. His arms swooping to toss her into the ocean, then holding her close to calm her fears. Those “rules” he’d established about their sex life that were all for her ungovernable pleasure. Despite all his tough talk he’d always been so…caring.

  Beside her, Skye sighed. “Look at that,” she said, gesturing toward the pair of reporters. “Sweet, huh?”

  Sweet? Dis
astrous. Jane’s face went hot, and she couldn’t feel her feet. There was a high whine of panic in her ears, and her fingers, when she knotted them together, were tense and cold.

  She’d done it, she thought, feeling sick. She’d done the very thing she’d vowed to avoid. Silly and emotional Jane had fallen in love with a man she understood well enough to know he would never love her back.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  GRIFFIN ROLLED HIS shoulders as he left Rex’s place, the heat of the sun baking the last of the tension from his muscles. The speaking gig he’d been dreading was over. He’d managed to talk of his experience without choking on the words or running from the room.

  It had gotten easier after the first couple of minutes. There’d been a water bottle at hand to alleviate the dryness of his mouth, and the kids had been fascinated with his description of the primitive conditions at the outpost. They hadn’t skipped the hard questions. He’d been obliged to acknowledge witnessing death and grave injury—but he’d avoided going into much detail.

  Still, a gloomy darkness had welled at the mention of it, and he’d been forced to focus on Rex’s gnarled knuckles and take a few slow breaths. Maybe the other reporter had sensed his disquiet. When the classroom had begun to fade in his vision, the curmudgeon had jumped in, his loud voice bringing Griffin back to whiteboards and textbooks.

  So now he was here at the cove, safe and sound, and he found he could even smile at his Lab trotting ahead, as eager as he to get back to Beach House No. 9. Private likely hoped he could sweet-look Jane into giving him a treat. She was easy that way. A total pushover for the dog.

  Maybe Griffin could sweet-talk her into bed.

  His sense of well-being grew, pushing out the edginess that had been growing the past few days as he came to the end of the manuscript pages he’d written. He remembered now working on the book in Afghanistan—and he didn’t like recalling the day he’d set it aside. That particular memory loomed in the corner of his mind all the time, and more than once it had reached out with its claws to yank him low. Now, though, it seemed that the beast had retreated. At least for the moment.

  Jane and Skye were sitting in chairs overlooking the beach. As his footsteps clapped against the wooden deck, Skye glanced over, then stood. The dress she’d worn for the day’s event was as shapeless as the rest of her wardrobe. She’d pulled on an extra-large hoodie as insurance—against the ocean breeze, Griffin supposed. “Mail,” she said, as he came closer.

  She handed him one of Gage’s postcards. The image was full color and arresting, as so much of his twin’s work was. It was a close-up shot of a young boy’s face. His hair was close-cropped and topped with an earth-toned woven cap. His ears stuck out, and he held a bright pink flower to his nose with a grubby hand. But it was the eyes that caught Griffin’s attention. Ringed with spiky lashes, they were the same silvery gray as Jane’s.

  He cut his gaze to her, but he only had a view of the back of her head as she stared out to sea. Flipping the postcard, he glanced down at the message. Still breathing.

  That was good. Even though he’d talked to Gage just days before and the postcard had likely been mailed a week before that, seeing his brother’s handwriting and touching the card stock that had been handled by him made his twin’s security seem more assured. Still breathing.

  Weird, though, that he wasn’t certain the same could be said about the librarian. He glanced over at her again, puzzled, and then shifted his focus to Skye, sending her a silent question. What’s with Jane? But the other woman only shrugged and said she had to be on her way.

  Jane gave her a wave but otherwise didn’t move.

  Griffin didn’t like her uncharacteristic preoccupation. “What’s up, Jane?”

  “Nothing.”

  He frowned. “Are you mad at me?”

  She seemed to consider this, her head tilting, her gaze not leaving the surf. “Yes.”

  Sighing, he threw himself into the chair that Skye had vacated. “All right, let me have it.”

  “I don’t think I will,” Jane said after a moment. “I think instead I’ll get up and start chopping. Remember we have Rex coming for dinner tonight to celebrate your mutual success. I’m making shish kebab.”

  He craned his neck to watch her cross the deck. She wore a dress that was nothing more than a figure-skimming, knee-length T-shirt. But it was made of blocks of color—yellow on top, pumpkin in the middle, black on the bottom—and she wore it with matching pumpkin shoes that had a dozen or two straps wrapping her small feet.

  As she walked away, the breeze plastered the knit fabric to her, and it molded her body so sweetly that he could see the cleft of her pert ass. It got him thinking of her underwear again—always a cheerful notion.

