by Jan Moran
“I’m not implying that you would.” He held her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary, and then, grinning, he stood up. “I’ll see you around.”
Marina watched him go. Something about Jack irritated her. Maybe he was too much like Grady. Sure of himself and his attractiveness.
She certainly didn’t need that anymore.
The next afternoon, Marina said goodbye to Ivy and Shelly. She put the convertible top down on the Mini Cooper to bask in the sunshine. After she turned onto the lane, she passed a handcrafted, driftwood sign rendered in coral paint to match the house: The Coral Cottage. Her daughter Heather had made this for Ginger. Marina recalled painting a similar sign when she was a teenager.
This house was steeped in memories. The cottage has always been there for her, just like Ginger.
In the daylight, Marina could see the cottage better. The sprawling, stucco house had a terracotta-tiled roof and a broad beach view. To one side was a wildlife preservation habitat, and on the other, the property opened up to the village of Summer Beach. The cottage was mere steps from the beach and a short walk or bike ride to town.
After parking her car, Marina got out and plucked her crutches from the back seat. She was becoming fairly adept with them. Dr. Russ didn’t think she’d need crutches for more than a week at the most. Unless she took another tumble, which she assured him was unlikely. She swung herself along the path and onto the wide front porch that caught the ocean breezes.
Palm trees arched around the house, swaying in today’s light breeze. Pink bougainvillea bracts fluttered, and petals had scattered like confetti across the lawn during the night.
The door burst open. A tall, ginger-haired woman wrapped her arms around Marina. “Why, you poor dear. You didn’t mention this new development. What happened?”
“Revenge of the stiletto.”
“Gave them up years ago for the same reason. Do come in, I just arrived.” Ginger was tall and angular, in contrast with Marina’s petite frame.
Marina had clearly taken after a different side of the family. “You went on a cruise?”
“A short one with old friends,” Ginger said with a wave of her hand. “No one you’d know. Come in, and I’ll make a pot of Earl Grey tea just as they do at Claridge’s in London. That’s where Bertrand and I used to entertain the Prince, you know. The hotel is practically an annex to Buckingham Palace.”
“I thought it was the Duke.”
“Both of them, my dear. Along with a bevy of barons for good measure.”
Laughing, Marina followed her grandmother into the kitchen. She eased down on a chair by a red Formica table with chrome legs. The large kitchen dated to the early 1960s. On one side sat a hulking, fire-engine-red O’Keefe & Merritt stove with two ovens and six burners, which was quite advanced for its day. Marina had learned to cook and bake here under Ginger’s tutelage.
Marina glanced around the open kitchen and the adjoining dining area and den, where Ginger kept a desk and computer. The beach cottage had been a wedding present from Ginger’s husband many years ago. He had been a diplomat, and they’d traveled the world, though they’d always returned to Summer Beach.
The eclectic décor was a mixture of mid-century beach modern with accents from Ginger’s travels around the world. A Murano glass paperweight and a Greek letter opener sat on an antique hand-carved desk she’d shipped from Bali. The white slipcovers that protected the sofa and chairs were a sign of her grandmother’s spring cleaning preparations for summer. Ginger’s loafers tapped on the Saltillo tile floor as she bustled around, preparing tea.
On the dining room table, a cut-crystal vase held tall stalks of blazing, orange-and-blue bird-of-paradise, probably cut from the garden.
Ginger wore a white blouse with the cuffs turned back and a pair of slim blue jeans. Her posture was still erect, and she moved with the energy of someone half her age. Whenever she had to reveal her age at the doctor’s office or when buying a bottle of wine—isn’t it obvious I’m old enough to drink?—people were generally surprised. She attributed her good health to having great genes, walking on the beach, swimming in the ocean, and tending her organic vegetable garden. And the occasional glass or two of wine. Vital for stress management, she’d say.
After boiling cold water and letting the tea steep for just the right amount of time, Ginger placed a teapot and two porcelain cups on the table and sat down. She poured tea with a steady hand. “Now, start from the beginning and tell me what happened.”
