All That You Are (3 page)

His brother Robert owned a restaurant and would appreciate the fine catch. John was a lawyer and his kids probably wouldn't go for fresh fish, but he'd sent some anyway. His mother would cook it for sure. Francesca…she'd probably have her husband, Kyle, fix it for them.

“Okay, thanks.” Then just like his sister, she went on with the grilling. “So why aren't you going to Kenai now?”

“What for? Fishing's great here. And that's the whole reason I came to Alaska.”

The line grew quiet for a long breath. “I know why you went to Alaska, Mark. Don't try and hide the truth from me. You need time to think about Dad and what you're going to do.”

“Yeah, sure. I know that.” He leaned against the deck stair, his bare feet propped on the railing's lower rung.

There was a cold chill this morning, but he hadn't readily noticed when he'd stepped outside wearing jeans. His long-sleeved Moretti Construction T-shirt warded off some of the earlier morning bite, but not much. Coffee cup in hand, he'd been thinking about too many other things to bother with boots or a sweatshirt.

“So let everyone know,” Mark said, watching the hundreds of tourists populate the streets like an army of ants. The hour crept toward noon now. Jeff had slept in. “You can reach me on my cell. There's no landline at this rental.”

“Be careful.”

Mark pushed away from the wall, a smile on his mouth. “Oh come on, Franci. I'm forty years old.” He laughed. “Be careful for what? If something was going to get me, it would have smacked me on the side of the head by now.”

They ended their conversation after casual exchanges about what was going on within the family, then Mark slipped his phone into a leather holder on his belt.

“We're good to go,” Jeff announced, stepping onto the deck that needed a fresh coat of stain. Any hangover traces prompted by last night's beers seemed to have been curtailed by his third black coffee. But the arch of his right cheek had ripened to an eggplant color. “Bro, I got us seats on Fish Tail Air. They'll fly us to Red Creek Lodge and the charter will take us to prime fishing grounds. Depending on how we do hooking the chinook, we may want to leave the freshwater inlets and head out to the ocean.” Draining the last of his coffee with a long gulp, he set his cup on the deck railing. “The rate on two rooms was cheap. Gotta love Alaska.”

Mark went inside to grab his boots and wool socks, Jeff following behind.

The condo was relaxing and comfortable despite its size. It boasted a small living room with a view of the city and a gas fireplace. The tiny kitchen used up half the common space, and there was a breakfast bar rather than a table and chairs. There were two small bedrooms with a shared bath and a laundry closet.

In spite of running at the mouth in bars, Jeff wasn't a pig. He picked up after himself, kept the bathroom counter clean and didn't leave his wet towel on the floor. Actually, he'd proved to be pretty anal and meticulous about personal details.

Mark sank onto the sofa and asked, “So how often do you fish here?”

“Every year. It's a major stress reliever. I told you about my buddy who couldn't make it at the last minute. Had a tech problem to iron out in our latest beta program. He's probably popping Rolaids like Tic Tacs.”

Tying on one of his boots, Mark gave an upward glance. “What do you do in Seattle again?”

“Microsoft.” Jeff gave him a wide grin. “I'm a computer geek. You run Vista? That's me, bro. Had a hand in developing it.”

Laughing, Mark stood. “I'm computer illiterate. I don't even have one. Couldn't tell you how anything works.”

“I could get you a primo discount.”

“I'm good, thanks.”

“Well, if you ever change your mind,” Jeff said, snagging his jacket and a ditty bag, “whatever you do, don't go to the dark side. Macs suck.”

“I think that's what my sister has in her work trailer.”

“Bummer, bro.”

They locked the condo, stowed all their gear in the pickup, then took off for the floatplane dock.

“So you build stuff,” Jeff said between bites of beef jerky—the breakfast of computer geeks. “Like furniture and those wall racks we all had to make in wood shop?”

“Buildings. High-rises.”

“No kidding. Cool.”

As they wound down the hillside toward town, green scenery passed in a blur. Dark rocks covered with moss created shadows on his left. A small waterfall spilled on his right, then disappeared into the trees. Gazing out the passenger window, Mark's thoughts strayed to Boise, Idaho.
Home.
He wondered how things were going for Moretti Construction, the family construction business his Italian immigrant father, Giovanni, had built from the ground up.

They'd just completed their most ambitious project ever—the multimillion-dollar Grove Marketplace. A downtown renovation and revitalization that had been Giovanni's dream.

His father had passed away before the Grove had been completed, but he had been able to see the job get a good start. Last month, when the final building had been signed off on by the inspectors, the moment had been bittersweet.

The family had gathered that Sunday night at Mark's mom's house for dinner, giving Giovanni Moretti a toast of remembrance.

The project's formal dedication had been reserved for this September, and Mark would be there to take part in
the ceremony. For now, he had the summer to think about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

The truth of the matter was, Giovanni's untimely death had affected Mark far more than he'd let on to his mother or brothers and sister. The father he'd been so driven to be accepted by and win approval from was no longer around to give him a pat on the back.

Mark felt as if he'd lost direction. He had to figure out a plan.

One thing for certain—he wasn't getting any younger. Years of physical labor were taxing his body. To his annoyance, his joints had to be worked out of their stiffness in the morning, and it was harder to get going.

His brother-in-law, Kyle Jagger, and partner in Moretti, wanted to take the company in a new direction—construction management. Doing so would mean no more hands-on carpentry work for Mark. While he still found some satisfaction from strapping on a tool belt, the idea was something to consider seriously.

Mark had spent years molding himself into a man his father could be proud of. Learning the carpentry trade, he'd been taught everything his father knew about building.

Outgoing and fair, Mark recognized he was good with people, managing crews and telling the superintendents what to do. The trouble was, he hadn't managed his life well at all.

