When he was ten feet from the door, the love potion song ended and the jukebox began playing another song. Some gentle guitar notes, a muted horn, and then a woman’s voice, sweet and crystal-clear.
He’d never heard this song before, either, but it froze him in place. The woman sang about no strings, no love, no commitment. Simply goodbye. Goodbye after a night together. “Just call me angel of the morning,” she sang, her voice fierce yet aching, sorrowful yet determined.
Something in the song compelled Dylan to glance toward the table where Gwen sat. She was staring at him, her pale eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise.
Shit. She’d seen him, and she’d recognized him. Of all the gin joints in all the world—the famous line from Casablanca spun through his head. Except that he was the one who’d entered her gin joint. Brogan’s Point was her world, not his.
Not yet, anyway.
He tried to move closer to the door, but the song exerted some sort of spell on him, paralyzing him where he stood. The singer urged him to turn away, promised she would not beg him to stay—but he couldn’t move. He could only stand there, listening to her beg to be called angel of the morning.
What did that even mean? Why couldn’t he get the hell out of here?
Why wouldn’t Gwen look away? Was she paralyzed, too?
Minutes passed. “Just touch my cheek before you leave,” the morning angel sang. If Dylan touched Gwen’s cheek, would he be able to leave?
He couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t march over to her table and say, “Hi, remember me? Remember that spectacular night, when I had you screaming and you had me groaning, and in the morning we just...” Left. Touched each other, and left.
The song faded out to silence, and Dylan bolted for the door
Chapter Two
Gwen felt as if she was waking up from a dream.
Not a dream. A nightmare.
What on earth was Dylan Scott doing in Brogan’s Point? Why wasn’t he thousands of miles away in Hollywood, living his glamorous life and forgetting she’d ever existed?
“Gwen?” Mike snapped his fingers just inches from her nose, startling her. “I said, should we order a pizza here, or should we stop at Dominic’s?”
As if she gave a damn where they got pizza. She didn’t want pizza. She didn’t even like pizza that much. Mike started babbling about how the pizza they served at the Faulk Street Tavern was more of a flat-bread type with a crunchy crust, the sauce better than it had been a year ago...and all she could think of was that song, and Dylan Scott standing across the room, staring at her.
Bad enough that he was in town. Worse, he’d seen her—and apparently recognized her, if his flagrant staring was anything to go by.
“I don’t feel well,” she said, gazing at her hands so she wouldn’t have to look directly at Mike. “I’d like to go home.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he argued. “We’ve already ordered our drinks.” The look she flashed at him must have expressed her annoyance, because he added, in a gentler tone, “You got a sitter. It would be a crime to let a good sitter go to waste.”
True enough. Lining up a babysitter on a Friday night was never easy, but Gwen had managed to find one. Kerry was only twelve, but it wasn’t as if she had to change diapers or warm a bottle. Gwen had left tuna salad, rolls, pickles, some sliced prosciutto, and a tub of chocolate ice-cream for Kerry and Annie to feast on, and two Pixar videos to watch. She needed to take advantage of her free evening. Mike was surely expecting them to return to his apartment for sex before he brought her home.
That had been her expectation, too, before she’d spotted Dylan Scott standing near the bar’s exit, staring at her while the song from the jukebox wafted around them. When she’d hired Kerry, she’d figured she and Mike would indulge in a little naked horizontal time before they called it a night. She enjoyed making love with Mike. He wasn’t the most exciting lover she’d ever had, but excitement was no longer a top priority for her.
Not that she’d had all that many exciting lovers in her life. A couple of guys in college, including Adam, the love of her life, whom she’d been sure she would marry—until she realized that no, they wouldn’t marry, after all. And Mike.
And, for one crazy night, after Adam but long before Mike, Dylan Scott.
He shouldn’t count, certainly not as a lover. Love had had nothing to do with that night. It had been just a crazy fling, a mindless bit of fun that had ended with the sunrise. If not for Annie, she would never have given him another thought.
But there was Annie. And now there was this: Dylan Scott was back in town. Dylan was back, and that song...
“Did you hear that song?” she asked Mike.
He frowned, gaping at her as if she were insane—which she very well might be. “‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’,” he named it. “Famous for being censored on some TV show. The Stones had to sing ‘Let’s spend some time together’—”
“No. The song before that one.”
Mike frowned again, struggling to recall the previous song. “Some chick tune. Never heard it before.”
Gwen had never heard it before, either. But it echoed inside her, soulful and stoical. I won’t beg you to stay, the woman had sung. Call me angel of the morning.
The waitress appeared with their drinks, and Mike ordered a flatbread pepperoni pizza. Gwen leaned back in her seat, resigned to the fact that they would not be leaving the Faulk Street Tavern anytime soon. They would eat their pizza, and Mike would analyze the sauce, and he’d tell her about his lineup at Wright Honda-BMW tomorrow, where he was a salesman and Saturdays were his busiest day of the week. She’d nod and smile when necessary, and she’d choke down some of the pizza, and after they were done eating, she’d try to pretend the sex was okay. She’d ask Mike to take her home as soon as they were done. She’d pay Kerry, and Mike would drive her back to her house down the street from Gwen’s, and Gwen would straighten up the kitchen and put the DVD’s away. She’d kiss her slumbering daughter and climb into bed, and pray with all her heart that by the time she woke up tomorrow morning, Dylan Scott would be gone.
