Soldier, Handyman, Family Man Page 14

  The heat from the barbecue made Mark’s face go red. He fanned the smoke with his hand and tried not to feel the pressure, or let it get in the way of his romance with Laurel.

  Dating a woman with children was a challenge, but after the awesome week he’d spent getting to know her in a most intimate way, he thought he might be able to pull it off—getting more and more involved with a lady and her family, and all that went along with it. Which reminded him.

  Mark asked Conor to take over for a few minutes, then he approached Peter sitting alone on the nearby bench. Dad had been called into the kitchen by Mom to help with the side dishes, so Mark seized the moment.

  He sat beside the teenager. “Thought I’d run something by you.”

  Peter turned with a questioning glance. “Okay.”

  “I’d like to ask your mom out to dinner Thursday night. Is that okay with you?”

  The boy looked confused followed by thoughtful. “You worried I’ll run away again?”

  “We’re past that, right?”

  Peter studied his Vans. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Mark had hoped their conversation about moving forward in life since the move had sunk in. But who knew how a teenager thought anymore. It seemed a lifetime ago since Mark had been one.

  “Yeah, you guess so, you’re over it? Or yeah, you guess it’s okay for me to ask your mom out?”

  The teen hitched one corner of his mouth and let out a tiny sigh. “You can ask her out,” he said begrudgingly.

  Peter didn’t look at Mark, but Mark thought they’d just cleared a huge hurdle. He gave the kid two firm pats on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. See you at the beach tomorrow at four, right?”

  Now Peter glanced at him. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”

  They hadn’t even eaten dinner yet, and Mark had already solved one of his problems. Now if he could just get his family to leave him alone.

  *

  Later Sunday night, Mark took his grandfather up on his offer to arrange a dinner at a swanky golf club on Thursday night, especially when Grandda offered to watch Laurel’s kids. Well, check in on them, anyway, since Peter was perfectly capable of looking out for his sisters. Now all he had to do was ask her. He took out his cell and called.

  He and Laurel had been sneaking time together throughout the week. He wasn’t being greedy or anything, but he’d been there three times. They used the stolen hours to strip down and drive each other crazy. Always pressed for time, before the girls got out of kindergarten, they rarely had a chance to do normal things like talk. Dinner, just the two of them, at a swanky golf course clubhouse seemed the perfect way to spend a Thursday night, since her weekends were usually booked with B&B guests.

  *

  Thursday at 6:00 p.m., he pulled the electric golf cart to her house, hopped out and whistled his way up the steps to her door. The thought of spending the evening with Laurel put him in a terrific mood. He’d borrowed another shirt from Conor, this one gray, and wore a new pair of dark dress pants to fit in at the members-only restaurant. They required jackets, so he’d borrowed one from Daniel. Grandda had been given an honorary lifetime membership there for being one of the original laborers when the golf course had first been designed back in the 1950s, though the family rarely took advantage of it. It’s about time.

  When Laurel opened the B&B door, dressed like a sexy dream in a black sheath, with lots of leg showing and strappy shoes, her hair swept up on her head and wearing dangling sparkling earrings, his first thought was to skip dinner and walk her right back inside, preferably to one of the guest suites they hadn’t yet tried.

  “Wow, you look phenomenal.”

  She liked the comment, her face brightening and those sexy lips parting into a smile. “You’re looking pretty hot yourself,” she whispered. The kids were in the next room, and they didn’t need to hear the two of them making over each other. But man, he planned to revisit the subject the first chance he got.

  But her smile soon shifted downward. “Thought I should warn you, Peter’s being moody.”

  “Should I talk to him?”

  “I don’t think it would do any good. Sometimes he just needs to brood. He told me when he closes his eyes, he can’t ‘see’ his dad anymore. His face looks blurry.”

  “But you’ve got pictures all over the house.”

  “Yeah, I mentioned that. I’ll talk more to him later.” She looked over his shoulder to the golf cart, and an amused expression followed.

