She had to find out. There was no sense seeing Paul Welch anymore if her past sex life was going to be a deal-breaker.
When he called the next morning and invited her to lunch on Monday, she suggested he join her for a picnic on the beach instead. A beach picnic would be the perfect setting for a cozy conversation about her past. Yeah, right.
Well, things would work out one way or another. Meanwhile, she had rooms to clean.
Happily, there was no answer when she knocked on the door of room twelve and called, “Room service.” Good. Talking to Henry Gilbert always seemed to unsettle her.
She finished her cleaning and then, because it was such a fabulously hot day, she put on her bikini and hit the beach, Nemo happily tagging along. She caught sight of a man sitting a little farther down the shore. He was on a blanket, leaning against a log, and he had a laptop. Only one man would sit at the beach with a laptop. Henry Gilbert.
Nemo looked ready to trot on over and say hi, but Celeste grabbed his collar. “Not him. He’s busy killing people. Anyway, we’re here to swim, not schmooze.” She dropped her towel and diet pop and ran for the water. “Come on, boy, surf’s up.”
* * *
He’d been following her for three weeks. Patient. You had to be patient. When you were, the universe rewarded you. And he was having his reward now as his hands tightened around her throat. Too bad he had to take precautions and wear surgical gloves. How he’d have loved to feel his flesh directly on hers. But this was close enough. He was close enough, close enough to see the terror in her eyes. He’d watched her in the club, tossing her hair, flirting, laughing. She wouldn’t be laughing anymore.
Laughter from down the beach pulled Henry out of the scene. He looked up to see Celeste, the maid from the motel, splashing in the surf with a dog bounding beside her. She was wearing a bikini that showed off a perfect body, curved in all the right places.
“Never mind her,” Henry muttered and turned his attention back to the screen.
But now, instead of picturing murder and mayhem, all he could picture was the happy clam girl in her bikini, the sunlight making her hair sparkle. He sneaked another look in her direction. She’d dived into the water and was swimming. The woman was nuts. That water was arctic.
He watched as her arms cut through the waves. She was fit, that was for sure. Thoughts of murder and mayhem melted away, to be replaced with thoughts of the happy clam girl. What would she look like out of that bikini?
Why would he care? He wasn’t interested.
Except in a way he was. She wasn’t a total airhead. She wanted to write.
Yeah, so did half the world. So what?
She wasn’t swimming anymore. She seemed to be stalled out. Didn’t the woman know better than to stay in such cold water that long? What was she thinking?
* * *
Her top. She had to get her top. The stupid thing had come off—with a little help from Nemo, who’d mistaken one of the strings tying it on for... Who knew what he’d mistaken it for? He’d sure found it fun to tug on, and between his tugging and her swimming she’d swum right out of the thing. Every time Celeste grabbed for it, it dodged her. Now it was floating away, just out of reach.
“Fetch, Nemo,” she said through gritted teeth.
Fetch was not in Nemo’s vocabulary. He trotted out of the water and stood shaking himself dry. Woman’s best friend.
Her leg was cramping. She knew better than to stay in the water this long, even in summer. If she wasn’t careful, the undertow was going to catch her and she’d really be toast.
She was already in the toaster. She tried to kick, but her cramped leg wouldn’t cooperate. She thrashed her arms. They felt like lead. This wasn’t good. She tried again. Her whole body refused to cooperate. A wave washed over her, making her choke. Surface, Celeste. Surface!
She willed her head back above water but she couldn’t get enough momentum to make it to shore. Like her bikini top, it was becoming increasingly out of reach.
Oh, Lord. She was dying. It was true. Your life did flash before your eyes. She could see Jenna and her playing dolls; and saw herself climbing into bed with Mom during a thunderstorm. There she was, throwing a hopscotch game so her sister could win. The images kept coming, faster and faster. Jenna socking a mean girl who’d picked on Celeste. There were the two of them, Jenna starting middle school, she still in grade school, at Aunt Edie’s house in the bedroom with all the dolls, making silly faces by the light of a flashlight. She saw little Tommy Driscoll from last year’s first-grade class, holding out an apple. “You’re so pretty, Miss Jones.” And here came her first boyfriend from middle school. “Wanna go to the movies?” This was followed by, “Wanna make out?” The string of bad boyfriends flashed past, ending with Emerson, who seemed to be calling her.
No, not Emerson. Someone else. “What were you thinking?” demanded a voice she knew all too well.
A pair of sinewy arms hooked around her shoulders and started towing her out of the water. “No!” she screeched. Sort of screeched. She could hardly talk.
“You’re gonna drown, you idiot,” snapped her rescuer.
She tried to point to her runaway top, but couldn’t raise her arm. She tried to say something but her teeth were clacking together too hard.
Henry Gilbert finally got them to where the water was waist-high and hauled her up. His eyes bugged out at the sight of her bare chest. “Shit.”
Her teeth were chattering so hard her jaw ached. “My t-top,” she stammered.
“Forget your top. It’s gone. Some kid will find it washed up on the beach.”
She looked in the direction of where the top had been. Where would it wash up? Who would find it? Who knew?
