Author's note: Of course, the usual disclaimers apply. All rights to any characters attached to Law & Order: Criminal Intent are the property of Dick Wolf. I just play with them now and again. And the rights to all other characters belong to me. :)
This is a story that I wrote during the wait for S8. I wrote it before we knew anything about Bobby's recovery period, before Molly, or any of that, so it's very AU compared to what we actually got in S8. Frame stayed with me for so long, and so did Bobby's pain. I couldn't hold it in, so here's the result. Sweetly romantic...just warning ya! ;)
Chapter 1
A frisky breeze blew along the shore, teased the waves as they rolled up like white lace against the sand. The gulls wheeled and cried overhead while sandpipers scuttled by on toothpick legs.
Children laughed, shouted to each other as they played in the waves. Mothers called out that it was nearly time to go in and get ready for dinner. Cries of "Aw. . .Mom" could be heard echoing down the beach.
There would be a lot of good-natured grouching while those same children were herded gently toward summer rentals, or year-round homes, dragging boogie boards and sand toys behind them as they followed their parents away from the shore.
Shayla smiled as she strolled along, with Finn staying close beside her. She remembered those days. Long, hot days of playing in the waves, running in the sand, her skin warmed by the sun and sticky with the salt of the sea.
She had always loved to ride those waves, first on a boogie board, then later a surfboard. She still enjoyed surfing now and again, though she hadn't done it in awhile. Mostly she stuck to body surfing or using a boogie board, but occasionally she pulled out her old surfboard and enjoyed a few wild rides on it.
Today was for walking, and for enjoying. Most days she walked in the opposite direction, back west, toward the Fire Island Lighthouse, which was nestled in a state park about a mile from her house. It was quieter, and the shells and beach glass she collected more plentiful.
But today she just wanted to watch the children play and observe the human life on the island, as opposed to the wildlife.
She walked slowly, with her black lab beside her, a pretty young woman in denim cutoffs, fraying at the hem, and a simple white tank top. She was barefoot, her toenails painted bright blue. She passed a group of teenage boys, smiled when they stopped their Frisbee game and just stared at her.
Once upon a time, she would have turned and started back the other way, uncomfortable being looked at. A side-effect of her marriage to Owen. How many times had he accused her of flirting with other men just because she was pretty enough to get looked at?
From the time she'd been a teenager, she'd turned heads. Some part of her, even back then, had marveled at the power she had over boys and grown men. It was the same power her mother had.
Her tall, willowy mother, long-legged and beautiful, with a riot of curly, chestnut-colored hair and a smile that could stop traffic.
How many times had she been told that she had inherited that beauty? She had the same oval face, the same fine nose, the same curls, though hers were sunshine blond. She wasn't tall like her mother had been, but slender and petite, as her grandmother had been. Her mother had very nearly been an Amazon at five-ten, whereas she stood at only five-three. Her father had nicknamed her Tinkerbelle for her small stature and her playful nature.
A sharp pang of grief pierced her then, made her heart ache suddenly as she remembered the night she had found out she'd lost them both to a sudden squall that had come up and capsized their boat, taking them away before they could even call for help.
But they had died as they lived. Together.
More than anything she wanted the marriage her parents had had. The friendship that had always shined bright beneath the great love they shared for one another.
Her childhood in South Carolina was as close as her photo albums, and as far as the other side of the world. She had lived and loved and learned on the sands of Myrtle Beach. She had grown up watching her parents love each other, longed to have a love of her own.
How foolish to have been taken in by the golden-boy charm of Owen Parsons.
A neurosurgeon on vacation from his hectic schedule at MUSC in Charleston, she'd been swept up instantly by his attention, by the intensity of his feelings for her.
She had thought his possessiveness sweet, his all-consuming need for her flattering. The fact that he had money had not really mattered to her. Her parents ran a successful bed and breakfast, plus a restaurant, and she had always had more than enough of the things she needed, or wanted.
Still, Owen had dazzled her with romantic dinners in some of Charleston's most expensive restaurants. He'd given her lavish gifts, lots of jewelry and pretty little trinkets he picked up here and there.
By the time she graduated from Coastal Carolina University with a degree in art, Owen had asked her to marry him. Charleston was only a two hour drive from Myrtle and he had been making it frequently, courting and romancing her.
He was older, already thirty when she was twenty-two, and he had seemed so nice, so attentive and caring. Her parents had liked him, her grandparents had liked him. She had been girlishly in love with him.
And within a year, she had learned to fear him.
