Nantucket (2 page)

Liam studied the photo, trying to remember that day, but then another memory—more haunting and vivid—filled his mind instead. He'd come home late from a cross-country meet and found Cooper sitting at the table with the photo in front of him and a bottle of Jack Daniels beside it. The only light had come from the stovetop, but it was enough to see the tears glistening in his eyes. “What's the matter?” he'd asked, but Coop had looked away, wiping his eyes. Liam had dropped his duffel by the door and sat down across from him. “Coop, what's wrong?”

Finally, Cooper'd looked up and searched Liam's blue eyes. “You have her eyes, you know,” he'd said. “You look like your damn father . . . but you have
her
eyes.”

Liam had reached for the bottle, but Cooper had grabbed his arm with so much force he'd practically crushed his wrist.

“I don't know why you do this to yourself,” Liam said in dismay, pulling his arm away.

Cooper just stared at the photo. “Do you know what your mom asked me that day?” he asked.

Liam shook his head.

“You were just a little tyke and we were walkin' on the beach and she was teasing me about not bein' able to find a girl because I was so damn ornery, and she said I'd never get to have a little fella like you if I didn't get serious and start lookin' for a girl who'd be willing to put up with me. And I said, ‘I don't need a girl . . . I'll just borrow you.' And then she stopped, and her eyes got all serious. ‘Will you promise me something?' she asked.

“ ‘Maybe,' I teased, you know . . . trying to lighten the mood.

“ ‘You have to promise,' she insisted.

“Then I looked straight into those eyes a hers and said, ‘Lil, you know I'd do anything for you.'

“She looked down the beach where you and your dad were chasin' the waves, and said, ‘If anything happens to me and Danny, I want you to take Liam.'

“ ‘For Pete's sake, Lil, nothin's gonna happen,' I said.”

“‘Maybe . . . but I need to know you'd take him. I need you to
promise
.' ” He paused and shook his head. “It was almost as if she knew. . . .

“ ‘Of course, I'll take him,' I said. ‘What d'ya think? I'd let him go to an orphanage?'

“Then she paused. ‘There's something else,' she said. ‘I want you to promise you'll take him to church.'

“ ‘Oh, now you're pushin' it,' I said. “You know how I feel 'bout—'

“ ‘I know how you feel,' she interrupted, ‘but I want him to go—I want him to know the Bible stories—just like we did.'

“ ‘I don't know if I can promise that,' I said.

“ ‘Promise me,' she insisted, and she was so damn adamant.. . .”

He looked up at Liam. “I guess I wasn't very good about keepin' that one.” And then his voice trailed off as he swirled his drink. “I never could get why God took her. . . .”

Liam gazed at the faded photo, smiled sadly, and whispered, “Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.”

A
cool breeze rustled through the open bedroom windows. Liam stirred, and in the half-light of dawn, looked around the room that had been his since he was a boy. He pictured it as it was back then—the shelves lined with books about whales and pirates and shipwrecks; later, they'd been filled with biographies about explorers and aviation. Now the books were mostly about world leaders and world wars, and the only other personal items were photos of Coop in his famous Red Sox cap, and Moby and Tuck curled up together in front of the fireplace.

For years, the room had been painted a soft ocean blue, but the previous winter Liam had painted it tan. Other than that, it was exactly as it had been when Coop first built it. The wainscoting and trim were painted a creamy white, and the four large twelve-over-twelve windows along the back wall—sparkling with a gorgeous view of the ocean—were also white. Liam always thought it was the nicest room in the house and he'd wondered why Coop hadn't kept it for himself. One day, he'd asked him and Coop had said he preferred to sleep in the front of the house . . . so he could hear.

“Hear what?” he'd asked.

Coop had shrugged. “Everythin'.”

Liam would never forget the first night he'd slept at his uncle's. At the time, the extra bedrooms were still under construction, so Coop had carried Lily's and Daniel's bags to his room, and although Lily had protested, Coop had insisted, saying he and Liam would be sleeping under the stars anyway, so he wouldn't be needing his room.

That evening, after a cookout—complete with s'mores—and a long walk on the beach, the gorgeous night sky had been so inviting, they'd all ended up sleeping under the stars, and Liam—who must've been around four at the time—had never forgotten it.

Through sleepy eyes, he'd gazed up at the vast, velvet sky, sparkling with diamonds, and listened to the lovely sounds of the adults talking and laughing and sipping their drinks, and when he finally drifted off, he'd felt utterly safe and loved.

