Island of Second Chances

by Cara Lockwood

  He wouldn’t ask her along. And he didn’t want her to want to go with him, either. Not what he needed right now.

  He watched her quietly take up her post on the deck with her sanding blocks and noticed she took special care not to look his way. She’d only given him a curt “morning” before getting to work. Businesslike was better—for both of them, but he didn’t like the idea of her feelings being hurt. It showed he was already starting to care about her, a dangerous place to be.

  Maybe letting her in on this project had been his first mistake. He should’ve just stood his ground. Told her to buzz off. Then he remembered the determined fire in her green eyes and the stubborn jut of her chin and realized he probably couldn’t have talked her out of this project, no matter what he said.

  He sighed as she furiously scrubbed the deck, looking as if she was working out her disappointment and anger on the boards. Well, at least she has an outlet, he thought. Still, he felt bad.

  “You need some water?” he asked her, offering up his bottle in a kind of truce as he stood on the ladder.

  “No, thanks,” she said, curt, not looking back at him as she worked. “Brought my own today.”

  So that’s how it was going to be?

  Don’t make it your problem, he told himself. He had enough to worry about. Probably best she just stay mad at him. It was one way to make sure she didn’t get too close.

  * * *

  THE MORE LAURA WORKED, the angrier she seemed to get. She didn’t know why. Sure, Mark had rejected her, but he’d not been the first man who wasn’t all that crazy about the thought of her kissing him. There’d been Jack Aubrey all the way back in fourth grade.

  She admitted freely to herself that ever since the miscarriage, she’d been a buddle of unpredictable emotions. She hated it, really. They seemed to overtake her when she least expected it. Laura always prided herself on being a rational woman, a thoughtful, sane, practical person. But the miscarriage had turned her life upside down. Grief, she supposed, did that. Grief wasn’t just sadness bubbling to the surface. It was anger and regret and guilt, too.

  She scrubbed harder at the boards in front of her, building up a thin layer of sawdust on her hands and arms all the way up to her elbows. Laura hardly cared. She took out her emotions on the wood, still surprised about how deeply she felt rejected by Mark, how somehow she’d built up a great fantasy in her head after just a few days, that maybe they were really connecting, that maybe someone finally understood her.

  Why would he be interested in an adulterer? No one wanted a cheater. How could anyone trust her again?

  Of course, technically, Dean had been the one cheating. Still. Laura had known he had a wife. She was just as guilty as he was. Chalk it up to one more reason she’d be single for the rest of her life. One more reason why she’d probably never have kids.

  Not that my body can do that anyway.

  Laura knew she was wallowing in self-pity and hated it. She scrubbed harder as she worked her way into the corner of the deck. She realized with a start that much time had passed, and the sun hung high overhead. She was also nearly done with the sanding portion of her responsibilities. Her shirt was covered in sawdust, as were her hands and arms. Sawdust clung to her knees and her face. It probably was sprinkled in her hair, too.

  Laura stretched, feeling the stiffness in her back. She wasn’t twenty anymore, and she’d been using muscles she never thought she even had. Her shorts also felt looser. She wondered if that was the pregnancy weight she’d lost or if that were just all the work she’d been doing with her hands.

  The warm Caribbean sun bore down on her head as she reached the end of the deck. She dropped her sanding sponges and sat back on her heels. That was a job well done, she thought as she looked across the huge expanse of brand-new decking, newly sanded. She stood, grabbed the broom that was leaning against the mast and began sweeping off the dust, feeling the solid boards beneath her feet. She wondered what the boat would feel like out at sea, moved by waves, surrounded by blue-green water. Laura realized she might never know. She was helping Mark get the boat ready, but it was no guarantee he’d take her out on it. Or that he’d want to.

  On her perch, up on deck, she saw a couple walking hand in hand on the beach. She glanced back and saw Mark, shirtless again, moving cans of resin and wood stain around in the workshop. She noticed the way his back muscles worked as he sorted through the cans. She still felt a twinge of attraction, despite the fact that he clearly didn’t feel the same way.