Finn bumped her leg with his nose, brought her back from her thoughts. She shook off the past, tossed the tennis ball she held in a wide arc for him to chase.
Her marriage to Owen was history. In fact, it had been for nearly three years. It still shamed her, how long she had stayed with him, afraid to leave, afraid to make waves. Afraid of what he would do to her.
Her parents had not known how things were between her and Owen. They had seen nothing but the cheerful, happy veneer she had put on. Oh yes, she'd been adept at covering her emotions just as she covered the bruises. For almost five years she had lived in fear of her husband until finally she'd come face to face with her own desperation and realized how close to the edge of madness she had come.
It took every ounce of her courage, every bit of her will, to pack her things and walk out.
Owen had reacted to her leaving him just as she had expected, and then again, not as she had expected. At first he had been enraged, angrily shouting at her over the phone, then showing up at her parents' house, where she had sought refuge. Only the threat of being arrested had calmed him down, made him leave her be.
The divorce proceedings had been easy enough, as Owen had no grounds to contest anything. They had no children and she wasn't asking him for any support. She just wanted out.
And that was when things had changed. When Owen had suddenly become so calm, like a shark just before it goes on the attack. That was when the phone calls had started. The silence on the other end that let her know he was always there.
She got a restraining order to keep him away. He countered by following her around every weekend, always making sure to keep the appropriate distance between then, but nevertheless he had been there.
He stalked her mercilessly, always keeping within the boundaries of the law, and her father had nearly popped a vein arguing with the Chief of Police about keeping Owen away from her.
There was nothing they could do, the Chief told him, as long as Owen obeyed the order and stayed the appropriate distance away. She had finally gone back to court and asked the judge if he could order Owen to stay at least one mile away from her and her home, but that was deemed too restrictive of his rights.
His rights, she thought now. As though hers didn't matter.
Well, she had shown him. Finally.
Her parents' death, tragic as it had been, had given her a freedom she had never imagined. They each had two million dollars in life insurance, a more than adequate safety net that would have allowed her to keep the businesses running and pay anything that was owed on their loans. There was also what was left in their accounts, plus the value of both the bed and breakfast and the restaurant. All told, the sum of her bank accounts had grown by leaps and bounds in the past couple of years, as she settled her parents' affairs. She had sold everything; the B&B, the restaurant, even her childhood home.
She had been driven by sheer necessity to leave her southern home behind and move somewhere far, far from Owen's prying eyes and unending pursuit.
Shayla turned back toward home now, whistling for Finn. He came on the run, the tennis ball still clamped firmly in his mouth.
Home was still the shore, but a northern one now, rather than a southern one. Instead of saw palmettos and oleanders, the landscape was dotted by beachheather, bayberry, and an assortment of trees that were stunted and pruned by the salt-laden winds. Northern holly and beach plum thrived, as did sassafras and small, assorted pines.
She had already spent her first winter on the island and it had been more brutal than she had expected, with icy winds and snowstorms that had left the island buried beneath a blanket of white.
She had found herself loving the stark cold of winter, though it had begun to wear on her sometime in early February. She had been more than glad to see the spring come, and now the summer.
Her feet splashed in the tepid water of the Atlantic as she walked westward, toward her house. It was the last house before the state park began, at the edge of Kismet, the western-most village on Fire Island.
The house was a typical beach dwelling, situated on pilings that would allow water to flow underneath in the event of a storm that sent the ocean surging over the island.
She had four bedrooms, two that faced the sea, two that faced the bay, less than half a mile on the other side of the island. Her living space was more than enough for her with a large, eat-in kitchen connected to a spacious family room. There was a small living room to the right of the front door, which she had turned into a home office, a small dining room that fed into the kitchen through a narrow butler's pantry, and a sunroom off the other end of the family room, with windows on three sides, that she used as a studio.
Providentially, the house had been built with a huge mudroom just off the sunroom, with stairs going down to an outer door that opened into the carport beneath the house. The room was large enough to accommodate not only a good-sized washer and dryer, but her large kiln as well. The moment she had walked into the house, seen the rooms, the layout, gotten the feel of it, she had known it was meant to be hers.
She had been drawn to Fire Island because of the remoteness of it, or at least, the feeling of remoteness. It was only a forty-five minute drive to New York City from Bay Shore, where she kept her car parked, as there were no cars allowed on the island unless special permission was granted. Visitors and residents parked on the mainland and ferried over, or came by private boat.
She had a golf cart that she used to get around if she was going to have to carry anything heavy, and she had a bike, but mostly she walked. It wasn't that far to anything she needed, and even if she wanted the nightlife and noise of Ocean Beach, that was only a three-mile walk.
