Low Tide Bikini (A Pleasure Island Romance) (23 page)

As he neared her bed, she opened her eyes and smiled a lopsided smile, dark brown eyes almost black in her ghostly white face. Her chapped lips seemed lifeless, and a bit of drool trickled from the left side of her mouth.

“You came. I knew you would.” Her voice was thin, her speech distorted and slurred. She reached out her arm.
 

He leaned down and hugged her. “You gave us a scare, Mum.”
 

She squeezed him tighter. “I’m not going anywhere. Gran came to me in a dream, and insisted I stay on a while longer to set things right.”

He straightened from the hug and held her hand. “Gran always gets her way.” He found it touching that his mother referenced Gran, even now, over a year since her death.
 

“Oh, yes, she does get her way, indeed.”
 

Graeme stepped inside the room. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit. I need to make a diaper run for the baby.”

"No problem." Brock returned his attention to his mother when Graeme left the room.

Brock told her about the beach house and his renovations. She told him about Graeme’s daughter Laura and how fast she was growing. He had a hard time understanding every word his mother said, but he tried not to let on. She was in a chatty mood, which he felt was a good sign.

In a far away, quiet voice, she said, “I have something to share with you that is unpleasant. I need to explain why I’ve been so distant.“

He squeezed her hand. “Mum, you don’t owe me an explanation. That’s in the past.” She was too weak to worry with such issues now. He’d longed for an explanation for her detachment for years, but he didn’t want to her over exert herself at the moment.

She looked in his eyes, “Always the generous heart.”

“Only for people I care about.”

She closed her eyes. “You deserve to know.” She paused to catch her breath. “I don’t want to depart this world before I’ve set things right.”

He couldn’t help but to be moved by her declaration. “You aren’t going anywhere, Mum, but I’ll listen to what you have to say.”

She drew a shallow breath and began. Managing as best she could with one side of her face paralyzed, she told him about a pregnancy, but was rather cryptic.

He gathered form what she said that the pregnancy was associated with a trauma. He said, “Mum, are you trying to tell me you miscarried?”
 

Her eyes filled with tears, “Yes. I was a foolish woman who didn’t obey doctor’s orders.”
 

“I’m so sorry, Mum.”
 

She quivered. “I was institutionalized after that. You never knew, did you?”

“No, Mum. I never knew.”
 

“Your father had to quit his job and look after you. “

She scooted up on the bed, and adjusted her pillow. “With all the pills they gave me, I wasn’t able to
feel
much of anything.”

He didn’t know what to say. Finally he understood why she’d closed herself off from him.
 

“Mum, shhh. Rest.” He didn’t want her to wear herself out.
 

“I’ve needed to tell you these things....” Her breathy voice gave out and became a wheeze.

He caressed her cheek. For the first time since he could remember, there was a glimmer of hope that he and his mother would resolve their issues. It was bound to take some time, but at least she was making an effort. He was willing to do the same.
 

BROCK LOOKED AT his dad across the dining table. “I had a long talk with Mum today. She told me about the child she lost. Her bouts with depression. It all came out.”
 

His father sat down his fork and looked up. “She’s finally told you.”

“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me long ago when she couldn’t? It would have helped me to understand her.”

“It wasn’t my place. Your mother was very fragile.” His father picked at his bread.

Brock could tell he'd put his father on the defensive by the way he avoided eye contact. “You’re a stronger man than I am. I’m not sure I could have stuck by her like you did.”
 

His father pounded the table with his fist and glared at Brock. “When you love a woman, as I love your mother, you look beyond what you want, and you search for what she needs. Your mother needed emotional distance. I allowed her to have it. I don’t regret it.”

“But what about you? What about Graeme and me?”

“You boys had my love and Gran’s love. I did a lot of research trying to find answers concerning your mother. I discovered that detachment isn’t uncommon for people who were orphaned at a young age, at least not according to the experts. “

Brock immediately thought of Sam. She had been orphaned and lost a child. She’d failed to call him. Was she like his mother? Could he handle it if so? “Dad, I didn't mean to insinuate you didn't do enough. Thank you for all you did for me as a child. I didn’t know until today how much you’d sacrificed.”

