Pelican Point (Bachelors of Blueberry Cove)

by Donna Kauffman

  It was a right pisser, as Fergus would say, that anything should stand in the way.

  It isn’t fair.

  Thinking that made Logan feel ridiculous. He knew better than anyone that fairness was a meaningless construct when applied to life. He could be angry all he wanted, but it didn’t change the fact his life was deeply rooted in Blueberry Cove. Everything that held meaning for him was there. Even if he willing to give it up . . . Alex’s life involved moving from job site to job site. He couldn’t fathom a role he could play in that kind of life. Similarly, she was just rediscovering her own life, taking the reins of her family legacy, following her passion, doing what she loved, which was as deeply rooted in her as the Cove was in him.

  It took considerable will to stay in the moment, that very specific moment. With her. Everything inside him wanted to buck reality. But he gentled his grip and willed his body to relax, knowing he needed to step back.

  That last part . . . that was going to take a little longer. He lowered his forehead until it rested on her hair, breathed in the scent of her, and, just for a moment, soaked in what it felt like to know there was someone so perfectly suited to him.

  She . . . matched him. Intimately, intellectually, emotionally. She drove him crazy in ways unbelievably good and incredibly challenging. He wanted to be deep in her personal space as often as possible. In private. In public. In life.

  He wanted to kiss her, never stop kissing her, even as he knew he had to find a way to shift them to where they needed to be. He needed to say . . . something. A personal, intimate good-bye to the promise of more. Just as he knew there was no way he could taste her now, or ever again, and be able to walk away.

  “Logan—”

  “I’ll help you find a place,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut when he felt her entire body go still.

  He lifted his head and found her gaze. It felt like the hardest thing he’d ever done, staring into those sea-blue eyes and seeing the want and the pain swimming together. Knowing he was the root of both. He couldn’t believe he’d finally found that next step in his life . . . and he couldn’t take it. It felt like the cruelest thing. Hadn’t he had enough of cruel? Hadn’t she?

  He took a deep breath. “I can work with you. But I can’t live with you. We’ll—I won’t be able to—”

  “I know.” Her words were hushed, emotion thickening her voice. “You don’t have to explain. I . . . I already knew.”

  He watched her eyes go glassy and pulled her into his arms, hugging her close. He pressed his cheek to her hair, then his lips. “It’s not what I want.”

  “I know,” she said roughly. “I thought I could . . . wing it. Take what we could get. Be okay with that. I . . . I can’t. And hearing that you can’t either—I didn’t know that. Didn’t know you felt . . . Now that I do . . . it just . . . makes it even . . .” She shook her head and he pressed his lips harder against her hair.

  He lost track of how long they stood like that.

  Later, he’d wonder how in the hell he’d let her get in so easily, so swiftly, and so deeply. He’d convince himself that he’d just spent too much time alone and had been ripe for the picking, that—was a crock of shit is what it was. Any other time, any other woman, maybe he’d have pulled that off. But not Alex. He’d only been ripe for her . . . because she was the only one he’d wanted to pick him.

  “I have to—I can’t—” She didn’t finish, but gently pushed at him, disentangling herself. Keeping her gaze averted, she stepped around him. “I’ll—while you’re at work tomorrow, I’ll pack up.”

  She paused after turning away, but didn’t look back.

  He watched her take a breath, try to square her shoulders, steady herself. Her struggle made him want to put his fist through something. She shouldn’t have to be the strong one all the time, handle every goddamn thing alone, carry it all. He hated that he’d added to the burden she carried.

  “I can handle the appointments tomorrow. I’ll leave my notes in your study or on the kitchen counter. And I’ll get—” She took a deep breath then, chin up, eyes straight ahead. “I’ll get Owen to go up in the tower with me. He’ll love that.”

