Читать книгу Luke's Daughters - Lynnette Kent - Страница 7

SARAH HEARD his voice first.

Not the words, not even the sense of what he was saying, just a warm, smooth rumble counterpointed against the never-ending crash of the waves. The timbre of that voice resonated inside her, making her push back her hat and open her eyes.

She couldn’t have designed such a picture in a thousand years. The owner of the voice wore a starched white shirt, a black bow tie and vest, and the satin-seamed trousers of formal dress, rolled halfway up his calves. He’d left his sleeves buttoned; they shivered crisply over his arms in the afternoon wind blowing off the ocean.

Just as her eyes focused clearly, he tugged the band out of his shoulder-length hair, letting it blow free with that same wind. Putting up a hand, he pulled the straight, black strands out of his face and laughed as he glanced down at his companions.

Creatures from a fairy tale they were, two princesses in rose-and-green flowered gowns, with puffed sleeves, high necks and long, full skirts. Sunlight glinted on their blond heads, one a bit darker than the other, both braided neatly from crown to nape. As they looked up at the man, Sarah could see flowers woven into those braids…baby’s breath and pink sweetheart roses.

Automatically, she reached for her camera.

She captured the gentleness with which the man held each little girl’s hand to help her down the sandy bank, the care the children took to hold up their skirts as they crossed the shallow inlet separating them from Sarah. The setting sun and the contrast of such formal clothes against a backdrop of sea and sky and sand provided near perfect composition.

As the trio came close, Sarah relaxed into her chair and let the camera rest in her lap—their awareness of what she was doing would spoil the effect. She stared back the way they’d come, across the rocks and the deep green grass that separated the public beach from the exclusive Sandspur Country Club. Light flashed behind the club’s tinted windows, silhouetting the impression of a crowd.

Now she understood—they’d been to a grown-up party of some kind. The man must have taken pity on two bored little girls and brought them out across the manicured grass to look at the ocean.

But looking obviously hadn’t been enough, not for the girls and not for him. With just a little pleading on their part, he’d agreed to an adventure no anxious mother would ever allow—a walk on the beach in all that finery. Sarah could just discern the white-and-black splotches of their socks and shoes, abandoned at the brink of the lawn.

When her camera lens found them again at the edge of the ocean, the girls were bent over a fisherman’s bucket, inspecting his bait and his catch. But their companion stood straight and tall, staring north along the shoreline. His hair blew back, leaving his profile stark against the sky. Sarah snapped the picture, thanking all the saints that she’d brought the zoom lens—and thinking that, for a party guest, he didn’t look much like he was celebrating.

After a few minutes, he turned and spoke to the girls. The children pranced and danced across the beach, heading back toward the club. But the man lagged behind, head down, hands in his pockets, dragging his bare feet in the sand as if reluctant to return.

Reluctant or not, he was leaving. Sarah jammed the camera into her bag, dredged up a couple of business cards and a pen, then struggled out of the low sand chair to her feet. By the time she clambered up the opposite bank of the inlet, the girls had nearly reached the rocks. But the man had just come level with Sarah.

“Excuse me,” she called.

He stopped and looked over, his dark, straight brows lifted in question.

Up close, he was bigger than she’d realized, taller. Not thick or brawny. Just…strong. “My name is Sarah Randolph.” She extended a card. “I’m a photographer.”

“That’s…nice.” He stared, expectantly.

Suddenly she felt intrusive. She gathered up the remnants of her professional nerve. “You must know—the three of you made an exceptional picture on the beach in your formal clothes.”

“I didn’t think about it,” he said. The hint of a drawl flavored his voice, like a ribbon of caramel through milk chocolate.

“I did.” Sarah gathered her thoughts. “And I took pictures.”

His gray gaze darkened. “And you want me to pay you for them? Sorry.” He lengthened his stride to catch up with the girls. “Not interested.”

“No!” She jogged after him, reaching for his arm to slow him down. His muscles felt like carved driftwood. “No, I don’t want you to pay me.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “What do you want, then? I need to get them back inside.”

Something in his face made her let go of him. Quickly. “Are they your daughters?”

