by Jacie Floyd
“How long since she died?”
“Nine years.”
Obviously, the recent death of his own mother made him sensitive to Gracie’s pain. Nothing else he could think of explained his urge to take her into his arms and comfort her. The stiffness of her spine informed him that she’d reject any but the most impersonal expression of sympathy. He crossed his arms and refrained. “That must have been tough for you.”
“Tougher for her. She was only forty-two and still had a lot of living she wanted to do.” Gracie soaped up her hands and arms like a surgeon, rinsing and re-rinsing until the muddy residue washed away. Reaching for a towel, she turned toward him. Her denim shirt held very few clean or dry spots. Streaks of dry clay decorated her cheek.
He took the towel from her, dampened one corner, and then tilted her chin up. “You missed a spot.”
“I usually do.” She stood still while he ministered to her as if she were a chocolate-smeared child.
Her gaze met his across the scant inches that separated them. Another impulse to hug her came upon him so strongly that he had to lean back to keep from pulling her against him. He’d never seen eyes so clear and easy to read, so completely lacking in artifice. They were deep and warm, honest and... vulnerable?
The tension pulled taut between them until Gracie blinked and broke the moment. Before she could turn away, he replaced the towel on her cheek with his thumb, pretending to scrub at a particularly stubborn spot. She had the softest skin he’d ever touched.
“This stuff dries like glue.” If he continued to scrape, he’d erase a freckle. But he hadn’t reached his fill of touching her. His hand traced down to the curve between her shoulder and neck. Her pulse beat visibly in the hollow of her throat, and a silver chain disappeared inside her shirt. He imagined the end nestling somewhere between her breasts. The urge to follow it to its hiding place became overwhelming.
As his finger began to trail the links, she swallowed, gave him a reproving look, and stepped away. A strong sense of loss echoed through him when she removed herself from his touch.
“Ti-time to close up shop.” Her aloof statement almost caused him to doubt the heat that had arced between them. Almost… if her voice hadn’t broken on that first word. She switched off the light. “You ready?”
“Getting there.” The night air felt blessedly cool as he stepped outside.
“‘Night, then.” She dismissed him without a backward glance. Too quickly and completely to suit him.
He stood at the bottom of the stairs with his hands hooked in his pockets. He wrestled with a selfish desire to follow her inside, take her clothes off, and find out if she was as unmoved by him as she pretended. Bad idea.
Sex with Gracie might be great, but she was definitely not his type. And everything about her screamed lingering complications.
Once he got back to the city where he belonged, he could have all the sex he wanted with women who knew the score. Gracie might not qualify as a virgin, but she was an innocent in his world where sexual games were the norm. And screwing with innocence had never appealed to him. He always remembered Grandfather Bradford’s advice about not playing hardball with amateurs.
“Maybe we should talk,” he heard himself suggest.
She froze midway up the stairs. “About what?”
What did they have to talk about that would keep her from disappearing upstairs without him? “Clayton and the fact that the whole town believes he’s my brother.”
She tilted her head to the side. He could almost hear the wheels turning. Finally, she sighed and motioned him upward.
Dylan stopped dead still inside the door. He had never seen an apartment quite like hers. Squeaky clean, but a jumble of possessions and collections and glaring contrasts. A lava lamp sat on top of a DVD player. A rotary phone rested beside a laptop. Carved wooden toys and X-boxes were stored side by side. More pottery. Bright color and cozy comfort everywhere.
“Back in a sec.” She opened a door off the living area. “Have a seat while I take off this shirt.”
Diverting his thoughts into areas that didn’t focus on Gracie topless in the next room presented a challenge.
Locating the sofa was another one, but he found it buried under a pile of pillows, throws, and sleeping animals. Well, just MacDuff. He’d lifted his head when they came in, but then yawned and resumed his nap.
Dylan gravitated to the shelves to examine the wooden toys. Rotating propellers adorned hand-carved airplanes and helicopters. Dogs and cats rolled their eyes and wagged their tails. A train engine’s chimney bobbed up and down when nudged.
As he rolled a duck with flapping feet, Gracie returned, wearing cut-off shorts and a faded T-shirt that declared, “Trust me. I’m a Doctor.”
“Really?” He pointed to the T-shirt, assuming it had been her former fiancé’s. “You’re a doctor?”
“I am. Do you want to consult with me about a physical problem you’re having?”
“God, no.” He winced. That probably came out wrong, but he didn’t want her looking at him naked except for purely recreational purposes.
“Good, because you’ve outgrown my specialty.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Which is what?”
“Pediatrics.”
“I’ll bet your patients are crazy about you.”
Her eyes lit up. “I’m crazy about them.”
“Where do you practice?”
“A clinic in Hartford. I’m taking a couple of weeks off to help out here. I already miss it, but it’s been forever since I’ve had a break. I’ll keep in touch and consult as needed.”
“Impressive.” Sexist of him, sure, but he didn’t know many women doctors. He didn’t know many children either. But he did know one. He pointed to the toys. “My nephew would love those.”
“If you’re serious, you can buy them in a gift shop in town.”
