Those Cassabaw Days (11 page)

Emily smiled. “No, sir. What?”

“Dad, stop it,” Owen warned.

“Rabbits. Deer. Hedgehogs. As skinny as you are, you need some meat. And potatoes.”

“Can I take a rain check?” she asked. “I’ll make another pie.”

Jep’s face lit up. “Now you’re talkin’. How ’bout Saturday night? Owen and Nathan can bring in a few pounds of shrimp. And,” he added with a wink, “make it lemon.”

Emily gave a firm nod. “Lemon it is. And Saturday sounds great. Thank you.” Her gaze slid to Matt, one brow arching. “Peach pie, huh?”

He could’ve laughed, or at least cracked a smile, so serious and bold was her expression. But he didn’t. He wasn’t exactly sure why. Instead, he kept a straight face. “Did you get the lumber quotes?”

He could see hurt, and a little embarrassment, in her eyes—maybe from that strange moment that had passed between them earlier. When they’d both grabbed the box, he’d been in some sort of weird trance. Embarrassing as hell now that he’d thought about it. So to answer his earlier question: yes, he truly was that big of an ass.

Emily played it cool, though; acted as if his blunt shift in subject hadn’t bothered her in the least. But he knew it had. The stupid thing was, he really hadn’t meant to be an ass.

He didn’t know what he’d meant.

And that just frustrated Matt even more.

“What’d you do, sit on a damn stick?” Jep grumbled.

Matt frowned, then ignored him.

“I’m goin’ to start supper. Owen, did you clean those fish yet?” Jep asked.

“Not yet, Dad. Why don’t you come out and help me?” Owen suggested.

“Not a bad idea,” Jep added. He shot a look at Emily. “All right, young lady, I’ll trade you shrimp for lemon pie, Saturday around six. Square?”

Emily laughed. “Yes, sir, shrimp for lemon pie, Saturday at six, supersquare.”

Old Jep just shook his head. “Good luck with Mr. Stick over there.”

“Dad,” Owen warned again. “See you later, Emily.”

Emily waved as Jep and Matt’s father set out for the dock then she rose from the table. Producing a small notebook, she flipped open the cover and handed it to him. He again noticed how long and slender her fingers were, and how she gesticulated when she told him about her lumber research. Her hands moved like liquid, effortlessly and flowing.

Matt held her gaze for a moment before reading the list. She’d written neat columns with the lumber company’s name, phone number and price quote. Very professional and businesslike. Except, he noticed, for the comical frowny face she’d drawn next to the priciest quote. He handed the notebook back to her.

“Want me to order it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “That’s okay, I will. And whatever you need for the dock, dock house and all other materials for the café.” She started to leave. “I’ll cut you a check for half your pay.” Moving past him, she glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll get the other half when the jobs are complete.” She gave a slight grin. “Bye, Matt. Enjoy the pie.”

Matt stood in the kitchen until he heard the front screen door creak open then shut. Running a hand over his buzzed head, he rubbed the back of his neck and blew out a frustrated breath as he stared at the ceiling. What in the hell was the matter with him?

* * *

E
MILY
HALF
STOMPED
her way back through the path to her house.

Maybe Jep was right.

Maybe Matt
had
sat on a stick.

Along the path a breeze blew in from the river, rustling the magnolia leaves and crepe myrtles, the moss swaying like long gray hair. She kicked a pinecone.

“What is his problem?” she muttered to no one in particular.

No one in particular bothered to answer her.

Island Cemetery was on the northern tip of the island, closest to the sea. Emily downshifted to Second, then to First as she slowed and turned onto the long path that led through a pair of weathered iron gates. A small cemetery, it had only the one lane that ambled toward the sea, with grave sites on either side. Although it’d been fifteen years, she remembered where her parents lay, and soon she rolled to a stop, parked Jep’s truck on the lane and hopped out.

Carrying the sunflowers she’d purchased at Chappy’s, she ambled down a long row, cut over and saw the headstones at once. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed as she rounded the markers and squatted between Alex and Kate Quinn. She separated the sunflowers, laying two on her father’s stone and two on her mother’s.

Her eyes blurred with tears, and she said nothing. Simply recalled that awful day. The screech of the tires, the sickening crunch of metal, her mother’s scream. Emily remembered glancing from the backseat at her parents, seeing the back of her dad’s blond, curly-haired head, and her mother’s long hair—

“Do you remember any of it?”

