Jax’s lean jaw tightened in an all-too-familiar, helpless frustration, then he shrugged. Tyler’s refusal was progress, he supposed. Before they had worked together on the sand castle, Tyler rarely spoke to him at all.
He tossed the toy trucks into the pail, then tucking the unresisting child against his hip, headed up the beach stairs.
On the deck, Tyler neither cooperated nor fought as he was peeled out of his sandy clothes and rinsed under the deck shower. Jax ignored Lauren’s screech at the sight of the naked kid being thrust through the door. He wondered how she gave Tyler a bath without looking at him naked. Jax thought the little white buns disappearing into the back bedroom were kind of cute.
“Tyler,” he called out on impulse. When the beautifully shaped little head snapped toward him, he grinned mischievously and gave a broad wink. Whatever response he hoped for did not happen. Tyler went a little pale and ducked into his room.
Jax faced the beach and gripped the weathered deck rail hard enough to crumble splinters from it. It wasn’t as if he usually did the right thing where Tyler was concerned, but damn. He didn’t know why the sight of Tyler’s face bothered him so much. He’d wanted the little guy to grin back and share a guy moment, but it hadn’t happened. So what?
Until the light was almost gone, Jax watched their castle melt in the oncoming breakers.
Through the sliding-glass doors, Jax could see Tyler in dry shorts and shirt playing with his trucks on the floor. Didn’t the kid ever do anything but play with those trucks?
Tyler didn’t scoot over when Jax opened the slider, so Jax stepped over him rather than edging around. It looked like the concord they had reached as they’d built ramps and molded turrets was over.
He was acting once again like his father was invisible—or like he wished he was.
Baffled, Jax wondered again if Lauren was right. Had he really seen Tyler so rarely in his short life that he didn’t know what the kid was like?
But damn it, he’d seen him as often as he could, and if Danielle hadn’t been such a bitch about visitation, he’d have seen him more. If he missed a visit because his leave was cancelled—all too likely—or because he was away on training, Danielle wouldn’t allow him to make it up. He had to wait for the next scheduled visit, when the same thing could happen.
But the thing was, for a little while on the beach, Tyler had seemed more like the kid he remembered.
“Jax.” Lauren stood at the cooktop in the kitchen area patting chicken pieces with a paper towel. Her glazed eyes indicated she’d already made inroads on the cocktail hour. “I’ve decided to make fresh corn salsa to go with the chicken, and I’ll need cilantro. Would you go to the supermarket on the causeway and get some?”
Jax might think his ex–mother-in-law was a vain, silly, shallow woman, but she was a good cook, a hobby she indulged mostly at the beach. He’d rather take a shower, but it was a small enough thing to do for her.
“Sure,” he said, sliding into sandals and pulling on a T-shirt. He was reaching for his wallet and keys when his cell phone beeped. He glanced at the caller ID. His lawyer.
“Okay, Mancini,” he said without preamble, “why are you calling so late?”
“I wanted to tell you I’m faxing the custody papers with the changes Lauren asked for. I gotta tell you, it looks to me like this woman is after money. Are you sure you want to give her permanent custody?”
Jax stepped through the sliders and pulled them closed behind him. The air on the deck seemed even warmer and more humid than before the sun had set. He hunkered down beside the hose, and turned on the water. Tucking the phone in the crook of his neck, he rinsed one arm, then the other. Had he been far enough from the spill of light from the great room, he would have stripped and stepped naked under the outdoor shower.
“We’ve been over this before. I paid Danielle alimony as well as child support. Why shouldn’t I pay Lauren a living allowance? Anyway, I remain in control of Tyler’s trust fund.”
“So consider joint custody.”
“Joint custody isn’t feasible.” What the hell. Jax whipped off his T-shirt and sluiced water over his chest, letting his shorts get wet. “I’m out of the country more than I’m in it. When I’m in the country, I work thirty-six-hour days. Fixing things so that my signature is required will just result in delays and foul-ups.”
