by Irene Hannon
As for his plans for a nice, relaxing weekend—they, too, had been disrupted. Also thanks to one certain red-haired fishing boat captain.
“Mommy, Mommy, Mrs. Shaw and me baked cookies! Chocolate chip!”
As Kate bent to hug her daughter, she glanced over the four-year-old’s shoulder toward the stocky, gray-haired woman behind her. “I bet that was fun, honey. It sounds like you had a good afternoon.”
The woman gave a reassuring nod. “Maddie and I had a fine afternoon.”
Some of the tension in Kate’s shoulders eased. But it would take a lot longer for the rest of it to dissipate, thanks to her unpleasant encounter less than an hour ago with a certain lieutenant.
“You seem stressed, my dear.” The older woman gave Kate a discerning perusal. “Why don’t you have a cup of tea before you head home?”
A whisper of a smile tugged at her lips. “I ought to go next door to The Devon Rose if I want tea instead of taking advantage of your hospitality.”
“That would be more elegant, no question about it. Heather serves a wonderful proper British tea.” Then Edith winked. “But I guarantee she won’t offer you home-baked chocolate chip cookies. As for taking advantage…that’s nonsense. We’re neighbors, for goodness’ sake. You’ve listened to me vent plenty of times. I’m happy to return the favor.”
“Is it that obvious I need to?”
“In a word…yes. Problems with the Lucy Sue?”
“Minor compared to my problems with Lieutenant Craig Cole.”
“You met the invisible man?” Interest sparked in the older woman’s eyes.
“Who’s the invisible man?”
Her daughter’s question reminded Kate how little the youngster missed—and of the need for prudence in her presence when discussing grown-up topics.
“It’s kind of a joke, honey. No one has seen very much of the new commander at the Coast Guard station, so people call him the invisible man.”
“Maybe he’s busy.”
“I expect that’s the reason.”
“Maddie, why don’t you finish building your castle in the sunroom while your mommy and I have some tea?” Edith interjected. “After we’re done, you can tell us a story about the people who live there.”
“Okay.”
As Maddie skipped off, Kate shook her head. “Talk about little pitchers.”
“She doesn’t miss much, that’s for sure.”
“No more problems today?”
“Not a one. She’s fine, Kate. Come on, let’s have that tea.”
“Could we make it coffee instead?”
Edith grinned. “Heather still hasn’t converted you, I see.”
“It’s a lost cause.”
“She’s made inroads with me. But I still like my coffee, too. You’re on.” Edith led the way toward her early American-style kitchen, pulling two mugs from pegs on the wall.
“Where’s Chester?” Kate took a seat at the familiar hickory table that had hosted more than its share of gab sessions and propped her chin in her palm.
“In the garden, finishing up the renovations on the guest cottage.” She shook her head as she bustled about the homey room. “I’m not convinced it will be ready to rent out this season, though. My good husband has been futzing around with it for months, and the tourists will be descending before we know it.”
“And life will get even busier.” Kate sighed and selected a cookie from the plate on the table.
After pulling a pitcher of cream from the refrigerator, Edith turned a keen eye toward her Lighthouse Lane neighbor. “Do I detect a hint of discouragement in that comment?”
Forcing her lips into a smile, Kate shrugged. “Maybe.”
“That’s not like you. You’ve always kept a positive attitude despite problems that would have made most people cave long ago.”
“You and Chester can take a lot of credit for that. If you hadn’t agreed to watch Maddie while I work, and if Chester hadn’t stepped in as my first mate, I doubt I’d have made it.”
“Yes, you would. You’re a survivor, Kate MacDonald. But even the best of us can get discouraged on a bad day. And yours sounds like a doozy.” She dropped her volume. “Starting with Maddie’s asthma attack at four in the morning.”
“It wasn’t a great beginning,” Kate conceded, angling her head toward the window-rimmed room Chester had added to the back of the kitchen. Maddie was busy with her blocks and oblivious to the adult conversation, the panic-filled attack in the wee hours of the morning, the tears, the nebulizer treatment already a distant memory.
