Those Cassabaw Days (14 page)

She breathed. In. Out. “No, Trent. Please don’t.”

And she hung up. Setting the phone down, she walked to the kitchen window and stared out into the rain. What in the world was Trent doing? Just as she was getting settled and comfortable? She cared for him still—probably always would—but something had definitely changed between them. Probably before the breakup, even.

With a gusty, frustrated sigh she set to work making the pies she’d promised Jep. Thunder cracked, and she jumped, and as she made the crusts, the filling, then set them in the oven to bake, she prayed the power wouldn’t go out.

After a quick shower and a fresh change of clothes, the pies were finished and, pushing thoughts of Trent from her mind, she started for the Malones’. Only remnants of the storm hung in the air—the oddly unique scent of damp earth and wood and pine needles, the occasional fall of raindrops from the overhanging tree limbs, and the way everything was so still, so fresh, so alive.

Emily, once again with pies in tow, started down the path between the houses.

Eric, Matt’s younger brother, met her on the front porch, his easy smile and green eyes alive and sparkling. “Whoa! My favorite smoking-hot neighbor! Come on in!”

She stomped her feet on the metal grating, toed her galoshes off, slipped on her flip-flops and climbed the steps to the veranda. Eric held the door open wide for her to pass through. “Cute boots, Emily. They go great with those shorts.” She slid a sideways grin, and he returned it. “Brought me some more pie, huh?” he joked, taking them from her. “Jep’s just about finished with the shrimp cakes. Best in the low country.”

Emily’s stomach growled. “I believe it.”

“Hey, you got a picture of your sister?” Eric asked over his shoulder as he led the way. “I can’t imagine her all grown-up.”

“As a matter of fact I do,” Emily offered. They reached the kitchen and Eric set the pies on the kitchen counter. She looked around. “Where’s Jep?” She’d thought he’d be cooking in the kitchen.

Eric slid her a grin and inclined his head. “He’s frying by the dock house. Pic?”

Emily’s eyes found Jep in his apron down the dock, then she pulled her iPhone from her pocket. Quickly she found the latest pic Reagan had sent to her and opened it. She held the phone for Eric. It was a photo Reagan had sent from Afghanistan, and she was in full battle gear.

His eyes grew big. “Holy crap,” he said in a low voice. “That can’t be little Rea.”

“Yeah, it really is,” she responded. “Hard for me to believe, too.”

Eric’s startling trademark Malone eyes turned soft as he stared at her. “You worry about her a lot, I bet.”

Emily sighed. “I do, all the time. She’s on a mission now, and...I miss her.” She offered him a smile to lighten the mood. “She’s a tough girl, though. Tougher than I ever thought she’d be.”

“Who’s tough?” Nathan said as he came through the kitchen. “Pics? Let me see.”

Eric held out the phone with Reagan’s picture and Nathan leaned close, inspecting. He let out a low whistle. “She looks like she can kick some serious ass.” He grinned at Emily. “Is she coming home anytime soon?”

With a shrug, Emily returned her phone to her pocket. “I’m not sure,” she said. “She just came home a few months ago.” Her gaze slipped over the kitchen, then out to the dock. She could see Jep, and now Owen, but no sign of Matt. “Where’s your brother?”

A slow smile spread over Eric’s handsome face, and at the same time Nathan just crossed his arms over his big chest and grinned. Dark sandy-blond brows lifted.

“Why?” Eric asked. “Are you interested in our sullen brother?”

“Yeah,” Nathan teased. “What do you wanna know for?”

Emily beamed. “Of course I’m interested, goofs. I mean he was my best friend once upon a time, don’t forget.” She gave them a sly grin. “That old fun Matt is still in there somewhere. I aim to drag him out, by hook or by crook, even if kicking and screaming.”

Nathan rubbed his stubbled chin. Eric just smiled wider. “Well,” Nathan added, “if anyone’s capable of doing that it’s you, Emily Quinn.”

She sincerely hoped so.

“To answer your question,” Eric began, “Matt got a call from one of the guys in his company, and Matt took off. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s become a man of few words.”

Emily nodded; she was disappointed, yet impressed at the same time. “I have. Well, he’s a good guy to have around if you’re in trouble, that’s for sure.”

“Are you kids gonna just jibber-jabber in there all day or come outside and eat?” Jep hollered from the veranda doors. “And bring them pies! Eric, grab me another roll of paper towels, will ya?”

Emily, Eric and Nathan all laughed as Jep stomped his bow-legged self back down the dock to the dock house, where smoke was rising from the deep fryer.

