Nobody's Hero

A wave descended as he reached in to haul her out. She was deadweight, and he had only enough time to press them both against the rock face, clinging like limpets as the icy water pelted them. When the waves receded he pushed her up and followed with a great heave, covering her as the next rush arrived.

Immediately he got Pippa moving, herding her along mercilessly until they were beyond the waves. They slumped onto the pebbly beach, and he pulled her roughly into his arms, chafing at her limbs to bring the blood up.

The sodden lump of her spiral-bound notebook fell out of the front of her windbreaker, along with her glasses. She reached for them.

He closed a hand over hers. “Dammit, Pippa. What did you think you were you doing, following me down here? Do you realize the danger you were in?”

The girl gasped for air. “D-don’t tell my mo-mom.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “You know I have to.”

Pippa’s shoulders shook violently against his chest. He felt as though he’d been cracked open against the rocks and emptied out, but still he cradled her, willing his warmth into the girl’s small body even when he believed he had none left to give.

He wouldn’t have this one’s fate on his conscience.

CLEAR MIND, pure heart, gentle soul.

Despite Connie’s best intentions, her lips tightened, her fingers curled toward her palms. Maybe it worked for some, but to her the mantra was a load of claptrap. She had way too much going on to forget for even a minute.

Breathe, woman. Relax and give it another go. You’re on a picturesque island sixteen miles off the Maine coast. You can’t get any more idyllic. The oms should be rolling off your tongue.

Connie had plunked herself on the ground outside the guesthouse. Her friend Lena swore by meditation, but then Lena was the sort of woman who kept a yoga mat in her desk drawer, which happened to be in her corner window office in the busiest business tower at the intersection of Boston’s noisiest streets. Lena was the calm at the eye of the tornado.

Whereas tornado was Connie’s middle name. When she made time for the gym, it was to take a kickboxing class. No oms, just right jab, left jab, kick, kick, kick.

Kay Sheffield, who’d yoo-hoo’d Connie from a leisurely breakfast on her seaside patio to say there was a touch of yellow in the maze hedge and that if Connie couldn’t replace the section—yeah, sure, overnight—she might want to consider green spray paint? Pow.

The supplier who’d screwed up a gravel shipment, leaving Connie and her day workers empty-handed at the dock in the morning fog? Punch.

Graves, who’d absconded with several of her tools, even though they were clearly marked Bradford Garden Designs, and had then said—to her face—that she must have lost them? Bam, bam, bam. Three lightning kicks, right under the chin.

Connie untangled herself out of the pretzel pose and leaned back on her hands to look up at the cloudless sky. Meditation wasn’t working. No surprise. When Philip had been sick as a dog from chemo and she’d been half out of her mind, trying to take care of him and Pippa while beginning work toward her master gardener qualification, the only calm she’d known had been in their tiny backyard. Little by little she’d weeded, planted and pruned until the space had become a lush green paradise.

She’d always remember the quiet evenings in the garden with Phil, how he’d made her promise that she wouldn’t give up on her dream, no matter what.

Connie squeezed her lids shut. If he could see her now, he’d bust with pride.

He’d also be terribly concerned about Pippa. He’d always known the right way to comfort their daughter without coddling her, while Connie couldn’t seem to get it right no matter what she tried. She was either too harsh, to toughen Pippa up, or too open and easy, to encourage Pippa’s independence.

Then again, everything was ten times more difficult without Phil. Whenever Connie thought she had herself under control and her life in order, she was reminded how alone she was without him.

Were her struggles the result of missing her husband, or simply the lot of every single working parent?

Probably both, she conceded. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life without a partner. In recent weeks, her loneliness had even led to a few thoughts about agreeing to one of Lena’s setups.

But she hadn’t been able to go through with it. Lena’s men were business executives with sky-box connections to the Sox. Connie was a hot-dogs-in-the-bleachers woman. Only a rare man would pique her interest. None had landed on her doorstep.

“Mrs. Bradford?”

The sudden shout of her name was a shock. She sprang up as Sean Rafferty came around the corner of the house at a brisk clip. “Sorry to disturb you.” He was out of breath. “I caught a glimpse and—”

“No, that’s fine.” She slapped the pine needles off her butt. “I was taking a break, is all.” Why should that fluster her? “I, uh, didn’t expect to see you again so soon, but since you’re here, I ought to…” She stopped to inhale, which should have slowed her galloping pulse. “Apologize.”

The man pulled up short, apparently speechless.

“I was wrong. I admit it. I jumped to conclusions about you, Mr. Rafferty, and I’m sorry. You’re not a—a—” She gestured with both hands, trying to think of polite words rather than the blunt ones she was more accustomed to using. Watching her salty tongue around her new class of clientele was a job in itself.

“A monster?” he asked with a lift of his eyebrows.

“A child molester.” A spade was a spade, even if it was in the hands of a resentful gardener like Graves.

“That’s good, because…” Sean inclined his head toward the front of the house.

