Summer Beach: Coral Cottage

by Jan Moran

  Jack hadn’t been this grounded in years. Although it felt strange, he was growing used to having a companion. He whistled again for Scout, and the two of them started back to the inn.

  After showering and slipping on a T-shirt and jeans, Jack combed back his thick brown hair. This summer, he didn’t even need to get a haircut unless he wanted to. He slid his feet into flip-flops. Scout was curled next to the bed. When the dog heard the jingle of the room key, he jerked his head up.

  “Yeah, yeah, come on.”

  As Jack left his room, he saw the morning beach brigade stretching behind Ivy. Idly, he wondered again where his neighbor had gone. Not that she’d be out walking on crutches, but he hadn’t seen her around. Her toy car was gone, too. He could just imagine her spinning around in that little turquoise Mini Cooper. Even though she seemed stubborn and opinionated, he’d liked her spirit. She didn’t play the victim, though she could have. She’d probably taken off.

  He sighed. Another missed opportunity.

  “Come on, boy,” Jack said. He snapped on a leash and started for Java Beach.

  When Jack walked into the local coffee shop, Bennett was already there. He’d showered and changed into a casual shirt and khakis, which Jack figured was standard issue for mayors of small beach towns.

  Bennett was talking to a younger guy with spiky blond hair. Surfer, Jack pegged him. He waited, taking in the details of the crowded restaurant’s tiki theme. Authentic, old fishnets filled with starfish, conch shells, and buoys hung from the ceiling. Vintage Polynesian travel posters lined the walls, and reggae music played above the friendly din. A door to the beach stood open, letting in the ocean breeze with the briny scent of kelp and fish that he loved. Sun-bleached chairs, tables, and chaise lounges lined the patio to the sand.

  His kind of place. Jack could see himself writing here.

  Scout’s tail slapped Jack’s legs. “Hey, you like it, too, huh?” He tugged gently on the leash. “Sit, boy.” Scout tucked his hind legs under him and looked up expectantly, so Jack slipped him a small dog biscuit from his pocket. Scout was smart, and he was taking well to training.

  “Hi, Jack,” Bennett said, clasping his hand. “Have you met Mitch?”

  “Not officially,” Jack said, shaking Mitch’s hand. “Best coffee I’ve had in Summer Beach, though.”

  “Are you passing through or staying a while?” Mitch asked.

  Jack pushed a hand through his hair. “I’ve got five months left on a sabbatical to write a book. Then we’ll see.”

  “Cool.” Mitch shook his head. “Going to be hard to leave after that.”

  “That depends,” Jack said. “Hey, do you guys know of a place I can rent that takes dogs? Scout needs more space, and Ivy said my room is booked. She said I could relocate to an attic room, but that’s not going to work with Scout. He got a whiff of a Chihuahua and went crazy. ”

  “That must have been Pixie,” Mitch said, chuckling. “She belongs to Gilda, one of the locals on the second floor. If you find anything missing, it’s a good bet that Pixie is behind it.”

  “A kleptomaniac Chihuahua?” Jack grinned. “Sounds like there’s a good story there.” But not the type he usually wrote.

  Mitch smiled and shook his head. “You have no idea what kind of stories Summer Beach holds.”

  “There’s one place that might work,” Bennett said, snapping his fingers. “Ginger Delavie has a house on the beach and rents out a guest cottage on her property in the summer. I don’t think she would mind you having a dog. The last guest had a little terrier.”

  “Ginger’s cool,” Mitch added. “Smart lady. An older woman, but still sharp as they come.”

  “Sounds good,” Jack said. Ginger Delavie. Oddly enough, her name seemed familiar. Maybe he had come across her while researching another story. He’d written hundreds in the course of his career, so it was possible.

  “I’ll call her to see if it’s available,” Bennett said.

  Jack was starving. He glanced up at a menu written on a chalkboard. “What’s in the California omelet?”

  “A crowd favorite,” Mitch said. “ Has avocados, tomatoes, chives, charred corn, and gruyere and white cheddar cheeses. That’s the fancy bit. Want it with bacon?”

  Scout whimpered at the mention of bacon. Jack had already spoiled him.

