On the Rocks (A Turtle Island Novel) (3 page)

Then Roni had confessed that she’d also be joining the ranks of motherhood. And Ginger had smiled through her envy.

Unwelcome jealousy or not, they were her girls, and she needed them now.

After running upstairs and tugging on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, both of which had seen better days, she went to the front porch to make her call. She tried Roni first, but there was no answer. Her tour would be finishing in a couple of weeks. Probably she was in the middle of prepping for tonight’s show.

Andie
did
answer her phone. With the sound of crying not far away.

“Hey, hon,” Andie said. She sounded completely exhausted, and not a little frazzled. “Can I call you back in just a bit? I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Yes,” Ginger interjected. “Call me later. Whenever. Take care of that cutie of yours. He sounds hungry.”

Andie laughed tiredly. “He’s always hungry.”

“Then feed the little guy. Don’t worry about me.”

The sounds of suckling suddenly came through the phone, and a pang tugged at Ginger’s heart. She wanted that, too.

“I’ll talk to you later,” Ginger whispered, ready to hang up.

“Wait,” Andie shot out. “You said worry. Don’t worry about you. What’s wrong?”

Ginger leaned her head against the back of the glider and closed her eyes. Moisture pushed at the seams. She missed having her friends close. “I didn’t mean
worry
,” she said. “I just meant . . .” She pictured her mother’s ring. Then she pictured little Teddy at his mother’s breast. “It’s nothing. We can talk anytime. You sound like you could use some sleep after you get Teddy down.”

“I can always use sleep.” A yawn followed the words, right on cue.

“Then feed that baby, close your eyes while he’s eating, and doze for a few minutes. We can talk later. Give him a hug for me, will you? And tell Mark I said hi.”

“Will do.” Andie yawned again. “You sure it’s nothing important?”

“Just checking on you.”

“
’K.” She yawned for a third time, sounding half asleep already, and they said their good-byes. Then Ginger stilled the seat and sat staring at nothing. Her life was changing. Her life had already changed. She had to get moving on that house.

She pulled her mother’s Facebook page up on her phone and loaded the picture of the ring. It really was stunning. Two carats of diamonds in a unique flower pattern that surrounded a center stone. There was even a row of smaller diamonds circling the band. It was a little much for Ginger’s taste, but she recognized the fact that it was perfect for her mother. Very romantic. Very girly. Clint had done well.

Studying the ring made Ginger wonder if she’d seen this coming all along. Was that why she’d started the house to begin with? Her mother had never suggested Ginger should live anywhere but here—thus the reason she’d been in no hurry to finish. But had Ginger somehow known this was on the horizon?

Or had her mother only become open to the idea
after
Ginger started the house?

Had
she
subconsciously told her mother it was okay to move on?

And did it even matter why it was happening? The fact was, her mother was in love and getting married. And Ginger had a house to complete.

She went inside for her notepad and the paint cards she’d collected two months ago, and began to jot down her thoughts. The house was complete on the outside, but there was practically nothing done internally. Studs framed the rooms and the subfloors were down, but that was it. No walls, no cabinetry, no fixtures. No personality. She’d been frozen at the thought of making final choices.

Somehow, the design for the structure had been in her head, but nothing else would come.

Her phone rang, and with a little squeeze of her heart, she reached for it, hoping it was Andie. Instead, it was her mom.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, baby. Are you free tonight?”

“Sure.” She looked up from her notes and noticed a strange car in the Ridleys’ driveway.

“Good. Clint and I wanted to invite you to dinner. We’re having a celebratory evening out with some friends.”

Ginger pushed the notepad off her lap and rose, moving to the other side of the uncovered porch so she could see their neighbors’ house better. The blinds were closed.

Julie wouldn’t be home from work yet, but she usually opened the blinds before leaving.

“Tonight?” she asked absently as she stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the shrubbery.

“Yes. We’ve got a reservation at the hotel.” The best restaurant on the island was at the historic Turtle Island Hotel. “And Clint invited this nice young man that he works with,” her mother added. “Clint thinks he might be perfect for you.”

Clint was a real-estate agent who covered both the island and surrounding communities. And now he was fixing her up? She held in the sigh. The last thing she wanted to do tonight was get dressed up and pretend to be interested in someone she didn’t know. There was a bubble bath and a good dousing of beer waiting for her.

“What’s he like?” she asked, trying to be a good sport.

“Clint says he has a great personality and he’s really nice. He still lives with his mother, but given that you live with me, you might have something in common.”

