Читать книгу The Bad Boy Of Butterfly Harbor - Anna J. Stewart - Страница 13

CHAPTER FOUR

THE SHARP RAP on her back patio door Sunday morning sent flour flying as Holly noted the time on the kitchen clock. Nearly ten already? Where had the time gone? She’d better get a move on. She had to be at the diner by noon to take over for Ursula.

“It’s open, Dad.” The piecrust dough on the kitchen counter screamed for attention, which Holly gladly provided courtesy of her grandmother’s ancient rolling pin.

“Rough week?” Jake Gordon gave a cautionary glance around her yellow-and-blue country-chic kitchen that looked as if a bakery had exploded. Vanilla and hot sugar permeated the air in her storybook cottage house.

Being unable to sleep last night had had her up and working by four this morning. The restlessness seemed to be happening frequently, the more she thought about growing up in Butterfly Harbor and how everything was changing. Now five pies into her baking for the week meant a blackberry, a blueberry lemon and an apple crumb were cooling on the side counter, and two chocolate-mint creams were stashed in the fridge. She’d be lucky if the lemon meringue she was working on now made it past midnight, given her penchant for late-night stress snacking.

“The week was fine.” She pounded the pin against the handmade dough, bringing layers of butter and flour to the surface as Jake strode to the refrigerator. “Yesterday was a bit of a kicker.”

The hand-carved cane aiding her father’s uneven gait struck Holly as ironic, given the man responsible for Jake’s limp had waltzed his way into her diner a little over twenty-four hours ago.

Holly rolled the crust out from the center to the uneven edges of pastry, trying not to give in to the worry bearing down on her. How could he be taking his forced retirement so easily? Even his khaki uniform—the uniform he wore seven days a week because he was always on call—looked as if it was ready to slump into retirement more readily than her father. Thinking of the not-so-far-off day when he’d no longer be wearing his uniform hurt her heart.

“So Luke Saxon’s the new sheriff,” she said when her dad didn’t inquire further.

Had Holly not been watching, she might have missed her father’s split-second hesitation before he twisted off the lid of the orange-juice container and poured a glass. He recovered in true Jake Gordon style, with a shrug of his shoulders and a quirk of his lips, but Holly could see a trace of regret in her father’s assessing gaze.

“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you gnawing on something you couldn’t change. We both know you can worry something into the ground if you’re given enough notice. Add Luke Saxon to the equation, and I just didn’t have the energy.”

“You’re right.” Holly rolled the dough over the pin and transferred the unbaked crust into a pie tin before downing the last of her coffee. “Having him walk into the diner without any warning made it so much easier.”

Jake hid his wince behind a long drink of juice. “I didn’t think he was due in town yet. Luke always was a fan of the unexpected. Guess some things haven’t changed after all.”

“Huh.” Except Luke was older and more mature, both in stature and in attitude. And while there had been an aloofness about him, there was also a simmering something keeping him front and center in her thoughts. Resignation nibbled at the edge of Holly’s distrust. He said he’d changed, but people didn’t. Not when they said they would; not when she hoped they would. Not even when they promised to, time and time again. She’d dealt with more broken promises than she had broken eggs. Holly separated the half dozen yolks for the lemon-curd filling and dismissed the doubt. “As far as I could tell, nothing about Luke has changed.”

“His employment record states otherwise.” Jake lowered himself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and helped himself to a banana from the blue mosaic fruit bowl she kept filled.

“You’ve seen his record?” She tossed empty shells into the compost bowl on the sink as she pursed her lips to keep the snark to a minimum.

“Why else would I have recommended him for the job?”

Holly’s body went cold. “You recommended him? But why— How— Dad!” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d shrieked. “I don’t care what he’s done since, Luke Saxon should have a criminal record for what he did to you. And he would have if you had pressed charges. He should have gone to jail. Instead, you let him off scot-free after he almost killed you.”

“He was anything but scot-free.” The chill in her father’s voice was like a slap in the face. “Luke was a good kid caught in a horrific situation. The accident was just that, an accident.”

“He was drunk when he got behind the wheel of his car.” Grief squeezed her heart like a steel fist. “That’s a choice, not an accident.” And that incident was why she’d learned early on not to get in any car with Gray. How many times had they fought over him driving Simon anywhere? How many nights had she lain awake and wondered how many drinks her husband had had in his system the night he’d smashed into the guardrail just off the San Mateo Bridge? “There’s no excuse for what Luke did, Dad.”

“Luke never tried to excuse what happened, even though he could have.”

“All these years and you’re still defending him. And now you’ve given him your job.” Holly slapped a towel against her legs and swung around. “You spent eight weeks in the hospital, Dad. Another three months in a rehab facility, and let’s not forget all the physical—”

“I might be getting old, Holly, but I don’t require you to remind me of the details.” Jake rubbed a hand over his thigh as if trying to get the circulation going. “What I did then was best for everyone, especially Luke. He needed someone to take a chance on him, to push him into a future he couldn’t see for himself. In some ways, the accident was a blessing.”

