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Mary Margret Daughtridge SEALed Bundle
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Contents
Sealed with a Kiss
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Sealed with a Promise
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Sealed with a Ring
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2008 by Mary Margret Daughtridge
Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover photo © iStock
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Source-books, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Daughtridge, Mary Margret.
SEALed with a Kiss : Even a Hero Needs Help Sometimes / Mary Margret Daughtridge.
p. cm.
1. United States. Navy. SEALs—Fiction. 2. Single fathers—Fiction. 3. Fathers and sons—Fiction. 4. Custody of children—Fiction. 5. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.A92S43 2008
813’.6--dc22
2008002284
Printed in Canada
WC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
To my mother, Besse Holloman, who taught me to love words,
To my tenth-grade English teacher, Dorothy Powell, who taught me to craft with those words,
and
To Diane Spitler, an extraordinary friend who, even from the Other Side, made me write a book.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Working on a book isn’t a realistic thing to do. It’s an act of faith. Without faith in a book’s possibility, contributed by many people other than the writer, a book doesn’t come into existence.
Elsa McKeithan kept the faith through my ups and downs of writer angst while I chiseled characters from the bedrock of my unconscious. Katherine Highfill held out the carrot of Starbucks once a week, if I’d show up with a rewritten chapter. MariBeth Graham discussed theme, premise, and plot; cut my synopses to the bone; and knew when Mercury was retrograde.
Yvonne Harris, Jennifer Loman, and Amy Padgett ignored their own writing many times to squeeze me under deadlines. Nancy Yow proofread the manuscript on her vacation, and Ben Wilson rescued lost files.
All credit for the insider feel of the book goes to two former SEALs, John Carl Roat and Martin Strong. They answered hundreds of emails, exemplifying the generosity, humor, and perseverance of the men who put the “special” in Special Operations. Lt. Josh Wilson provided modern navy background. Any errors are my own.
Sensitive to the nuances of character-based plot, Stephanie Evans, agent extraordinaire, and Deb Werksman of Sourcebooks suggested changes, subtle yet powerful, that brought the book to its final form.
Finally, in talking about faith, I must mention Pat Moore, Glenda Gayle Sink, and Alma Pendergast, who had the fortitude to read rough drafts and still believe the book was publishable, and my family—Daughtridges, Greens, and Hollomans—who contributed their faith by believing in me.
ONE
LITTLE CREEK, VIRGINIA
Sometimes, even the most dedicated workaholic needs to unwind in a low-class dive. Jax Graham signaled the bar girl to bring him and Do-Lord two more beers. The Sea Shanty, as neon grunge on the inside as it was dilapidated on the outside, could always be trusted to live down to its name. A smart man would be grateful that darkness hid the dirt, and the odors of beer and ancient cigarette smoke obliterated smells even less savory. Nobody who gave a damn would see him, a lieutenant, having a drink with his best friend, Caleb “Do-Lord” Dulaude, a Chief Pe
tty Officer.
The beer joint would fill up later with a volatile mix of bikers, SEALs, and Marines, but it was early now. Only a few tables were occupied.
In one corner a couple of SEAL groupies used a lazy game of pool to offer generous displays of tits and ass, occasionally casting acquisitive eyes in Jax and Do-Lord’s direction.
The tall blonde wasn’t bad, Jax mused in unconscious, automatic assessment, but neither girl was anything special. Still, neither one would leave alone at closing time—not that he’d be here to see it.
Picking up groupies or closing down bars wasn’t something he did much anymore. He’d done plenty of both almost five years ago after Danielle left him, taking his baby son. But it didn’t take him long to learn all he achieved was a hangover. Hard work and dedication turned out to be more effective for blotting out the pain. And paid off in career advancement. Since his latest deployment to Afghanistan his superiors had recommended him for early promotion to lieutenant commander.
Ironic. Danielle left him because being a SEAL claimed most of his time. But after she took Tyler, the only thing that eased his grief was spending even more time at work. Danielle’s death last month wouldn’t really impact his life now. Not at all. It gave him a hollow feeling, but it was the truth.
