Carolina Home Page 4

  “I don’t really care about grades.”

  “Colleges will,” she pointed out.

  “I’m not going to college.”

  She’d heard that before. She worked damn hard to convince her students they didn’t have to be defined by their parents’ example. By their expectations.

  Or the lack of them.

  “A college degree can help you get a better job.”

  Joshua shrugged. “I’m going to captain a fishing boat. Don’t need a degree for that.”

  “You might feel differently in a couple of years,” Allison suggested. “A college education could broaden your interests. Your horizons. You need to experience what’s out there before you can decide what’s right for you.”

  “I don’t think so.” He looked at her from under his shock of hair. “Are we done? Can I go now?”

  She expelled her breath. “Yes, you can go.”

  He left.

  But the problem of what to do about him stayed with her for the rest of the day, a niggling frustration, a hovering sense of failure. When she first went down to the Mississippi Delta, she’d still been floundering to find herself. During her brief internship in her father’s office, she’d barely been trusted to change the paper in the copy machine. What made her think she could change lives?

  But Allison had discovered she loved to teach. Despite the struggles with discipline and lesson plans, the lack of hope and supplies, she’d watched her students learn, bloom, and grow. She truly believed she’d found her profession, if not her place.

  Now she wondered if she’d been right to leave.

  She’d always felt like an outsider in the Mississippi community where she had lived and taught. But in the school, at least, she’d been needed and appreciated, part of a team.

  She liked her fellow teachers at Virginia Dare Island School. Gail Peele was already a friend. Before Allison signed her contract, she’d been assured that teacher burnout and turnover were low. The school’s ties to the community were strong.

  But the other teachers didn’t really accept her yet as one of them. She didn’t have the roots, the ties, the accent, that peculiar island brogue that slipped out when they thought no one was listening.

  Allison had read up on the Outer Banks before she came. Despite the welcome she’d received, she knew outsiders were generally regarded with stoic tolerance. For generations, the island had endured government experts from the Park Service, Marine Fisheries, Coastal Management Division, all full of education and good intentions, all convinced they could solve the problems of the community here. They made their recommendations and their rules, and then they went away again and nothing changed. Or things got worse.

  For Allison to be truly effective, she had to convince them she was different.

  She had to stay.

  She wanted to make a difference in her students’ lives, to offer them new ideas, a fresh perspective, a future beyond the one laid out for them by their parents and their environment.

  Her after-school meeting with the staff of the Dare Island Beacon was a step in the right direction.

  “A blog?” Behind her dark-framed glasses, Thalia Hamilton’s eyes sharpened with excitement. “Do you think we could?”

  Allison smiled. Thalia’s parents had been among the first to welcome her to Dare Island, showing up at the door of her rental cottage with smiles and a sack of vine-ripened tomatoes from their organic garden.

  “We’ve reserved the use of the computers anyway,” Allison pointed out. “Of course you’d need to come up with a design. Links. Content.”

  Nia Jackson shook her head. “I can’t come up with a new column every day.”

  “You could if you divided the responsibility.” As their new faculty advisor, Allison could only suggest. She couldn’t make them follow her suggestions. “There are three of you now. If you each took one day…”

  “We could add more people,” Thalia said. “Maybe guest bloggers? Then we’d each only have to post once a week.”

  Nia nodded slowly. “It would be good to report stuff as it happens. Instead of putting it out once a semester.”

  “I’m all in favor of putting out,” stuck in Brandon Scott.

  Nia kicked him under the desk.

  He grinned. “Ow.”

  “A blog won’t replace the print paper,” Allison cautioned. “But it would give you a platform to respond immediately to school events.”

  And the practice would sharpen their writing skills.

  “Oates won’t like it,” Nia predicted. “He’ll say we’re in conflict with the official school website.”

  “Let me talk to Principal Oates,” Allison said. “It’s not your job to speak for the administration.”

  In the boil of conversation and ideas (Who knew computer code? How much lead time would be required for approval?), the meeting ran late. By the time Allison got on her bike, the shadows were lengthening under the pines.

  As she pedaled, her mind circled back to the problem of Joshua Fletcher.

  She couldn’t afford to get personally involved in the lives of her students. But there must be some way she could motivate him, something he cared about.

  She just hadn’t found it yet.

  Her rear tire hit a bump, almost unseating her. She gripped the handlebars, her messenger bag bouncing on her back as she fought to stay on the pavement. The bike dragged. Slowed. She pedaled harder, but it was clear she had a problem. A puncture? She glanced behind her.

  A flat.

  Wobbling to a stop in the soft sand at the side of the road, she got off to inspect the damage.

  Damn. She bit her lip. There was a bike pump on the frame. She’d never used one before, but surely she could figure it out?

  Ignoring the cars whooshing by, the hot breeze lifting her skirt, she dropped her bag and squatted in the weeds and sand. As she wrestled the pump from its bracket, her cell phone rang. Automatically, she lifted her head to count. One, two, three rings and silence.

  Her mother.

  Allison expelled her breath. Marilyn Carter didn’t believe in voice mail. She would call again and again until her daughter picked up.

  “Sorry, Mom,” Allison muttered and twisted the cap from the tire.

