Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel

by Virginia Kantra

  “But no cookies,” he said firmly.

  One of his buddies—Luke, probably—had told him chocolate was bad for dogs.

  * * *

  GABE HAD LEARNED to sleep lightly in jail. Sleeping outdoors wasn’t much better. If the sun didn’t wake you, the bugs would. Or the cold. Or the rain.

  But when he woke the next morning he was warmer than usual. Also covered in dog hair.

  “Fleas, too, probably,” he told the dog as he shook out his bedroll.

  The dog yawned, unconcerned.

  Dew silvered the dark bushes. The air smelled of earth and sea, of rotting marsh and sprouting leaves. Gabe took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of spring.

  And bacon. Somebody in the trailer park cooking breakfast.

  Gabe’s stomach growled.

  The dog sniffed at the bushes and lifted a leg before trotting back to sit at Gabe’s feet.

  “Sorry, pal. I got nothing.”

  God, he was hungry. Served him right for feeding half his dinner to a dog.

  The dog cocked its cement-block head. Looking for another handout, probably.

  Gabe scratched behind its battered ears. “You don’t want to stick with me. Go bother the family with the bacon.”

  The mutt didn’t move.

  Gabe removed his fingers from the warmth of its thick ruff. “Go on. Get out of here. Find somebody who can take care of you. Get.”

  Those big, brown, Disney-dog eyes regarded him reproachfully from its ugly mug before the dog heaved itself to its feet and wandered off through the trees.

  Gabe set his jaw against the urge to call it back. It was for the best, he told himself. For the dog’s own good. He had to get his own life in order. He couldn’t take responsibility for a dog.

  He shouldered his pack. The street had no sidewalk, only a grassy verge spilling sand onto the asphalt. Above the peaked roofs, the sky was tinged with pink and gold. The sea, caught in glimpses between the houses and the trees, was the color of the sky.

  His spirits lifted, an unexpected, welcome rush. He liked this place, the smell of salt, the birds’ early-morning racket. Maybe his instincts and his memories had been right after all. Go back to the beginning. Not all the way back to his crappy childhood, but here, where he’d first experienced what a family could be, where he’d caught a glimpse of what his future could look like.

  He lengthened his stride purposefully. He didn’t need to grab on to Luke like a baby clutching the hand of the nearest adult. He could walk on his own. Make a fresh start. Find work somewhere, someplace warm, within sight and smell of the sea. He’d heard they were hiring construction workers down in Florida.

  The bakery’s lights glowed in welcome. OPEN, proclaimed the neon sign in the window. But he saw only two vehicles in the parking lot, an old sedan with North Carolina plates—Jane’s?—and a white, even older-model van like a painter’s van with a vent on top. JANE’S SWEET TEA HOUSE, read a small magnetic sign on the side. Both Jane’s, then. She must be alone inside.

  He could see her through the plate glass window, her hair as yellow as butter under the light as she filled the sleek display cases with pastries. Beneath the square white apron she looked pink and round and soft.

  Hunger hit him, sharp as a cramp.

  She was so pretty. Kind, too, despite her caution. Gabe saw her kindness as a strength.

  His mom had not been strong. Peggy Murphy had been too busy placating her husband to have much attention left over for their son. Everything she did was with an eye on big Scott Murphy’s moods, on his fists. Tess Fletcher had always been kind to Luke’s friends, but Gabe had known he wasn’t really entitled to her affection. It was borrowed, secondhand, like the clothes he’d worn to school.

  His entire life, he had craved someone of his own who would care for him, who would pack him cookies or fuss over whether he stayed warm, who would do the small favors a woman does for the people she loves.

  He wanted to thank Jane for the cookies and the thermos.

  But he didn’t want her looking at him the way she had last night, startled and wary, like he was some creepy thug in a dark alley. Yeah, okay, he wasn’t the Marine he had been. But he had never hurt a woman in his life.

  See? he told the gibing voice in his head. Not his pop, after all.

  Fishing the thermos from his pack, he set it on a table near the door.

