Wild: Whispering Cove, Book 1 (6 page)

“So, how long are you staying?” Byron forked a crab cake from the plate her grandfather set down on the table before he sauntered back to the stove.

“Since Grandpa is doing so
well
,” she emphasized the last word and Byron had the good sense to duck his head, “I thought I’d catch a plane tomorrow.”

Errol glanced from Byron to her grandfather, who stood motionless with a cast iron pot of steaming soup hanging from his hand. When he slowly turned around his expression was crestfallen.

Guilt rode her like a monkey on her back. “Grandpa—”

“You can’t leave.” His face lost all color on his approach. He wheezed, his breathing a little too strained. “You just got here.” Placing a pot holder on the table, he sat the soup down before pinning a sorrowful gaze on her.

“My case load is so high I can’t see over my desk,” she whined, but could see from the faces around the table she wasn’t winning their sympathy. Instead, her grandfather’s eyes misted, stealing her appetite. Her stomach ached, but not from hunger.

How could she stay in Whispering Cove and face her memories? Face Brody again?

“Please. Just a couple of days,” her grandfather begged.

Dammit.

Andrea owed so much to him for helping her pay college tuition. He loved her—she loved him. What were a couple days of hell?

“Just a couple of days,” she agreed.

Lunch was over.

The three men moved around the kitchen, refusing to allow her to help clean up, so Andrea remained sitting to stay out of their way.

Byron bumped into her grandfather and he sharply turned. “Give me some leeway, you saltwater cirriped crustacean.”

“Grandpa!”

“Never you mind that blubbering ol’ fool.” Byron grinned. His gray-blue eyes danced with mischief. “Besides, you know what they say. ‘Old sailors never die; they just get a little dingy’. That would be Harold here.”

Everyone laughed, except her grandfather.

“Dingy? Dingy my ass.” Her grandfather laid down the towel he held. “I be the sharpest hook in the ocean, much less this room. Well, other than me granddaughter.” The pride on the old man’s face warmed Andrea’s heart.

Errol closed the cabinet with a thud. “Do you remember how she used to sneak onto the fishing boats?”

“Sneakiest little urchin in the village.” Byron chuckled, ruffling her hair.

Andrea tried to smile, but the memory only made her heart ache. Her father had thought to cure her of stowing away by putting her to work. That day she had mopped the decks, strung lines twice her size, and gutted fish taller than her.

She had loved every minute working beside her father. When she had returned home her mother had been waiting, worried. The scolding had been minimal, but her mother’s frightened hug had left Andrea breathless.

“…skipping school. Brody sniffing at her heels.” Andrea only caught the tail end of her grandfather’s story. The truth was that Brody had followed her wherever she went. They had been inseparable.

Another pang struck her chest with an intensity that rocked her. She shot out of her chair, almost knocking it over. “I think I’ll take a walk.”

Andrea was already at the back door, her hand on the doorknob twisting, when her grandfather asked, “Walk?”

She glanced over a shoulder. His brows were bunched together in what looked like worry. “Yes. A walk. I’ll be back in a little while.”

The door slammed behind her.

Her footsteps echoed across the porch, heavy on each of the stairs. Sucking a much-needed breath into her lungs, she hastened her steps toward the tree line. The scent of pine and cedar, heavy and woodsy, surrounded her. Dead leaves and pine needles crunched beneath her feet. A squirrel jumped from branch to branch above. Several cardinals chattered their annoyance at her arrival, their scarlet wings beating the air on retreat. Trumpet vines curled and caressed the bark of a tree, calling to the hummingbirds darting through the air.

Andrea struggled to build the inner wall inside her tall and thick enough so her grandfather and his friends’ memories did not trigger more of her own. She wanted a silent world, devoid of the past. She needed to forget as she walked the forest she had tracked through so many times. A cottontail skittered beneath a buttonbush.

A patch of sunlight broke through the trees, bathing the ground littered with trout lilies and marsh marigolds. She had picked flowers here with her mother. Andrea could see her mother’s smile, the tenderness that had always chased Andrea’s bad moods away.

A tear rolled down her cheek. She turned and fled the opposite direction, only to pull to a dead stop.

High above in the arms of a large white ash, through an ocean of green leaves, peered a broken-down, old tree house, a place she and Brody would disappear to be alone as children. The ladder reaching upward was broken and missing boards. From the entrance she thought she saw an eight-year-old boy waving her up.

Another tear released.

Andrea spun around and ran, but no matter how fast or far she ran, memories were everywhere. The brook she and her father waded through on their trips to town. The grove of berries she and her mother picked fruit from. The rock jutting up from the ground where she had buried her first cat, and afterwards Brody had held her hand. The next summer he had kissed her for the first time beneath the old red oak where they had carved their names.

Blinded by tears, haunted by memories, Andrea didn’t slow until she was completely out of breath. Bending at the waist, she attempted to gain control, but when she rose to her full height a lump thickened in her throat.

Her heart stuttered, pulse speeding. She closed her eyes as if she could block the anguish striking hard and fast. Swaying, she groaned, counting out loud, praying when her eyes opened this would only be a nightmare.

Eyelids heavy with sorrow inched slowly upward. The fist around her heart clenched, a solid rock in her chest, as she read
Whispering Cove Cemetery
written on the arch above the open gate.

She wasn’t ready to face this memory. The day she had laid her parents to rest.

Oak, pines and aspen trees towered, shading the grounds in welcome. Even the ground cover looked rich and fertile. If it weren’t for the gray, white and black marble stones scattered about, it would have been a perfect place for a picnic.

But this was no picnic for Andrea.

