by Shirley Jump
Kincaid’s arm tightened, and he dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “I know what you’re thinking, and you are going to be a fabulous mother.”
She worried about that all the time. The two of them had been brought up by a staff, not parents. Butlers and maids, a constant rotation of nannies and tutors, with their parents making rare appearances, like guest actors on a long-running series. “I hope so.”
“Well, in a few weeks, you’ll find out for sure. Either way, I know you’re going to be an amazing mother, Abby. You’re amazing at everything you do.”
She ran a lazy hand over her stomach. The baby bulged inside her, seeming big enough already to be delivered. Thankfully, Abby hadn’t had much morning sickness or discomfort, but as she eased into the last couple weeks of her pregnancy, the word “comfortable” had left her vocabulary. Every move she made required a new twist, to accommodate her expanding belly. But she wouldn’t have traded a second of the experience for anything else in the world. This was her child, her daughter or son, and she was going to love this baby in the best way she could. Even though Gordon had insisted he wanted to know the gender, telling her it made everything easier to plan for, Abby had refused. She’d lain there on the vinyl mattress in the gynecologist’s office while the tech swirled cold gel across her belly and told Gordon no. He’d been angry at being thwarted and, as if he were ten years old, stomped out of the room before the ultrasound even started. That had been the beginning of the end for Abby, and the moment she’d realized her child came first. Regardless of what gender this baby would be.
Abby figured there were few real big surprises one could have in life, and this one, this very first special one, she wanted to hold onto for as long as possible. So she and her brother kept up the ongoing boy/girl debate, while Abby waited with happy anticipation for the answer. “Thank you, Kincaid.”
“You’ve said that a hundred times. No need to say it again. I’m your brother. What else would I do but help you?”
“Live your own life.”
“I am.”
But he hadn’t been, and she knew it. Kincaid worked, helped her, and did nothing else. The last relationship he’d had meandered along for months out of convenience. Abby couldn’t even remember the girl’s name now. Her brother had been there through all her drama and changes, but he had never said a word about his own needs or wants. The only time Abby had ever seen Kincaid truly happy, doing things he wanted to do, spending his days with someone who made him happy, was that summer here on Fortune’s Island when he’d met Darcy.
Then they’d broken up, and Kincaid had refused to talk about why. All Abby knew was that one day Kincaid was happy, the next he was getting on a ferry and heading back to the mainland. From that day forward, Kincaid had stepped into the role their father had prepared for him, attending Harvard, then Stanford, then going to work for the family firm. He’d lived his life for everyone—but himself. Maybe now, maybe here, he could get back to what he’d left behind. Because if there was one person she wanted to see happy, it was her big brother.
Abby broke away from him and crossed to the railing. She rested her hands on the hard wood, and stretched her back a little. “I hear Darcy still lives here,” she said, as casual as a breeze.
Silence on Kincaid’s side.
“You should see how she is. Maybe ask her for coffee. Catch up on the past.”
“I tried. She turned me down.”
Abby turned around. “Really? Why? I thought she was madly in love with you that summer.”
“Feelings change.”
Abby pushed off from the railing and came to stand before her brother. He worked so hard, worried so much. At the expense of himself, she thought. And he kept everything bottled up, instead of opening up. But she could see in his face that being close to Darcy again had left him a little disconcerted. “Did yours?”
He scowled. “It’s late, it’s getting chilly, and you need some sleep so baby Samson there can grow big and strong.”
Abby laughed, and let Kincaid lead her back into the cottage. “I am not naming my child Samson.”
“I don’t know why you keep turning down my great name ideas. You rejected Goliath—“
“Because that’s a name for a Great Dane.”
“And Champ.”
“If he goes into boxing, I’ll let you call him that.”
“And now Samson.” Kincaid shook his head, and opened the door. “You gotta give the kid a power name. It’ll help him stand up to the bullies.”
As they stepped into the kitchen, she leaned into her brother one more time. “Have I told you that you’re the best big brother ever?”
