Carolina Girl (17 page)

He thawed slightly. “It’s understandable. You’ve been under a lot of stress. Now that you’re back, we can—”

“I’ve met someone, too,” she said, plowing ahead. “While I was home. Or rather, I’ve reconnected with someone I used to know.”

“Is this your idea of a joke?”

She’d never felt less like laughing in her life. “I don’t find cheating very funny.” She took a deep breath, forcing down her feelings, trying to be fair. “What I’m trying to say is, you’re right. Maybe this is an opportunity for both of us to acknowledge we’re not getting what we need from this relationship.”

“Then it’s revenge.” Derek shook his head. “Really, Meg, I thought you were better than that.”

She stared at him, speechless. She needed a drink. She really did. She picked up her wine.

“But I’m willing to put all this behind us,” Derek continued smoothly. “We have too much invested in this relationship to let a simple misunderstanding get in our way.”

“Derek, you had another
woman
in our
apartment
. I just told you I’m involved with somebody else. That’s not a misunderstanding.”

“You don’t need to overdramatize this, Meg. Obviously in any long-term relationship both parties are going to fail from time to time.”

“What do you mean,
fail
? Are you saying it’s acceptable to sleep around? Derek.” Her stomach dropped. “Have you cheated on me before?”

He poured himself another drink. “I don’t much like your tone, Meg.”

She watched the back of his head, the defensive set of his shoulders, remembering all those late nights at the office. All those times he’d turned away from her in bed, too tired or distracted for sex. “Just answer me.”

He drew himself up. “I don’t choose to dignify your accusations with a response. We’ve always been good together.”

“That’s it? We’re good together?” A slow-burning rage ignited in her gut. “What about love? What about loyalty? What about simple respect?”

“I’ve always tried to give you what you need,” Derek said stiffly.

Her hand tightened on her glass. “You don’t get to decide what I need based on what you’re willing to give me, you son of a bitch.”

She threw the glass of wine in his face and walked out.

Fourteen

C
ARL DRUMMED HIS
fingers on the arm of his leather armchair,
The Wall Street Journal
disregarded on his lap. The evening market wrap-up flickered silently on the giant plasma screen at one end of the room. “What’s the matter with you, boy, you got ants in your pants? You’re giving me whiplash stalking around.”

Sam leveled a look at the old man. Carl was frustrated by the doctors’ restrictions, testy over his prolonged convalescence. Fine. That didn’t give him the right to jab at Sam for entertainment like a kid with a stick poking a jellyfish on the beach.

Sam continued to pace, fourteen strides along the wall of windows overlooking the darkening sea, fourteen strides back. Because if he stopped moving, if he stopped counting, he would start to think. And none of the thoughts beating at his brain were good.

Seven o’clock, and Meg hadn’t returned his text.

She couldn’t still be in meetings. Didn’t everyone in New York knock off early on Fridays, split for Connecticut or the Hamptons or something?

She was probably back in her condo. Or out to dinner. He hoped to hell she was out to dinner.

Because even the mental image of her squeezed into a booth with that faceless fuck Derek, giving him her attention and her smiles, was better than the idea of her being home—in bed—with the son of a bitch. They’d been together six years. Chapman would know all her favorite places. Where to take her. Where to touch her.

Maybe she hadn’t returned Sam’s text because she was so fucking happy with Derek.
Derek is my boyfriend.

Maybe she was better off with Derek.
He’s perfect for me.

Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, pacing. Brooding. Maybe Derek should die.

“Can I get you a drink?”

The question broke the rhythm of his pacing at his thoughts. He looked over his shoulder at Angela.

His stepmother smiled almost apologetically. “When your father gets like this, I fix him a bourbon and branch.”

He was not like his father, making life miserable for everyone around him. He took his hands out of his pockets, dredged up a smile. “No, thanks, Angela.”

He should find Matt, get a beer. Matt owed him one anyway.
She hurts you, she lets you down, I’ll buy the beer.

Except Matt knew Sam had driven Meg to the airport. He would know Sam had let her go.

What a pussy.

He should have said something to stop her, Sam thought, resuming his track of the carpet. Not from going to New York, but from going back to
him
.

Oh, he’d talked a good game. All that stuff about telling her how he felt, about not making the same mistake twice. Bullshit. When he got to the line, he’d choked.
Later for us, then
.

He could talk about his feelings from eighteen years ago, the mess of teenage lust, panic, and regret he’d been back then.

