Captain Dreamboat (Ponderosa Resort Romantic Comedies Book 7) Page 6

  “Of course. I’ll do it right away. I can email something tonight.”

  “Don’t rush,” she says. “Oh, and Casey asked if you’d come speak to her leadership class at the high school when you’re back on your feet.”

  “Absolutely.” With this many sisters, I’ll never run out of ways to earn my keep. I add both things to my mental to-do list, conscious of how stir-crazy I’ve gotten cooped up in the hospital. “So how are things with you?”

  “Good,” my mother says. “Wonderful.”

  There’s an odd quiver in her voice. It’s a strained note I’ve noticed several times lately, though she’s good at hiding it.

  The urge to help slams me with the force of a rogue wave, so I try again. “You know, if you ever want to talk about anything…”

  I trail off, waiting for her to insist she’s fine. That everything’s okay. When the silence drags out, I know something’s very wrong. “Mom?”

  “It’s nothing, sweetie,” she says. “It really isn’t.”

  “Then what?”

  Another long pause, then a sigh. “It’s just—things have been strained with Chuck lately.”

  She must be kidding. “You two were just in my room yesterday teasing and laughing. He had his arm around you the whole time.”

  “It’s fine, honey. I don’t want to burden you with this.”

  “Mom.” I wince as the car hits a bump and a twinge of pain bites at the incision site. “You know you can talk to me about anything. Come on, what’s up?”

  She sighs. “Ever since he retired, something’s just been...off.”

  “Have you talked to him about it?”

  “Of course! We talk all the time.”

  “What does he say?”

  She hesitates. “He says it’s nothing.” She clears her throat. “So it’s nothing.”

  Her voice tilts up at the end, like she’s asking a question. I’m afraid to say the words out loud, but someone needs to. “You’re not worried it’s another woman, are you? Because Chuck would never—”

  “No!” She sucks in a quick breath. “He wouldn’t.”

  There’s that question in her voice again. “Of course not,” I assure her.

  “I swore I’d never stay with another man who cheated.”

  My father. She’s talking about Cort fucking Bracelyn. Not just the fact that he cheated, but that she knew he was a cheater when they met, and she married him anyway.

  It’s her deepest regret.

  “Chuck wouldn’t do that,” she insists.

  “He definitely wouldn’t.” I’m sure of it. Positive.

  “He knows that would be a deal breaker.”

  “He’d be an idiot to screw around on you,” I tell her. “Chuck’s no idiot.”

  “You’re right, of course.” She gives a stilted little laugh. “I guess I’ll keep trying to talk to him.”

  “Put those kickass communication skills to work,” I tell her. “I’ve always admired what you guys have.”

  “We’ll figure it out.” She’s projecting a brightness she doesn’t feel, and I wrack my brain for some way to help. To make her feel better.

  “What if you planned a romantic getaway?” I suggest.

  “I’ve tried.” She sighs. “He says he spent his whole Coast Guard career traveling around. He doesn’t feel like running off to Hawaii or Tahiti or wherever.”

  “Maybe something closer,” I suggest. “A romantic weekend at Ponderosa Luxury Ranch Resort.” I enunciate it the same way the announcer does in all our ads, and my mother laughs.

  “Tempting.”

  “Come on, you know it’s beautiful,” I point out. “And not that far from you guys.”

  “Maybe.” There’s a fresh twinge of hope in her voice, but she moves on quickly. “Enough about me. How are you doing? Are you really okay?”

  “I’m great,” I assure her, not quite ready to let this go. My mother’s hurting, and the urge to help is overwhelming. “I could book you one of the honeymoon suites. They just added three of them to the lodge. Jacuzzi, mountain views, champagne—”

  “All right, all right, I’ll bring it up with Chuck.” She’s laughing in earnest now, and I’m grateful I’ve given her that. “Did the doctors say anything else about you going back to work?”

  “Eight weeks,” I mutter, hating how useless I feel. “That’s until I can travel again or do physical labor. There are other ways to volunteer, though.”