“Not in the last five minutes.” But his grin was easy, maybe even a little sheepish. “I’m not doing anything you wouldn’t do for me.”
“No, Kincaid. You’re doing a lot more.” A watery smile filled her face, and her eyes stung with unshed tears. She placed a hand on her belly again, resting it against the outline of her child. Here, there was a new beginning. A family. “A lot more.”
Five games of Candyland, two peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and three giant Pepperidge Farm cookies later, Emma finally caved to a nap. Most days, Darcy would try to catch a few minutes’ sleep herself before heading out for her shift, but her stomach was in knots and her mind kept racing back to the encounter with Kincaid on the beach.
That kiss.
Seven years later, and the man could still undo all her best intentions with one simple kiss. She’d forgotten everything—the impossible agreement she’d made with his father, the secret she was keeping, the resolve to never see Kincaid again—when his mouth had met hers and desire had roared through her veins.
For five seconds—okay, maybe thirty, well, possibly sixty, tops—she’d considered hauling him back behind the dunes, tearing off his clothes and climbing on top of him in that must-have-you-now frenzy that had existed between them from the first day. It wasn’t just the fact that he was handsome—she’d met a lot of good-looking men over the years—it was the way Kincaid looked at her. Touched her. It was as if she became part of him when his eyes stared into hers, or his hands settled on her waist.
“Mommy? Are we gonna go to the beach?”
“Not today, honey.” Darcy ruffled Emma’s head. She thought again how lucky she was to have such a sweet, easy daughter. It made Darcy wonder if maybe some of her own wildness had been due to trying to get her mother’s attention. The same attention her mother gave to the bottles that dominated her days. She supposed her mother had loved her, in her own way, and for a while there before she died, they’d actually had a decent relationship, with her mother coming across on the ferry once a week to see her grandchild. It had helped heal some of the wounds from Darcy’s childhood, but also made her even more determined to be a good mom. Right now, with Emma wanting something Darcy couldn’t give her, she wasn’t feeling like a good mom. “Maybe tomorrow.”
Emma pouted. “I wanna build a sandcastle.”
“I know you do. And I promise we’ll go real soon.” But not while Kincaid was here. It was going to be tough, because Emma was half fish and loved being near the water. Maybe Darcy would get lucky and it would rain all week. “Why don’t we set up your Barbie house?”
“Okay!” Emma scrambled off the kitchen chair and ran into her room. In a matter of seconds, she’d dragged out every Barbie doll and accompanying piece of tiny furniture, spreading it in an ever widening circle on the small rectangular rug. Darcy sat cross-legged beside her daughter, setting a sofa here, a lamp there, a bed over there.
“This is the Mommy Barbie,” Emma said, leaning one of the buxom blonde dolls against the faux refrigerator. Emma reached into the pile and pulled out a little girl doll. “And this is the Baby Barbie. Her name is…Emma!” Emma grinned.
“That’s a perfect name.”
“And this is…” Emma reached into the pile again, unearthing a Ken doll, “the Daddy Barbie. He loves the Mommy Barbie.” Emma knock
ed the two dolls heads together and made a smacking noise. “And he loves the Baby Barbie.” She did the same with Ken and the little girl doll. Then she settled all three of them at the plastic kitchen table, bending their legs to fit into hard pink chairs.
This was one of Emma’s favorite games, setting up a little nuclear family, with a baby named after herself. She’d play through various scenarios, bringing the family to the park, or setting them up for a swimming day in the bathtub, or burying them in the sand and fashioning a castle beside them. It was sweet to watch, as Emma created the perfect little world over and over again.
Darcy pushed aside a pile of doll clothes, and found three plates of fake dinners. She laid them on the table before the little family. “Steak on the menu tonight, kiddo.”
Emma sat back on her heels and looked up at Darcy. “Mommy, how come I don’t have a daddy?”
