The Pirate's Legacy Read online

  “Who’s poking who?” She couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  And he did, too.

  He pulled her into a hug, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him back. The night wasn’t going the way she thought it would, but that didn’t matter. Being with Kyle was wonderful—even if she wasn’t with him fully.

  Yet.

  Chapter 26

  It was a good thing Chloe wasn’t doing a solo shift in the office. Her body was there, but her mind certainly wasn’t. She’d spent the morning at her desk, trying to look busy and not let on to Laila or Jade that she couldn’t concentrate on anything. Not one thing. Oh, unless the previous night’s dinner date and subsequent entertainment on Quinn Beach counted, because try as she might she could not pull her thoughts from Kyle and the fun they’d had. And, the fun they’d almost had.

  Damn, but the man made her feel like ice cream on a July afternoon. Soft, warm, melting…it was exactly how she felt even in the mildly air-conditioned office when the touch of his hands and the feel of his body pressed against hers was just a memory.

  Laila walked into the room, humming along with the radio. It played from the corner, near the unreliable air-conditioning unit stuck into the window. Mick Jagger knew how to wail, and her co-worker had no problem embellishing.

  Fortunately, there were no clients in the place, because Laila began to gyrate, sending the multi-colored caftan she wore swirling around her hips. It was a sight, the two-hundred-plus-pound woman dancing as the bangle bracelets on her gorgeous, coffee-colored skin jangled in time to the beat. When she began to sing, Jade and Chloe both watched the performance. Her voice put Jagger’s to shame, it was so strong and sure. She hit every note, and nailed every nuance of the song, all while keeping time with her feet and arms.

  Jade and Chloe got to their feet and joined the action. What they lacked in vocal ability was made up for by sheer volume as they sang along.

  Jade pretended to hold a microphone in her hand. She was the total opposite of their lead singer, blonde, petite and wearing ass-hugging jeans tucked into high-heeled, black knee-high boots.

  She held the imaginary mic in front of Chloe’s face. Bending from the waist, she belted out, “No, no, no!”

  Then, to their leader, who pantomimed grabbing the microphone and carried them home. When the song ended, and an advertisement for Muffler City in Bangor came on the radio, they all collapsed onto the tops of desks.

  Laila pushed a stack of papers off the edge of her gray steel desk, hoisted her bottom onto its surface, and waved a hand in front of her face.

  “Now if that don’t make a woman warm, I don’t know what will.” She peered around Jade, who perched like a tiny bird on a rosebush and made her desk look twice as big as it actually was. “You sure that thing is on? It sure feels hot in here!”

  As if on cue, the finicky appliance began to whine. “Oh, it’s on all right. For how long, nobody knows.” Jade shot it a disgusted look, then turned back to the conversation. “We could all be dancing in our skivvies by tomorrow, with the way that stupid thing carries on.”

  Laila shook her head. “Not me. Tomorrow’s my day off, so I get to keep some of my dignity intact. This is one old hippie who keeps her business her business.” She grinned, showing one gold tooth. It matched the gold beads threaded into the corn rows she wore tight on her head. “Besides, what makes you think I wear skivvies? Hell, beneath this—no one knows what’s under mama’s caftan except mama.”

  Theirs was a good working relationship. Every member of the team knew that any minute the day could turn from serene to terrible without warning. When women came to them, bleeding and battered and often with small children in tow, the fun stopped and they went into full-on work mode. Saving the world one woman at a time, they called it. The ultimate women’s liberation, taking females from bondage in modern society. So when they had downtime, everyone made the most of it.

  “And that’s more than even Helen Gurley Brown wants to know. You’ve just given me a mental picture that might be hard to shake.” Jade put the back of a wrist against her forehead, the picture of a 1940s femme fatal movie star about to faint. “I don’t know if I can bear the thought of you—good Lord, that’s taking bra burning to the extreme!”

  “Hell, those Playtex babies cost too damn much to burn. These boobies aren’t dime-store underwear models. It takes some heavy-duty elastic to keep this bosom in line. Believe me, I don’t buy ’em to burn ’em. Leave that to the flat-chested sisters; they don’t fork over the bread I do on unmentionables.” The beads hanging from the braided ends of her hair clicked when she punctuated her remarks with a vigorous upper shimmy.

