One Summer

by JoAnn Ross

  “Good point.” And one Charity hated admitting, since she had truly hoped that this time her mother had found the happiness that had eluded her for so many years. “What did he say when you asked him about it?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because if I brought it up, I’d have to yell at him. And then, although he’s supposed to be avoiding stress, I just know we’d get into a fight if I let out all this emotion churning inside me.” Her beringed hand trembled as she dragged it through her hair. More tears glistened in her eyes. “And despite being absolutely furious at him right now, I’d never forgive myself if I killed him.”

  Charity understood her mother’s fear. Still, avoiding such a serious subject wasn’t going to solve the situation, either.

  She was trying to think of something, anything, to say that might prove helpful or encouraging when the black Jeep she’d last seen being towed behind Gabriel St. James’ motor home pulled up behind Amanda’s rental car.

  A slogan Charity had seen on a poster in the local recruiting-office window instantly came to mind: The Marines have landed; the situation is well in hand.

  12

  She wasn’t alone. Which, Gabe decided as he climbed out of the Jeep, was a good thing. With any luck, he could pay whatever he owed for the mutt’s care and escape before she started pressuring him to take it with him.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs. Not only had he always wanted one growing up; his unit had worked with a German shepherd in Iraq that had a nose for sniffing out IEDs and a jones for jerky. Which had worked out well for all of them.

  But a dog would mean responsibility and commitment. And a dog who’d been through what that one had suffered would undoubtedly come with issues.

  Like you don’t?

  Which was entirely the point. He’d long ago decided that staying emotionally detached allowed him to control at least his life in a crazed world where innocent people could be blown to smithereens in a marketplace, or burned out of their homes and murdered by religious differences gone amok.

  Despite his one slip into a marriage that should have been declared dead at the altar, he’d always made it a point to steer clear of any women seeking a future. And with the exception of one CNN war correspondent who’d filleted him with words that would’ve earned her network one hell of an FCC fine if she’d said them on the air, he and his lovers always parted, if not exactly friends, at least without rancor.

  The polar bear the vet was passing off as a dog stood up as he approached. That it was guarding its owner was obvious. Fortunately, it appeared to have remembered meeting him and didn’t regard him to be a threat.

  Charity stood up, as well. She was wearing a white T-shirt that read Real Doctors Treat More Than One Species, faded jeans, and white sneakers with red baseball stitching. Her hair was back in its tidy tail beneath a New York Yankees baseball cap.

  She and the older woman sitting beside her were a study in contrasts. The woman’s silk dress was a brilliant scarlet and her shoes looked designer and probably cost as much as his first car. Her makeup must’ve been shellacked or something, because the sea mist in the air appeared to have no effect on it.

  “Mr. St. James,” Charity Tiernan greeted him warmly.

  “My father was Mr. St. James. I’m Gabe.”

  “Gabe,” she agreed with a nod. “You’re here for your dog.”

  “No.” He folded his arms. “I’m here to pay you for whatever medical services you performed on that stray I brought to you.”

  She opened her mouth, probably prepared to argue, when the other woman, who’d been studying him as if he were a piece of jewelry she was considering buying, suddenly said, “Are you the Gabriel St. James? The amazingly talented war photojournalist?”

  “I was a Marine photojournalist.” He braced for the inevitable questions about how it felt to be in a battle. Or the eye-shifting thing that suggested fear of him breaking out in a rampaging case of PTSD at any moment. “Now I’m just a photographer.”

  “A brilliant one, according to a former husband.” A Volkswagen-sized diamond flashed on her finger as she fluffed her wavy, dark red hair. “You may have heard of him. Peter Gillette?”

  “Of course. I’ve admired his work.” Which was true, even though Gabe would rather be taken prisoner by terrorists than cater to the egos of celebrity clients. “You must be Charity’s mother.”

  “Why, yes. I am.” She shot a glance between him and her daughter. “I’m surprised Charity mentioned me.” Clever green eyes sharpened as they lasered back to him. “You two must be close.” Her voice went up a little on the end of the statement, turning it into a question.

  “We were discussing his latest book,” Charity jumped in. It was the second time he’d seen her actually flustered. The first had been the moment that bridal bouquet had landed against the front of her dress, forcing her to catch it. “Peter’s name came up.”

  “Peter was a photojournalist in the Vietnam War,” the woman whose name he’d yet to catch offered. “For Stars and Stripes.”

  “That’s quite a career change.”

  It was, he realized, also much like what Charity had mentioned about his taking wedding photos. Then again, his being at that ceremony had been a special case—a favor for a buddy. Gillette had actually chosen a jet-set life among celebrities.

  “That’s what I thought,” she agreed. “Though he did occasionally say taking war photos was easier. And at times even less dangerous.” Somehow she managed to frown without furrowing her forehead. “Come to think of it, that was the only thing he ever said about those years.”

  “Some people prefer not to rehash it.” And wasn’t he one of those?

  “I suppose so.” She held out a hand tipped in nails as red as her dress. “I’m Amanda Templeton.”

