Читать книгу Tides of Hope - Irene Hannon, Irene Hannon - Страница 10

By Sunday afternoon, Nantucket was living up to her nickname—The Gray Lady. But the dismal weather couldn’t dampen Kate’s upbeat mood. Thanks to Chester’s magic touch with all things mechanical, the Lucy Sue’s sometimes-temperamental engine was purring along as her bow cut a wide swath through the choppy seas off Great Point. And despite another asthma attack in the middle of the night, Maddie had awakened with no ill effects.

Her skin tingling from the salt spray, Kate took a deep, cleansing breath of the bracing air. Nothing could be more relaxing than this, she concluded. And today was the perfect chance to enjoy it. Although she’d be making this trip twice daily with a boatful of amateur anglers once the season kicked off, their need for constant attention would leave her little opportunity to relish the grand view of the majestic whitewashed lighthouse and the long expanse of pristine beach backed by endless sky.

Today the outline of the tall, stately column was blurred by the gray mantle draped over the island, but the bright white light that flashed every five seconds made the tower easy to locate. In a world where very little could be counted on, Kate took comfort in that steady, consistent beacon. And she appreciated it most on days like this, when Nantucket’s three lighthouses had the chance to do the job for which they were designed—guiding lost souls safely home.

In truth, Kate didn’t mind the dreary weather. The view might be prettier on sunny summer days, when the heavens were deep blue and the sea sparkled as if it had been strewn with diamonds, but she felt a kinship with this wild, windswept speck of land no matter its wardrobe. Isolated by twenty-six miles of sea from the mainland, Nantucket was a place that bred strength, where self-reliance was a way of life and only the hardy survived.

Unlike summer people and day-trippers, who came to sample the unique rhythm of the island but whose lives pulsed to a beat far removed from these shores, the lives of year-rounders were inexorably linked to the cadence of the sea. It had been that way back in the bustling whaling days, and it was no different now. Only ten thousand people could claim the title of Nantucketer, and Kate was proud to be one of them.

Just as Mac had been.

Swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat, Kate blinked and checked her watch. Time to head back and pick up Maddie from Edith’s. She didn’t want to take advantage of her neighbor’s generosity—or grow maudlin thinking about the man who’d filled her days with sunshine and whose loss had left an aching void in her heart.

As Kate swung the wheel to port and pointed the Lucy Sue back toward the harbor, she scanned the undulating sea, relishing the solitude. In two months, this prime fishing ground would be dotted with crafts of all sizes. Today she had the spot to herself.

Or did she?

A bobbing orange speck in the distance caught her eye, and she eased back on the throttle, squinting through the mist. It could be debris, she supposed. But she’d pulled more than her share of too-confident swimmers out of these waters and had learned long ago never to overestimate people’s common sense.

Without taking her gaze off the spot where the orange speck kept disappearing among the swells, she felt for the binoculars secured within reaching distance of the helm. Fitting them to her eyes, she planted her feet in a wide, steadying stance and focused on the object.

In general, the seven-by-thirty magnification was sufficient for her needs. But today it couldn’t overcome the obscuring combination of distance, mist and the rocking motion of the boat. All she could tell with any certainty was that the object was about fifty yards offshore and moving on a steady, purposeful course parallel to the beach.

Meaning it was alive.

And it wasn’t a seal or a fish. Fluorescent orange wasn’t in the marine life palette of Nantucket.

That left only one possibility.

It was human.

Shaking her head, Kate huffed out a breath. What kind of idiot would go for a dip off Great Point? These were dangerous swimming waters any time of year, let alone in early April, when the threat of hypothermia amplified the peril.

It was obvious the swimmer churning through the swells didn’t understand the risks—or didn’t consider them to be a problem. She didn’t know which was worse. The former smacked of stupidity, the latter of arrogance. In either case, someone needed to pound some sense into the guy’s head. And it was a guy. She was sure of that, even if the conclusion reeked of stereotypical sexism.

Compressing her lips into a grim line, Kate swung the Lucy Sue hard to starboard, shifted into full throttle and headed straight for the bobbing orange speck. Disgust and annoyance vied for top billing on her emotional chart, with impatience and frustration not far behind. Whoever she found cavorting in the heaving gray swells was about to get an earful.