Her feet appeared to have a mind of their own, carrying her through the open wrought iron gate. Beautiful old headstones sprang from the grassy surface, many of them sporting designs of fishing boats and picturesque ocean sceneries. Winding throughout the trees the musty scent—of time, of history, of loss—encompassed her.

Taking a right at the whitewashed mausoleum erected for Whispering Cove sailors lost at sea, she padded across the spongy ground toward a single marker beneath an Aspen.

A wave of grief rocked her, knocking her off her feet, and she landed hard on her knees. The moist ground bleeding through her jeans created a chill that went bone deep.

She stared speechlessly at her parents’ names and the scripture.
To live in the hearts of those we love is never to die.
But they had died and, with them, her will to live.

Did they blame her for that night? That selfish, selfish night she tore them from this earth. She sniffled, but it didn’t hold back the flood of tears or the guilt threatening to strangle her.

God help her. She jerked her head up, staring into the graying sky, fighting to stay above the ocean of misery threatening to drown her.

If she’d only known. If only…

Andrea buried her face into her palms and wept.

When the well inside her went dry, she rose on shaky legs. Numb. She felt nothing but the salty breeze feathering through the trees. The call of the sea put her feet in motion. Like a zombie empty of emotions, she walked until the tree line met the beach. In the distance whitecaps kissed the waves. The swells rolling with temptation pulled her further toward the place she had lost her heart—the pier.

Before long she found herself standing in that dreadful spot, looking over the water. A gust of wind swirled around her, bringing with it a spray of mist that covered her. This time Andrea knew she heard her name whispered over the currents. An eerie sound that reminded her she was alive, but not living.

At eighteen she had so many dreams. Marriage to Brody. Two children. A boy and a girl. Both she and Brody had agreed Whispering Cove was home, but not now.

Andrea swallowed hard. She would never be free from her chains of guilt. At least in California with her demanding job she could try to forget, but not if she took a piece of this world of Whispering Cove with her when she returned.

The truth was her feelings for her grandfather and Brody could tear down the invisible walls she erected to protect herself.

She couldn’t let that happen.

Andrea had to leave Whispering Cove—this time forever.

Chapter Five

Brody pushed the glass door of the police station open and stepped out. The scent of rain hung heavy in the cool air. The graying sky hid the last of the sun sinking fast in the west. As he made a beeline for his truck, a gust of wind picked up a handful of leaves and danced them around parking lot.

A storm was coming.

Cramming a hand into his leather jacket pocket, he extracted his keys and pressed the remote to unlock his vehicle.

Click.

“What a hell of a day,” he muttered, reaching for the door handle. The mournful creak reminded him that he had to oil the hinges.

From rambunctious teenagers weaving throughout the crowded streets on skateboards and bikes to several beered-up men streaking on the family beach, the nutcases were out in full force. What was it about the heat of summer that made the youth act up, to get into more mischief than usual? They even had a seventy-something couple arrested for shoplifting.

The moment he had stepped into the office, a steady stream of calls kept coming, while all he could think about was getting back to Andie. The anticipation of hearing her voice, holding and kissing her was killing him. A smile tugged the corners of his mouth.

Damn. He loved that woman. Time had changed nothing.

Twice he had attempted to call her. The first time Harold said she was still sleeping. The second time he informed Brody she had stepped out for a walk. As he climbed into his truck, someone called his name.

Laurel Savage, his secretary, waved from the door, moving hastily toward him. The wind whipped her long blonde hair around her shoulders. Her pretty face lacked its usual softness. Instead, tightness made her look weary.

As she approached, she placed her hand on the door. “Marg asked me to tell you that Harold Adair just called.” Marg was the evening dispatcher.

Brody’s backbone went ramrod stiff. His stomach did a somersault, as his hand dropped to the steering wheel. “What’s up?” His fingers clenched.

“His granddaughter never returned from her walk. He’s concerned because it’s getting dark.”

Brody swallowed the breath he didn’t know he held. He reached for the door to close it, the movement driving Laurel backward, before he slammed it shut.

Unsheathing his cell phone from where it hung at his belt, he punched in Harold’s number, and then pressed the gas pedal. Tires squealed. The scent of burnt rubber filled the cab as he tore out of the parking lot.

Harold answered on the first ring. “Brody?” The old man’s voice shook. His breathing was heavy and pronounced so that it came clearly through the receiver. The old man was definitely worried.

“Yeah, Harold, it’s me.”

“Andie hasn’t come home and it’s been almost four hours since I’ve seen her.” Panic rose in his tone. “Where could she be?”

Brody didn’t want to ask, but he had to. “Did you look in the bedroom to see if her bags are gone?” He flipped his headlights on to see in the dusky distance.

“G-gone?” Harold murmured.

A crash in the background sounded and Brody thought he heard Errol say, “Sit down, Harold, before you fall.”

“Are her bags missing?” Harold asked.

“I’ll check.” It was Byron’s muffled voice that replied.

The ensuing silence made Brody’s pulse leap.

Dammit.

Andie couldn’t do this to him a second time. Not after what happened on the beach. Still, he had to remind himself that she hadn’t said she loved him. But it was in the way she held and touched him. Nothing had changed between them. Nothing.

“No. Her things are still here.” Errol had possession of the telephone. He lowered his tone and murmured, “Harold’s a mess. You best be finding that girl.”

Brody exhaled a long, slow breath of relief. Then a thought sparked and he knew exactly where he’d find her. “Tell him not to worry. I think I know where she might be.”

“Tell that lad to bring her home,” Harold yelled.

“You heard him,” Errol grumbled. “Bring Andie home.”

Brody jerked sharply on the steering wheel and headed away from the beach houses and onto the main road. After her parents’ accident, Andie had disappeared frequently. Brody had always found her in the same spot—the pier.