Ugh. Daisy didn’t have a romantic bone in her body. She never had. She’d married a dying man twenty-five years her senior, for heaven’s sake. If that didn’t tell a person all they needed to know about the stick she had up her butt, nothing else would.
“You remember. Come on. Think. She used to keep it in a drawer by her bed. I know I showed it to you once. It was a picture of a young version of Aunt Stella, looking up at a guy with so much emotion on her face, it made my heart hurt. He was looking right down at her the same way.”
She could still remember how sad the picture made her, and how curious. What had happened to that man? Why hadn’t they ended up together? She had never found the courage to ask her aunt.
“Once, she found me looking through her drawer and got so mad at me.”
“She was probably worried you’d find her vibrator.”
“Ew.” Okay, their aunt was still young, too, only ten years older than Daisy, but Bea really didn’t want to think about Stella and vibrator in the same sentence.
“No. It was the picture. I’m sure of it. She snatched it away from me and put it away somewhere and I never saw it there again.”
“Exactly how often did you go snooping through the drawers of Stella’s bedside table?”
“Not often.”
Never after that, she remembered. She had been so struck by the pain in Stella’s eyes, she hadn’t dared. “That picture meant something to her. He meant something to her or she wouldn’t have kept it and wouldn’t have been so upset at me for looking at it. The man in the picture is Ed Clayton and he’s just moved to Cape Sanctuary with his daughter.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I just am. I think they loved each other passionately. I can remember how it dripped from the photograph. They must have loved each other once and something must have gone horribly wrong.”
“You don’t know that.”
How hard must it be to exist inside her sister’s skin, always closed off to the joy and magic of life? Bea didn’t even like imagining it. “I think this Ed Clayton is the reason she never married.”
Daisy frowned. “We were the reason she never married. She was too busy rescuing us.”
Were they the reason Stella and Ed Clayton hadn’t made a go of things?
They owed Stella so much. Everything, really. She had rescued them from a future of foster care and group homes. Bea might not always understand her sister but she loved her. That year they had been separated after their mother died had been the worst she could remember of her childhood.
She suspected things had been harder for Daisy. Her sister had always been the more serious of the two of them, probably because Jewel relied on her for everything. She had taken care of everything, from babysitting Beatriz to fixing meals while their mother went out with men or painted or sat at an arts festival stall somewhere, selling her wares.
She had always been more serious than Bea, but Daisy had come out of foster care...different. Not cold, exactly, just controlled.
Bea had always idolized and adored her older sister but their relationship had never quite mended from that year they spent apart.
“I hope it’s not true, that she didn’t ever marry because she was busy taking care of us. But if it is, we have to do something to help her get back together with the man she used to love.”
“Slow down,” Daisy began.
She didn’t let her finish. “I won’t slow down. For once, will you listen to me? She has done so much for us! We need to give her this chance to finally be happy!”
“You think she can’t be happy unless she has a man? Are you saying she’s been miserable all these years, when she’s been helping us and the other foster children she cared for over the years? That teaching English for twenty years couldn’t possibly fulfill her, nor did founding a charity that has benefited hundreds, if not thousands, of other children in foster care?”
“I’m saying you should have seen her face when she introduced me to this Ed person. I’ve never seen her so flustered and nervous.”
“Oh, well, then. We definitely need to make sure she has more of that.”
She sighed at Daisy’s tart tone. Bea loved her but really wished sometimes she had an ounce of whimsy in her, instead of always coming across as a stuffy, prickly old lady.
“Don’t you want her to be happy? Don’t you want her to find what she gave up all those years ago when she took us in?”
“You don’t know that she gave up anything. We don’t even know this man. For all we know, he could be nothing but trouble. What if he’s married?”
She didn’t think so. Stella had said that Ed and his daughter were moving to Cape Sanctuary. She hadn’t said anything about a wife.
“What if he’s the love of her life?” she countered. “We have to make sure she doesn’t lose the chance to be with him again.”
Daisy sighed. “As usual, your heart is in the right place. But this time maybe you need to let your head do the thinking. You would be best to mind your own business and let Stella figure things out on her own. She won’t appreciate you meddling in her life.”
That might very well be true, knowing Stella, but Bea didn’t care. Every time she thought about that picture of Stella and this Ed Clayton, her heart ached.
Maybe Bea hadn’t made the best choices in the romance department, with a teenage pregnancy and subsequent divorce behind her. That didn’t mean she couldn’t wish for a happy-ever-after for a woman who deserved that and more.
“Does that mean you won’t help me play matchmaker?”
“That means I’m going to stay out of it and I suggest you do the same.”
“Fine. You can be that way. But I love Stella enough that I want her to be happy and I think this Ed Clayton and his daughter are just what she needs to shake her out of the weird mood she’s been in the past few months.”
She was going to do anything she could to push them together, no matter what her sober, starchy, fuddy-duddy sister had to say about it.
