Carolina Dreaming: A Dare Island Novel (23 page)

“I still want you,” she whispered.

Gabe went very, very still. “You picked a hell of a time to mention it, cupcake.” He raised his voice, never taking his gaze from hers. “Jay, Frank, take your breakfasts out front. You can eat at one of the tables.”

And that, she was pretty sure, would give the gossips something to chew on for weeks.

Gabe watched them go and then turned back to her, his thumbs in his pockets. “So you want me,” he said. “Damned if I can see why that’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad. Inconvenient, I guess. I reckoned that after we . . .”
Not slept together.
No sleeping involved.
She blushed. “After we, you know, did it, that I wouldn’t feel so needy. Greedy. Isn’t having sex supposed to get it out of your system?”

His mouth quirked. “Not if you do it right.”

She smiled ruefully. “We must be doing something right, then. I feel like I’m set to burst out of my skin. I want you all the time. Is it you? Is it me?”

He gave a short, strangled laugh. “Hell, I don’t know. Maybe it’s the tool belt.”

An answering laugh bubbled deep within her. “It’s not only the tool belt, trust me.”

“Then it’s got to be you.” His gaze met hers. “I’ve never felt this way before.”

Oh.
She hugged his words to her heart the way she wanted to hug him.

But she could not linger. No matter what she dreamed or felt, she had work to do. Rudy came in at nine to help with the lunch prep, but Jane still needed to do the afternoon baking.

She clasped her hands together, keeping them to herself. “I have to go.”

Gabe nodded, accepting that, but said, “I want to see you tonight. You and Aidan.”

“I’m sorry. I have to do paperwork tonight. Pay bills. Place orders. My vendors only deliver to the island once a week. If I don’t order my supplies on time, I’ll wind up having to make a dozen trips to the mainland.”

A long look, a slower nod. “Right.”

Guilt and regret joined forces against her. “Maybe you could come by later,” she suggested.

“Nine o’clock?”

She winced, thinking of the stack of things awaiting her attention.

“Ten?”

She bit her lip. “Maybe . . . ten thirty?”

He frowned. “I thought you had to be up at four.”

Her throat tightened. She liked it so much that he remembered. More, that he cared.

I would like to lighten her load some
, he had said to her father.

But it was
her
load, she thought stubbornly. Her weight to carry, her job and hers alone.

“I don’t mind losing a little sleep,” she said.

“I do. I won’t come by tonight if it means you’re exhausted in the morning.”

“But I want to see you.”
Great. Pouting. So attractive.

“You’ll see me tomorrow.”

“Don’t you have another job to go to?”

“We’ll find time. I’ll make time,” he said.

She hoped so.

The truth was, there weren’t enough hours in the day. She was already juggling as much as she could handle. She wasn’t sure how to throw a relationship into the mix without everything crashing to the ground.

T
HE
DAMN
LETTER
from the lawyer in Detroit burned a hole in Gabe’s back pocket. The words were branded in his brain.
Sorry to inform you . . . Sole beneficiary . . . Contact us at your earliest convenience.

The phrases swirled, a red cloud in his head, like the suffocating dust of Afghanistan stirred by chopper blades. Memories rose and choked him. Anger, grief, regret. His throat ached. His eyes burned. He dragged down his safety goggles and turned on the drill, focusing on the task at hand, burying his thoughts in action.

Metal filings flew. Two holes, ten feet up, one on either side of the pole.

Lucky barked from the back of the truck.

Gabe shut off the drill.

“Hey, Gabe.”

He had an audience. Aidan stood with a couple of kids at the edge of the carport, gazing up at him on the ladder.

Gabe swallowed the dryness in his throat, dredged up a smile. “Hi, sport. Who are your pals?”

“This is Chris.”

Right.
Gabe recognized the smaller of the two boys who had walked home with Aidan a couple weeks ago.

“And this is Hannah,” Aidan said, indicating the dark-skinned girl in purple-laced sneakers.

She cocked her head, regarding Gabe with big green eyes. “What are you doing?”

“You took down the basketball hoop,” Chris said at the same time.

“Yep.” He came down the ladder, went to his pickup.

Aidan tagged after him.

Gabe dropped the tailgate. Lucky bounded from the truck, running from child to child, throwing himself down at everybody’s feet, leaping up to thrust his nose in hand after hand. Hannah giggled.

While the kids fussed over the dog, Gabe hefted his cargo from the back of the pickup.

“What’s that?” the girl asked.

Gabe carried the box to the carport.

The kitchen door opened, and it was like the sun came out on the porch, because . . . Jane.

The howling sandstorm inside him eased. Not that the letter in his pocket went away. But he could breathe again.

