Chapter 9

Copyright 2003 by Elizabeth Delayne



For a Saturday morning, it was quiet, broken only by the faint clink of weights coming from the weight room. Andrea caped the brush onto the bottle of fingernail polish and glanced down as she wiggled her toes, her toenails now a dark pink.

"Somehow I don't think Amy would be doing that if she was on duty."

Andrea glanced up and glared at John. No, Amy would be outside. They both knew it. And since she was there to fill in for Amy, she knew it was where she needed to be.

"If you would let me go out and do Amy's patrol instead of sit in here listening to the police radio—"

"Sweetheart, you're not even on the payroll right now. If I let you walk out that door on an assignment and something were to happen, I don't think even your parents could get us out of legal trouble."

She did not like it, but she understood his reasoning. "Fine—your loss."

"Sure is. I'd like the opportunity to paint my nails a pretty pink."

"Next time then."

John picked up his body board and backed toward the door. "Derek's in his office if you need something—just leave him alone otherwise. He's not in the best of temperaments after that media fiasco last night."

"Does he know about Chloe?"

"Yeah. I don't think he's slept. He's been on the phone with Anna part of the morning."

"Anna?"

"She's looking into it—friend of the family, that kind of thing. Stay awake," he called in parting as he pushed out of the doors and left by way of the deck.

Time past slowly in the quiet. The phone refused to ring. The police radio squawked a few times, but otherwise remained silent. Curled in the chair, her barefoot feet propped on the white laminate desk, Andrea stared out the glass toward the ocean, the foaming surf deserted of conquerors.

It was tranquil enough that she fought the weariness remaining from the late night madness. She'd managed a round with Amy before Amy had elected to stay over at her place with Chloe. Laying in her own bed, wide awake, Andrea had listened to Amy pacing the floor in the living room. If Andrea had been alone, she would have paced the floor herself.

But then Amy would have worried over her and shut down her own emotions. It happened every time. Everyone's goal in their own personal crisis seemed to be to protect Andrea.

Well, Andrea could take care of herself.

She was tired tension and the madness of it all.

But her friends were not supposed to be catalysts for investigations. They weren't supposed to be in danger.

She pressed her fingertips against her tired eyes and sighed.

"Your mom thought you might want this."

She dropped her hands from her eyes just as the bag hit the desk. It was from a downtown coffee house that she visited often, sometimes with her mother as it was near the office ....

The implications dawned on her as she looked up, and up again, into Eric's eyes. His hair, normally a frame around his face was pushed back with a pair of sunglasses. His eyes, a rich green, were uncovered. He was worried about her.

Irked enough, and tired already, she sat up, dropping her feet to the floor. She'd known she looked tired and was well aware that John had given her the easy job. She did not want the same treatment from Eric. He'd never had to do that before.

"What are you doing here? You're not dressed for work," she muttered, eyeing his jeans and designer shirt angrily. He should not look so good, stirring up the feelings again, when she felt so terrible and desperately needed sleep.

"Just doing some research. Your mom called and said that she'd heard you'd been forced to skip breakfast."

"Chloe wanted to get the whole thing over with. I wasn't hungry anyway."

"You need to keep up your ... strength."

"So I've been told," Andrea muttered, and stood finally, tired of looking so far up at him. "Thanks."

But she did not touch the bag. She had a vague idea that Eric would have picked up their traditional breakfast. They'd shared it enough, down at a small coffee shop near the university, before classes, before going into the office for their separate internships. She couldn't deal with those memories, with those emotions. Not now. Not right now.

"You going to eat," he said and gestured to the bag, "or do I have to call reinforcements?"

Andrea frowned and took a moment to study the cascade of the ocean. He was trying to lighten the mood. He wouldn't know, didn't know, that she had grown up with people ganging up on her—she had not told him, had not wanted him to know.

Knowing didn't help the anger that surged. She didn't want him to be one of those people. She had loved that she had been free around him.