The question hit Darcy like a punch. Emma had never really asked about her father before, never talked about anything other than the fictional father she created in these little vignettes. Maybe Emma had never noticed she lacked anything until she started going to school and saw the other kids with two sets of parents. Darcy should have been prepared for the question, but she wasn’t. “He’s…far away.”
Like two blocks.
“How come he doesn’t live here? With me? And you?”
Darcy had known these questions would come someday. And she’d thought she’d known what she would say. Something calm and rational. But as she looked into her daughter’s wide hazel eyes, swimming in curiosity and maybe a little hurt, none of those rational responses came to mind. “Hey, kiddo, I think I saw some cookies in the cabinet. How about we eat as many as we can and then drink a glass of milk really fast?”
Okay, so maybe that had been avoidance at its best, Darcy thought as Emma ran off to the kitchen. But it had bought Darcy some time. Time to construct a better answer. And hopefully time to get Kincaid off the island. Once the cookies were in Emma’s hand, she forgot her question. Darcy breathed a sigh of relief. The bullet was dodged, for now. But as Emma got older, there would eventually come a day when Darcy had to tell her where her father was and why he wasn’t part of her life.
Darcy remembered having the same conversation with her mother. Her mother had shown her a picture of a handsome man in an army uniform, a guy with a toothy smile and short dark hair, and explained that they’d met when he’d been on leave, had a brief affair, and then he was gone. He’d died in a training exercise a year later, and her mother had been left to raise Darcy alone. There were times when Darcy wondered if maybe her mother drank because she was so overwhelmed by solo parenthood. If there had ever been a great love in her mother’s life, Darcy suspected it was that man, given the way her mother’s face softened and her voice grew wistful whenever she spoke of him.
Somehow, Darcy needed to explain Emma’s lack of a father in her life. But there just didn’t seem to be a way to do that without lying. And that was one thing Darcy never wanted to do with her daughter.
Two hours later, Nona arrived, and Darcy gathered her things for work. Emma ran up to her mother, pressing her body into Darcy’s. “I want you to stay home tonight, Mommy. We can watch Frozen. And have lots of popcorn.”
“I would love that, monkey, but I really have to get to work. Tomorrow morning, we can do that first thing.”
“Have popcorn for breakfast?”
“Sure. Why not?” She leaned down and pressed a kiss to Emma’s hair, inhaling the strawberry scent of her shampoo. It was the scent that Darcy carried in her heart, the one that most reminded her of the day she’d first held Emma, and kissed her tiny, wrinkled newborn body.
“Okay.” Emma gave Darcy one last hug, tight and sad.
“You know what, Emma?” Nona said, stepping in and giving Darcy an I understand, don’t worry smile. “Mrs. Watson left her cat home while she went to visit her new grandbaby. Want to go over there with me and feed her?”
The idea of a cat distracted Emma, and she scampered off to find her shoes, her mood lighter, a smile back on her face. “Thank you,” Darcy said to Nona. “I’ll try not to be too late. There’s a chicken in the crock-pot for dinner.”
Nona looked over her shoulder, then turned back to Darcy. She lowered her voice and her eyes filled with concern. “I wanted to tell you that she’s been asking about her father over the last few days. Apparently, there’s a father-daughter picnic coming up at school, just before the end of the year. And Emma wanted to know if I could find her daddy and have him bring her.”
“That’s where all those questions came from this morning.” Darcy ran a hand through her hair and let out a sigh. She’d known this day would come, but now that it was here, it gave Darcy a moment of panic. What would she say? How could she handle this? And what was she going to tell Emma for all the future daughter-father events that her father would miss? “Maybe I can ask Whit to go. He’s been more of a father to her than anyone else.”
Though there were a few who suspected Kincaid might be Emma’s father, the only ones who knew for sure were those closest to Darcy—Whit and Grace, and Jillian. Over the years, the rumors had faded and people moved on, and forgot that one crazy summer the Foster son crossed over to the other side of the island. But now Darcy wondered if his reappearance would ignite the rumor mill again. Yet another reason not to go running around town with Emma.