“Really? They look like antiques.”
“They’re not that old.” She set a propeller spinning with a flick of a finger. “Granddad made them for me when I was a child. They were such a hit that he started giving them as gifts to friends and family. Now he sells them to tourists.” She flipped on her sound system and headed toward the refrigerator. “Would you like something to drink? Juice… beer… water…soda?”
“Beer would be great,” he said, and then “Thanks,” as she handed him one of two long-necked bottles.
She twisted the cap off hers and took a swig, but he held the beer without drinking. “I guess you want a glass.”
“No, this is fine.” He checked the label. A domestic brew.
She sat in a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m sorry about what happened at Lulu’s. Jake can be overbearing, but he means well.”
“Overbearing doesn’t begin to cover Jake. How does he stay in business?”
“The food’s good, and it’s a town ritual. Not many restaurants stay open in the off-season, so the locals rotate between the available spots. On Tuesday, we go to the Lulu’s. On Wednesday, we go to the diner. On Thursday, McStone’s.”
“What if someone doesn’t want lobster on Tuesday?”
She smiled. “It’s an accepted practice, not an ordinance. The other places just know they’ll only get their regulars on certain nights.”
“You mean there are some people who weren’t at Lulu’s tonight?”
She tapped her fingers on the table. “Ginger at the diner has a big family, and they always eat at her place. The pub has a group of diehards who’d rather drink their dinner than eat, and some people stay home. But pretty much everyone else was there.”
“Great.” The outrage he’d experienced when Jake had dished up private Bradford business along with the lobster returned. He simmered over a couple more slugs of beer. “My mother’s detective reported that everyone believes Clayton’s my father’s child, but I didn’t know it was spoken of so freely. And to think I didn’t want to tip off anyone about what I’m doing here.”
He brooded over th
e irony. And he thought reporters were nosy. At least prying into someone else’s business was their job. For the folks of East Langden, it was an amateur avocation. “I might as well have called a town meeting.”
“It isn’t done maliciously.” Gracie jumped in to defend her friends. “Everyone cares about everyone else. Most of what Clay knows about his past is based on what he was told by the people who lived here at the time.”
Dylan believed they’d be a fount of information to one of their own, but how reliable would their recollections be? “Why is it such an accepted fact that my father is Clayton’s father?”
“You mean besides the resemblance?”
He blinked. “What resemblance?”
Gracie stopped just short of rolling her eyes. “He looks exactly like you.”
“No, he doesn’t. What other proof do you have?”
She shifted in her chair. “At the time, Clay’s mother hinted to several people that she had a wealthy, well-connected lover. And in East Langden, that narrowed the field. This isn’t a fashionable watering hole like Martha’s Vineyard or Kennebunkport, you know.”
“So far, all you’ve got is rumor and speculation. That’s not proof.” He sat back, trying to contain his disgust when he thought of another question. “What happened to his mother?”
“No one knows.” Without asking, Gracie got him another beer. He hadn’t noticed he’d finished the first one. She picked up some needlework and brought it over to the table.
“How did Clayton start out as the abandoned child of an unwed mother and end up a doctor?”
She pushed the needle through the taut fabric. “David gets most of the credit.” Interesting. She always smiled when she said the old man’s name.
“Why? How?”
“He was Lana’s cousin.” Her nimble fingers didn’t pause as she talked. When she stitched to one side of the frame, she stitched her way back to the other, occasionally stopping to count stitches. “Lana’s mother had MS and had been in a nursing home for years, so David’s family kept an eye on Lana and Clay.
“The day after she disappeared, David stopped by to take Clay to church. No one was home. He finally tracked Clay down at the babysitter’s. When Lana hadn’t shown up by the end of the day, he called the police chief.”
Dylan remembered how lost and unsettled he’d felt after his father’s death. He tried to imagine what his life would have been like without his mother too, but then he stopped. Thoughts like that would have him feeling sorry for Clayton. That was one emotion he was determined to avoid. Plenty of people already sympathized with the jerk. Gracie, first and foremost.
“It wasn’t unusual for her to be gone overnight, was it?” he asked. “The detective’s report said she had a reputation as a party girl.”
“True, but she always made arrangements for Clay. No one who knew her believed she’d abandon him.”
“But that’s what the police decided happened, isn’t it?”
“For lack of any definitive information.” Gracie’s little pink tongue peeked out at the corner while she threaded her needle. “Everyone expected her to come back one day with some wild tale, but she never did.”
Dylan reached for his beer. The second bottle was now empty, too.
“Since David was a relative and the most interested party, he talked Social Services into letting him keep Clay. He was well-known to them through his work with abused children at County Hospital.”
“How do you fit into the picture?”
“David and my mother kept company for a long time before they got married. The four of us spent a lot of time together. Mom or Gran watched Clay after school, or Clay spent the night with us if David got called out. When we were older, Clay and I worked in David’s office, afternoons and on weekends. Clay’s career choice stems from a classic case of hero worship.”
“For you, too?” Her own case of hero-worship for the good doctor seemed huge. He nodded at the printing on her shirt.
