Love on the Cape: an On the Cape novel, Cape Van Buren Page 4

  She’d been a fool to believe him. No one had control over a bad temper they wouldn’t admit to having. She had trusted their son in his care because he was Archer’s father; because she was supposed to. Her throat tightened as if the memory were an anaconda wrapped around her neck.

  John and another driver had jockeyed for position to enter the small bridge just north of the North Cove with such ego-laden focus, neither had made it. They couldn’t even have been going that fast, but stormy weather and stubborn pride had made the perfect conditions for devastation.

  A shudder wracked her frame and she covered her mouth with a trembling hand. She sniffed then pulled in a deep breath, resisting the urge to let the full onslaught of tears come.

  She worked hard to remember that even with the finality of it all, Archer’s contagious giggle persisted its echo in her heart. She was so thankful that during his short life, he’d had a reason to laugh fully and often. It gave her something to hold on to when she found herself struggling to get through each day.

  It was time to pull up her bootstraps, focus, and save his Cape. It seemed Maxine had trusted the land in the hands of her grandson. Probably because she felt she should.

  And he was driving it straight into a steel bridge.

  Bracing against the memories, she pulled back onto the road and worked on a smile through the winding, wooded route back home. She pressed her foot on the gas pedal a little harder as she made a mental list of what she had to accomplish in a very short period of time. If Ryker’s stubborn determination was any indication, he planned on moving fast.

  Which meant she had to move faster.

  The weight of grief subsided and was replaced with small flutters of possibility. The finger of land wasn’t the kind of place to simply visit but rather move into and make it home. It made visitors want to run through the large Victorian house and pick a room all for themselves. It inspired poetry and music and epic love stories. It felt more like home to her than her own did these days.

  She laughed in the quiet of her car. Epic love stories, indeed. Everyone knew how they ended. Zelda and Scott Fitzgerald had been very good examples. At the moment, Larkin felt a bit like Zelda—so lost these days, she had to use a map to find herself. That kind of baggage was no good to anyone.

  The Cape, the well, they called to her, not only because they were the last place her little boy had laughed, but also because they spoke of happier times when her heart overflowed with possibilities for the future. When little hazel eyes peered at her so lovingly and a small hand slid into hers so trustingly. She rubbed her locket between her fingers. Archer always knew his mommy would keep him safe.

  The sweet scent of his shampoo hit hard and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. How many times had she kissed his head, rubbed her lips against his silky hair? Smiled into eyes so much like her own? Every day? Every hour?

  Until she couldn’t.

  Until her reality, her existence, changed in the blink of an eye, in a moment of reaction, a moment when two men let anger replace reason, and in the end, no one had gotten anywhere.

  Well, that wasn’t true. Larkin had gotten somewhere, a place in her life she’d never wanted to be—a mother without her son.

  She’d had the epic love story of her lifetime.

  Tightening her hands on the steering wheel along with her resolve, she turned into her driveway with its view of the Cape’s lighthouse across the waters of the North Cove. With the rare butterflies, the apiaries, and other significant flora and fauna, she was going to have it declared for conservation.

  Ryker Van Buren wasn’t building a damn thing.

  Chapter 3

  Ryker tugged the zipper of his jeans up, not bothering to cover the yawn that stretched his mouth wide as he shuffled barefoot toward the door. The bell rang a second time, and he scowled. Scrubbing his hands through his hair in an attempt to wake the hell up, he promised he’d strangle whoever stood on the other side. It was seven in the goddamn morning and he’d yet to have a peaceful night’s sleep in this godforsaken house. All he wanted was a solid twenty-four hours of brainless slumber. Was that too much to ask?

  Yanking open the door, he grated out. “What in the hell do you wa—”

  Maxine Van Buren brushed right past him. “You’re lucky I didn’t just use my key. But I lived with a man long enough to learn my lesson about catching him unawares.” She gave Ryker’s chest a pointed glare with an over-processed shudder.

