by Nora Roberts
“I was about to muddle my way through that part.” On impulse, he pulled out the simple white band holding back her hair and tossed it over her shoulders where the dogs gave loud and delighted chase. “I want your hair in my hands,” he murmured, threading his fingers through the thick, rich brown. “All my life I said I would never do this because there would never be a woman who would make me need to or want to. I was wrong. I found one. I found mine. Marry me, Sybill.”
“All my life I said I would never do this because there would never be a man who’d need me or want me, or matter enough to make me want. I was wrong. I found you. Marry me, Phillip, and soon.”
“How does next Saturday strike you?”
“Oh.” Emotion flooded her heart, poured into it, out of it, warm and smooth and real. “Yes!” She leaped, throwing her arms around him.
He spun her in a circle, and for a moment, just for a flash, he thought he saw two figures standing on the dock. The man with silver hair and brilliantly blue eyes, the woman with freckles dancing over her face and wild red hair blowing in the evening breeze. Their hands were linked. They were there, then they were gone.
“This one counts,” he murmured, holding her hard and close. “This one counts for both of us.”
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.
Chesapeake Blue
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2002 by Nora Roberts
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is http://www.penguin.com
ISBN: 1-101-14652-4
A JOVE BOOK®
Jove Books first published by The Jove Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: January, 2004
Titles by Nora Roberts
HOT ICE
SACRED SINS
BRAZEN VIRTUE
SWEET REVENGE
PUBLIC SECRETS
GENUINE LIES
CARNAL INNOCENCE
DIVINE EVIL
HONEST ILLUSIONS
PRIVATE SCANDALS
HIDDEN RICHES
TRUE BETRAYALS
MONTANA SKY
SANCTUARY
HOMEPORT
THE REEF
RIVER’S END
CAROLINA MOON
THE VILLA
MIDNIGHT BAYOU
THREE FATES
BIRTHRIGHT
Anthologies
FROM THE HEART
A LITTLE MAGIC
The Once Upon Series
(with Jill Gregory, Ruth Ryan Langan, and Marianne Willman)
ONCE UPON A CASTLE
ONCE UPON A STAR
ONCE UPON A DREAM
ONCE UPON A ROSE
ONCE UPON A KISS
ONCE UPON A MIDNIGHT
Series
The Key Trilogy
KEY OF LIGHT
KEY OF KNOWLEDGE
KEY OF VALOR
Three Sisters Island Trilogy
DANCE UPON THE AIR
HEAVEN AND EARTH
FACE THE FIRE
The Gallaghers of Ardmore Trilogy
JEWELS OF THE SUN
TEARS OF THE MOON
HEART OF THE SEA
The Born In Trilogy
BORN IN FIRE
BORN IN ICE
BORN IN SHAME
The Chesapeake Bay Saga
SEA SWEPT
RISING TIDES
INNER HARBOR
CHESAPEAKE BLUE
The Dream Trilogy
DARING TO DREAM
HOLDING THE DREAM
FINDING THE DREAM
Titles written as J. D. Robb
REMEMBER WHEN
(Nora Roberts & J. D. Robb)
NAKED IN DEATH
GLORY IN DEATH
IMMORTAL IN DEATH
RAPTURE IN DEATH
CEREMONY IN DEATH
VENGEANCE IN DEATH
HOLIDAY IN DEATH
CONSPIRACY IN DEATH
LOYALTY IN DEATH
WITNESS IN DEATH
JUDGMENT IN DEATH
BETRAYAL IN DEATH
SEDUCTION IN DEATH
REUNION IN DEATH
PURITY IN DEATH
PORTRAIT IN DEATH
IMITATION IN DEATH
SILENT NIGHT
(with Susan Plunkett, Dee Holmes, and Claire Cross)
OUT OF THIS WORLD
(with Laurell K. Hamilton, Susan Krinard, and Maggie Shayne)
TO EVERY READER WHO EVER ASKED
When are you going to
tell Seth’s story?
There is a destiny that makes us brothers;
None goes his way alone:
All that we send into the lives of others
Comes back into our own.
EDWIN MARKHAM
Art is the accomplice of love.
RÉMY DE GOURMONT
Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
ONE
HE WAS COMING home.
Maryland’s Eastern Shore was a world of marshes and mudflats, of wide fields with row crops straight as soldiers. It was flatland rivers with sharp shoulders, and secret tidal creeks where the heron fed.
It was blue crab and the Bay, and the watermen who harvested them.
No matter where he’d lived, in the first miserable decade of his life, or in the last few years as he approached the end of his third decade, only the Shore had ever meant home.
There were countless aspects, countless memories of that home, and every one was as bright and brilliant in his mind as the sun that sparkled off the water of the Chesapeake.
