Restored (The Walsh Series Book 5) (15 page)

"You know what they say about lumberjacks: they
are
loners." I nestled my head against Sam's chest for a moment, pausing to breathe in and out, and forcing all the hollow jealousy, abandonment, and stress from my mind. "They're probably wondering what happened to us," I said.

"Unlikely. They probably think we're having sex in here."

Glancing up at him, I asked, "That's not something you'd want, right? We're not great at the stand-up sex thing, and I know for a fact that if you touch my panties, you'll rip them off, and afterward, I'm a walking wet spot and that isn't fun."

"You know how I feel about public restrooms," he said. "I'm not sure how I survived this conversation, but now that you have me thinking about your panties, I would like to take you home and fuck you for the next three hours. I have to make up for this week."

S
eptember

T
he last summery
days of the year were surrendering to autumn, and the life Sam and I had defined for ourselves was shifting.

I'd resigned from the college at the end of the spring semester, and now I was splitting my time between starting up the early elementary orchestra program at Lauren's school and private music therapy sessions, plus the occasional guest lecture at the college. Breaking away from the hamster wheel of higher education was an immediate relief, and spending my time with young children who craved music as much as I did filled me with a joy I hadn't known I was missing.

I hadn't heard from my family in months, and that was okay. Distance was healthy, and I saw no reason to reduce that distance.

Sam and Matt decided to coach Riley through his first major project now that his star was rising and his consultation request list was nearly as long as Sam's. Despite their differing approaches, Sam and Matt found their groove in this collaboration, and for me, it translated to more time with Lauren. We met for dinner or drinks at least once a week while the boys put in extra time with Riley, and over the spring and summer, we'd slipped into a routine of Sunday dinners at the firehouse or their loft.

Sam and I didn't talk much about the baby we'd lost.

Growing our family wasn't our primary topic of conversation anymore. We stopped predicting whether our babies would get Sam's hair or my eyes, or how dark or light their skin would be, or whether they'd be musical like me or artistic like him. I didn't offer status reports on my cycle, and we abandoned the practice of "saving" sex for my most fertile days. I put away the holistic conception and pregnancy books, the supplements and vitamins, the herbal teas and essential oils, and stopped worrying about every tiny twitch and tingle.

In a way, it was fantastic that our lives were congested with family events and hectic work commitments, as it reduced the quiet moments where we wandered into the dark forest of hoping and dreaming and wanting.

But we were still happy. Overwhelmingly happy. We had gained more in the past year than I could have ever imagined possible, and in the process, we surrendered everything we needed to leave behind.

We were happy, and the only necessity was each other.

O
ctober

I
picked
at a half demolished veggie tray, sneering at the untouched section of cauliflower and opting for a stubby carrot. I was a big fan of vegetables, but I'd never understand why anyone ate raw cauliflower, let alone enjoyed it.

"There are sandwiches," Matt said, gesturing to the island in Shannon's bright, beachfront kitchen. He'd been kicked back across from me at the farmhouse table, beer in hand, since we'd returned from golfing at the Myopia Hunt Club in South Hamilton.

"Nah," I said. "I'm good with carrots and beer."

"That's outstanding news but I could use a sandwich and my knee hurts like a motherfucker," he said, pointing his bottle at the bag of frozen peas molded to his leg.

Nick reached for the tray on the island, and slid them down the table to Matt. "It's probably time to get that checked out," he said. "It's only gonna get worse."

"It's not like it's hindering your game," Will quipped from the other end of the table. "That course was a fuckin' beast. How'd you nail the back nine so hard?"

Matt offered a vague murmur of acknowledgement and kept his eyes fixed on his sandwich. He didn't advertise that he'd been getting golf lessons since the spring. It has something to do with his father-in-law telling him to work on his short game, and I didn't envy him. The Commodore wasn't a man whose opinion I'd take lightly.

"William!
William
!"

Will groaned into his beer bottle as his mother's voice rang out from the living room. Judy had hosted a baby shower for Shannon today—hence our banishment to the greens—and now that most of the guests had left, she was sorting through the gifts with Shannon, Lauren, Andy, and Tiel.

I'd expected Shannon to buck against the mother-in-law gaze, but instead of rejecting Judy, she seemed to be fully embracing her. Shannon was even talking about Will's parents staying with them after the baby was born. Considering that my sister asked exactly no one for help—
ever
—I was shocked and impressed by that.

"There you are," Judy cried as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. She wagged her finger at Will while clutching a stuffed animal by the throat in the other hand. "I've been looking for you all over the house. You're going to need to put a bell on this baby if you don't want to lose him. Or her." She folded her arms and pinned him with a gaze that could peel paint. "Would you just tell me the sex already? I know you know."

Will drained his beer and set it on the table with a heavy thunk. "What do you need, Judy?"

Tiel, Lauren, and Andy appeared, their arms loaded down with leftover cupcakes and pastries. Shannon shuffled in behind them.

"We got it all, Mom," Lauren said. "And we're not supposed to bug them, or they'll go back to Montauk and have the baby without telling us, too."