  The legs of his chair scraped as he pushed out of it. She didn’t glance back, but he saw her shoulders stiffen as he stalked her into the house. Still, she ignored him, even when she whirled from the refrigerator, her hands full of vegetable bags, to find him standing right in front of her.

  When she made to step around him, he stepped too, blocking her path. Then he took the bags out of her grasp and placed them on the counter. His hands he placed on her waist.

  “You’re bringing me down, Jane,” he said. “I was feeling pretty good until you started staring out at the surf doing the whole pensive thing. Face it, moody is what I do. So tell me what’s wrong, so we can get past it.”

  She hesitated.

  “Is this going to require force?” he asked, mock-serious. “Because I’m prepared to take your panties hostage.” His hands slid to her hips. “And I mean the ones you’re wearing, by the way. I have to know…bows on the side or bow in the front? Is it the pair with those cute zippers at your hip bones?”

  Her eyes narrowed to silver slits. “Is it all about the sex with you?”

  “Yes,” he said promptly. “Right now it’s all about the sex.”

  She looked away, sighed. “At least he’s honest,” she murmured. Then her gaze returned to his, and her spine straightened. “You’re right, moody is your domain. So I’m officially over it.”

  Suspicious, he tightened his fingers on her curves. “‘It’ what?”

  Pursing her pouty mouth, she shook her head and slipped out of his grasp. As she made for the countertop and the waiting vegetables, she gave him a hot little glance over her shoulder that caused his cock to twitch.

  “I’m wearing a pair you’ve never seen before,” she said. “Fishnet triangle in the front and the back…”

  Fishnet triangle? Blood screamed southward as he imagined it, and his mouth went dry. “And the back?”

  “Crisscrossed strings, kind of like a cage,” she said. “I believe they’re crotchless.”

  Crotchless. He fell back a step. “No. Now you’re just playing with me, Jane.”

  From the butcher’s block she pulled a shiny, sharp knife. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”

  “Let’s find out.” He took a step toward her.

  She spun, putting the counter at her back and the knife between them. “Nuh-uh-uh. No time for that. We have a guest coming for dinner.”

  “Just another reason why I can’t stand that cantankerous grouchy grump.”

  “You resemble that remark, Griffin.”

  “So I do,” he agreed, backing away. “But I’m coming after you tonight, baby, and you’ll be giving up all your panty secrets and every other one besides.”

  Her wide eyes and sudden frown signaled that threat seemed to worry her a little, so he turned around and left the kitchen, enjoying the upper hand. He even heard himself whistling as he headed for the beach. A twenty-minute walk would cool him off and give Jane time to stew over what he’d promised.

  Ha. The day was only getting better.

  At the appointed hour, he was whistling again when he and Private jumped over the fence on their way to collect Rex. Sure the old guy could make it to No. 9 on his own, but there was no reason Griffin couldn’t lend a hand. They’d return via t
he longer route that didn’t involve fence-climbing, and he could rib the old guy some more about their presentation.

  Rex had done a good job, not that Griffin would let him know he thought so. And the more he considered his own part in it, the more he realized it had been a bit of a…relief to talk about that year. Like releasing steam from the boiling kettle that was his work on the memoir.

  Maybe that was why he was whistling.

  He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at his house. Jane was in there, bustling around in her efficient way while wearing her naughty underwear. Later tonight he’d tease her out of them and tease her into confessing what had been bothering her out on the deck. Whatever it was, he’d make it disappear, like magic. He was feeling so great he was starting to believe in such a thing. Maybe Beach House No. 9 was the magic.

  At Rex’s front door, he rapped briskly. When there was no response, he tried again, aware the old man wore hearing aids. Maybe he’d removed them and so didn’t know Griffin had arrived.

  That thought had him trying the doorknob. It turned. “Monroe?” he called, not wanting to startle him. “Rex?”

  Griffin glanced in the den, the living room, then headed toward the kitchen. His eyes fixed on an unexpected sight and his feet stuttered to a halt, but it took his brain a second or two longer to process. A body lay crumpled on the floor. There was a puddle of red blood, a pool of the bright stuff, and it made a dark stain on Rex’s khaki-colored shirt…which in Griffin’s mind became a younger man’s camouflage BDUs.

  The world turns dark, because there’s dirt covering the windshield of the Humvee carrying him and four other guys. There’s a ringing in his ears, left over from the percussive blast of the IED. Their vehicle has flipped, but he doesn’t remember the tumble, only the aftermath, when he’s lying in the wreckage, pinned by he doesn’t know what yet, and wondering why his heart rate has barely registered that they’ve been bombed.

  Erica had died three days before, and lying there, he supposes it might be his turn. If he isn’t dead already, he’s going to have to get out of the vehicle and run through a hail of bullets in order to survive. In this moment, he’s not sure it’s worth the effort. Getting shot’s probably going to hurt.