for one of her squirming babies. “But the place where I live has this rule about animals.”
“Reckon I could offer it as a prize in the fishing tournament? Biggest catch of the day gets a free puppy? Fishermen mostly drive pickup trucks, and every pickup has to have a dog to ride in the back. It’s a state law.”
So then Molly had told her all about the ferryboat encounter with a fisherman in a dogless pickup truck. “Just when I was starting to think he had real possibilities, he threw his beer can overboard.”
“You know the old saying, garbage in, garbage out.” Sally Ann worked for the ferry department, which Molly considered wildly exciting. “Maybe the jerk’ll hook into his own beer can and wreck his gear. They say there’s a big low headed up the coast. Last three years in a row, the weather’s been so bad, most folks left after the first day. You don’t want to try surf fishing in gale force winds—the sand’ll cut the skin right off your face.”
“Mercy. Why not schedule it for when the weather’s better?”
“You know anybody that can schedule the weather? They set it for when the fish are supposed to be here.” Sally Ann finished ironing a uniform shirt, unplugged the iron and plopped it on the kitchen range to cool. “Trouble is, if the weather closes in, they wait until too late to get off the island. Once the highway’s flooded, they’re stuck with nothing better to do than shoot pool and tell lies about the big one that got away.”
“Still, it doesn’t sound like good planning to me.”
Sally grinned. A strawberry blonde, she had a weathered face, perfect teeth and the biggest, bluest eyes Molly had ever seen. “Makes for some fun, though. Socializing’s a big part of these tournaments. If the weather shuts down and they get tired of baling hay, they head for the pubs. And let me tell you, if this low hangs around too long, there’ll be some hot old times down at Delroy’s Pub.”
One hand on the doorknob, Molly paused. “Uh—did you say baling hay? I thought they were fishing?”
“Catching eelgrass. With the water so rough, the bottom’s all tore up. Seaweed’s about all they haul in.”
The next day dark clouds closed in, bringing stiff winds that tore new leaves from ancient trees and set small boats to bobbing like corks at the wharf. It was raining, but not heavily when Molly left the general store with a sack of apples and headed back to the cottage. Rain or shine, she was determined to walk each day as part of her new regime.
Diet and exercise. Ugh! Traffic had tripled since she’d arrived only a few days ago. Idly she wondered what had happened to her ferryboat acquaintance. Had he left? Was he shooting pool and swapping lies, or fishing in the rain?
The fish wouldn’t know if it was raining or not…would they?
Remembering Sally Anne’s warning, that he might try to score a little something on the side just to make the trip worthwhile, she had to laugh. It was flattering to think a warning would even be necessary. The new Molly must be coming along faster than she’d thought, if she had to worry about men trying to pick her up.
“Hi there, pretty lady.”
Molly nearly dropped her apples as the familiar-looking dark green truck pulled up beside her. “Oh, hi. How’s fishing, uh—Jeffy?”
“Tournament’s over. We drew a lousy spot this year, but at least I didn’t get skunked. I’m staying on a few more days, long’s I come all this way—headed out now to look over conditions. With the wind like this, the beach’ll get cut up some. Might be a few promising new sloughs. Wanna come along for the ride?”
A small voice in the back of her mind whispered, “Watch it, lady, you might’ve shed a few pounds, but you’re not ready for prime time yet.”
The old Molly was aghast to hear the new Molly say cheerfully, “Well…sure, why not?” She accepted the callused hand and hauled herself up into the high cab. So he was something of a slob. So his grammar wasn’t perfect and he belched and tossed beer cans. Back in Grover’s Hollow some of the nicest people she knew probably did the same thing when no one was looking. But he was friendly, and after all, she wasn’t committing herself to anything more than a drive along the beach, which she certainly couldn’t do in her own car.
Rarely did Rafe Webber find himself in an awkward situation, thanks to excellent instincts and an impeccable sense of timing. On the few occasions when he blundered, he usually managed to finesse his way out with the minimum amount of damage. This time things might be different. His instincts had been signaling trouble ever since Stu had called to tell him he was getting married to the most beautiful, brilliant, wonderful woman in the world. Rafe had strongly advised a cooling-off period, meaning, wait until I have time to check things out, little buddy. Unfortunately Stu had been too charged up to listen.
Rafe had been on his way out of the country at the time. He’d been held up a lot longer than he’d expected, missing Thanksgiving and Christmas completely. Not that he was sentimental—no way! Still, he’d always made a point of getting together for holidays, just to give the kid a sense of stability. He’d read somewhere that establishing traditions helped ground rebellious adolescents, which Stu had been when Rafe had first got him. For the past ten years, Rafe always cooked his special turkey dinner, regardless of the holiday.
So he’d missed the wedding, too. By the time he made it back to the States, the deed was done. But tomorrow was the kid’s birthday, and regardless of the bride and an inconvenient nor’easter, he wasn’t going to miss that. He’d checked the weather when he’d filed his flight plan. Two separate low-pressure areas were due to join forces just off the North Carolina coast, but he figured he had plenty of time to slide on in before the weather closed in. What he hadn’t figured on was finding the whole damned island foundering under a load of surf fishermen. While it might be good for business, it was a damned nuisance when a guy got in late, needing a decent rental car and a room for a couple of days.
Before leaving Pelican’s Cove, Florida, Rafe had cleared his calendar for a week, even though he figured it would take only a couple of days to make things up to the kid and find out how much trouble he’d gotten himself in. Not to mention what it was going to take to get him out of it. Stu’s taste in women was notorious. From the time Rafe had taken over the care and feeding of a freckle-faced adolescent with too much money, too many hormones and too little common sense, Stu had been a target for every predatory female in range.
This one had waited until Rafe was headed out of the country on a little unofficial business for the government and then reeled in her catch. Stuart Montgomery Grainger III. Old family, new money. Gullible Grainger, green as his daddy’s billions. Rafe had dared hope that, with a college degree and a brand-new teaching job waiting for him, his half brother might have matured enough to be let off the leash. The lady had outsmarted him. She’d sprung her trap before any of the family had had a chance to check her out. Not that anyone besides Rafe would even bother, unless it was Stu’s father’s lawyers.
Ten years ago Rafe’s mother had dropped in out of the blue with a scared, resentful fifteen-year-old in tow and announced that as the two of them were half brothers, it was time they got to know one another. To say Rafe was appalled would be an understatement. The only thing that had kept him from flat-out refusing was the fact that the kid obviously felt the same way. Rafe could remember all too well how he’d felt at that age, being shunted between summer camp and boarding school so as not to cramp his mother’s lifestyle.
They’d spent the next five years getting to know each other, with Rafe trying his damnedest to instill
