Читать книгу And Baby Makes Four - Mary J. Forbes - Страница 9

The man stood watching her in the early-April twilight.

Had he been alone, Lee Tait might have worried. This was, after all, the third time in as many days he stopped to observe her tinker on the Cessna 206 seaplane docked at the end of the boardwalk that curved within Burnt Bend’s tiny cove. As before, the child accompanied him, a boy of perhaps six or seven whose dusty blond hair caught the sun’s setting rays. His eyes, Lee noted, were plate-round with curiosity.

Still, the guy’s presence—yet again—couldn’t stop the cold sluice of adrenaline down her torso. What did he want? Why didn’t he continue along the shoreline path, which extended from the marina and wended past a smattering of cottages before looping back into the village, a distance of a quarter mile?

Why stop each time to stare at her for five minutes, and then turn around?

He stood in the fading light, rangy as a mountain climber, attired in gray cords, brown boat shoes and a black pullover. Except for a pair of gym shoes, the child emulated the dress code.

Obviously, father and son.

Two peas in a pod, her mother would say—if Lee explained the strange visitations to Charmaine. Which she would not.

The boy murmured something and, while low and indistinct, she heard the man’s quiet response drift down the wooden dock.

Trying to avoid the duo, she opened the seaplane’s door, stepped on the pontoon and hopped inside for a final check before tomorrow’s flight across the Puget Sound.

Last fall, she had signed a year’s contract with the Burnt Bend post office to courier expedited mail and parcels to the mainland. The daily service ensured a steady paycheck, while weekend visitors and tourists to the region kept her fledgling charter company viable. One day soon—when she could afford rising fuel costs—she hoped to include a scheduled weekday passenger service.

Lee winced at the thought. Cutting into Lucien Duvall’s passengers-only ferry service would not make the old guy happy.

Hopefully, when the time came, they’d be able to work something out.

Scanning for forgotten items left by passengers, she thought how the Cessna was the only good thing to come from her ex-husband. She hadn’t selected the best of his Abner Air fleet out of spite, or because he’d impregnated that cocktail waitress three years ago.

Then again, maybe she had….

Truth was, she’d picked the six-seater seaplane as the cornerstone of Sky Dash, a company she’d dreamed of founding since her twentieth birthday.

Spotting a crumpled island brochure under the farthest passenger seat, Lee recalled her last customer clutching the pamphlet in a death grip. Ah, well. Edgy fliers came with the territory.

Reaching down, she snagged the leaflet.

“Hello, there,” a deep voice said from behind.

Snapping around, she bumped her head on the cockpit’s ceiling.

She hadn’t heard him approach, but there he and the boy stood on the weathered pier, gazing at her rump in army-green coveralls, no less, as she leaned over the seat.

Swell. The guy wanted a tête-à-tête now? While her backside hung in his face?

Ignoring the warmth climbing her neck, she scrambled into the pilot’s seat.

“Hey,” she said, as if they hadn’t seen each other three times at precisely 6:30 p.m. in the past seventy-two hours. Be friendly, Lee. He could be a future weekend fare.

His eyes held humor. “Are you Amelia Earhart the Second?”

“I’m Lee Tait,” she stated, a little irked the guy would zero in on a nickname the townsfolk had given her when she received her wings fifteen years ago. “Owner and pilot of Sky Dash.”

“Sorry, ma’am.” He looked askance as if another thought chased through his mind. Then, with the boy close to his side, he offered a handshake. “Nice to meet you, Captain Tait.”

She leaned out the door. His grip was firm, large. A frisson of electricity shot up her arm. “No apology needed.” I’m used to the nickname. “And you are…?”

Shaking his head, he issued a short laugh. “I’m losing it. Rogan Matteo.”

“Rogan.” She tested the name, found it oddly pleasing. But…something niggled. Where had she heard his last name…?

He had quiet, gray eyes and soot-black hair. Although his voice suggested the South, his face revealed a none-too-genteel life. A nose too brash to be handsome, a square, tough jaw and cheekbones embracing the genes of a Spanish ancestor. Not handsome, yet appealing in a rudimentary sense.

Disregarding a scurry of nerves at how his eyes imprisoned hers, Lee jumped out of the plane. On the dock, she saw he was taller than she assumed; she could lay her head on his chest, if she chose.

Shaking off the image, she closed the seaplane’s door and picked up her metal toolbox. “What can I do for you, Mr. Matteo?” she asked, starting down the floating dock toward the boardwalk and its array of quaint stores and food outlets.

