Carolina Man

by Virginia Kantra

  Luke gritted his teeth. “It’s what Dawn said. And I had a paternity test.”

  “Then how come Dawn never told you she had a little girl?” Jolene’s watery eyes glittered with tears or anger. “How come you never sent a dime while she was alive? It’s only now she’s gone that you show up, looking for what you can get.”

  “All I want is a picture,” Luke said.

  He felt a tickle on the back of his neck like the crawl of sweat or a spider and turned.

  Kevin, the Simpsons’ son, sauntered up the walk from the shed. Dawn’s brother was Meg’s age—five years older than Luke—tall and rake-thin like his father, with his mother’s pale eyes and a couple of tattoos that would earn him a reprimand in the Corps—a pair of SS bolts on his neck, a messy half sleeve on one arm. A real badass wannabe. When the other island kids had been drinking their daddies’ beer under the pier, Kevin had been into the hard stuff. For an extra couple bucks, he’d buy the younger kids a bottle or some weed and drink or smoke it with them. Luke had bought some Old Crow off him once, but he’d had no desire to repeat the experience. Especially not after Matt caught him puking in the bushes.

  “What the fuck is he doing here?” Kevin asked.

  “I’m here to see your parents,” Luke said.

  “Well, they don’t want to see you.”

  “That’s fine,” Luke said. “I just came to get a picture of Dawn.”

  “You fucked my sister. You’re not getting fuck from us.”

  Luke stepped back (Move away from your attacker. Distance is your friend.), angling his body so he could talk to the elder Simpsons and still keep Kevin in sight. “I just want a photo.”

  Jolene fixed him with her pale, watery eyes. “You never came around to see her while she was alive. What do you care what she looked like now she’s dead?”

  Luke winced. Hard to argue with that. “It’s not for me. It’s for Taylor.”

  Ernie scratched his beard. “I guess that would be—”

  “Taylor wants to see pictures of her mama, she can come here,” Kevin said.

  “That’s not up to you,” Luke said.

  “I’m her uncle.”

  That spider sense crawled again on the back of Luke’s neck. “You don’t live here,” Luke said.

  Kevin smiled. Not a good look for him, since his teeth were stained from years of tobacco use or meth. “Nah. I just come by.”

  Yeah. When his utilities were cut off, Luke guessed. Or when he needed groceries.

  But who was Luke to judge? He was living in his parents’ back yard.

  “All I want is a picture of her mother to give to Taylor.”

  “I said, we got nothing for you,” Kevin said. “Get out.”

  Luke’s jaw bunched in frustration. “Look, I don’t want any trouble.” Getting in a brawl with a civilian wasn’t going to help him. Not with the social services investigation pending.

  “Then you’d best leave,” Ernie said. “Sorry, boy.”

  “Mrs. Simpson.” Luke appealed to Dawn’s mother. “Jolene—”

  She stuck out her round, quivering chin, siding with her son. “You heard Kevin. You’ve taken everything else from us. We’re not giving you a damn thing.”

  • • •

  KATE HAD BEEN at her desk since early morning, answering phone calls, responding to e-mails, putting out small, domestic fires.

  One of these days, she would make an effort at having some kind of personal life. Go out for drinks after work with Alisha or join an online dating site. Something that didn’t include batteries. No remote, no vibrator.

  A memory whispered through her mind of Luke, solid in the twilight, with his wide shoulders and dark blue eyes.

  I had the evening free, she’d said. Most evenings free.

  Lucky for me, he’d drawled.

  What had he meant by that?

  She shook the thought away, tucking her phone under her ear, jotting notes on the legal pad in front of her.

  “I understand,” she murmured soothingly to thirty-nine-year-old Tammy Blakemore.

  Tammy’s husband, a prominent dentist, had just informed her during their counseling appointment that he intended to go on banging his twenty-six-year-old hygienist, and he expected his wife to be okay with that. After all, Tammy explained tearfully, she lived in his house, she carried his name and his children, he gave her a car and a generous allowance. He deserved something in return.

