More To Love. Dixie Browning
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you couldn’t, because I’m not,” Molly said flatly. She had done all the understanding she intended to do, and it had gotten her nowhere. She might be a slow learner, but eventually the message got through.
It was dark. The rain was coming down in solid sheets, blowing across the highway. She hesitated, trying to get her bearings, and then Jeffy opened the door of his truck. “I’ll drive you home. I owe you that much.”
She was tempted to refuse, but even the old Molly had better sense. It was pitch dark and pouring rain. Given her track record she would probably walk right off the edge of the island and drown.
Jeffy drove her home. He was a sullen companion, but then, so was she. She didn’t know whom she was angrier with, Jeffy or herself. She should never have gotten into the truck in the first place. So she’d met him once before on the ferry—he was still a stranger. He’d seemed friendly and likable, but he was a man—a married man. She couldn’t afford another of those in her life. Her bank balance hadn’t recovered from the last one.
His fishing buddies had stood at the bar all evening, drinking beer, laughing, talking. It hadn’t struck her at the time, but not once had any of them come over to the table to be introduced. That had to mean something…didn’t it?
Feeling more miserable by the minute, Molly wondered if he had done the whole thing on a dare. Five bucks says you won’t pick up the fat girl. Ten says you won’t show up with her at Delroy’s. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d been the butt of a joke.
She wasn’t all that fat, she thought defensively. She had measurements. She might use up a few more inches on the measuring tape than some other women but she had a shape.
Jeff double-parked outside the cottage, blocking the street. The yard light was on, and for the life of her, she couldn’t recall if it was automatic or not. There was a beach buggy wedged in next to her own ten-year-old sedan, the two vehicles squeezed between a picket fence and a massive live oak tree. Sally Ann had warned her that parking was a haphazard affair at best, and once the season got underway, it was next to impossible.
“Thank you for supper and bringing me home,” she muttered, all in one breath.
“Hey, Moll, I’m sorry. Really.”
“Why me?” There was obviously something about her that attracted lying, conniving losers.
“’Cause you’re nice? ’Cause you looked sort of lonesome on the ferry, and I just decided, what the hell? You know how it is.”
“No, not really.”
“Most women—you know, like they expect a man to blow his paycheck on ’em, and then they cut him dead if he wants a little fun.”
“And you wanted a little fun, right?” Sally Ann had warned her about that, too, but she hadn’t listened.
“If it had worked out that way.” He shrugged. “I wish now I’d told you about Shirl—my wife. Like I said, we’re having some problems. She wanted me to skip the tournament just so I could go to this reunion thing, and we sorta had us some words before I left. You’re a real good listener. You prob’ly could’ve given me some tips on how to handle situations like that.”
Oh, yes, she was a grand listener. She had listened to a description of every fish the man had caught in last year’s tournament, legal or otherwise, including the weight and length, and what type of tackle he had used. She had listened three times to the description of his game-winning touchdown against Marcus P. Struthers High in the regional play-offs.
Just as she had listened to another man explaining earnestly why he could never hold a job, or why he needed to dress for success, and what he was going to do for her once his ship came in.
Kenny’s ship had never left harbor. The last thing she needed was a man whose only ship was a smelly old ferryboat. And what’s more, she didn’t care if he never caught another fish in his entire life, she was tired of trying to solve problems for men who didn’t have the gumption to solve their own.
“Thanks again for supper.” She opened her door and dropped to the ground before he could come around and help her out, not that he made a move to get out of the vehicle. It was raining hard, after all. Head down, she jogged up the path to the cottage, stomped the sand from her feet on the front porch and opened the door.
The kitchen light was on. It had been midafternoon when she’d left, so she wouldn’t have turned on any light except for the one by the birdcages. Molly swallowed hard, clutching the plastic bag that held her apples and the broken shells she’d collected earlier. Could Stu and Anna have come home early? Could she have made a mistake and barged into the wrong house?
Hardly. Not with those familiar raucous cries coming from the living room. Not with that smelly long-haired cat wreathing her ankles. She’d gotten lost more than once before she’d found her way around the village, using the map on the tourist brochure, but not this time. This was definitely the right house.
Cautiously she moved inside and peered into the kitchen. The bag fell from her fingers. Apples rolled across the sloping floor. She stared openmouthed at the tall, tanned and sun-streaked guy with a dish towel tucked into his belt and a dead turkey cradled in his arms.
Rafe, on hearing a car door slam outside, had peered out the window to see a woman jump down from a dark green pickup truck and hurry up the path to the front porch. He waited for Stu to join her, but the truck drove off.
But then, Stu didn’t drive a truck. He drove an expensive toy his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday to make up for a lifetime of neglect.
It also occurred to Rafe that unless the wedding photographer had used a trick lens, this was definitely not the bride.
Rafe was still standing there with the bird all ready for the oven when the woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. Neither of them spoke for a moment. “Surprise, congratulations and happy birthday, kid,” didn’t seem appropriate.
No way was this Stu’s bride. Somebody had a lot of explaining to do. Even wearing wet denim instead of white satin, there was no resemblance. Stu’s bride was a tall, slender beauty. This woman was none of the above.
Housekeeper? Housebreaker? Mother-in-law? Friend of the family? “You want to go first?” he offered.
“I think you’d better go first, starting with what you’re doing in my kitchen.” Her voice was the most striking thing about her. Husky, but with a hint of firmness that was unmistakable.
“Your kitchen?”
“I asked who you are,” she reminded him with a take-no-hostages glint in her whiskey-colored eyes.
“Actually you didn’t, but I’ll tell you anyway. Name’s Rafe Webber. And if this is your kitchen, then you must be—?” He was momentarily distracted by seeing her eyes narrow. Eyes that big and slumberous weren’t equipped to look suspicious, but she managed it anyway.
“Rafe Webber? Is that supposed to ring a bell?”
Well, hell… He wasn’t used to having to explain himself. He’d long since earned the privilege of asking the questions, not having to answer them. “You have the advantage of me, Miss—?” A gentleman to the bitter end, he thought with wry amusement. His headache wasn’t getting any better.
“Until I know what you’re doing here, I don’t have to tell you anything. How did you get in?”
“Front door. It wasn’t locked. I figured Stu would be back any minute.”
“You know Stu?”
He decided to cut her some slack. Had a feeling it might save time and trouble in the long run. “He’s my brother.”
“Stu’s name isn’t Webber. Try again.”
The lady was sharp. In no mood to go into the convoluted relationships in his immediate family, Rafe kept it simple. “We’re half brothers.