“Or you could ask her real father to take Emma to the picnic. Considering he’s practically next door.” Nona’s gaze softened when she read the panic in Darcy’s face. “I’ve been as close to that little girl as I was to my own two girls. Not a lot of people have eyes that color.”
Then Darcy remembered Nona had worked for the Fosters one summer. She’d been Kincaid’s sister’s tutor that year, something about helping Abby improve her SAT scores so she could go to Brown. Of course Nona would realize it. Put that together with her dating Kincaid that summer, and the rumors became fact. Those closest to Darcy had kept her secret, and backed up her story where she had alluded to a brief relationship on the mainland, and no one had ever questioned her.
“If you figured it out—”
Nona put a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. Not many people will. But I think he deserves to know. Because I’m assuming he doesn’t, or he’d be beating down the door to see her.”
Darcy shook her head. “It’s complicated.”
“Life always is.” Nona put a tender hand on Darcy’s cheek. “You’re a good mother. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”
But as Darcy headed out the door a few minutes later, walking the short distance to The Love Shack, she had to wonder if that was true. Unless Kincaid left, there didn’t seem to be a solution that would work. She couldn’t keep Emma inside every day indefinitely. But she also couldn’t go running around town with her daughter, without someone—like Kincaid—putting the pieces together. The only solution was to get Kincaid off this island.
She detoured, heading for the small cottage Whit often rented out to tourists during the season, and lent to his family the rest of the year. The crushed seashell path crunched under her steps. Just as she reached the porch, Kincaid came trundling down the stairs and then down the path, as if he wanted to head her off before she got to the house.
Her heart skipped a beat, the traitor. He was wearing khaki shorts and a gray concert T-shirt, looking relaxed and so comfortable, she could sink into him. The sun glinted off his dark hair, and the beginnings of a tan. He looked good, damn him.
Darcy saw a flicker of a white lacy curtain in the kitchen window, a glimpse of a person, and then the curtain settled back into place. Somebody was here with Kincaid. It wouldn’t be his family, not when the Foster beachfront mansion sat a couple miles away, unused. Was it a wife? Girlfriend? And why did she care?
“Darcy. What are you doing here?” Kincaid asked. A half smile played on the edges of his mouth, as if he was glad to see her.
She refused to let that make her
happy. Her goal was to get rid of him—fast. But then her mind went back to that kiss and a part of her wanted him to stay. To finish what they had begun.
“I should ask you the same thing.” She propped her fists on her hips. “Why are you staying at Whit’s place? Why not stay at the family monstrosity?”
He arched a brow. “Monstrosity?”
That’s what she got for letting her mouth run away from her brain. A flush heated her cheeks. “That’s just what some of the islanders call it.”
Okay, so everyone she knew did. Especially herself. The Foster mansion was a twelve-thousand square foot columned house with three stories that blocked the view from all the lesser houses across the street. Darcy had heard that the house sported ten bathrooms, seven bedrooms, and both an indoor and outdoor pool. It had taken two years to build, been used about as frequently as a winter coat in Florida, then shuttered the rest of the time. A staff of five dusted it off once a week, but other than that, the monstrosity just sat there, soaking up the best real estate on Fortune’s Island.
He chuckled. “Funny, so do I. I’m not staying there because I’ve never liked that place. It’s too big, too…echo-y.”
“Echo-y? That’s not even a word.”
He took another step closer. “Probably not. But it’s the right one for the monstrosity.”
When she inhaled, she caught the scent of his cologne. Something darker, more woodsy than what he’d worn when they were younger. It lured her in, made her want to press a kiss to his neck, trail more kisses down the ridges of his chest, then back up again, until he was pressing her into the wall and inside her again—
Damn it.
She drew herself up. “Why are you here?”
“You keep asking me that. Why do I need a reason? Why can’t I just be on vacation?”
“And are you? On vacation?”
“Sort of.”
She threw up her hands. “Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?”