Blackberry Beach

by Irene Hannon

  “Is the pope Catholic?”

  She gave a soft laugh. “I suppose that’s a silly question to ask someone who works at a coffee shop.”

  “Actually, I own The Perfect Blend.” Why not be up front? If she stayed around awhile, she’d find out anyway.

  “Yeah?” She set two small bowls on the counter. “How long ago did you open?”

  “A year and a half.” He wandered over to the high-end coffee bar and surveyed the pricey single-serve coffeemaker. A stand filled with pods offering a variety of flavors stood beside it. “Impressive setup. Would you like a cup?”

  “No thanks. It doesn’t compare to the drinks at your shop.”

  “You should come again.” He selected a pod and put it in the coffeemaker.

  Rather than respond, she busied herself dividing the cobbler.

  Change the subject, Garrett.

  “I see you’ve been keeping a supply of blackberries on hand.” He motioned toward a bowl on the counter.

  “Uh-huh. I refill it every day.” She scooped ice cream from the container he’d brought and topped off the two bowls of cobbler. “Let me get napkins and spoons and we’ll be set.”

  She finished the prep, popped the remaining ice cream into her freezer, and met him at the island, a glass of milk in hand.

  “That’s my favorite drink with chocolate chip cookies.” He indicated the glass tumbler. “Not a typical adult beverage, though.”

  She settled onto a stool and picked up her spoon. “I’ve always liked milk, and I didn’t get much of it as a kid.”

  “Why not?”

  After hesitating for a split second, her spoon resumed its journey toward the cobbler. “Long story.”

  One it was clear she didn’t intend to share.

  Yet.

  But even if all they did today was eat cobbler and indulge in small talk, that was progress. For the rest, he’d have to be patient. Not his strong suit—but it appeared he’d be honing that virtue with this woman.

  He dived into his own cobbler. “My mom always bought multiple gallons of milk. My brother and I could guzzle a half gallon each at one sitting. She used to kid my dad about buying stock in a dairy.”

  “Did you come from a large family?”

  “No. Just my brother and me.” Not a subject he wanted to talk about. “How about you?”

  “Only child.”

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Nebraska farm country. You?”

  “Atlanta.”

  “Hope Harbor’s a long way from there.”

  “Yeah—but it’s home now.”

  “Do you have family back in Atlanta?”

  For a woman who didn’t share much about herself, she asked an awful lot of questions.

  “My dad’s there. My mom’s been gone for eight years. Are your parents still in Nebraska?”

  “No.” She lifted a spoon of cobbler and examined it. “This is delicious. My compliments to the baker.”

  She was done talking about her family.

  “Accepted with thanks.”

  “Tell me about your shop—and what you did before you opened it.”

  The first part of her request was no problem. The second he’d skirt. Two could play the evasion game.

  “I’d always wanted to have a place like The Perfect Blend, but it was one of those dreams I’d put in the category of someday—until it hit me that if you wait too long, someday may never come. So I changed gears, learned everything I could about the coffee business, found the perfect location . . . and here I am.”

  “Did your dream end up being everything you hoped it would be?”

  Some nuance in her question told him it was more than a casual inquiry.

  “Yes—and more. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” Despite what his father thought.

  “It must be wonderful to be that certain about your place in the world.”

  “I haven’t always been. It took serious angst and soul searching to get here.”

  “I envy the comfort level you have with your life.” A touch of melancholy wove through her comment.

  Apparently Charley’s assessment that she was troubled—and searching—had been accurate.

  “You don’t have that?”

  She shrugged and remained silent.

  Don’t push, Garrett. Comment—don’t question.

  “For the record, getting here involved hard choices on my part.”

  Distress darkened the blue of her irises to cobalt. “And you never regretted them?”

  “No—but that doesn’t mean life is perfect. My choices did cause other issues. But since there’s nothing I can do about those, I don’t let them bother me.” Not much, anyway.

  Kat scraped up the last of her cobbler and stood. “That was a treat. Thank you.”

  He rose more slowly. “I’ll help you clean up.”

  “There isn’t much to clean. I’ll add our dishes to the ones already in the dishwasher. Let me get the rest of your ice cream.”

  “Keep it. Maybe we can have another cobbler party in a few days.”

  He held his breath until she gave a slow nod.

  “That might be a possibility. I’ll, uh, show you out.” She detoured to retrieve the bowl he’d brought over, which she’d already rinsed out, and headed for the back of the house.

  Their impromptu get-together was over—and again, she’d told him very little about herself. Left with no other option, he followed her to the sliding door. The brief shower had passed, and blue sky was peeking through the clouds.

  “Ya gotta love Oregon coast weather. If it doesn’t suit you, all you have to do is wait five minutes.”

  “I enjoy the variety.” She pulled open the door and held out his bowl. “Thank you again.”

  “My pleasure.” He took it, and as his fingers brushed hers, a sizzle of electricity surged through him.

  She jerked her hand back, as if she’d felt the same high-voltage charge.

