by Davis Bunn
Marcela pushed through the door marked CLINIC, and halted in front of the steel diagnostics table, which held . . .
A basketful of kittens.
Nine of them.
Four were gray fluffballs, soft as smoke and about the size of Sylvie’s hand. The other five were calicos, with matching white socks. They mewed and crawled and squirmed. One of the gray furballs lifted its front paws at Sylvie and cried to be picked up.
“Aren’t they the most adorable things you’ve ever seen!” Estelle lifted the gray cat and handed it to her daughter. “Don’t you want to take this one home with you?”
Sylvie lifted the kitten to her cheek. “This is the sweetest form of bribery I’ve ever known.”
“Oh, we didn’t bring you here for this,” Estelle said. “We want to talk with you about Connor.”
Sylvie started to put the kitten down, but it chose that moment to purr and nestle beneath her chin. She managed, “Connor?”
“Let’s review the situation,” Marcela said. “A major hottie has basically been dropped into your life.”
“Yes, Connor lied to you,” Estelle added. “Yes, you had every reason to respond as you did.”
Marcela went on, “So how does he react when you turn him to ashes in public? Does he try to argue his way out? Does he get all defensive and yell at you?”
Estelle said, “Connor does his best to change. He apologizes with his every action.”
Sylvie started, “Actually, that’s what I wanted—”
“We’re talking now,” Marcela said. “Your job is to listen.”
Estelle said, “My darling daughter, Connor Larkin is head over heels in love with you. It’s time you accepted that the feeling is mutual.”
Marcela said, “Let’s not forget the fact that he’s incredibly good-looking and a Hollywood star.”
“Not yet,” Estelle said. “But he will be once the Bond film is released.”
Marcela added, “Did we mention that Connor’s moving up?”
Sylvie forced herself to settle the kitten back in the basket, where it looked up at her and mewed plaintively. “Connor Larkin is moving to Miramar.”
“He signed a lease on the Kaufmans’ place,” Estelle said. “He’s making this his home.”
Sylvie looked from one shining face to the other. Her mother and her best friend were here for one reason. They wanted her to be happy. Sylvie swallowed against the burn and managed, “You are both so precious to me.”
Her mother’s laugh held a songbird’s quick note. She wiped her eyes with the hand not holding a kitten, then said, “This is supposed to be your day for dreams come true. Not mine.”
Marcela recommenced her dancing in place. “Now tell her the best part.”
CHAPTER 63
When the three ladies arrived back at Castaways, every window in the supposedly closed restaurant gleamed softly. Sylvie thought the place looked like one of her father’s paintings. She sat taking tight, little breaths, flooded with an impossible mixture of excitement and fear. As Estelle cut the motor, Sylvie said, “I really don’t want to go in there alone.”
“If that’s what you want, of course we’ll stay,” Estelle said.
“You expected this?”
“I wouldn’t say, ‘expect,’ ” Marcela replied from the rear seat. “More like . . .”
“We thought this might be your response,” Estelle replied. “Daughter, do you want to do this? That is the real question.”
“Say you do,” Marcela pleaded.
Sylvie breathed once again. “More than I know how to say.”
Marcela bounced up and down in her seat. “Yippee.”
Estelle said, “Carol and Celia have helped with the arrangements. They asked me to tell you that they would like to come join us. But only if you want.”
Sylvie saw the front door open and Connor step into view. “I suppose . . . all right. Yes.”
Marcela said, “Yippee again.”
CHAPTER 64
Connor stood in the doorway and waited. He could see the three ladies were deep in some serious confab. His stomach was too filled with electric butterflies for him to even smile, much less walk over. He knew without the tiniest fraction of doubt that Sylvie was having second thoughts. He personally felt she should receive a medal for making it this far.
He remained where he was, willing to stand there all night if necessary. He had no idea what might make things worse, or even blow this second chance right out of town.
All afternoon, he had become increasingly convinced that this was, in fact, just that, a second chance at making his dreams come true.
That is, if the lady actually did decide to rise from the car and cross the street and enter her restaurant. And let him stay. And listen to him try his best to put his feelings into song.
Connor was alerted to a shift in the evening’s currents by the sound of a pickup truck door opening. Until Celia bounded out, Connor had not even been aware that she and her mother had hung around.
She called to him, “Sylvie says we can stay for the party!”