  Taking her cue that their conversation about Peter and his sad mood was over, he matched her sudden interest with the golf cart. “In keeping with our dating tradition, I thought we’d take the scenic route.”

  After grabbing some sort of black-and-gold woven shawl and saying her goodbyes, he helped her into the cart. Then he took time to appreciate how her dress rode up her thighs when she sat. He drove the cart down a deserted beach road to a secret entrance to the exclusive golf course in question. A mid-October evening, it was clear, breezy and cool, with a golden tint making everything look beautiful. Especially his date. He took the time to admire her until her eyes widened and he nearly ran up a curb.

  Once at the clubhouse, which seriously hadn’t been updated since the sixties—all dark colors and leather upholstery—they ordered a drink at the cozy, traditional-styled bar while waiting for their table. It felt great to have Laurel all to himself, but it took tremendous willpower not to undress her with his eyes.

  A small jazz trio played quiet music in the corner. The second song in was an old standard, something easy to dance to. Their table wouldn’t be ready for a few more minutes, so, to kill time, he did something he hadn’t done in over ten years—he asked a woman to dance. And that woman looked very surprised.

  He’d never been a great dancer, but he knew how to move a lady around a floor, and she did a fine job of following him. At least he hadn’t smashed her toes or anything awkward like that. Yet. Holding her close, looking down into her dreamy hazel eyes—with that romantic old standard played halfway decently by the trio in the background—he became overcome with Laurel.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

  Her lashes lifted slowly, her gaze on his, a tender smile creasing her lips. “I thought I was the lucky one.”

  That did it, he had to kiss her. Right then. Right there on the clubhouse dance floor, he didn’t care who saw them.

  *

  Be careful. This could turn into a world of pain. Mark’s mouth covered Laurel’s. Kissing him was like nothing else in her world these days, tender and teasing, sexy and sweet, all wrapped into one glorious package of a man.

  The nearness of Mark always made Laurel skip over the scary part, even though she knew she was in way over her head with this fling or whatever she wanted to rationalize calling it. Way over her head.

  *

  A couple of hours later, having shared the Thursday special for two—shrimp appetizers, salad, prime rib, baked potato and seasonal vegetables, and a small chocolate molten something or other for dessert—they arrived back at the B&B. They’d laughed and chatted throughout the meal, and underneath the conversation and good food, there was the constant humming of how good she made him feel.

  Laurel was no ordinary date. She was special, in all the right ways. He held her back for one moment before they got out of the cart to kiss her.

  “I had a great time,” she said, her eyes happy and sincere.

  “Me, too. Let’s go to a movie next time.”

  “A grown-up movie? Not animated? Wow, it’s been ages.”

  He sat in the cart, the moonlight shimmering over her hair, and he knew he had it bad, really bad, so he kissed her again.

  Waltzing through the door and into the family living quarters, they found the girls asleep in bed and Peter in the TV room still up watching some sort of adventure movie, with Grandda’s head resting on the couch as he snored.

  “What are you still doing up?” Laurel whispered, t
hough the TV was loud enough to wake Padraig up, if that was going to happen. The man was out.

  “I didn’t want to wake him up,” Peter said, motioning to Padraig.

  “That’s no excuse. You could have left him there and gone to bed.”

  “But this is a good movie.”

  “Too bad, you’ll just have to record it and watch the rest tomorrow.”

  While Laurel and Peter continued their heated whisper conversation, Mark noticed a drawing on the table. It was a perfect likeness of his grandfather—slack-jawed and sleeping. He stepped closer and picked it up. “You draw this?”

  Though Peter’s brows were pushed down while sidetracked arguing with his mother, he nodded.

  “This is really good.” Mark remembered the day he and Conor were running around looking for Peter when one of the kids in his fifth-period art class said he never missed, and Peter had once told him art was his favorite subject, but Mark had never had evidence until now.

  “Thanks.”

  Laurel had shared earlier about Peter worrying he couldn’t visualize his father in his mind anymore. “Ever think about drawing your father’s portrait?”