Judy wrapped her arm around Shannon's shoulders as she cradled the stuffed animal in the other. "At least I'm getting a grandchild," she said. "What would I do without my darling daughter-in-law?"

Lauren turned toward the table, away from her mother, and rolled her eyes. She grabbed Matt's beer from his hand, knocking it back with one long gulp while the rest of us tried—and failed—to withhold laughter. It was easy to see how those comments rankled her and Will, but Judy's tone was loaded with stinging levity and tongue-in-cheek fun.

If I didn't know better, I'd think Judy was a long, lost Walsh with the way she busted balls.

"Are you getting impatient again?" the Commodore, Lauren and Will's father, asked Judy when he stepped inside from the patio. "By God, woman. You can only hold one baby at a time."

"You know what I need right now?" Shannon asked, seemingly oblivious to the discussion around her. "I need a piece of cake the size of my head, and some milk, and then I want to lie down and watch all the episodes of
Fixer Upper
that I have recorded."

Tiel hefted a plate. "Would a tray of cupcakes work?"

"Oh, God. I hate that show," Andy said with a groan. "You know they don't get to keep the furniture, right? It's all staged. And do you know how many clients tell me they need shiplap every-fucking-where right now? They don't know what it is or why it has no business in their Victorian Revival, but they want it."

"But you secretly love it," Lauren said.

"Sometimes," Andy conceded.

"Whoa. I didn't realize this was such a political topic. I'm going upstairs and eating all the cupcakes, and anyone who can handle
Fixer Upper
is welcome to join me." Shannon poached a sandwich off the tray.

"I'll fix you a plate, hon," Judy said, hustling around the kitchen. "You go up and get off your feet. Have a rest, and I'll take care of the leftovers here."

"Can we go through the rest of the gifts tomorrow?" Shannon asked Judy. "I wanted to do it tonight, but I'm exhausted, and—"

Judy brought her hands to Shannon's cheeks with a fond smile. "Of course we can. We'll get Froggie's clothes washed, and the closet set up, too, and then your hospital bag. The nursery will be all ready for him…or her."

"Judy," Will rumbled. "We don't know."

"Okay, okay," she said, holding her hands up in surrender. She pointed to the back stairs. "Go upstairs with the girls, and I'll bring your snack."

Tiel made her way to my side and ran her fingers through my hair. She was smiling, and that was a good sign. She'd insisted she was all right with the baby festivities, but that little wrench of jealousy still twisted at me and I had to imagine it was the same for her.

"How was your outing?" she asked as her nails scraped over the back of my neck.

Nodding, I said, "It was good. Not great, but I'm getting there."

Golf was a new arena for us, and on the course, most of us were more entertaining than skillful.

"You're awfully cute in this," she said, dipping her chin toward my red trousers with little white embroidered lobsters, navy polo shirt, and v-neck sweater. "Such a prepster. I'm going to snuggle with Shannon for a bit, and then we can head home."

Tiel dropped a quick kiss on my lips before retreating, and I went back to scrounging for carrots. Will set out another round of beers while the Commodore told stories about planting explosives on ships in the dead of night and spending three weeks in the jungles of Colombia, and it occurred to me that this was as close as we'd been in decades to parental figures. Sitting at this table and talking war stories with the Commodore while Judy doted on Shannon and harassed Lauren for grandchildren was surreal in that it was perfectly typical, though we weren't familiar with typical family interactions.

But…there was one problem.

"Does anyone know where Erin is now?" I asked when the Commodore's story about the sharks that frequented the waters off San Clemente Island and the running shark jokes at SEAL training concluded.

"Greenland," Matt and Nick replied at once.

Matt blinked down the table at Nick. "When did I tell you that? She didn't get there until yesterday."

Before Nick could respond, Riley came bounding into the kitchen with his phone in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. Sometime in the past few months, Will and Riley stumbled into a conversation about art—apparently they shared a down-low affection for mid-century American painters—and Will asked Riley to design a mural for the baby's room.

He was spending every free minute in that room, and was now referring to it as his passion project. That passion project exempted him from golf with the Commodore today.

Nick held up his phone. "That's the hospital," he said, backing out of the kitchen. "Good round, Commodore. I'll catch you the next time you're in town, sir. Hook 'em Horns."

Matt tossed the bag of frozen peas from hand to hand as he watched Nick dash down the hallway. "That was weird, right? With Nick knowing that Erin was in Greenland?"

The Commodore pointed at the seat Nick had vacated. "I like him."

"Okay, so not weird," Matt murmured. "Got it."

"I need Will," Riley announced. Seeing him without the thick beard and long hair was still jarring. I wasn't used to his light stubble and closely cropped hair yet.

"Right here, buddy," Will murmured from behind him.

"Yeah, you know about hostage situations, don't you?" Riley asked Will. "And human trafficking?"

"Why do you ask?" Will said.

Riley sighed, shaking his head as he brought his hands to his hips. "My friend is in trouble."

