The Harbor

Nine

Somewhere-a magazine, probably-Betsy had read that sparkling wine went to the head faster than regular wine. She could believe it. She was on her third glass of an expensive champagne that Luke had chosen himself, although he seldom indulged in more than a sip or two. She was feeling the effects of the alcohol, finding it difficult to concentrate on what Luke and Stick Monroe were saying. She kept having to stifle an inappropriate giggle or yawn.

The police had been by to ask about the break-in at Christina's café. Of course, she and Luke hadn't seen anything.

Luke was concerned about Kyle, since he had an apartment above the café, but the police said neither he nor Christina had been there and nothing of Kyle's was stolen or vandalized. The café was fine, too. Just some money missing from the cash register.

Stick had dropped by a few minutes ago. It was getting late for Luke to be up, but they were all in the yacht's main salon, which was decorated in rich, buttery colors, with modern artwork and mirrors opposite the bank of windows that overlooked the harbor. The effect was an atmosphere of intimacy, elegance and style, but cost was important, too. Luke would want people to know that everything he owned was of the highest quality, the best taste, and that he could afford it. He didn't make movies like his father or catch lobsters like Bruce Young-Luke made money.

Betsy sank onto a curving sectional under the windows and had to squint to keep the room steady. It wasn't because of the ocean undulating under them. It was the champagne. She looked out at the harbor, where lobster boats bobbed gently under the starlit sky. The water was nearly still. She was struck by the contrast of Luke's multimillion-dollar luxury yacht and the rugged working boats. Each boat had its own buoys, with unique colors that identified its traps. By law they were required to display their buoy colors on their boats for others to see.

Betsy had never fit in in her hometown. Growing up in Goose Harbor, living here as an adult. She wasn't an old Yankee, a summer person, a fisherman, a part of the tourist industry. She was a nurse. Her mother had been a nurse, too. Her father had died in the very early days of Vietnam. That was the one thing she'd had in common with Olivia West-a close relative killed in war.

Luke pretended he didn't give a damn about fitting in, but Betsy thought his contempt for such trivialities was a defense mechanism. She thought he was a man who desperately wanted to fit in somewhere, anywhere. He romanticized small-town life.

She watched him pour a glass of champagne and hand it to Stick Monroe. Betsy felt the room spin a little more. Stick was definitely a man who didn't worry about fitting in. If people liked him, fine. If they didn't, fine. But it wasn't something he had to pay attention to-people generally liked him. He was handsome, successful, confident, imposing yet well-mannered, authentic. People tended not to like people who always fretted about whether or not they were liked.

Stick was saying something about Zoe West and that FBI agent. Betsy leaned forward in the soft cushions and forced herself to concentrate, placed her fingertips at her temples as if that could still the spinning in her head. Stick had on shorts and a sweatshirt in spite of the chilly evening. Betsy was almost thirty years younger than he was, but she expected he had more energy now than she did at her best, when she wasn't feeling the effects of three glasses of champagne.

"You have no idea what's going on with these break-ins?" Stick asked.

Betsy sat back abruptly at the obvious insinuation and expected Luke to throw Stick off the boat. But Luke, in khakis and a pale blue cashmere sweater, remained on his feet and didn't react heatedly. "Of course not. Why would I?"

"Kyle-"

"Kyle's not involved."

"He's Christina's boyfriend. He lives at the café."

Luke narrowed his eyes. "Are you suggesting my son could be the target of the break-ins?"

Stick shook his head. "I'm not suggesting anything."

Luke came around from the bar, his skin color a bit off. Betsy suspected the conversation was more unsettling to him than he wanted Stick to know. They'd been friends for years-both had adored Olivia West and considered Patrick their friend.

Stick let the stem of his glass slide between two fingers. "What do you know about this FBI agent?"

"Nothing," Luke said. "His name's J. B. McGrath. He rented a boat from Bruce Young. He's on vacation. He's been beating everyone at darts. He annoys people, I think."

"Kyle?"

Luke didn't answer at once. Betsy knew he wouldn't want to involve his son in a discussion about a mysterious FBI agent in town. For all his oddities, Luke did love his only child. "I don't think Kyle's had anything to do with him, frankly."

Stick drank more of his champagne. "McGrath seems very interested in Zoe."

"Do you think he hasn't been straight with everyone about his reasons for being here? Isn't that illegal, or at least unethical for an FBI agent?"

"I don't know. I just worry about Zoe." Stick smiled, almost embarrassed. "I guess I can't help it."

Betsy tried to make eye contact with Luke, but he wouldn't look at her, or simply had forgotten she was there. She had no idea where Stick was going with this conversation. He'd always treated Zoe like some kind of protégée, ever since she was a little kid and he was the well-connected, respected judge. He'd believed Zoe could do anything. When she'd been accepted to the FBI Academy, Stick said she could be the first female FBI director if she wanted to.

Betsy wondered if Zoe was a disappointment to him now that her father's murder and her aunt's death had thrown her into a tailspin. Not only did she not go to the academy, she'd run off to a small town in Connecticut and got herself fired from her police job there.

