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The Husband She Never Knew
Cynthia Thomason


Is their marriage ending…or just beginning?Vicki Sorenson met Jamie Malone and married him an hour later. Both had good reasons for exchanging vows, but they had no plans to set up house. Now–thirteen years later–the new man in Vicki's life is about to propose, so Vicki arrives at Jamie's houseboat, divorce papers in hand.However, divorcing the charming Irishman is proving much more difficult than marrying him.









“Does a man need a reason for wanting to see his wife?”


“He does when that wife is engaged to marry another man,” Vicki replied.

Jamie froze. “He’s proposed?”

“Well, no, not yet…” Vicki admitted. “But it wouldn’t be fair to let you think that this relationship, or whatever it is that we shared for twenty-four hours, would ever amount to anything more than a night in a storm. You can’t possibly believe this so-called marriage of ours is real.”

“But it is. Otherwise you wouldn’t need a divorce to end it.”

Vicki exhaled her frustration in a long sigh. “Yes, it’s real legally. But certainly not emotionally. We’re two completely different people. We live completely different lifestyles. We have different goals. We enjoy different things.”

“We both enjoyed kissing each other.” Jamie’s green eyes sparkled.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” Vicki insisted. “I’m attracted to another man. I’m going to marry another man as soon as you—”

“Yeah, I know. As soon as I sign the papers. And—” Jamie held back a grin “—as soon as he asks you…”


Dear Reader,

This book is about mistakes. Not the little social blunders that make us blush for a moment and are soon forgotten. No, this story is about a really big whopper, the kind we can only reveal to our best friend because if the rest of the world knew, we would suffer immeasurable humiliation.

Maybe you’ve suffered through one or two lapses in judgment in your life. I know I have, and a couple of those mistakes have come back to haunt me. But maybe you were one of the lucky ones—maybe fate exercised its fickle mastery over your future and saved you from the transgressions of your youth.

In this book you will meet Vicki Sorenson and experience the one big blunder from her past. Will it ultimately ruin her life or will it turn out to be one of those rare sublime moments of serendipity?

I love to hear from readers. You can write to me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL 33355, e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com or visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com.

Sincerely,

Cynthia Thomason




The Husband She Never Knew

Cynthia Thomason





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my talented brother, Doug, and his charming wife, Sal.

From different continents—

like the hero and heroine of this book—

they prove that second-chance love can be glorious.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN




PROLOGUE


Orlando, Florida, 1990

VICKI SORENSON parked her ancient Ford Pinto a half block from the Orlando courthouse and stepped into the sweltering humidity. She plucked her blouse away from her damp back and pressed her lips together to blend the two quick swipes of Watermelon Ice she’d just applied in the rearview mirror. To make sure no lipstick had stuck on her teeth, she ran her tongue over them. A girl shouldn’t have lipstick on her teeth on her wedding day.

She walked toward the courthouse, her shoulder bag thumping against her hip with each step. Kenny Corcoran, the short-order cook from the Orange Blossom Diner where she worked waved from the top of the stairs. At least there was some measure of comfort in seeing the friend who’d masterminded this plan today.

And then she had her first glimpse of the man she’d come to meet. The man she would marry just as soon as they could sign their names to the license and get an appointment with a justice of the peace. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she reached the first step. This man, this Jamie Malone, seemed to fill the courthouse entrance. Energy fairly radiated from him, and kept him in perpetual motion, arching his spine, rubbing the back of his neck, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

Kenny twirled his hand in a hurry-up gesture. “Come on, Vicki. We’ve got a few minutes. You two can get acquainted.”

Get acquainted. What a ridiculous thing to suggest to a bride and groom, but that was exactly what Vicki and Jamie needed to do if they were to have any hope of convincing immigration officials that this marriage was legitimate. She stopped two steps shy of Jamie Malone and resisted the urge to run. She had to remember why she was doing this, why she couldn’t back out now.

Kenny, a shadowy figure himself with connections to a secret society of Irish brethren, introduced her. Jamie Malone smiled and extended his hand. She grasped it as she climbed the two steps, whereupon she noticed that he topped her five foot six by several inches. His fingers were long and lean, like the rest of him. Grease stains darkened his nails, though he appeared clean and freshly shaven. He was a workingman, this Irish immigrant, who needed a green card to stay in the United States.

“Hello, miss,” he said. “It’s a fine thing you’re doin’ today. You’re probably savin’ my sorry ass from a Belfast jail, you know.”

She stared at Jamie a long moment and realized her ears were appraising him as much as her eyes were. His accented English, lilting and lyrical, flowed like the thick, damp waves of hair he’d tried to tame in a strip of leather at his nape.

“Don’t thank me, Mr. Malone,” she said. “I have my reasons for agreeing to this, and you know what they are.”

His smile stayed in place, despite her curt response. “Indeed I do, miss.” He patted the pocket of his plaid shirt. “I have the cash right here. But you’ll not begrudge me the chance to express my gratitude. I can’t imagine a thing like this would be easy for a girl.”

“No, it’s not,” she admitted. But at twenty-one Vicki found it hard to imagine that this one impulsive decision could affect the rest of her life. People got out of marriages all the time. Her biggest concern was seeing that wad of bills transferred from Jamie’s shirt to her pocketbook and not getting caught by the immigration officials. The rest would work itself out in time.

“Well, then, let’s go,” Kenny urged. “Jamie, hold her hand. And smile, both of you. It’s your wedding day.” He opened the courthouse door and let the soon-to-be newlyweds precede him inside.




CHAPTER ONE


Fort Lauderdale, 2003

VICTORIA SORENSON wasn’t about to let the fact that she was a married woman spoil this night’s celebration—not when she’d seen her husband of thirteen years for perhaps only ninety minutes in total. And not when she was anticipating becoming engaged to the man of her dreams in two weeks.

Louise Duncan leaned forward and looked at Vicki with unmasked skepticism. “Okay, Vic,” she said, “that sparkle in your eye is about to blind me. What are we toasting?”

Vicki refilled her friend’s wineglass with the better-than-average merlot she’d chosen for this occasion and smiled at her across the white linen tablecloth. “It’s that obvious?”

Louise speared another piece of shrimp scampi and lifted her fork to her mouth. “This isn’t a fast-food joint, my friend. This is a table with an ocean view at one of Fort Lauderdale’s trendiest restaurants, and you’re picking up the check. It isn’t my birthday, so what’s up?”

Enjoying the advantage of having information someone else didn’t, Vicki folded her hands on the table and grinned at the woman who’d been her best friend for fifteen years. “Guess.”

Louise smirked, a gesture she’d mastered to perfection. “I’ll keep guessing as long as you keep buying the wine.”

Vicki laughed, knowing she couldn’t prolong the suspense another minute. “Graham’s going to propose. I just know it.”

Louise dropped her fork against the side of her china plate and gaped at Vicki. “Wow. That might have been my fiftieth guess. Do you think he’s gotten the approval of all those people on the Townsend library walls?”

“I have Graham’s approval, which is what really matters,” Vicki answered. She tucked a strand of recently highlighted tawny hair behind her ear. “And he says I’ve progressed from probationary to acceptable on the Townsend-acquaintance meter.”

“That must be a relief,” Louise said with her usual sarcasm.

“It is, for Graham’s sake,” Vicki admitted. She knew it was important to him that his parents accept her as a member of the Townsend family tree, and it looked as if they finally had. Graham’s Massachusetts pedigree had always been more of a problem than a blessing for Vicki. She’d constantly struggled to make Graham’s relatives appreciate her better qualities, such as her work ethic and ambition, and pay less attention to her Midwestern immigrant background.

“What are you going to do about kids?” Louise asked. “Have you told him your reservations about having children?”

“Not yet, but I will.” It was definitely a topic Vicki would have to deal with, and soon. There was nothing essentially wrong with the idea of being a mother. She knew that lots of women handled the job very well. But she doubted she herself would ever be a good mother. How could she when her role models, her own parents, used guilt and the threat of retribution as their primary child-rearing tools? Plus, Nils and Clara Sorenson had never shown the least delight in any aspect of maintaining a family. They viewed their responsibilities as parents as just another burden in a life of constant drudgery.

“I’m sure Graham and I can come to a compromise on the matter of children,” she said when she realized Louise was still waiting for an explanation.

Louise laughed. “Oh, honey, you can’t make a compromise when it comes to kids. They’re either here or they aren’t. I don’t see much middle ground.”

Louise dunked a bread stick into her wine and nibbled on her newly pink creation. “But enough about that. What exactly makes you think Graham’s going to propose?”

Grateful to steer the conversation away from kids, Vicki said, “He’s been dropping obvious hints. Last night we were talking about my shop opening in two weeks and he said, ‘That’s going to be a really big night for you.’”

“And?”

“And he said he was proud of me and he hoped our relationship lasted a long, long time.”

“Well, Vic, he is your antique importer. Are you sure he wasn’t referring to a successful business relationship?”

Vicki let a smug expression precede her answer. “I’m quite sure, my cynical friend, and you will be, too, when I tell you that last night I distinctly remember leaving my amethyst ring on the coffee table.” Vicki wiggled her left hand at Louise. “The one I always wear on the third finger of this hand. When Graham left late last night the ring was gone. This afternoon he came by with a silly excuse about losing his business-card holder in the couch cushions. When he left, the ring was back on the coffee table.”

Louise nodded slowly. “Ah. The old steal-the-ring-to-get-the-size ploy.”

“Exactly. Now do you believe me?”

“Okay, now I believe you. So in two weeks you’re going to be the proprietor of one of the most fashionable new shops on Las Olas Boulevard, and you just might have a Townsend-family diamond glittering on your ring finger.”

Vicki laughed. “I don’t know if the in-laws will actually sacrifice a diamond for me, but I’ll be happy with a brand-new modest one.” She didn’t even try to squelch the tremor of delight that rippled through her. “After a year and a half, Lulu, it’s finally all coming together.”

Louise patted her hand fondly. “I’m happy for you, Vic, honestly.” Oddly, Louise’s expression did not reflect that happiness. “Look, I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said, “but somebody’s got to point out the one little complication that you’ve avoided for thirteen years.”

