by Mara Purl
Walking to the end of the counter, Sally paused a moment to watch Samantha. Usually she’s good lookin’ enough, but not even that shiny red hair with the sassy cut can help her today. Sally hummed, and headed toward the kitchen. I’d say her nerves’re stretched tight as a pig-bladder balloon.
Samantha Hugo, sitting at her favorite corner table, looked out through the front windows just as Miranda pulled her bike to a stop and leaned it against the planter boxes in front. She watched as Miranda opened the screen door and winced as it banged shut behind her.
“Over here, Miranda!” Samantha waved. As Miranda approached, Sam continued, “You got my message. Sorry to interrupt your work. I usually don’t call you in the morning but I—”
“I know you don’t.” Miranda looked worried. “That’s why I figured it was probably something important.” She’d carried her helmet in, and now hung it on the back of her chair, and, in a fluid motion, angled her body between chair and table to sit down.
As Miranda sat, Sam tried to decide where to begin. “I uh, well.…” Much as she wanted to talk this out, it wasn’t going to be easy. I’ve kept this to myself year after year. “Something’s happened, and because of it, I’ll have to make a big decision.”
Miranda looked up sharply. “A big decision about what?”
Sally walked up. “Ah, decisions, decisions. Are we talkin’ books or menus? Juicy romance versus classic novel? Or crumb cake or carrot cake?”
Startled, Sam looked up at Sally. Does she always sneak up on her patrons? I bet she does that to see what she can overhear. Sam watched, though, as Miranda brightened, smiling up at Sally and greeting her warmly.
“Hi, Sally. Uh … we haven’t gotten that far.”
“With the book club list, or with the menu?”
“Neither, just yet. So, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain.” Sally returned the smile to Miranda, then almost hid her scowl for Samantha. “What can I get for you ladies this mornin’?”
“Um, how about one tea and one coffee to start with. If that’s okay with you, Sam?”
“Yes, fine.” I don’t mean to sound so curt. But Sally irritates me. I know Miranda’s always trying to bring us together, but that’ll be the proverbial cold day in hell.
The problem was, Sally just naturally took offense at things that weren’t aimed at her. That book club incident… all I did was mention that anyone well-read should have the classics under their belts. I bet the most sophisticated books Sally’s ever read are boiler-plate romances.
And another thing—the woman always dilly-dallied, chatting with her customers instead of serving them. Here was a perfect case in point. Though Miranda’d already given their order, Sally continued to stand at their table, humming that stupid, nondescript little song, her pencil hovering over her pad. Sam knew it was because Sally could never resist eavesdropping for a tidbit of gossip. “Sally, we’re not going to order anything else right now.”
“Oh, right! I was jus’ runnin’ through orders in my head.” Sally hummed as she walked away toward the bank of coffee pots.
Miranda chuckled, and then brought her eyes back to Sam’s. “Okay, what decision were you talking about?”
Sam sighed. “You know that Jack and I were married over twenty years ago.”
Miranda nodded. “Hard to imagine you with Jack Sawyer. It’s almost funny, in fact. Why it is a problem now?”
Sam sighed. “Oh, every few months he trots out our previous marriage as a threat to my reputation. And naturally he wants me to curtail investigating his latest building projects.”
“Well, obviously, you’re not about to do that. Since you’re the head of the EPC, he can’t touch you, can he?”
“I’m not so sure,” Sam countered. “The Environmental Planning Commission job is a political appointment, as he’s always quick to remind me.”
“If it’s your job you’re concerned about, do you think that in this day and age people really care about a divorce that happened so long ago?” Miranda took a sip of her tea.
“No, I don’t think they’ll hang me for that, but there’s something else you don’t know about. Jack doesn’t know. No one knows.”
“Here you go, girls. No one knows what?”
Here she is again, Sam thought. Sally’s timing is just a little too good. How much did she hear?
Miranda, apparently sensing her agitation, quickly said to Sally, “No one knows what big ears Sally O’Mally has.” Miranda gave her a dazzling smile. “Thanks for the hot drinks.”
