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“Perhaps you should. Better yet, you should be talking to them. And to your brother.”
“They’re in my past,” he told her, not the least bit surprised that she felt she had a right to meddle in his life but resentful of it just the same.
“Not as long as there’s breath in any of you,” she told him, her tone surprisingly gentle. “One phone call would put an end to their heartache.” She leveled her gaze straight at him. “And to yours.”
“My heart’s just fine, thanks all the same, and I didn’t come here to get a lecture from you,” he said. “I left grade school a long time ago.”
“But you haven’t outgrown the need for a friendly nudge from someone older and wiser, have you?” she chided.
It was the second time in less than an hour that someone in town had seen fit to pull rank on Patrick. It was Caleb’s push that had gotten him over here, and for what? He hadn’t done a thing to help Alice Newberry, and he’d gotten another lecture on his own life in the bargain.
“Forgive me for saying this, Mrs. Dowd, but in this case you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough to recognize a miserable man when I see one standing in front of me,” she said. “You won’t be truly happy until you settle this.”
“Maybe it can’t be settled and maybe I don’t care about being truly happy,” Patrick retorted. “Maybe all I care about is being left alone.”
That said, he whirled around and left the school, regretting that he’d ever let Caleb talk him into coming over here in the first place. Some days a man would be smart to listen to his own counsel and no one else’s.
Alice had never been so humiliated and embarrassed in her life. Of all the boneheaded things she could have done…not only had she lost control of her students and let one of them nearly drown, she had done it in front of Patrick Devaney.
Everyone in Widow’s Cove knew that Patrick had turned into a virtual recluse. He lived on that fishing boat of his, ate his meals at Jess’s and, for all Alice knew, drank himself into oblivion there every night as well. What no one knew was why, not the details, anyway. There had been some sort of rift with his parents, that much was known. He’d left his home, about thirty miles away, and moved to Widow’s Cove. That thirty miles might as well have been thirty thousand. From what she’d heard, none of them had bridged the distance.
Alice almost hadn’t recognized Patrick when he’d emerged from the ocean dripping wet and mad as the dickens. His hair was too long and stubble shadowed his cheeks. He looked just a little disreputable and more than a little dangerous, especially with his intense blue eyes shooting angry sparks.
Alice remembered a very different Patrick from high school. Although she’d been two years older, everyone at the county high school located here in town knew each other at least by sight. Even as a sophomore, Patrick had been the flirtatious, wildly popular, star football player; his twin brother, Daniel, the captain of the team. The two of them had been inseparable. Now they barely spoke and tried to avoid crossing paths. No one understood that, either.
Alice hadn’t been surprised that Patrick hadn’t remembered her. Not only had she been older, but in high school she’d kept her head buried in her books. She’d been determined to go to college, to break the pattern of all the women in her family, going back generations, who’d married seafaring men, borne their children and lived in fear each time a violent storm approached the coast.
Too many of those men had been lost at sea. Too many of the wives had raised their children alone, living a hand-to-mouth existence because they’d had no skills of their own to fall back on. It had been such a bitter irony that her own father had been lost to that same sea—not in a boat, but in a car—and that he’d taken Alice’s mother to her death with him.
Alice could still recall the heated exchange when she’d told her parents of her plans. They’d both thought she was casting aspersions on their choices, that by wanting more she was being ungrateful for the life they’d struggled to give her.
Maybe that was why, even when Patrick had been lambasting her for what had happened this afternoon, Alice had felt a strange sort of kinship with him. She knew all about family rifts and unhealed wounds. He, at least, still had time to heal his before it was too late. Maybe they’d met so that she could pass along the message she’d learned, assuming they ever crossed paths again.
She was about to leave school for the day when the screechy public address system in her room came on with a burst of static. “Alice, my office now, please,” Mrs. Dowd said in her usual tart manner.
Alice sighed. She thought they’d already been over today’s transgression and moved on. Apparently she’d been wrong. Maybe Matt Foster had called and made an issue of what had happened to Ricky. Maybe he’d forced the principal’s hand.
Gathering her things, she headed for the office, filled with a sense of dread. Even though living in Widow’s Cove hadn’t yet brought her the peace she’d hoped for, she didn’t want to leave, and that was exactly what being fired would mean, since there was no other kindergarten class for miles and miles along this remote stretch of coast.
