A Mom for Matthew

Cursing roundly under his breath, Zeke yanked twice on the rope coiled around his outboard. The motor roared to life, enabling him to swing the runabout in such a tight turn he slammed a series of waves broadside against the boat. Too bad if the damn thing capsized. He’d happily see Ms. Uptight Stafford and her war documents join her supposed wreck at the bottom of the bay. He sped on, quelling an instinct to glance back.

Shading her eyes, Grace rode out the sway from his back-wash while following his retreat. He was irritated—and decidedly irritating. There was no mistaking his frame of mind, and Grace wasn’t foolish enough to think a man like this would give up easily. Anxiety brought pangs to her chest and knots to her stomach. Why had she been rude to him, letting him get under her skin based on nothing but a sexy appearance? Making enemies of locals wasn’t in her best interests. She seemed to have a habit of dealing poorly in face-to-face negotiations with men.

Grandmother Nell was always chiding her about that. But excellent teacher that Grace was, there were some traits she’d simply never been able to change. And this salvage was so important. She’d launched the exploration with the sole intent of easing her grandmother’s mind in what could well be the last days of Nell Dugan’s life. Grace didn’t have the luxury of time with which to bargain.

Grace’s grandmother had raised Grace by herself after Nell’s only child, a daughter, turned out to be too irresponsible to raise the kid she’d brought into the world. Vanessa Stafford was beautiful, but vain and totally selfish. Grace had only glimpsed her mother twice. And for all she knew, her father didn’t exist, since her mother didn’t bother to marry him or anything else.

But there was nothing Grace wouldn’t do for her grandmother, a woman who’d sacrificed much of her own life to give Grace a home, solid roots and a good education. A woman who’d already raised her daughter alone.

Admittedly, Grace knew very little about ocean salvage. Just what she’d gleaned online and from books checked out of the San Antonio library—yet this was a mission she was committed to completing.

“Jorge, will you refill my air tanks? I’ve got a feeling we haven’t seen the last of that gentleman. And I use the term loosely,” Grace said, shivering in spite of the sun’s heat.

“His company is powerful,” the old Cajun muttered. “They have jobs and a lotta dough. Shrimpers lost many off-loading docks when Kemper moved in. Maybe you’d better do as he says. I’ll motor us around the point.”

“Ah, Kemper Oil. That explains his arrogance. I’ve seen their logo on a whole bunch of trucks and buildings in town. Still, he doesn’t scare me.” Much, she murmured quietly in a tone that didn’t support her conviction.

Jorge picked up her tanks with a shrug.

“I spent every spare minute over the past year making sure I had every piece of documentation I needed to search for this plane. Our angry Kemper rep will just have to cool his heels until I find my grandfather’s plane and prove to the navy that he didn’t purposely go AWOL, but gave his life in the line of duty,” she explained, although she’d already told Jorge this more than once. “Grandmother battled the navy for years. Her big fear, Jorge, is that she’ll die before reinstating my grandfather’s honor. I will find the plane and give her peace of mind,” Grace said with steely resolve.

GAVIN DAVIS MET Zeke at the slip. He helped guide the runabout into its moorage and lashed the line thrown to him by Zeke around a T-cleat buried in the dock. “So, boss, that didn’t take long. You set her straight in a hurry, I guess.”

Zeke’s snort told the real story. But he elaborated anyway. “It was a wasted trip. Why didn’t Norm say she tossed around words like ‘historic’ and ‘government sanctioned’?”

“No kidding?” Gavin stopped in his tracks. “She didn’t mention government to me. Although, I did tell you she claimed to be hunting for a WWII plane.”

“I know. I didn’t figure out the significance then,” Zeke said testily.

“So, what are we gonna do now? We can forcibly remove her, can’t we?”

Zeke shifted on the gently swaying dock. “Maybe, but I don’t know that for sure, Gav. And I’d rather not take that route if we can avoid it. I’ll check at the courthouse first and see if I can find out how tight her permit is. Will you phone David Decker and tell him we need to delay renting his barge? He’ll whine about lost time and money and try to put the screws to us to pay extension fees. Remind him that until Kemper got here, his barges sat empty.”

“What excuse do I give Dave, Zeke?”

“Tell him the truth. We’ve got a problem sitting in the bay. If Ms. Stafford’s got the backing of the Pentagon as she claims, her story will circulate. Think of the hammering we’ll take by the press if she says Kemper’s uncooperative. She’ll have every historian and environmentalist in the state rallying around her and the flag. So, until I get the real skinny, let’s keep a low profile.”

“PK’s gonna be so pissed. Did you call him?”

Zeke gave a shake of his head. “Not yet. Grace could be running a bluff.”

Gavin grinned. “Grace, is it? You two got chummy pretty fast if you’re on first-name basis.”

Zeke’s second snort surpassed his first in fury. “She’s not my type. I thought you saw her, Gavin. Hell, the game hen I had for dinner last night had more meat on its bones.”

“Who knows what your type of woman is, buddy-boy? No one’s seen you out on the town in the three-plus years you’ve worked here.”

Zeke’s sudden scowl had his co-worker backing off. “I sowed my wild oats over in Kingsville before coming to Galveston. Learned a valuable lesson the hard way, Gavin. Came away with a motto: why be miserable with a woman when I can be happy without one?”