  She had a nice setup here, he thought, looking around. Picnic tables and big wooden chairs scattered over the short, tough grass. Some kind of purple flower, flat-faced and bright, bloomed in planters by the porch, and daffodils—he recognized the sharp spears and yellow trumpets—pushed up under the trees.

  So, yeah, okay, the place could use some work. Minor repairs to the porch and furniture, some paint, some stain. Not that he was criticizing. He was looking a little weather-worn himself. But it wouldn’t take much to put the yard in order, just a rake and some time.

  He spotted the rake, leaning up against the cedar shake siding. And God knew he had the time.

  Maybe he’d found a way to thank her after all.

  * * *

  JANE ARRANGED THE glistening pastries in the bakery case, rows of cheese Danish and chocolate brioche, cinnamon buns and lemon-glazed scones, muffins studded with chocolate chips and bursting with berries.

  She loved baking, all the scents and textures. The smell of vanilla, the squish of dough between her fingers, satisfied something deep inside her. She loved the way you could take a few simple fixings, flour, sugar, butter, and make something satisfying and sustaining—a wedding cake, a loaf of bread, a life.

  Who would have guessed that after Travis left her broken flat, she would turn her line cook experience and a few community college classes in cake decorating and small business management into running her own bakery?

  In her kitchen, she was in control. She could trust her taste and her judgment. When she was baking, she had the confidence to be creative, to take risks, to add chilis to chocolate in a cupcake or combine lemon and thyme in a scone. As long as she kept the right balance of ingredients, everything would turn out fine.

  Because baking never let you down. Even if you screwed up, you could always throw everything out and start again.

  Unlike life.

  The silver bells over the door chimed, signaling her first morning customer.

  Lauren Patterson entered the bakery, her dark hair bundled in a messy knot, a silver cuff twining around one ear. “God, it smells good in here. I’ll take one of everything.”

  Jane smiled and pulled out a bakery box. “Do you have a staff meeting or are you just really hungry?”

  Lauren laughed. “I thought I’d sprinkle muffins around the faculty break room. Buy a little goodwill.”

  “In that case, I’d get a dozen blueberry mini muffins, a dozen caramel mocha mini cupcakes, and a half-dozen brownies.”

  “Brownies? At seven in the morning?”

  “Everybody loves chocolate,” Jane said.

  “So true. Oh, maybe one of those big cheese Danish for Lois Howell?”

  School boards and principals came and went, but Lois Howell, the raspy-voiced, orange-haired school secretary, had run the place since before Jane was born.

  “How about a red velvet cupcake?” Jane suggested. “Those are her favorite.”

  “Perfect. Thanks. She’s been filling me in on everything I need to know about the island families.” Lauren smiled lopsidedly. “Which is pretty much everything.”

  Uh-oh. Jane’s gaze flickered to Lauren’s face, trying to see beyond the bright tone, the crooked smile. Lauren was always so outgoing, so optimistic. She was two years older than Jane, but her cheerful energy always made Jane feel ancient—or at least very, very tired. It was hard to imagine Lauren needing Jane’s reassurance.

  But then, Jane couldn’t imagine doing what Lauren had done, leaving everything safe and familiar behind to make a new life among strangers. That kind of courage deserved a deeper respons
e than a cookie.

  “You’ll catch on quick enough,” she said reassuringly. “Everybody talks to everybody here.”

  “Within limits. I’m still a dingbatter.” Dingbatter being the downeasterners’ term for Yankees, vacationers, or anyone from Away.

  “They’ll come around. The kids like you.” Aidan liked her. She really should talk to Lauren about Aidan.

  Lauren’s face lit up. “I love working with the kids. One of the things that’s so great in a community like this is the age range of the students I see. I’m dealing with everything from gum in girls’ hair to college applications.”

  “What about fighting?” Jane asked.

  Lauren grinned. “You mean developing communication and conflict resolution skills? Yeah, we see some of that.”

  Her look, her tone, invited Jane to smile back. But the image of Aidan’s bloody lip, the defensive hunch of his shoulders, got in the way.

  Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask? Is Aidan having a problem at school?”

