Carolina Girl (5 page)

“What are you saying?”

“I know you. You don’t like to take risks. If you’d feel better with a larger cash cushion, I’d be willing to buy you out of the condo. Obviously, you’d take a bit of a hit financially. The real estate market isn’t what it was when we bought a couple years ago. But if you’d feel more secure having the cash . . .”

“No.”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured by your financial situation into making a decision that’s wrong for you,” he said earnestly.

She was confused. Afraid.
What about us?
she wanted to demand.
What about what’s right for us?
But she couldn’t get the words out.

“Do
you
feel pressured?” she asked instead.

“Of course not,” he answered promptly. “Nothing’s changed for me.”

She was reassured. Wasn’t she? He didn’t say he loved her. Maybe it went without saying. They’d been together six years.
Nothing’s changed for me.

But too much had altered in her world for her to push him for more of a commitment right now. For the first time, she was afraid of what he might say. She’d just been fired. If she didn’t have the condo—if she didn’t have Derek—then everything she’d worked for, everything she’d attained in the past twelve years, was gone. What did she have left?

* * *

C
ARRIE
U
NDERWOOD WAS
singing on the clock radio, almost loud enough to drown out the bugs outside and the sounds of the inn at night.

Taylor didn’t even like country music anymore, not really, but Mom had. Sometimes her mother turned up the volume and the two of them would dance around the living room, waving their arms and making up stupid steps and laughing.

Taylor blinked, remembering. In the glow of the nightlight, she could see the curved back of the rocking chair and the pile of schoolbooks on the desk. Fezzik sprawled on the braided rug, a large, furry lump like a bear. She missed her old stuff. She missed her cat. This room—Grandma Tess’s sewing room—wasn’t like Taylor’s pretty blue bedroom in the house she’d shared with Mom. But it was beginning to feel . . . Not like home. It would never be home. But more like hers.

She ran her hands over the nubby quilt. Grandma Tess was going to buy her a new comforter. They’d picked it out in a catalog together, and Grandma said she would pick it up at the store. Before the accident. Taylor wondered what had happened to it. Maybe it was all bloody now.

Taylor shivered. That was a bad thought. She tried to push it away with the other bad thoughts, but her mind was going now, round and round like a hamster in a wheel, Mom and Grandma Tess, Grandma Jolene and Uncle Ernie, stupid Rachel Wilson at school,
squeak, squeak, squeak
 . . .

Creak.

Taylor stopped breathing. She lay still under the covers, straining her ears, hoping she’d imagined the sound, like soft, furtive footsteps in the hall. A guest maybe. A ghost. Or . . .

Her heart pounded in her chest.
Don’t be such a baby.
Uncle Matt said she would be safe. He promised.

But Uncle Matt wasn’t here.

Blindly, she dropped her hand down the side of the bed, groping for Fezzik, for reassurance, willing the footsteps to go away.

If somebody opened the door, what would she do? Her stomach churned. Where would she go?

The door cracked open. A pale rectangle of light sliced through the room and over the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut tight. She could scream, she thought. She would fight.
Fezzik, Fezzik, Fezzik
, she chanted inside her head like a prayer, and the dog lurched suddenly under her hand, his nails scratching on the floor.

“Good boy,” Aunt Meg murmured. “Down.”

Taylor’s eyes popped open. She felt sick with relief. “Aunt Meg? What are you doing?”

“Checking on you.” Her face was just a blob with the hall light behind her. “I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

Taylor shook her head, forgetting maybe Aunt Meg couldn’t see her in the dark.

“Can I get you anything?” Her aunt’s voice sounded funny, like she was upset or something. “A glass of water?”

“No. Thank you,” Taylor added politely.

Aunt Meg moved out of the doorway, coming closer to the bed. “Why aren’t you sleeping? Your Uncle Matt said sometimes you have nightmares. Did you have a bad dream?”

Taylor swallowed, her heart still pounding. “No.”

“Because . . . Well, if there’s anything bothering you . . .” Aunt Meg met her gaze and broke off. Unexpectedly, she smiled. A real smile this time, kind of crooked. “You wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you?”

Taylor shook her head again.

“Okay. Well . . . I’m right across the hall if you need me,” Aunt Meg said. “You going to be able to sleep now?”