Emily started at the sound of Matt’s voice, and she dried her eyes with the heel of her hand. She looked at him, standing behind her in a pair of black running shorts, black running shoes and a black T-shirt. Although his shorts reached to just above his knees, Emily could see how thick his thighs were, his calves like a pair of rocks.

He’d meant the accident. She cleared her throat. “Not much, I guess. Tires squealing, the sound of metal crushing.” She brushed the buildup of salt and dust off her mother’s name, then her dad’s. “My mom yelled about the same time it hit us. I remember our wagon rolling, my dad hollering,
‘Emily!’
and then—” she shrugged “—I woke in the hospital.”

Emily rose, listening to the crackle of leaves as the wind raced through and the sound of waves crashing just over the crest at the back of the cemetery. Matt remained silent as she lifted her face, letting the sun bathe her, letting the salt-infused air flow into her nostrils and her lungs. When she looked at Matt, his emerald eyes were fastened on her, studying. She gave a half smile. “You followed me here.”

“Wanted to make sure Jep’s truck didn’t strand you.” His gaze, unwavering, never left hers.

Emily swept the cemetery. “What’d you drive? I didn’t even hear you.”

“I ran.”

She nodded. “Quite a run. Want a lift back home?”

He shook his head. “Thanks. I’m gonna hit the road.”

“All right, then. See ya, Matt,” she said. “Thanks for checking on me.”

He gave a short nod, turned and ran up the lane, then disappeared through the gates.

* * *

B
ACK HOME,
the evening passed and slyly shifted into twilight. Emily was surprised when her cell chirped. It was Reagan.

“Little sister!” Emily exclaimed.

“Big sister!” Reagan returned. Her voice sounded muffled, as if in a tunnel. “How are ya?”

Emily eased up onto the kitchen counter. “Missing you, for one.”

“I miss you, too,” Reagan said. “How’s the house?”

Emily glanced around. “So much like I remember,” she said. “Remember the pantry?”

“Oh, my God, we used to pretend that was our hideout,” Reagan said. “What about the dock?”

“It’s in bad shape,” she said. “But guess who my carpenter is for the summer?”

“Hmm,” Reagan said. “I have no idea. Who?”

“Matt Malone.”

“No way! Is he still cute?”

Emily smiled as Matt came to mind. “Cuter than ever. So are his brothers.”

“That’s just so crazy,” Reagan said. “How’s the café? Do you think you can make a go of it?”

“I absolutely do,” Emily replied. “Are you positively certain you don’t want any input on the decor?”

“No way,” Reagan replied. “That’s your baby, sis. What’s it like?”

Emily told her about her Gatsby-themed idea.

“Now, that’s cool,” Reagan said.

“And I’ve decided to make a penny counter.”

Reagan chuckled. “What is that?”

“There’s a long bar near the back of the café. I’m going to cover it with pennies and polyurethane the top. It’ll be super cool.”

“That’s why it’s your baby,” Reagan said. “That’s a fantastic idea, sis. I can’t wait to see.”

Emily smiled. “Did you call just to chat?”

“Yes, of course,” she answered. “But also to let you know I’m leaving on a mission in a couple of days.”

Emily’s heart sank. “Dangerous?”

“Sis, you’ve seen the guys in my company. They’re like the Avengers,” Reagan said. “Seriously. I’m surrounded by armed Hulks and Iron Men and Captain Americas. I’ll be fine. Honest.”

“Call me when you return?”

Reagan laughed softly. “Don’t I always?”

After Emily hung up, Reagan stayed heavy on her mind. She worried about her sister. She prayed for her safety.

With a loaded Cobb salad and with Ben Selvin and His Orchestra wafting from the record player, Emily ate on the front porch, sitting cross-legged on the broken-down swing. As soon as the dock and dock house were finished she’d eat her meals on the river.

Just as she’d forked in a mouthful of lettuce, avocado, tomato and cheese, she saw a figure lumbering along the path. Matt emerged with something in his hand. It wasn’t until he’d reached the porch and stepped onto the veranda that she saw what it was, gripped tightly in those big hands.

Keeping his distance, as if getting too close to her obligated conversation or a lengthy visit, he hurriedly handed her a small plate covered with plastic wrap. “Jep thought you’d want a piece,” he said gruffly. He stepped back, with one foot on the lower step, ready to take flight.

