Half Moon Harbor (33 page)

Grace couldn't talk past the instant lump that had formed in her throat, so she just nodded.

“Where can we go and still be private? I think we need somewhere we can sit down.”

“End of the dock?” Grace managed, swallowing hard. “I drink my coffee out there every morning. But I don't talk. I guess our voices would carry. Wait, I know. Brodie's boat.”

“The big one?
Godspeed
?”

Grace nodded. “Why? Are you not fond of boats? It's tied up. It doesn't rock that much.”

“No. I've just—ever since he sailed in to the harbor when he first arrived I've been dying to get an up close inside look.”

“He sailed into Maine?” Grace asked.

Delia tilted her head to the side. “How did you think he got his boat here?”

Grace laughed. “I don't know. I mean, I know he built it, and he's here and it's here, but I never put it all together. He has the sloop, too.”

“He built that here as a calling card of sorts, to get the ball rolling. As for
Godspeed,
I don't think he came straight across. I think he went south, to the islands, then came up the eastern seaboard.” She smiled at Grace. “Intimidating to you, or sexy as hell?”

Grace managed to smile past the dozen other things her brain was spinning around. “Both. You've never been on it? You mean, I know something the great Delia doesn't know?”

“Only for as long as it takes to get us out there. Come on. And bring the tissues.”

Grace gulped, but she grabbed the box. Knowing that Whomper loved the Point house as much as the docks, she hadn't minded when he'd jumped into Brodie's truck with him, but she was thankful it was going to be just her and Delia. She wasn't sure she was ready for Delia's revelations, but what other choice did she have? She wanted to know about her brother. She hoped she didn't regret wanting to know.

 

Once Delia had oohed and ahhed over every inch of the boat, Grace rolled open all the windows and they settled belowdecks in the lounge area between the galley and the passageway to Brodie's stateroom.

“So . . . I'm not sure where to begin,” Delia said.

“You sent me the note, asking me to come see Ford.” Grace settled herself more deeply into the cushions, kicking off her boat shoes and tucking her feet up under her legs. “It's funny. I had a hundred different stories I came up with about who you were and who you were to him. Good ones,” she added. “Because I didn't doubt you were trying to do a good thing.”

“Why didn't you come, then?”

“Because he didn't ask me,” Grace said simply. “And I knew he didn't know you had. I compromised and sent him an invitation to my college graduation. He never even acknowledged it, so I didn't regret not coming. I mean, of course I did. I second- and third- and forty-fifth-guessed it, but in the broad scope of things, I felt I'd done the right thing and protected myself. When I saw him out on Sandpiper, he told me he never got it.”

“Then I'm sure he didn't,” Delia said so matter-of-factly that Grace didn't question her belief. She just didn't know where that trust came from.

“He also said you weren't his girlfriend. So . . . who were you to him? Who are you now? I guess I should have asked that before we jumped right into girl talk. I had planned to, but . . . that just felt . . . I don't know.”

“Personal,” Delia supplied. “It's right that you want to know. And I like that it was easy for us, natural.”

Grace nodded.

“It wasn't like that with Ford, but it might have been, under other circumstances.”

“So, tell me how you know him. Are you why he came to Maine? Or did you come here for him?” Grace knew Delia's diner was a long-standing business in the Cove, but had never asked about her backstory or heard talk of it. “No one has talked to me about Ford. They still don't. But I'm pretty sure everyone knows I'm his sister. They seem to respect him, so . . . I guess I'm surprised. They don't mind telling me every last thing about Brodie's history and Cove history, but—”

“They were being respectful. More toward Ford, you understand, than for your benefit. They want to see him happy, or at least more . . . settled, or . . . I'm not even sure what the right word is. They wanted to make sure you were here for good reasons, good for his well-being, anyway. You seemed to pass that test easily enough, putting down roots and being very open about wanting to honor the history and legacy of the boathouse. Until the two of you spoke and things moved forward, folks just kept a step back.”

“Thinking I'd talk to him, he'd push me away, and I'd run?”

“Something like that, maybe.” Delia gave Grace a considering look. “He didn't do that, did he?”