His mouth tightened. “Yeah. They are.”

She tried a smile. “You see, I might want to use the pictures in a…in a professional capacity. And for that, I need a release.”

He started to shake his head. “I don’t think—”

“No, really, all it says is that you agree to allow the photographs to be used for publication. I may never use them, they might not develop. But if they do, I’d be glad to give you copies, in exchange for the release. Please?”

For a long moment he watched the girls, now involved in investigating a jagged black rock. Finally, he sighed. “I’d have to see them first. Otherwise, I’m not agreeing to anything.”

“Sure. No problem.” Sarah held out the extra card and the pen. “Just write down your address and I’ll bring them over as soon as I can. Probably in a day or so.”

His face was stern as he took the card and wrote quickly across the blank side. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Randolph.” He gave back the card.

Before she could answer, or even read his name, he strode across the sand to his daughters and swept them before him, over the rocks, up the bank, and back into the club.

COMING IN from the beach, Luke stopped on the threshold of the country club dining room. The girls ran toward the crowd inside. Given a choice, he wouldn’t have followed. But then, nothing about today was his choice.

Or maybe everything was. Maybe that was his problem—he’d made the decision and he hated living with the consequences.

When Erin and Jennifer found their mother at the center of the swirl of people, she turned immediately to give them her full attention. No one could say Kristin wasn’t a great mom—the girls came first, every time. He loved that about her.

And she made a beautiful bride, in an ivory dress with a lace top and a bell-shaped skirt, holding orchids in the curve of her arm. Under a lace veil, her rich blond hair shone like sunlight. Laughing at something Erin said, she tucked a stray curl behind Jen’s ear, then glanced up at the new husband who stood by her side. The meeting of their eyes came straight out of an old-fashioned romance. The kiss they’d shared at the wedding deserved fireworks, like the end of a fairy tale.

Luke took a deep breath and pivoted away from the reception. He wasn’t going to stay. He’d done his part, kept up appearances for the sake of the girls and his parents’ friends. No one would miss him, anyway—

“Luke Brennan! What happened to your hair?”

He turned to face his mother, resisting the urge to neaten up. “The girls and I went outside for a walk. It’s windy.”

Elena Brennan raised aristocratic eyebrows. “You took them out on the beach? In those dresses?”

“We were careful. We left our shoes—”

“Honestly, I don’t know how you ever came to be so irresponsible!” Her cultured Southern accent always deepened when she got upset. “The photographer is still taking pictures, for heaven’s sake. Just once I’d like to see you think ahead…” She pivoted and stalked toward the girls with her long-legged grace, a contemporary Southern belle in blue silk, severely ticked off.

“Bad move, son.” His father stepped up on Luke’s other side. “Worse still to tell her what you’d done.”

Luke jammed his fists in his pockets. “I didn’t do anything. The girls were going crazy trying to act like porcelain dolls. I just let them have a little fun.”

“You know how important this wedding is to your mother.”

Luke dragged his thoughts back from freedom of the beach…and the sweet sympathy in a strange woman’s golden eyes. “Yeah, I know.”

His mom hadn’t gotten a chance to plan his wedding—the bride and groom had eloped in the middle of the night, coming back with the vows taken and a baby on the way. That was not how things happened in the prestigious Charleston social circles where Elena Calhoun Brennan had grown up.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Luke insisted. Now or then.

His dad’s hand fell on his shoulder and drew him farther into the room. “Well, what’s done is done. Tame that damn hair, put your coat on, then come get a glass of champagne so you can celebrate with the rest of us.” Thirty years in the Army turned every request into an order.

Luke looked at the man beside him. They were the same height—six-two—but Colonel William Brennan’s military bearing always made him seem taller.

Beyond his father, he caught sight of Kristin, finishing a slow waltz with her new husband. They ended with a kiss. He took a deep breath. “No, thanks.”

The Colonel’s gray eyes went steel-cold. “Listen, son, I expect you to cooperate—”

Luke jerked out from under his dad’s hand. “How much more cooperative can I get? I let him take them away. I stepped aside and gave him my whole life. I even played the part you wrote for me today.”