  Jane hesitated, her father’s voice rumbling in her head. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. Let him handle his own problems. “Maybe . . . after school, I think? He came home from the playground with a split lip. My dad says all boys fight. But . . .”

  Don’t hit, she’d told Aidan from the time he was very young. We don’t hit in this family.

  And tried to forget the time when that hadn’t been true, when Aidan’s father had hit her. Hurt her.

  I’m sorry, Travis always said afterward. At least, he’d said it at the beginning. God, I’m so sorry, Janey.

  “What did he say?”

  Jane blinked. Aidan. They were talking about her son. “Nothing.”

  Not after supper and not at bedtime. When she went to kiss him goodnight, Aidan had turned his face to the wall covered in dinosaur posters, his shoulder rising like a gate to shut her out.

  “Have you talked to his teacher?” Lauren asked.

  Jane shook her head. “He’s never been in a fight before. It just happened yesterday. I don’t even know if it happened on school grounds. If it’s even school business. If they’d care. I don’t want to get him into trouble.”

  She winced at the familiar litany of rationalizations.

  The first time Travis gripped her arm, leaving a circlet of purple bruises like a tribal tattoo, she’d convinced herself—or had he convinced her?—that talking would only make things worse. The justifications rushed back, crowding her throat, choking her. He’s never done it before, he didn’t mean it, if only he wasn’t frustrated, drunk, jealous, angry, disgusted with himself, with his life, with her . . .

  The excuses piled up and up, like a wall between everybody else and her secret, leaving her cowering behind it, alone with her pain and humiliation.

  “Would you like me to chat with his teacher? Sylvie Cunningham, right?” Lauren asked. “I could ask if she’s noticed anything in class.”

  The relief that rushed over Jane felt shameful. Aidan was her son, her responsibility. But she honestly didn’t know what to do. “Would you?” she asked hopefully.

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t mind getting involved?”

  Lauren’s lips quirked. “That’s why I became a counselor. Because I like meddling.”

  “Because you care,” Jane said. “Islanders are used to handling things themselves. But if you give them time to get to know you, they’ll come around.”

  “That’s what Jack says.” Lauren’s voice, her whole face, softened when she said her fiancé’s name.

  “Well, he would know,” Jane said, tucking a red velvet cupcake into the box. “He hasn’t been here that long himself. But everybody trusts him.”

  Lauren beamed. “They do, don’t they?”

  Jane nodded. “He’s a good police chief.”

  “He’s a good guy,” Lauren said.

  He was. It was hard not to feel a little jealous. Not over Jack, exactly. Though there was a time, right after he’d moved here, when Jane had thought . . .

  But beyond one kiss at a wedding two years ago, they had never . . . She would never . . .

  Anyway, she probably bored him silly.

  Besides, Jack was too dark, too cool, too controlled for her liking. She was drawn to sulky rebels with bad-boy stubble and sun-streaked shaggy hair and muscles like rope.

  An image of Gabe Murphy slid into her mind, tall and blond with eyes that weren’t green or brown or gold but some intriguing combination of all three.

  No, she told herself firmly, and shut the bakery box. “I think you two are good together,” she said.

  “Thanks. So.” Lauren gave her a bright look and swiped a cookie sample from the plate by the register. “How’s your love life these days?”

  Jane smiled faintly. “Is this another example of you getting involved?”

  Lauren pressed a hand to her heart. “Only because I care.”

  Jane shook her head and rang up her order. With the friends and family discount, because, well, Lauren did care. “I don’t have a love life. I don’t have time.”

  Lauren nibbled another sample. “That’s an excuse.”

  Maybe.

  “Don’t you want a relationship?” Lauren continued.

  “I have relationships. I have Aidan. My dad. My friends. You.” If she let herself want other things, where would she be? Making the same old terrible mistakes. She could raise her son, she could run her business, she could manage her life on her own.

  “What about sex? You must miss sex.”

  “I barely remember it,” Jane said.

  Probably just as well.

  She’d loved sex once—the flush of attraction, the feeling of closeness, the thrill of the forbidden. But somewhere along the way, sex had gradually become a chore.