8
GABE
He would say this much for the coastline here in Northern California. The sunsets were nothing short of spectacular.
Gabe stood at an overlook along Seaview Drive, watching the sun hovering on the horizon, huge and orange, beautiful, its dying rays turning the sea various shades of coral and amber and lavender.
Since he had been staying at Casa Del Mar, he couldn’t seem to get enough of these nightly color shows. In a lifetime spent traveling around the world, he had seen plenty of sunsets before but couldn’t remember ever feeling this resonance inside him as he viewed them, this bone-deep wonder.
It might have something to do with his brush with death. Maybe the subtle realization that he had come close to never seeing another sunset made each subsequent one feel like a gift.
He shot a few more pictures with his still camera, enjoying the cool breeze against his skin and the way the clouds dramatically absorbed the different colors along the light spectrum.
When the sun was almost down, the night took on the pale light of twilight. Normally, if he was shooting pictures or taking video, he would wait until after sunset as that was sometimes when the best color appeared in the sky. This time, he figured he should probably be heading back down the road before Cruz sent the bloodhounds looking for him.
He probably wasn’t supposed to be this far away from Casa Del Mar, but once he started walking, his steps had led him here, to watch the sunset from this high vantage point along the cliffs above the water.
The truth was, he was weaker than he wanted to admit, even two weeks out from his injury. He knew his strength would eventually return but he found it so damn frustrating that he could barely walk for five minutes without having to rest.
He put the cap on his camera lens and started walking back toward Cruz’s house when a sound, out o
f place and unexpected, caught his attention above the wind. A whimper from below him, like some kind of wounded creature.
He frowned. What was it? He strained his ears, trying to isolate out the endless cry of the gulls and the waves down below to focus on the discordant sound.
There. He heard it again. A plaintive, distressed cry, coming from somewhere between his position on the cliff top and the water far below.
He peered down the steep slope. “Hello? Anybody there?”
Another little whimper followed his call, then a hoarse-sounding bark. A dog, then. Somewhere below him, about twenty feet or so.
He took the cap off his zoom lens and tried to focus on the area below him, until he spotted a little slate-gray dog that almost blended into the coastal scrub. The dog seemed to be perched on a flat spot about ten feet long by about three feet wide.
How had he gotten down there? There was a narrow gap in the vegetation, almost a path, but it ended about three feet before the dog’s perch. He must have wandered down and then fallen the rest of the way.
The dog was truly stuck, unable to climb back up and with nowhere to go below as the cliff abruptly dropped about four hundred feet down to the ocean.
Poor little guy.
The dog’s tail wagged when he spotted Gabe or smelled him and he barked again, a hoarse rasp that made Gabe wonder how long the dog had been there without food or water.
He couldn’t just leave him there. The dog would either starve to death or fall down that cliff into the water.
Gabe had a sudden memory of a trip to Patagonia with his father when they had been overnighting and ended up making camp late one night, past dark. They hadn’t realized until morning that their tent was maybe three feet from the edge of a cliff like this one, with a steep, terrifying drop on the other side.
His father had thought it hilarious when he woke the next day to discover what they’d done. Gabe hadn’t been nearly as sanguine. He remembered sobbing for a good ten minutes when he realized how one misstep in the night could have ended in disaster, before Chet Ellison snapped at him to pull it together and be a man.
He had probably been seven or eight at the time.
He pushed the memory away, focusing instead on his dilemma.
The light was fading fast. He estimated he had maybe twenty minutes left of visibility to pull off any sort of rescue.
He found the idea of making his way down that steep trail with nothing on the other side but air every bit as terrifying as waking up on the edge of a cliff had been to his seven-year-old self. He would have to switchback his way down to the narrow cut in the shrubs, then figure out how to get the dog up the remaining five or six feet.
He was in no shape for a technical descent, especially not with the stitches still holding his gut together.
A smart man would find somebody to help him. But who? Someone back at Cruz Romero’s house? There wasn’t time to walk to Casa Del Mar, round up help and be back here before dark. Anyway, he had a strong suspicion none of the indolent cabal around the pop star would be willing to risk their lives for a little gray mutt.
It was insane. His doctors would kill him for even considering it.
He was going to do it anyway. He couldn’t leave the creature here alone overnight.
Gabe set his camera body on a rock and pulled everything out of his backpack except for his flashlight. At least if he went over the side, somebody might see his gear and know where to look for his broken body.
He didn’t really find that amusing, especially not under the circumstances, when he had cheated death just days earlier.
Once upon a time, he had no fear. Like many young men, he had believed himself immortal and would have treated this situation like a big joke. He didn’t find it funny now. He hadn’t been so nonchalant about the gift of life in a long time.
He huffed out a few breaths, shook his hands out, then started making his way down the foot-wide path in the scrub, grabbing hold of whatever sturdy branch or rock he could on his way down. He imagined the trail was probably made by erosion rather than any living creature stupid enough to go this way on purpose.
