One Summer (12 page)

“So,” Sax said as Gabe took a stool at the bar, “I see she got you, too.” He pushed a bowl of bar mix toward Gabe.

“Who would that be?” Gabe took a bite of what the younger Douchett brother called Cajun devil peanuts. Which fit, since the things were as scorching hot as hell.

“The vet. Charity Tiernan.”

“Word gets around fast.”

“That it does,” Sax agreed. “Of course, the mutt sitting in the passenger seat of your Jeep did give me a clue. You want the regular?”

Not accustomed to being anyplace long enough to have a “regular,” Gabe said, “Why don’t you surprise me?”

“You gonna eat?”

“Thought I’d have an oyster po’boy.”

“Got just the thing.” Sax reached into the cooler and brought out a bottle. “Rogue’s Captain Sig’s Northwestern Ale goes great with fish,” he said. “And it’ll cool those flames burning your tongue.”

“You saying I can’t handle some damn peanuts?”

Cher
, you may be a Marine, but you’re not Cajun.”

The malty ale, deep red in color, went down smooth and did soothe the flames. But Gabe wasn’t about to admit that to a damn Navy frogman.

“I’m only keeping the mutt for a couple days. While she finds someone to take him off her hands.”

“She’s good at that,” Sax said as he whipped an egg, dropped an oyster into the egg, then coated it with a mix of cornmeal, flour, and seasoning. “Haven’t seen anyone who can say no to the woman when she sets her mind to something.” While the oyster sizzled in the deep fryer, he spread mayo on one side of a baguette, some sort of red sauce on the other.

“She’s like a damn pit bull,” Gabe complained. “What’s that stuff?”

“Come-Back sauce.” Sax piled layers of shredded lettuce, tomato slices, and pickles on the bun. “It’s an old secret family recipe my
grand-mère
came up with. It’s the chili pepper that gives it a kick.” He pulled the golden brown oyster out of the fryer, layered it on top of the dressings, and tossed on some thick-cut fries.

“This is a test, isn’t it?” Gabe asked as he eyed the plate Sax put in front of him.

“What it is is the best sandwich you’ve ever tasted.”

It sure smelled great. As the flavors exploded on his tongue, Gabe decided it tasted even better than it smelled. “Okay,” he said around a mouthful of deep-fried seasoned oyster. “You’re not going to get any argument from me about that.”

“It’s the Come-Back sauce,” Sax said with a grin. “Gets them every time. I’m thinkin’ of bottling the stuff and selling it to tourists. Maybe even set up shop on the Internet.”

He left from behind the bar to deliver the check to an elderly couple wearing matching blue
I went whale watching in Shelter Bay
T-shirts. The woman, who appeared to be at least in her eighties, giggled like a schoolgirl at something Sax said. Oh, yeah, the guy definitely had a knack with women. Which had Gabe wondering if he’d ever turned that smooth charm toward the town’s veterinarian before hooking up with the sheriff.

“So,” he asked, when Sax came back with a handful of bills, “what do you know about her?”

“Who?” He put the bills into an old-fashioned metal box.

“Charity Tiernan.”

“Not much.”

“Did you know her that summer she spent here when she was a kid?”

“Nah. It’s a small town, but summers here, as you can see, bring in a lot of strangers. Besides, she and her stepbrother were rich and wouldn’t have been likely to hang out with guys like Cole and me.” He rubbed the bar down with a towel. “But here’s a small-world thing. I ended up serving with him downrange.”

“He was a SEAL?”

“A medic. The best I ever worked with. He was like a walking trauma center. If any military from anywhere in the world had better medical supplies, you know that somehow Chaffee was going to get his hands on it.”

“He ever talk about her?”

“Not that I recall.” He lifted a dark brow. “You sound like you’re interested.”

Gabe shrugged. “She’s not my type.”

“Sure. Not many guys are going to be attracted to a long, smooth drink of water with legs up to her shoulders, forest green eyes, a heart as big as all outdoors, and brains, to boot.”

“I wasn’t talking about her looks. Or her brains. It’s the heart thing. The woman has marriage, two-point-five kids, and a picket fence written all over her. Hell, she even
has
a damn picket fence.”