  Yeah, like slow castration with a butter knife.

  But of course Kate didn’t say that. She rarely told clients how she really felt. Her therapist’s voice played in the back of her head. Children of alcoholics are taught to perceive their own emotions as being wrong and bad. Which is why you frequently minimize and ignore your feelings.

  Whatever. Kate wasn’t paid for her feelings. Only her legal advice.

  “Why don’t you come in tomorrow,” she suggested. “I can answer all your questions then. No obligation.”

  Tammy’s voice quavered on the other end of the line, offering a familiar litany of excuses.

  “I know he doesn’t want a divorce,” Kate said. “The question is, what do you want?”

  The problem, Kate thought as Tammy talked and wept, was that the other woman didn’t really want a solution. She wanted sympathy.

  Kate felt for her predicament. She did. Chad Blakemore was scum. But there was a small, hurt, childlike part of Kate that found it difficult to empathize with women like Tammy, wives more worried about protecting their status than their children, more determined to preserve their privileged existence than their self-respect.

  Women like her mother.

  Kate rubbed absently at the scar on her cheek, fingering the edges over and over like braille.

  Every case was different, she reminded herself. She shouldn’t take any of them so damn personally.

  You’re welcome to stay, Luke had said to her last night. But she knew better. She was more effective when she kept her distance.

  “Eleven o’clock,” she told Tammy firmly. “Let me explain your options before we discuss your next move.”

  And maybe Tammy would even keep her appointment, Kate thought hopefully after she hung up. The Blakemores had children. Daughters. Surely Tammy would consider what kind of example she was setting for them?

  Kate stood to stretch the kinks from her spine, ignoring the five e-mails that had popped up while she was on the phone. She circled her head on her shoulders, listening to her neck snap and pop. She needed . . . something, she decided. Caffeine. A break. She went to grab a Diet Mountain Dew from the refrigerator in the kitchen.

  The carpet squished underfoot.

  Kate yelped.

  A puddle spread from beneath the powder room door into the hall.

  She lunged forward, ignoring the ringing of her office phone. “Shit. Damn it.”

  She splashed through an inch of water toward the tiny half bath, trying frantically to remember the last time she’d used it.

  The front door buzzed. What now?

  “Coming!” she yelled. But first . . .

  Not a toilet overflow, she saw with relief as she opened the powder room door. The water flooding the floor was clear. She gasped. And cold. Her toes curled inside her soaking shoes. Water rattled through the pipes, hissed in the bowl. She sloshed forward, bending down to turn the shutoff valve behind the toilet.

  “Spud washer,” a male voice said behind her.

  Kate jumped, narrowly missing smacking her head on the underside of the sink. She turned, her heart pounding.

  Luke Fletcher stood on her sopping hall carpet, tall and lean with his straight, bleached hair and hunky arms, appealingly male and annoyingly dry.

  She was immediately conscious of her frizzing hair and wet shoes. Embarrassment made her stiffen. “I beg your pardon?”

  He raised one blond eyebrow. “You said to come in.” He nodded toward her flooded bathroom. “Your tank’s leaking. You need a new spud washer. Maybe bolt gaskets.
And some plumber’s putty.”

  “Are you a plumber?”

  “My parents own a bed-and-breakfast. There’s not a lot I can’t fix.”

  How about my life?

  Kate’s mouth went dry. Not a good thought. She stared at him, her heart thumping in her chest.

  His mouth curved, hardly smirking at all. “Want me to have a look?”

  She liked that he offered. Liked more that he asked, instead of shouldering her aside. “Thanks, but I can handle it.”

  Her whole life, if there was a problem, she was the one to handle it. She did everything herself, because that was easier—safer—than counting on anybody else. If you didn’t rely on other people, you couldn’t be disappointed.

  She smiled to soften her refusal. “You don’t want to get your fatigues all wet.”

  “Doesn’t matter to me. I’m on my way home.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” She supposed Beaufort was on the way from Camp Lejeune to Dare Island. But that didn’t explain why he’d stopped. She didn’t trust impulsive gestures. It wasn’t like they were buddies. Like he was interested in her that way. Or any way. Obviously. “Have you heard from Alisha?”

