Sea Fever (6 page)

the mainland and joined their families on the weekends. Nick’s father

worked on the mainland, but he never came on weekends. Or ever.

Nick kicked at the rocks and wondered if his mom and Nonna were

still fighting. Probably not. Their fights never lasted long, but sometimes

for hours afterward his grandmother would be grumpy and his mom’s

face was all stiff. Nick’s stomach tightened just thinking about it.

After a while, the summer people packed up their lotions and towels

and hunted for their shoes, and Nick had the beach to himself.

There was a sailboat coming in, bigger than the little sunfish Nick

had learned to sail, almost too big for the one man Nick could see on

deck. The sailor didn’t look like he was having trouble, though, even with

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both sails up. And that was another weird thing, those full sails, because

there wasn’t any wind where Nick stood.

The boat slid past the orange buoys that marked shallow water. Too

fast, Nick thought. Too far. He opened his mouth to yell a warning, but

then the sails collapsed like a big old gum bubble and the boat just

stopped. Nick had never seen anything like it. He watched as the guy in

the boat— he was tall, with long, dark hair— secured the lines and

dropped anchor. The splash slapped the sides of his boat.

The guy looked at the distance between his boat and the beach and

then at Nick. With a slight shrug, the man stepped off the boat and into

water up to his wiener.

Nick giggled. He couldn’t help it. Man, oh, man, that must be cold.

The guy tossed back his wet hair and looked right at him.

Nick covered his mouth with his hand.

But instead of getting mad, the man grinned, too, a real grin, guy to

guy. He sloshed toward shore.

Nick held his ground and waited to see what the dude would do next.

He came out of the sea, water streaming from his shorts and

squishing in his shoes.

“You could have rowed a dinghy,” Nick said. “From your boat.”

“I could.”

Nick couldn’t tell from the man’s voice if he was agreeing or asking

a question.

He sat on a rock to take off his shoes. Ordinary boat shoes, curled at

the seams from repeated wettings. He emptied the water from one and

wriggled his toes back inside.

Nick frowned. Something about the man’s toes . . .

He jammed his other foot into wet leather.

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“Or you could have tied up in the harbor,” Nick said.

The man grunted and stood. He was very tall and not very old, for a

grown-up. “I am looking for someone.”

Nick’s heart jumped and slammed into his ribs, because it was the

sort of thing he used to imagine his father might say if his father ever

showed up looking for him. It was a dumb dream; Nick knew it would

never happen. His father didn’t care about him.

Besides, Nick knew what his father, his real father, looked like. He

was on TV, for cripe’s sake. Nick used to tell people that, but then they

asked him stuff, and Nick didn’t know anything about his father, not

really. But he knew what he looked like. He didn’t look anything like this

guy.

Still, Nick’s mouth was dry as he asked, “Who?”

“A woman.”

Nick swallowed. Okay. He hadn’t really figured— He hadn’t

actually hoped— “What’s her name?”

The man’s dark eyes went blank. “Her name.” Some of Nick’s

disappointment escaped in exasperation. “She has to have a name.”

“She cooks,” the man said. “She cooked for a wedding.”

His mom. Nick stuck out his chin. This guy was looking for his

mother. “Were you at the wedding?”

“Yes.” The man looked him over and then offered, “I am Caleb’s

brother.”

Nick’s shoulders relaxed. That was okay, then. Chief Hunter was

totally cool. He came into the restaurant all the time. Sometimes he let

Nick play with his handcuffs.

“That’s my mom,” he said. “She cooks.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother.”

Jeez. Did he have to repeat everything?

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“Yeah. Regina Barone.”

“Where is your father?”

Nick sighed. Sometimes he wished his father was dead. No, that

wasn’t right. Sometimes he wished his parents were divorced, like normal

kids’ parents, so he didn’t have to explain them.

“In Boston.” His father’s restaurant was in Boston.

“We left him.” Years and years ago, when Nick was a baby.

“Ah.” The man’s eyes were real dark, pupil and iris together, like a

dog’s.

“I am Dylan,” the man said, using his first name like an islander

would, not “Mr.,” like most grown-ups from Away.

“Nick.” He stuck out his hand, the way his mom said you should.

The guy looked at his hand a moment, and then he shook. His hand

was dry and warm.

“Will you take me to your mother?” Dylan asked.

* * *

“Nick’s not here,” Brenda Trujillo said over the phone. “He called,

but Manuel took Danny out on the boat today.”

Regina took a deep breath, trying not to panic. “When?”

“I don’t know. Early this morning, five or—”

“No, I meant, when did Nick call?”

“Oh.” A long pause. “Is everything all right? You sound—”

“Everything’s fine,” Regina said through her teeth. “What time did

you talk to Nick?”

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“An hour ago?” Brenda guessed. “Two? It’s not like I was looking at

my watch, I—”

“Okay, thanks. If you see him, will you let me know? Or if he calls

again—”

“I told him not to call until after five.”

Regina was silent.

“It’s not my job to keep track of everybody else’s children,” Brenda

said defensively.

Regina gripped the receiver as if she could throttle Brenda through

the phone. “I’m not asking you to watch him. Just to call me.”

“Well, of course I will, but—”

“Thanks,” Regina said and hung up the kitchen phone.

She rubbed the cross around her neck, threading it back and forth

along the chain, struggling to focus. Nick had the same freedom she did

at his age. Living on an island, you knew which houses were safe and

which ones to stay away from. Even the summer people— most of

them— were known quantities, returning year after year.

Of course, it was only a month ago that Bruce Whit-taker went off

his nut and murdered some poor stranger on the beach. Bad things could

happen, even on an island. But at least Nick couldn’t get lost, couldn’t

run away, could never go more than three miles from home.