And just like that, Connor knew it was going to be okay.
* * *
Sylvie felt as though she floated across the street and through her restaurant’s front doorway. She had read about how some women drifted upon clouds as their lovers led them across the ballroom floor. Here she was just coming home. There was no orchestra, no gleaming chandeliers, and certainly no bevy of uniformed waiters ready to leap at her every whim.
Here there were just her friends. Four ladies who only wanted the best for her.
It was already the finest night of her life.
The area behind the bar was mostly dark. Celia and Carol and Connor had positioned a few candles here and there, but the real surprise awaited her as she rounded the bar. The long table was aflame. A gleaming silver bowl was filled with water, and a dozen candles floated in it. The serving platter was surrounded by flowers and ivy. More flowers and candles traced a pattern around the stage’s perimeter. Two tall iron stands stood behind the piano, turning the abalone-shaped shell into a varnished rainbow.
Sylvie glanced at her father’s painting on the wall. The stage and the painting looked like twin patterns.
For a brief instant, she had the sensation that her father was standing there beside her, inspecting them with her. She allowed herself to be guided forward, grateful for the help just then, because it had become rather hard to see her way.
Connor stood to one side as the ladies seated themselves. His position was that of a formal waiter, silent and attentive and holding to a respectful distance. Once they were comfortable, he went back around the bar and returned with an ice bucket that held two bottles of Dom Pérignon champagne. Another trip and he brought out five glasses, then plate after plate of hot and cold appetizers. He filled their glasses, and then climbed onto the stage.
All without saying a word.
Sylvie’s chair was angled slightly, so she could both watch Connor and look out the bay windows, over the rooftop view of her hometown. She observed Connor as he lit the candelabra and set it on a protective cloth atop the keyboard. He seated himself, then started to play.
His first tune was one made famous by Ella Fitzgerald, “Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall.” Her father had played it constantly in the weeks after Estelle’s departure. Sylvie had not thought of the song in years. She knew an odd sense of comfort when Estelle leaned forward and cupped her face in her hands. This time, thankfully, the distance between them was not so great. In fact, it seemed natural to reach over and settle her hand upon Estelle’s shoulder.
When the song ended, and they all applauded, her mother straightened and turned to Sylvie and whispered, “I had no idea it would be this hard.”
Sylvie replied softly, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Connor shifted smoothly into Nat King Cole’s signature song, “When I Fall in Love.” Sylvie found herself carrying on a most intense conversation that rose and fell with
the melody. She knew the time would come when she shared her thoughts with Connor. But just then, it was important to discuss this with herself. How the birthday wishes had all come true, even the one of sharing an hour with her father, who drifted just beyond the candle’s reach.
More important still, however, was that she had been reminded of how important it was to dream, to ignore all the reasons life offered to give up on hope, and to yearn for the impossible. Believe it was possible to know such things as boundless joy, and the love of a good man.
The moon nudged over the northern coast, and a soft breeze spiced the air with a hint of the Pacific. Sylvie thought the night was gentle as her father’s brushstrokes, and loved how her mother kept hold of her hand.
Connor segued into one of Tony Bennett’s greatest hits, The Way You Look Tonight.
CHAPTER 65
The others were long gone.
Sylvie had joined Connor on the piano bench. He played a little, but mostly they just sat. Connor felt as though they were both getting used to the way they fit together. Communicating at the level of bone and sinew and hearts.
Though he feared the words would get in the way, still he knew he had to say them. He spoke for the first time that night in something other than a melody. “Sylvie, I’m so very, very sorry.”
She nestled closer still. “You said that already.”
“Did I?”
She touched the keys, though not hard enough to make a sound. “Over and over.”
He started to turn, afraid and yet sensing it was time. He was both glad and grateful when she turned to meet him, like two dancers who had practiced the move for years.
They kissed. For Connor, it felt as though the kiss was meant never to end. He leaned back and cupped her face in his hands. Then he let himself fall into her gaze.
Then they kissed again.
He knew if he was ever to write his own lyrics, it would be about this. How a kiss could come and go, and still be part of forever.
A READING GROUP GUIDE
MIRAMAR BAY
Davis Bunn
The following discussion questions are included to enhance your group’s reading of Miramar Bay.
Discussion Questions
1. Have you ever thought about starting over? Have you ever considered just leaving your life behind and beginning again in another city, or in a small town like Miramar Bay? What would be good and bad about this? What would you miss? What would you be excited about?
