hated it. I mean I loved him, but everything was so crappy all the time.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Peter’s guard was coming down. “I hear ya. Must have been a bitch.”
“They made me go to some stupid group. We were all a bunch of losers.”
“You mean you’d all lost someone you loved?” He needed to reframe it for Peter—something Mark himself had learned when he went into group therapy—because he couldn’t let Peter get away with the negative opinion of himself and other grievers, or anyone in therapy.
The kid’s mouth was tight, in a straight line, and he looked on the verge of crying.
“This anger you’re feeling all the time is real. It’s part of grieving. When we lose someone we love, we grieve for them. Sometimes it makes us angry as hell.”
“How do you know?” He spit out the words, challenging Mark.
“I lost more military buddies than I care to count in Iraq and Afghanistan. I know what I’m talking about.” His grief had been the single hardest part of coming back to Sandpiper Beach, because he no longer had the distraction of fighting a war. He was faced head-on with all the loss and horrifying memories. They’d crashed against him every single day and knocked him down. Made him want to either strike out or withdraw, so he chose to pull back, lie low, until he felt fit enough for society again. When it came to anger, he knew what he was talking about. Yet dealing with Peter, he already felt in over his head.
He saw a flicker of something in Peter’s gaze—maybe understanding, or firsthand experience grappling with fury. He’d also become more attentive.
“It’s hard, man,” Mark said. “Really hard. I get it.”
“I’m never gonna stop being mad. I hate death!”
The statement made him think about Laurel and all she’d had to face alone. They had that in common. Since they’d met that morning, she’d popped into his head a dozen times, which worried him. He remembered how she didn’t smile easily—but when she did, wow—and how cautious she seemed with him, insecure. Then the next thing he knew, she was spilling her life story over chocolate chip cookies.
Though she looked way too young to be a mother of a fourteen-year-old, she was still bound to be a bit older than Mark. Why was he even thinking this stuff? He wasn’t going to get involved.
He liked her hopeful attitude, trusted her instincts about the B&B and decided she was nothing short of an inspiration the way she refused to let loss and grief—being a widow, a single mother of three kids and overloaded with responsibility—drag her down. Not to mention how tough it must be dealing with a hurting and grieving teen like Peter.
Ah, hell, he already was involved. The kid was still staring at him.
“You have a right to your anger, but your mom isn’t the one who deserves it.” Mark glanced up to see a perfect-sized swell for a newcomer. He jumped off the board, leaving Peter on his own. “Okay, catch this one. Paddle. Paddle. Paddle!”
And Peter paddled as if his life depended on it. Mark bodysurfed alongside him, keeping up as best he could as Peter first attempted a time or two to stand, then finally got up on one knee, stood for the blink of an eye, then fell off. When he resurfaced, Mark met him with a smile and praise.
“Hey, that was the best you’ve done yet!”
Surprisingly, considering the topic they’d just been tossing around, Peter smiled, too. “I’m starting to get the hang of it.”
“Then you’ll just have to keep taking lessons until you’ve got it.”
“Can we catch one more?”
“That’s the spirit.”
An hour and a half later, the wind picked up and Peter was visibly chilled—his skin was pink-and-white blotchy to prove it—yet he didn’t complain, just kept trying to stand up on the surfboard. He’d come close a couple of times, but never quite pulled everything together. Still he never gave up. Mark discovered he liked something about Peter—he wasn’t a quitter.
“Lie down and I’ll push you in,” Mark said, treading water beside Peter and the surfboard.
For the second time that day, Peter didn’t argue.
As he swam closer to shore, with the help of a wave pushing them the rest of the way, Mark wanted to ask a favor of Peter while he still had him on his turf. “When we get back, tell your mom you’re sorry. She loves you, and it’s got to hurt when you treat her like that.”
Peter’s lips curled inward as he put on his flip-flops and covered up with his father’s Bart Simpson T-shirt. “Okay,” he mumbled, reluctantly.
At 5:55 p.m., they walked back to where Main Street curved into the cul-de-sac, the B&B on one side, The Drumcliffe hotel on the other. Like Grandda always said, they really did own a little piece of heaven. “Good first lesson. I’ll see you tomorrow at four for the next, okay?”
Peter nodded, seriously tired, but still interested.
“And start those exercises I showed you.”
“Okay. My legs are kind of sore, though.”
Mark grinned, leaving the kid at his front gate. “Get used to it. Later, man.”
Peter smiled. “Later.”
“I’ve been worried sick about you!” Laurel said from the porch.
“I was surfing with Mark.” He rushed by her and toward the house like he hung out with Mark all the time.
“Mark?” He turned, and there was a near-shocked expression on her face. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
Maybe Peter was saving the apology for dinner.
* * *
Tuesday, when Mark delivered Peter back to the B&B after his second surf lesson, Laurel was waiting.
“Will you join us for dinner?”
Did he want to do that? After spending his morning finishing up painting the hotel trim, then working more on building the arbor, truth was, this was the most appealing offer he’d had all day. “Sure, what time?”
“Forty-five minutes?”
“Sounds good. Thanks.” His spirits lifted by the invitation, Mark was struck that Laurel was the first woman he’d been drawn to since coming home to Sandpiper Beach.
A widow with three kids. Seriously, Delaney?
* * *
“One time I was on a fwing an—an a pider came an—an—an, I queemed!” Gracie said an hour later, as the girls took Mark on a tour of their living quarters. She must have felt obligated to entertain him while Laurel put the finishing touches on their meal. The unusual speech pattern was sweet, and knowing the history of her ear problems from Laurel yesterday—thinking she’d fallen down on the Mom-job—made him feel protective of both girls. And Laurel. He couldn’t forget Peter, either. He wasn’t sure what to make of that protective feeling, but he wouldn’t deny it. Though it did make him uneasy.
“I fell off a swing once.” Claire jumped in with a long and drawn-out story about exactly how her accident happened, the injuries she’d obtained, how her mother had cleaned her up, and on and on and on, while they walked down the hall toward their family room. Since he was the guest, for the sake of the little girls, he did his best to appear fascinated.
During the never-ending story, he also managed to assess the Prescott family living situation. The kitchen and in-dining breakfast area, downstairs bathroom and apparent three bedrooms with a medium-sized study, which they’d turned into their family room, was the section of the grand old home where they lived. About the size of a medium apartment. Unlike the foyer, the front sitting room and the dining room,