  There’s a long pause, and I can tell my mom is carefully considering her words. “Do you ever think about settling down? Maybe taking a break from all the humanitarian work and getting married? Starting a family?”

  A bright flash of memory lights up a corner of my brain. Flowers and fresh-baked bread, though I have no idea what it means. For some reason my mind injects a picture of Blanka, and it takes me a second to catch my breath.

  “Someday,” I say carefully, not wanting to get my mother’s hopes up. “There’s just so much work to do. So many people who need help.”

  “I’m proud of you, baby,” she says. “You know I am. I just want grandbabies someday.”

  “Someday.” That’s nice and vague.

  “I just want to see you happy.”

  “I am happy.” The words sound dull, so I try again. “I have the most fulfilling work on the planet. I’ve got great friends and obviously an amazing family.”

  “Obviously.” My mom sounds upbeat, though I’m not sure she’s buying what I’m selling.

  I’m not sure I am.

  Static crackles on the line, and I’m saved by the climbing elevation. “We’re getting into a dead zone, so I’m going to lose you. Take care, okay?”

  “You, too, sweetie.”

  I pause, not ready to hang up yet. Mountains march past the car window, craggy and snowcapped and so different from the oceanic landscapes I’m used to. “Say the word, and I’ll set you up at the resort,” I tell her. “Maybe a romantic dinner at one of these guest chef things Sean’s always doing.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she says. “Now go rest.”

  “Will do. I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  I switch off the phone and lean back against the seats. I know I should pick up my conversation with Gary. It has to be boring driving rich assholes around the way he does.

  But I end up getting lost in my own thoughts.

  My father had the same limo driver for eight years. Jimmy would drive me from the airport when I visited, and he’d slip me peppermint candies and stories about playing in a jazz band.

  Once, I repeated one to my dad. Something about a lost trombone and a guy in the front row with a hearing aid that screeched. My father got the weirdest look on his face.

  “Jimmy? Who the fuck is Jimmy?”

  At the front of the town car, Gary adjusts the rearview mirror. “You comfortable back there? Need more air conditioning or anything?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” I tell him. “And thank you for driving. Really, I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, Mr. Bracelyn.”

  “Jonathan’s fine,” I tell him. “Or Jon.”

  He nods and says nothing, so I let my mind wander again.

  By the time Ponderosa Resort rolls into view, I’ve worked out a plan in my mind. I’ll follow the recovery protocol to a tee, maybe see about moving my next checkup a few days earlier. Once I’m cleared to start exercising again, I’ll get back into shape and return to the Mediterranean. Sea-Watch still needs me, or maybe there are more opportunities. Hurricane relief in the Bahamas or Puerto Rico. Wherever I can do the most good.

  As Gary pulls the car up to the bank of family cabins, a wave of unexpected emotion swirls around my abdomen. Probably a side-effect of all the meds they pumped into me at the hospital, but it gets stronger when I glance at Mark’s cabin. There’s the tandem bike he bought last month with his wife, Chelsea. And beside that is the little pink bike that belongs to his stepdaughter, Libby. He was so damn pro
ud last month when he took off the training wheels and showed her how to coast down the driveway without them. Who’d have thought my gruff, lumberjack brother would be the ultimate family man?

  Unclipping my seatbelt, I ease out of the car. I’m moving around to grab my bag from the back when Gary leaps in front of me. “Please, Mr. Bracelyn,” he says. “Let me get your things.”

  “No need, Gary.” And what’s with the Mr. Bracelyn thing? “I’ve only got the one bag.”

  “Please, sir.” He looks pained. “Ms. Bracelyn—um, Mrs. Bracelyn-Dugan,” he corrects himself. “She said you’re not supposed to lift anything weighing more than ten pounds.”

  Shit. She’s right.

  Still, I hesitate. The bag isn’t that heavy, and Gary told me earlier he had back surgery last year.

  “Sir,” he pleads again. “If you don’t let me help, Mrs. Bracelyn-Dugan will be angry.”

  He’s got me there. The last thing I want to do is get the poor guy in trouble. “Okay.”