Unless he took a boat.

Some of his older friends, ten- and twelve-year-olds, already had

their own outboard skiffs; ran their own lobster lines.

And swiped their mothers’ cigarettes and their fathers’ beer, Regina

thought grimly, but she didn’t think her son was vulnerable to those

temptations yet. He wanted a boat, though. He wasn’t supposed to go out

on the water without telling her. But then, he wasn’t supposed to leave

the house without telling her either. The ball of worry in her gut formed a

hard lump.

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“I’m calling Cal,” she said.

Her mother looked up from shucking clams for the night’s dinner

service. The restaurant served shellfish only two ways, steamed or fried.

At the moment, Regina couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Why?” Antonia asked.

“To keep an eye out for Nick.”

“Nick’s fine. Leave the boy alone. Leave them both alone.” She shot

a glance at Margred, refilling salt and pepper shakers on the other side of

the pass-through, and lowered her voice. “Caleb’s married now.”

Regina flushed. She hadn’t thought her crush was that obvious. Bad

enough that on the island everybody knew everybody’s business. She’d

prefer to keep her feelings private. Who else had observed or guessed she

was carrying a torch for the chief? Cal himself?

She winced. Margred?

She opened her mouth to say something, anything, when the bell

over the door jangled and they walked in.

Nick. Relief rushed to her head, making her dizzy.

And Dylan.

Another wave of emotion hit her, just as hard and not nearly as clear

as the first.

She wasn’t going to see him again. Everything she’d done that night,

everything they’d done, was based on that certainty. He was leaving, he’d

said. He hadn’t even asked for her phone number. The bastard.

Setting her jaw, she pushed through the swinging door. “Where have

you been?” she demanded.

“The beach. I met this guy.” Nick flashed her a hopeful smile, as if

he’d brought home a handful of shells for her instead of a potential

disaster. “He says he knows you.”

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Dylan smiled, showing the edge of his teeth. He looked different by

daylight, harder, more threatening. “Hello, Regina.”

At least he remembered her name.

She glared at him, betrayed by circumstances and the leap of her

own pulse. “I thought you left.”

“And now I am back.”

She crossed her arms, aware of her mother’s sharp look from the

other side of the pass-through, of Margred’s frank interest. “What do you

want?”

“I haven’t decided,” Dylan said silkily. “What are you offering?”

Her breath hissed through her teeth. If he stuck around, she was

going to have to kill him. And then possibly herself.

But she had Nick to deal with first.

“You’re too late for lunch. Dinner specials are on the chalkboard.

You.” She jabbed her finger at Nick. “Upstairs. We have to talk.”

“It’s always trouble when they say that,” Dylan murmured.

Nick grinned.

“You shut up,” Regina said. The last thing she needed was her one-time beach hookup coaching her son in irresponsible behavior. She jerked

her head toward the kitchen door. “Upstairs,” she repeated.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Dylan inquired.

Regina’s stomach lurched. She scowled. “Not particularly.”

“You’re Bart’s boy,” Antonia announced suddenly. “The older one.

What are you doing here?”

“Yes, Dylan, what are you doing here?” Margred asked.

Regina’s headache had grown until her neck wobbled with the

weight of it. For eight long years, she’d lived like a damn nun. Eight

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years of silencing the gossips, of living down her past mistakes. One

lousy screwup in eight years, and it followed her home like a puppy.

He followed her home.

Life was so unfair.

Dylan smiled into Regina’s eyes, arrogant and confident and cool.

“Exploring the local . . . attractions.”

“Go explore someplace else,” she said. “I’m working.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he said softly.

Antonia’s eyes narrowed. “Why should she be embarrassed?”

Regina ground her teeth together. “I am not embarrassed. I’m busy.”

Dylan looked around the empty restaurant; raised one eyebrow. “I

can wait.”

“You’ll wait a long time.” She ruffled her son’s hair, ignoring a pang

when he ducked from her touch. “Come on, Nick.”

“I’ll come back, then,” Dylan said.

Their eyes clashed. His were very dark. She felt a catch in her chest

like a hiccup while her mind blanked with lust. That was bad. She needed

to breathe, she needed to think, and she couldn’t do either while he

watched her with those dark, unsmiling eyes.

“Whatever,” she said, dismissing him. “It’s been real.”

Too real, she thought as she escaped upstairs to lecture Nick about

house rules and responsibility.

She’d liked Dylan better when he was a fantasy.

* * *

Like a fantasy, Dylan continued to haunt her, popping up at

inconvenient moments, distracting her from her work.

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He dropped by the restaurant every day for a whole damn week,

wanting things: a cup of coffee, a few words with Margred, a sandwich.

Never at the same time, so Regina could brace herself against the little

fizzle she felt each time she saw him, so she could find something else to

do in the back.

Besides, she refused to be chased around her own damn restaurant.

Her mother’s restaurant.

She could take care of herself. She was eighteen when she ran away

to Boston, fresh meat to the wait staff who were always hungover, horny,

or high. She’d learned to ignore the busboys’ liquid looks and comments

in Spanish, to use her elbows and once a boning knife when she’d been

crowded against the stove or cornered in the walk-in refrigerator.

Dylan didn’t touch her. He barely spoke to her. Regina wondered if

he came to see her at all or if he was really sniffing around his sister-in-law. That thought didn’t sit well with Regina for a variety of reasons.

But it wasn’t Margred he watched.

Regina would be doing her job, writing specials on the board, say, or

bringing plates to the pass-through, and she’d look up to find him staring