“Well, think it over one more time before you sign these papers. Tyler’s too young to live with you now, but in a few years, he won’t be. Once you give up custody of Tyler, it’ll be hard to get back.”
As Jax reached for the beach towel that hung over the deck rail, he looked through the glass doors at the child quietly crashing a toy blue Camaro off the sofa. He was already so different from the boisterous kid Jax remembered. In a few years, he wouldn’t know him at all.
The pain that sliced through him took him totally by surprise. His own father hadn’t known him. Ultimately had nothing to give him except money. Was that going to happen to him and Tyler? He pushed the thought away. He was nothing like his father. His father was a lawyer. He could have come home from his big-time moneymaking whenever he wanted to.
“Jax, I’m talking to you like a friend here. I’m faxing the paper, but you don’t have to sign it. We can at least come up with a visitation agreement that’s fairer to you.”
“It’s essentially the same as the agreement I had with Danielle.”
“Yeah. Well, it stank then and it stinks now.”
Jax glanced at Tyler through the sliders. Why did he sit like that, crouched over his trucks? And why was he, Jax, arguing? Everything Mancini said was what he had been thinking just a minute ago.
“You know what, Mancini, you’re right. Let me think it over and call you back tomorrow. In the meantime, go home to your kids.”
Jax closed the phone and stepped back through the sliders.
“Tyler, do you want to ride to the grocery? We’ll pick up some ice cream for dessert.”
There was no answer from the small figure. “Tyler, you heard me. Do you want to go?” A tiny headshake was the only answer.
Okay, they were back to that. No talk, no eye contact.
Jax let himself out the door.
As if she were the only woman in the place, he saw her almost as soon as he stepped into the brightly lit supermarket. For the space of a skipped heartbeat, he thought his wish to see if he could coax a response from her had come true.
Even with her back turned, he’d know that queenly carriage anywhere. She looked all smooth and demure with her gold curls clasped once again at her nape. Expensive slacks, the color of vanilla ice cream, and her red silk blouse no longer fluttered in a stiff breeze but flowed from breast to hip.
She was deep in conversation with the deli clerk. Over and over, she would point to an item in the glass case, listen to the clerk’s reply, then shake her head and point to another item.
Jax’s fantasy of asking her for a date vanished with an almost audible pop. She was apparently going to make the clerk describe every single one of the prepared dishes before she made up her mind.
Oh, this lady with the superior attitude was high maintenance all right. This was one choosy woman. No wonder she reminded him of Danielle.
Nah. He might still have a knee-jerk attraction to women like her, but he was older and wiser now. He didn’t need the grief.
He turned toward the produce aisle.
Like prey that knows it has been spotted, Pickett felt the man’s eyes on her. Jax. He was here. He was looking at her. Vital and elemental from his sweat-dried hair to his strong brown feet, he seemed incongruous in a place as tame as grocery store. His face was impassive, his light-gray eyes cold and remote. A small shiver chased over her scalp. This was a dangerous man. Not just one of the military, he was a true warrior, a hunter.
He nodded almost imperceptibly and walked away.
Well. When somebody turns his back, literally, the body language is pretty clear. She’d already reminded her
self a thousand times that she was Not Interested, so she refused—she absolutely refused—to feel disappointment.
It took a minute for the deli clerk’s impatient voice to shake her from her daze. “So have you decided, ma’am? Ma’am?”
THREE
Good old Hobo Joe, the three-legged German shepherd mix who lived on her porch when he felt like it, greeted Pickett when she pulled into her drive. He walked her to the kitchen door, but as always declined to come in. Behind the door, Patterson, a part-Lab, and Lucy, whose ancestry was indecipherable, snuffled and whined.
“Okay, guys, let me in.” You’d think the dogs would learn to stand back so she could get the door open, but they never seemed to. Instead, she had to push her way in, careful not to let doggy toes get pinched under the moving door. “Boy, the two of you make sure I don’t come home to a silent house. And guess what, your aunt Lyle is coming to see you this weekend. Only think how exciting that will be.”