Marina groaned. “It all started with Babe Barstow.” She told her grandmother how she’d quit her job, fled San Francisco, and twisted her ankle in the dark.
“No, dear, it all started with Hal, his father, and Grady. Put the blame where it should be. You were a casualty of the system. Babe capitalized on it by seizing that knowledge for her gain. And it worked. For now, anyway.”
“You mean, I should have been stronger,” Marina said.
“It’s rarely that simple.” Ginger rested a finger on her temple. “What else is bothering you?”
Stalling, Marina sipped her tea and stared at the fresh basil growing in a colorful Mexican Talavera pot on the window sill. Ginger always sensed what was beneath the surface.
“After Grady proposed, we talked about opening a restaurant together in Napa and traveling the world. The thought of leaving my job and beginning a new phase was enticing.”
Ginger arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps more so than the actual man.”
“I’m ashamed to admit that to anyone but you,” Marina said. She hadn’t even admitted that to herself. “In my profession, I have a responsibility to deliver news impartially, but I’m tired of the constant stream of human suffering. Every day seems worse than the last.”
“When you lose your purpose, you lose your joy,” Ginger said, topping off Marina’s tea. “You’re burned out. That is the root problem of your situation.”
Marina gazed at the ocean through the window. “It’s not that I couldn’t handle the job. My heart was no longer in it. I often wonder how my life would have been if I’d taken a different path. But I can’t now, not with the twins in college. That was my state of mind the other day when Babe caught me off guard.”
Ginger leveled her gaze at Marina. “So, try something new. At least you won’t have to deal with a problematic man anymore. For that alone, you deserve a break.”
“I’ll have to. My agent advised me to take at least six months off. Even then, I’ll have to move to a smaller market.”
“You do what you have to,” Ginger said. “Might as well stay here and save your money. And I could use the company.”
Marina glanced at a little cottage behind the main house. “Has anyone rented the little cottage?”
“Haven’t advertised it yet,” Ginger replied. “I usually don’t. Somehow, the right people seem to find it every summer.”
“Last year you had a film composer. Have you heard anything from her?”
Ginger nodded with pride. “She landed a gig scoring an important new film. That little cottage is magical, I tell you. Everyone who stays there has good fortune.”
Marina smiled at her grandmother’s conviction. “Then maybe I should move in there.” She chuckled at herself.
“Stay in your old room,” Ginger said, patting her hand. “I love having you nearby.”
“Guess it’s time to reinvent my life.” She’d had to do that when Stan died. Though she loved working in the cafe, the pay wasn’t enough. Ginger had helped, but Marina didn’t want to rely on her. When a customer at the restaurant referred her to the television station manager, she’d gone on the interview. After starting as a receptionist, she’d worked her way up.
“That’s the spirit,” Ginger said. “Never give up. Glad you decided to stay in Summer Beach.”
“For a little while.” Marina smiled. It was useless to argue with Ginger.
Marina wasn’t sure what she was going to do in Summer Beach, but one thing was certain
. She had to decide what to do with the second half of her life.
Chapter 4
Just after daybreak, Jack walked along the water’s edge, tossing a stick for Scout, who charged through the surf to retrieve it. The yellow Labrador retriever leapt with glee and then returned, dropping the stick like a gold-plated prize in Jack’s outstretched hand.
“There’s a good boy.” Jack rubbed the dog’s neck before rearing back and throwing the stick again. Scout waited, barely containing his enthusiasm until Jack gave the signal. “Fetch it up.”
The beach was nearly deserted at this time of the morning, giving Jack the solitude he needed to think. Yesterday, he had received a call that he’d never expected.
Still reeling from the news, he was unsure of whether to believe the veracity of this situation. He’d left a message for a friend from college who practiced law in Los Angeles to get his opinion. Waiting was the worst.
Jack turned around. Behind him, a lone figure jogged from the inn. Bennett Dylan, the mayor of Summer Beach, lived in an apartment above the garages at the Seabreeze Inn. Over coffee one morning, Bennett told him a fire had damaged many of the homes on the ridge, his among them. As he ran toward Jack, Bennett raised his hand in greeting.