“I understand you make daily flights to the mainland.”

“I courier the island’s critical mail Monday through Friday.”

“Do you take passengers on those runs?”

“Sometimes. However, it depends on their destination and schedule. If I’m flying mail and we’re going in the same direction and at the same time, passengers are welcome.”

“Are they welcome at other times during the day?”

She stopped. They were at the junction of her dock and the boardwalk, and the boy held his dad’s hand.

“Of course,” she said. “As long as I’m back on time if there’s a mail run.”

“Ah.” Matteo gazed momentarily across the water where the sun sank below the horizon, leaving a bloodstain on the ocean. Glancing down at the boy, his eyes softened; on her they were all business. “In a week or so, I’ll need temporary shuttling to Renton, Captain Tait. Three, four days at most. My son’s attending the elementary school here, so I need to be back in time to pick him up.”

“What’s wrong with Lu’s foot ferry?” she asked. Let Lucien Duvall take the man on his sixty-passenger water taxi. It made three daily trips.

“Nothing’s wrong with his ferry, but you stop at Renton, which means I can walk to work. Lu docks at Seattle, and he leaves at 7:30 a.m. with a five-thirty return. Your eight and three o’clock schedules fit my son—” another glance at the boy “—and me better.”

My son and me. Did that mean the child’s mother lived elsewhere? Oddly, the notion of a wife waiting in the wings sent a shaft of disappointment through Lee.

“I’m willing to pay the going rate,” Matteo went on.

Unable to withhold her amazement, Lee blinked. Temporary or not, a week of daily return flights would cost him. Either he or his company had money. Since he was a stranger to the island—she knew practically every one of its two thousand souls—she’d bet he was the one with money. Probably another of the rich who came to Firewood Island looking for a chunk of so-called “nature,” while building a mansion with an ocean view.

Although the idea bothered her, where he built his home had nothing to do with her hesitancy. She did not wish to be near him. He was a man with a child. A man who could make her heart skip with a simple hello, there.

Her no-nonsense black shoes clicking against the wood, she started for the apartment she rented above Art Smarts, a whimsical shop catering to the island’s artsy community.

Matteo took the heavy toolbox from her grip. “Do you always maintain your own plane?”

“Every day.” She noticed he carried the toolbox easily, and wondered if he was always a gentleman. Her heart beat a little harder.

“So, you’re a mechanic, too?” he asked with that Southern inflection.

“Not officially, but over the years I’ve learned a few things about plane engines.” Most of it from my ex who owns a charter airline. “Don’t worry, Mr. Matteo,” she said, mentally batting Stuart Hershel out of her mind. “I hire a professional to overhaul my plane twice a year.”

Halting again, she retrieved the toolkit from his grip. Suddenly, she didn’t like his questions. And she certainly didn’t like that she noticed too much about him, which vexed her even more, especially after his scrutiny of the last three days.

“I could probably help with your situation,” she went on. “However, I won’t be responsible for getting you to work on time. If something goes wrong and I’m late, you’ll be late. And vice versa. If something holds you up here or on the mainland, I can’t wait for you.”

He held up a hand. “I understand. However, I’ve checked your flight history. Since you were hired by the post office seven months ago, you haven’t missed a day or a time. Nor have you missed your other fares.” His smile canted left. “I’m a lawyer, Miss Lee. Comprehensive research comes with the job.”

A lawyer. Who’d had her investigated. What else had he discovered? A chill spilled through her bones. Three years ago, she had returned to her hometown to escape a past that haunted her nights.

He dug a card from a hip pocket. “Call anytime and we’ll set up a schedule. I don’t go to bed until eleven.”

She studied the print. Rogan B. Matteo, Law Offices of Matteo and Matteo. Address: Renton, where she often docked. Was he part of a husband-and-wife team?

He said, “I’m having a new one printed up this week, but the cell phone number will stay the same.”

“Sure,” she said. Intent on reaching her apartment, and trying to shake off his magnetism, she hurried down the boardwalk. All right, she would admit the man seemed like a nice guy. But then lawyers were always nice guys—when they were on your side.

“Thank you,” he called. “By the way, in case you want to reach me, I’m renting a cabin at The Country Cabin B and B until our new house is ready.”

Her sister’s place. “Why am I not surprised?” Lee muttered. Kat operated the prettiest, best-priced B and B on the island.

So. Not only had Rogan Matteo spent the better part of the weekend tailing Lee, he had installed himself in Kat’s life, too. Two sisters with one stone, so to speak.

