by Sarita Leone
Table of Contents
Excerpt
The Pirate’s Legacy
Copyright
Dedications
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
The way a man handles a car
is a good indication of how he loves a woman. She’d been watching him drive, taking the curves in the coast-hugging road with confidence and control. Most of the time he just used his left hand, resting the right either on his thigh or the shift stick.
“Did you really grow those flowers?” The first lull in conversation; it gave her too much time to consider how the man “drove” in bed, so she said the first decent thing that popped into her head.
A low chuckle. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. A little bit. I mean, it’s not every day you meet a guy who knows his way around a garden.”
There was a small vegetable patch at the house, in the only corner the huge oak didn’t shadow. It produced enough tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers for salads in the summer. And, an occasional watermelon. But she’d always been the one to tend it. Uncle Ted kept far from it; his only comment had been that he’d help with it when she grew something he could smoke. So far, that hadn’t happened.
“Ah, so it’s the old flower power stereotype, is it? You think I’m a girly man for stopping to smell the roses?”
Teasing felt natural, so she gave it right back.
“I should’ve known.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Should’ve known what?”
“That you have a thing for roses, too.” A long, dramatic sigh. “That’s it. I’m out. Now that I know there’re roses to be competed against, I’m pitching the white towel in.”
The Pirate’s Legacy
by
Sarita Leone
The Lobster Cove Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
The Pirate’s Legacy
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Sarita Leone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Vintage Rose Edition, 2016
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0802-9
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0803-6
The Lobster Cove Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedications
For my father, the man who inspires me to do my best, always. His strength, love and support have lifted me high, and if I fly, it’s because he’s shown me
how to use my wings. I love you, Pop.
~*~
And, for the man who stole my heart
all those years ago. Sempre.
Chapter 1
1979
Morning came softly to the old house. Birdsong, carried on a warm breeze, swept through the windows and stirred white lace curtains. As day chased night, its occupants began to stir. Bare feet padded down hallways. Water made old lead pipes bang in protest. Creaks and groans, wood across wood as doors were thrown wide and stairs navigated.
Not for the first time, Chloe wondered how much longer the beloved place was going to hold up. It had seen better days—much better days—and expecting it to hang on indefinitely without some serious greenback infusion was just plain delusional. What could anyone expect from a house, though? Hell, it was only made of wood and nails—and most of those nails were the old, square-headed ones, at that.
The softness of a new day came to an abrupt end.
A crashing door was her alarm clock. Had she not been out so late the night before, she would have been downstairs already, taking care of the man who, now that he’d slammed his bedroom door, could be heard greeting the others already in the kitchen. Two floors down, and she could still hear him. Part of the sound carried through the vents placed in the floorboards which were handy during the winter months when heat came up through them but decidedly intrusive when one half-deaf man wanted to get his point across.
And Uncle Ted always had a point to get across.
Tooth brushing would have to wait, along with face washing. Grabbing the shorts she’d tossed on the floor just hours earlier, she hurried from her room into the hallway. It was not big, more a glorified landing with two other doors leading off it, than a proper hallway like the one on the second floor. She stepped down, out of her room, onto the rectangular landing. Then, up, into the bathroom. No one else lived in the other bedroom right now, so she did not bother to shut the bathroom door. Being too damn hot, right up under the roof, was both advantageous and bothersome, so unless the place was jam-packed, she had the floor to herself.
Now, she pulled her long hair into a loose ponytail and secured it with a double-bobble hair holder while she sat on the throne and did her business. Mornings like this, slightly fuzzy headed and sleep deprived, made a hard start to a day.
Chloe stepped into the shorts, shimmied them up to her hips and did up the snaps. Then, she turned and surveyed the yellow water.
To flush, or not to flush, that is the question, she thought. Shakespeare could not have guessed his line would be used thusly, but every time she stood in the tiny tiled room, the thought passed through her mind.
She closed the lid, went to the white porcelain sink and twisted the cold water handle. Clank. Clank. Clankety-clank.
Water finally fell from the faucet, so she wet her fingertips, slid them along the bar of Ivory in the soap dish, and lathered. Rinsed. Twisted the handle. As she swiped her hands dry on a worn pink towel, she counted the drips.
Just as it nearly refused to give water when prompted, the faucet begrudgingly stopped the flow when the handle was turned off. One. Two. Three. Four drips.
Chloe’s heart fell. Four drips? A bad sign.
She counted, holding her breath.
Finally, the faucet stopped dripping. She tossed the towel over the rack, breathed a sigh of relief, and headed for the stairs. She took them two at a ti
me, hit the second floor hallway with a barefoot thud, and went down the wider staircase even more quickly.
