Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel

by Virginia Kantra

  “I’ll put these in water,” Marta said, disappearing through a big archway. He could see a table, already set for dinner, on the other side.

  The boys shifted uncomfortably.

  Hank glanced at the TV. The anchors on SportsCenter were bantering about Louisville’s chances in the Sweet Sixteen this weekend. So the evening wasn’t a total loss.

  He dropped into a chair.

  “They don’t know shit,” Tomás said, settling back on the couch.

  Hank slid him a look. “Brackets busted already, huh?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. But I’m doing better than Miguel.”

  “Hey, all my Elite Eight are still in the tournament,” Miguel said.

  “Who’s your Final Four?” Hank asked, and they talked about Duke and whether Michigan State had a shot this year until Marta came back with the flowers.

  There was already a vase on the table, but she replaced those flowers with the bouquet Hank had brought. He was relieved to see his was bigger.

  Marta looked from Hank to the television, a smile twitching her lips. “Do you want to help me in the kitchen or watch ESPN?”

  “Is this a test?” Hank asked warily.

  Her smile broadened. “I prefer to think of it as an opportunity.”

  Miguel rolled his eyes. Tomás said something in Spanish, and Marta laughed and answered in the same language.

  Damn it. Hank didn’t understand what they were saying. Didn’t know what he was doing here. He hauled himself to his feet.

  “You always have a chaperone?” he asked after he had followed Marta into the kitchen.

  “On a first date?” Marta widened her eyes at him. “Of course. Mami would insist.”

  So this was a date. Some of the tension left his shoulders. “Bet the boys couldn’t keep their hands off you when you were young.”

  Marta raised her brows. “As opposed to now, when I am so old?”

  Hell. “I didn’t mean . . .”

  Her smile reached right inside him and twisted him up. “Hank, relax. I am teasing you.” She turned to adjust the heat on the stove. “The truth is, I do not entertain very much. It is always the boys’ friends who come over. I am a single parent. You know how that is.”

  Hank nodded. After Denise left him, he didn’t have the time to chase after another woman. Or the heart.

  “Jane didn’t have many friends over. Couldn’t,” he said. “I was working most of the time.”

  Even when he wasn’t, she had always been a quiet kid. Solitary, like him. He remembered with a queer tug of his heart the way she used to sit for hours at the edge of his vision while he watched TV. He’d never known how to talk to her. And she never said much. Never asked for much of anything, except when she was little and begged him to let her stay home alone.

  You can trust me, Daddy, she’d said.

  And he had. Until Tillett.

  “I was lucky,” Marta was saying, stirring a pot. “Alex and Mateo were in high school—old enough to watch the younger boys. They were company for one another. But they had their own activities. Football—soccer—cross-country, after-school jobs . . . It seemed like all I did was drive them places. At that age, everything is work and your children.”

  And sometimes work was an escape from your only child, from the reminder of how badly you’d screwed up your life at home.

  “I should have done more with Jane,” Hank said. “Been around more. I wish . . .” He shut up. It was all water under the bridge anyway.

  Marta’s eyes were shrewd and kind. “You are doing more now, yes? With your grandson.”

  “I guess.” Hank stopped himself, barely, from shuffling his feet. “What are you making?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Green mole chicken.”

  Green chicken? “Smells good,” he said.

  Marta smiled. “It tastes even better.” She lifted a lid, releasing a cloud of steam and unfamiliar aromas, and dipped in a spoon. She stood close, almost between Hank’s feet, and lifted the spoon to his mouth. “Taste.”

  He accepted the spoon cautiously between his lips.

  “Well?” she demanded. She was usually so bossy, he forgot what a little thing she was, short and curvy. She smelled spicy and unfamiliar, like her chicken.

  He swallowed. “Not bad.”

  Her eyes sparked. Her lips parted. “‘Not bad’? Not—”

  He put his hands on her waist and kissed her, which shut her up. Her mouth was soft and warm as she kissed him back, her body round and firm. He tightened his hold on her waist.

