Patrick's Destiny

“What’s not going to work?”

“I’m not going to become so overwhelmed by my hormones that I can’t concentrate on the cards,” she said, setting the soup down in front of him.

Patrick’s lips twitched slightly. “You think not?”

“I know not,” she said emphatically.

“You’re turning it into a challenge,” he warned. “Men love challenges.”

Uh-oh, she thought, recognizing the truth in that statement. Men were disgustingly predictable when it came to challenges, especially ones uttered by a woman. She tried to regroup. “It wasn’t a challenge, just a warning.”

“Nice try, but I know a challenge when I hear one.” He grinned as he cupped the back of her neck and held her mere inches away from his face. “And when I decide to take you up on it, you won’t even see it coming.”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

S
pring came late to Widow’s Cove, Maine, which suited Alice Newberry just fine. Winter, with its dormant plants, icy winds off the Atlantic and stark, frozen landscape, had been more appropriate for her brooding sense of guilt. The setting had been just as cold and unforgiving as her heart.

But she was working on that. In fact, that was the whole reason she’d come home to the quaint Victorian fishing village where many of her female ancestors had lost husbands to the sea. Eight years ago she’d had a bitter disagreement with her parents and left, determined to prove to them that she could make it on her own without any help from them.

She’d done it, too. She’d worked her way through college, gotten her degree in early childhood education and spent several years now teaching kindergarten, happily nurturing other women’s children. She’d assumed
there would be ample time ahead to make peace with her parents, many more years in which to have a family of her own.

Then, less than a year ago, on a stormy summer night, John and Diana Newberry had died when their car had skidded off a slick road and crashed into the sea. The call from the police had shaken Alice as nothing else in her life ever had, not even that long-ago rift when she’d been little more than a girl. Not only were her parents dead, the chance for reconciliation had been lost forever. So many things between them had been left unspoken.

From that instant, a thousand
if onlys
had plagued her. It tormented her that they’d died with only the memory of her hateful words echoing in their minds…if they’d thought of her at all.

Alice had wondered about that. She’d been haunted by the possibility that they’d pushed all thoughts of her completely out of their heads on the day she’d climbed onto the bus leaving Widow’s Cove for Boston. While she had lived with a million and one regrets and too much pride to ask for forgiveness, had they simply moved on, pretended that they’d never had a daughter? The possibility had made her heart ache.

When their will had been read, she’d had her answer. John and Diana Newberry had left everything to her—“their beloved daughter”—and that had only deepened the wound. For eighteen years she’d been their pride and joy, a dutiful daughter who never gave them a moment’s trouble. And then she’d gone and they’d had no one left, at least no one important enough to bequeath their home and belongings to. She’d had to face the likelihood that they’d been not just alone, but lonely, in her absence.

Coming home after the school year to settle their affairs, Alice had spent a lot of time in the cozy little house on the cliff overlooking the rolling waves of the Atlantic and tried to make peace with her memories…of the good times and the bitter parting. She’d realized by July it was something that couldn’t be accomplished in a few weeks or even a few months. So she’d applied for a teaching position in Widow’s Cove and come home for good in August.

This first school year in Widow’s Cove was passing in a blur, the seasons marked only by the falling of the leaves in autumn, winter’s frozen landscape and her own unrelenting dark thoughts.

Now, finally, in mid-April, spring was creeping in. There were buds on the trees, lawns were turning green and daffodils were swaying in a balmy breeze. She hated the fact that the world was having its annual rebirth, while she was as lonely and as tormented by guilt as ever.

Worse, as if to emphasize how out-of-step she was with the prevailing spring fever, her kindergarten students were as restless as she’d ever seen them. She’d broken up two fights, read them a story, tried vainly to get them settled down before lunch, then given up in defeat. The noise level in the classroom was deafening, an amazing accomplishment for barely a dozen kids. Her head was pounding.

Desperate for relief, she clapped her hands, then shouted for attention. When that didn’t work, she walked over to the usual ringleader—Ricky Foster—and pointedly scowled until he finally turned to her with a suitably guilty expression.

“Sorry, Ms. Newberry,” he said, eyes downcast as
the other students promptly followed his lead and settled down.