In the waning light his features were edgy, stark, and he looked every bit the sniper he once was. Emily wiped her mouth with a napkin and set the slice of peach pie beside her. “Well,” she said, keeping her eyes trained on Matt. “Make sure and tell Jep thank-you. For being so thoughtful.”

Matt nodded. He was silent for a moment, then said, “‘Dancing in the Dark’?”

Emily smiled as her old friend recalled one of their favorite vintage songs. “That’s right.”

He nodded, cleared his throat, then reached into his back pocket, unfolded a piece of paper and handed her that, too. “It’s the lumber quote. Broken down in quantity by size. And, my labor.” His gaze was hooded by the fading light. “Just so you know what you’re paying for.”

Emily beamed as she went over the list. “Great. Thanks, Matt.”

Matt glanced away. “Yep.” Then he inclined his head toward the path. “Night.”

“Good night,” she called out after him. But Matt was already to the trail had and disappeared.

Emily lifted her fork and continued eating, thinking of what had just occurred between her and Matt. Her lip twitched as she chewed, and it was difficult not to full-on grin.

Either Matt had felt like the ass he’d been behaving like and decided to offer up the pie as a truce, or Jep had whacked him in the back of the head and forced him to bring the pie over.

Either could be a sound choice. And both nearly made Emily laugh out loud. Even eased her constant worry for her sister.

The night grew darker as she sat on her old broken swing, and the trombones and clarinets and saxophones of the antiquated music fanned out across the marsh. She left the porch and went inside, washed her few dishes and set her piece of pie in the fridge.

Changing into a gray V-necked T-shirt printed with a scene from
Dirty Dancing
and a pair of Hawaiian-print boxers, Emily made her way to the living room with her laptop, flipped on the lamp and sat on the sofa. With her injured leg, which was starting to look better already, propped up on a pillow, her mind wandered back to when Matt carried her from the creek and dressed her wound.

She’d experienced a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach when he’d done so. His presence did that to her, she’d noticed. As did being on the receiving end of one of his profound emerald stares. It made her insides feel all wobbly—a sensation she hadn’t experienced in a long, long time.

She paused, thinking of Trent. She’d been crazy about him, when they’d first met. Butterflies in the stomach, anticipation making her giddy. Why did this feel so different? So much...more?

She blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s just Matt, you goose,” she said to herself out loud. “Just...Matt.”

After a few moments, she diverted her thoughts away from her friend and did some online shopping.

After finding most of the items she needed, Emily began searching online for industrial appliances suitable for the café, as well as some of the personal artistic touches she’d planned on adding to the decor. A whimsical shop of antiques and consignments was located halfway between Cassabaw and Charleston, so she’d plan to go there as soon as possible. Maybe even tomorrow.

By the time she’d checked her email—noticing two in her inbox from Trent, which she deleted immediately—it was almost 1:00 a.m. She closed her laptop and climbed into bed. Quickly, she set her phone alarm and then she fell fast asleep.

Six o’clock rolled around fast and Emily groggily pulled out of a deep slumber. After having a quick shower she inspected her shin. Already healing nicely and less painful, she left the bandage off and pulled on a pair of faded destroyed jeans and a navy tank top, then a light sweater over it. Finding her newly cleaned Vans after her dredge through the river muck, she gathered her hair into a messy braid, made a to-go cup of coffee with lots of cream and sugar, grabbed her phone and bag, and headed out.

With a small sip of the steaming coffee she slid behind the wheel of Jep’s old truck and headed down the lane. With it being so early, the roads were nearly deserted as she made her way to the Windchimer. Pulling into the back lot behind the café, she climbed out, coffee in hand, and picked her way over the gravel drive to the veranda, where she sat down at a table facing the sea, propped her legs atop the rail and settled back.

The ebb and flow of the tide, the sound of the waves crashing against the breakers just off the northern tip in front of the lighthouse, washed over her, soothed her, and Emily sipped her coffee and stared out as darkness inched its way back into the shadows, and dawn, one toe at a time, slipped out and took its place. Before her eyes, the sky’s palette of grays shifted into lavender, coral and gold. On the horizon, a fine hairline of sun cracked through.

The low hum of an electric engine, followed by shuffling against the boardwalk, caught Emily’s attention. Leaning forward, she saw the ragtag World War II soldiers climb out of Freddy’s golf cart and begin ambling her way through the early-morning haze. They moved slow, stiff, but then why wouldn’t they?