Connie groaned. “Pippa? Not again.”

Pippa had still been sleeping when Connie had left the house to meet the early ferry. She’d set out cereal and a note on the kitchen table, instructing the girl not to wander off beyond the Sheffield estate. Since it was a big estate with much for an inquisitive girl to explore, she hadn’t been overly worried when she’d found Pippa gone when she’d returned. For all her curiosity, Pippa was too cautious to get into dangerous situations.

At least, she had been.

While Connie’s mind had raced, she’d also been staring at Sean, cataloging his features and build as if she might need to identify him in a lineup. The shoulders she remembered. Above them, his face was handsome, if gaunt. He had a good, strong nose and jaw. A sprinkle of gray in the clipped hair. His eyes were a solemn gray-blue, not dark the way she’d remembered.

She dropped her gaze, then blinked, appreciation turning to apprehension. “Why are your jeans wet? You’re soaked to the skin!”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Pippa’s okay, but she was caught out by the tide. I hauled her in.”

“Pippa…was in the ocean?”

“No, she was on a rock.” He conceded with a nod. “And briefly in the water.”

“Where is she?”

“Sitting on your front step. Seeing as she was following me again when it happened, I think she’s afraid to face you.”

“Afraid?” Connie’s head jerked back. “Because I’m the monster?”

“Maybe a tigress,” Sean said with a small smile.

Connie resisted the urge to let out a low growl. Pippa was safe, that was the important thing. If there was anyone to blame, it wasn’t Sean and it wasn’t Pippa. It was her.

“PIPPA, PIPPA. WHAT WERE YOU thinking?” Connie’s hands shook as she pulled a towel off the shelf. She clenched the length of terry cloth taut, then enfolded her daughter’s shivering body. “I said over and over that you were not to go near the ocean without supervision. You’ve never disobeyed me so badly before. When I think what might have happened…”

Don’t think it. She’s safe.

Pippa bleated from the depths of a fervent hug, the third or fourth since her mother had rushed her inside and up to the bathroom for dry towels and a hot shower. “Oh, Mom.”

Connie set Pippa back, knowing that despite her own culpability she must scold the girl. Mete out some sort of punishment. But that could wait.

“I’d rattle your bones if you weren’t already shaking like a drowned kitten.” Connie swept aside the mildewed shower curtain and cranked on the tap. “In you go.”

Pippa stared, the towel clutched under her chin.

“Privacy.” Connie bit her lip, remembering that her daughter was ten and growing up fast. No longer a little girl. But not a big one, either. “Right. Stay in the shower until the hot water runs out. I’ll go brew you a cup of tea.”

“Tea?” Pippa made a face.

“Hot chocolate, then, if I can remember how to make it when I’m so shook up.”

“It’s just chocolate and milk, Mom.”

“Don’t be a smarty-pants. You’re in for it, you know. I’ll have to ground you.” But she already had, in effect, and that hadn’t done any good. Before there could be a punishment, she’d have to find out why Pippa had disobeyed, what she’d hoped to gain.

Sean Rafferty.

He might know. Connie had left him on his own when she’d rushed Pippa inside.

He’s probably gone, she told herself as she descended the cottage’s narrow steps with a couple towels in her arms. A glance out the stairwell’s porthole window revealed no sign of him, but then she found him sitting at the dining table, perched damply on the edge of a ladderback chair, his face pinched white. He looked as though he couldn’t figure out why he was still there.

Suddenly, Connie knew nothing except that seeing him had eased her worry. As wary and edgy as he came across, she was instinctively comforted by his presence. Go figure.

“Towels.” She thrust them at him. “You’re shivering.”

He stood and draped one around his shoulders, ignoring the wet denim clinging to his legs.

“Well,” Connie said, pulling away her gaze. “Pippa’s taking a hot shower. For a minute there, I was worried about hypothermia.”

“She was chilled through, but the walk home warmed her up. I kept her moving. I’m sure she’ll be fine.” Sean rubbed his arms vigorously. “Since you’ve got everything under control, I’ll leave.”

“No, please stay. I’d like to talk to you.” Connie put her hand on his arm to urge him down into the chair, then pulled away when the renewed warmth of his skin and the firm muscle beneath it came as a pleasant shock.

She rubbed the prickly hair on her forearms as she headed to the fridge. Holding a half-gallon container of milk and a squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, she turned back to Sean. “Will you come to dinner tonight? I’d like to—” Breathe, dammit! “—express my gratitude to you.” Despite the inappropriate timing, there was no denying she was aware of all sorts of things she’d like to do with him.

“That’s not necessary,” he said in a grave tone, and she dearly hoped he hadn’t been reading her mind.

Her laugh sounded rusty. “Hey, c’mon. You rescued my daughter from the briny brink. A home-cooked meal is the least that I owe you.”

He glanced away, raking a hand through his hair. It had dried into short porcupine quills. “It was nothing.”