Kate wished the same was true for her. But after each episode, the agony of watching her daughter struggle for air and the feeling of desperate helplessness that twisted her stomach into knots stayed with her. Sometimes guilt was thrown in for good measure, too. Like now.
Setting aside the uneaten cookie, Kate massaged her forehead with her fingertips. “The thing is, I know the triggers for her attacks. I should have taken her ski mask yesterday when we went grocery shopping. She breathed too much cold air.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Kate. It was a beautiful day until that front decided to drop in unannounced.”
“Nantucket weather is unpredictable. I should have been prepared.”
Edith filled both mugs from the coffeemaker on the counter and took a seat at a right angle to her guest. “Only one person who walked on this earth was perfect, Kate. And He doesn’t expect anyone to repeat that feat. He just expects us to try our best. And you always do that. This morning’s asthma episode is history. Let’s move on to what happened today.”
On stressful days like this, Kate was grateful for Edith’s practical, no-nonsense approach. It always helped her regain perspective. Taking a fortifying sip of the hot brew, she told her neighbor about the citation.
“That’s a technicality.” Edith waved a hand in dismissal. “You replace the flares every year. Besides, they last longer than that.”
“That’s what I told the by-the-book lieutenant, who instituted the beefed-up inspection program. I paid him a visit to express my…displeasure.”
Edith quirked an eyebrow. “How did that go?”
As the scene replayed in Kate’s mind, she frowned and ran a finger around the rim of her mug. Warmth seeped into the tip—and up the back of her neck. “Not very well. I suppose I might have been a bit…vocal…in my opinions.”
Grinning, Edith took a sip of coffee. “I wish I’d been a fly on the wall.”
The heat on Kate’s neck rose to her cheek. The bane of redheads, she lamented. “Anyway, in the end I agreed to replace them right away if he erased the citation from my record. He said he’d think about it.”
“Hmm. That’s interesting.” Edith stirred her coffee, her expression speculative. “What do you think convinced your by-the-book commander to consider overlooking the violation?”
It wasn’t anything she’d said, that was for sure, Kate acknowledged. Whatever diplomacy skills she possessed had deserted her during their meeting. By the time she’d faced off with him across the desk and delivered her ultimatum, she’d expected him to refuse based on her attitude alone.
But then, out of the blue, his cobalt eyes had softened a fraction—telling her he’d seen far more than she’d wanted to reveal. Thrown by his ability to so easily breach the defenses around her heart, she’d backed off and escaped as fast as she could.
Still, if whatever he’d detected convinced him to cut her some slack, maybe it had been worth that brief exposure. Their paths weren’t likely to cross very often once this was resolved. In fact, she’d do her best to ensure they didn’t. No way did she want to risk experiencing that unsettling feeling of vulnerability again.
Realizing that Edith was waiting for a response, Kate cleared her throat. “I don’t know why he eased off. I guess he had some second thoughts.”
“Hmm.” Edith tipped her head, and Kate shifted under her scrutiny, uncertain how to interpret the gleam in the woman’s eye. “So what does the invisibl
e man look like?”
Although she’d been too angry to pay much attention to his appearance, Kate had no problem summoning up an image of him. And handsome was the word that popped into her mind. Lean and toned, with broad shoulders and a powerful chest, he had a take-charge manner and a commanding bearing that radiated strength and competence.
“I didn’t focus on his looks, Edith.”
“Oh, come now. You must have noticed the basics. Height, hair color, age.”
“Six one or two, I’d guess. Dark blond hair. Fortyish.”
“Attractive?”
She shrugged and tried for nonchalance. “I suppose some women might think so.”
“Are you one of them?”
Kate didn’t like the twinkle in her neighbor’s eye. Much to her dismay, for the past few months Edith had been introducing the subject of romance with increasing frequency. As usual, Kate discouraged her.
“He’s not my type, Edith. And I’m not in the market anyway.” She swallowed and looked down into the black depths of her coffee. “There was only one man for me.”
