Rising Tides
Page 50
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Seth stared off into the marsh. He hurt all over, but the worst of it was shame. "Does she love you back?"
"Yeah, she does. Damned if I can figure out why."
Seth thought he knew why. Ethan was strong, and he didn't put on a big show. He did what had to be done.
What was right. "I was going to take care of her when I got older. I guess you think that's pretty lame."
"No." He suddenly, urgently, wanted to pull the boy against him, but he knew the timing was wrong.
"No, I think that's pretty great. It makes me proud of you." Seth's gaze flicked up, then quickly away again. "I kind of, you know, love her. Sort of. Not like I want to see her naked or anything," he added quickly. "Just—"
"I get it." Ethan clamped down on the tip of his tongue to stifle the chuckle. The quick surge of amused relief tasted finer than an icy beer on a hot day. "Kind of like she was a sister, like you wanted the best for her."
"Yeah." And Seth sighed. "Yeah, I guess that's it." Thoughtfully, Ethan sucked air between his teeth. "It's got to be tough for a guy to walk in and see that his sister's been with some guy."
"I hurt her. I wanted to."
"Yeah, you did. You'll have to apologize if you want to put things right with her."
"She'll think I'm stupid. She won't want to talk to me."
"She wanted to come after you herself. By this time, I'd say she's pacing around the backyard, worried sick."
Seth sucked in a breath that was too close to a sob to suit either of them. "I razzed Cam until he brought me home for my ball glove. And when I… I saw you in there, it made me think of how I would come back to wherever Gloria was living, and she'd be doing it with some guy." Where sex was a business, Ethan thought, both ugly and mean. "It's hard to put those things aside, or let yourself believe there's a different way." Since he was still working on it himself, Ethan spoke carefully.
"That making love, when you care, when it matters, when things are right, it's clean." Seth sniffled, wiped at his eyes. "Gnats," he muttered.
"Yeah, they're a bitch out here."
"You should've slugged me, for saying that shit."
"You're right," Ethan decided after a moment. "I'll slug you next time. Now, let's go home." He rose, brushed off his pants, then held out a hand. Seth stared up at him, saw kindness, patience, compassion. Qualities in a man he might have sneered at once because he'd found so little of them in anyone who had touched his life.
He put his hand in Ethan's and, without realizing it, left it there as they walked down the path. "How come you didn't hit me back even once?"
Little boy, Ethan thought, you've had too many hands raised against you in your short life. "Maybe I was afraid you could take me."
Seth snorted, blinking furiously at tears that still wanted to come. "Shit."
"Well, you're small," Ethan said, taking the cap from Seth's back pocket and snugging it down on Seth's head. "But you're a wiry little bastard."
Seth had to take long breaths as they came close to where the sunlight struck the edge of the woods, slanting white light.
He saw Grace, as Ethan had predicted, in the yard, hugging her arms as if she were chilled. She dropped them, took a quick step forward, then stopped.
Ethan felt Seth's hand flex in his and gave it a quick encouraging squeeze. "It'd go a long way to making things up to her," Ethan murmured, "if you were to run up and hug her. Grace is big on hugs."
It was what he'd wanted to do, what he was afraid to risk. He looked up at Ethan, jerked a shoulder, cleared his throat. "I guess I could, if it'd make her feel better." Ethan stood back, watched the boy race across the lawn, watched Grace's face light with a smile as she threw open her arms to take him in.
Chapter Thirteen
if you were going tohave to work over a long holiday weekend, Phillip figured, it might as well be at something fun. He loved his job. What was advertising, anyway, but a knowledge of people and of which buttons to push to nudge them into opening their wallets?
It was, he often thought, an accepted, creative, even expected twist on picking those wallets. For a man who had spent the first half of his life as a thief, it was the perfect career. On this day before the celebration of America's independence, he put his skills to use in the boatyard, schmoozing a potential client. He much preferred it to manual labor.
"You'll forgive the surroundings." Phillip waved a well-manicured hand, encompassing the enormous space, the exposed rafters and hanging lights, the yet-to-be-painted walls and scarred floors. "My brothers and I believe in putting our efforts into the product and keeping our overhead minimal. Those are benefits that we pass along to our clients."
At which time, Phillip thought, they had exactly one—with another in the box and this one nibbling at the line.
"Hmmm." Jonathan Kraft rubbed his chin. He was in his mid-thirties and fortunate enough to be a fourth-generation member of the pharmaceutical Krafts. Since his great-grandfather's humble beginnings as a storefront pharmacist in Boston, his family had built and expanded an empire on buffered aspirin and analgesics. It allowed Jonathan to indulge in his great love of sailing. He was tall, fit, tanned. His hair was mink-brown and perfectly styled to showcase his square-jawed, handsome face. He wore buff-colored chinos, a navy cotton shirt, and well-broken-in Top-Siders. His watch was a Rolex, his belt hand-tooled Italian leather.
He looked exactly like what he was: a privileged, wealthy man with a love of the outdoors.
"You've only been in business a few months."
"Officially," Phillip said with a flashing smile. His hair was a rich, deep bronze, styled to make the most of a face that the angels had gifted with an extra kiss of pure male beauty. He wore fashionably faded Levi's, a green cotton shirt, and olive-drab Supergas. His eyes were shrewd, his smile charming. He looked exactly like what he'd made himself into: a sophisticated urbanite with an affection for fashion and the sea.
"We've built or worked on teams that built a number of boats over the years." Smoothly, he guided Jonathan toward the framed sketches hanging on the wall. Seth's artwork was displayed rustically, as Phillip felt suited the ambience of a traditional boatyard.
