Authors: Marie Force
“Because he wants you back,” Mary Alice said. “Can’t you see that?”
“I know he does, because he’s told me as much.”
“Sydney,” Mary Alice said in that disapproving tone that reminded Syd so much of the summer she was nineteen and her parents had convinced her she could do
so much better
than Luke. As if she’d read Syd’s mind, her mother added, “You could do so much better.”
Furious, Syd threw her hands in the air. “There it is! The famous line! Guess what? There’s hardly
anyone
better than Luke. He’s one of the kindest, sweetest, gentlest people I’ve ever known.
He
is too good for
me
, if you want the truth.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Allan said.
“Is he kinder and sweeter than Seth was?” Mary Alice asked, hands on hips, girded for battle.
The question shocked Sydney to the core, causing her eyes to fill and her throat to close. She ran upstairs and started throwing clothes into a backpack.
One thing was patently clear to her—it was time to take control of her life. And what felt good and right to her at the moment was being with Luke. Whether she was ready to commit to him permanently, she couldn’t say, but that didn’t need to be decided today or even tomorrow.
Her mother came to the door as Sydney zipped her backpack.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about Seth.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t want to see you going backward, Syd. You need to be moving forward.”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“You’re vulnerable, honey. Luke knows that. He’s taking advantage—”
Sydney spun around. “Do
not
finish that thought. He has been nothing but patient and accommodating and supportive. I feel better being with him than I have since before my life was shattered. Don’t take that away from me by being narrow-minded about who and what you think he is.” She zipped her bag. “You don’t know him at all because you never bothered to take the time to know him. You were too busy judging him for all the things you thought he lacked.”
“We only want what’s best for you—then and now.”
“If that’s the case, then trust me to decide that for myself. I’m not a child anymore, Mom. I won’t let you run off the man I love because you fear he won’t fit in at the country club.”
“Mary Alice,” her father said, startling both women. “She has to find her own way, even if we don’t approve.”
“If you knew Luke at all, Dad, you’d approve. Trust me on that, too.”
“The boy never had an ounce of ambition,” he said. “He’s doing the same job he did as a kid. We wanted better for you than that.”
“He was
filled
with ambition,” Sydney said. “He earned a scholarship to college that he turned down to stay here to take care of his sick mother. Doesn’t he get any credit for that?”
“Why didn’t he go after she died?” Allan asked.
“I don’t know, but it wasn’t due to a lack of ambition. I can assure you of that.” Sydney hoisted her backpack onto her shoulder and slid her feet into flip-flops.
“Where are you going?” Mary Alice asked.
“Into town to check on Buddy.”
“And then?”
“To Luke’s.”
“We haven’t seen you in weeks,” Mary Alice said. “We were hoping to have dinner tonight.”
“If that’s what you wanted, maybe you could’ve been a little nicer to my friend.” Sydney headed for the stairs, and they followed her.
“When will we see you?” Allan asked.
Sydney grabbed her purse, keys and cell phone off the counter. “I don’t know.” She headed for the door but stopped herself, knowing she couldn’t leave them like this. If the accident had taught her anything, it was to leave nothing left unsaid. Turning to them, she studied their faces, hating how dramatically they’d aged in the last year.
“I love you both very much. I never would’ve survived everything that happened without your love and support. A long time ago, I made the mistake of allowing you to tell me how I was supposed to think and feel, and a decent, honorable young man was terribly hurt by my choices. I won’t make that mistake again.”
The moment she was buckled into her car, all her bravado drained away, leaving her shaken and rattled. She’d just stood up to her parents for the first time in thirty-six years. Declaring her independence should’ve left her feeling exhilarated. Instead she was sad that she’d needed to do it in the first place.
Ned walked the length of Ocean Road twice before he stopped at the gravel drive that led to the Sturgil place. Old Wendell Sturgil had been a school friend of his a hundred years ago. Now Wendell’s son lived in the family home, married to the daughter of the only woman Ned had ever loved.
Francine Tornquist had stolen his young heart the first time he laid eyes on her, fresh off the ferry to work the summer at the Beachcomber damn near thirty-two years ago now. From his perch at the cabstand, he’d seen her struggling with bags and had insisted on walking her and her luggage up the hill and across Ocean Road to the hotel.
She’d had fiery red hair and a figure that made Ned want to drool just thinking about it even all these years later. That first summer, he’d made it a point to put himself in her path every day until she finally agreed to go out with him. Ned had just about worked up the nerve to ask her to marry him when Bobby Chester showed up on the island with a gang of pals for a bachelor party weekend. Francine never looked at Ned again after smooth-talking Bobby swept her off her feet.
For years after Bobby left her alone with two little girls to care for, Ned had hoped Francine would come to him, but she never had. Now here he was lurking in her driveway wishing he’d had the nerve to approach her after her good-for-nothing husband left her to fend for herself and her kids. Back then his pride had kept him away.
Seeing young Luke Harris together again with the girl he’d once loved had given Ned the courage to take a chance. Well, it had given him the courage to lurk in the woman’s driveway anyway. He’d heard through the grapevine that Francine was living above the dance studio where her younger daughter, Tiffany, taught dance classes. Her other daughter, Maddie, was married to Little Mac McCarthy. Happy as clams, the two of them.
“Well,” he said, slapping the dust off his best khaki shorts, “here goes nuttin.” He’d even combed his hair and trimmed his beard in honor of the occasion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done either. Head held high, he marched up the driveway, past the house where Jim and Tiffany lived with their young daughter, to the stairway that led to the apartment.