“We all figured you got burned, Zeke. You’re not alone there. Rick Foster has a daughter in New Orleans he only sees once a year ’cause his ex keeps going to court. I’m shelling out double alimony. Half the time I can’t scrape up funds to go on a date. Yet we all keep trying to find Ms. Right. Shoot, don’t you miss cuddling up to a soft, warm body on these cool spring nights?”

“No. And if I ever do I’ll get a dog,” Zeke said emphatically.

“I don’t reckon God meant for man to live his life alone,” Gavin muttered.

“I’m not alone,” Zeke said more testily than he usually spoke to a member of his crew. “I’ve got my son and my mom to fill that void in my life.”

“Kids and moms don’t fill the empty bed I’m talking about, man. Are you claiming you don’t miss sex?”

“Of course I do. I’m human. But liking sex with Trixie Lee Wilson led to getting careless one weekend when I rolled into town after three months’ wildcatting in West Texas. Me being careless led to Trix getting pregnant, which led to us getting married. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Didn’t your daddy ever tell you the worst reason for gettin’ hitched is a pregnant girlfriend?”

“Can’t say he did. My old man’s the reason I did stick around and do right by Trixie Lee. My fine, upstanding daddy took a powder the minute my mom told him she was going to have his baby. This conversation’s going nowhere, Gavin,” he said abruptly. “Especially since I wouldn’t trade Matthew for anything. Go call Decker. I’ll see you after I check out Ms. Stafford’s story.” Without another word, Zeke sprinted to his pickup. He slid behind the steering wheel and slammed the door. A knot the size of Dallas took up residence in his stomach. Damn, but he ought to know better than to get drawn into conversations about women and marriage. It was a subject he did fancy footwork to avoid. As a rule, Zeke didn’t care if the crew razzed him about his lack of dates—not even when they talked behind his back. They were aware that he’d been married and divorced. Until now, he’d never admitted his split had been a messy one. But since he’d come clean about the divorce and brought up his dad, maybe they’d leave him the hell alone. Zeke got tired of making excuses about why he didn’t want to go drinking and carousing with the other guys on payday weekend. He believed a man ought to keep his home life separate from work.

Well, crap, he’d blown that, and Gavin tended to be a blabbermouth. Zeke didn’t doubt that his life story would soon circulate through the bar at Willie G’s the next time the crew hooked up there for happy hour.

He sighed. Maybe it didn’t matter. The crew might take pity on him and quit having their wives and girlfriends dig up spare friends on Friday nights.

Zeke swung into the parking lot at the courthouse, thinking it seemed unusually busy. That forced him to concentrate on finding a parking space. When one suddenly opened up in front of the building, Zeke grabbed it, vaulted from his vehicle and pocketed his keys.

Inside, he went to the information desk.

“The best place to begin is probably in records,” a receptionist said, taking time to flirt a little with Zeke as she hauled out a map of the courthouse and leaned close to show him the most direct route to the records room.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Even though Zeke ignored her efforts to attract his attention, he remained unfailingly polite. He knew how hard it was for male and female singles in small towns to connect. Because of a steady tourist trade, Galveston had a greater turnover of singles than a lot of places he’d landed when he’d been in the market to date. Back then, though, he’d only been in the market for a good time.

To give Trixie Lee some credit, he’d mistakenly thought their goals had matched. It was only later that he discovered what she really wanted—a one-way ticket out of Kingsville. Zeke blamed her for not having enough substance to stay for the sake of the child they’d made together, however unintentionally. Instead, she’d disappeared like a thief in the night with all the money in their joint account, leaving only a note on the kitchen table saying she wasn’t cut out to be a mother.

Zeke might have accepted that if she’d left it there. She didn’t. She hooked up with a girlfriend in Dallas, who’d referred her to a lawyer, who was determined to make Zeke pay and pay big. It wasn’t the money Zeke cared about. What he hated was how Trixie and her lawyer kept putting Matthew in the middle of an ongoing war. Every time Trix ran short of money, she played the custody card. Zeke found it easier to shell out dough than take a risk on her maybe winning.

Wrenching the doorknob to the records office, Zeke again vowed to put his personal headaches aside while he dealt with a potential company problem.

“The receptionist out front said you’d probably have what I’m looking for. I need to verify that a new salvager in town has the proper permits. My company, Kemper Oil, is fixin’ to sink a well in the same locale. I requested our permit three weeks ago. I assume it was approved. At least, I wasn’t notified to the contrary.”

The woman sat down at a computer and typed in the basic information Zeke provided. “Oh, I see what happened, Mr. Rossetti. Someone should’ve sent you a letter. Wait—it says here a letter went out.”

“I didn’t get any letter. About what? Have we been denied access?”

“Temporarily, yes. I see this letter went to Mr. Pace Kemper. Perhaps you should discuss the issue with him, Mr. Rossetti.”

“Yes, but he’s in Dallas. I’m the guy coordinating the local drill site and I have subcontractors on hold. Would you make me a copy, please?”

She gave a shrug, then smiled. “Since you ask so nicely, I guess that’d be all right.” The clerk turned and punched a few keys. She rose when a communal printer whirred, and came back carrying a single sheet.

Zeke scanned the page quickly. He saw immediately that the reason for temporary suspension was listed as the state having issued a prior permit to the salvager. The letter cited the navy’s interest in the salvage. Attached was a recommendation from the Pentagon expressing a desire to locate a supply plane piloted by an MIA from World War Two. Zeke’s headache increased exponentially.

“Kemper has a huge investment being threatened by this decision. Is there someone here I can see about reversing this order?” The hole in his stomach grew because his visits with judges left him in a perpetual state of tension.