The Wanderer
“Very shallow,” she said. But what sprang instantly to mind was his torso in a towel. The amazing tattoo, his broad shoulders, fantastic biceps, terrific pecs, perfect chest hair—not too much, not too little—and that narrow waist. Her reaction pissed her off. “It’s Lieutenant Commander,” she said.
“If it’s any comfort, I’ve come a long way since high school.”
“So you no longer think about hair and boobs?”
She pulled into Cliffhanger’s parking lot, which was not full. As she found a space and parked he said, “I didn’t say that.” He went around to the driver’s side to open her door, but she was already getting out, treating him to a beautiful shot of thigh as she did so.
Holding her elbow, he steered her into the restaurant. Right inside the door was the bar, where he’d eaten last time he was there. Beyond the bar was a fancier dining room, tablecloths and everything. He lifted a hand to the bartender. “Hey, Cliff.”
“Hey, Cooper. Funeral?”
Cooper just laughed and kept steering her.
“Let’s get a corner table like that one over there, near the fireplace. Damn, it’s cold,” he said. “I’ve been in the Gulf too long, I think. What’s winter like around here?”
“Colder,” she said with a laugh. “We just moved here this summer from North Bend, right up the road. But I did three years in Kodiak, three in Michigan. This is nothing. You have no fireplace in that trailer of yours.”
He maneuvered her toward a table in the corner, not far from the restaurant’s hearth. Only a few tables in the whole place were occupied, all of them far enough away so that no conversations would be overheard. He helped her out of her long, black coat and folded it over a vacant chair. “No fireplace and it rocks in the wind. Even though there’s been sun almost every day, the wind off the bay can get chilly. I’ve been cold since the day I got here. I’m going to have to buy some sealskin or something.”
The second she sat down, the bartender was standing beside their table with menus. Cooper was shrugging out of his jacket, draping it over the back of the chair. “Bring me a beer, Cliff. This is Miss Dupre—Sarah.” Cliff gave a nod. “Sarah, what would you like to drink?”
“A Chardonnay will do the trick.”
“Draft and Chardonnay,” Cooper said. Then he sat down, his back to the room, and loosened his tie. He removed his cuff links, slid them into his shirt pocket and rolled up his sleeves to just under his elbows. He leaned those elbows on the table, looked at her with a half smile and said, “I’m sorry that it was some difficult business for your brother that introduced me to him, but I’m glad it led to meeting you.”
It was that comment—combined with the fact that the small tuft of hair peeking out of his opened collar and his muscled forearms were achingly sexy—that caused her to say, “I’ve been divorced for nine months.”
He lifted one brow. “Wanna talk about it?”
“Not particularly.”
“And you brought it up because...?”
“If you have an idea that this chance meeting is going to lead to something, you’d be mistaken.”
He shook his head. “Sarah, we’re both over thirty. Hopefully, we’ve overcome the idea that dinner means sex. Unless it’s an exceptional dinner.”
“We’ll split the check,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You pay for dinner. Believe me, you’ll feel more in control that way.”
“You know, I can tell you think you’re funny, not taking me seriously.”
“Oh, you’re wrong!” he said. “I think it would be a catastrophe to not take you too seriously. A disaster of unparalleled proportion.”
“Hilarious,” she said.
Cliff put her wine in front of her first, then put the draft down.
“Ah,” Cooper said. “Liquor. Thank God.”
“Have you decided yet?” Cliff asked.
“We’ll have the grouper,” Cooper said. “Salad starters, please. Ranch for me.”
“Oil and vinegar, on the side,” she said.
“And make sure Lieutenant Commander Dupre gets the check.” He winked at her, and Cliff ran for his life.
She took a sip of her wine. “How do you know I won’t expect sex if I pay.”
“Well, cheers,” he said, lifting his draft. “Although I’d feel cheap and dirty the whole time, I can live with that.”
Much as it galled her, she laughed at him. “Ever married?” she asked. “Children?”
“No and no. I think I probably saved some poor woman a world of misery,” he said.
“No doubt. So, how much did Landon tell you about me? About us?”
“Not a lot. He said he’s moved around with you and the Coast Guard. And I know about Aunt Frances.”
She looked down. Then met his eyes and saw warmth and sympathy there. “Our darkest year,” she admitted. “Our parents died, I had to take a compassionate leave to settle things, which put me back to the next class. I put Landon with the bitch who has no name, then had to take leave a second time to get him out of there. That poor kid. He should be so screwed up, all he’s been through, and he’s incredible.”
“And Aunt Frances?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Our parting was ugly. We don’t keep in touch. Well, we were in touch through lawyers briefly—she was my father’s only sibling and she actually fought Landon and I for some of the insurance money left, since she had been named in the will to take Landon. That will was written when Landon was a baby and I was barely eighteen, not ready to take on a child. But that she would abuse him and then expect a payoff...! We settled, but we will not stay in touch.”
He sat back and let out a breath. “I was right. That woman is going to have a hard time staying out of hell. Maybe she’s dead?”
“I think she’s too mean to die. You said you were the new kid a lot? Military roots?”
