Unforgiven (9 page)

“Very interesting demonstration,” she said. “How long did it take most people to go from ‘me’ or ‘I’ to ‘this recruit’?”

He nuzzled into her hair, then stretched out on his side, his head braced on his palm. “A few weeks.”

She turned toward him. “And you?”

He tucked her hair behind her ear and looked at her with those unreadable hazel eyes while his hand cupped the back of her skull. “Two days.”

For a long moment they lay together, then he shifted down to the end of the bed, and off. Cold without his body generating heat next to her, Marissa pulled the layers of bedclothes over her body. The scent of him, skin, sweat, and sex, remained in the sheets. She was trying to decide if she should ask him to stay, when he came out of the bathroom and tugged on his khakis and buttoned up his shirt. Decision made, she snuggled into the bed and watched as solid muscle and bone disappeared behind twill and cotton and his leather belt.

“What time are we leaving to get the paneling?” he asked as he sat down at the end of the bed to put on socks and boots. She peered at him, but his face, cast in shadows by the light from the kitchen, was difficult to read. “I owe you, Ris,” he said. “I’m the one who destroyed it.”

Clarity sometimes came in darkness. Adam defined himself by control, not by notches on his bedpost, and
this Marine
was having a hard time adapting to civilian life. “I’ve got a siding job coming up,” she said evasively. “I was going to wait for a clear stretch, but this late in the season I’ll settle for a relatively dry stretch. I could use the help.”

“Great. Just let me know when.” He stood at the foot of her bed, then reached behind him for the light switch that controlled the lamp on her nightstand. “Wait!” she exclaimed, and sat up, but she ended up covering her eyes against the light. In her mind’s eye she could see Adam standing at the foot of her bed, hands on his hips. When she lowered her hand, he rapped a knuckle on the wall running the length of her bed.

Five pictures hung there, neatly spaced. Each black frame held a yellowing photograph of Josiah Brooks’s yacht
Dreaming Seas
, the boat he’d left behind in Rhode Island when he went west, to the High Plains. In two shots the sixty-foot yacht was moored along a dock, in three others moored off an island. The rocky beach and pine trees curved away in the distance; the camera must have been set up on the beach. The photographs were in the trunks her father left her when he died, yellowing, fading, the cardboard frames stained from both handling and neglect. Her heart had skipped several beats when she’d found them. She’d studied them until the cardboard fell apart, then spent money she didn’t have to get them archivally framed.

“I have excellent night vision,” Adam said with a glance at the wall. “What’s this all about?”

How could she describe this? A hobby? She lived in South Dakota, smack in the middle of the North American continent, a region of the country that hadn’t seen salt water for several geologic eras. All she knew was that the oldest photographs of Josiah Brooks at the bottom of the trunk were taken on sailboats. Big ones, with sleek lines and teak decking, canvas sails furled or unfurled. He stood among men in white suits with vests, and women in white dresses with sashes and parasols, and he looked young and happy. When she saw the boats, something inside her vibrated slow and deep and long, like she was standing inside a giant bass speaker at a concert, but the music playing was the distant, primal rush and pull of the tides.

“Josiah Brooks owned a sailboat in Connecticut,” she said. “A yacht, really. I saw pictures in the trunk in the attic. I was curious about sailing.”

“And you call it a tangent.” He picked up the sextant, propped on a shelf above one of the pictures, then carefully examined the chronometer resting next to it. “Nice instruments,” he said.

Should she mention the boxes of composition notebooks, full of notes she’d taken to familiarize herself with lines and rigging and sails? Should she mention the lists of things she would need for an around-the-world voyage, or the much-revised itinerary?

The first item on the list was
Buy a boat
, something that wouldn’t happen as long as she owed the lumberyard six years of her average annual income.

She gave a dismissive little laugh. “I said TV was boring.”

“Most people read novels,” he said.

“Why would I read about made-up people when I could read about things real people have done?” Laughter huffed in his chest, and the corners of his mouth quirked up just a little. “They’re part of the Brooks family history,” she said stiffly, clutching the sheet and blankets under her chin. “The prelude to Brookhaven. I’ve framed other pictures and hung them in my apartment.”

“Not over your bed. Not where you read,” he said with a nod at the books stacked by her nightstand. “Not where you dream.”

“It’s nothing,” she said because that was all it could be. “Don’t make something out of nothing.”