“So do I.” It was Sax’s turn to shrug. “It came with my house.”

A huge white cliff house with a million-dollar view, Gabe remembered. He’d gone there with Cole a couple nights before the wedding and spent some time sitting out on the porch, drinking beer and sharing war stories. The kind of down and dirty guy stuff you didn’t share with civilians.

“My point”—Gabe tilted the neck of the bottle toward the other man—“is that she’s not a one-nightstand type of woman.” The thing to do was to get back into military mode and practice some serious strategic avoidance.

“My guess would be you’re right about that. My other guess is that she’s got enough going for her, a guy, were he interested, hypothetically speaking, might want to stick around for a while. See how things played out.”

“I’ve got a contract.” Gabe polished off the Sig’s Ale. “Once I’m done shooting scenes here, I’m moving on to Washington.”

“You going to settle down there?”

Gabe saw where he was going with this. “No.”

“Then there wouldn’t be anything keeping you from coming back. After you’re done shooting your pictures.” Sax took away the empty beer bottle and replaced it with a nonalcoholic brew. With an eye to detail Gabe figured SEALs, like Marines, needed, he’d obviously noticed that his brother’s war buddy was a one-beer guy.

“I’m also not into commitment.”

“Which is why you’ve got that dog sitting in the front seat of your rig.”

Gabe followed Douchett’s gaze out the window, where the mutt was waiting patiently for its rescuer to return.

“I’m just taking it off her hands for a couple days. Until she can find someone to adopt it.”

The other man’s deep, rumbling laugh drew the attention of every woman in the joint. “Good luck with that.”

Amanda jumped on Charity the moment she entered the guest room her mother had commandeered.

“Darling,” she said as she snapped her phone shut, “I was just telling Peter the exciting news about you dating
the
Gabriel St. James!”

“I’m not dating him.”

“You’re going out to dinner.”

“You were listening?”

“The window was open.” Appearing unconcerned at having been caught eavesdropping, Amanda waved airily toward the windows framed with white gauze curtains. “And I do think you were very wise not to accept his invitation for tonight. It’s always good tactics to make a man wait.”

“It wasn’t a tactic. It was the truth. We need to talk.”

“I don’t know what about.”

“How about the fact that you left your husband without even discussing the reason with him?”

Oh, God, her mother was tearing up again. “You know how I dislike conflict.”

“Perhaps some things—and some men—are worth fighting for.”

“And Ethan wasn’t?”

For someone who so loved being at the center of attention, her mother was an expert at turning the spotlight in a different direction when it suited her purpose.

“No. Ethan definitely wasn’t.”

“I didn’t think so, either. I also thought you were incredibly courageous, doing what you did. When you did it.”

Charity shrugged. “It seemed a better idea than going through with the ceremony, only to end up getting divorced six weeks later.” She belatedly realized how that sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know. My record on marriage is right up there with Liz Taylor’s. Which is why I’m so angry. I really did believe I’d chosen a life partner this time.”

“I believed that, too.” It was the truth. “I also believe that you owe it to Benton to discuss it with him. There may be a simple explanation.”

“Such as?”

“I’ve no idea. But things aren’t always what they appear on the surface.”

“True.” Amanda sighed heavily. “But I need time… . Meanwhile,” she said, perking up considerably, “what are you planning to wear on your date with that handsome young man?”

Charity was about to repeat that it was not a
date
, merely dinner, when something her mother said sidetracked her. “You think he’s handsome?”

“Absolutely. Don’t you?”

“Not like Brad Pitt handsome.” She thought about the harshly hewn scarred face, the heavily hooded, shuttered eyes, the too-broad chin, which hinted at an overdose of testosterone. “Compelling, maybe.” And wasn’t that the understatement of the year?

“He reminds me of your father. When we first met.”

“Really?” Her father was George Clooney/Cary Grant smooth. Nothing like Gabriel St. James.

“Oh, that’s right. You only know him from after he’d had a lot of work done.”

“My father had work done? Plastic-surgery-type work? Why?”