“Sacrifice is an honor when it’s for the people you love. In fact, I don’t consider anything I did for you boys and your mother a sacrifice. It was a privilege that comes from being a parent and a husband.”

“A privilege? You have a way of looking at things sometimes that boggles my mind. I can’t fathom calling what you went through a privilege.”

WITH HIS MIND and heart at war, Brock needed a drink, many drinks. He decided to brave it and go to the pub. Once he had enough drinks in him, he wouldn't care about the paparazzi. He wouldn't care about a bloody thing.

He entered the corner pub. As he’d expected, he was immediately bombarded by locals. Reporters stalked him, snapping pictures of various women who flirted with him. He drank until he was able to let the crowd fade into the background.

His mind drifted to Sam. He’d considered getting her phone number from the Marshalls, but they weren’t in Cardiff. They’d gone back to New York for a spell. He could probably get their number from Graeme, but then he’d have to explain why he needed it, which meant he’d have to come up with some far-fetched lie or tell the truth. Neither of those options appealed to him. At all.
 

Why hadn’t Sam called?
 

He closed his eyes and envisioned her looking up at him as he’d entered her. She had had the most captivating expression, as if she’d been found, which is exactly how he’d felt. Found. The soft moans she made drove him wild. The way she said his name as she gripped his arms, rocking her body against his, her desperate need for release. When she’d come for him, each time she’d been less inhibited than the time before until she was screaming in passion, and he was lost inside her. She had ripped his heart wide open and kissed his soul. Now that he knew she was out there, that a woman with the ability to bring him to life existed, he had to be with her.
 

He downed another pint. In his mind he saw Sam on the beach, her long blonde hair in the wind, her nude tanned body backlit by the setting sun, a smile on her face, and an outstretched hand beckoning him.
 

He felt himself smile, and a bright flash went off in front him. He blinked and pushed away a camera aimed at his face, centimeters from his nose. “Bugger off. “ He snatched the camera out of the pot-bellied imbecile’s hand and slammed it on the bar, breaking it into pieces.

“You’ll have to pay for that.” The whiney sorry excuse for a man whimpered.

“Gladly.” Brock bit off. “If I break your arm, I’ll gladly pay for your trip to the hospital as well. I’ll even autograph your cast.”

He’d had enough. With a firm push, he shoved the reporter out of his way. He barreled through the crowd, bumping into paparazzi and chattering locals unapologetically.
 

“Where are you going?” A scantily clad woman grabbed his arm.
 

He looked her up and down, from her dirty, ash brown hair to her plump figure poured into a spandex dress four sizes too small. He didn't mind a voluptuous figure, quite the contrary, but skanky women were revolting.
 

He shuddered. “Unhand me.” When he looked into her eyes, he recognized her. He’d gone to school with her long ago, but he didn’t recall her name.

“I thought we could catch up on old times. Come have a drink with me.” She smiled with nervousness in her eyes, as if she feared how he might respond, as if her self-worth was contingent on his answer.

Christ
. She was imposing herself upon him, and he was expected to be polite? He didn’t give a rat’s arse. “Move.” He pushed past her and stormed out of the bar into the humid night air.

This. This is what being in Cardiff did to him. It turned him into a despicable person. He had to get out of there and back into Sam’s arms.

When Brock awoke, his father stood by his bed. “Your mum has been released, and I’m free to bring her home. Want to join me?”

A fog filled Brock’s head and nausea caused him to break out in a cold sweat, but he couldn’t turn down his father’s offer.

On the way to the hospital, Brock slumped in the passenger seat with his forehead against the cool window. His mind rattled awake. With his mother recovering well enough to come home, he’d be able to return to North Carolina. Would Sam be glad to see him?

His father jabbed him in the ribs, “What’s her name?”

“Who?”

“The woman who has you in a tangled knot?”

“Tangled knot? What do you mean?”

