by Shirley Jump
Her head cleared and, the time at the bar, when she was a different Darcy, began to whisper away, as if she was leaving parts of herself on the dark road. By the time she reached the cottage, with the single light that burned, lighting the front windows with gold, she had left her work behind her, and shifted into home mode.
She stepped inside, making sure to open the door slowly to avoid the squeaky hinge. “Hey, how did she do tonight?”
Nona got to her feet, tucking a book under her arm as she did. “She was an angel, just like every night.” A smile spread across Nona’s wrinkled face, taking twenty years off the seventy-year-old woman. She’d been Darcy’s next door neighbor for years, and one of those people Darcy felt blessed to have known and met. “She left you a picture on the kitchen table. Drew it herself.”
“Awesome.” Darcy gave Nona a hug. She was small and tiny, but had the constitution of a horse and the heart of a lion. She pressed a check into Nona’s hand. “Thank you.”
“You thank me every time.” Nona patted Darcy’s cheek. “I would do this for free. I love that little booger like she was my own.”
“And she loves you.” Darcy smiled. “Thanks again.”
Nona just chuckled and headed out the door, and over to her little house a few hundred yards away. Darcy laid her purse in the chair, then picked up the picture on the table. Two stick figures, one blonde and tall, the other dark-haired and shorter, holding hands in a playground. A stick figure dog sat to the right of the swings, hopeful, as if simply drawing in the little brown body would make him real. Darcy sighed, then headed down the hall to the small bedroom on the right. It was really just a converted closet, but it was big enough for now. Someday, Darcy would need more. But for now, all this was exactly right.
Funny how her daughter was the opposite of Darcy at that age. Well-behaved, easy to deal with, and as sweet as pumpkin pie. She definitely hadn’t inherited Darcy’s wild streak. Or maybe it was simply that Emma had been raised with more stability than Darcy ever had. The same house from the day she was born, the same babysitter, Cheerios for breakfast every morning, and the same traditions at Christmas and Easter. Emma liked her toys ordered and her life rather predictable, which had made her an incredibly easy child to raise. A blessing, Nona always said, and Darcy would have to agree.
A Pooh bear nightlight cast a golden glow over the room. Pooh stood beside a tree, digging his hand inside a beehive, while Piglet, Rabbit and Tigger sat at a picnic at his feet. Eeyore stood to the side, his downcast eyes watching his friends. The nightlight had been the first thing Darcy had bought seven years ago when her life had detoured. It wasn’t just a light; it was a mark in the road, the moment when Darcy had realized she was really having a baby, and feeling those first flutters of excitement and nerves. Would she be a good mother? Would she be able to provide? Would she make all the right decisions?
Those questions had plagued her from the first day she saw that little pink line. And still did every day since. All she could do, as Gracie and Whit often reminded her, was her best.
Darcy sat on the edge of the bed. When her gaze landed on her daughter’s sleeping face, everything within Darcy softened. She might be tough as nails at work, but here, in this tiny bedroom with the child who had changed her life, Darcy became a sappy puddle. And loved every second of it.
She brushed a dark brown curl off Emmaline’s forehead. Emma stirred, but didn’t wake. Her arm curled tighter around her stuffed bear, her small fingers clutching the bear’s paw in her sleep. Darcy smiled. Emma had done that from the moment Darcy put that bear in her crib.
Darcy started to rise, then stopped when Emma’s eyes fluttered open. “Mommy,” she said in a soft, sleepy voice.
“Hey, kiddo. I love your picture.”
“I put a dog in it, Mommy, ’cause I love dogs.” Emma’s eyes fluttered shut, then open again.
“I know you do, monkey.” Darcy grinned. She leaned down and brushed a kiss against Emma’s temple. “Now get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”
“Okay, Mommy.” Emma nestled into her pillow, and a moment later was asleep. Darcy arranged the blanket around her daughter’s shoulders, then tiptoed out of the room and down the hall to her own bedroom.
Sleep didn’t come as easily for Darcy. She was physically exhausted, but her mind kept on churning, circling around and around Kincaid’s appearance.