"Yeah, she does. Damned if I can figure out why."
Seth thought he knew why. Ethan was strong, and he didn't put on a big show. He did what had to be done.
What was right. "I was going to take care of her when I got older. I guess you think that's pretty lame."
"No." He suddenly, urgently, wanted to pull the boy against him, but he knew the timing was wrong.
"No, I think that's pretty great. It makes me proud of you." Seth's gaze flicked up, then quickly away again. "I kind of, you know, love her. Sort of. Not like I want to see her naked or anything," he added quickly. "Just—"
"I get it." Ethan clamped down on the tip of his tongue to stifle the chuckle. The quick surge of amused relief tasted finer than an icy beer on a hot day. "Kind of like she was a sister, like you wanted the best for her."
"Yeah." And Seth sighed. "Yeah, I guess that's it." Thoughtfully, Ethan sucked air between his teeth. "It's got to be tough for a guy to walk in and see that his sister's been with some guy."
"I hurt her. I wanted to."
"Yeah, you did. You'll have to apologize if you want to put things right with her."
"She'll think I'm stupid. She won't want to talk to me."
"She wanted to come after you herself. By this time, I'd say she's pacing around the backyard, worried sick."
Seth sucked in a breath that was too close to a sob to suit either of them. "I razzed Cam until he brought me home for my ball glove. And when I… I saw you in there, it made me think of how I would come back to wherever Gloria was living, and she'd be doing it with some guy." Where sex was a business, Ethan thought, both ugly and mean. "It's hard to put those things aside, or let yourself believe there's a different way." Since he was still working on it himself, Ethan spoke carefully.
"That making love, when you care, when it matters, when things are right, it's clean." Seth sniffled, wiped at his eyes. "Gnats," he muttered.
"Yeah, they're a bitch out here."
"You should've slugged me, for saying that shit."
"You're right," Ethan decided after a moment. "I'll slug you next time. Now, let's go home." He rose, brushed off his pants, then held out a hand. Seth stared up at him, saw kindness, patience, compassion. Qualities in a man he might have sneered at once because he'd found so little of them in anyone who had touched his life.
He put his hand in Ethan's and, without realizing it, left it there as they walked down the path. "How come you didn't hit me back even once?"
Little boy, Ethan thought, you've had too many hands raised against you in your short life. "Maybe I was afraid you could take me."
Seth snorted, blinking furiously at tears that still wanted to come. "Shit."
"Well, you're small," Ethan said, taking the cap from Seth's back pocket and snugging it down on Seth's head. "But you're a wiry little bastard."
Seth had to take long breaths as they came close to where the sunlight struck the edge of the woods, slanting white light.
He saw Grace, as Ethan had predicted, in the yard, hugging her arms as if she were chilled. She dropped them, took a quick step forward, then stopped.
Ethan felt Seth's hand flex in his and gave it a quick encouraging squeeze. "It'd go a long way to making things up to her," Ethan murmured, "if you were to run up and hug her. Grace is big on hugs."
It was what he'd wanted to do, what he was afraid to risk. He looked up at Ethan, jerked a shoulder, cleared his throat. "I guess I could, if it'd make her feel better." Ethan stood back, watched the boy race across the lawn, watched Grace's face light with a smile as she threw open her arms to take him in.
Chapter Thirteen
if you were going tohave to work over a long holiday weekend, Phillip figured, it might as well be at something fun. He loved his job. What was advertising, anyway, but a knowledge of people and of which buttons to push to nudge them into opening their wallets?
It was, he often thought, an accepted, creative, even expected twist on picking those wallets. For a man who had spent the first half of his life as a thief, it was the perfect career. On this day before the celebration of America's independence, he put his skills to use in the boatyard, schmoozing a potential client. He much preferred it to manual labor.
"You'll forgive the surroundings." Phillip waved a well-manicured hand, encompassing the enormous space, the exposed rafters and hanging lights, the yet-to-be-painted walls and scarred floors. "My brothers and I believe in putting our efforts into the product and keeping our overhead minimal. Those are benefits that we pass along to our clients."
At which time, Phillip thought, they had exactly one—with another in the box and this one nibbling at the line.
"Hmmm." Jonathan Kraft rubbed his chin. He was in his mid-thirties and fortunate enough to be a fourth-generation member of the pharmaceutical Krafts. Since his great-grandfather's humble beginnings as a storefront pharmacist in Boston, his family had built and expanded an empire on buffered aspirin and analgesics. It allowed Jonathan to indulge in his great love of sailing. He was tall, fit, tanned. His hair was mink-brown and perfectly styled to showcase his square-jawed, handsome face. He wore buff-colored chinos, a navy cotton shirt, and well-broken-in Top-Siders. His watch was a Rolex, his belt hand-tooled Italian leather.
He looked exactly like what he was: a privileged, wealthy man with a love of the outdoors.
"You've only been in business a few months."
"Officially," Phillip said with a flashing smile. His hair was a rich, deep bronze, styled to make the most of a face that the angels had gifted with an extra kiss of pure male beauty. He wore fashionably faded Levi's, a green cotton shirt, and olive-drab Supergas. His eyes were shrewd, his smile charming. He looked exactly like what he'd made himself into: a sophisticated urbanite with an affection for fashion and the sea.
"We've built or worked on teams that built a number of boats over the years." Smoothly, he guided Jonathan toward the framed sketches hanging on the wall. Seth's artwork was displayed rustically, as Phillip felt suited the ambience of a traditional boatyard.