Neither dog expressed any interest in the promised treat. Instead, Patterson used his superior height to try to sniff the deli bag; Pickett lifted it higher and tried not to step on Lucy, who was avidly snuffling at Pickett’s serviceable low-heeled pumps.
“Where’d you go? Who’d you see? What did you bring me to eat?” Pickett spoke for Lucy. While not big on conversation, dogs took in an amazing amount of information through smell. Maybe Lucy was extra curious because she smelled Jax on her. Goodness knows the man had some potent pheromones. Setting the food on the counter, well away from the edge, Pickett kicked off her shoes.
The dogs, having sniffed and wagged to their satisfaction, ran to the back door and whined to be let out.
“Okay! Okay! Go on out and do your jobs, but come right back, because it’s suppertime.” Pickett blessed the invisible fence that meant she no longer had to supervise potty time. She only wanted to get out of these clothes and eat some supper.
She especially enjoyed the days she worked with her favorite project at Camp Lejeune—a group organized to overcome the social isolation of certain at-risk young mothers. But adding that group to the rest of her client load at the base made for a long day, and today she had made it even longer by stopping at the Howells’ cottage.
And spending an hour or more with Jax and the little boy, Tyler.
Jax. Darn that man! He wouldn’t get out of her mind. Pickett crossed the wide hall, stripping out of slacks and blouse even before she arrived at her bedroom. Pickett slipped the silk blouse onto a padded hanger. Had he followed her into the grocery? Surely not. The encounter must have been random, and yet for a minute in the store she had felt his gaze. And knew it was him even before she’d turned her head.
Sharp yips came from the back door. Pickett quickly pulled on an old pair of exercise shorts and a T-shirt, both sizes too large, and hurried to let the dogs back in.
Dogs fed, she pulled the plastic container from the deli bag. She eyed the soggy artichoke salad with disfavor. This is what came of letting discipline slip in planning meals. She’d been so rattled by Jax’s sudden appearance that she wasn’t sure she’d asked about all the ingredients. She hesitated, sniffing the container carefully as she considered the possible consequences of eating food she couldn’t be sure was safe.
Oh well, a salad was unlikely to have hidden wheat in it. Wearily, she dug a fork from the drawer and began to eat straight from the container, standing at the counter.
Jax. Her heart gave a funny little kick every time she thought of him. It was like he was determined to shoulder his way into her thoughts, no matter how she tried to push him out. Was this sense of magnetic pull, of attention being riveted on a person, what people meant when they talked about falling in love?
Pickett didn’t believe in love.
Not the true-love stuff of romance novels. As a counselor she dealt with too many failed marriages and broken relationships to think that love was a strong enough glue to keep people together.
If this were a romance novel, he really would have been following her in the grocery. He would have come up to her and said, “Did you think I would let you get away?” Then he would gently, oh so gently, take her face in his slightly rough hands, and gaze deep into her eyes. And he would say, “I have to do this,” as his perfect lips came down on hers.
How absurd! Pickett softly mocked herself. This was real life, of course, so what he had done was look at her as if he didn’t like what he saw—at all—and walk away.
Lack of closure, her therapist-self diagnosed, that was the problem.
Pickett rinsed out the plastic container, debated briefly if it was worth saving, then tossed it in the recycling bin.
Talking it over with her best friend would help, but Emmie was out of the country. An assistant professor at the University of North Carolina Wil -mington, Emmie was in Ecuador for the semester with a group of students studying the rainforest. One of the attractions of Snead’s Ferry had been its proximity to Emmie and the possibility of seeing her every week. She would be back at Thanksgiving, and Pickett was counting the days.
The baby-blue phone, a relic of the seventies hanging above the kitchen sink, rang.
“Where have you been, little sister?” Lyle’s voice had lost a lot of its southern essence from living in New York. Pickett was always startled to hear the sister she was closest to sound like a stranger. “I’ve been calling and calling.”
With a guilty clutch, Pickett glanced into the darkened dining room she’d made into her home office and saw the red message light blinking on her answering machine. She’d been so bemused she hadn’t checked her messages.
