by Cindy Miles
“What is his problem?” she muttered to no one in particular.
No one in particular bothered to answer her.
Island Cemetery was on the northern tip of the island, closest to the sea. Emily downshifted to Second, then to First as she slowed and turned onto the long path that led through a pair of weathered iron gates. A small cemetery, it had only the one lane that ambled toward the sea, with grave sites on either side. Although it’d been fifteen years, she remembered where her parents lay, and soon she rolled to a stop, parked Jep’s truck on the lane and hopped out.
Carrying the sunflowers she’d purchased at Chappy’s, she ambled down a long row, cut over and saw the headstones at once. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed as she rounded the markers and squatted between Alex and Kate Quinn. She separated the sunflowers, laying two on her father’s stone and two on her mother’s.
Her eyes blurred with tears, and she said nothing. Simply recalled that awful day. The screech of the tires, the sickening crunch of metal, her mother’s scream. Emily remembered glancing from the backseat at her parents, seeing the back of her dad’s blond, curly-haired head, and her mother’s long hair—
“Do you remember any of it?”
Emily started at the sound of Matt’s voice, and she dried her eyes with the heel of her hand. She looked at him, standing behind her in a pair of black running shorts, black running shoes and a black T-shirt. Although his shorts reached to just above his knees, Emily could see how thick his thighs were, his calves like a pair of rocks.
He’d meant the accident. She cleared her throat. “Not much, I guess. Tires squealing, the sound of metal crushing.” She brushed the buildup of salt and dust off her mother’s name, then her dad’s. “My mom yelled about the same time it hit us. I remember our wagon rolling, my dad hollering, ‘Emily!’ and then—” she shrugged “—I woke in the hospital.”
Emily rose, listening to the crackle of leaves as the wind raced through and the sound of waves crashing just over the crest at the back of the cemetery. Matt remained silent as she lifted her face, letting the sun bathe her, letting the salt-infused air flow into her nostrils and her lungs. When she looked at Matt, his emerald eyes were fastened on her, studying. She gave a half smile. “You followed me here.”
“Wanted to make sure Jep’s truck didn’t strand you.” His gaze, unwavering, never left hers.
Emily swept the cemetery. “What’d you drive? I didn’t even hear you.”
“I ran.”
She nodded. “Quite a run. Want a lift back home?”
He shook his head. “Thanks. I’m gonna hit the road.”
“All right, then. See ya, Matt,” she said. “Thanks for checking on me.”
He gave a short nod, turned and ran up the lane, then disappeared through the gates.
* * *
BACK HOME, the evening passed and slyly shifted into twilight. Emily was surprised when her cell chirped. It was Reagan.
“Little sister!” Emily exclaimed.
“Big sister!” Reagan returned. Her voice sounded muffled, as if in a tunnel. “How are ya?”
Emily eased up onto the kitchen counter. “Missing you, for one.”
“I miss you, too,” Reagan said. “How’s the house?”
Emily glanced around. “So much like I remember,” she said. “Remember the pantry?”
“Oh, my God, we used to pretend that was our hideout,” Reagan said. “What about the dock?”
“It’s in bad shape,” she said. “But guess who my carpenter is for the summer?”
“Hmm,” Reagan said. “I have no idea. Who?”
“Matt Malone.”
“No way! Is he still cute?”
Emily smiled as Matt came to mind. “Cuter than ever. So are his brothers.”
“That’s just so crazy,” Reagan said. “How’s the café? Do you think you can make a go of it?”
“I absolutely do,” Emily replied. “Are you positively certain you don’t want any input on the decor?”
“No way,” Reagan replied. “That’s your baby, sis. What’s it like?”
Emily told her about her Gatsby-themed idea.
“Now, that’s cool,” Reagan said.
“And I’ve decided to make a penny counter.”
Reagan chuckled. “What is that?”
“There’s a long bar near the back of the café. I’m going to cover it with pennies and polyurethane the top. It’ll be super cool.”
“That’s why it’s your baby,” Reagan said. “That’s a fantastic idea, sis. I can’t wait to see.”
Emily smiled. “Did you call just to chat?”
