On the Rocks (A Turtle Island Novel) (4 page)

“I was just over here last week,” Ginger said, her tone soft as she took in everything once again. “It was fine then.” Her words stopped as she nudged at the corner of the single picture hanging on the wall and exposed the hole behind it. It looked like the head of a hammer had been pounded through the once-smooth surface. She shook her head, but didn’t say anything else.

“What’s wrong with her?” he asked.

Luminous eyes turned to him. “I didn’t know anything was. Mom and I check on her once in a while, but we thought she was fine.”

“She’s too small.” He moved the chicken pieces to napkins to blot out the excess oil. “I went by the gallery to see her before coming here, but other than admitting she could gain a few pounds, she swore everything was fine.”

“I have no idea,” Ginger said. The words sounded more like an afterthought, as she once again surveyed the room. “I do think she’s lonely. I’ve never heard her mention the baby’s . . .” Her words trailed off and she shot him a grimace, but he knew what she meant. Julie didn’t talk about the baby’s father. The only thing Carter or his parents knew was that she’d gotten pregnant before graduating college. She’d also never said if the father intended to be a part of hers and the baby’s lives or not.

“I’m worried about her,” he admitted. He hadn’t spoken to Ginger in years, yet it was easy to share his thoughts.

At least, thoughts about his sister. Everything else he’d keep to himself.

“I am, too, now.” She went to the windows and opened the blinds, letting in the late-afternoon light. It was hard to stew appropriately with sunlight streaming in, but Carter didn’t point that out.

A car pulled up outside, and they both looked toward the front of the house.

“I should go,” Ginger said. She glanced at the picture hiding the hole in the wall. “Let you and Julie catch up.”

She was at the front door before he could say anything to stop her, but then, he didn’t want to stop her. He needed to have a talk with his sister, then he needed to figure out what to do about this room. Hopefully those two things would take only a couple of days, and he could be back on a plane, heading north, by the weekend.

The ringing of his phone prohibited anything else he might have said, and Ginger tossed him a wave and slipped out the door. Carter brought his phone to his ear as he moved to open the blinds at the front of the house. He watched Ginger stop to speak to Julie in the driveway.

“Hello, Mother,” he said into the microphone. The attitude he’d perfected due to her recent daily calls was evident in the two words.

“Did you get there?” his mom asked.

“Came across on the ferry this morning.”

“Why didn’t you call and tell me?”

He kept an eye on Ginger as she crossed the grass and ducked through the row of arborvitae that separated their yards, his gaze lingering on her white shorts for a little too long. “Because I’m a grown-up,” he finally answered. “And because I haven’t updated you on my whereabouts for years.”

“I’m worried about your sister, Carter,” she said primly. “Now I can rest easier knowing she’s not alone.”

“I’m not staying,” he warned. “I told you that.” Julie came in the door, and the first thing she did was fire a look toward the kitchen. The distress that washed over her face made him silently amend his words. He would stay as long as he needed to make sure his sister was okay.

“I’m here, and she’s fine,” he said a little more softly into the phone. When Julie hesitantly looked his way, he added, “I won’t let her lift a finger.”

That won him a scathing smirk. His little sister headed for the stairs then, her normal little-sister-to-big-brother swagger in her step and her dark hair swinging at her shoulders, and for the first time that day, she
did
seem okay. Maybe his worry was for nothing. Could be she’d just had a bad day when she’d decided to strip the kitchen of its contents. He certainly understood bad days.

He’d fix it back up, slap up some new wallpaper, and be gone.

“Thank you,” his mom said in his ear. “We’ll be back in three weeks. Surely you can stay that long?”

“I can’t.”

“Oh?” She let the word hang before adding, “Does that mean you’re writing again?”

His mother could make a point with few words. She knew he wasn’t writing. And she knew why.

He didn’t reply.

“Maybe stay even a few days after we get back?” she tacked on. “Your father and I will be celebrating thirty-five years together next month, Carter. We’ve invited friends over. Stay and help us celebrate. Everyone would love to see you.”

“Can’t do it.” The idea did have appeal—surprisingly—but he had more anger and staring at his blank walls to get back to. “I’ll make sure Julie’s okay, but then I’m going home.”

