Dare Island [2] Carolina Girl

by Virginia Kantra

  Meg tapped her fingernails on her mug, her gaze drifting from the computer to the apples in the yellow bowl, the herbs on the windowsill, Taylor’s latest test paper stuck to the refrigerator door. Matt’s doing? Meg wondered. Or Allison’s? Tess had always been the one to tape her children’s accomplishments on display, from handprints and crayon drawings to computer-printed transcripts.

  But her mother was in the hospital now.

  Don’t think about that. Answer the question.

  Her ideal workplace. Meg closed her eyes, shutting out the sunny kitchen, deliberately summoning a vision of her Manhattan office, the gleaming cherrywood, the blue-gray walls, the stiff and polished plants. The insulated hush, forty-seven stories above the traffic.

  Thump. The sun catchers in the window rattled at the noise from the backyard. Meg opened her eyes. Sam?

  Bump, bump. Honestly, what was he doing out there?

  She yanked open the back door as Sam pushed a piece of machinery across the grass. “What on earth is that?”

  His eyes gleamed. “Good morning. It’s an auger.”

  “It looks like a lawn mower had sex with an oil drill,” she said.

  His laughter reverberated in the pit of her stomach. Helplessly, she smiled back. “You want some coffee?” she asked.

  “Thanks. Black, one sugar.”

  She poured the coffee into a travel mug. The leftover grape and rosemary focaccia she’d made for breakfast sat wrapped on the counter. She cut a slice and carried both outside.

  “This looks great,” Sam said. “I wasn’t expecting breakfast.”

  She hunched one shoulder dismissively. She didn’t want him reading anything into a simple gesture of appreciation. Just because he’d kissed her—she’d kissed him back—didn’t mean she was going to start serving him breakfast on a regular basis.

  Although she shouldn’t worry about Sam assigning too much significance to a kiss. He probably kissed women all the time, had breakfast with them, too, without it meaning anything. “You’re here early. I thought you’d wait until Matt and Josh could help.”

  “I wanted to take some measurements, figure out what we need. Have you decided where you want the ramp to go?”

  She lifted her eyebrows, reassured by his businesslike attitude. “To the door?”

  His teeth flashed, white against his tan. “That would be the conventional approach, yeah. We run the ramp here, to the side of the deck apron, that gives your mom a short path to the door without blocking the steps. But you’ve got yourself a two-foot vertical there. With a one-twelve slope, you’re going to need a twenty-four-foot ramp.”

  “That’s awfully long.”

  “Your call. As a historic building, the inn isn’t required to be ADA compliant. But a ramp could make life easier for your parents even after your mom is on her feet again.”

  She didn’t want to think about her parents growing older. She wanted them to remain the parents of her childhood: her tough, taciturn Marine father; her mother, smiling and competent in the background of their lives.

  But the past two weeks had shaken Meg’s perceptions and cracked the foundation of her world. After the accident, Matt had had his hands full, running the inn and his own business while caring for the kids. Tess had been unconscious or dazed by drugs, a breathing tube down her throat. Tom had been frozen by frustration at his own helplessness, strangled by anger, and numb with grief. At the hospital, Meg had been the one to take the lead in conversations with her mother’s doctors, caregivers, caseworker, to nail down the details of her medical coverage, to speak with the police. She’d booked a motel room and rented a car for Tom.

  She was beset by decisions, terrified of making the wrong choices for her parents. For herself. She looked at Sam, tall and broad, with that dark lock of hair that always fell into his eyes, and thought what an unspeakable relief it would be to lean on somebody else for a change. To surrender control, just for a minute. To let Sam take charge.

  She squared her shoulders, resisting temptation. “Twenty-four feet still takes up a lot of yard.”

  His sharp eyes focused on her face. “I can give you a U design. More length in a smaller space,” he explained. “That takes the ramp under the master bedroom window and back to the walk. Plus, it would be out of sight from the guest patio and the guest bedrooms.”