“I'm not sure what, exactly, he did. I didn't give him much choice about talking to me. And we didn't leave it with a time or date to see each other again. Not that I thought we would. I told him to invite me or I'd just keep inviting myself. That I wanted to see what he did and just . . . find a bridge back to him.”

“And?”

Grace lifted a shoulder. “I'm not sure what his take on our estrangement is. I was . . . pretty ugly to him the last time we saw each other.”

Delia reached out, but let her hand drop just shy of taking hold of Grace's arm, leaving her a little bubble of self-containment and self-control, for which Grace thanked her profusely. “Oh, honey, that's not it. That's not near to being it. Trust me, he's been far, far uglier to himself about his role in your life than you could ever be to him, even if you tried.”

“You weren't there. You don't know.” Grace didn't say it accusingly, simply stated it as fact.

“I wasn't, no. But I have the benefit of hearing his side of that story.”

Grace's gaze flew to Delia's. “He told you? About that day?” Part of her felt betrayed to think that anybody else was privy to one of the most intensely personal, intensely private, and utterly shameful moments of her life. The other part felt an immense relief that it really wasn't some deep, dark secret only she bore, and bore alone. Still, she was afraid to ask what he'd said.

“You know, we're coming at this sideways. Let me tell you how I know Ford. Tell you our part of the story. The rest, well, that really is up to him.” She lifted a hand to stall Grace's reply and added, “I reserve the right to change my mind about that if he doesn't pull his head out of his ass and do the right thing, but I have to give him that chance.”

“That's fair. For what it's worth, he did seem to be taking on all the blame for us being apart.” Grace settled back into the cushions again and admitted to still being a little hurt that someone—anyone—could know her brother so well to talk about him so . . . familiarly. “So, when did you meet him?”

“The first time? When he was twenty-two.”

Grace shot her a look again, stunned silent.

“Yes, right after his first tour.”

“He came—” Grace had to stop, clear the tightness from her throat. “He came to Maine back then?”

Delia nodded. “He'd re-upped, so he was going back. That I knew. I learned before he left again, that he'd gone to find you, had seen you, spent some time with you, made sure you were okay.”

“Why did he come here?” Grace asked, not wanting to hear about how Ford thought she was okay. She hadn't been okay. No way could he have thought she was okay. But that had been her perspective at the time. Given what he'd seen, experienced, suffered, her life must have seemed like a cake walk, a safe stroll in the park. The very fact that she was in the States, and not where he was going, that she had a roof over her head and food in her belly, meant she was doing better than great. Understanding that so clearly was difficult. It meant she had to let go of the deep-seated anger she thought she'd let go so long ago . . . and very clearly had not. Not the deepest part.

“He came to see me,” Delia replied. “He'd never met me, didn't know me . . . though he apparently knew a great deal about me. He'd served with my brother. Tommy was almost four years older than me, signed up when he was twenty-one. Your brother had just turned nineteen when they were assigned to the same unit. Tommy was older, but Ford . . . well, Tommy only mentioned him once or twice in his letters, but then he sucked at sending letters, so once or twice was fair to gushing. Apparently Ford was being groomed for special forces.”

“Ranger school,” Grace said, and Delia nodded.

“I think Tommy sort of wished he was cut out for that, but he knew he wasn't. He admired your brother. They were battle buddies. You know, where—”

“I know. They protect each other in combat.”

“In everything.”

Grace had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew where this was going. Delia confirmed it in her next sentence.

“I lost my brother a week after he turned twenty-four. He'd been over there for three years and with Ford for most of it.” She looked up and held Grace's gaze. “He was killed by one of those roadside homemade bombs. Destroyed their tank, injured Ford pretty badly. Tommy risked his life to drag Ford and two others back to safety, then got hit himself. Ford held him, even though he was already past saving, until their unit came and got them all out. He, uh . . .” She shook her head. “I've told this story before and . . . I'm sorry, it doesn't usually . . .”

“Delia,” Grace said, her own voice choked with unshed tears. “It's okay.”

