Carolina Home (31 page)

“Okay, man?” Josh asked Ethan.

Ethan nodded, red-faced and admiring. “Sure, Josh.”

“Cool. Come on,” Josh said to Taylor. “We got to get you outta here.”

Nineteen

A
LLISON DROVE TO
the Pirates’ Rest to say good-bye to her parents. They were leaving.

And not a moment too soon, Allison told herself. If her parents hadn’t shown up, she would still be with Matt. She wouldn’t even be thinking of updating her resume, considering another move.

She passed through the center of town, charmed as always by the mix of new and old, bright kayaks standing up beside lichened gravestones, flower planters spilling under stunted oaks, pleasure boats floating as sleek and white as gulls on the timeless waters of the harbor. Like the Outer Banks themselves, the population of the island was shifting. Renewing itself.

Was she really considering moving on?
Running away.

She didn’t know if she belonged here, but she wanted to find out. She wanted to stay. With or without her parents’ blessing. With or without Matt.

It was her life. Her choice.

Two figures trudged along the sandy shoulder of the road, one tall and broad-shouldered, one short with an uneven gait. Allison slowed the car, her heart thumping as she recognized the tall one’s tawny mop, the Marine cap tugged over the short one’s head. Joshua and Taylor.

Allison frowned. Was Taylor limping?

She steered wide and pulled in front of them, coasting to a stop by the side of the road. Unrolling her window, she leaned out. “Are you guys all right?”

Taylor raised her head.

Tears, Allison thought. She got out of the car.

“It’s okay, Miss Carter.” Josh dropped a hand on Taylor’s shoulder, supporting or restraining her. “We’re fine.”

Allison looked at Taylor.
Oh, God, her knees.

“It is not okay. She’s not fine.” Allison crouched to inspect the damage, a fierce maternal instinct roaring to life inside her. Taylor’s jeans were split across, her knees crusted with dirt and blood. “Oh, sweetie.”

Taylor’s chin wobbled.

Allison turned over the girl’s palms. Scraped and raw. “Okay, that’s it.” Allison stood. “Get in the car.”

Josh hesitated. “We’re pretty dirty.”

Bloody.

“Don’t worry. Leather cleans,” Allison said briskly. “In the car. Now.”

She expected Josh to call shotgun, but he settled in to the backseat with Taylor. She watched the girl nudge him with her shoulder, saw his big hand drop casually on her head, giving her a quick rub like a dog.

She lost another little piece of her heart to both of them.

“So what happened?” she asked as she pulled on to the road.

She saw the quick glance they exchanged in the rearview mirror, and her Teacher’s Spidey Sense went on alert.

“She tripped,” Joshua said.

“Really. Who tripped her?”

They drew a little closer together in the backseat, a united wall of Fletcher silence.

Allison sighed. Did she really want to interfere with that lovely family bond? “You do know fighting is against school rules.”

“So’s bullying,” Josh said.

Allison was shocked at her rush of protective anger. “Did somebody bully you?” she asked Taylor.

“It’s cool,” Josh said. “We handled it.”

Allison sought Taylor’s gaze in the mirror. “Taylor?”

A stiff nod.

“Okay. Well, if you need help hiding the bodies let me know,” Allison said, deliberately teasing, carefully light, and was rewarded when Taylor smiled.

H
ER PARENTS’ CAR
was still parked in front of the inn. Matt’s truck was missing from its usual spot out back.

“Where’s your dad?” Allison asked.

“I think he had a charter,” Josh said.

Allison tried hard to feel relieved instead of disappointed. She wanted to see Matt, but she wasn’t sure she could face him. She didn’t need him to thank her for taking care of Taylor.

She focused on Taylor. After the girl had changed into a pair of basketball shorts—carefully, because of her scrapes—Allison sat her down at the kitchen table and gently sponged the embedded dirt and gravel from her knees.

Taylor hissed.

Fezzik whined and thrust his head against her hand.

“You’re doing great,” Allison said.

The dog’s ears perked as sounds penetrated from the hall.
Scrape thump
,
scrape thump
down the stairs.

“Really, I don’t understand why these people don’t put in an elevator,” Marilyn’s voice complained.

