A Home by the Sea (8 page)

He slid out a pager, flipped it open on his palm and glanced at the screen. For long seconds he didn't move, his face unreadable. Grace felt the intensity of his focus, swept off to whatever world was waiting on the other end of that message.

She saw the moment that the smile left his eyes. He took a deep breath. “Damn.” He touched her face. “I have to go. I'm sorry, Grace, but it's—important.” He stabbed a hand through his hair. “Why don't I call my father and have him take you home? I'll
walk you back to the yarn store. You can wait for him there.”

He was distant. Grace could see that he was al ready immersed in whatever work had summoned him. And she was certain there was danger involved.

She thought of the bruises on his hand. The long welt. “You'll be careful?” She didn't ask for details.

She wasn't sure she wanted any.

“Always.”

She nodded slowly. “There's no need to bother your father. I'll just catch a cab. If I walk over two blocks, there's always a line at the hotel.”

“Out of the question. You're not walking any where alone tonight,” Noah said flatly. “And I won't have you taking a cab. If I had more time, I'd drop you off myself.” His eyes narrowed as the pager rang again.

He scanned the text screen while he pulled out his cell phone. “Dad? Yeah, it's Noah. Look, I've got a favor to ask. Grace is here. We were just taking a walk, but I have to go.”

Noah listened for a moment. “You would?

Thanks, Dad. That would be great. I'll tell her.”

Noah slid his phone back into his pocket. “He should be here in fifteen minutes. I'll walk you back to the store.”

 

N
OAH CRANKED UP
the heat and took a long drink from the water bottle he always kept in the front
seat of his Jeep. His first page had read four-one-four. Level-four risk. Level-four explosives involved.

Very dangerous.

He stared at the traffic racing past and thought about Grace's eyes, so bright with life and humor. She had stunned him with the tentative force of her kiss and the trembling pressure of her hands on his chest.

He had seen the joy die when he got the page to leave.

Their first kiss had changed things, Noah thought wryly. Where the night would have led them, he hadn't a clue. Now he'd never know.

He glared out at the snow. No point in getting angry. The job came first.

When the light changed, he plunged into the stream of evening traffic headed east. Downtown.

No regrets. Regrets were cold stones in an empty cup.

This was what he was. This was what he did. And at least tonight the right man was going out to handle the explosives. A man who knew the risks and accepted them.

Not like Matt.

It was the one thing Noah could be grateful for as his pager beeped again and the threat level shot up to a six.

A
FTER
N
OAH LEFT
,
Grace wandered aimlessly.

Shelves of soft yarn offered no distraction now. She kept thinking where he might be, telling herself there was no reason to worry. She didn't know what he did, beyond being called out on short notice. He worked for the government, but that description could apply to any number of jobs.

Grace massaged a knot of tension in her forehead. Noah would tell her when he was ready—if he could. She respected the need for secrecy.

But waiting for news left her jumpy. She would have gone to find a cab except that she had told Noah she would stay and wait for his father.

She leafed through a knitting book, pretending to look at the pages. Every few minutes she checked her watch. At least Noah's mother would soon have his gift. Losing a son had to be unimaginable, but she prayed that the knitting project would distract and comfort her. Grace remembered her own bad times, when the slide of smooth wool and the click of wooden needles had brought her solace, along with
happy memories of quiet afternoons knitting with her grandmother.

The big Hummer appeared exactly when predicted, and Alex McLeod jumped over the snow, scooping up her bags like a man half his age.

“I'm sorry to trouble you, but Noah insisted.”

“And well he should. I'm happy to drive you back. I hope we can make a stop at home on the way.” Noah's father helped her inside and glanced down at her bags. “Nice things in there?”

“Yarn for a project. They had the exact color I needed. Several magazines, too.”

Alex nodded slowly. “Tatiana used to knit. She hasn't picked up anything lately.” He frowned at the crowded streets, nudging the big Hummer around snowdrifts from the recent storm. “Frankly, I wish she'd start up again. She needs it now. She still broods about our son.”

“Noah told me about him,” Grace said quietly. “I'm so sorry. It's such a loss.”

“A loss no father should ever know,” Alex said tightly. “I still hear his laugh and turn around, expecting to see him behind me.” His hand tightened on the wheel. “But Tatiana feels it worst of all. She won't talk about it, though. Frankly, I don't think she should be alone tonight. Not to brood and remember.” He glanced at Grace, choosing his words carefully. “She likes you, Grace. If you would come and spend a few hours with us, you would be doing me—and Noah—a great favor.”

“I'd love to come. Your wife is a wonderful cook and I warn you, I'm going to pry out all her secrets. In fact, that's what I love about food and cooking. There's always more to learn. Even the best recipe is never finished, but always waiting for a new touch from a master's hand.”