Vicki knew what was coming and was relieved that Louise had brought it up. “You’re right,” she said. “I should have handled the problem of Jamie Malone years ago, but until Graham, Jamie hadn’t been a concern in my life.”

Louise peered over the edge of her wine glass. “I’d call him more than a concern now, Vic. You can’t begin a life with your second husband until you’ve done something about the first one.”

Louise was right about that. And maybe she had avoided the man she’d married for cash after she’d moved to Florida. By the time she met Jamie, she’d used up her small savings and dropped out of college at the end of her junior year. Even after getting the money from Jamie, her life had been a constant struggle to survive on her own, and she hadn’t had time to clear up past mistakes.

It wasn’t until she discovered she had a knack for buying and selling antiques that her life finally got easier. She supported herself with enough profit left over each month to send money to her parents in Indiana. The gesture eased her guilt about leaving her family in financial straits while allowing her to keep a promise to herself never to go back to her humble, oppressive roots.

“You’re thinking about your parents again, aren’t you,” Louise said.

A ramshackle farmhouse on the edge of an Indiana cornfield left Vicki’s mind as Louise brought her back to the present. “Yeah, I was. I know you think I used my family as an excuse for letting those years slip away without taking care of my situation with Jamie Malone.”

Louise sighed and attempted a smile. “I know you did, Vic, and I also know how hard you’ve worked to make a life for yourself away from your miserable, freeloading parents…”

The first hint of anger ignited in Vicki. “Don’t start, Louise,” she warned, feeling an irrational need to defend parents who probably didn’t deserve it.

“Okay, sorry. But if Graham pops the question, what are you going to do about Malone?”

“That’s where you come in,” Vicki said.

“I was afraid of that.”

“Come on, Louise, you’re not just my best friend. You’re also my lawyer. And I need your advice now more than I ever have. You’ve got to get me out of this.”

Louise’s smirk was back. “You should have asked for my advice thirteen years ago when you did this stupid thing.”

Vicki rolled her eyes. “You weren’t a lawyer then. And besides, I needed that money desperately.”

Louise shook her head in frustration. “Yeah, I know. There was a drought in Indiana. The barn roof was falling in. Daddy needed false teeth—”

“Stop it, Louise. I’ve told you I felt obligated.”

Louise pressed her lips together. “Okay, honey, I know all about your big heart. But to put it more kindly this time, I’ve seen your parents take advantage of you over and over again, and what you did thirteen years ago went beyond what anyone should expect from you.”

“Be fair, Louise. They didn’t know how I got that money.”

“True, but do you honestly think they would have cared?”

That hurt, but Vicki had to admit the truth in her friend’s words. Louise had a gift for seeing the simple facts, pleasant or not. It was an ability that Vicki had never really developed. Even now she still couldn’t judge her parents from an objective viewpoint. They were her parents, after all.

“Besides,” Louise continued, “you could have gotten into big trouble. Malone was a stranger to you!”

“No, he wasn’t. Not exactly. He was the friend of a friend.”

“But you knew he was a criminal.”

“He wasn’t a criminal!” Vicki was tired of defending herself over this issue. Louise would never comprehend Vicki’s motives for what she’d done that day, and why should she? Louise was the daughter of a pair of Orlando obstetricians who’d never demanded more of her than passing grades and weekly phone calls. But Vicki needed Louise’s help desperately, so she tried once more to make her understand about Jamie Malone. “He left Ireland to avoid going to prison. He was innocent of any wrongdoing. It was a family-loyalty thing. I told you all this years ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” Louise drawled without enthusiasm. “The poor guy was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Exactly.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“Get me a divorce. Or an annulment. Or make a case for abandonment. Whatever it takes. But do it quickly and quietly. When I get a ring in two weeks, I want to wear it as the respectable single woman the Townsends and Graham think I am.”

“This won’t be easy, you know that,” Louise said.

“I know, but I’m putting my future in your hands.”

Louise sighed. “Okay, our best chance is a divorce for the reason of abandonment. You’ll have to run a newspaper ad for four consecutive weeks in the county of his last-known address. After that, you’ll file papers with our court, and then you’ll wait a prescribed amount of time for Mr. Malone to come forward. If he doesn’t, and if the judge feels you have truly exhausted all reasonable efforts to locate him, he’ll grant a divorce on the grounds of abandonment.”

Vicki fought her escalating panic. “Four weeks? A prescribed amount of time? Lulu, I just told you I have to have this taken care of in two weeks.”

Louise narrowed her eyes and spoke in low tones. “And that’s not all. Your name will be in the newspaper, as will his, so you’d better hope that the issue of his green card and your fraudulent marriage in Orlando doesn’t ring a bell with an overzealous immigration official.”

Being accused of defrauding the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service after all these years was enough to turn Vicki’s blood to ice. And if Graham’s family saw her name in the paper and investigated her background, they would do everything in their power to keep Vicki from becoming a Townsend. She didn’t even want to think about Graham’s reaction. She loved him, but he could be extremely opinionated about issues of respectability.

“You’re scaring me, Louise,” she said. “Surely there must be a statute of limitations on this sort of thing.”

“I don’t know, but even if there is and even if you get away with a clean divorce, it could be a very long and expensive process. Remember, Malone’s in absentia. You’re shouldering all the expenses.”

Vicki pictured her dwindling savings account, and desperation crept into her voice. “I don’t have a lot of money, but time is the most important issue. The process you described takes too long. What else can I do?”

Louise drummed her fingers on the table while she considered Vicki’s question. Finally she said, “It’s a long shot, but you actually might be able to find this guy and get him to sign uncontested divorce papers. That way, you see him one time, he signs, you’re divorced in a Broward County court, and it’s over like any other failed marriage with no assets, liabilities or children to argue over.”

There was a ray of hope, after all. “So how do I find him?”

“Our firm uses a reliable detective agency. They claim they can find anybody. I can have an investigator call you.”

Vicki poured another inch of wine into Louise’s glass. “You’re an angel, Lulu. I’ll owe you big time.”

Louise arched her trim black eyebrows. “You bet you will.”



AT NINE O’CLOCK Monday morning Vicki met with her contractor and discussed the final decorative details for her shop. While they talked, a painter stenciled “Tea and Antiquities” in old-English script on the panels of the leaded-glass windows.

Vicki was pleased with the transformation of the two-thousand-square-foot store. After investing her life savings into this prime location of old-name insurance companies, law offices and upscale retail shops, she nervously anticipated the grand opening of Tea and Antiquities in twelve days. She hoped her shop would attract customers because of its originality. It was the only store on the street that offered the comfort and refinement of an English tearoom with the eye appeal of antiques she and Graham had personally selected.

The contractor had just left when Vicki’s phone rang. She crossed to a mahogany Chippendale desk to answer it. “Tea and Antiquities.”

“Miss Sorenson?”

She didn’t recognize the male voice. “Yes.”

“This is Russell Weaver from Insider Investigations. I got a call from Louise Duncan this morning advising me that you have a need for our services.”

Vicki set both elbows on the desk. Thank goodness. Louise hadn’t forgotten. “That’s right, Mr. Weaver. I need you to locate someone for me as quickly as possible.”

“A former husband, is that right?”

Louise had obviously tried to be discreet, and Vicki saw no reason to correct the misconception by calling Malone her current husband. “Yes, that’s correct.”

“The man’s name?”

“Jamie Malone.”

“Last known address?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Occupation?” Weaver asked questions as if following a script.

Unfortunately Vicki didn’t know her lines. “I’m not positive of that, either. I think he used to work as a carpenter.” She felt incredibly foolish. Certainly any woman would know more about a former husband.

“He changed jobs a lot,” she said to cover her ignorance and tried to overlook the snort of skepticism that came from the earpiece. “I haven’t seen him in thirteen years.”

“His age?”

Vicki let out a breath of relief. She knew this one. There was four years’ difference in their ages. “He’s thirty-eight.”

Mr. Weaver asked a few other pertinent questions to which Vicki responded with embarrassing ambiguity. Finally with a knowing smugness, he said, “Do you happen to have a description of your former husband, Miss Sorenson?”

“Well, of course.” That was truly an honest answer. How could she forget seeing Jamie Malone for the first time on the steps of the Orlando courthouse? Her knees had been knocking. Her palms had been sweating. She’d been trembling like the last leaf in a windstorm on the day she’d agreed to marry him for the generous sum of five thousand dollars.

Besides his physical characteristics, which were still clear in her mind, she remembered the underlying brashness of the man—a trait that was intimidating to a shy twenty-one-year-old farm girl who only wanted to get the disagreeable task over with and collect her money. Even Jamie’s quick smile and misplaced attempt at charm hadn’t put her at ease.

She gave the detective a description of the way Jamie had looked thirteen years ago. Then, grateful that Mr. Weaver didn’t ask more personal questions, she acknowledged his promise to call with information as soon as he had any.

That call came in the early afternoon of the same day.

“You’ve found Jamie Malone already?” Vicki asked.

“Sure have.”

“How did you do that so quickly?”

The detective chuckled. “I’d like to tell you that I used some ultraspecialized procedure known only to the investigative trade, but the truth is, I found him on the Internet.”

Vicki couldn’t contain her surprise. “You’re kidding!”

“Actually I found J.D. Malone. I had to do some further searches to ensure that he was our man, but everything checked out. Turns out your ex is an artist living in a little town in North Carolina.”

Vicki’s first reaction was to declare that she wasn’t paying $150 an hour for this ridiculous, unfounded information. The Jamie Malone who’d persisted in invading her memory the past few hours could hardly be an artist. “Oh, no, Mr. Weaver,” she said. “You must be mistaken.”

“Nope. No mistake here. This is definitely the man you’re looking for.” He read off a grocery list of Jamie’s past. “James Dillon Malone came from Ireland in 1988. Lived a year in Rhode Island on a work visa. Then moved to Florida where his visa was due to expire.” The detective cleared his throat before introducing his next factual detail. “And then it seems his immigration problems were miraculously over, Miss Sorenson. He got his green card after marrying you in 1990.”

Vicki felt a blush of mortification creep up her neck to her cheeks. “I guess that’s him,” she admitted.