  Laura wondered if this would be Dean all over again. Dean, who pretended after the end of the affair that he’d never wanted her at all. He sat in boardrooms staring at her blankly, without a hint of warmth. Of course, now she understood why. He’d been busy taking care of his newly pregnant wife. She wondered how he’d reacted when his wife had told him the news. Had he celebrated? Been truly happy. The thought sliced through her like a sharp knife. He’d never truly cared for her at all, that much she knew now.

  Laura decided she did need a break. Being here with Mark, working on his boat, suddenly didn’t feel therapeutic.

  She put the broom back where she’d found it and then climbed down the ladder resting against the side of the boat. Once on the ground, she cleared her throat, but Mark, busy inventorying the cans, didn’t turn around.

  “Mark,” she said.

  He turned slightly, almost fearfully. As if he worried she’d start yelling at him. “Yes?”

  “I’m going to stop for the day,” she said, suddenly feeling relieved to have the words out. Now she didn’t have to pretend yesterday didn’t hurt, that it never happened. She could just get away from Mark and then she’d feel better.

  “But it’s just four,” he exclaimed, surprised. Usually she worked till sundown. Well, not today, buddy.

  “I just need a break.” She rubbed her wrist, hoping to use muscle aches as her excuse but honestly not really caring if he picked up on the cue or not.

  “Uh...sure.” Mark rubbed his bare neck, still looking confused.

  Laura turned.

  “See you tomorrow then?”

  She paused, hand on the side of the boat. “Uh. Probably.” It sounded weak even in her own ears, but somehow she couldn’t quite muster the enthusiasm for tomorrow. She’d just have to wait and see how she felt.

  Mark didn’t reply, and when she glanced back, she saw he’d already busied himself opening a can of wood stain. He didn’t seem to care that her answer was iffy or that she might walk out of his life for good. What did she expect? A grand gesture? An apology?

  Right now, all she wanted to do was take a hot shower, throw on some clothes and head to the nearest tourist bar. She was pretty sure a sweet drink with an umbrella would make her feel better. At least, it couldn’t make her feel worse.

  * * *

  MARK SPENT THE next few hours carefully painting wood stain on his newly sanded deck. Even he had to admit Laura had done a wonderful job. Better than he’d hoped. And having her working on it had sped up the timeline quite a bit. She was an efficient worker, and now he was not only back on schedule with the boat, but ahead of schedule. He might finish by the race, after all.

  Even though you don’t have a crew.

  He’d deal with that later. First, the boat. Then the crew.

  The sun began to dip below the horizon and Mark worked hard to finish up the stain before it did. He tried to focus entirely on the wood stain and the back-and-forth of his paint brush, but part of him couldn’t help thinking about how Laura had left. Mysterious and moody.

  Like all women, he thought. He’d never figure them out. He knew from her “probably” that there was a chance she might not return to help him now that her little venture in this project was done. Probably for the best. I don’t need the drama.

  But when he thought of her bright green eyes, he realized he missed them already.
He missed having her company, her petite frame working so diligently next to him, eager and always prodding him to do better. And he’d offended her, like he did nearly all the women in his life, and now she’d left. Same as all the others.

  Even worse, for the last hour, some upbeat dance music blared from the balcony of her condo. It abruptly stopped, and a few minutes later, he heard her footsteps on the metal stairs. He glanced up and from his vantage point on the boat, he could see through a break in the condo buildings to the parking lot. Laura was dressed up in wedge sandals, a short sundress showing off her newly tanned legs, a red flower in her dark bobbed hair and red lipstick. Definitely stark red lipstick.

  He felt his groin tighten in appreciation. The woman was gorgeous, her short cotton dress clinging perfectly to her seductive curves.

  She climbed into a waiting cab, one he recognized as belonging to Reggie, the cab driver who’d been the first person he’d ever met on St. Anthony’s. Reggie had a wife and three kids, whom he supported by taking tourists around the island. Mark wondered where Laura was off to wearing red lipstick and what she would do when she got there.