It was perfect in every way. And it was hundreds of miles from Owen.
With her parents and grandparents gone, she had no family left in Myrtle Beach. Her Uncle Jimmy lived down in Beaufort, where his law practice thrived. He had wanted her to move there, to be closer to him and Stacy, but Beaufort was only an hour and a half from Charleston. Much too close to Owen.
The sun was still blazing bright, the heat of the day still potent, though the breeze that whispered over her skin carried some relief. Still, it wasn't nearly as hot as late July in Myrtle Beach had been.
Here, the humidity was up, but not stifling, and she smiled at a couple strolling by, stopping just for a moment so the woman could coo over Finn and pet his silky black head. They moved on then, and she turned toward home, walking away from the water.
She'd settled in easily among the hardy locals and the beach-loving weekenders who came out from the city to fill the ferries that moved back and forth across the bay every fifteen minutes.
People knew her now, like Randy and Maureen, who owned a restaurant over in Ocean Beach, and Lee and Leslie, who owned The Out, just off the Kismet docks. Brenda Conroy tended bar and waited tables at The Out, and she had become someone Shayla could call a friend in short order.
There were scores of others who had been taken in by her southern ways and her smile, including Gene and Luanne, who owned the local market, and old Pete Dougherty, resident curmudgeon and retired ferryboat captain. Then there was Maggie Monroe, who ran the art gallery in Ocean Beach and who had talked Shayla into letting her represent her.
She was in her forties, and an admitted beach lover who had traded her glamorous life as a Manhattan gallery owner and agent for the quiet life of Fire Island. Of course, she'd set up a gallery there, too, as art was another of her life's passions, and in her Shayla had found yet another friend.
And though she felt settled and at ease in her new home, her new life, she couldn't shake the sense that she was waiting for something. Almost as if there was a secret gift hidden somewhere on the island with her name on it and she just hadn't found it yet.
She glanced back to make sure Finn was still following behind her and hadn't run off to chase the seagulls again. Still a puppy, though he was a year old now. In dog years, he wasn't even an adolescent yet.
She'd be getting new neighbors that day, too, for the next three weeks. She was already thanking God that those college kids had moved on and now it was Shelly Martin and her husband that would be arriving that afternoon with their toddler son.
She had a loaf of apple bread ready to take over to them, and she was already taken with the little towheaded boy named Toby, whom Shelly had had with her the day she had been there in the spring to look at the house before they put the rental deposit down.
She already liked Shelly, too. A tall, pretty blond with a boisterous laugh and friendly personality that didn't quite fit in with the image of the grumpy New Yorker; an image Shayla was beginning to understand was a bit exaggerated. The day they had met, Shelly had shown Shayla a family picture of her and a bespectacled man with brown hair and a face that wasn't classically handsome, but somehow managed to be appealing. The man was her husband Lewis, who owned his own car repair shop and could work on almost any car out there, something that Shelly had told her with pride. Shelly owned her own business as well, a gift shop in Brooklyn, and she had already professed an interest in looking at Shayla's work to see if she might sell some of it in her shop.
As Shayla strolled up the beach, toward home, she spied a man standing on the deck of the house beside hers, and it wasn't Lewis. Where Lewis was lanky, this man was built like a brawler, or a football player. She registered the considerable height, the way he stood, his feet planted at shoulder-width, his hands jammed in his pockets.
A handsome face, she saw as she got a little closer, and dark, wavy hair that looked to be shot with gray here and there. The close-clipped beard he was sporting made him look a little like a rugged cowboy, and the jeans and black t-shirt he wore only added to that look.
Odd how he made her feel as she got closer still. She sensed a deep loneliness hovering about him. It reached out with ethereal hands that whispered over her skin, drawing out goose bumps as she thought suddenly that he looked very much like the tragic hero in a play he wasn't aware he was starring in.
She wasn't sure if he saw her and she thought about lifting a hand to wave at him, maybe call out and ask him if he was a friend of Lewis and Shelly's, but then Finn came on the run, darting around her in a wide circle. He jumped and pawed at her, wanting more playtime, and she laughed at him as she turned to toss the tennis ball back over the beach so he could chase it one more time.
It was that laugh that caught Bobby's attention, had him focusing on the source of it. His eyes took in the slight figure of a woman as she dashed back over the dune swale and chased the big black dog.
Blond curls and a laugh that tinkled like bells. Tiny, slender legs that moved fast as lightning as she ran after the dog, then caught up with it and did a wild dance in the surf, her arms lifted high as the dog pranced around her legs.
