Beach House No. 9 Part 33

"You're so dumb, that's what!" She put her fists on her hips. "How do you think you find meaning in our mundane world? You come to your family-you find your purpose with them."

"What purpose is that?" he asked, half bemused and half bewildered by her diatribe.

She made a wild gesture that had her purse swinging. "Teach your nephews how to catch a ball-David's got the bicycle down, but he hates baseball. Get to work glaring at your niece's first dates. Tickle Baby Russ's belly."

"Tess-"

"And then find a woman who you can value and love every day."

"Tess-"

"Which bring me to Jane," his sister said.

His expression must have made some sort of statement.

His sister groaned. "Griffin. Tell me you haven't ruined what you had with her."

"We didn't have anything." Just the greatest s.e.x, the best laughs, the kind of connection he'd never found with another woman. The elevator arrived with a ping. "Get off my back, Tess."

They stepped into the empty metal box. "I thought there was some magic at the cove," Tess said. "Seeing you and Jane, I had high hopes, and with Gage exchanging letters with Skye, for a moment I even thought..."

He stared at his sister. "Gage and Skye?"

Tess waved a hand. "Forget it. Now I wouldn't wish you and your twin on any woman."

Magic at the cove, Griffin mused, as the elevator chugged upward. What a crock. And to think he'd sold Colonel Parker on the idea. Colonel Parker, who wouldn't be bringing his darling daughter to No. 9 after all. He thought of Vance Smith, the combat medic who always kept his cool. Could that last during the month at the cove he'd promised to a fatherless girl? Still recuperating from his own wounds, he'd be at the beach house in mere days.

Which got him thinking about the email he'd received that very morning. Vance himself, touching base. Griffin was still confused by it. The man seemed to be operating under the impression that the colonel's daughter, Layla, was a child, when Griffin knew for a fact she was in her mid-twenties-all grown up. Must be me who misunderstood Vance, he decided. Still, he sent the other man a silent message. Good luck, buddy.

When Griffin and his sister found the coot's room, Tess was still muttering about her twin brothers' lack of intelligence, common sense and general good manners. "That's rich, coming from you," he told her. "We never ate food with our feet."

She ignored him to greet the elderly reporter with a kiss on the cheek, and Griffin could tell she was trying to be cheerful for the invalid's sake. Rex looked pretty d.a.m.n lively for someone ancient enough to be a first cousin to G.o.d, and Griffin told him so.

"They're letting me go home tomorrow," the elderly man said. "After fourteen tests and being prodded and poked more than a rodeo clown, they say it was likely dehydration."

"Well, drink some more water, you irascible antique!" But the news solidified a hazy idea Griffin had. "Listen, Rex...I'm going overseas and could use somebody to look after Private. Are you up to it?"

"Me? And that flea-bitten, mannerless, mangy canine that either pees on my bushes or tries to dig them up?"

Griffin lifted a shoulder. "If you're not interested-"

"I didn't say I wasn't interested. Someone has to take charge of that dog. I'll bet I can teach him a little courtesy."

"You manage that, you should tackle Duncan and Oliver next."

He realized his sister was giving him a dirty look. "Hey," he said, defending himself, "the curmudgeon scared the s.h.i.t out of me when I was their age. It could work."

"It's not about my boys," she said. "It's about this new plan of yours to go overseas. This is about Gage's offer, I presume? You're taking him up on it after all, and that's why you had the falling-out with Jane."

"We haven't had a falling-out." There'd almost been a knockout, and the thought of it still sickened him-and only confirmed how necessary it was for him to get away from her.

Suddenly that memory was front and center. Even the chatter between Tess and Monroe couldn't prevent what was recurring in blazing Technicolor in his head. In one quick breath, it stopped being something he recalled and became something he was reliving.

He's on the deck at Captain Crow's. Rage is a ball of fire in his belly. Ian Stone is a smug p.r.i.c.k who thinks he's going to get Jane back into his life and back into his bed. Griffin doesn't want to allow him to have another chance to chip away at her confidence. Jane might seem to stand ten feet tall, but a lot of that is wedge heel and ribbon bows. She should be with a man who cherishes her, who will nurture her can-do att.i.tude and spoil her on the days when she's feeling blue.

Ian Stone is not that man. And as Griffin waits for the jerk to get back up and come at him, his fists clench tighter.

Then there's that quick touch. He spins, his arm c.o.c.king back.

Jane's sweet face. Her little jerk of fear. The thudding crash his heart makes when it falls to the pit of his belly.