“Making something out of nothing is a Marine’s specialty,” he said. “It’s what you’re doing with Brookhaven. You could make it a habit.”

She reached for the lamp on her nightstand and turned it off manually, plunging the room back into darkness. Adam’s broad shoulders remained backlit in the doorway. A long moment passed before he spoke. “I’ve been sailing. It’s amazing. A purer rush than the bike.”

Her breath caught, because she knew how much the bike meant to him, but she couldn’t get words through the thickness in her throat. Eventually, he turned and let himself out.

9

A
DAM PARKED THE
Charger in front of the Walkers’ house, situated on the fourteenth green of the Chatham County golf course. From the front the house didn’t look like much, a single story with a brick entryway, brightly lit windows in the dining room to the right of the front door and in Mr. Walker’s home office to the left. The ground sloped away from the garage on the left. A bottle of wine in hand, he jogged up the driveway and rang the doorbell.

Delaney answered. “You don’t have to ring the doorbell,” she chided. “You’re practically family.”

Practically family
wasn’t a son-in-law, and he knew it. He just nodded and stepped into the foyer. Inside, the house’s size and luxury became more evident. A fire popped and cracked in the fireplace in the living room, and the dining room opened into a large, eat-in kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a large island with wrought-iron stools tucked underneath. Big windows looked out over the deck that ran the back of the house, and the golf course, still lushly green and empty thanks to the rain. The furniture was upholstered in heavy, dark greens and blues, with maroon accents, as were the curtains.

“Your mother made the curtains,” Delaney reminded him, the bottle of wine tucked in her crossed arms.

“They look good,” he said shortly.

“Come in,” she said, and set off for the kitchen. She wore her work clothes, a simple pair of black slacks, a blue blouse with a ruffle along the neck, and a darker blue cardigan. “Dad’s still helping Mom get dressed, but let’s go ahead and open this.”

Yeah, they were all going to need alcohol to get through this. Delaney handed him the corkscrew and the bottle. He had the cork out in the time it took her to pull a tray of sliced vegetables from the fridge and set it on the island’s raised counter, next to the cheese ball and crackers.

He watched her, the woman he’d planned to marry. Once loved. Her hands were smooth, pale, the same words he’d use to describe her lipstick. Marissa was the bottom of the ocean—deep, fathomless, seemingly endless—Delaney was like a meadow in spring sunshine. People settled down around her, relaxed. He had.

He poured for them both. Delaney lifted her glass and sipped. “That’s good,” she said. “How are you, Adam?”

She meant it, those words spoken in clear bell tones. She always meant it when she asked, had from the night she sat down next to him at a party hosted by Keith at his parents’ lake house. They’d been twenty. She was home from college, he was home on leave, and she asked him how he was. He didn’t tell her the truth, but she’d meant it, and that was enough. He’d awkwardly offered to pick her up for the movies the next afternoon, then spent the rest of his leave with her and her friends. When she’d asked him to e-mail her at college, he had, and snail-mailed postcards, then letters, then packages filled with candy, books, mix CDs, the perfume she wore. At the time he’d had only the vaguest clue why he went after her so relentlessly. In hindsight, with her he felt everything he didn’t feel with Marissa. He felt nothing at all, and that felt safe.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Glad to be home.”

She picked up a baby carrot, dipped it in ranch dressing, then asked, “How’s your mom?”

“Good. Keeping busy. Lots of orders.” She’d laughingly refused to tell him what Marissa asked for in exchange for renovating the bathroom. He’d come at it from another angle, another time. “How’s your mom?”

“The drug regimen seems to be working,” she said. “The progression of her symptoms has slowed again.” Delaney’s parents appeared from the master bedroom, off the sunken living room. “It takes her a while to button her blouse, and she can’t get her earrings in on her own,” Delaney confided in a low voice.

His gaze sharpened. “That’s recent.” The last time he’d seen Mrs. Walker, before his last deployment, she’d had tremors in her left hand and a slight balance problem.

“It got worse shortly after this last deployment,” Delaney agreed. They both watched Mr. Walker escort his wife across the slick floor. Delaney’s room was on the lower level, next to the family room with sliding doors that led to the pool, and the guest room that was ostensibly his when he was home on leave. It made for an idyllic lovers retreat, one her parents turned a blind eye to when he produced a ring box.

“How does the roast look, Delaney-dear?” The endearment was automatic; Delaney once told him she thought her name was Delaneydeer until she started kindergarten and realized they were two separate words and her middle name was Marie.