The living room was empty. The dining room, as well. She passed her uncle’s closed door, then the open bathroom door, on her way to the kitchen.
She paused in the doorway. Scenes like this pushed all thoughts of questionable plumbing, hit-or-miss wiring, and termites from her mind. Who cared about the mundane when everyone looked so happy?
Uncle Ted, dressed in a washed-too-often black-turned-gray Keep on Truckin’ T-shirt and frayed Levi’s sat at the speckled Formica table, a mug of joe cradled in one hand. Across the table, two women half his age, both listening to him as intently as if he were Jimi Hendrix back from the grave playing the Star-Spangled Banner.
Hard not to listen when every word was a near-shout.
He saw her then, and stopped mid-sentence, the whole weed-as-sedative discussion forgotten.
“Morning, Sunshine. Sleep well, or was the sedative too much of a one-two punch last night?” He chuckled good-naturedly when she went around the table, kissed him on the cheek, and gave him a playful tap on the shoulder. He seemed so strong, the way she remembered from childhood. But she knew better, so kept the touch gentle. “You know I’m just fooling you. Hey, no one’s more up on legalizing the shit. But The Man, now he’s got a whole different attitude on that one…”
Gabby gave a serious nod. “Ain’t that the truth? The Man? He needs a straight-up dose of reality, is what I think.” She turned, meeting Chloe’s gaze with a knowing nod. Dropping her voice, she said, “He’s doing a-okay today. Seems to know what the hell is going on. So, good morning, Sunshine.”
“Morning. Thanks for being so fast to get in here. You the one who made coffee?”
“Nope. It was our little bookworm. I don’t think she even went to bed.” Gabby raised her voice, so the man across the table could hear the conversation resume. She raised her own mug of coffee in small salute. “Isn’t that right, Ted? I was telling Chloe that I think Reva has been up all night again.”
“She has. I got up to use the john about four, and it’s a good thing I saw the light on in here, or I might have given her a free show.” He winked, but they all knew better. A man did not open his home to women without learning to close the bathroom door. “She should have been out, like the rest of you, last night. Having some fun. Smoking some reefer—”
Reva, the only one still in college, called out from the enclosed back porch where she—and her books, presumably—spent most of their time. “I can hear you. And you know I don’t smoke anything, so give it a rest. I’m going to pass the Bar Exams next year, and then you’re all going to have to worry about what goes on in this place.”
Gabby looked over at Ted, who turned to raise an eyebrow at the quiet, obviously very hung over, blonde beside him. “What do you think, Jules? Getting set to worry?”
Julia blinked twice. Her eyes were so bloodshot they looked painted red. Her hair fell in a tangled mess around her shoulders, and if Chloe wasn’t mistaken, the woman’s left shoulder showed sand burn.
One of them had had a tough Saturday night. And it was no surprise who that was. When she walked past Julia’s chair, she gave it a bump with her hip. Just enough to let the other woman know that even though she stunk of Pabst Blue Ribbon and sex, she still needed to answer the man waiting beside her.
“Uh, yeah.” A harsh hacking sound accompanied the throat clearing, but Julia made her voice louder and turned to Ted with a ragged smile. “I’m probably the one who should worry the most.”
“You think?” Gabby tapped her Saturday night manicure on the table. She was so polished, despite the clock showing it hadn’t even hit eight yet, that by contrast Julia looked even worse.
Chloe poured two cups of coffee. She left Julia’s black and splashed some milk into her own. She took both to the table, set one cup in front of the other woman and claimed the seat beside Gabby.
She took a long swallow, letting the hot liquid soothe her throat. Messing with Julia too much when she had been no angel the night before was wrong. Bad karma, so she kept her mouth shut.
Her gaze shifted to her uncle. He seemed content, surrounded by the ever-changing parade of women he referred to as his girls. Chloe was a constant, of course, but others came and went. The three in the kitchen had all been with them over a year now, making for a comfortable environment. More like family than strangers.
The stability helped with Ted’s condition. To look at the man, no one would guess that at forty-nine, he was nearing the end of his life. Any day now. That’s what the doctor had been telling her for the past six months. Each day that wasn’t “the day” was one day more she had with him.
Had she been a praying woman, she would have begged a pardon for the man. But she had used up all her prayers when Aunt Ginny had needed them. They had proved futile, then, and wasting energy praying for an impossibility wasn’t something she planned to do again. Ever.
He was all she had, and even though the future intruded on the present, hanging like a noxious cloud over her head, she refused to pray—or to think too much about it. Today was all they had, so every today was one she was going to be grateful for.
