Chapter 4
There was nothing nice, or particularly noteworthy, about the situation in which Dove found herself. Within minutes of watching Mitchell Colton drive away, she was once again in her father’s office. Pacing. Which she hated. On the floor in the lotus position would be the better choice.
But anything that reminded Bob St. James of his wife—which Dove did just by existing, so no need to exacerbate that by practicing her teachings in front of him—made the downward spiral worse.
“You like Mitchell,” she said, for the third time in as many minutes.
With another tip of his whiskey bottle at his lips, Whaler swallowed. Smacked his lips and nodded. “’S right, I do,” he said, the slur already obvious in his diction. “But no reason for him to be in here.”
The petulant tone, along with another swig, did not bode well. But Dove had no other option but to take him on. And words came to her.
“Fletcher called again, Dad…” she started, only to have him cut her off with a wave of the hand holding his bottle, on the way to his mouth.
“Call all he wansh. He can’t toush ish place,” the man said, full of whiskey-induced bravado.
“Mitchell heard the conversation,” she said then, raising her voice only a notch and instilling the sternness she’d heard her mother use on Whaler a time or two when he’d been working himself too hard.
“Found it to be threatening enough that he called Eli to check into the guy. Apparently, Fletcher is a shady character.”
She stopped short of telling her father about the break-in at the studio. Only because, due to his drunken state, she feared what foolish thing the man might do to avenge her.
Whaler’s grunt gave her hope. She rode it for the few seconds she needed to breathe and ready herself for battle.
“Mitchell’s smart, Dad. And noticed some other things while he was here. Things he can help with. I think we need to take him up on his offer.” She chose the words carefully. “Before Fletcher tries anything more than just threats.”
Whaler put the bottle on his desk. Hard. “No.”
Standing still, she faced him. “Dad—”
Slamming his hand down on the desk, Whaler stood, too. Slurring some very strong words the gist of which she understood.
He had the right to make his own choices. Even if they were the wrong ones.
In any other circumstance, Dove would have looked him in the eye, nodded, told him she loved him and walked out.
She couldn’t do that. They’d reached the end of the road.
A brand-new thing between them. With no set protocol to direct her.
So Dove did what she had to do to maintain her own inner harmony.
Which would give her the equilibrium to deal with Whaler’s lack of any kind of peace.
Sliding down to the floor against the wall, she closed her eyes.
Took slow, steady breaths. Envisioned the sun shining, bringing warmth to her skin.
Chasing away the shivers of anxiety that were fighting to take control of her.
Other than the occasional sloshing of liquid as her father lifted his bottle to his mouth, she sat in silence. To his credit Whaler just let her be.
Respecting her need for a personal time-out?
Or just glad that she’d quit harping at him?
More likely, her decision not to walk out had gotten through to him. At least enough to clue him in that something was more wrong between them than it ever had been before.
And he was leery of waking a beast inside her?
The thought brought another singe of tension. And the threat of tears. The last thing she wanted to do was bring any kind of negative emotion to her father. He was already being eaten alive by the grief life had brought him.
Which was precisely why she had to stay her course.
To help him find some joy again. Next to her and her mother, he loved St. James Boats more than anything else.
If she could just give him a glimpse of what it would be again with Mitchell’s help, then maybe he’d lay off the bottle enough to help them make it happen.
She just had to show him that there was joy left to be had in his life.
If the stars fully aligned for him, maybe he could even get to a point where he’d be open to counseling. And be restored to the healthy man he’d been before her mother had gotten sick.
Peace settled over her, and she inhaled the silence. Taking comfort from knowing that her father was right there, breathing in with her. Breathing out.
In between swigs from his bottle.
And that was okay, too, just for those moments. Because there was always a point in Whaler’s drinking when he hit the mellow stage, as she’d learned to think of it.
It came after aggressive, and before he passed out.
A plan became obvious as she cleared her mind and the cloud of negativity. She had to sit quietly with her dad and wait for the mellow stage.
Sometimes it took longer than others. Depending on how much or how quickly he was drinking. Straight out of the bottle, as rapidly as she was hearing it rise to his mouth, she figured another ten minutes or so ought to do it.
He was checking out for the day. She recognized the signs.
Something on the cruise must have triggered his grief. Anything could do it. The sound of a bird at just the right time could remind him of a picnic he’d had with her mother when they were in high school. A wave might be a replica of one they’d first dunked Dove in when they’d taught her to swim.
“They’uz ha-ha-ving a grand time.”
Dove’s eyes flew open as her father spoke. Centering on him immediately. “Who was?” she asked, truly wanting to know.
To somehow get inside his pain so she could help lead him out of it. Even as her logical mind made note of the fact that they’d arrived at mellow. Which meant she had about fifteen minutes before his chin dropped to his chest.
“People. I made ’em laffff. Your ma…ma…” His attempt to speak was interrupted by a big belch. And without even seeming to realize it had happened, he continued, “Ma…motherrr…she said I was…good…at thhaaat.”
With a sad smile and a nod, Dove said, “Yes, she did. She used to tell everyone what a great time you’d show them if they booked a trip out with you.”
Whaler’s gaze found her then, his eyes bloodshot and weary-looking. “I missh her sooo mush.”
“I know, Dad. I do, too. And that’s why we have to get through this together, just like Mom said.
You and me, we stick together, so she can look down and see both of us at once.
” She spoke softly but didn’t let herself pause long enough for him to flop to another train of thought.
“And that’s why I need you to do something for me.
I can’t just sit here and watch this place fall apart.
I want to be here more. Help out more. But I don’t know nearly as much as you do.
And Mitchell, he’s an adventurer just like the rest of his family.
Yeah, he’s got a law degree and sits in an office during the week, but on weekends, from what I hear, he goes it alone even more than his family does.