In a few moments, she was patting the dog's head, urging him back toward the house with words he couldn't make out, but the sound of her voice rolled sweet on the air.
She came back through the dune swale, pushed open the waist high gate of the picket fence that surrounded the back yard next door, then bounded up the stairs to the deck and disappeared inside with the black dog following close behind.
He was still standing there, his eyes turned back to the sea, when he heard Lewis and Shelly talking in the kitchen beyond the screen door. Then came the happy giggles of their fifteen-month-old son Toby as he ran through the house, apparently bent on some toddler adventure of eluding his parents as they chased him and laughed.
What the hell was he thinking, spending three weeks in a beach house with Lewis and his happy little family?
The screen door slid open with the gritty sound of sand in the track. Instead of turning, he kept his eyes on the horizon, not really sure what he was looking at, but not really wanting to take in the warm, family scene behind him at the moment.
Not when he so desperately wanted one of his own. Not when he couldn't have it. Would never have it.
At relationships, he struck out. He never used to care, told himself even now that he didn't care. But he was just lying to himself. Lying to cover up the pain of the reality.
Dr. Olivet had plenty of theories as to why he wasn't good at making relationships work, the least of which being his fear of true intimacy that would require him to open his heart and truly give himself away. Another of the doctor's ubiquitous theories was that he was under the impression that there was something inherently wrong with him, and therefore he wasn't loveable.
He had considered them both, along with some others, and decided that she might have a point, but he wasn't going to dwell overmuch on any of them. He was resigned to his fate and he had all but given himself over to the idea that he would always be alone.
She had also suggested that he keep a journal. After a good deal of thought, and a lot of excuses as to why it wouldn't do any good, he had tentatively started one on his laptop, but so far, most of what had come out of him was half-hearted at best.
And after a six month suspension, during which time he had had to see Olivet on a regular basis, he decided that he had shaken all the skeletons from the family closet that he could deal with at the moment. It was time to let well enough alone.
She had given him that gentle, knowing look and told him to call her if he wanted to talk. He had her card tucked away, but he never called her. He wanted to let those sleeping dogs lie.
Lewis cleared his throat softly, stepped up beside Bobby and handed him a bottle of Beck's. "So…you want to tell me what's so interesting way out there?" he asked.
Bobby took a swallow of beer, shrugged slightly. "Just staring."
"Look, Bobby…" Lewis shook his head. "I'm not going to give you the whole 'I'm worried about you' speech. But I am."
"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I'm alright. I just…you know…there's just been so much happening. It takes some time to digest it all."
Lewis nodded silently, stood beside his oldest, closest friend, and wished he knew what the hell to say to help him. Bad enough he'd lost his mother to cancer the year before. He'd also found out that he was the product of an affair his mother had had while she was married to the man he had always thought was his father. To top off the Goren family drama, the man whom she had an affair with went on to become a killer and landed on death row.
Then there had been that undercover debacle at Tates Corrections that had landed Bobby on suspension for going unauthorized into the prison because his nephew had told him that inmates were being abused and tortured. Said nephew was now missing, having escaped the prison on his own by faking an attack of appendicitis.
And Bobby's brother Frank, the boy's father, had been murdered barely five weeks earlier. A murder that had been set in motion by Declan Gage, the man who had mentored Bobby as a criminal profiler; a man who claimed to think of him as the son he never had. Declan had used a woman who was a multiple murderess who had eluded his friend for years as the instrument of execution, then killed her himself.
All this, Declan had said, was to set Bobby free from the baggage of the past and allow him to start fresh, without the dead weight to drag him down.
It was a Shakespearean tragedy of the most dramatic proportions and as soon as he had the whole story, he'd been more convinced than ever that coming out to the island with him and Shelly would be the best thing for Bobby.
Three weeks on Fire Island with no cases to worry about, and no puzzles to figure out. Three weeks away from the city with its crimes and debauchery that kept Bobby's life occupied with the dregs of society on a daily basis.
As a detective, his friend was a natural. He'd made his bones on the beat, just like all of NYPD's cops, and graduated to Brooklyn Narcotics within two years. He'd run three undercover operations and taken down twenty-seven big-time drug dealers before being assigned to Major Case as a Detective First Grade.
Things to be proud of, to be sure, but Bobby had made the job, and his mother, his whole life. Now his mother was gone, and the job wasn't filling the void. So Lewis had a plan. Okay, it had been Shelly's brainstorm, but he'd run with it, hadn't he?
