One Summer (3 page)

Eighteen months since arriving in town, she’d put the quick pace of the Windy City behind her and settled in, reveling in the way people would wave as she passed them on the street, and how everyone knew everyone’s name. And everyone else’s business, which she reminded herself was a small price to pay to live in paradise. Just walking down the street made her feel like that happy, carefree girl she’d once been.

“So, how’s our girl doing?” she asked as she entered the front door, which opened onto the foyer.

To the left was one of two waiting rooms, while the right doorway led into what had once been a guest parlor—where, in earlier times, men from fishing fleets and logging camps had selected their ladies of the evening—and was now her reception area. Her own dog, a one-hundred-pound Great Pyrenees ironically named Peanut by its former owner, thumped his fluffy white tail in greeting. Then stood up as the aroma of baked goods rising from the box Charity was carrying reached his nose.

The girl in question was an elderly stray English bulldog, who’d been found both emaciated and pregnant, fighting with gulls over scraps from a beach waste barrel she’d apparently tipped over, searching for food. Although birth was usually a natural process in dogs, just as with humans, some pregnancies were high risk. This happened to be one of them.

“Amie says she’s ready to pop,” the gray-haired woman behind the desk said, seconding what the vet assistant’s text message had already told her.

The sixty-something receptionist had walked in looking for a job a month before the clinic’s opening, while Charity was painting the waiting area a soft sea blue meant to soothe both patients and their owners. A recent divorcée, she’d been looking for a day job to support her painting, which had just begun to be shown in a local gallery.

She and Charity had immediately clicked and Charity had hired her on the spot. Janet proved to be a gem as she organized files, including setting up a bookkeeping system more efficient than the one the high-priced accountant had set up in Chicago. And if that weren’t enough, she’d turned her talents to painting murals on the wall behind her counter and in the waiting rooms and hallway.

“So the text message she sent me said. I come bearing goodies.” Charity placed the pink box with
Take the Cake
written in tasteful script onto the counter. The baker, who’d become a friend, had sent along some leftovers from the reception.

“There goes my diet.” The pleasingly plump woman sighed as she snagged a dark, decadent chocolate cupcake topped with milk chocolate frosting and chocolate shavings. “And any chance I have for burn-up-the-sheets sex with George Clooney.”

“Life’s filled with trade-offs.” Laughing, Charity plucked a tropical-island cake with pineapple-coconut frosting from the box for herself and a chocolate topped with peanut butter frosting for her assistant. After tossing Peanut a liver snap, she headed back into the surgical area.

“How are we doing?” she asked her assistant.

“I’ve done all the blood work, shaved and sterilized the surgical area, and as soon as you said you were on your way, I gave her an injection to relax her, so as soon as you put in her breathing tube, she’ll be good to go.”

Amie Bayaa’s gaze narrowed as she focused in on the cupcake Charity was holding out to her. “Of course, a couple more minutes isn’t going to make that much of a difference.” She snatched the cake and took a huge bite. “So,” she asked around a mouthful of chocolate as Charity kicked off the foot-killing spiked heels she’d foolishly allowed Amie and Janet to convince her to buy, “how did the wedding go?”

“Everyone was having a great time when I left.” She exchanged the dress, which the women had convinced her she also had to buy for the occasion, for a pair of blue scrubs in a dog-bone print.

“Sorry to have to pull you away from the festivities.”

“No problem.” Charity nearly wept with relief as she slid her aching feet into a pair of sunshine yellow Crocs. Until today she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn heels. “Weddings aren’t my favorite thing, anyway. I just felt I owed the Douchett family for taking two homeless dogs off our hands.”

“As if anyone could say no to you when you’re in full steamroller mode. Did you get to meet the hottie Marine?”

“There were a bunch of Marines there.” Standing out like a blizzard in July with their high and tight haircuts. “And most were hot.”

“I’m talking about the wedding photographer.”

“That photographer’s a Marine?”

“Former, though my gung ho gunnery sergeant dad would tell you there’s no such thing as a
former
Marine. Apparently Gabriel St. James is an old battle buddy of Cole’s. A war photojournalist.”