But Stick would never say a bad word about Zoe West, and if she wanted him to, he'd help her pick up the pieces of her career and figure out what to do next. Betsy was convinced of that.

Olivia had always been suspicious of Zoe's commitment to law enforcement and often wondered aloud to Betsy about whether her niece would stick with it or burn out before she was thirty-five. Olivia would sigh and say, then what? Then what would Zoe do? Now it seemed almost like a premonition.

"I have nothing to hide," Luke said. "If that's what you're implying."

Stick sank onto the far end of the couch, at least two yards from Betsy. He was another one who'd watched Luke grow up, summer to summer, in Goose Harbor, who'd known what wretches his parents were. Stick cupped his champagne glass in his palm, the stem between his fingers. "What about Teddy Shelton?" he asked.

Clearly caught off guard, Luke staggered back toward the bar. He placed one hand on the polished wood and steadied himself. Betsy could see he was rattled. No wonder. Teddy Shelton was a creep. She frowned at Stick, but he ignored her. He wasn't the old friend anymore but the truth-seeking judge, the arbiter of justice. He was neither kind nor unkind. That wasn't his role, not at this moment. He wanted the truth and thought he'd get it by intimidating and blindsiding Luke.

"Luke's got nothing to do with that dirtbag Shelton." Betsy jumped to her feet, prompting a wave of dizziness so profound she thought she might vomit. Heat surged up through her, fierce enough that it seemed to make even her hair feel hot, but she didn't back off. "Stick, what's the matter with you, coming in here like this and insinuating Luke's done something wrong?"

He didn't spare her so much as a glance, his incisive judge-eyes staying on Luke, as if he could see right through him and read his mind. "Luke?"

"You're talking through your hat." Luke's voice was calm, but Betsy could see he was shaken, if only from the insult. If Stick Monroe thought he was mixed up with the likes of Teddy Shelton, who else did? "You don't know anything."

"Call him off, Luke." Stick spoke in a quiet, measured voice, but there was no mistaking his seriousness. "You can't control a man like Teddy Shelton. I don't care how innocent your arrangement with him sounds to you, trust me that it won't sound that way to anyone else."

Her head spinning, her hands sweaty, Betsy staggered toward the two men. "What arrangement?"

Neither answered. She might have been invisible.

Luke's nostrils flared. His lips thinned and took on a purplish tint, but Betsy hoped it was just a combination of the lighting and his emotions, usually so repressed, rising to the surface. He was such a hypochondriac that if he were in real medical trouble, he'd throw Stick out and have Betsy call an ambulance.

"Do yourself a favor and head south," Stick went on. His tone was gentle now, the calm, wise older friend giving Luke sound advice. "You're normally gone by now, anyway. No one will think twice about it. There's no point staying here any longer. Call Teddy Shelton off and leave. Then you won't have to worry about people jumping to the wrong conclusions."

"Zoe and that FBI agent, you mean," Luke said.

Stick nodded. "Precisely."

"I had nothing to do with Patrick's death." Luke's voice was raspy, as if he were being strangled. "Neither did Shelton."

"I didn't say I or anyone else suspect you of any wrongdoing. I just don't think you want the likes of Zoe West and J. B. McGrath asking questions about why you hired Teddy Shelton." Unruffled, Stick polished off the last of his champagne and got slowly to his feet. He set the glass on the bar. "They're going to want to know who you suspect of wrongdoing. How far will you go-"

"Go to hell!"

Luke reared back to punch Stick, but the old judge shook his head, as if his disapproval alone would be enough to ward off the attack. It was. Luke backed away, breathing in rapid, shallow gulps, spit oozing out at the corners of his mouth. Betsy had never seen him so angry.

"Get off my boat," he spat. "Now."

Stick still didn't react. "Luke, I'm not accusing you of anything except hiring Teddy Shelton. I don't question your motives. Others might, but I don't. I know you wanted him to check out this FBI agent and keep an eye on Zoe-because you're afraid for her, afraid for Christina, afraid for your son."

Betsy was stunned, and she lost her footing, stumbling on the flat carpeting. "Luke? What's going on?"

"Your loyalty to Olivia is no secret," Stick continued. "Given Zoe's behavior this past year, we all want to make sure she doesn't self-destruct. I imagine we all have things we'd rather hide from the prying eyes of the police. A murder investigation spares no one. But to spy on Zoe here in Goose Harbor requires a subtlety and expertise Teddy Shelton doesn't have. People might draw the wrong conclusion if they find out."

"I don't care what people think. I've done nothing wrong!"

"Luke," Betsy said, "that FBI agent was talking to Teddy earlier today-"

He swung around at her. "Stay out of this, Betsy."

Stick waited. Betsy, breathless, could feel her pulse thumping in her temple and thought-watch, I'll drop dead of a stroke and Luke'll be fine.

"Patrick was my friend as much as yours," Luke continued, calmer but obviously only because he was forcing himself. "Just because I'm wealthy doesn't mean I'm arrogant and accustomed to having my own way. Don't make assumptions about me, Stick."

