Kiss River. Diane ChamberlainЧитать онлайн книгу.
agree with you,” Lacey surprised him by saying. “I think they should have at least salvaged the lens.”
“You’ll have to fight Dad on that one,” Clay said.
“Why your father?” Gina looked from him to Lacey.
“He’s got OCD,” Lacey said with a flash of her dimples. “Obsessive-compulsive disorder. He used to be obsessed with saving the lighthouse. He led the Save the Lighthouse committee. After the hurricane, he became obsessed with keeping it the way it is and leaving the lens in the ocean.” She held up a hand to ward off the obvious question. “Don’t ask me to explain why my dad is the way he is, because I can’t.”
“Is he … does he … have some say in what happens to the lighthouse and the lens?” Gina asked.
“Not officially,” Lacey said. “But when it comes to the locals, everyone follows his lead.”
There was silence at the table for a moment, filled only by the crunch of corn and the chink of forks against the plates. Gina took a swallow of iced tea.
“This is the first time I’ve eaten fresh tuna,” she said, putting down her glass. “It’s wonderful.”
“My favorite,” Lacey agreed.
“You must get a lot of salmon where you live,” Clay said.
“Tons.” Gina nodded. She cut another piece of the fish with the side of her fork, but didn’t bring it to her mouth. “If I wanted to look into getting the lens raised,” she said, returning to the more difficult topic, “is your father the person I should talk to?”
Clay didn’t understand her apparent interest in the lens, but after growing up with his father, he was accustomed to an unexplained fixation on the Kiss River light. He nodded. “If you don’t have his backing, you can forget about getting anyone else’s,” he said. “But … and don’t take offense at this, please … you have to keep in mind that you’re an outsider here. People won’t much care what you want. The fact that you’re a lighthouse historian, though, might give you a little credibility.”
Gina’s huge, dark eyes were on him as she set down her fork. “Where would I find him?” she asked. “Your father?”
“He’s a vet,” Lacey said. “He works at Beacon Animal Hospital in Nag’s Head.”
“Is that far from here?”
“Half an hour,” Clay said. He pictured Gina walking unannounced into the animal hospital, and his father’s response when he realized the purpose of her intrusion. “If you want to contact him, though, I’d call him first. And don’t get your hopes up.”
“I won’t.” Gina smiled at him, but it was a quick smile that seemed somehow false. “So,” she said, “what sort of work do the two of you do? I assume you’re in construction?”
Lacey shook her head. “I’m a part-time vet tech at the animal hospital,” she said. “And a full-time stained-glass artist.”
She sold herself short, Clay thought. Vet tech and stained-glass artist just scratched the surface of who his sister was. She also volunteered on a crisis hot line, tutored kids at the local elementary school, read to residents in the nursing home where Mary Poor used to live and attended Al-Anon meetings in support of her biological father, Tom Nestor, who was also her stained-glass mentor and—at long last—a recovering alcoholic. She gave blood regularly and had donated her bone marrow the year before. She had, in short, turned herself into their mother, who the locals used to call Saint Anne. Lacey’s gradual metamorphosis into Annie O’Neill made Clay uncomfortable.
“And how about you?” Gina was looking at him.
He finished chewing a mouthful of salad. “Architect,” he said.
“Really?” Gina asked. “What sort of architecture?”
“Residential,” Clay said. “I have an office in Duck.”
For the first time that evening, he felt the too-familiar dark cloud slip over his shoulders. It used to be that, even before Clay would say he was an architect, he’d say that he trained dogs and their owners for search and rescue work. That had been his avocation and his passion, but he hadn’t put Sasha through his paces once since Terri’s death, and he no longer bothered to return the calls from people looking for training. Lacey had nagged him about it at first but quickly learned that approach could only backfire. It made him angry. It made him wonder if she’d loved Terri at all. She used to say that Terri felt more like a sister than a sister-in-law. Then why didn’t she understand that he just didn’t feel like doing a damn thing that reminded him of his wife?
“What grade do you teach?” Lacey asked their guest.
“Junior high,” Gina said. “Science.”
That explained her knowledge of brass and the electrolyte bath, Clay thought.
“Rough age,” Lacey said, and Clay had to smile to himself. Lacey had been one of the roughest fourteen-year-olds imaginable.
“I love it,” Gina said. “I love the kids.”
“Do you have any of your own?” Lacey asked.
Gina didn’t answer right away. She toyed with her salad for a moment, pushing a cherry tomato around with her fork. “No,” she said. “Someday, I hope.”
“Are you married?” Lacey asked. God, Clay thought. His sister could be so damn nosy. But his eyes fell to Gina’s hands, searching for a wedding ring. She wore two rings, actually: on her right hand, a small ruby in a white-gold or platinum setting, and on her left hand, an onyx set in silver. Her fingers were long and slim, like the rest of her, and her nails were unpainted, pink and rounded, cared for but not pampered.
Gina shook her head. “Not married,” she said.
Clay stood up and lifted his plate from the table to carry it to the sink. He had never been very good at sitting still for long, especially not for after-dinner small talk. He was just like their father that way, filled with a nervous sort of energy that had driven Terri crazy and was now doing the same to his sister. Lacey had long ago given up on asking him to stay seated for a while after dinner.
“Well.” Gina looked at her watch as if he’d given her the cue that it was time to leave. “I’d better be going,” she said. “I still have to find a room for tonight.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Clay asked from the sink. It was a Friday night at the end of June. She would never find a room.
“No.” She looked guileless. “I didn’t think about making a reservation. After I saw the traffic coming over the bridge this afternoon, I knew I should have, but …” Her voice faded away as she shrugged. “It’s not a problem for me, though. I slept in my car the entire trip out here. I can certainly do it one more night.”
“That’s crazy,” Lacey said. “You stay with us tonight, Gina. Tomorrow you can look for a room. No way we’re letting you sleep in your car.” Lacey didn’t look at him as she spoke. He knew she didn’t want to see any disapproval in his eyes.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Gina said. She looked genuinely chagrined by the invitation. “You’ve already been so kind. And after I trespassed on your property and took over your evening.”
“You’re staying here,” Lacey insisted. “The spare bedrooms haven’t been redone yet, but you’re welcome to take one of them as is, if you like. We have clean sheets for the bed. So you have no excuse not to stay.”
He knew he should speak up himself. He should tell her it was okay, that he’d like her to stay, but for some reason the words were stuck in his throat.
Gina played with her crumpled napkin where it rested on the table. “Well, thank you so much,” she said, glancing from Lacey to him. “I can’t believe how nice you two are being to a perfect stranger.”