Fine. Two could play that game. In a couple hours, while she shared Sunday dinner with her sister, Lee would dig out some information about Lawyer Matteo and those dollars he was willing to dole out like Halloween candy. Dollars Lee could use to safeguard Sky Dash and ensure her plane stayed in the air.

She would not, absolutely would not, reflect on how or why he made her fingers tingle and her breath quicken.

Rogan tucked the blankets around his son’s shoulders. “Catch you in the morning, Dan-the-Man.” Leaning in, he kissed the boy’s forehead. After coming home from the dock and the bath/cookie/milk/bedtime story ritual completed, it was time for lights out.

“’Night, Daddy.” Yawning, Danny turned to the wall.

Clicking off the bedside lamp, Rogan started for the door.

The sheets swished. “Dad? Are you really gonna fly in that lady’s plane?”

Rogan returned to the bed to sit at his son’s hip. “Yeah, buddy, I am. I don’t like you being with a sitter so long after school.”

What he couldn’t say was he didn’t like the idea of a stranger watching over his child, even though the sitter was a respected woman in the community whose livelihood had been caring for kids after school for almost thirty years. Hell, she came with an arm’s length of glowing reports and references—all of which he’d checked thoroughly.

But Daniel was his remaining child. Rogan had given too many extra hours to his career when Darby and little Sophie still lived. That mistake had been more costly than he could fathom, and one he would never repeat.

“But,” Danny whispered, “aren’t you scared?”

Of flying. Rogan gently squeezed his child’s hand. “Truth?”

A quick nod.

“Sort of,” he admitted. “However, I can’t let it stop me from going to work, son. Or from getting into a plane. Yes, sometimes things are scary, but we can’t let them control what we need to do. Ms. Tait will save me a lot of time with her plane.” And I need to show you that fears can be overcome, that you don’t need to be afraid for the rest of your life.

“Is her plane safe?”

“Yes. It is. She gets it checked regularly.”

Still, Rogan’s stomach clenched. Every day he thanked all the deities for the earache that had kept Danny from boarding that fated flight. But, oh God, why had he not listened to Darby’s intuition? Why had he pushed his wife to make that journey back to the City of Forks for her mother’s sixtieth birthday?

The morning of the flight had been foggy. I don’t feel good about this, Rogan, she’d said, and he’d replied, It’ll be fine. You’ll be there before you know it. I’ll call you at lunch, okay?

But she and Sophie, their eight-year-old daughter, had never made it to Forks. And now he was putting a case together against the airline company.

He stroked his son’s hair. “We’ve talked about this, remember? Dad’s opening his own office here on the island. Then I’ll never have to leave home again, and when I am at the office I’ll be practically around the corner from your school. Flying with Captain Tait is not forever. Just a few days this week, and maybe next. Just until Uncle Johnny and I get things settled at the old office.”

“Why can’t Uncle Johnny move here, too?”

Rogan sighed. “Because he likes the big city.” Although Johnny would never admit it, Rogan believed the fast life was his younger brother’s validation as the family rebel, a label their parents had hung on him at fifteen.

On the pillow, the boy curled a hand under his cheek. “Promise you’ll come back?”

“I promise.”

Silence. Then, “Maybe that’s why Mommy never came back. She didn’t promise.”

“Oh, Danny. No one expects bad things to happen.” It’s always the other guy who’s unlucky.

“You mean if she’d promised she’d be alive now?”

“No, buddy. Promises don’t mean bad things won’t happen.”

“But you just promised.”

“Shove over, okay?” Rogan lay down beside his child and pulled him into a hug. “Promises are sort of like agreements. They mean you’ll do your best to fulfill them. But once in a while things get in the way…and the agreement is broken.”

“Like the mountain got in the way of Mom and Sophie’s plane?”

“Yeah.” Rogan closed his eyes on a flash of pain. “Sort of.”

“Are there mountains between here and Renton?”

Mount Rainier. “Not one we’ll be flying over.”

A quiet fell. “Okay,” came the soft reply.

“You about ready to sleep now, pal?”

“Hmm. ’Night, Dad.”

“’Night, tiger.”

Rogan eased from the mattress. He pulled the door to a five-inch gap and headed for the cabin’s living room. Shrugging into a wool-lined vest, he stepped quietly out the door and onto the tiny front porch. Beyond the trees, the ocean swooshed against the shore with the rhythm of a metronome.

He liked the cabin, liked the secluded woods, away from the old Victorian that was the main house. Here he could think without the interruption of other guests or the owner/hostess, Kat O’Brien, and her son. Not that he didn’t like the single mother. He did; she had given him a respectable two-week deal while he waited for his recently purchased farmhouse to undergo repairs and reconstruction.

