Sea Glass Cottage (3 page)

Before he could get back into his SUV, she blurted out, “There’s not one reason for you to be so snotty and rude to me. Not one!”

When that didn’t get a reaction she threw out the only bit of detail she had left in her arsenal. “From where I live on the cliff, I’ve seen you surfing south of town, off Turtle Point with your little boy. Surprisingly, you don’t suck at it.”

She noted the glower on his face and took pride that she’d put it there. Pleased with herself, she went on, “But then Logan says your name is Thane Delacourt and you used to play in the NFL. If that’s true I guess you’d have a modicum of athletic ability in you.”

He bristled at the reminder and the insult. “The optimum phrase there is ‘used to.’ I’ve moved on. I wish everyone else would as well. And you are? Ah, wait. You’d be the mystery ballerina in the keeper’s cottage everyone’s been wondering about.” He cracked up laughing and looked her up and down in a seductive perusal and then added, “Ballerina my ass, more like exotic dancer.”

“I’m sure you’d know a lot more about exotic dancers than I would know,” she huffed out. She wasn’t certain how the ballerina rumor had taken flight in the first place. All she knew for sure was that some people believed it. But when the accusation she’d been a stripper began to fully sink in her blood did a slow rolling boil. “The name is Isabella Rialto. People I consider my friends call me Izzy. You, however, can stick to Isabella. It’s always awkward when you learn firsthand that one of your neighbors is a real asshole, which you definitely are. I’ll take your advice and head to the market now and leave you to infect others with your special ‘misery and woe’ persona.”

That hit a little too close to the mark to suit Thane. He puffed out another sigh, left the driver’s side door long enough to go over and reach out his hand in friendly introduction.

On his approach, she refused to take it and took a step back instead. She watched as he recovered from the slight and gathered up her bicycle from the roadway. Why should she be nice to this ass? “Don’t do me any favors. I’ve got this.”

“Yeah?” At the realization they’d gotten off to a really bad start, Thane simply added, “Look, I apologize for yelling at you. But you scared the crap out of me. I thought you’d fallen and hit your head. I thought you were seriously hurt. It shook me up.”

“Such concern is touching and appropriate since you were driving like a crazy person.”

“That is so not true.”

“Oh really? I’m the one on the pavement and you’re the one shouting at me. You have a booming voice. It must unnerve a lot of people.”

“Sorry,” he said again as he inspected the bike for damage. “My mother used to say the same thing.”

“One reason I’m sure you were so successful playing sports—you’re used to bullying people.”

“Men. I bullied men on the field wearing an opposing jersey, which they paid me to do. Not women, never women. Huge difference.” Finding the bike frame intact, he held it out to her and tagged on, “You’re a piece of work, aren’t you, Isabella Rialto? Looks like you’re good to go now.”

She took hold of the handlebars to hop back on. “Out of curiosity what position did you play exactly?”

“Linebacker.”

“Figures, I bet you were the head bully of the team. Logan says you gave it up because you suffered an injury.”

“Then maybe it would be easier if you had this discussion with Logan and asked him all these stupid questions and left out the middleman.”

She snickered. “But then I wouldn’t get to irritate you so much up close and personal. It’s so much more appealing this way.”

That got a grin out of him, the smile spread wide across his face, showing off a set of deep dimples.

“You should do that more often.”

“What?”

“Show those dimples to the world. It makes you look almost human.” As she climbed on and took off, over her shoulder she tossed out, “See you around town, Thane Delacourt. In the meantime, try to keep your road rage in-check. You don’t want a rep in a small town like this when you know how people tend to talk.”

Thane shook his head as he watched her peddle down the block. Once he settled behind the wheel, he reminded himself that he no longer cared what some stubborn female thought of him. Come to think of it, he didn’t much care what the entire town thought of him either. Nor did he care what the tabloids wrote about him anymore. Those days were long gone when he got upset reading about himself online. Thane knew when you were no longer playing, no longer making headlines for some stupid stunt you’d pulled the night before, the public rarely gave you two thoughts.