His mother sighed dramatically, and Carter moved to the chicken and poked at it. Grease oozed out of a leg as if it had been purposefully injected into the meat.

“Will you at least try to enjoy yourself while you’re there?” she asked. “You seem too—”

“No,” he interrupted. He dumped the chicken in the trash—he’d take his sister out to dinner—and his mother sighed in his ear once again. “And don’t call me every day,” he added.

Though he hadn’t seen his parents a lot over the years, they did talk on a regular basis. But since their visit last month, his mother had taken that up a notch.

“Fine, Carter.” She used her annoyed-mother tone. “I’ll just leave you alone. Quit worrying about you. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Do you promise?”

She growled at him, and for the first time in months, the anger he carried around so easily almost cracked. He didn’t laugh, but he did take pleasure in irritating his mother. He missed her. He missed both of his parents. They’d visited a few times since he and Lisa had married, but not enough.

Of course, he’d often wished
he
were here.

After he hung up he heard Julie’s phone ring upstairs. That would be their mother calling
Julie
to check on
him
. Which she would also do every day.

Instead of presuming he could change anything about his mother’s meddling ways, he moved to the side windows and peered up to the second floor of the house next door. Ginger’s curtains were closed in her room, but he could picture her there, framed by the yellow breezy fabric. As kids, they’d often waved to each other from across the short distance. Sometimes raising their windows and sharing the details of their days.

He wondered if she’d open her window tonight and talk to him if he opened his.

And then he called himself an idiot for the thought. He wasn’t a kid anymore.

And he didn’t want to sit in his window pretending the last few months of his life hadn’t happened.

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

D
o you own shrimp boats, too?”

Ginger paused at her date’s question, a peel-and-eat shrimp halfway to her mouth, and caught her mother’s downcast glance from the corner of her eye. Darn. She’d been shoveling shrimp into her mouth at a rate that had to appear gauche to everyone.

She hadn’t meant to, but she was starving.

Lunch had been nothing more than a pack of cheese and crackers out on the boat, and since she’d had an errand to run before getting ready for the date, she hadn’t had time to sneak in a snack before dinner.

She put the crustacean back on her plate, and ignoring the rest of the party of twelve sitting around the table, she went for “delicate flower” as she wiped her fingertips on her napkin and settled what her mother would call a winning smile onto her face. She also pulled her shoulders back, attempting to sit up straighter and look more feminine. She’d totally forgotten to work on being girly tonight.

“No shrimp boats,” she told Patrick, the date her mother’s fiancé had picked out for her. “We do fishing charters where guests can take home their catch if they’d like, but we’re not in the business of providing seafood in mass quantities.” She tried her best not to blush in abject humiliation, as she motioned toward her plate. “Doesn’t keep me from enjoying them, though.”

Patrick chuckled at that, a smooth tenor quality to his voice, and the tension eased from Ginger’s shoulders.

So far, Patrick had been an ideal date. He was very pleasant and charming, and yes, he was her age and he did still live with his mother. But to hear him tell it, it was because he’d lost his father at a young age and he and his mother were close. Like her.

He also had his own side business selling wooden flutes that he made himself. Who made wooden flutes? And if his first two months on the job with Island Beach Real Estate were any indication, he would turn out to be a top-notch Realtor, as well. Clint had certainly bragged on the man’s skills throughout the evening.

“Tell me about your flute business,” Ginger asked. She eyed the scrumptious shrimp on her plate, and silently cursed her mother for pounding it into her head that a “lady” wouldn’t be the first in a group to clear her plate. In fact, a lady probably shouldn’t
clear
her plate at all.

But dang it, Ginger had a healthy appetite. She always had.

Her appetite had gotten her into trouble as a kid, but these days she worked hard enough to burn several thousand calories a day. If she wanted to clear her plate, she should be able to.

Instead of immediately answering her question, Patrick leaned in and whispered, “Eat your food. We can talk later.”

And with those few words, she thought she might have fallen a little bit in love. She shot him a grateful smile, ignored her mother, and attacked her food. She loved shrimp. And she loved to eat.

She reached for her wineglass. And tonight she even loved wine.

As she finished her meal, she did talk with Patrick, but mostly she let him carry the conversation. While he chatted, she sipped her wine and studied him critically, looking at him with the eye of a potential mate. And she realized that there was something about him that reminded her of Carter. A similarity in the dark hair, maybe. Or their height. The tiny lines at the corners of his eyes?