One thing she knew for sure. People were coming. Two women, walking along the beach. One of them she’d seen with Hyacinth. Oh, no! Celeste let out a squeak and turned toward Henry.
He’d seen the people, too, and pulled her against him, all the while trying to struggle out of his wet T-shirt. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
Chapter Ten
They stayed in the water, Henry holding Celeste against him and fumbling with his T-shirt as the women walked past. One was goggling like a kid at the zoo. The other, Hyacinth’s friend, was frowning and pretending not to see. This would be all over the church by Sunday morning. Ugh.
He finally got his T-shirt off and shoved it at her. “Here. Put this on.”
Better late than never. Yeah, right. What idiot came up with that saying?
She was barely into the thing before he was towing her along the beach, Nemo trotting alongside. He stopped where she’d left her towel and wrapped her in it, then dragged her down to where his blanket was. He set his laptop and glasses on the log and wrapped her in the blanket, as well, then began rubbing her arms.
Pins and needles. She whimpered.
“Your dog makes a lousy rescue dog,” Henry said.
“I recently adopted him,” she explained through chattering teeth. “I think he’s undereducated.”
“He’s not the only one. I wondered what you were doing staying in the water so long. That was stupid.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do?” she stammered. It was hard to talk when your teeth were clattering against each other.
“Pretend you’re on a nude beach somewhere and get out of the water.”
“You’re right. I was just...so embarrassed.”
“Better to be embarrassed than wind up as crab food,” he said, his voice gentler.
“Celeste Sushi,” she joked. “Jones Jojo’s.”
That pulled a grunt and a half smile out of him. “You normally this funny?”
“No. Sometimes I’m funnier.” Although there was nothing funny about nearly drowning.
“Glad to see you’ve managed to keep your sense of humor.”
“I guess th
at’ll be the last thing to go.” To go. She’d been almost gone. The shivers intensified.
“You’d better get into a hot shower,” he said. “You live around here, Celeste Sushi?”
“In the house next door with my sister and great-aunt and niece.”
“Tell ’em to give you a stiff drink,” Henry advised.
She stood up and handed him back his soaked blanket. “I will. In fact, I owe you a drink. Well, a lot more than that, considering that you saved my life.”
“You don’t owe me anything. Other than undying gratitude.”
“You’re kind of funny yourself.”
“Nah, I’m just a smart-mouth.”
“Whatever you are, I’m glad you happened to be here.”
“Your lucky day,” he said, and this time he gave her a full-on smile. “Now, either go get that shower or enter a wet T-shirt contest.”
“I’ll take the shower,” she said. Then, with a final thank-you, she hurried down the beach toward home, shivering all the way.
“Did you have a nice swim?” Aunt Edie asked when Celeste walked in, wrapped in her towel, hair dripping.
She decided not to tell her aunt about her beach adventure. Aunt Edie would go into worry mode, imagining all the terrible consequences that never came to be. “Very refreshing,” she said.
Pete was in the kitchen, too, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “You look like a drowned rat.”
“You look like a drowned rat,” echoed Jolly Roger from his kitchen perch. He cocked his birdy head as if trying to assess whether or not Celeste was telling the truth. “Very refreshing,” he added. “Very refreshing.”
Yes, very.
She told Jenna about her close call later when they were making a run to the store for groceries.
“Oh, my gosh, you could have died!” Jenna said, her eyes big.
“My bikini did.”
“Better your bikini than you.”
“All I can say is I’m glad Henry Gilbert was there.”
“The crazed murderer?” Jenna teased.
“Okay, I was wrong about that.”
“Good thing he’s not as sick and warped as you thought. If he was, he’d have let you drown,” Jenna said and got out of the car. “Think he’s interested in you?” she asked as they walked into the store.
“What? No.” Celeste frowned and grabbed a shopping cart. He might have saved her but that didn’t mean he wanted to start something with her—or vice versa. The idea that he was a writer fascinated her, even though she didn’t care for the type of story he wrote. But she knew better than to indulge her fascination. After all, Emerson’s being a cop had been equally fascinating, and look where that fascination had gotten her.
“Just wondering.”
Celeste caught the hint of worry in her sister’s voice. “You don’t have to go wondering in that direction. I’ve already found the perfect man. Remember?”
Jenna nodded. “Yeah, it’s hard to get more perfect than Paul. I’d love to see something work out between you two.”
Celeste didn’t see that happening if Hyacinth’s friend told him what she saw.
* * *
“They were playing in the water and she was topless,” Bethany Stone finished and took another drink of the lemonade Hyacinth had poured her.
“Are you sure?” Hyacinth asked. What woman in her right mind would run around topless with some man when she had Paul Welch drooling after her?
Their friend Treeva Mills served herself more of the shrimp salad Hyacinth had made them for dinner. “It’s true. I saw them, too.”
Bethany pointed her fork at Hyacinth. “Somebody should warn Paul.”
As in her? Hyacinth pulled back. “I can’t.”
“Why not? He needs to know,” Bethany argued.
“For sure,” agreed Treeva. “Anyway, this is your chance. Once he learns what Celeste Jones is like, he’ll come to his senses and see what’s right under his nose. And that would be you.”
