Fisher's Light (Fisher's Light 1)

Pushing through the door connecting the living quarters to the inn, I stop short when I see the ass-end of a man on all fours, smacking his hammer against my floor right in front of the registration desk.

“Enjoying the view, pretty lady?”

Trip stops hammering and grins at me over his shoulder.

I shake my head and laugh as I walk into the room, holding out my hand to help him up from the floor, but he bats it away and grumbles at me.

“I’m not that fucking old. The day I need help getting up from the ground…” he trails off as he grunts and groans while he pushes himself to his feet. Just like his grandson, Trip Fisher stands well over six-feet. Between his full head of salt and pepper hair and the body he keeps in shape walking all over the island and performing manual labor, I’d know even without seeing old pictures that he was a very good looking man in his day.

“Why are you beating up my floor, Trip?” I ask as I lean forward and peck his cheek with a kiss.

“That board has been loose for weeks. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen when one of those yuppies comes in here and stumbles over it,” he explains, shoving his hammer into his tool belt. “How you holding up, Lucy Girl?”

We haven’t talked at all about the bombshell he dropped during the town meeting, even though he’s tried countless times. I know he’s worried about how I’m feeling about Fisher’s return, but I still don’t want to talk about it, especially with him. I love him like he’s my own grandfather, but he was always our biggest supporter and was almost as heartbroken as I was after our marriage fell apart. No matter what I say, Trip will turn it around and try to play matchmaker.

“I’m fine, Trip. Just worried about all the crap around here that keeps falling apart. I’ve got fifteen new vacationers coming in this afternoon and I’d like them to be able to use their sinks.”

His brown eyes narrow as he looks me up and down. “Fine, my ass. When was the last time you ate? Get out of here and go up to the Lobster Bucket and tell Carl to make you a lobster roll. Scratch that, make it two and put it on my tab. Don’t come back until your belly is full. I’ll have your sinks working by then and I’ll keep an eye out if anyone stops by.”

I start to argue, thinking about the laundry that isn’t going to wash itself, but quickly realize there’s no sense in going to battle with Trip Fisher. It’s not like I can do the laundry with a busted machine that won’t drain, anyway. It’s not very often that I get a chance to get away from the inn and take some time for myself, so I grab the offer and run with it. With another kiss to Trip’s cheek, I grab my purse from behind the counter and make a quick call to my best friend, Ellie. I need to forget about the man who forced me out of our home and his life over a year ago and concentrate on my date tonight. I’m fine, I’m happy and I’ve moved on. Ellie will help me keep my mind off of the past and focus my future. Or, she’ll just get me drunk. Either way, I refuse to spend the rest of the day worrying about running into Fisher.

Chapter 3

Lucy

February 25, 2014

Pulling the pan of lasagna out of the oven, I turn to walk it over to the counter and stop in the middle of the room. The pan slips from my hands and crashes to the floor as my eyes cloud with tears while I stare at the open kitchen door.

“You’re home,” I choke through my tears.

He was gone for sixteen months, five days and twelve hours this time. He was able to call every couple of weeks, but sometimes hearing his voice made things harder, driving home the fact that I would have to go to bed alone and wake up without him beside me.

Fisher doesn’t move from the doorway. He’s still wearing his Marine BDU’s and his camouflage backpack is slung over one shoulder. I’m not used to seeing him like this. He never lets me see him off, always saying good-bye the night before in civilian clothes and stopping at a hotel halfway home to change, clean up and shave before he sees me again. He jokes that he likes to get the “stink of war” off of him before he touches me again, even though I’ve assured him that I don’t care about any of that, just as long as he comes home.

I take in every inch of his six-foot-four frame, from the new muscles he seemed to have developed while he was gone to the beard that covers his cheeks and chin. Between the letters that I write to him when he’s away and the news about the war I have to constantly see on TV, not a day goes by that I’m not reminded of the fact that I’m a military wife and my man is a Marine. I’m so very proud to call myself his, but fear and worry are my constant companions. Every time the phone rings or I hear a knock at the door, there’s that niggle of uncertainty, but nothing hits home harder than seeing Fisher standing here in front of me, fresh from a flight from Kuwait with desert sand still clinging to his black hiking boots. The sight of the man I love looking like he just stepped off of the battlefield in the middle of this bright, cheery, yellow kitchen makes me want to drop to my knees and sob, knowing that I could have lost him. This could have been the time that military personnel stood in my kitchen doorway instead of him.

I need to touch him and reassure myself that he’s real, he’s here and he made it back to me in one piece. As my feet start to move in his direction, he drops his pack from his shoulder and charges across the room to me. He steps over the lasagna mess, wraps his hands around my upper arms and walks me backwards until my ass hits the wall next to the fridge. I try to shake my arms out of his grasp so I can run my hands over his face, slide my fingers through his hair and kiss the lips I’ve missed for far too long, but he quickly spins me around, pressing his body against my back and pushing me more firmly into the cold wall.