“It was huge. You’re a hero in my book.”

His face contorted. Only for a millisecond, but she noticed.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” She bent and clattered the pots and pans in the drawer under the electric stove more than she had to, then tossed her hair as she straightened. She shot him a smile over her shoulder. “Are you modest? Shy? Secretly a Mr. Limpet?”

“What’s a Mr. Limpet?”

She poured milk into a saucepan. “A character from The Incredible Mr. Limpet. You don’t know the movie?”

He shook his head.

“We watched a lot of oldies with Pippa when she was little,” Connie explained. “Mr. Limpet was a favorite. Don Knotts played a wimp who turned into a heroic fish wearing glasses. The fish was animated.” She paused, considering. “It was better than it sounds.”

Sean rubbed a finger above his upper lip. “I’m not a wimp or a fish.”

Connie grinned. “Not even a heroic one?”

“No.”

“Seriously, though,” she said and squirted the syrup into the milk. Not the best recipe for hot chocolate, but it’d do in a pinch. “What about dinner?”

He didn’t answer.

She saw the beginnings of his frown and rushed on. “Sharing a little companionship won’t hurt you. The island can be a lonely place. That is, assuming you are alone?” She stopped stirring. “Would there be a Mrs. Limpet?”

“Pippa didn’t tell you?”

“I neglected to interrogate her.” On that point.

“I’m here alone.” He shifted his weight from one leg to the other, wincing slightly. “There’s no fish wife.”

With a chuckle, she resumed stirring. “Then you can come over. About six? Just so you know, I’m not promising a gourmet meal. My purpose is to find out exactly what happened with Pippa this morning.”

“Then I can save you the trouble. What happened is that Pippa was spying on me again.”

“I told her not to,” Connie interjected. “Very firmly.”

He nodded. “Even so, she followed me out to Whitlock’s Arrow, on the north end. Apparently she climbed down to the shore after me, then was stranded on a rock when the tide came in.” He rubbed his leg. “I didn’t notice her until it was too late, or I’d have sent her home right away.”

“What were you doing at Whitlock’s Arrow?”

She got a shrug. “Walking. Exploring the shore.” He met her eyes. “In complete innocence.”

“I didn’t intend to accuse you of anything. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on with Pippa. You seem like a normal sort of guy.” Normal? Maybe. “What’s so intriguing about you that she’d break the rules and—” she exaggerated for his benefit “—risk my wrath?”

Connie knew why he intrigued her—no mystery in that at all. In the fourteen years since she’d hooked up with Philip when they were both sophomores in college, she may have forgotten how strong the first sweet rush of attraction could be. But she was recognizing it now.

Sean’s gaze took in her face, her hair. “Do you have a lot of wrath?” he asked, bemused.

Heat flooded her cheeks. Her scalp tingled. “My temper has been known to flare.”

“Ah, yes, that’s right. I remember now.”

She snorted. “Hey, wait a minute. I wasn’t completely off the mark about that.” She tilted her head toward the ceiling as the sound of drumming water ceased. “A mother’s got to be diligent, nowadays.”

Sean retreated. “You’re right, of course.”

Connie poured the hot chocolate into a mug. “Want some? You got wet, too.” She stared at his clinging jeans. “Shoot. I should have offered you a change of clothing, and instead I’m entertaining you with plot summaries of old Disney movies.”

He waved her off. “Thanks, but I’m not fitting into any of your gardening togs. I’ll go home to change.” He dropped the towels on the back of the chair and moved to the front door, which still stood wide-open.

She followed. “I want you to know that I realize how lucky we were that you were there to rescue Pippa. If you hadn’t seen her…If you hadn’t acted quickly…Well, that’s too horrible to consider. Words of gratitude aren’t enough.” She grasped the edge of the door. Swallowed the lump in her throat. “Pippa and I are indebted.”

“A thank-you is enough.” Sean stooped and picked something up off her doorstep, using his left hand. The knuckles of his right pressed hard into his thigh.

With a wince, he straightened and extended his hand. “You and Mr. Bradford owe me no more than that.”

He thought there was a Mr. Bradford? Connie didn’t wear a wedding ring, although that was because of her job rather than her marital status. She might have immediately explained that her “we” was a family of only two, but she was distracted by what Sean had handed her.

Pippa’s sodden notebook. The answer, perhaps, to all of Connie’s questions, even if she couldn’t possibly read it without her daughter’s permission.

“Thank you.” She clutched the tablet to her midriff, even though it was cold and smelled of seaweed. She needed to hold on…to something.

Sean gave a short wave and strode down the path to the main road. Even with the pronounced hitch in his step and his damp, wrinkled clothing, he cut an admirable figure in the dappled sunshine—proud, angular and so very capable of the heroics that he denied.

Connie took a deep breath and pushed down the damnably persistent tide of attraction. She’d explain about Phil later, when and if Sean returned at six to take her up on the dinner invitation.

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