Why was he here? And how long was he staying? She hoped only the weekend, because the longer he lingered on Fortune’s Island, the greater the chance that he would find out about Emma. All these years, Darcy had kept their daughter a secret from Kincaid, a devil’s bargain she had made seven years ago when she was broke and pregnant and alone.
Kincaid came from money and money won out in the end. If he found out about Emma and decided he wanted custody, the money would talk louder than anything Darcy could say. The best thing to do was to stay far, far away from Kincaid and hope he left soon.
But as she finally drifted off to sleep after three in the morning, her dreams reached into the past, to the days when she’d thought Kincaid could never break her heart. To the days when she’d been foolish and stupid. And if there was one thing Darcy refused to ever be again, it was foolish.
“What is this thing made out of? Petrified wood?” Kincaid hefted the box onto his shoulder and let out a grunt. The box had appeared deceptively light, with its pastel lettering and happy smiling people pasted across the oversized cardboard container. It had arrived on the ferry this morning, along with another trio of boxes from the same mainland store—and his sister, who looked tired but happy. Having her here finally gave Kincaid a measure of peace. He’d worried about her, had been worrying about her for a long, long time.
He couldn’t imagine how his spitfire of a sister, with her dark hair and quick wit, would ever end up a shadow of herself. The change had been gradual, with Abby sinking more and more into the corner as the years of her marriage wore on. But now, she had a glow about her, a happy anticipation shining in her eyes, and he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Making the decision to come here, even though it would most likely cost Kincaid his job, was the best decision he’d ever made.
“I don’t know what it’s made out of. Whatever the strongest and best wood was,” Abby said. “I didn’t want something cheap and shoddy.”
“Well, if weight is any indication, this thing is expensive and indestructible.” Kincaid nudged the door open with his hip, deposited the box against the wall, then stepped back. “Okay, where are we setting it up?”
Abby put a hand on her stomach, a reflexive action she’d done more and more as her pregnancy advanced. Her palm rested on the curve with a protective, loving touch.
He knew that feeling. His gaze traveled past the fading bruises on her arm, the one on her neck that made Kincaid want to throttle someone himself, and he thought he’d waited too long to take Abby away. For years, she had insisted everything was okay, and it had been, from time to time. Then last week, her husband’s dark side had resurfaced, and for the first time since she got pregnant, Abby had realized her life was in danger—and so was her baby’s. She’d called Kincaid and he’d spirited her off to a hotel for a few days, while he made other arrangements to keep her safe. Now, finally on the island, he could see contentment and hope in Abby’s face, and that was good. Very good.
“Let’s put the crib against the far wall,” Abby said. “That way, when the sun sets, she—“
“Or he.”
Abby stuck her tongue out at him. “She can watch the sunset.”
He was about to argue back, tease her about how baby boys weren’t interested in sunsets, but Abby’s face was so serene and sure, he couldn’t do it. Instead, he unboxed the crib and set it up, right where his sister wanted it. After all his sister had been through, he figured she deserved to feel that way, as long as possible. He didn’t want to tell her he knew that eventually, no matter how far they ran, the storm she was avoiding was going to
catch up to them. There’d be time for that, later.
Abby wandered off to unpack in the kitchen while Kincaid worked on the crib. Every so often, his gaze went to the window, to the beach he could just see beyond the trees. For a moment, he was nineteen again, walking on that beach when he heard a deep, throaty laugh, and turned to find one of the most stunning girls he’d ever seen in his life, leaning against the lifeguard station and drinking a beer. Darcy being Darcy at her best—thumbing her nose at the rules, ignoring the posted signs about No Alcohol, the danger of being a few feet from the lifeguard.
That was who she was. Wild, uncontrollable, a girl who did what she wanted when she wanted to do it. He’d been hooked from that second, wrapped up in her so quickly, the whole relationship was like racing the wind. They’d been inseparable, falling hard and fast. Before he knew it, he’d started contemplating forever. A life away from the rules and expectations that had governed him from birth.
