Tides of Hope: It's Never Too Late For Second Chances (A Nantucket Island Romance Book 1)

by Dawn Tomasko

  Sara fought to ignore the pang in her chest and quickening pulse. "She's doing well at school. I don't know what her summer plans are because she doesn't tell me much of anything anymore. She's still pissed at me for divorcing David."

  "But she knows what happened.” Charlotte studied her carefully.

  "She witnessed a bit of it herself, at least, enough to get a good idea."

  A frown gathered over her brown eyes. "Seriously? I'm supposed to believe Bree knows what he's done? The things he said. Did to you? If she does, the Brianna I know wouldn’t be upset with you."

  When Sara didn't answer, Charlotte pushed again. "What about David?"

  Sara lifted one shoulder. "He's talking about looking for work. I hope it happens for him. David needs something positive in his life. In his present state of mind, he can't serve in the military. Not staying until retirement, well, he took it hard.”

  “Yeah, and so did you, at his hands, didn’t you?” Charlotte huffed out an impatient breath. "Here's hoping he finds a job to take the focus off of you. Let’s hope he finds some constructive outlet other than knocking you around."

  “Charlotte,” she whispered tersely. But God, she hoped her friend was right as she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. Short of obtaining a restraining order, Sara did all she could to fend him off. Not long after he came home for good, the situation between them deteriorated with shocking velocity. "I hope it's behind me. When I left, I asked him to leave me alone. No phone calls, no visits.”

  Charlotte's eyes narrowed. "Do you think it'll be that simple? David is single-minded if nothing else."

  Sara crossed her arms in front of her stomach. "I'll hope for the best. The divorce is final. I'm more concerned about Brianna. Even after what happened, Brianna refuses to see why I made the choice I did. But he's her father. She loves him and doesn't want to see him in a bad light."

  Charlotte put her silverware on her plate with a soft clink. Sara recognized the stubborn set of her jaw. "If Brianna thinks you're mostly responsible, you tried to protect her from the truth. It makes you the fall guy, and that's not you. Why do you let it go on? Why don't you clue her into what went on?"

  "Charlotte,” Sara said in a clipped tone. "This is complicated. The marriage is over, but there's a family to salvage here. We have to stay amicable and focused for our daughter. If he won't admit to himself he has a problem, how can I expect him to admit it to Brianna? If I tell her, it could seem as though I'm trying to drive a wedge between them."

  "But if she understood the extent of what PTSD can do to veterans and their families, maybe the problems between you would improve. I respect you for caring about what happens to him, but it has gone way beyond that now. It's time to think of you. Maybe she doesn't know how bad it got for you. How it might still be."

  "Don't even say that,” she whispered, chilled by the comment. Tears pricked her eyes, and she reached up to rub her forehead. "It's over, and I moved on. I don't want to provoke him. David and I went to counseling many times. As for my daughter, she's a big girl now. Brianna was already away at college and needs the benefit of an outside party. He convinced her I'm selfish and abandoned the family and sugar coated facts with the counselor. Lied to her to save face!” Silverware jumped as she slapped her palm on the table. Other patrons turned to stare. Face aflame, she lowered her voice.

  "Do you know how that makes me feel? I'm no saint. I chose to stay in one place and not follow him in his career. He's a good man, and I feel for him, but at the end of the day, there wasn't anything else. We didn't have enough to build on, we never did. Things got ugly,” she whispered. "I've got to figure out the part I played to understand the choices I made. Bree knows I want her to come to counseling and knows we need to talk."

  "No matter what you did, you didn't deserve to be the man's punching bag. You sure as hell don’t deserve your daughter’s attitude.”

  The air clogged her lungs, and she blinked back tears of frustration. When she picked up her cup, hot liquid sloshed over the rim on her hand, so she set it back down. After dipping her napkin in a glass of ice water, she held it to her reddened skin. "Damn it,” she whispered, the sting of the burn enough to let her emotions come too close to the surface.

  "Honey, I'm sorry,” Charlotte murmured. "What the hell am I doing? I'm sorry for pushing you. I had no right to back you into a corner. Shit, I've got a big mouth."