One, two, three, four, five, breathe. One, two, three, four, five, breathe. One, two, three, four, five, breathe.

Encased in his neoprene wet suit, Craig cut through the swells with powerful, even strokes, propelling himself forward with strong, steady kicks of his flippers, oblivious to the forty-two-degree water. After all the missions he’d swum in the Arctic, this was a bathtub. The chop was distracting, and the riptide had been a tad annoying, but neither had disrupted his bilateral breathing rhythm. After fifteen minutes of steady swimming, he wasn’t even winded.

As he sliced through the water, Craig counted each stroke as a victory over the intimidating marine conditions—and over his emotions. It had taken him two years to put so much as a toe in the ocean after the accident. He’d hated the sea with the same intensity he’d once loved it, his anger almost palpable. If it had been an enemy he could have gotten his hands around, he’d have choked the life out of it. Not the most Christian impulse, he knew, but that was how he’d felt.

Those potent feelings had prompted his request for a transfer from field duty to Washington. Hoping his fury and grief would ebb in a new environment, he’d planned to complete his twenty years of military service behind a desk, as far removed from his previous life as possible. And retirement wasn’t far in the future. Because he’d enlisted right out of college, he’d be able to wrap up his Coast Guard career as a relatively young man. Only three more years to go.

To his relief, the time and distance provided by three years of desk duty had eased his sorrow and mitigated his rage—to some degree. But much to his surprise, as his hate had begun to recede, his love of the sea had resurfaced. He’d fought it fiercely, overwhelmed by guilt, unable to understand how he could yearn to return to the very thing that had robbed his life of joy.

Until Paul Gleason had helped him make an uneasy peace with his conflicting feelings.

The admiral had come upon him one night last fall, seated in his windowless office in Washington behind tall stacks of reports awaiting his review. Craig had been trying all week to make some headway on them, but by Friday he’d done little more than riffle through a few.

Annoyed by his inability to focus, he’d been determined to stay all night if necessary to deal with the pile of official documents. No way had he wanted them waiting for him on Monday morning. But neither had he relished his self-imposed assignment. Paul’s unexpected appearance at his office door at the end of the day had been a welcome reprieve.

“Looks like you’re planning to burn the proverbial midnight oil.”

At the admiral’s greeting, Craig had summoned up a smile. “If that’s what it takes to empty my in basket.”

“What about Vicki?”

A wave of guilt had washed over him, and Craig had picked up a stack of papers on his desk and tapped them into a neat, precise pile. His personal life might be a mess, but at least he could keep his desk tidy. “The nanny will put her to bed.”

He’d waited for Paul to comment, to add another layer of guilt to the load he already carried over his lackluster approach to fatherhood. And he deserved it, Craig had acknowledged. For all his heroic work on the job, he was no hero when it came to raising his daughter. That, too, had begun to eat at him.

To his relief, Paul had let the subject pass. Instead, the admiral had surveyed the stack of reports and given a low whistle, arching his trademark shaggy white eyebrows. “You could be here till morning.”

“Tell me about it. How have you managed to deal with this kind of stuff day after day for all these years? I’m not even convinced it’s written in English.” In public, he and the admiral—his mentor since their days at Air Station Kodiak well over a decade ago—observed military protocol. Off duty, their relationship had evolved into a comfortable friendship.

A rueful chuckle had rumbled in the older man’s chest. Dropping into the chair across from Craig’s desk, he’d run his hand over his close-cropped white hair. “I’m afraid it comes with the rank. But I must confess there are days I wish I was back in Kodiak. Once the sea grabs hold of you, she never lets go.”

Casting a shrewd eye at the younger officer, the admiral had leaned back in his chair. “By the way…I have some news. I’m retiring the first of the year. Mag and I are going to take up full-time residence in our little cottage in Maine and go sailing every chance we get.”

The announcement shouldn’t have surprised Craig. After thirty-five years of military service, Paul deserved his retirement. Yet the news had left him with mixed feelings.

“I’m happy for you, Paul. And more than a little envious.”

“You’re too young to retire.” Paul had folded his hands over his stomach, its girth a bit wider since their Kodiak days. “Or were you referring to my return to the sea?”