She smiled at him, warm and a little shy. “I thought you were all done here.”

“Got one more job to take care of.” He set down the box, revealing the picture on the side.

“A new hoop!” Aidan shouted.

This time the smile came easier. “That’s right.”

“Gabe, you shouldn’t—” Jane started.

“Cool,” Chris said.

“Can anybody play on it?” Hannah asked.

“Once it’s up,” Gabe said.

“Awesome!” Aidan said. “Thanks, Gabe!”

“Don’t thank me,” Gabe said. “You still have to put it together.”

“Me?”

The staggered delight on the boy’s face caused a catch in Gabe’s chest. He cleared his throat again. “If you’re up for it. I need somebody to assemble the bracket before I attach the backboard. Think you can look at the directions, see how everything gets put together?”

“By myself?”

Gabe eyed the other two. “Wouldn’t hurt to have some help.” It might even do Aidan some good to get his friends involved.

Chris’s face split in a grin, exposing a missing tooth.

“I can help,” Hannah volunteered.

“Hannah’s really smart,” Aidan said.

“Great. Let’s see what you got.” He made them stand back as he slit open the carton, as he located the instructions and the bag of parts. “Keep everything on the cardboard now. Don’t lose anything.”

Three heads bent over the cardboard. Fingers poked through washers and bolts.

“You just made him really happy.” Jane stood beside Gabe, their shoulders almost touching. “Thank you.”

He looked down at her, warm and close and important. “My pleasure.”

“It must have been awfully expensive. You need to let me pay you back.”

His jaw set. “No.”

“It’s too much. You’re too generous.”

“Look, I wanted to give him something.” Needed to give him something. Wanted to do anything to turn this crappy mood around. “He did help me paint.”

“Gabe, I think we need tools,” Aidan said.

“No, you don’t.”

“To tighten things up,” Hannah explained.

“The bolts should just be finger-tight for now. We’ll tighten everything down after it’s all assembled.” Gabe crouched beside them to check. “Yeah, like that. Good job.”

He straightened, reaching automatically to make sure the letter didn’t fall out of his pocket.

Hannah threaded a bolt through a hole.

“Not that one,” Aidan said, grabbing. “Try this.”

She snatched it back. “I’ve got it. Look.”

He preferred their squabbling to the voices in his head.

“What’s the matter?” Jane asked very quietly.

Gabe shook his head. He didn’t know where to start.

“Bad day?” she probed softly.

“I got a letter,” he heard himself say.

“Bad news?”

“My mother’s dead.”

Shit. He hadn’t intended to tell her like that. He hadn’t planned on telling her at all.

“Oh, Gabe.” Jane turned toward him, her fingers squeezing his arm. “When?”

“Six weeks ago.” About the time he got out of jail. It took the lawyers that long to find him.

“How?”

“Cancer.” All the years he’d feared for her life, he’d never thought it would be a disease that finally finished her off. “I didn’t even know she was sick.”

What kind of son didn’t know his own mother was dying?

Jane was silent. But for some reason, he wasn’t afraid of her judgment. Maybe she was the one woman in the world who would understand.

“Stay right here,” she commanded, with another squeeze.

Like he had someplace better to go.

He stood there numbly while the kids wrangled at his feet and Jane ran lightly up the porch steps and into the kitchen.

“Okay.” She was back, holding a bottle of water. She put her free hand on his arm again. “Let’s go sit down over here.”

He let her lead him to one of the tables under the trees, within sight of the carport. She handed him the water.

Doing what she did best, providing food and drink. Not offering false reassurances, just her presence. Her acceptance. Her peace.

“Thanks.” Unscrewing the top, he drank deeply. It was something to do, to avoid meeting the sympathy in her eyes. And it eased the ache in his throat, a little. “You should go back inside. You have work to do.”

“Rudy and Lindsey can handle it. So, this letter . . .” Her fingers were cool and light on his arm. “Was it from your father?”

“No. He’s dead, too. At least, I’m pretty sure he is.”

“You don’t know.”

He shook his head once side to side.
No
. But he could guess.
Sole beneficiary
, the letter said. His mother would never have left him a dime if the old man was alive. She had made her choice between her husband and her son years ago. “The letter was from her lawyer. Some law firm in Detroit.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jane said.

“Don’t be. I lost my mother ten years ago, when she kicked me out. My father . . .” He turned the bottle around and around in his hands. “He hit her all the time,” he said suddenly. “When I tried to stop him, he hit me, too.”

“Oh, Gabe.”