  I let him take the bag, then trudge ahead feeling like a useless appendage. I pull out the keys and unlock the door, swinging it wide. “You can just throw it on the floor over there.”

  “I’d rather take it to your room.” He looks sheepish. “She asked me to unpack it for you.”

  For the love of—

  “That’s fine,” I tell him. “Straight down the hall.”

  I leave the front door open, savoring the feel of crisp autumn air filtering through my living room. The place is stuffy after being closed up for a couple weeks. I rummage in my pocket for tip money, though Bree made it clear she pre-paid everything.

  All I’ve got is a hundred-dollar bill.

  I’m hardly hurting for cash, so I hand it over as soon as Gary comes back out. “Thank you,” I tell him. “I appreciate the help.”

  His eyes widen, but he nods and pockets the money. “Thank you, S—Jonathan.”

  “Thank you. It’s been a pleasure talking with you, Gary. Say hi to the family.”

  “Sir.” He nods and hustles out the open door, pausing like he’s unsure whether to close it.

  “Go ahead and leave it,” I tell him. “I need the fresh air.”

  “Of course.”

  And then he’s gone.

  My stomach growls, and I realize it’s been hours since I ate. Longer than that since I had anything but hospital food. I should reheat one of the gourmet meals Sean stocked in my freezer before I left for the hospital. Or maybe make a sandwich.

  Instead, I move to the living room windows and prop those open. It’s warm for September, and the fresh air feels nice. From the wide bank of windows at the back of the cabin, I smell the water from the nearby creek, and beyond that, the pond where I used to float toy boats as a kid.

  “Here, son. Try this one.” The memory of my father’s voice drifts back to me, along with the specter of Cort Bracelyn holding a remote-controlled boat the size of a small country. “None of those pansy-ass vessels. You want a real yacht.”

  “But, Dad.” I remember looking down at the little yellow and white sailboat in my hands. A gift from Mom and Chuck, though my father didn’t know that. “I like this one, and besides—the pond’s small.”

  “Ah, but the world is large, my boy.” My father clapped me on the back, making me drop the yellow sailboat on the muddy bank. The mast snapped in two, but my dad didn’t notice. “Glad you’re taking after me. A real sailor, just like your old man.”

  Sailor. Only my father would think of racing a two-million-dollar, 75-foot monohull yacht as sailing.

  “Brrrrow.”

  I jerk myself from the memory to see the rattiest cat I’ve ever laid eyes on just strolling into my living room.

  At least I think it’s a cat.

  Its fur is the dingy hue of muddy pond water, though it might be white under all that filth. A chunk of one ear is missing, and there’s a deep, healed scar across one cheek. The cat’s stump of a tail ends in a weird knot suggesting an accident of some kind, or maybe a fondness for eating paint chips. As the animal squints at me with one eye closed, I notice a severe underbite that gives it the look of a vampire with one fang.

  “Holy shit.” I start toward it, but the cat skitters under an end table and hisses. I hold up my hands. “Right, okay. Are you hurt or hungry or—?”

  The cat ignores me and starts cleaning itself. He leans up against my end table, plump belly rippling with each tongue stroke. Okay, so he’s not starving. But he looks like hell. I step closer to survey him for more damage, but the cat gives a low growl, and I back off.

  Wait. What’s wrong with its paws? They’re like big catchers’ mitts, with an extra two or three toes on each one. How many toes do cats have?

  “Did you grow up next to a nuclear power plant or something?”

  The cat ignores me and keeps grooming. The scar on his face, the ripped ear, the funky tail—these all look like old injuries, and I don’t see any fresh blood. His ribs aren’t sticking out, and his belly is round and soft-looking.

  I tiptoe closer, ready to try again.

  The cat growls.

  “Food,” I decide. “You must need food.”

  I hurry to the kitchen and locate a can of chicken and a can opener. Cracking it open, I scoop half the contents onto a saucer.

  “Here you go.” I hustle back into the living room holding out the plate like I’m a waiter in a cat restaurant. “Don’t eat too fast or you’ll get sick.”

