One Summer (10 page)

“I thought we were a perfect match, too. I foolishly believed that after having wed so many frogs, I’d finally found my prince.” She wiped at her cheeks with the backs of her manicured hands, looking for all the world like a heartbroken six-year-old. “Not that your father was a frog, darling,” she tacked on quickly.

“I know what you meant.” Dylan Tiernan, a renowned plastic surgeon to the stars, who’d even for a time had his own television program, had many fine attributes. Unfortunately, monogamy wasn’t one of them.

“We haven’t been apart one night since we got married.”

“I hadn’t realized that.” She tried to imagine the down-to-earth outdoorsman judge sitting in the front row at New York fashion week. Tried to imagine her mother not being there. Both ideas proved a stretch.

“It’s true. Life’s been so perfect, there really isn’t anyone I’d rather be with.” Her mother sniffled into the handkerchief. “Believe it or not, although Helga—you remember her, darling, our Swiss cook—does the weekly shopping, we’ve even gone to the farmers’ market together on occasion.”

“That’s sweet.” And coincidentally, exactly the type of marriage she’d always wanted herself.

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? He even goes clothes shopping with me.” She frowned as she plucked at the red silk. “The saleswomen at Neiman Marcus and Nordstrom adore him because whenever I can’t decide between two outfits, he insists I buy both.”

“No woman’s going to complain about that.”

“I certainly wasn’t about to. One of the problems with marrying such highly successful men is that none of them, until Benton, ever put me at the center of their lives. Which is why, when he said he had to attend some judicial conference on Maui, and that it was going to be all work, so wives weren’t invited, I decided to put a little love note into his suitcase to surprise him when he unpacked.”

“That’s a nice gesture.” Charity still couldn’t see what the problem was.

“A gesture the horrid man damn well doesn’t deserve.” The tears began to flow again. Not the ones for show Charity had grown accustomed to, but real ones that streamed down her mother’s face, leaving trails of mascara on her porcelain-smooth cheeks. “You’ll never guess what I found.”

Given that husband number five—who’d claimed to be a Russian count descended from the czars—had turned out to have a penchant for wearing women’s underwear, Charity was afraid to ask.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?” As if a herd of wild horses could stop her.

“V-V-Viagra.”

Oops.
“Oh.”

“It’s not as if our sex hasn’t been off the charts.” Amanda recovered enough to toss her shoulder-length auburn hair. A redhead by both temperament and nature, she’d kept it the same rich color it had been all Charity’s life. “And he’s always been amazingly inventive. That is, until suffering that little episode a few months ago.”

“Episode?”

“An MI.”

“Your husband had a myocardial infarction? And you didn’t think to call me?”

“He wanted to keep it private. And he assured me it wasn’t all that serious.”

“Mom, any heart attack is serious.” Surely the judge’s doctor had given the couple a list of post-MI instructions?

Her mother’s spine stiffened. “I’m well aware of the seriousness, dear. But he’s been walking along the lake-shore every day. And not only was he back on the bench in only a few weeks, but apparently he’s healthy enough to go traipsing off to Maui with some bimbo.”

“You don’t know that he’s with any bimbo.” Though, granted, taking a sexual enhancement drug along on a business trip while his wife remained at home was suspicious.

“We haven’t had sex since he got home from the hospital,” Amanda said, revealing yet more information about her sex life that Charity could’ve lived without. “Even though the doctor assured us both that it’s safe. I also went online to get a second opinion. Actually, I found several physician Web sites all saying exactly the same thing.”

“An MI, even a small one, is undoubtedly a sobering event, Mom. Benton could be depressed, or afraid of having a full-blown heart attack, or—”

“And of course, having one at some hotel thousands of miles from home—not to mention away from your wife—makes perfect sense,” Amanda said dryly.

“Good point.” And one Charity hated admitting, since she had truly hoped that this time her mother had found the happiness that had eluded her for so many years. “What did he say when you asked him about it?”

“I didn’t.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because if I brought it up, I’d have to yell at him. And then, although he’s supposed to be avoiding stress, I just know we’d get into a fight if I let out all this emotion churning inside me.” Her beringed hand trembled as she dragged it through her hair. More tears glistened in her eyes. “And despite being absolutely furious at him right now, I’d never forgive myself if I killed him.”

