A Light For My Love (38 page)

That crazy Miss Sullivan, she lives up there
in her big house with her lamp. A little touched, you know. They
say someone broke her heart and she never got over it. Sometimes
she walks down to the river and sits there by the hour, like she's
waiting for her love to come home.

The clock chimed and China shook herself out
of her maudlin, fanciful woolgathering. It was seven-thirty. She
looked out the window again for what seemed like the hundredth
time, but no tall blond figure approached. The alcove was dark and
China finally realized Jake wouldn't be coming. She rose from the
settee, fighting the disappointment weighing on her. Didn't he
realize how important this was?

If he thought he could ignore her, he'd learn
tomorrow that she was not so easily dispensed with.

*~*~*

Tenth Street. China glanced up at the street
sign. She had never been here in her life. She'd never had a reason
to be here. But now she did. Under the early-morning sun, she
looked at the shabby little row houses ahead, bleached by weather
and apathy to silver-gray. There was not a breath of difference
between them in the way they were constructed and they had no
yards. Rather, the variations were marked by their small porches: a
straggling flower box here, an old chair there. And by the front
windows, some with frail lace curtains, others with shades, still
others with cardboard over broken panes. The smell of frying onions
and fish floated to her, mixed in with the odors of the pilings
underneath the street and the smoke from cook stoves.

She wasn't positive which house belonged to
Ethan Chastaine, and she didn't have an address. But she'd once
heard Aunt Gert say it was at the end of the row, on the edge of
the river, and Jake had mentioned a rocking chair. Nervous and
uncertain, China took a fortifying breath and set her feet in
motion.

On her left, two thin dogs waged a snarling
dispute over a bone. Farther ahead on her right, a haggard-looking
woman beat a balding rug that she'd hung over her porch railing.
Her front door was open and from within China heard the
high-pitched, frenzied shrieking of a sick child. As she passed,
the woman cast a distrustful, almost hostile glance at her.

China felt very conspicuous, an unwelcome
outsider. She tried not to gawk at her surroundings. But while she
couldn't imagine deserting her own child, she began to understand a
little of Lily Bedford's despair. For a young woman like Lily,
raised in luxury and never lacking for anything, the hopeless
reality of a place like this could certainly have plunged her into
the kind of melancholy Jake said had overtaken his mother.

China continued to the end of the narrow
street. Two houses remained, one on each side. The one on her right
looked abandoned; all of its windows were broken and an air of
desolation hung around it. On the front porch of the other, an
ancient fisherman with gnarled, arthritic hands sat mending his
nets.

She had apparently missed Jake's house
somehow. She glanced around for the woman who'd been beating the
rug, intending to ask directions. But she was gone. Except for the
old fisherman the street was deserted. Well, there was no one else
to ask. China tugged on the hem of her short jacket and approached
his porch.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me, I'm
looking for—" The man looked up from his work, and she halted in
midsentence, her mouth dropping open. She was confronted by a pair
of green eyes so painfully familiar, her words remained trapped in
her throat.

They surveyed each other, Ethan Chastaine and
China Sullivan, assessing, curious, wary.

There were strong similarities between father
and son, and differences, too, that she knew must have come from
Lily Bedford. China recognized Jake's wide brow and the growth
pattern of his beard in the silver bristles on his father's face.
But his long, straight nose and full mouth must have been a Bedford
trait, along with his light hair.

"I know who you're lookin' for," Ethan said
with thinly veiled suspicion. His voice was the rumbling ghost of
Jake's. "And I know who you are. But I'm wonderin' what you want
with my boy."

"Jake and I have something important to
discuss, Mr. Chastaine. Do you know where I might find him?" she
asked, bristling at his rudeness. Her voice didn't shake, but her
insides felt like jelly. She closed her gloved hands into fists,
trying to conquer her fear. She felt at a tremendous disadvantage,
standing down here in the street while he presided from the rocker
on the porch, like a dilapidated Neptune on his throne. "It's very
important that I talk with him. I sent him a note asking him to
visit me last evening." She let her gaze rest pointedly on his
seamed face. "Perhaps he didn't receive it."