Darling, give it some thought. Although he’s always spent several weeks every year performing free and admirable reconstructive surgery for children in Third World countries, your father’s driving career goal was to be
the
surgeon to the stars. Which would have been very difficult to do if he hadn’t been Hollywood handsome himself. So he had some surgery to fit the image he needed to project to the public.

“When I married him, while he was in his final year of surgical residency, he had a scar much like Gabriel’s. But his ran up the side of his face. Apparently he’d gotten it while serving in Vietnam.”

“Wait a minute.” Charity held up a hand. “My father was in Vietnam? And I never heard a single, solitary word about it?”

“Your father was drafted,” Amanda said. “But he was much like Peter in that he never talked about the war, either. Then or now. But as a matter of fact, he was a medic who did three tours there. That’s how he put himself through medical school.”

Charity was honestly floored. “Is there anything else you’re keeping from me?”

“Charity, dear.” Her mother could have been talking to a six-year-old. “We all have secrets. Even you, I suspect. Besides, your father’s story wasn’t mine to tell.”

He
could have told me.” Was she actually pouting? She
never
pouted. That was her mother’s forte.

“I suspect he’d put it behind him because it was too painful to dwell on.” Amanda’s eyes sharpened. “Something I’d imagine you could identify with.”

She had her there. After all, Charity never had shared with her mother the total story of why she’d called off the wedding.

It was also time to turn the focus away from herself. “When’s Benton coming home?”

“I’ve no idea. He told me he’d be gone for a week. Then again, why should I believe anything the man says? But, whatever his schedule, if he wants to speak with me, he’s going to have to come here. Because I’m not setting foot back in that house until he explains his behavior.”

Her mother brushed her hands together, as if ridding herself of a particularly vexing problem, and said, “So, what are you going to wear for your dinner with Gabriel?”

“I hadn’t given it any thought.”

“I passed the Sea Mist on the way here. It looks lovely.”

The brown-shingled building on the bay was, indeed, lovely, with every table facing the harbor, and patio seating that proved popular on sunny days. “It is. But it’s not dressy, like a lot of places in Seattle.” She could see her mother’s plan, like a freight train barreling toward her.

“Well, still, you’ll want to look your best. Do you even own a dress?”

“Of course I do. Really,” Charity insisted when Amanda arched an auburn brow. She saw no point in mentioning that she’d donated all her city clothes, most of which she’d bought in a futile attempt to live up to her fiancé’s family’s lofty social standards, to Goodwill and Bottomless Closet, a charity that helped needy women get back on their feet by providing professional-looking clothing for job interviews.

“Let me see.”

Feeling thirteen years old again, when her mother had dragged her shopping for a respectable confirmation dress, Charity led her to her bedroom, opened the closet, and took out the yellow sheath she’d bought to wear to Cole and Kelli’s wedding at Bon Temps.

“Not bad,” Amanda allowed. “Actually it’s quite lovely and the color, while I’d certainly never attempt it, flatters your coloring.”

Charity’s relief at having escaped a shopping trip to Portland or Eugene was short-lived.

“Of course,” her mother tacked on, “it’s far too formal for a first date.”

“It’s not a date,” Charity insisted yet again.

Ignoring that claim, Amanda’s appraising gaze swept over her. “Fortunately, we’re nearly the same size. I have a lovely gauze skirt with an off-the-shoulder peasant blouse that would suit the occasion perfectly. And it’s a greenish blue watercolor silk that would bring out your eyes.”

What was it with so many people suddenly wanting to dress her up as if she were their own personal Barbie doll?

“I’m not the gauzy-skirt type,” she pointed out, running her palms down her jeans. “And didn’t peasant blouses go out with flower children?”

“They’re back. And surely you didn’t plan to wear something like that?” Her mother’s frown told Charity exactly what she thought of her usual uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers.

“I’m a vet. I don’t need to dress up to operate on dogs and cats.”

“I doubt you’ll have any reason to perform surgery on any animals at the Sea Mist,” Amanda countered. “What about a compromise? Wear a nice pair of white jeans with my top. That would look lovely with a sea-glass and silver necklace.”

“One problem. I don’t own any white jeans. They tend to show blood.”