Two and a half years later, on a snowy night in December, he'd longed to feel that way again, but when Coop carried his bags to one of the newly finished bedrooms, turned on the light, and said, “This is your room now,” he could barely nod. “If there's anything else you need, just holler,” he'd added, and Liam had looked around the simply furnished room with its empty bookshelves and nodded again. Then they'd both stood there uncertainly until finally, Coop had wiped his eyes with his thumbs, whispered, “Damn you, Lily,” and knelt down to give his six-year-old nephew a hug. “G'night, pal.”

Liam had hugged him back, trying ever so hard to be brave, and after his uncle left, he'd tugged his cold pajamas out of his bag, pulled them on, climbed into the stiff, strange bed, and listened to the icy sleet hitting the dark windows. Then with tears streaming down his smooth cheeks, he'd prayed with all his might that his mom and dad would be in the kitchen making pancakes when he woke up . . . just like they had two summers ago.

“Nobody's making pancakes today either,” Liam said, playfully pulling on Tuck's ears. The big dog—who was sprawled across the bed next to him—rolled onto his back and stretched his legs up in the air, waiting for a belly rub, and Moby—who was curled up on a pillow—wondered if it was time to find a quieter spot.

Liam scratched Tuck's long belly and the big dog's eyes rolled back in utter contentment. “What
are
we going to have for breakfast?” Liam mused, propping his head up on his free hand and looking out at the sliver of orange peaking over the watery horizon. Hearing the word
breakfast,
Tuck rolled onto his side and leaned over to stuff his nose in Liam's face.

“Nice,” Liam said, sitting on the edge of the bed, wiping the wetness and inadvertently touching the scar near his temple.

Half an hour later, after wolfing down their breakfasts, Tuck and Moby were outside, nosing around the yard, when Liam came down the steps with his hair wet from showering. “Let's go, Tuck,” he called, and the big golden galloped to the truck. “See you later, Mobe,” he said, scratching the cat's ears. “Keep an eye out for moles—they're making a mess of the yard.” Moby blinked at him and then hopped up onto one of the sunny Adirondack chairs. “You won't catch moles if you sit in a chair all day,” Liam said with a frown.

As soon as he opened the truck door, Tuck hopped in and waited for Liam to roll down his window. Then he pressed his barrel chest against the door and hung his head out as far as he could, his cold, wet nostrils quivering with excitement as he took in all the wonderful scents of the cool, dewy morning.

Ten minutes later, Liam pulled up in front of Cuppa Jo to Go, the local hot spot for breakfast, and got out. “Be right back,” he said, coming around the truck. “You stay here,” he added, tousling his ears. He climbed the worn, wooden steps of the long gray building and then held the door open for two college girls who were leaving with cups of coffee cradled in their hands.

“Hey, Liam, what can I get ya?”

“Hey, Sally, the usual,” Liam said, reaching for a coffeepot.

“Bacon, egg, and cheese?”

“Yes, please . . . and could you make one of your famous chicken salad wraps?”

“Thinking ahead for once?” Sally teased, pushing back the silver hair that curled around her kind, seventy-year-old face.

“Yeah,” Liam said with a laugh as he filled his cup with steaming black coffee.

“So, where's my pal?”

“Out in the truck.”

“How come you didn't bring him in?!”

“Because it's so hard to get him to leave.”

“Oh, hogwash! He'll go anywhere for a piece of bacon.”

While he waited for his order, Liam looked out the window and watched the two girls who'd been walking out when he was coming in talking to Tuck, and he could tell—by the goofy look on the big golden's face—that he was loving the attention. Liam shook his head, paid for his order, thanked Sally, and went out, but when he got to the truck, the girls were walking away and Tuck was gazing longingly after them. “That's girls for ya,” Liam consoled, holding Tuck's chin and looking into his soulful brown eyes. “They love ya and leave ya.” Tuck swished his tail in agreement and then, sniffing the bag in Liam's hand, forgot all about his loss. “Fortunately for you,” Liam said, “I've got the cure-all—bacon!”

For the rest of the ride, Tuck was back and forth between the lovely smells drifting through the open window and the even lovelier smell drifting from the bag.

As Liam unlocked the boathouse and opened the front carriage doors, Tuck gave the parking lot a quick once-over. Then he charged after Liam, skidded to a stop at his feet, plopped down on his haunches, and gazed at him forlornly.

“You sure know how to work the system,” Liam said, unwrapping the sandwich and breaking off a generous piece of bacon. He held it out to him and Tuck took it politely. Liam took a bite and set the rest of the sandwich on the workbench next to his coffee. As he did, a cool breeze rustled through the boathouse, stirring the papers that had blown under the workbench the night before. Liam knelt down, pulled them out, and laid them across the stern of the boat he was working on. Taking another bite, he perused the news. There wasn't much that interested him and he was just about to fold it up to put in the winter burn pile when he noticed an ad for an opening at one of the local art galleries . . . and although it was the gorgeous painting of an island that caught his eye, it was the artist's name that made his heart stop.

