by Nora Roberts
“I want children.”
“How many?”
Her tears dried up, and she shoved at him. “It isn’t a joke.”
“I’m not joking. I was thinking two with an option for three.” His mouth quirked at the look of blank-eyed shock on her face. “There, now you’re getting scared because you’re beginning to realize I’m serious.”
“You—you’re going back to Rome, or wherever, as soon as you can.”
“We can go to Rome, or wherever, on our honeymoon. We’re not taking the kid. I draw the line there. I might like to get in a couple of races from time to time. Just to keep my hand in. But basically I’m in the boat building business. Of course, it might go belly-up. Then you’d be stuck with a house-husband who really hates housework.”
She wanted to press her fingers to her temples, but he still had her by the arms. “I can’t think.”
“Good. Just listen. You cut a hole in me when you left, Anna. I wouldn’t admit it, but it was there. Big and empty.”
He rested his brow on hers for a moment. “You know what I did today? I worked on building a boat. And it felt good. I came home, the only home I’ve ever had, and it felt right. Had a family meeting and decided that we’d take on the insurance company and do what’s right for our father. By the way, I’ve been talking to him.”
She couldn’t stop staring at him, even though her head was reeling. “What? Who?”
“My father. Had some conversations with him—three of them—since he died. He looks good.”
Her breath was clogged right at the base of her throat. “Cam.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said with a quick grin. “I need counseling. We can talk about that later—didn’t mean to get off the track. I was telling you what I did today, right?”
Very slowly she nodded. “Yes.”
“Okay, after the meeting, Phil made some smart remark, so I punched him, and we beat on each other for a bit. That felt good too. Then I talked to Seth about the things I should have talked to him about before, and I listened to him the way I should have listened before, then we just sat for a while. That felt good, Anna, and it felt right.”
Her lips curved. “I’m glad.”
“There’s more. I knew when I was sitting there that that was where I wanted to be, needed to be. Only one thing was missing, and that was you. So I came to find you and take you back.” He pressed his lips gently to her forehead. “To take you home, Anna.”
“I think I want to sit down.”
“No, I want your knees weak when I tell you I love you. Are you ready?”
“Oh, God.”
“I’ve been real careful never to tell a woman I loved her—except my mother. I didn’t tell her often enough. Take a chance on me, Anna, and I’ll tell you as often as you can stand hearing it.”
She hitched in a breath. “I’m not getting married in Vegas.”
“Spoilsport.” He watched her lips bow up before he closed his over them. And the taste of her soothed every ache in his body and soul. “God, I missed you. Don’t go away again.”
“It brought you to your senses.” She wrapped her arms tight around him. And it felt good, she thought giddily. It felt right. “Oh, Cam, I want to hear it, right now.”
“I love you. It feels so damn perfect loving you. I can’t believe I wasted so much time.”
“Less than three months,” she reminded him.
“Too much time. But we’ll make it up.”
“I want you to take me home,” she murmured. “After.”
He eased back, cocked his head. “After what?” Then he made her laugh by lifting her into his arms.
He picked his way through the wreckage, kicked a very sad-looking banana out of the way. “You know, I can’t figure out why I used to think marriage would be boring.”
“Ours won’t be.” She kissed his bruised head. It was still bleeding a little. “Promise.”
RISING TIDES
For the witty and delightful Christine Dorsey
Yes, Chris, I mean you.
PROLOGUE
Ethan climbed out of his dreams and rolled out of bed. It was still dark, but he habitually started his day before night yielded to dawn. It suited him, the quiet, the simple routine, the hard work that would follow.
He’d never forgotten to be grateful that he’d been able to make this choice and have this life. Though the people responsible for giving him both the choice and the life were dead, for Ethan, the pretty house on the water still echoed with their voices. He would often find himself glancing up from his lone breakfast in the kitchen expecting to see his mother shuffle in, yawning, her red hair a wild tangle from sleep, her eyes half blind with it.