The older woman reached out and covered Kate’s hand with her own, all traces of humor vanishing from her voice. “Mac was one of a kind, Kate. No question about that. But he wouldn’t want you to live the rest of your life alone if another man came along who was worthy of your love.”
“No one could ever take his place, Edith. Besides, my life is crazy enough without adding romance to the mix.” Gesturing toward the sunroom, she rose. “Let’s go check on Maddie’s castle, okay?” Without waiting for a response, she picked up her mug and moved away from the table.
But a few minutes later, as she and Edith listened to the youngster’s imaginative story about the castle she’d constructed from her blocks, the most annoying thing happened.
Every time Maddie mentioned Prince Charming, an image of Lieutenant Craig Cole came to mind.
Chapter Two
By Sunday afternoon, Nantucket was living up to her nickname—The Gray Lady. But the dismal weather couldn’t dampen Kate’s upbeat mood. Thanks to Chester’s magic touch with all things mechanical, the Lucy Sue’s sometimes-temperamental engine was purring along as her bow cut a wide swath through the choppy seas off Great Point. And despite another asthma attack in the middle of the night, Maddie had awakened with no ill effects.
Her skin tingling from the salt spray, Kate took a deep, cleansing breath of the bracing air. Nothing could be more relaxing than this, she concluded. And today was the perfect chance to enjoy it. Although she’d be making this trip twice daily with a boatful of amateur anglers once the season kicked off, their need for constant attention would leave her little opportunity to relish the grand view of the majestic whitewashed lighthouse and the long expanse of pristine beach backed by endless sky.
Today the outline of the tall, stately column was blurred by the gray mantle draped over the island, but the bright white light that flashed every five seconds made the tower easy to locate. In a world where very little could be counted on, Kate took comfort in that steady, consistent beacon. And she appreciated it most on days like this, when Nantucket’s three lighthouses had the chance to do the job for which they were designed—guiding lost souls safely home.
In truth, Kate didn’t mind the dreary weather. The view might be prettier on sunny summer days, when the heavens were deep blue and the sea sparkled as if it had been strewn with diamonds, but she felt a kinship with this wild, windswept speck of land no matter its wardrobe. Isolated by twenty-six miles of sea from the mainland, Nantucket was a place that bred strength, where self-reliance was a way of life and only the hardy survived.
Unlike summer people and day-trippers, who came to sample the unique rhythm of the island but whose lives pulsed to a beat far removed from these shores, the lives of year-rounders were inexorably linked to the cadence of the sea. It had been that way back in the bustling whaling days, and it was no different now. Only ten thousand people could claim the title of Nantucketer, and Kate was proud to be one of them.
Just as Mac had been.
Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Kate blinked and checked her watch. Time to head back and pick up Maddie from Edith’s. She didn’t want to take advantage of her neighbor’s generosity—or grow maudlin thinking about the man who’d filled her days with sunshine and whose loss had left an aching void in her heart.
As Kate swung the wheel to port and pointed the Lucy Sue back toward the harbor, she scanned the undulating sea, relishing the solitude. In two months, this prime fishing ground would be dotted with crafts of all sizes. Today she had the spot to herself.
Or did she?
A bobbing orange speck in the distance caught her eye, and she eased back on the throttle, squinting through the mist. It could be debris, she supposed. But she’d pulled more than her share of too-confident swimmers out of these waters and had learned long ago never to overestimate people’s common sense.
Without taking her gaze off the spot where the orange speck kept disappearing among the swells, she felt for the binoculars secured within reaching distance of the helm. Fitting them to her eyes, she planted her feet in a wide, steadying stance and focused on the object.
In general, the seven-by-thirty magnification was sufficient for her needs. But today it couldn’t overcome the obscuring combination of distance, mist and the rocking motion of the boat. All she could tell with any certainty was that the object was about fifty yards offshore and moving on a steady, purposeful course parallel to the beach.
Meaning it was alive.