That was fine by him.

For all he cared, every last journalist could go take a flying jump into Smuggler’s Bay. It was true when he’d lived his life in the fast lane he’d often made an ass out of himself, sometimes to the point of exhaustion, most times with a measure of embarrassment. Eventually after burning himself out, he’d found the limelight greatly overrated. He was no longer that person who blitzed quarterbacks for a living. Did he sometimes miss making those QBs pay for bad decisions? Sure he did. Did he miss closing up gaps with his body and taking down speedy running backs? He did. While he might miss the game itself—those glorious hours he’d spent on Sunday afternoons knocking heads with other people—he definitely relished his time spent calling plays for the defense and putting an end to offensive drives. There was a time he’d lived for fourth downs.

What he didn’t miss though were the reporters and cameramen taking note of his every move on the field and off. He hadn’t bargained for living out his life with people following him around all the time waiting for him to screw up. Most days, he’d done his best not to disappoint them. He’d made headlines, giving the reporters the stories they’d craved to fill up their news blogs. His antics had taken up airtime. Anchors had spent their time questioning his latest falls from grace or discussing the path he’d chosen for his messy life. At one time he’d been incredibly hard on each nemesis who’d written ugly things about him.

Even in high school he’d possessed an undefinable spirit, never quite fitting squarely into anyone’s peg. He took that quirky attitude to UCLA where it morphed into bold and daring. Like most young people on their own for the first time, once at college, he’d discovered his distinctive, individual style made him the quintessential leader. In his sophomore year, his teammates responded and elected him team captain.

A rebel at heart, he always wore his hair longer than any other player and resisted coaches who suggested that he conform to other people’s standards. That original thinking often got him in trouble. But more than that, it was his talent on the field that made him a standout to other players, other schools, other coaches. The attention magnified an outspoken nature that no one could muzzle, not even when he reached the NFL.

Maybe that’s one reason he’d thrived.

At six-four and two-forty, it hadn’t taken long to catch the attention of football coaches from Florida State to Washington. They’d discovered Thane’s willingness to put in the hours necessary to get better and improve. He lifted weights, was never late to practice, and worked on his form and timing. If he could develop his raw gift and turn it into major league talent at a school like UCLA, his size alone might afford him notice on the college level. At the time, getting that full ride to a four-year university had meant everything to him, his one and only goal. By his junior year that had changed when NFL scouts came knocking. Despite the buzz to turn pro, he’d stayed around for his senior year to graduate because his working-class parents wanted one member of the family to have a college degree.

Above all else, once he reached the pros, Thane had wanted nothing more than to make his parents proud. He had no way of knowing that those first few years he’d end up getting attention for all the wrong reasons. Initially his success had come with plenty of attitude, a willingness to work hard, and a stubborn persistence that even his competitors marveled at. It was only later that he’d had to reevaluate a chunk of it.

Thane liked to think that when it had counted, he’d done the right thing. No doubt he’d gotten sidetracked along the way. But he’d finally come back to his roots and brought his little boy with him. Too bad his mother and father were no longer alive so they could see the one-eighty he’d pulled.

Even now he was in the process of rehabbing a storefront to open his own pizza place two blocks from the house his mother had left him on Landings Bay. Home was just down the street from the school where Jonah started first grade.

So far Jonah’s days there had proved uneventful. No major disasters. Yet. But he knew that would probably change. With a boisterous six-year-old it was only a matter of time before all that energy bubbled to the surface and spelled trouble. If his boy was anything like he’d been at that age, it was inevitable. He’d just have to deal with it when it happened.

Overnight it seemed as though Thane’s life had changed—gone were the days of living in a self-absorbed fishbowl to becoming a full-time father. Those nights spent carousing every club in Manhattan, doing all kinds of stupid stuff, were behind him. He was a responsible dad now who wanted nothing more than to do the right thing by his kid.

