“Da’s car is coming up the drive!”
Almost simultaneous to Clancy’s announcement, Mona and Mellie burst through the kitchen swinging doors bearing two large serving trays, one holding Frasier’s favorite eye-of-round roast beef—cooked medium—and another featuring a selection of broiled seafood. Annie, Nat, and Evelyn came right behind, placing serving dishes on the sideboard and filling water glasses. Rowan hurried around the table, making one last pass to make sure every place setting was in order.
Ash grabbed Serena and Clancy grabbed Christina, and everyone stood behind their chairs, waiting for the family patriarch, the guest of honor, to walk in the house and through the dining room doors, which were thrown open in welcome.
Nat craned his neck so that he could see past the velvet drapes to the drive. He reared back and whispered, “Ohhhh, shit.”
“What the—” Annie gasped, peeking around Nat’s shoulder.
“We’re going to need another plate,” Ash said dryly. “And maybe a SWAT team.”
Duncan watched in disbelief as his father tiptoed into the room, a senior-citizen blonde on his arm and a shit-eating grin on his face.
Apparently, his father had thought it was a good idea to bring a date to his family birthday party, and he’d picked a real doozy. Duncan recognized his companion as Sally, the woman who was the leader of the Bayberry Island Fairy Brigade and his mother’s archenemy. Duncan had always thought she looked like a taller version of Dolly Parton.
At the far end of the table, Duncan’s mother remained poised and smiling, though the veins in her neck looked close to popping.
“Sally,” Mona said flatly. “What a thoroughly unexpected pleasure.”
Sally’s face broke out in red hivelike blotches.
“Oh, Da.” Rowan slithered down into her chair with Serena in her arms. The disappointment in his sister’s face was awful to see.
“I told you not to bring me here!” Sally hit Frasier with her sparkly purse. “Dammit! You promised me nobody would care!”
Duncan assessed the mood of the room. Yes, it was safe to say everyone cared. In fact, Annie and Evelyn were shocked. Ash was embarrassed. Nat tried not to gawk. Mellie kept shaking her head and muttering what were likely Portuguese curse words.
“Who’s that lady with Granda?” Christina yelled out, pointing. Evelyn shushed her.
“All right, everyone. Let’s just keep things in perspective.” The police chief held out his hands in appeasement. It reminded Duncan of his three-day visit two years ago, when he’d watched his little brother coax a knife from an intoxicated festivalgoer. In fact, Duncan wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to hear his brother say something like, “Hand over the bimbo before someone gets hurt.”
Mona’s deep sigh broke the silence. “I’ll get Sally a plate.”
That was Duncan’s cue. “Bringing a date to a family celebration is piss-poor decision-making, Da. It’s disrespectful to your wife, children, grandchildren, friends, and Sally as well. I think the honorable thing would be to go and to take Sally with you.”
“Dunkle just said piss!”
“Sssshhhhh!” Evelyn hissed.
“I think I’ve had enough awkwardness for one night.” Sally turned to go.
“I’ll drive you.”
Sally shot Frasier a nasty glance. “I’d rather walk. In the pitch-dark. In a freakin’ blizzard.”
And with that, Sally slammed the Safe Haven’s massive front door and was gone. Frasier stood about five feet from the dining table, seeing for the first time all the effort his family had gone to in his honor, eyeing the mound of roast beef that was front and center. A wave of sadness crossed his face.
“Don’t worry,” Mellie said. “I’ll send a Baggie of leftovers to your apartment.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry.” Frasier didn’t know where to look, so he stared out the windows while he summoned the courage to explain himself. “It was my birthday, and I just thought . . .” He looked at Mona. “I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“I’m your wife.”
“Well, I mean, because we’re separated, I didn’t think you’d want to spend time with me.”
“I’ve already spent half a century with you. That’s counting everything—forty-five years of marriage, four years of dating, and even that year you were dating me and Sally at the same time.”
“Oh boy,” Nat muttered.