“How about one of my fabulous-gooey-cinnamon-sticky buns? Sinfully temptin’, if I do say so myself.”
“Just coffee is fine for me, Sally.” Samantha kept her voice cool.
“Oh, I know how it is. We girls have to watch our figures, don’t we Samantha?”
Miranda stared up at Sally, her eyes widening.
Sally quickly added, “Oh, you know me. I never can resist a joke.”
Samantha watched Sally’s trim figure returning to the kitchen. “Honestly that woman is insuffer—”
Miranda cut her off. “Sam, what were you going to tell me?”
Samantha sighed again and lowered her voice. “I was going to say there was more to that marriage than even Jack knows. We had a child.”
Obviously stunned, Miranda sat in silence for a moment.
Now that she’d started to talk, Sam found the story began to tumble out. “When we decided to get divorced, I was already pregnant, but I didn’t realize it at the time. After I found out, we were already halfway through the six-month divorce period.”
“And you had the baby?”
“I did. And he… I had a boy… he was with me… less than two years. I got sick, then lost my job. I couldn’t provide for him on my own. The last thing Jack’d said to me was, ‘Thank God we never had a child!’” Sam felt her throat constrict, heard herself gasp. “I … I thought the best thing was to put him up for adoption. I wanted to give him a better life, was sure he needed a real family. Convinced myself… but lately I feel… haunted.” She inhaled. “I’ve never really known if I did the right thing.”
Sam saw compassion in her friend’s eyes. “It must’ve been a terribly difficult decision.”
Got to stop talking about this, pull myself together. “I… I don’t mean to burden you with all this, Miranda.” Sam glanced around the room. “What concerns me now is that between my job being so visible, and Jack making these threats more and more frequently, some zealous reporter might start digging into my past. And it’s not only me who might be affected by it.”
Miranda nodded. “And what if the child starts looking for his parents?” They looked at each other for a moment, considering the facts.
“He’s a grown man by now, with a life of his own.” Sam looked down at her hands. “And he has no knowledge of his connection to me. And, of course, there would also be no way for Jack to know.”
Looking up again, Sam was startled to see Sally standing near their table, holding two pots. My God… how much did she hear?
“I swear you girls have the most fascinatin’ conversations. Hot water, Miranda? Coffee, Samantha?”
“Actually, nothing more for me, Sally. Sam, maybe we could—”
“Yes, I have to go, too.” Samantha looked at her watch, then stood. “I have a meeting in a few minutes.”
“Alrighty, then.” Sally pulled her order book from her apron pocket, tearing off the top sheet. “Here’s your check. You girls have a nice day.”
Sam pulled cash from her wallet and left it on the table, while Miranda did the same, then both headed quickly for the door.
Looking back over her shoulder, Miranda called, “Bye, Sally!”
Sally looked toward them and called out a quick, “Bye-Bye!”
Miranda pushed the screen door open, its spring rasping as always. “So, Sam, give me a call after your meeting.”
“I will, Dearheart.” They hugged. “Thanks.”
Back inside, Sall
y O’Mally stared after the two women, her professional smile still frozen on her face.
That Samantha’s always rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it’s her bossy way o’ talkin’ over people’s heads. Or it’s cuz she’s tall and curvy in a way I can never be, and I’m jus’ jealous. And she’s a redhead. I’ve never trusted redheads.
Sally sighed. The thing was, she liked people. That was why she’d started her restaurant. What they did, how they felt, how she might be able to make them feel better with a home-cooked meal—these were things she cherished, and why she rose eagerly each morning to open her doors with sparkle-clean tables and piping hot food. So this problem with Samantha was strange.
For some reason, that woman is no friend of mine. This much she’d known since the day Samantha had dressed her down at their book club meeting. Miranda, bless her heart, had tried to smooth things over, pointing out she, herself, hadn’t read half the books Samantha considered “basic” for an educated person.