She tapped lightly on the principal’s door, then walked in when the woman’s sharp tone summoned her.
“There’s something I thought you should know before you go off on break for the next week,” Loretta Dowd said, a surprising hint of a smile on her usually stern lips.
“Yes?”
“Patrick Devaney was here.”
Alice stared at her. Had he come to complain that she wasn’t responsible, that she had no business being in charge of a classroom full of children?
“Why?” she asked, barely able to squeeze the word out past the sudden lump in her throat.
“I believe he wanted to save your job if it was in jeopardy. I told him it wasn’t, but I think the attempt spoke very well of him, don’t you?”
Alice nodded, too shocked for words. Patrick had come rushing to her rescue? He’d been furious with her. Obviously someone was behind it. Molly perhaps. Of course, as fast as news spread in Widow’s Cove, it could have been anyone. Few people in town hesitated to share their opinions of right and wrong under the guise of being helpful. Someone had definitely given him a nudge, no question about it.
“Be sure to thank him when you see him,” the principal said, a twinkle in her eyes.
“I hadn’t planned—”
“The man dove into the icy water to save one of your students,” Mrs. Dowd said, cutting her off. “And then he came charging into my office to save you. Don’t you think the least you can do would be to take him some homemade soup as an expression of gratitude?”
Alice stared at her, trying to process this bit of advice. If she wasn’t mistaken, Loretta Dowd was matchmaking. “What are you up to?” she asked, stunned that the woman even had an interest in Alice’s love life.
The principal drew herself up and gave Alice one of her most daunting looks. “I am not up to anything,” she declared fiercely, but the indignation came too late.
Alice could see quite clearly now that Loretta Dowd was a complete and total fraud. She was not the strict, unfeeling disciplinarian everyone feared. She had a heart.
“If you can’t make soup, I made a fresh pot of chowder this morning,” the principal added.
Alice grinned. “I can make soup. In fact, I made some last night and there’s plenty left. I baked several loaves of bread, too.”
“Well then, what are you standing around here for?” Mrs. Dowd said with her familiar exasperation. “Get on over to that boy’s boat before he catches his death of cold.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Relieved to have an excuse to force her to do what she’d been half wanting to do, anyway, Alice walked to her house, filled a container with some of her homemade beef vegetable soup, added a loaf of her home-baked bread to the basket, and headed right back to Patrick Devaney’s private, No Trespassing dock.
Once there, she took a certain perverse pleasure in pushing open the flimsy gate and making a lot of noise as she approached his trawler. She wasn’t the least bit surprised when he emerged from below deck with a scowl already firmly in place.
“Which part of ‘stay away’ didn’t you understand?” he inquired, leaping gracefully onto the dock and blocking her way.
“I figured it didn’t apply to me, since I come bearing gifts,” she said cheerfully, holding out the soup and bread as she took note of the fact that there were several new boards in place underfoot. “You never mentioned the fact that you were in that freezing ocean because of me—”
“Because of Ricky,” he corrected.
She shrugged at the distinction. “I thought some hot soup might ward off a chill. I don’t want it on my conscience if you get sick because of what happened. Besides, I need to thank you for going to see Mrs. Dowd this afternoon. She was impressed.”
His mouth curved into an arrogant grin that made her heart do an unexpected flip.
“I don’t get sick,” he informed her. “And I didn’t go by the school to impress Loretta Dowd.”
“Which makes it all the more fascinating that you did,” she replied. “As for your general state of good health, having some nutritious soup won’t hurt.”
“You casting aspersions on Molly’s chowder?”
“Hardly, but you must be tired of that by now.”
The grin faded. “Meaning?”
She faltered. She hadn’t meant to admit that she knew anything about his habits. “She says you’re there a lot, that’s all.”
“You asked about me?” He didn’t even attempt to hide his surprise.
The arrogant tilt to his mouth returned, and Alice saw a faint hint of the charming boy he’d once been. She wasn’t here to inflate his already well-developed ego, though. “I most certainly did not,” she said. “Molly tends to volunteer information she thinks will prove helpful.”
He sighed at that. “Yeah. I keep talking to her about that. She seems to think she can save me from myself if she gets enough people pestering me.”
“What do you think?” Alice asked curiously.
“That I don’t need saving.”