And though she’d been gone nearly seven years, there was a comfort in that homey morning image.
It was more painful to think of the man who had become his father. Raymond Quinn’s death was still too fresh after a mere three months for there to be comfort. And the circumstances surrounding it were both ugly and unexplained. His death had come in a single-car accident in broad daylight on a dry road, on a March day that had only hinted of spring. The car was traveling fast, with its driver unable—or unwilling—to control it on a curve. Tests had proven that there had been no physical reason for Ray to crash into the telephone pole.
But there was evidence of an emotional reason, and that lay heavy on Ethan’s heart.
Ethan thought of it as he readied himself for the day—giving his hair, still damp from the shower, a cursory swipe with his comb, which did nothing to tame the thick waves of sun-bleached brown. He shaved in the foggy mirror, his quiet blue eyes sober as he scraped lather and a night’s worth of beard from a tanned, bony face that held secrets he rarely chose to share.
There was a scar that rode along the left of his jawline—courtesy of his oldest brother and patiently stitched up by his mother. It had been fortunate, Ethan thought as he rubbed a thumb absently over the faded line, that their mother had been a doctor. One of her three sons was usually in need of first aid.
Ray and Stella had taken them in, three half-grown boys, all wild, all damaged, all strangers. And had made them a family.
Then months before his death, Ray had taken in another.
Seth DeLauter belonged to them now. Ethan never questioned it. Others did, he knew. There was talk buzzing through the little town of St. Christopher’s that Seth was not just another of Ray Quinn’s strays but his illegitimate son. A child conceived with another woman while his wife was still alive. A younger woman.
Ethan could ignore the talk, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that ten-year-old Seth looked at you with Ray Quinn’s eyes.
There were shadows in those eyes that Ethan also recognized. The wounded recognized the wounded. He knew that Seth’s life, before Ray had taken him on, had been a nightmare. He’d lived through one himself.
The kid was safe now, Ethan thought as he pulled on baggy cotton pants and a faded work shirt. He was a Quinn now, even if the legalities hadn’t been completely worked out. They had Phillip to deal with that. Ethan figured his detail-mad brother would handle that end of things with the lawyer. And he knew that Cameron, the eldest of the Quinn boys, had managed to form a tenuous bond with Seth.
Fumbled his way to it, Ethan thought with a half smile. It had been like watching two angry tomcats spit and claw. Now that Cam had married the pretty social worker, things might just settle down some.
Ethan preferred a settled life.
They had battles yet, with the insurance company refusing to honor Ray’s policy because there was suspicion of suicide. Ethan’s stomach clutched, and he took a moment to will himself relaxed again. His father would never have killed himself. The Mighty Quinn had always faced his problems and had taught his sons to do the same.
But it was a cloud over the family that refused to blow away. There were others, too. The sudden appearance in St. Christopher’s of Seth’s mother and her accusations of sexual molestation, made to the de
an of the college where Ray had taught English literature. That hadn’t held—there’d been too many lies, too many shifts in her story. But there was no denying that his father had been shaken. There was no denying that shortly after Gloria DeLauter had left St. Chris again, Ray had gone away, too.
And he’d returned with the boy.
Then there was the letter found in the car after Ray’s accident. An obvious blackmail threat from the DeLauter woman. There was the fact that Ray had given her money, a great deal of money.
Now she had disappeared again. Ethan wanted her to stay gone, but he knew the talk wouldn’t stop until all the answers were clear.
Nothing he could do about it, Ethan reminded himself. He stepped out into the hall, gave a quick knock on the door opposite his. Seth’s groan was followed by a sleepy mutter, then an annoyed curse. Ethan kept going, heading downstairs. He had no doubt that Seth would bitch again about getting up so early. But with Cam and Anna in Italy on their honeymoon, and Phillip in Baltimore until the weekend, it was Ethan’s job to get the boy up, to get him headed over to a friend’s house to stay until it was time to leave for school.
