Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(2)

As the gravelly sound of vacuumed-up sand and salt faded away, she finished the carpet quickly and turned off the old machine.

“You’re good to Daddy, Laire,” said Isolde, who stood in the kitchen doorway holding a glass of sweet tea on top of her rounded belly. “How’s he feelin’ lately?”

Their father, who had suffered a mild heart attack just after Christmas, was back at work again, crabbing with his brother and nephew, just like nine generations of Cornishes before them.

“Okay, I guess,” she said. “I make him eat oatmeal every morning.”

“He hates it?”

Laire smiled. “Of course.”

“He eats it?”

“With grumbles.”

“Mama would’ve . . .”

Just like Kyrstin, Isolde’s voice trailed off, like talking about their mother was something they shouldn’t do. Or maybe, thought Laire, it just hurt too much.

Isolde, who was twenty-four, had gotten married to her high school sweetheart, Paul Hyde, last summer and discovered she was pregnant three months later. It was the way on Corey Island to marry and have kids young, but Laire suspected it was extra hard for her sister to be without a mother now.

Laire put the vacuum away and turned to her sister. “It’s okay to talk about her, Issy.”

“What good is it?” asked Isolde, sniffling before taking another sip of tea. “Won’t bring her back.”

“I miss her too,” said Laire, holding her sister’s familiar green eyes, feeling jealous of her sister’s memories and wishing she would open up and talk about their mother more.

“Here it is!” said Kyrstin, holding the wedding dress carefully across her forearms as she reentered the living room.

Laire took the dress and sat down on the brown plaid couch, shaking out the bodice to figure out where to open the seams as Kyrstin took the tea from Isolde’s hands and finished it up.

“You know what I think, Issy?”

“Tell me, Kyrs.”

Laire looked up at the pair of them and rolled her eyes. From the singsong tones of their voices, she knew what was coming.

“Now that our little Laire is a high school graduate, I think it’s finally time for her to figure out when she’s gonna let Brodie into her shorts.”

“Poor Brodie,” said Isolde with a snicker.

Kyrstin giggled. “You holdin’ out on us, Laire? You got someone else in the wings?”

Laire pulled on the left side seam harder than she should, making several beads scatter to the carpet, then looked up at them. “You’re a couple of jackasses, is all I know.”

“Ooo! Testy!” said Isolde, turning to Kyrstin. “Go get me more tea. You drunk all of mine.”

“Get it yourself,” said Kyrstin. “I want to know when Laire’s settlin’ down.”

Never, she thought, leaning forward to open the sewing box on the coffee table and pull out a seam ripper to help her finish the job.

Never, never, never, never, never.

The word circled around and around in Laire’s head like a promise, like a vow.

I am never “settlin’ down” on Corey Island and having half a dozen kids with a local boy before I hit thirty. There’s a whole wide world out there, away from here, away from Corey, away from the Outer Banks, and I intend to see it.

“. . . touch your boobies, huh, Laire?”

She looked up from the dress in her lap. “What?”

“Brodie told Remy you let him touch your boobies. After the prom.”

Laire’s face flushed with heat as she blinked at her sister. “That’s a lie!”

Yes, she had gone to the high school prom with Brodie Walsh, but that was it! The second he’d tried to kiss her, she’d clocked him in the nose and run home. Touched her boobies? Hell, no! They’d never even kissed!

Kyrstin shrugged, but her eyes were merry. “Why would he make it up?”

To trap me, thought Laire, shoving the white fabric off her lap and standing up. She turned away from her sisters, looking out the picture window over the couch. Their father’s one-story, two-bedroom house was directly on the water, and she looked out at the harbor, seething. Fishing boats, coming in from a long day of catching or crabbing, pointed toward Corey Island. One of those boats was her father’s. Had he heard this rumor that she’d let Brodie touch her intimately? She sucked in a horrified breath.

Her father was a strict, religious, old-school islander. He loved his girls more than anything, but he was proud and he wouldn’t stand for that sort of loose talk unless it included some sort of respectable commitment between the participants—a commitment Laire didn’t want from Brodie or any other island boy.

“It’s a lie,” she said again.

It wouldn’t be the first time a local boy had compromised the reputation of an island girl to push her into a relationship. But damned if Laire would let it happen to her.

“Well, I think Brodie’s cute. Filled out real nice. And his daddy’s boat is newer than most of the—”

“No!” growled Laire, still staring out the window. I don’t want to be trapped here forever!

“Little Laire better get off her high horse,” advised Isolde, her voice taking on an edge. “Eighteen years old and never had a boyfriend. You could do a lot worse’n Brodie.”