“You want his address?” Weaver asked.

“Definitely.”

“It’s simple enough. Jamie Malone, Pintail Point, Bayberry Cove, North Carolina. I looked on a map. It’s in the extreme northern part of the state, on the coast.”

Vicki thanked the detective and told him to send her the bill. After disconnecting, she stared at the address she’d written in her day planner. Those few words abruptly connected her to Jamie Malone in a way she’d never expected to be again. She’d only seen him twice in 1990. Once at the courthouse and then again six months later at an INS office where they’d somehow managed to pass the required post-wedding interview. They’d exchanged extremely personal information over the phone a few days before the interview, and luckily, they’d memorized the very details the official that day had wanted to know.

Today Vicki recalled some of the particulars. Jamie had said he was an early riser. He slept in boxer shorts. As a child he’d had chicken pox and measles, nothing more serious. His mother lived in Ireland, but he hoped to bring her to America. He watched very little television, since soccer matches weren’t broadcast much in the U.S. He didn’t smoke, but appreciated his Guinness. He ate red meat and liked to run in the evenings before his shower. He had no political affiliation, and he wasn’t religious, but if it turned out there was a God, it was okay with him.

Vicki also remembered that Jamie claimed he had a healthy sexual appetite, something Vicki had to admit, as well, in front of the INS agent. In fact, recalling how they’d professed to making love every day of the week made her face flush with heat even now.

At the INS interview, his hair had still been long and wild. There’d still been stains under his fingernails. And his smile had still been eager.

Vicki closed her planner and tucked it into her purse. She’d never have believed she could dredge up so many details about a man she’d only thought of over the years as a problem she’d have to address one day. Well, today was the day, she thought as she picked up the phone again and punched in Louise’s number.

“What’s up, Vic?” Louise asked.

“Draw up my divorce papers, Lulu. I’m heading to Bayberry Cove, North Carolina.”




CHAPTER TWO


THE FIRST SNAG in Vicki’s foolproof plan to obtain an uncontested divorce occurred two days later at the Norfolk, Virginia, airport. Minutes after her plane landed, Vicki and other passengers with schedules to return the next day were summoned by an airline representative. This woman calmly explained to the ticket holders that they should call the airline to confirm that their return flights weren’t being affected by the approaching storm.

Storm? What storm? Vicki remembered a local TV weatherman’s vague reference a couple of days before to a tropical storm in the Atlantic Ocean. But since it was October, near the end of hurricane season, and the system was well north of Florida, she hadn’t paid much attention. Now, suddenly, she was well north of Florida and that feathery white ripple she’d seen on a meteorological radar screen had acquired a name and a circular motion. Unbelievably, Tropical Storm Imogene was targeting a still-unspecified patch of land somewhere along the North Carolina/Virginia coast.

Wonderful. Vicki slung her garment bag over her shoulder and made her way to the rental-car counter. She had a reservation at a hotel near the airport for tonight, but her flight back wasn’t until noon tomorrow. She had more than twenty-four hours to sweat out Imogene’s eventual landfall—at the same time she was sweating out her meeting with Jamie Malone.

After a thorough search, the rental-car agent found the small town of Bayberry Cove on a map. It was situated on the shore of Currituck Sound in the lowland marshes between the North Carolina mainland and the Outer Banks. A bird could have probably made the journey from Norfolk in about half an hour, but thanks to the narrow, twisting two-lane road Vicki had to take, she arrived at the town boundary sixty minutes later.

Now Vicki’s problem was to find the even more elusive Pintail Point. And she didn’t have time to waste driving aimlessly. She headed down Main Street, searching for a busy establishment where locals might direct her to where Jamie Malone lived. She chose the Bayberry Cove Kettle, a small, pleasant-looking café with ruffled curtains in the windows and an open parking space in front.

A hand-printed sign on the door reminded her of the approaching storm: “Closing at 3 p.m. Imogene’s coming.” Vicki entered the crowded restaurant and took the only available seat, a stool at the counter. Apparently the residents of Bayberry Cove were indulging in a last hearty lunch before holing up in their houses for the duration of the storm.

Most of the customers didn’t seem too worried. In fact, several of them were concentrating on triangular-shaped puzzle boards spaced across the length of the counter. Each puzzle had a dozen wooden pegs sticking up from holes. Vicki remembered playing these leap-frog games when she was a little girl in Indiana. These, like the ones she recalled, came with cardboard instruction sheets that described the participant’s mental capacity according to the number of pegs left in the board when he ran out of moves. If the player left one peg, he was a genius. If he left five or more pegs, he was a blockhead.

A full-figured waitress with short platinum hair took Vicki’s order. “What can I get you, honey?” she asked. Her voice was decidedly Southern. So was the name on her lapel badge. Bobbi Lee. Her smile was wide and friendly.

“Just coffee,” Vicki said. “And directions, if you don’t mind.”

Bobbi Lee set a steaming mug of coffee on the counter. She slid a chrome pitcher of cream and two sugar packets toward Vicki. “I don’t mind a bit. I probably know every address in this little town. Lived here all my life.”

Vicki took a sip. It tasted better than Florida coffee, probably because there was a bit of October chill in the North Carolina air. “Do you know where Pintail Point is?”

Bobbi Lee’s cherry-red lips tugged down at the corners. She leaned one well-rounded hip against the counter and stared at Vicki. “Pintail Point? Now why would you want to know where that is? It’s way outta town in the marshes. There’s nothing much out there but ducks.”

“Maybe so,” Vicki said, “but someone lives there I used to know. I need to find him.”

Bobbi Lee tapped her pencil against her order pad. A bit too loudly and a bit too fast. “You just continue down Main Street till you hit Sandy Ridge Road. Turn right and in about three miles you’ll see the causeway that’ll take you to Pintail. It’s only one lane, so make sure nobody’s comin’ the other way.”

Vicki dug in her purse for her wallet. “I will. Thanks.” She left two dollars on the counter. “By the way, do you know which house belongs to Jamie Malone?”

Bobbi Lee snorted and jabbed her pencil into a tight wave over her ear. “There aren’t any houses out there,” she said. “But Jamie won’t be hard to find. He’s the only man that lives on the point.”

No houses? One lone resident? Vicki took a healthy swig of coffee.

“You do know a storm’s comin’?” Bobbi Lee said. “Pintail’s no place to be.”

Vicki picked up her purse and headed for the exit. “I won’t be there long,” she responded. “Thanks again.”

Bobbi Lee only nodded, but as Vicki went out the door, she distinctly heard the waitress say, “Now, why would that woman be lookin’ for a married man?”

Married? Jamie Malone was married? Bobbi Lee had said Jamie was the only man on Pintail Point. She hadn’t mentioned a woman at all. Vicki slid into the driver’s seat of her small rental car. She took a moment before starting the engine to think about this latest shocking information. What kind of trouble was she heading into with the only man who lived on Pintail Point? Was she meeting with a bigamist? Jamie must have married another woman because surely he didn’t still think of Vicki as his wife. Vicki definitely didn’t think of him as her husband. Would she face an irate woman who knew nothing of Jamie’s past? And why did the waitress proclaim Jamie’s marital status in a voice loud enough to ensure that she heard it? Was it a warning of some kind?

Vicki turned the key in the ignition, relieved to hear the steady hum of the engine. This little car would take her away from Pintail Point as reliably as it got her there.

“You’ve come this far, Vicki,” she said. “Just get it over with.” She pulled out of the parking space and headed in the direction of Sandy Ridge Road. In her rearview mirror she saw Bobbi Lee watching her departure from the open doorway of the Bayberry Cove Kettle.



ANY NOTION that the airline representative might have been wrong about the approaching storm vanished when Vicki left the town limits of Bayberry Cove and turned onto Sandy Ridge Road.

The two-lane paved road hugged the shore of Currituck Sound, and on a sunny day would have provided scenic glimpses of the protected waters between the North Carolina coast and the Outer Banks. But today the horizon was gray, leaving the far islands blanketed in charcoal shadows. White-capped waves crashed against the sea wall, spewing frothy streams of brackish water over the edge of the road.

Wind buffeted Vicki’s little car. She gripped the steering wheel to maintain a straight course. The marshes were eerily void of wildlife, and there wasn’t a boat in sight. Vicki imagined that on any other day, fishermen would be working these waters and cursing the many pleasure-boaters.

After three miles, she spotted the causeway Bobbi Lee had mentioned and turned off Sandy Ridge. Her tires crunched on the gravel surface of the one-lane spit of land bordered by sloping rock embankments. The causeway appeared to be about half a mile long, and at the end, through a thickening haze, Vicki detected a couple of low buildings set amongst a copse of trees.

This path was more treacherous than Sandy Ridge. Currituck Sound attacked the causeway from both sides, sending churning waves onto the road and leaving the driving surface riddled with puddles, gravel and seaweed.

In the distance, clouds swirled in ashen bands heavy with moisture. The weather was deteriorating quickly, Vicki realized, and she would be wise to leave the causeway as soon as possible. Once Jamie signed the papers, she could wait out the storm in a hotel near the Norfolk airport.

The buildings on the point of the causeway were more recognizable now. Vicki slowed her car under the wind-whipped branches of a tall pine. Bobbi Lee had been right. There were no houses on Pintail Point. There was, however, a large metal shed with a tin roof. And a houseboat.

Vicki parked next to a pickup truck with a light film of sand on its metallic-blue panels. She removed her briefcase from a zippered compartment in her garment bag and examined the point, which was no more than two acres.

She didn’t see anyone around the houseboat, a one-story structure with a sundeck occupying half the roof. The boat was painted forest green with tan trim around the windows and shake cedar shingles extending from the slightly peaked roof. Window boxes gave the compact place a whimsical look, almost like a mountain chalet.

Vicki closed her eyes and took a fortifying breath. A clear image of that other time she’d met Jamie Malone flooded her memory. She was even more anxious now than she’d been on the courthouse steps. On that day, however, she’d known what to expect. She and Jamie had followed the advice of a mutual friend who’d guided them through the marriage and green-card process. Now she had only herself to rely on. There was no intermediary to witness this odd reunion, except perhaps Jamie’s wife.