“Yes, of course,” she answered. “But also to let you know I’m leaving on a mission in a couple of days.”
Emily’s heart sank. “Dangerous?”
“Sis, you’ve seen the guys in my company. They’re like the Avengers,” Reagan said. “Seriously. I’m surrounded by armed Hulks and Iron Men and Captain Americas. I’ll be fine. Honest.”
“Call me when you return?”
Reagan laughed softly. “Don’t I always?”
After Emily hung up, Reagan stayed heavy on her mind. She worried about her sister. She prayed for her safety.
With a loaded Cobb salad and with Ben Selvin and His Orchestra wafting from the record player, Emily ate on the front porch, sitting cross-legged on the broken-down swing. As soon as the dock and dock house were finished she’d eat her meals on the river.
Just as she’d forked in a mouthful of lettuce, avocado, tomato and cheese, she saw a figure lumbering along the path. Matt emerged with something in his hand. It wasn’t until he’d reached the porch and stepped onto the veranda that she saw what it was, gripped tightly in those big hands.
Keeping his distance, as if getting too close to her obligated conversation or a lengthy visit, he hurriedly handed her a small plate covered with plastic wrap. “Jep thought you’d want a piece,” he said gruffly. He stepped back, with one foot on the lower step, ready to take flight.
In the waning light his features were edgy, stark, and he looked every bit the sniper he once was. Emily wiped her mouth with a napkin and set the slice of peach pie beside her. “Well,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on Matt. “Make sure and tell Jep thank-you. For being so thoughtful.”
Matt nodded. He was silent for a moment, then said, “‘Dancing in the Dark’?”
Emily smiled as her old friend recalled one of their favorite vintage songs. “That’s right.”
He nodded, cleared his throat, then reached into his back pocket, unfolded a piece of paper and handed her that, too. “It’s the lumber quote. Broken down in quantity by size. And, my labor.” His gaze was hooded by the fading light. “Just so you know what you’re paying for.”
Emily beamed as she went over the list. “Great. Thanks, Matt.”
Matt glanced away. “Yep.” Then he inclined his head toward the path. “Night.”
“Good night,” she called out after him. But Matt was already to the trail had and disappeared.
Emily lifted her fork and continued eating, thinking of what had just occurred between her and Matt. Her lip twitched as she chewed, and it was difficult not to full-on grin.
Either Matt had felt like the ass he’d been behaving like and decided to offer up the pie as a truce, or Jep had whacked him in the back of the head and forced him to bring the pie over.
Either could be a sound choice. And both nearly made Emily laugh out loud. Even eased her constant worry for her sister.
The night grew darker as she sat on her old broken swing, and the trombones and clarinets and saxophones of the antiquated music fanned out across the marsh. She left the porch and went inside, washed her few dishes and set her piece of pie in the fridge.
Changing into a gray V-necked T-shirt printed with a scene from Dirty Dancing and a pair of Hawaiian-print boxers, Emily made her way to the living room with her laptop, flipped on the lamp and sat on the sofa. With her injured leg, which
was starting to look better already, propped up on a pillow, her mind wandered back to when Matt carried her from the creek and dressed her wound.
She’d experienced a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach when he’d done so. His presence did that to her, she’d noticed. As did being on the receiving end of one of his profound emerald stares. It made her insides feel all wobbly—a sensation she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.
She paused, thinking of Trent. She’d been crazy about him, when they’d first met. Butterflies in the stomach, anticipation making her giddy. Why did this feel so different? So much...more?
She blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s just Matt, you goose,” she said to herself out loud. “Just...Matt.”
After a few moments, she diverted her thoughts away from her friend and did some online shopping.
After finding most of the items she needed, Emily began searching online for industrial appliances suitable for the café, as well as some of the personal artistic touches she’d planned on adding to the decor. A whimsical shop of antiques and consignments was located halfway between Cassabaw and Charleston, so she’d plan to go there as soon as possible. Maybe even tomorrow.
By the time she’d checked her email—noticing two in her inbox from Trent, which she deleted immediately—it was almost 1:00 a.m. She closed her laptop and climbed into bed. Quickly, she set her phone alarm and then she fell fast asleep.