Maybe it was juvenile and a little crazy, but he figured if he worked at it from the right angle, he could nudge Bobby in the right direction. And she lived in the house next door.
He'd confess to being a romantic at heart, and so when Shelly had brought up the idea of inviting Bobby along and mentioned the friendly, pretty blond named Shayla she had met the day she had looked at the house, he'd gone along wholeheartedly. Shelly had the gift of gab needed to run a retail gift shop and she and Shayla had ended up sharing lunch and whiling away half the afternoon discussing any number of subjects. Apparently, Shayla had never met a stranger either.
The two of them had been trading phone calls for weeks now, and Shelly was already talking about selling some of Shayla's work in her shop.
Now he just hoped it wasn't a foolish idea. More than that, he hoped a little flirtation with a pretty woman would serve to bring his friend back to life.
If Bobby had even an inkling of what Lewis and Shelly were trying to do, he'd have walked straight back to the ferry dock and taken the first boat off the island.
Because he didn't, and because he himself knew he needed a break from the daily grind of police work, not to mention the upheaval in his life of late, he decided to try and relax a little bit.
And then he heard that tinkling laugh again, this time coming from inside the house. Shelly's voice answered it and a moment later the screen door slid open and he heard Shelly saying, "Lew, this is Shayla Landry, from next door. You remember me telling you about her?"
He and Lewis turned around at the same time and while his friend stepped forward and held out a hand, he just stood and stared, caught for a moment in a sort of stunned, suspended animation.
She still wore the same cutoffs and tank top she'd had on earlier, and as he was well used to taking in details quickly, he registered the blond curls that framed a pretty face, the cupid's bow mouth and finely sculpted nose that turned up just the slightest bit at the tip.
She was little, no more than five-three, with soft curves and slender limbs, and toenails that were painted an eye-popping shade of electric blue.
From the South, he noted, as her voice flowed out like warm honey. He vaguely heard Shelly introducing her to him and it was more of a reflex when he held out his free hand. And then he got a look at her eyes.
Oh, God…her eyes. They were so blue. Stunning pools of cobalt with a fire burning bright beneath them. He wasn't sure what was happening inside of him. He felt suddenly lost in their depths and faintly dizzy.
"So…you're renting next door?" he found himself asking, surprised to find that his voice still worked.
"Not renting, no." Shayla left her hand in his for a moment, looking up into his eyes. Her heart took an instant spin.
You, she thought. Finally, it's you.
Even as the thought flashed, then faded, she was feeling off balance, but she managed to smile at him. "I live here year round," she said while her heart spun and a flock of butterflies took wing in her stomach.
Bobby smiled back at her. Her hand was so small in his, and warm. He squeezed it once before he let go, took refuge in silence for a moment so he could gather his wits about him. And then Toby came chortling from the house, with that black dog close at his heels and Cindy, Shelly's fourteen-year-old niece, chasing them both, her long brown ponytail swinging behind her.
Shayla laughed, reached down and scooped the little boy into her arms. "Well now, sugar, I see you've met Finn."
She swayed as women were apt to do while holding a small child, and almost looked like a child herself, though he guessed she was near thirty, maybe a little younger.
"Finn?" He leaned down to scratch the dog's head. "After the great Celtic warrior?"
"Yep." Shayla settled Toby onto her hip while he giggled and twirled his tiny fingers in her hair. "You a fan of Irish legends?"
"He's a walking encyclopedia," Lewis joked and gave him a friendly slap. "He's got enough books to start his own library."
"So do I," she confessed. "Mama used to tell me I needed a whole house, just for my books."
"Books!" Toby cried.
Shayla laughed. "Shelly, I'll tell you again, he's the cutest little thing!" She tweaked Toby's nose and had him giggling again. "And so smart, too. Aren't you little man?"
"Smart!" Toby agreed.
Shayla laughed again and stooped to set him down, then clucked at Finn. "Now mind your manners, Finn, or I'll send you home." She rubbed her hand over his head. "See, Toby? Just like this."
Bobby stood back, silently watching as Shayla made the dog sit still so Toby could pet him without being knocked over. She chatted with Shelly about her shop and he found himself losing the words and just letting the sound of her voice flow over him.
It was a strong voice, rich with the sound of her southern home, and then it would turn all soft and sweet when she talked to Toby.
He came out of his little reverie when he heard Shelly insist that Shayla have dinner with them that evening. They had planned to do burgers on the grill and he barely heard Shayla say she'd be glad to come, and bring her homemade macaroni salad with her. He was too busy wondering at the look that passed between Lewis and his wife. He knit his brows together, realizing just what his friends were about.