Not much got past the admiral, Craig had acknowledged. Picking up a pen, he’d tapped it against his palm as he’d weighed his response. “There are days lately when this—” he’d swept his hand around the office “—gets on my nerves and I think about the sea. But I asked for this transfer. I shouldn’t complain.”

“You needed an escape then. Maybe you don’t anymore.” Paul had steepled his fingers and given Craig a steady look. “You know, I’ll be here through December. If a request for a transfer came through, I’d be inclined to give it a favorable review.”

Shaking his head, Craig had raked his fingers through his hair. “I shouldn’t even consider it.”

“Why not?”

“After what happened…how could I want to be around the sea?”

The hint of a smile had touched the admiral’s lips. “Love is a strange thing, Craig. Whether for a woman or for the sea. You don’t like everything about her all the time. Sometimes she does things that infuriate you. There are days you’re tempted to walk away. But you never stop loving her. Not if it’s real. That’s how love works.”

Several moments of silence had ticked by while Craig considered the admiral’s comment. “I don’t know, Paul.”

The man had stood and rested a hand on the tall stack of reports. “Well, I do. You don’t belong behind this desk. You never did. You’ve done a great job here, but this isn’t where you should finish your career. Think about it. A change like that could be good for you—and Vicki. She’s only four, Craig. She needs you.”

In the end, after weeks of soul searching, Craig had come to the same conclusion. Although he hadn’t understood his jumbled feelings about the sea, he’d asked for a transfer back to the field. To a station on the other side of the country from Hawaii, hoping a new setting would give him a fresh start with his life—and with his daughter. The opening on Nantucket had fit the bill.

An icy smack in the face from an unruly wave brought Craig abruptly back to the present. Caught unaware, he sucked in a mouthful of water. Coughed. Lost his rhythm.

Anger surged through him, and he swam with renewed energy, arms slashing through the water, attacking the swells. He’d let the sea surprise him, score a point. Bad mistake. One he’d vowed never to let happen again. His last mistake had cost him too—

“Hey! Hey, you!”

At the shouted summons, Craig broke his rhythm again, this time on purpose. Riding the swells, he lifted his head and checked for the source.

The name of the boat rocking on the waves a few yards away clicked into focus first. Lucy Sue.

Meaning the human hurricane couldn’t be far behind.

Taking a deep breath, Craig looked higher. Sure enough, the voice belonged to none other than Katherine MacDonald. And she was in a snit once again, judging by her ruddy color and tense posture as she glared down at him, her wind-tossed red hair whipping about her face.

The full blast of her fury was coming. He knew that. He’d already had a sample of her temper, and the signs were all there. But instead of using the lull before the storm to brace himself, he found his thoughts wandering to Grace O’Malley, the legendary Irish pirate queen. Somehow he had a feeling she’d looked a lot like Katherine MacDonald.

“…recreational swimming area!”

The tail end of her comment interrupted his musings. “What?”

“I said, are you crazy? This is not a recreational swimming area!” She had to yell to be heard above the hum of the engine and the waves slapping against the side of the boat.

“I’m fine,” he called back.

“You can’t be fine! The water’s freezing! And there’s a bad riptide here. You need to get back to shore!” She flicked her hand toward the beach, as if shooing a recalcitrant puppy back from the edge of a busy street.

It was obvious she didn’t recognize him. But why should she? His wet suit, swim cap and goggles left very few identifying features exposed.

As he bobbed on the swells, he considered his options. The path of least resistance would be to remain anonymous, acquiesce and retreat to the beach. That would be the smart thing to do. He’d been about ready to head toward shore anyway.

Instead, prompted by some impulse he couldn’t identify, he lifted his goggles and settled them on top of the orange swim cap. “I can handle this sea, Ms. MacDonald.”

Her reaction as his identity became apparent was reward enough for his rash action. Seeing Katherine MacDonald shocked speechless was, he suspected, a rare treat.

Unfortunately, it was short-lived.

“I don’t believe this! You, of all people, should know better than to swim in seas like this! Alone, no less! And you cited me for a safety violation?”

He’d known she’d come back with a zinger. She hadn’t disappointed him.

“I’m trained to swim in worse conditions than these. And I’m well-equipped.”

She dismissed his explanation with a curt flip of her hand. “That may be true, but no one in their right mind would put themselves into dangerous conditions without cause. Do you have a death wish or something?”

