Beach House No. 9 Page 7

  Tess’s sobs redoubled. Jane could only hurt for the woman. Clearly she’d come to Crescent Cove without the expectation of rejection. Jane edged farther away, thinking she’d head to her own cottage.

  Her movement caught Griffin’s eye, however, and in two strides he had her by the hand and was towing her toward the crier. “I can’t deal with this, Tess. And here’s why. I’ve got a new lover now.” He put his hands on Jane’s shoulders and pulled her back against his chest.

  His body heat transferred to Jane and pooled low at the base of her spine. She glanced over her shoulder, and his hands tightened on her. He focused on her mouth, and she felt it like a touch, her lips warming too. The company, the room itself, seemed to drop away, leaving Griffin’s intense gaze and Jane’s unsteady heartbeat.

  Then, jerking his gaze off her, he cleared his throat and pushed her forward a half step. It left inches of cooling air between them. “Meet Jane.”

  The other woman sniffed, the back of her hand against her nose. She raised lovely, tear-drenched eyes to take in Jane, and then her gaze moved on to Griffin’s face. “You’ve met someone?”

  The heartbreak in her voice told the story, Jane thought. And as someone who’d been supplanted by another woman in a man’s life, she didn’t want to play this scene again, even from the other side. “Look…”

  Griffin’s hands found her shoulders again to squeeze a warning. “Honey-pie—”

  “Chili-dog,” she said, turning to glare at him.

  “Honey-pie!” The woman—Tess—cried out. “Chili-dog! You really found someone!”

  “Isn’t that what you’re always telling me to do?”

  “When I was married,” she started, sniffling back more tears, “it seemed like a good idea. But now that we’re heading for divorce…”

  Jane couldn’t continue this way, deceiving this poor woman who’d apparently left her husband for Griffin, who in turn was exhibiting more than his usual detachment. “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Jane.” An even clearer warning.

  Breaking free of his hold, she turned to shoot him a look. “Listen—” But her next words got lost in a loud crash. The little boys had knocked over a small table by the window. The base of a lamp was on the ground, shattered against the hard wood. The shade lay crumpled beside it.

  The baby started wailing again.

  As if she’d reached the end of her rope, Tess clapped one hand over her eyes. The little boys began shoving each other anew, putting more furniture at risk. Rebecca mouthed something—likely another pregnancy threat—and jumped from the sofa to hand her smallest brother over to Griffin. As the teen stalked out of the room, he held the child at arm’s length, then turned to Jane in mute appeal.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Helpless with his own children! Surely that had to be the case, that they belonged to him, because each one had his dark hair, and at least some of them his distinctive blue eyes, not to mention his ability to be appealing and get on her nerves at the very same time. She took the baby from him and jiggled the child as she grabbed the back of one little boy’s shirt. It was a winning technique, because the other automatically followed as she led him down the hall. A small guest room had a TV and remote. She held it out to the larger of the two. “I assume you’re familiar with this device?”

  In a blink, it was snatched out of her hand. In two, they were seated on the bed, their eyes glued to the screen. Private, the Labrador, appeared from somewhere and wiggled his way between them on the mattress. The show they chose wasn’t a cartoon, and she could only hope it wasn’t X-rated—a distinct possibility, she figured, in this house—but, given the kids’ snarled domestic arrangement, maybe they’d seen it all before.

  The baby was now snuffling against her shoulder and gnawing on his fist, so she headed into the kitchen, where she found a cracker. He pounced on it with a show of great delight. As he munched away, she returned to the living room, a box of tissues under her arm.

  It appeared as if all was not resolved. Tess had collapsed on the couch cushions, her face in her hands. Griffin, the callous monster, had retreated to the glass doors, his back turned to the woman, his gaze resting on the ceaseless rumble of the surf.

  Jane could only hope Rebecca wasn’t out looking for a sperm donor.

  Without a word, she took a seat on the couch and passed over the tissues. Tess accepted them with a grateful glance. Then she dried her face. Once it was done, she inhaled a long deep breath and took the now-content baby onto her lap. “Thank you,” she said, hugging her small son to her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but I had to get that out of my system.”