  Staring down at her reddened skin, Sara shook her head. "You're honest and I need honesty now more than ever. I've spent so much time taking care of other people I don't know how to be. Maybe I was selfish. For years, I've been on autopilot. I don't feel authentic."

  Soft brown eyes regarded her with affection. "Give yourself credit. You're a terrific mom and enjoyed a successful nursing career. Honey, you've taken excellent care of the people in your life."

  Weary of the subject, Sara scrubbed a hand over her face. The film of yesterday's journey coated her skin, her hair hung limp to her shoulders and clung to her scalp. She badly wanted a shower to scrub herself clean. "Maybe not a good wife. It wasn't only for Bree I decided to stay in one place, but because I wanted to keep my independence."

  Charlotte reached for her hand. Sara stared down. Chipped, unmanicured nails and dry skin underlined the extent of how she neglected herself. All the effort channeled into work, their daughter and helping David left time for little else.

  "You had a good reason. Right now, you need time and space. Trust me, with pampering and attention, you'll bloom like one of your beautiful flowers. Since I love being with you, I might need a reminder now and then to back off. I'm sorry I pushed, but we're friends. Real friends. Talk about a pain in the ass, huh?"

  "No argument here,” Sara giggled through her tears and wiped her eyes with a napkin. The sound of laughter caught their attention. Two tables over, a mother and her young daughter bent their heads together with big grins.. As she and Bree would do often in the past. That was something you couldn't fake. Sara brought up a hand to rub her breastbone against the ache.

  Charlotte's fingers grasped hers. "You'll get there again."

  "Hope so.” She closed her eyes against the sting of missing Bree. "Thanks for the cottage, the work, all of it. I need this. I'm going to recreate myself from the ground up. Major renovation projects. Me, Bree, the cottage and a new business. Not much ambition there, huh?"

  Chapter Three

  By design, the cadence of Sara's days lacked a set pattern. Before dawn, she might drink coffee on the porch or the fog-shrouded beach. Cold and damp, the misty air would settle around her, until her hair hung limp, droplets of moisture clinging to the long strands. On the sand in a heavy sweater, swathed in a thick wool blanket, she would sit and watch as the night receded and vibrant color bloomed and stretched across the sky. The sun would chase away the dark to warm her face and heart and chase away the shadows. No people, no cars, no noise, other than the pounding surf and cries of sea birds.

  Keep it simple, she told herself. She allowed her body to dictate when to eat and when to sleep. Work on the house took place when the urge came. Time spent on long walks, listening to music, and physical labor grounded her.

  When speaking to her daughter, the past dominated most of their conversations. How she wanted them to move on, regain something of the close relationship they'd always enjoyed. After their calls ended, mostly with Brianna hanging up on her, Sara would set down the phone, her stomach rolling and her throat clutched up. At times, she could move onto constructive activity and work it away.

  Other times there was no choice but to reach for the hated anxiety medication. When she took a pill at night, she slept solidly but woke foggy headed. Many times, she refused to take them on principle. There needed to be a point where she relied only on herself. For hours, she would fight to push emotions down as she lay awake, unable to stop the frenzy in her mind and the gallop of her heart. Random noises in the dead of the night made her wonder if the old place settled, if the wind rattled the
windows or if David had followed her from Connecticut. All alone out at the end of a deserted lane in Madaket, the blackest of nights went uninterrupted by street lights, close neighbors or the glow of factories. No matter it was what she'd asked for, but should he choose to follow her out here, no one would be close enough to come to her aid. No one to hear her scream.

  On one such night, she heard a bang somewhere outside the house. Startled, she scooted back along the mattress until her spine scraped the carved headboard. Covers up to her chin, she listened intently for a long time, as she strained to hear anything over the sound of her heartbeat thundering in her ears, and the catch of her breath clogging her throat. There shouldn't be any noise like this. The house didn't have shutters. Air wheezed from her lungs. Sweat broke out on her upper lip, and with shaky hands, clutched the quilt to her chin.

  "Are you out there, David?” she rasped out in the stillness. "You said you didn't want to let me go. But you need to. You need to.” Silence answered her. "Let me go.”