Before Pickett could stumble out an excuse, Lyle went on, “Never mind. I’m in a rental car. I’m turning into your drive now. Be there in a sec.”
Pickett flipped on the backyard spotlights and opened the door to let out the dogs, who were already wiggling with excitement. She looked down at her faded shorts with their frayed cuffs. No time to change but it didn’t matter; Lyle didn’t criticize her the way her sisters Grace and Sarah Bea did.
Lyle—all city-chic in a black business suit, her shoulder-length dark hair swinging—stepped onto the back porch, flanked by Patterson and Lucy. The dogs’ tails wagged wildly. No one would guess Lyle was a pied piper for dogs. Closest in age to Pickett, the three years that separated them had seemed unbridgeable when Lyle had been a teenager attempting to find herself as an artist while coming to grips with her sexual identity. Even so, their shared love of creatures had always been a bond.
“I’m so happy to see you! Even though you’ve stolen my dogs again.” Bumping the dogs out of the way with her knees, Pickett took Lyle into her arms. Pickett was the youngest and shortest of her siblings while Lyle was the tallest. The inequity in their heights meant Pickett’s face was pressed into Lyle’s shoulder. She had to step back to look into Lyle’s face. “What are you doing here, Lyle? I wasn’t expecting you until the weekend.”
“The meeting with the client got moved up because of the hurricane. We flew into Wil -mington this morning and we leave again tonight.”
“You mean you’re not going to stay? I’m so disappointed!”
“My boss has visions of being stranded in Wilmington the way people were in New Orleans. I keep trying to tell him a Category One hurricane is not the same thing at all. He’s got a point though. They probably will start canceling flights if the weather service upgrades the watch to a warning. You almost missed me. I was going to leave you a note.”
“I wanted us to have the whole weekend together,” Pickett wailed. “I was late getting home because I had to close up the Howells’ cottage for them.” And because I spent an extra hour interfering in the life of a stranger. Talking to a man who, now that he knows who I am, prefers to remain a stranger.
Pickett opened the screen door to let Lyle and the dogs in.
Lyle quirked a dubious eyebrow. “They asked you to help?”
For a second Pickett stared at Lyle, thinking she’d somehow read her min
d. She felt her cheeks get hot, and her heart thumped in embarrassment. Then who her sister meant clicked in. “The Howells? No. Mother told them I would.”
Lyle’s lips curled. “Sucker.”
Lyle loved to play the hard-ass. She didn’t know what an idiot Pickett had been this afternoon; nevertheless, the sisterly jab stung. “Easy for you to say! You moved all the way to New York City to get outside Mom’s reach. At least I had the nerve to try to live my life on my terms while still in the same state with her.”
Lyle planted a fist on her hip. “Nerve, hell. You thought if you didn’t rebel too much, she wouldn’t disapprove too much.”
“Hey, you’re the rebel, not me,” Pickett defended herself. “I’ll grant you I’m a wimp, and I’m not following the family script of marrying locally and becoming a young society matron, but I honestly wanted the career I’ve chosen. I wanted the challenge of establishing my own practice. I love the work I do with children and families, and I’m good at it.”
“Well, I’m good at graphic design,” Lyle snapped, honey-dark brows drawing together.
“Yes, but you don’t love it,” Pickett snapped right back. “You should be painting full time and you know it. Landscape is your gift. But Mother would adore having a fine artist in the family—so of course you can’t do that!”
In the silence that ensued, Pickett felt her blood leave her face. Her sister looked as shocked as she felt. Pickett never had—never would—use her insightfulness as a weapon, but she’d just come close enough to feel deeply ashamed. Lyle’s reasons for her choice of career and place to live were complex, as well Pickett knew. She shouldn’t have lashed out just because her sister had stepped on her toes.
Pickett shook her head and threw up her hands. “Listen to us. We haven’t been together ten minutes and already we’re squabbling like—”
“Like sisters,” finished Lyle. “But not like you. You never tell either of our oh-so-conventional sisters to get off your back, even though sometimes you should. What’s got you so riled up?”
Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle Page 3