Vicki shivered. She buttoned her jacket, stuffed her car keys inside the pocket and wrapped a trembling hand around the door handle. “Just go,” she said to herself. “Find this man, get him to sign the papers, and you’ll be on your way in a few minutes.”

She opened the car door and stepped into a fierce wind that whipped her hair from its tortoiseshell clip and battered strands of it against her cheeks. For a moment she felt like the heroine of a gothic novel. All the elements were here. The wind, the threatening rain, the isolation of Pintail Point. And even worse, a man who was just as much a stranger to her today as he’d been thirteen years ago when she’d married him.

She approached the houseboat. “Mr. Malone?” she called, and realized her words had been swept up in a gust of wind. “Hello!” she hollered. “Mr. Malone, are you here?”

She heard a bang and a crack. She couldn’t identify the sound, but it was repeated twice more before someone shouted back, “Yes, I am, though if the wind gets any stronger up here, I might be blown to the mainland.”

Up here? Vicki held the hair out of her eyes and stared at the top of the houseboat from where the voice with the hint of an Irish accent had originated. A man appeared on the roof. He braced his feet apart against the force of the wind and looked down at her. “I can’t imagine what you’re doing on the point today, but as long as you’ve come, would you toss up a box of staples?”

Vicki followed the imaginary line from the tip of the man’s index finger to a red metal toolbox on top of a large wooden picnic table. She went to the edge of the table and grasped the latch of the toolbox. She’d just opened the lid when a loud snuffling sound came from the ground. A second later a heavy weight landed on the toe of her loafer. Vicki screamed, jumped away from the table and leaned over to see what had attacked her shoe.

A large, pointed dome of patchy gray fur poked out from underneath. A pair of small amber eyes on each side of a long, grizzled snout looked up at her with an expression of casual canine interest. “My God,” she gasped, “does he bite?”

The answer came from the top of the houseboat. “Beasley? Only the occasional gnat. And it had better be flying low.”

Vicki shifted her attention from the strange-looking dog to the man. He wiggled his finger with an edge of impatience, reminding her of his request. He obviously had no idea who she was.

Vicki hadn’t known what she would find on Pintail Point, but she’d half expected the past thirteen years would melt away and she’d recognize the ruddy face of the scruffy carpenter she’d married. The man giving her an expectant look from twelve feet above was Jamie Malone all right, but thirteen years had made a difference in him, as they no doubt had in her.

“The staples are in a red-and-white box,” he said. “I’m up here with a roll of plastic and a staple gun that’s just run out of staples. And a sky that tells me I’m running out of time.”

“Oh, right.” She rummaged through the toolbox and found the requested item.

Jamie approached the edge of the roof and bent slightly. “Just toss her up. I’ll catch it.”

The tail of a green flannel shirt flapped around worn denim jeans that accentuated long, lean legs. At the open yoke, a white T-shirt stretched across the tapered chest of a well-developed male, not the skin-and-bones frame of the young Irish immigrant who’d looked as if he’d survived on one meal a day.

He showed her his open palm. “Before I grow a beard, miss.”

Beard? He hadn’t had one thirteen years ago, at least not on his wedding day. Now he had the shadow of one, lending a nonchalant dignity to his face. His hair was still a tangle of coffee-brown waves, though it fell no longer than the edge of his collar. The wind played havoc with it, but Vicki had the notion that it would look pretty much the way it did right now even on the calmest of days. And Jamie’s smile, the feature she remembered most, was still the solar center of his face. With a frown that said he didn’t have time for conversation or even a serious inspection of his visitor, he held up his staple gun to bring her back to her senses.

She threw the box underhanded. It somehow defied the wind and landed in Jamie’s grasp.

He opened the stapler, filled it and snapped it closed again. “Thanks. As soon as I get this tarp secured, I’ll come down and see what brought you out here on this wicked day.” He went down on his knees beyond the slight peak of his roof and she had only the sound effects of his work to identify where he was.

“Yes, please,” she shouted to the general vicinity of the stapler. “I won’t take much of your time, but I need to speak with you and be on my way as quickly as possible.”

After another minute the stapling stopped. Jamie stood up again and looked toward the mainland. He shook his head once before returning his attention to her. “Doesn’t look like you’ll be going anywhere today,” he said.

She stared across the sound. The waves had increased in size, but it wasn’t as if Pintail Point was no longer connected to the mainland. She could simply drive away, couldn’t she? “What are you talking about?”

“Causeway’s washed out. You can’t see it from where you’re standing, but I can. The water’s claimed the road about halfway between Pintail and the coast.”

“That’s impossible.”

“I’m afraid not. It happens with every good storm. In a day or two it’ll dry out.” He looked over his shoulder toward the Outer Banks and frowned. “Though this storm seems a bit worse than most. Come aboard and see for yourself.” He gestured. “The ladder’s just at the bow there.”

After considering for a moment that only a lunatic would climb to the roof of a houseboat in a fiercely blowing wind, Vicki headed for the ladder. She had to see for herself if Jamie’s assessment of the situation was correct. She crossed a narrow bridge from the ground to the boat, set her briefcase on the deck and moved around to an open porchlike space that spanned the front of the houseboat. The hull made a squeaking sound as it rocked against the rubber bumpers connecting it to the sturdy wooden dock.

Vicki had climbed nearly to the top of the ten rungs when Jamie appeared from above and offered his hand. When she looked up at him, his entire face changed. It was as if the sun had broken through a menacing layer of clouds. His green eyes sparkled and his wide grin produced a pair of distinctive dimples. “Bless my soul,” he said. “I thought you looked familiar, Vicki. After all these years, my sainted wife has come to me.”

Startled by his enthusiastic greeting, Vicki grasped his hand and stepped onto the upper deck. “I’m surprised you remember me.” She tried to hide the strangely pleasing effect his recognition had produced behind a sober expression.

“A man never forgets his first, Vicki darlin’,” he said. He was still holding her hand, she realized, and staring at her in an odd, almost familiar way. “How did you find me?”

Omitting the detail of the detective, Vicki said, “You were on the Internet.”

Jamie laughed. “I’ve achieved cyber-fame? Has the INS posted a Most Wanted list?”

The response, though meant to be humorous, still spawned an uncomfortable twinge of nerves in the pit of Vicki’s stomach. “Let’s hope not,” she said. “Or if they have, let’s assume they’ve got more desperate criminals to find than the two of us.”

Jamie chuckled. “That’s a good bet. Anyway, it’s nice to see you again, Vicki. Even on a day such as this one.”

“You’ve been on my mind lately, Mr. Malone.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in amusement. “I’m flattered,” he replied. “But it’s ‘Mr. Malone,’ is it?”

She looked down before he could read her embarrassment in her face. It was, after all, a ridiculous way to address one’s husband.

“Are you certain you’ve got your footing?” he asked. “The wind’s blowing hard up here.”

She nodded and he released her hand but stayed by her side. Vicki cleared her throat and spoke close to his ear so he could decipher her words in the wind. “As I said, I’ve been thinking about you. About what we did. That’s why I’ve come. And I can’t stay but a few minutes.”

He pointed to the causeway. “You didn’t believe me, but have a look for yourself.”

Vicki stared across the sound from this improved vantage point and gasped. The mist was thickening, making visibility difficult. “I can hardly see anything,” she said. He took her hand and guided her to where she could make out a stream of water surging in frothy ripples across several yards of the gravel surface she’d driven over not twenty minutes before.

“Do you see that?” Jamie asked.

It looked as though the causeway had broken in two. She dropped her forehead into her hand and fought a rising panic. “Maybe if I leave now, I can just make it.”

“In that little car?” Jamie nodded toward her rental.

“Of course.”

“You’d be swept off the road and into the sound like a teacup in a whirlwind. I wouldn’t even attempt it in my truck.” He shrugged one shoulder with matter-of-fact acceptance of her predicament. “Guess you’re stuck here for the duration.” He touched her arm, drawing her attention to a spot in the distance. “Do you see that man on the mainland?”

She did. Barely.

“I’m betting that’s Deputy Blackwell putting up barricades like he does whenever the causeway’s washed out.”

Through the soupy mist she detected a figure on the coast, and suddenly a location a mere half mile distant seemed a continent away.

“It’s official,” Jamie said. “Luther’s not letting anyone on or off now.”

The deputy swept his arm in a huge arc over his head, and Jamie waved back. Then Luther Blackwell, the man who’d just decided Vicki’s fate for the next several hours at least, climbed in his patrol car and headed on down Sandy Ridge Road.

“I can’t miss my flight home,” Vicki said.

“Maybe you won’t,” Jamie said. “When is it?”

“Tomorrow at noon.”

He squinted at the darkening horizon. The first fat drops of rain pelted them, driven by a sudden gust of wind. “On the other hand, maybe you will.”

She was trapped on a virtual island with a man who was practically a stranger! Vicki couldn’t imagine a worse outcome to what was supposed to have been an uncomplicated mission. She knew nothing about Jamie. He could be half-crazy living out here in the middle of nowhere. Or worse.

“Let’s get down to ground level,” he said. “This roof’s as secure as she’s going to get, but we humans are tempting the elements.”

She tried to control a trembling that began in her legs and was working its way up. And I’m tempting fate, she thought.

Jamie helped her to the ladder. “Are you cold, Vicki?”

“No, I’m fine.” She scurried down and retrieved her briefcase while Jamie stowed his tools in the metal box. He whistled for his dog, who still lay in unperturbed comfort under the picnic table. By the time Jamie opened the door to the houseboat, the rain was hard and steady. Since escape was impossible, Vicki went inside. Jamie took her jacket, hung it on a hook by the door and handed her a towel. She dried off as best she could while watching the darkening sky through a large window over the kitchen sink.

“Maybe I should turn on CNN,” Jamie said. “We can get an update on the storm.”

Vicki stepped over Beasley, who was now sprawled in the middle of the floor and followed Jamie from the kitchen to a living area furnished with a beige leather sofa and two matching leather chairs. It certainly didn’t look like the accommodations of a psychopath—not that she knew how psychopaths lived. He picked up a remote control from a glass coffee table with a ship’s steering wheel as its base. The brass trim on the spokes shone as if they were polished regularly.