“Mona!” Frasier looked around at his children, grandchildren, friends, and finally Mellie, who gave him the evil eye. “That was forever ago, and I’ve already apologized a hundred times. I was a stupid college boy, and I thought juggling two girls made me a big man. You know she meant nothing to me—she was just an island girl and you were my college sweetheart. I chose you.”
Mona crumpled her trifolded napkin and tossed it to her empty plate. “And yet here you are on your seventieth birthday, Frasier, still dating the same Sally, who’s now the head of the fairies! You couldn’t have insulted me more if you tried. Maybe you did try!”
Duncan wasn’t privy to all the details, but he knew the Fairy Brigade and the Mermaid Society were mortal enemies. Apparently, Sally had once been a mermaid but had split off and started her own group after some kind of smackdown with Mona. Years later, when island landowners had to decide whether to sell to developers or preserve the island’s quaint-but-broke status quo, Sally and Mona went to battle on opposite sides of the issue. Duncan had missed most of it, but Clancy had told him it had been ugly at times.
Duncan reached into the pocket of his pants to check his cell phone. Six thirty. This party was just getting started.
“But we’ve been separated for nearly three years!” Frasier glanced around the table again in search of support, but didn’t find it. He stepped closer to the table, now standing right behind Christina. “Mona, you won’t talk to me. You avoid me. You won’t answer my phone calls. I see you in person about twice a year, and even then I don’t know what is going on in your head. What am I supposed to do?”
Clancy made a move toward his father, but Frasier stopped him.
“I don’t need a police escort,” he snapped, turning away.
Everyone stayed silent, listening to the slam of Frasier’s car door, the whine of the engine, and the sound of him driving far too fast down the Safe Haven drive.
Mona sat down, and everyone else did as well. The only sound in the room was Serena gnawing on her plastic teething ring.
Then Annie accidentally knocked a fork onto the wood floor, and the sound shattered the silence.
“Pass the meat,” Christina said. “It’s time to eat.”
So that’s what they did. They ate—scallops, cod, lobster, and clams. A rice pilaf. Roast beef and twice-baked potatoes. Asparagus. Fruit salad and several kinds of homemade breads. They had some wine. Then they had some more. And within twenty minutes the discomfort had faded and the laughter had returned. Even Mona had bounced back. But in the midst of the revelry Clancy flashed occasional glances Duncan’s way, a silent acknowledgment that the two of them had to do something about Da.
Coffee and tea were served. The dessert was a personalized cake Mellie had decorated just for the birthday boy and then hastily edited. The cake top was nothing but a multicolored smear of icing, the only letters visible being H-A-P-P-Y.
Duncan excused himself, saying he didn’t care for dessert and needed to rest. He received nine simultaneous inquiries about whether he was okay. He assured everyone he was, then went around the table to kiss his mother, sister, Annie, Mellie, Christina, and baby Serena, who gave him another drill-sergeant stare, and then he headed for the main staircase.
Duncan was lying. He was bone-tired. It had been a long day, the most physically and mentally demanding day he’d had since the ambush eight months earlier. Today had been complicated, too. He had been blindsided by emotions, feelings that hit hard and lingered with him even now. He wasn’t used to that. He’d felt tenderness for his nieces, happiness for his si
ster, protectiveness for his mother, and maybe even a little jealousy seeing how close Annie and Nat were, along with Rowan and Ash, and Clancy and Evelyn. He almost felt like a crasher at a committed-couples convention.
And then there was his da. What an insensitive dickhead he could be! And yet . . . Duncan was sad for him, too. Frasier seemed lost without Ma. That didn’t excuse his stupidity, but it might help explain it.
Clancy had been right—they would definitely have to do something about their father.
Wait.
Duncan was halfway up the first flight of wide oak stairs when it hit him: this was why he didn’t like staying too long on the island. His family was a mess. Relationships—every single one he’d ever seen or been a part of—were difficult and complicated. Relationships had never been his strong suit and never would be.
Just then he heard the front door open and an unfamiliar female voice float over the hum of conversation and laughter.
“Hello, everybody! I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by.”