  “Enough!” Chloe waved a hand through the air. “You two are going to kill me with all this crazy talk. Aging hippie, my ass. Laila you could dance both of us under the table any day of the week. Barefoot, in stilettos like Jade’s or even in platform heels. Any day, you’ve got us beat.”

  Chloe swung her feet. She did favor platforms for work, mostly for comfort but also because they gave her an extra couple of inches. She didn’t aspire to be an Amazon woman, but it never hurt to be tall enough to not get lost in a crowd.

  “Sister, you look as if you were doing some below-table dancing last night. Doesn’t it?” Laila looked for back up from the other woman—and got it.

  “Uh huh. I didn’t want to embarrass you, but I think I saw some sand fall out of those pretty curls of yours this morning.” Jade raised an eyebrow, then nodded when their coworker burst out laughing. “I’m not kidding—it was sand. Somebody was rolling around on the beach last night.”

  Chloe opened her mouth to protest but Laila cut her off.

  “Hey, don’t try to deny it. We’ve all been there, rolled in the sand a time or two. Or three or four—” She gave a wink. “Just as long as you tell us what happened, we’ll pretend we didn’t see the seashells falling at your feet, won’t we?”

  “Amen, sister. We’ll sweep the shells under the table and keep our lips zipped.”

  She couldn’t deny it. Besides, she didn’t want to. She was an adult, and there was nothing wrong with having some fun at the beach with a sexy man. They all read Cosmopolitan, didn’t they? Sex was healthy—encouraged, even—for single women as well as those with bands on their fingers.

  “Give. Who is he?” Laila wasn’t a woman anyone ignored.

  She wanted to blurt out every racy detail but knew better. No matter how much someone promised to keep their lips zipped, it was human nature to share news.

  A package had been on her desk when she arrived. It had been left at the front door, with a note from Jackie. Chocolate chip cookies, a thank-you gift for having helped her when she was at her lowest. The note contained a Vermont address, which Jackie said was her cousin’s place. She planned to stay there for a while, get her act together, and figure out what to do with the rest of her life. Chloe was sorry she’d missed seeing her, but grateful she’d stepped back out into the light of the world. A woman shouldn’t hide in a dingy apartment, closed off from everything, for too long.

  Now, she held out the box of cookies. The women both shook their heads.

  Leila patted her left thigh. “Thanks, but those would end up right here. No need to add any more jiggle to my wiggle, if you know what I mean.”

  With an impatient sigh, Jade put her hands on her hips. “So? The man? The sand?”

  “I guess you don’t want any cookies, either.” She put them back on the desk, rubbed imaginary crumbs from her fingertips and ordered her thoughts.

  Before she could begin, the copper bells hanging on the front door tinkled. They looked at each other for a fast second. Then, Leila slid off her desk. She pointed a finger at Chloe and said, “You are not saved by the bell. Don’t start without me.”

  In a swirl of colorful fabric, she left the room. They watched her go, then remained quiet, eavesdropping on the conversation in the outer office. When she heard her name, Chloe got up and went throug
h the door.

  The woman standing just inside the agency’s front door looked familiar but she couldn’t quite place her. She was young, with long, waist-length brown hair that hung like a waterfall down her back. Jeans, a tie-dyed shirt and sandals gave her a bohemian air. When she saw Chloe she smiled.

  “Hi.” She gave a small wave. “I was hoping you’d be here. I, ah, wonder if I can talk with you for a few minutes.”

  Leila looked at the large round clock on the wall. “It’s nearly Chloe’s quitting time. Might I be of service to you? I have no plans to leave anytime soon, so you can have more than a few minutes.”

  The woman couldn’t have been more than twenty-five or so, but she carried herself with confidence that made her seem older.

  Shaking her head, she said, “No, thank you. I’m sure you’re wonderful but it’s not about…well, I’m not here on a professional level. I don’t need any help—I’m not a battered woman. Heck, I don’t even have a man to batter me.” The attempt at glibness fell flat.