“Come on, girl,” Nathan said, and dropped an arm over her shoulders. “You’re in for a real treat now. Jep’s fried shrimp cakes are legendary.”

As the sun set over Morgan’s Creek and the Back River, with the sky turning several shades of orange and red, and white feathery egrets roosting in the live oaks for the night, Emily ate supper with the Malone men. Well, all except one, anyway, and although she completely enjoyed the time spent with everyone else, she sincerely missed Matt being present.

After one of the best meals she’d had in her life, they sat, talked and eventually made room for Emily’s lemon pie. Jep bit into the first piece and he closed his eyes.

“Now, that’s Heaven, gel,” he said, and Emily smiled.

“Oh, you know it’s good stuff when ol’ Jep there slips back into Galway tongue,” Owen teased. “Good job, Emily.”

She beamed. “Thanks.”

They talked until night blanketed the marsh, and Jep let out a yawn. Then they all said good-night, and she left Matt’s check on the kitchen table in an envelope. Even though Eric and Nathan both insisted on walking her home through the path, she begged them not to bother.

At the path’s entrance, she paused. “Thanks again for an invigoratingly fabulous poststormy evening, fellas.”

“Emily?” Nathan said. He scrubbed his jaw, held her gaze. “About Matt. He’s...well, he’s changed. Not an island homebody like Eric and me.” He kicked at a pinecone. “Just be careful. I mean, he won’t be staying here long.”

Emily’s gaze moved from eldest to youngest Malone. “He’s leaving Cassabaw?”

“Trying his damnedest to,” Eric added. “Ever since he’s been discharged—hell, ever since the first day he’s been home he’s been itching to leave again.”

“So just watch how attached you get,” Nathan said. “He’ll be here one second, then the next, gone.”

Emily’s heart sank a little. “I understand. But while he’s here?” She grinned and wiggled her brows. “I’m determined to bring out that old goofy Matt. But thanks for the warning.”

“You sure you don’t want one of us to walk you through the time tunnel?” Nathan smiled, and Emily thought he looked like a handsome rogue pirate in the moonlight as he used the nickname her mother had given the path.

“Thank you, boys, but I’ll be fine. See ya later!”

“All right, but holler once you’re through,” Eric added.

Emily hurried through the freshly hacked thicket and turned around. “I’m here!” she yelled, then giggled.

With a somewhat heavy heart she headed across the yard, through the magnolias and crepe myrtle trees and azaleas to the front porch. Inside, she quickly changed into a pair of boxers, another of her favorite movie T-shirts, grabbed her laptop and headed back to the porch. Nestling onto her newly repaired swing, she crossed one leg under her bottom and pushed off with her toe.

Emily could hardly wait until the dock was finished. As a kid, she and Matt had sat out there for hours...

“You’re still up.”

Emily jumped, but she settled as soon as she recognized Matt’s voice. Her heart didn’t, though. It lurched, sped up, tickled her insides, washed her with despair, all at once. She watched the shadows spit him out as he emerged from their private path, and ambled toward her. His long, powerful strides brought him to the porch, where he stopped, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

“I am.” Emily patted a spot on the swing beside her. “Come sit down on my newly repaired spectacular porch swing.” She gave a push. “Thank you.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Superpowers,” she replied, and tapped her temple with a forefinger. “I can read thoughts.”

Matt glanced away, out across the darkened marsh, rubbed his chin with his hand, then moved up the steps to the veranda. He stood over Emily. “Sure it’ll hold me?”

Emily smiled up at him. “Nope. Only one way to find out, though.”

Matt shook his dark head, with his closely shorn buzz cut, which was beginning to grow out a little, and lowered himself down. The wooden bench groaned beneath his weight, but it held up. He inclined his head to Emily’s laptop. “Working?”

Emily leaned back, untucked her leg and gave the swing a push. “I just schooled myself on how to cut a hole in those glass insulators—” she looked at him “—so I can install LED lights in them. To hang them from the rafters inside and outside of the café.” She swiped her hand overhand. “So each and every night can be a star-swamped twinkly coastal night.” She gave him a light jab in the ribs with her elbow. “Pretty slick, huh?”

Matt cut his eyes at her. “Star-swamped, huh?” He rubbed his head. “But the café is opened only during the daylight hours.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, she wiggled her brows, ignoring the warmth of Matt’s body close to hers. “Well, smarty-pants, the interior of the café is dim, anyway, so the supercool twinkly effect will work perfectly. And on the outside?” She shrugged, then waved her hand overhead again. “I’ll keep them on a timer, maybe have them turn off at midnight.” She looked at him with a raised brow. “Or maybe I’ll just decide to run the café for dinnertime, too.”