  Peter shot a surprised expression, and Mark worried he’d betrayed Laurel’s confidential conversation.

  “That’s a great idea, Peter,” Laurel said, easing Mark’s concerns.

  “Maybe even try painting a portrait after drawing one,” Mark said, sensing he was onto something.

  Peter still hadn’t said anything, but his crinkled brows at least showed he was thinking about the conversation, so Mark continued.

  “You know, my mom’s a really good painter. Maybe you two can get together sometime. She’s got canvases and paints. The whole works. What do you think?”

  Though Peter still held back, Mark saw an inkling of interest. “That’d be cool.”

  “Great,” Laurel broke in. “Now it’s way past time for bed. Go.”

  Peter reluctantly set up the record button for the movie and turned off the TV, then started for the bathroom.

  “Peter?” Mark called after him.

  “Yeah?”

  “Okay if I kiss your mother good-night?”

  Silence. Then, “I guess.” A resigned tone, but progress.

  Mark turned to Laurel with a victorious smile. “I got the okay.”

  She grinned and stepped into his arms, and he proceeded to kiss her soundly good-night—until Grandda woke up with a snort and a sputter.

  *

  The two weeks after Peter had run away were like a schoolgirl’s dream. Laurel and Mark quickly figured out they had her house to themselves Monday through Thursday in the mornings when the kids were safely in school, and when she didn’t have B&B guests. And they took every advantage. They’d tried out each guest bed in the house, except for the honeymoon suite. For some crazy reason, Laurel considered that room sacred, like it belonged only to people who’d made vows. Especially now that she’d be joining forces with The Drumcliffe and their wedding packages.

  They also avoided her bed, the one she’d shared with Alan for thirteen years. The thought of making love with Mark in her room, on her bed, even though the mattress had been changed, was still more than she could handle.

  Mark brought back the wild, early lovemaking days she’d remembered when she’d first met Alan. She’d also transitioned from letting old thoughts come between her and the moments with Mark, to kissing them goodbye. Literally. All over his gorgeous body. Even when sometimes after he left she’d tremble all over thinking she’d opened up too much with him, that if he walked away tomorrow, she’d already feel pain from losing him. It’d happened that fast, right under her nose.

  Afraid or not, it was too late, she’d crossed the line, this guy had gotten to her. The scary part about caring and suffering because of it had already occurred. In other words, where Mark Delaney was concerned, she was already toast.

  Last night, “date night,” they’d seen a live-action movie with stars she knew, cussing and mature themes. So grown up. Today, Friday—with nearly a full booking for the third weekend in a row, she and Mark didn’t dare mess up a bed. She wore a dress, the style Mark really liked, a fitted sheath, and a simple string of fake pearls. In the upstairs alcove, they stood snug watching through the sunlit window as the ocean rolled in and out. Mark breathed gently over her shoulder, his arms wrapped around her waist.

  A storm from up north had caused the waves to swell higher. Curl tighter. The sight invigorated her. She turned in Mark’s arms to capture his lips, forcing herself not to ask the dumbest question ever—what are you thinking?

  Why ruin the moment? Their quiet time, holding each other, the tender act of simply enjoying being together. Trusting they were being honest about whatever it was they had going on. It is what it is. Wasn’t that the popular phrase?

  They’d found a secret, the two of them, like a magic balm for their pain. They could make each other feel good, without getting attached. Or at least that was the lie Laurel told herself as their days as a “couple” went along. She was toast.

  “I haven’t seen waves like that in years,” Mark said, obvious awe in his voice.

  “They look scary.”

  “True, but a real challenge.” Things went quiet for a few moments as they continued watching the angry water. “You needed something adjusted?” He snapped out of wherever he’d gone mentally.

  “Oh, yes, the honeymoon suite windows are stuck. I didn’t realize it until I tried to air the room out yesterday.”

  “Anyone book it yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve got to be prepared.”

  He offered an understanding smile, and, as always, it stirred up feelings she wasn’t even ready to name, let alone examine.

