Rising Tides.
by Nora Roberts.
Prologue
Ethan climbed out of his dreams and rolled out of bed. It was still
dark, but he habitually started his day before night yielded to dawn. It
suited him, the quiet, the simple routine, the hard work that would
follow.
He'd never forgotten to be grateful that he'd been able to make this
choice and have this life. Though the people responsible for giving him
both the choice and the life were dead, for Ethan, the pretty house on
the water still echoed with their voices. He would often find himself
glancing up from his lone breakfast in the kitchen expecting to see his
mother shuffle in, yawning, her red hair a wild tangle from sleep, her
eyes half blind with it.
And though she'd been gone nearly seven years, there was a comfort in
that homey morning image.
It was more painful to think of the man who had become his father.
Raymond Quinn's death was still too fresh after a mere three months for
there to be comfort. And the circumstances surrounding it were both ugly
and unexplained. His death had come in a single-car accident in broad
daylight on a dry road, on a March day that had only hinted of spring.
The car was traveling fast, with its driver unable--or unwilling--to
control it on a curve. Tests had proven that there had been no physical
reason for Ray to crash into the telephone pole.
But there was evidence of an emotional reason, and that lay heavy on
Ethan's heart.
Ethan thought of it as he readied himself for the day--giving his hair,
still damp from the shower, a cursory swipe with his comb, which did
nothing to tame the thick waves of sun-bleached brown. He shaved in the
foggy mirror, his quiet blue eyes sober as he scraped lather and a
night's worth of beard from a tanned, bony face that held secrets he
rarely chose to share.
There was a scar that rode along the left of his jawline--courtesy of
his oldest brother and patiently stitched up by his mother. It had been
fortunate, Ethan thought as he rubbed a thumb absently over the faded
line, that their mother had been a doctor. One of her three sons was
usually in need of first aid.
Ray and Stella had taken them in, three half-grown boys, all wild, all
damaged, all strangers. And had made them a family.
Then months before his death, Ray had taken in another.
Seth DeLauter belonged to them now. Ethan never questioned it. Others
did, he knew. There was talk buzzing through the little town of St.
Christopher's that Seth was not just another of Ray Quinn's strays but
his illegitimate son. A child conceived with another woman while his
wife was still alive. A younger woman.
Ethan could ignore the talk, but it was impossible to ignore the fact
that ten-year-old Seth looked at you with Ray Quinn's eyes.
There were shadows in those eyes that Ethan also recognized. The wounded
recognized the wounded. He knew that Seth's life, before Ray had taken
him on, had been a nightmare. He'd lived through one himself.