That was the wonder of Ricky. He could stir up mischief in the blink of an eye and just as quickly dispel it. He could charm with a smile, apologize with utter sincerity or assume the innocent face of an angel. A child with that kind of talent for leadership and spin control at five was destined for great things, assuming some adult didn’t strangle him in the meantime.

“Thank you, Ricky,” she said. “Since it’s such a lovely day outside, it occurred to me that perhaps we should take our lunches and go for a walk.” Maybe the fresh air and exercise would work off some of this pre-spring-break restlessness and she could actually teach something this afternoon. Maybe it would cut through her own malaise as well.

“All right!” Ricky enthused, pumping his fist in the air.

A chorus of cheers echoed his enthusiasm, which only made Alice’s head throb even more. Even so, she couldn’t help smiling at the children’s eagerness. This unchecked excitement and wonder at the world around them was exactly what had drawn her to teaching kindergarten in the first place.

“Okay, then, here are the rules,” she said, ticking them off on her fingers. “We form a nice, straight line. We stay together at all times. When we get to the park, we’ll eat our lunches, then come back here. No running. No roughhousing. If anyone breaks the rules, we come back immediately. Is that understood?”

They listened to every word, expressions dutifully serious as they nodded their understanding. “Yes, ma’am,” they said in a reassuring chorus.

Alice figured they would forget everything she’d said
the minute they got outdoors, but she refused to let the prospect daunt her. She’d been teaching for several years now. No five-year-old had gotten the better of her yet, not for long, anyway.

“Do all of you have your lunches?” she asked.

Brown bags and lunch boxes were held in the air.

“Then line up, two-by-two. Ricky, I want you in front with Francesca.”

Ricky immediately made a face. Francesca was a shy girl who never broke the rules. Maybe she’d be a good influence, Alice thought optimistically.

With Ricky right where Alice could keep a watchful eye on him, they made their way without incident to the nearby park, which the school used as a playground. As the kids sat at picnic tables and ate their lunches, Alice turned her face up to the sun and let the warmth ease her pounding headache.

She’d barely closed her eyes when she felt a frantic tug on her arm and heard Francesca’s panicked whisper.

“Ms. Newberry, Ricky’s gone.”

Alice’s eyes snapped open and she scanned the park. She caught a glimpse of the errant boy heading straight for the waterfront, which every child knew was off-limits.

“Ricky Foster, get back here right this second!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. She saw his steps falter and shouted again. “This second!”

His shoulders visibly heaved with a sigh and he reluctantly came trotting back. She was there to greet him, hands on hips. “Young man, you know the rules. What were you thinking?”

“The fishing boats just came in. I was going to see if they brought back any fish,” he said reasonably. “I told Francesca not to tell, ’cause I was coming right
back.” He scowled at the tattler. “How come you had to go and blab?”

“Francesca is not the one who made a mistake,” Alice informed him as predictable tears welled up in Francesca’s eyes. “You know that.”

“But it’s really cool when the boats come in.” He gave her a pleading look. “I think we should
all
go. We could have a lesson on fishing.”

Alice considered the request. Five minutes each way and they would still be back in the classroom in time for one last lesson.

And truthfully, it was hard to resist Ricky. If she had trouble ignoring that sweet face and coaxing tone, it was little wonder that the other kids were putty in his hands. Besides, she could remember what it was like when the air finally warmed and spring fever set in. There were too many tempting possibilities around the sea to sit still for long. At their age, she’d been just as bad, always eager to run off to the beach, to feel the sand between her toes and the splash of waves, no matter how cold.

“Why should I reward you for misbehaving?” she asked Ricky, trying to hold out as a matter of principle.

“It’s not a reward for me,” he said piously. “It would be punishing everybody else if you didn’t let us go.” He regarded her earnestly. “They don’t deserve to be punished.”

Alice sighed. “No, they don’t. Okay, then, I suppose we can go for a walk to see the boats,” she agreed at last. “The key word is
walk.
No running. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ricky said, his head bobbing.

“Class?”

“No running,” they echoed dutifully.

Satisfied that she at least had a shot at keeping them
under control, she had the children throw away their trash, then line up. They looked like obedient little angels as they waited for permission to start. She knew in her gut what an illusion that was, but she wasn’t quite prepared for chaos to erupt so quickly.