  She made a little noise in her throat and stepped back. He released her instantly. They stared at each other. His heart pounded. Seemed her breathing was faster, too.

  She licked her lips. “Needs salt.”

  He bit down on a grin. “Seemed pretty perfect to me.”

  Her smile was something to see.

  She turned away and grabbed a napkin-covered basket off the counter. “Here.” She thrust it at him. “Take this to the table. It’s time for dinner.”

  There was one of those Catholic crosses hanging on the wall of the dining nook. Hank didn’t see how staring at Jesus crucified was supposed to aid a man’s appetite, but he bowed his head as Marta and the boys said some kind of grace and crossed themselves.

  Marta banned cell phones and television at the dinner table, but there wasn’t a lot of yapping. Her sons shoveled in their food with the healthy appetite of young males, leaving Hank free to do the same. The rice was red, the chicken was green, and there were oranges and olives in the salad. Garlic in everything. But it all tasted fine. Good. He said so. Marta thanked him.

  Miguel finished eating first, carrying his empty plate into the kitchen and wandering back toward the television.

  “All done with your homework?” Marta asked.

  “Yep.”

  “What about your chemistry test on Friday?”

  “I’ll study tomorrow.”

  “You are working tomorrow night. You’ll study now.”

  “Ma . . .”

  Marta arched an eyebrow. Hank knew that look from the station. The most whiny-ass, entitled tourist in the world had been known to fold when faced with the power of Marta’s raised eyebrow.

  With a heavy sigh, Miguel fetched his backpack from under the end table by the front door. “What about dessert?”

  “Ice cream,” Marta said. “I’ll call you.”

  “Next time, you should bring dessert,” Miguel said to Hank. “You know, instead of flowers?”

  Hank met Marta’s eyes, heat creeping under his collar. Was there going to be a next time?

  She shrugged, a smile playing around her mouth.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said gruffly.

  “Jane, she makes great desserts. She did this Key lime pie for the restaurant last week? It was really good.”

  Hank felt a glow of pride at this praise of his daughter. “You work at the Brunswick,” he said.

  “Yeah. Twelve hours a week.”

  “As long as you keep up your grades,” Marta said. “Go study.”

  “My grades are good enough,” Miguel said, letting his book bag slide, trying to put off the inevitable. Like a prisoner squaring off with a guard to delay the long walk to the electric chair. “We can’t all be lawyers like Alex.”

  “She’s not saying be a lawyer, stupid,” his older brother said. “But maybe you want to go to college.”

  “Papi didn’t go to college. You didn’t go to college.”

  “Because I got a good job now. But Gabe says you got to plan for the future. To think beyond the next paycheck.”

  “Your friend Gabe is very wise,” Marta said. She narrowed her eyes at Hank. “Did you just growl?”

  “No,” he growl— That is, he grumbled. Maybe his voice was pitched a little lower than usual. So sue him. “You talking about Gabe Murphy?”

  “Yeah. We work together,” Tomás said. “More than a week now. Sam hired—”


  “I know who he is.”

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s trouble. I don’t trust him.”

  Marta’s brows rose. “And yet he’s working at your daughter’s bakery.”

  He wouldn’t be if Hank had any say. But he’d lost that argument. His jaw set. “Jane’s her own woman. She makes her own decisions.”

  “You don’t believe that,” Marta said.

  Hell, no.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Hank said.

  Marta’s eyes were deep and soft. “I understand. It’s hard when your children grow up.”

  She turned the conversation to other things while Tomás cleared the table and Miguel went upstairs to do his despised chemistry homework. Later, there was ice cream.

  But some of the shine had been rubbed off the evening, and Hank knew why.

  It was that Gabe Murphy’s fault.

  Fourteen

  IN THE KITCHEN, Jane heard the door bells chime and then . . . nothing.

  “Lindsey?” she called.

  “I’m on break,” the teenager yelled.

  Jane sighed and wiped her floury hands on her apron. She turned back to the baker’s bench, where Rudy Jackson, her other new hire, was learning how to prep for the following day. “After you get the cinnamon rolls formed, you need to cut them. An inch thick. And then you place them, twelve rolls to a half sheet, about this far apart,” she said, demonstrating with her thumb and forefinger. “Okay?”