"That's what you came here to do, isn't it?" The bitterness in her voice surprised even her. Go away, she wanted to say as the tension spiraled. She could feel her arms shake. She understood the weakness and knew the dangerous line she stood on. I'll eat. I promise. Go away so I can eat in peace.

"Excuse me?"

She turned, her hands coiling into tight fists. The panic blossomed.

"You came here and start pulling together allies. My own mom. My best friends. You waltz in to this town, my town, and turn the people closest to me against me."

"You left fast. You didn't explain—"

"Yes I did," she spat the words out. "I left. I didn't need to explain. I was sick and I was sick and tired of being vulnerable to being sick. I came home to heal. I followed my heart."

"And that made it okay for you to leave me out there, wondering, fearing that ... fearing I don't know what. You left and..."

"And that's what this is about. I left and that erked you a little, didn't it?"

"What?"

"That I was the one to leave you hanging. You weren't the one to break up with me. You weren't the one calling the shots—it wasn't your town, your career, your job. Now you're here. You want me back, you want me to eat. You drop a sack of food down and expect me to grapple into it like a monkey. You want me to do what you want me to do."

"And you're saying I'm unreasonable?" Eric murmured, the fire lit in his eyes. "I didn't ask you to light my fire in my heart, Andrea. At this point, that's moot. I brought you some breakfast—just breakfast because people who love you know you need it. Some people would call that a favor."

"Fine. Thank you," she turned and pressed her hands flat to the cool glass window and fought tears. "You can go."

"I can go," he repeated bitterly. "Thanks, princess. You give orders well."

Relieved when he moved to leave, she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the glass. He would have left anyway, she reminded herself. His career had been on the fast track. She wouldn't have been able to handle it. She'd wanted to—but her body, her imperfect body—had reminded her where she belonged.

She thought of the calm, cultivated grounds of the Springs rehab center, of Kuzcos, her friends. Her mom, dad, her brother. She took a breath and slowly let it out.

"There is one thing," he muttered and she jerked back, not wanting him to see the weakness. She slowly lowered her hands to her sides and curled her fingers into fists, reaching inside of her for control.

"I came back, looking for the girl that I knew in Boston. You left a hole in my heart when you left. I wanted to find it. I thought we could ... I thought that you might be hurting as I hurt. That you ran from the fear I felt."

"But you're not who I thought you were. To my surprise, I see that underneath that smooth image you like to show the world, you're a snob. A plain snob without the fancy trimmings. You look down on your illness with hatred. And it's surprising because of how you choose to make a living. I don't even know how you do your job, not when you go to work with people who have problems, worse than your own. Does it help you to see people worse off than you?"

Her lip trembled as she fought for a breath, to take in air, leaving her in stunned silence as the pain sliced through her.

The anger, quick and fierce diffused quickly from his eyes. Suddenly there was sorrow and regret.

But her anger shot up, like fire set to fuel. She slapped out against the hand that reached for her.

"How dare you!" she scathed, trembling in an attempt to fight for air. "How dare you walk in here when my friends have been attacked, when I haven't slept and turn my own emotions around on me. I haven't eaten, Eric. It does blind me to rationality. How dare you come in here, acting like you care about me—when you don't even know me. When you never—you couldn't have—and say—those things—"

"Andrea."

She spun and slapped back at the hands that grabbed her from behind. It was Derek, she thought. Just Derek, shocked and worried. She'd been screaming; hatefully screaming.

She closed her eyes and let the revulsion roll as tears pricked her eyes. She, who hated public scenes more than anything, had given one grand performance.

"I'm sorry," she murmured through dry lips. She opened her eyes slowly and forced herself to meet Derek's worried gaze. If she could have melted, she would have slid into the floor, out the door, to be washed away by the waves. "I just ... it's been a long ... I've got to ... I'm sorry. Tell John I'm sorry ...."