“With that kind of energy you must be very good at your job. Maybe on the way you can tell me a little more about this work you do. It's some kind of research?”

“Mostly, I write about historical cooking, how breads were made and foods were preserved. Traditional kinds of herb use and fermentation.” Grace was describing her next project when her cell phone rang. She saw the Oregon area code but didn't recognize the number.

“Sorry. I should take this.” Grace hurriedly dug out her cell phone, wondering who was calling.

A deep voice boomed out. “You're a hard person to track down, Grace. I've called you three times, twice at your apartment. No luck.”

“Gage! Sorry to miss your calls. Are you in D.C. now?”

“Stopping over on the way home. I lost your cell number, then tried Caro, but they're expecting a big storm. The reception has been rotten. It took me an hour to get through.”

Lieutenant Gage Grayson was married to Grace's closest friend back on Summer Island. The girls had been inseparable growing up, supporters during bad
times and a general cheering section over the years. Gage was finishing a tour of duty in Afghanistan and due home shortly. “So you're headed home? That's wonderful. Caro will be wild. I wish I could be there.”

“Still working too hard, are you? Caro says she hasn't seen you for months.”

“Guilty, I'm afraid. So much food, so little time. But I'm planning to be back in Oregon in two weeks. Will you be there?” Grace heard the sound of voices and airport gate numbers being announced in the background.

“I'm not sure. But I know I've got my first night planned. Caro beside me,
Casablanca
on the tube and a fire at full blaze. Wait—hold on Grace. They just made a flight change.”

She heard the phone shift, and then more muffled announcements. When Gage came back, the line was filled with voices. “I was hoping to meet you for coffee, but I'll be boarding in twenty minutes. I was able to hop an earlier connection. Sorry.”

“Hey, don't apologize. Just jump in your seat and get home. I know a woman who can't wait to see you. A dog and cat, too.”

“Yeah, I miss them all. So—everything's really okay with you? I mean, I was sorry to hear about your fiancé's death. I hope things are going better now.”

“Yes.” Grace took a deep breath. “It was…rocky for a while. But it's better.” It finally felt better, she
realized. She could talk about James without flinching. “Now go get that flight, Marine. And give all my love to Caro. Plus check in on my grandfather, would you? Remind him I'll be there before the end of the month.”

“Will do, Grace. There's nothing wrong with Peter, is there? He's not sick, I hope.”

“No, he's fine. He just doesn't know how to slow down. I worry about him.”

“Understood. I'll do a full reconnoiter and have Caro call you with the details. We'll be putting in some time helping out at the shelter, too. How does that sound?”

“Just wonderful. Thanks so much, Gage. And—just take care, okay? Everyone on Summer Island has you in their thoughts.”

“Thanks.” Emotion tightened his voice. “I appreciate all your help and support. It means a lot, to me and my men. Those knitted helmet liners were snatched up faster than ammo, by the way. Now I really should go. Don't want to lose my flight after coming halfway around the world.”

“Go. Be safe.” Grace heard more bustle and then the line went dead. She continued to hold the phone, thinking of Caro and the wonderful reunion she would have with her husband. If any two people deserved happiness, they did.

Alex glanced over at her. “Everything okay?”

“It was the husband of my best friend. He's on his way home from Afghanistan. The Marines.”

“Glad to hear he's got some leave coming. Sounds like everyone is close where you live. Summer Island, was it?”

“That's the place—and yes, we are close. I just wish I could get back there more often.” She ran a hand through her hair. “Lately, all I seem to do is travel. Still, I can't complain. I have my dream job and I savor every second of it.”

Alex gave her a searching look. “But you miss your friends back in Oregon. And you worry about your grandfather.”

“He's always been healthy as an ox, but he's get ting on in years. Yes, I worry about him. He works way too hard.” Grace watched the slow, snarled traffic crawl. “But he won't stop.”

“Men are like that. My suggestion—if you'll pardon an interfering man—is to tell him you worry about him. That might just slow him down. He'll care about how you feel, Grace.”

“Maybe. But I know how much he loves those animals of his.” She smiled at Alex. “Probably as much as you love your cars. I imagine you work twelve-hour days.”

“I suppose I'm just as guilty. I'm trying to give more work to Reed. Since losing Matt, I want to be home with Tatiana. She worries about all of us.” He hesitated. “About Noah, especially.”

Grace watched Alex's hands tighten on the wheel. “Is it…very dangerous, this work of his?”
She knew she shouldn't ask, but somehow the words slipped out.

“Dangerous? I guess that depends on who you ask.”

“I'm asking you, Mr. McLeod.”