He managed to give Shayla a nod and a half-smile as she took Finn and headed back to her house. She said she'd be back around six and he watched her go, frowning now.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he turned and looked at Lewis.
"What?"
"Don't give me 'what'. You know 'what'." He shook his head. "You two…I know what you're up to. And if there's anything I don't need, it's another complication in my life."
"A little flirtation never hurt anyone." Lewis shot his friend a grin, but he could clearly see that it wasn't going over well. "Look man, Shelly met her back in April and the two of them talked for like, three hours or something. She's an artist and Shelly's thinking about selling some of her stuff at the shop. And she's beautiful. For Pete's sake, man! You can't tell me you didn't notice that."
"I noticed." Bobby took a long swallow of beer, set the bottle down on the deck rail. "She's young, too. She looks like a little surfer girl with those blond curls and big blue eyes."
"She is. A surfer, I mean," Lewis added. "She told Shelly she still likes to catch waves now and then, but she was really into it when she was younger. And she's not a kid, you know. She's thirty-two."
"Yeah." And what would she want with a soon-to-be forty-seven-year-old cop who'd all but given up on himself? "Just…" He sighed. "What the hell…never mind."
Lewis gave him a light shoulder slap. "Give it a shot, why don't you?" he asked. "She's friendly, gorgeous, and she was definitely checking you out."
"She was not." Bobby gave him a mild shove. "You're seeing things. And in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly in the best shape these days."
"Hell, neither am I."
"Lew…" Bobby sent him an exasperated grin. His friend wasn't giving in. He could see it. "Oh for Pete's sake. If it'll get you off my back, I'll think about it."
"Thank God," Shelly said from the kitchen doorway. "Now that that's settled, will the two of you see what you can do about getting that grill straight?"
"Sure thing, sweetie." Lewis sent Bobby an even wider grin. "And she was too checking you out."
"Shut up." But he was smiling.
He could almost feel human again when he was around Lewis. The time when they hadn't kept in close touch had melted away the moment he was around him again and it was just like it had always been.
They'd known each other since grade school and with Lewis he could just be himself. It was something he had learned to appreciate in recent weeks, ever since Frank's murder.
Because the clouds in his mind threatened, he pushed thoughts of his brother aside and focused on the task at hand.
Even so, he couldn't quite get the image of Shayla out of his head. Tanned and pretty, with a smattering of freckles across her forehead and eyes like blue fire.
He was stirred, in ways that were only just now lumbering to life after a long, deep sleep. The physical feelings he could handle…sort of. But those stirrings deep in his heart were another matter altogether.
Frustrated that he couldn't stop thinking about a woman he barely knew, he busied himself with the grill rack, pulling it out and then setting it on the deck to be hosed off.
And yet…he found himself turning often to glance over at the neighboring house, thinking hard about what Lewis had said.
A little flirtation never hurt anyone.
The music had her dancing, as it always did. She'd docked her iPod in the stereo system in her bedroom and hit her dance playlist, and now Lady Gaga was belting out "Just Dance" and that was exactly what Shayla was doing as she got dressed after her shower.
Later that evening, once it got dark and the party hour had come, she was going to head over to The Out for a little fun and dancing. During the day and early evening, it was one of the best restaurants on this end of the island. At ten-thirty on Fridays and Saturdays, there was a DJ who came to spin the best dance hits from the past thirty years and most of the tables were moved back to make room for the crowds of vacationers and locals that jammed the floor and partied the night away.
She'd ask Shelly and Lewis to come along. And Bobby. She would definitely invite him to come, too.
Her stomach did a wild tumble just thinking about him. When she'd looked into his eyes, her stomach had whirled, her heart had spun, and she'd felt like she was riding a wild, twisting roller coaster.
You. Finally it's you.
Even now, as she put on some makeup and fluffed her curls, her heart was racing, her breathing just a little unsteady. She danced in a circle, her eyeliner pencil in hand, and felt like a schoolgirl getting ready for the big dance.
He was the one. She knew – just absolutely knew – he was the one she had been waiting her whole life for. And he'd already stolen her heart with those beautiful, sad eyes of his.
As for the rest of him, well, tall, dark and handsome he certainly was! Now that she'd seen him up close, she knew he had to be well over six feet tall and he looked solid enough. A little extra around the middle maybe, but he carried it well. And there was just something about those big, long arms of his that she loved, not to mention his big, capable hands.
She imagined for a moment what those powerful arms would feel like wrapped around her and felt the heat flush her face. And then she wondered what that big hunk of a man was going to do when she flirted with him.
