Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (11 page)

“It wasn’t me I was thinking about,” he said, his shoulders stiffening.

She suspected that had been true for some time. “Just for a moment.”

“Your call.” He shrugged and followed her out onto the front patio.

“This is lovely,” she said as they stood beneath the purple, green, and gold neon
BON TEMPS
sign. The lighted arched bridge leading across the bay looked like a picture postcard. A plaintive air, played by the Celtic musicians Sax Douchett had hired for the occasion, drifted out an open window.

“Yeah. I guess it is.” He sounded surprised.

“Ah, and wouldn’t you be taking such natural beauty for granted?” she teased gently. “As we Irish often admittedly do.”

The sun had set and a cool breeze was blowing in off the water that had her wishing Leon had chosen something warmer for the reception than this short, shoulder-baring midnight blue dress. If she’d given the matter any thought, she’d have realized that her clothes were entirely wrong for both the weather and this small coastal town. Though she had seen a flash of something that looked like lust
in J.T.’s eyes when she’d opened the door to the suite earlier. It had come and gone so quickly, if she hadn’t been drinking in the sight of him, she might have missed it.

She’d noticed a boutique on the drive to the inn. She’d have to make time tomorrow to drop in for some quick power shopping.

The cell phone she’d forgotten to turn off played Celtic Woman’s “Beyond the Sea” from her satin evening bag. She took it out, looked at the caller ID screen, then closed it.

“If you want privacy,” J.T. began to say.

“Oh, no.” She put the phone back in her bag. “It’s merely business. And none I’d be wanting to deal with at the moment.”

Or ever, for that matter. Tammi Newsome, the executive assistant to Aaron Pressler, the head of the studio that had spent a great deal of money to release her movies, was relentless in her zeal to climb her way up the ladder into a VP’s office. Whereas Mary had no interest in Hollywood politics, and there was no way she was going to make the changes Pressler was suggesting to “beef up” what he kept insisting on referring to as her selkie
franchise
.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your family?” she asked before he could question her about the call. The mayor, who’d been dragging her around from person to person for the past hour, hadn’t yet made it over to the Douchett table at the far side of the room.

“Why?” He shrugged off his suit jacket, and put it over her shoulders, revealing that he’d caught the faint shiver she’d tried to hide.

She’d watched him watching everyone else, even
as he continued to keep her in his vision during the reception, and suspected very little got past him.

Again, that was much like Michael had been. When her brother had first returned to Castlelough, after the injury that had nearly claimed his life, he’d played hermit on his farm, never going into the village to talk with people he’d known all his life. Many of whom were like family.

“Thank you.” She pulled the edges of the suit jacket, which held his body heat, closer together. “Because I’d like to meet them. And, although I don’t want to sound conceited, since you obviously have your own ideas about my celebrity, I suspect that one of the reasons they’ve come here tonight is to meet me.” She did not share her belief with him that they were also here to keep an eye on the youngest Douchett son.

“You’d undoubtedly make their night. Hell, week. Month. Year. But,” he said, confirming her belief, “I suspect another reason they’ve shown up in force is to make sure I don’t make more of an ass of myself than I already have.”

Rather than the annoyance she might have expected to hear in his tone, Mary heard resignation.

“You’re overstating it.” When he shot her a skeptical look, she said, “You weren’t all that hospitable, true. And even, I suppose, a tad rude, which makes sense, since I’m sure there are other things you’d rather be doing. But you were a long ways from being an ass, J. T. Douchett.

“As for your family, if they do have concerns, it would not be because they’re afraid you’ll offend me as much as the fact that they care about you.”

She put a hand on his arm and felt the muscle
tense beneath the starched shirtsleeve. A toucher by nature, she’d made the gesture unconsciously. But his reaction had her wondering how long it had been since any woman had placed her hand anywhere on his body.

Which, in turn, had her wondering when he’d last touched a woman. When her unruly imagination brought back memories of her dream lover cupping her breasts with his long dark fingers, reminding herself that this Marine was trouble with a capital
T
, she forced the erotic fantasy to fade to black.

“And, I suspect, they worry.”