Six o’clock rolled around fast and Emily groggily pulled out of a deep slumber. After having a quick shower she inspected her shin. Already healing nicely and less painful, she left the bandage off and pulled on a pair of faded destroyed jeans and a navy tank top, then a light sweater over it. Finding her newly cleaned Vans after her dredge through the river muck, she gathered her hair into a messy braid, made a to-go cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, grabbed her phone and bag, and headed out.
With a small sip of the steaming coffee she slid behind the wheel of Jep’s old truck and headed down the lane. With it being so early, the roads were nearly deserted as she made her way to the Windchimer. Pulling into the back lot behind the café, she climbed out, coffee in hand, and picked her way over the gravel drive to the veranda, where she sat down at a table facing the sea, propped her legs atop the rail and settled back.
The ebb and flow of the tide, the sound of the waves crashing against the breakers just off the northern tip in front of the lighthouse, washed over her, soothed her, and Emily sipped her coffee and stared out as darkness inched its way back into the shadows, and dawn, one toe at a time, slipped out and took its place. Before her eyes, the sky’s palette of grays shifted into lavender, coral and gold. On the horizon, a fine hairline of sun cracked through.
The low hum of an electric engine, followed by shuffling against the boardwalk, caught Emily’s attention. Leaning forward, she saw the ragtag World War II soldiers climb out of Freddy’s golf cart and begin ambling her way through the early-morning haze. They moved slow, stiff, but then why wouldn’t they?
Matt had informed her their mother had signed for them all at seventeen—Sidney at sixteen—to enter the service. Mr. Wimpy was the oldest and was about to turn eighty-seven in June. Although they all fought health problems, that they still were steady and strong completely amazed Emily.
Mr. Wimpy led the pack, his blue bucket hat perched on his balding head; white sneakers that had seen better days covered his feet. When they reached the veranda, he gave Emily a wide grin. She grinned back. “Well, if it isn’t the Beasts and Terrors. Morning, fellas.”
“Hey, gal!” Mr. Wimpy said, and his blue eyes twinkled. His voice was a little gritty, but still warm and friendly. She imagined in his youth he’d been a big, loud teddy bear. “You beat us to it this morning, eh?” He climbed the steps, a slight struggle but not too much of one, and sat beside her.
“Hey now,” Ted remarked, and claimed the other chair beside Emily. “Sunrise and a sexy dame?” He winked and opened his thermos. “That’s a fast second to winning the war! Or the World Series!”
By war, Ted meant the war. The Second World War. That this group of men had fought together and then lived to tell the tale of it seventy years after the war ended was beyond a miracle. It was a living, walking piece of history. No wonder Matt liked them so much. She found that she did, too.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” Dubb asked with a grin. “I know it ain’t too early for him. He’s a jarhead.”
Emily narrowed her eyes over the rim of her cup. “He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just...old acquaintances, is all.”
The men all looked at each other and chuckled.
“Reacquaintin’ don’t take but a minute, girly,” Putt offered. “That’s how I met my Pee Wee.”
Emily cocked her head. “Pee Wee?”
Wimpy laughed. “That’s his wife, Anita. A cute little gal from Cuba.” He shook his head. “A stick of dynamite, that one.” He leaned back in his chair. “Makes the best black beans and rice you’ll ever put in your stomach.”
“Amen, brother,” Putt added, nodding, as though it was Bible law. “Amen.”
More chuckles.
“That boy Matt, he’s seen a lot,” Wimpy added. “Done a lot more. Most civilians don’t realize what a soldier goes through, I reckon.” He turned a wizened blue gaze on her. “Sometimes a fella just doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore, after he’s out. Like he doesn’t fit anywhere.” He rubbed his jaw. “And it takes the right kind of woman to understand a soldier. Or to show him there’s life after war. After the corps.”
Emily and Mr. Wimpy shared a silent glance. It was as though he could read her mind, her inner thoughts.
The others had quieted as they all listened to their eldest comrade speak. Emily nodded. “I understand. Thank you.” She did, too. She and Matt were friends, plain and simple. If he needed her, she’d be there for him. Even if he never admitted needing her.
