Carolina Man (3 page)

So, yeah, better for everybody if Luke collected his Jeep from the Privately Owned Vehicle storage lot and drove his own ass to Dare Island.

He exhaled. And maybe sometime during the hour and a half it would take him to get home, he’d figure out what the hell he would say when he saw her again.

Small signs driven into the ground directed traffic to the unit’s homecoming area. All around Luke, Marines shuffled their feet, shifting their weight, leaning forward in anticipation. The few who had been sleeping were nudged or kicked awake. Luke’s heart sped up, just as if he had somebody waiting for him. Or was going into combat.

The brakes squealed. The bus gusted to a halt.

After the dust haze of Afghanistan, everything out the windows looked sharp and clear. Blue-and-white event tents and Porta Potties bordered the arrival area, full of balloons and handmade signs. And people. Families. Lots and lots of families eagerly awaiting the one hundred and seventy five men and women finally coming home.

Luke took his time getting off the bus. His men came first. Anyway, nobody was waiting for him.

There would be no formations or welcoming speeches today. The tents, the music, the balloon vendors, were there to entertain those waiting. For the Marines, this was Standard Operating Procedure. The brass recognized that those lucky enough to return from combat just wanted to find their families and go home.

Luke shouldered his bag and climbed down from the bus into the milling, calling, crying, kissing crowd.

“Do you see him?”

“Dad-deee . . .”

“Steven! Steve!”

He was bumped, jostled, and thanked by complete strangers. He stopped to shake hands with Cody Burrows’s parents, saw Ortega stagger as his tiny girlfriend launched from four feet away into his arms.

“Welcome home, honey.”

“There he is!”

Danny Hill’s wife cried into his neck, their infant daughter crushed between them. Hill bowed his head against his wife’s hair, his face raw with emotion.

Luke blinked and looked away from their private moment.

He had served seven deployments in ten years. He’d never sought—or missed—the distraction of a family. But watching the joyful reunions all around him, he felt . . .
Not sorry.

Alone.

A familiar whistle pierced the hubbub.

Luke stiffened like a dog on point. “Dad?”

And heard it again, the same shrill note that always announced his father’s return, whether it was from Beirut or the grocery store.

Luke pivoted, scanning the sea of people waving signs and flags and cell phones, searching for his father’s face.

There.
The red Vietnam vet ball cap, the shock of gray hair, the tanned face, and faded blue eyes.
Dad.

And big brother Matt, tall and broad with big hands and weathered jeans, his normally serious face split in a wide smile.

Luke started forward, an answering grin working its way from deep inside. His gaze dropped. His throat constricted.
Was that . . . Between them . . .

Tess Fletcher had always been short. Now, since the accident, she seemed to have shrunk even further. But her eyes were brilliant, her smile as warm as ever as she waved one hand above her head. The other rested on a cane. “Luke! Over here!”

He reached her in three strides.
“Mom.”

He put his arms around her slender shoulders, careful not to hug too hard. Small as she was, Tess had always been the family’s rock. Their anchor. But now she felt so frail.

She squeezed back hard, her arms, her love, as strong as ever.

“Hey.” Luke swallowed and drew back to smile into her face. A little paler than before, he thought. A little more lined. “You look great.”

Tess ran her fingers through her short cap of dark red hair. “Do you like it?”

Luke blinked. “Sure.” He wasn’t sure. His mother’s hair had been salt-and-pepper as far back as he could remember. “What does Dad think?”

“It’s all good.” Tom Fletcher winked. “I get to sleep with a redhead for the first time in forty years.” He grabbed Luke in a one-armed hug. “Good to have you back, son.”

Matt was next, dragging Luke into the family circle, gripping his hand, pounding his back. “You look like shit.”

“You smell like fish.”

They beamed at one another, reassured.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Luke said.

“Brought somebody else to see you, too.” Matt reached down with one hand, nudging the somebody forward, producing her from behind his back like a magician with a reluctant rabbit.
Hey, presto, it’s your daughter.

Suspicious blue eyes regarded Luke from under the brim of a United States Marine Corps fatigue cap. His eyes, looking back at him from his daughter’s thin, unsmiling face.

Emotion seized him by the throat. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t grab her. From her point of view, they were practically strangers. She didn’t, he remembered painfully, like to be touched.

But she was wearing his hat, the eight-pointed utility cover he’d given her before he went back to Afghanistan.

Maybe that meant something.