He took a deep breath. “When I finally got big enough to beat the shit out of him for raising his hand to her, Mom threatened to call the police on me. She took his side. Even after he died”—
how long had he been dead?
—“she chose him over me.”

“Because she was ashamed,” Jane said. “It’s hard to admit when you’re wrong.”

“I didn’t need her to say she was sorry. I forgave her a long time ago,” he said. It was true. Kind of a relief, that.

“Maybe she couldn’t forgive herself.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He exhaled. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”

“Gabe.” Jane stroked his arm. “You just found out that you lost both your parents. It’s all right to grieve.”

“I didn’t lose anything. You can’t grieve for something you never had.”

“Yes, you can. You’re mourning your family. Not the family
you had, but the one you wanted. The one you dreamed about.” Her voice was sad. “I still miss my mom sometimes. It’s funny, because I don’t even remember her all that well. But I miss the things mothers and daughters are supposed to do together, getting our nails done or her coming to my high school graduation or shopping for my wedding dress. I told Travis I wanted to elope because Dad didn’t approve of our marriage. But I think, deep down, I didn’t want to get married without my mother being there.”

He didn’t know what to say. Her mother had walked out on her. Hard to get around—or over—that. He covered her hand with his.

She sighed. “I guess maybe I just really miss the idea of her, you know?”

“I know,” he said, because he couldn’t leave her hanging out there all alone. “I sent Ma these postcards. So she could reach me, if she wanted to. If she needed anything.”

Like one day she would come around.
All is forgiven, come home.
But she never had. And now it was too late.

Jane turned her hand over, lacing her fingers with his. “I always wanted to hear my mother say it wasn’t my fault.”

“Yeah,” he confessed. “Me, too.”

Her eyes were shiny. Hell. Was she crying? He really hoped she wasn’t going to cry. He held her hand tighter.

She bit her lip. “I guess part of you never gets over wanting your mother’s . . .”

He searched for a word to give her. “Acceptance.”

“Love.”

Ah, Jesus. Now
he
was going to cry.

He looked up, focusing on the distance, willing away the burning in his eyes. There was the sea, bright and blurry, and the neat roofs and snug houses of the town. There was the addition he had built, square and strong against the weathered oaks, and Jane, sitting across the table from him, the sunlight shining on her smooth hair.

And there was Aidan, straightening carefully from the
cardboard mat, a smile on his face and the rickety bracket held aloft in his hands like a trophy. “Hey, Gabe. Gabe, we got it.”

His heart swelled and filled. He cleared his throat. Tightened his grip on Jane’s hand.

The family you dreamed about.

“Looks good,” he said.

*   *   *

T
HAT
NIGHT
AFTER
dinner, Gabe and Aidan built Legos and then went into the backyard to throw a Frisbee for Lucky. Their shouts and laughter as they tried to teach the dog to fetch made Jane’s heart bloom.

The next morning at the bakery, Gabe brought her real blooms, a pot of fragrant pink hyacinth—“I can plant them for you. So you’ll have flowers next spring,” he explained—and made her sigh.

He reminded her they had a date that night, an adults-only Saturday-night date, and sent her into a mild panic.

“Sure, I can watch Aidan,” Cynthie Lodge said when Jane called. “No problem. Max will be thrilled. Movie nights tend to get a little chick-heavy over here.” Cynthie, the single mom of two daughters, had recently gotten engaged to Max Lewis from the mainland. “The real question is, what are you going to wear?”

“Oh, I didn’t . . . I don’t think it’s that kind of date,” Jane stammered.

“It’s always that kind of date. Unless you plan on showing up naked.”

A surge of memory, warm and low, temporarily robbed Jane of breath. And caution. “Not this time.”

“Wait. Does that mean . . . You didn’t. You did!” Cynthie said, delighted. “You had a naked date with Gabe Murphy!”

The warmth turned into a full-body flush. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t. Not about the naked part. But everybody knows
he’s stuck on you. I mean, he’s there all the time, isn’t he? Swinging his tools. About time you got some, if you ask me.” Jane heard a rumble in the background—Max’s voice—and Cynthie’s muffled reply. “No, honey, not you. Jane.”

She should have expected talk, Jane told herself, wavering between amusement and distress. Most of it would be kind. These were her friends, her neighbors. Nobody was going to throw stones at her simply for having sex with a man she was . . . well, that she was seeing.

Their speculation gave her pause, all the same.

Not that she should care what other people thought.

But she did. She wanted their acceptance. Their approval.

It hadn’t mattered so much at nineteen. Then, it had all been about Travis, about how much he needed her. But things were different now. She was different. She had her son and her business to think about now.

“So, where are you two going?” Cynthie asked cheerfully.

I have no idea.