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Beau grunted. Where to start? If he had to guess, he’d say the list was long. He tossed the oyster in the bucket, reached out and ruffled Cal’s hair. “None of your business, that’s what.”
Cal smirked, a mixture of amusement and sarcasm tinging his tone, “Old folks’ business, you mean?”
Nate chuckled. “You best watch that, boy. There’s a difference between being old and being grown, and you ain’t either yet.” He shoved a stack of oysters Cal’s way. “Tackle those, and before you go poking your nose in Viv’s business, you remember that this ain’t your problem to fix. It’s a family problem—a Teague problem. Besides, getting this business off the ground is gonna take every free second we got.”
Cal shrugged and started sorting through the oysters. Beau resumed the task, too, and they continued separating deep-cup singles beneath the increasing heat of the afternoon sun. But today the rhythmic clang of oysters into buckets and cages didn’t clear Beau’s thoughts, as it normally did. Instead, the look on Kit’s face kept resurfacing in his mind . . . the deep shadows of pain and loss that had haunted her eyes when he and Viv had left.
Just the sight of that house alone would be enough to add to her troubles. Royal had become a veritable recluse over the past year, and the grounds of Teague Cottage screamed neglect. The spray-painted message on the mailbox had been enough to set Viv’s nerves on edge this morning, and it had probably depressed Kit’s spirits, as well.
Sweat beaded on Beau’s forehead and trickled down his back. He plucked his wet T-shirt from his chest and fanned it out, tilting his head from one shoulder to the other, stretching his neck. “You need anything from Skeeter’s?” The mom-and-pop store, a catch-all of supplies, was the only one that stayed open late on the island. “When we finish for the day, I’m going to run a couple errands.”
Nate shook his head. “I just picked up our order last week. What you needing?”
Beau removed his cap and rubbed his damp hair off his forehead. “A few odds and ends. Won’t take me long, but I may take a walk afterward. Be back later than usual.”
Nate leveled a look in his direction. “A walk where?”
“Around.”
“Around where? You’re not thinking of strolling past that Teague house, are you?”
“Have to. It’s on the way to Skeeter’s. Will you check on Viv later? Make sure she eats something and maybe coax her into sitting outside to soak up some fresh air?”
Nate narrowed his eyes. “I meant it when I said the Teagues’ problems are their own. You want to be there for Viv? Great. But Royal and Kit? Neither one of them would welcome a Sutton right now—especially one who they believe enlisted Royal’s daughter to help take his business.”
“Probably not.” Beau kneaded the knot in the back of his neck. “But Teagues aside, seeing as how I hit the age of forty several months ago, I think it’s safe to say I’m in thegrowncategory and therefore—”
Cal laughed. “You mean theoldone.”
“Either way,” Beau stressed, squeezing Cal’s shoulder and smiling, “I’m past the age of answering to my dad.”
Nate grinned. “You won’t ever be past that, son. Least not while I’m still breathing.” His good humor faded. “It’s best to steer clear of Royal and Kit—especially while Viv’s still living here. Whatever the Teagues’ problems are, they ain’t none of ours, and the last thing you need is to find yourself stuck in the middle of ’em.”
* * *
Growing up, Beau had never been very impulsive. This made him wonder why he hadn’t stopped to think through the idea of setting foot on Teague property for the second time that day without being explicitly invited.
He crouched lower by the driveway, grateful for the cover of night, and eyed the front porch. A dim light barely illuminated the worn wicker chair by the front door, and only one interior light illuminated a window, the curtains drawn. If he kept quiet, he should be done in less than half an hour; then he’d slip out undetected. But if Royal came out for a smoke, well . . .
Beau glanced at the darkened road curving back toward home and almost had second thoughts. Almost.
Thing was, the act of slinging the supplies he’d purchased at Skeeter’s back over his shoulder and returning home—mission unaccomplished—would be akin to admitting out loud to Nate that he’d been right.
The heck if he’d do that. Beau grinned. He’d let Royal wrap those wiry hands around his throat, choke him ’til he was blue in the face, then bury his corpse in the very dirt on which he stood before he’d let Nate say, “I told you so.”
He hooked one arm over the Teague mailbox, gripped the post with his free hand, and yanked. Despite its rotten condition, the post held firm. It took three heavy kicks, a full minute of wrangling, and a smidgen of his masculine pride to pry it loose, after which, he grabbed the post hole digger he’d propped against a neighboring oak, dug the clamshell blades into the dirt, and opened up the hole more.
Attaching the new mailbox he’d bought at Skeeter’s to a fresh four-by-four post with lag screws was trickier. He’d need light for that. He grabbed a flashlight from the supplies on the ground, turned it on, and stuck the handle between his teeth, then bit down and tilted his head to direct the beam of light on the pre-drilled holes. The first two screws went in well, but he had trouble with the third, struggling to angle the screw just right and maintain his bite on the flashlight handle.
“Need a hand?”
He jumped, the flashlight fell from his mouth, and his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. “Da—” Beau stifled a curse and looked up from his crouched position on the ground.
Kit knelt beside him, the fallen flashlight beaming on her regretful frown. “Oh . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” She leaned closer, her dark eyes on his mouth, and the sweet scent of her shampoo—pomegranate?—rushed in. “Your mouth . . .” Her hand lifted; fingers brushed his lower lip. “It’s bleeding.”
Instinctively, he took her hand in his and tilted it into the light. A droplet of blood dotted one fingertip, and he grinned ruefully. “Bite down on it, and it’ll happen every time.”
He grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, searched for a clean, dry patch, and wiped the blood from her finger. “There.” His hand lingered on hers, the delicate skin between her thumb and forefinger smooth and warm to the touch. “Good as new.”