  “Sounds good. Better put some on the side for my pal here.” From what Jack had seen, the menu changed every day. “How are the croissants?”

  “Great,” Mitch said. “Made them this morning.”

  “You made them?” Jack asked, surprised.

  “Not too hard once you learn how.” Mitch chuckled.

  “I’m a harsh critic,” Jack said. “I spent a lot of time in Paris.” He’d also done a stint as a foreign correspondent.

  “Dude, I think you’ll be surprised,” Mitch said, grinning.

  “If it’s as good as the coffee, I’m in.” Jack reached down to scratch Scout behind the ears.

  “And we’ll bring water and a treat for the pup,” Mitch added.

  After ordering, Jack sat outside where Scout could watch the seagulls swooping overhead and people setting up for the day on the beach. Bennett placed his call.

  A couple of minutes later, Bennett clicked off the phone. “Ginger said she’d be happy to talk with you if you’d like to come by this morning.”

  “I hope it’s not too early.” It was just eight o’clock, and this was a beach town.

  Bennett waved a hand. “I often see her out early on the beach. And she wouldn’t have offered if she didn’t mean it.”

  They talked while they waited for their food, and Jack told him about his sabbatical. “This will be the first time I’ve had a chance to focus on writing outside of my job.”

  “So, what are you writing? If you can talk about it.”

  Jack shook his head. “Funny enough, I don’t know yet. I have so many ideas, but I need time to sort through them and decide.”

  “Do you write every day or wait for inspiration to strike?”

  “In my line of work, if I waited for inspiration, I’d starve.” Jack had done relatively well for himself, mostly because he hadn’t had time to spend the money he earned. He traveled light. No wife, no house in the suburbs, no private school loans.

  Mitch called out their order.

  “I’ll get it,” Bennett said.

  Scout looked up as if to ask where his meal was. “It’s coming, boy,” Jack said. Scout had flopped onto Jack’s feet.

  As Jack watched the waves rolling in, he thought about the woman he’d met at the inn again. Marina. They’d only exchanged a few words, but something about her intrigued him.

  Not that he’d ever see her again. He’d learned that when you met a woman at a hotel, you were both just passing through.

  “Just as well,” he said under his breath. He had a lot of work to do.

  Chapter 5

  Voices outside her bedroom window woke Marina. She glanced at a wind-up alarm clock on the nightstand. Almost ten o’clock. She’d turned off her earlier alarm, needing the extra sleep. Ginger had allowed her a pity party last night, saying Go ahead, get it out as she’d refilled her wine glass. Stretching under the white cotton-covered, down-filled duvet, she looked around the room that she’d first stayed in as a child.

  Her old collection of white seashells filled large glass pickle jars. A few faded sundresses hung in an antique burl wood armoire, and flip-flops filled a basket by the door. Around the perimeter of the room ran a border that Ginger had painted with a coded message that always made Marina smile.

  She rolled out of the old iron bed, testing her weight on her sprained ankle, which seemed better this morning. Her head throbbed a little from the wine. Or was it from Ginger’s Coral Cottage Coolers that they’d had first? She hobbled across the wooden floor and pushed blue canvas drapes aside to let in the morning sun. Outside, she saw an old VW van, but no sign of Ginger or anyone else. Maybe they were around the back. She lift
ed the wooden sash to let in the morning breeze.

  Marina stretched in the sunshine like a plant denied of warmth. At least she’d had a good dinner last night. Ginger had grilled salmon and vegetables with brown rice, which was healthy enough, though Marina had second helpings of everything, along with sourdough bread slathered with butter. And then there was the chocolate mousse with whipped cream and Mayan chocolate shavings. Not to mention copious amounts of wine.

  With her small frame, she’d always had to watch what she ate. It didn’t help that the camera seemed to add weight to her face. Last night, she’d felt such relief that she could actually eat whatever she wanted. And she was going to do it again tonight.

  Because she’d been hungry for almost two decades.

  On the weekends in San Francisco, Marina would visit one of the farmers markets that sprouted among the neighborhoods. Or she might visit the market at the Ferry Building, always in search of fresh produce and handcrafted specialties. She loved tinkering with recipes and creating new dishes. Seeing pleasure on the faces of her children and friends was her greatest reward.