  I have no idea if that’s true, and neither does the cat. He stops cleaning himself and stares at me with deep suspicion.

  “It’s organic and low sodium,” I tell him. “My brother went nuts stocking healthy food for me.”

  A twinge in my side feels a little like homesickness, though I couldn’t say for sure what or who I’m missing. Maybe the kidney.

  The cat glares as I set the saucer on the floor and back away. Watching me for a few more seconds, he sniffs the air, then walks over and inspects the plate. When he looks up at me, the eye I thought was missing squints back through a half-slit lid.

  “You do have both eyes.” I don’t know why I keep talking to him like he can understand me. “Can I take a look and see if—”

  “Brrrrow!”

  He’s insistent this time, and while I don’t speak cat, I’m guessing that’s “stay the fuck away from me.” Or from the food, which he’s sniffing with mild interest. He looks up and licks his chops but doesn’t go for the chicken.

  “You’re a dark meat guy instead of breast?” I guess. “I hear ya. I’m a leg man myself, so—”

  “Hello?”

  I look up to see Blanka standing in my still-open doorway. A warm rush floods my system, like sunshine bursting through clouds after a rainstorm. Her hair is swept back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing jeans and a pink and green flannel button-down knotted at the waist. There’s a hint of pink lace scooped low where the top buttons meet, and I order myself not to stare. I drop my eyes to the dish she’s holding, an oblong thing covered with foil. It looks heavy, and I hurry forward to take it from her.

  “No, you don’t.” She pivots away, using her body to shield the pan. “You’re not supposed to lift anything, remember?”

  “Over ten pounds,” I point out as she moves toward my kitchen. “That can’t weigh more than a couple.”

  “You’ve never had my vareniki. It’s very dense.”

  “I would very much love to have your vareniki.” I have no idea what vareniki is, but I definitely want hers. “Is that for me?”

  No, dumbass. She brought food to wave under your nose and throw the trash.

  I follow her straight to the dining room, curious how she knows the way. This place belonged to my cousin, Brandon, before he moved next door with his reindeer ranching fiancée. It’s mostly been a guest cabin since then, but it’s mine when I visit.

  “I make it with lots of potatoes and mushrooms and onions,” Blanka says as I trail after her like a kid following a bright
red balloon. “It’s very filling. And I already checked the list and confirmed with your doctor that it’s okay for you to have it.”

  “Thank you.”

  God, she’s beautiful. Her shirt looks unbearably soft, and so does everything underneath. There’s the pink lace again, peeking out between the buttons as she sets the dish down. I drop my eyes to her feet, admiring bare shins and white canvas flats. Beautiful ankles. Is there anything about her that’s not lovely?

  “This is very kind of you,” I tell her, returning my attention to her face. “Can I ask what vareniki is?”

  Blanka peels back the foil and my stomach growls loudly.

  “They’re a little like pierogi,” she says proudly. “Hand-filled dumplings made with unleavened dough wrapped around savory filling.”

  “Delicious.” I’m not sure if I mean her or the dumplings, but both are making my mouth water.

  I focus on the dumplings so I don’t make an ass of myself. Row upon endless row of lovely, steamed dough, plump with filling. They smell like heaven, and my stomach growls again.

  “I brought sour cream to go with them,” she says.

  “I think I love you.”

  I’m only half joking, but she laughs like I’ve said something hilarious. “Where are your plates?”

  “I’ll get them.”

  “Sit!” She commands it with such authority that I can’t help obeying.

  “That cupboard on the end.” I point it out, along with the drawer that holds forks. “You’re seriously a lifesaver. I’m starving.”

  “Hmm,” she says, nudging the half-empty can of chicken on my counter. “You must be if you’re eating this straight from the can.”

  “What? Oh, that.” I glance around for the cat. He’s lurking under the end table, eyeing us with deep suspicion. There’s a telltale hunk of chicken stuck to one side of his face, so at least I know he’s eaten. “The cat needed food, and I didn’t have kibble.”

  “You have a cat?”

  I nod toward the bedraggled creature in the corner. “Pretty sure it’s a cat. It sort of wandered in.”