Crabbing season was in full swing, and a waterman’s day started before the sun. So until Cam and Anna returned, so did Seth’s.
The house was silent and dark, but he moved through it easily. He had a house of his own now, but part of the deal in gaining guardianship of Seth had been for the three brothers to live under the same roof and share the responsibilities.
Ethan didn’t mind responsibilities, but he missed his little house, his privacy and the ease of what had been his life.
He flicked on the lights in the kitchen. It had been Seth’s turn to clean it up after dinner the evening before, and Ethan noted that he’d done a half-assed job. Ignoring the cluttered and sticky surface of the table, he moved directly to the stove.
Simon, his dog, stretched lazily out of his curl. His tail thumped on the floor. Ethan set the coffee to brew, greeting the retriever with an absent scratch on the head.
The dream was coming back to him now, the one he’d been caught in just before waking. He and his father, out on the workboat checking crab pots. Just the two of them. The sun had been blinding bright and hot, the water mirror-clear and still. It had been so vivid, he thought now, even the smells of water and fish and sweat.
His father’s voice, so well remembered, had carried over the sounds of engine and gulls.
“I knew you’d look after Seth, the three of you.”
“You didn’t have to die to test that out.” There was resentment in Ethan’s tone, an underlying anger he hadn’t allowed himself to admit while awake.
“It wasn’t what I had in mind, either,” Ray said lightly, culling crabs from the pot under the float that Ethan had gaffed. His thick orange fisherman’s gloves glowed in the sun. “You can trust me on that. You got some good steamers here and plenty of sooks.”
Ethan glanced at the wire pot full of crabs, automatically noting size and number. But it wasn’t the catch that mattered, not here, not now. “You want me to trust you, but you don’t explain.”
Ray glanced back, tipping up the bright-red cap he wore over his dramatic silver mane. The wind tugged at his hair, teased the caricature of John Steinbeck gracing his loose T-shirt into rippling over his broad chest. The great American writer held a sign claiming he would work for food, but he didn’t look too happy about it.
In contrast, Ray Quinn glowed with health and energy, ruddy cheeks where deep creases only seemed to celebrate a full and contented mood of a vigorous man in his sixties with years yet to live.
“You’ve got to find your own way, your own answers.” Ray smiled at Ethan out of brilliantly blue eyes, and Ethan could see the creases deepen around them. “It means more that way. I’m proud of you.”
Ethan felt his throat burn, his heart squeeze. Routinely he rebaited the pot, then watched the orange floats bob on the water. “For what?”
“For being. Just for being Ethan.”
“I should’ve come around more. I shouldn’t have left you alone so much.”
“That’s a crock.” Now Ray’s voice was both irritated and impatient. “I wasn’t some old invalid. It’s going to piss me off if you think that way, blame yourself for not looking after me, for Christ’s sake. Same way you wanted to blame Cam for going off to live in Europe—and even Phillip for going off to Baltimore. Healthy birds leave the nest. Your mother and I raised healthy birds.”
Before Ethan could speak, Ray raised a hand. It was such a typical gesture, the professor making a point and refusing interruption, that Ethan had to smile. “You missed them. That’s why you wanted to be mad at them. They left, you stayed, and you missed having them around. Well, you’ve got them back now, don’t you?”
“Looks that way.”
“And you’ve got yourself a pretty sister-in-law, the beginnings of a boat-building business, and this . . .” Ray gestured to take in the water, the bobbing floats, the tall, glossily wet eelgrass on the verge where a lone egret stood like a marble pillar. “And inside you, you’ve got something Seth needs. Patience. Maybe too much of it in some areas.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ray sighed gustily. “There’s something you don’t have, Ethan, that you need. You’ve been waiting around and making excuses to yourself and doing not a damn thing to get it. You don’t make a move soon, you’re going to lose it again.”
“What?” Ethan shrugged and maneuvered the boat to the next float. “I’ve got everything I need, and what I want.”