  She jammed the pump over the nozzle.

  One, two, three and…

  Somewhere behind her, a car coasted to a stop. A door slammed.

  “Need a hand?” drawled a masculine voice.

  She almost fell on her butt. And wouldn’t that have been just perfect?

  Matt Fletcher descended from the cab of his pickup, the sun at his back, his face in shadow, looking very big and broad against the slanting golden light.

  “No, I’m…” Was that her voice, high and breathless? She frowned and cleared her throat. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  He sauntered closer, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. “You’ve got a flat.”

  “I know.” Frustration with herself, with the situation, sharpened her voice. She didn’t like being at a disadvantage with this man. Again. “I’m trying to get enough air in the tire to make it home.”

  He watched as she pumped. And pumped. She appreciated—didn’t she?—that he didn’t shoulder her aside and take over.

  Sweat beaded on her upper lip and between her breasts. Air hissed out as fast as she could pump it in.

  “You need a new tube,” Matt said. “Bill over at the bike rental can fix you up.”

  She pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Thanks.”

  He grasped the frame and hefted the bike.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He lifted the bike into the back of the truck. His big black dog scrambled over to make room. “Taking you there.”

  “Oh.”

  Well.

  Returning, he offered his hand. He had nice hands, she thought as he helped her to her feet, warm and work-hardened. A tingle went up her arm.

  She swung her bag onto her shoulder and wiped her palm
on her skirt. “You don’t have to do that.”

  The corners of his eyes creased. “You think I should just drive off and let you push your bike two miles?”

  Put like that…

  An answering smile curved her lips. “Thank you for stopping.”

  “No problem.” He opened the passenger door for her.

  See? A gentleman after all, noted the part of her brain that had been raised to appreciate such things.

  She climbed into the cab, tugging on the hem of her skirt to cover her knees.

  Maybe it was fate, Allison told herself, stowing her messenger bag and the pump at her feet. Maybe she should take this opportunity to talk to him about Joshua.

  She snuck a glance at Matt’s strong, tanned profile as he swung in beside her. And maybe not. Hard to berate him about his son’s classroom performance while he was doing her a favor.

  They drove in silence. She racked her brain for something to say. She was usually good at making conversation. In her parents’ house, small talk plastered over a multitude of cracks and silences.

  But his closeness seemed to have tied her tongue. She was uncomfortably aware of him, his hands on the wheel, the faint stubble on his jaw, his thigh jutting into her space. His scent.

  She cleared her throat. “Lucky for me you came along.”

  “Somebody would have stopped eventually.”

  “But not everybody has a truck.”

  He glanced at her sideways, a dry look out of dark blue eyes. “Around these parts they do.”

  She seized gratefully on the topic of conversation. “Why is that? The island is only a couple of miles across. The most efficient way to get around is on foot. Or by bicycle.”

  He smiled, a crook at the corner of his mouth that did funny things to her insides. “You read that in a guidebook?”

  She raised her chin. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “It’s true enough for visitors,” he conceded, surprising her. “Roads are crowded. Fuel’s expensive. The more tourists ride bikes, the less impact on the island. But you can’t haul nets or tools or goods from the mainland on a bicycle. It’s not practical.”

  “So as a native of these parts, you don’t have a bike.”

  “I didn’t say that. I have a 1947 Knucklehead Bobber. Vintage Harley,” he explained in response to her blank look. “I like to tinker.”

  “Oh, very practical,” she teased.

  His grin spread. “Keeps me out of trouble.”

  Joshua’s words, she remembered abruptly even as attraction crackled and snapped between them. He was Joshua’s dad.

  She didn’t want to think of the parent of her problem pupil as a motorbike-riding bad boy. She shouldn’t think of him in a personal way at all.

  She shifted forward to peer through the windshield. “There’s the bike place.”

  He pulled into the almost empty parking lot under a blue and yellow sign.

  Her gaze went to the red sign on the door. “It’s closed.”

  “Let’s see.” Matt opened his door.

  “It’s after five. Maybe I could leave the bike locked up somewhere. If I call tomorrow…”

  But he had already lifted the bike from the back and was carrying it away around the side of the building.

  Leaving her alone in the truck with the Hound of the Baskervilles.

  She heard nails clatter in the truck bed before a large black doggy head stuck through the sliding glass window at the rear of the cab. Hot breath. Pink tongue. Sharp white teeth.

  “Um…Nice dog,” Allison said.

  Big dog. Its panting filled the cab.

  “I’ll be right back,” she told it, easing open her door. “Er…Stay.”

  She felt its eyes between her shoulder blades as she crunched down the gravel walk.

  A side door stood open to the shop. Matt was already inside, talking to a short, spry man behind the counter.

  “…hardly your speed,” the man—Bill, presumably—was saying.

  “Funny,” Matt answered. “You got a tube for it?”

  “Sure.” Bill slapped a box onto the counter. “You gonna fix it yourself?”

  “I need you to check out the rim first.”

  Allison pushed the screen door open.

  Bill looked up at the creak. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re closed.”

  “It’s her bike,” Matt said.

  “In that case…You need a new wheel.”