He lowered his voice, stepping close enough to guarantee his words would stay between them. “But if you think I’m happy about it, you’re crazy. And if you think I’m going to come in there and toast this marriage—give them my blessing, for God’s sake!—you’re more than crazy. You’re sadistic.”

“Luke—” Strong fingers gripped his elbow as cheers from the other end of the room drew his attention. Dread tightened his throat, but Luke looked over.

Kristin stood balanced on one slender leg, her skirt lifted to reveal the other foot in its high-heeled slipper resting on a chair seat. Her groom, wearing Army dress blues, knelt in front of her. As she laughed, he slipped a lacy blue-and-white garter down her thigh and over her smooth calf. Applause broke out as he stood and flourished the scrap of fabric.

“All single men to the front, now!” He grinned widely. “This lady’s mine and I’m not sharing, but if you catch her garter, you’re guaranteed to find your own!”

As he looked around the room, the groom’s gaze came to rest on Luke. Even from a distance, the antagonism in his face was clear to see. The crowd chuckled, murmured, and finally ebbed into silence.

Luke broke away from that stare and glanced at his father. “There is a limit to brotherly sacrifice.” He turned on his heel, heading toward the club exit. “Your other son,” he said over his shoulder, “just crossed the boundary line.”

Then, as if chased by demons, he ran for his life.

ERIN COULD HARDLY stand still long enough to let her grandmother unbutton the back of her hot, scratchy dress. “Are you done yet, Grandmom?”

“I’ll never be done if you don’t stand still, young lady.” Grandmother Brennan was pretty strict. You didn’t go to her house and put your feet in the chairs or eat with your elbows on the table—not if you were almost seven years old. Babies who were only four—like Jenny—could still get away with just about anything.

Such as whining when she didn’t want to change clothes. “I want this dress,” she told Grandma Jennings. “I want to see Mickey Mouse like this!”

“Well, you can’t.” Erin turned toward Jenny, and was pushed back in place by a firm pair of hands. “We’re goin’ on a plane, Jenny. You can’t wear that dress on a airplane.”

Jenny started to cry. “I want Mommy!”

Erin felt the last button on her dress give way. “Oh, boy.” She pulled away, dragged the dress over her head and let it drop. “That feels so good!” She whirled in the middle of the room, her arms spread out like wings. “I hate dresses!”

Grandmother Brennan picked up the stupid pink-and-green dress and put it on a hanger. “Get your shorts on, Erin, dear. You’ll be leaving soon.”

“Disney World!” Erin ran to the chair with her clothes and stepped into her favorite blue shorts. The itchy flowers in her hair got caught in her T-shirt, so she pulled them out. That pulled out some of the braid, too, which was okay, because braids hurt. She tugged the rest of her hair free. “Where are my shoes?”

“Right here.” Her grandmother held up a pair of white sandals with pink flowers on top.

“Those aren’t mine. I want my red sneakers that Daddy bought me.”

Grandmother Brennan brought over the yucky shoes. “These will look better with your outfit, sweetheart.”

Erin crossed her arms. “I…want…my…red…shoes.” She wasn’t gonna cry, like Jenny. But she wasn’t going anywhere in those stupid white sandals.

The door of the room opened, and Mommy came in. Jenny jerked away from Grandma Jennings. But Erin reached their mother first. “Tell her I don’t have to wear those shoes, Mommy. I want to wear my red ones!”

Jenny arrived. “I wanna wear my dress for Mickey Mouse!”

Mommy got down on her knees. She put one arm around Erin and one around Jenny. “Erin, sweetie, your red shoes are in the suitcase under the window.”

Erin flew to the bag and found her shoes right on top of all her other clothes. She sat down and started to pull one on.

“Socks first,” her mother said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Erin groaned. She put on the socks, then the shoes, and tied the laces herself. Daddy had taught her to tie her own shoes over spring break from school.

With Mommy to help, getting dressed and ready to go was easy. Jenny put on the plain yellow dress she was supposed to wear and let Mommy brush her hair. In just a couple of minutes they were all done.

Mommy’s new husband waited for them in the hallway. “All set for Disney World?” Jenny put her thumb in her mouth and hid her face in Mommy’s neck. He looked at Erin. “What do you say? Ready to go?”