  Meg narrowed her eyes, trying to visualize the layout he described. Sam knew the inn. He’d built the master addition with her father and Matt almost twenty years ago. Her parents trusted him.

  “I guess a handicapped access could be a draw for guests,” she acknowledged. “But we’d have to move those rosebushes.”

  He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Just tell me where.”

  His ready acquiescence was balm to her soul. She went back into the kitchen glowing with decisiveness, once more in control. A feeling which lasted until she sat at the table again and read the next question from the career coach.

  What gives you joy?

  The words danced tauntingly on the screen. As if joy had anything to do with work. Or making money. Or planning her future.

  Gritting her teeth, Meg typed. She was in PR, for heaven’s sake. If the job required bullshit, she could write bullshit.

  * * *

  “SKYPING WITH THE boyfriend?” Sam drawled.

  He watched Meg jump like a teenaged boy caught surfing porn sites. Her face flushed wild rose red.

  He grinned and leaned a shoulder in the doorway, pleased for once to have the upper hand. “Or do you usually take off more clothes for that?”

  She scowled, closing her laptop with an annoyed click. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was . . .” She broke off, her color deepening.

  “Working,” he supplied, taking pity on her.

  “Yes.” She didn’t meet his eyes.

  Interesting.

  The dishwasher was already running. He rinsed his empty mug and set it in the sink. “Thanks for the coffee and pastry.”

  “Focaccia. You’re welcome.”

  “Got any more?”

  “A little.” Recovering, she stood, moving with brisk grace to the counter. “Are you still hungry?”

  “No.” He stayed where he was, enjoying the mathematical precision with which she sliced a square. Her hands were neat and quick, her fingers slim and unadorned. He wanted them on his body.

  The sudden flare of lust caught him by surprise. He shifted his position against the counter. “The old man was grumbling about his breakfast this morning. I promised to bring him something tasty and artery-clogging if he behaved.”

  Her full lips curved. Soft, pink. Distracting. “I can wrap some for you to take home. But it’s not bad for him. It’s just a basic bread recipe with a little fruit, a little olive oil.”

  Sam winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Her hands stilled on the knife. The memory of her whisper rose between them. Don’t tell Matt.

  She bent her head, busying herself with the plastic wrap.

  “Thanks,” Sam said quietly as she handed him the square of focaccia. “This is really nice of you.”

  “It’s nice of you.” She gave him her crooked smile. “You’re a good son.”

  He was taken aback. Embarrassed. His family wasn’t like hers. He managed not to shuffle his feet. “There are different opinions on that.”

  “You’re here. According to my father, most of life is about showing up.”

  “Yeah? How does he feel about the absent boyfriend?”

  “He doesn’t . . . Derek isn’t . . . Dad was talking about family.”

  So New York Guy wasn’t family. After six years? Loser, Sam thought.

  “Obviously he respects Derek’s need to work,” she added stiffly.

  “Okay.”

  Meg glared. “Dad meant showing up for the big stuff. Weddings, funerals . . .”

  “Heart attacks?”

  “Yes.”

  Sam nodded. “Maybe. Maybe that’s enough. But I’ve had this feeling l
ately that I should be . . .”

  He broke off. He didn’t talk about this shit. Not with anybody. Certainly not with Meg, who always knew exactly where she was going, who had her whole life mapped out and a calculated backup route.

  “What?”

  He shrugged. “Doing more than dropping in on life.”

  “Your father’s life,” she clarified.

  Sam shook his head. “Mine.”

  Their eyes met. A different hunger stirred in his belly, solidifying into a hard ache. “Meg.” Meggie . . .

  Her eyes widened. Her breathing quickened. The wall phone behind him rang, and she jumped.

  “Saved by the bell,” Sam murmured.

  She shot him a wary look as she pushed past him to answer the phone. “Pirates’ Rest.” Her voice was cool and pleasant.