“You haven’t said much.” Do-Lord’s soft Alabama drawl slid easily through the happy-hour chatter. “You worried about Commander Kohn chewing you out?” That his friend knew what had taken place behind closed doors between him and his mentor didn’t surprise Jax. Chiefs knew everything.
“Nah.” Jax used the bottom of his beer mug to press interlocking rings of condensation on the tabletop until he made an Olympics symbol. “It’s not a problem.”
Do-Lord made a dubious rumbling sound and raised one reddish eyebrow.
“Okay, yeah, I was ticked. Kohn questions whether I really know what I’m doing about my son. He kept asking how often I see Tyler. Shit. How much does any SEAL see his kids? And because Danielle and I were divorced, I saw him even less.”
“He thinks you should bring Tyler to live with you?”
“No, he didn’t tell me what to do, except to make sure I spent some time with Tyler—more than a couple of days—before I made up my mind.” Jax scrubbed at his hairline with a fist, a habit when he was frustrated—a habit he thought he’d broken. “But here’s the deal. Sure, custody reverted to me at Danielle’s death, but I know what it’s like to be raised by housekeepers and baby -sitters. Screw ’im. I’m doing what I think is right.”
Jax could feel Do-Lord listening, though he said nothing. Jax went on, a little calmer. “Giving custody of Tyler to his grandmother is the only plan that makes any sense. I’m not palming him off. She wants him. I don’t like her, but Lauren loves Tyler and he’s already living with her.”
Do-Lord’s sympathetic smile said he understood the bad blood that existed between Jax and his ex–mother-in-law. But his raw-boned face immediately turned serious again. “Maybe you ought to be worried, though.” Do-Lord’s light-green eyes leveled a look at Jax. “Face it, man, it ain’t natural for commanders to chew out lieutenants over filling out child care forms. He coulda and he shoulda passed that duty down the chain of command. Kohn could have you discharged if he’s not happy with the provisions you make for Tyler. And I think he’d do it.”
Jax grinned inwardly. Do-Lord’s homespun manner fooled a lot of people. Like his sandy-red hair and slow speech, it made effective camouflage for his incisive intelligence. In fact, he was an omnivorous reader, and holder of several advanced degrees. The only person Jax had ever known who was as smart as Do-Lord had been his boyhood friend Corey. Jax had frequently found Do-Lord’s ability to see patterns—where other people saw only chaos—useful. But he was taking Kohn’s threats too seriously.
Jax shook his head. “You know how Kohn is when he gets the family responsibility bug up his ass. Tyler’s already lost his mother. Why should he be ripped from the one person he really knows? Tyler’s going to be taken care of. It’s essentially the same custody agreement I had with Danielle. Now, it’s just a matter of signing the papers.”
Do-Lord tilted his head and looked at Jax through narrowed eyes. “You really think it will be that easy?” he inquired softly.
Do-Lord’s question fell into one of those conversational lulls. For a moment the bar was so quiet Jax could hear the click of billiard balls in the corner.
“My lawyer’s ex-Navy. He’ll make sure everything is regulation,” he said, but he knew that wasn’t what his friend was asking.
Finally he said the thing he hadn’t said to Kohn, or even to himself. “It’s like this: I don’t see that I’m losing anything I ever had.”
Uncomfortable at revealing so much, Jax pressed a wet circle on the battered tabletop, then bisected it with another circle.
Do-Lord pointed to the wet circles. “You made a vesica piscis.”
Good friend that he was, Do-Lord was offering this odd little factoid culled from his voracious reading as a change of subject. It was a mark of the trust between them that Do-Lord would reveal what an information sponge his brain was. Conscious of his affection and grateful for the shift away from a conversation that had gotten too touchy-feely too fast, Jax canted an eyebrow. “You know the damnedest things. Okay, what the hell is a … a whatever you said?”
“Vesica piscis. It’s a sacred geometric symbol representing enlightenment through union with the Divine Feminine principle. See?” Do-Lord pointed to the lens shape formed where the two circles intersected. “It looks sort of like,” Do-Lord’s eyes twinkled with deadpan humor, “the feminine portal.”
“Feminine portal!” Jax hooted. “You know what, I’m worried about you. You’ve been talking funny ever since you read all those romance novels while we were in Afghanistan.”