Her parents. Allison stiffened. She’d completely forgotten them.

“You don’t put an elevator in an old Craftsman house like this,” Richard said. “A competent bellboy would do.”

Josh stood. “I’ll go help them.”

“They’re fine.” Allison raised her voice. “Mom, Dad? I’m in the kitchen.”

“Allison!” Her mother came through the doorway, radiating Chanel and disapproval. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I’d stop by.”

“Not here at the inn. Here.” Her mother waved her hand. “In the kitchen. Working.”

“I’m not working, Mom. Taylor had a little accident.”

Her mother stepped forward to squint at Taylor’s knees. “Good heavens.” Marilyn turned pale. “Is she all right?”

Allison gave Taylor’s foot a reassuring squeeze. “She’s going to be fine.”

“Well, put a Band-Aid on her or something. You don’t want that to get infected.”

Allison smiled. “Thanks. I’ll take care of it.”

“Good.” Her mother blinked. “Why are you the one taking care of her? Where is her father?”

“He’s in Afghanistan,” Taylor said.

“She means Dad,” Josh said.

“Mom, we’re fine. I’ve got this.”

Marilyn’s brow puckered despite the Botox. “The children are his responsibility, not yours. We just don’t want to see you taken advantage of.”

“It’s okay. I want to help.”

Richard stared at her broodingly. “That’s what you always say. One of these days, little girl, you’ll learn you can’t solve the whole world’s problems.”

Allison regarded her parents with love and exasperation.

All of her life, she’d told herself that they weren’t bad
people. A little selfish, a little self-absorbed, a little controlling, maybe, but not bad.

But for the first time, she understood them. Because when she was with Josh and Taylor, she felt the same need to intervene, to manage, to protect.

The difference was she wasn’t a little girl anymore.

“Joshua,” she said quietly, “take my parents’ bags to their car, will you? They have a plane to catch.”

“You could come with us,” Marilyn said. “Just for a drink at the airport. There’s time.”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’m needed here.”

“You’re only doing this for that man,” her mother said. Josh stopped dead in the doorway. Oblivious, Marilyn continued, “When you come to your senses—”

“I’m doing this for me,” Allison said. “I love you, Mom and Dad, but this is my life now. My choice. My home.”

As soon as she said the words, she felt an incredible lightness, as if a burden had evaporated from her shoulders. The sudden relief made her dizzy.

Buoyed by the rightness of her decision, she got to her feet. Kissed her parents’ cheeks. “Have a safe trip. Call me when you get to Philadelphia.”

Marilyn wavered. “Well, really, I…”

“Come on, Marilyn.” Richard surprised Allison with a brief, hard hug. “Allison’s right. We’ll miss our flight.”

They left.

Allison nodded to Josh. He went into the hall to grab her mother’s bag. She heard the front door open and close, open and close, and Josh’s footsteps returning in the hall. When he came back into the kitchen, she was almost finished bandaging Taylor’s knees.

“Thanks, Miss Carter.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“It’s Allison,” she told them. She patted Taylor’s shoulder as she rose again to her feet and then, unable to help herself,
kissed the top of her head. “Why didn’t you guys come to find me in the first place? Back at school.”

Josh shrugged.

“We’re not supposed to bother you,” Taylor said.

Something lit inside Allison, a flare of indignation, a burning coal of resolve. “You are not a bother. You come get me anytime. You can call me anytime.”

Josh nodded, unimpressed.

“What if you’re not there?” Taylor asked.

Allison looked at Joshua, narrowing her eyes.

“Dad said you might be leaving,” he said, his voice flat, his face expressionless.

The way his mother had left.

And Taylor’s.

Allison sucked in her breath. Her head pounded. Her tongue felt weighted. This was important; she had to get this right. She couldn’t overstep or lead them on. She had no official connection to these children other than her role as Joshua’s teacher. All she could offer them was her love. And her honesty.

“I don’t want to leave. And I’d never go without telling you.”

Lame, she thought. They deserved better.

She tried again. “I’m here now. For as long as you need me.” The back door opened behind her, but in her struggle to do the right thing, to say the right words, she barely noticed. “Even if you don’t need me, I’m here.”

