Rising Tides (4 page)

She heard Aubrey laugh again, a long, rolling gut laugh, and her resentment vanished. She had everything that mattered. It was all tied up in a bright-eyed, curly-headed little angel just in the next room.

‘‘I’ll make you up some dinner before I go.’’

Ethan turned back, took another look at her. She was getting some sun, and it looked good on her. Warmed her skin. She had a long face that went with the long body— though the chin tended to be stubborn. A man could take a glance and he would see a long, cool blonde—a pretty body, a face that made you want to look just a little longer.

And if you did, you’d see shadows under the big green eyes and weariness around the soft mouth.

‘‘You don’t have to do that, Grace. You ought to go on home and relax a while. You’re on at Shiney’s tonight, aren’t you?’’

‘‘I’ve got time—and I promised Seth sloppy joes. It won’t take me long.’’ She shifted as Ethan continued to stare at her. She’d long ago accepted that those long, thoughtful looks from him would stir her blood. Just another of life’s little problems, she supposed. ‘‘What?’’ she demanded, and rubbed a hand over her cheek as if expecting to find a smudge.

‘‘Nothing. Well, if you’re going to cook, you ought to hang around and help us eat it.’’

‘‘I’d like that.’’ She relaxed again and moved forward to take the bucket and mop from him and put them away herself. ‘‘Aubrey loves being here with you and Seth. Why don’t you go on in with them? I’ve got some laundry to finish up, then I’ll start dinner.’’

‘‘I’ll give you a hand.’’

‘‘No, you won’t.’’ It was another point of pride for her. They paid her, she did the work. All the work. ‘‘Go on in the front room—and be sure to ask Seth about the math test he got back today.’’

‘‘How’d he do?’’

‘‘Another A.’’ She winked and shooed Ethan away. Seth had such a sharp brain, she thought as she headed into the laundry room, off the kitchen. If she’d had a better head for figures, for practical matters when she’d been younger, she wouldn’t have dreamed her way through school.

She’d have learned a skill, a real one, not just serving drinks and tending house or picking crabs. She’d have had a career to fall back on when she found herself alone and pregnant, with all her hopes of running off to New York to be a dancer dashed like glass on brick.

It had been a silly dream anyway, she told herself, unloading the dryer and shifting the wet clothes from the washer into it. Pie in the sky, her mama would say. But the fact was, growing up, there had only been two things she’d wanted. The dance, and Ethan Quinn.

She’d never gotten either.

She sighed a little, holding the warm, smooth sheet she took from the basket to her cheek. Ethan’s sheet—she’d taken it off his bed that day. She’d been able to smell him on it then, and maybe, for just a minute or two, she’d let herself dream a little of what it might have been like if he’d wanted her, if she had slept with him on those sheets, in his house.

But dreaming didn’t get the work done, or pay the rent, or buy the things her little girl needed.

Briskly she began to fold the sheets, laying them neatly on the rumbling dryer. There was no shame in earning her keep by cleaning houses or serving drinks. She was good at both, in any case. She was useful, and she was needed. That was good enough.

She certainly hadn’t been useful or needed by the man
she was married to so briefly. If they’d loved each other, really loved each other, it would have been different. For her it had been a desperate need to belong to someone, to be wanted and desired as a woman. For Jack . . . Grace shook her head. She honestly didn’t know what she had been for Jack.

An attraction, she supposed, that had resulted in conception. She knew he believed he’d done the honorable thing by taking her to the courthouse and standing with her in front of the justice of the peace on that chilly fall day and exchanging vows.

He had never mistreated her. He had never gotten mean drunk and knocked her around the way she knew some men did wives they didn’t want. He didn’t go sniffing after other women—at least not that she knew about. But she’d seen, as Aubrey grew inside her and her belly rounded, she’d seen the look of panic come into his eyes.

Then one day he was simply gone without a word.

The worst of it was, Grace thought now, she’d been relieved.

If Jack had done anything for her, it was to force her to grow up, to take charge. And what he’d given her was worth more than the stars.

She put the folded laundry in a basket, hitched the basket on her hip, and walked into the front room.

There was her treasure, her curly blond hair bouncing, her pretty, rosy-cheeked face alight with joy as she sat on Ethan’s lap and babbled at him.