For some reason, her question jolted him. He knew it was an exaggeration, meant to drive home her point, yet it left him feeling uneasy. And no longer interested in prolonging their verbal sparring match.

Pulling his goggles back over his eyes, he prepared to resume his swim.

The red-haired spitfire must have sensed his intent because she called out again. “I can’t in good conscience leave anyone alone in these waters, especially in this weather.”

He checked her out over his shoulder as he treaded water, buoyant on the rising swells. She was still standing by the side of the boat, gripping the rail, watching him.

Ignoring her comment, he resumed his course, swimming parallel to the shore.

Thirty seconds later, he heard the hum of her boat behind him.

Craig kept swimming for two more minutes, the boat pacing him. She wasn’t backing down. No surprise there, he supposed. And he didn’t relish company on his solitary swims. Besides, he’d stayed out as long as he’d planned, and the cold seeping through his neoprene insulation was beginning to get uncomfortable.

Altering his course, he aimed for shore. Let Katherine MacDonald assume she’d won the battle. He knew better. Had she caught him at the beginning of his swim instead of the end, he’d have put up with the audience and she’d have found herself tooling around in the Lucy Sue far longer as she discovered he could be as strong-willed as she was.

That revelation wasn’t going to happen today.

But he had a strong suspicion it was coming.

As the lieutenant changed direction and headed for shore, Kate let out a long, relieved breath. Good. Had he balked, she wasn’t at all confident she’d have won the skirmish. Yet the rule-bound commander didn’t strike her as the kind of man prone to capitulation. So why had he given in?

The answer, she grudgingly acknowledged, was clear.

He’d been ready to call it a day anyway.

Meaning her victory was hollow.

Kate planted her fists on her hips and watched as he surged through the swells with powerful strokes, doing her best to stifle the flicker of admiration fanned to life by his masterful physical control and his command of the water. Just because he was a good swimmer didn’t mean he should be taking chances by venturing into hazardous seas alone. It was folly to feel invincible around the ocean, no matter how strong or well-equipped you were. And a Coast Guard lieutenant should know that. Taking him to task for his irresponsible actions had been more than justified.

The instant he emerged from the water, Kate once more swung the Lucy Sue to port and headed home. And as the boat plowed through the waves, she forced herself to switch gears and focus on the pleasant evening ahead. She and Maddie were planning to indulge in a pizza, followed by a movie of her daughter’s choice. No doubt her current favorite, The Lion King. They’d seen it four times already, but Kate didn’t mind. Cuddling with her daughter under an afghan, a cozy fire burning in the grate, was about the most comforting way she could imagine to spend a chilly evening.

Only one thing would be missing from that picture of contentment, she reflected, the salt from the spray reminding her of the taste of tears. Mac wouldn’t be with them. How he would have loved an evening like that! With him, however, it would have been impromptu, a spontaneous celebration rather than a planned event. He’d had a remarkable gift for turning ordinary days into special occasions, his infectious joie de vivre and go-with-the-flow attitude carrying everyone along with him.

Kate could imagine what tonight would be like if he were here. Instead of pizza, he might suggest chocolate chip waffles. Rather than sitting on the couch, he might drag out their folding chairs, make popcorn and have them all pretend they were at the old hall in ’Sconset that showed family movies in the summer. And he might resurrect their vintage video of The Sound of Music and encourage them all to sing along, his off-key baritone and contagious laugh ringing through the house.

Life with Mac had been one grand adventure, Kate recalled, her lips softening into a melancholy smile. Flexible, agreeable, always upbeat, he was a man who’d lived—and loved—with an abandon that had taken her breath away. Without him, she felt as she had as a child waking up the day after Christmas, the excitement and anticipation of the previous day replaced by a sense that life for the next 364 days would be dull, dull, dull.

Though Kate’s world had been graced by the presence of Dennis “Mac” MacDonald far too briefly, she would always be grateful to him for their days together. And for teaching her by example to embrace life—and not sweat the small stuff. She’d struggled at times with that during the past few years, but at least she kept trying.

