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“That girl o’ yours is beating the fool out of my new gate and scaring my grandson.”
Beau Sutton tossed one more handful of single-shell oysters into a metal basket, dropped the basket in a pot of water, and stepped back as a cloud of steam rose into the spring night air.
His father, Nate Sutton, leaned over an outdoor table loaded down with buckets, oyster knives, hot sauce, and melted butter in small saucers and spoke just loud enough to be heard over the throb of music and the chatter of guests several feet away.
“I know Viv’s going through a hard time,” Nate said, “but if she keeps that up, every guest we have is going to climb back on their golf cart, hightail it back to the resort, and we’ll be hard pressed to draw the next wave down here.” He gestured toward the closed wrought-iron gate at the end of the circular driveway, where a female figure, silhouetted in the soft glow of starlight, repeatedly slammed what looked like a bat against its ornate central design. “Is she drunk?”
“Probably.” And understandably so. Vivid images of wide, lifeless eyes and wet hair tangled around his fingers had jerked him upright in bed, his skin slicked with sweat, two nights in a row now. He had no doubt that Viv’s scars ran deeper than his own.
Wednesday morning Beau had been on one of Pearl Tide’s docks, sorting oysters through the tumbler machine, when a muffled shriek had cut through the rhythmic grind of the equipment. Viv, who’d been checking oyster cages on a boat nearby, had doubled over the side of the boat and struggled to drag a limp body on board. She’d glanced up once—her panicked eyes had met his, cheeks pale and mouth open in stark terror.
He hadn’t made it to her fast enough. By the time he’d plunged into the creek’s depths, scrambled past the cages, and dragged himself on board the boat, she had already managed to pull Sylvie’s body out of the water and was cradling her mother’s wet head in both hands.
Later that afternoon, after Sylvie’s body had been tugged from Viv’s arms and placed on a boat bound for the mainland, Viv had boarded the boat and stood by her mother’s body, staring blankly ahead, the numb look in her eyes and the hollow sound of her voice startling him. “I won’t be back for a while.”
Lack of cell service on Hope Creek Island had made it difficult to reach out. He’d left several messages in person with mutual acquaintances she sometimes visited, hoping to stumble upon her, but he hadn’t seen or heard from her for two days. It worried him, but though they’d formed a close friendship over the past two years, Viv was a private person, and he knew when not to pry.
Beau craned his neck now, straining to make out her face. Something was different. The solid strength in her stance? The measured pace in each swing of her arms? The deliberate, intense focus of each blow?
“That’s not Viv.” She wouldn’t have stopped at a closed gate. She’d have climbed over it or barreled Royal’s old truck through it by now. Beau shook his head. “That’s Kit.”
Nate frowned and narrowed his gaze on the figure in the distance. “Either way, she’s shaking Cal up. He can’t decide whether to open the gate or run.”
Sure enough, Cal, who’d been placed on gate duty for the duration of the night’s oyster roast, paced toward, then away from the gate, his muscular six-foot frame—tall for a fifteen-year-old and mistaken for that of a man on many occasions—stumbling twice as he cast worried glances over his shoulder.
Beau called to a waiter stationed nearby and motioned toward the line of steaming pots. “Will you take over, please?”
At his nod, Beau rounded the table and walked swiftly down the driveway. Nate fell in step behind him.
“Viv!” Kit struck the gate again as Beau approached, her eyes locked on Cal. “Either get my sister out here or open the gate. Those are your only two choices.”
“I—” Cal’s voice cracked. “I told you, she’s not here.”
Beau drew to a halt beside Cal and squeezed his shoulder. It trembled beneath his grip. “Viv isn’t here, Kit. You want to ease up a bit and tell me what you need?”
Kit’s attention landed on him, her brown eyes—exactly as he remembered, dark with equal parts passion and pain—focusing on his face, easing beneath his flesh, and looking straight through to his core.
His skin warmed. He returned her silent stare, studying her thick lashes, high cheekbones, and smooth lips. The soft, full curves of her cheeks and jaw were a bit more angled than he remembered. The quiet, intelligent girl he recalled, the shy sister who’d spoken to him only a few times, had matured and now materialized before him as an alluring flesh-and-blood woman.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d stop assaulting our gate,” Nate said.
Kit blinked and refocused on Nate.
The moment was gone, but Beau’s eyes followed her, his gaze clinging to the graceful curves of her profile.
“Ourgate?” she asked softly. “Viv’s, too?”
Nate remained silent.
Kit stepped closer, rested the bat against the iron rods of the gate. “She’s been living here, hasn’t she? Working for you?”
Nate dragged a hand through his gray hair and shifted his weight to one side. “Yes. I gave her a job two years ago.”
“On that oyster farm of yours? The one that’s littering up the creek, choking off the channel, and keeping my father’s boats tied to the dock?” Kit gripped the gate with her free hand, her fingers curling so tight around the iron, they turned red. “Those grotesque cages my mother died on?”
Nate’s face paled. He lifted both hands, palms out. “I’m sorry, Kit. Sorrier than I can say about Sylvie, but—”