2. What do you think about Connor Larkin’s decision to hide out in Miramar Bay, using an assumed name? Is this an act of courage or cowardice?
3. Connor has everything that most people think they want—fame, fortune, talent, a bright future. Why is he not happy at the start of this novel?
4. What do you think of Connor’s fiancée, Kali? Is Connor being fair or unfair to her?
5. What is it about Miramar Bay that draws Connor? Can you understand the appeal of a place like this?
6. The restaurant that Sylvie owns and runs is called “Castaways”. Why do you think that Sylvie and her father chose this name? Do you think it remains an apt name?
7. What is Estelle looking for when she comes to Miramar Bay? Do you think that she knows what she’s looking for . . . and does she eventually find it? What do you think of how she handled things in the past with regard to her first husband and her daughter? Does she deserve forgiveness? If you had been her daughter, would you be able to forgive her?
8. Several characters refer to Sylvie as a strong person. Do you agree with this assessment? Where does her strength come from?
9. If you could have your own private concert with Connor, what would you ask him to play for you?
10. Do you have any dreams or talents from earlier in your life that you would love to get back to? What is stopping you?
Watch for the next Miramar Bay novel from the internationally bestselling Davis Bunn in early 2018. Read on for a special preview . . .
CHAPTER 1
Most people said Lucius Quarterfield wore a name bigger than he deserved.
Growing up and being passed from aunt to grandparent to cousins, they had often said it to his face. In the forties and fifties, California’s central coast was a vibrant farming region with an aggressive go-ahead attitude. Strong men tilled the earth and raised robust families. Lucius Quarterfield was a kind enough boy, quiet and watchful. But the families who took him in knew Lucius would never amount to anything. The bullies gradually grew tired of picking on him. Some even slipped into guardian roles, when it suited them. Mostly he grew up being ignored. His quiet nature made that all the more possible. He lost himself in books and schoolwork, though he was careful to hide his passions. He was a cautious fellow by nature, with a zeal for numbers.
The one thing that had come easy to Lucius was success. It did not make up for all the misery and loneliness, but it certainly made it easier to bear.
This particular doctor’s office had always struck Lucius as a restful place, which was extremely odd, because most of life’s problems had centered around doctors. But Nico Barbieri was different from most of the medical fraternity, who assumed a ridiculous superiority and had lied to young Lucius with their smiles. Nico Barbieri’s family was one of the original Italian immigrant clans who had moved from Tuscany to till the California earth as tenant farmers. A generation later they had scraped together enough money to buy land of their own, and planted one of the early central coast vineyards. Nico had fought against the family’s wishes and studied medicine. Perhaps as a result, he was a brusque man without a comforting bone to his body. His patients either adored him or found another doctor. “You’re dying, Lucius.”
“So what else is new.” Lucius buttoned his shirt and pushed himself off the doctor’s table. He always perspired when being examined, a leftover effect of all the pain doctors had caused him growing up. “I’ve been dying for twenty-two years.”
“Your heart reminds me of a garbage disposal working on a spoon. I should put you in the hospital and run some tests.”
“The test will tell you what we already know.”
Barbieri fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket as he slipped behind his desk. “Are you truly so cavalier about death?”
“You’ve been telling me I’m dying since I was seven years old,” Lucius replied. “And don’t light that.”
“Sorry. Bad habit.” Barbieri stuck the unfiltered Camel cigarette back into the pack. “This is different. Are your affairs in order?”
The room suddenly felt chilly enough to turn his skin clammy. “You’ve never asked me that before.”
“Never felt the need. Are they?”
“Pretty much. I’m negotiating a new deal. Should be finished next week.”
“Lucius, you don’t need the stress of another deal. Your heart can’t take it. And I know for a fact you don’t need the money.” Barbieri opened the patient folder and began making notes. The file was almost three inches thick. “Bad ticker, weak bones, half a lung.”
I have this, Lucius thought to himself, knotting his tie and pulling it tight. I have today.
As though Barbieri could hear his unspoken reply, he said, “You’ve made the best you could of a thin life. Now go out and enjoy yourself. While you still have time.”
How Lucius Quarterfield makes use of the time he has left is a story you will never forget.
Watch for Davis Bunn’s next Miramar Bay novel in early 2018.