Holly bit the inside of her cheek. “Some blessing.”

“I have never once questioned your decisions, Holly.” Jake set his glass on the table with a clack. “You and I both know I could have. I’d thank you to extend me the same courtesy.”

“Dad, I—” But she broke off. She’d tried for years to put into words her feelings about those days after the crash. Her father had had weeks to prepare to return to an empty house, but it had been sixteen-year-old Holly who’d watched her mother pack up and drive off after Jake was safely out of surgery. She’d known her parents had been having problems, but she hadn’t realized how bad things were until the pressure of an injured, possibly invalid husband had proved too much for her mother to handle. Holly had been left to pick up the pieces of her shattered family.

“I wanted Luke’s life to mean something other than spending years rotting in a cell that by all rights should have been reserved for his father,” Jake said. “I’m sorry if this offends your sense of justice, but I wasn’t about to watch Luke lose the rest of his life because of one mistake in judgment.”

Holly’s anger struggled against reason. She could feel sorry for the boy, but hate the teenager who had gotten into his car twelve years ago. The man? To be determined.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about him taking your job, Dad. It’s the one thing you’ve always counted on.” The one thing keeping him focused and alert and not wallowing in the depression Holly feared would swallow him. Was he as okay with the situation as he seemed, or was this resignation masked acceptance?

Another shrug. “You know what they say. No good deed goes unpunished.”

“Not funny.”

“Holly, you, of all people, know life isn’t fair. And we knew if Gil won the election there was little chance he was going to keep me on as sheriff. I campaigned against him, was vocal in my opposition to some of his plans for Butterfly Harbor. I wanted someone to come in to the sheriff’s department with an objective, fresh eye. Someone who I knew wouldn’t be swayed by Gil or the township. Luke may be many things—may have been many things—but he’s not a pushover. He’ll put the town first. That’s all I want.”

Holly couldn’t wrap her brain around the fact it had been her father’s idea to bring Luke Saxon to Butterfly Harbor. He hadn’t changed, not where it counted. And certainly not enough to change Holly’s mind about him. “But—”

“Enough, Holly.” Jake exhaled slowly. “It’s been a long week and I really did just come for breakfast with my daughter and grandson. Where is the rapscallion, by the way?”

“He spent the night at Abby’s.” Holly smiled at the affection in his tone as she turned the burner on to medium. “I’m picking him up at noon. But I’d love to have breakfast with you.”

“Sounds good.” Jake hoisted himself out of the chair with a wince. “And please, for the foreseeable future, can we drop the subject of Luke Saxon?”

“Sure.” Holly bussed a kiss on his cheek. But as he busied himself emptying the fridge of breakfast contents, she crossed her arms over her chest, as if holding herself together.

All her life she’d watched her father put this town and everyone in it first, and now he was being kicked to the curb for the sake of “progress.” Whether resigned to circumstance or going with the flow, Holly knew, deep down, the loss of his job hurt her father more than he was letting on. He’d been hurt enough for one lifetime, especially by Luke Saxon.

* * *

HOLLY CAMPBELL HAD been right about one thing, Luke thought as he sat staring out his bug-spattered windshield. He was a coward.

Why else would he have driven out of town and spent his first night in a motel, instead of venturing into the house he’d grown up in? The house his mother had died in.

Why else would he still be sitting in his truck thirty minutes after turning off the engine, trying to muster the courage to walk through the front door and confront a past that may as well be a punch to the solar plexus?

Why else—other than cowardice—did Luke feel as if his heart was going to explode out of his chest?

He had yet to shake off the sadness that had descended during his ride through town yesterday, where memories of Butterfly Harbor had assailed him at every turn. Driving past the Tudor homes, cottages and bungalows on Chrysalis Lane had sent him reeling to the nights he’d wandered the streets, gazing into windows to envy families having dinner, watching television, living their calm, normal, peaceful lives.

He’d dreamed of having a house like theirs. A family like theirs. Now so many of those homes that represented every boyhood desire lay dilapidated, abandoned and in foreclosure.

The glossy paint and the brilliant color of lush fauna were nowhere to be seen. Nothing he saw in Butterfly Harbor said “welcome to town.”

Luke had yet to find anything of any kind that said “welcome” at all.

Despite the desolation, Luke had found the open, empty streets more appealing than the run-down two-story gray bungalow sagging in front of him now. And the shed beside it. Luke swallowed hard. The shed that could still trigger nightmares if he dwelled long enough.

Gil hadn’t been kidding when he’d said his father’s house had seen better days. A cool breeze slipped through the truck’s open windows. Panes of glass had been shattered; planks of warped patio board sagged against the side of the house. The half brick, half cobble detailing along the foundation had been worn away by neglect and salt air. The lawn, while short, was sun-dried brown, the unique wheat-colored hue that only resulted from dying earth.