  He leaned against the counter, amused at them both. There was too much history between them for his usual moves to work. There would be no quick drive to the basket this time, no easy score.

  But there was too much heat between them to let him pick up his ball and go home.

  He watched her, enjoying the rise and fall of her voice, only half listening to her side of the conversation.

  “. . . not here at the moment . . . happy to help you . . . I’m her aunt.” Her tone sharpened, snagging his attention. “Of course I can take a message, but . . . Yes, I am living here now. With Taylor. Yes.”

  Her breath escaped through her teeth. She dug for a pencil. “I’m ready. Shoot.”

  Sam craned his neck as she jotted down notes on the pad by the phone.

  “All right. Thank you. I’ll make sure he does,” she said and ended the call.

  “Vernon Long,” Sam read aloud over her shoulder. “What do you want with an Elizabeth City lawyer?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Some. Decent guy. Used to play golf with my father.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Lousy swing. Excellent lawyer.” He studied her truculent face. “What’s wrong, Meg? And if you say everything’s fine, so help me, I’ll find the nearest pier and toss you off.”

  “Everything is fine. Will be fine,” she corrected.

  Uh-huh. “Who was that on the phone?”

  “Kate Dolan. Taylor’s lawyer.”

  He looked at her blankly.

  Meg huffed. “The executor for Dawn’s will?”

  Comprehension struck. Dawn Simpson was Taylor’s mother. After getting knocked up and leaving the island, Luke’s high school girlfriend had made a life for herself working at a law office in Beaufort. “This Kate Dolan . . . is she the one who told Luke he was a daddy?”

  “Yes.” Meg’s clipped tone didn’t encourage conversation.

  That was okay. He was good at getting people to talk to him. “I hear Dawn’s parents aren’t too happy about Luke getting custody.”

  Meg’s eyes narrowed. “Matt talked to you about that?”

  “Sugar, everybody’s talking about it.” She couldn’t have forgotten how the island grapevine worked. He glanced again at the pad by the phone with the lawyer’s name in firm, black script. “So, when’s the court date?”

  “Two weeks.” Her lips pressed together. “They’re claiming ‘changed circumstances.’ Because of Mom’s accident.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Luke is Taylor’s father. Dawn wanted him to raise her.” If Sam had a daughter—his mind stumbled briefly over the thought—he would want her raised by the Fletchers, too.

  Meg’s face was tense and pale. “Luke’s out of the country. The Simpsons took care of Taylor right after her mom died. They’re as much her grandparents as Mom and Dad are. I’m not saying the Simpsons should get custody, but they’re not bad people just because they want Taylor.”

  “Or they want her money.”

  “What money? Dawn was a receptionist, not a millionaire.”

  He raised his brows, watched her figure it out.

  “Survivor’s benefits,” she said slowly. Her blue eyes widened. “Life insurance.”

  “You would know,” Sam said. “It’s your business.”

  “That’s . . . awfully cold.”

  “Not cold. Realistic. Not everyone in a custody dispute is invested in the child’s welfare. Sometimes they’d rather have cash.”

  “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

  “You mean, because my old man paid off my mother?” Sam drawled.

  Meg blushed. “I didn’t mean to insult your family.”

  Sam shrugged. “It’s true enough. The old man’s not easy to live with. Belinda stuck it out as long as she could. When she finally made a break for it, she didn’t want anything tying her to her old life. Including me.” When Sam was eight, his mother’s choice had bewildered and devastated him. Maybe if she’d been different . . . If he’d been the kind of son she wanted . . . But he was all grown up now. He’d made his peace with it. And with her. “It all worked out. Dad got his heir, and she got the life she wanted. Everybody’s happy.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Sam chuckled. “Don’t hold back now. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “Your father had an heir whether you lived with him or not. He must have wanted you.”

  His eight-year-old self wanted to believe her. But Sam knew better. “He wanted to win,” he said flatly.

  Meg opened her mouth, like she was going to argue again. But all she said was, “Do you ever see her? Your mother?”