  “Yeah. Got the letter from social services this morning asking to set up a home visit like you said. That’s not why I came, though.”

  “Oh.” Her imagination ran wild.

  “I had some questions about Taylor.” He smiled slightly. “I would have called first, but I figured you wouldn’t mind. After last night.”

  “Of course.” She flushed. This was what happened when you let your barriers down, when you let things become personal. People—men—took advantage. “Naturally I’ll help any way I can.” She glanced at the puddle spreading through the hall. They would have to wade to reach her office.

  “Great.” He unbuttoned his cuffs. Rolled back his sleeves. Uncovered, his forearms were even more impressive, hard with muscle and dusted with fine, dark hair. “Get some towels, would you?”

  “Towels.”

  “To dry out the tank.”

  Kate narrowed her eyes. She did not take orders. On the other hand, it was really nice of him to offer to fix her toilet. And he knew what he was doing. Competence was always attractive.

  Not that she was attracted.

  Exactly.

  He crouched beside the leaking tank, making the muscles of his thighs swell against the confines of his fatigue pants. Lots of muscles.

  She cleared her throat. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” He looked up, a glint in his eyes, and her breath stuttered. “A mop would be good.”

  Five

  LUKE HADN’T FIGURED on spending his first full day stateside playing plumber for a woman he barely knew. But after his abortive mission to the Simpsons’, there was something almost relaxing about getting his hands dirty. Getting something done. Nobody was taking shots at him or sneering or—Jesus—crying.

  He shoved away the memory of his daughter’s drowned eyes, shutting it in the closet of Things He Wasn’t Going to Think About, focusing instead on the task at hand. The heightened awareness he’d brought home from Afghanistan made everything clearer, sharper. The pale December sunlight slanting through the front door. The smell of fluffy blue towels, fresh from the dryer. Kate’s curling coppery hair, bright against the soothing colors of the hall. The shape of her really excellent ass as she bent with the mop.

  No panty lines.

  He took a breath and stared back at the bolt in his hand. Yeah, okay, so maybe he had dropped by as an excuse to see her. Why not? She was a smart, attractive woman. Conscientious. She’d driven all the way out to the island last night to give him the heads-up on the social worker’s visit. Plus, there was that ass.

  He wasn’t looking to find love at first sight, the way his parents had. But he’d learned to trust his instincts. And his instincts said, Go for it.

  Or maybe that was his dick talking.

  Ninety minutes and one trip to the hardware store later, he’d replaced the old washer and gaskets and lifted the tank back onto the bowl. Kate, after mopping the floor and blotting the carpet, had retreated to her office. He could hear her occasionally on the phone, using hundred-dollar words and a don’t-mess-with-me voice, laying down the law to somebody. He grinned. She made a good ally. Too bad he didn’t have her along this morning to deal with Dawn’s folks.

  Now she picked her way toward him over the still-damp carpet, fastidious as a cat walking through wet grass. “Do you want anything?” she asked.

  Like a waitress at a restaurant. He wondered if Kate was on the menu. What she’d say if he nuzzled her cheek. If he licked her neck. How she’d taste.

  He shook his head, wiping his hands on one of her pretty blue towels. “Almost done.”

  “Then . . . a beer?”

  He was tempted.

  Before he came home to an instant family, to a kid who needed things from him, iPods and kittens and time, he’d spend at least a couple evenings with his buddies, drinking beer, telling lies, and picking up women.

  He had other responsibilities now.

  “Can’t,” he said briefly, regretfully. “I’m driving.”

  Her smile was warm enough to make him blink. “Diet Mountain Dew? Diet Pepsi?”

  Girl drinks. He wondered if she had a man in her life, somebody to keep her refrigerator stocked with cold cuts and nondiet soda. Of course, she’d offered him beer . . . “Got anything with sugar?”

  Her expression turned apologetic. “Sorry, no.”