Jack tapped the brim of his cap in answer. He hadn’t seen the woman on the crutches for a couple of days, and he’d found himself roaming around the property in hopes of running into her again. He’d thought about knocking on her door but decided that would be borderline creepy. Jack glanced back at the Seabreeze Inn.
Soon, Ivy would be leading a beach walk for guests. It hadn’t taken Jack long to figure out that Ivy and Bennett were dating. They shared little smiles and were quick to help each other. He’d learned from other guests that Bennett and Ivy were both widowed, but besides that, they just seemed to fit together. Watching them made him long for someone special in his life.
One of Ivy’s daughters also lived at the inn, along with her sister Shelly and their niece, Poppy. Jack enjoyed the family atmosphere at the inn and missed having a family of his own. Chasing stories, he’d moved too often to form a lasting relationship.
On the plus side, when he ventured into dangerous situations, he didn’t have to worry about family as his colleagues did. He sighed. He was just Jack Ventana, solitary guy. And then he’d received that phone call from Los Angeles that he’d never imagined.
“Join me for a run?” Bennett called out.
“Another day,” Jack said. He couldn’t keep up with Bennett’s pace. They were about the same age, but Bennett clearly had more endurance. Jack had also quit smoking two months ago on doctor’s orders.
Slowing to scratch Scout’s neck, Bennett grinned. “Going to hold you to that, you know.”
“I’m working up to it.” Jack’s dad had started smoking during the war, so he’d grown up around the habit. And when he’d apprenticed at a Dallas newspaper, his mentor had been a chain smoker. During his first traumatic story, he caved. Smoking helped him manage his stress. But now, at forty-six, it was time for him to get healthy. He imagined himself running with Scout on the beach soon.
“Start small,” Bennett said. “And listen to your knees.” Scout rolled at Bennett’s feet, begging for more attention.
“Give me a few weeks.” Jack had joined Ivy’s beach walking group one day and Shelly’s yoga class the next. While his fellow guests were interesting, he needed solitude to figure out his life.
“Breakfast afterward?” Bennett asked, squinting into the morning sun. He scratched Scout’s stomach. “I’m buying at Java Beach.”
“Then I’ll see you there.”
Bennett grinned and turned around, picking up speed on the sand as he jogged off.
“Stay,” Jack said, picking up the stick that Scout had abandoned.
Tilting his head, Scout whined after Bennett.
“Traitor.” Jack tossed the stick again. “Fetch it up, boy.”
With a leap, Scout took off.
This is the life, Jack thought. Scout loved splashing in the surf and daring the waves. He had an awkward gait, but his enthusiasm made up for it.
Could this be a place to call home? Gazing through the dissipating morning mist, Jack might as well be a million miles from New York. Or Dallas, where the spreading metropolis had swallowed the small farm he’d called home as a child.
For two decades, Jack had been writing for newspapers, first in Dallas, and then in Chicago and New York, always one step ahead of lay-offs in the contracting newspaper industry. He broke stories that changed history, earned a Pulitzer Prize, and reported on increasingly explosive situations.
But inside was an emptiness that grew every day. Moving around, he’d never developed roots. Everywhere he went, he asked himself if he could live there. The answer was usually no.
Yet, after covering a story in Los Angeles a few months ago, he’d rented a car and cruised south to clear his mind. A couple of hours later, he felt compelled to exit the highway and found himself in a quiet little community hugging the coast.
As soon as he’d arrived in Summer Beach, he’d felt at home. He imagined himself with a house on the ridge looking out to sea, writing books in the morning, and running on the beach in the afternoon. He had money he’d saved to take a sabbatical and a file of ideas for books he’d been jotting down for a decade.
His boss had agreed to six months. Jack packed a bag, checked out of his latest iBnB room, and bought a restored VW van. Inspired by the author, John Steinbeck, Jack drove across the country to Los Angeles, searching for the heartbeat of America along the way.
