The days James was scheduled to work the night shift or was on call was her time to retreat to the space she’d called her sanctuary and indulge in her passion: reading. The cozy room was decorated with overstuffed chairs and love seats with bright floral fabric, table and floor lamps, floor pillows, scented candles, and live plants in hand-painted pots. An extensive playlist of her favorite songs and show tunes coming through a hidden speaker provided an atmosphere for total relaxation. Reading and working out were essential for her release of tension.
She vigorously shook the shaker and then poured a small amount into a glass, handing it to Leah. “Let me know if it’s too strong.”
Leah took a sip. “It’s perfect. Do you always put your bar glasses in the refrigerator?” she asked when Kayana opened the fridge and took out three more martini glasses.
“Yes. Instead of using a lot of ice to dilute the drinks, my brother decided to chill the glasses instead.”
“You would sell a lot more alcohol if you served weaker drinks.”
Kayana gave Leah an incredulous stare. “That’s not what we’re about, Leah. This place has built a reputation over the years by offering folks good food and drinks and good service. Of course, we’re in business to make a profit, but not at the expense of shortchanging those who come here. And after the vacationers leave, we still have to treat the local residents well, or we’ll have to shut down.”
“You’re right about good food and service,” Leah admitted. “You’re right up there with the best.”
Kayana knew Leah was echoing what so many patrons had said over the years. As a child, she’d accompanied her grandmother to farm stands and chicken farms, where Cassie meticulously examined the leaves of greens, the skin on white potatoes, and the color of chickens before making her selection. If the foodstuffs didn’t pass her muster, she refused to purchase them. Her motto was “Nothing but the best for the Seaside Café.” And the tradition had continued to the present day, when Derrick had vendors bring their products to the restaurant for his perusal. He had become even more nitpicking than Grandma Cassie when it came to selecting meat and fish, and he was no-nonsense when supervising the waitstaff. Not only would he not tolerate lateness; his disapproval extended to being rude or indifferent to customers.
She filled another pitcher with the cocktail, handing it to Leah. “Please carry this. I’ll bring the glasses.” The two women returned to the deck, and Cherie stood and took two of the glasses from Kayana.
“I never liked liver, but this pâté is off the chain. How did you make it?” Cherie asked. “Or is it a family secret recipe?”
Kayana smiled. “It’s a knockoff of a New Orleans recipe for chicken livers with bacon and pepper jelly. I rinse and cook chicken and duck liver in boiling water for about two minutes, drain the pieces on paper towels, and then sauté the liver in finely minced onion and bacon cooked in duck fat. I add sea salt and ground peppercorns, and put it all into a food processor until smooth. I store it in an airtight container in the fridge for about an hour for everything to marry before serving.”
“Kayana, I don’t remember it listed on the menu,” Leah remarked, as she spread a small amount of liver on a cracker.
“That’s because it isn’t. I only make it when entertaining.” The pâté was always a hit with her guests whenever she and James hosted cookouts and dinner parties.
Cherie leaned forward on her chair. “We’re so busy eating and drinking that we haven’t talked about the books we want to discuss.”
“Which genres do you like?” Kayana asked her.
“Romance, women’s fiction, and African American literature.”
“I’m partial to the classics, and British writers in particular,” Leah said. “What about you, Kayana?”
“I also like the classics. However, I’m not opposed to considering other genres.”
“Like what?” Cherie and Leah said in unison.
“Science fiction. I was talking to someone earlier today about writers, and when the name Octavia Butler came up in conversation, I remembered I’d read one of her novels and how much I’d enjoyed it.”
Leah clasped her hands together. “I love her novels. In fact, she is my favorite science fiction author.”
Cherie gave Leah a questioning look. “Didn’t you say you’re partial to the classics?”
“That’s only because I taught English lit for years. But when it comes to reading for pleasure, I’ll cross genres.”
“Is that what we want to do?” Kayana questioned. “Are we going to choose books from different genres?” She stared at Leah, and then Cherie. Personally, she was open to reading works by authors she’d never read before.
Cherie massaged the back of her neck as she rolled her head from side to side. “I wouldn’t mind reading other genres. I’ve heard of Octavia Butler, but never read her.”
“And I wouldn’t mind rereading her,” Leah volunteered. “I read Kindred a long time ago.”
Kayana’s smile reached her eyes. “I’ve never read Kindred, so would you mind if we begin with it?”
Reaching into her crossbody, Cherie took out her cellphone and tapped several keys. Seconds became minutes as she read the prologue. “Yes. I’d like to make this our first title.” She glanced up. “How many books and how often are we going to meet?”
“How about every Sunday?” Leah questioned. “It shouldn’t take more than a week to read a book.”
“You forget Kayana has a business to run,” Cherie reminded Leah. “And if we do meet once a week, then she shouldn’t have to put out a spread like this. I’m willing to bring wine and soda.”
“And I’ll bring the ingredients for a charcuterie,” Leah volunteered. She paused. “Kayana, are you all right with us meeting here every Sunday?”
