Barefoot Summer (16 page)

She dragged her feet in the chips, coming to a stop.

“We could run through it a few times.”

She looked around. “Here?”

He shrugged. “There’s no one around. Not like at rehearsal.”

“Good point. Well, all right.” She stood and found an open grassy area near the park entrance. Surrounded by the hedge, they had plenty of privacy.

“I’m having trouble understanding the emotion Eleanor’s feeling in that scene,” Madison said. “What’s your take on it?”

“Well, remember, she’s in love with Lucas, but he’s hurt her before, so she’s afraid to trust her feelings.”

“So should fear be her primary emotion? He’s grabbing for her, but I don’t want it to seem like she’s afraid of him, because he’s never physically hurt her.”

“Right,” Drew agreed. “He gets physical, but only because he’s desperately afraid of losing her. It’s passion, not aggression. She’s not afraid of him, but of her own weakness toward him, her own feelings.”

“How do I convey that?”

“The body language Dottie taught you. It’s about self-preservation. The words sound angry, but the body language says fear.”

“That makes sense. Let’s run through it a few times.”

Beckett wiped his hands on the dirty rag and checked his watch. Later than he’d thought. But the Sea-Doo repair was finished for pickup tomorrow as promised.

He grabbed a drink from the fountain, locked up, and headed toward his truck behind the marina shop. The breeze felt good on his damp neck. The air carried the fragrance of honeysuckle, reminding him of Madison.

He’d see her tomorrow, if the weather held. And he prayed it did, since they were running out of time. He couldn’t deny that he was looking forward to seeing her. Which was foolish, considering Madison was a dead end. Considering that it was torture to be with her.

His thoughts went back to the moment in her pantry the week before. She’d felt so good in his arms. Too good. He had no right thinking of her that way. Her face would turn all kinds of red if she knew that the scent of her so close had sent a shiver down his spine. Or that he’d wanted to pull her closer and feel her heart against his.

You’ve really gone off the deep end now, O’Reilly. Best that the regatta’s almost here before you go and make another mess.

He was reaching for his truck door when he heard something over the wind. A woman’s voice, raised in anger. The nearest house was a couple blocks away. Too far to be coming from there, and besides, he thought, turning his head, the voice was coming from the direction of the park.

He listened a moment, registering another voice, male, angry. He pocketed his keys, walking toward the disturbance.

It took less than a minute to reach the line of shrubs edging the park. He continued up the sidewalk toward the entrance, the voices growing louder. His feet picked up pace.

“I said no! How many times do I have to say it?” Madison’s voice.

A shot of adrenaline propelled him forward.

“You don’t mean it. You know you don’t. Don’t walk away from me!”

Beckett reached the entrance, his blood pumping hard.

“Leave me alone!”

“Come here!” Drew was grabbing Madison’s arm. He spun her around.

Something red and hot exploded in Beckett’s head. He shot forward, reaching Drew in a blink. Beckett grabbed his shirt, spinning him. His fist connected with the man’s jaw in a satisfying pop.

Drew flew backward, staggering.

But Beckett wasn’t satisfied. He grabbed Drew’s shirt, shoved him against a thick tree. “You wanna push someone around? Huh, punk?”

“No, Beckett!”

Drew pushed back, futilely, his eyes wide. “We were acting!”

Beckett jerked him forward, then back, the red-hot fog spreading through him. Drew’s head smacked against the tree. “Not so tough now, are you?”

“Beckett, stop!” Madison pulled on his arm. “We were
rehearsing
. We were just rehearsing.”

Rehearsing.

The word seeped into the mass of emotion. The fog began to clear. Beckett stilled, his hands still clenching fistfuls of shirt.

Madison shook his arm. “The play. We were rehearsing, that’s all.”

The play.
The hot mass inside cooled. His fists released.

Drew pushed him. “Get off me.”

Beckett’s hands fell. He stepped back.

The play. Rehearsing. His breaths came in gulps.

The blood that had rushed through like a flash flood seemed to pool into a chilly sludge in the center of his gut.

Drew rubbed his jaw, shooting daggers at Beckett. “I should sue you for that.”

Madison’s hand fell from Beckett’s arm. “He didn’t mean . . . ”

As the adrenaline petered out, something new was moving in. Something that made him wish he could puddle right into the soil. “Sorry . . .”

Madison touched his arm. “It’s okay—”

Drew nailed her with a look, gave the hem of his shirt a sharp tug.

“I mean—”

“I should go.” Beckett backed away, lifting his hands. “I’m sorry.” He turned and strode toward the exit.

“Are you okay?” he heard Madison asking Drew. He didn’t wait for an answer.

Stupid!
He was a fool, rushing in like that, busting a guy’s jaw. Not just any guy—Madison’s date. Had he thought himself a knight in shining armor? What a joke. He was the last person to save Madison—if she’d needed saving—and she hadn’t.

Did you ever think to stop and ask a question, O’Reilly?

He’d done just as he would’ve in his younger days, rushed in, acted on impulse. His old nature, rearing its ugly head.

And look where that had gotten him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

M
ADISON STEPPED ABOARD THE BOAT, WAITING FOR
B
ECKETT
. She’d slept late after tossing in bed for hours, the night replaying in her mind like some hideous movie. By the time Drew had walked her to her door, he’d sported a puffy red bruise on his jaw. Looking at the tender flesh, she felt bad, and for so many reasons. Bad that he’d been mistaken for a bully, bad that she’d asked if he was okay so belatedly.

