Calm down, Kate, she counseled herself, easing her grip on the wheel. Getting mad again won’t solve the problem. If anything, your antagonism could make it worse.
And worse might very well be a description of the current situation, given her tirade a few minutes ago, she granted, as she neared the harbor entrance and passed the diminutive Brant Point lighthouse adjacent to the Coast Guard station. Instead of reading him the riot act and following him like a persistent seagull follows a boat, she could have acquiesced to his explanation and headed home.
Yet what she’d told him had been true. She couldn’t, in good conscience, leave anyone alone in the waters off Great Point. Even the disagreeable lieutenant. It was asking for trouble, no matter his skills or equipment. She’d dug in her heels for his own good, whether he appreciated it or not.
Not being the obvious conclusion. And that didn’t bode well for a favorable response to her request—more like demand, she acceded—that he wipe the citation off her record.
The wharf came into sight, and Kate cut back the throttle, trying to recapture her earlier lighthearted mood. But that felt like ancient history now. As in B.C. Before Cole. And she doubted it would return unless the citation issue was resolved in her favor.
An outcome that seemed increasingly remote in light of their back-to-back unpleasant encounters.
With that conclusion, any lingering vestige of good cheer vanished as quickly as the sun in a sudden Nantucket storm.
Do you have a death wish or something?
Katherine MacDonald’s question echoed again in Craig’s mind as he jabbed at the buttons on his microwave. It had been bothering him since she’d voiced it six hours ago, and the refrain was beginning to get on his nerves.
Grabbing a soda out of the fridge, he pulled the tab, easing the pressure in the can with a pop and a fizz. Too bad it wasn’t that easy to release the pressure inside of him, he lamented. Yet he couldn’t lay the full blame for his tension on Ms. MacDonald. Although her blunt question had exacerbated it, in all honesty it had dogged him for three long years.
Exercise, he’d discovered, had proved to be a good temporary release valve. Ocean swimming in particular, especially when conditions were difficult. He’d never stopped to analyze why he sought out risky locations, but he supposed a psychologist delving into motivations might see it as a subconscious challenge to the sea: You took my wife and son. Just try to take me.
And there was some truth to that, he conceded. With every yard gained, with every swell overcome, with every undertow and riptide conquered, the pressure inside him dissipated. Each time he emerged whole and victorious from battling the waves, he felt a satisfying sense of triumph.
But the satisfaction didn’t last long. And one of these days, if he continued to take chances, he’d lose. It was inevitable. In risky conditions, the odds were always stacked in favor of the sea. He knew that as well as the mouthy charter captain did.
And maybe that’s what he wanted, deep inside, Craig was forced to admit. Maybe he wanted the sea to take him, too. To end the pain and loss and guilt forever. To give him the peace that had eluded him since the accident.
Katherine MacDonald might be right.
Maybe he did have a death wish.
The microwave pinged, and he withdrew the bland packaged dinner of sautéed chicken breast, broccoli and rice that had become one of his staples. He knew the drill by heart after three years of this fare: remove the plastic cover and let the meal rest until the steam escaped.
Rest.
The word stuck with him as he slid the disposable container onto the counter in the kitchen of the commander’s quarters—a three-bedroom ranch house a mile from the station. Far enough removed to let the officer in charge find rest from his or her duties.
Unfortunately, the comfortable dwelling had the opposite effect on Craig. Though modest in size, the house felt cavernous and the silent rooms were depressing. Instead of being a haven of rest, it only served to remind him of all he’d lost.
As Craig straddled a stool at the counter and toyed with his meal, the passage from Matthew flashed through his mind: “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”
The minister had quoted those words at the funeral for his wife, Nicole, and his son, Aaron. But they’d been unable to penetrate his thick, isolating shroud of grief, offering no consolation then…or in the intervening years. All his life, he’d attended services every Sunday. But when tested by fire, he’d felt burned rather than fortified by the God he’d worshipped. Church attendance had become a meaningless gesture that left him feeling more empty and alone than if he hadn’t gone. In time, he’d stopped the painful Sunday routine.
Routine.
Perhaps that was the key, Craig mused, dissecting a piece of broccoli with his fork. In many ways, his faith had become nothing more than a once-a-week visit to church, driven by habit rather than compelling belief. Perhaps if he approached services and prayer with an open heart, seeking God’s will rather than demanding answers and immediate solace, the Lord would provide him with the peace and rest he craved.
It was worth a try, he supposed.
Because he couldn’t keep living with the disheartening sense of hopelessness that plagued his days. Nor could he continue to take chances with his life, raising the stakes with every swimming excursion until at last he lost his gamble with the elements. It wasn’t fair to Vicki. As Paul had reminded him, his daughter needed him. Him. Not the high-priced nannies he’d hired over the past three years, who saw to Vicki’s physical needs but who couldn’t give her the one thing she needed most.
A father’s love.
Pushing aside his picked-over dinner, Craig rested his elbows on the counter and dropped his head into his hands as guilt gnawed at his gut, churning his dinner like an angry ocean agitates seaweed.
It wasn’t Vicki’s fault that she looked just like her mother, sharing the same blue-green eyes and hair the color of sun-ripened wheat. It wasn’t her fault that every time he took her small hand he was reminded of the son he’d lost. And it wasn’t her fault that he’d shut down emotionally to dull the pain, rendering him incapable of giving her the love she deserved—and needed.
As time passed, he’d known he had to make things right. The guilt over his neglect had begun to nag at him day and night, deepening the crushing burden of culpability he already carried. Although Vicki had never been a needy child, demanding attention or special care, she deserved the security of a loving parent. He hoped the move to Nantucket would give him the chance to provide that.
The rightness of his decision had been reinforced the day he’d left Vicki in his mother’s care before heading to the island, with a promise to pick her up in six weeks, once he’d settled in.
As he’d knelt in front of her, prepared to give her a quick hug, she’d stopped him cold with a soft, uncertain question.
“Are you really coming back to get me?”
Jolted, he’d looked at her. Really looked—for the first time in a long while. And what he’d seen had made him want to cry.
Deep in those blue-green eyes had been a sadness and a loneliness as profound as his own. Far too profound for any child that age to know.
His had been caused by senseless deaths that had robbed his world of light and laughter.
But hers had been caused by him. The very man who should have loved her and protected her and made her world secure.
His throat constricting, he’d leaned over and pulled her close. “Yes, Vicki. I’m really coming back. And things will be different on Nantucket. I’m not going to work as much. We’ll