The days of spending hours boning up on defensive strategies were over, too. Now, he was an ordinary stay-at-home dad, who packed Jonah’s lunch every morning, picked him up after school every afternoon. He dusted the furniture, did laundry, and even changed the bedding on a regular basis.

So far he’d resisted the advice from his neighbors, Logan and Kinsey, to hire a nanny to look after Jonah when the restaurant opened up.

He’d have to find a way to do it all himself, he decided. A hands-on dad didn’t hire a nanny. Having someone else in the house would be a distraction and a pain in the ass, especially since Jonah was still grieving the loss of his grandmother. He missed his “Mimi” every single day, still mentioned her when he went to bed every night. Truth be told, Thane was still having a problem dealing with his mother’s death, as well. That’s why lately, it had been just the two of them—father and son—making their way on their own. And for that, Thane would forever be indebted to Alyson Benning. She’d given him his son. Maybe it hadn’t been his initial reaction to the situation at the time, but nonetheless, it was how he felt now. That had to count for something.

While Jonah’s birth might not have been part of his original master plan, he could be proud of how he’d stepped up when he’d found out. However it happened, however, he’d ended up a father, for Jonah’s sake, or maybe his own, it was now his full-time job. The amount of work it took was unbelievable. Some days he’d had to remind himself that he’d made it through the diaper stage, learned that the terrible twos didn’t come to an end on the third birthday, and weathered a four-year-old testing independence with a full-blown, temper tantrum thrown in a five-star restaurant in the middle of dinner rush.

No, when the pizza place opened its doors next month, his life would surely get more complicated. But somehow he would find a way to keep up the pace and continue taking care of his son—the same way he’d been doing it for six years. Granted, without his mom around, it would be a tougher challenge. But Thane Delacourt had never run from a difficult task.

So, for now, he intended to enjoy the ride as much as he could and do it all himself. With that resolve, he shoved the car into gear to go about his errands.

I
sabella made her way into Murphy’s Market still fuming about the encounter with Thane Delacourt. Whenever she’d had conversations with Logan about Pelican Pointe—both before and after her decision to move here—he’d failed to mention the major asshole tendencies of some of its residents. Oh well, didn’t every town have a curmudgeon, someone who seemed to take pleasure in bringing misery to neighbors? That was Mr. Delacourt.

She thought back over the last several months when she’d met practically the entire town at various events—the opening of Phillips Park, the outdoor movie nights held throughout the summer, the concerts over the bay, parties she’d ducked. Now she knew why she hadn’t crossed paths with him before today. He probably didn’t get many social invitations and didn’t yearn to make new friends.

But then she realized she’d done her fair share of shunning social engagements over the past several months. It wasn’t that she was aloof or unfriendly. It wasn’t because she wanted to remain a mystery to people. But how could she explain that she hadn’t wanted to answer the inescapable questions about her past, those that came with settling into a new place. It meant her absence at get-togethers had led a few around town to believe she was standoffish and distant.

That included the good-looking Zach Dennison. Zach was a nice guy. Ever since meeting at Julianne Dickinson’s Memorial Day barbeque last spring they’d crossed paths a couple of times around town. After one of the concerts, the two had even shared a meal, sort of, when Kinsey had insisted on inviting everyone back to her place to celebrate the opening of Tradewinds Boatyard, Zach’s new enterprise he’d started with pals, Ryder McLachlan and Troy Dayton.

Now that she thought about it, there were nice guys all over town. NFL career or not, Mr. Delacourt definitely wasn’t one of them. In fact, his moniker from now on should be something similar to “Oscar the Grouch.”

Maybe she’d stop by Tradewinds Boatyard and say hello, in a neighborly sort of way, to Zach. Maybe she’d take the initiative and do the asking out.