The little dog seemed to know Gabe was on his way. He barked that hoarse, raspy sound again, like a sick sea lion, which made Gabe wonder again how long he had been stranded.
“Hang on, buddy. I’m coming,” he said.
By necessity, his progress was slow and painstaking, and by the time he reached the area just above the drop-off to the ledge, sweat was dripping off him and his knees felt weak.
Now, how the hell was he going to pick the dog up from here? Again, he wished for a rope. Since he didn’t have that, he made his slow way to the edge of the cut that sloped upward, narrowing the drop to about four feet. With effort, Gabe grabbed hold of a sturdy chaparral branch and slid down until his feet hit the ledge.
The little dog—he could see now it wasn’t a mutt but a far more regal French bulldog—whimpered and barked, wriggling in excitement. He was on the small side, weighing only about ten or twelve pounds.
“Easy now, or you’ll knock us both over,” Gabe warned. “Sit.”
The dog obeyed instantly, though he was matted and dirty. He had big ears, blue eyes, slate-gray fur and a distinctive white streak from his chin all the way between his legs and across his stomach.
“What are you doing out here? Huh, buddy? You’re lucky a hawk didn’t decide you would make a good afternoon snack.”
He petted the dog, who licked him eagerly. He obviously needed water but that would have to wait until they made their way back up to the road.
“I hate to do this to you but we’re going to have to climb out of here before the sun goes down the rest of the way or we’ll both be stuck.”
The dog gave him a trusting look and didn’t make a sound when Gabe scooped him up and shoved him into the backpack. He had a collar on but no tag, Gabe noted, even as his abdominal muscles cried out at the movement. He wasn’t supposed to lift anything heavier than a paperback book. Certainly not a wriggling dog, however small.
“I’m going to need you to hold really still back there while we make our way out. If you can do that, I’ll have water for you up top and we can see about finding where you live.”
The dog barked hoarsely and licked Gabe’s ear as if he understood completely.
The return journey was just as grueling. The hardest part was climbing off the ledge. It took all his strength and then some to make it back to the narrow path.
By the time he reached the road, all his muscles were trembling, much to his dismay. At the top he pulled off the backpack, unzipped it and pulled out the little dog. He didn’t have a bowl but poured some of the water into a low indentation on the rock where his camera had been, and the dog licked eagerly at it again and again until the bottle was empty.
He also gave the Frenchie a power bar he had in his bag, hoping it wasn’t bad for dogs. It was peanut butter, which he knew dogs liked.
He’d never had a dog, though he’d adopted a few strays here and there in his travels for the week or so he was in their territory, until he had to move on again.
“There you go. Drink the last of the water. Then we really do need to find your home.”
He felt a ridiculous sense of accomplishment at saving the dog.
Technically, this was the second time in a month he had saved a life. Somehow rescuing the dog seemed much more of an accomplishment than jumping in front of a knife to rescue Cruz Romero.
The dog wasn’t a stray. The collar was proof of that. Did he belong to one of the houses here along the cliff? Probably. Where else?
Gabe looked up and down at the handful of residences perched along the road, high above the water. Most of them were fancy-schmancy places like Cruz’s sprawling Spanish Colonial.
He sat for a moment, still catching his breath, settling his adre
naline and trying to figure out what to do.
He didn’t want to take the little dog back to Casa Del Mar. It would be best to reunite him with people who were probably looking for him.
“Come on, bud. Let’s try to find your people,” he said, and headed for the nearest house.
9
DAISY
That was an evening well spent.
She loved these rare moments when she was all caught up and didn’t have any impending tasks hanging over her head.
Daisy finished cleaning up her workspace with the satisfaction of knowing she had worked hard for hours to tick off several items on her to-do list. Now she had several pieces ready to ship off to eager buyers.
She stretched her muscles, tight from several hours in front of her computer at the office in town then several more out here in her secret, private haven.
Whenever she spent time here, she felt a deep, aching pang, missing James and his quiet support and friendship more than she ever imagined.
She owed her late husband so very much, especially for this haven that had become so precious to her.
The pang of grief in her chest was as much a part of her by now as the pale freckles she did her best to hide, though it had begun to fade after two years. She would always miss him and was so very grateful for his support and encouragement.
She knew he would have been happy with the way she was using this old storage building.
A song came on the radio, one of Cruz’s that she had always particularly liked, “In Your Arms.” It had a slow, sexy beat, one she could never resist. She turned it up to maximum volume and began salsa dancing around the room, holding her arms up for an imaginary partner.
Before the illness began to take away everything he loved, James had adored dancing. He had dragged her to a place the next town over that held salsa dancing evenings every week.
When she danced like this, she could remember how kind he had always been to her and how their marriage, though unconventional, had been a joy and solace for both of them.
She whirled to the music, eyes closed, and was lost in it until nearly the end of the song.
The Cliff House Page 8