  Leila shot a sharp look. “Well, that’s a very good thing, now isn’t it?”

  Clasping her hands in front of her, she turned to Chloe. “I just need to speak with you. I won’t take too much time, I promise.” She jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “I saw a coffee shop across the street. I can buy you a cup of coffee. Or tea, if you’d prefer. It’s important. Please?”

  Leila put her hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “Listen, why don’t you consider yourself off the clock. You’ve put in extra hours this week, settling Jackie and all, so just go. It’s all good. This sister looks like she’s ready to pop, she needs to chew your ear so hard. So go—besides, we can see that coffee shop from this window. And, until you come out, me and Jade? We’ll be sitting right here.”

  Chapter 27

  The coffee shop wasn’t big, but there was enough room between the wooden tables set around the space to have a private conversation and not feel as if the whole place heard every word. Besides, it was nearly empty, with two tables in the back occupied by tourists with thick New York accents. They were so loud Chloe doubted they could hear each other, let alone anyone across the room.

  They chose a table by the window. A clear plastic cloth kept spills in check, and a big dispenser filled with rectangular napkins sat in the center of the table. Chloe pushed the dispenser to the side, waved away the menu their server offered and smiled.

  “Just coffee, thanks.”

  They had slipped into chairs opposite one another. With a nod, the other woman said, “Make that two. Thanks.”

  The waitress, a teenager who looked thoroughly bored, went to get their order. Chloe debated waiting until they were served before asking what this was about. It was a wasted internal debate; the other woman dove right in.

  “So I bet you’re wondering who I am, right? And why I insisted on speaking with you, right?” She drummed her fingertips on the tabletop. Chloe saw she wore five or six silver rings. None on her wedding finger. “Right?”

  The waitress delivered two cups of coffee. Chloe splashed cream in hers. The other woman opened a packet of sugar substitute, poured it into the liquid and gave it a fast stir with the spoon that had arrived on her saucer.

  “Well, yes.” She offered a friendly smile, the way she would with a woman who came to see her on a professional level. Being in social work trained her to get people to share. “I won’t beat around the bush. I’m curious about why you came to see me. You’re sure you don’t need any help? We have lots of options open to women these days. Women’s lib really has opened some doors wide for us. If you need something, we can help you.”

  Troubled eyes peered over the edge of the white stoneware. Swallowing, she shook her head. “No. Yes. No—I mean, I do need help but not the kind you’re thinking. And I don’t need an agency—at least I hope it won’t come to that. I need you—you’re the only one who can help me.” She squared her shoulders. “You’ve got to help me. It’s a matter of life and death. How it comes out is all up to you. I hate to lay it all on your head, but hey, my options are—well, they’re non-existent.”

  While she listened, she considered the possibility the woman might be on drugs. She didn’t smell like weed, which had such a distinctive aroma that hung on hair and clothing it was hard to miss. Her irises were neither dilated nor pinpricks, so that let out the psychotropic fun rides. She wasn’t slurring her words, and there was no reek of alcohol on her, so she wasn’t drunk.

  Aside from acting too jittery for the bright, sunny day and the fact that she had a hard time meeting Chloe’s gaze, the woman seemed pretty normal. As far as normal went.

  It hit her that time was passing. And she wanted to get home to check on her uncle. Make him an early dinner. Avoid Neil if she could. Then pamper herself a bit. Wash her hair and get all the residual sand out. Shave her legs. Polish her toenails. Fine-tooth-comb brow tweezing.

  All preparation for the moment when Doctor Dreamy went full speed ahead. After last night, it was just a matter of time. And, just thinking about getting naked with that handsome guy slicked her in spots that hadn’t slicked in a long, long time.

  Chloe forced herself to focus on the present. She took a sip of the tepid coffee, put her cup on the heavy saucer and pulled out the professional demeanor.

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Right! I should have told you that when I came to your office. And, by the way, I’m sorry I did that—come to your work. I mean, I know it wasn’t cool, but I couldn’t think of anything else. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?”