  Did his grandmother seriously just accuse him of masturbating? Talk about making a man feel like a boy. This was not what he needed when he hadn’t even had his coffee yet, but if he’d learned anything about the woman, it was that if given one inch of rope, she’d take the whole coil, then hang him with it.

  He joined her in the gothic-inspired kitchen and put a kettle of water for coffee on the large gas range. Ebony cupboards, boasting recessed, white-washed decorative edging ran from the floor to the white tin ceiling that echoed the large gleaming white, marble island standing proudly in the center.

  “Clearly I wouldn’t have my pants on if I was otherwise engaged.”

  She snorted. “Don’t be crude.”

  “Me?” His brows raised. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

  With a small tablespoon measure, he added scoops of a dark roasted coffee into his French press.

  “Why don’t you use the single serve coffee maker like normal adults do these days? I bought one just for you.”

  He shook his head. “And I’m sure it makes great coffee but I like the practice of using the French press. There’s a process. Order. It centers me.” He lifted the bronze coffee bean bag. “I just bought this from that new artisanal shop off of Van Buren Boulevard yesterday. Do you want some?”

  “Yes, please,” she said. “It only seems new to you because you’ve been gone for so long. That shop’s been there for two years now. Eclectic Finds. Blayne McCaffey’s place.”

  “Of course you’d know her.” Grandmother knew everyone. And he tried to shrug off the weight of guilt from not coming home, but it had always been easier to have her come to him. Unfortunately, years of buying her plane tickets didn’t ease the burden as he’d hoped.

  She rapped her skinny knuckles against the top of the large island as she pulled up a black, grommet-studded stool. “Lived here all my life, of course I know. But even if I hadn’t run across the adorable little shop myself, Blayne and Larkin are best friends.”

  The name alone sent a weird curiosity skittering across his skin. Clenching his jaw against the sensation, he remained silent and finished making their coffee. Anything he said would only invite more remarks from Maxine that he wouldn’t want to hear anyway.

  Her eyes grew wide with concern. Waving her hand at him, she demanded, “What happened to your side?”

  “Oh, nothing to worry about. I got a little banged up trying to save Miss Sinclair’s necklace before it fell into the well a few days ago.”

  “That was kind of you.” She said it as if surprised and he rolled his eyes. “Have you been to Dr. Stanton? He’d love to see you. I’ll call—”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “But—”

  He lifted his arm to give her a better look. “See? Larkin patched me up onsite, whether I wanted her to or not.”

  A pleased smile curved her lips. “Sounds like my Larkin.”

  He grunted. “Well between you and your Larkin, I’m feeling a bit smothered. You do realize I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”

  Maxine acted as if she hadn’t heard the sarcasm in his voice at all and asked, “So she saw you with your shirt off?”

  Gritting his teeth, he shook his head in a what-the-fuck manner. “What the hell does that have—” He stopped and finished preparing their drinks. On second thought, he wanted nowhere near whatever was going on in his grandmother’s head. There was no telling what she might be thinking, and the woman came up with some of the scariest ideas he’d ever come across
.

  With two full mugs in his hands, he gestured with his chin. “Come on. You can grab me a shirt on the way and we can get to work. I know why you’re here.”

  “So Larkin passed on my message?” Her undisguised curiosity gauged his response.

  “She swung by yesterday. But even if she hadn’t, a track suit is not your usual style for going out on the town, even if it is crushed velvet.”

  He thought back to the times they had visited over the years. Even without him living in town, they’d spoken on the phone and made regular plans to see each other. He may not have come back to the Cape for a long time, but he’d never stopped loving his grandmother. At every visit, she’d arrive dressed to the nines with her silver hair shining as bright as the rings on her fingers.

  Smoothing her hands over the light gray jacket, she grabbed the hem and gave a purposeful tug. “Well, then. Let’s get to work.”

