Seaside Embrace(43)

His father looked up from behind the counter. A wide smile graced his handsome face as he came around the counter with open arms.

“Hunt. How’re you doing, son?”

Hunter welcomed his father’s warm embrace. Neil Lacroux had hair the color of sand after a harsh rain. When he’d been drinking, his belly had gone soft and his face had aged, but now that he’d been sober for a few years, he’d lost the weight. Losing his wife had stolen a piece of his spirit and left behind a shadow of emptiness that Hunter assumed would always be there. But he was glad his father had climbed out of the bottle and gotten back to the business of living his life.

“I’m okay, Pop. I thought I’d come down and walk the aisles for a bit.” He smiled, knowing his father would laugh at the reminder of what he’d said to his son so often in his youth when Hunter had had a bad day. Come on down to the shop with me. Walk the aisles. We’ll talk tools and you’ll feel better.

“Gotchya.” His father’s large hand landed on Hunter’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “What’s on your mind?” He picked up a can of paint from the counter and placed it on the shelves beside the others. “Is it the competition? I’ve got Mira, the young gal I hired last month, coming in later so I can be there.”

“Thanks, Pop.” Thinking of Jana and the sculpture he’d created in her image, he said, “It’s not that. I’m pretty sure we’ve got that nailed.”

“That’s what Grayson said, too. He said you’d finally found your muse.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” Was there such thing as a life muse? Because that’s what he felt like Jana had become. She inspired so much more than his creativity.

They walked up and down the aisles. His father pointed out a few new tools and a new brand of electric screwdriver he carried. Normally the distraction would be enough to ease Hunter’s mind no matter what he was dealing with, but today he couldn’t shake the churning in his gut.

His father looked at him with an assessing gaze and tilted his head toward his office. “Come see what I found last week.”

Hunter followed him into the small office just beyond the counter. Neil waved to a chair, and Hunter sat down, watching his father push aside stacks of papers. The wall in front of his desk was littered with pictures of Hunter and their family.

“I was digging around in your mother’s sewing room, looking for something I’d misplaced.” He opened his file drawer and withdrew a green hanging file folder. “And I found these.” He set the folder on his desk and opened it, revealing Hunter’s original drawings of his very first sculpture.

“She kept them?” The image of his parents standing across from Wellfleet Harbor came rushing back, the smell of the bay, the glimmer of love in his mother’s eyes. God, he missed her. He reached for the drawings, poring over the notes he’d written in the margins. Remember her fingers. His arm.

“She kept everything,” his father said. “Those drawings were the catalyst for what you’ve become, Hunter. I saw it as kind of a sign, seeing as how your work is going to be judged in the very spot where you saw us standing.”

Hunter nodded, smiling to himself with the memory of that afternoon. “You know, Pop, there was a time when my work was everything. I lived for it. I craved the feel of the cold metal in my hands. Knowing that whatever I had inside me would come out in what I created.” He gazed into his father’s deep-set eyes. Eyes he’d looked into his whole life and seen endless support.

“And now?” his father asked.

“Now I still feel the same love of my work. I could never stand in front of a class and teach, like Matt, or tattoo people’s skin, like Sky. And the way you and Pete refinish boats is incredible, but it’s also too regimented for me. I need the freedom my work offers. I need to be able to visualize what I want and turn those visions into reality.” He inhaled and blew it out slowly. “But for the first time in my life, I found something else that fulfills me in ways I never imagined possible, someone else. She challenges me, Pop, and makes me want to be a better person. More caring. Stronger, but in a different sort of way.”

“Sounds like me when I met your mother.”

He smiled, thinking of his mother. “The funny thing is, with her it’s not about fulfilling my hopes and dreams. It’s about fulfilling hers.”

Hunter pushed to his feet, filled with purpose and determination. “Pop, I have an idea.”

“You usually do,” his father mumbled as he got to his feet. “You know, you don’t always have to act on your impulses, Hunter. You could contemplate, let things settle for a little while, and then make a decision with a level head.”

He smiled and draped an arm over his father’s shoulder. “Wasn’t it you who told me that levelheaded decisions have no place where women are concerned?”

His father laughed. “Probably so.”

“Well, then, you should say ‘I told you so.’ Because it’s definitely true where my woman is concerned.”


***

WHY DID EXHIBITION matches always run late? The match was supposed to begin at two o’clock, and by four o’clock they were just finishing the third weight class. Jana was up next, and she was a nervous wreck. She was running on no sleep, too much coffee, too little training, and a heart that felt like it had been filled up like a helium balloon that soared to cloud nine, only to find it had a pinhole leak and was making a slow descent back down to earth.

“Ready, sis?” Brock helped her put on her gloves while he spoke. “Whatever’s got you more jittery than a coke addict, kick it to the curb, because, baby, you’ve got this. You’re fierce, determined, and you’ve got a harder punch than any woman in your weight class. Focus, Jana.”

How could she focus when she felt like her world was careening out of control again? She should be at the competition with Hunter, not fighting in a match she didn’t really care about.

She held up her boxing gloves. “Can you just check my texts for me quickly? Hunter had his competition today for a sculpture he was making, and I was supposed to go. I just want to know if he won.”

“That’s what you’re stewing over? Jana, we could have forfeited this match.” Brock grabbed her cell phone and checked her text messages. “You’ve got, like, a zillion messages from Sky and one from Hunter. Which do you want first?”

“Sky.” Because Hunter’s might not be as nice.

Brock began reading Sky’s message. “‘OMG. Hunter is a finalist. SQUEE! He is one of three finalists, fingers crossed.’” He arched a brow. “Squee?”

Jana smiled, too happy to respond to his question. “He’s a finalist. That’s amazing.”

“There’s more. Do I really have to read them all? You go up in seven minutes—”

“Read them!” Her happiness was layered in guilt. Hunter had placed as a finalist, but she’d missed it. He never asked her for a thing, and here she was, fighting instead of going to the event he’d been working toward for weeks. She really did suck as a girlfriend. She made a decision right then and there that from now on she would focus on Hunter. No matter what else was going on in her life, she was going to make sure she was there for him. And if he needed her to modify her sexy dancing in order to feel more comfortable, then she’d do that, too. It was a small concession, wasn’t it? He’d done so much for her.

Brock sighed and continued reading Sky’s texts. “‘He looks so nervous. And OMG if you could see the guy he’s up against. He’s such a nerd LOL.’” He lifted his eyes. “Jana. I’m not doing this.”

“Fine, just skip to the last message from her and read that.” She waited, hoping Hunter had won the competition.

“‘They’re not doing the final judging until later. Maybe you can still make it.’”

“Good,” Jana said. “Everyone’s late today. Maybe I can make it.”

The announcer called for Jana and her competitor.

“You’re up, sis.” Brock set her phone in her bag and took her by the shoulders. “I want you to use that feel-good energy to win this fight, you got it?”

Jana nodded. “Just tell me what Hunter’s text says.”

“Damn it, Jana. That’s not focusing.” He grabbed the phone with a huff, swiped the screen, and read, “‘We need to talk.’”





Chapter Thirty-Two


THE CROWD CHEERED as the winner pranced around the ring with her hands in the air. Jana took her wounded ego and battered body back to the locker room, shrugging off Brock’s consoling words and trying to ignore the blood dripping down her cheek. She’d been so sidetracked about Hunter’s cursory text, and the guilt of missing his competition, that she’d completely lost focus.

She reached into her purse for her phone, and the key Hunter had made fell to the floor, landing with a hollow ping. She swiped at the sweat dripping from her brow, then scrubbed her hand over her face, wincing as her hand touched the welt below her right eye where she’d taken a nasty blow.