She laughed. “I keep telling her the same thing. It hasn’t stopped her yet. Now we’ve both got Loretta Dowd meddling in our lives. She’s the one who insisted on the soup. We’re probably doomed.”
“Don’t remind me,” he said. “I imagine Mrs. Dowd will want to know exactly how polite I was when you came over here. She and Caleb Jenkins will probably compare notes.”
“How on earth did Caleb get involved in this?” Alice asked.
“He thought I should speak to Mrs. Dowd on your behalf.”
“Ah, that explains the trip to the school. I guessed it wasn’t your idea.”
“Oh, I suppose I would have come around to it sooner or later on my own,” he claimed. “The point is, there are any number of fascinated bystanders in this town. I’ll hear about it if I act ungrateful and send you away.” He pushed off from the railing and held out his hand. “You want to come aboard and share a bowl of that soup? Looks to me like there’s plenty for two.”
Alice hesitated. Wasn’t this the real reason she’d come, to see if she and Patrick Devaney had as much in common as it seemed? Wasn’t she here because of that feeling of kinship that had sparked to life in her earlier?
“Are you sure?” she asked. “You don’t seem very receptive to company.” She nodded toward the No Trespassing sign.
He gave her a steady, intense look. “It doesn’t apply to invited guests, and where you’re concerned, I’m not sure of anything,” he said in a way that sent a surprising shiver of awareness racing over her.
“Want to wait till you are?” she asked, startled by the teasing note in her own voice. She almost sounded as if she were flirting with him. Of course, it had been a long time, so maybe she wasn’t being as obvious as she thought.
“Hell, no,” he said, grinning. “I’ve gotten used to living dangerously.”
Alice laughed, then reached out to accept his outstretched hand as she stepped onboard. She noted that unlike the previously decrepit dock, the boat was spotless and in excellent repair. Every piece of chrome and wood had been polished to a soft sheen. Fishing nets were piled neatly. Apparently Patrick Devaney used the time he didn’t spend socializing or shaving to pay close attention to his surroundings.
Below deck in the small cabin, it was the same. The table was clear except for the half-filled coffee cup from which he’d apparently been drinking. The bed a few feet away was neatly made, the sheets crisp and clean, a navy-blue blanket folded precisely at the foot of the bed.
Moving past her in the tight space, Patrick took a pot from a cupboard, poured the soup into it and set it on the small two-burner stove, then retrieved two bowls and spoons from the same cupboard. Alice was all too aware of the way he filled the cramped quarters, of the width of his shoulders, of the narrowness of his hips. He’d filled in since his football-playing days, but he was definitely still in shape. It was the first time in ages she’d recognized the powerful effect pure masculinity could have on her.
From the moment she’d lost her parents, nearly a year ago, she’d gone into an emotional limbo. She let no one or nothing touch her. She even kept a barrier up between herself and her students, or at least she had until Ricky Foster had scared the living daylights out of her this afternoon. Nothing had rattled her so badly since the night the police had called to tell her that her parents had driven off that road they’d traveled a thousand times in all kinds of weather.
Don’t go there, she thought, forcing her attention back to the present. One appreciative, surreptitious glance at Patrick’s backside as he bent to retrieve something from the tiny refrigerator did the trick. It was all she could do not to sigh audibly at the sight.
Don’t go there, either, she told herself very firmly. She was here for penance and for soup. Nothing more. A peek at Patrick Devaney sent another little shock of awareness through her and proved otherwise.
Oh, well, there was certainly no harm in looking, she decided as she sat back and enjoyed the view. Even a woman living in a self-imposed state of celibacy had the right to her fantasies, and any fantasy involving Patrick Devaney should definitely not be dismissed too readily.
Chapter Three
Patrick wasn’t sure what had possessed him to invite Alice Newberry aboard the Katie G., a boat he’d named for his mother as a constant reminder that people weren’t to be trusted. For eighteen years he’d considered his mother to be the most admirable woman he’d ever known. Now, each time he caught a glimpse of the name painted on the bow of the boat, it served as a reminder that everyone had secrets and that everyone was capable of duplicity. It was a cynical attitude, but experience had taught him it was a valid one.
Maybe he’d invited Alice to join him because he was getting sick of his own lousy company. Or maybe it was because he had a gut instinct that she’d learned the same bitter lesson about humanity’s lack of trustworthiness. Not that he planned to commiserate. He just figured she was probably no more anxious than he was to start something that was destined to end badly, the way all relationships inevitably did.