Jack whistled for Scout. Now he had the dog, too. He almost named the overgrown pup Charley, after Steinbeck’s standard poodle.
Scout bounded back to him, dropping the stick at Jack’s feet and wagging his tail for another pitch.
“Last time, buddy.” Jack heaved the stick again. He’d parked his van at the house of friends near the Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles. One day, he had walked past rescue volunteers in the parking lot of a grocery store.
Adopt a Pet Today, a sign read. Two young women watched over several dogs. One gangly, yellow Labrador retriever looked like it needed a hug as much as Jack did.
“That’s a quiet one,” the college-aged women said as the dog perked its ears toward Jack. “Oh, my gosh. You’re the first person he’s paid any attention to all day.” She watched in amazement while Jack played with him.
“What’s your name?” She snapped a form onto a clipboard.
“Jack Ventana.”
The woman nodded knowingly. “Actor, right?”
“No. Why?” Jack scratched the dog behind the ears until a back foot began thumping.
“That’s such an actor name.”
“I’m a writer.” The dog’s lips were curling up, and Jack could swear the pup was grinning at him.
“Same thing.” She shrugged. “He has a little limp from being hit by a car, and he’s generally a little skittish. Probably from the way he was treated.” She smiled at the two of them. “I think that dog is going home with you. Must get lonely working from home all day. Where do you live?”
Jack hesitated. “Summer Beach.” He’d been planning to go there anyway and figured he’d find a place when he rolled into town. With a van he could sleep in if he had to, he seldom bothered with reservations.
“Your dog is going to love it there. I went to an art show there last summer at a place called the Seabreeze Inn. You must know the place.” She thrust the clipboard toward him. “Fill this out, and the two of you will be running on the beach by the weekend.”
“My dog, huh?” It wasn’t such a bad idea. He’d been a little lonely on his drive from New York. Jack thumbed through the application. “This is eight pages long.”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”
He started to give the application back, but the dog whimpered as if pleading with him to fill it out. “Okay, okay,” he said.
After dec
amping to a coffee shop in the shopping center to fill out the application, Jack kept glancing at the dog, who refused to engage with anyone else. The overgrown puppy sat and stared at him. He seemed to be willing Jack to return.
At one point, Jack was tempted to crumple up the application. Beyond the usual questions, they also wanted to know where he worked, how many hours he was away from home every day, and what his socialization plans were for the dog.
“Beers on the beach,” he said to himself, chuckling, although he didn’t write that. Soon, only one questioned remained unanswered. Address?
“Hmm.” He tapped his phone and searched for the Seabreeze Inn. There is was. Right on the beach with rooms available. And pet friendly. “Good enough.” He jotted down the address.
As soon as he stepped out of the coffee shop, the dog leapt up and barked.
Jack handed the application to the woman.
“We’ll check it out and let you know.”
“How long is this going to take?” Jack asked. The dog wagged his tail so hard his entire body shook with anticipation of being freed.
“We’ll expedite it,” the woman said with an understanding smile.
Jack ruffled the dog’s fur. “Got to find a new name for you, bud. Charley’s taken, but you look like a champion—champion of the underdogs. How’s Atticus?” The dog shook its head. “Nah, you look more like a Scout.”
“That’s a cute name,” the woman said. “Scout.” She wrote it down on the application.
Barely two hours later, his phone rang.
“Scout is ready for you,” the woman said. “Your employer is so cool. Wow, a pet park on-site, annual retreats with dogs, and weekly doggie massages. That is truly amazing.”
“Uh, yeah.” Jack rubbed his chin. “Who’d you talk to, by the way?”
“Hank. Said he was your boss.”
“Right,” Jack said. Hank was a fellow reporter who had always been a prankster. “I’ll be right over.”
Now, as Jack walked the beach with Scout, he realized he’d committed to a lot more than a dog; he’d committed to a new way of life. Dogs had to be fed and walked regularly. Scout needed chew toys and toilet breaks. And most of all, the pup wanted to play.