He shook his head. “Very boring roots, really. Corporate moves. My dad is an accountant. He rose to CFO of a big company based in Tampa, and the company folded when I was thirteen. I have three sisters—they were nine, fifteen and seventeen at the time. While he was looking for something permanent, something with growth potential, he worked as a consultant on some long-term contract jobs. We moved three times and landed in Albuquerque right at the start of my junior year. The folks rented a house and bought one in a different school district a year later. That gave me four schools in as many years.”
“And it was hard,” she said.
“It was terrible. I can look back and say I learned a few things, but here I am, almost forty, and I haven’t stayed in one place for long since. Because it’s just me, I pull up stakes the second I don’t like the way the wind is blowing.”
“And how’s the wind blowing in this place?” she asked.
“It’s a very strange wind,” he said. “Not because of Thunder Point—it’s not a bad place at all. For mysterious reasons known only to my deceased friend, Ben, I am responsible for his property. It’s a disaster. It’s been kind of hard to decide how to handle it. While the cleanup is getting done, the contractor’s architect is measuring, drawing up final plans, and there you have it. A few months from now, it’ll be a new bait shop, without the bait.”
She made a confused face.
“That place really needs to be a bar and deli—drinks and prepackaged food that doesn’t have to be made on site. Low-maintenance, so it can be managed by one person. We’ll reinforce, finish off the cellar, remodel and rebuild the dock. Hopefully someone will be able to see the potential....”
He talked about lumber and studs and beams, but Sarah didn’t hear.
Across the room a couple and their teenage son stood from a table, grabbed their coats and were about to leave. It was Mr. and Mrs. Morrison, with Jag. When they saw her, they stopped midway across the dining room. Sarah hadn’t noticed them before, but she knew them from the games. Mrs. Morrison was a beautiful, painfully thin woman of about forty-five or so, with hair so blond it was almost white. Mr. Morrison was shorter and older than his wife and he wore a most miserable rug.
There was a staring contest going on. Sarah slowly stood and was vaguely aware of Cooper looking over his shoulder. Then he, too, fell silent.
Sarah and the Morrisons’ gazes were locked on one another. Then Mrs. Morrison lifted her nose and began to walk away.
“Have you nothing to say to me?” Sarah said because she couldn’t help herself. “Nothing at all?”
Mrs. Morrison’s head snapped around and she wore a sneer so angry that Sarah actually flinched.
“And what would you have me say? That I’m very unhappy about the way you contrived this entire event with the sole purpose of some kind of revenge on my son?”
“Huh?” she said, completely confused. “Revenge?”
“Landon fell in a slippery shower but saw a perfect opportunity to make Jag seem responsible. Obviously a jealous move, one that’s caused a world of trouble!”
Jag, who stood a few feet behind his parents, actually smiled.
“Effie, just let it go. Our lawyer can handle this.”
“Lawyer?” Cooper asked. Then a huff of unamused laughter escaped him. “I don’t think you want to slide down this slope any further. A couple of weeks ago I found Jag and his friends holding Landon against his will while Jag punched him.”
“Mom, that’s the guy who broke my finger.”
Cooper put one hand in his pants pocket and glared. “Is that so? Where’s the cast?”
“He wore a splint,” Mr. Morrison said. “The sore finger, that’s what held him back in the game.”
“Right,” Cooper said. “And by the way, that would be the second time I witnessed your son bullying and intimidating Landon. The first time was on the beach, from the deck of the bait shop.”
Sarah noticed Cliff standing in the doorway to the dining room, nervously twisting his hands in a dish towel. There were three other tables of patrons looking at this confrontation in what appeared to be fascination. They were all sitting behind Jag and his parents and couldn’t see the Morrisons’ faces. There was not a clink of a fork or murmur.
Jag’s mother looked Sarah up and down coldly, meanly. Then she spoke to Cooper. “Well, I see your incentive in making up these stories now....”
“Mrs. Morrison, it isn’t a good idea to insult Commander Dupre. It only suggests where Jag learned his bad manners.”
“Effie, we’ll go now,” Mr. Morrison said. “We’re not going to participate in some cheap public display. This will be handled legally.” Mr. Morrison moved to his wife’s side, slipped his arm through hers and led the way out of the dining room.
And Jag, unbelievably, stood still. He silently laughed, tipping his head back. Then he stared at Sarah and made little kissing motions with his lips. And then he closed his eyes into mere slits and ran his tongue around his lips, all the while his hands in his pockets, his expression aggressive and sexual.
Sarah lost it. She suddenly took a couple of steps as if she’d charge him. Cooper grabbed her around the waist and held on to her, lifting her off the floor. She was reaching toward Jag, kicking her feet.
Jag jumped back into a table, crashing into it and sending glassware tumbling. He yelled, “Hey!” as if he were under attack, though Sarah hadn’t gotten near him. His parents turned back toward the dining room, ready to rescue their poor, victimized son.
Cliff ran forward, grabbed the boy by the arm to right him, then murmured something like, “We’ll take care of this,” and hustled him out of the dining room.