The laugh tinkled out as she lined her eyes expertly, then applied some mascara. It had been years since she'd felt like flirting with anyone. Since she'd felt like she could.
It was a nice feeling.
She left Finn at home this time, carried the bowl with the macaroni salad in the crook of her arm as she left her house by the back door and headed across the yard.
Bobby was standing next to the grill, with Lewis beside him, and she saw that he had pulled on a rust colored shirt over the black t-shirt, the long sleeves rolled back to his elbows. Her stomach did a sweet little tumble.
He and Lewis were now leaning over the grill, talking about the placement of the charcoal brickets, which had her giggling as she climbed the steps. Her father and her uncle had often had that very same discussion.
"Well if this ain't a picture," she chuckled. "The two of you arranging charcoal like a couple of masons laying a foundation. Is it really such an exact science?"
Because his tongue had suddenly tangled into a knot, Bobby could only manage to swivel his head around and stare at her. It was Lewis who answered, and shot her a good-natured grin.
"Sure it is. If you don't set them up just right, they won't burn evenly."
Shayla laughed, shook her head. "Well then, I'll leave you to your manly duties," she said and sent Bobby a smile as she headed for the screen door and slid it open, stepped inside.
Bobby was still staring after her, and now he felt like an idiot. But what the hell was he supposed to do when she surprised him like that, turning up in snug, faded jeans and a bright pink shirt, left unbuttoned to reveal the black tank top beneath it and tied sassily at the waist.
She was wearing makeup, and that was sassy, too. Shadow on her lids that glittered like pink diamonds and those gorgeous eyes lined in a way that had drawn him right into their depths with dizzying efficiency. Even while he stood thinking about how beautiful she had looked, she was leaning back out the kitchen door.
"Either one of y'all want another beer?"
"Sure." Was that him? Did he finally manage to make his voice work? "Thanks."
"Me, too," Lewis said. "Since you're offering."
Shayla smiled at him, pulled back inside. She went to the fridge, pulled out two bottles of Beck's, and spotted the Seagram's wine coolers on the door. "Fuzzy Naval," she said and turned to grin at Shelly. "My favorite flavor. You want one?"
"Absolutely." Shelly turned from the plate of burgers she had just finished making, washed the meat off her hands. "Cindy's keeping Toby busy while we cook, otherwise he'll be running around way too close to the grill."
Shayla handed her a wine cooler and one of the beers. "So…before I go back out there and make a fool out of myself…is Bobby seeing anyone?"
"Not at all," Shelly answered, delighted that Shayla was interested. "Go for it."
"You bet." Shayla grinned, took the other beer and went back outside with Shelly following her.
The radio was on now, tuned to a popular classic rock station. She handed Bobby the bottle of beer, smiled up at him as the Fabulous Thunderbirds launched into "Tuff Enuff".
"Y'all got those things laid out just right now?" she asked.
"More or less."
Her eyes were twinkling and he found himself staring at her mouth. A pretty mouth that was slicked with raspberry-colored lipstick. He could imagine leaning down and just touching it with his, could almost feel the softness of her lips, could almost taste them. She would taste sweet, he thought. Like candy.
She was still smiling at him as she backed up a little, leaned against the wooden rail of the deck, keeping time to the song on the radio by tapping her foot. Pretty feet, clad in flip-flops, with toenails now painted bright pink.
He was more than shocked to find himself suddenly thinking about what it would be like to have his arms around her, to have his hands on her so that he could stroke them along all those softly rounded curves, discover the secrets that lay beneath her clothes. Her skin would be warm, he imagined, and would taste as sweet as her lips.
He imagined a darkened bedroom, her skin flushed, her body soft and warm beneath his as she sighed…
"Oh…Jimmy Buffet," she exclaimed suddenly. "It wouldn't be summer without him."
It took him a full ten seconds to tune into the song on the radio, and the sound of the conversation that had sprung up around him while he was busy fantasizing about her.
"Don't tell me you're a Parrotthead?" Lewis grinned at her.
"'Course I am, honey. You don't grow up on the beach and not listen to Jimmy Buffet." She took a sip of her drink, swirled the sweet liquid over her tongue before she swallowed it. "Couple of years back, he was in town to open one of his restaurants and I had the pleasure of meeting him and knocking back a couple, just for the sake of saying I had a drink with the king of summer."
"Where are you from?" Bobby finally found his voice again, and hoped the heat he felt in his face didn't actually show.
