Take It To The Grave Bundle 1. Zoe CarterЧитать онлайн книгу.
the backpackers helping with the construction, stood in the doorway. From his expression, he’d been waiting a little while for my response. Damn it, after all these months, I still forgot my name. Luckily, all supplies and equipment were addressed to Nurses Without Borders, so no one here knew my real name. I’d managed to laugh off most hesitations with some casual comment, but I knew I’d given a lot of these people an impression of being quite the ditz sometimes. Fortunately, I’d managed to prove myself with the program setup, training and implementation, so I wasn’t seen as a complete ditz.
My eyebrows rose as Jake’s comments registered. “You’re the site manager, why don’t you tell them?”
He folded his arms as he leaned against the door frame. I’m surprised it held his bulk. The blond American was considerably taller and more solid than his Thai contractors, and this hut looked like the next typhoon could wash it away.
“They want to talk to the nice lady,” he drawled, then chuckled.
I tried to frown, but my lips curved. Right. The builders wanted a break, and this was the most expedient way of getting one.
I gestured to the door and followed him and Arinya out to walk along the raised veranda. The sun was bright, the humidity thick, the sea breeze pretty much non-existent. As I trotted down the stairs to the ground below, one of the village kids cried out, and I waved back. These interruptions were becoming a habit, but I didn’t mind. Everyone seemed to work on a relaxed schedule, and I’d learned it was easier to work with it than against it. I may be here in my capacity as nurse and trainer, but I’d also discovered some unique negotiating skills to get builders and tradespeople to do what needed to be done—in due time.
“Some of the gang are organizing a Fourth of July party...” Jake commented casually, referring to the rest of the team of travelers involved in the health clinic program. “We weren’t sure if you’d be here, or back home in...?” His voice trailed off, and I didn’t miss his obvious attempt at getting more information out of me. At least Rich was more subtle, kept me on my toes. Jake was easy to handle.
“Oh, that sounds fantastic, what a great idea,” I exclaimed, neatly sidestepping the question. “You know I’m always up for a party—any excuse will do.” I turned my attention to greet Chatri, the local man in charge of the build. It took several minutes of gesturing and intent listening, deciphering, laughing and finally translating with the help of Arinya to communicate where the bamboo poles should go, and I brought Jake into the conversation as we turned to look at the newly formed building.
The concrete slab for the new health clinic had been poured, and most of the cinder blocks were already laid. I walked over to the newly delivered bamboo poles that would be used to partially frame up the roof, and spent the next half hour discussing the structure with the local men involved on the project, along with the university students, backpackers and medical professionals who were using their break to contribute to the remote Thai communities who very much needed this clinic.
Something slammed into my butt, and I whirled. Four kids giggled, and I could see more running up behind. A baby crawled in the sand behind them, and once again a startling memory of another little baby, crawling along the ground, slammed into me. Just as quickly, it was gone. It’s okay, don’t worry, the soothing voice in my head whispered.
One of the boys bit his finger, then pointed to the ground and I looked down. A sad little soccer ball in need of inflation lay at my feet, and I grinned.
“Oh, it’s on.” I kicked the ball back to them, then ran up, trying to sweep it out from between their feet. It wasn’t long before we were playing an impromptu game of soccer on the beach.
The rest of the day passed in a blur—much like every other day here.
* * *
I tilted my head back as the hot breeze teased my short hair, listening to Jake’s gentle guitar strumming. It was nine o’clock, the sun had long since set, but the heat and humidity were unrelenting. So unrelenting that Rich’s arm around my shoulders felt more like a hot clamp than a gesture of affection. The campfire was low, and I could see the stars twinkling in the night sky. Only the light from the fire illuminated our group, and there was an intimate feel to the evening, cloaked in darkness. Or maybe that was the alcohol, bringing us together, lowering our inhibitions, our filters. My current flame tugged me closer, and I tried to get comfortable, reminding myself that a cold beer and a hot guy on a sandy beach were supposed to be my idea of heaven.
“I miss my bed,” Rich said as we shared our secret longings to stave off homesickness. Okay, they shared their secret longings; I just listened. I wasn’t homesick. One needed a home to get homesick about. Rich rubbed my arm, waggling his dark brows suggestively. “It’s huge, with just the right amount of bounce.”
I shook my head, grinning. “And you probably change the sheets maybe once a year, right?” I joked, and the others laughed, including Rich. He may be great in the sack, but he was little help outside of it, at least when it came to housekeeping, I’d noticed. He was great on the building site, not so much in the hut we now shared.
“I miss my mother’s pumpkin pie,” Stacey, a college student from Sacramento, commented.
“Oh, my mom used to make a fantastic pecan pie,” Harry, a young med student from New Orleans, interjected. I moaned at the thought of a slice of good old pecan pie—with lashings of whipped cream.
The tie of my bikini top dug into the back of my neck, and I lifted the cotton tank top away from my chest, trying to allow some of that breeze to brush against my skin, no matter how heated it was. It was hot, and my head was beginning to feel just the slightest bit fuzzy. I wasn’t sure if it was dehydration, drunkenness or a pleasant mix of both.
The breeze shifted, and some of us sitting around the campfire moved to get out of the way of the smoke. I tried to shift, too, but Rich sidled up alongside me, that heavy, hot arm tugging me closer to that solid, heated body. He was doing that a lot lately, as though signaling to all and sundry that we were an item. Normally I don’t mind public displays of affection. Kiss me, hug me, get me hot and panting, but this was beginning to feel just a little bit more than a casual PDA. I raised my glass to my lips and took a big sip of the home brew Chatri had left for us. I still couldn’t pronounce its name, but I’d acquired a taste for it. This was my fourth and I was feeling a pleasant buzz. Well, almost. I could also feel the suffocating weight around my shoulders. I swallowed some more. Yep, there’s that buzz now. I relaxed into the warmth that spread through my chest. Chatri’s home brew could pack a punch, if you let it. It made it easier to forget.
“I miss my sister,” Stacey said softly. “There are so many things I’d love to tell her about this project...”
Nope. I wasn’t going to think about my sister.
Harry nodded. “My dad would love this whole thing,” he murmured, staring into the flames. “He’s an awesome handyman, too. We built this bookshelf together for my mom when I was twelve, for the fabric she uses for patchwork.” His expression turned sombre. “She died a few years ago.” He blinked, then smiled. “But that bookshelf is still standing.”
I sure as hell wasn’t going to reminisce about my mother. I forced myself to focus on the bookshelf part of the story.
Jake put down his guitar. “I miss my dog,” he said, staring morosely into the fire.
I chuckled. “You are such a country song.”
Jake grinned, and Rich twisted slightly to face me.
“What do you miss, Lucy?”
I kept the smile on my face, and raised my eyebrows. “What?” I asked, pretending to not hear the question as my mind raced for an answer. Okay, maybe raced wasn’t the right word. It lurched at a sluggish pace.
“Who or what do you miss from home?” Rich repeated, framing his words too clearly for me to play dumb a second time. Damn it. He was experiencing a brief moment of clarity, of purpose, when I was concentrating really hard on not letting my head loll back. Not fair.
“Ketchup,”