Charity understood her mother’s fear. Still, avoiding such a serious subject wasn’t going to solve the situation, either.

She was trying to think of something, anything, to say that might prove helpful or encouraging when the black Jeep she’d last seen being towed behind Gabriel St. James’ motor home pulled up behind Amanda’s rental car.

A slogan Charity had seen on a poster in the local recruiting-office window instantly came to mind:
The Marines have landed; the situation is well in hand.

She wasn’t alone. Which, Gabe decided as he climbed out of the Jeep, was a good thing. With any luck, he could pay whatever he owed for the mutt’s care and escape before she started pressuring him to take it with him.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs. Not only had he always wanted one growing up; his unit had worked with a German shepherd in Iraq that had a nose for sniffing out IEDs and a jones for jerky. Which had worked out well for all of them.

But a dog would mean responsibility and commitment. And a dog who’d been through what that one had suffered would undoubtedly come with issues.

Which was entirely the point. He’d long ago decided that staying emotionally detached allowed him to control at least his life in a crazed world where innocent people could be blown to smithereens in a marketplace, or burned out of their homes and murdered by religious differences gone amok.

Despite his one slip into a marriage that should have been declared dead at the altar, he’d always made it a point to steer clear of any women seeking a future. And with the exception of one CNN war correspondent who’d filleted him with words that would’ve earned her network one hell of an FCC fine if she’d said them on the air, he and his lovers always parted, if not exactly friends, at least without rancor.

The polar bear the vet was passing off as a dog stood up as he approached. That it was guarding its owner was obvious. Fortunately, it appeared to have remembered meeting him and didn’t regard him to be a threat.

Charity stood up, as well. She was wearing a white T-shirt that read
Real Doctors Treat More Than One Species
, faded jeans, and white sneakers with red baseball stitching. Her hair was back in its tidy tail beneath a New York Yankees baseball cap.

She and the older woman sitting beside her were a study in contrasts. The woman’s silk dress was a brilliant scarlet and her shoes looked designer and probably cost as much as his first car. Her makeup must’ve been shellacked or something, because the sea mist in the air appeared to have no effect on it.

“Mr. St. James,” Charity Tiernan greeted him warmly.

“My
father
was Mr. St. James. I’m Gabe.”

“Gabe,” she agreed with a nod. “You’re here for your dog.”

“No.” He folded his arms. “I’m here to pay you for whatever medical services you performed on that stray I brought to you.”

She opened her mouth, probably prepared to argue, when the other woman, who’d been studying him as if he were a piece of jewelry she was considering buying, suddenly said, “Are you
the
Gabriel St. James? The amazingly talented war photojournalist?”

“I was a Marine photojournalist.” He braced for the inevitable questions about how it felt to be in a battle. Or the eye-shifting thing that suggested fear of him breaking out in a rampaging case of PTSD at any moment. “Now I’m just a photographer.”

“A brilliant one, according to a former husband.” A Volkswagen-sized diamond flashed on her finger as she fluffed her wavy, dark red hair. “You may have heard of him. Peter Gillette?”

“Of course. I’ve admired his work.” Which was true, even though Gabe would rather be taken prisoner by terrorists than cater to the egos of celebrity clients. “You must be Charity’s mother.”

“Why, yes. I am.” She shot a glance between him and her daughter. “I’m surprised Charity mentioned me.” Clever green eyes sharpened as they lasered back to him. “You two must be close.” Her voice went up a little on the end of the statement, turning it into a question.

“We were discussing his latest book,” Charity jumped in. It was the second time he’d seen her actually flustered. The first had been the moment that bridal bouquet had landed against the front of her dress, forcing her to catch it. “Peter’s name came up.”

“Peter was a photojournalist in the Vietnam War,” the woman whose name he’d yet to catch offered. “For
Stars and Stripes
.”

“That’s quite a career change.”

