When she was at work, surrounded by all those sweet, cantankerous old people, she was fine. Her demons stayed asleep and buried deep in the darkness of her memories—right where they belonged. But when she left, when things got too quiet, that was when it happened. When it all came crashing in. All the memories and the cruel game ofif only. Alone time was a dangerous trigger that brought all her poor decisions back to life.
If only she’d never met Scott, never trusted Scott, and, most importantly, never agreed to marry Scott. If only she’d never walked into that back room at church on her wedding day tofind her friend Sue on her knees in front of him with his pants down around his ankles. Those damnif only’swould stab you in the heart every time.
She stiffened her back, sitting up straighter as she pulled in another deep breath and kept her gaze locked on the water. “If only I could float downstream to the ocean and never come back. Be as free as a piece of driftwood on a rolling wave—now that would solve all my problems.”
As she scooted closer to the water’s edge, the rhythmic lapping of the water against the shore eased the tension in her shoulders and calmed the churning in her gut. The ebb and flow of the tides urged her to come along and play. The distant magic of the ocean called to her, slyly working its way up the mighty Mississippi and whispering to her on the shores of her Kentucky home.
Harley studied the moon as she lay back on the bank just out of reach of the lively waves. “Maybe I could build a raft and float out to sea never to be seen again. Drift off to a magical, faraway land where the love of my life awaits—a love who would never betray me or make me feel like a naive fool.”
She waited for the crickets and cicadas to comment on her plan to change her life. Unfortunately, she spoke neither cricket nor cicada and couldn’t benefit from their advice even though the grasses and trees almost vibrated with the sheer intensity of their songs.
With a snort at her own silliness, she shook herself free of her melancholy. Self-pity never got anyone anywhere. Time to buck up and get on with it. She dragged herself to her feet and meandered down the moonlit beach. After finding a piece of driftwood, she crouched and poked holes in the sand just to watch as the water filled them in faster than she could dig them.
Tired of the childish game, she stood and stared down at the driftwood, marveling at its intricate knots and whirls making patterns with no beginnings and no ends. “I wish there was someone out there for me. A good someone. Someone kind and loving.” She smiled down at the stick. “Find him for me. Okay?” Then she gave it a quick kiss and tossed the piece of wood as far out into the water as she could. She watched it bob and swirl, keeping her gaze locked on ituntil it floated out of sight. Then she climbed up the riverbank to her lonely bed.
“Harley?What kind of name isHarleyfor a girl?” asked the old man in a rude, growly loudness that echoed across the community room.
“You leave our Harley alone, or I’ll unhook the call light for your bedpan!”Frail Mr. Thomas shook his fist at the shriveled man Harley pushed along in the wheelchair. Mr. Jenkins was the newest member of the senior citizen’s home, and she hoped to find him a few new friends in the sunny dayroom.
“Now Mr. Thomas, let’s be nice. Mr. Jenkins doesn’t know the story behind my name, and I don’t mind telling it again.” Harley positioned Mr. Jenkins beside the bay windows overlooking the pond where the geese were currently swimming with this year’s goslings. After locking down his wheels, she tucked the blanket around his frail knees to ensure he didn’t catch a chill.
She pulled up a chair beside him, straddled it with her long legs, and propped her chin on its back to prepare to tell the tale she had told many times, but the elders never seemed to tire of it. “You see, Mr. Jenkins. My parents were married for many, many years before I was born.So many years that they decided they would never have children.”
As Harley continued the story, she couldn’t help but smile as she remembered the devotion her parents had always had, and still had, for each other. “They were so convinced they would never be able to have children that they bought a pair of Harley Davidson motorcycles and hit the open road. But apparently, the open road was exactly what they needed. Because after their first big run, my mother found out she was pregnant with me. Hence, my name—Harley.”
Mr. Jenkins peered at her through glasses so thick that the lenses distorted his eyes. “Well, that’s the damnedest thing I believe Ihave ever heard.”
With a heartfelt wink, she solemnly nodded and made anxon her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die. It’s the truth.”
“Well, just where are these parents now?” Mr. Jenkins scowled at her, making it apparent that he wasn’t about to be outdone, and was determined that she realized how miserable her life was—simply because of her odd name.
“Last time I talked with them, they were in South Dakota. I’m not sure where they are now. Once I grew up and moved out, they got the bikes back out of storage and hit the open road again.” She smiled at the poor old guy, feeling more than a little sorry for him. He was so miserable, he was determined everyone else should be miserable as well.
“So, they deserted you.” He shook his head and swayed from side to side in his seat. “I know how that feels. You can’t count on anyone but yourself.” He seemed to curl into himself, sinking lower in the wheelchair and staring down at his hands in his lap.
Her heart ached for the unhappy little man. She wished she knew of a way to help him battle the cruel reality of growing old and being tossed aside. She scooted her chair closer and gently scooped one of his hands into hers.
“What did you use to do for a living, Mr. Jenkins? Before you came to live here. Tell me about yourself.”
His eyes narrowed as he slowly lifted his head. He jutted his sharp chin to a defiant angle. “Don’t placate me, girl. Just go away. Don’t you have a bedpan to empty or someone’s wrinkled old ass to wipe? There have to be all kinds of things you need to do other than sit here with me.”
She leaned closer until her nose almost touched his and met his hardened glare with one of her own. “Mr. Jenkins, all Ihaveto do is live until I die. Now, start talking.”
CHAPTER 3
The wind barely kissed the water’s surface, tipping the sapphire waves with lacy white frothiness. Sails in full swell and clear skies across the horizon brought smiles and relief to every man’s face. Ronan enjoyed being tossed about by a storm, but he could always count on his first mate, Dagun, to remind him of the many times the sea had refused to return the kinsmen it swallowed. He pulled in a deep inhale of the air’s brine, filling his lungs with the lifeblood of the oceans—his lifeblood as ordained by the goddesses.
Dagun’s stare burned into him, relentless as the cutting rays of the sun during the Caribbean’s hottest season. The squint to his first mate’s sharp eyes was a sure sign that he was about to say something Ronan preferred not to hear. But best get it over with. Dagun had never been silent before and wasn’t apt to start now.
“Out with it, man,” Ronan said. “Better to have yer thoughts out in the open. Be they good or ill.”
Dagun cocked his head and continued studying him as if he were an oddity they had drawn up from the depths of the sea. “I can tell something’s been troubling ye of late.”
This was not the first time the first mate had started a conversation in such a manner, but Ronan had always diverted the man’sattention to another subject. But today, he was too weary and distracted by his mother’s summons to attempt to sway him. “Taken to reading auras, have ye? Since when do ye possess such talents?”
Dagun idly scratched the stubble darkening his chin. “A mite surly today, are we? Dinna blame me for yer mam calling ye home.” He sidled closer and leaned against the wood railing beside Ronan. “Do ye ken why she summoned ye? Surely, she canna fear the season’s storms. She understands better than most that ye are at yer safest when ye’re in the arms of yer beloved sea.”
Ronan shrugged off the question with the gnawing impatience that followed him every waking hour of late. He raked his gaze across the horizon, searching for the elusive answer in the wispy clouds skimming across the skyline. “Who can say what stirred her to call me home? Perhaps she foresaw an event we need to avoid. With Mother, ’tis difficult to know and safer not to guess at it.”