And the Grove Marketplace had literally burned him out.

Long overdue to recharge his batteries, Mark had cashed his bonus check and caught a flight to Alaska.

“Parking downtown sucks,” Jeff complained, angling
the rental pickup truck behind a Dumpster, slightly blocking a Buick LeSabre's rusted white fender. The marina overflow lot had signs designating slots for the Blue Note and Fish Tail Air customers.

Not realizing the businesses were so close, the idea of seeing the woman with the green eyes and sexy mouth filled his mind with suggestive thoughts. Mark fit his sunglasses on the back of his neck, glancing at the marina. “Do you know the name of that woman who threw you out of the bar last night?”

Indignance crossed Jeff's facial features. The bill of a Seattle Mariners ball cap rode low on his forehead. “I've never been thrown out of a bar. I chose to leave.” Giving the dial on his complex watch a quick look, Jeff frowned. “We gotta boog. Flight leaves in half an hour.”

They hopped out and grabbed the fishing gear, coolers, Orvis rods and reels, waders and tackle boxes and headed down the buckling sidewalk leading to the slips. The sidewalk also led directly toward the Blue Note.

The bar looked different in broad daylight. Definitely in poorer repair than Mark had noticed last night. Sections of corrugated roofing had loosened, slightly bent at the ends from the wind. Areas of siding had been repaired too many times and were beyond fixing. Each board needed to be axed and a whole new exterior constructed.

Gray and colorless, the place lacked life. Directly in front, at the dock, three floatplanes were in a line, propeller to tail, like yellow insects waiting to take flight.

“Dana.” Jeff spoke without a reference point, then added as a clarification as Mark cocked his head, “Her name's Dana Jackson. And don't even bother to go there.
She's not interested. We've all tried. You'll have better fishing for chicks at the Arctic Bar.”

The entry door to the Blue Note had been propped open, soft music spilling outside. Mark made a guess that midday didn't draw a lot of customers.

If their pilot hadn't been on the dock waiting for them, Mark would have gone inside the bar to shout out a little howdy to Dana.

Jeff conversed with the pilot, giving their confirmation info as well as heights and weights. Other sports fisherman congregated at the planes with their gear.

The pilot gathered everyone around to discuss instructions. Maybe in his early thirties, he was moderately tall, had an average build and came across as friendly. His chestnut hair had been cut short; his alert eyes were a glacier-blue. “My name's Sam Hyatt. I'll be flying you in a de Havilland Beaver—the best bush plane in the world. I'll go over seating assignments in a minute, but first we'll stow all your gear and then…”

Mark all but tuned out the rest of what Sam was saying. Right about midsentence, Dana Jackson appeared in the doorway looking more beautiful than any woman had the right to look.

Something about her long black hair and warm, caramel skin knocked Mark sideways. He'd always been attracted to tall blondes. If Dana were standing in a pair of killer heels, he doubted the top of her head would come to the bottom of his chin.

Looking at her mouth, those pouting lips, just about did Mark in. But she was preoccupied with watching Sam, and she didn't even notice him. Those eyes of hers were even more stunning in the daytime. A man could
drown in them. She had a sense of purpose about her, a woman who wanted something. He could tell by her body language. The way she tapped her fingers on the door frame, impatient for Sam to be finished.

Then it hit Mark like a one-ton concrete slab—maybe she was hot for the pilot.

Suddenly the dock became very busy as their things were handed into the floatplane, then Sam began calling in passengers and telling them where to sit based on their weight.

Sam pointed to Mark, who was the last man to be seated. “Hop in—you'll be my copilot who does nothing. Just be careful not to touch any of the controls.”

Mark listened to Sam, but his focus remained on Dana.

Just then, she looked at him and recognition flooded her features. She scowled. Her raven-black brows, with their high arch and tapered ends, made her green eyes look all the more exotic.

Mark lifted his chin and gave her a grin. “Mornin', sunshine.”

“It's not morning, cowboy,” she responded tartly. Then unlike any woman had ever done to him—she blew him off. “Hey, Sam. I need you to do a huge favor for me.”

“Anything you want.”

Their easy dialogue brought an unwelcome response to Mark.

Dana didn't elaborate. Rather, her gaze leveled on Mark as if to say,
Don't you need to get into that plane so I can have a private word?

Sam took her silent direction and called to Mark in a brisk tone, “Climb in, Mr. Moretti. I'm on a schedule.”

Stepping onto the pontoon and bracing his hand on the wing strut, Mark looked over his shoulder. “I do favors, too, Dana.”

If she wondered how he'd known her name, she didn't show it. Maybe because she was too intent on harpooning him with a barbed glare. She made no response. Simply stood there, tight-lipped, very annoyed by him.

Merely chuckling beneath his breath, Mark lifted himself into the floatplane and took his seat. What looked like a flywheel and a bungee cord was at his left foot, while two yokes protruded from the dash.

On closer inspection, the plane looked like it had seen better days and had many worn stickers stuck to the metal. Years of scuff marks were on the floor, and who knew how many dirty fishermen had climbed in and out of the seat he sat in. A shorter person would have struggled to see over the tall instrument panel.

The passenger door pocket couldn't get another map stuffed into it, and the window glass had been lowered just enough so he could hear Dana and Sam on the dock.

“Can you bring me back some shaker halibut? Nothing bigger than fifteen pounds. Presley's going to make her famous crispy fish tacos tonight.” A long, vulnerable sigh caught in Dana's voice. “The new state fire marshal's coming in, and damn if I don't need to soften his heart through his stomach.”

“Sure thing. I know a guy who can fill a cooler for me. I'll be back in about four. Will that work?”