Sea Lord Read Online Free PDF Page B

but . . .
    “Beautiful and sad,” Conn said. “Perhaps she regretted leaving you.”
    “Maybe,” the girl said doubtfully.
    “You could ask your brother.”
    “After twenty-three years?” Unexpected humor lit her eyes. “I don’t think so.”
    “Your father, then.”
    “We don’t talk about her.” Her shoulders were rigid. She stared straight ahead at the darkening road.
    “We don’t talk about much of anything, really.”
    She was guarded, Conn thought. More comfortable asking questions of him than offering anything of
    herself.
    He remembered the way she stood apart at the restaurant, an observer in her own family.
    Isolated.
    And vulnerable.
    He could use that, he thought.
    “You can talk to me,” he said.
    Lucy unlocked the front door, uncomfortably aware of Conn on the porch behind her. Her palms sweat.
    Her stomach jittered. For a moment, she was catapulted back to fifth grade, afraid to bring a friend home
    after school.
    The door creaked open. “Dad?”
    No answer.
    Her stomach relaxed.
    The reassuring aroma of the beef and vegetables she’d dumped into the Crock-Pot that morning rushed
    to greet her, almost masking the smells of must and old carpet.
    Lucy had come home from college with a bucket of cleaning supplies and a guide to keeping house, as if
    spotless tile would bring sparkle to their lives, as if she could banish bad memories along with the dust.
    Maybe her efforts could not make up for the years of disorder and neglect, for the cracked vinyl and the
    cramped spaces and the mildew that sprouted mysteriously at the bottom of the stairs. At least her floors
    were clean.
    Conn followed her as she marched past the shadowy living room, flipping on light switches as she went.
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    He stood in the middle of her scrubbed kitchen floor, overdressed, out-of-place, dark, and wild. Her
    heart thundered. She felt breathless, as if he’d done his sucking-all-the-oxygen-out-of-the-room trick
    again.
    And yet he did not move, only stood there with his hands still clasped behind his back.
    “Where is your father?” he asked.
    She grabbed a spoon and lifted the lid of the Crock-Pot, hoping he wouldn’t notice her hot cheeks.
    “Out,” she said, stirring.
    Conn glanced at the now-dark windows. “It is late to haul traps.”
    He knew her dad was a lobsterman. Lucy’s hand tightened on the spoon. What else did he know?
    “My father’s on the water by five every morning. In by four, most days. He off-loads and does his
    business at the co-op.” She set her spoon on the counter, pleased that neither her hand nor her voice
    trembled. “And then he goes to the bar at the inn and drinks until they won’t serve him anymore.”
    She fit the lid carefully back on the pot and turned to face Conn, her back to the counter, her chin high.
    “Are you hungry?”
    A short, charged silence vibrated between them.
    Conn studied her face, his silver eyes inscrutable. “Yes. Thank you. That smells very good.”
    She almost sagged with relief and disappointment.
    What had she expected?
    That he would say he was sorry for her, for her alcoholic father, her crappy childhood?
    That he would sweep her off her feet and take her away like a prince in a fairy tale?
    Stupid, stupid. She wasn’t looking for sympathy. Or rescue. Especially not from some cold-eyed
    stranger who twisted her insides into knots.
    What a good thing he hadn’t offered either one.
    “Sit down,” she said. “I’ll get you a plate.”
    His eyebrows raised. “You must join me.”
    Not, “ Would you join me? ” Not a question or a request. Obviously, he expected her to sit down and
    put a good face on things and pretend that everything was normal.
    Lucy bit her lower lip. And she would, too.
    Because she always did.
    Conn generally paid scant attention to what he ate or did not eat. But hot food was a change from his
    usual raw diet. The simple stew had