Coming Home (45 page)

Thank you to Chris Camara and Julie Cupp, my former and current coworkers, whose faithful assistance allows me to write more. As always, thank you to Dan, Emily and Jake for supporting my writing career and to Brandy and Louie for being my office mates during the day.

Finally, to my wonderful, faithful, lovely readers—there are simply no words to tell you what each of you means to me. Your e-mails, participation in the reader groups, your comments on Facebook and Twitter, and your enthusiastic appreciation for my books make me smile every day. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

xoxo

Marie

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Turn the page for a sneak peek at Maid for Love, book 1 in the McCarthys of Gansett Island Series!

Maid for Love

The McCarthys of Gansett Island Series, Book 1

By: Marie Force

Chapter 1

Madeline Chester retrieved her nine-month-old son Thomas from his crib and checked her watch. She was due at the hotel for the morning housekeeping shift in fifteen minutes. After a diaper change, she handed Thomas his bottle, grateful that he could now hold it himself.

He let out a squeal of delight that drew a smile from Maddie.
 

“You like that, huh, buddy?”
 

His pudgy legs bounced about on either side of her hips, and she tightened her hold on him while attempting to tame his soft blond hair. She grabbed the diaper bag, the tote she took to work, retrieved her lunch from the refrigerator and headed out the door. Across the yard, she entered her sister’s house through the screen door on the back deck.

“Morning,” she called out.

“In here,” Tiffany said from the living room where she sat amid three babies and a variety of toys. One of the babies was her daughter, Ashleigh, born just a month before Thomas. The other two Tiffany cared for as part of her in-home daycare business.
 

Maddie kissed Thomas, whispered that she loved him and plopped him down on the mat with the others. “I’m running late as usual.”

“Go ahead. We’re fine.”

“I’ll be back by three.”

“See you then.”

Tiffany watched Thomas for free during the day in exchange for Maddie taking over the daycare from three to six while Tiffany taught dance classes in her studio under the apartment Maddie rented from Tiff and her husband Jim. The delicate balancing act left Maddie worn out at the end of every long day.

She jumped on her bulky old bike and set off for McCarthy’s Gansett Inn on the other side of the island. Checking her watch one more time, she groaned when she saw how close she was cutting it.

From his vantage point in the ferry’s wheelhouse, Mac McCarthy watched the bluffs on the island’s north coast come into view and felt the vise around his chest tighten. Just the sight of the island where he grew up made Mac feel confined.

“Never gets old, does it?” Mac’s childhood best friend, Captain Joe Cantrell, owned and operated Gansett’s thriving ferry business.

“What’s that?” Mac asked.

“The first view of the island. Always gives me a thrill to see it appear out of the fog.”

“Even after all the times you’ve seen it?”

“I still love it.”

Mac studied his old friend. Time had worn some lines into the corners of Joe’s hazel eyes, and his sandy hair was now shot through with streaks of gray that hadn’t been there on Mac’s last trip home.

“You ever wish you’d done something else?” Mac asked. “Gone out in the world a bit?”

Joe took a long drag off his trademark clove cigarette and flicked the ashes out the open doorway. “Go where? Do what?”

“Those things are gonna kill you,” Mac said, nodding to the cigarette.

“No faster than working twenty hours a day is gonna kill you.”

“Touché,” Mac said with a chuckle.

“Are you planning to tell mama bear about your night in the hospital?”

“Hell no! She’d freak out all over me. That’s the last thing I need.”

Joe laughed. “What’s it worth to ya?”

Mac shot him what he hoped was a menacing scowl. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“So what happened?”

“The doctors said it was an anxiety attack—too little sleep, too much work, too much stress. They ordered me to take at least a month off to recover.”

“How’d your partners take that news?”

“Not so well. We’re busier than hell, but they’ll handle it until I get back.” Mac and his partners owned a company that reconfigured Miami office space for new tenants.

“And your girlfriend? Roseanne, right?”

“My ex-girlfriend. We decided to cool it for a while. And then I got the email from my mother about my dad selling McCarthy’s. . . I told my mom I’d help him fix the place up a bit.”

“I still can’t believe that.”

Mac shrugged. “He can’t work forever, and none of us want to deal with it.”

“How’s your sister doing? I haven’t seen her in a while.”

Despite the nonchalant question, Mac knew there was nothing nonchalant about his friend’s feelings for Janey. “Still carrying that torch?”

Joe shrugged. “I’ve yet to meet anyone I like better.”

“She and David are engaged, man. Might be time to move on.”

“Maybe.” He flashed the grin that had made him popular with the girls in high school—not that he’d noticed after he gave his young heart to Janey McCarthy. “She’s not married yet.”

“Joe—”

“I’m not going to show up at the wedding in a gorilla suit and cart her off or anything.”

Mac studied the expression on his friend’s face: staged indifference mixed with wistfulness. “That sounds a little too well planned.”

“No worries, I don’t own a gorilla suit. I
am
thinking about getting a dog, though.”

Mac laughed at that because Janey worked for the island’s veterinarian.

Joe steered the one hundred ten-foot ferry past the breakwater to the island’s South Harbor port.
 

Mac watched the town of Gansett come into view—the bustling port, the white landmark Beachcomber Hotel with its clock tower and turrets, the Victorian Portside Inn, the strip of boutiques and T-shirt shops, the South Harbor Diner, Mario’s Pizzeria and Ice Cream Parlor where Mac stole his first kiss from Nicki Peterson in eighth grade.
 