  The sky turned a deep crimson with the setting sun and he knew the tourist bars would still be in full swing. He knew when Laura got there, she’d have to fight off the men. They’d be on her like bears on honey. He tried not to let that bother him as he finished the last swipe of wood stain. Not my problem. Then why did it feel like his problem?

  What if she met someone? Went back to his hotel room or took him to hers? Worse, what if she got into trouble? Women looking that pretty nearly always got into trouble, especially when there were drunk tourists around.

  He climbed down the ladder from the boat and wiped his hands on a damp rag, mind working. He could shower and call up Reggie. With a little prodding, he figured, Reggie would tell him where she’d gone. And even if he didn’t, there was only one main tourist strip in Smuggler’s Cove with just three bars.

  He could find her easily. And find her he would.

  Chapter Nine

  LAURA SKIPPED OVER the two glaring bars with neon signs and college kids crowding the open patios until she landed at the one bar in Smuggler’s Cove with the least amount of neon lights. It was called the Rusted Anchor, which Laura thought ironic and perfect.

  The Rusted Anchor felt like a bar for the serious sailor or the serious drinker. She saw both in the place. What she didn’t see were umbrellas in drinks or neon party shirts or college spring-breakers. The well-worn bar was bustling, though. A wooden ship’s wheel hung above it, draped in fishing netting and buoys, but that’s where the kitsch ended. The rest of the place was crowded with worn wooden booths and a few round tables, with an entire wall of windows facing the marina. Rows of perfect sailboats bobbed in their moorings, lined up and ready to set sail.

  Laura glanced at them and felt a little pang. She might never see Mark’s boat sail now. She might never even help him finish it. Would he give up? Would he continue on without her? Either option seemed painful. She realized she’d hung on to this thought of him taking her sailing, of feeling the deck she’d sanded move beneath her feet as it cut through the waves.

  Not that Mark had ever promised her that. She’d been filling in the blanks again with her expectations, without any real evidence to support them. It was just like what she’d done with Dean. He’d told her he loved her and she ran with it, filling her mind with dreams of her future with him and their baby.

  She walked past a casual Seat Yourself Anywhere sign near the front and chose an open bar stool. A bartender wearing a simple T-shirt with an anchor on it was drying a glass.

  “What can I get you?” he asked her, his face friendly and open and probably at least ten years younger than she was. Still, he was cute, with his blond hair and ice-blue eyes.

  “Gin and tonic? You have Hendricks?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and she cringed a little. Ma’am. That’s what she was becoming. More and more.

  Feeling alone, she pulled out her phone. No new messages.

  Would she be able to work on the boat tomorrow? She didn’t know. The boat had been the perfect distraction, to help put her mind on a problem that had a solution: board, meet nail. Brush meet paint. Easy. Simple. Doable. With no such distractions now, all her old thoughts rushed back, and they were all of Dean.

  What was he doing right now? Feeding his beautiful, pregnant wife pickles and ice cream? Rubbing her feet? Painting the nursery?

  All the thoughts felt like daggers in her brain. Why did she do this to herself? Why did she torture herself like this?

  Still, she couldn’t help it. She had to silence the morbid curiosity in her mind. She pulled up Dean’s Facebook page. Instantly, she wished she hadn’t. He had taken a selfie with his beaming wife, his own hand over her belly. The caption read, “And baby makes three!”

  The post had dozens and dozens of comments, all gushing, all happy for the couple. Dean looked happy, grinning from ear to ear, the epitome of a proud papa. If she had any doubt about everything he told her being a lie, then his photo confirmed it. He was happy with his wife. She’d just been a distraction.

  A text popped up from her older sister, Maddie. How’s Margaritaville?

  Fine, Laura texted back. Even though it wasn’t fine. She’d traveled thousands of miles away and she was just starting to realize there wasn’t anywhere far enough she could run to get away from her problems. The last thing she needed was for Maddie, who wasn’t afraid to let Laura know in detail all the ways she was mucking up in her life, to tell her how this was all a huge waste of time. Maddie had been trying to fill their mother’s shoes ever since she’d passed away. Laura wanted to tell her that wasn’t her job.