  Then her gaze shifted to Griffin, and she raised her voice. “I want to stay here with the kids.”

  He swung around, dismay—or panic?—written all over his face. “I didn’t even invite you to stay for dinner.”

  “Griff—”

  “Tess. I told you I have a lover. I’m with Jane now.”

  Not even for the chance to get this job and regain her reputation was she going along with a lie of this magnitude a moment longer. “I’m not his anything,” she said, ignoring the fierce frown Griffin turned on her. “Believe me.”

  “Oh.” Tess looked from her to the grim-faced man in the corner. “I don’t understand.”

  “Though he said that we’re together,” Jane explained, “it’s not true.”

  Tess blinked, and now that Tess’s eyes were dry, Jane realized they were the same distinctive and bright turquoise as Griffin’s. “That’s fabulous news,” the other woman replied.

  Jane thought it was a little odd to be happy that your ex, the father of your children, had just been lying to you, but she figured Tess’s hopes of getting Griffin back had been renewed.

  “Because love’s a crock and men are beasts,” Tess continued in loud tones, and Jane could see from whom Rebecca had inherited her dramatic presence. The brunette sent a pointed look at Griffin. “Even my brother.”

  Brother?

  Oh. Oh.

  Now feeling stupid, Jane once again glared at the man in the room.

  “What?” he asked with a look of aggrieved innocence.

  But Tess snagged his attention by launching into her reasons for staying at Crescent Cove. “We need a break. The kids will love it here.”

  He shook his head right away. “There’s no available cottage. Ask Skye.”

  Tess flapped a hand. “There’s plenty of room in Beach House No. 9.”

  He definitely looked panicked now. “I need my privacy.”

  “You’ve been hiding from everyone for months,” his sister responded.

  “No. No, I haven’t. Old Man Monroe jaws at me every day. And, uh, I have Jane here. We, uh, have a project to do.”

  Jane perked up at that. Her spine straightening, she pinned him with her gaze. “So you’re committing to working on the book now?”

  “As you’ve been telling me, I have a deadline to meet.” He turned to his sister. “See? I can’t have all of you underfoot.”

  “But we won’t be any trouble,” Tess said. “The kids won’t get in your way.”

  Jane was no longer listening to the other woman, her mind already on the project ahead. She didn’t rub her hands together, but she wanted to. “We’ll start first thing in the morning.”

  “Griffin,” Tess pleaded. “We need Crescent Cove this summer. Me and the kids. We need it for just a few weeks.”

  He looked from Tess to Jane, who had no trouble giving him the out he wanted this time. “You need to finish the book, Griffin. That’s why I’m here.”

  His gaze shifted back to Tess, to her, to Tess again. Jane saw a calculating light enter his eyes. Uh-oh, she thought.

  “All right, sis,” he finally said. “You and the kids can stay.”

  She clapped her hands, and the baby did too. “Thank you.”

  “You can stay in No. 8,” Griffin clarified.

  What? Jane mouthed.

  Tess frowned. “No. 8?”r />
  “Yes,” Griffin answered. “In No. 8, with my assistant Jane, here. Though I’ll be busy with my memoir, I’m sure she’ll be happy to assist you at every opportunity.”

  * * *

  WORN PACK OF CARDS in hand, Private padding at his side, Griffin strolled into the small backyard of Beach House No. 9. Okay, skulked was a better term, because he couldn’t deny the furtiveness of his movements. He stayed close to the side of the house and craned his neck for any sign of the occupants of No. 8. His property provided a view of a slice of the smaller house’s rear patch of scruffy grass. When he didn’t spy any rowdy relatives or rigid-spined governesses, he picked up his pace toward the nearby picnic table painted sailor-blue.

  Once seated on its bench, he tucked in earbuds and thumbed on his iPod. The crashing chords and heavy backbeat of classic Metallica poured into his head as he laid out yet another of his mindless games of solitaire. This was the second day in a row he’d managed to dodge his sister, her children and the woman he’d foisted them on. Or was it, he thought, frowning, the woman onto whom he’d foisted them?

