The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan

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The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan Page 16

by Michaela Wright


  Kirk drove with excessive care, keeping a rather elderly pace as they rolled down the backroads toward Blackrock. His passenger was quiet, staring out the window at the passing houses, seemingly determined to avoid all manner of conversation. He tried a couple of opening lines – ‘beautiful weather,’ ‘not too much further,’ ‘where are you from originally?’

  She offered one word responses – ‘Yes,’ ‘ok,’ ‘Portsmouth.’

  Kirk turned down a side road, the familiar landmarks appearing all around them. The truck rolled down the dirt road like a tank, the ground clearing with an unexpected late February warmth. Looks as if winter might be teetering out early, he thought.

  He glanced at his passenger. How surreal it must be to go to sleep during a blizzard in January, only to wake up to the crocuses popping up in late February. He swerved around a frost heave, keeping the truck steady. The gate appeared at the side of the road up ahead. Kirk pulled over and hopped out.

  “What is this?”

  Kirk glanced back to the truck, pulling the metal gate aside to drive onto the Fenn property. “Just keeps hunters and the unwanteds out. My grandfather is a bit touchy about unannounced visitors.”

  Theresa Little shifted in her seat uncomfortably, eyeing the gate with suspicion. Kirk climbed back into the driver’s seat and rolled through the gate, taking a moment to close it again before heading on.

  “Is it secluded?”

  He chuckled. “Uh, well - this property spans from here to Blackrock on one end, and to the Atlantic on the other. There’s an Indian reservation down toward the Southeast as well, but that’s several miles away. I think secluded is an understatement.”

  “Several miles?” She asked, still staring out the window.

  “Yeah. My grandfather’s been buying up any free scrap of land around here for years. Pretty much owns everything as far as the eye can see.”

  She glanced at him, her first real movement since she allowed Kirk to help her into the truck. “Your family’s wealthy, I take it?”

  Kirk’s brows drifted up as he considered this. “I suppose he is, yes. The family owns a few businesses around town.”

  “Like the tavern?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  He’d mentioned their owning the Blackrock Inn and Tavern when Theresa began to get cold feet a few moments before being discharged into his care.

  ‘I can’t be beholden to a stranger. Who knows when I’ll have any ability to get a job and pay you back, or buy a new car and be out of your hair?’

  Kirk had waved off the concerns, assuring her she and Rory were welcome in his home with or without payment. He also mentioned The Blackrock Tavern was in need of new wait staff.

  “My brother runs the kitchen there, and my sister is a waitress. If you want the job, it’s yours. It’s a bit bigger now, since we relocated it to the main drag.”

  Her expression had softened at this, but it was fleeting. “They relocated?”

  His eyebrows shot up, but he nodded.

  “Someone should tell GPS.”

  “Huh?”

  She shrugged. “That’s where I was heading when I – when we crashed. Blackrock Inn and Tavern.”

  “Down by the water?! God, it hasn’t been down there in almost five years.”

  Theresa Little – Josephine - went quiet again, and Kirk rolled past Aunt Janice and Uncle Carl’s place, waving to his aunt as she glanced up from her flowerbeds. He gave her a wave. It certainly was warm if Janice was in the garden. He began to contemplate putting the boat in the water early this year.

  Kirk revved the engine to pull up the hill, coming into view of the Atlantic up ahead. Theresa gasped softly.

  He smiled, but didn’t say a word.

  He took a sharp right and revved again, pulling up the long driveway that led to his two story T-frame house. As the house came into view, Theresa gasped again.

  The house was Kirk’s proudest achievement, having built it with his own bare hands. Well, his and his brother’s, father’s, his cousin John’s and Deacon’s, and his grandfather’s bare hands. The walls were straight for one story, but at the second floor, the arched roof began, rising another story before meeting in the center. The front wall of the house was glass from first floor all the way to the roof, and the view from almost every room in the house was spectacular, catching miles of blue Atlantic no matter the time of day. Kirk pulled up into the garage and pulled the keys from the ignition, waiting for Theresa to speak. He didn’t want to say anything, but her reaction had just about made his week. It was rare that he was able to show his place to anyone outside the Fenn bloodline.