He does it out of love for the land, the sea, the adventure, just like you do.
That’s why I need him here for a bit. Helping out.
Just until we get through this rough patch, and get Fletcher off our tails.
” Whaler was still conscious, still watching her, so she pressed on.
“I need you to sign a contract that will let me be an equal signer on St. James Boats, Dad. That way, if you’re having a bad day or are out at sea, I can make decisions here and help you fight off the Fletchers in the world. Just like Mom would do.”
Crawling on her knees, she stopped right in front of her dad, putting her hands on his knees, and looked up at him. “Please?” She wasn’t just fighting for his life, but for her own, too. She was half him. He was all the family she had left.
“Not highing law, juss ’venture.” His eyes were cloudy, but he was still with her.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She wouldn’t lie to him.
When he lifted a hand and put it in her hair, softly cupping her head, she couldn’t stop the tears that sprang to her eyes. No matter what, he was her father, and she loved him.
“’Kay.”
Eyes widening, she sat encased in stillness. As though a veil of safety had enclosed her. “You’ll sign?”
Looking her in the eye, he nodded.
And Dove jumped up, rushing to his computer she searched for a contract, filled in some blanks and within a few minutes had it printed and ready for him to sign.
But before she gave him the pen, she made the call for the police escort Mitchell had arranged for her, telling her father that she had to talk to the police about her call with Fletcher—true—just not the reason for her call.
And when the officer arrived, she gave Whaler the pen.
Dove called in the college boy her father had helping out that summer and, with the cop and the deckhand as witnesses, had her father sign his name.
It was possible that, once sober, Whaler wouldn’t recall a whit of what had transpired over the last half hour. And equally possible that he’d wake up in the morning and remember it all.
Either way, with document in hand, she had her chance to save his business. And him.
Against all odds, the stars had led her right again.
It was like her mother had always taught her.
She just had to hold on to hope.
It would show her the way.
Mitchell’s phone beeped a text at just after eight Saturday night, the moment he stepped up and onto a cliff face overlooking the sea, eight thousand feet up in the Chugach mountain range. The only place he knew of where he could get service.
Why he’d headed in that direction, he didn’t want to contemplate. His family was used to him disappearing without leaving word during his time off. Most particularly during the summer when temperatures were mild and days were long.
But with only another hour plus before sunset, if he was going home that night, he had to start his downward trek so he’d be hiking on more level ground by the time it was fully dark.
The sleeping bag hooked to the bottom of his pack told a different story. The plan was to sleep alone up in the mountains where no one would find him. To rest without everyone’s cares on his shoulders.
So why was he checking his phone?
He asked the question silently, not seeking an answer, as his thumb pressed the screen to open his messaging app.
Dove St. James.
A contact he’d added that afternoon. Just in case she needed him to put in another call to Eli. To use his influence with the ABI major crimes office in Shelby regarding the ongoing investigations into Fletcher and the studio break-in. Not that there’d been a major crime.
Yet.
Prevention was Mitchell’s job. One he took to heart with utmost dedication.
She’d sent two messages. One a single sentence: Dad’s on board. Followed by the second, which was a photo of a rudimentary contract, giving Dove St. James power of attorney rights for St. James Boats. It wasn’t notarized but had two witness signatures.
Without the notary, Whaler could argue the validity of the contract in court. But unless the older man could argue convincingly that he’d signed under duress, he’d have a hard time winning.
And with a local cop as one of the signatories, a duress claim was unlikely to fly.
Another text buzzed against his palm. Dove’s name flashed on his screen. As though the woman really did have some kind psychic connection and knew he’d been thinking about her.
Stopping that thought before it could settle, he shook his head against illogical intrusions and read.
I’ve been cleared to get back into my studio. I plan to be there at 7 tomorrow morning. Can you meet me afterward? Say, 9? At your office?
On a Sunday?
Seriously?
He read the missive a second time.
Hesitated to answer.
Then it hit him. Her timeline was good. Best that he get her taken care of and out of his hair before regular office hours on Monday.
In the event that urgent business hit his desk at the start of the week, he’d have his little sidebar done.
Sunrise was scheduled for just after five Sunday morning. He could bed down, get several good hours of rest and make it back to town and shower by nine, easy.
Unless he just met her at her studio at seven.
No one should have to face the devastation he’d witnessed there alone.
He could talk to her about St. James Boats while they straightened her place up.
And then he’d have the rest of the day to head to the glaciers.
Strap on his new crampons and head out on the ice.
He should test out the cleats before embarking on a longer solo ice adventure with them.
Decision made through logical choice, Mitchell was in his bed at home by one in the morning and up at six. Was showered, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved flannel shirt and leaning against the back wall outside of Repo, waiting for Dove when she arrived at five to seven.
He couldn’t help but watch as she approached him. In purple leggings with a lighter see-through purple skirt made out of some kind of thin netting and a purple long-sleeved tightly fitting top that ended just above her belly button.
Did she dress purposely to make people stare at her? Her aim every morning when she looked in the closet was to appear as bizarrely as she could?
Had she any idea how sexy she looked?
Her purposeful stride spoke of determination, not a come-on.
She was about three feet away from where he stood in the doorway when she asked, “What’s up?”
He shrugged. “I figured we could talk while you clean.”
With a raised brow she glanced at his clothes. “You don’t look dressed for business.”
Looking her straight in the eye, he cocked his head at her and asked, “You want my help or not?”
She nodded, put her key in the door, swung it open, and glanced back at him. “Always. Just trying to figure out if I’m paying by the hour yet, or not.”
Couldn’t the woman accept some help without making a major event out of it?
Let him ease his conscience some before he broke it to her that there was no point in her paying for his legal services until she had her bigger problems resolved.
“The clock hasn’t started yet” was all he said, as he held the door and followed her inside.