He observed the way she hung back, her skinny arms crossed behind her.

Yeah, and maybe not.

 • • • 

T
AYLOR HELD HER
breath, waiting to see what he would do. Luke, her . . . Well, her dad, even though she never called him that except sometimes in her head. Mostly, when she talked to him by Skype, she didn’t call him anything at all. She didn’t think he noticed.

All around them people were crying and kissing and stuff, babies bawling, fathers hugging their kids.

Taylor stuck out her chin. She wasn’t going to cry. But she guessed it would be okay if he wanted to hug her.

He didn’t.

Her stomach dropped in relief and disappointment.

He crouched down and looked her right in the eyes. His face was all serious. Taylor twisted her fingers together behind her back. When he first showed up on Grandma Jo’s porch, tall and strong in his uniform, she’d felt a rush of relief so intense she’d almost cried.
Dad to the rescue
. And he
had
rescued her.

But then he’d gone away again.

Maybe he wasn’t glad to see her. She wished, too late, that she had listened to Aunt Meg this morning and put on her new clothes, the ones they bought for her to wear to court.

Right. Like some dumb purple sweater would make him like her.

She scowled harder, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“Hey, kid,” he said like he couldn’t remember her name.

“Hi.”
Dad
.

He tapped the brim of her hat with one finger, the way Uncle Matt did sometimes. The familiar gesture made her feel better. “Thanks for taking care of my cover.”

Taylor’s cheeks got hot. She hadn’t let the hat out of her sight since he gave it to her. She even slept in it sometimes. But that would be a loser thing to say. She didn’t want him to think she was a baby. She jerked a shoulder instead.
No problem
. “Do you . . . do you want it back now?”

“Nah. You keep it.” The corners of his mouth curled up, just a little. His big hand dropped on top of her head. He gave her a quick and careless rub, like she gave the dog at home sometimes, knocking the hat sideways, messing up her hair. The knot in her stomach eased. “It looks good on you.”

Cautiously, she allowed herself to smile back.

A
LL THE VOICES
in Kate’s head were squawking as she sped across the bridge to Dare Island in her little red Mini Cooper.

Jesus, Kate, stop overreacting
. That was her father.

I don’t think it’s wise for you to get too close
. That was her mother.

It’s important for you to accept that not everything is your responsibility
. That was her therapist.

Kate turned up the volume on the radio to drown them out. Christmas music. She sighed. If you were a family lawyer, Christmas was not the easiest time of year. If you were also the adult child of an alcoholic . . . Well. You already knew that many families cracked under the expectations and disappointments of the holidays. Too much drinking. Too much stress.

Too many bad memories
. She gulped in the fresh air rushing through her window. At least it was a nice day for a drive. Living above her office, walking to the courthouse, she didn’t have many opportunities to get away. The waves on the Intercostal Waterway sparkled. The December sun shone. The jumble of shops along the Dare Island waterfront looked quite pretty with their lighted wreaths and garlands. The squat brick police-and-fire station sported a big red bow.

The buildings thinned out, the tourist shops and sidewalked streets replaced by cottages and then by oaks and pine.

Her errand wouldn’t take more than ten minutes, Kate promised herself. Twenty, tops. The voices could hardly object to that.

And then she’d have another pleasant forty-minute drive back to Beaufort. Maybe she’d stop for Chinese on her way home to celebrate her successful day in court.
Because nothing says “victory” like eating takeout in front of
The Bachelorette. Just for a moment, Kate let herself imagine what it would be like to have someone waiting for her at home, someone to rub her feet or listen or laugh with. But the truth was she had no idea what that would be like.

She made the turn, peering for an inn sign.

The Pirates’ Rest rose through the trees, perfect as a postcard. In Kate’s experience, very little in life lived up to its advertising. But the inn looked remarkably like the photos on its website. Deep eaves protected the wraparound porch of the two-and-a-half-story house. Leaded glass windows reflected back the sun. A big American flag hung from the porch. A smaller one decorated the mailbox. Despite the patriotic-themed decorations—
more Fourth of July than Christmas
—the bed-and-breakfast looked elegant, comfortable, and solid.

Her heart tugged hard. She hadn’t taken a real vacation in years. The whole concept of a B and B, of sharing someone else’s home, of making normal conversation with complete strangers over breakfast, made her break into a sweat.