  “How you feelin? You ready to go inside?”

  She grimaced, fighting to shift her still booted leg. Kirk threw open the driver’s side door to come around to her, scolding himself for not moving faster. The doctors warned him of her ornery tendencies, and her unwillingness to ask for or allow help. Still, he met her at the passenger door, ignoring her protests as he helped her down from the truck.

  Crutches in hand and several expletives later, and Kirk was successfully helping Theresa Little into the house.

  The sun was shining over the water to the east. This left the floor to ceiling windows glowing with the cool blue of the sky and water outside. Theresa hobbled through the open house; through the mud room and kitchen, coming to stand in the massive front room – what Kirk called his rec room. She stood there staring out at the Atlantic.

  She swallowed. “Jesus, how do you live like this?”

  “What?” He asked, taken aback.

  She frowned. “I’d never leave the house.”

  He took a breath, relieved. “Yeah, it’s definitely worthwhile in the morning. I get some amazing sunrises from up here.

  The house was perched on a high hill overlooking a forty foot coastal wall. Theresa moved over to the glass doors, fighting to hold her crutches under her arm as she opened the sliding door. Kirk moved to help, but could only stand by useless as she hopped out onto the deck. The wood deck was stained gray as all seaside houses were, and it stretched the width of the house. From the south side, Kirk and his grandfather, Patrick, had installed a staircase down the craggy slope to the water, allowing boat access. Kirk’s schooner was still dry docked and wrapped in the backyard for the season.

  Theresa’s chestnut hair caught a westerly breeze, dancing across her face as she stared out at the water. Despite the view and the soothing rhythm of the waves down on the rocks, Kirk found his eyes set on her. She looked as though she belonged there, rumpled in his massive gray Patriots sweatshirt and a pair of her jeans, loose after two months in the hospital. He watched her tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear to no avail.

  “Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

  Kirk felt his face flush. “Sorry. Just keeping an eye.”

  She shot him a sideways look, and for a moment, he thought he saw humor in the stern gaze. Then Theresa turned back toward the house, her crutches thumping against the deck boards as she went.

  Kirk led her down the hallway to the bedrooms, leaning into Rory’s room so Theresa could see.

  She stopped, her brow furrowed as she inspected the space. “It smells like her.”

  Kirk glanced inside, spotting a few pieces of clothing hanging from the bunk bed ladders. This room was another of his proudest creations. He’d built four bunk beds into one wall, giving each a partition so as to offer privacy to whoever slept in the bed.

  “You don’t have kids?”

  Kirk startled mid-gesture as he tried to lead her further into the house. “Uh, no. Not yet, anyway.”

  “And yet you have a kid’s room?”

  He shrugged. “I do, yeah.”

  “Why?” She asked, following him slowly.

  “I installed the bunks a few years ago when I decided to take the Foster Parent courses. Figured I might as well have a comfortable space, if I ever took anyone in.”

  She hobbled past him as he ope
ned a second bedroom door. “And have you? Other than Rory, I mean?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Rory is my fifth time.”

  Theresa stopped just inside the guest room door and stared at the queen size bed. Though Kirk’s mother hadn’t lived to see this house finished, this room was based on a guest room Deirdre Fenn kept in his childhood home. The quilt was handmade in diamonds and stars of plum, burgundy, teal and cream, and the dressers were antiques. Theresa pressed her hand to the high mattress, feeling how soft it was.

  “I figured you could take this room until the cast comes off?” Kirk said in a half query.

  Theresa turned to him, her brows up. “I thought I was above the garage.”

  “You will be, but for now, they’ve suggested you don’t spend a lot of time hobbling up and down staircases. The door locks, if you were worried.”

  She startled at the comment, shaking her head. Despite quickly deflecting his comment, he could see full well that he’d been correct - that was exactly her worry. He watched Theresa Little a moment longer. What was this woman afraid of?

  Kirk moved around the bed, opening the door to the en suite bathroom. Good grief he was proud of this house. “I thought you might like having your own bathroom, as well.”

  Theresa visibly softened to see it. He imagined two months of lying in a hospital might inspire a desire for showering by one’s own steam.

