Authors: Ben Coes
First Strike (54 page)
“Oh, man, not you too,” said Sam. “Why's everyone always nitpicking what I say. It's not like I'm gonna be a encyclopedia writer when I grow up.”
“So first of all, everyone,” said Dewey, “I want to apologize for being late. I think you all wouldn't believe me if I told you we ran out of gas, but it's the truth, we did.”
“It's okay, Dewey,” someone yelled. “I got plenty of gas if you need it.”
The table erupted in laughter.
“I should've filled the tank when we left Camden.”
“What were you doing in Camden?” Dewey's mother asked.
“Nothing,” said Dewey, immediately regretting mentioning Camden.
“Did you two spend the night?”
“Mom, that's not the point of the story. The point is, sorry for being late.”
“We went antiquing,” interrupted Daisy, grinning at Dewey.
“
Antiquing?
” said Uncle Burt, from the far end of the table. “
Fancy shmancy,
Dewey. I'm impressed. Those antiques can get mighty expensive.”
“They certainly can,” piped up Doris Russell, Margaret's sister and Dewey's aunt, also the mayor of Castine. “Bought an old dresser one time, down in Massachusetts. Goddam thing fell apart.”
“That's what you do with a
lady,
” yelled Grey Terry, lifting his rum and cider in a mock toast of respect to Dewey. “Did you buy any of them little doilies, Dewey?”
Laughter, hooting, and hollering accompanied each rip on Dewey, to Daisy's great delight.
Dewey stared straight at Daisy with a look of resignation. She returned his look with a playful smile.
Finally, when everyone at the table had given their own particular opinion on antiquing, the town of Camden, and running out of gas, Dewey again took the floor.
“Second, you all met Daisy by now,” he said. “If you didn't, everyone, this is Daisy. She's kind of visiting Maine for a little while. I guess maybe we're also coordinating schedules a little bit. Anyway.”
“âCoordinating schedules'?” said Reagan. “How
romantic.
”
“Seriously,” said Daisy, laughing. “As I recall,
you
were the one who asked me to come.”
Nods washed over the crowd.
“Well, I ⦠um. You know. I was just ⦠Yeah.”
More laughter as Dewey's face turned red.
“Second,” said Dewey.
“You just did second,” said John Andreas, from the end of the table.
Dewey glared at him, but John didn't budge.
“
Third,
” said Dewey, “Daisy isn't interested in stories about me when I was a kid. They bore her.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Daisy. “Why else do you think I'm here?”
“I justâwell, I just figured they'd probably bore you. You're a busy person. I didn't want you to get overloaded with information.”
“Hobey,” yelled Nat Morse from the far end of the table, “tell that one about the time Dewey sank Dr. Wetherbee's sailboat.”
“No,” said Bill Andreas, another of Dewey's uncles, “you gotta tell her about the cow.”
“The cow?” asked Hobey.
“The time he rode the cow and got arrested.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I didn't get arrested, Uncle Bill.”
“You got thrown in jail,” said John. “Lucky for you, you were only twelve.”
“He was eleven,” said Margaret. “Same year he kissed what's his name's daughter, the girl with the buck teeth.”
Dewey sat down, sinking slowly into a resigned, silent slouch. He looked across the table at Daisy, who was listening to someone start in on Kat Higgins, the girl from up the road whom Dewey, in point of fact, had not kissed, but who had kissed him after tackling him on the snow-covered fairway of the second hole at Castine Golf Club, then told the entire school it had been Dewey who'd tackled her. Nobody had ever believed Dewey's version of the story, and to attempt to argue now would have been, well, pointless.
The table was practically erupting in laughter at every word, from one end to the other, and no one was laughing harder than Daisy.
At some point, her face wet with tears from laughing, she returned his look. He held her eyes in his gaze for an extra moment, and another, then she turned back to hear more. When she turned back again, Dewey was gazing into the distance, a faraway look on his face, and she watched him until, finally, he returned to her, and their eyes met again.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
It was a little after midnight and everyone had long since gone to bed. Margaret had brought Daisy upstairs and showed her to the guest bedroom. Dewey stayed outside, under the stars, having one last beer. Then another. Finally, he went inside.
He went upstairs and brushed his teeth. He walked quietly down the hall toward his bedroom, passing the guest bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. He paused and looked inside. It was dark and he could see moonlight coming through the window. In the moonlight, he saw Daisy's silhouette. She was standing at the window, looking out.
He knocked gently. “Daisy?”
“Hey, come in.”
“You need anything? Glass of water? Extra blanket? Want me to read you a bedtime story?”
She laughed.
“Actually, everything's perfect,” said Daisy. “I'm not sure I've ever had so much fun. Thanks so much for everything, Dewey.”
“Sure. Okay, well, good. If you need anything, I'm just down the hall.”
Dewey started to shut the door.
“Dewey, what's that?” she asked, pointing outside.
He had to cross the room to see what she was talking about. He stood behind her beneath the dormer alcove, though there was barely enough room for the two of them.
A bright half-moon more silver than yellow sat low in the sky. The black ocean shimmered beneath it.
“That's the ocean,” Dewey answered.
“Not the ocean, dummy. That.”
“Oh, that's the moon.”
She turned and looked at him. They were just a few inches apart.
“You know what I'm pointing at,” she said.
He leaned forward. She was pointing behind the barn.
“That's a backyard hockey rink.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. We used to flood it every winter.”
Dewey could see, up close, in the moonlight, the sharpness of Daisy's nose. She smelled like flowers.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He could feel the warmth coming off of her body in the darkness. His hand brushed against hers, then held it. His eyes, which had been looking off into the distance, moved to hers. He clutched her hand in his, rubbing his thumb along her palm.