  He didn’t want to be the cause of that fading smile. “Water will be fine.”

  She brought it to him in a glass, with ice and a little slice of lemon floating on top. For a moment, he could only stare.

  Her brows twitched together. “Is something wrong?”

  He thought of the water he’d drunk in Afghanistan, as hot as tea from a vending machine, with the same pale brown color and metallic tang. “No, this is great. Thanks.”

  Her fingers were cool from the glass as he took it from her. He imagined them on his skin as she watched him drink, still with that tiny pleat between her eyebrows. “Now that you’ve fixed my toilet, what can I do for you, Staff Sergeant?”

  Back to business, he thought. “Now that I’ve fixed your toilet, I figure you should call me Luke.”

  “All right. Luke.” She hesitated over the name, like it didn’t taste quite right in her mouth. “What can I do for you?”

  He sighed. “I need a picture of Dawn.”

  “A picture.”

  “Yeah. For Taylor. Mom found one in my old yearbook.” He shook away the memory of her smiling face, so young, so alive, Jesus, we were both so young, don’t think about that. “But I was hoping you maybe had something more recent.”

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Her voice warmed. “The pictures in the office—the pictures on Dawn’s desk—are all of Taylor. But the Simpsons must have pictures of Dawn.”

  “Yeah.” He kept his face, his voice neutral. “I asked them already.”

  “You did.” Her tone invited him to say more.

  “Before I came here.”

  She tilted her head. “I take it they were not responsive.”

  You’ve taken everything else from us. We’re not giving you a damn thing.

  “Not really,” he said.

  Kate studied him, like she could see inside his head to read the things he would not say. “In that case, I had everything of Dawn’s put in storage after I cleaned out her house. I know there are pictures. Whole scrapbooks of them, actually.”

  “In storage?” He’d never thought about storage. Never thought about much of anything except getting the kid settled with his parents so he could get back to his unit. “That’s kind of expensive.”

  “I didn’t take the cost from the estate, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

  Man, she was prickly. Or maybe she thought he was questioning her decision. He’d served under officers like that, guys who wouldn
’t back up their NCOs, who had to micromanage and interfere and pick at every little thing. If her old man had been one of them, that would be enough to drive anybody on the defensive. “I meant . . . I figured Dawn’s stuff would be with her parents.”

  “Oh.” She turned pink. “No. The contents of the house are part of the estate. As long as Taylor’s guardianship was still unsettled . . . Dawn’s brother kept asking me how much I thought everything was worth. I didn’t want Dawn’s things to wind up in a garage sale before Taylor had a chance to go through them.”

  You’ve taken everything else from us . . .

  He could sympathize with the Simpsons’ desire to hold on to their memories of Dawn. Hell, he could even understand their wanting custody of Taylor. Given the size of their house, the furniture on the porch, it figured they might not have room for all of Dawn’s stuff.

  But he hadn’t considered that they might want to get their hands on it for the money.

  To preserve Taylor’s memories, her inheritance, Kate had jumped in to store Dawn’s things. Out of her own pocket, apparently.

  Yeah, he was glad to have her on his side. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “You don’t have to. Dawn was my friend.” Kate glanced away, as if even that small personal admission embarrassed her. “Anyway, it was only for a couple of months.”

  She didn’t want to take credit, but Luke appreciated what she’d done. Not only the cost, but the effort involved. He should show his gratitude. Buy her dinner. Buy her flowers. Strip her out of that tight little lawyer suit and do whatever she wanted.

  Strictly to show his appreciation.

  It wasn’t like she was the first woman he’d seen in eleven months. Only one of the first who wasn’t wearing a burqa or cammies. Who wasn’t looking at him like she hated him or feared him or wanted him the fuck out of her way. She hadn’t thanked him for his service, but she wasn’t looking at him to save her, either. Or treating him like a soulless baby-killer.

  Given some of the things he’d seen and done, that might have been enough. But on top of all that, he liked her. The compassion she cloaked in professional interest. Her face.

  “You box everything up, too?” he asked.