“Clive is in the study,” Victoria said, her tone shifting to the long-suffering martyr voice she used when discussing their children. “Sienna is out with friends, as usual.”
Tom found Clive in what had once been his own home office, feet up on the antique desk that had belonged to Tom’s grandfather, playing some kind of game on his phone. At thirty-six, Clive stilllooked like the college football player he’d been. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome in the conventional way that had always come easily to the Morrison family.
“Hello, father,” Clive said without looking up from his screen. “What brings you here?”
“Hello, Clive,” Tom replied, settling into one of the leather chairs that faced the desk.
Clive looked up at Tom, and his brows rose. “What happened to your head?”
“A shelf collapsed in Rad’s office at the station while I was in it. I had to get stitches.” Tom studied his son’s face, looking for some sign of concern or interest, but found only casual curiosity.
“Why were you in Rad’s office?” Clive asked.
“Mine was being cleaned. The whole building needs updating.” Tom paused, then asked the question that had been bothering him since the fire started. “Why didn’t you respond to the call tonight? All officers were required to report.”
Clive looked at Tom as if he’d gone mad, his expression shifting to mild annoyance. “It’s my day off, Father. Why would I respond to a call on my day off?”
“Because all officers were required to,” Tom said, fighting to keep his voice level. “Emergency situations don’t respect work schedules.”
“I have a right to my time off,” Clive replied with a shrug. “Besides, you had plenty of people there. I saw the response on the news.”
Tom stared at his son, trying to reconcile the capable police officer he’d hoped to raise with the indifferent man sitting across from him. “I have to go,” he said finally, turning to leave before he said something he’d regret.
“Okay. I’ll be back at work in two days when my leave is over,” Clive said, his attention already back on his phone.
The drive back to the Sandpiper Inn passed in a blur of frustration and self-recrimination. Tom couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d failed as a father, that somewhere along the way he’d raised children who lacked the basic sense of duty and compassion that should drive people in public service.
He thought about his colleagues’ relationships with their children and all the obvious pride they felt for them. Like Rad Dillinger, who was inspired by his father, who beamed with pride for his son. The way Willa Parker’s kids rushed to make sure she was safe during emergencies, and the easy affection between Lucy and her daughter, Margo.What had he done wrong? How had he ended up with children who seemed to care only about themselves?
The Sandpiper Inn’s parking lot was nearly empty at this hour, just a few cars belonging to guests and staff. Tom sat in his cruiser for a moment after turning off the engine, letting the silence settle around him. His head ached, his back was stiff from the long day, and every muscle in his body felt like he’d been in a physical fight.
All he wanted was a hot shower, some ibuprofen, and about twelve hours of sleep. But first he’d have to drag himself upstairs, check his messages, and probably review incident reports from the fire. The paperwork never ended, especially not when you were dealing with potential arson.
The inn’s night desk clerk, a cheerful college student, looked up with a welcoming smile as Tom entered the lobby.
“Evening, Chief Morrison,” he said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, late dinner?”
“No, thank you,” Tom replied, grateful for the young man’s genuine kindness. “Just heading up to get some rest.”
As he moved toward the stairs, something made him pause at the entrance to the inn’s comfortable sitting room. Lucy was curled up on one of the antique sofas, still wearing her white coat, fast asleep.
Tom’s heart did that familiar skip it always did when he saw her. Even exhausted and rumpled from a long day, she was beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with expensive maintenance or designer clothes. This was the woman who’d captured his heart at seventeen and had never really let it go, no matter how hard he’d tried to convince himself otherwise.
If he’d married Lucy instead of Victoria, his children would have been different. They would have been like Margo, who was driven, compassionate, and hardworking despite being born into one of Sandpiper Shores’ founding families. They would have understood what it meant to serve others, to put community needs above personal convenience.
Moving quietly so as not to wake her, Tom took a throw blanket from the back of another chair and gently draped it over Lucy’s sleeping form. For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would have been like to come home to her every night for the past forty years, to build a life based on love rather than social expectations.
He started to leave, feeling like an intruder on her peaceful rest, but her soft voice stopped him at the doorway.
“Tom?” Lucy’s voice was thick with sleep as she sat up, blinking in the soft lamplight. “What is the time?”
“Just after eleven-thirty,” Tom said, turning back to face her. “Sorry if I woke you.”
“No, I needed to get up anyway,” Lucy said with a tired smile. “I have to be back at the clinic in forty minutes for another shift.”
“You’re going back?” Tom’s eyebrows rose in concern. “Lucy, you’ve been working for hours.”
“Some of the teenage boys who helped with the evacuation got burned,” Lucy explained, stretching and trying to work the kinks out of her neck from sleeping on the sofa. “They were helping other campers find their pets and elderly relatives. Real heroes.”
