Davy's heart squeezed. "Last night? Was that yester day?" Davy thought if he could get the time sequence right, he'd understand the rest of what Lon said.
"Yesterday, yes."
"That can't be right. I talked to her yesterday."
"It was last night. Late."
"How…?"
"She called your sister. Said she felt bad. Your sister called 911. By the time the paramedics got there, she was already gone."
Davy understood the words, and something more. He didn't remember being hit; he didn't remember what they said he'd done. The closest he could come to ac knowledging it happened was recognizing that it was something he would have done—and been glad to.
What he did remember with perfect clarity was the dream he'd had that morning in Afghanistan and the certainty he'd felt that he was going to die. A thousand times, while he was recovering from surgeries to put the pieces of his face back together, he had pondered why he had dreamed of his mother and of dying when he hadn't died. Now he understood at a level far deeper than rational thought.
He had been right all along. He was supposed to die. His mother had known it. She had bargained with God or something—he was hazy on the details—and once she was sure he was safe and on the mend, she had taken his place.
Davy had asked Lon to stay behind after the other SEALs who had come to his mother's funeral had left. Lon was the steadiest man he knew, and Lon had the experience to look at financial statements and sum up the situation.
Even with Lon's help, Davy had looked too long at papers, straining to read with eyes that weren't quite used to their new, slightly different positions. Davy ignored the hot ice-pick of pain that stabbed through the back of his left eye. The pain made the walls he'd always thought of as a cheerful yellow glare with nauseating intensity under the overhead fluorescents.
His pain would decrease as the swelling from his injuries abated. Being blown behind a rock by the rocket-propelled grenade had probably saved his life, but landing among rocks had smashed his cheekbone and fractured his eye socket.
Everyone said he was lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky not to lose an eye, lucky the shard that had sliced open his cheek hadn't severed… that nerve. He knew the anatomical name—he was a hospital corpsman, for chrissake—but the word wouldn't come.
Yeah, he was lucky he wasn't killed or totally, per manently messed up, but he wasn't sure his family had been so fortunate.
Shit, if he'd been killed, at least his family would have had his life insurance.
"Is it true you might be up for the Medal of Honor?" Harris broke the silence, his steel-blue gaze both sharp and remote. He and his twin sister, Elle, short for Eleanor, had inherited their light brown hair and blue eyes from their father, Davy's stepfather, while Davy took his Italian looks from his own father. Harris's build was bonier than either his twin's or Davy's. He was an inch or so taller than Davy—or he would have been if not for an already noticeable scholar's slump.
"It's true." Lon affirmed from Davy's mother's home-office desk where he had sat while going over bank statements. "Unfortunately, there's no money in it, unless you write a best-selling book about it, the way Audie Murphy did."
"Who's Audie Murphy?" Harris asked.
"World War II hero," Lon told him. "Pretty as our Davy here. Went on to be a movie star."
Elle ignored the byplay. "Why didn't you tell us about the medal?" she demanded. "Didn't you know how proud we'd be?"
"I'd sort of forgotten about it. It isn't likely. They don't hand out many Medals of Honor."
"The men I overheard were talking about what you did. How you deliberately drew the Taliban fire until an air strike could arrive. Don't you think you deserve recognition?"
"I can't remember what I'm supposed to have done, but I know this much: I'm not a hero… The whole thing just embarrasses me."
Harris thought that over. "I guess that means 'no book.'"
"Harris!" Elle's round blue eyes widened in outrage. Unlike her twin, her gaze was rarely remote. "Even for you, that's insensitive. Don't you realize David is relat ing his feelings?"
"Oh. You mean because he said he was embar rassed? I'm sorry, David. But amnesia for the event is frequent in cases of traumatic brain injury," Harris informed them all, showing off his nascent medical knowledge. He and Elle were in their first year of medical school.
Davy didn't feel up to explaining that being called a hero was what embarrassed him, not the amnesia.
They all fell quiet again while Davy wondered how could he effortlessly use words like nascent and then blank on ordinary words that should have been easier to summon. It kept him constantly off balance, never knowing when he was going to hit a wall.
Elle began to cry again. She made no sound. She pa tiently wiped the tears from her round cheeks, as if deal ing with a slow leak. Her round eyes puffy, she finally broke the silence.
"She told us everything was okay after Dad died."
Harris tossed aside the bank statement he'd been study ing. "Did you know Riley's school was that expensive?"
"I feel so guilty," his older-by-fifteen-minutes twin said. "You and I should have gotten jobs when we grad uated instead of going straight to med school. David's the only one who wasn't dependent on her."
That didn't let him off the hook. He was also the only one who had been an adult when Eleanor, Harris, and Riley's father had died. He'd accepted his mother's reas surances that his stepfather had left them well-provided for—it was what he wanted to hear.