The rest of the room showed similar attention. A pine dining set occupied one corner of the room. Its top was clear of clutter, prompting Vicki to remember her own dining table, which was currently layered with unopened mail and magazines. Nautical paintings hung in groups around the walls of the houseboat. Remembering her surprise at hearing Jamie was an artist, Vicki wondered if he’d painted the canvases himself.

He pulled the chain on a dark metal lamp with a leaded-glass shade. The outside gloom was transformed into a soft amber glow. While Jamie selected the channel for CNN, Vicki surreptitiously inspected two of the paintings in hopes of discovering something about the man she was stuck with. Jamie Malone was not the artist of either.

When a reporter’s voice caught her attention, Vicki looked at a twenty-five-inch television screen. The set had a built-in VHS and DVD player. Since the old Jamie hadn’t been a TV watcher, at least according to the information they’d exchanged in order to fool the immigration officer, she wondered when this later version of the man had become inspired to buy a state-of-the-art model.

Within minutes the focus of a news story was a radar screen splattered with colorful images in blues, reds and yellows. A meteorologist was saying, “This one caught us by surprise, folks. Imogene is now a category-one hurricane. Residents along the North Carolina coast should hunker down. The eye will pass near the Carolina/Virginia border by nightfall.”

Vicki stopped patting her hair dry and draped the towel over her shoulders. She gawked at the swirling mass in the center of the screen that had suddenly become even more terrifying than her runaway suspicions of Jamie. “My God, a hurricane. And we’re sitting on this narrow little spit of land in a houseboat! We might as well be a weathervane on top of a barn in a tornado.”

“We’ll be all right,” he said. “It’ll be a blow, and likely will claim some shingles.” He patted the wall nearest him. “But the Bucket o’ Luck is a sturdy tub. She’s withstood a good many storms in her thirty-five years.”

“Thirty-five years! This boat is that old?” Vicki cringed at the thought. Certain that the Bucket’s luck had run out, she pictured herself clinging to forest-green flotsam in twenty-foot waves.

“I’m just now getting her broken in,” Jamie said. “It took us a few years to get used to each other. But trust me. She’ll come through this storm in fine style.”

“You speak of your boat as if it were a flesh-and-blood person,” Vicki said. A wife, for instance, she added to herself, remembering Bobbi Lee’s words.

He chuckled. “I suppose there was that same sort of period of adjustment for the Bucket, and me, as there is for a pair of new roommates.”

The masculine furnishings of the houseboat did not suggest a woman’s influence. But if Jamie had taken another wife at some time in his past, and if Vicki was going to weather a storm with him in this confined space, she had to know it now. “May I ask you something?” she said.

“Anything at all. There should be no secrets between husband and wife.”

She shook her head. “Right. Are you married?”

Jamie’s initial response was a bark of laughter, a most inappropriate reaction to a serious question. Vicki opened her mouth to tell him so, but his phone rang, prohibiting her from expressing her opinion.

Jamie picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Ma,” he said. “I just heard it on CNN. Now don’t you go worrying about me.”

Vicki relaxed a little. A man whose mother called to show her concern was probably not a homicidal maniac.

“Do you have everything you need in case you’re holed for a day or two?” he asked.

He sat back on the sofa. After a minute he looked at Vicki and touched his fingers to his thumb repeatedly in that gesture men use when a woman is talking too much. “Sure, I’ll be fine, Ma. Got plastic on the roof, and I’ll be putting shutters at the windows just as soon as I can get off the phone.”

A long pause. “Yes, plenty of food. I was at the supermarket yesterday.” He moved his head up and down in time to his mother’s conversation. “I can’t do that, Ma. Luther’s already blockaded the road. I’ll call you when it’s over.”

He set the receiver back on its cradle and looked at Vicki. “That was my mother,” he offered unnecessarily. “She lives in Bayberry Cove—another result of our wedding vows for which I owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Me? Why?”

“When you married me, you cleared the way for me to bring my mother over from Ireland. I was able to get her an immigrant visa and apply for her permanent residence once she got here. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t become a citizen first.” He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “So, does that answer your question about my state of wedded bliss?”

“No, it doesn’t. I meant, are you married to anyone besides me?”

For a second he looked truly shocked. “Where would you get an idea like that?”

“From a waitress in town. When I asked directions to Pintail Point, she made sure I knew that you were married.”

“Was she a blonde with an hourglass figure that might require more room at the bottom for the sand?”

Vicki nodded.

“A good woman, Bobbi Lee is. But she has it in her mind that every little detail of my life should be her concern.”

Vicki wasn’t fooled. She’d seen Bobbi Lee’s disapproval firsthand. Plus, when a man made a statement like that, he was obviously hiding something, and what Jamie was probably hiding was that he and Bobbi Lee shared more than a casual relationship.

“But back to your question,” Jamie continued. “Yes, indeed I have a wife, and by some miracle I’ve yet to understand, I’m looking at her now for the first time in thirteen years.”

“Do you tell people that you’re married and I’m your wife?” If he did, then the honesty of such a declaration was ironic in light of Vicki’s own deception.

“Not exactly. I tell people I’m married is all, and that’s the God’s truth. And for what it’s worth, Vicki, you’ve been nearly the ideal mate.”

She sank into one of the leather chairs. “That’s silly. We don’t even know each other.”

“Not so silly when you compare our marriage to others you know of. You never nag me. I can leave my socks in the middle of the floor. And if I want to watch a football game, you never utter a complaining word.”

He flashed her a crooked grin that under other circumstances might have been charming. And Vicki decided that Jamie Malone was not at all sinister. A man with an indolent dog, a caring mother and an ancient houseboat he lovingly tended, was strange perhaps, but not evil.

“’Course I can’t really say that the lovemaking has been very satisfying over the years,” he added.

He was, however, something of a smart-ass. Vicki’s cheeks flushed as she remembered again that she and Jamie had told an INS interviewer that they made love every day. Then she pictured Bobbi Lee with the wide smile and lavender-shaded eyes. And the tapping pencil. “I’m sure you’ve compensated in other ways,” she said.

He nodded. “A man makes do.”

The phone rang again, dispelling the very clear image in Vicki’s mind of how Jamie and Bobbi Lee “made do.”

At the same time, Jamie spoke the waitress’s name out loud. “Hello, Bobbi Lee. Yes, I heard, first on CNN, and then Ma called to tell me.” There was a long pause during which another of Jamie’s women monopolized the conversation.

“You’ll be fine,” he encouraged. “Make sure Charlie and Brian bring in the patio furniture. No, you shouldn’t need shutters on the mainland.”

He listened more and then looked over at Vicki and grinned. “What do you mean? Who would be fool enough to come to Pintail with a storm brewing?”

Vicki did indeed feel like the fool Jamie suggested she was, both for getting herself stuck in a hurricane and for eavesdropping on a one-sided conversation between her husband and his girlfriend.

“Yes, I’ll call when I can get through,” he said. “But we might not talk again very soon, Bobbi. I expect I’ll lose phone service if it gets bad.”

He hung up and leaned back into the sofa. “She was fishing to know if you were here,” he said. “And no doubt who you are and why you’ve come.”

“Why didn’t you tell her?”

He answered with another of those complacent shrugs that suggested nothing much bothered him. “If I had, she would have spent hours shut in her house fretting over it. And besides, she didn’t come right out and ask.”

“But if she had, would you have admitted that I’m the other half of this perfectly satisfying marriage you claim to have enjoyed all these years?”

“I would have told her you’re my legal wife, yes. I don’t think I could get Bobbi Lee or anyone else in Bayberry Cove to believe more than that.”

“I think your wedding license has been a convenience, Mr. Malone. I think you tell people you’re married when it suits your purposes or when you have something to gain by admitting it.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Like what?”

“Like protecting your independence perhaps. You don’t have to commit to a relationship. A man who’s already been caught can’t be caught again.”

He didn’t deny her accusation, and she admired the honesty in his unspoken admission.

“Why have you come here today, Vicki?” he asked.

She walked across the room and removed the divorce papers from her briefcase. “I’ve come because I see our marriage from a somewhat different perspective. I think it’s time to release you back into the wild, Mr. Malone, as a free spirit for real this time.”

She shoved the document at his chest. “These are our divorce papers. I’m here to get you to sign them.”




CHAPTER THREE


JAMIE TOOK the document Vicki held out to him and stared at the address of a Fort Lauderdale legal firm on the cover. He wasn’t quite ready to open the folder just yet. He was still reeling from that unexpected bit of psychoanalysis she’d just offered to explain why he’d been hanging on to a name-only marriage for more than a decade. There was a lot of truth in what she’d said. Bobbi Lee certainly believed he’d used his marriage license to justify his not getting too involved. But then again, he’d never met a woman he’d really wanted to marry.

In fact, Jamie had never considered himself a candidate for marriage. Despite having Frank Malone, rest his soul, as a role model in the husband department, Jamie hadn’t believed that a “real” marriage was essential to his future contentment. He’d spent the last thirteen years establishing his career, making friends in the only town he’d ever wanted to call home, and enjoying the independence of living by his own dictates. In a way, what he’d said to Vicki was true. She had been an almost ideal mate—primarily because Jamie had never been tested as an ideal husband.

Jamie wasn’t against marriage even though he couldn’t recall his mother shedding a tear when Frank Sr. died of lung cancer. Kate Malone had been a stoic widow. Maybe she’d been nursing fresh bruises, and that had kept her eyes dry. During his long illness, Frank hadn’t gotten too weak to remind his family that he was master of the household.

And Frank’s three sons were still single, even if Jamie technically wasn’t. Frank Junior and Cormac would likely remain so for at least another five years until their prison terms were up. And even then a woman who’d consent to wed one of the infamous Outlaw Malones would probably have to be tough as tree bark to stand up for her rights. Frank Junior was a carbon copy of his father, and years in jail might have hardened Cormac’s heart, as well.

“Well, aren’t you going to look at it?”