"South Carolina." She turned her head to look at him, saw the faintest hint of a blush climbing his neck. "I grew up in Myrtle Beach, then lived in Charleston with my ex-husband for a few years. When I left him, I moved back home. My parents owned a B&B and a restaurant, and I helped out when they needed it while I put my poor, shattered life back together."
She said it with a grin and a touch of humor. She could do that now. Humor had helped her to put the past behind her and try to forget the pain and fear of those years with Owen.
"Do they still live in Myrtle Beach?" Lewis wanted to know and missed the look his wife sent him.
Shayla shook her head wistfully. "No…they died," she said softly.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay." She smiled, took another sip from her bottle. "It's been a little over two years now. They got caught in a squall while they were out sailing one evening. Once I had their affairs settled, I decided to sell the house, the businesses, and move up here."
"Wow." Bobby gave a low whistle. "Just like that? You pulled up stakes and moved hundreds of miles from home? Pretty adventurous."
"Oh, I am," she said. "Most definitely. But I also wanted to put some distance between me and my ex. He's…got issues."
He nodded. She didn't have to spell it out. "So, what made you pick Fire Island?"
"A lot of things. The remote feeling, for one, as I wanted that distance I mentioned. And the pace of the island…nice and slow…reminds me of home."
She grinned, sauntered over to grab a tortilla chip from the bowl Shelly brought out and set on the table. She dipped it into the salsa and took a bite.
"Y'all got no concept of taking things slow up here," she went on. "Rushing around like a bunch of chickens with your heads cut off, bumping into each other. I sure do love the fun of the city, but you'll never catch me living there. I'd never be able to stand it."
Picturing her as she'd been that afternoon, in her cutoffs and tank top, running barefoot on the beach with Finn, Bobby understood that perfectly.
With the radio playing in the background, on a Top 40 station now, Shayla helped Shelly pull out paper plates and plastic utensils, set out the condiments and the hamburger buns.
She sang along with Nickleback as she set the bowl of macaroni salad out, then turned around just as Toby came hurtling out of the house, giggling happily. Expecting to find Cindy behind him, she was surprised to see that it was Bobby chasing him. He caught him with those powerful looking arms and swung him high into the air, had him squealing with laughter.
She watched them for a moment, touched by the way he looked, so big and manly, cradling the little boy on one shoulder as he went down into the small yard where he set him down and lightly kicked a small soccer ball toward him, which Toby promptly chased after and attempted to kick back.
"You'd think a guy who's so good with kids would have some, wouldn't you?" Shelly said in a low voice as she stepped up beside Shayla.
"Yeah. Why doesn't he?"
"He's never been married. Stays away from serious relationships most of the time."
"He's lonely," Shayla said softly.
"Yes." Shelly nodded. "He is. He lost his mom to cancer last year, and his brother was killed just over a month ago; Lew told me that his father's been dead for about ten years. As far as I know, he doesn't really have anyone left, aside from some aunts and uncles that he doesn't seem to be very close to, for whatever reason."
"That aching loneliness," Shayla murmured. "It makes you want to cuddle him, soothe away the hurt." And then she shook her head. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm a hopeless romantic. Comes down through my mother's Irish blood."
"I'm thinking Bobby could use a little romance in his life," Shelly told her. "He's been walking through life like a dead man for way too long. It's time he woke up."
Shayla couldn't answer her because Bobby was headed toward the stairs to retrieve the ball that Toby had managed to kick sideways. He glanced up at her and she smiled at him. The look that crossed his face was an odd mixture of wistfulness and pleasure.
"You want some company there, sugar?" she asked as she walked down the stairs.
"Depends," he found himself saying. "You feel like chasing this ball around?"
"Sure." She took it from him with a friendly wink, then set it on the ground. "Okay, Toby," she called out. "You ready?"
"Ball!" Toby shouted.
Lewis walked out of the house with the plate of raw burgers, ready to put them on the grill, and stood for a long moment watching Shayla and Bobby playing with his son. They spent a lot of time chasing after the ball that Toby kicked wildly in all directions, and he was glad to see Bobby looking almost happy. He was even laughing, which was more than he'd done in weeks.
"They look good together," Shelly said quietly as she took the plate Lewis handed her. "She's interested in him, too. She asked me if he was seeing anyone."
"Damn, we're good." Lewis hooked his arm around his wife's shoulders and gave her a lip-smacking kiss. "She's going over to The Out tonight for some dancing. She mentioned it earlier. Think we can convince him to go along?"
Shelly watched Bobby toss the ball to Shayla, saw the smile that spread across his face. "I don't think that's going to be a problem," she said.