 

“Y
ou're gonna wear the finish right off,” Coop said, leaning back in his chair.

“I just want to be able to see your homely reflection from any angle,” Liam teased, wiping down the glassy surface of his mahogany runabout for the umpteenth time. He reached for the can of Coke on the workbench, took a sip, and noticed someone walking across the parking lot. “You got yourself a customer, Coop.”

“Shit,” Coop grumbled, draining his coffee cup and tossing it in the trash. A moment later, a tall man wearing white shorts and a coral linen button-down filled the doorway. “Is Mr. Cooper here?”

“It's
Coop,
” the Marine corrected, pushing himself back from his desk.

“Carlton Knox,” the man said, walking toward him. Coop extended his hand and then looked past him. Carlton followed his gaze. “And this is my daughter, Acadia.”

Hearing the second introduction, Liam looked up, realized there was a girl standing in the doorway, and almost dropped his soda.

“What a beauty,” the man said, nodding to the runabout. “What year?”

“1955 Sportsman.”

“Is it for sale?”

“Belongs to my nephew,” Coop said, nodding to Liam, “and I doubt he'd sell her.”

“Is that so?” Carlton said, running his hand along the smooth wood. “And what do
you
say, son? How much would you take for it?”

Liam bristled at being called son . . .
and
at the streak Carlton's hand left on the wood he'd just polished. “My uncle's right,” he answered. “
She's
not for sale.”

Carlton chuckled. “Every man has a price,” he pressed. “I could give you a check right now.”

Liam shrugged.

“Maybe you'll change your mind,” Carlton added in an amused voice. Then he turned back to Cooper. “Well, how about that forty-foot sloop in the yard?
It
has a ‘For Sale” sign on it.” Coop nodded and followed Carlton outside to look at the sailboat Clay Mattheson was selling, but Acadia lingered, leaning against the door and taking in every inch of Liam's tall, slender frame.

Liam rubbed out the handprint and pretended not to notice she'd stayed—if there was one thing he'd learned growing up on Nantucket, it was to steer clear of the wealthy families who summered there, and there was no doubt in his mind—from Carlton Knox's appearance and demeanor—his daughter was out of his league.

“Is she
really
yours?” Acadia asked. Liam looked up—impressed that she knew the language of boats—and nodded.

“What's her name?”

“That's a funny name.”

“She's named after an island.”

“Have you been there?”

He nodded.

“Is it far?”

He shook his head.

“Are you always so talkative?”

Liam shrugged—he'd never really thought about how much he talked . . . or didn't. They were both quiet then, and in an effort to prove he was capable of carrying on a conversation, he asked, “Do you have a house out here?”

“No, we're just renting.” She walked over to the bow. “My parents want to buy a house, but they haven't found anything expensive enough.”

“
Expensive
enough?!”

Acadia laughed. “My father's the type who has to have the best of everything. It's as if he has to prove something, and if he buys a house with a big enough price tag, he'll be able to brag about it at all of his precious cocktail parties.”

Liam looked up. Now that Acadia wasn't silhouetted by the sun, he realized how pretty she was—she had long blond hair, Caribbean Sea blue eyes, perfectly straight white teeth, and smooth, tan skin.
She must look like her mother,
he thought,
because she doesn't look anything like her father.
“Where do you live the rest of the time?”

“In the city.”

“Boston?”

“No, New York. Actually, we've never lived any one place for very long, but home base has always been our townhouse in New York.”

“Where else have you lived?”

“Germany, China, France—my father's job takes him around the world, but now that I'm a senior, my mother wants me to be home to look at colleges. She really wants me to go to Barnard, her alma mater, but my father wants me to look at the Ivy League.”

Liam nodded as if he knew all about traveling. In truth, he'd barely been off the island, never mind out of the country. In fact, the only other states he'd been to were New Hampshire and Maine. He and Coop had gone to a stock car race in New Hampshire, and after the race, Liam had had to help Coop, who'd had too much to drink, all the way back to the truck—which they'd parked across the road at a sugarhouse called Sunnyside Maples. Liam, who'd only been fifteen at the time, had then helped him into the passenger's seat and stood there, wondering what to do next. “Jus' drive,” Coop had slurred. “Issame's drivin' a boat.”