He came back to the present and realized that Tess was gone and he was alone in the hospital room with his neighbor. Surprised, he looked around him. "I..."

"She had to get back home to her husband and family. You answered when she said goodbye, but I didn't think you were all here." Rex waited a beat, then asked a casual question. "Flashback?"

Griffin stared at the old man.

"You think PTSD is new? We called it something different, but..."

"I don't have that." Griffin paced to look out the window. It was nearing dark. "I wasn't at war. I was reporting on war."

"In my time, I talked to a lot of soldiers and I talked to a lot of other combat journalists. Believe me, Griffin, we're all affected by the things we've seen. I've told you before, you need to describe how that changed you."

"I put it away. It's better to keep it distant." And he'd managed that fairly well until Jane insisted he look at the photos and write the words.

He's on the deck at Captain Crow's, and then he isn't. Instead he's in the Humvee, his ears ringing and Jackal's leg...he can feel it right now in his hands, the weight of it, the b.l.o.o.d.y warmth....

"Sit down, son," Rex said, his voice sharp. "Griffin, sit down."

The vinyl cushion wasn't soft, but at least the chair supported his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. "I'll leave in a minute," he mumbled. "I have packing to do."

"There's no place far enough away," the old man said. "No place you can go that those memories won't find you."

"I feel like I'm going crazy," he heard himself mutter.

"Finish the memoir," Rex urged. "Stay stateside and finish before thinking of traveling again."

"I don't care about the book."

The coot sighed. "Do I have to remind you that a life unexamined is a life not worth living?"

"What?" Griffin said. "Did you read that on the bottom of a bubble-gum wrapper?"

"Socrates, which I'm sure you know." The old man was silent a moment, then his voice turned softer, kinder. "Son, you need to deal with your experience. When you put down the ugly memories on the page, you defuse them of their power."

"Rex-"

"Put them down like you would put Private down if he was sick and he was hurting. Out of kindness, Griffin. Out of love."

Before he could spit out some pithy and clever retort like "f.u.c.k you," which was the first that came to mind, a nurse arrived and shooed Griffin away. A doctor was coming in for late rounds. Griffin was d.a.m.n glad to walk away from the crabby codger and his amateur psychoa.n.a.lysis.

The fact that the guy was ninety-four years old didn't mean he knew squat about anything.

Truth was, it wasn't the memories that were sick and hurting. It was Griffin himself.

On the way down in the elevator, he had company. A couple were talking in low tones to each other. The man of the pair had a little girl's hand in his. Maybe...three, four years old? She had dirty-blond hair in pigtails tied with red ribbons. Her white dress was dotted with red cherries, and the poofy skirt belled around her knees as she swung her body back and forth. On her feet were white socks and little red patent leather shoes that were tied on with more ribbon.

Jane would have loved the outfit.

Jane would have looked just like this when she was a kid.

This kid noticed Griffin staring at her, compelling him to make a stab at conversation. "Uh, you have very pretty shoes," he said, feeling awkward.

She responded to the compliment by lifting the hand not clutching her dad's. Four tiny fingers waved in his direction. "I'm this many."

He nodded, acknowledging the unsolicited intel. Then the elevator stopped, the door opening with a ping. With a gesture, he indicated the family should precede him. As the little kid crossed into the lobby, she glanced over her shoulder at Griffin. "It's my birfday."

The three words shot through him like an arrow. It froze him for a moment, thinking of Jane's recent birthday, of all the birthdays he'd miss of hers. Another sharp-edged ache. The elevator doors started to close, and it galvanized him to move, but there was still the hurt.

And an idea. He wasn't any good for Jane, true, but he couldn't leave without first letting her know she'd meant something to him. That he wouldn't forget her, even though he couldn't love her as she deserved.

MOONLIGHT POURED OVER the cove, and at her place on the cliff just south of Beach House No. 9, Jane watched a series of incoming waves ripple forward, as if someone on the horizon had snapped an immense gray sheet. The night was warm, the breeze mild, and she let the calming sound of the water wash over her. With the seabirds asleep, there were no raucous high notes to nature tonight, just the constant wet wash that, while not unchanging, was unceasing. A reminder to take the next breath. To put your next foot forward.

To toughen up and get on with your life.

She'd been doing that ever since the final confrontation with Griffin on the beach that afternoon. Even with his "I don't want to ever love anybody" still echoing in her ears, she'd marched back to Captain Crow's and given Ian Stone the big heave-ho in no uncertain terms.

"For the record," she told him, standing beside his table, her arms folded over her chest, "I'm not now and not ever going to work with you again."