Taylor scrunched deeper under the covers. She was fine. She was safe. “I think so.”

“Good.”

Aunt Meg hesitated, like she didn’t know what to do. She stood there, rubbing the dog’s head, glancing at Taylor. “Does he sleep with you?”

What should she say? Snowball used to sleep with her. But Grandma Jolene was allergic to cats. And Grandma Tess had rules about dogs in the dining room. Maybe Aunt Meg had rules against dogs on the bed.

Taylor didn’t say anything.

“It’s all right. I won’t tell,” Aunt Meg said. “He used to sleep with Josh, I think.” Her hand stroked the quilt, like she wanted to straighten the covers. And then she bent and pressed her lips to the top of Taylor’s head. “Good night, baby.”

She smelled good, like the perfume counter at Belk’s, and her hug was brief and hard.

“Aunt Meg? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said firmly, straightening. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Taylor watched her go, listening to her footsteps cross the hall. She didn’t
seem
okay. Taylor sighed. Everybody had secrets.

Fezzik padded back from the door and dropped his big head next to her arm. His dark, doggy eyes fixed on Taylor’s face.

“Do you want to come up?” she whispered.

His ears twitched, alert. His thick tail wagged back and forth.

“Up?”

He put his legs on the mattress.

She giggled and scooted over. He lurched up beside her, warm and solid against her side, taking up too much of the bed.

“Silly dog.” She put her arm around him and went to sleep, comforted. Safe.

Five

S
AM FOLLOWED THE
smell of coffee downstairs. He usually scored his morning fix on the way to the job site, but the closest thing to a drive-through window on this side of the bridge was the line at Jane’s Sweet Tea House.

He’d just grab a cup and go.
Get in, get out. No problem.

His father and stepmother were in the breakfast room, sealed off by a wall of glass from the ocean tumbling below. For one second, Sam was tempted to keep on going, right out the front door and into his truck. But the days when he used to sneak out of the house were over. Funny, after all these years, he was just as eager to go to the Fletchers’. Maybe more.

It would be good to work up a sweat, to do something to pay back Tom and Tess for their kindness. He was looking forward to hanging out with Matt again, to spending time with Josh.

To seeing Meg.

He thought of the way she’d looked last night, on the porch and in his dreams, her cool blue eyes and her full, soft lips and that don’t-mess-with-me lift of her chin.

He’d pushed things, not further, but maybe faster than he’d intended. Now that he’d made his move, though, he had no intention of backing off. Or of letting her back off, either.

“Morning,” he said, reaching for the coffeepot.

“It’s half caff,” Angela reminded him. Even at the breakfast table, his father’s fourth wife was perfectly turned out and made up, her hair in soft, loose curls around her shoulders.

“Swill,” Carl growled. “She’s feeding me like a fucking invalid.”

There was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning, set at a seasonless seventy-two degrees.

“You are an invalid, Dad. At least she’s feeding you.” Sam couldn’t remember Angela ever actually cooking before. He glanced at his father’s almost untouched plate. “That looks good.”

“Egg white omelet,” Angela said. “Would you like one?”

He suppressed a shudder. He wanted an egg and sausage biscuit and a cup of real coffee as much as the old man did. But he appreciated his stepmother’s effort even more than her offer. Twenty years ago, he’d never expected her to stick. He’d certainly never imagined her playing nursemaid. “No, thanks. I’ve got to get going.”

Carl grunted. “About time. I called the office ten minutes ago. Nobody answered.”

“It’s the off season, Dad,” Sam answered patiently. “The realty office doesn’t open until nine.”

“Somebody should still be there to pick up the damn phone.”

The coffee was weak and bitter. Sam set down his cup. “Maybe Shelley was on the other line.”

“Before my surgery, I was in the office at seven every morning. Nobody was late to work then.”

Sam took a deep breath, a bad taste in his mouth. The old man was supposed to be managing his stress along with his diet. Low fat, low salt, and no aggravation, the cardiologist had said.

Sam figured he aggravated his father just by breathing. But until the old man was back on his feet, they were both stuck with the situation. “Dad, relax. I’ll swing by the office.”

“
Relax
,” Carl repeated with heavy scorn. “That’s your advice? That’s your plan? You have a business to run.”