He moved his shoulders, clearly uneasy with the topic. And although he didn’t rudely jerk his arm away, he did take a step back, breaking the light contact.

“I told them the same thing I told you. That there’s no damn need to worry, because I’m fine.”

“And isn’t that what my own brother said, when he came back from war?”

His gaze had been directed toward the bridge, but her words had him looking down at her with renewed interest. “There aren’t that many Irish troops serving in the NATO forces. Are you saying your brother was one of them?”

“Oh, no.” She realized how he could have misunderstood. “He was a civilian war photographer, and although he hasn’t covered these recent ones, he did spend a great deal of time in Afghanistan during the time the Russians were fighting there. You’ve undoubtedly never heard of Michael Joyce, but—”

“I’ve not only heard of him—I was assigned one of his books at the War College. I have an MA in history,” he clarified at her surprised expression. “With
an emphasis on military history. Since the guy wasn’t working for the government, his photos weren’t colored by any nationalistic red, white, and blue flag waving. They were probably the closest I’ve ever seen to capturing what people who live in countries that have become a war zone experience. I should’ve made the connection from your last name.”

“Well, now.” She felt a flush of family pride even as she was pleased that she’d managed to learn something about the man, who, thus far, had not been an open book. “I’ll be telling him you said that. Although we don’t often talk about those days, as I’m sure you can appreciate, I know your compliment will bring him pleasure.”

“It’s not so much a compliment as the truth.”

“Well, won’t he be happy to hear it, just the same? These days his photos have become much more centered on family and farming.” The calendar of Irish scenes was on the wall of her home office in Malibu, which only somewhat eased her homesickness.

A not entirely uncomfortable silence settled over them.

The fog that had been blowing in from the sea had lifted. As Mary looked up at the vast, star-spangled sky, she thought how long it had been since she’d been far enough from city lights to actually see stars. And how much she’d missed them.

As soon as her release appearances for
Selkie Bride
were finished, she’d have to schedule in a trip home.

But at this moment, in this place that reminded her of the village that had played such a vital part in the woman she’d become, for the first time in ages, Mary felt herself beginning to unwind. A feeling that was, unfortunately, to be short-lived.

“Ready to go back in?” he asked as the musicians switched from “The Rising of the Moon” to the more sprightly “Emily’s Reel.”

“I suppose I should.”

It wouldn’t have been her first choice. She was a bit surprised, and pleased, by the way J.T. had slightly lowered his barricades, giving her a bit of insight, and even as Mary reminded herself that she should keep her distance, another, stronger part of her would have preferred they stay out here by themselves.

She handed him back his jacket, took a breath, and made the mental shift into public movie-star mode. Something that was far more exhausting than it looked to outsiders.

As difficult as her first meeting with J.T. had been, her introduction to his family was the first truly enjoyable part of the evening.

Good looks obviously ran in the Douchett family. His grandfather Bernard, who—she did the math—had to have been in his seventies though looked a decade younger, and his father, whom Mary guessed to be in his late fifties, both were still ruggedly handsome men and gave her an idea of how the youngest Douchett son would age.

The oldest brother, Cole, obviously doted on his wife, smiling down on her as she’d assured Mary that she’d seen every one of her movies.

“More than once,” Kelli said breathlessly. “I can’t wait until this new one’s available so I can have them as a boxed set.”

“I could get you a copy before it goes on sale, if you’d like.”

“Really? Oh, wow!” She pressed a hand against
the front of the Barbie pink dress, as if to still her excited heart. “That would be so wonderful! Wouldn’t it, honey?” She beamed up at her husband before turning back to Mary. “Cole’s a huge fan, too. He usually doesn’t watch a movie more than once, but whenever I have yours on the Blu-ray player, he comes and watches with me again. I swear, he’s watched
Siren Song
more than
Iron Man
.”

J.T. tried to smother his laugh, but Mary heard it just the same. As she glanced up at him, she saw something that looked like humor in his eyes. But it came and went so quickly, she wondered whether it could have been merely a trick of the light.

“I love your shoes,” Kelli gushed. “I never would have thought to wear hot pink with midnight blue. But they so work.”

