about now. Sticking to the superficial, rather than let himself feel something, he concentrated on how her hair looked resting on her shoulders. “It’s okay. Every family has issues.”
She lifted her brows, in a prove-it kind of way, but soon exchanged that for a quizzical expression. “I have no idea why I’m telling you my life story.” She leveled him with a stare. “Just strike that part, okay?”
“No worries. You feel like talking, go right ahead.” A long moment followed where they quietly assessed each other, and she must have decided she’d spilled her guts enough for the day. She took another bite of her cookie, which, for some crazy reason, looked sexier than it should. He couldn’t take the intimacy of watching her mouth, or sharing concerns and feelings, especially if she expected him to open up about himself or his family in return. So he deliberately changed the topic. “And if you give me another cookie, I’ll throw in checking all the guest room locks.”
As though relieved, she smiled, pushing the plate toward him. “It’s a deal.”
As he went through the rest of the house, he noticed all six of the guest rooms were on the second floor. Laurel and the kids must have taken up residence on the first floor, in the back part of the house.
Out of the blue he wondered what she’d look like with that top layer of stress erased from her pretty face. And then he stopped himself from going a single thought further. What was the point? She had her hands full, and the last thing he needed was to pursue a woman with kids.
He grabbed his small workbag, went downstairs and found Laurel in the kitchen slicing apples and carrots. He stopped for a second to enjoy the view.
“I’m all done here.” He set the small bottle of graphite on the long central island. “If you have any more problems with locks, just use this.”
She stopped slicing. “Thanks so much.”
In rushed the twins. “We’re hungry,” Claire, the spokesperson, said.
“Yeah, my tummy’s qweezin’,” said Gracie.
She tossed them both a piece of carrot and apple. Surprisingly, they accepted her offer and scuttled off for the backyard like contented bunnies. Intuition must be part of the job description for a mom. Another thing about her that impressed him.
“You may be wondering about Gracie’s speech.”
“She does have an interesting way of saying things.”
Laurel sighed as she leaned forward, elbows and forearms resting on the kitchen island countertop. The pose shouldn’t be appealing, but it was. “During Alan’s illness, I was so caught up in his needs, I didn’t realize that Gracie’s unusual speech was a sign she had fluid in her ears. I thought it was baby talk. It wasn’t until after Alan died I snapped out of my trance and took them both to the pediatrician. Gracie needed tubes in her ears, and Claire flunked her three-year-old vision test. I didn’t have a clue about either of them.”
She looked defeated, and it bothered him. “You had a lot on your plate. The main thing, nothing was life-threatening and you fixed the problem.” Listen to me, Mr. Logical. He stepped closer to her end of the island. “Maybe quit being so hard on yourself?”
She blinked and sighed. “I might have to hire you as a life coach.”
“Ha! First you’d have to find me one.”
“And what’s your story?” Her inquisitive stare nearly pushed him off balance.
“Ten years in the army. Tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Need I say more?”
She looked horrified at first. That was the only way Mark could explain her expression, then it changed.
They gazed at each other, her manner seeming sympathetic, understanding. Mark was almost positive she thought the same thing—they were two people who’d come through tough times humbled and haggard. He’d worked out a drill to deal with his, but had she?
Mark’s usual routine was to work all morning and through the early afternoon, then grab his board and head down to the beach to catch a few waves. What used to be his passion had now become his solace, better than a doctor’s prescription or a cold beer. Funny how time changed things like that—passion to solace. He figured the PTSD had a lot to do with needing to be alone, at sea, man against nature, at least once a day. Plus, other than the noisy seagulls, it was amazingly quiet out there, and was the perfect place to shut down all the clatter in his life. Whatever it was, surfing was still a lifeline for him and he needed it. Especially today.
She wiped the counter with a sponge, and he was ready to leave, but something made him stop. It was like his body had quit listening to his brain. Don’t get involved. “Just call if you need anything, okay?” Now his mouth had gone rogue. Seeing a notepad on the adjacent counter, he scribbled out his cell phone number, then left.
“You might be sorry!” she teasingly called after him.
He already was. Why walk in on someone else’s life as a fix-it guy, when he’d yet to fix his own mess? He really didn’t need the frustration.
But when he hit the street, he grinned. Like an idiot. Because he’d just given a woman his phone number for the first time since getting discharged from the service.
* * *
A half hour later, dressed in red board shorts and an old stretched-out, holey T-shirt, with surfboard under his arm, Mark strode toward the beach where the sun cast a golden orange tint on the ocean. Being the middle Delaney brother, he’d opted out of the role of peacekeeper by default early on. Instead, he’d elected to become an attention-getting surfer. It’d paid off in spades, too. Popularity. Girlfriends. Respect.
He’d intended to sign up for the army right after high school, but his father and mother had convinced him to try the local community college first. He did, without an inkling of what he wanted to major in, for two years, but didn’t get a degree because the classes he took didn’t add up to one major’s requirements. Then that faraway Middle East war got personal. A good friend since grammar school had been killed in Iraq. It might not have been logical thinking, but after that he felt called to serve, so, without his parents’ blessings, he’d enlisted. After voting in a presidential election for the first time, signing up for the army had been his next major life decision. And he was still re-adjusting to civilian life.
A predictable afternoon breeze had kicked up and the water was choppy, but he smiled at the swelling of sets forming in the distance. A few of the usual guys in wet suits were out there, most of them half his age. They’d probably been there all day. One with long sun-bleached hair caught the next wave, road the crest, then wiped out.
Halfway down the beach, he passed a group of loud teenagers talking trash to someone. He turned his head to check things out. Five guys ranging from tall and buff to short and heavy, wearing board shorts and brand-name skateboarder T-shirts, were getting their jollies by bullying someone much smaller. He looked closer, saw the shaggy brown hair, the nose he was still growing into and that oversize T-shirt with Bart Simpson on the front. It was Peter with a frown cast in iron on his face, staring at his flip-flops. Obviously hating every second, he let the jerks taunt and tease him, but what choice did he have, one against five?
Mark dropped his board and headed their way. “Hey, Peter, I was lookin’ for you, man! It’s time for your surfing lesson.”
Peter
