Her Best Friend's Husband. Justine Davis

a paragon of comfort and thoughtful design as this boat was.

      “Take her out,” he said again. “Put all this on the back burner, focus on something else for a while. It’ll help you work through it, where chewing on it up front won’t.”

      Gabe smiled at the rustic simile, thinking again of those who made the mistake of assuming the drawl and the down-home manner were all there was to Josh. It amazed him how anyone could look at the size and scope of Redstone and think that anyone less than a genius could have built it, but people were often ruled by their own filters and perceptions, a fact Josh frequently used to his advantage. And since his naval career had come to a crashing end because of such people, Gabe couldn’t help but appreciate Josh’s talent in that area.

      “And,” Josh added as he went down the gangway steps, “if you need anything, if Redstone can help, call.”

      Gabe nodded, knowing that what would have been a casual offer, never really intended for acceptance from most people, was something quite different coming from Josh Redstone. When he offered help to one of his huge family—which meant anyone who worked for and with him—he meant it.

      In the seven years he’d worked for Josh, overseeing the smallest but one of the most loved—by Josh, anyway—divisions of the empire, so small it didn’t even have its own name but rather existed as a sideline of the aviation division, he’d both seen and heard of the kinds of things Redstone had done for its people. The cruise he’d captained for the bereaved family had only been the latest in a very long string of things done that Josh took for granted; if you were Redstone, Redstone helped when you needed it.

      Later that morning, when Gabe stood out on deck, having let the eager young first mate take the wheel for a while—although the boat had the newer, joystick type of controls, Josh was enough of a traditionalist to have also included the wheel—he had to admit his boss was right. Being out here, on blue water with the smell of the salt air and the sounds of the sleek red-and-gray vessel cutting powerfully through the water, soothed his mind and soul in a way nothing else could.

      By the time they were back at the dock and he was overseeing the cleanup and making his log entry, he was resigned. He would do as the Waldrons had asked; he wouldn’t fight them. Gwen’s pain had been too real, too palpable, and he couldn’t stand in the way of anything that might ease it, no matter how ambivalent he might be about it.

      Besides, he thought, it might be a relief to him as well, when people asked, to be able to say with some truth that she was dead. It was so much more finite than “She vanished,” less painful than “She walked out on me without a word,” and certainly less uncomfortable than “I have no idea where my wife is.”

      Of course, even if Hope were declared legally dead, it wouldn’t resolve anything for him. He knew too well that it would always be there, hovering, that her “death” would be of legal status only, that he would be forever no closer to knowing what had really happened. No closer to knowing if she’d had an accident, or if the worse-case scenario that haunted him was true, that she’d been murdered and dumped somewhere.

      But after eight years, he’d gotten better at living with that. He’d learned—

      “Captain?”

      He looked up from the ship’s log entry at Mark Spencer, the young first mate he’d given the wheel to earlier.

      “I thought you’d gone for lunch.”

      “I was, but…there’s someone here to see you, sir,” Mark said, seeming oddly nervous.

      “The Waldrons?” he asked, hoping they would understand why he’d disappeared out to sea after they’d left.

      “No. A…woman.”

      The way he said it, as if he’d had to choose among many descriptions, alerted Gabe. Whoever it was, she’d made an impression. Hiding the first real smile he’d felt coming on since his in-laws had arrived this morning, he stood up.

      “She asked for you personally, by name,” Mark added, unable to mask the curiosity in his eyes. Gabe read the speculation there, knew what the younger man was wondering; had their reclusive, loner captain been holding out on them?

      Not likely, he muttered inwardly, and the smile that threatened this time was wryly self-knowing.

      “She give you a name, Mark?”

      “Cara. She said you’d know.”

      Any urge at all to smile vanished. It seemed his painful day wasn’t over yet.

      “Where did you put her?”

      “The main salon.”

      “Go see if she needs anything, a drink, food,” he ordered, wanting a moment alone to deal with this next surprise.

      “Already done, sir.” Mark’s formal tone told him his voice had been a bit sharp.

      “Good job,” he said, careful to keep his own tone even this time.

      “I’m Redstone,” Mark said simply.

      That got him the smile, and it was genuine. “Thanks, Mark. Please tell her I’ll be there in a moment.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      The young man executed a turn snappy enough to earn him approval from any Naval officer, and left the bridge.

      Cara.

      Gabe sank back into the raised captain’s chair for a moment. She’d have that postcard with her, he thought. She’d expect him to look at it, read it. And for a moment he wondered if he could do this, if he could rip open those old wounds once more. If he could survive it if he did.

      And then he realized it didn’t matter. The wounds had never healed; the constant dig of uncertainty had kept them open and bleeding beneath the surface. There might be scars over them, but it wouldn’t take much to tear those scars away.

      A postcard would do it.

       Chapter 2

      Cara Thorpe, Gabe thought as he quickly finished his short log entry on the day’s cruise.

      She’d not only been Hope’s best friend since elementary school, they’d been like sisters, and all the time he and Hope had been together, she’d been on the periphery, somewhere. She’d been so quiet she seemed to fade into the background, so much so that Gabe hadn’t minded much when Hope had insisted she go with them to some party, or attend a function with other people. He’d even tried to set her up with one of his buddies now and then, someone he thought might see past the quiet exterior, but something always seemed to get in the way of it actually happening.

      Cara had always been bright, beneath the shyness, and she’d gone away to get her master’s degree shortly before he and Hope had married. She’d been home for the wedding, but Gabe hadn’t seen her again until after Hope had vanished. Gwen had called her then, of course, to see if she had any idea where Hope was, or if she’d heard from her. She had, in fact, had a phone message from Hope that last morning, but it wasn’t much help, only an excited promise to call her back with big news, the biggest.

      The call had never come.

      Cara had immediately come home to help in the search. Gabe only vaguely remembered the quiet, withdrawn young woman’s departure several weeks later; he’d been too sunk in his own misery to worry overmuch about hers.

      As he rose once more and headed for the large main salon of the boat, he shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d show up now, not after being the one to receive that much-belated postcard.

      Cara had likely never given up on the possibility of finding Hope alive and well. Hope had always said Cara was the most staunchly loyal person she’d ever known. That she’d often said it while pointing out how in her view that accolade didn’t apply to him was something he tried not to dwell on. Hope’s interpretation of loyalty