  You going to come back soon? Think of your retirement! You might be able to put money back in your 401(k) without a penalty if you work fast.

  Laura sighed and put the phone facedown on the bar. Leave it to her older sister to harp on her about responsibility. She just didn’t understand. Nobody seemed to understand.

  Mark understood, a small voice whispered in her head. And instantly she remembered the embarrassment of trying to kiss the man. Mark was a nonstarter.

  The bartender placed the tumbler of the clear cocktail with lime in front of her.

  “Would you like to pay now or start a tab?”

  “Tab,” she said and slid her credit card over the bar, figuring this was a more-than-one-drink kind of night.

  “I’ve got it, Greg,” came a smooth voice to her right. She turned, slipping her phone in her pocket, to see a man who looked...a little like Mark. But wasn’t Mark. Older, a bit grayer in the temples, but the same dark eyes, the same strong jawline. “And get me a St. Anthony’s IPA, would you?” The bartender nodded and hurried off to get the man’s beer.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she exclaimed, squirming on her bar stool. Sure, she’d dressed up and come out to the bar in the vain hope she might be able to flirt a little, but now, with this age-appropriate man in the linen shorts and button-down light blue shirt, she suddenly felt shy. Not ready. Thrown by Dean’s picture of domestic bliss. Now she wasn’t sure she had the courage to flirt, exactly.

  “I know I don’t,” he said smoothly. “But I want to.” He grinned, and she could feel the charm oozing from him. She wondered if her imagination was playing tricks on her with how much he looked like Mark. She could get used to this, though. His smile and his eyes were so much like Mark’s, except friendly.

  She nodded, and he slipped onto the stool next to her, his knee casually brushing hers. She liked the contact. He smiled once more and she felt like maybe she did have the courage to flirt. Isn’t that why she’d come? To forget...Mark. Just have a little fun. Be a tourist for once. She smiled back at the stranger.

  “You have a beautiful smile,” he said.

  “Well, then, you’ll have t
o make me smile more often.” She laughed a little at her obvious attempt to flirt. He joined her.

  “Well, I will. Consider the challenge accepted.”

  The bartender returned with his beer and set it on the bar.

  The man held up his glass. “To new acquaintances and many more smiles,” he said.

  She grinned. “I’ll drink to that.” They clinked glasses and she took a sip of her gin and tonic, the tart crispness hitting her tongue in just the right way. Now her evening was starting to look up.

  “So what’s a gorgeous woman like you doing in a dive like this?” he asked.

  “That’s a terrible line. Does that work?”

  “Nope. But I’m hoping to break the losing streak.” He grinned.

  “I’m a tourist. In from San Francisco.”

  “Love California!” he exclaimed.

  “I’m Laura,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it gently and squeezed, his eyes never leaving hers. “Laura, pleasure to meet you. I’m Edward. Edward Tanner.”

  Laura froze on her bar stool.

  “Tanner? Are you related to Mark Tanner?”

  Edward frowned. “My brother. Why?”

  Then it all hit her at once. The resemblance was no accident. This was the brother who’d slept with Mark’s wife. Who’d stolen the boat company and now he’d bought her a drink. She felt trapped suddenly, as if the walls of the bar were closing in.

  Laura felt anger bubble up in her.

  “Look, I’m friends with Mark,” she said and let that sit there, hoping he took the cue and left. She didn’t really want to have to spell it out for him, but their flirting was over and so was the drink.

  Edward frowned.

  “Oh, so he’s told you about me, has he?”

  “He has.” She tried to lace the sentence with as much meaning as she could muster. I know all about you, buddy. I know what you did. What kind of brother you are. I want nothing to do with you.

  “Well, that’s a shame because there are two sides to every story. Don’t suppose you want to hear mine?” Edward asked, quirking a hopeful eyebrow.