Together with a group of men from a generation unlike any other—heroes, in her eyes—Emily sipped coffee and watched the sun slowly climb over the coast of Cassabaw. Gulls dipped, swooped, cried. The water sparkled like so many rough-cut slivers of sea glass as the sun washed over it. Emily didn’t think she’d ever grow tired of watching it.
But, there was work to be done. “All right, fellas,” she said, and pushed up once the conversation turned to baseball. Not that she didn’t like baseball, but she wasn’t up-to-date on the latest Braves players. She gave them all a wave. “I need to get busy if this place is going to be up and running by the Fourth.” She inclined her head. “I’ll see ya around.”
“Don’t forget about the Kites!” Sidney called out. He pulled an inhaler from his pocket and took a big puff.
Emily grinned before she stepped inside the café. “I won’t!”
Inside the café, Emily pulled a chair beneath one of the larger white milk-glass domes and climbed up to get a better look at the light fixture. To her surprise she found the delicate, aged pattern of a mermaid etched into the glass.
“No way,” Emily breathed, fascinated. She continued to follow the design. “That is so stinking cool...”
“What is it?”
Emily spun around on the chair. “Matt! Good Lord, you scared me.” Her heart raced in her chest, and she wasn’t sure if it was just from his unexpected presence...or his presence. Period. She glanced at the milk glass, then back at him. “These aren’t simple gorgeous milk-glass light domes,” she said with a quirky grin, and waited for Matt’s response.
After a moment of expressionless silence, Matt glanced at the milk glass. His eyes moved back to hers, but he said nothing. Just...waited. With that intense stare he had.
That he was interested, well, interested her. She beamed and pointed. “There is a mermaid etched into this one.” Lowering to the floor, she pulled the chair to another light fixture and inspected the aged glass, then gasped with delight. “And this one? A merman!”
Matt’s brows furrowed. “A mer-what?”
>
Emily put her hands on her hips. “Matt Malone, you know good and well what a merman is. We used to pretend that we were both merfolk. I was a beautiful mermaid princess warrior and you a fearless merman warrior knight of the sea.” She sighed and shook her head, frustrated. “We rode fierce seahorse stallions. Yours was named Jack. No way you forgot that.”
Matt’s expression of horror almost made her laugh. “I must’ve suppressed it,” he grumbled, and frowned at her. “It can stay that way.”
This time Emily couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing, which seemed to make Matt Malone frown and grumble even more.
“What’s so funny?” he asked as she climbed down.
She stood before him, tipped her head back and looked into his eyes, studying him. She tried to understand, to see past the wall he’d built around himself, and remember the words Mr. Wimpy had said. Finally, she offered him a full-blown smile.
“You are, Matt Malone,” she said softly. “Deep down, you really, really are.”
CHAPTER NINE
THE LOOK IN Emily’s eyes wasn’t mean-spirited. And she wasn’t poking fun, either, or trying to make him feel like an idiot. Whatever it was, it came from her heart. He could see it in her strange, wide hazel eyes. Eyes he knew well. Eyes, he noticed, that had a way of making him squirm, of drawing him in. Yep. He knew her. Better than most, he suspected, even though he tried his best to deny it.
He looked at her smiling self now. She damn well meant every word she said. Somehow, she did, and it shocked the hell out of him.
Emily Quinn still believed in him. No matter that he’d been harsh. Short. Madder than hell at...whatever he was mad at. Life. Civilian life. Whatever.
Yep. Just like Jep had said. A big, bald donkey’s ass.
“You know you want to laugh,” Emily quipped, and punched him in the arm. “Stop trying to hide it.”
Then she crossed those big, beautiful eyes and scrunched up her face.
And he couldn’t help himself.
He tried; tried as hard as he could. Held his face as stony as possible, lips pressed firmly together. But when she fish-puckered those full lips and google-rolled one eye, it just looked so damn...crazy. His mouth pulled at the corners, and he swiped at his jaw with his hand and just looked away and shook his head. “God almighty, girl,” he muttered, hiding his smile.