  The one who should be punched was Logan. “Alex, you don’t have to go up in the tower tomorrow. I was pissed off and frustrated when I said that. Seeing you with Brodie, laughing, even though I had no right to feel . . . anything. I was an ass for saying what I did. Especially that. Deal with it when you’re ready. I don’t—”

  He blew out his own breath, swore under it, then shook his head. “The job is yours. The house, the cottage, the lighthouse. I know you can handle it. You’re damn good at what you do. And it needs to get done. Just . . . make your recommendations and whatever else you need to do, and we’ll find a way to make it happen. All of it. However it works best.”

  He saw her shoulders slump, and he couldn’t tell if it was in relief . . . or defeat. “Unless you . . . if you think you don’t want to deal with . . . any of it.”

  She shook her head, started to speak, then cleared her throat. “No, it’s—I want the job. I’m already . . . invested. It feels really . . . personal. I didn’t—I wasn’t sure—” She broke off, ducking her chin. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever feel that again, so, if the job is mine, then I need to—want—to see it through. Okay?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Whatever. Just tell me what, when, how.”

  She sucked in another breath, then looked over her shoulder. Her eyes devastated him. It should have been a happy, positive achievement for her, a major step forward . . . and all he could see was what it was costing her.

  “Thank you.” She looked like she was going to say more, but then she gave a little shake to her head and looked away while blinking back her tears. “Good night, Logan.”

  She turned and crossed the living room toward the kitchen.

  He realized he was clenching the knob on top of the stair railing so hard it was a miracle it didn’t grind straight to sawdust. He made himself relax his hand, his fingers, then rubbed his palms on the sides of his pants. It was that or go after her, pull her back into his arms, and ask her to stay. Ask, hell . . . he’d beg.

  “Good-bye, Alex,” he said quietly, then climbed the stairs before he lost what courage he had left.

  Stupidly, Logan tortured himself by getting online and doing a little more research on Alex’s family history. His rationale was that the more he could cement in his mind what generations of her family had accomplished in their specialized field, including all of her personal contributions to that impressive and important body of work, the easier it would be for him to establish the professional boundaries he knew they needed to maintain.

  He did a little more digging into her father’s death. The controversy over faulty building materials and the lawsuit brought by the owner of the tower blaming Alex’s company for substandard work, essentially blaming her for her father’s death, pissed him off all over again.

  He couldn’t imagine if he’d had to deal with something similar after Jessica’s death. There was no question that it had simply been a horrifying accident. Camille’s ridiculous blame campaign notwithstanding—she’d simply felt Logan should never have let Jessica work alongside him and her father in such a dangerous job in the first place—he’d suffered guilt enough for not being able to save her, and that was with the support of the town, including Jessica’s own father.

  He couldn’t fathom facing the kind of nasty inquiry Alex had been subjected to. It had come from someone far more powerful, with greater resources, and connections in the Canadian courts, who was apparently looking to deflect the blame from himself. Alex had shown remarkable strength and resiliency, not only in persevering and getting through it, but emerging victorious in getting MacFarland & Sons acquitted from any and all culpability.

  Logan hated that there hadn’t been enough evidence to countersue the owner, whom everyone—including the judge—seemed to think was truly at fault. It explained a lot about the shape Alex had bee
n in when she’d arrived . . . and was still in, despite getting herself back to a steadier, healthier routine.

  The more digging he did, the more he realized all she’d lost and the more his heart broke for her. It was literally just her. One truck, one job. She had no place to go back to. At least, nowhere that felt like home. Except maybe whatever lighthouse she was working on. And they represented terror and tragedy to her now.

  He wondered if she had aspirations to eventually return MacFarland & Sons to its former glory. He smiled faintly, thinking if there was anyone who could do it, it was the woman sleeping one floor below him.

  Eventually, he shut down his laptop and hoped that sleep would come, giving him a break from the hamster wheel of thoughts and emotions that wouldn’t stop spinning through his mind. All he could think about was her. Her past, her present . . . her future.

  When he first heard the cries, the sobbing pleas, he thought he’d awakened from his own dreams, his own nightmare, reliving some fugue-like mixture of Alex’s past and his feelings of helplessness as he stood on the sidelines. Once he’d shaken off the sleep, he’d realized it wasn’t his nightmares that had woken him up. But hers.