But she’d also felt terrible for Beckett. He’d charged into the park like an avenging angel, fists flying. To protect her. She couldn’t forget the look on his face when he’d realized his mistake. The hard planes of his face softening, his eyes shuttering. It was that look, if she were honest, that kept playing in her mind.

And that only made her feel worse. Shouldn’t Drew be the one drawing her sympathy? It had been the guilt that prompted the quick kiss at the door. Not the best reason for a first kiss.

She turned her head at the footsteps on the pier. Beckett approached, his face inscrutable.

She braced herself for awkwardness. “Hi there.”

He stopped at the bow cleat, rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t even know what to say, Madison,” he said finally.

His voice, deep and quiet, made her want to ease his conscience. “You meant well.”

He untied the boat and stepped aboard. “I feel like a jerk.”

“You couldn’t have known. It was kind of sweet, you coming to my rescue—don’t you dare tell Drew I said that.”

His laugh was a mere exhale. “Don’t think he’ll be talking to me anytime soon.”

Beckett’s actions had probably cost him a boat order. But he obviously hadn’t been thinking about that when he’d rushed at Drew.

“He’s okay?” Beckett asked.

“He’s sporting a bruise, but he didn’t think anything was broken. I’m sure he didn’t mean it about the lawsuit.”

“Doubt I have anything he’d want anyway.”

“Except maybe your right hook.”

“Funny.”

Madison smiled. “Just thought I’d bring a little levity to the situation.”

Once they were out on the water, they hoisted the sails, the moment of awkwardness passing. Madison worked the sheets, trimming the main, adjusting the traveler.

“Okay, let’s talk line bias,” Beckett said, back to business. “A good start is critical, and knowing what position to take is crucial. The starting line will be slanted, with one end closer to the first windward mark. First off, whatever you do, don’t be over the line when the horn blows. You’ll have to sail back and cross again—hard to recover from that. Now, line bias. Which side gives you the best line for the first mark?”

“The closest end?”

“Well . . . depends.”

“On the wind?”

“Exactly. Let’s say you start on the north end of the line. You might be closer to the mark, but if the wind is stronger on the
south end, the boats down there will be sailing with more speed. Also, you have the right-of-way on a starboard tack and have to give way if you’re on a port tack.”

“So it’s a race-day call?”

“That’s where good tactical thinking and prerace preparation come in. Most likely Evan will be out on the water early, deciding on the preferred side. But you should understand what’s going on.”

He ran through various possibilities, illustrating the best starting positions in each instance and why. Then they sailed both sides of the river, assessing the conditions. With the wind coming from the north side, that was the preferred start side today.

“Okay, let’s do a dry run on the first mark. It’s three boat lengths ahead,” Beckett called. “Give me something,” he reminded her as they approached it.

“Boat four on starboard tack,” Madison called. “We’re not crossing.”

“Continue on port tack.”

“Roger that. No ease on the jib.”

As soon as the jib started to back, she flipped the port sheet loose and pulled in the starboard sheet.

“Nice job,” he called after they rounded the imaginary mark. “Let’s do it again, only a little smoother this time.”

Cappy’s Pizzeria was a hole-in-the-wall disguising the world’s best pizza. Beckett took a whiff of garlic as he navigated full tables toward an open booth in the back corner. The green overhead pendants were always dim, and little light permeated the tinted
windows. Probably to hide the fact that the place wasn’t exactly sterile.

He slid into a red vinyl booth. TVs blared from the walls, and in the back room a rowdy game of pool was under way. Through the kitchen window he saw Cappy lumbering around, giving orders to frazzled teenagers, his bald head catching the glare from the kitchen fluorescents. A rumble of thunder sounded, barely audible over the chatter, the televised game, and the clattering of forks on plates.

Beckett pushed the menu aside and ordered drinks when the server came by. A few minutes later he saw his sister skirting the deserted salad bar—a place where few dared to eat.

Layla slid into the booth, tossing her big silver bag into the corner. She brushed the raindrops from her arms. “Sorry I’m late. It’s cats and dogs out there.”

He was glad he and Madison had gotten the lesson in before the storm hit. “You’re not. Just ordered you a root beer.”

“Perfect. Let’s order the Whole Shebang. I’m starving.”

“Sounds good.” He was hungry himself, having worked through lunch.

“I went to see Dad this morning,” Layla said a few minutes later after the server took their order. She brushed her damp hair over her slender shoulders and took a sip of her root beer.

“How’s he doing?”

“You know Dad. He didn’t have much to say. He’s working his way through his Hemingway novels, hoping to get paroled.”

Beckett started to ask when, then changed his mind. Sometimes ignorance was bliss.

“How are rehearsals going?” he asked. His sister had a bit part in the production.

“Not bad. Dottie’s a good director. Kind of demanding though. It’s eating up a lot of my time.”

“What else do you have to do?” Beckett asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. Work, volunteering, VBS . . .”

“Poor baby.”

She cocked her head. “You better stop or I’m not paying.”

“It’s my turn anyway.”

Layla’s face lit up. “Oh yeah. Rats. I knew I should’ve ordered breadsticks.”

“Too late.”

“It’s never too late for breadsticks.”

“You’ll be lucky to finish your half of the pizza, little girl.”

“I can hold my own just fine, thank you.” Layla tucked the menus into the holder and put the paprika shaker in the metal cubby. “Oh, meant to tell you . . . I ran into Drew Landon at the pharmacy this morning. You know, he’s the guy who—”