“Hey, Reva?” She waited for a reply. The scholar, as they called her, was too polite to ignore the call.
“Yeah?”
“You going to study all day? Or do you have time to hit the beach with us?”
“I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” Gabby called out. “Come on, let’s have some fun.”
“I really shouldn’t…”
Julia shook her head and gave a disgusted snort. Holding her right temple with her hand, she turned so she faced the open doorway to the porch. Just beyond the doorway, a foot dangled over the arm of a wide, wicker rocker, swinging lazily.
She cleared her throat again, and once more the sound was enough to make Chloe and Gabby both cringe. They exchanged looks, each mirroring the other’s wide-eyed expression.
“Listen, Bookworm, it’s Sunday. Family time. And, we are family—that’s right, even me, who drank that asshole Brent Carlyle under the bar last night down at The Dockside.” She paused, gave a little snort, and added, “Before I went off with his best friend—who, as it turns out, is not such a great friend to anyone.”
Uh oh. It wouldn’t be the first time Julia, the looking-for-love-in-all-the-wrong-places chick had gotten tangled up with a jerk. A stab of remorse ricocheted in Chloe’s midsection; she had been fast to judge the other woman’s sand scrapes, thinking the romp on the beach was a pleasurable moment.
By the sudden sheen of tears in the bloodshot eyes, it seemed doubtful the interlude would be repeated.
Julia tossed her hair over her shoulder. A tired, sarcastic chuckle, then, “I’m going to take a shower—wash that man right out of my hair. Then, we’re all going to have some fun. Including you, Reva. Don’t make me come out there and burn those books of yours.”
The foot stopped mid-swing. After a long moment of silence. “No need, I could use some time with the family.”
Contentment bloomed in Chloe’s midsection. They might be an unlikely family, but they were all any of them had at the moment. Uncle Ted loved Quinn Beach, the day was gorgeous, and they were all aware they might not get another chance to show him a peaceful day. No sense wasting borrowed time.
Julia stood. She swayed a little but found her balance. “Be down in ten.”
“Take fifteen, honey.” Ted smiled at her back as she left. If he knew something was amiss, he did not let it show.
Gabby met his gaze when Julia rounded the corner onto the stairs. “I’m going to make sandwiches. Want to help?”
He nodded. “Peanut butter and jelly?”
“Is there anything else worthy of filling our basket?”
“Nothing I can think of.” Ted smiled, finished his coffee, and stood. It hit Chloe again that he looked as strong now as he did when she came to live in this house. She’d been s
ix then, and he seemed invincible.
Reva would, everyone knew, study up until the very last minute.
Gabby put a hand on Chloe’s shoulder as she went around her chair. “What about you? What’s up your sleeve?”
“Wrench, probably. I’m heading to the basement. Those pipes…”
“I know. The second floor toilet took three flushes. Sorry.” Gabby opened the bread drawer, removed the red-and-blue-bubble wrapped Wonder Bread and put it on the countertop. Ted already had the Welch’s grape jelly waiting, along with wax paper and two knives.
“Don’t be.” She stood, leaving her mug on the table. The coffee had gone cold, but she didn’t care. It would taste just fine when she returned from the dirt-floored hole where all the house’s failing systems were located. It would wash the taste of cobwebs from her mouth. “The faucet…a seven-drip morning.”
The other woman’s eyes widened. “Seven? Say it ain’t so!”
“I wish I could, sister. But seven—you know what that means.”
Trouble, with a capital T, Chloe thought. That’s what a record-drip morning meant. And, trouble? It never seemed to have a hard time finding her, no matter what.
Chapter 2
Lobster Cove was a sleepy place where time almost stood still. Quaint shops lined neat streets where potted geraniums hung from lamp poles, trash cans never overflowed but were always used and most cars never blew past the only Stop sign in the village square. Neighbors knew each other, people slept with their doors unlocked and the keys in the ignitions of the cars parked in their driveways. No one worried they might lose something off a porch.
Two cops kept the peace, which meant they dealt with rare outbursts from drunken summer tourists, directed the most sunburned to the village pharmacy for pain relief and popsicles and kept a watchful eye on Main Street. Ken and Tate Humphrey were brothers who had grown up in a house not far from the town park, gone to Vietnam with every other able-bodied man, and had been fortunate enough to come back to the place they loved. Both had married their high school sweethearts, and each now had one child. A boy for Ken and Cecilia, and a girl for Tate and Becky. That was the way of the Cove; people stayed when they could. It was too pretty a place to leave, for most, anyhow.