The shuttle in Ethan's hand flashed in the
morning sun as it wove in and out of the net. "He got it. He was
busy."

Irritation and stress erupted in her. "This
isn't a social call, Mr. Chastaine. Jake's future, and mine, are at
stake. He entered into a business agreement with me, and I need to
talk to him about it. Now, sir, will you please tell me where he
is?"

He gave her a hard stare, as though trying to
decide if he would tell her. Finally he jerked his head in the
direction of the front door. "He's inside, but don't expect him to
do no handsprings when he sees you." He gave her a sly, fleeting
grin. "He had a late night, if you know what I mean. Jacob always
did catch the ladies' attention."

China felt the blood rise to her face, and
the sickening hollow feeling in her stomach only grew worse at his
implication. Of course, why would Jake feel that he owed her any
allegiance now?

"Well, go on in, if that's what you want,"
Ethan grumped, gathering his net out of the path to the door.

"Thank you," China replied stiffly. She
approached the step and leaned over to push the net aside more to
avoid walking on it.

"Damn it, girl," he snapped, grabbing it away
from her, "don't be puttin' your hands on that. Don't you know it's
bad luck for a woman to touch fishin' nets? I've got enough grief
with this rheumatism keeping me on shore. I don't need a woman
fiddlin' with my nets so I can't catch nothin' at all!"

It took all of China's fortitude to keep from
running away, away from Ethan Chastaine and this place, which
looked dismal and gray even under the spring sun. But with a poise
summoned from deep within her, she merely tipped her head. She
walked to the door and grasped the knob. Pausing for a heartbeat,
she turned it and walked in. She tried to latch the door behind
her, but it didn't catch.

The heavy smell of liniment was the first
thing she noticed. She looked around, but it wasn't until her eyes
adjusted to the dim room that she noticed a sagging, threadbare
sofa against one wall. Sprawled out there she saw Jake, the inside
crook of his elbow over his eyes. The stubble on his jaw looked
like it had been growing for a couple of days. His shirt was
unbuttoned and gaping open, revealing the dark blond hair she knew
was so soft to the touch. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest
told her he slept.

That strong chest where she'd pressed her
cheek while he made love to her.

His dungarees hung low on his hips, seeming
to catch on the sharp bones of his pelvis. China let her eyes roam
over him, from the pale hair spilling out behind his head, to that
chest, down his flat stomach and his long legs, bent at the knees
over the end of the battered sofa. She'd never doubted for a moment
that he turned women's heads. Had she really lain beside this man
only two nights ago and given him her soul as well as her body?
And, oh, God, had he lain beside some other woman last night? She
pressed her hand to her mouth, waiting for the burning sting behind
her eyelids to subside.

Forcing herself to remember why she'd come,
she approached uncertainly and watched him another moment, hoping
he'd wake up on his own. But that prospect was unlikely. A whiskey
bottle, corked but half empty, was wedged between his hip and one
of the cushions. Standing this close to him, she could detect the
vague odor of alcohol overriding the liniment smell in the
room.

"Jake," she called softly.

He didn't stir.

"Wake up," she called again.

He lifted his arm away from his eyes, but
they didn't open. He rolled toward her and blindly reached out to
pat her leg. "Go back to sleep, China," he mumbled.

She realized where his sleep-fogged mind
believed they were, and her cheeks grew warm again. "Jake," she
said and nudged his arm. "Please. I need to talk to you."

His eyes snapped open, and he sat up so
suddenly that China took a step back. Seeing her, he groaned.

Her heart contracted. He looked terrible. The
only color in his face was in his eyes. They were bloodshot and
red-rimmed, and purple shadows lurked beneath his lower lashes.

Jake looked up at China, then slowly dropped
his head to grip it tenderly between his two hands. "What are you
doing here? You aren't back to help, are you?" he asked, feeling as
though these might be his last words on this earth. The noise
bounced around in his skull like a ricocheting bullet. He was
miserably queasy, making the everlasting stink of the liniment even
harder to take. He didn't want to see China anyway, but especially
not if he looked as bad as he felt. And that was a distinct
possibility.