At two, Aubrey Monroe resembled a Botticelli angel, all rose and gilt, with bright-green eyes and dimples denting her cheeks. Little kitten teeth and long-fingered hands. Though he could decipher only half her chatter, Ethan nodded soberly.

‘‘And what did Foolish do then?’’ he asked as he figured out she was telling him some story about Seth’s puppy.

‘‘Licked my face.’’ Her eyes laughing, she took both
hands and ran them up over her cheeks. ‘‘All over.’’ Grinning, she cupped her hands on Ethan’s face and fell into a game she liked to play with him. ‘‘Ouch!’’ She giggled, rubbed his face again. ‘‘Beard.’’

Obliging, he skimmed his knuckles over her smooth cheek, then jerked his hand back. ‘‘Ouch. You’ve got one, too.’’

‘‘No! You.’’

‘‘No.’’ He pulled her close and planted noisy kisses on her cheeks while she wriggled in delight. ‘‘You.’’

Screaming with laughter now, she wiggled away and dived for the boy sprawled on the floor. ‘‘Seth beard.’’ She covered his cheek with sloppy kisses. Manhood demanded that he wince.

‘‘Jeez, Aub, give me a break.’’ To distract her, he picked up one of her toy cars and ran it lightly down her arm. ‘‘You’re a racetrack.’’

Her eyes beamed with the thrill of a new game. Snatching the car, she ran it, not quite so gently, over any part of Seth she could reach.

Ethan only grinned. ‘‘You started it, pal,’’ he told Seth when Aubrey walked over Seth’s thigh to reach his other shoulder.

‘‘It’s better than getting slobbered on,’’ Seth claimed, but his arm came up to keep Aubrey from tumbling to the floor.

For a few moments, Grace simply stood and watched. The man, relaxed in the big wing chair and grinning down at the children. The children themselves, their heads close—one delicate and covered with gold curls, the other with a shaggy mop shades and shades deeper.

The little lost boy, she thought, and her heart went out to him as it had from the first day she’d seen him. He’d found his way home.

Her precious girl. When Aubrey had been only a fluttering in her womb, Grace had promised to cherish, to protect, and to enjoy her. She would always have a home.

And the man who had once been a lost boy, who had slipped into her girlish dreams years before and had never really slipped out again. He had made a home.

The rain drummed on the roof, the television was a low, unimportant murmur. Dogs slept on the front porch, and the moist wind blew through the screen door.

And she yearned where she knew she had no business yearning—to set down the basket of laundry, to go over and climb into Ethan’s lap. To be welcomed there, even expected there. To close her eyes, for just a little while, and be part of it all.

Instead she retreated, finding herself unable to step into that quiet, lazy ease. She went back to the kitchen, where the overhead lights were bright and just a little hard. There, she set the basket on the table and began to gather what she needed to make dinner.

When Ethan came in a few moments later to hunt up a beer, she had meat browning, potatoes frying in peanut oil, and a salad under way.

‘‘Smells great.’’ He stood awkwardly for a minute. He wasn’t used to having someone cook for him—not for years—and then not a woman. His father had been at home in the kitchen, but his mother . . . They’d always joked that whenever she cooked, they needed all her medical skills to survive the meal.

‘‘It’ll be ready in half an hour or so. I hope you don’t mind eating early. I’ve got to get Aubrey home and bathed and then change for work.’’

‘‘I never mind eating, especially when I’m not doing the cooking. And the fact is, I want to get to the boatyard for a couple hours tonight.’’

‘‘Oh.’’ She looked back, blowing at her bangs. ‘‘You should have told me. I’d have hurried things up.’’

‘‘This pace works for me.’’ He took a pull from the bottle. ‘‘You want a drink or something?’’

‘‘No, I’m fine. I was going to use that salad dressing
Phillip made up. It looks so much prettier than the store-bought.’’

The rain was letting up, petering out into slow, drizzling drops with watery sunlight struggling to break through. Grace glanced toward the window. She was always hoping to see a rainbow. ‘‘Anna’s flowers are doing well,’’ she commented. ‘‘The rain’s good for them.’’