Sally’d chosen to let it slide. Not smart t’ offend payin’ regulars. Plus, she’s a friend of Miranda’s, who’s one of my best pals. I always try to be cheerie with Samantha, but that only seems to make it worse, like I’m rubbin’salt in the wound.
But now she wondered whether Samantha actually hated her. Was she jus’ sayin’ all that to Miranda so’s I could overhear and get hurt? Or was it all really true? It sure sounded true.
Still standing by their table, she took a moment to think. Well, whether that, Samantha hates me or not, I bet she was tellin’ Miranda a real secret. And if it is true, then… Jack is an ex-husband. And a daddy! And if so, where is the child? ‘Course, he’d be grown by now… if he’s even still alive.
She now knew for certain he was keeping secrets from her. It was strange to realize they’d always hidden things from each other. Well, he doesn’t know ever’thing about me either. I guess I thought we were workin’ on it.
She could sense every feeling she had for Jack realigning. She trusted him less. How come he never told me about his marriage? Yet she understood him better. He’s got more of a past than I had any inklin’… and I wager less of a past than me.
So Jack’d been busy keeping secrets from her. But what she’d overheard added a new level of complexity. Now I know somethin’ about him he doesn’t know his own self. So… do I keep my mouth shut? Or do I tell him?
Shaken right down to her sensible shoes, she fussed with the used napkins, stacked the plates and grabbed the two mugs. Then she picked up the money Sam and Miranda had left on the table.
Ain’t this a kettle of fish? Imagine Samantha, cool as a cucumber, keepin’ this big secret all this time! But of the two of us, it’s me who’d better play it coolest of all. I have the most to gain from this information—and maybe the most to lose.
Chapter 9
Zack Calvin darted a look at the clock embedded in the dash of his Mercedes. I wanted to be at the Jones Studio by two o’clock. Should just make it in time.
As he rounded another of Highway 1’s curves, he glanced to his right at the wide, spectacular view of blue water. So much like Santa Barbara, yet so different. He felt the muscles of his face lift into a smile, took a deep breath and heard a vertebra click as he stretched his spine. This was just what I needed—a nice run farther up the coast to parts unknown. I hadn’t realized the southern edge of Big Sur was so close.
This morning he’d stopped in the Belhaven’s lobby to get a recommendation for a good breakfast spot. Though the owner’d mentioned a place called Sally’s, he’d also pointed to the array of brochures on display, and the one for Ragged Point caught Zack’s eye. They didn’t exaggerate. The resort, the view, the restaurant—they were all terrific.
After enjoying marvelous Eggs Benedict while overlooking a sparkling sea, he’d wandered the property. To work off the rich meal, he clambered down the steep trail to a pocket beach of dark sand, where he picked up a couple of smooth stones to hurl into the surf. After climbing back up, he’d explored the pathways to various cottages, then eventually discovered a gallery. He took his time examining the art—both because he was determined to stay on vacation, and to reassure himself the painting he’d seen in Milford-Haven really was special.
The works he’d seen at Ragged Point were good. But nothing brought him even close to the heart-pounding thrill he’d experienced when he’d seen The Cove. Now he knew for sure—he had meet the artist of that remarkable piece.
Miranda Jones stood in front of the easel in her studio, her eyes closed. I’ve almost got it—the lighting on those hills in San Diego. Once she could see it in her mind, she knew she could get it onto the canvas. But now it was gone again, as though she were looking through a pair of binoculars she couldn’t quite focus.
Opening her eyes, she bent over to look again at the photograph on her worktable, concentrating on the light where it hit the hillsides and touched the tall grasses. She used the photo as a reminder, allowing it to transport her back to the moment just before she’d brought the camera’s viewfinder to her eye. The goal was not to copy the photo, but to express what she’d seen in that moment. She could still hear her teacher Monsieur Gilroy, with his French accent, telling her, “Paint not from ze outside, but from ze inside.”
Right. Trust it, trust the process, let it lead me. She daubed her paintbrush in the Raw Umber then swirled in some Yellow Ochre, waiting for the precise tonality in her mind’s eye to guide her hand. Yet as she looked at the palette, she was still confused as to exactly which color she needed to use. Maybe I can’t get this because I’m still distracted by my conversation with Sam this morning.