“I’ll just check it, Mom. You catch up with Adam.”

She did just that, taking his arm with a surprisingly firm grip and giving him a sound kiss on the cheek. “We’re so glad you’re home,” she said. “Safe and sound and for good. When do you start school?”

They discussed the architecture program while Delaney and her father set the dining room table with four places. “Delaney seems okay,” he said.

“Oh, yes,” she said, watching her only child fondly. “She wasn’t, for a while, you know. You took us all by surprise. Some folks think you repaid a decade of loyalty pretty poorly.”

He could always count on Walkers Ford to rush to judgment. “I wasn’t the right man for Delaney,” he said.

She looked at him, her head wobbling but her pale blue eyes sharp. “Don’t you think that was for her to decide?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said noncommittally, watching Delaney precisely align knife and spoon at each place. Her blond hair slid forward against her cheek. She tucked it back, revealing skin the color of cream. Even here Delaney absorbed whatever animosity her parents felt toward him. The engine of the Walker house hummed smoothly. Even before he produced the ring box,
this Marine
fit in here, knew who he was, who he would be. Delaney’s husband, the father of her children, a much-needed professional in the larger community.

And now? Where does
this Marine
belong now?

“She had her friends,” Delaney’s mother said, ending his train of thought. “And Keith. You’ve all been friends for so long. I hope this won’t affect that. In the end, relationships are what matters in life. Family, friends, people you love and who love you.”

Spoken like someone facing a slow decline and an early death. “Yes, ma’am,” he said again.

“Stop that, Adam,” she said, but fondness eased the exasperation.

Delaney appeared in front of them, holding the roast on her mother’s wedding china platter. “Adam, would you escort Mom to the table?”

He locked his elbow and offered it to her. Delaney and Mr. Walker followed with the potatoes, squash, peas, and rolls. Adam took his seat next to Mrs. Walker with Delaney opposite her mother, at her father’s left hand. They were in the process of passing food when the front door blew open. Rain and wind pushed Keith into the foyer, where he stood dripping on the welcome mat.

“I thought you couldn’t get away in time!” Delaney exclaimed. She pushed back her chair and hurried to Keith’s side, giving him a quick kiss after he took off his coat.

“Opposing counsel called at the last possible moment,” he said. “The hearing’s off, at least for now.” He crossed the tile, his hand held out. “Don,” he said to Mr. Walker, then bent to give Mrs. Walker a kiss on the cheek. “Marie,” he said. “How are you feeling? I hope you don’t mind if I join you.”

Delaney was already returning with the bottle of wine and a plate and silverware for him. There was no mistaking the pleasure in her eyes. He shook Adam’s hand across the table then took his seat next to Delaney.

“What’ve you been up to?” he asked as he helped himself to roast beef.

“Getting settled,” Adam said just as genially. “I looked at some apartments in Brookings a couple of days ago. Sorting boxes in my mother’s garage.”

Delaney exchanged a quick glance with Keith, who managed to look both sheepish and overworked at the same time. “Did you . . . ?” Delaney asked.

“We need to talk about tux fittings,” Keith said easily. “Meet me for breakfast tomorrow?”

Adam kept his expression utterly even. “Sure. Heirloom at eight?”

“Perfect. What did you think of Brookhaven?” Keith asked.

An interesting choice of conversation topics. “She’s done an incredible job,” Adam said.

“I thought the same thing,” Delaney said. “She’s certainly poured her heart and soul into the renovation. My goodness, the sheer size of that house. It’s at least the size of the clubhouse. So much work.”

“I never thought she’d pull it off,” Keith said. “She made any progress on that paneled wall?”

Adam wondered if God would strike them all down if they used her name. “Marissa said she’s got it under control,” he said mildly.

“It is a pretty amazing turnaround,” Keith said. “The house was trashed for years, then the next thing you know it’s like a movie set for one of those PBS Masterpiece shows. Except for the missing wall.”

The next thing you know
was more like hours and hours and hours of equity sweated into the house by a five-foot-eight-inch, hundred-and-twenty-pound woman who’d taught herself everything she needed to know. She’d rebuilt that house on the strength in her back and arms.

“How did you find out about Brookhaven?” Adam asked Delaney.

“Dad mentioned how far along the renovations were,” Delaney said. “He’d been out to the house on business.”

