And Then Forever (11 page)

Nona put down the pen and pushed the puzzle aside. “What happened?”

“Too much Jose Cuervo and…” Darcy lowered her voice, “Kincaid.”

Nona’s face broke into a wide smile. Nona, Whit and Grace had always liked Kincaid and, despite everything, thought him and Darcy would have made a great couple. She was sure all three of them were secretly rooting for them to get back together. “Really? That’s wonderful.”

It had been wonderful. But with the clear light of day, and the lingering headache, Darcy realized a few good memories weren’t worth the risk she’d taken. “No, it’s not. It’s terrible. What if…what if he comes over here or someone says something to him or…” The fears and worries chased up her throat. She couldn’t even speak the final words:
What if I lose Emma?

“You need to give him a chance to make up his own mind, Darcy. He has a right to know.”

“I know he does.” She circled the rim of the mug over and over again. It was an internal battle she had had a thousand times. Keeping Kincaid in the dark about his own child or telling him and taking the risk that she could lose everything. “I just worry that I’ll tell him and he won’t want anything to do with her, and then his father will find out and he’ll take her away.”

“It’s been almost six years since she was born. That man,” which was how Nona always referred to Edgar Foster, with a little disgust in her tone, “hasn’t sent so much as a birthday card. Do you think he really wants custody?”

“No. But I think he wants to destroy anything that distracts Kincaid from the path he’s supposed to take.” She still remembered how Edgar had done that when they were younger. He’d hired people to follow Kincaid, confronted his son at every turn, threatened to take away everything if Kincaid didn’t give up his “infatuation.” When none of that had worked, Edgar had gone to Darcy—and found the right leverage to break them up for good.

“Kincaid is a grown man now, not a nineteen-year-old dependent on his father to keep a roof over his head. Let him make up his own mind,” Nona said. “And stop letting
that man
control whether you take your little girl to the beach or not.”

Even from across an ocean and hundreds of miles away, Edgar Foster was controlling Darcy’s decisions. Emma wanted to go to the beach, and by God, she should be able to do that. After all, Fortune’s Island was Darcy and Emma’s home, not Kincaid’s. “You’re right, Nona. As always.”

“You don’t get to be my age without learning a thing or two.” Nona smiled. She got to her feet, put her coffee cup in the dishwasher, then grabbed her purse. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a great day with the little monkey.”

After Nona left, Darcy pulled on a swimsuit, shorts and a tank, then stuffed a tote bag with snacks, water bottles, towels and sand toys. Emma came running up with a bag of her own, brimming with Barbies. She had on her bright pink bathing suit and sparkly pink flip-flops, and had tucked her new ball under one arm.

Darcy laughed. “I’d say you’re ready.”

Emma nodded. “Yup. I got everything, Mommy. Can we go now?”

Darcy twisted her hair into a clip as they headed out the door, then walked down the well-worn path that ran along the back of the cottage. A hundred yards later, the worn grass yielded to sand. Emma kicked off her flipflops, leaving them behind as she started charging toward the beach. Darcy laughed, grabbed the shoes, then took off her own and followed behind her daughter. Emma was already kicking the new ball, then chasing after it as a gust of wind caught the toy and carried it down the sand.

Darcy watched her happy, smiling daughter running, her dark hair flowing like a curtain behind her, and thought Nona was right. Coming to the beach had been a perfect idea. A great way to decompress, forget about Kincaid for a while, and just get back to basics. To remind herself that she had a blessed life here, one that she had created, and that it would all be okay.

For five seconds, Darcy got to enjoy that peace. Then Emma took off, rounding a corner on the beach, and Darcy ran after her daughter—

And saw Kincaid standing at the other end.

*~*~*

A
bby had taken up
residence in a beach chair, under the shade of an umbrella, a romance novel propped open on her belly. She tucked headphones into her ears, then waved Kincaid off. “Go for a walk or something. So you don’t stand here and hover over me like a worried parent.”

“Okay, okay.” He stripped off his shirt, left his shoes behind, then started walking along the water. Mooch followed along, padding happily down the shore. In the couple of days since Mooch had adopted him (because Kincaid was pretty damned sure the dog had made that choice, and he’d just gone along with it), Kincaid had fed the dog well, given her a bath and brushed her coat several times. She already looked a lot better, and ten times happier.

