At First Touch (The Malone Brothers) (16 page)

He didn’t know what to do with himself, other than run the beach. Grabbing the backpack he’d brought that morning, he changed into his running gear.

“I’m going for a run, Celeste,” he announced.

“Okay,” she answered without looking at him.

Without another word, Eric shook his head and eased out of the rental.

Not a good start, he thought, as he took off through the small neighborhood, making his way to the boardwalk.

Would it ever change? Into something better?

To him, better meant Reagan. Which wasn’t fair to Celeste and the baby.

But what of any of this situation was fair? And, even knowing he’d been seeing someone else seriously, why wasn’t Celeste bothered by it?

Before, she flat-out said she wasn’t moving to Cassabaw. Now here she was, settling.

Had she been settling before?

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

E
VERY
DAY
WAS
a challenge.

Somehow, every day, Reagan got through it.

It’d been a week and a half since the morning Eric showed up and ended their relationship, and she’d hoped the pain of it would ease more than it had. That she somehow could just stop thinking about Eric living with his ex-fiancée and awaiting the birth of their child. She tried to project her thoughts, but they always returned to Eric.

While her heart weighed heavy with missing Eric, she didn’t allow it to pull her down. She couldn’t. Not after she’d come so far since the accident. No way.

Today was going to be a good day. A better day. She could feel it.

The morning was a little cooler than it had been, and although seventy-three degrees was by a far stretch of the mind fall weather, it was a lot cooler than sweltering ninety-eight. Reagan sat at her stool in the studio, working on a new painting. She’d finished five total, including the one she’d given Eric. See? There he went again, creeping into her thoughts. She couldn’t help it.

Reagan’s life revolved around memory, scents, tastes, touches and inspiration. So she inhaled deeply, the familiar river scents filling her nostrils, and she let the image she’d conjured come to the forefront, just like a sketch to follow. Having it perfect in her mind helped the brush put it to canvas. A long dock. Marsh grass on either side. The river ahead. At the end of the dock, a girl sitting as a storm rolled in.

Just as she was about to dip her brush and begin on the marsh grass, her cell phone rang. Quickly, she set the brush down and answered it.

“Hello?” she said.

“Yes, hello, is this Reagan Quinn?” a woman’s voice asked.

“May I ask who’s calling?” Reagan said.

“Yes, forgive me. My name is Margaret Sails, and I’m the proprietor of Coastal Art Gallery in Caper’s Inlet. You and your sister stopped by earlier this week with one of your paintings?”

“Oh, sure,” Reagan commented. “Yes, ma’am. How can I help you?”

“Well, good news, dear,” Margaret Sails continued. “Strangely enough, I had a visitor stop by yesterday evening, and he owns a rather large gallery in Roanoke. I’ve known him for years, and have done business with him over countless merchants. He wants to commission your work, dear. Actually, he wants to see all of your completed projects. Are you up for bringing them by tomorrow?”

Reagan simply stared, barely able to think. Her work? Commissioned? Was this guy legit? She’d definitely have to investigate that, but it wouldn’t hurt to take her paintings by and see what comes of it.

“Dear? Are you still there?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, I’m sorry. I guess I’m stunned.” She laughed lightly. “Yes, I can bring the other paintings in tomorrow, absolutely. What time?”

“I open at ten o’clock, and he’ll be here anxiously waiting,” Margaret said. “See you then!”

Reagan set her phone down and then stood. Then sat down again.

The owner of a large gallery in Roanoke wanted to commission
her
paintings.

The desire to tell Eric was so strong, her hand nearly went for the phone, but she stopped.

Drawing a deep breath, she smiled. This was it. Her ticket to independence.

She could hardly wait for Emily to get home.

When her sister walked through the door, Reagan told her the good news, and Emily squealed.

“This calls for a celebration!” she said excitedly.

“Well, let’s wait until after tomorrow,” Reagan warned. “I don’t want to jump the gun, you know?”

Emily rushed toward her, her dark figure growing larger, and then threw her arms around Reagan’s neck and squeezed. “I am so happy for you, sis. This is so fantastic!”

“It’s...unexpected,” Reagan admitted.

“So we’ll leave by eight, is that good?” Em asked.

“Perfect,” Reagan agreed. “And thanks for taking me.”

“You know I wouldn’t miss it,” she agreed. “Oh, Eric would be so—oh, honey, habit. I’m sorry.”

Reagan gave a wan smile. “It’s okay. I thought the very same thing.”