As he drove across the bridge, his artist’s eye wanted to capture that moment—the rich blue water and the boats that skimmed its surface, the quick white waves and the swoop of greedy gulls. The way the land skimmed its edge, and spilled back with its browns and greens. All the thickening leaves of the gum and oak trees, with those flashes of color that were flowers basking in the warmth of spring.
He wanted to remember this moment just as he remembered the first time he’d crossed the Bay to the Eastern Shore, a surly, frightened boy beside a man who’d promised him a life.
HE’D sat in the passenger seat of the car, with the man he hardly knew at the wheel. He had the clothes on his back, and a few meager possessions in a paper sack.
His stomach had been tight with nerves, but he’d fixed what he thought was a bored look on his face and had stared out the window.
If he was with the old guy, he wasn’t with her. That was as good a deal as he could get.
Besides, the old guy was pretty cool.
He didn’t stink of booze or of the mints some of the assholes Gloria brought up to the dump they were living in used to cover it up. And the couple of times they’
d been together, the old guy, Ray, had bought him a burger or pizza.
And he’d talked to him.
Adults, in his experience, didn’t talk to kids. At them, around them, over them. But not to them.
Ray did. Listened, too. And when he’d asked, straight out, if he—just a kid—wanted to live with him, he hadn’t felt that strangling fear or hot panic. He’d felt like maybe, just maybe, he was catching a break.
Away from her. That was the best part. The longer they drove, the farther away from her.
If things got sticky, he could run. The guy was really old. Big, he was sure as shit big, but old. All that white hair, and that wide, wrinkled face.
He took quick, sidelong glances at it, began to draw the face in his mind.
His eyes were really blue, and that was kind of weird because so were his own.
He had a big voice, too, but when he talked it wasn’t like yelling. It was kind of calm, even a little tired, maybe.
He sure looked tired now.
“Almost home,” Ray said as they approached the bridge. “Hungry?”
“I dunno. Yeah, I guess.”
“My experience, boys are always hungry. Raised three bottomless pits.”
There was cheer in the big voice, but it was forced. The child might have been barely ten, but he knew the tone of falsehood.
Far enough away now, he thought. If he had to run. So he’d put the cards on the table and see what the fuck was what.
“How come you’re taking me to your place?”
“Because you need a place.”
“Get real. People don’t do shit like that.”
“Some do. Stella and I, my wife, we did shit like that.”
“You tell her you’re bringing me around?”
Ray smiled, but there was a sadness in it. “In my way. She died some time back. You’d’ve liked her. And she’d have taken one look at you and rolled up her sleeves.”
He didn’t know what to say about that. “What am I supposed to do when we get where we’re going?”
“Live,” Ray told him. “Be a boy. Go to school, get in trouble. I’ll teach you to sail.”
“On a boat?”
Now Ray laughed, a big booming sound that filled the car and for reasons the boy couldn’t understand, untied the nerves in his belly. “Yeah, on a boat. Got a brainless puppy—I always get the brainless ones—I’m trying to housebreak. You can help me with that. You’re gonna have chores, we’ll figure that out. We’ll lay down the rules, and you’ll follow them. Don’t think because I’m an old man I’m a pushover.”
“You gave her money.”
Ray glanced away from the road briefly and looked into eyes the same color as his own. “That’s right. That’s what she understands, from what I can see. She never understood you, did she, boy?”
Something was gathering inside him, a storm he didn’t recognize as hope. “If you get pissed off at me, or tired of having me around, or just change your mind, you’ll send me back. I won’t go back.”
They were over the bridge now, and Ray pulled the car to the shoulder of the road, shifted his bulk in the seat so they were face-to-face. “I’ll get pissed off at you, and at my age I’m bound to get tired from time to time. But I’m making you a promise here and now, I’m giving you my word. I won’t send you back.”
“If she—”
“I won’t let her take you back,” Ray said, anticipating him. “No matter what I have to do. You’re mine now. You’re my family now. And you’ll stay with me as long as that’s what you want. A Quinn makes a promise,” he added, and held out a hand, “he keeps it.”
Seth looked at the offered hand, and his own sprang damp. “I don’t like being touched.”
Ray nodded. “Okay. But you’ve still got my word on it.” He pulled back onto the road again, gave the boy one last glance. “Almost home,” he said again.
Within months, Ray Quinn had died, but he’d kept his word. He’d kept it through the three men he’d made his sons. Those men had given the scrawny, suspicious and scarred young boy a life.
They had given him a home, and made him a man.
Cameron, the edgy, quick-tempered gypsy; Ethan, the patient, steady waterman; Phillip, the elegant, sharp-minded executive. They had stood for him, fought for him. They had saved him.
His brothers.
THE gilded light of the late-afternoon sun sheened the marsh grass, the mudflats, the flat fields of row crops. With the windows down he caught the scent of water as he by-passed the little town of St. Christopher.
