A Daughter's Story. Tara Quinn Taylor
She hadn’t even known his intent until she’d heard the latch on the door click behind him.
She’d risen then. In the restroom she’d found the note he’d left for her on the marble sink, telling her to stay as long as she liked. He’d arranged a late check-out. He told her to order breakfast on him.
“I hope that our night together is a memory that will last you a lifetime,” he’d written. “I know that I will never forget you. Chris.”
That was it. Just Chris. No last name. No phone number. No way for her to contact him. No request for a way to contact her.
After reading the note half a dozen times Emma had told herself to dress, find her car and get the hell home.
And then she’d remembered Rob’s deadline, which wasn’t yet past, and had crawled back into bed. What the heck. Chris had presumably paid for the room. She might as well get some rest.
With the help of the wine she’d consumed the night before, she’d slept for several more hours—waking around noon to glasses half filled with stale wine and whiskey, the scent of lovemaking and her clothes in a neat pile on the table in front of the couch.
The note Chris had written was still there, too, crumpled on the bedside table. Right where she’d left it.
* * *
WITH HIS FADED orange coveralls stripped down to his waist, Chris dropped the wrench and swore. He was stranded on his boat about ten miles out. And saw a flash of long legs in his mind’s eye.
At his father’s insistence, he’d learned how to repair a boat engine before he’d pulled up his first trap. But there was only so much a guy could do to an engine with pistons that were done being overhauled. New rings weren’t going to do it this time. He’d had no black smoke warning this time. Only a rough idle when he’d taken the boat out.
Maybe he’d have taken the engine coughs more seriously if he’d had any sleep. If he’d been able to wipe out the image of dark curls spread across his white pillowcase. He couldn’t afford to miss another day’s catch. And engine coughing could be healed after he’d brought in the haul. Usually.
At least he’d brought in a better than average catch. More than seven hundred pounds. At only three dollars a pound—less than half of what he used to sell for—he was going to gross twenty-one hundred. He could get the catch in to Manny. With the cost of running a lobstering operation coupled with his living expenses, he was going to be lucky to make this month’s bills.
Which was another reason he didn’t date. He couldn’t afford to wine and dine a woman. He couldn’t afford the time.
Forgoing the radio—and the coast guard—Chris pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
He couldn’t afford a new engine, either. Or a day off work. He damn well couldn’t afford to be distracted by thoughts of a woman—no matter how good the night before had been.
“Jim, it’s Chris. I need a tow.”
He gave his father’s best friend his coordinates. Jim wasn’t fishing anymore. He’d bought a new boat just before the economy failed and had lost it to bankruptcy a couple of years later. Now the sixty-seven-year-old fisherman drove a towboat for Manny.
If Chris couldn’t find a way to fish and fix his boat at the same time, he could end up just like Jim.
“Be there in twenty,” Jim told him, and hung up.
No questions asked.
* * *
EMMA PUSHED THE button on her car visor, activating the automatic garage-door opener at four o’clock Saturday afternoon and paused in the driveway. Rob’s silver Ranger was still parked inside.
The tall, lanky, boyishly good-looking man came out of the kitchen and into the garage before the outer door was fully raised.
She had a choice. Back up and speed away. Or stay.
Emma pulled into her garage.
“You didn’t change the locks.” Rob was there, opening her door for her. “I spent the night praying that you’d give me another chance, Em. This was the first time since we got engaged,” he said, his tone pleading. “I swear to you, it won’t happen again. Ever.”
She got out of the car, pulling her purse out with her.
“The look on your face, when you came in the bedroom yesterday…”
Emma made her way to the door and into the house.
“I will never forget that look, Em. Or forgive myself for putting it there.”
He hadn’t moved out. Everything was just as she’d left it the day before. Rob’s shot glasses were on the second shelf of the window alcove over the sink. His espresso machine still sat on the counter. And his shoes were underneath the dining-room table—right where he always left them.
Most everything in the townhome—the furniture, the dishes, the mortgage—belonged to her. He’d sold his stuff when he’d moved in because they hadn’t needed two of everything.
“You’re in the same clothes you took with you yesterday.”
She put her purse on the closet shelf. Not far from Rob’s golf clubs. He was that sure of her.
She was that predictable.
“You have clothes at your mother’s house.”
She’d called her mother on her way home, letting Rose know that she’d stayed downtown and had a long rest. She’d assured Rose that she was fine and that she’d call her later. She’d opted out of joining her for dinner and a movie.
Now she wondered if maybe that hadn’t been such a good idea. If she had someplace to be, something she had to do, she could leave without running away.
Chris had had all morning to contact her at his hotel room, but he hadn’t. And he hadn’t returned.
Unlike Rob, she knew when someone was giving her ample time to get out.
“You’ve been out all night.”
Rob’s tone turned accusing as he followed her into the living room, down the hallway and into their shared home office. She had no idea what she was going to do there, but it was a better choice than the bedroom, where she really wanted to be.
Or the shower, where she needed to be.
“Where were you?”
He was standing right behind her. Hounding her. Emma turned and stared him right in the eye. “That is none of your business.”
“You’ve got a hickey on your neck.”
Emma raised a hand to cover the mark. She’d forgotten. Chris had been inside her—for a second time—when she’d admitted that she’d never had a hickey in her life. What had been a hazy recollection crystallized as though a high-powered beam had been pointed at the memory.
“You were with another man!” The astonishment in Rob’s voice riled her. He didn’t have to sound so shocked. Like the idea of another man wanting her was impossible to imagine.
“You’re no better than I am!”
He had that wrong. She’d waited until she was free before she had sex with someone else.
Rob reached out, taking hold of her shoulders, pulling her to him. “I’m sorry, Em. I understand. And I forgive you. I’m actually relieved.” He looked down at her, a sympathetic smile on his lips. “You don’t know how hard it’s been living with someone as perfect as you are. There’s no way I could ever measure up. But now…”
“What do you mean, as perfect as I am?”
“You know!” He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “You live completely on the white side of black and white. You don’t ever mess up. Or do anything unless you