“Don’t worry about my business. My business is fine. My crew’s in Pamlico County doing flood repairs.” Where Sam should be, would be if he weren’t babysitting his father’s company. He’d already been on the phone with his foreman, Nate, confirming the permits were in order, making sure the project was on time and within budget. “They can manage without me for a few more days.”

“I wasn’t talking about your little handyman operation. I meant my business. The family business. Grady Development.”

It was the old argument, one Sam was never going to win. Not without giving the old man another heart attack.

“Your business has three empty houses and twenty-one lots waiting for funding,” Sam said evenly. “You turned down that roofing project because the insurance settlement didn’t meet your costs. And we can’t move forward on repairs to the Foster property until the inspector from the mortgage company gives the okay.”

“So you’ll just sit on your ass all day.”

“Actually, I’m giving Matt Fletcher a hand today.”

Carl sneered. “Going fishing?”

There was bad blood between the Fletchers and the Gradys, dating back eight years to when Carl had closed the commercial fish house and opened a waterfront restaurant in its place.

Sam looked his father in the eye. “Building a ramp for his mother. Tess gets out of the hospital next week.”

Carl’s face reddened. Bad blood or not, everyone on the island was pulling for Tess.

“Carl, don’t upset yourself.” Angela’s brow did not furrow—thanks to Botox, her forehead no longer moved at all—but her voice was concerned. “Try your omelet.”

“I don’t want the damn omelet.”

“Come on, Dad. Be a good boy and I’ll bring you a bacon double cheeseburger for dinner.”

Angela stuck out her collagen-filled lower lip. “But, Sam . . .”

“One cheeseburger isn’t going to kill him, Angela.” Sam bared his teeth in a grin. “And if it does, you’ll be a very wealthy widow.”

The old man’s bark of laughter followed him to the door.

* * *

M
EG TOOK A
deep breath, her laptop open on the scarred oak table. The granite countertops gleamed. The dishwasher chugged in the background. The guests were gone, the kids in school, Matt had disappeared before dawn on a morning charter bottom fishing in the sound. For the next few hours, she had the kitchen and the house to herself.

She read over the first assessment question sent by the career coach at the outplacement service.

What did you like best about your previous job?

Well, that was easy.
Making money
, Meg typed. She stared at the black words on the white screen, gnawing the inside of her lip. Was that the right answer?

Be honest
, the career coach had urged.
Be yourself.
But even in grade school, Meg had prided herself on always being the first to raise her hand, on always knowing the correct answer. She was uneasily aware of having failed last night somehow with Derek and with Taylor. Of missing something, some nuance, some insight, that would set things right.

She was determined not to fail this stupid questionnaire. Her fingers hesitated over the keys.

I enjoyed developing and implementing proactive communications strategies to promote and protect the company’s unique value proposition vis-à-vis clients, prospects, investors, the financial press, and the public at large.

There. That should do it.

She turned to the next question.
What would your ideal day look like?

She frowned at her empty coffee mug. Not like this one, that was for sure. She had never wanted to live her mother’s life, at the beck and call of strangers. She hadn’t gone to Harvard so she could push a vacuum around.

Although it had been surprisingly pleasant to wave Taylor off this morning as she ran to join Josh on the walk to school. And the guests, an older couple from Charlotte and a writer researching her next book, had been easy to please. Meg had provided them with breakfast, bicycles, and maps before dispatching them for the day.

“The inn is lovely. We can’t wait to explore the island,” the older woman had said as she’d picked up her box lunch from the kitchen. “You’re so lucky to live here
.
”

Easy to say if you were on vacation. Meg had things to do.

Restless, she got up to pour herself another cup of coffee.
What would your ideal day look like?

Maybe she’d skip that one for now.

The low rumble of a diesel motor attracted her attention. She glanced through the wide kitchen windows, her breath quickening as she recognized the big black truck.

Sam.

He parked under the crepe myrtles at the bottom of the yard. His tall, rangy figure stepped down from the cab. His soft gray T-shirt, worn with washing, clung to his broad shoulders and the planes of his chest. In faded jeans and work boots, he didn’t look like a rich man’s son this morning. He looked . . . good, she admitted. Cocky, comfortable. A man’s man.