Knowing Eric was watching her, and unable look at him, she dipped down and gathered her flip flops, her purse, and grabbed the sack of breakfast. She needed to go, to get out before the sob rising in her throat broke free.



Derek dropped the hand he put to Eric to hold him back. He had read Andrea's file, had talked to her friends, and understood the signs. Andrea would need time, he knew, and in the quiet, feeling the guilt, she would probably dig out whatever food had been in the sack and eat. It was hard to watch her break down. She was normally serene compared to Amy.

"I'm sorry," Eric said, rubbing his face with his hands, "I shouldn't have said ... I didn't mean ... those things have been inside since ... since she left. A defense."

"Derek Johnson," Derek introduced himself and motioned toward his office.

"Eric Bridgewater."

"Give yourself time to calm down. She's too ashamed to see you right now. She needs time to settle, get some fuel in her system. What you just saw was more from fatigue and the diabetes than from the Andrea we all know and love. And we all love her."

It was a warning just as much as it was a reminder.

Eric wondered into the office and dropped down on a chair, burying his face in his hands. "Her mom warned me she would be upset. I shouldn't have ... I can't loose her like this."

"Andrea's got a big heart—she knows how to listen. In the end she'll get over it," Derek noted and sat down behind his desk. Picking up a pen, he simply gave Eric time. He knew what it was like to feel agony. He hated to admit he was thankful Amy had been unable to come into work this morning. He wasn't sure he was ready to see her.

Even when he wanted to see her.

Anna had called him to inform him of the situation just as he collapsed into his own bed. He had not gone in to the station, knowing Amy needed time, but it had hurt to stand back. The attack had been against Chloe, but someone had gone after Amy before. It was too soon to forget.

He'd climbed out of bed and worked out the frustration on his punching bag as he said round after round of prayer. He feared for her safety, and all he could do was turn that over to God. He regretted the kiss, the timing, the moment. He wanted more. She took life on with both hands ready to fight.

Eric let out a breath and leaned back in the chair, his eyes unfocused, lost. "I've screwed this up from the beginning. What I said, I didn't mean it. I don't want her to think I did."

Derek nodded. "You want my advice?"

"You got something good?"

"It's Saturday, so she'll be up at the Springs Rehab this afternoon. Go up and see her, see where she works, take her something that doesn't have anything to do with her health."

Eric met Derek's gaze and smiled, "You know her well."

He thought of Amy and sighed. "Not Andrea so much as one of her friends."



They had bought themselves a sail boat, Amy thought as she stood on the pier and studied the sturdy structure that was badly in need of a paint job. There were stacks of boxes on the deck, supplies for their new life.

She took a deep breath and let it out.

"Amy—" Ham stepped onto the deck and spotted her as she jumped aboard. He looked, she thought, just a little guilty as she knew he'd feel.

"You um, you must have seen Mitch. He stopped by when he couldn't find Chloe."

"He found her," she stepped forward and took the box from him. Ham was regaining his deep tan color, though he was thinner, looking a little older. His hair was white against his scalp, the tee-shirt he wore the least bit too large for his smaller frame.

She narrowed her look and he met her glance eye for eye. He wasn't one to run from confrontation—even if he had hid from it.

"Were you going to tell me, Ham?"

"Of course I was going to tell you. Things have been happening kind of fast, Amy. We were going to tell everyone—when we were sure. Joe!" he called out, and turned to put space between them. "We got company."

Amy rolled her eyes and expelled a breath. Her stomach pitched and rolled and it had nothing to do with being on a boat.

Even a boat that looked to be on is last voyage.

The aged retired police chief from the Upper Springs climbed out and stepped up beside Ham. "So we do," he said, nervously stuffing his hands in the pocket of his shorts. "How you doing, Amy?"

"I'm fine," she said.

"Give us a minute, Joe?" Ham asked.

"Sure. Have to go to the store anyway."