“I know that look on your face. You’ve been thinking of a woman since you’ve arrived. She must be quite a lady. What’s her name?”

He couldn’t deny it. “Sam Carlisle. She’s a gorgeous musician whose managed to brand her name across my heart at record speed.” A half-hearted laugh croaked from his chest. “And what makes it so frustrating is the fact that I don’t have any way of reaching her, unless I mail her a letter.”

“Then send her a letter.”

“Ha. A letter is what got me into this mess with her in the first place. I gave her, what I believed to be, the most magnificent love letter ever written. She's ignored me ever since. Safe to say, she doesn’t fancy letters. To be quite honest, she doesn’t fancy a lot of things. She gets her feathers ruffled over the smallest of things sometimes and blasts me out of the blue. She leaves me dizzy, but I can’t get enough. It’s infuriating and exhilarating at the same time.”

“She sounds like a handful. I like her already.”

“You’d adore her, Dad. I hope I can repair the damage and have a go at something real with her.”

“Something real. That sounds serious.” His father glanced over at him. “It’s about time. I was beginning to think you’d never open yourself up to a woman.”

“Such confidence you instill in me.” He laughed.”Thanks for that.” Brock heaped on the sarcasm.

“I’m happy for you.” His dad chuckled and patted Brock’s arm as he pulled into the visitor’s parking area at the hospital.
 

Brock tensed at the sight of paparazzi lined along the street. “Don’t these morons ever call it a day?”

“No. You have your choice—give them something to post that is positive or negative. What’s it going to be?” He could always count on his father to be the wise one in the family.

“Positive. Let’s go get Mum.” Brock stepped out of the car and waved to the crowd. Reporters swarmed. He put on a fake smile and said, “Thank you for all your support and prayers. My mother’s recovering nicely, and we’re to take her home this morning. I’d appreciate if you all stand back when we bring her out. As I’m sure you can understand, she’s in a delicate state, and too much commotion would not be good for her.”
 

He held up a hand and refused to say another word. He knew some would honor his request, but most would not. However, he had done the polite thing, which was what his father expected him to do—be the gentleman he’d been raised to be, instead of the sulking wanker he’d been the night before.

HIS MOTHER SAT at the kitchen table in a fuzzy yellow robe. Color had come back to her cheeks, and her hair was pinned into a tidy bun. Graeme sat beside her, holding his baby girl in his arms, a pink blanket wrapped around her tiny body.
 

Brock’s mother tickled the baby’s cheek and said, “You’re a pretty one, Laura. You’ll steal all the hearts. Yes you will.” Her speech still revealed a prominent slur. The doctor said he had high hopes that slur would improve in time.

The baby squirmed and curled her slobbery mouth into an adorable smile.
 

Graeme's wife Tara leaned her head against his shoulder. Her wavy light brown hair fell in soft curls around her face, her porcelain pink skin aglow. She carried more weight now than she had before the pregnancy, but the extra pounds looked good on her. They rounded her out and made her face cherubic.
 

Graeme kissed the crown of Tara’s head and bounced the baby in his arms.

The love that filled the kitchen seemed otherworldly. Brock had never witnessed such a display in this house, the house he’d called home for nearly twenty years. He’d offered to purchase a larger, more prestigious house for his mother and father, but they'd both insisted on staying in this small cottage near the hub of town. For the first time, this quaint cottage proved to be a proper home for a close-knit family.

His father came up behind him and slapped him on the back. “You going to stand here in the hall all morning?”

He searched his father’s eyes, trying to see if he was as touched by the sight in the kitchen as Brock was. He found the answer. Yes. The light in his father’s dark eyes shined brightly as he smiled at the gathering around the kitchen table.
 

“Mum looks good this morning, Dad.”

“Yes. Yes, she does. I think we’re going to make out just fine. This experience has changed her. In some physical ways it has been a hardship, but in other ways, in the ways that matter most, she’s come out of this a more affectionate woman.”

“I agree.” He studied his mother’s face, her joy, the way she cooed at the baby. “Listen, Dad, I’m going to be heading back to the other side of the pond tomorrow.”