Kayana nodded. “I’m good.” She and Derrick had worked out a schedule by which both would have time for themselves. Late May through early September were their busiest months, and for the subsequent nine months, they’d committed to serving only one meal from Monday through Saturday. She pressed her palms together. “I guess that does it. We’ll meet here next Sunday at six, and we all should be ready to discuss Ms. Butler’s Kindred.”
“Boom!” Cherie said under her breath. “I just downloaded the book.”
Leah smiled across the table at Cherie. “I’ll download my copy when I get back to the bungalow, because if I do it now, I’ll start reading and won’t be able to stop. Are we going to decide now what we’re going to read next?”
“I made the first choice,” Kayana said, “so why don’t you go next, and then it can be Cherie’s turn.”
“I’d rather go after Cherie, because I still want to think about it.”
Resting her head against the back of the chair, Cherie closed her eyes. “I’ve decided to compromise.” She opened her eyes. “Because Leah likes the classics and I am partial to romance, I’m going to select Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.”
Leah let out a little shriek before putting her hand over her mouth. “Bless you, my child,” she crooned. “Pride and Prejudice is my favorite Austen novel.”
It was also one of Kayana’s favorite works written by the author, but if she’d had to pick one book to read over and over, it would be Mansfield Park because Austen was willing to focus on the subject of infidelity and slavery in the Americas. “I suppose we have our reading assignments for the next two weeks.”
She didn’t have to purchase the book because it was part of her reading library. When she’d moved from Atlanta to North Carolina, she’d left everything behind with the exception of her clothes, jewelry, and books. The smaller bedroom in the apartment had been set up as a reading studio, with a convertible love seat, comfortable armchairs with footstools, and bookcases packed tightly with her treasured books. Kayana had also purchased framed prints of James Baldwin, William Shakespeare, Toni Morrison, John Steinbeck, and Zora Neale Hurston to hang up on the bare walls. The space wasn’t as large as the one in Ge
orgia, but after she’d put her own special stamp on the room, it was an equally inviting place for her to read and while away the hours.
Kayana also couldn’t wait to begin reading Kindred, and if or when she ran into Graeme again, she would thank him for recommending the book and author. “Leah, how long do you plan to stay on the island?”
“I’ll be here through the second week in August.”
She estimated they could realistically read and discuss five books before disbanding the Seaside Café Book Club. With the approach of dusk, the sun was a large orange ball in the darkening sky. An invisible bond began to form between the three women that had nothing to do with books when they talked about what was trending in the news. It didn’t take Kayana long to realize that Cherie, despite her sharp tongue and being quite opinionated, was very intelligent. There was no doubt she would bring another approach to their upcoming book discussion.
Other than Mariah Hinton, Kayana hadn’t been able to get close enough to any other woman in Atlanta to regard her as a friend. Her colleagues at the hospital were just that—colleagues, and nothing more. She’d occasionally join them after work for dinner or drinks for someone’s birthday, but she never entertained them in her home. It was James who’d invited his friends, family members, and some of the doctors over to celebrate a particular holiday or to host someone’s promotion and/or retirement.
Kayana was beginning to feel a special kinship with Leah and Cherie because they all had something in common. They were readers.
Chapter 5
Graeme rose early, let Barley, the two-year-old toy poodle mix out to do his business in the fenced-in yard, cleaned it up, and then walked down to the beach as the sun was rising. He wanted to finish a run before it got too hot. He’d discovered he was more creative in the early-morning hours, but since coming to the island and taking up permanent residence in the renovated bungalow, it appeared as if his creative juices had suddenly dried up; he knew he had to do something to kickstart himself into gear because he had three months in which to submit his latest manuscript.
He had managed to write the first chapter before driving down from Massachusetts, and although he’d been on Coates Island for almost two weeks, he hadn’t typed more than five pages. Graeme knew it wasn’t as much writer’s block as it was malaise. He’d believed he would have come to grips with losing his wife eight years ago; since that time, he’d dated several women, but guilt would not permit him to commit to any of them, which left him feeling unfulfilled. And it wasn’t about sex. That he could get from any woman willing to go to bed with him. It was about companionship. He wanted and needed someone with whom he could talk once sex was over, and he still missed coming home to his wife.
The final memory of them together should have been her kissing him good-bye while wishing him a good day instead of the exchange of hurtful, acerbic accusations that could never be retracted. Graeme lost count of the number of hours he’d spent with different grief counselors, who’d all told him the same thing—that he wasn’t responsible or to blame for Jillian’s death.
But Graeme knew if he hadn’t argued with her, she would not have gotten in her car to drive to Boston to stay with her mother, who had constantly harangued her daughter to divorce him. Jillian would have stayed at the house in Newburyport, and when he walked through the door later that night, she would have been there to greet him. And when he wasn’t blaming himself, it was his mother-in-law who became the focus of his anger because she hadn’t forgiven Graeme for wooing her precious daughter away from her.
Jillian’s death had shattered his and her mother’s lives. He had requested and was granted bereavement leave for a month before he was able to return to teaching. His wife’s passing had so dramatically affected Susan Ellison that she finally had to be institutionalized after several suicide attempts, the last one of which resulted in her being declared brain-dead.