  Travis had barely seemed to notice when she wasn’t in the mood anymore. Or maybe by that point he hadn’t cared. He certainly hadn’t bothered to hide his disgust that the eager, curvy nineteen-year-old he’d married was now tired and bloated all the time. Jesus, Janey, you really let yourself go, he’d say, reaching for her.

  Her shoulders rounded, remembering.

  Lauren’s eyes narrowed. “Jane, did Travis ever hurt you—abuse you—that way?”

  Jane blinked. Despite all the books Lauren pressed on her, she’d never identified what Travis did to her as abuse. As—what did they call it?—marital rape.

  It was just something necessary and unpleasant to get through, like scrubbing behind the toilet in the bathroom. Something she needed to do to keep the household running. Even when you were exhausted from work, or heavy with pregnancy, you still had to get down on your knees.

  “No,” she said. Not really.

  “Because if you ever want to talk about it . . .”

  Ha. “It’s not an issue.”

  “But it could be,” Lauren said.

  Jane shook her head. “It’s not like there’s a line of available single men knocking at my door.” Or her father’s door, since she lived with him and her seven-year-old son. Which made the possibility of her ever having sex again in this lifetime even more remote. “If my dad doesn’t scare them off, then Aidan does. Most men who want to get married aren’t looking for a package deal.”

  Lauren made a humming sound. “You know, not every relationship has to lead to love and commitment. Sometimes sex is all about the chemistry.”

  That’s how Lauren’s relationship with Jack had started, Jane remembered. A rebound relationship for him, a summer fling for her. She glanced at Lauren’s shiny new engagement ring and smiled. “How’s that working out for you?”

  Lauren laughed. “Okay, sometimes chemistry can turn into something more. Which proves you should be open to possibilities.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “What possibilities? We live in a fishing village with a year-round population of one thousand eight hundred and some. The good guys, guys like the Fletchers or Sam Grady, are all taken. Or they move away.”

&
nbsp; Lauren nibbled on another sample. “There’s your old boss at the restaurant. Adam? He’s hot.”

  “Do you know what the divorce rate is among chefs?”

  “Okay, what about Nick at the firehouse? I’ve seen him in the weight room. Nice pecs.”

  “I’m not going out with a guy who looks better in a wet T-shirt than I do. Besides, he’s five years younger than me.”

  “I’m six years younger than Jack.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Ah ah.” Lauren waggled a finger. “Let’s not fall into traditional gender stereotypes.”

  Jane bent her head, carefully counting out change. She knew all about stereotypes. By now she should be used to being dismissed on account of her appearance. Even her friends sometimes looked at her and saw . . . What? Baker Barbie. As if because she spoke with a drawl and spent her time baking cookies, because she had blond hair and big boobs and kept house for her father, she must be some kind of weird throwback to the 50s.

  “Stereotypes don’t have anything to do with it,” she said mildly. “You and Jack met as adults. I used to babysit Nick.”

  Lauren grimaced. “Okay, I can see that might be a problem.”

  Jane smiled. “Face it, if the love of my life was living on the island, I’d have found him by now.”

  “What about that guy I saw when I came in?”

  Jane closed the cash drawer with a ping. “What guy?”

  “Outside. With the rake? I thought maybe you’d hired some help.”

  Jane’s brows puckered. She glanced toward the wide front window. “No, I . . .”

  Something moved in the yard. A man. The sun glinted off the blond streaks in his hair, slid over his long, lean, muscled arms. He was holding a rake. Her rake.

  “What is it?” Lauren asked at her elbow. “Who is it? Do you want me to call Jack?”

  “I don’t . . . No.” Jane drew an unsteady breath. “It’s Luke’s friend. Gabe something? He was in the shop yesterday with Luke.”

  “Ah,” Lauren said in her therapist’s voice. Withholding judgment.

  Did she know about him?

  Of course she did, Jane answered her own question. This was Dare Island. Even if Lauren wasn’t fully tuned in to the island grapevine yet, she was engaged to the chief of police.