  Half asleep, he knew that going to her was all kinds of unwise, but there was no way in hell he was going to lie there and listen to her suffer through one more minute of pain. As he pulled on the first pair of sweats he found and headed downstairs, he wondered if this had been happening to her all week, and he’d just slept through it. She looked so much better than that first day, he guessed he’d just thought . . . what, asshole? That she’d miraculously gotten over it? With a freaking lighthouse staring her down every single day?

  His gut clutched at that, and he knew he was worse than an ass. He was an idiot. Likely his own selfish, stupid jealousy and frustration, all but ordering her to go in the tower tomorrow, had triggered the damn flashback. It didn’t matter that he’d recanted later, or that he’d apologized. The seed had been planted. Who knew how much of the evening she’d spent thinking about it, worrying about it, while he’d been essentially hiding from her. Coward.

  “Daddy, don’t! Please! Don’t let go!”

  Logan thought his heart would squeeze itself dead listening to the plaintive, wrenching, begging note in her voice. He knew how her father had fallen through the lantern balcony railing when it had given way, how only his grip on the side of the gallery ledge . . . and his daughter’s own hand . . . had kept him from falling to the rocks below.

  “Help! Somebody! Anybody! Help me!” She was shrieking in terror and anguish, reliving the moment that defied living through once, much less over and over again.

  He forced himself to slow down after taking the stairs three at a time, so he wouldn’t burst into her room like a wild man and make the nightmare worse. Heart pounding, breath coming in gulps, living the horror with her through every wrenching sob, he wished he could somehow take it from her. He turned the doorknob with a shaky hand and stepped quietly into his guest bedroom.

  His eyes already adjusted to the dim moonlight, he saw her hunched under the covers, sobbing as if the tears were being ripped from her heart. Working solely on instinct, he climbed in bed behind her and carefully, gently, put his hands on her arms. “Shhh, Alex, it’s okay.”

  He eased her from the fetal ball she’d curled in and turned her toward him. “It’s just a dream. Come here.” Tucking her against him, he cradled her to his chest. “It’s okay. You’re here now. It’s over.”

  The tears continued to fall, but she clung to him as she cried.

  He wasn’t sure if she was awake or still fighting dream demons, and he didn’t know what else to do but hold her. He stroked her hair, whispered to her, and rocked her.

  “I couldn’t hold on,” she choked out, the words barely understandable. The fear, the terror, and the grief were utterly palpable. “I couldn’t hold on.”

  His throat constricted and tears formed at the corners of his own eyes. “I know. I’m so sorry. I know.” He kissed the top of her head, then nudged her face up and kissed her temple, wiping the tears away with the side of his thumb. “Alex.” He kissed her cheek and the soft spot in front of her ear. “It’s over. You’re here. It’s okay.”

  Her hands slid around his neck and she clung to him, burying her face against the bare, heated skin on the side of his neck. “It will never be okay. I can’t—get past it.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and rolled to his back, keeping her curled up on him. He kept stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, wishing like hell he could take her pain away and make it his. “You will get past it,” he told her in hushed tones as her tears slowed. “It takes time. But you will.”

  She slid her hand down over his bare chest, pressing it over the thumping beat of his heart. Turning her face into the crook of his neck, she said nothing more as she struggled to get her breath back.

  He held her, knowing he would continue until the end of time, if that’s what it took. Eventually he felt her relax; her breathing, though still hitched, finally slowed, becoming more even as she fell fully back asleep again. Peacefully, it seemed.

  He kept her wrapped in his arms, sheltered against his body, and stood guard as she slept. It was all he could do, and it felt like so damn little.

  “What am I going to do about you?” he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of her head. She made him want to give her shelter always. To be the home base she didn’t have, the foundation on which to rebuild. In a way, he supposed he was all those things. Except he’d have to do them, be them, at a distance. Once her foundations were rebuilt, she’d fly away from the nest. From him.