“Lena!” Rowan yelled.
“You showed up!” Annie said.
“It’s really great to see you. Welcome.” That was Clancy.
Then Mellie’s voice sounded alive with pleasure and surprise. “You made it, menina! Come! Sit down and have some cake!”
“Would you like coffee?” Evie asked.
Duncan froze on the step. He rested his palm on the highly polished railing, sliding it back and forth on the smooth wood, unable to decide. He knew he should go downstairs and say hello. It would be the decent thing to do. He hadn’t seen Mellie’s daughter since . . . God, since right after high school.
But he was too tired to be decent. So instead, he lowered his chin, looked down through the stair railings into the dining room doorway, and spied the outline of a shapely female leg ending in a frilly little sandal. That must be her.
“You missed Duncan by minutes!” Mona said. “I know he would have enjoyed seeing you again after all this time. I can go get him.”
“No, please. Let him rest. I can’t stay, but I wanted to stop by and say . . .” The voice trailed off. Clearly, she’d just noticed the guest of honor was nowhere to be seen.
That voice. He had never heard it before, not the adult version of it, anyway. It was slightly husky but feminine. Soft, but clear enough to carry right up the staircase, brush along the back of his neck, and settle in his ears.
An image flashed in his mind. Dark, heavy-lidded eyes, swaying black hair, a knowing half smile, and the sweet, soft terrain of the female torso—lounging on the sea floor, waiting for her lover to return.
Duncan’s legs felt weak, but he made it up both flights of stairs and down the hall without taking a rest. He read for a while. His eyes wandered to the painting. He turned on the TV. His gaze traveled along her shape. He turned off the lights. He still envisioned her in his mind’s eye.
And then, unbelievable as it seemed, he was with her.
Her touch was silky soft and hot on his skin, her mouth wet and greedy upon his. Damn, it had been so long since he’d held a woman in his arms. But this? This was different. Duncan knew instinctively that she wasn’t just a woman. She was his woman. For the first time in his life, his touch had become a devoted caress, and his need originated in love.
He rolled with her, her body sliding along his, her arms around his neck, his hands all over her hips and thighs and ass. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted so much more. She laughed, and his whole being rose up to meet the husky, feminine sound. Where were they? In the sea? In a field of wildflowers? In a bed protected by an endless blanket of stars? Somehow he knew they were all those places and none of them, that the only important thing was that they were together, and ahhh . . . Her hot little mouth had just moved down the front of his body and she wrapped him up in a silky embrace. It was almost too much to bear. Such an outpouring of giving. Teasing licks and sucks that drove him to the edge. Duncan grabbed long and thick sections of her dark hair in his hand, fascinated at how it spilled between his fingers. The pleasure expanded; the need increased. He could not wait another second.
He was inside her, his eyes locked on hers, and it was like nothing he’d ever known. She was his. She had always been his, and he could not enter her deep enough. This beautiful woman closed her eyes and cried his name. Yes, he wanted this for her. Yes, she was falling apart beneath him, breaking free, flying so high that her only tether was her love for him and his love for her. He climaxed with her, and the instant was so beautiful, it danced on the edge of pain. He wanted to call out her name as he emptied his soul into hers, but his tongue caught . . . The words weren’t there. He didn’t know them.
Her name! What was her name? Who was this woman? As hard as he tried, his brain remained mired in mud, spinning its wheels. And that’s when she slipped through his embrace and disappeared, carried away like an osprey feather on a wave, like smoke on the wind.
Duncan jolted awake with a gasp and flipped on the light. He touched his fingers to his face and found tears rolling down his cheeks. Tears. Un-fucking-believable. The last time he had cried was seventh grade.
He dropped his head into his hands. How was it that this particular nightmare had cracked him more than the ones filled with bombs and blood and death? Why did he feel this particular loss so deeply? Why was there so much grief?
He did not understand the symbolism of the dream, but he had enough sense to know that he had just allowed something precious to slip through his fingers. The sadness he felt was loss. Regret.