Erin looked back at him. He’d told her to call him Matt. Mommy said she thought Daddy Matt would be better, since he was a part of their family now. Because Mommy asked, Erin tried to remember. But he didn’t feel like much of a daddy to her.

He was tall, and kinda big—bigger than Daddy, even if they were brothers. And he was more like Grandmother Brennan than Daddy. Daddy played games. He laughed and joked and called her funny names.

Most of the time, Daddy Matt talked about rules.

Suddenly, Erin didn’t know if she was ready for Disney World. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

“He’s right here, love.” She looked surprised.

“No. I mean my Daddy. I need to tell him something.”

Erin saw Mommy look at Daddy Matt. Then Daddy Matt came over and squatted beside her. “He had to go to…work, Erin.” Daddy Matt had blue eyes. Even when he smiled, his eyes stayed serious. “He said to tell you to have a great time in Florida. He’ll be thinking about you, and he’ll see you when you get back. Okay?”

When you were almost seven, you could usually tell what you could get out of and what you couldn’t. Erin knew she wasn’t going to see her dad again before they left. She sighed and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Daddy Matt stood up and took her hand. Erin went with him, with Mommy on her other side. Outside the front door, all the people who had come to the wedding were waiting. They started cheering and throwing bird seed from the little packets Erin had helped tie. She and Mommy and Daddy Matt ran in between the lines of people to the van waiting by the curb. Erin helped Jenny into her car seat and buckled her own seat belt the way Daddy had taught her.

Then, laughing and waving, Mommy and Daddy Matt shut their doors. They pulled away from all the people, and the car got quiet. “Next stop,” Daddy Matt declared, “is Disney World!”

Jenny yawned and closed her eyes. Erin looked out the window without answering, wondering why she didn’t feel so excited anymore.

SARAH HELD her breath as the picture developed, like a ghost materializing out of the mist. She hadn’t run a proof sheet this time. She wanted to see each print full-size right away.

There. More than twenty-four hours later, she was struck yet again by the sheer beauty of Luke Brennan’s face, the grace of his stance. From a professional—and personal—perspective, he made a truly breathtaking picture.

And the little girls were every bit as lovely as she remembered, as photogenic as she’d hoped. The energy of those children endowed each shot with an intense impression of…of…life.

“Pretty,” a voice commented behind her.

Sarah jumped, then swore. “You scared me!” She retrieved the tongs she’d dropped. “Why didn’t you knock, Chuck? You could have ruined everything.”

Her business partner—they’d inherited joint ownership of the photography shop where she developed her work—rolled his eyes. “The door was already open, so I figured it was safe. You’ve been in here for hours.”

He stepped past her and stared at the pictures on the drying table, arms crossed over his stomach, the fingers of one hand tapping his elbow. “Not your usual style, but pretty. Are you planning a calendar?” She could hear the sneering tone in his voice.

Sarah put the tongs down before she used them as a weapon. Chuck belittled her work whenever he got the chance. Why get upset about it now? “No. Those are some shots I took yesterday, that’s all.” She drew a deep breath. “What time is it?”

“After seven. I’ve closed the shop. Are you ready to leave?”

She’d printed the pictures in eight-by-tens. Some of them might look good even larger. “I think I’ll stay and work some more. Go ahead and lock up. I’ve got a key.”

“I know.” He smiled thinly. “You’re okay to stay here alone after dark? This part of town’s pretty much deserted on Sunday night.”

Sarah put confidence into her voice. “I’ll be fine.”

Chuck lifted a thin, pale eyebrow in doubt, but turned without a word and left the darkroom. Shortly afterward, while she was still mixing developer, she heard the back door shut and the roar of his Cadillac’s engine. She couldn’t deny the relief of finally being alone.

As she printed the larger versions of the beach pictures, though, she did ask herself exactly what she would do with them. The weekly news magazine she worked for, Events, didn’t publish “pretty” photos. Her New York editor wanted grit—the grittier, the better. She’d given him just that for six years now, first in Africa, more recently in Eastern Europe and Afghanistan.