Or it could be simply that she’d been thinking about Carter all afternoon, and he remained on her mind.

She’d been floored to find him on the other side of her can of Mace. For some reason, she’d assumed she’d never see him again. He hadn’t disliked Turtle Island when they were kids. In fact, she’d always thought he loved it as much as she. But he certainly hadn’t cared to come home over the years.

In her mind, he’d moved on. He was simply a part of her past. Yet there he’d been. Her teenage crush.

Of course, to him she’d never been anything more than a friend. The chubby friend. But she’d idolized that boy. She’d wanted him with the kind of desperation most teenage girls employed at one time or another. And now he was back, looking . . .
pretty good
. He actually was a little too thin. And cranky. The man had been in a seriously foul mood when she’d shown up at the house. But even thin and irritable, he painted a fine picture.

As far as Ginger knew, though, he was still married. Though she
hadn’t
seen any sign of his wife, and he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

“Don’t you think, Ginger?”

Her mother had spoken to her.

Ginger blinked, having no clue what had been asked of her. Her mother knew it, too. She gave her the look. Geez, Ginger hated disappointing her mom. And she’d already gotten the look once tonight when she’d shown up in jeans instead of her mother’s green dress. But in her defense, they were really nice jeans. And she’d worn her frilliest shirt. Even if she hadn’t taken the time to do anything extra with her hair or makeup.

“The wedding,” her mother prodded.

Again, Ginger blinked. She swallowed, feeling eleven pairs of eyes focused on her.

Patrick edged closer, his arm sliding around the back of her chair. “At the senior center,” he whispered.

“The senior center?” Ginger parroted. She turned to the happy couple seated to her left. “You’re not seniors.” Her mother was only fifty-eight, and Clint couldn’t be much older. Maybe sixty.

Her mother laughed lightly. “Not quite. But they have that large rec room that would be a great space for a reception, and the administrators have recently opened up the pergola-covered patio at the back of the property for rentals. It’s not directly on the beach, but you do get the horizon in the distance. The nice blue of the ocean. Can’t you picture it? All of us in the middle of those large live oaks?”

Ginger nodded. She
could
picture it. She’d certainly seen enough weddings over the last year and a half for the idea to form easily. “It sounds beautiful. Did you call Kayla about it yet?”

It was a given that Seaglass Celebrations would coordinate the wedding, since Andie was part owner of the company. Andie’s mother owned the other half and ran the business with Kayla.

Excitement suddenly coursed through Ginger at the realization that Roni and Andie would both come in for the wedding. She would get to see her friends. The idea came like a cool breeze, and she slumped in her chair in relief, leaning into Patrick—who was still close at her side.

“Calling Kayla is on my list for tomorrow.” Her mother smiled secretly at Clint. “Today was spent . . . celebrating.”

Ginger gulped more wine. She didn’t need to know about her mother’s celebrating. She’d overheard too much of it during the last six months.

“So,” her mother continued, turning to Ginger and reaching for her hand. Soft light from flickering candles throughout the dining room gave her mother’s skin a warm glow, and Ginger couldn’t help but think that being engaged made her look ten years younger. “Assuming we can get the senior center”—her mother paused dramatically—“will you be my maid of honor?”

Her mother looked so happy. And Ginger’s heart pinched tight.

“Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically. “Of course.” She smiled so hard she just knew she’d get called out for being a fraud. Her envy shamed her.

Dinner finished with continued discussion about wedding plans, and Ginger found her wine topped off several additional times. She didn’t protest. It wasn’t every night she was treated to the best restaurant in town, with a good-looking man at her side.

“So, I’ll see you in the morning,” her mother said, and Ginger realized that everyone had stood from the table but her. Geez, maybe she’d had a little
too
much to drink.

She looked up at her mom.

“I’m staying over at Clint’s,” her mother explained. She stood, hand-in-hand with her fiancé, his size dwarfing her five-foot-two frame. Then she looked straight at Patrick—as if making sure he understood that Ginger would have the house to herself tonight—and Ginger did a full-body blush. “You’ll see her home?” her mother asked.