But he’d totally dropped the ball on telling her how he felt now. Because everything he felt, everything he’d wanted to say to her, made him sound like a crazy stalker or a whiny loser or both.

I don’t want him touching you.

Don’t leave me.

“Heard from Walt Rogers today,” Carl remarked.

Sam’s shoulders tightened. Maybe the old man had the right idea after all. Right now Sam would welcome anything that would distract him from the thought of Meg with Derek, in their apartment, of Derek pulling Meg close, putting his hands all over her smooth soft skin . . . Maybe a fight with Carl would take his mind off his troubles.

He glared at his father. “So?”

“He wanted to know if you were serious about this crazy scheme of yours.”

“If you’re talking about the fish house, I’ve already met with the architects.”

Carl nodded. “Herb Stuart gave me a call.”

Well, that figured. There wasn’t anything that happened on the island, anything connected with the industry, that wouldn’t get reported to his father eventually. “I spoke with Ed Parker, too.”

“Parker’s got some good ideas,” Carl said. “But he overpromises. Stuart delivers.”

Privately, Sam agreed with Carl’s assessment of the two architects. But . . . “The Parker Group has more experience with low-impact development,” he pointed out.

“A man can adapt his plans. He can’t change his character.”

Sam nodded slowly. “Fair enough.”

“Walt says you’re taking preliminary drafts to the zoning board.” Carl sent him a sharp look. “Not letting any grass grow under your feet, are you?”

“I don’t see any reason to wait,” Sam said. Not with his father’s six-month deadline hanging over his head. “I want the town’s cooperation. And I want input from the watermen.”

“Well, they’ll give you an earful.” Carl drummed again on his chair. “Let me know if you need to set up a preapplication meeting with the Division of Coastal Management.”

Sam glanced at him, surprised. For forty years, Carl Grady had played politics, worked deals, and finessed regulations, forever altering the local landscape. With a few choice words, a couple of well-placed phone calls, he could smooth Sam’s way. Or completely undercut his efforts.

“I thought you were sitting this one out,” Sam said.

“I can still work the damn phones.”

Angela looked at Sam in silent appeal, her eyes wide with Botox and concern. Sam felt a twinge of affection for his stepmother. She really did care about the old goat.

Don’t upset him
, the doctors said.

“I’m not questioning your connections,” Sam said. “I’m just curious about your motivation. Why would you help me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s still my name on the project. Unless you’ve changed that, too,” Carl grumbled.

“All the paperwork says Grady Realty and Development. But if you’re not careful, you’ll be giving me control of the company and a house.”

“Might be the best bet I ever lost,” Carl said.

Everybody wins
, Meg had said.
Your father gets a great development with the Grady name on it. The watermen get a working fish house. The island preserves a piece of its heritage and stops shedding jobs. And you get . . .

A chance, Sam thought.

“It’s good to see you finally giving a damn about the company,” Carl continued. “Committing for the long haul. Showing some fire. A man’s got to go after what he wants.”

The satisfaction in Carl’s voice set Sam’s teeth on edge. He’d experienced firsthand the cost of his father’s hard-assed, hard-charging approach to business and to life. Three failed marriages. Four failed heart valves. That wasn’t Sam’s style. It was easier, better, to play it cool. A lifetime of dealing with his father’s rigid standards and high expectations had taught Sam to play down his own ambitions and emotions. Less hurt, less disappointment that way for everybody.

But this time he cared. It unnerved him, how much this project mattered. How badly and publicly he could fail.

His phone vibrated. His pulse jumped as he looked at the display. Meg.

Flying into RDU 2nite 10:30
, the text read.
Can u meet me in Morehead around 1:30? Will call.

She was coming back early. She was coming home tonight. She wanted him to meet her.

And if she was flying back tonight
—Sam took his first deep breath in what felt like hours—
then she couldn’t be sleeping with Derek.

“Sorry, Dad.” He slid his phone into his pocket, already doing the math, calculating minutes and miles. Meg was expecting him to pick her up where he’d left her this morning, at the car rental lot in Morehead City. But if he left now—right this minute—he could drive the extra three hours to Raleigh and meet her flight. “Something’s come up.”

“Where the hell are you going?”

“Where you said.” Sam flashed his teeth in a grin. “I’m going after what I want.”

* * *

S
HE NEVER SHOULD
have texted Sam, Meg thought as she wheeled her rollaway from the gate past the closed shops and shuttered eateries of the Raleigh-Durham Airport. Her staccato heel taps echoed in the bright, empty corridor.