  He made his way up the attic stairs two at a time, immediately swamped by memories from when he could only take them one by one. The air was stale and particles of history swirled in the rays of the sun shining through the slats of the large circle vents in each gable.

  Maxine walked to the center of the large, open room and turned in a slow circle. “Lord almighty, it’s been a few years since anyone’s been up here. I probably should have dusted, but this damn house outgrew me as the years have gone on.”

  Ryker tried to look at the memories through her eyes but all he saw were his hiding spots during his father’s drunken rages.

  “What exactly do you want to do?”

  She put a finger to her lips as she looked around. “Well, I don’t want you to have to bother with a bunch of junk that has no meaning to you. We’ll make a pile to donate, a few things I’ll keep and put into storage, and if there’s anything you might want, you can have it.”

  “I don’t need anything.”

  She walked up to him, and he set his jaw. The concern shimmering in her eyes tightened the muscles along the back of his neck. A million different images flashed through Ryker’s mind and he couldn’t decide which was worse: his father’s fist as it sailed toward his face, his mother’s profile as she simply turned away and continued to knit in her rocking chair, or the hopeless sorrow in his grandmother’s eyes when he’d shown up on the doorstep of the guest house with a black eye for the thousandth time.

  She and grandfather had moved to the modest cottage when he’d come along, leaving the big house for them to make a home. Too bad his parents hadn’t been better at it.

  Grandmother had called the police more than once but he’d refused to admit what had happened. And though there had been an investigation and home visits from CPS, Ryker had been quite convincing. It was hard to land a conviction when the victim wouldn’t cooperate.

  His father had threatened his grandmother’s life if Ryker ever said a word—and he’d believed him. His childhood had sucked. He didn’t need to talk about it. He didn’t need any pity. Maxine loved him and that was good enough.

  Jabbing a finger in the air, he startled her. “I lied. I do want something. Your moonshine.”

  Her perfectly manicured brows snapped together so fast he had to smother a chuckle. Nobody screwed with Maxine Van Buren’s moonshine. She’d been making it long before Ryker had even been a thought and perfected the aging process as well as a combination of berries and flowers that would make the devil himself sing hallelujah. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d stood at his bedroom window, watching her and her North Cove Mavens drinking well into the morning around the backyard fire pit and howling at the moon.

  A warmth rushed across his chest. Even though they’d been drinking, he’d always felt safe hearing their cackles and laughter outside. His father left him alone when people were around. Especially Maxine’s people. And for some reason, the moonshine was one thing the old man had refused to drink.

  “In your dreams. That’s going with me.” She pushed past him toward the crates of her homemade stash. “You and Mitch were always stealing it when you were younger.” She shook a finger at him. “Don’t think I didn’t know.”

  “Well, that’s your fault for making it taste like freshly squeezed juice. You can’t tell me to get all my fruits and vegetables and then get mad at me when I do.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Flattery and fancy talk will get you nowhere with me.” Picking up a two-layered, beekeeper’s hood with a collapsible veil, she turned toward him. “And don’t think I don’t know when you’re in avoidance mode.”

  Swallowing back a sigh, he pulled out a box. “Look. I’m not trying to be a dick.”

  She raised a silver brow.

  “Sorry, a jerk. But what’s done is done. You love me. That’s all that matters.”

  With a warm smile, she brought the hood close to her nose. “I imagine I can still smell your grandfather’s cologne, but I know better. He never worked with the bees unless he was clean and scent free. He said it was the best way they could get to know him.”

  “That reminds me. You have a beekeeper working the hives, don’t you?”

  Her lips curved down. “Not since I started preparing to move. The expense didn’t seem justified, and I certainly can’t take the bees with me.”

  “But I think they’re getting honey-bound. That can screw up the whole hive.”

  Brilliant blue eyes that saw too much and said even more held him in his spot. “Then take care of them. You know as much as any beekeeper I could hire. Your grandfather made sure of it. But I don’t see what the point is. As soon as you start building, they’re going to be destroyed.”

