The Rebel (13 page)

But, God, after last night, he wanted to let loose with a whole stream of romantic drivel. She'd rocked his world and not just physically.

Frankie rolled over and looked up at him.

Man, he liked the color of her eyes.

“What?” she prompted.

“I gotta go.” He dropped a kiss on her mouth and then got out of bed quickly. He was pulling on his shorts when he caught her smile.

“You've got a beautiful body, you know that,” she said, eyes going low.

He paused, glanced at the clock.

Breakfast could wait a little longer.

F
RIDAY NIGHT
, J
OY LOOKED
up from the hostess stand and froze.

Gray Bennett towered over her, a smile on his sexy-as-hell face. He was dressed in white linen pants, a navy blue blazer and an open-necked shirt. He was tanned, his hair was a little on the long side, and he looked better than any man had a right to.

“Hello, Joy.”

She cleared her throat, not willing to take a gamble on her voice. “Good evening.”

“How are you?”

She smiled, feeling a glow come over her like a heat lamp had been turned on above her head.

“Really well.” Now that he was here.

“This place is packed.” He glanced out across the tables. “I didn't know you had to make reservations.”

She blurted immediately, “I can make an exception for you.”

As well as making a fool out of myself, she thought. God, the eagerness in her voice made her want to wince.

He just smiled. “If you wouldn't mind?”

“Not at all.” But she prayed he didn't have ten people with him. “How many?”

“Just my father and I.”

Joy glanced to the door and saw Mr. Bennett talking to the mayor and his wife. Gray's father had had a stroke over the winter and was still recuperating, leaning heavily on a cane.

“I'll put you on the lake side. Come right this way.”

She could feel him moving behind her and saw some of the other diners look up and whisper. Gray Bennett was something of a local celebrity, considering all of his political power and connections. It wasn't often that someone who hobnobbed with world leaders floated through town.

Although she knew the women would have stared if he'd been no more than a garage mechanic. That masculine air of his was an aphrodisiac like none other, capable of putting oysters in the shade.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked as he sat down.

“A bourbon would be great.”

“I'm sorry, we only have wine.”

“Then a glass of something white is fine. And one for my father, too. Assuming he eventually ends his conversation with the mayor.” He smiled up at her and opened his menu.

On the way to the kitchen, Joy checked her watch.
If everything went well, he'd be in their dining room for over an hour. Longer if he ordered dessert.

Sweet heaven, he was too handsome to look at.

As she poured two glasses of wine, she practiced the list of specials in her head, hoping she could come across smooth and in control. Like him.

She was heading for the double doors with a tray when Frankie called out, “Joy! We've got a problem.”

Joy paused, looking through the round glass portals at Gray's table. He was helping his father sit in a chair.

“Joy!” Frankie's voice was sharp.

“What?”

“Grand-Em is back in the Lincoln Bedroom. Mr. Thorndyke just called. Can you go calm her down and get her into her own room?”

Joy squeezed her eyes shut. Not tonight. Not with Gray here.

“Pickup!” Nate called out.

“Joy?” Frankie said, coming over urgently and taking the tray from her hands. “I'll take these drinks out. Where to?”

“Table twelve,” she replied.

Frankie shot over to Nate, put the two entrées he'd just plated on the tray next to the glasses and pirouetted out into the dining room.

A moment later Joy followed, on her way to the Lincoln Bedroom. As she passed by Gray's table, she
heard Frankie telling him and his father about the specials.

She was out in the hallway before she had to look back. Gray was laughing at something Frankie had said, a big, wide smile on his face, his eyes creasing at the corners.

And then suddenly, he looked at her. He actually looked right through the crowded room, directly at her. His smile lost some of its breadth and those stunning, shrewd eyes narrowed on her face. Joy stopped breathing.

As far as she was concerned, the whole world stopped moving.

But then Frankie looked over with a frown, as if she'd caught Gray's change in mood and was curious what the cause was.

Joy hurried away.

Holy Moses, what was that, she thought.

She took the stairs two at a time even though her legs were about as stable as her heartbeat.

Maybe he'd caught her staring and all her stupid fantasies had shown on her face.