But even she could appreciate the care that had gone into the freshly painted green-and-white trim and edged lawn. Pink camellias and planters of cold-blooming pansies brightened the winter-browned garden. If she
were
going away for a weekend, if she bought into that white-picket-fence fantasy of home, she might actually want to stay here.

She parked by the front gate. Plenty of room, she noted. She imagined the Fletchers didn’t get many guests midweek in the off-season.

Grabbing her briefcase from the passenger seat, she got out of the car, already regretting the impulse that had driven her here. She should have called. Again. Or waited until tomorrow. There was absolutely no reason to interrupt the Fletchers’ evening and risk her own careful emotional detachment with a personal visit.

Except that for the past five years, she’d watched Taylor grow in the school portraits framed on Dawn’s desk.

She’d seen Taylor walk to her temporary custody hearing like a prisoner marching to her execution.

She’d held those bird-wing shoulders between her hands and promised Taylor that she would be fine. As long as she was honest about her feelings.

Kind of a joke, coming from Kate. But it had worked, hadn’t it?

Kate rang the doorbell, two deep chimes.

A dog barked, and she stiffened. She was not a dog person. But having come this far, she certainly wasn’t going to turn back now.

“Fezzik, stay,” a deep voice commanded from inside.

The door cracked open, and Luke Fletcher stood on the threshold, a big black dog beside him and a bottle of beer in his hand.

Kate’s heart bumped. She took a half step back from the dog and the man. “You’re here,” she said stupidly.

His brows rose, but he nodded. “Got back today.”

He still wore the desert camouflage pants of the Marine utility uniform, as if he were on base or in transit. He’d removed his outer shirt, revealing an olive green T-shirt that clung to the planes of his chest, the ridges of his belly. He looked lanky, lean, and dangerous.

Standing in her court-appropriate navy suit and pumps, she felt overdressed and at a distinct disadvantage.

The door swung wider to admit her.

Kate hesitated.

The man glanced down at the dog beside him. “It’s all right. He’s trained not to bite visitors.” He glanced up, his lips curving in a slow, devastating smile. “So am I.”

Kate exhaled. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

He tipped back his beer, regarding her over the bottle, his eyes joltingly vivid in his hard, tanned face. “I wasn’t expecting you, either.” The smile faded. “What’s wrong?”

She ignored the pang in her chest. Naturally he associated her with bad news. Like a casualty assistance officer coming to the door.
I regret to inform you . . .

“I came . . .” It wasn’t just the color of those eyes, piercing blue, that tangled her tongue. It was the way he looked at her, completely focused. Intense. “I tried to call your parents.”

He nodded once, stone-faced now. Total Marine. She recognized the look from her childhood. “They’re in the kitchen. Want to tell me what this is about?”

She could. He was Taylor’s father. Now that he was home, she really should share her news with Luke rather than his parents.

But not all at once. And not on the front porch. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

“Sure. This way.” And before she could object or explain, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the hall, leaving the door open behind him.

The dog padded after him, its nails clicking as it crossed from the faded antique rug to the hardwood floor.

Leaving her no choice but to follow them into the house. Not the alpha dog, obviously. Somewhere at the back of the pack.

The entry hall of the Pirates’ Rest was warm with woodwork and rich with color. A square, spindled staircase wrapped around a built-in bench. Garland decorated the bannister, filling the air with pine. A banner draped the second-floor landing.

WELCOME HOME.

Got back today
, he’d said.

Kate winced. Homecomings in her parents’ house had rarely been joyous. That didn’t mean she should spoil his. “I’m sorry. I can come back another time.”

“You’re here,” Luke said over his shoulder. He pushed open the door at the end of the hall. “You might as well say what you came to say.”

And go
. Her mind supplied the words he was too polite to say. He must be looking forward to time with his family. He could hardly welcome a visit from his baby mama’s mainland lawyer on his first night home.

Kate squared her shoulders. She owed it to Taylor—she owed it to Dawn—to finish what she started. She walked past Luke’s outstretched arm, his stretched-out T-shirt, his muscled chest.

And stopped dead on the threshold.

The kitchen was full of people. Family. Fletchers. She recognized the broad-shouldered man with the big hands and quiet eyes as Luke’s brother, Matt, the charter boat captain. The petite brunette in designer jeans and boots was their sister, Meg.

All of them subtly united, looking at her with nearly identical blue eyes and identical expressions of surprise.

She felt like a crasher in a Norman Rockwell painting.

“Luke? Is everything all right?” asked the thin, auburn-haired woman at the head of the table.