Oddly enough, for all that they’d had going against them, his own parents were still together. He supposed there was some sort of perverse love at work, if it could survive what they’d done to their own family. Funny how for so many years he’d thought how lucky he was to have had parents who’d stayed together, parents who preached about steadfastness and commitment and set an example for their sons.
He and Daniel had had a lot of friends whose parents were divorced, kids who’d envied them for their ideal home. Not that Patrick or Daniel had shared the illusion that everything was wonderful in the Devaney household. There were arguments—plenty of them, in fact—mostly conducted in whispers and behind closed doors. And there were undercurrents they’d never understood—an occasional expression of inexplicable sorrow on their mother’s face, an occasional hint of resentment in their father’s eyes—just enough to make him and Daniel wonder if things were as perfect as they wanted to believe.
In general, though, he and Daniel had had a good life. There had been a lot of love showered on them, love that in retrospect he could see was meant to make up for the love their parents could no longer give to their other sons. There had been tough times financially, but they’d never gone to bed hungry or doubting that they were loved. And in later years, his father had settled into a good-paying job as a commercial fisherman, working not for himself but for some conglomerate that guaranteed a paycheck, even when the catches weren’t up to par. After that, things had been even better. There were no more arguments over rent and grocery money.
He and Daniel had been eighteen before they’d discovered the truth, and then all of those whispered fights and sad looks had finally made sense. Not that their parents had confessed to anything in a sudden flash of conscience. No, the truth had been left for Patrick and Daniel to find discover by accident.
Daniel had been digging around in an old trunk in the attic, hoping to use it to haul his belongings away to college, when he’d stumbled on an envelope of yellowing photos, buried beneath some old clothes. It was apparent in a heartbeat that the envelope was something they’d never been meant to see.
Patrick still remembered that day as if it were yesterday. If he let himself, he could feel the oppressive heat, smell the dust that swirled as Daniel disturbed memories too long untouched. To this day, if Patrick walked into a room that had been closed up too long, the musty scent of it disturbed him. It was why he’d chosen to live here, on his boat, where the salt air breezes held no memories.
He remembered Daniel shouting for him to come upstairs, remembered the confused expression on his twin’s face as he’d sifted through the stack of photographs. When Patrick had climbed the ladder into the attic, Daniel looked stunned. Silently, he held out the pictures, his hand trembling.
“Look at them,” he commanded, when Patrick’s gaze stayed on him rather than the photos.
“Looks like some old pictures,” Patrick had said, barely sparing them a glance, far more concerned about his brother’s odd expression.
“Look at them,” his brother had repeated impatiently.
The sense of urgency had finally gotten through to Patrick, and he’d studied the first picture. It was of a toddler with coal-black hair and a happy smile racing toward the camera at full throttle. He was a blur of motion. Patrick had blinked at the image, thoroughly confused about what Daniel had seen that had him so obviously upset. “What? Do you think it’s Dad?”
Daniel shook his head. “Look again. That’s Dad in the background.”
“Okay,” Patrick said slowly, still not sure what Daniel was getting at. “Then it has to be one of us.”
“I don’t think so. Look at the rest of the pictures.”
Slowly, Patrick had worked his way through the photos, several dozen in all, apparently spanning a period of years. His mom was in some of them, his father in more. But there were happy, smiling boys in each one. That first toddler, then another who was his spitting image, then three, and finally five, two of them babies, evidently twins.
Patrick’s hand shook as he studied the last set of pictures. Finally, almost as distressed and definitely as confused as Daniel, he dragged his gaze away and stared at his brother. “My God, what do you think it means? Those babies, do you think that’s you and me?”
“Who else could it be?” Daniel had asked. “There are no other twins on either side of the family, at least none that we know of. Come to think of it, though, what do we really know about our family? Have you ever heard one word about our grandparents, about any aunts or uncles?”
“No.”
“That should have told us something. It’s as if we’re some insular little group that sprang on the world with absolutely no connections to anyone else on earth.”
“Don’t you think you’re being overly dramatic?” Patrick asked.
“Look at the damn pictures and tell me again that I’m being too dramatic,” Daniel shouted back at him.
Patrick’s gaze had automatically gone to the top photo, the one of five little dark-haired boys. “Who do you suppose they are?”
