Sandpiper Island (The Bachelors

by Donna Kauffman

  But the first thing she was going to do was call Grace Maddox and gently explain why she needed to call off her big brother. If Delia had a chance in hell of pulling herself out of this mess, she couldn’t have Ford fogging up her brain. And all of her other highly foggable parts along with it.

  Chapter 5

  Ford leaned his shoulder against the skinny white porch column of the saltbox house. The late summer night was clear, the moon high and bright, but there was a nip to the air. Fall would come early this year. He’d known it when the migration from Sandpiper had started earlier than usual.

  He wasn’t thinking about puffins and terns at the moment, though. There were far too many memories swimming around in his mind, taking up all his available attention. He realized he hadn’t come by this house even once in all the years he’d been living in the Cove. When he’d spent time with Delia since he’d come to live there, it had always been at the diner, or sitting on her docks, just across Harbor Street. The tidy, nineteenth-century home had belonged to Delia’s grandmother last time he’d come around. There had been a wake at the restaurant Mrs. O’Reilly had owned, but the immediate gathering after Tommy’s funeral had been at her house. This house.

  Even with the moon, it was hard to tell much in the dark, but he could see the Wedgwood blue paint was weathered, and the whole place was in need of a new set of shakes, maybe some fresh paint on the trim and the porch railing, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary for any house in the Cove, given the severity of the winters. Otherwise, the place was well maintained, with a neatly trimmed yard, and equally tidy rosebushes lined up along the front of the porch. A short walk of carefully patterned pavers led from the front porch around to the side driveway, all much the same as it had been when her grandmother had owned it.

  He wondered, idly, if Delia had changed anything inside, so the place would now reflect her tastes, her lifestyle, or if she’d simply left it as is, after Gran, as Delia had called her, had passed on. He guessed the latter. Delia didn’t strike him as particularly concerned with being trendy so much as being practical. What would have been good enough for the senior O’Reilly was likely just fine for the current O’Reilly. Unless it broke down or wore out, he imagined she didn’t try to fix up much. She had enough to do running the diner.

  It was a simple life, unadorned by things, by possessions, much like the one of his childhood. Yet, in Delia’s case, rather than being desolate or deprived, as his early life had been, her life was beautifully enriched by the people she’d surrounded herself with. As a kid, he hadn’t—couldn’t have—appreciated the importance of that particular kind of wealth, but standing there now, thinking about the great fortune she had amassed, the depth and breadth of it resonated somewhere deep inside him. And for the first time in a very, very long time, he felt something close to yearning.

  Pushing that down, far down, he shoved the memories of his first time in the Cove, along with much, much older memories of his childhood, back up on that long disregarded shelf, and watched as she climbed out of her forest green Trail Runner, and gave her lower back a quick rub. She made the caring and feeding of people—a long and steady stream of them—look easy, but he knew it was damned hard work.

  He stepped off the stoop and away from his past as she came around the front walk. “Hey.”

  She let out a short shriek. “Holy—you really have to stop doing that,” she scolded him, rubbing the spot on her chest over her heart. “I swear, you’re going to be the death of me.” She squeezed her eyes shut as soon as she’d said it.

  Ford swore under his breath. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. For a lot of reasons.

  “Sorry. You know I didn’t mean—”

  “Stop,” he said shortly, his tone a shade more abrupt than he’d intended.

  She didn’t so much as pause. “But—”

  “Stop,” he said again, more quietly than the first time.

  She was standing a few feet in front of him. She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were saying it all for her.

  “It’s no secret I was the death of a lot of people, Dee. It was my job, my duty. In service to this country.”

  She not only looked apologetic now, but completely ashamed. “You know I understand that. It’s just, I know you . . . struggle. Or you did. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, been around you. I don’t know how you are with it all now, but when you first came back, you were dealing with a lot. With the demands of your service, what was asked of you. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t.”

  “It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago.”

  “I know that, too. I wasn’t apologizing because I thought you were all hair-trigger about it. I just—I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. It was an unthinking comment. That’s all.”

  He’d forgotten how direct she could be. Delia O’Reilly didn’t mince words. He’d also forgotten how much he missed that. Actually, no, that wasn’t exactly true. He’d intentionally not allowed himself to think about how much he missed that. Or her. A very different thing.

  “It’s a common enough phrase,” he replied. “Don’t tiptoe around me. You, of all people . . .” He drifted off, not even sure what he was really trying to say.

  “Ford,” she said, the single word thick with emotion.

  “I’m not chastising you, Dee.”

  One eyebrow climbed halfway up her forehead. “Well, you sure have an interesting approach.”

  He felt the corners of his mouth kick upward. “Let me finish. Please.”

  She gave a little nod of acquiescence, and then added a deferential motion with her hand.

  A real smile threatened then. Even humbled, she still had an attitude. “It was a request, that’s all. And an apology.”

  That surprised her. “For what? Why?”

  He wasn’t even sure he could explain it to himself. He only knew that if he was going to find a way to help her, they had to have an understanding. And the fact that they didn’t already have one was what he needed to apologize for. “Last night, when you fell all over yourself, worried that you’d said the wrong thing, I . . . it pissed me off.”