“Taking wedding photos is a long way from taking war photos.”

No wonder he’d been in such a rotten mood. And she wouldn’t exactly call him hot. His face—all sharp angles and lean hollows—was too harsh to be conventionally handsome and the jagged white scar slicing through one dark brow added a vaguely menacing appearance. His deeply hooded eyes, the color of January rain, revealed both arrogance and chilly remoteness. Except for when he was looking through the lens, they were never still, constantly tracking the room.

Her former fiancé had been handsome. Handsome, rich, pedantic. Yet she’d foolishly convinced herself that the fact that he could be rigid and, yes, even boring was a trait in his favor. Sure, he didn’t make her feel all gooey inside, and their lovemaking hadn’t exactly rocked the earth on its axis, but having watched her parents chase after passion with disastrous results, Charity had viewed her and Ethan’s lack of passion as another positive.

She’d realized at an early age that a long and lasting marriage—which was what she’d always dreamed of—wasn’t built solely on sex, but on shared interests, respect, and trust. Which was why she’d talked herself into believing that Ethan was her type.

She’d been wrong about that.

But that didn’t mean that Gabriel St. James, with a glower that could probably melt an enemy’s bullets before they had the chance to hit him,
was
.

“The wedding gig is definitely beneath his talent level,” Amie said as Charity’s thoughts drifted to that moment, right after that damn bouquet had fallen into her hands and their eyes had met, when she’d felt an unmistakable zing.
Definitely not your type.
“I may be a ‘Kumbaya’-singing Native American pacifist,” her assistant continued, “but that guy’s photos are the bomb.”

Charity snapped on a pair of purple latex gloves. “You’ve seen them?”

“He’s got a coffee-table book on sale down at Tidal Wave Books.” Amie swallowed the rest of the cupcake and scrubbed her own hands. “There are also two copies in the window. One showing the back cover with a knee-weakening hot picture in Marine battle gear. Apparently he’s hot in more ways than looks. His photos have been in papers all over the world, including the
New York Times
. He’s even won a Pulitzer.”

“And you know this how?”

“Jeez, Charity.” Fluorescent magenta-hued bangs ruffled as Amie blew out a frustrated breath. “Even if I hadn’t read the cover bio, Amber, at the Grateful Bread, told Edna, at the sheriff’s office, who told Hannah, at Fresh Fields market, who told Brianna, at Cut Loose, who did the bridal party’s hair for the wedding, who told me while I was getting these streaks put in yesterday. The guy’s been the main topic of conversation ever since he hit town two days ago.”

“Main topic of gossip, you mean.” Having landed in the eye of a gossip hurricane, Charity went out of her way to avoid listening to any herself.

“True, but in case you haven’t noticed, Shelter Bay isn’t exactly the big city, like Chicago. Gossip is major entertainment around here.”

“They gossip in Chicago, too.”

“Oops. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”

“The wedding already did that. And you know what?”

“What?”

“I realized I no longer care.”

It was true. She’d come to that conclusion even before getting that unexpected sexual zing from the Marine turned wedding photographer.

When she’d first arrived in Shelter Bay, being the new flavor in town, she’d been asked out by several local men. Since males tended to outnumber women in town, many would’ve definitely been considered eligible bachelors, if she’d been interested. Which, having been so recently burned by someone she’d trusted, she hadn’t been.

Eighteen months later, she still received her share of invitations. In the beginning, she’d been so busy refurbishing this house and building a practice, she’d barely had time to sleep or eat, let alone consider any type of social life.

But the debacle that was to have been her wedding day was nearly two years ago. Doing some quick mental math, Charity realized she’d been going to bed alone for 610 nights. And waking up alone—unless you counted Peanut, who slept on the floor at the foot of her bed—for 611 mornings.

Not that she was counting. But perhaps it was time to rethink her dating moratorium.

When her mind drifted back to Gabriel St. James, she tacked on a caveat.

If she was going to dive back into the dating pool, Charity preferred to stay in shallow waters. Getting involved with that Marine would be like skinny-dipping with a great white shark.