Amy watched him, still nimble and quick, as he jumped off the boat and headed down the extended deck. She swallowed against the lump in her throat and faced her surrogate father.

"Mitch said you two were getting ready to leave."

Ham nodded, motioning for her to proceed him down the steps. "We should have everything ready by Monday."

"Monday? That's two days away."

She concentrated on the boat and took in each detail of the below decks. It was older, but the wood shinned beneath polish.

She trusted Ham with a boat. He had worked with the Coast Guard. He knew more about boats than any other soul she knew. And she knew he had the money.

But it was just such a big step ... one she was going to have to take.

There were no trinkets set out—nothing except a map stretched across the dining table and propped open with silverware. She sat the box down on the counter.

"Ham, you've just gotten out of rehab. What did your therapist say?"

"To wear good deck shoes and to watch myself. I've been out for months. Joe and I—we want to get started. See the world, the Pacific, whatever we can while we're still healthy enough to jump into a boat. I've got me my own space back there and Joe's got the starboard end. We stacked up what books we've been saying we were going to read for thirty years. And we put down our course," he stopped at the small table across from the stove and put his finger down on the map that was stretched out across. "One day we'll get here."

One day, Amy thought as she studied the absent place where Ham's finger touched in the middle of the Pacific ocean. "It's just sudden."

"No—maybe I didn't let on that Joe and I were serious. Maybe I didn't know I was, but it's been a lifetime of planning, talking, praying. Got some kids to rent out the house and Derek's promised to look over it for me. They're ready to move in tomorrow and then Joe and me, we'd be living on the boat anyway."

"You've known Ham—you just didn't want to tell me."

"I've been telling you for years, you just weren't listening," he sighed. "And maybe I didn't because I made it my job to watch after you—I don't need to do that anymore."

"Who says?"

He only shook his head, "The only thing that's sudden is that I suddenly stood up on my own two feet," he reached out and patted her cheek, then sighed and left his hand there, still firm and strong, to rest along her jaw. "You're a good kid, Amy. You've come a long way. Your mother would be proud. You're going to be all right."

It was a pep talk that seemed like a cliché. Was she—something old and done with? Now Ham was leaving, not to be around at all.

"What am I going to do without you?" she asked and her voice cracked. She'd had a lifetime of those eyes, a lifetime of that assurance, but it wasn't nearly long enough. She needed him to say things would be okay.

"You're going to find your own dreams," Ham meandered over to the sofa past the galley and wearily sat down on the cushions. "I've been thinking Amy. Sitting in a hospital bed gives you time. You were like a daughter to me, and maybe I held on too tight. I allowed you to live my dreams for too long and I never encouraged you to find your own."

Seeing the sorrow in his eyes, Amy dropped down on the sofa beside him and settled into the crock of his arm. "I wanted to follow you. I wanted to be just like you."

"As you wanted to follow your mother. As you've tried to follow your dad. You don't have your own course planned. None of that was wrong, but you've got to discover your own dreams. You can't sail off without direction."

Amy rolled her eyes. "Some advice from you."

"For thirty years I did what I loved most—almost. I worked the beaches. I watched my kids, you guys, grow into beautiful adults. I earned the check, I paid the prices. I'm where I want to be because I made the plans to do it."

She closed her eyes and settled so she could listen to his heart. And what were her dreams? She would never hold Ham's job as captain of the beach station. She wondered if she would have ever really loved the job as he had. She'd simply loved him.

She knew she wouldn't have gone after it with Derek's commitment. Or his leadership.

And thinking of it, she thought of Derek and sighed.

"We're going to have a party, Joe and I. Tonight ... tomorrow, after services. Thought we'd invite you kids over. Let you see how our baby cuts through the water. You'll come?"

"I'll be here and I'll call everyone."

"Amy," he ran a hand over her hair. "You've come a long way. You're going to be fine. I promise."

HEY! and don't forget to e-mail me if you have a comment!







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