He'd been totally engrossed by medical corpsman and SEAL training. When he'd made it home for Christmas or the occasional birthday, everything had seemed fine. Pretty much like always. He'd fixed a leaky faucet or cleaned the gutters and told himself what a good son he was.
Eleanor stiffened her shoulders. "Maybe if I get a job, Harris can stay in med school, and Riley can live with us."
It was typical that Eleanor had gone into problem solving mode and was planning how to care for her twin. While unquestionably brilliant, Harris had always been willing to turn practicalities over to his more as sertive sister.
Well, not on his watch was she going to sacrifice her dreams for Harris's. It was time for Davy to man up. He was the oldest, and he was already established. If they'd had his life insurance, there would have been enough money to get them past the shock, and to buy enough time to get their feet under them. Instead, he was alive. He'd just have to make sure the twins finished their edu cation and Riley was taken care of.
"You're going to stay in medical school. Both of you."
"How?
"We'll sell the house. This semester is paid for. You might as well finish it. In the meantime, we'll find schol arships, loans, something."
"But what about Riley?"
"Lower your voice." Their fourteen-year-old brother, Riley, had bionic ears—when he chose to listen. He'd wandered off to the family room to play video games as soon as they got home from the funeral.
"But what about him? He doesn't adapt well to change. Our hours are crazy, but yours are crazier. I still think I should get a job. I can provide the stability he needs."
"Mom's will names me guardian," Davy reminded her, more sharply than he intended. The pain in his head was making him nauseated now. He needed to end this discussion.
"Sorry." Elle stiffened at his tone but didn't back down. "I didn't mean to step on your toes. But you haven't been around much. I don't think you know what you're letting yourself in for."
Davy lurched to his feet. The pain was affecting his balance. He had to get out of there before he threw up. "I'll figure something out."
Davy woke up in his old room, now Elle's, with his sis ter standing over him holding a white Nike shoe box.
"Feeling better?" She sat down on the edge of the bed, shoe box in her lap.
He was. The headache had retreated.
"We've finished packing up personal items—things we need to remove if the house is to be unoccupied."
/> "Sorry I didn't help you."
"Lon kept us organized. You needed to rest. You're not recovered yet. Listen, I packed a box of the things Mother kept for you. I'm kind of embarrassed it's so small."
"I'm surprised there's anything. I didn't live here." For all practical purposes, he hadn't lived in this house since he left for military school when he was twelve. It had been ridiculous for his room to be unoccupied while the younger kids had to double up and ridiculous to hang on to mementoes that only cluttered up space needed by someone else.
Davy sat up. "Let's see what you've got."
"Here's the watch Daddy gave you for graduation. Some old coins. Dad's arrowheads. Ten or twelve. Not enough to be called a collection."
"His arrowheads? Why are they mine?"
"Mom put them away for you after he died. She said you loved them when you were a little boy." She turned over a photograph. "I found this in the bottom of her jewelry box. I thought you'd like to have it. That's Carl, isn't it?"
Carl was what the family had always called Davy's biological father. Dad was his stepfather. Frozen for ever in time, Carl appeared younger than Davy was now. He was smiling just like—Davy glanced in the long dressing-table mirror—just like Davy used to. Before shrapnel had opened his cheek from the corner of his mouth almost to his ear.
Davy sifted among the items to uncover a tiny, square jeweler's box. He opened it. Against satin, yellowed and slightly grubby with age, nestled a woman's diamond ring, a solitaire set in platinum. He snapped it closed and offered it to Elle. "You should have this, shouldn't you?"
"I have the diamond Daddy gave her. This is the engagement ring from her first marriage. Mom said it should be yours." Elle's smile was a crumpled mix of sadness and affection. "To give to your bride—you know how sentimental she was."
"I know. But," he held it out again, "seriously, you take it."
"Seriously, no."
Davy tossed it back in the shoe box with the other forgotten pieces of his past.
Chapter 10
Wilmington, NC
JJ CARUTHERS' CELL PHONE CHIMED. CHECKING THE CALLER ID, she saw it was Blount Satterfield, her soon-to-be fiancé. She hand-motioned to her executive assistant, Katherine, that she needed to take the call. "Hello, Blount."
"Hey. I wanted to make sure we're on for tonight."
"Of course." JJ didn't understand why Blount so fre quently had to call to find out if she was going to keep a date with him. She didn't say what she didn't mean, and when she made an agreement, she kept it.
"Well, you said you didn't like to go to weddings and I wasn't sure."
"Into every life, the occasional wedding must fall," JJ quipped. "Including mine. You took what I said about not liking them too seriously."
Attending weddings had never been a favorite part of her social duties, and, after last year's disaster, she liked them less. But since she had to attend one, there was no point in dwelling on the negative. She wished she'd never told Blount how she felt. She changed the subject. "Tell me again, whose wedding are we going to?"