  “Ford—”

  “And the fact that it did, well, that didn’t help matters, either. But that’s on me.” He took a moment, searching for the right words, wanting to find them this time. He hadn’t had to articulate thoughts of a personal nature to anyone in so long, he wasn’t quite sure he knew how to do it. He’d tried, in recent months, with Grace, but the truth was, when they spent time together, she did most of the talking. And he let her. He’d told himself that listening was what she needed from him, that taking in what she had to say to him, learning from it, apologizing when necessary, wishing he had all the answers she sought with her endless questions was what he had to give her, all the while knowing that he deserved far worse than her periodic frustration with him.

  He glanced away, looking out from where Delia’s house was perched on the side of the hill leading down to the waterfront to the twinkling lights in the harbor below. The right words weren’t magically forming in his head. So, he just went with the ones he had. “You’re right. It has been a long time. You can’t know where I am now, because I haven’t been around to let you know it. I hated that you imagined I was still so screwed up that the least little inadvertent reference or stumble over a sensitive subject would send me . . . I don’t know. Somewhere. I was angry with you, that you didn’t know me better than that.” He looked back at her. “Then I realized how completely full of shit I was.”

  Now both of her eyebrows climbed. She straightened her stance, folded her arms. “Go on.”

  He shook his head briefly, but the smile was there now, and it wasn’t going away. She confused him with the conflicting emotions she so effortlessly evoked. She had from the moment he’d met her. Some things didn’t change with time, or with reflection. Possibly, he admitted, because he’d avoided doing just that. No time like the present. A lesson Grace was teaching him. D
aily. “I wanted to blame my reaction on you. I was mad that your opinion, after all this time, all I’ve done for the Cove, was still so piss poor.”

  “It was never—”

  He didn’t let her finish. It was either say it now, or forever leave that unspoken gap between them. He might not know what to say to his only sister, because words alone—well, there weren’t enough of them in all the world to make up for what he’d done to her or, more to the point, not done for her. If he’d learned anything from all that listening he’d been doing, it was that he could expect no one else to step up, speak, make his thoughts known. He understood now that he’d stopped sharing himself because he hadn’t wanted to risk the possibility that there wouldn’t be anyone who wanted to listen.

  “That ‘after all I’d done for the Cove’ bit was a bunch of bullshit, too. All I did was bury myself on an island, isolated myself away from everyone, and most particularly you. What the hell else would you think?”

  “You isolated yourself from me? Specifically?”

  That caught him up short. He hadn’t meant to say that. Or maybe he had. Christ, it had been too long; he was too old to tiptoe through the minefield that was someone else’s emotions, someone else’s needs. Yet, taking in the stricken look on her face—not angry, or annoyed, or even exasperated, but truly hurt—told him he was already standing in the middle of the minefield. Hell . . . maybe he’d been standing there all along. That would explain why he’d refused to take a single step. In any direction.

  “Why?” she asked, and he could hear the emotion thickening that single word.

  He swore under his breath. Leave it to him to fuck up a simple apology and make her feel even worse. That was precisely why he shouldn’t be trying to insert himself into her present difficulties, or any part of her life. Even after all the listening he’d done, the self-recrimination, he wasn’t any better at relationships now than he’d been when he’d enlisted at the age of eighteen, and left his five-year-old sister behind, with what turned out to be no one to properly see to her care.

  He searched for better words, with no confidence he’d find them. So much for that doctorate you were touting back there. “Two days ago I’d have said that my decision to live my life out on Sandpiper had nothing to do with you, and only to do with me. And two days ago, that would have been a lie. But I’d have likely convinced myself otherwise.”

  “And . . . now?”

  “When Grace asked me to come in to help you, my first reaction was . . . not to. To keep my head down, do what I do best. Or what I do now, at any rate. You and I . . . we hadn’t crossed paths in a long time. I know you’ve gotten close to Grace, and that is a good thing, a very good thing. She . . . she trusts you, counts you as a friend, almost like a sister, though maybe that’s overstating it. Still, having you in her life, that’s a very big thing for her.”

  Delia dipped her chin, and though it was hard to tell by the porch light, the moon was full enough that he thought he saw the flush of emotion rise to her cheeks. “She’s very special to me, too,” she said, emotion still there in her voice.

  “I didn’t know why I was so resistant. If there was nothing between us, nothing except—” He broke off.

  “Tommy,” she said, filling in the ensuing silence. “It’s okay.” She looked up at him now, held his gaze squarely, but kindly. “It’s not an eggshell topic with me, either. I put my brother to rest—we put him to rest—a long time ago, and he earned his eternal peace.”

  Ford nodded. “I thought I’d put all of it to rest, too, at least as much as it ever can be.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Really good.” She studied his face now. “You know, no one in the Cove holds your reclusive lifestyle against you, or thinks less of you because you—” She broke off, swore. “What I mean to say is they know what you did for Tommy, for me, for Gran. They know you were a ranger, special forces, so they have a pretty good idea of what you sacrificed for our country, at least as much as anyone who hasn’t done the same can.”