Duncan stretched, then carefully walked toward the fireplace, knowing what had to be done. He reached high and lifted the gilded frame over his head, carried it out into the hallway, then flipped the painting around before he leaned it against the wall.
Tomorrow morning, after he’d gotten some rest and pulled himself together, he would find a place for it in the attic. Way off in a corner somewhere. Away from him.
He went back to bed, and in the morning when he woke he found that another trinket had been left for him while he slept. It was a garden-variety rock the size of a book of matches and the color of dirt. He held it in his palm, seeing that it was unremarkable in every way except for one.
Its edges had been worn away by water, sand, and the passing of time, carving it into the shape of a heart.
* * *
“Well, I’ll be damned!” Rusty waved the group inside the tavern, his face lit up with surprise. “It’s our very own Navy Lieutenant Duncan Flynn! We wondered when you’d make an appearance.”
“Good to see you, Rusty.”
While Rusty wiped down a table for five by the marina-side windows, Duncan shook hands and got slapped on the back more times than he cared to count. He handled the questions about his injuries and the raid with as much grace as he could muster, but Clancy wasn’t pleased with his performance.
“Come on, now,” he whispered as they approached the table. “These are our locals, and you’re a hero to them.”
Duncan did his best to tamp down the rage he suddenly felt. “Clancy,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting next to his brother, “I am no one’s hero.”
Once Nat, Ash, and Frasier were seated, Rusty came by with Frasier’s usual Guinness on tap, a martini for Nat, and a Sam Adams for Ash, who scowled when it got placed in front of him. Maybe Ash needed a couple more weeks before he was ready for another night on the town.
Rusty slid an ice water over to Clancy, who was on duty, and then looked at Duncan with anticipation.
“What can I get the man of the hour? It’s on the house, whatever it is.”
“That’s awful kind of you, Rusty, but I’m not drinking much these days. I think an ice tea would do the trick.”
“You got it, son.” Rusty placed his hand on Duncan’s shoulder before he hustled off.
The men didn’t say anything for a moment, and Frasier looked out the window like a grumpy kid who’d just been dragged into the principal’s office. As
previously discussed, Clancy would be taking the lead in dressing down his father tonight. They decided it was the only option since Nat was too buddy-buddy with Frasier; Ash was too polite and respectful; and Duncan was too straightforward to be effective.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Frasier said, still looking out the window.
“Here you go!” Rusty arrived, setting the ice tea glass on a coaster. “You boys let me know what else you need, all right?”
“Da.” Clancy waited until Rusty was out of earshot. “We need to talk this out. What you did last night to Ma was, well . . .”
“Totally whacked,” Nat said.
“It made everyone extremely uncomfortable,” Ash said.
“That dinner was a fuckin’ soup sandwich,” Duncan said.
“What the hell is a soup sandwich?”
Duncan forgot that his everyday expressions were a foreign language to anyone who hadn’t served in the military, so he cleared it up for Clancy. “Think about it—what would it be like to try to eat a sandwich made of soup?”
“It would be fucked-up,” Nat answered.
“Exactly. Cheers.” Duncan clicked his ice tea to Nat’s martini.
“All right. Let’s sort this out.” Clancy had summoned his official talk-the-guy-off-the-ledge tone of voice. “Da, what were you thinking?”
Frasier turned to look at his two sons. “I don’t expect you to choose my side. None of you have ever chosen my side.”
“There are no sides to this,” Clancy said.
“Sure there are.” Frasier spread his hands as far apart as they would go on the tabletop, nearly knocking over Nat’s martini in the process. “This is your mother’s side.” He slammed his left hand down hard. “And this is mine.” He did the same with his right hand. “It’s been like that since I drove the fishery into the ground twenty-odd years ago.”
Clancy shot a quick glance to Duncan before he spoke to his father. “It wasn’t your fault the entire North Atlantic cod supply collapsed, Da. That was eighty percent of Flynn Fisheries’ sales. You kept it going longer than other large fisheries up and down the Eastern Seaboard—that I know for sure.”