After grabbing a shopping cart from the row, she began to feel the aftereffects of falling on her bike. Soreness began to settle in, especially around her right knee. Realizing she was fortunate to have nothing but a few bumps and bruises and not a broken bone or two, she entered the produce aisle, perused the selection of grapes. She stopped to add a few vine-ripe tomatoes to her basket but as she turned to toss in a bunch of kale, her head started to ache. Determined to forge on, she moved past a table piled high with Tuscan melons. She reminded herself that she was on her bike and was therefore limited to how many items she could carry home at one time. But as the pain in her head increased she decided that maybe she needed to get back home. But first she had to troop through frozen food to pick up a carton of chocolate caramel gelato. That would make any ailment feel better. If it melted on the trip back, so be it. She’d lap it up soup-style and be in ice cream heaven.

With enough supplies to hold her for a couple of days, she headed to the front of the store to check out. But as she stood in line behind Prissie Gates, her head began to pound even worse. Her vision blurred before everything went black. Slowly she crumpled to the concrete floor. The last face she remembered belonged to Thane Delacourt.

On his way
back from the hardware store past the pizza place he had yet to name, Thane spotted the ambulance parked outside Murphy’s Market, its lights still flashing. Knowing Isabella had been headed that way, his first thought was of her. Turning the wheel, he pulled into the lot, and rushed through the double doors only to see her laid out on the linoleum.

“What happened?” he asked Murphy.

“Damned if I know. She was standing in line and the next thing I knew she hit the floor. I guess she must’ve passed out.”

Thane shook his head. “She was in an accident earlier while riding her bike. I almost hit her with my car. It’s possible she hit her head when she tumbled off her bicycle.”

“We need to tell that to the EMTs.” Murphy turned to the paramedics. “Hey, Deacon, Brian. The girl may have blacked out from an earlier accident.”

“Okay,” Brian replied as he slapped a blood pressure cuff around Isabella’s arm. “We’ll roll her over to Doc’s then for a look-see, have him evaluate her head.”

“I’ll follow you over there,” Thane offered, catching the other EMT staring at him.

“I know you,” Deacon said in recognition. “You used to play for the Giants, right? Linebacker, all-American at UCLA, you grew up here.”

Irritation flickered in Thane’s eyes and had him frowning at the paramedic. He didn’t want these guys focusing on him when what they should be doing was to try to get Isabella over to Doc’s. “That was me, a few seasons back though,” he finally grumbled. “Look, is she gonna be okay?”

“When did she hit her head? Do you know?”

“Yeah. About forty-five minutes ago on Crescent Street.” Thane watched as the two men got Isabella onto a stretcher. One of them took out a cell phone, hit speed dial and began detailing Isabella’s vitals to Doc Prescott, the town doctor.

Grateful for something to do, Thane followed them out the double doors.

Once he got
to the clinic, a renovated Mission-style house off Tradewinds Drive, Thane paced in the outside waiting room while Doc worked on Isabella in one of the three exam rooms. Despite the slapdash looks of the place, he already knew Doc ran a state-of-the-art facility.

With a kid, Thane had tested the waters two weeks after moving back when Jonah had jumped out of the pecan tree in the backyard and landed on a spike sticking up out of the dirt. It had taken four stitches to close the gap in his hand. During that visit Thane had discovered Jack Prescott knew his stuff. You didn’t spend twenty years as chief resident of emergency medicine in one of San Francisco’s busiest ERs without learning a thing or two.

And recently the rock star physician had talked his wife, Belle, a former pediatric nurse, into becoming his receptionist. The job was a temporary fix because Belle hadn’t been keen on resuming her duties. Both husband and wife were simply biding their time until Sydney Reed, an ER nurse out of St. Louis, and sister to Hayden Cody, could move to town and take over as Doc’s assistant.

Hayden had already announced to everyone that Sydney had bought a house on Cape May. She claimed her sister was chomping at the bit to get here and settle in. Thane knew Doc and his wife felt the same way since Belle didn’t exactly want to spend her days at the clinic.

When Thane finally took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs, he tried skimming a magazine article but couldn’t focus on the words. Maybe he shouldn’t have even followed her over here. Isabella Rialto wasn’t his responsibility. Of course, he realized he was the reason she was injured. But that didn’t mean she would like to have him sitting here…waiting for her.