Vicki’s voice brought him back from his reverie. Mostly to please her, he lifted the blue document cover and thumbed through several pages. Then he put the folder on the coffee table, leaned back and settled his ankle on the opposite knee. He noticed that Vicki’s face was nearly colorless, as if she hadn’t taken a breath since producing the document from her briefcase. Did she think he would throw a fit when she presented her ultimatum?

“It appears to be a lot of legal mumbo jumbo to me,” he said.

“Actually it’s very straightforward. I know you’re probably surprised by my coming here today, but I don’t think you’ll find anything objectionable in the dissolution.”

The truth was, her visit in the middle of a hurricane had surprised him, but he wasn’t at all surprised by the divorce papers. From a purely practical standpoint, one of them should have taken care of this matter years ago. Looking at Vicki now, he almost felt like apologizing for making her be the one to initiate the inevitable.

He decided not to tell her that he’d kept track of her whereabouts through a Raleigh investigator. He’d even received pictures of her for the first few years. Lately he’d heard very little about her personal life, but had been informed of each new address she had—just in case he’d needed to find her. The latest report indicated she’d rented a classy little boutique in a posh Fort Lauderdale neighborhood. Victoria Karin Sorenson, Indiana farm girl, was doing well.

Jamie was equally surprised at the changes in the timid girl he’d promised to love, honor and cherish in an Orlando courthouse. She’d been so nervous that day, like a plump little bird facing the menacing grin of a Cheshire cat. He’d seen a multitude of emotions cross her face in the hour they’d spent sealing their agreement. Guilt, fear, embarrassment. He’d tried to make her feel better about what they were doing, but none of his efforts had helped. In the end, he’d simply repeated his vows with the same hurried indifference she had.

She was a changed woman today, however. Vicki Sorenson had lost her chubbiness and acquired the willowy stature of a new-millennium businesswoman to whom fried chicken and corn on the cob were foods enjoyed only by the non-calorie-counting masses. In her black slacks, white blouse and black leather loafers, she was a chic version of the girl she’d once been. Unfortunately he couldn’t help noticing that her beauty and sophistication fell just short of confidence. Was that because she was in a little country town called Bayberry Cove asking an immigrant stranger for a divorce? Or was it just that she was windblown and wet?

She tapped one black loafer on his thick tan carpet. “Well, aren’t you going to say something?”

He hunched one shoulder. “I expect I’ll say plenty once I’ve read this document through. Right now I’m overcome with grief at the abrupt end to our thirteen years.”

“Don’t start with that again,” she warned. “It’s been thirteen years of nothing, Ja…”

She stopped, and he filled in the gap of silence. “It’s okay. You can call me Jamie. People on the verge of divorce ought to be on a first-name basis at least.”

She glared at him. “You can’t grieve over nothing, Jamie,” she said. “I really need you to sign those papers.” To expedite her request, she held a pen out to him.

At the same time, a blast of wind rocked the houseboat and sent a branch from a nearby bayberry bush flying by the window. Vicki sank into the chair again. “Oh, my God, it’s getting worse, isn’t it?”

“That appears to be the case,” he said. “And if I don’t get the shutters on this boat soon, there won’t be a dry line on your papers for me to put my signature.”

“Then go. Do what you have to do. I’m apparently not going anywhere for a while.”

She stood, went into the kitchen and leaned against the sink. Beasley looked up at her with uncharacteristic interest. All dogs, even those without any apparent purpose in life like Beasley, could smell fear, and Beasley sensed it in Vicki. Jamie was no stranger to the signs of it, either. He’d seen fear in the faces of his countrymen in Belfast plenty of times. He read Vicki’s fear in the fix of her gaze on the dark sky, the white-knuckled grip of her hand on the edge of the porcelain.

“Don’t worry,” he said to her. “Like I said, the Bucket and I have seen worse than this. And Currituck Sound is protected by the barrier islands. We’ll come through all right.”

She turned to look at him. Tried to smile even, though her lips trembled at the effort. She reached for her jacket, slipped it on. “Have you got a hat?”

“What for?”

She twisted her shoulder-length hair, pulled a clip from her pocket and held the strands in place at her crown. “You’ll need help.”

The offer pleased him, mostly because he hadn’t expected it. He went into the bedroom and came back with a large-brimmed canvas hat that wouldn’t do much to keep her dry once the rain started falling heavy. And a pair of galoshes. “They’re a bit big, but those fancy shoes of yours won’t care. And thanks, I can use a holder as soon as I get the shutters from the shed.”

He threw on his slicker and opened the door. When he looked back, Vicki was staring out the window again. Her arms were clenched tightly around her waist.



THANK GOODNESS Jamie had enough confidence for both of them. Vicki was almost convinced that the Bucket o’ Luck was stronger than the winds of a hurricane. At least, she was convinced that Jamie believed it. And there was comfort in that.

When she saw him come around the side of the houseboat with a load of metal shutters in his arms, she went outside. The wind was stronger now. The rain was coming in biting sheets. Vicki was grateful for the shelter of the houseboat walls as she hugged the siding on her way to the porch at the bow.

Jamie lay the shutters on the floor and picked up the one on top. It caught the wind and rattled in his hand, producing a sound like thunder in a B movie. But it looked sturdy enough. Holes in the four corners matched metal pegs in the houseboat walls. Jamie lined up the holes to the pegs, held the panel with one hand while he fished several butterfly nuts from a sack at his feet.

“Are you ready?” he called to Vicki over the wind.

She crunched the hat onto her head, tied the chin straps and hunched into the collar of her jacket. While she held the panel with both hands, Jamie efficiently twisted each nut onto the pegs until the shutter was secure. Then he picked up the next panel, overlapped it with the first one, and the process began again.

He returned to the shed for a second and third load of shutters, and he and Vicki worked their way around the wooden catwalk to secure all the windows. The rain drove furiously, strafing the steadily sagging canvas of Vicki’s hat. Rivulets streamed down her face and neck. Despite having nothing to keep water from his own eyes, Jamie worked with military precision. In less than an hour, he held up the last shutter and took the four remaining nuts from the bag.

“So, Vicki, why now?” he shouted as he twisted the first nut into place.

She kept her palms flat against the metal and wiped the side of her face on her sleeve. “What do you mean?” she yelled back.

“The divorce,” he said in such a nonchalant manner they might have been sitting down to dinner, instead of gargling rainwater. “What made you ask for a divorce today?”

He turned the second nut. She wondered how he managed to concentrate on his task, much less carry on a conversation in this wind. “It’s time, don’t you think?”

“No doubt about that. But I was just wondering. If you let thirteen years go by, there must be a specific reason that brought you to Pintail Point now.”

She waited while he finished his task. Then, seeing no reason not to tell him, she shouted above the roar of the elements. “I’m getting engaged!” For no reason she could fathom, she added, “I think.”

He nodded. “We’re done here. Let’s get dry.”

They walked around to the door and slogged inside. If it hadn’t been for the glow of the TV screen and one lamp, the houseboat would have been black as pitch. No daylight, gray though it was, filtered through the shutters into the interior. She and Jamie were entombed in a cocoon, and Vicki shivered in claustrophobic reaction.

Jamie flicked switches and pulled lamp chains until soft light filled the living room. “Makes a difference having the shutters up,” he said. “Boggles my mind each time I realize I’ll have to get by without any daylight. You’ll get used to it in a few minutes.” The corners of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Of course by then, we’ll probably lose power.”

She rolled up her sleeves and reached for the towel she’d used earlier. “I hope you have supplies in case that happens.”

“Lanterns and candles. When you live out here, you know what to expect and how to prepare.”

Her shirt was soaked. She plucked the material away from her chest and arms, but it didn’t ease an overall clammy feeling. And then suddenly, the dampness didn’t matter. What the CNN reporter was saying took precedence over every other emotion.

“Imogene is now verging on category-two status.”

Jamie stepped closer to the television and focused on the report.

“Did you hear that?” Vicki asked.

“I did. Let’s hear what else the man has to say.”

“The storm has slowed, giving Imogene time to gather strength. Hurricane-force winds extend thirty-five miles from the center.”

A yellow triangle produced by the network’s graphics department swept a narrow path along the northernmost North Carolina coast.

The meteorologist continued his grim forecast. “Imogene’s landfall in approximately five hours is predicted to be somewhere in this vicinity. By that time she could be a strong category-two storm.”

Vicki looked at Jamie’s profile, expecting to see the placid expression of a man who faced life’s obstacles with optimism. What she saw were fine lines extending from narrowed eyes. And jaw muscles clenched with tension. “Oh, my God, you’re worried,” she said.

He glanced around the living room. “Not worried so much as grateful we got the shutters up. I think we’re going to need them. But at her worst, Imogene will still just be a category two. The houseboat can withstand that. I am concerned about the shed, though.”

Then, as if he realized in that moment that he was soaked to the skin, he added, “No use standing here like drowned rats. And speaking for myself, hungry, drowned rats at that.”

His confidence was returning. Thank goodness. “I should change,” Vicki said.

Jamie took emergency lights from a cupboard and set them on a serving bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. Then he jerked his thumb at her slim briefcase. “Did you pack a change of clothes in that thing, as well as our divorce papers?”

“Oh, no!” Everything she needed was in the rental car—her clothes, her purse, her cell phone with the battery running down. This astounding lack of fore-thought sent her scurrying to the exit. “I have to go outside.”

He gave her an incredulous look. “I don’t think that’s such a clever idea.”

She flung the door open. Rain and wind pelted her face and soaked the last few patches of clothing that weren’t already sodden. She fought the wind until she heard the latch click into the frame again.

Jamie chuckled and pointed to a doorway leading off the living room. “In there. Second dresser drawer on the left. Clean T-shirts. Flannel pants. Nothing fussy, I’m sorry to say.”

“Thank you. I’ll manage.”

“Do you like stew?” he asked before she left the room.

“Love it.”

She heard the sound of a cabinet door opening and closing, followed by a pot hitting the stove burner as she walked into Jamie’s bedroom. And his voice again. “Is he anyone I know?”

She unbuttoned her blouse. “Who?”

“This fella you think you might be engaged to. Do I know him?”

So he had heard her explanation out on the porch. She smiled. “Considering that you and I have only one acquaintance in common, and I haven’t seen Kenny in years, I rather doubt you know my boyfriend.”