Oh, God. The idea that he knew about her silly infatuation was enough to make her nauseous. Sure, in her daydreams he greeted the news flash with happiness. But in real life, she couldn't believe a man like him would feel anything other than pity for her.

When she got up to the landing, she saw the
Thorndykes in the doorway of their room, looking worried.

“I'm so sorry about this,” she said, stepping past them.

Her grandmother was on the floor, poking at the wall with a screwdriver.

Joy rushed over. “Grand-Em, is there something I can help with here?”

“You can get me into this wall. I must retrieve my ring.”

“Okay. But why don't we do it some other time? We're disturbing these nice people.”

Grand-Em hesitated, good breeding momentarily taming the dementia. “But the ring must be found.”

“Of course it does. But wouldn't you agree we shouldn't inconvenience our guests?”

Grand-Em eyed the couple and accepted a hand up off the floor. “Yes, you are quite right.”

Joy pocketed the screwdriver and shot apologetic glances at the Thorndykes as she led her grandmother down the hall to the door that opened to the staff quarters.

“I must find my ring.”

Joy figured she'd give it one more shot. “But isn't it on your finger?”

Grand-Em looked down at her hand. “No, the one Arthur gave me.”

“But Grand-Em, you were never—”

Joy's grandmother shot her an imperious stare. “I shall prove that he asked me to marry him. Come. I shall show you.”

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, F
RANKIE
sat at her desk and reread the letters her sister had given her the night before.

It looked as if Grand-Em wasn't delusional about Arthur Garrison.

There were four letters from him to their grandmother, dated between the fall of 1940 and summer of 1941. And sure enough, the last one demanded an answer to the proposal he'd made and the ring he'd offered to her that April. The words the man had used were flowery, over-the-top.

Artie was a real ladies man, Frankie thought.

The phone on her desk rang and she picked it up. “White Caps.”

“Frankie? It's Mike Roy.”

“Mike, how are you?”

“Fine.” Funny, he didn't sound fine. “Listen, I've got some bad news.”

Frankie let the letters fall to the desk as she gripped the receiver. “Hit me.”

Literally, she thought.

“The bank is being acquired.”

“Will you have to leave?” she asked, hoping she wouldn't lose him.

“I don't know. I hope not. But, ah, we need to
settle up your account before the sale goes through. All business is being brought up-to-date.”

“How much time?”

“End of August.”

She put her head in her hands. “Okay.”

It wasn't okay. Not by a long shot. But what else could she say?

“I'm sorry.”

“No, it's not your fault. I'll get the money.”

“Look, if you can't, I have an interested party.”

“An interested—for the house?”

“Yes. It'll be better than putting it up for auction if you default. You'll get more money that way.”

“The Englishman,” she whispered. “The hotelier you brought here. Is he really a friend of yours?”

Mike cleared his throat. “I'm just trying to do you a favor.”

“You knew about this all along, didn't you?”

“I wasn't sure the acquisition was going to go through. I'm giving you as much notice as I possibly can.”

After they hung up, Frankie stared across her office, at the picture of her family.

The phone rang almost immediately.

Maybe he was calling back and telling her he'd made a mistake. Yeah, right.

“White Caps.”

“May I please speak with Frances Moorehouse.” The male voice was curt, authoritative.

“This is she.”

The man cleared his throat. “Ma'am, I'm Commander Montgomery of the United States Coast Guard.”

Frankie went stone-cold. “Alex?”

“It is with regret that I inform you that your brother, Alexander Moorehouse, is missing off the coast of Massachusetts. His vessel was found capsized in high seas in the eye of Hurricane Bethany. We have instigated a full search for both him and his sailing partner, Mr. Cutler. I'd like to give you my contact information, but be assured, I will call you with news.”

Frankie could barely hold a pen and write she was shaking so badly. And as soon as she hung up, she bolted out of her office. Careening through the kitchen, she ran outdoors blindly. When she finally slowed down, she realized she was on the dock.

She looked out at the vast expanse of the lake.

And screamed at the water.