"Oh, for God's sake, Luke." Stick seemed almost amused. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were stating the obvious. "You are arrogant and accustomed to having your own way. So is your son. I'm here because I'm your friend. I'm not implying you know anything about Patrick's death or have anything to hide. I'm merely asking you to cut your ties with Shelton and head south. If this liaison with Teddy Shelton goes sour and someone gets hurt, what do you think will happen to you? Who do you think will stand up for you? You don't have a lot of friends in Goose Harbor as it is."

"When Olivia was alive-"

"She was a great lady and may be the only person in your life who ever loved you unconditionally, but she's gone, Luke. I know Zoe as if she were my own daughter, and I just had an encounter of my own with J. B. McGrath. Don't be fooled by his easygoing manner, playing darts with the guys, letting them tease him, teasing them back. He's tough as nails. Suspicious, well-trained." Stick stood back from the bar. "I'd listen to me if I were you."

Luke was silent, breathing hard. Betsy stumbled forward a few steps and touched Stick on the elbow. "It's time to leave, Stick. Luke's done. You won't get any more out of him tonight."

His expression softening, Stick didn't jerk his arm from Betsy's grasp but instead reached across with his free arm and patted her hand. "You're the salt of the earth, Betsy. I'm just trying to get him to see this situation for what it is. If I had any information, any inkling, Luke was trying to protect a murderer, I'd take what I knew to the authorities."

"Don't interfere, Betsy," Luke said. "Do yourself a favor for once and mind your own business."

"Luke," Stick chided him. "You're lucky to have a woman like Betsy in your life."

Luke said nothing.

Betsy tried to hide her embarrassment with a polite smile. She'd always been intimidated by Stick- it wasn't his fault. His reputation, his intellect, his manners, the fact that he'd lived in and seen more of the world than she ever would-everything about him made her feel frumpy and inadequate. At seventy-two, he could walk farther than she could. He grew prettier roses.

"Here," she said quietly, "I'll walk you out."

"It's all right, Betsy, I know the way." Stick kissed her warmly on the cheek. "I'm sorry about all this. Think of it as a form of tough love. I had to get through to him."

He nodded at Luke, who said nothing, his lips bloodless, and left.

When she was sure Stick was gone and out of earshot, Betsy grabbed up his empty champagne glass. "I hope the old fart trips and falls headfirst into the harbor. A dose of cold Maine water might give his system just the shock it needs." She noticed Luke was sweat ing, trembling. "I suppose he means well."

"Betsy…"

She didn't move to his side. She'd learned not to go near him unless he wanted her there. "What do you want me to do, Luke?"

"Help me…" He gasped for air. "Help me to bed."

"Are you sure? It's still early-"

His eyes shot through her, and she realized that even as upset as he was, anger and humiliation seethed just beneath the surface. She knew he hated the idea of someone like Stick Monroe thinking he'd done something stupid. "Help me."

"Do you want me to check your blood pressure?"

He shook his head. "I know it's high. I can feel it."

He motioned for her to come close, and when she put her arm around his lower back and took his hand, she could feel that his skin was clammy. But there wasn't a thing wrong with him. He'd live to be a hundred, unless it turned out all the supplements he was taking were no good for him, after all.

She guided him back to his stateroom. She had her own. He kept a little bell by his table in case he needed her in the night, not just for medical care. For sex, too. It was just a little arrangement they had. It made him feel more secure, and she didn't mind. Her stateroom was beautiful, and she appreciated the quiet nights when she could just sit in bed and read. But she'd die if anyone knew she responded to a bell.

She helped Luke out of his clothes. There was nothing romantic or loving in her actions, nothing remotely sexual. This was work. She was the nurse now, the professional.

"I don't think Kyle's relationship with Christina is anything that'll last, but if he-" Betsy found herself unable to get a proper breath. "Luke, I know you can't think your son had anything to do with Patrick's death."

"I asked you to mind your own business. None of this is your concern. Betsy-" He shivered as if suddenly he was cold, and she pulled back the covers of his bed and helped him slip beneath them. He took her hand, his eyes brimming with tears. "I'm sorry. Betsy, I don't know how I'd manage without you."

Pure drama. He'd be fine without her. He knew it. Betsy wasn't fooled. He just didn't want her to tell Kyle about Stick's visit. Let the plain, single nurse feel wanted and loved, and she'd do anything. Betsy had no illusions about Luke or their relationship.

"Let me know if you decide you want to get up," she said, keeping her tone clinical, professional. "Ring the bell. I'll be up for a few more hours."

He nodded. "I can't believe Stick came in here like that. Who does he think he is?"

"I don't know, Luke. I think he just wants to look out for you."

"Later." He raised his hand higher and pressed two fingers against one of her nipples, through the fabric of her top, an example, she thought, of the sort of abrupt, inappropriate gesture that had kept most women out of his life. "I might want you later."

Betsy thought of several sarcastic remarks about heart attacks and strokes, but she withdrew to the main salon without comment and checked the bottle of champagne. Another glass left. She poured it for herself and sank back onto the sectional.

She stared out at the dark harbor, wondering how long she had before she heard the tinkle of Luke's little bell- and what was wrong with her for staying to find out.