  Now, she decided she’d earned the right to sport love handles if she wanted. If she were going to work in a smaller market, perhaps expectations would be lower. That would be welcome. Even if her agent Gwen could find work for her in six months or a year, did she still want her old career?

  And yet, what else would she do? She’d loved working in cafes years ago, when she and Stan were young and they were moving around for his career, despite her degree in communications. She’d always laughed and argued with Stan that food was a form of cross-cultural communication.

  While she was at her happiest in the kitchen puttering around and making food, that didn’t pay the bills. She wrestled with this thought for a while. Ginger’s words floated to mind. Problems don’t solve themselves.

  Using her crutches, Marina swept through the old house she loved so much. To Ginger, spring cleaning was a sacred ritual. Out came the white canvas slipcovers, which were cleaned and pulled over the mid-century modern furniture that had been in the cottage for years. Ginger had started the tradition to guard against wet, sandy swimsuits when the girls arrived for the summer.

  Aquamarine seashell pillows brightened the white canvas slipcovers, and colorful Mexican Talavera pottery flanked the fireplace where they’d sat and talked last night. Anthuriums and peace lilies silently cleansed the air, their red and white spikes on guard against indoor pollution.

  The house was quiet. Marina put on a pot of coffee, and as she waited for it to brew, she glanced out the kitchen window.

  A large, gangly dog was digging with fervor in Ginger’s newly planted garden.

  Grabbing a crutch, Marina half-hopped out the kitchen door, waving her arms. “Hey, you! Get out of there!”

  The yellow Labrador retriever looked up with a quizzical expression. Seedlings were broken and smashed into the ground, while others had been dug up in a frenzy and cast from the garden, withering unmoored in the sun.

  “Go on, get out!”

  The overgrown puppy rolled over, leapt up, and now, covered with dirt, raced toward her. The dog latched onto the base of the crutch, playfully mouthing it before Marina waved it away.

  “Stop it, wrong, down, sit,” Marina called out, hoping he knew one of those commands.

  Instantly, the dog sat—on her feet.

  “Eeew, wet dog,” she said, sliding her feet back. Its fur was matted with sand and Ginger’s organic compost; the dog had probably been gallivanting on the beach before taking on the garden.

  “Where is your parent?” She gazed toward the beach. No one seemed to be looking for a dog, but she had to find its owner.

  And here she was wearing tiny sleep shorts and a shrunken cotton tank top emblazoned with the word Dream! in sparkly pink sequins that her sister Kai had probably left here. Reaching inside the back door, she grabbed a pair of flip-flops.

  “Come on, you. Maybe you belong to someone out there.”

  The dog looked at her, panting, its mouth open in what looked like a grin.

  “With that silly look, you have to be a boy.” She bent down. “Yep. I called it. Okay, let’s go. Come, or heel. Are you smart enough to know those?” She patted her thigh as she started walking, and the dog followed her toward the beach. Trudging along with a crutch on the sand wasn’t easy.

  Seeing people on the beach, she called out. “Anyone lose a dog?”

  A few heads turned her way, but no one claimed the dog. She turned around, and a moment later, the dog bounded toward the water and leapt in.

  “At least he’ll be a little cleaner,” she muttered.

  That state was short-lived because right after he shook himself, he dropped and rolled in the sand again.

  “You’re a mess. Let’s go. Come, heel!”

  The dog fell in beside her again.

  “Thank goodness someone trained you. Wish they’d trained you to respect gardens.” Marina limped back to the cottage. She thought she recalled seeing a leash in a kitchen drawer. Ginger used to have a border collie, and she still had a few leads.

  At the back door, Marina said, “Sit. Stay.” She wedged herself inside and shut the door. After trying a few drawers, she found one. Just as she pulled out the leash, the back door opened.

  Thinking it was Ginger, Marina turned. “Did you see the—no!”

  The dog had somehow opened the door and was streaking through the kitchen. Marina tackled him, but he squirmed free and headed toward the living room, his toenails clattering on the wooden floor.