  “I put my Mom’s old bath seat in the tub so you can shower with your cast. Kinda hang your leg out the side or something.”

  He made a silly gesture, kicking his leg out like a pissing dog. He caught a smile on her face from the corner of his eye.

  “Alright, but only until my cast comes off, yeah?” She said, a half request.

  “Absolutely.”

  There was a pause again as Theresa glanced around the room. “Your Mom - was she disabled?”

  Kirk shrugged. “Oh, what – the seat? No. She just needed it toward the end there.”

  Theresa took a breath. “Oh. God, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine.”

  The two of them stood there in silence a moment. Finally, Kirk turned back for the door. “I’ll grab your bag out of the truck, leave you to it. There are towels in the cabinet, and the fridge is full if you’re hungry. Also, let me know if you want me to fix you something. Rory will be home around three.”

  “Rory? Are you going to get her?”

  Her tone shifted to a more urgent place, suddenly.

  Kirk stopped in the doorway. “I pick her up at the bus stop. She gets picked up and dropped off up by the gate.”

  “No, no. We have to pick her up from school. She can’t take the bus.”

  Kirk furrowed his brow. “She’s taken the bus for the past two months or so and done just fine?”

  “No! I’d prefer that we pick her up. I don’t want her coming home all by herself like that.”

  Kirk stared at Theresa a moment. Her energy, demeanor – even her smell had changed instantly at the mention of the school bus. Despite his usual relaxed manner, even he began to feel anxious in the wake of it. “Alright. We can pick her up.”

  “Thank you,” she said, turning to sit down on the high bed.

  Kirk made his way out into the hallway, staring out at the Atlantic as he searched the air for something to say, to calm this strange electricity that seemed to follow Rory’s mother.

  “Theresa?” He called, softly.

  There was no answer. He moved back down the hall to her bedroom door. “Theresa?”

  The woman sat there, just feet from him, seemingly deaf to his calling her name.

  “Josephine?”

  The woman’s head perked up instantly, then she visibly cringed as though scolding herself.

  He raised a brow. “May I just call you Josephine, then?”

  “My name is Theresa.”

  He snorted, softly. “Yeah, and I’m Alexander the Great. I’m gonna make a couple sandwiches for lunch. You want one?”

  Rory’s mother, Josephine, swallowed, her eyes fixed on the floor at her feet. Finally, she looked up to meet his gaze and nodded. “Yes, please.”

  Kirk turned back toward the kitchen, whistling to himself as he pulled the ingredients from the fridge. Despite Josephine’s dower demeanor, Kirk found himself smiling.

  A moment later, the sound of the shower turning on echoed down the hallway. Kirk slathered mayo on a several slices of cracked wheat bread. He set out the fixings for four turkey sandwiches, slicing tomatoes and lettuce up as he listened to a low rhythmic lilt coming from through the wall – Rory’s mom was singing to herself in the shower.

  Kirk set two sandwiches on each plate and set them on the kitchen table, starving, but unwilling to eat without his guest.

  She took one of the longest showers he’d ever witnessed.

  Thirty minutes later, he heard Josephine milling about in her bedroom, huffing and fighting with something as she tried to maneuver her casted limb. Kirk was slumped down on the living room couch, channel surfing to pass the time. Finally, she emerged from the bedroom, her uneven footsteps making their way down the hall toward the kitchen. Kirk hopped up from his seat to greet her.

  He stopped dead at the sight of her.

  The woman who called herself Theresa Little steadied her crutches by the kitchen chair, eyeing the sandwiches on the table. She shot Kirk an apologetic look. “Sorry. I needed that.”

  Her hair was damp, hanging down in kinked waves, and her face was flushed from the hot water. She was clad in yoga pants and a boat neck gray shirt, the sleeves pulled up to her elbows. It was the first time he’d seen her figure, the first time he’d seen her the way she would present herself to the world without a nurse and a hospital gown to accessorize. She leaned down to catch one of the crutches as it shifted and her body jiggled in all the right places. Even in her lounge clothes, Theresa – Josephine looked so easily beautiful, he found himself stunned. He could imagine her curled up on his couch with a cup of tea and a book, that clean scent of her, with its hints of jasmine and Dove deodorant and something inherently feminine, filling the space. He could also imagine the way her ass would jiggle when it absorbed a solid smack of his palm. He shut his eyes tight, scolding himself for this thought. Why did she have to wear yoga pants?