  He winced as a sharp, stabbing pain nailed him between the shoulder blades. “So you heard about that.”

  She was mad.

  He couldn’t blame her but the decision was his. Why would she sell him the Cape if she was worried about what happened to it? Shoving the guilt away, he cleared his throat.

  “I’m considering a plan that can incorporate the hives. It may mean relocating a couple. I’m going to look into it.”

  She grabbed the bee suit and carried it over along with the hood. Pushing them against his chest, she said, “Here. Grandpa would want you to have them. Maybe working with the bees will help you remember what you loved about this place and keep those memories of your father at bay.”

  Placing her smooth, cool palm on his cheek, she tilted her head. “Have you seen him?”

  “No. And I’m hoping to keep it that way.”

  She nodded then bent over to pull out a large trunk. “I hope so, too. He hasn’t changed at all. How sad is it that his own mother avoids him?”

  Sadness rolled into his gut like great boulders, leaving it heavy and hard. As much as he’d been hurt by his father, his grandmother had been heartbroken over her son. She and Grandpa had never understood where they’d lost him. But after a stint in combat overseas, he’d come back a changed man. And not for the better—a living casualty.

  Ryker frowned. He’d always heard losing a child was the worst pain. Maybe that’s one reason Maxine and Larkin had bonded so tightly. A vision of the woman’s sweet smile popped into his head, along with that damned dimple, and he gritted his teeth against the inopportune tightness in his body. The simple thought of her had him imagining all sorts of ways to keep that dimple deep. All. Night. Long.

  The doorbell gonged as if the hunchback of Notre Dame was working overtime, and at the same time, Ryker’s text notification went off. “What the hell?”

  He set his grandfather’s bee suit aside, careful not to crush the netting on the hood, and grabbed his phone from his pocket.

  Mitch: At the front door.

  Ryker: Come in then, jackass. In the attic.

  Sliding his cell back into the pocket of his jeans, he opened the box he’d pulled out earlier.

  “You’re not going to get the door?”

  “It’s Mitch. He’s coming up.”

  She nodded in approval. “Good. He can help.”

&nb
sp; He and Mitch had gotten so good at staying under the radar to keep from having to work Maxine’s cockamamie plans over the years that a U.S. Special Forces team would be proud. Her plans had always traveled well past crazy and solidly over to insane. He couldn’t count how many times she’d almost been arrested—how mortifying would it have been to spend time in jail over a flower heist?—or in the emergency room due to pride or obstinance. Especially when it came to her damn moonshine.

  And every time, dressed, pressed, and ready to impress.

  She could avoid all the trouble if she wouldn’t sell it. But trying to tell her that was like trying to teach a lobster to dance.

  He watched her flip through some old record albums with a dreamy smile on her face that promised she was thinking of years gone by. Probably dancing with Grandpa on Sunday night, or the large sit-down dinners she’d put on for their friends—which more than once ended with the moonshine pulled out of storage.

  “You guys up there?” Mitch called from the bottom of the attic steps.

  “Get up here, young man, and don’t tell me you’re still afraid,” Maxine answered with a roll of her eyes and a huff.

  Mitch ascended the stairs in a slow death march, each step echoing off the attic rafters. He had always hated the attic but braved it whenever Ryker had been in hiding. Mitch always preferred hiding in the woods. He’d say it was easier to run for his life if he ever needed to.

  The two men went way back, so far Ryker couldn’t remember when they’d actually first met. One too many hits to the head could do that to a guy. But what he did remember was middle school, when Mitch hid him in his room while Ryker’s dad rampaged or how Mitch would talk his mom into having Ryker over for an extended weekend just to give him a reprieve from the hell that was his home on the Cape.

  “I am not afraid of the damn attic.” Mitch caught himself, sending a look of chagrin to Maxine. “I mean darned attic.”

  She waved a hand in dismissal and turned her attention back to her albums. “Since when do I care what the hell kind of language you use?”