  Chapter 13

  Alex hiked her pack up higher on her shoulder and held her clipboard closer as she ducked down to look through the second-story dormer window. Outside, the early winter sky was a luminous gray, but it felt more cocoon-like than foreboding, providing a protective cap over the tranquility of Half Moon Harbor. She wished she could will the stillness of that smooth, peaceful surface into her. If only she could be like the boats tethered to the docks and those dotting the harbor and the bay beyond—just bob gently along the surface of life.

  Though the setting around her was quiet and composed, nothing seemed capable of slowing the stormy onslaught of jumbled thoughts and emotions tumbling around inside her head. She felt off balance, as if the ground was constantly pitching and rolling beneath her feet, only all on the inside. She’d taken the job in Blueberry Cove because she’d wanted—needed—a steady, sturdy place to land. A safe, uncomplicated harbor where she could find her way back to her passion, to the work she loved. Or say good-bye to it forever. A potentially tumultuous time, but one she’d at least have a merciful chance to explore alone, at her own pace, with no one but herself to contend with as she sought out those answers. She hadn’t thought that was too much to ask, or expect.

  She’d never been so wrong.

  It was tumultuous all right, but so much more than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t just about her any longer. She hadn’t planned on Blueberry Cove opening its collective arms and pulling her in. She hadn’t counted on Logan McCrae making her feel things she’d never felt, want things she’d never known she could have. It all seemed like too much . . . and there was no place to hide. She couldn’t retreat from her own thoughts, which included all the feelings the town itself and the people in it had evoked, as well as the emotions and desires Logan had so effortlessly stirred inside her.

  Added to all that, she’d woken early to tear-streaked cheeks, puffy eyes, and a raw throat, and had felt an immediate sense of defeat, of failure. She’d known the nightmares would return at some point . . . periodically, anyway. There was no way they’d miraculously disappear overnight, but still . . . it had felt like a giant step backward. That on top of an already monumentally confusing and emotionally charged evening with Logan—which was likely why the dream had come back in the first place. Her defenses had not only been down, but weakened to the point th
at she wasn’t sure how to rebuild them again . . . or if she really wanted to. It seemed an exhausting way to go through life, constantly on guard, constantly worrying.

  The nightmares, the pain, and the terror had been a stark reminder of why she’d built those walls in the first place. It was all fine and good to lower them to allow the positive things in; the sizzle of desire, the excitement of feeling wanted, and of wanting in return. Being unguarded also allowed the rest in. The confusion, the pain, the frustration of having to make choices—complicated, bewildering, nerve-rattling choices—that had no perfectly right or wrong answers.

  The one thing about leaving Thunder Bay that had felt so good was the relief of knowing those kinds of choices were finally behind her. All she’d thought about was how big a relief it would be to get back to work, where the answers were a lot more cut and dried—see what was in need of repair, assess what it would take to fix it, then find a way to make the numbers line up, and do the work. Gratifying work that provided a wonderful feeling of personal accomplishment, but without any challenging emotional entanglements.

  Her only fear in taking the Pelican Point job, or any job, had been whether or not she would be able to recapture the passion she’d had for it, experience once again what it was like to see something that was broken . . . and know she could fix it, restore it to its former glory. Her one hope was that by doing that again, she’d finally find the way to heal and fix herself.

  How was it that Logan McCrae had come into her life, providing her with the means to do exactly that . . . only to bring with him an even more confusing and challenging set of conflicts and questions to figure out than she’d started with?

  She had memories of him being there for her again last night, of him holding her, rocking her, soothing her. She’d thought it had been a mixed-up part of the dream, adding bits and pieces from that first night . . . except his scent had been on her pillows when she’d woken up. He had been there, had held her, soothed her. She had no idea how long he’d stayed or when he’d left. She did know that there had been no torrid kiss, and she knew it was wrong to wish there had been . . . along with everything that would have likely come afterward.