  “Sure. I call once a month, go out for a visit maybe once a year.” Sam smiled wryly. “That’s enough for both of us. I’m not the best of sons.”

  “It’s not you,” Meg said fiercely.

  His brows lifted.

  “It’s not your fault that she didn’t fight for you,” Meg said. “It’s her lack. Her loss.”

  He regarded her with affection. She didn’t understand. Meggie would always fight for those she loved. She’d always been a fighter.

  Reaching out, he tugged a strand of her short, silky hair. “Careful, sugar. You don’t want to be nice to me. I might get ideas.”

  Her flush deepened. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I’m just saying. You, me, an inn full of empty bedrooms . . . It would be a shame to waste an opportunity.”

  Her lips quirked up. She primmed them together. “Go away. I’m working.”

  “So take a break. You need a little fun.”

  “And you think you can give it to me?”

  He smiled at her slowly, confident now that they had moved away from discussion of his family to the more comfortable ground of sex. Maybe he’d failed to show her a good time the first, last, and only time they’d been together. But . . . “I’m sure willing to try. I’ve learned a lot in eighteen years.”

  She met his gaze, humor and a hint of challenge in her eyes. “So have I.”

  He grinned and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “In that case, I might as well pick up the lumber.”

  She straightened. “Let me get my checkbook.”

  “Not necessary.”

  Her chin went up. “You’re not paying for my supplies.”

  “No, I’m taking them off an old job site.” He stood a moment, enjoying the confusion in her face, her slim, braced body, her suspicious eyes. “Want to come?”

  Six

  MEG’S HEART GAVE an extra thud. She met Sam’s gaze as his question hung on the air, heavy with expectation. She wanted to say yes, she realized, dismayed. Yes, to the building supplies. Yes, to going with him. Yes, to pretty much anything he proposed that would get her out of this kitchen and away from the career coach’s stupid questions.

  So take a break. You need a little fun.

  No. The sooner she finished the assignment, the sooner she could begin the real work of finding a job. She wasn’t abandoning her schedule to go joyriding around the island with the Boy Who Had Everything.

  She dug in her heels, resisting the tug of temptation. “I’m not scavenging materials off a const
ruction site. I’m perfectly capable of buying what we need.”

  “Think of it as close proximity sourcing,” he suggested. Despite the gleam in his eye, he sounded almost sincere. “This isn’t about money, Meggie. It’s about time and energy. A trip to the mainland and back would cost me a couple of hours and half a tank of gas. This is quicker. Get in, get out. No problem.”

  Okay, she could accept his reasoning. To a point. Time is money, Derek was fond of saying. In their relationship, household chores and errands were calculated and divided as neatly as the monthly utilities. So many minutes to unload the dishwasher or carry the trash to the garbage chute, so many hours to pay the bills or wait for the super or pick up the dry cleaning . . .

  Sam wasn’t anything like Derek. Maybe, in this one instance, that was a good thing. “At least let me reimburse you for the cost of the materials.”

  “Nope.”

  She was forced to be blunt. “Look, I don’t want to owe you any favors.”

  “Consider it payback.”

  “For what?” The instant the words escaped her mouth, she wished she could snatch them back. What did she want him to say? For being drunk? For taking everything you offered? For not calling you the next day or for weeks afterward? They were too old for any of that to matter now.

  And if he apologized again, after all these years, she would hit him.

  He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking. “For all those cookies your mom baked for me.”

  Her mouth jarred open. She stared at him, at once relieved and oddly disappointed. This wasn’t about her. Maybe none of it was.

  His eyes glinted with humor. “So, are you going to give me a hand loading the truck?”

  When he put his request that way, she could almost justify saying yes. But if she went with him, it wouldn’t be because he needed her help, and they both knew it.

  Her gaze dropped to the computer screen. What gives you joy?

  Her heart thrummed in her chest. “I need to change my shoes first,” she said.

  He nodded. “I’ll wait.”