There was nothing Hyacinth would’ve liked better than for Paul to finally see her, really see her, but tattling on some other woman didn’t sit well and she said as much.
“All’s fair in love and war,” Bethany said. “That’s what my mom always used to say.”
Hyacinth shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want the man or don’t you?” Treeva pushed.
“Of course I want him. But I want him to fall in love with me. I don’t want to manipulate him.”
“How do you think I got Brian?” Bethany asked.
“He fell in love with you,” said Hyacinth.
“After I took out the competition.”
“How’d you do that?”
Bethany shrugged. “Told him what a lush she was.”
“Was she?”
“Close enough,” Bethany said evasively.
“I don’t know,” Hyacinth said again. She didn’t want to see Paul with Celeste Jones, but she didn’t want to spread gossip, either. “I wasn’t even at the beach.”
“We were.”
“Then you tell him.”
“Maybe we will,” Bethany said. “Someone needs to watch out for our pastor.”
“He has God for that,” Hyacinth retorted.
“God helps those who help themselves,” Bethany told her. “Something you should keep in mind. Honestly, Hy, it’s a good thing you’ve got us on your side.”
Was it?
Chapter Eleven
Even if her mean-girl radar hadn’t been operating on high, Celeste would’ve known she was being talked about when she glanced across the church foyer to where Hyacinth’s two friends stood talking to Paul after church. The looks they kept sneaking in her direction were a dead giveaway. See? There she is, a modern-day Hester, waiting for her scarlet letter.
Paul frowned and turned toward her, and she quickly switched her attention to Tyrella, who was describing the interesting man she’d met online. “Except he’s clear over in Tacoma. I doubt he’ll want to drive all the way to the beach for a date,” she concluded.
“If I was a man I would,” said Jenna. “You’re worth twice the drive.”
“Aww, sweet,” Tyrella said, smiling at her.
“No, true.”
“We’ll see. One thing I know for sure,” Tyrella said. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. Any man who wants me better want to live at the beach. You gotta keep your standards high,” she told Celeste with a wink.
Not something Celeste had done much of.
And what about Paul? He probably had high standards. What was he going to make of this latest tale? Maybe she’d cancel their beach picnic.
Oh, no. He was coming their way. Celeste’s heart rate picked up.
“Are you coming to fish for compliments on your sermon?” Tyrella teased him.
“No,” he said with that beatific smile of his. “Just wanted to make sure we’re still on for tomorrow, Celeste.”
After what he must’ve heard? She blinked.
“Aunt Edie’s already baking cookies for you,” Jenna said, since Celeste was having trouble finding her voice.
She recovered enough to joke, “Aw, now I can’t pretend I made them.”
“The truth always comes out,” he said, still smiling.
She hoped he wasn’t simply talking about cookies.
There are other men in Moonlight Harbor besides Paul Welch, she reminded herself that night as she and Jenna twirled and stomped with the other line dancers. Victor King was still happy to help her with her dance steps and would probably be more than happy to handcuff her to his bed. A new man had joined the dancers, and he was also single. His name was Jonas Greer and he was a firefighter.
“There’s another possibility,” Courtney said to her. “If things don’t work out with the pastor. In
that case, I’d take the fireman if I were you. He’s hot. No pun intended.”
But Celeste didn’t want a fireman. Or a cop. She wanted Paul. If things worked out with him her love life—her whole life—would finally be on track.
* * *
Henry Gilbert wasn’t in his room when she came to clean it on Monday. She returned his laundered T-shirt and left the six-pack of beer she’d bought him on his bed, along with a note thanking him for saving her from becoming crab food.
She was leaving the room with a stack of dirty towels when he walked up, holding a take-out box from Sandy’s. He was wearing jeans, flip-flops and a T-shirt that warned Be Nice to Me or I’ll Kill You in My Book. And he had on his glasses, which accented that Stephen King look.
She frowned and pointed to the T-shirt. “Did you have that specially made?”
“My brother gave it to me. He’s my number-one fan,” he added with a smirk. When she didn’t respond, he prompted, “Misery? Stephen King?”
“Your father?”
He shook his head in disgust. “Never mind.”
“Happy to. By the way, I left you something,” she said. “A thank-you.”
“Yeah?” He looked into the room, saw the six-pack on the bed and grinned. “I should save your life more often.”
“Once was enough.” She didn’t want to come that close to meeting the Grim Reaper again for a long, long time. “I’m glad you did, though.”
“Gotta keep you alive. Who else is going to make sure I have clean towels?”
She made a face. “Funny.”
“That’s what you said yesterday. Glad to meet a woman who appreciates a clever man.”
“Who said I appreciated you?” she said with a sarcastic smile. “That would be a stretch.”
He didn’t smile in return. “Ha-ha.”
“Oh, hit a sore spot, did I?”
“Nope. No sore spots here.”
But there obviously were because the moment of friendly repartee was gone. Someone had underappreciated Henry Gilbert. “I was kidding,” Celeste assured him. “Really.”
The Summer Retreat Page 12