Liam climbed into the driver's seat and looked out at the long line of cars and trucks leaving the race. He pushed in the clutch, jammed the truck into gear, and then tried to slowly let the clutch out while stepping on the gas, but try as he might, he kept stalling, lurching to a stop every time. Finally, after enduring a stream of swears and rude gestures from other race-goers, Coop had had him turn onto a dirt road that didn't look much like a road at all, and they'd ended up coming home through Maine.

As for cities, he'd been to a couple of Red Sox games and he'd gone on a field trip to the aquarium and Faneuil Hall, so he'd been to Boston, but that was the only city he'd visited.

“What colleges are you looking at?” Cadie asked, interrupting his thoughts.

“Me?” Liam looked up in surprise. He'd never heard of Barnard, and although he knew the Ivy League included schools like Harvard and Yale, that was all he knew. He started to answer, “I'm not . . .” but then stopped and casually shrugged. “My uncle wants me to look at Boston. We'll see.”

“University or College?”

“Both,” he answered, surprised there were two.

Acadia's eyes lit up. “Wow! BU
and
BC—those are great schools. My cousin scored a 1580 on his SATs and he didn't even get into BU. What'd you get on yours?”

“On my . . . ?”

“SATs.”

“Oh . . .” Liam suddenly realized he was painting himself into a corner, but oddly, he didn't care. In truth, he hadn't thought about college—in fact, the only thought he'd had on the topic was that he
wasn't
going—and he certainly hadn't taken the SATs. After all, it was a little overzealous to take them your junior year when you could take them your senior year.

“Sixteen forty,” he answered nonchalantly.

Acadia looked puzzled, then decided she'd misunderstood. “Well, one of my teachers says anything over 1400 is great, but I only scored a 1320.”

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Liam consoled. “You can always take 'em again, and I'm sure you'll do better next time.”

“I hope so,” she said with a sigh. “Enough about school! I get tired just thinking about it.”

She watched him polish the chrome around the runabout's glass. “I love Chris-Crafts,” she said. “They're so elegant and classy.”

Liam wondered how she knew so much about wooden boats, and then, as if she could read his mind, she added, “My grandfather had one on a lake in upstate New York.”

“What happened to it?”

“He died and . . .”

“Oh, I'm sorry . . .” Liam said, feeling foolish.

“It's okay,” she assured him. “It was a long time ago. Anyway, one of my uncles inherited his boat—which made my father furious. He thought my mother—the only daughter—should've gotten it.

“My grandfather called her
Stardust
—after the song.” She started to hum the old Hoagy Carmichael tune, but then realized Liam was watching her and blushed, laughing. “I know—I'm crazy!”

“No, you're not,” he said. “In fact, you're nothing like I expected.”

She frowned. “Hmm, I'm not sure if that's a good thing.”

“It
is
a good thing.”

She blushed again. “Well, I should probably go find my father.” She turned. “It's been nice talking to you, Mr. Cooper.”

“It's been nice talking to you too,” he said, looking after her, “but my last name isn't Cooper.”

Acadia looked back. “Oh, I'm sorry. I just called you that because I . . .”

“It's Liam . . . Liam Tate.”

“Well, it's nice to meet you, Liam . . . Liam Tate,” she teased. “My name is Acadia McCormick Knox, but everyone calls me Cadie . . .
or
Cadie-did. Everyone except my parents, that is. . . .”

“It's nice to meet you, too, Cadie . . .
or
Cadie-did,” Liam said with a smile.

Just then, Cooper and Carlton came back in the boathouse, and as Coop walked past Liam, he rolled his eyes, and Liam had to bite his lip to keep from smiling.

“Ready, Acadia?” Carlton asked curtly.

“Yes,” she answered, looking back at Liam. “Maybe I'll see you around.”

“Maybe,” he said with a smile.

After they left, Cooper glanced over and saw the look on Liam's face. “Oh, no ya don't! I know that look—you look like a lovesick puppy! Don't you go gettin' no ideas. I see what's on yer mind. She's pretty . . . but you don't want none a that!”

“You don't see what's on my mind,” Liam said with a grin.

“Oh, yes, I do,” Coop said, shaking his head, “and that girl's nothin' but trouble.”

“How do you know?”

“Cuz I just spent fifteen minutes with her arrogant father—who thinks Clay's asking too much for his sailboat . . .
and
I speak from experience.”

“I'd like to hear about your experience,” Liam teased.

“Yer not old enough.”

“How old were
you?
”

“Old enough to know better!”

Liam laughed, knowing his uncle was never going to share his boyhood escapades.

“A word from the wise, kiddo—the summer girls'll break your heart.”

“Maybe,” Liam said, sipping his Coke and breathing in the sweet, fresh fragrance that still lingered around him.