“I know who would love to know,” Emily said. “Ole Jep. He thinks you are the cat’s meow.”

Reagan laughed. “Well, I’ll have to walk over tomorrow when we get home and tell him all about it.” She’d avoided the Malones, not only because she was afraid of running into Eric and his new family, but the whole place reminded her of him. She’d suck it up, though, to go have a chat with Jep. Besides, she needed to get a grip. That innocent little baby needed his father. He wasn’t going to be there, anyway. And she’d just need to learn to accept it.

* * *

T
HE
NEXT
MORNING
, Reagan and Emily set out for Caper’s Inlet, completed paintings carefully stacked in the back of the Jeep. On the ride over, they chatted about wedding plans, honeymoon plans and everything else in between. But Reagan’s thoughts returned to Eric at every corner. Almost like a sickness, she thought. Was that truly love? She’d tossed and turned all night, partly excited about the potential sales of her paintings, but mostly over the hole in her heart.

Were Eric’s new girl and baby going to be at Em and Matt’s wedding? Of course they were. She wouldn’t have to actually see them, but still. Eric was escorting her down the aisle, and she feared he’d see straight through the armor she’d tried so hard to put in place. That armor around her heart.

“Hey,” Emily finally said, and gave Reagan’s arm a loving squeeze. “You okay?”

Reagan smiled. “I am,” she fibbed. Okay, lied. Flat-out lied.

Time would heal. It would.

They reached Margaret’s art gallery nearly forty minutes early, so Reagan and Em stopped in a nearby café and had coffee. After doing some research on the internet, she found that yes, indeed, Miles Cartee was as legit as could be. What were the chances that she’d just started painting again—with a handicap, no less—then landed such a big fish? It didn’t seem real. Finally, it was time to collect the paintings from the Jeep. The moment Reagan and Emily walked into Margaret’s gallery, a deep voice tinged with an old Virginia flair boomed over the room.

“Ms. Quinn! I’ve been dying to meet you since yesterday!”

Reagan waited, vaguely able to make out the large dark form moving toward her. He took her hand and gave it a firm shake, and Old Spice—the old kind—wafted off of him. “Miles Cartee, and this has to be your sister,” he said. “Now, let’s get right to it as I’ve still quite a drive ahead of me.”

The next hour passed like a whirlwind tornado. For as big of a man as Miles Cartee seemed to be, he was definitely a mover and a shaker.

And had strangely enough fallen completely in love with Reagan’s paintings.

The monetary amount he’d offered her was astounding. Not only had he purchased all of the paintings she’d brought with her—and she’d brought four—he’d given her a six-figure check, along with a second check for fifty thousand for four more paintings, to be delivered by the first week of December, with the remaining fifty thousand due upon receipt.

How could her paintings be worth so much? They were faceless subjects that, in Reagan’s mind, had meaning solely to her. And a few others close to her. He’d raved over the one she’d painted called
In the Kitchen
, and it was created from a memory of her and Em’s mom, leaning against the kitchen sink in that way she did. “The color! The depth! The emotion!” Emily mimicked Miles’s accent as they headed back to Cassabaw. “Sis, you are driving home with one. Hundred. And. Fifty. Thousand. Dead. Presidents!” The sound of her hitting the steering wheel erupted. “God Almighty, girl!”

Reagan laughed at her sister’s antics. “Well, let’s wait to celebrate after the checks clear,” she said. It really seemed surreal. Miles had claimed to know exquisite art when he saw it. Was that her work? How had such luck befallen her? And so fast? She did feel proud, though. That someone would want to pay that much? It stunned her into complete and total silence. She wondered, though, had she not been blind, would he have loved them as much? Her handicap may very well have been a selling point.

Her hands gripped the envelope containing the checks, and again she wanted to tell Eric, so bad it almost hurt.

By the time they stopped at the bank in King’s Ferry and deposited the checks, then made it home, it was just after one o’clock. Emily dropped Reagan off and headed to the café. Alone, and a little too pumped to paint, she decided to make her way next door to visit Jep and tell him the news. Shoving her cell into the pocket of her jeans, she grabbed her walking stick and started across the yard, then followed the trail between the Quinns’ and Malones’. A tinge of sadness struck her again. She knew it’d only been a week and a half, but it felt a lot longer than that since she’d been with Eric. She heard his voice in her head. Could even see his smile in her mind. And she missed his laugh. Giving her head a shake, as if to knock those thoughts and images aside, she continued on, making her way over pine needles and moss and fallen pinecones. The scent of burning leaves permeated the typical brine in the air.