  Their biggest challenge, since they’d started having sex, was not to react obviously to each other in front of the kids or his family. Which became harder and harder with each passing day. All he had to do was walk in a room and her core tightened with longing. But her feelings went deeper than that, and that, like the big old scary ocean outside, was what frightened her most.

  *

  By Sunday morning, the high surf had made all the newspapers, and people came to the beach in droves to watch the breakers thunder onto the shore. Only the craziest surfers took advantage.

  After Laurel’s last B&B guest checked out, Mark, Laurel and the kids brought chairs and set up on the beach near the lifeguard station. She’d filled a picnic basket so they could all eat a late lunch together and watch the leftover waves from last week’s storm roll in.

  “Wow, did you feel that?” Laurel said, munching on an egg salad sandwich.

  “Felt like an earthquake.” Peter had an eerie look in his gaze, like he might not feel safe sitting this close to the water.

  “How come they’re so big?” Claire yelled over the noise.

  “Yeah!” Gracie.

  “There was a big storm somewhere and this is the aftermath,” Mark said, realizing the twins probably didn’t understand his explanation. Another whitecap pounded the shore. Fighting an unreasonable desire to hit the water with the other hardcore surfers, Mark stayed put, eating corn chips and the egg salad Laurel had made, enjoying the extra-thick homemade wheat bread. He watched the fearless men on the boards wipe out and get pummeled time and time again, not giving up while getting the snot beat out of them.

  “Why aren’t you out there?” said a man nearby with a distantly familiar face.

  “These little things?” Mark laughed at a mere ten-footer. “I’m waiting for the real swells.”

  The vague acquaintance laughed with him, but he soon became engrossed in a wave that Mark estimated could be twenty to thirty feet, the first of a swelling set in the distance. His pulse leaped to action. Wow. This was epic, once in a lifetime. He stood for a better view. Ten-plus years ago this would have been a dream come true.

  With the promise of more of the same from Poseidon, a lone surfer paddled out, putting himself between the whi
tecaps and the leftover storm. Mark zeroed in as the surfer waited for the next mega breaker heading his way. Then, with perfect timing, he paddled, caught the wave, and surfed through a large, hollow and thick curl of water.

  Mark excitedly tapped Peter on the arm. “Look at that! That guy’s riding the tube. Wow. You don’t see that around here.”

  Peter stood and cheered the guy on. When the surfer came out the other side unscathed, Mark and Peter high-fived as if they’d just mastered the curl themselves.

  Swept up in the moment, it hit Mark suddenly. He didn’t have time to think things through. But he had to try it. Had to. To be out there, feeling the rush of leftover storm in his own backyard. With a seize-the-day attitude, he took off at a run to the hotel, for his board and some trunks, and ten minutes later, hyped up and ready, he was back.

  He saw awe in Peter’s eyes and horror in Laurel’s.

  “You’re not thinking of trying that are you?” she said an octave higher than her usual voice range.

  “YOLO, Mom!” Peter answered for Mark.

  You only live once. Key word being live. From what Mark had seen, there’d been plenty of wipeouts, but no one had been seriously injured. Why not go for it? Maybe ride the wave of his lifetime. Outside of meeting Laurel, if this opportunity wasn’t evidence of things looking up for him, what else could it be?

  “I’ve got to, babe. Trust me.” Yeah, he’d slipped up and called her babe in front of the kids, and his plea for trust had fallen on unhearing ears. Laurel had moved from shocked to silent in record time. She’d gone inward and didn’t kiss him or wish him luck. So focused on the ocean, he ignored that, too, and amped to the max, took off for the water.

  “Epic!” he heard Peter say.

  After thirty minutes, several attempts and no luck, Mark saw it. The Wave. Had to be over twenty feet high from trough to crest, and promised to give him that ride of his life. He swam the board out, sat and waited, then set himself up, paddled like crazy, caught the deep face of the wave and took off. He’d never experienced anything like this on his board before. A combination of terror and sheer joy set in.