They’d been a damned good team, she and James Daley, even after she ended their brief engagement. Despite the pain caused by James’s unfaithfulness, Sarah had stayed on the job. Anger and hurt feelings had, with time, given way to mutual respect; together they’d earned a notable reputation for delivering the story with his spare reporting and her uncompromising pictures.

Then, between one heartbeat and the next, James was gone. A witness to the shooting—she stood only a few steps behind him as he fell—Sarah remained at the scene and finished the story for James…for them both. She’d managed to work through the memory of his sightless eyes, the smell of blood and munitions in the air, the one ragged cry he’d given before dying.

Until that last morning, by a pit in a field outside Kabul, a vast cavern filled with the bodies of women and girls, when the shaking had gotten so bad she couldn’t hold the camera steady, and there wasn’t any way to make it stop. She’d seen herself falling into that grave. She could still hear the voices of the dead—James’s among them—crying all around her, waiting for her…

On a deep, shuddering breath, Sarah jerked her mind back to the present. This was not a war-raped field in Central Asia. This was Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, USA, where the sun sank gently behind the dunes, shedding an amber light over little girls dancing on the beach in their best clothes.

Eyes closed, she focused on that peaceful scene, recalling each lovely detail. Gradually, her heartbeat slowed, the shakes went away.

See, she was getting better. Six months of therapy had restored her ability to cope, to function. She’d been tired when she got back to the States…well, okay, exhausted. Yet she’d had trouble sleeping. The dreams had been even worse than her memories.

Now, though, she was rested. Soon, she’d be well enough to resume her job. She’d worked hard to get a permanent assignment with Events and she would cover whatever story they asked for.

That she’d been shooting pictures yesterday testified to her recovery. Not since…then…had her camera come to hand so easily, so smoothly. She could thank Luke Brennan for that. Luke Brennan and his precious little girls.

Sarah cleaned up the darkroom, glancing often at the pictures she’d developed tonight. He wouldn’t be easy to forget. His laugh was warm, his grin contagious, but the shadows in his eyes spoke of deep trouble. What could have brought such pain to his face?

She’d never know. And even if she found out, she was the last person who could help him. Daily life was as much of a challenge as she could manage these days. Until she could take charge of her own life again, she couldn’t possibly solve anyone else’s problems.

After sweeping up, she made sure Luke Brennan and his daughters had dried thoroughly, then closed them into a folder inside her portfolio. Tomorrow she’d get the release and send the shots to her agent. If they found a place to sell, good. If not, Sarah congratulated herself on at least taking pictures again. Six months was a long…vacation.

She tidied the kitchen area in the back of the shop, washed her cup and Chuck’s and set the coffee to brew in the morning, then picked up the portfolio and her purse and left by the rear door.

The June night folded around her, not yet humid enough to cling. Screams of tourists riding the roller coasters on the boardwalk a few blocks away speared the darkness. Floodlights crisscrossed the sky from all directions—the beach attractions to the east and the giant performance halls to the west. Myrtle Beach prided itself on giving great value for an entertainment buck.

Thinking about the sleepy little town she’d visited during high school summers, Sarah whistled lightly as she walked toward her Jeep. Thanks to the tourist boom, the town had mushroomed in the last fifteen years, bringing in big-city problems without always providing the means to deal with them. Still, those little girls on the beach had been safe and happy—

Footsteps sounded behind her, running. Keys in hand, Sarah started to turn, but was too late even to scream. A man slammed into her back, taking her to her knees. Arching her body, she tried to buck, but he was too heavy. His breathing was a ragged gasp in her ear as he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her forward. She braced her arms, palms sliding against the gravel; he reached over, jerked her hands up, and shoved her down hard. Her face hit the ground, tore, burned.

She tried to twist underneath him, but his knees held her shoulders down as he sat on her back. Every other pain faded as he closed his hands around her neck and squeezed. And squeezed. Sarah stabbed at him with a key—he jerked the ring out of her fingers. She kicked with her heels, but his grip only tightened on her throat.

Weakening, she gasped, pleaded with no sound, fought the weight on her ribs and spine until a black fog clouded her vision.

And then she stopped fighting.