The stiff, stuffy lieutenant she’d left on Great Point would do well to learn that lesson, too, Kate thought, her smile fading as her hands tightened on the helm. He seemed focused only on the small stuff. Such pettiness was an unlikable trait to begin with, and even less endearing because it had caused her nothing but problems. The commander’s insistence on following the letter of the law—whether it made sense or not—was maddening.

Calm down, Kate, she counseled herself, easing her grip on the wheel. Getting mad again won’t solve the problem. If anything, your antagonism could make it worse.

And worse might very well be a description of the current situation, given her tirade a few minutes ago, she granted, as she neared the harbor entrance and passed the diminutive Brant Point lighthouse adjacent to the Coast Guard station. Instead of reading him the riot act and following him like a persistent seagull follows a boat, she could have acquiesced to his explanation and headed home.

Yet what she’d told him had been true. She couldn’t, in good conscience, leave anyone alone in the waters off Great Point. Even the disagreeable lieutenant. It was asking for trouble, no matter his skills or equipment. She’d dug in her heels for his own good, whether he appreciated it or not.

Not being the obvious conclusion. And that didn’t bode well for a favorable response to her request—more like demand, she acceded—that he wipe the citation off her record.

The wharf came into sight, and Kate cut back the throttle, trying to recapture her earlier lighthearted mood. But that felt like ancient history now. As in B.C. Before Cole. And she doubted it would return unless the citation issue was resolved in her favor.

An outcome that seemed increasingly remote in light of their back-to-back unpleasant encounters.

With that conclusion, any lingering vestige of good cheer vanished as quickly as the sun in a sudden Nantucket storm.

Do you have a death wish or something?

Katherine MacDonald’s question echoed again in Craig’s mind as he jabbed at the buttons on his microwave. It had been bothering him since she’d voiced it six hours ago, and the refrain was beginning to get on his nerves.

Grabbing a soda out of the fridge, he pulled the tab, easing the pressure in the can with a pop and a fizz. Too bad it wasn’t that easy to release the pressure inside of him, he lamented. Yet he couldn’t lay the full blame for his tension on Ms. MacDonald. Although her blunt question had exacerbated it, in all honesty it had dogged him for three long years.

Exercise, he’d discovered, had proved to be a good temporary release valve. Ocean swimming in particular, especially when conditions were difficult. He’d never stopped to analyze why he sought out risky locations, but he supposed a psychologist delving into motivations might see it as a subconscious challenge to the sea: You took my wife and son. Just try to take me.

And there was some truth to that, he conceded. With every yard gained, with every swell overcome, with every undertow and riptide conquered, the pressure inside him dissipated. Each time he emerged whole and victorious from battling the waves, he felt a satisfying sense of triumph.

But the satisfaction didn’t last long. And one of these days, if he continued to take chances, he’d lose. It was inevitable. In risky conditions, the odds were always stacked in favor of the sea. He knew that as well as the mouthy charter captain did.

And maybe that’s what he wanted, deep inside, Craig was forced to admit. Maybe he wanted the sea to take him, too. To end the pain and loss and guilt forever. To give him the peace that had eluded him since the accident.

Katherine MacDonald might be right.

Maybe he did have a death wish.

The microwave pinged, and he withdrew the bland packaged dinner of sautéed chicken breast, broccoli and rice that had become one of his staples. He knew the drill by heart after three years of this fare: remove the plastic cover and let the meal rest until the steam escaped.

Rest.

The word stuck with him as he slid the disposable container onto the counter in the kitchen of the commander’s quarters—a three-bedroom ranch house a mile from the station. Far enough removed to let the officer in charge find rest from his or her duties.

Unfortunately, the comfortable dwelling had the opposite effect on Craig. Though modest in size, the house felt cavernous and the silent rooms were depressing. Instead of being a haven of rest, it only served to remind him of all he’d lost.

As Craig straddled a stool at the counter and toyed with his meal, the passage from Matthew flashed through his mind: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”

The minister had quoted those words at the funeral for his wife, Nicole, and his son, Aaron. But they’d been unable to penetrate his thick, isolating shroud of grief, offering no consolation then…or in the intervening years. All his life, he’d attended services every Sunday. But when tested by fire, he’d felt burned rather than fortified by the God he’d worshipped. Church attendance had become a meaningless gesture that left him feeling more empty and alone than if he hadn’t gone. In time, he’d stopped the painful Sunday routine.