As Kincaid walked, his toes sank in the wet sand while cool ocean water swirled around his ankles. God, he loved this island. Loved how calm it made him feel.

Like everything was right in his world. And it was, in a way. Abby was a couple weeks from delivering her baby, they were happily ensconced in the rental cottage, and Kincaid was already planning what he could do in this next phase of his life.

Once he dealt with his father—and the implications of what he had done by leaving his job and helping his sister leave her marriage—Kincaid could have a future. One he carved out himself.

If he stayed on Fortune’s Island, maybe he could open up a small law practice here. Journey over to the mainland from time to time if he needed extra clients. Write part time, see if maybe he could make a career out of fiction, like he’d dreamed long ago. He still had a sizeable nest egg built up, and enough retirement savings to tide him over for a long time. He could afford to reduce his workload to a fraction of what it had been in New York. And maybe while he was here, he could see where things led with himself and Darcy. They were older now, and maybe, just maybe, they could make it work the second time around.

He thought about the possibility of seeing her tonight. He didn’t even know if she was working, but if she wasn’t, he’d see her anyway. Maybe bring her a picnic dinner and invite her down to the beach. Darcy had never been a flowers and chocolate kind of girl, but he knew she’d enjoy a picnic. It had been seven years since they’d done that, and that was seven years too long.

In the distance, Kincaid spied a bright red ball, tumbling down the shoreline, then plopping into the incoming tide. Kincaid broke into a jog, and scooped up the ball just before the water pulled it out to sea. He turned, the ball in his hand, and spied a little girl, maybe five or six, in a pink bathing suit. She had long dark hair, divided into twin ponytails, and big hazel eyes that widened when she saw him. She skidded to a stop a few feet away from him, casting a wary glance at the ball, then at him, then at Mooch, who had plopped her butt in the sand.

Kincaid bent down and held out the ball. “Is this yours?”

The little girl nodded, and put out two tentative palms to take the toy from him. When he placed it in her hands, she smiled. There was something familiar about her smile, about those eyes. Something that looked a lot like—

“Emma! Don’t run off—”

Kincaid looked up to see Darcy, rounding the corner and then running down the beach toward them. She had on white frayed denim shorts and a bright pink tank top over a striped bikini, and her wild blonde hair was up in one of those clip things. A dozen curly tendrils drifted along her jawline, teasing, tempting. God, she was a beautiful woman. Still had that edge to her that had drawn him in all those years ago. A dangerous, wild edge. Already, Kincaid was thinking about making love to her again, repeating last night. Damn.

Darcy stopped in her tracks, one hand going to the child’s shoulder, in a protective gesture. Kincaid’s senses tingled. He had the feeling he was missing something. Something big.

Darcy’s face paled. “Kincaid. What are you doing here?”

“Taking a walk.” He glanced at the little girl, then up at Darcy. Was Darcy her babysitter? Because as far as he knew, Darcy had no children. Of course, it had been a long time, but wouldn’t she have mentioned it by now if she did? He noted how Darcy drew the little girl back a step from him. Weird. “So, you’re Emma, huh?”

The little girl nodded. She started to speak, but Darcy bent down and grabbed the child’s hand. “Come on, honey, we need to get home.”

Honey
? He glanced again at the child, then at Darcy, and then he saw it. In the curve of her jaw, the high cheekbones. Such a close resemblance to Darcy, if not for the dark hair and eyes. “Is she your daughter?” he asked.

Darcy didn’t say anything for a moment. She just looked at him, as if begging him not to ask the question. But it was already out there, already in the air.

And then it hit him. The little girl, about six years old. The dark hair. The hazel eyes, the same color eyes he had stared into for the past twenty-seven years. It couldn’t be.

He looked again. A third time. And realized yes, indeed, it could be. The math was right, the eyes were a perfect match. The only reason why Darcy would never mention a child to him. Why she would keep this a secret. He swallowed hard and spoke the words before they got lodged in his throat. “Darcy…is she…is that…my…”

“Come on, Emma, we need to go home.” Darcy spun away, and started walking. The little girl hurried to keep up, the ball secure under her arm.