His overriding memory of growing up there was plotting his escape. Once he finally managed to leave, he’d never looked back except for occasional visits to his parents. Every time he came home, he counted the minutes until he could leave again. This would be his longest stay since he turned eighteen and left for college. Mac wondered how long it would take before he was chomping to leave again.

Salt air, diesel fuel and rotting seaweed—the aromas of home—filled Mac’s senses and turned his stomach. He hated the smell of rotting seaweed.

“Come on back with me,” Joe said.
 

At the ferry’s stern, Mac watched as Joe used a combination of engine power and bow thrusters to efficiently turn the ferry in the tightest imaginable space and back it into its berth. “You make that look so damned easy.”

“It is easy—especially when you’ve done it a thousand or two times.”

Once the ferry was docked, they stood at the rail and watched the throngs of trucks, cars and tourists disembark from the day’s first boat to Gansett.
 

“I still spend Friday and Saturday nights on the island during the summer,” Joe said as Mac gathered up his stuff. “Come on by the Beachcomber if you feel like grabbing a brew or two.”

“I’ll do that.” Mac shook Joe’s hand. “It’s good to see you, man.”

“Been too long.”

“Yeah.” But as Mac took a long look at the bustling town of Gansett, he decided it hadn’t been nearly long enough.

Carrying his oversize backpack, Mac navigated the crowds on his way to Main Street. He stopped to let a family on bikes pass and continued up the hill, mesmerized by the frantic activity.
 

To his left, in neat, orderly rows, cars, vans and passenger trucks waited to back onto the nine a.m. ferry for the fifty-minute return trip to mainland Rhode Island. Joe’s employees moved like a well-oiled NASCAR pit crew, offloading cargo from the arriving ferry and reloading the next boat. The island relied on the ferries to deliver everything from food to mail to fuel to milk. During the summer, when the island’s thirty restaurants and bars operated at full tilt, each ferry brought new shipments of beer, wine, liquor, fresh seafood, potatoes, vegetables and linens.

A forklift carrying a pallet of soda came within inches of running into Mac.

“Sorry, man,” the operator called out with a smile.

Mac waved to the driver. He cleared the cargo area and fixed his gaze on the Beachcomber, the iconic building that anchored the town. The quacking horn of a Range Rover painted yellow and tricked out like a duck—complete with a bill affixed to the hood—caught Mac’s eye. Laughing at the JSTDKY license plate, he stepped off the curb onto Main Street.

A searing pain stabbed through his left leg, sending him sprawling into the street.
 

Mac lay there for a second, trying to catch his breath and gather his wits. A young woman was lying next to him, her bike about to be run over by a pickup truck that would hit her next. Mac ignored the burning pain in his calf and leaped up to stop the truck inches from her. He wasn’t fast enough to keep the truck from mangling her bike, though.
 

Mac squatted down to help the woman. Since her top had ridden up in the fall, he noticed her extravagant curves and had to remind himself that she was hurt. She was struggling to breathe and must’ve had the wind knocked out of her by the fall. He quickly adjusted her shirt to cover full breasts.

“Take it easy,” he said. “Don’t struggle. That’ll only make it worse.”

Frantic caramel-colored eyes stared up at him

The impact of their eyes meeting hit him like a locomotive to the chest.
What the heck was that?
Long hair the same color as her eyes fanned out under her head, and blood poured from huge cuts on her knee, elbow and hand. Mac winced, wishing he’d been more careful.

Tears spilled from her eyes.
 

Mac reached out to brush them away, his fingers tingling as they skimmed over her soft skin.

Her eyes widened, and she seemed to stop breathing altogether.

“Breathe,” he said.
 

Anxious to get her away from the prying eyes of the crowd that had formed around them, Mac slid his arms under her and lifted her from the pavement.

She let out a startled gasp and then a moan as her injured leg bent around his arm. “W-what’re you doing?”

“My friend Libby runs the Beachcomber. She’s a volunteer paramedic on the Gansett Fire Department. Let’s go get you cleaned up. Did you hit your head?”

“No, just my arm and leg.” She turned her palm up. “And my hand.”

Mac’s stomach roiled at the sight of her pulpy hand. “God, I’m so sorry.” Still carrying her, he crossed the street to the hotel. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She struggled against his firm hold. “I need to get to work, so if you could just put me down. Please. . .”

“You can’t go to work in this condition. You’re bleeding.”

“I have to go or I’ll get fired.”

Her twisting and squirming caused her round rear end to press against his belly, which sent a lurid message straight down to where he lived.

He groaned. “Do you mind holding still?”

“No one asked you to carry me,” she retorted, apparently misinterpreting his groan.

“Look, I can’t just put you down and send you on your way when you’re bleeding all over the place. Let’s get you patched up, and we’ll see what’s what.”

“I’ll get fired,” she whispered, her eyes flooding with new tears.

“Where do you work? I’ll call them and let them know you had an accident.”

“They won’t believe you. They’re bastards.”

“I can be very convincing.” He took the steps leading to the Beachcomber two at a time, ignoring the shooting pain from his own injured leg. The porch was full of people having breakfast, and his passenger turned her face into his chest. At the maître d’ stand, he asked for Libby and was shown to her office off the lobby.