Susan languished for nearly a year, hooked up to a ventilator, until her brother requested that she be taken off life support. She was buried in the family plot next to her husband, son, and two daughters. Graeme believed his mother-in-law had gone to her grave holding him responsible for depriving her of her last surviving child.
Graeme felt the heat from the rising sun on his back as he jogged along the beach. The pedometer strapped to his upper arm beeped once he reached the one-mile mark. He was breathing heavily as he turned to retrace his steps. Running on the sand proved a lot more challenging than when he used a treadmill. The smell of saltwater, the soft sand under the soles of his running shoes, and the sound of waves washing up on the beach with the incoming tide transported Graeme to a place where he was able to clear his head of the real world. He could hear the character he’d created for his ongoing fictional series—about a retired covert operative who becomes the champion for the falsely accused and disenfranchised—telling him it was time for him to have a love interest. In prior books, the character, like himself, had become a recluse after losing his wife when she was killed in a hit-and-run. However, it wasn’t a vehicular accident that had claimed Jillian’s life. She had unknowingly walked in on a robbery in progress at a convenience store, giving the store clerk the opportunity to reach for a firearm from behind the counter; in the ensuing shootout, she was struck in the head by a bullet and died instantly.
Writing had become a catharsis for Graeme. It had taken him more than a year to research and plot his first novel, and then another year to revise it until he felt satisfied that he had an anti-hero willing to go above the law for the underdog. He’d completed two manuscripts before working up the nerve to submit one to a publisher.
Six months later, he was offered a two-book contract. However, Graeme wanted the publisher to adhere to certain conditions, and he knew that it wouldn’t be possible to negotiate for himself unless he secured an agent. He found one willing to represent him, and she wasn’t timid when she communicated his demands: He would publish under a pseudonym, would not submit a photograph of himself, and would never commit to a book signing. It took some legal maneuvering before the publisher agreed, and Graeme and his agent celebrated privately when the first book made the best-seller list within three weeks of its release.
No one at the high school knew that Mr. Ogden was the creator of the literary world’s newest popular fictional protagonist. Zachary Maxwell was described as a cross between Bruce Wayne and Bryan Mills from the Batman and Taken movie franchises. His character’s life mirrored his creator’s, though no one suspected Graeme was moonlighting as a writer.
He returned to the house and went into the bathroom to shower and shampoo his hair. The spray of lukewarm water sluicing down his body revived him. Normally, Graeme would’ve gone to the Seaside Café for breakfast, but not this morning. His breakfast would consist of coffee, toast with peanut butter, and yogurt topped with granola. Although his cooking skills were limited, he wasn’t completely inept in the kitchen. He could boil eggs, put together a salad, grill steaks and corn, and bake potatoes.
Dressed in a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and well-worn leather sandals he should have discarded years ago but hadn’t because they were that comfortable, he made his way into the kitchen that looked out onto the open floor plan. An interior decorator had chosen furnishings in keeping with the humid subtropical setting, with seat cushions and pillows in colors of blue, green, and soft yellows. The colors were repeated in the second-story bedrooms, with verandas that had views of the ocean. It was a sight Graeme never tired of waking up to. He had chosen the smaller of the two bedrooms as his study, and whenever his mind wandered, he found himself staring out the windows for inspiration. The contractor had installed a white PVC fence that enclosed the backyard and provided a modicum of privacy from his nearest neighbors, while a landscaping crew had worked their magic as they laid sod, planted trees and brushes, and strategically placed large planters overflowing with ferns and flowering cacti. There was something about the refurbished bungalow that felt more like home than the one
in Massachusetts, and Graeme attributed that to its size; it was much smaller than the property he’d inherited from his parents. He knew eventually he would have to sell the historic house with eight bedrooms and servants’ quarters.
He finished breakfast, cleaned up the kitchen, then retreated to his study to call his agent, glancing over at Barley curled up in his bed in a corner of the room. The tiny, sand-colored animal had become his constant companion since he’d adopted him from a shelter after the dog had spent the first four months of his life in a puppy mill overrun with seventy other dogs. Graeme had always had pets when growing up and had gone through separation anxiety when he had to leave them with the household staff when he and his parents summered abroad. Jillian was allergic to cats and did not like dogs, and without the sound of children’s laughter, the large house was as silent as a tomb.
Graeme knew he could telephone Alma McCall at any hour because she’d admitted to being an insomniac. He dialed her number and then activated the speaker feature.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of hearing your mellifluous voice this morning?”
Graeme smiled. “What happened to ‘Good morning, Graeme’?”
Alma’s deep throaty chuckle came through the speaker. Years of smoking had lowered her voice several octaves, and there were occasions when people mistook her for a man. “Good morning, love.”
He ignored the endearment because Alma had recently married a woman whom she’d dated for years. “I need your feedback about introducing a recurring female character that could possibly become a love interest for Zack.”
Alma laughed again. “So, your hero is tired of jerking himself off.”
A frown settled into Graeme’s features. “There’s no need to be vulgar.”
“And there’s no need for you to be so puritanical, Graeme. You’re an incredible writer, but whenever I ask you about your social life, you tell me nothing’s happening. I’m older than you are, and even if I wasn’t married, I’d still get more action than you.”
The Seaside Café Page 6