He'd blinked at her, looking bewildered behind the blossoming facial bruises. "But...but it sounded like you were considering my offer."

She'd been goading Griffin was what she'd been doing. And maybe giving Ian some momentary false hope in the process, because she was a little mean that way. "I don't work with cheaters. And I don't work with people who try to blame their failures on someone else."

"What am I supposed to do now?" he asked, like a kid who finally had to do his own homework. "I haven't written a word since we've been apart!"

"Not my problem, Norm," she'd said, then strolled away.

His career could stay flatlined, for all she cared. As for her...she'd find another author to work with, or a new line of work if it came to that. She had great confidence in her ability to overcome-even with her heart broken, she was still breathing, wasn't she?

And though a certain blue-eyed reporter might be out of her life, he'd left her with something. When he'd taunted her about trying to please her father, it had been the boot she needed to get her b.u.t.t to Corbett Pearson's place again. Once there, she'd ticked off three points on her fingers. One, never give her personal information to anyone; two, never get involved in her professional life again; and three, she loved him despite what she considered to be his faults and she expected him to do the same when it came to her. No more interfering and disapproval or no more daughter Jane!

Her dad had stuttered, he'd stumbled, he'd even managed to give her an awkward pat on the back. Progress.

Yes, she thought, closing her eyes, her life would move forward too.

The sound of her name startled her, and her eyes flew open. But no, she was mistaken, she must be, because she'd come up here to be alone for her goodbye and there weren't any others on the bluff. Below, though light shone in some of the Crescent Cove bungalow windows and farther off was the glow from Captain Crow's, the nearest dwellings were dark. She'd packed and put her belongings in her car and closed up No. 8. Beach House No. 9 still appeared deserted.

Yet something caused the downy hairs on the back of her neck to rise. Rubbing her nape, she edged closer to the rim of her jutting promontory. This protrusion was nowhere near the bluff's highest point, but it seemed a long twelve feet to where the water swirled and lifted in white tufts against the jagged edges of rock below. She shivered and took a wary step back, then her gaze shifted left and caught on the sight of a dark figure scaling the cliff. Swift and sure, he swung up arm-over-arm, something-a bag?-caught in the grip of his teeth, just like a pirate clenching a dagger, climbing the riggings of an unsuspecting ship.

Jane retreated two more steps, until her back pressed against the rough surface of the bluff's face. It still left little room for the buccaneer who reached her ledge and tore the paper from his mouth to address her in a raspy, breathless voice. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing?"

It wasn't fair, she thought. She'd come up here to gain perspective. To begin the process, finally, of abandoning hope when it came to her and Griffin. But seeing him again, even wearing a grim expression and with his chest heaving with jerky breaths, made her skin feel tender and her heart soften with exquisite yearning, both painful and sweet.

"Well?" he prompted, clearly agitated.

Shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans, she met his gaze in stubborn silence.

"It's dangerous up here," he said. "You shouldn't risk it."

"That's rich coming from you," she said, then managed a little smile. "Hey. Irony again."

The line of his mouth flattened. "Let's go, Jane." He held out his hand to her. "I'll help you down."

She shook her head, shuffling away from his touch. "I don't need your help. I got up here just fine on my own, though by an admittedly tamer route than yours."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged. "I took a shortcut when I spotted you. I was worried..."

"Worried about what?"

His gaze cut away from hers, and she suddenly knew what had gone through his mind.

"No," she said, a laugh escaping. "You thought I was going to do myself in? All because you don't love me?"

"No. I don't know. Not exactly." He still wouldn't look at her. "Go ahead, call me Mr. Ego again."

Except the idea of jumping in had crossed her mind. Not because she wanted to end it all-yes, Mr. Ego indeed-but because she wanted a temporary end to her current unhappiness. Griffin wasn't in love with her. He was going toward danger, and she might never see him alive again.

According to Tess, the jolt of jumping off could offer some reprieve. It had a numbing power.

Jane moistened her lips. "Does adrenaline really get rid of the pain?"

His glance was wary.

"Is that why you're going to Gage? To get away from what's hurting you here?"

He made a dismissive gesture, drawing both their attention to the bag he was holding.

"Look," he said. "I brought you presents. Come down and you can have them."

"Presents?" Jane frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. Gifts to appease his conscience? "I don't need anything from you."

"I missed your birthday," Griffin said.

"For heaven's sake..." Couldn't he just go away? The shelf of rock was so small that she could feel his body heat from here. It pressed against her breastbone, making it hard to breathe. Putting stress on her already battered heart.

"Come on down," he coaxed again.