Once on the front porch, Reagan knocked loudly and waited. She knocked again, and knowing the old sea dog’s hearing was not so great, she knocked even louder. Then called his name.

“Jep!” she yelled. “It’s Reagan!”

She listened closely, but heard nothing. Jep hardly ever left the house, unless it was on the boat. The scent of burning leaves grew heavier, so he was probably around back tending to the fire.

Deciding to walk around back, Reagan walked carefully, not knowing her way around the Malones’ as well as she knew her own place. Once she skirted the house, she stopped and called again.

“Jep! Are you out here? It’s Reagan!”

Then she heard it. Faint. Barely there. A groan. Right? Had she heard it?

With her heart pounding, she continued making her way and calling Jep’s name. Ahead, she could barely make out the dark shapes of the dock, and she continued to call. Finding the small patio, she turned and faced the river, making her way across the yard.

“Jep!” she called.

There, she heard it again. Ahead of her, and closer. Then her stick struck something solid, and Reagan knelt and felt with her hand.

A shoe. Connected to a foot. And a leg.

“Jep! Jep!” she called, and eased her way close until she was kneeling beside his chest. Feeling with her hands, she found his neck and saw his pulse was light. So light she could barely feel it at all. His skin was cold and clammy.

Quickly, she pulled her phone out and called 911, gave the address and her distress. Jep made another noise, but he wasn’t speaking. She could feel his face was covered in sweat, and she leaned down and placed her ear close to his mouth and nose. He was breathing, but not strongly. Jesus God, Jep!

Only knowing basic CPR, she felt for his pulse again, first in his wrist, then at his throat. This time, she felt nothing. “Oh, my God, Jep,” she said, shaking. She rose onto her knees and started doing chest compressions, every so often checking for his pulse and breath. He was still breathing, but barely, and she could only guess he’d had a heart attack.
Where is the ambulance?

By the time the thought was out of her mind, she heard them pulling into the drive. Another vehicle came, too, and she continued doing chest compressions until the EMT’s voice alerted her that they were there and would take over.

“Reagan! What happened?”

It was Eric’s voice, and he was suddenly there, his hands on her shoulders, voice frantic.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I came over to visit and he wouldn’t answer the door, and I found him on the ground,” she said, and her voice caught. “Eric, is he going to be okay?”

Eric’s fingers gripped her arms, and he gave her a quick hug. “He will,” he said, and his voice shook. “Thanks to you, Rea.”

Within moments, Emily had arrived, along with Matt. Nathan and Owen were on their way back in from shrimping and would meet them at the hospital.

“Do you want to go, honey?” Emily asked Reagan, and she was crying.

“I do,” Reagan answered.

“Thank you,” Matt said close to her, then pulled her into a fierce hug. He didn’t say anything else, and he let her go but gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You two ride with me.”

Emily grabbed Reagan’s arm and together they hurried, and within moments they were on their way to the hospital in King’s Ferry. No one spoke, and Reagan could only imagine the worry going through Matt’s mind. Eric’s, as well as Nathan’s and Owen’s. Jep was up in age, but this had come out of nowhere. He’d always been so healthy, so feisty. She could only pray he’d be okay.

Eric had ridden with the ambulance—she’d overheard his frantic voice as the EMTs were loading Jep into the truck. He had to be out of his mind. Jep was their world. Their patriarch. The solid cornerstone of the Malone family.

At the hospital, they hurried through to the waiting room in the Emergency Room until a nurse called to them, and they followed her to the waiting room for ICU. There, they waited some more. Eric and Matt spoke in low voices together, and soon Nathan and Owen joined them, and Eric brought them up to speed on what had happened.

“If Reagan hadn’t gone over to visit him, we wouldn’t be here,” Eric said. “She did chest compressions on him until the bus got there and took over.”

Reagan heard footfalls, and Owen Malone’s gentle voice spoke, and he grasped her hands in his. “We’ve quite a lot to thank you for, young lady,” he said.

“I’m just glad I walked over,” Reagan said quietly.

Just then, a new voice broke through. “Mr. Malone?”

Four male voices answered. “Yes?”

“Ah, well,” he said. “I’m Dr. Cooley. Your father’s going to be fine. His heart catheterization showed a clogged artery, and that’s been taken care of with a stint.”

“Can we see him?” Eric asked.

“You can,” the doctor said. “But he wants to see Reagan Quinn first. Alone.”