“You’re probably right, though stranger coincidences have happened. Take today, for instance. Beasley and I got up this morning, had eggs and bacon, fertilized a few plants outside and planned on spending a quiet afternoon catching blue crabs. And now, here we are, a hurricane coming, and my long-lost wife putting on my skivvies in the next room. If that’s not a corker, I don’t know what is.”

Vicki couldn’t argue. When she left Fort Lauderdale a few hours ago, she certainly hadn’t intended to have more than a five-minute conversation with Jamie Malone. Now, two hours later, she was staring at her reflection in his bedroom mirror with a McGilley’s Pub T-shirt hugging her chest. What would Graham think?

She gripped the edge of the dresser and spoke to the pale face staring back at her. “Oh, my God, Graham.” She’d promised to call him. He thought she was in Virginia to look at some eighteenth-century antiques she’d heard about. Not only had she lied about her reason for taking this trip, but now there was a good chance she wouldn’t be returning when she’d planned. And once Graham heard about the storm, he’d be terribly worried. She had to let him know she was all right.

Vicki pulled on a pair of soft flannel pants and dashed into the living room. “I have to use your phone.”

Jamie looked up from a steaming pan and motioned to the telephone. “Be my guest.”

She turned away from Jamie’s direct gaze and dialed Graham’s cell-phone number. He answered on the second ring. “Graham Townsend.”

“Hi. It’s me.”

He blew out an impatient breath. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling your cell for hours. I’ve left three messages.”

“I’m sorry. It’s raining really hard here. I left the cell phone in my car and now the battery’s probably dead.” Vicki glanced over her shoulder at Jamie. She figured he was listening, though he pretended otherwise. He smiled at her and set two plates on the counter. And Vicki missed most of what Graham had just said.

“Bad connection, Graham. Would you repeat that?”

“I said—” he sounded impatient “—we received confirmation on that container from Amsterdam. The furniture will arrive in time for the opening of your shop.”

“That’s wonderful.” It meant she’d have to rearrange everything to make room for the new arrivals, but it was good news. Graham had convinced her that he and a contact in Holland had found some fabulous antiques. The Dutch dealer was sending them via the fastest shipper.

“You can forget about those few pieces you went to Virginia to buy and come home immediately.”

“I wish I could, but—”

“You’ll be the talk of the Boulevard once we get this merchandise into the shop. But there’s work to be done, Victoria. You have to be here to receive the shipment.”

“There’s a storm brewing, Graham,” she said. “Haven’t you been watching the news? I can’t leave right now.”

“A storm? You mean that little tropical depression?”

“That little depression has grown up.” Vicki tightened her grip on the receiver. “It’s not like I planned it, Graham. I’ll be home well ahead of the shop opening, which is still almost two weeks away.”

“Where exactly are you, Victoria?”

She stole a peek at Jamie again. He wiggled his fingers in a little wave. There was no doubt in her mind that he was listening to everything she said. “Where am I? Didn’t I tell you I was staying at the Ramada in Norfolk?” She was becoming almost as good at evading as lying.

Graham breathed a heavy sigh. Vicki pictured him swiveling in his executive chair to face the wall of windows in his eighteenth-floor Miami office. The sight of the ocean a few blocks away might calm some people, but she doubted it was having that effect on Graham. “Yes, I guess you did,” he said with a deliberate show of patience. “Just please get back here as soon as you can. You have to sign the bill of lading for customs to release the furniture.”

“I know. I’ll be home as soon as the storm lets up.”

There was a pause followed by a calming breath this time. “Of course you will, sweetheart. I know that. I’m just uptight today. The important thing is, you’re not in any danger, are you?”

The Bucket o’ Luck picked that exact moment to lurch against the dock and rock back and forth several times before finding its equilibrium. Vicki grabbed the edge of an end table to steady herself. “I told you, I’m in a perfectly safe place. Don’t worry.” She imagined the trees swaying dramatically just outside the window. Even Mother Nature was mocking her lies.

“Okay, then. I’ll call you later. I’ve got this number on my cell-phone call record.”

All at once Vicki hated technology. “You’re going to call me here?”

“Of course. I am worried about you, Victoria.”

“Don’t be. I’ll be home before you know it.”

The lights in the houseboat flickered once, twice, then a critical third time. Vicki was plunged into the deepest, darkest void she’d ever known. She squealed, reached out, but couldn’t even see her hand. A second later, the glow of a fluorescent lantern outlined shapes in the living room. She saw Jamie with matches and candles in his hand, and she breathed normally again.

“Victoria, what’s wrong?” Graham asked. “You screamed.”

“Nothing. It was a bug, that’s all. Ran right across my shoe, but I killed it. I have to go now.” She ended the connection and stared at Jamie. He’d lit candles and a pleasant scent filled the room, reminding her of Christmas in the stores of Maple Grove, Indiana.

But Vicki could not relax. Now Jamie knew what a liar she was. He’d heard her weave a grid of deceit for the man she planned to marry. She didn’t know why that knowledge distressed her. After all, her relationship with Jamie was based on deception.

Jamie carried two plates to the dining table and went back for cutlery and napkins. When she didn’t come to the table, he asked, “Are you all right, Vicki? I told you we’d lose power, but we’ll be fine. Trust me.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “I guess I’m not as hungry as I thought.”

He brought a pitcher of milk from the kitchen and pulled out a chair. “Sit down, girl. No one can resist Jamie Malone’s stew. And besides, your almost fiancé won’t be calling you.” He gestured toward the phone. “That’s always the next thing to go.”

She sat woodenly. The stew smelled delicious, and now that the power was out, it would probably be the last hot meal she and Jamie would share for hours. She should try to eat. She picked up her fork and scooped a mound of beef and potatoes. The utensil was halfway to her mouth when she realized why she was so distressed that Jamie had heard her lies.

I’ve just lied to the man I love, she said to herself. The man I’m going to spend the rest of my life with. She stared across the table at Jamie, who enjoyed his meal with all the gusto she lacked. And then there’s you, she thought. Once the storm is over, I’ll never see you again, and everything I’ve told you is the truth.

The irony of the revelation struck her with as much force as whatever bulky thing suddenly thumped and banged across the roof of the houseboat.




CHAPTER FOUR


VICKI JERKED and nearly fell out of her chair. Fear tingling in her every nerve, she looked at the ceiling. “What was that?”

Jamie glanced up, then took a swallow of milk. “A loblolly branch, I imagine.”

“You mean the trees are flying?”

He gazed at her with a half grin curving his lips. “I said ‘branch’ Vicki. And I’m only guessing. If it had been a whole tree, I’d know for sure what kind it is because it would be sticking through a wall of the houseboat. I’m assuming it was a loblolly because the sound started here—” he pointed to the ceiling at the bow and slowly moved his finger to the stern “—and ended there. There’s a thicket of loblolly trees by the front of the boat. My suspicion is that one of them is now missing a fairly good-size limb.”

“It’s so frustrating not being able to see,” Vicki said. “We don’t know what’s going on out there.”

Jamie cupped a hand around his ear, drawing attention to the eerie sounds beyond the houseboat walls. “Oh, I think we have a pretty good idea. Besides, there’s still the door. You can have a look whenever you want.”

“No, thanks. I tried that, remember?”

He smiled. “Look, Vicki, if you’re going to jump at every little sound for the next few hours, you better tie yourself down. It’s only going to get worse.”

He was right. She took a deep breath, then dug into the tasty stew again. After a moment she heard another strange noise, a thumping coming from under the table. Forcing herself to remain composed, she looked to Jamie for an explanation.

He gestured down to a nearly hairless tail curling around a table leg. “It’s Beasley. He’s scratching his ear. I hear that even when there isn’t a storm.”

“Oh.” Vicki leaned over and patted the dog’s head. She expected his gray fur to be soft, but instead, each individual hair felt like a brush bristle. He lolled his head to one side and gazed up at her, his marble-size golden eyes holding something almost like adoration. “I wish I could accept this hurricane as calmly as you do,” she said to the animal.

A gust of wind rattled a metal panel on the window nearest her. Vicki forced herself not to react by concentrating on Beasley. “What kind of dog is he?”

Jamie swiped at a pool of gravy with a thick corner of bread. “Nobody knows. He wandered up the causeway three years ago. I don’t know where he came from or why he decided to stay. But he did. In all that time I’ve never spoken about his questionable parentage. I can’t see making a creature feel bad over something that was none of his doing.”

An image of her parents flashed through Vicki’s mind. Her drab, defeated mother, whose grease-stained apron symbolized the lack of attention she gave all the details of her existence. Her indolent father, who complained of aches and pains in every part of his body while he sat in a patched recliner watching an ancient television. Nils Sorenson blamed government taxes for his inability to buy a new TV. He never once considered that he might be able to save enough money to buy a nice set if he worked as hard on the farm as he did making excuses.

Jamie was right. People couldn’t change their origins. Remembering the way he’d looked thirteen years ago, she figured he’d experienced that frustrating fact of life almost as much as she had. But maybe Jamie had been lucky enough to have parents who’d encouraged him emotionally if not financially.

Jamie stood and picked up his plate. “Yep, Beasley’s story is pretty much the way life is here on Pintail Point,” he said.

“Why is that?”

He stacked her empty plate on top of his. “On any given day, I never know what or who is going to wander down the causeway. Or how long they’re going to stay.”

Vicki knew exactly how long she was staying on Pintail. Well, maybe not the precise hour she would leave, but she knew that the minute the wind stopped howling and the water receded from the causeway, she would get into her rented car, the divorce papers signed and tucked safely into her briefcase, and head back to Norfolk, where she’d catch the next plane to Fort Lauderdale. With a little luck that would happen before Graham became more impatient with her absence.

Still, if she had to endure a hurricane, she could do far worse than to be with Jamie Malone. He certainly had a calming effect in the midst of a meteorological nightmare.

They finished the dishes quickly, using hot water sparingly so there would be enough left for a couple of showers. When the supper utensils were put away, Jamie went to the living room and picked up the telephone. He gave Vicki an I-told-you-so look. “Future husband number two won’t be able to reach you tonight.”