  More importantly, Kirk, why are you affected by her wearing yoga pants? She seems almost offended by your mere existence, he thought.

  He swallowed. “No worries. Make yourself at home. Bread might be a little soggy by now though, but should be good. Oh!” He hurried across the kitchen, pulling a fancy mason jar from the fridge. “I like to add a smear of this to mine. Aunt Janice’s homemade cranberry sauce.”

  Josephine struggled with her chair a moment, and Kirk lunged around the table, pulling it out for her to sit down. She shot him a wary look at the gesture, but took her seat. Then the two of them ate their lunch in silence, Kirk fighting with every passing minute not to stare at his new houseguest.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Damn it, my name is Theresa!” Joe said, glaring at the man in the driver’s seat beside her. He just laughed, shooting her a sideways grin as they pulled out of the clinic parking lot.

  Joe leaned down, scratching at the newly bared skin around her lower thigh. The boot was finally off and the rumpled skin and long leg hair made her cringe. She thought she caught Kirk glancing over at her bare leg as she pried her pant leg up to scratch at the ridges and divots left by the boot, but he’d turned away by the time she looked. She pretended not to notice. It wasn’t the first time she’d caught him looking.

  Joe groaned as she scratched at her leg. Still, she was content to see her kneecap again after weeks of hobbling around Kirk Fenn’s house.

  Joe was spending much of the days alone as Rory went to Blackrock Middle School and Kirk went to work. She’d managed to marathon several dry British Comedy Shows on Netflix, as well as a few documentaries. Though Kirk suggested she try a few of the dramas, she knew damn well that every Bri
tish Crime Drama included dead children, and that simply wasn’t something she wanted to partake in. She washed dishes, did laundry, vacuumed – anything to pass the time and feel useful. She did not, however, cook. Kirk was rather adamant that he take care of that part of the household.

  Despite being alone and crippled in the middle of nowhere much of the day, she did enjoy wrapping herself in one of Deirdre Fenn’s handmade quilts and reading on the deck, wiling away many hours with Kirk Fenn’s book collection. There were far worse ways to spend her recovery, she often thought. Especially since Rory was thriving.

  Rory liked school, she liked the kids in her class, she liked the school band where she was learning to play the clarinet - she even liked her teachers. After several days of Kirk coming home early from work to pick Rory up from school, Joe finally caved, agreeing to Rory’s pleas that she be allowed to take the bus home. Apparently, the long ride to and from Blackrock School was one of Rory’s favorite times of the day.

  Despite Joe’s disdain for being beholden to Kirk Fenn, she almost dreaded the day that she would finally get the all clear from the hospital to travel.

  Maine wasn’t so bad, she thought. Maybe they could settle there.

  Joe stretched her leg out, pressing her heel into the truck floor. The movement felt strange, almost as though her leg was asleep. She rolled her foot around and around, trying to wake a limb that wasn’t entirely sure it wanted to be used.

  “You’re sure you want to start today? I don’t imagine you’ll be light on your feet, given the circumstances.”

  “God yes,” she said, watching the now familiar landmarks of Blackrock, Maine sail by. “A person can only take so many days of alone time before they turn into a hermit – or a militia leader.”

  Kirk laughed. “Are you saying those are bad?”

  She fought to hide her smile, watching his large hand as he shifted into third gear. She was going on two weeks of living under Kirk Fenn’s roof – of eating his spectacular cooking, of reading his stellar taste in books, of watching hockey games with him on the couch in the late evening, hearing his colorful language when his beloved Bruins played. She’d seen him help Rory with her homework, seen him curl up in a recliner with a Lee Child novel and his sister’s cat, Mischief, visiting from up the road for the afternoon. She’d even caught him checking out her ass once or twice, something that seemed amplified by yoga pants or shorts. She feigned oblivion to it. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t hovered outside her bedroom door more than once to catch a sight of him heading into the bathroom wrapped in nothing but a towel.

 

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