"You're drunk," she charged.

"Not anymore," he muttered.

"But you've been drinking. A lot."

"You sound surprised." He couldn't see her
face—he was looking at the floor between his feet. But he heard
that pinched-up sound in her voice, the one she'd used when she
first saw him back in January. "The crew and I had a little wake
for the
Katherine
at the Blue Mermaid."

She grasped the bottle by the neck and pulled
it out for his inspection. "I guess this just followed you home."
He took the bottle from her and set it on the floor. "May I have a
few minutes out of your busy schedule, please?"

He carefully glanced up at her again, his
eyes aching with the movement. She stood before him in the midst of
this hovel, nicely dressed, wearing a hat and gloves, tensely
gripping her bag. Her hair was pinned up, and her sapphire eyes
glared at him in his defeat. The beautiful princess now saw where
he came from, and at his worst. The humiliation combined with the
hangover made him wish he could crawl away and die.

"Yeah, sure," he sighed. Then he gestured
listlessly at a straight-backed chair next to the sofa. "Have a
seat."

China perched on the edge of the chair and
studied Jake, very conscious that his father was listening to their
every word just beyond the partly open door. She was tempted to
make an issue of his present condition, but when she came right
down to it, who was she to judge him? The means she'd chosen to
cope with losing Ryan had put them in this predicament, whether she
had intended it or not.

"I met with our shipping customers
yesterday," she began.

His head came up sharply at this. He winced
at the movement. "Well, you've been busy, haven't you? I was going
to talk to them tomorrow, to tell them our deals are off. As if
they don't already know. And what do you mean, our shipping
customers? What did you say to them?"

She related the conversations she'd had with
Peter Hollis and the others, omitting the details of collateral and
Dalton's initial refusal to help. "Except for Quincy Johnson, I got
everyone to agree to keep their goods in the warehouse."

"Really? And what am I supposed to do with
the stuff, China? Swim all that flour and salmon and lumber around
the world on my back? In case you've forgotten, I don't have a
ship."

She struggled with his sarcastic hostility.
"Quinn will be here in less than a week with a ship, Jake."

Jake could hardly believe what he was
hearing. He closed his eyes for an instant and swallowed. "Christ,
does the money mean that much to you?" he asked hoarsely.

China wasn't sure what reaction she'd
expected from him, but it hadn't been this. She stared at him,
hurt, insulted. "No, not the money! You don't know—"

He frowned at her. "What I know is that you
wouldn't write to Quinn to tell him his own father is dead, but
when you saw the dollars slipping away, you didn't waste a minute
getting him up here. Well, maybe your brother can handle this.
Unless Williams arranges to burn Quinn's ship, too."

China jumped to her feet, quivering with
indignation. "I did
not
do it because of the money."

"No? Why, then?"

"I have my reasons!"

"What reasons?" he insisted, rising from the
sofa and leaning toward her.

"What difference does it make?"

"I want to know why you're doing this!" He
towered over her, his face inches from hers.

"May God curse me for a fool, I'm doing it
for you! So you can go with Quinn, back to San Francisco, back to
sea. Because you love it," she blurted angrily, then her voice
trailed away. "And because I love
you
. ."

A heavy silence hung between them for a
moment, broken only by the sound of their harsh breathing and the
braying of a far-off steam horn.

Jake stared at her, shaken to the marrow of
his bones. She might not have confessed to trying to gain anything
for herself. But he'd expected to

make her admit she wanted to raise cash for
the Sailors Protective League.

Instead, she'd said she loved him. Now? When
he'd been brought to his knees? He'd never had the courage to tell
her how he felt. He sure as hell couldn't do it now. Three days ago
he would have done almost anything to hear her utter those words.
Three days ago. It might as well have been three years.

"I don't want you to love me, China," he
said, his voice hard. "It's too late."