Delia shook her head, regrouped. “Ford came back home to recuperate, but, like I said, had already decided to re-up. He came here to accompany Tommy home, to talk to me and my grandmother, to tell us about him, about how he died a hero. Ford wanted us to know that Tommy had been a good man, a good soldier.”

Grace just sat there and took it all in, contrasting the story Delia was telling her with the brother who'd been a stranger to her after that first tour.

Ford had sent postcards, short notes, that first tour. She supposed she'd always imagined his life overseas the way you picture a war movie or something. She'd tried to picture the things he'd done and seen . . . except she couldn't. Not really. Not even close. She was only nine years old that first time. Then he'd been gone again. The cards and notes trickled to a stop during the next tours of duty.

“He did two more tours after that,” Grace said. “Spent a lot of them overseas. He made it to the Rangers. I knew that much, but by then he'd largely left behind his life before the Army. Including me. The last time I saw him was when he'd gotten out for good. He was twenty-nine, I was sixteen. We hadn't connected, spoken, not so much as a word for—” Grace cut herself off. “It's . . . you're right. It's our story. It's not that I wouldn't tell you, but—”

“No, I agree. I mean, if it's ever something you want to let out just to let it out, I'm here. But . . . otherwise, like my stories about my brother, my feelings about him, they're mine. So I get to pick and choose. And so do you. No harm, no foul.”

Grace nodded, thankful for Delia's no-nonsense, clear-cut attitude. “So . . . when did you see him again after that first time?”

“I-I'm not trying to hurt you, but I suspect this will, and I'm sorry for that. When . . . when he came here with Tommy, he stayed briefly after the funeral, and we spent some time together. When he went back overseas, he kept in touch. It was infrequent and always brief, but just when I suspected the worst had happened, some card or note would show up.”

Grace ducked her chin. Delia was right. It was hard to hear. “I certainly don't blame you. You two are close to the same age. You shared a different kind of bond that connected you to his world in a way I never could.”

“I am trying not to speak for him,” Delia told her. “Just trying to give you information about him and let you draw your own conclusions, but I need to at least say to you that . . . the longer he stayed in the service, the more, well, damaged he became. What happened with him and Tommy was just the start. As a Ranger, well, Ford was very good at his job, which means he handled some very, very bad stuff. I know that after a while, he felt he was some kind of war machine and didn't fit in back here. I know he felt he was keeping you safe by letting you find your own life without him because he simply saw no way he'd ever fit into it.” She lifted a hand. “It's a stupid guy way of thinking, and while that doesn't excuse it, it was where his head was, or where he put it, anyway.”

Grace didn't say anything to that. Ford had tried to tell her much the same thing in what little he had said out on that pier. It was a lot to take in, and it was going to change things. But that's why she had come to Maine, wasn't it? She opted to not talk, to simply listen, and begin to absorb.

“When he and the Army finally parted ways for good, he came here because I guess it was the one place he knew he'd be accepted for who and what he was, by me anyway. And so, what happened between the two of you is my fault, I guess. I told him he had to find you, make things right with you. I knew how desperately I still missed my brother, and I knew you two had lost both your parents and had only each other, so I begged him to go find you, reunite with you, be your brother and let you be his sister. He . . . he wasn't in any shape for that, but he went. I know that's when you had that last blowout because he lashed out at me for begging him to go. He blamed me for a long time . . . because it was easier than blaming himself.” She looked at Grace until she looked up. “He never, not once, blamed you.”

“I know he said you weren't his girlfriend, but were you two . . . ?” Grace just let it trail off. She knew Delia knew what she was asking.

“No.” Delia paused, then took a breath. “But . . . when he came here with Tommy's remains, that first time, my husband had just left me and I'd lost my brother. Ford was hurting, too . . . and . . . there was one night when we . . . weren't just friends. It was grief and alcohol and a lot of other things that weren't smart or . . . entirely stupid, but we did what we did. We never did it again. After that, going forward, it was more that I was his connection to Tommy, to the person who'd died in his arms. I became something of a talisman, or a connection to home, or maybe to reality, or even sanity. But no, Grace, we were never lovers again . . . or really at all. Not in the way you mean.”