SEALs teased one another relentlessly to ease the inevitable friction among team members—alpha males, every one—whose natural tendency was to compete for dominance rather than to cooperate. Do-Lord refused to take the bait, though. “Nothing else I could do, once I’d been through all the paperback thrillers.”
“I think you’re trying to say it looks like pussy.” Jax laughed again, then tilted his head one way and then the other to study the shape he’d made. “Well, damn! It sort of does. Okay, such a symbol is important to know about … why?”
“You see it in Georgia O’Keefe’s paintings, representations of the Virgin Mary—lots of places, even tabletops in beer joints. It’s a clue to interpretation.”
“You’re the guy with the psych degree. How do you interpret my spontaneous work of art?”
“Me?” Do-Lord took a thoughtful swig of beer. “I think it means you need to get laid.”
Both men chuckled and settled deeper into the scarred wooden armchairs. After a moment Jax broke the easy silence.
“I was just thinking about something the Commander said. Do you think a lot of men wonder if their children are really theirs?” Do-Lord had never been married and had no children, but there wasn’t another man on earth Jax would have shared his musings with.
Do-Lord scratched his upper lip with a knuckle. “I don’t know. I guess the question has got to enter your mind sometimes. Specially considering how much we’re away.” Do-Lord straightened abruptly in his chair. “Hey man, you don’t wonder about Tyler, do you? His latest picture looks just like you. He even stands like you.”
Jax grinned at his friend’s earnest reassurances. “I don’t wonder now. But I did.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “You know when they’re born—they’re so little it scares the hell out of you, and they’re all red and mashed-looking? They don’t look like you.” He let out a soft, humorous snort. “They don’t even exactly look human. And then, they put him in my hands …” He opened his hands and spread his fingers to show how Tyler had fit there.
Jax had to clear his throat of a sticky feeling, and stare at the ceiling until a hot sensation in his eyes passed. “
… and I felt so … umhmm.”
Jax covered the suspicious crack in his voice with another bout of throat clearing, and began again. “The point is, I knew I would gladly die for him. I didn’t care whose son he was. From that moment on, he was mine.”
FIVE DAYS LATER: TOPSAIL ISLAND, NORTH CAROLINA
Heat, built up through the day, blasted Pickett as soon as she opened the door to the unoccupied beach house. She was going to sweat through her silk blouse and shantung slacks, which would mean a dry-cleaning bill. She considered putting off preparing the elderly couple’s cottage for the hurricane until morning.
No, her mother would be on the phone tonight wanting to know if it was done.
Pickett had to quell a surge of resentment. Her mother had a tendency to use Pickett’s time as if it were her own. It was easy for her to tell Mrs. Howell, “Pickett lives at the beach now. She’ll just be glad to shut off everything and close the storm shutters.”
Well, Pickett didn’t live on the beach! She fumed. She lived thirty minutes away in Snead’s Ferry, where, over her mother’s and sisters’ protests, Pickett was restoring the family home-place. You’d think, having spent her childhood summers in the house Pickett now occupied, her mother would be able to tell the difference between a house on the beach and one on the sound!
Pickett let out a huff of exasperation. If it was pointless to argue with her mother face-to-face, it was truly futile to argue with her in her mind.
Besides, her mother was right, partly. The kindly couple who were her mother’s next-door neighbors were getting frail. They still clung to the beach cottage they loved, but a frantic two-hour trip from Goldsboro to batten down the hatches would be hard on them.
So it was Pickett’s own fault if her therapist attire got ruined. Nobody had forced her to come straight from her job at Camp Lejeune instead of stopping at home to change into shorts.
Leaving the door open, she crossed the expanse of the great room and opened the oceanside door. Instantly a strong cross breeze began to pull through the house, but even so, the cottage wouldn’t cool off before she was done.
Battling the roller shade–style storm shutters took the longest time. Not designed for someone five-foot-three to operate, even on tiptoe, the catches were almost beyond her reach.
Like most island cottages, the Howells’ was built on pilings. Theoretically it was only one story; but, in fact, if she fell out the window from which she leaned precariously, it was a two-story drop.