Ginger stared at the phone. A great personality? And he lived with his mother. She did not have a good feeling about this. She pulled the ends of her hair to her nose and sniffed, wondering if this nice-personalitied mama’s boy liked the smell of fish. She couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for even trying.

“I don’t know, Mom. I was going to—” A light came on in the house next door. “Someone’s at the Ridley house.”

“What?”

“A car that isn’t Julie’s. Did you see it before you left?”

“No. What’s it look like?”

“Black. Expensive-looking, huge. Like a town car.”

“Maybe she has a new boyfriend?” her mom suggested.

Ginger knitted her brows. “She’s seven months pregnant. What would she want with a man?”

“It could be the father,” her mother said after a pause. They both went quiet. They’d worried about Julie and whoever the father might be, but given the age difference between her and Carter’s sister—making them little more than neighborly toward each other—Ginger hadn’t felt she had the right to ask.

“All the blinds are closed,” she said. She had a bad feeling about this.

“That
is
odd.”

She nodded, her mind made up. “I’m going over.”

“Be careful. Text me and let me know everything’s okay.” After Ginger agreed, her mother added, “Then you can tell me all about it tonight at dinner.”

Ginger felt her left eyelid twitch. She wanted a bubble bath, not a blind date.

“You can wear that green dress of mine that you like so much.”

“Fine.” She didn’t know why she agreed, but she vowed not to give up the alcohol, too. “But you’re driving me home. And buying me expensive wine. I’ve had a long day.” If she had to drink wine instead of beer, it had to be pricey enough to compensate.

Her mother’s laugh was light and airy. “Clint will be happy to buy the wine, baby. But maybe your date will take you home.”

Ginger just shook her head at her mother’s suggestion. The sad thing was, she thought her mother wanted to see her married off as badly as
she
wanted to be. But no amount of setting her up, or letting her borrow cute clothes, or reminding her to talk about something other than the job seemed to do the trick.

All of it was enough to edge Ginger toward considering that maybe love, marriage, and babies wasn’t the dream after all. She had her friends’ babies she could play with. That could be enough. And that wouldn’t impact the other things she liked to do. Like spending hours floating in the middle of the ocean.

And enjoying bubble baths while drinking beer.

Heck, maybe the dream was
only
the house and not the man. If so, she was on the right track.

But she wasn’t quite ready to surrender. “I’ll see you tonight, Mom.”

She disconnected and took Kayla’s advice before heading next door, returning to the house to dig through the drawers of the front entry table until she found the can of Mace she’d gotten for her birthday. Then she headed out the front door and slipped through the shrubbery separating the two houses.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

D
amn it,” Carter growled when a shot of grease launched itself out of the cast-iron skillet and landed on his wrist. He shoved the pan full of chicken from the hot burner and thrust his hand under running water. Then he stood, teeth gritted, and thought about the cluster fuck that had been the entire day.

After getting off the ferry, he’d stopped by Julie’s gallery to clear his conscience. To ensure she was fine. But when he’d seen her, his conscience had been anything but cleared. She was too small to be that late in her pregnancy—at least, in his limited experience she seemed to be. And although Julie had pretended joy at seeing him, there had been something else lurking behind her eyes.

Exhaustion had come to mind first. Weren’t pregnant women tired all the time?

But that was before he’d caught her in the back room, leaning against the wall, her arms wrapped around her tiny stomach. She’d been so hunched over that she’d looked like a preteen girl.

She’d straightened when he’d said her name, but had refused to admit there was a problem. He hadn’t been able to get the hollow look of her out of his head all afternoon. The look encompassed both her eyes and her entire body. So after she’d kicked him out of the gallery for hovering, he’d made a trip to the grocery store and had come home to cook what had once been her favorite meal. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy. With banana pudding for dessert.

It wasn’t the healthiest of foods, but from what he could tell, she could use some fattening up. And honestly, he’d thought he would enjoy an afternoon spent in the kitchen. It had been a while.

But instead, he’d reeled from the sight of the house upon entering. What in the hell had Julie done? And why? The wallpaper in the kitchen was half down, the other half either glued fast to the walls or hanging in shreds, and every last item that belonged in the cabinets and drawers had been moved to somewhere
other
than the cabinets and drawers. Two cabinet doors had even been taken down, and from the dings on the hinges, it looked as if she’d removed them with force.

And now he had a blister the size of a nickel on his wrist.