‘‘Saves me from dragging out the hose. She’d have my head if they died on her while she’s gone.’’

‘‘Wouldn’t blame her. She worked so hard getting them planted before the wedding.’’ Grace worked quickly, competently as she spoke. Draining crisp potatoes, adding more to the sizzling oil. ‘‘It was such a beautiful wedding,’’ she went on as she mixed sauce for the meat in a bowl.

‘‘Came off all right. We got lucky with the weather.’’

‘‘Oh, it couldn’t have rained that day. It would have been a sin.’’ She could see it all again, so clearly. The green of the grass in the backyard, the sparkling of water. The flowers Anna had planted glowing with color—and the ones she’d bought spilling out of pots and bowls along-side the white runner that the bride had walked down to meet her groom.

A white dress billowing, the thin veil only accentuating the dark, deliriously happy eyes. Chairs had been filled with friends and family. Anna’s grandparents had both wept. And Cam—rough-and-tumble Cameron Quinn—had looked at his bride as if he’d just been given the keys to heaven.

A backyard wedding, Grace thought now. Sweet, simple, romantic. Perfect.

‘‘She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’’ Grace said it with a sigh that was only lightly touched with envy. ‘‘So dark and exotic.’’

‘‘She suits Cam.’’

‘‘They looked like movie stars, all polished and glossy.’’ She smiled to herself as she stirred spicy sauce
into the meat. ‘‘When you and Phillip played that waltz for their first dance, it was the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.’’ She sighed again as she finished putting the salad together. ‘‘And now they’re in Rome. I can hardly imagine it.’’

‘‘They called yesterday morning to catch me before I left. They said they’re having a good time.’’

She laughed at that, a rippling, smoky sound that seemed to cruise along his skin. ‘‘Honeymooning in Rome? It would be hard not to.’’ She started to scoop out more potatoes and swore lightly as oil popped and splattered on the side of her hand. ‘‘Damn.’’ Even as she was lifting the slight burn to her mouth to soothe it, Ethan leaped forward and grabbed her hand.

‘‘Did it get you?’’ He saw the pinkening skin and pulled her to the sink. ‘‘Run some cold water on it.’’

‘‘It’s nothing. It’s just a little burn. Happens all the time.’’

‘‘It wouldn’t if you were more careful.’’ His brows were knitted, his hand gripping her fingers firmly to keep her hand under the stream of water. ‘‘Does it hurt?’’

‘‘No.’’ She couldn’t feel anything but his hand on her fingers and her own heart thundering in her chest.
Knowing she’d make a fool of herself any moment, she tried to pull free. ‘‘It’s nothing, Ethan. Don’t fuss.’’

‘‘You need some salve on it.’’ He started to reach up into the cupboard to find some, and his head lifted. His eyes met hers. He stood there, the water running, both of their hands trapped under the chilly fall of it.

He tried never to stand quite so close to her, not so close that he could see those little gold dust flecks in her eyes. Because he would start to think about them, to wonder about them. Then he’d have to remind himself that this was Grace, the girl he’d watched grow up. The woman who was Aubrey’s mother. A neighbor who considered him a trusted friend.

‘‘You need to take better care of yourself.’’ His voice
was rough as the words worked their way through a throat that had gone dust-dry. She smelled of lemons.

‘‘I’m fine.’’ She was dying, somewhere between giddy pleasure and utter despair. He was holding her hand as if it were as fragile as spun glass. And he was frowning at her as if she were slightly less sensible than her two-year-old daughter. ‘‘The potatoes are going to burn, Ethan.’’

‘‘Oh. Well.’’ Mortified because he’d been thinking— just for a second—that her mouth might taste as soft as it looked, he jerked back, fumbling now for the tube of salve. His heart was jumping, and he hated the sensation. He preferred things calm and easy. ‘‘Put some of this on it anyway.’’ He laid it on the counter and backed up. ‘‘I’ll . . . get the kids washed up for dinner.’’

He scooped up the laundry basket on his way and was gone.

With deliberate movements, Grace shut the water off, then turned and rescued her fries. Satisfied with the progress of the meal, she picked up the salve and smoothed a little on the reddened splotch on her hand before tidily replacing the tube in the cupboard.