  “You know . . . you never did tell me your full name.” He lightened his tone and tried humor again. “I’m beginning to think you’re a fugitive on the lam—or in the Witness Security Program.”

  His tease earned him a brief lip flex.

  “Nothing that exotic. I just prefer to maintain a low-key presence. I’m here on vacation, and only a few people know where I am. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Why?”

  “A story for another day. For those who are curious, I rented this house under the name Kat Morgan.”

  Meaning that wasn’t her real name.

  But it was all he was going to get today.

  “Well . . . enjoy the rest of your day, Kat Morgan. And if you’re ever in the mood to visit, there’s a path through the trees that leads to my house.” He motioned toward it. “My place is much smaller than yours, but the door’s always open to friends.”

  “We’re new acquaintances.”

  “That’s how friendships begin. See you around.” He lifted a hand in farewell and retraced his steps across the small patch of manicured grass that dead-ended at more natural flora, which in turn led to the needle-carpeted ground in the copse of trees dividing the properties.

  There, he stopped to look back.

  The deck was deserted. Kat must have retreated inside—taking with her all of her secrets.

  Slowing his pace, he continued toward his house, for once ignoring the majesty of the trees towering above him.

  So what exactly had he gleaned from the impromptu tête-à-tête with his neighbor?

  He ticked off the crumbs she’d thrown him.

  She had no siblings. Nebraska had been her childhood home, though it didn’t sound as if she had any family left there. There’d been a dearth of milk in her young life. She was using the name Kat Morgan—but he’d be willing to bet that wasn’t the one on her birth certificate.

  Her questions and tone hinted that Charley had had her pegged from the get-go.

  But instead of clearing up a
ny of the mystery surrounding her, those random pieces of data led to more questions.

  Pausing on his own much smaller deck, he gave his unpretentious, contemporary one-story house a once-over. Nothing as glamorous as the Clark place, with all its high-end finishes, but it was simple and comfortable and met all his needs.

  Or most of them.

  The truth was, much as he loved the home he’d created in Hope Harbor, it was beginning to feel a tad empty.

  He rested his forearms on the damp railing and leaned forward, watching the few dawdling clouds pick up their pace and scoot toward the horizon.

  If he wanted to fill the emptiness in his house—and his life—he should be proactive. Pick up the pace socially. The lack of eligible women in his adopted town didn’t have to be a detriment. Online dating was an acceptable method of meeting people these days, if you stuck with reputable sites—and surely there would be a few appealing women within a manageable driving radius.

  Not as close as the woman next door—but perhaps far more willing to explore a friendship.

  It was worth thinking about—after Aunt Stephanie’s visit. That had to be his priority for the immediate future. And during her stay, he wouldn’t have to worry about loneliness. If she was the firecracker he recalled from their infrequent visits and phone conversations, a fair number of lively exchanges were on the horizon.

  And maybe, if he introduced her to his reclusive neighbor, the two women would hit it off. Kat’s walls would erode. He and his neighbor would discover they had much in common. Love would blossom. Happily-ever-after would follow.

  Yeah, right.

  Zach straightened up and entered his house, shutting the door behind him with a firm click.

  He’d been listening to too many romantic stories from his baristas—one who continued to believe Mr. Right would come along despite a series of Mr. Wrongs, the other a veteran of a thirty-seven-year marriage to a woman now gone but who lived on in his heart.

  Unlike their rose-tinted view of the world, real life tended to be fraught with difficulties—and relationships came with all sorts of complexities that could lead to choppy seas.

  Lissa would attest to that.

  As would his dad.

  And getting involved with a temporary resident who came preloaded with problems would be like setting sail straight into a storm.

  He didn’t need that headache.

  Detouring to the kitchen, he caught sight of a blackberry stain on his finger. After replacing the bowl in the cabinet, he flipped on the faucet and scrubbed at the spot. The stubborn pigment from the juice faded—but refused to vanish.

  Kind of like how thoughts of Kat kept flitting through his mind, no matter how hard he tried to eradicate them.

  Because a beautiful woman with an aura of intriguing secrecy and poignant aloneness was impossible to ignore—even if further attempts to circumvent her no-trespassing signs could be a recipe for disaster.

  5

  What on earth had Simon been thinking?

  Katherine exhaled, closed the script he’d overnighted, and set it on the table beside the chaise lounge on the deck.

  Had he even read this?

  And if he had, why—

  Her cell began to vibrate, and she picked it up from the table.

  Speak of the devil.

  He’d said he would text, not call—but while a conversation with him wasn’t high on her Saturday priority list, the two of them did need to have a heart-to-heart.

  She pressed talk and greeted him.

  “You answered.” He sounded surprised.

  “The script came late yesterday. I finished it this morning.”

  “And?”

  “Did you read it?”

  “I skimmed through.”

  “Did you happen to notice there’s a nude scene?”

  “It’s short—and it’s not a nude scene.”

  “Close enough. You know I don’t do that stuff.”

  “Katherine—the script is Academy Award material. A first-rate director will be in charge. We can trust him to handle the scene with taste and discretion.”