Routine.

Perhaps that was the key, Craig mused, dissecting a piece of broccoli with his fork. In many ways, his faith had become nothing more than a once-a-week visit to church, driven by habit rather than compelling belief. Perhaps if he approached services and prayer with an open heart, seeking God’s will rather than demanding answers and immediate solace, the Lord would provide him with the peace and rest he craved.

It was worth a try, he supposed.

Because he couldn’t keep living with the disheartening sense of hopelessness that plagued his days. Nor could he continue to take chances with his life, raising the stakes with every swimming excursion until at last he lost his gamble with the elements. It wasn’t fair to Vicki. As Paul had reminded him, his daughter needed him. Him. Not the high-priced nannies he’d hired over the past three years, who saw to Vicki’s physical needs but who couldn’t give her the one thing she needed most.

A father’s love.

Pushing aside his picked-over dinner, Craig rested his elbows on the counter and dropped his head into his hands as guilt gnawed at his gut, churning his dinner like an angry ocean agitates seaweed.

It wasn’t Vicki’s fault that she looked just like her mother, sharing the same blue-green eyes and hair the color of sun-ripened wheat. It wasn’t her fault that every time he took her small hand he was reminded of the son he’d lost. And it wasn’t her fault that he’d shut down emotionally to dull the pain, rendering him incapable of giving her the love she deserved—and needed.

As time passed, he’d known he had to make things right. The guilt over his neglect had begun to nag at him day and night, deepening the crushing burden of culpability he already carried. Although Vicki had never been a needy child, demanding attention or special care, she deserved the security of a loving parent. He hoped the move to Nantucket would give him the chance to provide that.

The rightness of his decision had been reinforced the day he’d left Vicki in his mother’s care before heading to the island, with a promise to pick her up in six weeks, once he’d settled in.

As he’d knelt in front of her, prepared to give her a quick hug, she’d stopped him cold with a soft, uncertain question.

“Are you really coming back to get me?”

Jolted, he’d looked at her. Really looked—for the first time in a long while. And what he’d seen had made him want to cry.

Deep in those blue-green eyes had been a sadness and a loneliness as profound as his own. Far too profound for any child that age to know.

His had been caused by senseless deaths that had robbed his world of light and laughter.

But hers had been caused by him. The very man who should have loved her and protected her and made her world secure.

His throat constricting, he’d leaned over and pulled her close. “Yes, Vicki. I’m really coming back. And things will be different on Nantucket. I’m not going to work as much. We’ll spend more time together.”

When he’d released her, she’d stepped back and reached for his mother’s hand, skepticism narrowing her eyes.

Truth be told, he shared her doubts. There was no manual, no rule book, no SOP for rebuilding a daughter’s world and winning her love. He was flying by the seat of his pants, prepared to improvise as he went, as he’d often been called to do in precarious rescue situations.

He’d already decided there would be no more full-time nannies. He would only hand off her care while he was at work. For now, he’d lined up traditional day care, but in time he hoped to find a more personal, in-home arrangement.

He also planned to change his work habits. He’d put in a lot of hours these first few weeks on the job, learning the ropes, but once Vicki came he intended to leave work on time, pick her up at day care, fix dinner and spend the evening with her. And hope he could make up for all the years he’d abdicated his responsibilities.

Rising, Craig deposited his half-eaten dinner in the trash, reminding himself to stock up on some kid-friendly food before he picked her up in two weeks. And he needed to prepare a room for her. A place where she would feel welcome and loved.

He also needed to get over the death wish a certain out-spoken charter-fishing boat captain had forced him to confront.

Craig swiped at a few stray crumbs on the counter, leaving the surface pristine, as he thought back over his encounters with the red-haired dynamo. Although he might not appreciate being on the receiving end of Katherine MacDonald’s fiery temper, he had to give credit where it was due.

She wasn’t easily intimidated. And she said what she thought.

Like it or not.

To his surprise, Craig found his lips curving into a smile as he pictured her on the deck of the Lucy Sue, eyes blazing, cheeks aflame, hair whipped by the wind as she’d glared at him. And while he finished tidying up the kitchen and prepared to call it a day, he found himself looking forward to their next encounter.

Which made no sense at all.