  This obviously high-maintenance female might appear the antithesis of her daughter, yet as he took the slender hand she offered, he recognized it as a twin of the one who’d handled his dog on the exam table.

  The dog, dammit. It wasn’t his dog, and if he had anything to say about it, and he did, it never would be.

  “Nice to meet you,” he responded.

  “It’s delightful to meet you. In fact, I think I’ll go inside and call Peter right away and tell him I’ve met you.” She reclaimed her hand and turned toward her daughter. “We can bring my things in from the car later.”

  “Things?”

  Okay. Count that as three times he’d seen Dr. Charity Tiernan flustered. This time she looked on the verge of panic.

  “Well, darling, I have to stay somewhere.”

  “What’s wrong with your house?”

  “I don’t want to be there when—and if—Benton calls.”

  “That’s what voice messaging is for. So you can screen calls.”

  “But you know me, Charity. I have absolutely no self-control. At least when it comes to my husbands. I’d pick up the phone and the next thing, we’d be in a terrible argument because I wouldn’t be able to hold back how upset I am.” She shook her auburn head. “No. I need time to plot a strategy.”

  “How about asking him straight out what he’s up to?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. It’s obvious you’ve never been married, darling.” Color flooded into her cheeks. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Still, obviously it’s a sore point, after what happened, and—”

  “Mom.” The daughter’s tone was soft, yet firm. “I said it’s okay.”

  The older woman shot another of those appraising looks back and forth between her daughter and Gabe. “Aaah.” She stretched the word out. “I see. Well, then, I’d best let you two get down to business.”

  She flashed a dazzling smile at Gabe, then hugged her daughter, whispering something into Charity’s ear. What it was, he couldn’t tell, but from the way the vet’s spine beneath that T-shirt stiffened, Gabe suspected she was less than th
rilled.

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said after her mother had gone into the house, shutting the screen door behind her.

  “What? That I met your mother? Or that she called my work brilliant? Which, given who the quote came from, would have a lot of photographers calling their publicist trying to figure out how to use it on the front of a book.”

  “A lot of photographers, perhaps.” Charity tilted her head. Studied him in that deep, serious way she had. “But not you.”

  “No. Not me. Taking photos is my job. Like some guys are plumbers. Others catch fish for a living. I like that I can make a living, be my own boss, and having grown up with a dad who spent more time on welfare than he did on the job, I’m grateful for the work.”

  Damn. Why in the world had he told her that? Like most children of alcoholics, Gabe had learned early on to keep secrets. After he’d brought home a kid after school to work on a magnetism project for fourth-grade science class, only to find his mother passed out on the couch, he’d quit risking having friends over to his house. Which, in turn, meant that he didn’t have that many friends.

  That had suited him just fine, especially after he’d discovered photography in high school and learned that he actually preferred life as seen through the lens of a camera, where he could adjust it—with film speed and aperture openings—the way he liked it. Rather than the way it might be in reality.

  The military might have changed the focus of his viewpoint, bringing gritty, unblinking realism into his photos that had earned him a measure of fame. But he’d held on to one tenet from his childhood: He never, ever talked about his family.

  Even Cole Douchett, who was the closest thing to a friend that Gabe had ever had, knew only that his parents had died in an accident when he’d been in college. During some of his and Cole’s darkest hours together—when it wasn’t certain either of them would make it out alive—while the other Marine had talked openly and fondly about his family, Gabe had seen no reason to share the details of his own life. Which, as far as he was concerned, had begun when he’d shown up at Parris Island, where he’d acquired a new family consisting of jarheads like him.

  “I think we’re all grateful for work these days,” she said mildly. Although he suspected she was curious about him, as he admittedly was about her, Gabe was grateful she didn’t press. “The shelter’s been getting way too many animals whose owners can no longer afford to care for them, or have to give them up because they’ve lost their homes and are moving to apartments.”

  She sighed, then said, “I’ll go get your dog for you.”

  Gabe opened his mouth to insist yet again that it was not his dog, but she’d disappeared into the house before he could get the words out.

  Oh, yeah. The lady was quick. And smart.

  And, he reminded himself, dangerous. Because, as he’d lain awake long into the night, he’d found himself thinking about things he’d stopped allowing himself to think about years ago.

  And wanting things he had no business wanting.

  13

  After having been the topic of so much gossip herself, there was no way Charity was going to pry into Gabriel St. James’ past. But it wasn’t so much what he said—after all, how many people had actually experienced a Beaver Cleaver childhood? It was the way he’d looked as if he’d pulled the pin on a hand grenade that made her realize that he hadn’t meant to offer her even a small glimpse into his past life. Which she could both understand and respect.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t curious.

  “You’ve got a complicated daddy,” she told the dog as she scooped him up from her bed, where he’d settled into the throw pillows for a well-deserved nap. “He isn’t going to be the easiest guy to win over. But I have every faith you’ll pull it off.”

  If the wag of his fluffy tail and the happy swipe of his tongue on her face were any indication, the dog agreed.