Delaney’s father was the latest member of the Walker family to serve as president and chairman of the board of Chatham County Bank and Trust. Most everyone in town banked there, although the national banks were making inroads into rural communities. Adam had an account with one such national bank in Brookings, and transferred money into his mother’s account at the CCB&T. If Mr. Walker went in person to Brookhaven, it was to verify the property was worth enough to secure a loan. The fact that Marissa had a home equity line of credit for the renovation wasn’t surprising. Mr. Walker’s recent visit to the property was.

Her father, normally silent in the presence of his wife and daughter, spoke. “Delaney and Keith wanted to get married as quickly as possible,” he said in measured tones. “The club wasn’t available until February. I thought perhaps we could make a deal with Miss Brooks.”

“It’s perfect,” Mrs. Walker said. “The room, so romantic in candlelight, and such a unique venue. The whole county will be talking about it.”

“As long as she gets that wall repaired. She’s been working on the house for forever, and it’s still not done. I’m glad you let me add the partial repayment clause to the contract, Don.”

“It was the prudent thing to do,” Mr. Walker said. “She’s made great strides on Brookhaven. Whether she can follow through to the finish, or meet a payment schedule, remains to be seen.”

Everyone in Walkers Ford would see Keith’s care for the wedding, his attentiveness to Delaney. Adam saw the son of the town’s lawyer and the daughter of the town’s banker up against the daughter of the man who lost the last remaining symbol of a fantastic East Coast inheritance. Adam’s jaw set. “Does she miss deadlines on paid projects?” he asked, striving for a mildly concerned tone.

A quick glance between Delaney and her mother. “Not that I’ve heard,” Delaney said. Her mother nodded. “Everyone who’s hired her has been pleased with the results.”

“Good thing Brookhaven just jumped to a paid project,” Adam said.

The clink of silverware against china reigned for a few moments, then Delaney spoke. “What’s she going to do out there in that big house?” she mused. “It’s so isolated.”

“Maybe she’ll give the country club a run for its money,” Keith said carelessly. He’d finished his wine and poured what remained of the bottle into his glass as he slumped back in his chair.

“Maybe she’ll get married again,” Mrs. Walker said. “Her husband might love Brookhaven as much as she does.”

“She’s a Brooks,” Mr. Walker said with the unerring confidence of a big fish in a small pond. “Their hearts belong to that piece of land, to that house, even when they can’t muster the financial wherewithal to take care of what they own. Maybe she’s the Brooks who can hold on to the house. They’ve lost that property in stages since Josiah Brooks died.”

“If she can’t . . .” Keith rubbed Delaney’s thigh under the table. “You want to raise kids in the country, sweetheart?”

“We just put the down payment . . . oh,” she said, then glanced at Adam. “You’re teasing me.”

Mrs. Walker explained. “They’ve bought the house just around the corner.”

“We’re getting some painting done, new carpets laid, while we’re on our honeymoon,” Keith said.

“The backyards are practically touching,” Delaney said.

Adam could fill in the rest. Adjoining backyards would come in handy when Delaney wanted to send the kids to see her parents. She could watch from the deck as they ran through the grass to Grandma and Grandpa Walker. She’d moved out of their house, to an apartment more centrally located for her school psychologist’s duties, but moved back in after her mother’s Parkinson’s diagnosis.

“The wine’s good,” Keith noted in the silence, then picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “Where did you get it?” he asked Mr. Walker.

“Adam brought it,” Delaney said.

Keith looked at Adam. “A grocery store in Brookings,” he said.

“Oh,” he replied casually. “Find an apartment?”

“Not yet.” He laid his napkin on the table, and Delaney rose to collect plates. He bent low to Mrs. Walker, struggling to get to her feet, and said, “I’ve got it, ma’am.”

He stacked the vegetable dishes on top of the roast platter, and followed Delaney into the kitchen. When he went back for the rest of the plates, Keith and Mr. Walker were in a low-voiced conversation about a land deal. Back in the kitchen, Delaney was rinsing plates into one sink while running hot, soapy water into the other side. Mrs. Walker’s wedding china couldn’t go in the dishwasher.

“Thanks,” she said. “No, don’t help me wash. I’ve got a system.”

He leaned against the counter, keeping one eye on the conversation taking place in the dining room, and watched her for a minute. “Are you happy, Delaney?”

She swirled the sponge around a plate, then rinsed it before she answered. “Yes,” she said.