Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(52)

She could, perhaps, meet Erik for the first time over Thanksgiving break, and again over Christmas break, casually mentioning in front of her uncle that the governor’s son had recognized her waitressing at the Pamlico House and asked her out on a date.

Once or twice over the spring, she could mention Erik’s name again, and maybe, maybe by next summer, she could tell her father that she’d gone out with him a couple of times. By then, he’d be accustomed to her working away from Corey, and he’d have had time to let Erik’s name, however unwanted, become a part of her life. He still wouldn’t like it. He’d still raise the roof, but it would be better—so much better—than telling him at Thanksgiving, when he’d know she got involved with Erik while lying all summer.

She wanted Erik to understand, but every time she tried to tell him her plan, he circled back around to Thanksgiving again, insisting it was the best way. But she didn’t agree. Erik didn’t seem to understand that “pulling off the Band-Aid” wasn’t the way to communicate with Hook Cornish. And if she did, her father would stonewall her for sure.

With a heavy heart, she cut the engine close to home, floating softly up to the dock by her house and jumping soundlessly onto the dock. She tied up the boat, surprised to see the orange glow of her father’s pipe in the screened porch. Hmm. He was rarely up at this hour.

“Daddy?” she called through the screen as she walked up the flagstones.

“’Evenin’, Laire,” he said, his words garbled from the pipe he held between his teeth. “Waited up for you.”

“Everything okay?” she asked, trying to control the sudden bolt of panic that made her heart race and her hands go clammy.

“Aye-up. Issy came by with the baby for a spell. He’s a nice little thing, but he’s got his days and nights reversed.” He grinned at her. “Like you.”

“Me?” she asked, breathing easy as she sat down in her mother’s rocker.

He looked out at the water, nodding. “You. Up all night screamin’ like a banshee. Sleepin’ like a lamb all day. Put yore mama through the ringer. Fair mommucked every mornin’, she was.”

Laire chuckled softly. Her father didn’t speak of their mother much, so it was music to her ears to hear this little piece of information.

“I miss her,” she said.

He nodded. “Aye-up. She was a good’un.”

For several moments they sat in silence before her father spoke again. “Brodie Walsh come into Triton today. Had some early yellowfin. Nice.” Laire clenched her jaw hard, staring down at her knees. Her father cleared his throat. “You ever think you might like a li’l’un like Issy’s got?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Not with Brodie Walsh.”

Her father looked at her askance. “Been some talk about you and him this summer.”

“Lies,” she said firmly.

“Maybe,” said her father, sighing. “Heard you told him off at Kyrstin’s weddin’.”

“I did. And he admitted he lied about me.”

Her father puffed on his pipe. “Still and all, talk is talk. Yore name be wrapped up w’ his now, Laire.”

“I don’t want Brodie Walsh. He’s full of himself. He lies. He’s immature. He drinks. He’s not . . .” Erik.

“Just wants a nice gal like you to make his life sweet.”

He wasn’t hearing her at all.

Staring straight ahead, at the Sound, her eyes burned with frustration and injustice, with longing for Erik, hatred for Brodie, and a sharp desperation for the mother who might have understood her better.

“You got yore nice fashions. Done a little waitressin’. Time to think about settlin’ in, li’l Laire. Find a nice boy. Let him court you for a spell.”

She felt bile rising in her throat.

“I’m mommucked, Daddy,” she said, standing up. “Think I’ll go to bed.”

She reached for the door when his voice stopped her.

“Oh, Laire! One other thing. Me and yore uncle’s headed out tomorrow afternoon to Harkers Island. Crabbin’s strong down there this year. We’ll stay the night on the boat and be back Friday afternoon.”

Wait! “W-what?”

“No need to make my dinner for tomorrow. Nor breakfast for Friday.”

“You’ll be . . .” She cleared her throat and tried desperately to remove any blatant enthusiasm from her voice. “You’ll be gone until Friday afternoon?”

He shrugged. “Might be back afore you head out to work Friday, might not. Hopin’ for a decent haul.”

Standing behind him, Laire clenched her fists by her sides as a wave of pure, unbridled, unadulterated joy swept through her. She was free. For a whole night. She could have a whole night with Erik.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly as tears of happiness pricked her eyes. “Take care now.”

“Aye-up,” he said. “Night, Laire. Consider what I said. ’Bout Brodie Walsh and you.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, letting the door shut behind her as she raced into her room, her cheeks wet from tears of silent celebration.

***

Laire was as mad as Erik had ever seen her when they parted ways yesterday.

They’d been cuddling on the Adirondack chairs—she was sitting cradled in his lap—when he asked her if there was any way she could spend the night with him tonight. He knew it was a bold request, but damn, he just wanted the time with her, and he’d been quick to add that sex was definitely off the table. He wasn’t looking for that. He just wanted hours and hours with her.