“Thank you.” Definitely not a Rodeo Drive fashionista, Mary wouldn’t have chosen the combination, either. But Leon had pressed, and although she still thought the dress was overkill for the occasion, she couldn’t deny that he’d nailed the shoes.

“My wife could have been a Hollywood star,” J.T.’s father, Lucien, announced.

“My husband exaggerates,” Maureen Douchett, who bore a striking resemblance to Maureen O’Hara, demurred.

“You would’ve been famous,” he insisted. “With a star on the Walk of Fame in Hollywood. She was second runner-up to Miss Oregon,” he informed Mary proudly, “which got some big-shot agent from Hollywood calling. But she turned down his offer, to marry me.” The way his eyes gleamed as he gazed down at his wife revealed that he still couldn’t believe his luck.

“It was a very small offer,” Maureen told Mary. She lifted a hand to her husband’s dark cheek. “While Lucien’s was impossible to resist.”

The chemistry between them was palpable, somehow shutting out everyone else in the restaurant, making Mary feel a bit as if she were intruding on a private moment. She also wondered how many women could ever hope to be as fortunate as the Douchett women appeared to be.

“I remember you,” Adèle Douchett, J.T.’s grandmother, spoke up suddenly. “You were that pretty girl J.T. dated for a while back in high school. The one who had the pregnancy scare.”

Silence dropped like a stone over the group.

“This is Mary Joyce,
Grand-mère
,” J.T. said, his gentle tone, which was far different from the guff one she’d heard thus far, revealing none of the embarrassment Mary knew he must be experiencing. “She’s an actress. Who plays the selkie queen, remember? You really like those movies.”

“Oh.” She looked up at Mary, squinting a little, as if to study her more closely. “Well, of course I remember those films. You’re a very good actress and my grandson’s right. I do enjoy those selkie stories.”

Mary smiled. “Thank you.”

She could feel J.T., standing beside her, begin to relax. A moment too soon.

“I suppose the reason I didn’t recognize you right off the bat is that you’re wearing clothes tonight.”

Touching her for the first time, J.T. put a hand on Mary’s waist. “The mayor’s trying to get your attention,” he said evenly. “As much fun as this has been, I guess you’d better get back to work meeting and greeting folks to keep the festival committee happy.”

“I suppose so.” Mary wished she could just sit down and spend the rest of the evening with the Douchetts, but unfortunately this trip wasn’t a personal one. “You must be very proud of your sons,” she told Maureen. “And it was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Douchett,” she said to his grandmother.

“The pleasure was mine,” the older woman said. She looked up at J.T. “If you’re as smart as your grandfather and I have always known you are, you won’t let this one get away.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.…Hell, I’m sorry,” he said to Mary as he practically pushed her across the wooden floor.

“You needn’t apologize for her.” Didn’t Adèle Douchett remind Mary of her own grandmother? “I like your family.” She glanced back to where J.T.’s grandfather Bernard Douchett had crouched down in front of his wife and taken her hands in his. Both love and concern were etched into his sea-weathered face. “And it’s obvious that both your parents and grandparents are still very much in love,” Mary said as she blinked back an unexpected misting in her eyes.

“There were times, growing up, when we were kids, that my brothers and I were embarrassed by the way our parents sort of made out while slow dancing here at Bon Temps,” J.T. said, revealing yet another personal tidbit. “No one else’s mom and dad were anything like that.” He shook his head. “But now that I’m older, I guess they set the bar for what I’d want if I ever get married.”

“It’s a high bar.” With her own father never having remarried after her mother had died, and the Irish not being all that publicly demonstrative, Mary
hadn’t witnessed that type of deep and abiding love until her sister Nora had fallen in love with Quinn. “But I know exactly what you mean.”

He paused briefly to look down at her. He was, she thought, a bit surprised. “I may work in Hollywood,” she said. “But I have my own marriage role model in my sister and her husband. And I’ve never believed in settling for second-best.”

He gave her another of those long, inscrutable looks. Just when she thought he might be about to say something personal, Mayor Dennis was standing in front of them.