And it wasn’t a seal or a fish. Fluorescent orange wasn’t in the marine life palette of Nantucket.
That left only one possibility.
It was human.
Shaking her head, Kate huffed out a breath. What kind of idiot would go for a dip off Great Point? These were dangerous swimming waters any time of year, let alone in early April, when the threat of hypothermia amplified the peril.
It was obvious the swimmer churning through the swells didn’t understand the risks—or didn’t consider them to be a problem. She didn’t know which was worse. The former smacked of stupidity, the latter of arrogance. In either case, someone needed to pound some sense into the guy’s head. And it was a guy. She was sure of that, even if the conclusion reeked of stereotypical sexism.
Compressing her lips into a grim line, Kate swung the Lucy Sue hard to starboard, shifted into full throttle and headed straight for the bobbing orange speck. Disgust and annoyance vied for top billing on her emotional chart, with impatience and frustration not far behind. Whoever she found cavorting in the heaving gray swells was about to get an earful.
One, two, three, four, five, breathe. One, two, three, four, five, breathe. One, two, three, four, five, breathe.
Encased in his neoprene wet suit, Craig cut through the swells with powerful, even strokes, propelling himself forward with strong, steady kicks of his flippers, oblivious to the forty-two-degree water. After all the missions he’d swum in the Arctic, this was a bathtub. The chop was distracting, and the riptide had been a tad annoying, but neither had disrupted his bilateral breathing rhythm. After fifteen minutes of steady swimming, he wasn’t even winded.
As he sliced through the water, Craig counted each stroke as a victory over the intimidating marine conditions—and over his emotions. It had taken him two years to put so much as a toe in the ocean after the accident. He’d hated the sea with the same intensity he’d once loved it, his anger almost palpable. If it had been an enemy he could have gotten his hands around, he’d have choked the life out of it. Not the most Christian impulse, he knew, but that was how he’d felt.
Those potent feelings had prompted his request for a transfer from field duty to Washington. Hoping his fury and grief would ebb in a new environment, he’d planned to complete his twenty years of military service behind a desk, as far removed from his previous life as possible. And retirement wasn’t far in the future. Because he’d enlisted ri
ght out of college, he’d be able to wrap up his Coast Guard career as a relatively young man. Only three more years to go.
To his relief, the time and distance provided by three years of desk duty had eased his sorrow and mitigated his rage—to some degree. But much to his surprise, as his hate had begun to recede, his love of the sea had resurfaced. He’d fought it fiercely, overwhelmed by guilt, unable to understand how he could yearn to return to the very thing that had robbed his life of joy.
Until Paul Gleason had helped him make an uneasy peace with his conflicting feelings.
The admiral had come upon him one night last fall, seated in his windowless office in Washington behind tall stacks of reports awaiting his review. Craig had been trying all week to make some headway on them, but by Friday he’d done little more than riffle through a few.
Annoyed by his inability to focus, he’d been determined to stay all night if necessary to deal with the pile of official documents. No way had he wanted them waiting for him on Monday morning. But neither had he relished his self-imposed assignment. Paul’s unexpected appearance at his office door at the end of the day had been a welcome reprieve.
“Looks like you’re planning to burn the proverbial midnight oil.”
At the admiral’s greeting, Craig had summoned up a smile. “If that’s what it takes to empty my in basket.”
“What about Vicki?”
A wave of guilt had washed over him, and Craig had picked up a stack of papers on his desk and tapped them into a neat, precise pile. His personal life might be a mess, but at least he could keep his desk tidy. “The nanny will put her to bed.”
He’d waited for Paul to comment, to add another layer of guilt to the load he already carried over his lackluster approach to fatherhood. And he deserved it, Craig had acknowledged. For all his heroic work on the job, he was no hero when it came to raising his daughter. That, too, had begun to eat at him.
To his relief, Paul had let the subject pass. Instead, the admiral had surveyed the stack of reports and given a low whistle, arching his trademark shaggy white eyebrows. “You could be here till morning.”