He turned off the water, and cursed again when he went to get a dish towel, only to remember too late that the drawer was empty.
And
that he’d left it open. His hip slammed into the wood, emitting a cracking sound that he presumed meant the integrity of the frame had been compromised. The damned room was too small.

He’d always thought so, but it had never seemed to bother his parents. With his dad traveling 75 percent of the time for his job—and his dad being the only parent who’d actually liked to cook—the kitchen had been relegated to low priority. Extra money had instead been put into trips taken together as a family.

A home is only where you lay your head at night.

That had been both of his parents’ view when it came to upgrading the house that had been in the family for three generations, but Carter had never agreed. A home was where you made your life.

Or so he’d once believed.

Then he’d built his and Lisa’s dream house, only to find out that she wanted to make her life somewhere else. She
had been
making her life somewhere else.

Sonofabitch
.

He continued to grumble as he returned to cooking. Straight out of college he’d been hired as a civil engineer, same as his father, and had proceeded to travel wherever the jobs took him. Lisa had gone on to law school, before the two of them had eventually settled just outside of Providence. She’d wanted to live in Manhattan, but that large of a city hadn’t appealed to Carter, so they’d compromised with Rhode Island.

Their apartment hadn’t been on the coast, but with a short drive he could get there.

Lisa had commuted to New York City weekly, at least in the beginning. It had worked for them. He’d grown up in a similar fashion—his dad always traveling—so it had made sense.

Only—

A knock sounded at the door, cutting off his thoughts. Which was fine. Those thoughts never ended well. Except, he didn’t want company, either.

He stood by the stove and listened, being completely silent. The chicken even seemed to pick up on the need for silence, and the frying became a slight sizzle instead of the popping bonanza that had been going on only seconds before. He would ignore whoever was at the door. It would be either a solicitor or someone looking for Julie.

The knock sounded again. Harder this time.

He grunted and reached out to slap at the light switch, turning off the overhead light. He shouldn’t have turned it on, but after closing the blinds when he’d come in, it had been too dark to cook in the cramped space. Maybe whoever it was would get the hint and leave.

Nope. The knock this time was an obtrusive thump.

With a quick flick of the wrist, he turned the stove burner off and stomped through the house. The damned chicken wouldn’t be edible if it sat in the oil for very long.

Grabbing the knob, he yanked open the door.

“Stop right there!”

He immediately took a step back, hands in the air at the weapon raised toward him.

Then he squinted, his heart pounding wildly inside his chest, as he forced himself to fully take in the situation. It wasn’t a gun, as he’d first thought, but what looked to be a can of pepper spray.

Not that he wanted
that
in his face, either.

He took another step back, then sniffed. Good god, whoever it was reeked of fish.

Then a memory came to him. Of a certain redhead who’d lived next door with whom he used to go fishing. And the trim waist and those bare legs showing beneath the tiny pair of white shorts
did
imply this was a woman.

“Ginger?” he questioned cautiously. The arm in front of him stiffened. “Is that you?” he added.

Seconds later, the can lowered an inch and red hair and clear
green eyes peeked out above the tightly clenched fist. The arm lowered
another inch, and Ginger Atkinson looked him up and down. “Carter?”

He almost smiled.

Except, he didn’t smile these days. And he wasn’t about to break his streak now. “Why in the hell are you pointing pepper spray at me?” he grumbled. “Put that thing away.”

The can didn’t disappear. “Is that really you?” She squinted at him.

Carter pushed her hand down, putting himself out of harm’s way, and crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s me. Now tell me why you’re over here trying to blind me?”

Or worse, double him over and make him cry like a baby. He’d been sprayed once, as research for a book, and though he might not have cried exactly like an infant, tears had for sure made an appearance. It had been embarrassing. And painful. And he did not want to repeat the experience.

“I didn’t know who you were.” She pursed her lips, still seeming to size him up.

She finally put the can out of sight, tucking it into the back pocket of her shorts, and Carter’s gaze involuntarily followed the move. The cotton across her chest pulled tight, outlining her curves, and the shorts were short. The sight of her forced his brain to acknowledge the feminine picture she made. While at the same time his nose pointed out the smell.

“You stink, Red.”

She made a face. “Nice to see you, too. What are you doing here?”

“Came for a visit.” He said the words as if visits for him were common. As if he’d been home more than twice since he’d graduated from college.

The expression on her face said that she was aware of the facts.

“Mom wanted me to check on Julie,” he added grudgingly.