  A flash bang of images punched through his mind, some more gruesome than any human being should have to witness. He wanted to tell her that no, no one could appreciate the sacrifice unless they’d been there. And even then, the repercussions, the true nature of the sacrifice made, wasn’t a fully known quantity until later. Much, much later.

  “They have great respect for what you’ve done. We are simply thankful for your service, and happy you’ve chosen to live your life here.” Her lips curved briefly. “Still in service to others, only now they have wings and flippers.” She smiled truly then, and the moonlight danced in her eyes. “Mainers are a pretty pragmatic folk. Not to mention none of us are particularly normal. The fact that we willingly put ourselves through Maine winters, year after year, is proof enough of that.”

  “I—thank you, for saying that,” he said, shoving the rest back, listening to her words, appreciating the sincerity behind them. “That’s why I’m here.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Part of why I’m here, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean if things were so square between you and me, and I’m in such a good damn place with my past, then I’d still be dropping by your diner from time to time, listening to you chatter on—”

  “I do not chatter,” she said, with mock affront. She added a little sniff, smoothed out her blouse, rumpled by the steam from doing dish duty again. “I make charming and witty banter with our colorful town folk.”

  A smile flashed over his face. “Is that what they’re calling themselves?”

  She knocked her elbow forward, bumping his arm. “What do you mean? You’re one of the most colorful ones we got.”

  He let out a short, surprised laugh at that. Why the hell had he stayed away so damn long? What had he been afraid would happen?

  Eula’s words echoed through his mind. Perhaps it’s time to ask yourself if you’re out on that island, up in that tree, because you still need to be? For your own sanity? Or because it’s simply become the life you live. The only life you feel you deserve.

  He hated to admit the old woman might have a point after all.

  “So, I was trying to apologize,” he said.

  “And I still don’t understand what for.”

  “That’s what I was trying to say. You were a friend to me when I needed one, and we’re not square, because I haven’t been one to you in return.”

  “What you did for Tommy—”

  “Was for Tommy,” he interjected. “What you did when I came back, you did for me. You provided a bubble for me, where I could exist without having to interact. I understood that, and I took full advantage.”

  Now it was her turn to duck her chin, only he wasn’t exactly sure why, or where that embarrassment he’d seen flash over her face had come from.

  “Maybe I did that for Tommy, too,” she said, quietly.

  “That’s how I added it up. But that’s wrong.” He waited a beat. “You did that for me, because that’s who you are.”

  She took a breath, and he was surprised to hear a thread of shakiness in it. But when she raised her gaze to his again, she stood a little straighter, and there was no trace of uncertainty on her face. “So, bottom line it for me, Maddox,” she said, injecting some of her well-known sass into the words. “It’s been a long day and I’ve been on these feet for all of it.”

  He felt a little jerk on the knot inside his chest at that tone, that amused look on her face. So many memories tumbling through his mind, all good ones. How had he managed to make himself believe there hadn’t been so much good? And that the good hadn’t been worth sticking around for? “You were there for me,” he said simply. “I want to return the favor.”

  She folded her arms, regarding him, not so much with skepticism as simply trying to read him, figure him out. Good luck with that, he wanted to tell her. He didn’t know himself.

  “What?” he was finally forced to ask when her silent regard continued.


  “I’ve heard you use more words in the past twenty-four hours than I have collectively in all the years I’ve known you.” She lifted a shoulder. “Hell, maybe you’ve been out there chatting up those seals and seabirds all day long like a regular Chatty Cathy. How would I know?”

  “You wouldn’t,” he answered, quite sincerely, even though he knew she was ribbing him. He swallowed, heard Eula inside his head again. I’d think the answer is obvious. Talk to Delia. And Eula was right again. It was remarkably obvious. So why didn’t understanding that make it any easier to actually do it? He held her gaze, and took the first step. The first real step out of his self-imposed solitary confinement. And it scared the ever-loving shit out of him. “I’d like to change that.”

  He’d expected a smile, or even just a look of surprise, maybe a dose of friendly sarcasm. God knows he’d earned those reactions and more. Instead, that embarrassment flashed back. And maybe the flushed cheeks, too. She started toying with her collar. “And you needed to tell me that now? In the wee hours?” There was the note of dry humor he’d expected, but he couldn’t help hear the note of strain as well.

  He stepped closer. “I didn’t want an audience. I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “I—after what you said earlier, at the diner, I thought you were going to drop by the kitchen like you did last night.”

  “I did. Your crew was there.”

  “I could have stepped outside.”

  “Dee—” He broke off, swallowed another string of swearwords, then stepped back. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have come here. You put in long hours, the last thing you need—”

  “That’s not what I meant. You’re always welcome here. Or anywhere that I happen to be.” She paused, seemed to gather herself, then let out a short breath and looked up at him again. “You matter to me. Because of Tommy. Because of . . .” She glanced down again, then resolutely back up. “Just because, okay? So, you’re always welcome. You’re right that I’m a friend, that you can trust me. I know this wasn’t easy and I really respect you coming forward, out of your comfort zone. I know Grace would be—”