  Did he stand outside the house? Peer into the windows? If he did, she'd never know. Unless he came inside to get her.

  Sunday morning, Sara opened her eyes, blinked at the brilliant sun. She lay under a light summer quilt, threaded with pale green leaves and vines. In the upstairs closet, she'd discovered a cache of fine linens and made full use of them. Light streamed through the trio of windows facing the water to cast yellow and white bands across the walls. Newly hung sheer white curtains flapped with the stiff breeze blowing in off the water. She stretched, enjoyed the pull of bone and muscle to get her blood pumping.

  She flipped the quilt back and walked to rest her palms on the wide windowsill. In spite of her rampant imaginings of the previous night, she felt grateful for a night of dreamless sleep. Later she would check with a former neighbor to see if David was still back in Connecticut, for peace of mind.

  Of all the places on earth she could be, this was it. Her senses came alive. The cold breeze made goose bumps prickle her arms and legs. The radiant sun danced on the waves, near blinding in intensity. Could the water get any bluer? The beauty of this fresh spring morning did much to dispel her dark thoughts of last night. Breathless, she dressed to get down to the water even before coffee.

  After a quick dash over the dunes, she stood at the water's edge. The surf rushed over the smooth sand, its white edges raced up toward her bare feet. Some surges came high enough for the salt water to bubble up, leech her footprints away and sink her feet deeper. Spray and frothy foam splashed up to soak her white linen slacks.

  Nantucket called to her, a sweet music in her soul. A siren's call, to soothe, calm, lift the spirit. Of all the places she'd visited in her life, no place possessed the kind of magic of this island. On an elemental level, Sara became part of it, fused with air, wind, water and land. Had she believed in reincarnation, and she didn't, her feelings made perfect sense. Had she stood on these shores in another time? Waited for her lover to return from the sea? To come back and reclaim her, body and soul? She shook her head at romantic foolishness.

  For a long time, Sara's life had been in deep dormancy. More self-aware than ever before, hope sparked, a flicker of flame she planned to nurture. Here, in this place. Year after year, she returned. Each time she stood on these shores, and never wanted to leave. This time, she would stay.

  Late Sunday morning, Gabriel drove his truck down Madaket Road, soaking in the view. Moors spread out in both directions, covered in scrub brush of various heights and types. A far quieter part of the island, Madaket possessed a different feel. He slowed down as the truck approached a creek, flanked by a short stretch of sandy beach. A bench stood not far from the water's edge. Was that where you could go crabbing as Gary mentioned? What a great spot to spend a summer afternoon.

  A short while later, he made a left turn onto Massachusetts Avenue and headed for the end of the dirt lane, toward the last house on the left.

  An older model SUV sat on the left side of the house. He pulled off to the right and parked his truck. A quick scan of the exterior started a list in his head. The porch indeed needed repair. Overgrown shrubs probably hid rot so he'd have to get behind there to check it out. The roof seemed to be no more than six or seven years old, but the fascia and gutters needed replacement. He walked up to the porch to knock on the door.

  No answer. He knocked harder. Gabe hollered in, hands cupped against a window screen. "Hello!"

  As he made his way around the house, he tapped notes into his phone and checked the shingles and the windows, structure of the back porch. No one in the back yard, either. Back out front, he stretched an arm into his truck to lean on the horn. Where was she? Charlotte told her he'd be coming.

  The sun rose high, nearly noon now, and a steady, light breeze blew in off the water. If he followed the foot trail, maybe he could find someone. At the head of the trail stood a green mailbox, an older model bicycle leaned against its weathered post. The basket in front of reminded him of the Wicked Witch's bike in Wizard of Oz, but going by Charlotte's praise, the lady of the house was anything but a witch.

  Gabriel kept his boots clear of the beach grass. A natural part of the landscape, they also served to prevent erosion. Just past a twisted wire and wood picket fence, the view opened into a vast expanse of beach to the sea.

  A woman stood alone near the water's edge. The wind ruffled a dark blue sweater, and white pants rolled to the knee. Sun danced on reddish gold strands of long hair as it whipped out behind her.