Thinking of the ninety-year-old structure a mile from town, Rogan smiled. Farmhouse, indeed. Once, long ago, it had overlooked a sixty-acre sheep farm. Today, the acres totaled fifteen and contained a house and barn in dire need of paint and repairs and a mare with a three-week-old foal.

Taking Danny to see the horses had cinched the deal. One look at that fuzzy-chinned baby gamboling beside its great-bellied mother, and the boy had been a goner.

I wanna live here, Daddy, and pet the baby horse every day.

After a thousand tears and months of heartbreak following the deaths of his wife and daughter, Rogan hadn’t been able to refuse the boy anything. Not even a farm. So he’d bought the place, hired the island handyman Zeb Jantz to do enough repairs to make it livable, and moved from Renton to this B and B cabin in order to settle Dan into the elementary school as well as oversee the renovation.

But on nights like this…nights when his little guy questioned Darby’s crash, Rogan wanted nothing more than to turn back the clock three years to the exact moment he had booked that charter flight to Forks. And the moment he heard Darby’s premonition. He’d cancel the flight and tell her to stay home.

He’d say he loved her one more time.

Scratching his stubbled cheeks, he sat on one of the porch’s two wicker chairs. The spice of sea clung to the night’s breeze and stars glittered like crushed glass in the sky.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, listening and waiting for what he didn’t know, before the ping-ping of the cell phone on his belt shot through his musings. Caller ID indicated a text message from his younger brother in Renton, where Rogan had once lived with Darby and set up a law office with Johnny.

Hey guy, the message began. Hope ur not in the sack. Rogan’s mouth lifted into a smile as he checked the watch at his wrist and realized that already an hour had passed. “Time flies when you’re having fun,” he muttered. He continued to read: Got some news re case. Need 2 discuss. Tomoro at 9 work 4 u? jkm

Tomorrow? That meant contacting Lee Tait tonight and flying in her floatplane well before he’d planned. Before he had a week to psych himself up for the ordeal. Because as much as he pretended otherwise, for him flying would be an ordeal.

Cant u call now? he wrote. Within sixty seconds he had an answer: In L8 meet. See u tomoro. Rogan grunted. He could imagine Johnny’s late meeting. No doubt it involved a long-legged blonde.

Contemplating, he replied, Ill call u at 9. He did not want to get on that plane this soon.

No, came the return. B HERE at 9!

Rogan stared at the message. What the hell could be so important that they had to meet in person?

With a sigh he shut the phone. One way or another, he’d find out tomorrow. He only hoped it was something positive in the suit he was building against the charter airline company that killed his family.

Don’t think of that now, he thought, staring at the night sky with its canopy of stars. Or you won’t get to sleep tonight.

He forced himself to relax. Three hundred yards away, the ocean lapped against the shore and he turned his memories to his encounters with Lee Tait a few hours before.

Her womanly charms surprised him. All that red hair in a thick wavy tail trailing down her back, and those eyes, green as the budding leaves on the farm….

The freckles across her skin had surprised him further. At a distance she appeared pale and thin, but within arm’s length her complexion glowed like the setting sun, and her shape had the litheness of a willow.

But what caught him most was the heat in his groin when his name tumbled from her lips in a voice made for the night.

Shame slashed through him. How could he think of another woman? Darby had been the love of his life for seventeen years. No one could replace her.

Shoulders lifting on an extensive breath, he returned to the wicker chair. Slouching forward, he shoved his hands into his hair.

He was so goddamned tired. Tired of the loneliness, of hurting and grieving, and wishing time was reversible. He needed to move on, really move on. For Danny and for himself. Living like a monk wasn’t the answer.

And Johnny was right. Hiding on an island wasn’t the answer, either. Because no matter how hard Rogan tried, the memories dragged along like tattered old blankets. Well, right or wrong he’d made the choice, and next week he’d hang out his shingle. But first, he needed to cajole the lovely Lee into taking him tomorrow in that confined little seaplane.

He looked toward the bed-and-breakfast. He had her business number from her Sky Dash Web site. He could call her, except two hours ago he’d seen her drive up in a red Jeep and go into the Victorian. Another surprise. Did she live here, rent a room?

He could call the main desk and ask for her extension.

Or he could wait until morning, talk to her face-to-face on the wharf, hand her a wad of bills she couldn’t refuse.

For the first time in years, his heart pounded with anticipation.