  She swung her legs to the deck and began to pace. “The point of that scene is to portray emotional vulnerability. I can do that with my clothes on. It’s called acting.”

  “I’m not going to debate that. I’d rather hear what you thought about the rest of the script.”

  “It has language I’m not crazy about.”

  “I’m talking big picture here, Katherine, not nitpicks. What was your overall impression?”

  She massaged the bridge of her nose. “It’s a great screenplay . . . or it would be, with a few modifications. The language and nudity are unnecessary.”

  “In your opinion.”

  “Fine—but I’m not comfortable with those elements.”

  He started to tap his pen. “We’re not in a position to make many demands. You’re not a proven commodity yet on the big screen. Once you are, we’ll have more clout.”

  “The nude scene is a deal breaker.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “They may be willing to consider a body double.”

  “No. The audience will think it’s me.”

  “So what?”

  “It’s a matter of personal integrity—and boundaries.”

  “What’s wrong with stretching your boundaries?”

  “Boundaries are there for a purpose. Mine aren’t budging.”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “I can talk to them. See how much they’re willing to bend. But I’m not going to waste time, energy, and equity on negotiation unless you’re on board with this project.”

  She watched the dark clouds gathering on the horizon, fighting a sudden wave of panic.

  He wanted a commitment before going to bat for her—and she couldn’t blame him.

  But despite the powerful script . . . despite the appeal of the part, absent the nude scene and language . . . despite the fact that this could be her ticket to superstardom . . . it wasn’t filling her with anything close to the breathless excitement she’d felt after winning her first tiny part in a low-end TV sitcom.

  What was wrong with her?

  Why couldn’t she get past all the garbage that accompanied success and focus on the positives?

  Because Jason died.

  She closed her eyes. Exhaled slowly.

  Seeing up close and personal what could happen to someone who’d succumbed to the lure of fame and lost his compass had been chilling.

  But that alone hadn’t tarnished the luster. The constant manipulation, relentless paparazzi, and privacy-invading tabloids were also getting old.

  “Katherine? Are you willing to sign on if we work out your concerns?”

  “I don’t know.” She sank back onto the lounge chair. “I need more time to think—and decompress.”

  “I can’t hold them off forever.”

  “What happened to buying me breathing space?”

  “I did.”

  “How much?”

  “One month. They were willing to cut you slack because of the scandal. Also, they’re still finalizing funding and wooing the leading man.”

  “Who are they trying to get?”

  “They asked me to keep that confidential.”

  “Come on, Simon. Who am I going to tell here? My main social contact has been a pair of seagulls.” She watched her two regular visitors strut around the manicured section of lawn.

  He sighed. “If it helps convince you to give me a green light, I suppose I can share it—but keep this to yourself.”

  Her jaw dropped as he revealed the name of the megawatt star.

  “I’m hoping your stunned silence means that news persuaded you.”

  “I would like to work with him.” The hint of a headache began to pulse in her temples. “I’ve always admired his talent.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She gritted her teeth. Simon wanted answers, but she would not succumb to pressure tactics. That’s
why her life had spiraled out of control in the first place.

  “Not yet.”

  “Fine.” But it wasn’t, based on his inflection. “You’ve got a month. That’s it. If you drag your feet, they’ll move on. I don’t have to tell you that any actress in Hollywood would kill for this opportunity.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I just want to be certain you’re clear about what’s being offered here.”

  “I’m clear, Simon. I’ll call you.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye.

  Her stomach clenched, as it always did when he got miffed at her.

  And that wasn’t healthy.

  Over the past five years, she’d given him too much control over her life. As her sole ally on the rocky road to stardom, he’d become her go-to person for everything—career guidance, contract negotiations, emotional support.

  It was a pattern that had to change, or it would become locked into stone.

  That insight had been the one positive to come from the tragedy.

  Katherine picked up the script and wandered back into the house, toward the kitchen. If she didn’t find an activity to engage her mind, the dull ache in her temples was going to morph into a raging headache.

  As she filled a glass with water and scrounged through a drawer for her bottle of aspirin, the other FedEx delivery from yesterday registered in her peripheral vision.

  Ah. The perfect diversion.

  A supply of the finest quality chocolate . . . a huge bowl of fresh blackberries . . . a dozen recipes culled from the net for inspiration—those were the ingredients for a soothing afternoon.

  And soothing was high on her priority list after her phone conversation with Simon.

  Besides, there was also a practical excuse to indulge in her candy-making hobby. She owed her neighbor a thank-you for the cobbler, and handcrafted blackberry truffles would be perfect.

  Plus, it would give her an excuse to visit the man who’d been showing up uninvited in her dreams.

  A man she knew was available—thanks to her not-so-subtle probing about his marital status during their encounter on the beach.

  A man who seemed interested in her despite her reticence and her imitation of a skittish sandpiper dodging waves whenever he encroached into her space.

  She pulled out the bars made from 65 percent dark West African chocolate—her favorite for truffles—and got to work.