Ricky spotted something—Alice had no idea what—and took off with a shout, his promise to remain with the group forgotten. Three others followed. Francesca immediately burst into tears, while Alice shouted ineffectively at Ricky, then set off in hot pursuit. The remaining kids galloped in her wake, obviously thrilled to have the chance to run at full throttle without fear of disapproval.

As she tried to catch the errant children and their sneaky little leader, Alice wondered where in her life she’d gone so wrong. Was it when she’d decided on this outing? Was it when she’d come back to Widow’s Cove? Or had it been years before, when she’d defied her parents just as rebelliously as Ricky had just defied her?

Whenever the beginning, her life was definitely on a downward spiral right this second, and something told her it was about to get a whole lot worse.

A dozen pint-sized kids thundered across the rickety, narrow dock straight toward certain disaster. Patrick Devaney heard their exuberant shouts and looked up just in time to see the leader trip over a loose board and nosedive straight into the freezing, churning water.

Muttering a heartfelt oath, Patrick instinctively dove into the Atlantic after the boy, scooped him up and had him sitting on the edge of the dock before the kid was fully aware of just how close he’d come to drowning. No matter how good a swimmer the kid was, the icy
waters could have numbed him in no time, and his skill would have been useless.

Patrick automatically whirled on the woman accompanying the children. “What the
hell
were you thinking?” he demanded heatedly.

Clearly frozen with shock, cheeks flushed, she stared at him, her mouth working. Then, to his complete dismay, she burst into tears. Patrick barely contained a harsh expletive. A near drowning and a blubbering female. The day just got better and better.

Sighing, he jumped onto the deck of his fishing boat—which also happened to be his home at the moment—grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around the shivering boy. He shrugged out of his own soaked flannel shirt and into a dry wool jacket, keeping his gaze steady on the kid and ignoring the ditzy woman responsible for this near disaster.

“You okay, pal?” he asked after a while.

Eyes wide, the boy nodded. “Just cold,” he said, his teeth chattering.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a perfect day for a swim,” Patrick agreed. The temperature was mild for a midafternoon in April on the coast of Maine, but the ocean was cold enough to chill a beer in a couple of minutes. He knew, because he’d done it more than once lately. The sea was more efficient than a refrigerator. And if the water was that effective on a beer, it wouldn’t take much longer than that to disable a boy this kid’s size and have him sinking like a rock straight to the bottom. He shuddered just thinking about the tragedy this accident could have become.

The kid watched him warily. “Don’t blame Ms. Newberry,” he pleaded. “I tripped. It wasn’t her fault.”

Patrick could have debated the point. Who in their
right mind brought a bunch of rambunctious children onto a dock—a clearly marked
private
dock—without sufficient supervision? He scowled once more in the woman’s direction, noting that she’d apparently recovered from her bout of tears and was carefully herding the rest of the children back onto dry land. Her soft voice carried out to him as she instructed them firmly to stay put. He could have told her it was a futile command. Children as young as these were inevitably more adventurous than either sensible or obedient. Besides, they outnumbered her, always a risky business when dealing with kids.

“Ms. Newberry’s going to be real mad at me,” the boy beside him confided gloomily. “She told us not to run. We were supposed to stay together.”

Patrick bit back a smile at the futility of that order. “How come you didn’t listen?”

“’Cause I was in a hurry,” he replied impatiently.

Patrick understood the logic of that. He also thought he recognized the kid. It was Matt Foster’s boy. Matt rushed through life the same way, always at full tilt and without a lick of common sense. “You’re Ricky Foster, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” he said, head bobbing. “How come you know that?”

“Your dad and I went to school together. I’d better call him and tell him what’s happened,” Patrick said. “You need to get home and into some dry clothes.”

“I’ll see that he gets home,” the woman in charge of the group informed him stiffly.

“You sure you can handle that and keep an eye on the others, too?” Patrick inquired, nodding toward the brood that was already racing off in a dozen different directions.

Muttering a very unladylike oath under her breath, she charged back to shore and rounded up the children for a second time. She looked as if she’d like nothing better than to tie each and every one of them to a hitching post.

Patrick took pity on her and carried the still-shivering Ricky back to join the others. With two adults presenting a united front, maybe they’d have a shot at averting any more disasters.