Then he’d woken up one day and Darcy was gone. She’d left him a simple note, reading only, It’s Over, I’m Sorry. I Wish You Well, as if he was a friend moving to a new state. When he’d called her, she hadn’t answered, and when he’d gone to see her at The Love Shack, she’d disappeared in the back and let someone else finish her shift. When the ferry left in the morning, Kincaid had stood on the bow, his back to The Love Shack, Darcy and the entire island, so he wouldn’t have to watch it all disappear.
For years, Darcy had been not just the one who got away, but the one he measured all others against. He’d dated some very nice women, but none of them had had that…spark that Darcy had. He’d often wondered about her, whether she’d stayed on the island, if she’d gotten married. But most of all, he’d wondered if in hindsight he’d painted their relationship with a rosy brush, seeing her as someone more perfect than she was.
He told himself that a hundred times, and tried to put her out of his mind. But she had lingered at the fringes of his thoughts, the one woman he never moved past. And now she was here, just a half mile away. Not wearing a ring, but not giving him the time of day, either.
The screwdriver in his hand slipped and sliced a gash into his opposite palm. “Shit!” Kincaid dropped the screwdriver, thumbed pressure on the wound, then went in search of some bandaids. He unearthed a few sketchy looking Scooby Doo bandages in the rusty medicine cabinet hanging in the one bathroom at the back of the cottage.
“You okay?” Abby poked her head into the bathroom. “Whoa. You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine. Fine.”
“Here, let me do it.” His sister slipped into the tiny room, her belly taking up half the available space. She held his hand under cool running water, dabbed it dry with a towel, then pressed a bandage into place. “I have to say, the Scooby Doo is most masculine.”
He grinned. “Thanks. I’m going for the wounded and vulnerable alpha male look.”
Abby stepped back, put a finger to her lip, and studied him. “I see annoying older brother.”
“Hey, this annoying older brother is building you that crib from hell. And putting up with your annoying little sister self.”
Abby gave him a smug grin, then spun on her heel. “You love me and you know it.”
Kincaid chuckled softly, headed back into the nursery and finished up the crib assembly. When it was done, and set in the place where the sunset would drop over it at the end of the day, Kincaid went to get his sister. She had fallen asleep on the couch, her face peaceful and content, a knitted afghan tucked under her chin. He didn’t have the heart to wake her, so he slipped out the door.
A crushed shell path curved around the back of the cabin, leading through a long line of trees and ferns, then yielding to sandy soil that spilled out toward the golden shore of the beach. The ocean air whispered over him like a cool, light blanket. Kincaid paused, inhaled deeply. For the first time in forever, he didn’t have to be anywhere but here.
In New York, there was undoubtedly a crazy flurry of people wondering where the hell he was. If Edgar Foster hadn’t called out the bloodhounds yet, he would soon. At some point, Kincaid needed to deal with all that.
But this was not that time. Kincaid kicked off his shoes, rolled up his jeans, and strode down the sandy path. His feet sank into the cool white grains, covering his toes, as if the beach was swallowing him an inch at a time.
Maybe here he could finally find some time to write again. He hadn’t written anything that wasn’t related to the law in a long, long while. The itch to get his hands on the keyboard, to create something, was building in Kincaid. For now, though, he was going to concentrate on his sister, and make sure she was situated.
In the distance, he saw a lone figure, jogging down the beach in a bright pink top and black shorts. Even from a distance, even after all these years, he’d know Darcy anywhere. His chest tightened, and his pulse quickened. He watched her long legs stride down the sand: firm, muscular, sexy.
He wanted to grab her, lift her to his waist and sink into her, feel her clasp those endless legs around him, her breasts crushed to his chest, hearing her breathing quicken in his ear, feel her tighten against him. He knew the sounds she would make when his rhythm matched hers, knew the way she would cry out his name and arch into him, knew the glorious feeling of being inside Darcy. Of all the women he had been with, none had been as unguarded in the bedroom as Darcy. And none had been as memorable as her. When he fantasized, it was about the wild woman with the untamed blonde curls who had turned his life upside down all those years ago.