“Alex,” he corrected. “I'll tell you what I know. Mind you, it isn't a whole lot.” His eyes narrowed. “His work is hard and the hours are long. He has a great deal of responsibility.” He took a slow breath. “And yes…it can be dangerous. But most of the time it's routine and it's tedious, nothing more than that. So we are going to pray hard that tonight is one of the routine nights.” He forced a smile. “Since I can't say more than that, why don't we talk about you? I have an ulterior motive, you see.” He rubbed his neck. “My wife is feeling restless lately. I admit, I goaded her to ask for the recipe for that whole-grain bread you mentioned, but she was too proud to ask.”

“Of course I can show her. We could make some this weekend, if you like.”

“Actually, I had a better idea.” Alex gave a guilty smile. “I hoped you might start tonight. My wife should have everything you need at the house.”

“You are tricky, aren't you? You planned for me to come. But that's fine. It will keep our thoughts off…other things.”

Like Noah.

They would all be thinking about Noah—and whether he was safe.

“Just turn here, could you? I'll run in and get some things from my apartment first.”

While Alex turned around, Grace ran inside for her notes on the newest bread recipe she was testing. When she came out, a man stepped out from between two cars, blocking her way. He lifted a big camera and moved in on her face, the camera whirring loudly.

“Wh—what are you doing?” Grace blinked, frozen in the glare of his powerful flash. “Who are you?” She heard Alex call her name. The door of the Hummer opened.

The man with the camera moved back to include Alex in the photo as he emerged from the car. “I'm nobody.”

“Back off,” Alex growled.

The man sidestepped as Alex moved protectively in front of Grace. “Free country, pal.” But he wasn't prepared for the powerful hand that gripped his shoulder or the quick way Alex covered the lens of the camera with his palm.

“
Hey
—you can't do that.”

“Do what?” Alex said calmly. “I tripped on some ice. You just happened to be in the way.”

“Like hell, you b—”

The camera went flying as Alex spun the man around and pushed him against a parked truck. “The lady asked you a question. Who are you?”

Muttering, the man took a swing at Alex but missed.

“Name,” Alex said, his voice hard and cold.

“W-Wilson. Henry.”

“Who do you work for?”

“No one, damn it. I'm strictly freelance.”

Alex frowned, “Why are you interested in the lady? Who were you going to sell these photos to?”

“None of your f—”

“Language.” In one deft move Alex lifted the man up over the Hummer's hood, feet dangling. “Answer the question politely.”

The man named the largest newspaper chain in the country, spitting out each word.

“Now isn't that interesting?”

“But why me?” Grace demanded. “No one cares where I go or what I do.”

The man on the hood snorted. “They damned well care about James Marfield though. Someone at the paper is doing an in-depth exposé about failures of world diplomacy. Whatever the hell that means,” the man snarled. “Your James is number one on the list.”

Grace took in a strangled breath. Not more of James's shadows.

“Forget this job,” Alex said curtly. “If the lady tells me you've been bothering her again, I will find you and make these suggestions in a more concrete way. Do we understand each other?”

“Y-yes.” The man fell back with a curse when Alex released him. He grabbed his camera from the snow and scowled. “Thanks for ruining my new Nikon.”

“Anytime,” Alex said pleasantly. “Call it a professional hazard. Freelancing can be dangerous.”

“Yeah, be a smart-ass now. But I won't be the only one who's following her. There's a big contract for photos on this story. They want info about Marfield.” He glared at Grace and laughed harshly. “About his private life, too. Get ready for life in the fishbowl, honey,” he called as he ran across the street.

Grace stood stiffly. Anger choked her at this invasion of her privacy. “I—I'm sorry about that.”

“It's not your fault, Grace. I'm just glad to help.”

“You're pretty tough, aren't you? I see where Noah gets it.”

“I don't allow my family or friends to be harassed, if that's what you mean.” Alex picked up the gloves that Grace had dropped and knocked snow off the soft pink merino.

“You're—not going to ask me what he meant?”

“No. You'll tell me if you want to. And if not, there's no point in asking you anyway.”

Grace took the gloves he was holding out to her. “The strong, silent type. Another trait that Noah inherited.” She shoved her hands in her pocket and looked down at the outline of the camera where it had dropped in the snow. “James Marfield was my fiancé. He died in a plane crash. One year, four months and nineteen days ago,” she said quietly. “He was smart, funny, intense and generous. He had traveled everywhere. I thought he was the best thing that
ever happened to me. How wrong can a person be?” she said softly.

Alex held open the door to the Hummer. “Let's go home.”

As they drove through the darkness, she told Noah's father all the rest, about James's lies and lovers. About a probable baby. When she finished she felt drained.

“Noah knows about all this, but not about the reporter. I'd like to tell him that myself, if you don't mind.”

“Of course.”

“I was…so naive. I believed all that traveling James did was for his humanitarian causes. And he really did so much good. People simply trusted him.” She ran a trembling hand across her eyes. “Even now his memory…hurts.”

“Don't blame yourself,” Alex said sternly. “It's never wrong to trust. He's the one to blame, and only him.”