“Everything’s fine. This is Kay Dolan,” Luke said. “My mother, Tess.”

Kate hid her wince. “Kate. We spoke on the phone.”

The older woman’s smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “Dawn’s lawyer friend. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You, too. Please don’t get up,” Kate said, observing the cane resting against the arm of Tess’s chair.

“My father, Tom,” Luke said, indicating the spare, gray-haired man beside Tess.

“We’ve met. Hi, Mr. Fletcher.”

Luke’s sister Meg stepped forward. “Kate let us wait in her office the day we went to court. Thanks for that, by the way.” She smiled at Kate, guarded but polite.

Meg was in PR, Kate remembered. She must be used to putting a good face on things.

“You’re welcome,” Kate said.

Okay, this was awkward. Everyone was still staring, including a tall, handsome teen with a sandy mop of hair, and two adults Kate had never laid eyes on before, a pretty blonde next to Matt and a dark-haired man with Meg. Also tall, tanned, and beautiful, dressed with a casual ease that spoke of money and privilege.

With an effort, Kate restrained herself from fingering the scar on her cheek.

Taylor curled in a chair between her uncle Matt and the blonde.

Kate smiled. “Hi, Taylor.”

She didn’t expect a response. She was just “Mommy’s boss” to Taylor, just another grown-up on the periphery of her life. The last time they’d met, outside the courthouse, had hardly been a pleasant occasion.

But Taylor smiled, cautiously. “Hi.”

The table in front of her was littered with bottles of beer and half-full glasses, bowls of chips and dip, platters of cheese and meat and olives.

A real family party.

Kate’s stomach sank. Coming here had been a mistake. She should have waited. Should have called again.

Never get personally involved
.

The teenager reached over Taylor’s shoulder for a handful of chips, knocking her camouflage cap askew. She made a grab for the hat, twisting in her chair to make a face at him. He grinned. Kate watched Taylor’s smile melt into unguarded adoration.

“My son, Josh,” Matt said.

The boy flashed the grin in Kate’s direction. “Hey.”

She smiled helplessly back, as charmed as the child.

“Miss Dolan.” Matt’s voice was deep and cool. His arm rested protectively along the back of Taylor’s chair. “What can we do for you?”

Meaning,
What are you doing here?

Good question, Kate thought.

The blonde laid her hand on his arm in a silent gesture of support. The fiancée, Kate thought. She’d heard Luke’s brother was recently engaged. They looked like a couple, like a unit, with the child between them. Kate wondered if that would change now that Luke was home.

“Sam Grady.” The guy with Meg introduced himself with a smile. His bottle green eyes held a hint of sympathy. “Can I get you something? A drink?”

Kate pulled herself together. She didn’t need his drink or his sympathy. “I’m fine, thanks. I didn’t mean to interrupt your dinner,” she said to Tess.

The teenager laughed. “This isn’t dinner. This is a snack.”

“But . . .”

“We’re cooking ribs tonight,” Tess said.

Kate glanced at Matt, the fisherman.
Not seafood?

Luke’s eyes gleamed in unexpected understanding. “No pork in Muslim countries,” he explained. “Or beer.” He raised his bottle in salute. “Want one?”

“Or there’s tea,” Tess offered.

Sweet tea, the wine of the South.

Their hospitality, after she’d shown up like ants at a picnic, made Kate feel more like an intruder than ever. She shouldn’t have come. She didn’t belong here. She never belonged. But she had to get through her errand.

Next to her uncle, Taylor snuck a chicken wing off her plate to give to the dog and then reached for the chips. Kate grimaced. Shouldn’t she wash her hands? But the child was obviously happy, smiling, one of the family. After her mother’s death, Taylor needed love, warmth, and support. It was clear the Fletchers gave her all that in abundance.

“No. Thank you.” She cleared her throat, meeting Luke’s gaze. “I was hoping to speak with you alone.”

His blue eyes narrowed. He nodded slowly. “Sure. Out on the deck.”

“Anything you can say to him you can say to us,” Meg said. “We’re family.”

“What’s wrong?” Tess asked.

The question hung in the air like a whiff of something burning, spoiling the mouth-watering scent of ribs in the oven.

Taylor sat very still, her eyes dark as bruises in her thin face.

Kate’s gaze went from face to face, a knot tightening in her stomach. The Fletchers didn’t dislike her. But they had clearly closed ranks in the face of bad news.