 

N
ATE SAW
F
RANKIE COME
crashing through the kitchen and he immediately dropped what he was working on and went after her. She was running as if chased, and when she got to the end of the dock, she pitched her body forward and let out a roar of pain.

He reached out for her. “Frankie!”

She spun around, eyes wide with horror, tears
streaking down her red, contorted face. “Alex is dead. My brother is gone.”

Nate squeezed his eyes shut and crushed her against his chest.

As he wrapped his arms around her body, she fell apart, sobs wracking her shoulders until he thought her spine would snap. The sounds coming out of her were like that of an animal.

When he glanced up and saw Joy slowly coming down the lawn, looking worried, he pulled away slightly.

“Your sister,” he said softly in Frankie's ear.

Frankie pulled back, wiped her eyes with hands that trembled, and sniffled. He gave her the dish towel he carried in his back pocket while he worked.

“Frankie?” Joy's voice barely carried.

“I'll leave you two,” Nate whispered.

Frankie gripped his hand. “No, stay.”

“What's happened?” Joy asked.

“Alex—” Frankie's voice cracked. “Alex.”

Joy's face collapsed, her mouth, her eyes, the bones in her cheeks sagging. And yet her voice was strong when she spoke. “Is he missing or dead?”

“Missing. But—”

“So there's a chance.”

“His boat capsized. In a hurricane.”

“And if anyone could survive that, it would be Alex.” Joy lifted her chin. “I'm not mourning him until they find his body.”

Joy turned around and headed back for the house. Her hands were wrapped around her slender body, her strawberry blond hair lifted by the wind.

Nate looked at Frankie. “She's strong.”

“Stronger than I am right now.” She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes grim as they leveled on the lake. “I can't bear to lose him, too. God, why the hell is water so hungry for my family?”

Nate put an arm around her. He wanted to tell her that it would be okay and they would find her brother. But no one except the good Lord could know what the outcome was going to be. “You want to close the dining room tonight?”

Her chest expanded as she drew a deep breath. “No. We need the money.”

Eventually, they went back to the house and Frankie stayed in her office. When the kitchen was closed down, Nate went to her. She was staring out the window, one hand on the top of the desk, right next to the phone.

“Did we do well tonight?” she asked dully.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” She finally looked at him. “I tried to talk to Joy, but she won't listen.”

Nate went around the desk and knelt down in front of her, putting his hands on her knees. “You want to go upstairs?”

When she shook her head, he sat on the floor at her feet and leaned back against the bookcases.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I'm not leaving you.”

“I'm going to be here all night.”

“Then so am I.”

She was silent a long time.

“This feels just like the night my parents died. The waiting. The sensation of time passing slowly, the hours stretching out as far as I can see. But at least I didn't cause this.”

Nate frowned. “You didn't cause your parents' deaths either.”

“That's not true. I killed my mother.”

 

F
RANKIE HEARD
N
ATE'S SHOCKED
breath and glanced at him. His big body was folded up on the floor, his capable hands resting on his knees. His face was filled with disbelief and sympathy.

She was so grateful for his presence because she wanted to talk. And for the first time in a decade, she let herself.

“When business at White Caps gradually decreased, my father took up refurbishing old sailboats. He'd always loved working with his hands. Alex used to help him. They did it in the barn out back. On the afternoon, my parents—” she couldn't say the word
died
so she kept going “—my father just finished one and had put it in the water to take it out for a test run. A storm blew up from the north. The bad weather came on fast and hard. It does that around here in
the spring.” She took a deep breath. “We found out later that the mast had snapped because it hadn't been reinforced properly. Evidently, he'd been struck on the head and swept into the lake.”

Nate made a compassionate noise in the back of his throat.

“Did I tell you that I got into Middlebury on a swimming scholarship?” she said, afraid that if she stopped, she'd lose her courage. “I was a fantastic swimmer. All State. I could swim for miles and miles and Dad said that I took after him. That afternoon, I remember looking at the waves and thinking they were high, but not high enough to drown him. Not him. Not the man who could swim for fifty yards underwater. I remember thinking that if the boat had gone over, he was swimming through those waves. To an island, to the shore. Towards home. Back to us.”