She nodded like she approved of his words. “And how long are you here for?”

As few days as possible.

He shrugged, then eased his stance and glanced back toward the kitchen, remembering how Julie had ripped the room apart. “I don’t know,” he said. Long enough to find out what was going on with his sister. He’d discovered several gouges dug into the walls as if she’d been as intent on taking out personal frustrations as she was on taking down the wallpaper.

Why she’d been doing either, he intended to find out.

Ginger crossed her own arms over her chest then, and poked out a hip, and damned if his pulse didn’t pick up at the pose.

Seriously? He was attracted to his childhood friend?

Well, at least he felt something for someone. It had been too long since anything had so much as stirred down there. Feeling disgust toward the opposite sex did that for a person. Stewing in his own anger did, too.

Maybe his mom had a point in dragging him out of his house.

He couldn’t help it then. He looked Ginger over from head to toe. Even with the stench, she was darn cute. No shoes, her clothes looking like something she’d probably owned for ten years, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail, with flying strands floating around her face. She didn’t seem to have on a speck of makeup, and her skin had a few more freckles than he remembered. He found the sight of her incredibly refreshing. And though she very much looked the same as she always had, there was also something different about her. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it was. Of course, it
had
been a long time since he’d seen her.

“Good to see you, Red,” he finally admitted. It was a small concession to his bad mood, but it was true. They’d been close for years. It
was
good to see her.

She smiled at him, and his pulse raced once more. “I haven’t been called Red in years.”

“No?” He glanced toward the kitchen again, thinking about the chicken sitting in the grease, and when he turned back, Ginger had the tip end of her ponytail twisted in front of her face, staring at it.

She frowned. “Could be because I was blonde until recently.”

“Blonde?” he asked, unable to picture it. “No.” He shook his head. “You should never be blonde.” He reached for the edge of the door, ready to close it and return to his chicken. “Julie isn’t home.”

But she didn’t take the hint. Instead, she wedged herself into the limited space between them, her bare feet almost touching his loafers, while he eyed her movements.

“I assumed you just came over to shoot me with Mace,” he pointed out.

“I did.” She peeked around him. “And to see why all the blinds are closed.”

“I like the blinds closed.” It was none of her business that he preferred sitting in the dark these days. Ignoring things like fucking happy blue skies.

She inched farther into the room, her neck craning to check out the darkened space, and he merely stared at her. He was not in the mood for her at the moment. Her innate cheeriness irritated him, and try as he knew she was, her antics were not humoring him.

Good to know she hadn’t changed, though.

“I’m busy,” he told her.

“In the dark?”

Annoyance had him reaching out and flipping the light switch by the front door. He could see she didn’t plan on leaving easily. “Happy?” He shot her a smirk.

“Getting there. Why’d you close the blinds?” She brought her eyes back to him. They were so light in color that they could almost be classified as mint. “You’re not doing anything untoward in here, are you?”

Carter just stared at her.

“What?” She blinked innocently. “I haven’t seen you in years. I don’t know anything about you these days. Maybe you kidnapped your sister and have her tied up in here. Do you plan to cut her up into pieces?” She sniffed, her nose turned up in the air, then regarded him suspiciously. “Is that what I smell cooking?”

What in the hell was wrong with her? Could she not see he wasn’t in the mood for jokes?

“Close the door when you leave, will you?” He pivoted and headed to the kitchen, leaving her just inside the front door. His chicken was probably ruined, and he didn’t have time to stand around listening to her foolishness.

But when she went quiet behind him, he looked back, seeing that she’d moved to the bookcase in the living room. An entire set of his books lined one shelf, and he wondered if Julie or his parents had ever mentioned that those books were his. He’d used a pen name from day one—mostly because he’d still been working in a different career at the time—but he’d found that he preferred his anonymity.

However, he
was
intrigued with the idea of Ginger knowing. What would she think?

Had she read his novels? He had once told her that he wanted to write for a living.

She ran a finger over the spine of his latest book—making his chest clench at the action—before lowering her hand and heading for the kitchen. Then she stopped. She slowly took in the room, and if the lines marring her brow were any indication, the look of the place
surprised her.

“So this is new?” he asked. He waved a pair of tongs toward the wall.

“You mean, you didn’t do this?”

He raised his brows. “Why would I do this?”

“I don’t know. Why would Julie?”

That was the twenty-thousand-dollar question. He’d called his sister the minute he’d seen the room, but she’d claimed to be too busy to talk.