  Allison swallowed her dismay as she surveyed the dented back rim. “Can’t you repair it?”

  “Not worth fixing,” Bill said. “New one will run you about seventy-five dollars.”

  “Or he can pull a used one from the back,” Matt said. “That way you’d only have to pay for labor.”

  A glance passed between the two men.

  “This is Allison Carter,” Matt introduced her. “New teacher up at the school.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Bill straightened, wiping his hands on a rag. “Yeah, sure, we can work something out.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Allison said. She felt like Dorothy being welcomed into the Emerald City: “That’s a horse of a different color.” She smiled at both men. “Thank you.”

  A flush crept over Bill’s narrow face. “No big deal. I’ll have it ready for you tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow?

  “I can wait,” Allison said. “If you want to do it now.”

  Bill shook his head. “You could if it was the front tire. But I’ve got to take off your gear cassette, transfer it to the new wheel. That’ll take a little more time.”

  “Of course,” Allison said. “I appreciate it.”

  “I’ll run you home,” Matt said.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  She owed him already for the rim and the rescue. Surely tapping him for another ride wouldn’t tip the scales that much more?

  Besides, she rationalized as she followed him to the parking lot, she really needed to talk to him about Joshua.

  “Where to?” Matt asked when they were seated in the truck.

  “214 Pelican Way. But first…” She pleated her fingers together.

  She couldn’t invite him into her house for a parent-teacher conference. She might not be part of the island grapevine, but she knew that single female teachers did not entertain hunky dads in their living rooms.

  And if they went to his house, there was a good chance Joshua could interrupt them.

  She raised her gaze to his, her heart tripping in her chest. Matt had blurred the lines when he’d stopped to help her. But she was about to cross one.

  She moistened her lips. “Can I buy you that beer?”

  Four

  ALLISON CARTER PINNED him with those big brown eyes, those just-licked lips, and every hormone in Matt’s body jumped to attention. “Can I buy you that beer?”

  He ought to say no, he thought, regarding her fresh, flushed face.

  Correction. He ought to say Hell no.

  He liked to keep things simple. Allison Carter was a distraction he didn’t want, a complication he didn’t need.

  Whatever she was looking for, he was damn sure he wasn’t it.

  But her scent filled the cab of the truck, fresh and sweet, soap and woman and something else, vanilla with a hint of spice.

  Matt rubbed his jaw, aware he hadn’t shaved since the day before yesterday. “You sure you’re old enough to have a drink with me?”

  She narrowed those gorgeous eyes at him. “What does my age have to do with anything?”

  Straight-faced, he explained, “You have to be twenty-one to purchase alcohol in this state.”

  Suspicion dissolved into a smile. “I’m twenty-five.”

  So, okay, she was older than she looked.

  Still too young for him.

  But it was only a beer, he told himself. Only an hour on his way home. She was new to the island. No harm in being friendly.

  Right.

  Matt’s friends tended to gather at Evans Ta
ckle Store. He couldn’t see pretty Allison Carter gulping coffee and griping about bluefish quotas. He’d have to take her someplace else. Still casual, still public, but…nice, he decided, with a glance at her skirt and her little flat shoes.

  With a shrug, he drove to the Fish House.

  When he got there, luxury cars and SUVs with out-of-state plates crowded the parking lot. Matt whistled Fezzik from the back of the pickup and gestured for Allison to precede them up the new wooden steps to the outdoor eating area overlooking the bay.

  The afternoon sun flooded the marina, yellow and hot, sparkling on the water. Gulls wheeled and dipped and cried against the blue. The deck was shaded by long green awnings, protected from the birds by almost invisible wires strung above the railing.

  A fresh breeze fluttered the napkins on the tables. Beach music—Hey, he-ey, baby—sounded from the speakers, floating over the flap of the canvas, the lap of the water.

  “Okay if we sit out here?” he asked Allison. “They don’t like dogs in the bar.”

  “This is perfect,” she responded promptly. “I love the view.”

  He did, too. Against the backdrop of sea and sky, she looked long stemmed, pink cheeked, gently curved. Like one of Tess’s tulips. He wanted to lean over and sniff her neck, her ankles, and everywhere in between.

  Since he had slightly more finesse than Fezzik, he refrained.

  “Welcome to the Fish House.” A dark-haired waitress with a mermaid tattoo twining around her arm bustled over. Cynthie Lodge, recovering from asshole husband number one and on the lookout for number two. “Hey, Matt. Draft?”

  “Thanks, Cynthie. Carolina Pale Ale.” He looked at Allison. “Two?”

  She was young enough to like those fruity drinks that masked the taste of alcohol. Classy enough to order wine.

  “Beer is fine, thank you.”

  “I’ll have to see some ID,” Cynthie said, flashing a look at Matt. A she’s-too-young-for-you, she’s-not-one-of-us kind of look.

  Allison flushed as she dug among the books and papers in her bag for her wallet.

  “Do you come here often?” she asked when Cynthie had left with their order.

  Matt rubbed Fezzik’s head under the table. Only a beer, he reminded himself. Only an hour on the way home. The dog sighed and settled at his feet. “I used to. Back when it was a real fish house.”