“Probably.” Her gaze shifted from her sewing to some point in the past. “Clay always liked the science part of it. My interest was more empathetic. I knew early on that I wanted to work with children and be a pediatrician.”
Her accomplishments seemed unending to someone whose acquaintances specialized in acquiring the latest gadgets and avoiding photographers at the hottest nightspots. “How did you manage it?”
He basked in a surprising pool of contentment while waiting for her answer. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked a woman who didn’t work for him about her job. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat in someone’s kitchen, having a beer and shooting the breeze. Maybe during college with Ryan’s family in St. Louis. And more recently, his friend Wyatt’s home was kitchen-centric.
Despite the tension hovering between him and Gracie on the subject of his father and Clayton, Dylan felt right at home.
“I always had the emotional support of my family. The financial support, too, when they could swing it. College was fun. Med school was a backbreaking grind, but once I set a goal, I work hard on achieving it.”
Chapter Eight
Dylan admired the hell out of Gracie’s commitment. While wondering why he was so fascinated, he caught himself watching and waiting for the tip of her tongue to reappear. Tongues that weren’t actively being used on his body had never fascinated him before.
Unusually relaxed after only two beers, he slouched lower in his chair and folded his arms. “How does that scientific, medical part of your personality fit in with all of this artistic stuff you do?”
She looked up at him with her needle poised mid-stitch, a crease between her brows. “I’m not good at artistic stuff.”
“Are you kidding?” He twitched with annoyance that she dismissed her talents so lightly.
“If you’d ever seen real artistry, you’d know.”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“Really?” The expectant look on her face revealed how important his answer was to her.
He’d never have suspected her of needing reassurance. Gracie presented herself as the most self-assured, opinionated, and independent woman he’d ever met.
“I don’t know many people who possess the variety of skills you have.”
“That’s sad.”
“Tell me about it.” He slouched lower.
“What about you? Do you have any worthwhile skills?”
“Not compared to yours.” He’d never tell her, but he’d fainted after stumbling upon Natalie’s cat having kittens when he was ten. “In my spare time I climb rocks and mountains, race fast cars, and scuba-dive.”
Gracie sniffed. “All that proves is that you have a healthy bank account, decent athletic ability, and a daredevil’s disrespect for life and death situations.”
He wasn’t sure she’d be any more impressed with his next revelation, but he offered up the hobby he was most proud of. “I fly airplanes.”
Her needle stopped mid-stitch, and her eyes widened with something akin to horror. “Why would you want to do that?”
No one but his mother had ever asked him that question. Tilting his head, he tugged on his ear while he considered. “For the challenge, I guess. And the power. When you pilot a plane, you’re in complete control. And the awesome beauty of the earth from five-thousand feet manages to put all of life’s annoying details into perspective.”
If her disapproval made her any more rigid, she’d snap in two. “Hmm.” Her lips had disappeared into a tight seam. She concentrated on her sewing for a few moments, but finally admitted, “I’ve never enjoyed flying.”
“Why not?”
“It’s never been diagnosed by a professional, but I guess it’s because my father was killed in a plane crash.”
The simplicity of the statement amplified the depth of her loss more forcefully than a bout of histrionics. “That would probably do it.” Practical Gracie, with her feet on the ground. No point in arguing with a mind closed by fear, but surely she could see
the boundaries she set for herself. “I’m surprised you let the past limit you that way.”
“It’s not just because of my father. You have to be aware of how many planes crash every year.”
“Which is one of the reasons I prefer to fly myself. I have more confidence in my own ability than I do in someone else’s.”
“I’m sure most pilots feel that way, but what good does it do their family and friends if the pilot is dead?” Her eyes flashed.
“Everything in life is a risk. Do you know how many deaths occur on the highways?”
“You aren’t seriously comparing the difficulty of driving an automobile with piloting an aircraft, are you?”
“No, but I’ve been flying since I was sixteen in all different kinds of airplanes. I’m instrument-certified and a certified instructor, and I’ve logged thousands of hours of flight time.”
“There are still a lot of factors involved that you can’t control.”
“All pilots from weekend hobbyists to NASA astronauts know it’s important to factor those uncontrollable elements into the equation and then use their best judgment. We do it because we love to fly, and we think the pleasure is worth the risk.” He was annoyed to find himself trying to convince her instead of shutting the hell up.
“If you’d like to give it a try, I’d be happy to take you up with me.” Where had that come from? Flying was his private domain. He rarely took anyone up with him.
“Yeah, right.”
Since his piloting skill hadn’t impressed her, he decided to move on to the one thing he could do that most people found enviable. “Maybe you’ll like this one better,” he said, although he doubted it. “I have an uncanny knack for investing other people’s money.”
“Oh, yeah, in your grandfather’s brokerage, right?” She leaned forward, ready to question the golden goose for financial tips. The all-too-typical gleam of greed in her eyes stabbed Dylan with disappointment.
“Almost everyone around here works hard,” she said, “but many of the townspeople have a hard time making ends meet. It would be great for them to have some tips from a successful financial adviser. Would you consider speaking at a town meeting?”