  Rudy scratched his bandanna, eyeing the long rectangle of dough slathered with butter and layered with brown sugar and cinnamon. “Sure. No problem.”

  His standard response. He was either incredibly quick on the uptake—Please, let him be quick—or overwhelmed.

  Jane was feeling fairly overwhelmed herself. Hiring staff was supposed to make her life easier. But at least in the beginning, it made everything more complicated.

  Like sex.

  She pushed the thought away.

  “You have any questions, you come get me,” she told Rudy.

  “No problem.”

  With a last anxious glance at the dough, Jane headed for the front, where Lindsey Gordon sat at a table, texting.

  Over by the display cakes, Meg Fletcher waited, looking sharp and put together and vibrating with nervous energy. Despite moving back to Dare Island almost a year and a half ago, she still acted like she lived in New York City. She had conducted her initial wedding cake consultation the same way Jane imagined she operated her public relations company—with fierce decisiveness and attention to detail.

  “Hi. We need to talk about my cake order,” she said as soon as Jane appeared.

  Even for Meg, this was abrupt. Bride nerves, Jane thought, and smiled reassuringly. “Let me get your folder. But I think you’re all set. October, right?”

  Meg looked tense. “There’s been a change of plans.”

  “Oh.” Uh-oh. “Well, if you want to change your order, we still have plenty of time.”

  “No.” Meg’s blue eyes welled with sudden tears. “We don’t.”

  Jane’s stomach sank. She genuinely liked Meg. And Sam. They seemed like the perfect couple—smart, determined, devoted. If the wedding was off . . . If Meg had changed her mind . . . Or Sam had . . .

  They had everything going for them. If they couldn’t make a relationship work, what chance did ordinary mortals have?

  She glanced around the nearly empty bakery. “Lindsey, we’re pretty quiet. Why don’t you go home for the day?”

  “Do I still get paid for my last fifteen minutes?”

  “No. But you can make up the time tomorrow.”

  “Great.”

  While Lindsey clocked out, Jane arranged two lemon-iced sugar cookies on a plate and brought them to Meg. “Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee, and we’ll talk.”

  Meg sniffed mightily. “No coffee.”

  “Okay.” Jane pressed a napkin into her hand and led her to a nearby table. “Tea? Chocolate? Let me get you something.”

  “I’m fine.” Meg sat, dabbing at her face. “I just . . . My stomach’s upset.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s hormones.”

  Jane blinked. “Hormones.”

  Meg stuck out her chin. “I’m pregnant.”

  “Wow. That’s awesome! Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. Twelve weeks.” Meg took a deep breath. “We’re moving up the wedding to May.”

  “I’m so happy for you. What wonderful news.”

  Meg dried her eyes. “It really is. I’m happy, too. I’m thirty-seven years old. The doctor said I might have trouble getting pregnant. Which is why I went off my birth control pills,” she added wryly.

  “So this isn’t really unexpected,” Jane said.

  “It kind of is. We were using condoms.” Meg blew her nose. “Mostly. And then last week we had our first ultrasound, and it’s twins.”

  Jane gaped. “Twins!”

  Meg laughed. “I know, right? You look the way I felt. Those two little heartbeats. And Sam . . .” Meg’s face, her whole body, softened as she spoke her fiancé’s name. “He was holding my hand. He actually had tears in his eyes. It was pretty freaking amazing.”

  Aw, that was just so sweet. Jane felt a definite twinge of . . . not envy. Wistfulness, maybe. Not because of the babies, although she had always dreamed of more children, brothers or sisters for Aidan. But it would be so nice to have a Sam in her life, holding her hand.

  Okay, not Sam.

  Because despite Sam’s truck, his building business, and carefully cultivated good ol’ boy charm, Jane couldn’t imagine a life with him. The things she would be expected to wear and say and do as the wife of Sam Grady, things that came so naturally to Meg, would fit Jane like a bad pair of jeans—chafing in all the wrong places.