“I should probably let you go to sleep.”
“Don't you owe me something?” said Daisy.
He shut his eyes, fighting back emotion. It took every ounce of strength, but he didn't move. She put his thumb into the middle of her fist and clenched it tight. Her other hand touched his chest. He opened his eyes. Daisy looked at him as if she was searching for something. His mind was a torrent of emotion. He wanted to say something, yet the scars that crossed his past were like chains now. His stomach tightened as a foreign warmth took him and he was no longer in control.
He looked at her puffy, perfect red lips, at her white teeth. In the moonlight, he could see soft peach fuzz above her lip. She let go of his hand and moved her hand up to his cheek. Their eyes were locked now, and he put his arm around her, holding her lower back. He pulled her closer and pressed against her, continuing to stare. He saw, in that moment, vulnerability, even pain. All of it crossed her face, and he looked away.
Daisy stood on her tiptoes, shut her eyes, and leaned up to him and their lips touched. For a brief moment, he forgot about Robbie, and Holly, and Jessica. He forgot about it all.
After more than a minute, she pulled away.
“I'm not sure we should do this,” she whispered.
“I agree.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“Really?”
“Well, no, not really. But if you don't want to⦔
“It's not you, Dewey, I just promised myself I wouldn't.”
She pressed herself even closer now, as a smile came to her lips, which she attempted to hide by biting her lip.
“Wouldn't do what?”
“Fall for someone like you.”
“Is it because I work for your dad?”
She shook her head.
“No. I just promised myself I'd never fall for your type.”
She stood on her tiptoes again, brushing her lips against his, not quite kissing him.
“My type?” he said.
“Yeah, your type.”
She moved a hand beneath his shirt, rubbing his muscled chest.
“And what is my type?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” she said, pushing Dewey's shirt gently up as her lips again found his.
She tried to stifle a laugh as her other hand found Dewey's belt.
“A professional miniature golfer.”
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It is with deep gratitude that I express my appreciation to so many individuals who helped during the writing of
First Strike
.
I'll start with a huge thanks to everyone at St. Martin's Press, my publisher, and Macmillan Audio, whose brilliant, hardworking, and nattily attired men and women continually express their faith in me with their enthusiasm for each book. Thank you all, and particularly Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, Hannah Braaten, George Witte, Jeff Capshew, Vannessa Cronin, Paul Hochman, Justin Velella, Martin Quinn, Alison Ziegler, Joseph Brosnan, Rafal Gibek, Jason Reigal, Ervin Serrano, Robert Allen, Laura Wilson, and Mary Beth Roche.
An even bigger thank-you to Keith Kahla, my editor at St. Martin's Press. I don't know what I would do without Keith. He sees the flaws in the story, the plot, and the characters in a way that I can't and then gracefully offers a path to fixing it all. It's never easy. It's always worth it.
Just as insightful, tough, and patient is my agent, Nicole James. Nicole is much more than an agent, however. She is Keith's partner in figuring out what ails a particular draft, chapter, or scene. At the same time, Nicole somehow also represents me as only a true partner can. More than anything, Nicole is a friend, always there for me, often times for nothing having to do with my books. For her critical role in my career, I'm grateful beyond words. For her friendship, I don't have words.
Thank you also to my buddy Chris George, whose efforts in Hollywood on my behalf make Captain Ahab look like a quitter.
A sincere thank-you to Marc Gillinov at the Cleveland Clinic, one of the world's preeminent heart surgeons. Marc guided me through the intricacies of heart massage, displaying the same adept touch with my words as he did on the operating table when he saved my life five years ago. Thanks also to Adrian King, my best friend, whose thoughts on various aspects of the plot were vital. Rorke Denver, Michelle Goncalves, Sam, Kelly, and Nick Adams, Sue H., Pam P., and Brad Thor: Thank you. A special thank-you to Alex and Kelly for your love and support.
Most important is my family: Shannon, Charlie, Teddy, Oscar, and Esmé. They had to endure yet another tortured year of me wandering around in boxers and Bean boots talking to myself. The way I get through the tough process of writing a book is by having the love, support, and humor of my family. At night, I read to my youngest, Esmé, before she goes to bed. Every night with her I'm reminded of the way books do so much more than merely entertain when they are shared by two people. I also read to Oscar, though his popularity with the ladies at age twelve offers a tempting distraction for him. I thought I had a few more years of Oscar to myself. Luckily, every day I see the values Shannon and I instilled in him, and when he offers to carry Esmé's hockey bag to the bus stop, when he clears the table without being asked, when he stands up for a teammate, it gives me strength. Teddy, at fourteen, is tall, handsome, and thin, but when I started writing so many years ago he was a little chubby. We called him the “Butterball Turkey.” For every ounce of baby fat he lost, however, Teddy gained in brain size. He understands politics better than almost anyone I've ever met. When I was writing
First Strike,
it was Teddy's questions, comments, and insights that enabled me to write what I did. I cherish the memory of lugging that big pudgy dude around when he was younger, but it pales in comparison to the brilliant young man I know now. Charlie, our oldest, is the rock who anchors our family, and his golden heart casts a glow that binds us together. When I started writing, he would bring me coffee in the morning. Now he quietly does his job as an older brother and son, providing a role model to his siblingsâand a young gentleman who makes his parents proud every day. Of course, if Charlie is the rock, then Shannon is the sea itself. The one we all rely upon. For me, she's the unbreakable steel and ageless beauty that guides me. Thank you sweetheart for everything.
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ALSO BY
BEN COES
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