“Don’t ask yourself what, ask yourself who.” Ray clucked his tongue, then gave his son a quick shoulder shake. “Wake up, Ethan.”
And he had awakened, with the odd sensation of that big, familiar hand on his shoulder.
But, he thought as he brooded over his first cup of coffee, he still didn’t have the answers.
ONE
“Got us some nice peelers here, Cap’n.” Jim Bodine culled crabs from the pot, tossing the marketable catch in the tank. He didn’t mind the snapping claws—and had the scars on his thick hands to prove it. He wore the traditional gloves of his profession, but as any waterman could tell you, they wore out quick. And if there was a hole in them, by God, a crab would find it.
He worked steadily, his legs braced wide for balance on the rocking boat, his dark eyes squinting in a face weathered with age and sun and living. He might have been taken for fifty or eighty, and Jim didn’t much care which end you stuck him in.
He always called Ethan Cap’n, and rarely said more than one declarative sentence at a time.
Ethan altered course toward the next pot, his right hand nudging the steering stick that most watermen used rather than a wheel. At the same time, he operated the throttle and gear levels with his left. There were constant small adjustments to be made with every foot of progress up the line of traps.
The Chesapeake Bay could be generous when she chose, but she liked to be tricky and make you work for her bounty.
Ethan knew the Bay as well as he knew himself. Often he thought he knew it better—the fickle moods and movements of the continent’s largest estuary. For two hundred miles it flowed from north to south, yet it measured only four miles across where it brushed by Annapolis and thirty at the mouth of the Potomac River. St. Christopher’s sat snug on Maryland’s southern Eastern Shore, depending on its generosity, cursing it for its caprices.
Ethan’s waters, his home waters, were edged with marshland, strung with flatland rivers with sharp shoulders that shimmered through thickets of gum and oak.
It was a world of tidal creeks and sudden shallows, where wild celery and widgeongrass rooted.
It had become his world, with its changing seasons, sudden storms, and always, always, the sounds and scents of the water.
Timing it, he grabbed his gaffing pole and in a practiced motion as smooth as a dance hooked the pot line and drew it into the pot puller.
In
seconds, the pot rose out of the water, streaming with weed and pieces of old bait and crowded with crabs.
He saw the bright-red pincers of the full-grown females, or sooks, and the scowling eyes of the jimmies.
“Right smart of crabs,” was all Jim had to say as he went to work, heaving the pot aboard as if it weighed ounces rather than pounds.
The water was rough today, and Ethan could smell a storm coming in. He worked the controls with his knees when he needed his hands for other tasks. And eyed the clouds beginning to boil together in the far western sky.
Time enough, he judged, to move down the line of traps in the gut of the bay and see how many more crabs had crawled into the pots. He knew Jim was hurting some for cash—and he needed all he could come by himself to keep afloat the fledgling boatbuilding business he and his brothers had started.
Time enough, he thought again, as Jim rebaited a pot with thawing fish parts and tossed it overboard. In leapfrog fashion, Ethan gaffed the next buoy.
Ethan’s sleek Chesapeake Bay retriever, Simon, stood, front paws on the gunwale, tongue lolling. Like his master, he was rarely happier than when out on the water.
They worked in tandem, and in near silence, communicating with grunts, shrugs, and the occasional oath. The work was a comfort, since the crabs were plentiful. There were years when they weren’t, years when it seemed the winter had killed them off or the waters would never warm up enough to tempt them to swim.
In those years, the watermen suffered. Unless they had another source of income. Ethan intended to have one, building boats.
The first boat by Quinn was nearly finished. And a little beauty it was, Ethan thought. Cameron had a second client on the line—some rich guy from Cam’s racing days—so they would start another before long. Ethan never doubted that his brother would reel the money in.
They’d do it, he told himself, however doubtful and full of complaints Phillip was.
He glanced up at the sun, gauged the time—and the clouds sailing slowly, steadily eastward.