At this point, all activity in the kitchen had stopped, and everyone was listening to the exchange between Riley and Will.

"With
human trafficking
?" Will asked. He whistled into the large laundry room off the kitchen and held the half-door open, and a pair of chocolate lab puppies scampered to his side. He waited until they were seated and their tails stopped thumping, and then tossed small biscuits in their direction. He snapped his fingers and pointed to the staircase when they finished chomping. "Upstairs. Go lie down with mama."

"Start from the beginning, RISD," Matt called. "Just lay it out for us."

With an exaggerated sigh, Riley leaned against the island. "So this asshole kidnapped Rob Gronkowski, and he's holding him hostage because he's mad at my friend."

I glanced at Matt and Patrick, and then Will and the Commodore, and it was obvious that they were as confused as I was.

"Son, you're going to need to run that by me again," the Commodore said. His feet were anchored shoulder-width apart, and when he folded his arms over his chest, his otherwise serious demeanor turned solemn. He was getting to the heart of this matter.

Riley shook his head and held his hands out in frustration. "My friend—"

"Which friend?" I asked.

"Gigi," Riley said. "She broke up with the oily bag of sac sweat she'd been dating, and she moved out of his place."

"And how did Rob Gronkowski get involved?" Patrick asked.

"Sac Sweat kidnapped him!" Riley cried. "He's holding the little guy hostage right now, and I thought Will would know what to do because this asshole blocked Gigi's number and changed all the locks and she can't get Gronk back. He's going to sell him to the highest bidder!"

"Wait.
Little guy
?" Matt said. His forehead crinkled as he frowned. "Are we talking about New England Patriots tight end Rob Gronkowski, or…"

"Her dog," Riley said impatiently. "Gigi's Boston Terrier."

"How are you always getting roped into these ridiculous situations?" Patrick asked. "Do you not notice that they're ridiculous?"

The Commodore held up a finger. "Let me see if I understand this. The young lady ended her relationship with this fellow, and he retaliated by taking her dog. Is that correct?" Riley nodded, and the Commodore shook his head slowly as he shot a purposeful glance at him. "Son, you need to stand up for the young lady in this situation. Get off your ass and find her fucking dog."

"But…how?" Riley asked, shaking his head incredulously. "What do I do? Gigi told me he lives in Malden. I guess I could ask for the address, but…then what? Do I kick down the door, and then snatch the dog?"

"Can't believe I'm saying this," Will muttered. "I'll go with you, Riley. Give me a minute."

Riley nodded eagerly. "What are you getting? Grappling hooks? Night vision goggles? A flash bang grenade? A sniper rifle?"

Will returned from the mud room with a baseball cap in hand. "No, none of that is even remotely necessary to retrieve a fifteen pound dog," he said. "I needed to change out of my golf shoes."

"You don't think we need night vision goggles?" Riley asked.

Will settled the cap on his head and turned an expectant glare toward me, Patrick, and Matt. "We don't need night vision goggles," he said, "but I think these guys want to come along for the ride. Isn't that right?"

"I thought Batman worked alone," Patrick said.

Riley considered this for a moment. "Less than you'd expect," he said.

"A safe mission to you all," the Commodore said. "I'll update the women."

"Don't tell Shannon anything," Will said. "She'll want to come along and knock this asshole's lights out."

The Commodore nodded. "You're on a beer run."

"Exactly," Patrick said.

With some reluctance, we agreed to this expedition. It went without saying that we were still harboring some uncertainty when it came to Magnolia. Tiel had smoothed things over with her months ago, and Magnolia and I had shared an incredibly brief and stilted exchange not long after that, but Riley was the only one who interacted with her regularly. For us to come to her dog's rescue seemed peculiar, but she was Riley's friend and she needed help. It was the right thing to do.

"We're like the Justice League," Riley said from the front seat of Will's SUV. "That is, if we reconfigured everyone's assignments." He gestured to Will. "You can be Aquaman, obviously."

"This is where you stop talking," Will said.

The ride to Malden was quick and quiet. Where I expected Will to offer some primer on negotiating with relationship terrorists, he was silent. When we arrived at Sac Sweat's neighborhood—Riley'd indicated his name was Cole, but we were sticking with Sac Sweat—Will circled the block twice before pulling up in front of the house.

"You go to the door," he said to Riley. "Get him talking and see if he'll hand over the dog. The rest of you watch his six. Try to look intimidating. Do nothing but stand there because a substantial force speaks power. Don't engage with this douche canoe, and don't throw down unless he goes there first. I'm heading around back."

Riley gave a decisive nod. "Autobots," he yelled, and sliced his hand forward. "Roll out."

While the four of us approached the door—still dressed for the golf course, naturally—Will crouched down along the fence and darted toward the backyard.

"This is going to be exciting," Patrick grumbled as Riley rang the doorbell. The sound sent the dog into a furious barking fit, and we listened as Sac Sweat yelled at him to shut up. "Really exciting."

The door swung open, and Sac Sweat took in our clothes with a sneer. "Isn't it a little late for you guys to be out selling retirement accounts?"