She stared out the window, thinking about her friend’s story about parent and child being forever lost to each other. What would it be like not to know who your parents are? I feel so enmeshed in my own parents’ issues. It’s one of the reasons I had to move away. Do adopted kids have the same stuff, or is this glue I feel purely biological?
But in listening to Sam, she’d heard about this from the other perspective—that of a parent—the very one Miranda felt so eager to discount most of the time. Shaking her head to rid herself of such callous thoughts, she remembered Sam’s sadness. If I don’t set aside her problem, I’ll never be able to get back to work.
The sudden Bong! of her doorbell startled her. It seldom rang unless she was expecting someone… a friend, a delivery. Still holding her paintbrush, she moved away from the canvas and started out of her studio without really considering whether or not she wanted a visitor.
Opening the door, she was surprised to see a stranger whose looks and wardrobe suggested he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot for Gentlemen’s Quarterly. Beyond him, parked at the curb, crouched a gunmetal-gray Mercedes convertible.
“Yes?” she tried to sound unsurprised, as though she received fashion-plate visitors every day.
“Oh, hello.” His eyes widened as he looked at her face, then strayed to the paintbrush in her hand. “I don’t mean to disturb you.” His gaze swung back to her. “I see you’ve got your painting clothes on.”
Suddenly self-conscious, Miranda glanced down at her paint-spattered overalls and flip-flops. I’m certainly not dressed for company. Bringing her eyes up to his, she blushed. Just because he’s so handsome, why should I worry about how I look in front of some guy I’ve never met? “Well, it’s what painters wear.”
An awkward moment of silence hung in the air. This guy isn’t just handsome; he’s incredibly attractive. And awful damn sure of himself, too. Those blue eyes…. His gaze continued to hold on her face as though he couldn’t look away. Finally, she asked, “May I help you?”
“I came about one of your paintings—the large one that’s hanging in the Finders Gallery.”
This guy’s a client? Why didn’t Nicole call me before just sending someone here? Realigning her thoughts, Miranda set aside her irritation and gathered her manners. The large painting at Finders… which one does he mean? She stood there mentally flashing thr
ough her canvases as though viewing color slides.
Suddenly aware she’d kept this prospective buyer standing on her door stoop so long that he was shifting his weight, she stammered, “Uh… would you… like to come in?”
A quick smile brightened his face. Could he get any cuter? She stood aside to let him in, and he stepped up, closing the door after himself. Another awkward silence enveloped them as he stared down at her. What is he looking at? Do I have a smudge of paint on my nose?
From the corner of her eye, she could see her guest-cat streak down the stairs to the bedroom, apparently shy about the new stranger.
The man spoke. “I was at the gallery yesterday, and they said I’d find you in your studio. I’m uh, I’m Zack Calvin.” He extended his hand. “And you’re Miranda Jones—”
“—Miranda Jones,” she said simultaneously, returning his smile. But as she stood with him, trapped in the handshake, held by the reflection in his blue eyes, she began to feel captured. Like one of the cheetahs at Wild Animal Park.
As Miranda withdrew her hand, he broke the silence. “Great place you have here.” He glanced around the large room where angled sunlight lanced across her living and dining areas, arrowing through the kitchen and into the foyer where they stood.
“Thanks,” she said, self-conscious again. “I was lucky to find a place like this in Milford-Haven. I do love it in this town. It’s peaceful enough to get some work done, and beautiful enough to have something to paint all the time.” What am I, a travel brochure?
“The moment I saw your painting—the one called The Cove—at the gallery, I… I really wanted to buy it.”
“You want to buy it… just like that?”
He nodded decisively. “Just like that. What do I have to do?”
“Well, Nicole at the gallery sets the prices on all the work they carry. But the one you’re talking about—it really isn’t for sale. It’s kind of a special one to me, and I lent it to the gallery because well… because Nicole was so insistent.”
“Not nearly as insistent as I can be.”
