Castaway Cove by Joann Ross Page A

right, Daddy?”
    “That’s right.” Mac decided to try to turn this event into what Dillon Slater, a former EOD-guy-turned-physics-teacher-and-basketball-coach, would have referred to as a
teachable moment.
    He turned to Kenny, whose nose was still bleeding. The boy’s cheeks were flushed with anger and probably embarrassment at being punched by a girl.
    “Not many people know much about Alzheimer’s, so it’s understandable that your friend Peter is confused, but just because Emma’s great-grandfather has it doesn’t mean that she’s going to get it. Or that it’s catching. Because it’s definitely not like chicken pox or the flu.”
    “See?” Connie Fletcher’s voice regained its chirp. “You need to let Peter know, so he won’t go on spreading such falsehoods. While I’ll have a little chat with Mrs. Potter and make sure she talks with him. And you must never, ever hit a girl again.”
    “Even if she hits me first?” Since his nose was still bleeding—though fortunately it didn’t look broken—Mac could understand the kid’s incredulousness.
    “Even then,” Connie said, with a flash of steel magnolia. She turned toward Mac. “I’m truly sorry. My son’s been having a few issues since the divorce.”
    “I understand.”
    Emma didn’t talk about her mother much, but he often wondered if she missed Kayla more than she let on.
    As much as he loved the man who’d adopted him when he’d married Mac’s mother, he’d never forgotten that day the two men in dress uniforms had arrived at the door to tell them that his dad’s plane had gone down. There were still times, years later, when although he’d never seen the crash, he would dream about it.
    “Well, I’m glad we got that all settled,” Connie said. She placed a soft, manicured hand on his arm. “My basket’s the white wicker one,” she said. “I distressed it myself and made the big red, white, and blue sequined bow. . . . In case you’d feel inclined to bid on it.”
    “It sounds great,” Mac hedged. “And since I think we’ve reached detente, it’s time for Emma and me to go visit her great-grandfather at Still Waters.”
    “Of course.” She leaned down and patted Emma’s cheek. “Poor little thing. Having your mama leave you and your daddy, then your dear poppy losing his mind all in the same year. Maybe someday you and I could have a spa day together to take your mind off your troubles.”
    His daughter’s shoulders stiffened at that obviously less-than-appealing invitation, which Mac, grandson of a fisherman, knew was a shiny lure to pull
him
in. But his daughter saved the day by flashing a bright, totally fake smile, and saying, “Thank you, ma’am. Maybe someday.”
    As embarrassed as he’d been by the public fight that had drawn the attention of every other mother at the park—within hours they would be spreading the word about what a wild daughter the clueless single father was raising—Mac couldn’t help smiling when he heard his own words, which he’d admittedly been using to put off getting Emma a pet, now being pulled out to avoid hanging out with the mother of the obnoxious, though understandably troubled, Kenny.
    “It’s a date,” Connie Fletcher said, her own Miss Cotton Queen smile returning Emma’s feigned one. “I’ll give your daddy a call one of these days soon and we can set things up.”
    “You’re not going to go out with Mrs. Fletcher, are you, Daddy?” Emma asked as they drove to Still Waters.
    “I hadn’t planned to,” Mac responded mildly.
    “Good. Because the only reason she was being nice to me is that she wants you to marry her.”
    “I think we were just talking about a picnic basket.” When did she get so damn perceptive? Not only was she no longer unrelentingly cheerful, but somehow, before his very eyes, she’d become six going on thirty.
    “That’s just what she says. When I was over playing Barbies, I heard Peggy’s mom tell Mrs. Tyler that every single