It was, he realized, also much like what Charity had mentioned about his taking wedding photos. Then again, his being at that ceremony had been a special case—a favor for a buddy. Gillette had actually chosen a jet-set life among celebrities.

“That’s what I thought,” she agreed. “Though he did occasionally say taking war photos was easier. And at times even less dangerous.” Somehow she managed to frown without furrowing her forehead. “Come to think of it, that was the only thing he ever said about those years.”

“Some people prefer not to rehash it.” And wasn’t he one of those?

“I suppose so.” She held out a hand tipped in nails as red as her dress. “I’m Amanda Templeton.”

This obviously high-maintenance female might appear the antithesis of her daughter, yet as he took the slender hand she offered, he recognized it as a twin of the one who’d handled his dog on the exam table.

The
dog, dammit. It wasn’t
his
dog, and if he had anything to say about it, and he did, it never would be.

“Nice to meet you,” he responded.

“It’s delightful to meet you. In fact, I think I’ll go inside and call Peter right away and tell him I’ve met you.” She reclaimed her hand and turned toward her daughter. “We can bring my things in from the car later.”

“Things?”

Okay. Count that as three times he’d seen Dr. Charity Tiernan flustered. This time she looked on the verge of panic.

“Well, darling, I have to stay
somewhere
.”

“What’s wrong with your house?”

“I don’t want to be there when—and if—Benton calls.”

“That’s what voice messaging is for. So you can screen calls.”

“But you know me, Charity. I have absolutely no self-control. At least when it comes to my husbands. I’d pick up the phone and the next thing, we’d be in a terrible argument because I wouldn’t be able to hold back how upset I am.” She shook her auburn head. “No. I need time to plot a strategy.”

“How about asking him straight out what he’s up to?”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. It’s obvious you’ve never been married, darling.” Color flooded into her cheeks. “I’m sorry, that was thoughtless.”

“It’s okay.”

“Still, obviously it’s a sore point, after what happened, and—”

“Mom.” The daughter’s tone was soft, yet firm. “I
said
it’s okay.”

The older woman shot another of those appraising looks back and forth between her daughter and Gabe. “Aaah.” She stretched the word out. “I see. Well, then, I’d best let you two get down to business.”

She flashed a dazzling smile at Gabe, then hugged her daughter, whispering something into Charity’s ear. What it was, he couldn’t tell, but from the way the vet’s spine beneath that T-shirt stiffened, Gabe suspected she was less than thrilled.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said after her mother had gone into the house, shutting the screen door behind her.

“What? That I met your mother? Or that she called my work brilliant? Which, given who the quote came from, would have a lot of photographers calling their publicist trying to figure out how to use it on the front of a book.”

“A lot of photographers, perhaps.” Charity tilted her head. Studied him in that deep, serious way she had. “But not you.”

“No. Not me. Taking photos is my job. Like some guys are plumbers. Others catch fish for a living. I like that I can make a living, be my own boss, and having grown up with a dad who spent more time on welfare than he did on the job, I’m grateful for the work.”

Damn. Why in the world had he told her that? Like most children of alcoholics, Gabe had learned early on to keep secrets. After he’d brought home a kid after school to work on a magnetism project for fourth-grade science class, only to find his mother passed out on the couch, he’d quit risking having friends over to his house. Which, in turn, meant that he didn’t have that many friends.

That had suited him just fine, especially after he’d discovered photography in high school and learned that he actually preferred life as seen through the lens of a camera, where he could adjust it—with film speed and aperture openings—the way he liked it. Rather than the way it might be in reality.

The military might have changed the focus of his viewpoint, bringing gritty, unblinking realism into his photos that had earned him a measure of fame. But he’d held on to one tenet from his childhood: He never,
ever
talked about his family.

Even Cole Douchett, who was the closest thing to a friend that Gabe had ever had, knew only that his parents had died in an accident when he’d been in college. During some of his and Cole’s darkest hours together—when it wasn’t certain either of them would make it out alive—while the other Marine had talked openly and fondly about
his
family, Gabe had seen no reason to share the details of his own life. Which, as far as he was concerned, had begun when he’d shown up at Parris Island, where he’d acquired a new family consisting of jarheads like him.