Trust Cole Douchett not to have a typical wedding, Gabe thought as he drove away from Bon Temps, the Cajun dance hall and restaurant where the event had been held.

Although details were still sketchy, from what Gabe had been able to piece together, Cole’s brother Sax had been working with Shelter Bay’s sheriff on a pair of cold cases involving past murders in town. When they received a call informing them that a consulting former FBI agent had discovered evidence pointing to the killer’s identity, the two had raced away from the reception to apprehend the suspect.

Cole had assured Gabe that he wouldn’t mind his going along on the chase, since he’d probably be able to catch some shots he could sell to the press, but Gabe had assured him in return that he was through with taking pictures of anything that might involve weapons.

So he’d stayed around until the happy couple had left the party in a hail of birdseed. Having tried the marriage thing once before, Gabe had no intention of repeating the experience. Still, he had to admit that the expression on Cole’s face, as they’d driven off to catch a flight in Portland for a Hawaiian honeymoon, had been that of a lucky bastard who’d just won the Powerball jackpot, World Poker Championship, and Super Bowl all on the same day.

Having witnessed some of the hell Cole had experienced as an elite Recon Marine, Gabe figured he deserved to be the happiest guy in the whole USA. And no one would bring the motto “Honor, Courage, Commitment” into a marriage better.

But now that he’d done his duty, he was grateful to escape the crowd of wedding guests. He’d always been a loner. In fact, his former wife had—in her “Dear Gabriel” letter informing him that she was divorcing him—accused him of being a cold, distant island unto himself.

Gabe hadn’t been able to disagree.

Which was why he shunned the fame and fortune his agent kept insisting could be his if he’d just be a little more open to editorial suggestion about warming up his photos. Not by color, but viewpoint.

He supposed that having grown up in a home that was about as far away from the idyllic Waltons as you could get might have contributed to him not seeing the world as both his editor and his agent assured him others did. His view was, admittedly, harsher, colder than others might see with the naked eye.

Whether they were taken in the midst of a battle, or displaying smiles lighting up the battle-weary faces of troops who didn’t look old enough to shave handing out Beanie Babies to Iraqi children, the photos remained detached, showing none of the photographer’s personal view of his subjects.

And yet for some reason they touched emotional chords. Not just with the military, who’d made him a photojournalist after seeing the shots he took during the battle of Fallujah, but with the editors at the
New York Times
, who’d first started featuring his work.

His photos had gone on to be collected in a book published by USNI, the U.S. Naval Institute. Then two books. Then three. Since they’d been taken while he’d been in the Marines, he didn’t receive any royalties, but he hadn’t joined the service to get rich. Nor had he taken his photos with money in mind.

His mission, as he’d seen it, had been to tell the truth. To be a witness to war. And he’d been damn good at his job. Unfortunately, after eighteen straight months in Iraq and Afghanistan, he’d returned to the States with an unexpected and annoying case of PTSD.

It hadn’t been enough to have him in danger of going off on a shooting rage. Or feel suicidal. Nor had he turned to alcohol or drugs for relief. He’d just shut down, clamped the lid on his emotions even tighter.

When his tour of duty came to an end, he’d opted out of reenlisting. After stepping back into civilian life, he’d intended to take at least a year away from his camera. Unfortunately, two weeks into that plan, he’d discovered that when he wasn’t working, nightmares and flashbacks attacked with a vengeance.

When his agent (and who the hell ever suspected a guy from a small South Carolina Lowcountry town would end up with a high-powered New York City agent?) suggested he do a pictorial study of American life during wartime, to contrast with the more involved home-front behavior during the Vietnam and World War II eras, he’d agreed.

Not only could he use the money; even more appealing was that the work didn’t involve actually interacting with people.

He’d bought a motor home and a Jeep to pull behind it, then started out in Maine, where he’d photographed fishermen clad in plaid shirts and ball caps protesting low lobster prices. He shot a coal miner in Pennsylvania, face and hands as black as tar, smoking a cigarette after a long day belowground, and a young couple exchanging vows on a Florida beach, while black clouds, heralding an oncoming hurricane, roiled behind them.