  He stared down at his cards for a moment, then cursed the stupid question circling in his head. Damn it! He’d always been lousy at the picky points of grammar and had accepted that fact. But now he was thinking like Jane. Or at least about Jane. Hadn’t he been doing a pretty good job of avoiding that too?

  With the heel of his palm, he bumped the side of his skull, a little signal to his psyche to move on. For the past forty-eight hours he’d been in the best mood he could remember having in months—the kind of mood a prisoner might experience upon avoiding the electric chair—and though he was still behind bars of a sort, he planned on holding on to this good humor. After all, hadn’t he managed to escape his sister, her progeny and the librarian, all in one fell swoop?

  Two hands of the card game later, he saw Private jump to his four furry feet. On a groan, Griffin tugged the buds from his ears and quickly scrutinized the vicinity. He groaned again when he realized the one invading his privacy was none other than his elderly neighbor. “What do you want, you old coot?”

  Though he was certain he didn’t sound the least bit welcoming, Old Man Monroe sat down on the opposite bench.

  Griffin returned his gaze to his game. “My dog was right here the whole time, and don’t try saying otherwise.”

  “I’m not here about the dog.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m not here to give you your daily senility check. Go home.”

  “Hear from Gage? Skye said you had mail.”

  At that, Griffin had to smile, even though he knew the postcard that had been delivered to the cove today—all correspondence addressed to the cottages went to Skye, who then distributed it to the residents—was more than a week old. Seeing his brother’s distinctive block lettering pleased him.

  “It was one of his own photos.” For years, whenever Gage could manage it, he’d find a place that would put an image on card stock and send it across the country or across the world to Griffin. It had started as a friendly twin-to-twin taunt—photojournalist Gage bragging to his brother about the exotic places he found so thrilling. Now, when Griffin had nearly as many faraway locales and out-of-the-ordinary sights stored in his own memory banks, it was a tangible connection. Looking at an image his brother had found through his own viewfinder, touching paper that his brother had also touched, it was as if they were in the same room, at least for a brief moment.

  “He’s well?” the old man asked.

  “As good as he can get, in the kind of places that he goes.” Griffin thought about the child Gage had captured on that postcard, in apparent midgiggle. Dirty and thin, he’d still found something to laugh about.

  Children had that gift. The thought gave him a guilty prod about his niece and nephews. Angry at himself for letting in the emotion, he slapped down a king in an empty space in the line-up.

  Rex Monroe shifted, straightening out his bad leg. Griffin didn’t bother looking up. “Don’t you have a date with The Golden Girls about now?”

  “My cable’s out. Entertain me.”

  Instead, Griffin decided to ignore him.

  “I have the patience of Job,” Rex cautioned after a few minutes had passed.

  “You mean you’re a job. But not my job. Go harass somebody else.”

  “Maybe I’ll find your sister, tell her you’re sitting outside with nothing to do. Looking morose.”

  The threat put Griffin on his feet, startling Private, who let out a bark. He didn’t want Tess or anyone else checking on him, damn it. “I’m not morose.”

  “You’re in a happy frame of mind, then?”

  “Sure.” He strode to the yard’s narrow flower bed and bent over to yank at some weeds, as if he gave a shit about them. “For your information, I’m in a very happy frame of mind.”

  “Huh,” the old guy said, slyness entering his voice. “Does this happiness have to do with Jane?”

  Griffin grunted. Jane. She’d worn this silly hat the other day, lowered all the way to her eyebrows. For a few moments, on the deck of Captain Crow’s, he’d thought she was going to prove cooperative. She’d been close at his side as he’d approached Tess, all compliant and cuddly. That should have been the tip-off. How long could the librarian last like that? But hell, what was wrong with her, having a sudden attack of the truth?

  “Jane bugs the crap out of me,” Griffin said, ripping a dandelion out by its roots. Its fluffy head reminded him of Jane’s fluffy hair. He liked her hair; it twisted and turned, making him want to bury his fingers in it and then… Gah! With a jerk, he tossed the stupid weed away. She was like that, rooting into his head where she didn’t belong and wasn’t wanted. Messing with his cool equilibrium.