  “It’s obvious you two have a lot in common,” she said, continuing her pep talk as she carried him down the stairs, “since you’re both survivors. And tough.” After all, how many nine-pound dogs could be abused and dragged beneath a van and still come out of the situation with their sweet temperament intact? “And you know what? I think he needs you every bit as much as you need him.”

  Even though he wasn’t prepared to admit it. Which might be because he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself. She suspected when you spent so many years in war, you learned never to show weakness. And it wasn’t merely warriors who’d developed that instinct that probably went back to caveman times. An instinct humans definitely shared with other animals.

  She’d once treated a formerly feral calico cat who’d gone months hiding a broken leg that had healed crookedly on its own. Fortunately, after surgery and recuperation, it was doing fine, spending its days in the window of Tidal Wave Books, basking in the sun and the admiration of passersby and customers.

  This little guy and the hard-edged, granite-eyed Marine would be good for each other. Which was why she was so determined to match them up.

  “Who are you kidding?” she muttered to herself.

  The truth was while she really did believe that the match would benefit both of them, she just wanted to keep Gabriel St. James in town a little longer. Not forever. She could recognize a rover when she met one. But just long enough to explore these unsettling, exciting feelings he’d stirred.

  Charity had lived thirty-one years without experiencing a single sexual fantasy—unless you counted imagining herself as Amy March being courted by Christian Bale’s breathtakingly handsome Laurie, but that daydream had remained as sweetly mild as the Little Women movie on which it had been based.

  Last night’s dream of the Marine’s dark hands leaving a trail of sparks over her breasts, her stomach, the crease of her thighs, his mouth hot and hungry between her legs, had definitely not been G-rated.

  He was waiting on the porch when she came out.

  Before he could object that he didn’t want the damn dog, as she knew he intended to, she simply shoved it up against his broad chest. As the ball of freshly shampooed fluffy black fur lifted its front paws to his shoulders, she backed away, giving him no choice but to grab hold.

  “Good try,” he acknowledged her ploy as a pink tongue came out, and even with the inflatable “comfort collar” designed to keep him from bothering his wounds and neutering stitches, the little dog managed to lick the Marine’s face. “But I’m still not in the market for a dog.”

  “So you say.” She folded her arms so he couldn’t shove it back at her. “Personally I think the two of you are a perfect match. And whether you want to admit it or not, you need him as much as he needs you.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “I bought your book this morning. Semper Fi.” She gestured to where it still sat on the table between two of the chairs. “My stepfather’s right. You’re very talented.”

  “Thanks. But what does you buying my book have to do with pushing a homeless dog on me?”

  “He won’t be homeless if you take him.”

  “Hell, in case you’ve forgotten, I don’t have a home.”

  “Of course you do. It’s merely on wheels at the moment. Dogs are very adaptable. Much more so than cats. He’ll fit right in. Besides you can’t travel forever.”

  “Want to bet?”

  Although she’d carefully planned out her argument ahead of time, after looking through his photos, that curt question momentarily threw her off track. “You don’t have any place to go home to?”

  “Nope. Haven’t ever felt the need for one.”

  “I spent most of my life moving around whenever my mother remarried,” she offered. “Although it was admittedly difficult being the new girl in school all the time, by the third husband, it had pretty much become the norm.”

  She’d grown up. Moved on with her life and was happy with who and where she was. But when just remembering how desperately she’d yearned for some stability caused a familiar ache
inside, she absently reached out and scratched the dog’s head. “But I’ve discovered since moving here that finding a place where I can finally put down roots is proving hugely satisfying.”

  Gabe shrugged. “Roots can tie you down.”

  “Well, that’s certainly a different viewpoint,” she said mildly. “What about your family?”

  “I don’t have one. How much do I owe you?”

  And wasn’t he quick to change the subject? Oh yes, Charity thought. There was a story there.

  She hadn’t realized, since moving to Shelter Bay, how much people in small towns got caught up in one another’s lives. The same way everyone knew about her debacle of a failed wedding (though not the reason, which she’d shared only with Sedona), she knew intimate details of their lives.

  Such as the fact Mary Beth Addison, after a year of trying to get pregnant, had begun buying chaste tree berry and wild yam from Sofia De Luca in hopes of increasing her fertility. Despite having a degree in accounting from Willamette University, and possessing a CPA certification, cake baker Sedona Sullivan had grown up living what, to Charity, sounded like a halcyon existence on a commune in Arizona’s Red Rock country, for which she was named.

  And then there was poor Adèle Douchett’s unfortunate fall, which had left her with dementia, and Kara Conway falling in love with Sax Douchett, her dead husband’s high school friend, and . . .

  “Excuse me?” Dragging her mind from her neighbors, she realized Gabe had asked her a question.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Oh. I’m not sure, off the top of my head. Why don’t you come inside and I’ll get the paperwork.” She went back into the house, leaving him to follow. With the dog, which she’d still avoided taking back.

  Retrieving the forms, she began clicking away on a desktop calculator. “Well, there’s the tick dip, and the exam, and since we have to assume he hasn’t had any vaccinations, I went ahead and did those. The rabies tag is on his collar.” Which was a lovely red tartan she thought contrasted well with his dark fur and gave him a bit of a rakish look.