Читать книгу Island Of Second Chances - Cara Lockwood, Cara Lockwood - Страница 16

Chapter Six

“WELL, THAT WASN’T very neighborly,” declared Laura, at a loss for what else to say. She’d heard of friends taking sides in a divorce, but she’d never seen a guy bail out of a friendship faster than that before. And especially not when his friend lost his son. What kind of friend did that?

“No, it wasn’t,” Mark agreed, but the dark cloud was back at him again, the lighthearted banter gone.

“Was he going to help you restore the boat, too?”

Mark nodded. “Not that I’ll even be able to finish it now.” He turned abruptly then and stalked out onto the back patio.

Now would probably be a good time for Laura to leave. After all, she’d already intruded too much, and her head still felt like it was in a vice. Yet, she wasn’t about to leave him like Dave had. She knew what it felt like to be abandoned.

She followed him as he walked out to his workshop. He crossed his arms and glared at the boat’s hull.

“What if I help?” she asked, not even sure if she could. Her head still distantly throbbed from her hangover. Still, what was a headache compared to losing a child?

She knew the boat was his way of dealing with losing his son, and well, she couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

He scoffed, keeping his back to her. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I know what it feels like to lose hope,” she said. “If this boat can bring back yours, then we need to do this.” Laura never felt more certain of anything in her life. Yes, Mark was prickly and sometimes hard to deal with and teased her relentlessly, but if she could help him overcome his grief for his son, then she’d do it. She’d want the same for herself.

He paused, and his shoulders shrank a little.

“But what about racing it? I need at least three more sailors.”

Laura frowned as she glanced at him and then the boat. “But you’re going to sail the world by yourself?”

“Racing is a different animal, because everything is about speed. That’s why you need more hands—literally—on deck.”

Laura nodded, still in problem-solving mode. “Do you know other sailors on the island?”

Mark seemed to consider this. “Maybe. Not as good as Dave.”

“But, can’t we find other sailors? There have to be some on the island.”

Mark shook his head. He put his hand on the hull of the boat. “Look, Laura, I appreciate you trying to help. But this isn’t your problem.”

“Mark.” Laura wanted to help. She needed to help. She felt it in her bones. This was the first time since her miscarriage she’d actually cared about something.

“No. Laura. Just...” Mark waved a frustrated hand. “Just go. Please.”

“But—”

Mark let out an exasperated sigh. “Go,” he growled. The force in his voice surprised her. She was on her feet, her heart thudding in her chest. Why was he turning her away?

He stomped away to the beach, leaving her staring after him, wondering why he was so angry and why he didn’t want her help.

* * *

WHY WAS THIS so hard? Mark kicked the sand in front of him with his bare toes, watching it go scattering across the beach the very next morning. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, unable to think of a way to replace Dave, not knowing how he could even restore the boat by himself.

His dreams were dashed. He couldn’t even be mad at Dave, exactly. He got that he had to stand by his wife, but why was Katie taking Elle’s side? She’d slept with his own brother, hell, run off with him, and Mark was the bad guy?

But then again, he knew why. He blamed her for Timothy’s death. There’d been the accusation of neglect. Of why she’d let him walk into the ocean that day.

The words bubbled up in him still, a seething indictment of his ex-wife’s careless mistake. Anger still burned in him. If he’d been on the beach that day, maybe things would’ve been different.

But he hadn’t been.

And they weren’t.

And now, the one thing he’d been clinging to for months, this race and this boat, weren’t even an option anymore.

He got about halfway down the stretch of beach near the condo and then slumped into the sand, suddenly drained of all energy. He watched the blue-green waves wash up on the shore, the sea foam bubbling against the wet sand, and wondered if he ought to just walk out to sea himself.

The waves rolled in endlessly to shore, and Mark let his mind wander once more to that dark place. Why wait until his trip around the world to get closer to Timothy? He could just get up on his feet and walk right into the ocean. Then all of this pain, all of this grief and loss, would end.

He pulled himself to his feet, not bothering to dust the sand from his shorts. Why bother? He whipped off his shirt and dropped it listlessly to the sand. Would someone find it? Would anyone even notice he was gone? Who would come looking for him?

Edward?

Laura?

The thought of Laura’s bright green eyes stopped him a second. He didn’t know why. He’d just met the woman. Yet something made him pause.

Her loud laugh? The way she’d run, drunk, down the beach away from him, her white, pale legs pumping hard as she sprinted away from her troubles?

But even she wasn’t enough. No boat. No race. No Timothy. It all felt so overwhelming and hopeless.

This time, he’d do it, he thought as he took a step forward into the warm Caribbean, the water lapping at his tanned toes. He took another step and he found himself ankle deep. Another two steps and the water lapped above his knees, warm, inviting. The solution to all his problems. If he couldn’t sail on the ocean to be closer to Timothy, then he’d get closer this way.

Did his boy walk out from this very spot? he wondered. He could have, midway between the condo and the natural, sloping dunes ahead of him.

Mark heard the seagulls calling and looked up, seeing the birds circling above him in the clear blue sky. Had that been the last thing Timothy had seen before he’d gotten swept under the waves?

Another step and he was waist deep. He could feel the sandy bottom with his toes, knew the drop off was coming soon, where it went from three feet to eight in a matter of inches. Tiny little silver fish swam around him in the ocean, glinting in the sun. Had Timothy gone after one of them? Delighted by their shine? Completely unaware of how dangerous the ocean could be, the water that would keep coming. The boy was too young to float. His life jacket had been abandoned on the beach, on the towel where his mother lay, eyes closed, drifting off to sleep.