How fitting, given the failing house had never been much of a home.

Funny. He’d been willing to expose himself to hatred and anger by stepping right into Holly’s world with barely a passing thought, and yet here he sat, paralyzed by a house containing memories that couldn’t hurt him.

Luke scrubbed a hand over his chin. Maybe coming back had been a mistake. Trying to make amends for the past felt selfish, but he at least needed to try. Still, it hadn’t taken him long to realize what he’d feared the past twelve years.

Luke didn’t belong in Butterfly Harbor.

The wind picked up and chills erupted along his bare arms. For an instant, he swore he heard the drunken, disparaging cackle echoing so often from his father—as if the old man was relishing Luke’s crisis of confidence. If there was one thing Luke was certain of, it was that Ward Saxon would have taken great pleasure in Luke’s difficult situation.

Eight years in the ground and his father could still chip away at Luke’s self-worth. Luke had been a soldier and a cop, but in his mind, he’d always hear his father beating him down, telling him he’d never amount to anything. That he would always be unworthy of respect, let alone affection.

Darkness crept across his heart, but the bright image of Holly Campbell’s wide-eyed face prevented the depression from completely settling.

While he was grateful for the second chance, part of him regretted running. But he wasn’t running anymore. He and Holly would have to get used to that fact.

He may as well ask for the secret of eternal youth. Where there was hope, even imagined hope, there was the possibility that life could get better. That was something his father would never have understood.

“Enough already.” Luke shoved out of the truck and dropped to the ground, wincing as his stiff muscles protested the sudden movement. His shoulders and back had throbbed all night, but he’d ridden it out, opting for two aspirin rather than the painkillers that scared the crap out of him. The pain would have to be unbearable for him to consider ingesting any substance with a tendency for addiction.

He shuffled his feet, craned his neck as he glanced around the expanse of property. The eerie Sunday-morning silence made him tense, as if the world was about to explode and he was the detonator. He was as far from the main drag of town as one could get and still be called part of Butterfly Harbor. His nearest neighbor lay a half mile down the road, his own house hidden behind a thicket of trees and dense shrubs. One would have to know the house was here to find it. The short driveway was canopied by overgrown redwoods, shaved back to allow cars through.

Luke preferred silence, but here, he knew no one could hear him scream.

Counting the steps it took to reach the porch, Luke stopped at the base of the stairs, his courage fading as the midmorning clouds burned away under the sun’s rays. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times in the past few weeks.

His stomach rolled. He may as well have been chained to the past, unable to break free and take that last step up. And one step inside.

He dropped his head forward as the sick feeling he’d tried to bank washed over him. He was right. Coming here had been a bad idea.

A high-pitched sound caught his ear, a whine followed by a shuffling. Luke inclined his head, listened. There it was again. He bent down as he scanned the ground. A child? A hurt child? Wait. Longer this time, deeper, weaker. And it was coming from under the stairs.

Luke scrambled forward to wrench what was left of the rotting trellis free, and tossed it aside. Black eyes as big as saucers blinked at him. The haggard golden retriever’s face was caked in mud and grime. Vines and weeds were wrapped around its paws and neck.

“Hey, boy.” Luke inched forward, held out a hand for a sniff as he gave the dog a once-over. Yep. Definitely a boy. A cool, damp nose pressed against his palm as the dog issued another whine. “How’d you get in here?” But Luke already knew. He’d wedged himself through the trellis often enough himself as a boy. The dog whimpered. Nudged him again. “Okay, let’s see what’s going on here.” Without moving the animal, Luke reached for the pocketknife he always carried, snapped it open and cut the vines. As he was pulling them aside, he stopped, examined them more closely and felt a bolt of anger strike through him. Those were knots. Hand-tied knots.

As if sensing Luke’s sudden shift in mood, the dog started to tremble. “Shh.” Luke stroked a hand down the dog’s side, soothing him, letting the dog calm him, and waited until the shaking subsided before he cut the remaining ties. The retriever wasn’t an adult, but he wasn’t small, either. As Luke considered his options on how to remove him from under the stairs, the dog scooted forward on his belly, crawling to freedom, before collapsing on the crispy grass with an exhausted sigh. “You must be thirsty.” Luke scratched the dog’s head right between the ears and saw black eyes lift to his, a mixture of gratitude and approval in his canine gaze. “And hungry, too, I bet.”

Another whimper.

“Okay. Give me a minute.” As Luke stood up, the dog’s head popped up. “I’ll be right back.” Mind racing, he jogged to the truck to rummage through the few supplies he’d bought, but nothing that would be good for a dog. And he’d forgotten to buy bottled water. The dog whined and Luke’s heart clenched before he raced up the front stairs and into his past.