“I—” Ginger tried to suggest a cab, but Patrick cut her off. “My pleasure, Ms. Atkinson.”

Excitement warred with embarrassment as he held out a hand, and as Ginger rose, the room spun. Which was no good. She couldn’t go home alone with Patrick if she was drunk. He was cute, charming, and he’d been nothing but a gentleman all night. He hit all her qualifications.

Except now she was too inebriated to think straight.

“Mom,” she murmured, but her mother either didn’t hear her, or chose not to.

“You ready?” Patrick asked.

Ginger gulped. “Yep.”

All that kept running through her head was that it had been two years since she’d been with a man. Two years, and that length of time had not been
fully
due to lack of opportunity. She wasn’t one to sleep around.

Yet in her current state, she feared she’d have her pants off and be entertaining offers in no time.

“Thanks again for dinner,” Patrick said to her mom, then reached around her and shook Clint’s hand. “And congratulations on the engagement. I look forward to attending the wedding.”

A mixture of fear and anticipation coursed through Ginger as Patrick led her to his car, and five minutes later he was walking her to her front door. The night air had cleared her head, but only a little. She liked him. And she didn’t want to sleep with him and not have him call her again. That had happened before.

“Patrick,” she began as she turned to face him. They were at the base of the small set of steps leading to the porch, the light she’d left on shining down on them, and she was terrified to let him take one step closer to the house.

“I enjoyed tonight very much.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “But I’m going to leave you here.” He inclined his head toward the front door. “I assume you can get yourself in?”

Oh.
The air went out of her as the rejection set in. He was just being polite.

Here she’d been worried he’d make a pass and she’d have to choose between morals and physical need, and he’d just been making sure she got home safely. Probably to impress Clint. She nodded. “I can. Thanks for seeing me home.”

She turned to go before she did something stupid like cry, but Patrick had other ideas.

He captured one hand and brought her back around to face him. “Hey,” he said softly. “You do realize I’m leaving only because I don’t want to take advantage of you, right?” He squeezed her fingers in his. “You look incredible, and I’ve had a good time tonight. I like you. But you’ve had a little too much to drink. If I come in, I might cross a line you wouldn’t appreciate.”

Dang.
She hadn’t seen that coming. She would definitely have to thank Clint for setting this up. What a gentleman.

“Maybe we could do this again?” Patrick suggested. “Only, without ten other people watching on the next time?”

Ginger smiled . . . just as a light in the house next door came on. Instead of answering, she glanced over and saw Carter’s silhouette pass behind his bedroom window, and she instantly thought of years past. She’d sit near her window for hours in the evenings, just waiting for him to show up.

Of course, she’d always played it cool. Pretended she’d been there reading, maybe studying the stars in preparation for a college astronomy class she’d imagined. What a lame excuse.

But what she’d actually been doing, every time, was waiting to get a glimpse of Carter.

She wouldn’t mind a glimpse now.

“Ginger?”

“Hmmm?”

Carter passed by the window again, and this time the curtains swished. She held her breath, but he didn’t pull them back. He didn’t look for her.

“Ginger?” Patrick spoke louder, jerking her attention from the Ridley house.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. Mortification flooded her when Patrick turned to see what had captured her attention, and Carter chose that moment to open the curtains. He looked down on them, and Ginger felt every inch of her skin flame.

“Friend of yours?” Patrick asked. His tone was less than receptive.

“No.” The word came out quick, and she took one more peek up at Carter’s room. He was gone. She blew out a breath. “My neighbor’s brother. He hasn’t been home in years, and showed up today.”

Her brain remained fuzzy, but she landed on an explanation for standing there gawking at one man through a window while another was trying to ask her out.

“Julie,” she said, working overtime to think straight. “She’s pregnant, and apparently Carter”—Ginger swatted a hand toward the now-dark window—“thinks something might be wrong. He came home to check on her.”

Given that the excuse was accurate, and that Ginger had gotten a good look at their kitchen, she couldn’t help but worry about the girl herself.

“So . . .” Patrick began. He looked at her again, still holding on to her hand, and she did everything she could to look cute. Her smile felt a little too sweet, and she knew her eyes were open too wide. “Do you want to . . .”

“Do it again?” she prodded. “Go out?” She would not let go of a second date easily. “I’d love to. How about Friday?”