  “Right.” She drew the word out. The other woman talked at warp speed, as if late for a bus. “So, your name?”

  “Oh. Right. My name.”

  It hit her that she should begin counting how many times the word “right” was used in the conversation. The conversation to nowhere.

  “Yes.” She couldn’t say the other word again. She just couldn’t do it. “Your name?”

  A small quirk of the lips which finally had stopped speeding. “My name is Debra Linker.”

  They were making progress.

  “Nice to meet you, Debra.”

  A slight head tilt sent a cascade of brown silk over a shoulder. “I’m Patty Linker’s sister.” She waited a beat. “Patty Linker. She married Philip Pendergast. So, she was Patty Pendergast. Ring any bells?”

  Suddenly the world tilted sideways. Ice ran in her veins. And a sick, sour taste rose from her gut. Bells? They were the least of her worries.

  Clarity hit her like a train. The child on the beach. It couldn’t be—but it was. She had no doubt, the little girl was hers.

  Debra glanced out the window. Stared at the traffic on Main Street for a long minute. Her eyes glistened.

  “She and Phil were killed a month ago. Drunk driving—damn him, but Phil never could hold his scotch.” She scrubbed a hand over her eyes. Then she met Chloe’s gaze again, steely determination in the troubled gray eyes. “Six years ago, they adopted a baby girl. Your daughter. Penny is my niece—and she has no parents now.”

  The world spun around her. For an awful moment, Chloe thought she might be sick.

  She didn’t realize she was crying until Debra reached across the table and wiped her tears with one of the paper napkins. She pressed the napkin into her hand.

  “It’s a helluva shock, I know, but it seems the best way to tell you about your daughter. I have to do it. You understand, right?”

  Chapter 28

  Driving a motorcycle without wearing a helmet or concentrating on the road was a recipe for disaster, but all the angels in heaven must have been watching over her, because Chloe made it to Lobster Cove in one piece. It was a miracle, because she did not remember a single mile of the drive.

  She parked the bike in the cracked concrete driveway. It had been installed sometime in the 1940s, and, like everything else in the place, had seen better days. Weeds grew up between the cracks, and a clump of wild Shasta daisies thri
ved in a far corner.

  Neil’s shiny red truck was parked to one side. It stood out, a glittering star against a faded background. The chrome was buffed, the wax job made the paint shimmer and even the whitewall tires had a coat of something shiny on them. It was either evidence of an orderly man or a life so dull he had nothing better to do than toy with the vehicle.

  It wasn’t the time to contemplate the state of Neil’s existence when her own had been turned upside down—yet again.

  She’d avoided him since their last disastrous conversation, and she’d hoped to continue the trend. It wasn’t her intention to be home this early but Debra’s visit and shocking revelation had blown her schedule all to hell.

  And it might be blowing her life in the same direction.

  Eighteen hours, that’s about all it had been between the last time Kyle kissed her and the instant Debra walked into the agency. So she’d had nearly a whole day of bliss. It had been great while it lasted, but nothing good hung around in her life.

  She wanted to kick herself for believing she could find happiness with someone like the handsome doctor. It had been a pipe dream, and she hadn’t even gotten to smoke the damn pipe.

  As she rounded the corner of the house, she heard the hammering. Five bangs. A pause. Five bangs. Another pause. There was a rhythm to Neil’s work, a steadiness. Just like his life, she thought.

  Maybe that was the root cause for her refusing to settle down with him. She’d resisted, knowing he was content to stay in Lobster Cove, live on the same street he’d lived on his whole life, pass his days in quiet satisfaction and eventually end up in the village cemetery. There was nothing wrong with wanting those things but it wasn’t the life for her.

  Shading her eyes with one hand, she looked up—and caught him looking down.

  “Hi.” His voice was flat.

  He lifted his hammer, holding a nail against the new plywood covering the repaired beams and struck it. The sharp metallic ping sounded louder back here. One. Two. Three. Four. Five slams, and he pulled a new nail into position. Her avoidance tactics had earned her his determination to ignore her.