What should have been good news was suddenly alarming. If Graham couldn’t reach her here, he would probably call information for the number of the Ramada Hotel. The phones might not be out in Norfolk, and he’d discover that she wasn’t at the hotel and in fact, hadn’t even registered. She’d have to come up with a logical explanation for her supposed change in plans… Well, she thought, she could avoid the problem by contacting Graham before he tried to contact her. A good offense was always the best defense.

“Do you have a cell phone?” she asked Jamie.

“Nope. I have a car phone in the truck, but again, that involves going outside.”

“You must have a computer. I could send an e-mail.”

“I have a laptop that I hook up to—” he pointed to the telephone “—that line.”

Vicki frowned. “Great.”

“Sorry, Vicki, but until Imogene’s done with us, we’re not much better off than pioneers.”

Okay, there wouldn’t be a phone call to Graham tonight, and Vicki resigned herself to inventing a good alibi for her absence at the hotel. While she struggled to formulate a plan, Jamie worked the dials of a battery-operated radio he’d brought to the coffee table, along with a half-dozen of the scented candles. Vicki sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Jamie and said, “I’m impressed. You’ve reached the outside world.”

He nodded. “Yep. It’s an Elizabeth City station, about twenty miles from here.”

As they listened to the broadcast, Jamie’s expression grew serious. “You’re interpreting all this as bad news, too,” she said.

“Predictable, anyway. It could get rough now. The storm’s just two hours from landfall.”

The wind howled outside. Not a steady groaning, but a crescendo of wails and moans that made Vicki think of prowling wolves. “I think it already has gotten rough.”

He managed a tight smile before scanning the four corners of the room with alert eyes. “Like I said, we’ll be all right. I wish I’d done more to protect the shed, though.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned the building a few yards from the houseboat. “What’s in there that you’re so worried about?”

He shrugged off the question with an ambiguous answer. “Just personal items, supplies, tools, things I use in my work.”

Remembering the detective saying that Jamie was an artist, Vicki asked what he did for a living.

“I make things,” he said.

“What things?”

“Wooden objects, mostly. When you were in the Bayberry Cove Kettle, did you see any of those little triangles with all the holes and pegs in them?”

“Do you mean the leapfrog puzzles on the counter?”

“Yeah. I make those,” Jamie said. “You can find them all over town. The local businesses put their names on the triangles. I guess they use it for promotions. There are some in the Kettle, the supermarket, even in pew boxes next to hymnals at the Methodist Church—so I’m told.”

Vicki smiled to herself. Jamie made wooden puzzles. It seemed a logical calling for a man who was once a carpenter. But an artist? She hardly saw how cutting triangles and drilling holes qualified as art. But there was an appealing honesty about the pride he expressed in his contribution to Bayberry Cove society.

Vicki studied his face in the forgiving glow of the half-dozen candles. This Jamie was a more polished, confident version of the man he’d been thirteen years ago. Maybe he was no more successful than when his fingernails were stained, but the desperation in his eyes was gone. This Jamie was a man content with his life.

And though still a stranger, he was easy to be with. Comfortable. Of course Vicki could never make a life with a man like Jamie. His apparent lack of ambition was hard for her to understand. She’d come too far and worked too hard to escape her humble beginnings to settle for anything less than financial security.

When she met Graham Townsend, part of her attraction to him was his lifestyle, just the sort she longed for—stable, privileged. He, unlike her, had never known anything else. But in a way she envied Jamie Malone. She’d spent her life setting ever more challenging goals. She didn’t know for sure, but she bet Jamie spent his life just living, taking each day as it came.

“I can practically see the spokes turning from over here,” he said.

Vicki blinked, scattering her thoughts to the corners of her mind. “What do you mean?”

He pointed to her head and made a circle with his finger. “I can see the wheels going round in your brain. What are you thinking about?”

You. I decided your face is easy to look at.

“I was just watching the candle flames,” she lied. “I’m wondering what that scent is.”

He crossed one leg over the other. “You like the smell?”

She nodded.

“It’s bayberry. The bushes grow wild all over the coast. In fact, it’s almost time to harvest the berries.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “Are you telling me that you made these candles yourself?”

He laughed. “Me? No. But thirty per cent of the working population of Bayberry Cove made them, and thousands more like them. Nearly one third of the labor force in town works at the Bayberry Cove Candle Company. Bayberry candles are made from bayberries—pretty much like they were in Colonial days, with the help of a little modern technology.”

She admired the forest-green color of the candles and the soft flicker of the flames. “And I’ll bet you know exactly how it’s done, don’t you.”

For the next ten minutes Vicki learned how bayberries used to be gathered in bushel baskets and how it took one full bushel to boil the berries down to produce enough wax to make one taper. When Jamie explained the candle-making process in his lilting brogue, Vicki had the impression that it was as much magic as Colonial know-how that went into each one. Maybe thirty percent of the population of Bayberry Cove made candles, but Vicki could picture a half-dozen leprechauns having a hand in the process, as well.

And she knew for sure that as the wind blustered outside the Bucket o’ Luck, sending debris crashing into the walls, she was grateful for the woodsy-smelling candlelight on Jamie’s table, no matter how it was produced. And grateful to Jamie when he opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass. “Go ahead, Vicki. It’ll do you good.”

She took a comforting swallow and leaned her head back against the sofa. For a few minutes she listened to the static-edged voice of a radio weatherman answering questions from callers about the hurricane. Everything he advised, she and Jamie had already done. Perhaps that knowledge, or perhaps the effect of the wine, gave her more confidence. Or maybe it was a sudden intense curiosity that made her ask the questions to which she’d never had definitive answers.

“So tell me, Jamie,” she said, “what were you running from that day in Orlando? Why were you desperate enough to marry a stranger? And where did you get…?” She stopped, knowing she was crossing a line that protected Jamie’s privacy.

He smiled, rubbed his finger and thumb down his jaw. “And where did a fella like me get five thousand dollars?” he finished for her.

“I didn’t mean…”

“Of course you did, Vicki, and it’s a fair question, considering the man I was when you married me. That’s why I’m going to answer it.”



JAMIE REFILLED Vicki’s glass. He was certain the walls of the houseboat would withstand the winds raging outside, but he’d run out of ways to convince Vicki of that. The wine was accomplishing what his logic and encouragement had not.

A kind of guarded peace had settled over her features. Her lips were soft and full, no longer defined at the corners by the crescent-shaped lines of worry. Framed by loose waves of shoulder-length hair, her cheeks had taken on a rosy blush. Her eyes, which minutes before had sparked with the icy blue of a winter sky, were now the delicate hue of Wedgwood. One blunt slam of a sea-pine branch against a shutter could fragment that calm, but right now—when Vicki wasn’t afraid for her life or trying to decide if her Irish husband could be trusted—she was incredibly lovely.

And perhaps even ready to accept his reasons for marrying her. “You have to understand what Belfast was like in 1988,” he began. “And then you have to know what it meant to be a Malone.”

“I have a friend in Fort Lauderdale who believes you were a criminal when you came to this country,” she said. “A wanted man.” She stared at the contents of her glass before looking directly at him. “But I believed Kenny Corcoran when he said it wasn’t so.”

“I’m sorry to tell you, Vicki, but Kenny half lied back then. I wasn’t a criminal. But I was a wanted man. It was hard to be a Malone and not be wanted by one official or another.”

He glanced briefly at a photograph on the desk across the room. Three cocky young men looked back at him. Their eyes were full of hope. Their smiles were full of the devil. And their arms were wrapped around each other as if the bombs that would later tear the family apart had no chance of separating them that day. The Malone brothers. Frank Junior, Jamie and Cormac. Invincible. Proud. And two of them brimming with all the spit and fire of the furnaces of the Belfast foundry where they worked.

He returned his attention to Vicki. “Northern Ireland was a quagmire of dissent and despair in those days. Protestants hated the Catholics. Loyalists hated the followers of the Republic. It’s better now since the peace accord, but back when the Malone brothers were finding their way, the young men of Belfast carried their pride and their anger in their fists.”

“I remember—the pictures on TV were very graphic,” Vicki said. “There were demonstrations and blockades. Children couldn’t go to school.”

He nodded. “A sad time for Ireland. And there were bombings and deaths and more heartache than a mother could measure. And through the middle of it all wound the crooked pathway chosen by Frank Junior and Cormac, my brothers. Of all the skills my poor mother imagined her boys acquiring, bomb-making wasn’t even on the list.”

“What happened to your brothers?” Vicki asked.

“They applied their talents to the destruction of Catholic churches and schools. And any number of cars and store windows, which they blew up as a sort of Malone calling card. Luckily only property was damaged, but it was enough for the Outlaw Malones to make a name for themselves.”

Vicki shook her head. “And you, as well, I imagine. You shared their name.”

Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose. After all this time, the memory was still as painful. “There were some problems along that line. I was questioned often by the authorities, who were trying to make an example of the Malones. But they couldn’t pin anything on me, and Frank and Cormac could never be found. Most times I couldn’t find them myself, the underground network was that good. Two men could bomb a market, slip down an alley and not be seen for weeks.”

Vicki shook her head, evidence that she bore some of his sadness. “So what eventually happened? Why did you leave Ireland?”

“Because Frank and Cormac came out of their dens at precisely the wrong time. They were caught in a street brawl, of all things, for once their pockets empty of explosives, though fire was in their hearts. My mother heard about the fight and knew the police were going to arrest everyone involved. She sent me to warn my brothers. The rest is a miserable piece of history. We were three Malone men with blood on our clothes and fight in our eyes. And though I hadn’t thrown a punch, to the police, we were each one as guilty as the other.

“Frank hollered at me to run even as they put the cuffs around his wrists. I did. Hard and fast. The last I remember about that night was Cormac on the street, his face in the concrete, and the black boot of a policeman in the small of his back. That same night I got to know the secret network myself. Men proclaiming themselves friends of my brothers came to the door, talked to my mother and took me from the house. The next morning I was on a fishing boat to the Isle of Man where I caught a plane to the French coast. Within hours I was in the United States. And Frank and Cormac were awaiting trial.”




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