She slowed her pace when she saw him, and for a second, he thought she was going to run right past him. At the last second, she stopped, tugged an earbud out of her ear, and let it dangle on her shoulder. He could hear AC/DC pouring out of the tiny speakers, the same hard rock she’d listened to years ago. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her skin. Sexy.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
Well, so much for a friendly preamble. “I’m spending some time on the island.” Not exactly the truth, but not exactly a lie either.
Frustration pursed her lips. “How much time?”
“Nice to see you, too, Darcy. How have you been? How’s life been treating you?”
She scowled. “You act like we’re friends, Kincaid.”
“And we aren’t? After everything?”
She shook her head and scoffed. “Really? You think we should be friends? What, send cards at Christmas and meet for a drink from time to time? Share a few photos on Facebook?”
“Why not?”
She let out a breath. “We were barely anything before, Kincaid. And it’s been what, seven years since we saw each other? Let’s just let the past stay where it is.”
He shifted closer to her, close enough to see the freckles that dusted her nose, then trailed a path down the V of her tank top. Those freckles had been one of his favorite parts of her. He remembered one long, sweet night, when he’d vowed to connect every last one. Halfway through, he’d forgotten where he was, and ended up making love to her. Twice. He never had gotten his answer to how many freckles she had, and for some reason, he really, really wanted to know.
“The past wasn’t so bad, was it?” he said now, because standing this close to her, he couldn’t remember what was so bad about their relationship and why she would have ended it.
Her gaze shifted away from his. There was a moment, a pause, and then she said, “What’s with Scooby-Doo?”
It took him a second, then he remembered the Band-Aids. “It was all I could find in the bathroom.”
A smile flickered on her face, just for a second, but it was a window, opened a crack, and Kincaid wondered if maybe there was still something between them. Then the smile disappeared and her features hardened again. “I don’t have time for this.” She started to put the earbud back into her ear. He reached up, caught her wrist with his hand.
Her mouth opened in a little O. Electricity sparked between them, like a whip, traveling through his veins, making him want to
touch her more, to take her in his arms, to have her again. Instead, he released her. Her lips parted, as if she was going to protest, or maybe that was just wishful thinking on his part. “I haven’t seen you in years, Darcy,” he said. “I don’t know how long I’m here for, but I’d like to get caught up. See how you’re doing.”
“I’m doing the same as I was before, Kincaid. Still waiting tables and scraping by.” She let out a gust and brushed her bangs off her forehead. “Don’t you have some heiress to wine and dine?”
He winced. Saying that to her hadn’t been one of his finer moments. But he’d been hurt and angry, and most of all, immature. “I’m sorry, Darcy. I didn’t—“
“Forget it. I don’t need or want your apologies, Kincaid.” She shoved the earbud back into place. “And for the record, I don’t need your friendship, either.”
Then she took off, sprinting the rest of the way down the beach. Once upon a time, Kincaid would have gone after her, but like she’d said, the past was in the past. And maybe it was best to leave it there.
*~*~*
Darcy charged in the door after her run, her heart racing, resisting the urge to lock the cottage up tight, push a chair against the knob, do whatever it took to keep her worst nightmare outside these walls. Kincaid Foster wasn’t leaving the island anytime soon, and that meant…
He could find out about Emma at any moment.
“Mommy!” Emma came barreling into Darcy’s legs, clutching her mother tight. “Miss Nona made me pancakes. They were mousy shaped ones. And they were yummy!”
“Sounds awesome.” Darcy bent down and drew Emma tight to her chest. “Just like you, kiddo.”
“Come on, she made some for you, too.” Emma took her mother’s hand and led her toward the kitchen. Nona stood by the stove, smiling at the little girl, and tending a couple of golden brown flapjacks.
“Figured you could use some after your run,” she said to Darcy.
Darcy drew her into a one-armed hug. For the thousandth time, Darcy thought she couldn’t possibly ever pay Nona enough for the way the older woman cared for her and Emma. “You figured right. Thank you.”