Her heart thumped as she waited for him to stride up the walk and knock on her door. But he didn’t. He stood, thumbs in his belt loops, weight on his heels, surveying the yard before he walked around the truck and lowered the tailgate.

Fine. She certainly wasn’t standing around drooling until he found time to talk to her. She had plenty of other things demanding her attention this morning.

She plopped back down at the kitchen table.
What are the setting and atmosphere of your ideal workplace?

Oh, please. These questions were a waste of time. She could skip them. Who would know? She should be working on updating her résumé. But the career coach had stressed the importance of committing to the steps, of trusting the process.

Meg tapped her fingernails on her mug, her gaze drifting from the computer to the apples in the yellow bowl, the herbs on the windowsill, Taylor’s latest test paper stuck to the refrigerator door.
Matt’s doing?
Meg wondered.
Or Allison’s?
Tess had always been the one to tape her children’s accomplishments on display, from handprints and crayon drawings to computer-printed transcripts.

But her mother was in the hospital now.

Don’t think about that. Answer the question.

Her ideal workplace. Meg closed her eyes, shutting out the sunny kitchen, deliberately summoning a vision of her Manhattan office, the gleaming cherrywood, the blue-gray walls, the stiff and polished plants. The insulated hush, forty-seven stories above the traffic.

Thump
. The sun catchers in the window rattled at the noise from the backyard. Meg opened her eyes.
Sam?

Bump, bump
. Honestly, what was he doing out there?

She yanked open the back door as Sam pushed a piece of machinery across the grass. “What on earth is that?”

His eyes gleamed. “Good morning. It’s an auger.”

“It looks like a lawn mower had sex with an oil drill,” she said.

His laughter reverberated in the pit of her stomach. Helplessly, she smiled back. “You want some coffee?” she asked.

“Thanks. Black, one sugar.”

She poured the coffee into a travel mug. The leftover grape and rosemary focaccia she’d made for breakfast sat wrapped on the counter. She cut a slice and carried both outside.

“This looks great,” Sam said. “I wasn’t expecting breakfast.”

She hunched one shoulder dismissively. She didn’t want him reading anything into a simple gesture of appreciation. Just because he’d kissed her—
she’d kissed him back
—didn’t mean she was going to start serving him breakfast on a regular basis.

Although she shouldn’t worry about Sam assigning too much significance to a kiss. He probably kissed women all the time, had breakfast with them, too, without it meaning anything. “You’re here early. I thought you’d wait until Matt and Josh could help.”

“I wanted to take some measurements, figure out what we need. Have you decided where you want the ramp to go?”

She lifted her eyebrows, reassured by his businesslike attitude. “To the door?”

His teeth flashed, white against his tan. “That would be the conventional approach, yeah. We run the ramp here, to the side of the deck apron, that gives your mom a short path to the door without blocking the steps. But you’ve got yourself a two-foot vertical there. With a one-twelve slope, you’re going to need a twenty-four-foot ramp.”

“That’s awfully long.”

“Your call. As a historic building, the inn isn’t required to be ADA compliant. But a ramp could make life easier for your parents even after your mom is on her feet again.”

She didn’t want to think about her parents growing older. She wanted them to remain the parents of her childhood: her tough, taciturn Marine father; her mother, smiling and competent in the background of their lives.

But the past two weeks had shaken Meg’s perceptions and cracked the foundation of her world. After the accident, Matt had had his hands full, running the inn and his own business while caring for the kids. Tess had been unconscious or dazed by drugs, a breathing tube down her throat. Tom had been frozen by frustration at his own helplessness, strangled by anger, and numb with grief. At the hospital, Meg had been the one to take the lead in conversations with her mother’s doctors, caregivers, caseworker, to nail down the details of her medical coverage, to speak with the police. She’d booked a motel room and rented a car for Tom.

She was beset by decisions, terrified of making the wrong choices for her parents. For herself. She looked at Sam, tall and broad, with that dark lock of hair that always fell into his eyes, and thought what an unspeakable relief it would be to lean on somebody else for a change. To surrender control, just for a minute. To let Sam take charge.

She squared her shoulders, resisting temptation. “Twenty-four feet still takes up a lot of yard.”