She shivered a little, tired to the bone. She still had her trench, but she’d left her scarf back at the condo, along with six years of her life. She wondered what Derek would do with it. With all her things.

Don’t think about that now. Put it on the list for tomorrow.

She nodded to the lone security guard as she passed through the checkpoint on her way to the terminal. She had dropped off her car at the rental agency lot here at RDU. The smart thing—really, the only thing—to do was to rent another car and drive straight to Dare Island. She and her family could sort out the vehicle situation tomorrow.

Exhaustion welled up, threatened to spill over. Her head felt stuffy, her sinuses congested from air travel and tension.

The problem was that in the aftermath of that nasty little scene with Derek, she hadn’t been thinking clearly. Her only instinct had been to get out, to get home. But now she had to tell Sam that she didn’t need him. There was absolutely no reason he should have to leave Dare Island after midnight and drive almost an hour to Morehead City so that she could drop off her rental car tonight. She had to text him and tell him . . . No, she had to
call
him to explain . . .

She emerged from the corridor into the brightly lit cavern of the new terminal. And saw . . .

Her feet froze. Her throat swelled with emotion.

“Sam?” she whispered.

Tall, dark, and broad-shouldered, waiting at the corner by the deserted Starbucks. He smiled crookedly, and something inside her that had been stiff and cold and solid for hours began to thaw. “Welcome home, Meggie.”

Her eyes burned. She blinked furiously. “I’m not crying.”

“Course not.” He put a friendly arm around her shoulders, relieved her of her suitcase with his other hand.

She wanted to turn her face into his chest and bawl her eyes out in gratitude. She gulped. “I can’t believe you’re here. At the airport.”

“Of course I am. You said you needed a ride.” He slanted a look down at her. “Well, I’m your designated driver.”

“I was going to rent a car.”

He shook his head as he steered her past the baggage claim. “You’ve had a long day. Why would you want to tack a long drive on the end of it?”

“Your day’s been every bit as long as mine.”

He flashed his teasing grin. “Yeah, but I’m a guy.”

An answering smile worked its way from deep inside to tug the corner of her mouth. “That is so sexist.”

“We can argue about it on the way home.”

“I should have called a friend,” she fretted as they stepped onto the moving walkway to the parking garage. She felt light-headed, almost giddy with relief and hunger.

Sam steadied her, one hand at the small of her back. “I’m a friend.”

“I mean somebody in New York.” Fatigue made her babble. Her blood buzzed with adrenaline. “I could have slept on someone’s couch. Or gone to a hotel. But all I wanted was to get home. The only thing I could think of was you.” Hot color stormed her face as she realized what she’d said. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Those creases in his cheeks appeared. “I liked the way it sounded.”

She watched him pay for parking at the automated kiosk, realizing too late she should have reached for her wallet. “Did I say thank you?”

He pocketed the ticket. “Sugar, you don’t have to thank me.”

“Yes,” she insisted. “I do.”

In the world she inhabited with Derek, a subconscious points system ruled, everything tallied to preserve parity in their relationship—picked-up checks, favors, infractions, omissions. She realized with a sense of shock that she didn’t live there anymore. The thought was oddly liberating. She didn’t have to keep score anymore.

“Have you had dinner?” Sam asked as he started the truck.

Her stomach clenched. “Peanut butter crackers at the airport.”

He shot her an assessing look. “Right. Let’s get you something to eat, then.”

“I’m fine. It’s after ten thirty.” She smiled, attempting a joke. “We’re not exactly in the city that never sleeps.”

And her churning system was in no shape to handle the all-night drive-through at Taco Bell.

“I know a place,” Sam said.

She could have argued. The longer they delayed, the longer they would be on the road. But there was an almost unspeakable relief in letting someone else take charge for a while.

She leaned her head back against the cushioned leather, staring out at the Carolina pines black-etched against the midnight blue sky, drinking in the quiet.
No effort, no explanations.
Less than ten minutes later the truck slowed at an intersection. Meg caught a glimpse of a spotlit modern sculpture before the truck turned onto a winding, wooded road.

She roused enough to sit up. “Where are we?”

“The Umstead.” They pulled under a well-lit arch over a drive of paver stones. Sam handed the keys to a valet while another attendant helped Meg from the car. She paused a moment, trying to get her bearings, and then Sam escorted her past the smiling doorman into another world.