Ignoring the boogie skip of his heart and the tremble of his hands, Ned climbed the stairs and rapped on the door.
It cracked open and one green eye peered out at him. “What’d you want?”
“It’s me, Ned. Saunders.” Why should she recognize him? After all, they’d managed to live on the same small island and steer clear of each other for thirty-two years.
The door opened a little farther, and he could see those years hadn’t been kind to his poor Francine. Then again, an old codger like him probably didn’t set her heart to pitter-patter, neither. “Ned.”
“That’s m’name. Don’t wear it out.”
Stupid!
What a stupid thing to say!
She seemed genuinely flabbergasted to see him. “What’re you doing here?”
“I, um, I came to see if ya might like to, um, if ya’d consider, that is—”
“Spit it out already!”
“Have dinner with me. Tonight.”
Her mouth fell open in surprise. “You want to go out. With me?”
“That’s what I said, ain’t it?”
“Why?”
Ned stared at her, dumbfounded. Why did he want to go out with her? Because from the minute he met her, he’d never wanted to go out with anyone else. That’s why. But he couldn’t exactly tell her that, could he? “Because.”
“Because why?”
“Look, do ya wanna go or not? Won’t hurt my feelings if ya say no.”
“It won’t?”
He let out a growl of frustration that seemed to amuse her. “Were ya always this difficult and I just don’t remember?”
“Perhaps.” She studied him for a long,
long
time during which he had no earthly idea what she was thinking. He’d begun to sweat when she finally took a deep breath. “Do you know about my troubles?”
“I know about yer troubles.” Who on the island didn’t know that writing bad checks had put her in jail for three months last year? How he wished she’d come to him when she’d fallen on hard times. He’d have taken care of her
and
her kids. They wouldn’t have wanted for anything. But she hadn’t come to him. Someday maybe she’d tell him why. For now, he was just hoping for dinner.
“And you still want to go out with me?”
“Ya’ve just about talked me out of it,” he said in a teasing tone.
That drew an honest, genuine smile that nearly stopped his fragile heart.
There
was the Francine he’d once known, before life and circumstances had stolen her joy. Maybe together they could somehow get it back.
“I’d be honored to go to dinner with the nicest boy I’ve ever known.”
Shocked to his very soul by the compliment, he wondered if that was regret he saw in her expression. Clearing his throat, he said, “Uh, ya wanna go now?”
“But it’s only five o’clock.”
“I ain’t doin’ nothing. Are you?”
“No,” Francine said, still smiling. “I’m not doing anything at all.”
Sydney arrived at Luke’s and was relieved to see his truck parked outside the house. She’d wondered if he had gone to work. Donning the backpack, she stuck her head inside the house and called for him. When she received no reply, she walked across the lawn to see if he was down at the beach but didn’t see him there either. Had he taken the rowboat out on the pond?
She turned to look back at the house, and her eyes settled on the barn-shaped garage that had been added to the place since she first knew him. At the garage, she went around to the front. The double doors were open, and Luke was applying a coat of varnish to a staggeringly beautiful vintage powerboat.
“Wow,” she said. “That’s gorgeous.”
He looked up, and she saw surprise and pleasure in his eyes as they skirted over her in a visual inspection that made her tingly in some interesting places.
“Is it yours?” she asked of the boat as she came closer to get a better look.
Shaking his head, he said, “Belongs to a guy in Falmouth.”
“How’d it end up here?” She wanted to run a hand over the smooth, glossy surface but was afraid to touch it.
“Something I do on the side. Kind of a hobby.”
“What do you do exactly?”
“Restore them.” He gestured to the workbench behind him. “Before pictures are over there.”
Above the bench a carved sign read “Harris Boat Works.” Sydney wandered over to view photos of what could only be called a wreck. Next to them was another photo of the boat in its prime. She whirled around. “
That’s the same boat?
As the one in the pictures?”
“Uh-huh,” he said with a chuckle.
“Oh my God, Luke! It’s amazing! How long did it take?”
“Coupla months. I fit it in when I have time. Tough during the summer when I’m working so much at McCarthy’s.”
“This is really incredible. I’m so impressed.”
His lips formed a small smile. “Thanks.”
“How did you get into this? When?”
“Let’s see, Miss Twenty Questions, must’ve been about fifteen years ago. Big Mac found an old junker in a boatyard on the mainland and brought it back to the island. Mrs. McCarthy was giving him grief about keeping it in the driveway at the White House, so I told him he could bring it over here. I started tinkering with it—”
“Meaning you completely restored it when he wasn’t looking.”
“Something like that,” he said with a laugh. “He was blown away, and in typical Big Mac fashion, he told
everyone
. He keeps it at the marina where he can show it off. Next thing I knew, people were calling me about restoring their old boats. One thing led to another.” He shrugged. “Word of mouth.”
“How many do you do a year?”
“Three or four.”
“They must pay you a boatload—no pun intended.”
He snickered at the joke. “I do all right.”
“How do they get them here?”
“Some, like this beauty, come over on the ferry. Others come under their own steam, and we haul them out over here.”
“I bet you’ve got people waiting in line for you.”
“The list is tacked up over the bench.”
Sydney glanced up and found at least thirty names and phone numbers on the piece of notebook paper. “You’re gifted, Luke. Truly gifted.”
Shrugging, he said, “Don’t know about that. Just something I do for fun.”
Sydney studied him as he applied the varnish in smooth, even strokes. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? When we were talking about your life the other night. You never mentioned this.”