  “I guess your sister gets the credit for your good mood, then.”

  “Oh, right,” Griffin said. “Like I want to get involved with her and her domestic dilemmas.”

  “Looks like you won’t,” the ancient one said, his voice mild. “Since you’ve found a way to palm it all off on poor Jane.”

  “What, you got a spy camera installed around here? And poor Jane, my ass. Poor Jane is actually Annoying Jane who does not follow instructions. If she’d stuck with the program and told my sister that we were…that we had a thing happening here, then Tess would have left me my privacy. She’s big on people falling in love.”

  “Skye says she’s had a change of heart about that.”

  Skye. So she was the codger’s source. He’d been nosy and meddlesome from the very beginning, and that hadn’t changed, even after all these years. “Did our friendly property manager drop off your monthly allotment of Metamucil today? Followed by a big dose of gossip?”

  “Gossip or not, don’t you wonder what happened to Tess’s marriage?”

  Private flopped onto his back on the grass beside Griffin, which required him to perform the obligatory belly rub. “Yeah, I…” he started, then heard himself. “No, I do not wonder what happened. It’s none of my business. That’s between her and her husband, Deadly Dull David, which right there probably says it all.”

  “I met him at their wedding reception. He seemed very nice,” the old scold replied.

  “Gage came up with the name,” Griffin mumbled. “You know Gage, he can’t imagine anyone enjoying the suburban nine-to-five.”

  “People change. Grow up. Or down, as the case may be, like when they make their own sister someone else’s problem.”

  Griffin threw up his hands. “Jane again! Why do you keep bringing her up?”

  “I’m not the one keeping her around indefinitely. She’s a very pretty young woman. Is that why you don’t cut her loose?”

  Griffin didn’t need to explain himself. And not just because the explanation wouldn’t put him in a very good light. On second thought, maybe if he disgusted his elderly neighbor he’d go home. “Think about it, old man. If I kicked Jane out of the cove, who would keep my sister out of my hair? This way, Jane is the gatekeeper. I tell her I�
��m working and she makes sure Tess and her tribe keep their distance.”

  And it also meant he needn’t give his agent some excuse about why he’d gotten rid of her. Frank might legitimately object to that, since he was the one who’d engaged her services in the first place.

  “You’ve kept your distance from Tess and her kids since you returned from overseas,” Monroe pressed. “She told Skye you’ve stayed away from them for months.”

  “And Skye just had to go running to you with the news,” he said darkly. But he couldn’t deny the accusation. He looked down at his feet and then muttered the first thing that came into his head. “Russ smells like Afghanistan.”

  “Eh?”

  “The small one is Russ. The one still in diapers. He smells like Afghanistan, okay?” As stupid as it sounded, it was true. “It’s the baby wipes—you know those wet cloths people use to wipe a kid’s ass? That’s what we had between our too-seldom encounters with running water.” Upon his return to California, the first time he’d gotten close enough to get a whiff of his youngest nephew, he’d left Tess’s house and never been back. Being at her home, breathing in that smell, made it nauseatingly easy for him to imagine Russ—and his siblings—too soon grown. Too soon experiencing that intoxicating cocktail of danger and adrenaline that he’d sucked down with an eagerness that had both ashamed and enticed him. Those were thoughts he didn’t want in his head.

  There was a moment’s silence, and he was sure he’d shut the old guy up, but then his neighbor waved a hand. “In World War Two, I once went seventy-two days without washing up. You ever get lice in your beard? Now, that’s deprivation.”

  Annoyed by his dismissive tone, Griffin crossed his arms over his chest. “Let me call the waa-ambulance, old man. You know what was in the best care packages from home? Flea collars. Flea collars for dogs. We fought over ’em to wear around our necks and wind around our ankles.”

  Monroe’s eyes narrowed under his beetled brows. “In my war, our meals came with fleas and we were glad for the extra protein.”