Josh’s gaze flicked beyond her. His eyes widened.

“We need you,” Matt said quietly.

She whirled, her heart leaping into her throat.

Matt stood in the open kitchen door, shaved and showered and holding a giant pot in foiled paper, spilling pink ruffled blooms and glossy dark leaves.

She swallowed hard. “How much did you hear?”

“Not enough.” He strolled forward, a warm, deep glow
in his dark blue eyes. “That’s okay. I have some things I need to say to you first.”

Josh grinned. “Come on,” he said to Taylor. “They don’t need us.”

Matt didn’t take his eyes from Allison. “Yeah, we do. Just not at the moment. I have things to say,” he repeated.

But when the kids were gone, he didn’t seem in any hurry to speak.

She waited, trembling on the edge of hope. Afraid to jump.

He set the pot on the kitchen counter.

“That’s beautiful,” she said to fill the silence. “For your mother?”

“It’s a camellia. For you.”

She melted. “Oh.”

“I didn’t want to give you cut flowers.” He raked his fingers through his hair. Shoved both hands in his pockets. “Because of the poem.”

It was so
not
what she was expecting him to say that she gaped. “What poem?”

“The tattoo one. I looked it up online.”

The sunlight slanting through the kitchen windows fired the yellow hearts of the flowers to flame. Understanding unfurled in her heart. Not flowers that had been picked, but living blooms.

Tough, terse, taciturn fisherman Matt Fletcher had bought her a plant. Was Googling poetry. Because of her.

She beamed. “That is quite possibly the most romantic thing I ever heard.”

“I can do better. I want to do better. For you.” He cleared his throat. “In the poem, that guy’s up on the hill alone. But at the end of the day, he looks down and sees the lights go on.”

She trembled, overcome that he’d read and remembered. “Matt…”

“He sees the light,” Matt repeated, looking directly into her eyes. “And that’s how he finds his way home. You are my light, Allison. My reason to come off the mountain. My home.”

A flood of joy rose inside her, lifting her to the summit. She couldn’t speak or breathe.

He took her hands between both of his. Strong, steady hands. Working man’s hands. “I gave you the plant to…hell, to ask you to put down roots, I guess. To stay with us. To grow with me.”

“Yes,” she said.

Matt drew back to study her face. “Yes?”

“Yes, I love you. Yes, I’ll marry you.” She closed her eyes. “Please tell me that’s what you were asking.”

His laughter shook them both. He swept her into his arms, his mouth finding and taking hers. “
Yes
. Marry me, Allison.”

They kissed a long time.

“I can’t leave Dare Island,” he told her eventually. “Not now, maybe not for a couple of years. I have responsibilities here, the kids, my parents. I don’t know if it’s fair to ask you to wait that long, to take me on, to take all of us on. But God knows I love you. I need you. As long as I’ve got you, we can work everything else out.”

Her life was changing around her, full of light and life and joy. Her future stretched before her, bright and limitless as the sea.

“I want to stay,” she said honestly. “I love my job, I love the island. I love you, Matt. I want to make my home with you, wherever you are.”

He looked back at her, his lazy smile lighting his eyes with love. “You are my home,” he said. “My parents taught me that. Everything else is just a house.”

A
T THIRTY-FOUR
, M
EGAN
Fletcher was determined not to turn into her mother.

She settled behind her desk on the forty-seventh floor, stowing her Louis Vuitton bag away in the bottom right-hand drawer. Aside from her piled inbox, the gleaming surface was almost bare, every file in order, every pen in place. She rubbed absently at a fingerprint. Maybe she had inherited Tess Fletcher’s compulsive tidiness, Meg admitted to herself. But image was important. An uncluttered workspace was a sign of an organized mind.

She set her BlackBerry within reach. She’d deliberately kept her schedule free to deal with the long to-do list that had accumulated in her absence.

Her mother made lists, too, stuck on the refrigerator or scrawled by the phone. But while her mother spent her days making beds and baking cookies, readying guest rooms and running errands, Meg oversaw a department of thirty people and an advertising budget of seventy-four million dollars.

Meg slipped off her Vera Wang snakeskin pumps, surreptitiously wiggling her toes under her desk.