Matt’s eyes, intense and now mossy green and shiny from the lamplight, watched her. “That’s a big undertaking.”

“It is,” Emily agreed. “So I’ll have to think on it. See how things go with the operating hours it already has established.”

Matt nodded and stared out across the darkened yard. “Well, then, yeah. Pretty slick, Quinn. It’s a good idea.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry I missed supper tonight,” he said quietly. “An old friend called.” He clasped his hands together, and Emily noticed his big knuckles were busted, a few of them with dried blood on them. “I had to go.”

She watched Matt’s profile: jaws clenched, brows furrowed. Half of his face was seized by the shadows, and it made him appear surreal, elusive and every bit the warrior he once was. Dangerous beyond imagination to any foe, she imagined.

But not to her. Never, ever to her.

“Is everything okay now?” she asked.

Quiet at first, he finally answered. “As okay as it gets for some.”

Resting her head against the back of the swing, she softened her expression. “Well, then,” she said quietly. “I’m glad you were there for your friend. Let’s go inside and I’ll clean those knuckles up for you.”

“Nah,” Matt replied, flexing his fingers. “They’ll be all right.”

Emily stopped the swing with her foot, then stood. “You made a big stinking deal out of my shin splinter. The least you can do is let me pay you back.”

Matt’s gaze moved to her shin. He cocked his head. “Looks good and healed.”

“Yes, it does, and you’re avoiding the absolute resolution.”

Matt eyed her. “Absolute resolution?”

“Sure. The absolute resolution of this argument where you say you’re fine, and I insist you need to let me clean up those busted knuckles. But you know me well enough that I’ll not let go of this particular bone.” She opened the screen door and it creaked, and she held it open without looking at him. And waited.

The groan of the porch swing as Matt rose sounded behind her, and Emily didn’t even bother hiding her victory smile. When his hand caught the door, she stepped inside, and he was right behind her. She walked straight to the kitchen sink and turned on cool water.

“Let the water run over your knuckles and I’ll be right back,” she instructed, watching. Wordlessly, Matt stepped up to the sink and did as she asked. Satisfied, Emily hurried to the bathroom, grabbed a few cotton balls, the big bottle of hydrogen peroxide and tube of antibiotic ointment she’d just purchased, and hurried back.

“This really isn’t necessary,” Matt grumbled.

She set her items on the kitchen table and grabbed a clean dish towel, catching his hands with it and patting them dry. She looked up to find his eyes watching her closely. The intense flash could’ve made her flinch, but she willed herself not to. She smiled. “Oh, but it really is. Now sit down.”

He did, sprawling into the old straight-backed chair that had belonged to Aunt Cora, muscular legs spread wide in total guy fashion. His eyes stayed on Emily, not wavering, and it made the room shrink. Made her insides surge, just a bit, and pushing the odd feeling aside, she poured some peroxide onto a cotton ball and dabbed Matt’s torn and reddened knuckles. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a single, solitary movement.

“Tough guy, huh?” Emily teased. “Whatever happened to ‘Blow on it, Em! Blow on it!’?” She kind of gave a light laugh, leaned forward and lightly blew across his knuckles. When she raised, his eyes were on her, steadfast and unwavering, and darker than before. She willed herself to breathe normally. “Remember when Jep used to put that god-awful mercury antiseptic on our scrapes and cuts?” She laughed again. “Oh, my Lord, that stuff was some kind of smelly, hideous disgustingness!”

“You have a way with words, you know that?” he mumbled. Matt continued to watch her while she doctored his knuckles. She knew he’d obviously gotten into a fight, but wasn’t going to pry. If it was something he wanted to share with her, he would.

“So what really happened with you and the rich guy?” he unexpectedly asked. “Other than his mother not liking your tattoos.”

Emily gave a slight shrug and, without looking at him, set about applying the ointment over his torn skin. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said absently. “I suppose deep down Trent realized he and I were mostly running on two different tracks.” She smiled. “He wasn’t a bad guy. Extremely motivated, career-wise.” She looked at him. “I think he saw, though, that I wasn’t cut out to be Capitol Hill arm candy.” She shrugged. “I got my own gig, see? And it’s not Prada and charity events and evening gowns and fancy socialite events.”