  “Stop!” she screamed, but it was too late. He jumped onto the couch and curled up as if staking his claim and daring her to do something about it. His tongue flopped to one side, and he grinned at her again.

  “Down, off,” she said sternly, snapping her fingers and pointing to the floor.

  He eased his head down between his front paws and looked up at her with doleful eyes. “No, you don’t.” She hobbled toward him and reached for the scruff behind his neck, trying to pull him off the couch.

  But he wasn’t budging. Losing her balance, Marina fell onto him. Wet sand and fur slicked onto her skimpy top and chest. She spit fur from her mouth.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  The dog nuzzled her with his head and licked her cheek.

  “Stop it. I don’t fall for kisses anymore.” She folded her arms and looked at him. The dog weighed almost as much as she did and was undoubtedly more muscular, so brute force wasn’t going to work.

  Marina limped to her bedroom and grabbed her phone. Surely Summer Beach has an animal control department. She hopped back to the living room to keep an eye on the critter. Now that she was a mess, too, there was only one place to sit without getting another slipcover dirty.

  Beside the dog.

  “Sorry to send you to doggie jail, but we’ve got to find your owner.” She tapped her phone, searching for a number to dial.

  Just then, the front door swung open, and Ginger’s eyes widened. “What on earth is going on here?”

  Behind her was the cheeky guy from the inn. Jack. “Hey Scout, come.” He glared at her. “What have you done to my dog?”

  The dog leapt off the couch and raced toward Jack. “Sit,” he said, and Scout flopped onto Jack’s feet.

  “What have I done?” She pointed toward the garden. “Your dog decimated my grandmother’s newly planted garden.”

  Ginger rolled her eyes. “Oh, dear. Well, we can plant again. I’d only just started, so it’s not that bad.”

  Marina returned Jack’s glare and gestured with her phone. “You can’t let your dog roam free. I was just about to call animal control.”

  “He wasn’t loose.” Jack stared at her defensively. “He was in the guest cottage.”

  Folding her arms, Marina shot back. “Why was he in there?”

  “Because Mr. Ventana has rented the guest cottage,” Ginger said. “We walked to the bank so he could draw cash out of th
e ATM.”

  “Please, call me Jack, ma’am.”

  Her grandmother smiled and pressed a hand against her chest. “And you may call me Ginger.” She turned back to Marina. “Now, Marina, I know you love dogs, but you shouldn’t have let the dog in here. You’ll have to wash that slipcover again.”

  Marina stood up, wincing as she did. That ankle wasn’t quite as healed as she’d thought. Pointing at Scout, she said, “That dog opens doors. I was looking for a leash when he opened the door and galloped past me toward the sofa.”

  “Looks like you were playing with Scout.” Barely suppressing a smile, he motioned to her clothes. “Nice outfit, by the way.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Marina said, pulling up the neckline she realized was gaping. She felt her blood pressure rising.

  “Marina, that’s no way to speak to our guest.” Ginger sniffed. “Why don’t you take a bath, and I’ll prepare lunch for us.”

  “He’s staying?” Marina shot a look back at Jack.

  “Of course. He’s moving in today.”

  “We just talked about this,” Marina said. “You didn’t think to ask me?”

  Ginger leveled a gaze at Marina. “You might want to think about what you just said.” To Jack, she added pointedly, “Forgive my granddaughter’s manners. She just lost her job.”

  “That must be tough,” Jack said. And then he said to Marina, “I thought I’d recognized you from somewhere.”

  Marina wished she could disappear. He’d seen the late-night show or the meme. Maybe both.

  He clipped a leash onto Scout’s collar and took him outside.

  Through the window, Marina saw Scout sit by the swing, and Jack returned. She groaned and hobbled toward the kitchen. All this, and Marina still hadn’t gotten the morning coffee she so desperately needed. She poured a cup, but then found it difficult to navigate smoothly with the crutch.

  Seeing her issue, Jack said, “I’ll carry that for you. Where are you going?”

  “Back to bed.” She whipped her hair around and swung toward the bedroom. “Since you’ve already unleashed a beast in our midst, you might as well make yourself useful.”