  Arms crossed, her posture seemed relaxed. Her feet were bare. The surf pounded, rushed in, raced over the smooth sand to pool around her. Water must be damned cold.

  As he approached, he observed her profile. Her oval face lifted to the sun, eyes closed, long lashes flirted with the breeze. A soft dusky rose, her mouth turned down a bit at the corners, bracketed by fine lines. Sadness? The skin on her face seemed translucent as if she needed to spend more time outdoors.

  "Excuse me,” he offered, his voice softened by the breeze.

  Lovely violet eyes flew open, snapped to his with a flash of emotion. Did he startle her? No, maybe irritated. But man, she was beautiful. Big eyes, high cheekbones, full, lush lips all set in a sweet oval face. A man could get lost in the depths of those eyes. The look of her left him gut punched. For a man whose relationships normally ran to the very short term, the sensation was a shock to the system.

  "Ah, sorry. I knocked, but when no one answered, I beeped the horn, and … well.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Are you Sara Shepard?"

  "Yes. Charlotte told me you'd be by this morning. Mr. Donovan, isn’t it?” Her voice, honey smooth yet with an undertone of huskiness, made his body stiffen. The wind shifted, toward him and the scents of salt, sea, and the unique fragrance of woman surrounded him. Infused his blood like a drug. Gauging his reaction, working with her could be trouble. Never in his life did a woman cause such a visceral response in him. What was wrong with him?

  He held out a hand that she didn't take right away. "Please call me Gabriel. Or Gabe. All my friends do."

  We won’t be friends, instinct made her want to say, to set the record straight. She stared down at the hand he held out, calloused and tanned. Finally, to avoid rudeness, she shook his hand. Her chilled, damp one settled into his. Warm, strong, the hands of a working man. Uncomfortable, she slid her hand free. Her shoulders inched up, and she wrapped her arms around her middle.

  One black brow rose sharply at her abrupt move. A quick glance at his rugged features and tousled black hair unsettled her, made her breath catch. Donovan sported a large frame and must be well over six feet tall. A black T-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. A wide leather belt wrapped around his lean waist, and he kept a phone in a holder on his hip. Faded jeans encased long, muscled legs and his workboots showed wear. An unexpected ripple of arousal spread through her body, heated, taunted, delivered a shock to her system in more than physical terms.

  Damn it! This is the carpent
er? Charlotte's advice not to worry about him came back to challenge her. The man could easily be part of one of those calendars. The ones with firefighters, utility workers, and other half-naked men women loved to drool over. Could she help it if she experienced a reflex? After all, she was only human. Sara thought people with his looks showed up on magazine covers courtesy of photo enhancing software. No one looked this good in real life. Yet here he stood, much to her self-disgust.

  Dark, silky hair covered his head. Tanned skin, wide shoulders, and eyes, steady and focused. On her. Frankly, he was…delicious. This man was not the grizzled, crusty mannered man she'd hoped to see.

  Ah, damn. Heart pounding in her chest, hands clammy, she dearly hoped he didn't notice her reaction, so she motioned toward the path. "Let's head on up to the house."

  They reached the narrow path to the driveway, Sara, ahead of him, was hyper-aware of his proximity. Every step of the way she heard his boots crush through the sand, sensed his warm, solid presence and could even hear him breathing. She stopped at the side of the driveway, brushed sand from her feet and wedged on flip flops.

  "The owner hasn't been here in awhile so the upkeep hasn't been what it should.” Sara turned to face him. "While it's been empty for some time, the owner usually rented it successfully every week during the summer season.”

  He had yet to reply. Why was he staring at her?

  "Mr. Donovan?”

  After a shake of his head, he answered. "Sorry. Let's see the exterior and then if it's okay with you, we'll head inside."

  As they rounded the house, he tapped notes on his phone and made suggestions on what needed to be fixed. No stranger to home improvement, she noted they agreed on most of the issues. He pressed his thumb into the trim around the windows and in many instances, the wood gave beneath the pressure.

  "Trim needs replacing. Just as well, since the paint's peeling and it's easier to put up new. No basement right? The house is slab on grade. Some shingles need replacement.” Donovan’s confident manner, laced with good manners, made her realize Charlotte had chosen well.