"Emmie Caddington. A friend—well, more a former colleague. She was an instructor last year in the biology department. She's come back here to get married."
JJ wondered why Blount, a tenured professor at UNC Wilmington, would want to attend the wedding of a lowly instructor—a lowly former instructor. "A good friend?"
"Just someone I used to know. But a lot of the fac ulty will be attending. Since I'm invited, and people like Senator Teague Calhoun will be there, it's an opportu nity to network."
Having achieved the holy grail of tenure, Blount had ambitions on the administrative side of the university system. In these days of grant money drying up, an ad ministrator with an inside track to the people who had money, or who could steer funds in a university's direc tion, was very valuable indeed.
JJ respected his ambition and his ability to stay fo cused on his goals. They had that in common. It would benefit them both to be seen in public together, while in private, their interests were separate enough to keep them out of each other's way.
He was fine with the prenup they had discussed. Married to her, he would be invited into a world of power and influence—something he valued more than money. She was ninety percent sure he would officially propose tonight, and she would officially say yes.
JJ checked the oversized stainless-steel clock on the wall of her office. "Listen, if I'm going to be ready for you to pick me up at the beach cottage by five-thirty, I'm going to have to leave soon, and I have a few more things to see to."
"I'll be so glad when you give up that place."
JJ was a little surprised by his vehemence. "I won't. I've loved living there. I didn't realize it bothered you."
"It's just that Topsail Island is so far from Wilmington. I have to factor in another thirty minutes."
"On a good day," JJ acknowledged. "But you know, I've almost enjoyed the commute. It gives me time to decompress a little. I don't take work home with me quite as much. You have a point though. It's a long way for you to go, only to turn around and go back to Wrightsville Beach. I can drive myself and meet you at the hotel, if you'd rather."
"No," Blount answered as she knew he would. "That's fine. I don't really mind picking you up."
Katherine stuck her head around the office door, waving the floor-plan inventory reconciliation report for her signature.
These days, the car business had more to do with massaging the numbers than with the glamour of cars, even the sexiest high-end foreign cars. Businesses sell ing high-ticket items like cars and boats survived on something called a floor plan.
A floor plan was a line of credit extended by a lender using the inventory as collateral. The lender kept a list of every car in the floor plan, and every month the car went unsold, interest had to be paid on that car. When a car was sold, the loan on it had to be paid in full imme diately—not at the end of the month.
Every business that sold big-ticket items and depended on volume walked a tightrope between the amount of in ventory they were required to carry and the interest they had to pay on that inventory. During economic downturns, businesses might be forced to carry more inventory than they could possibly sell. It took fancy footwork to maintain the cash flow and creative financing to stay in the black.
Sometime in the next week, the bank's floor-plan au ditor would come around to check the vehicle identifica tion number, or VIN, of every car on the lot against what was listed in the floor plan. Mistakes could be costly. If the auditor found cars unaccounted for and for which the bank hadn't been paid, the dealership was considered "out of trust." Being "out of trust" could spell doom. Car dealers everywhere had been forced out of business when they lost their line of credit.
JJ had invested in new software to keep more accu rate, real-time data on exactly where Caruthers was with the floor plan. "Gotta go, Blount," JJ told him, already studying the numbers. "I'll see you later."
Report signed and dispatched, JJ glanced at the wall clock again. She liked the clock for its polished face and cuneiform-like numerals. She especially liked the large distance that the sleek hands moved to measure the minutes. Unlike the relentlessly changing numbers on the digital clock on her desk, those on the wall clock gave time a sort of spaciousness. There was very little time left before her grandfather's deadline, but she had made it. By midnight, JJ would be engaged.
She had had a year in which to grow resigned to the inevitable.
A year in which to search for a legal way to stop her grandfather's machinations—and to learn there was none. The car business had been passed down in the family for three generations. Her great-great grandfather had in sisted it not be divided among his heirs, and the tradition had continued. JJ's grandfather was the sole owner. He could do anything he wished with it, including dismantle it and sell the parts if she didn't get married.
A year to consult doctors about her grandfather's health—and learn that his heart condition might
eventu ally kill him, but so slowly he could very well die of something else first. His mind was as sharp as ever and likely to remain so. Trying to wrest control of the busi ness on the grounds of incompetence would be expen sive and probably fail.
She'd learned a long time ago not to fight what couldn't be changed. Far better to adapt and make cir cumstances work for you.
By the time her parents' marriage had had its final eruption, she had already found more security than she'd ever had before in the dealership's active orderliness and purpose. She had somewhere to be other than on the battleground of her parents' marriage.
At the car place, there was always noise in the repair bays—whines of power screwdrivers and percussive bangs from compressed-air power wrenches tighten ing lug nuts—but never discord. People came and went (hired, fired, and retired) and car models changed with the years, but the purpose, the need, and the work of the business stayed exactly the same.
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