He’d considered swinging into town, heading first to the old brick boatyard. Boats by Quinn still custom made wooden boats, and in the eighteen years since the enterprise had started—on a dream, on guile, on sweat—it had earned its reputation for quality and craftsmanship.
They were probably there, even now. Cam cursing as he finished up some fancywork in a cabin. Ethan quietly lapping boards. Phil, up in the office conjuring up some snazzy ad campaign.
He could go by Crawford’s, pick up a six-pack. Maybe they’d have a cold one, or more likely Cam would toss him a hammer and tell him to get his ass back to work.
He’d enjoy that, but it wasn’t what was drawing him now. It wasn’t what was pulling him down the narrow country road where the marsh still crept out of the shadows and the trees with their gnarled trunks spread leaves glossy with May.
Of all the places he’d seen—the great domes and spires of Florence, the florid beauty of Paris, the stunning green hills of Ireland—nothing ever caught at his throat, filled up his heart, like the old white house with its soft and faded blue trim that sat on a bumpy lawn that slid back into quiet water.
He pulled in the drive, behind the old white ’Vette that had been Ray and Stella Quinn’s. The car looked as pristine as the day it had rolled off the showroom floor. Cam’s doing, he thought. Cam would say it was a matter of showing proper respect for an exceptional machine. But it was all about Ray and Stella, all about family. All about love.
The lilac in the front yard was smothered with blooms. That was a matter of love, too, he reflected. He’d given Anna the little bush for Mother’s Day when he was twelve.
She’d cried, he remembered. Big, beautiful brown eyes flooded with tears, laughing and swiping at them the whole time he and Cam planted it for her.
She was Cam’s wife, and so that made Anna his sister. But inside, he thought now, where it counted, she was his mother.
The Quinns knew all about what was inside.
He got out of the car, into the lovely stillness. He was no longer a scrawny boy with oversized feet and a suspicious eye.
He’d grown into those feet. He was six-one with a wiry build. One that could go gawky if he neglected it. His hair had darkened and was more a bronzed brown than the sandy mop of his youth. He tended to neglect that as well and, running a hand through it now, winced as he recalled his intention to have it trimmed before leaving Rome.
The guys were going to rag on him about the little ponytail, which meant he’d have to keep it for a while, out of principle.
He shrugged and, dipping his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans, began to walk, scanning the surroundings. Anna’s flowers, the rockers on the front porch, the woods that haunted the side of the house and where he’d run wild as a boy.
The old dock swaying over the water, and the white sailing sloop moored to it.
He stood looking out, his face, hollow-cheeked and tanned, turned toward the water.
His lips, firm and full, began to curve. The weight he hadn’t realized was hanging from his heart began to lift.
At the sound of a rustle in the woods, he turned, enough of the wary boy still in the man to make the move swift and defensive. Out of the trees shot a black bullet.
“Witless!” His voice had both the ring of authority and easy humor. The combination had the dog skidding to a halt, all flopping ears and lolling tongue as it studied the man.
“Come on, it has
n’t been that long.” He crouched, held out a hand. “Remember me?”
Witless grinned the dopey grin that had named him, instantly flopped down and rolled to expose his belly for a rub.
“There you go. That’s the way.”
There had always been a dog for this house. Always a boat at the dock, a rocker on the porch and a dog in the yard.
“Yeah, you remember me.” As he stroked Witless, he looked over to the far end of the yard where Anna had planted a hydrangea over the grave of his own dog. The loyal and much-loved Foolish.
“I’m Seth,” he murmured. “I’ve been away too long.”
He caught the sound of an engine, the sassy squeal of tires from a turn taken just a hair faster than the law allowed. Even as he straightened, the dog leaped up, streaked away toward the front of the house.
Wanting to savor the moment, Seth followed more slowly. He listened to the car door slam, then to the lift and lilt of her voice as she spoke to the dog.
Then he just looked at her, Anna Spinelli Quinn, with the curling mass of dark hair windblown from the drive, her arms full of the bags she’d hefted out of the car.
His grin spread as she tried to ward off the desperate affection from the dog.
“How many times do we have to go over this one, simple rule?” she demanded. “You do not jump on people, especially me. Especially me when I’m wearing a suit.”
“Great suit,” Seth called out. “Better legs.”
Her head whipped up, those deep brown eyes widened and showed him the shock, the pleasure, the welcome all in one glance.
“Oh my God!” Heedless of the contents, she tossed the bags through the open car door. And ran.
He caught her, lifted her six inches off the ground and spun her around before setting her on her feet again. Still he didn’t let go. Instead, he just buried his face in her hair.
“Hi.”
“Seth. Seth.” She clung, ignoring the dog that leaped and yipped and did his best to shove his muzzle between them. “I can’t believe it. You’re here.”
“Don’t cry.”
“Just a little. I have to look at you.” She had his face framed in her hands as she eased back. So handsome, she thought. So grown-up. “Look at all this,” she murmured and brushed a hand at his hair.