  Sam would always be thoughtful. Polite.

  He wouldn’t tickle her sense of humor with inappropriate remarks or irritate her to the point of snapping back. He didn’t make her want to brain him with a frying pan one moment and jump his bones the next. He’d never stood at her wash sink, elbows deep in suds, the top button of his jeans unfastened and a drop of water sliding down his . . .

  Her breath shuddered out.

  Focus, Jane.

  “Do you think four tiers is too many?” Meg asked. “We’re not expecting everyone to be able to make the wedding. Not on such short notice.”

  “We can change the size of the tiers and keep the same design,” Jane said. “You can give me a final headcount about a week before the wedding.”

  “That would be great.”

  “Let me get your order, and we can go over it together.”

  In the kitchen, Rudy was still filling pans with tomorrow’s cinnamon rolls.

  “Those look great,” Jane said. “When you finish each tray, get it in the proofing cabinet with the Danish so they can slow rise overnight in the refrigerator.”

  “No problem.”

  Her cake orders were organized by date in a thick binder over the pastry table. Tucking the book under one arm, she filled a mug and carried both to Meg.

  “Lemon ginger tea,” she said, setting the mug on the table. “No caffeine, and it’ll help settle your stomach.”

  Meg peered into the cup. “Seriously?”

  Jane shrugged. Smiled. “Well, I can vouch for the no-caffeine part, at least.” She flipped open the binder. “So what date are we looking at for the wedding?”

  “We were thinking the weekend between Mother’s Day and Memorial Day. Sunday. Say, three o’clock?”

  “Perfect. I close at one. I can deliver and set up in plenty of time.” Jane clipped the binder and moved the page with cake order and design sketch near the front.

  “You’re sure changing the date won’t be a problem?”

  “Not at all.” Not much. “Not this early in the season.”

  “Thank goodness. I was afraid you’d be overbooked and I’d have to serve a to
wer of Twinkies.”

  Jane laughed. “Like a croque-en-bouche. It’s a French wedding cake,” she explained when Meg looked blank. “Choux pastry balls piled into a cone and held together with threads of caramel.”

  “Yum.” She took a cautious bite of cookie. “These are delicious. Do you ever think of expanding?”

  Jane glanced through the sliding doors at the rain beating down on the frame of her new patio enclosure. “I am. But things are kind of at a halt right now.”

  In more ways than one.

  “It’s the rain,” Meg said.

  It wasn’t only the rain.

  She hadn’t seen the crew in four days. Or Gabe.

  Oh, he’d dropped by. Stopped in for coffee, for lunch. But always when there were other people around, customers or her new staff. They hadn’t managed to have a single conversation, let alone sex.

  Well, what did you expect?

  Nothing, she admitted. She’d been so focused on doing the deed that she hadn’t thought beyond dinner and seduction.

  She certainly didn’t expect everything to change just because they’d had sex. But she wasn’t prepared for things to go on exactly as before, either.

  “Not expanding the building,” Meg was saying. “Growing your business. More wedding cakes. Specialty cakes.”

  Jane pulled her mind back to the job. “I already do most of the weddings here on the island. If I did more events on the mainland, I’d need a new refrigerator van. And a driver to handle setup.”

  “You should think about it,” Meg said. “It would be good business for you in the off-season.”

  The bells over the door rattled and chimed.

  Gabe filled the doorway, the jacket over his broad shoulders dark with rain.

  Lucky tried to follow him inside, only to be brought up short by the leash wrapped around the porch railing.

  “Sit,” Gabe ordered.

  The dog grinned, tongue lolling, tail wagging.

  “I mean it.” Gabe cocked a finger at the dog and then pointed outside. “Go. Sit.”

  Lucky heaved a sigh and retreated to the porch, where he collapsed on his haunches.

  Gabe glanced over, smiling, at Jane. “Hey.”

  Instant brain melt.

  “Hi.” She swallowed, hoping she wasn’t drooling as visibly as the dog.

  “Gabe! How are you?” Meg asked cheerfully.