He wondered if he should call Logan and Kinsey, who both seemed to treat her like close family. As he pondered what he should do, Thane had no way of knowing that inside exam room number three, Doc was in the middle of his own conundrum.

Jack Prescott eyed the film he’d taken of Isabella’s knee and decided to move on to the brain scan. He picked it up, studied the MRI. Glancing over at his pretty patient as she began to come around again for the second time, he waited for a several moments while she gained a more cognizant awareness. When he could see her look around and clearly take in her surroundings, he said, “Do you know where you are?”

“Doctor’s office,” she muttered.

“That’s right. I need to make certain you understand what I’m about to say.” In a no-nonsense voice, Doc went on, “Ms. Rialto, your knee is swollen and hyperextended. If you stay off it for a few days, it should be fine. Your head, however, is another matter. You suffered a small contusion at the back. I’m guessing you’re lucky you turned your head when you did, otherwise you would have hit your temple, a very tender part of the brain where the middle meningeal artery is located. You hit that, and it can easily cause an epidural hemorrhage. That’s why it’s so important bikers always wear a helmet. Soft tissue hitting concrete rarely goes well for the rider. A concussion, young lady, is serious stuff. I’ll need to keep an eye on you for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. Do you still feel nauseated?”

“No. Not anymore.”

“Still experiencing blurry vision?” he asked, shining his light into her pupils.

“No.”

“Good.” He switched x-rays, held up the one he’d taken of her knee. “It might be none of my business, but I see by the images you’ve suffered several broken bones before. The break at your ankle, for example, is old and has healed. There are other breaks, some hairline fractures, still showing up from thigh to heel. Were you recently in a car accident?”

“No.”

“I see. Then did you ever play contact sports where you suffered several broken bones?”

“I ran a little track in high school and college.”

“Hardly contact sports that would yield such repeated damage.” He thought he already knew the answer but asked the question anyway. “Would you like to tell me how you came by so many fractures over the course of your young life?”

Isabella closed her eyes. “That’s… It doesn’t matter now. He’s in the past.”

“No chance of him showing up out of the blue and doing the same thing to you all over again?”

“No.”

“Okay. Then I’ll release you to go home. I want you to spend the rest of the evening taking it easy. It isn’t necessary to be in bed but I want you off that knee and taking better care of yourself. Thane Delacourt is waiting outside to take you home.”

That news brought her to a sudden sitting position on her elbows. “What? Why is he here?”

“You’ll have to take that up with him. He followed the EMTs to my door and insisted on waiting to see how you were.” Doc picked up a chart, began making notations. “I’m prescribing a long, restful weekend. I want you to avoid stress and excitement. That’s a real prescription by the way. Do you think you can manage that?”

“I live alone. I’ll manage just fine.”

“Then get dressed. If you need help, I’ll send my wife in.”

“I’ll manage,” Isabella repeated.

Doc left her alone and wandered out into the outer room where Thane was. As soon as the two men made eye contact, Doc held up a hand before the man could leap to his feet.

“She’s fine. A three-day rest with someone making sure she doesn’t have a repeat of what happened in the store and she’ll be even better.”

“How were her x-rays? Did you do an MRI?”

“Even if I did, since you aren’t family or related, I can’t share those kinds of details with you.”

“Can I see her?”

“She’s getting dressed. She’ll be out in a minute. You can take her home though and make sure she gets settled. Keep an eye on her. You don’t have to sit by her bedside or anything like that but I’d like to know that she doesn’t lose consciousness again.”

“I will. I can do that. I do feel responsible.”

“That’s nonsense,” Isabella said from the doorway. “I took a tumble off my bike when I saw your car heading straight for me. That’s all there was to it.” She looked over at the physician who’d treated her. “He’s worried I’m going to sue him, which I’m not.”

Thane rolled his eyes. “I’m not worried. Maybe my Rover did get closer to you than I thought it did, maybe grazed the fender of your bicycle. It’s possible the car inched you over to the curb.”