Tides of Hope. Irene Hannon
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you really coming back to get me?”
Jolted, he’d looked at her. Really looked—for the first time in a long while. And what he’d seen had made him want to cry.
Deep in those blue-green eyes had been a sadness and a loneliness as profound as his own. Far too profound for any child that age to know.
His had been caused by senseless deaths that had robbed his world of light and laughter.
But hers had been caused by him. The very man who should have loved her and protected her and made her world secure.
His throat constricting, he’d leaned over and pulled her close. “Yes, Vicki. I’m really coming back. And things will be different on Nantucket. I’m not going to work as much. We’ll spend more time together.”
When he’d released her, she’d stepped back and reached for his mother’s hand, skepticism narrowing her eyes.
Truth be told, he shared her doubts. There was no manual, no rule book, no SOP for rebuilding a daughter’s world and winning her love. He was flying by the seat of his pants, prepared to improvise as he went, as he’d often been called to do in precarious rescue situations.
He’d already decided there would be no more full-time nannies. He would only hand off her care while he was at work. For now, he’d lined up traditional day care, but in time he hoped to find a more personal, in-home arrangement.
He also planned to change his work habits. He’d put in a lot of hours these first few weeks on the job, learning the ropes, but once Vicki came he intended to leave work on time, pick her up at day care, fix dinner and spend the evening with her. And hope he could make up for all the years he’d abdicated his responsibilities.
Rising, Craig deposited his half-eaten dinner in the trash, reminding himself to stock up on some kid-friendly food before he picked her up in two weeks. And he needed to prepare a room for her. A place where she would feel welcome and loved.
He also needed to get over the death wish a certain out-spoken charter-fishing boat captain had forced him to confront.
Craig swiped at a few stray crumbs on the counter, leaving the surface pristine, as he thought back over his encounters with the red-haired dynamo. Although he might not appreciate being on the receiving end of Katherine MacDonald’s fiery temper, he had to give credit where it was due.
She wasn’t easily intimidated. And she said what she thought.
Like it or not.
To his surprise, Craig found his lips curving into a smile as he pictured her on the deck of the Lucy Sue, eyes blazing, cheeks aflame, hair whipped by the wind as she’d glared at him. And while he finished tidying up the kitchen and prepared to call it a day, he found himself looking forward to their next encounter.
Which made no sense at all.
Chapter Three
“I have to run a couple of errands, Barlow. I’ll be back in an hour.”
Ben looked up from his desk and grinned at the commander, who was standing in the doorway. “No problem. I’ve got it covered.”
“There’s not much to cover. It’s a pretty quiet Monday.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts. Once the day-trippers and summer people arrive, you won’t have a minute to call your own. You won’t believe some of the calls we get. Last year, some guy forgot to install his drain plug and ended up sinking his boat.”
A smile tugged at Craig’s lips. “I can’t wait.”
“Trust me. You can.”
His smile lingering, Craig took advantage of the springlike weather and headed down Easton Street on foot. From what he’d gleaned about his predecessor, Sandra Medart had had a high profile on the island. Most Nantucketers had known her on sight, and both locals and crew had liked and respected her. She’d initiated a popular boating safety program, attended all community events and maintained an open-door policy, encouraging anyone with marine-based concerns to come directly to her. According to Barlow, she’d excelled at the PR aspect of the job.
To date, he’d done little to emulate her example. Now that he had his sea legs, however, he figured it was time to show his face in the community. And a walk through town wouldn’t be a bad place to start.
Turning onto South Beach Street, it took him mere minutes to reach the heart of the historic town, with its cobblestone streets and labyrinth of tiny lanes. He knew his dark blue slacks and matching shirt, with the twin silver bars on the collar that signaled his rank, would identify him at a glance as the new commander, and as he strolled around he drew more than a few curious looks. Only year-rounders populated the quiet town center on this early April Monday, and when he nodded and smiled in response to their discreet perusal, several approached to welcome him.
Forty-five minutes later, after grabbing a paper at The Hub and stopping at a few other spots Barlow had identified as local hangouts, he headed down Main Street toward the harbor. After three short blocks, the cobblestones of the town’s primary thoroughfare merged with Straight Wharf, where many of the commercial boats were docked.
The Lucy Sue among them.
Pausing at the entrance to the wharf, Craig debated his next move. As he’d left the station, he’d tucked the original copy of Katherine MacDonald’s citation in his pocket. But the matter didn’t require his personal attention; he could send one of his crew members later to handle the resolution of such a minor violation.
Except it wasn’t minor to Ms. MacDonald. She’d made that very clear. And as long as he was in the area, he supposed he ought to stop by and see if he could smooth things out—all in the interest of good PR, of course. Why else would he put himself in the path of the human hurricane?
A few reasons popped to mind, but he quickly squelched them. Despite appealing green eyes that flashed with life and passion, despite the intriguing juxtaposition of a delicate physical appearance with a strong character, despite vibrant hair that sparked with every movement, only a masochist would want to deal with her temper.
He was here on business. Period.
His decision made, Craig strode past the shuttered souvenir shops. Within minutes he found the Lucy Sue, gently rocking in her slip on the wharf. There was no sign of the red-haired skipper—or anyone else. No surprise there, he supposed, considering most owners wintered their boats on the mainland. Those who didn’t spent little time aboard in the off season.
What did surprise him was the flutter of disappointment in the pit of his stomach. Where in the world had that come from? Last night he’d found himself looking forward to their next encounter, and today he was seeking her out. Logic told him he should be going out of his way to avoid another exchange with the argumentative captain.
But for some reason he wasn’t.
Rather than try to analyze his odd reaction, he propped his fists on his hips and surveyed the boat at close range. He knew from the citation that the Lucy Sue was an older model, but he hadn’t realized how old. She had to have been built twenty or twenty-five years ago, he estimated. Yet she was well maintained. He saw no evidence of barnacles below the water line, nor any indication of oxidation topside, suggesting the fiberglass hull was polished and waxed on a regular basis. The deck was stain-free, and the teak trim had been varnished rather than allowed to weather to whitish-gray. The finish looked fresh, too, free of obvious chips or scuffs. It was clear a lot of elbow grease had gone into keeping the boat in tip-top condition.
While everything he could see was cosmetic, Craig knew that anyone who took such meticulous care of the appearance of a boat was likely to be as diligent about mechanical maintenance—and safety. In light of the number of charter slips, he also concluded that Ms. MacDonald hadn’t been exaggerating about the competition. Two good reasons why the flare citation had upset her.
And based on the traces of worry and sorrow he’d glimpsed in her eyes as she’d squared off with him across