“Mommy, that man was nice. He saved my ball.”

“Yes, yes, he was.” Darcy kept on going, never looking back at Kincaid.

“He has a cute puppy. Can I play with the puppy?”

“No, not now.” Darcy increased her pace. As if she couldn’t go fast enough to get away from him, away from the question he hadn’t finished.

Kincaid stood there for a moment, a total moron waiting for the truth to sink in. A daughter. Darcy had a daughter. A daughter that looked suspiciously like she could be his.

His daughter?
Could it be?

He broke into a run, and skidded to a stop in front of Darcy. “Talk to me, Darcy.”

“Not now.” She glanced down at her daughter, then up at him. Once again, begging him without words to not talk about it, to let the subject drop. Then she must have read the determination in his face, and she acquiesced.

“Okay, but later.” Darcy circumvented him, increasing her pace. Kincaid kept step beside her. Every so often, Emma would look up at him, as if trying to figure out who he was. Then she’d glance at the dog, clearly wanting to play with Mooch.

Twin beach towels lay on the sand beside a pair of tote bags. One striped and filled with sunscreen and snacks, the other bright pink and stuffed with toys. Emma wriggled out of Darcy’s grasp and started up the hill. “Mommy, I’m gonna go make my Barbies a sand house.”

“Okay,” Darcy said. “I’ll help you in a minute.”

After Emma was out of earshot, Kincaid turned to Darcy. She had remained behind, her eyes downcast, her shoulders hunched.

Kincaid knew the truth before he asked the question. “She’s mine, isn’t she?”

Darcy raised her gaze to his, opened her mouth like she was going to say no, but then she let out a long breath. “Yes.”

The truth hung in the air between them for a long time. He had a daughter. A little girl.

His daughter.

He glanced up the hill at Emma drawing Barbies out of a bag and marching them across the towel, one by one. Part of his DNA, part of him, was living here on Fortune’s Island, and he had never known.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He tried to think of a reasonable explanation. Something that would absolve Darcy from keeping his own child a secret for more than six years. But nothing came to mind. He tamped down his anger, tried to keep the feelings of betrayal in check.

“I wanted to, Kincaid.” Her voice trembled a little. “I really did.”

“Yet you didn’t. You broke up with me.” He thought of that note.
It’s Over, I’m Sorry. I Wish You Well
. So cold, so impersonal. So dismissive. “Did you write that note before or after you found out you were pregnant?”

“The same day. I found out that morning and…” She shrugged, her eyes hidden by her sunglasses. “I’m sorry, Kincaid. I was scared and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You could have given me a chance.” His anger yielded to hurt for a moment. “I thought you knew me. I thought you…loved me.”

And if she loved their daughter, like she clearly did, why would she keep that child a secret from him? Of all the people in the world, Darcy knew how much he had wanted a relationship with his father, yet Darcy had denied their own child that very same thing. Why would she do that?

“I did. That’s why I didn’t tell you.” She shook her head. “I knew how you’d react. You’d want to do the right thing. But you could have ruined your life. You had college, a law career ahead of you. If you’d been saddled with a child at nineteen, you would have had to give all that up and spend your days waiting tables.”

“And what, that’s okay for you, but not for me? I could have done it—and would have, if that was what it took.”

“I know that. And that’s why I made the decision for you and wrote that note.”

He snorted. “That’s not love, Darcy. That’s control. I grew up with enough of someone else making my decisions for me and telling me what to do. I didn’t need you to do it.” This was a whole other side of Darcy, one he never would have predicted or expected. How could she have done this?

“I didn’t have any choice, Kincaid.”

“There’s always a choice.” He glanced again at the little girl on top of the small sandy hill. She was scooping sand into a bucket, then patting it down and turning the bucket over to make a castle. He remembered doing that when he was a kid, except the nanny had taught him how to do it, instead of his own father. A nanny had taught him to ride a bike, how to read, and how to tie a bow tie. His father had been absent for every milestone in Kincaid’s life, making appearances as rare as a harvest moon. How dare Darcy put their child in that same position, on purpose? She had known how he felt about his absent parents, the hurtful detachment of people hired to raise him. She should have known he would never have wanted the same thing for a child of his own.