***
Gus Naukonen lifted the empty beer mug, her gaze on the tavern door as it swung shut behind the actor from the Galaxy Force movies. She’d recognized him right away, despite his slacker grooming. He’d been at the Faulk Street Tavern before, years ago, when that art film about a struggling family of fishermen was being made on location in Brogan’s Point.
Something in the song from the jukebox had clearly spooked him.
Gus possessed a great memory when it came to patrons—even patrons who hadn’t been inside her establishment in years—and a pretty good memory when it came to the songs the jukebox played. She couldn’t recall ever hearing it play that particular song before. It was a pretty ballad, the woman’s voice thick with emotion, with irony. You could tell the singer cared very much about the lover who was leaving her, even as she sang that his leaving meant nothing to her. It sure as hell meant something.
The door opened again, and a few new customers entered. Not Ed Nolan. He’d stopped by earlier for his afternoon cup of coffee, and he’d probably stop by again after his shift ended. When you were a police detective on a small-town force, shifts didn’t end precisely at five. They ended when a case was closed, an arrest made, a ream of paperwork processed. He’d get here when he got here, and she’d have another cup of coffee waiting for him, or maybe a beer. He allowed himself an occasional drink now and then.
He wanted to marry her, but she saw no reason to complicate their relationship by getting married. With his daughter and her two sons to consider, they’d probably have to write pre-nups, or separate their estates, or whatever. Why bother? He wasn’t going to touch her cheek and walk away, as the guy did according to the lyrics of that poignant song. Gus wasn’t going to walk away from Ed, either.
She set the dirty glass on the dishwasher rack for Manny to deal with, then gazed at the door again. The jukebox was playing
a Rolling Stones song, and it didn’t seem to be affecting anyone. Gus wasn’t sure, though. That sweet young woman who owned the Attic—Gwen Parker—looked anxious, even anguished. Maybe because her boyfriend was kind of a jerk. A nice jerk, but not good enough for her, in Gus’s opinion.
No, Gwen’s uneasiness had begun before Mick Jagger’s nasal wail filled the room. She’d reacted to the previous song. Angel of the Morning.
Gwen and the movie actor? Why would the song have cast a spell on the two of them? They had nothing in common, no point of intersection. A local shop owner and Captain Steele of the Galaxy Force?
Maybe the jukebox had made a mistake.
Gus doubted it, though. The jukebox never made a mistake. That was part of its magic.
Chapter Three
The breakfast menu in the main restaurant at the Ocean Bluff Inn did nothing for Dylan. No doubt all those fluffy farm omelets and wild berry pancakes would taste delicious. But he’d slept poorly and awakened unsettled. The prospect of swallowing anything more substantial than a cup of coffee didn’t appeal to him.
He tried to revive himself with a shower, but while the steamy water sharpened his brain, it did nothing for his appetite. He felt drowsy and restless at the same time, yearning to crawl back into bed yet eager to head out into town and accomplish something, although he had no idea what.
He checked his phone. No messages from Andrea Simonetti. A note from his manager saying nothing. He stuffed the phone into a pocket of his jacket, then left the room. Descending to the first floor, he waved at the friendly lady behind the registration counter. She waved back, and he stepped outside into the chilly New England morning.
The veranda spanning the front of the inn was longer than the back porch on the house he hoped to buy, and it held several Adirondack chairs and a few potted plants that were clinging desperately to their last few days of life, before frost finished them off. He allowed himself a moment to imagine how he’d furnish the porch on the house he hoped to buy—maybe a rocker, maybe lounge chair wide enough for two, in case a helicopter landed in his back yard and a beautiful naked starlet climbed out.
With a chuckle, he descended the steps to the parking lot and unlocked his rental car. It was a staid Toyota Camry, a far cry from his hot little Porsche back in California. He wondered how the Porsche would handle during New England’s harsh winters. He’d probably have to buy a big, bulky four-wheel-drive vehicle to get around in the snow.
But first he had to buy the house. And so far, Andrea hadn’t reported on how the current owners had reacted to his opening bid.
The Toyota drove well and didn’t call attention to itself, so he was satisfied with it. He cruised down the inn’s driveway to Atlantic Avenue and south, not sure where he was going until he reached a quiet block of shops and boutiques. One had a sign above the door featuring two huge cookies that created the two O’s in the word “Cookie’s.” Would a store called “Cookie’s” sell coffee? He might not be hungry, but he could use some caffeine.
He parked, climbed out of the car, and entered the store. The aroma of baked goods jolted his appetite, as did the stack of date-nut bars on display in the glass-enclosed case below the counter. The woman behind the counter plucked a couple of cookies from a shelf and handed them to a wiry couple in jogging gear and wool caps. They paid, then strode out of the eatery, their oversized cookies destined to undermine whatever they’d accomplished with their morning run.
Dylan stepped up to the counter. “I’ll have one of those date bars and a large coffee,” he said.
The woman regarded him for a long minute. “You look like Captain Steele. Hey—you are Captain Steele, aren’t you?”
He’d been prepared to pay with cash rather than a credit card in order to protect his identity, but it was too late to remain incognito. The woman was already shouting over her shoulder: “Hey, Maeve, get out here! It’s Captain Steele!”
He exerted himself to be pleasant. If he did wind up living in Brogan’s Point, people around town would eventually get used to him. He’d just be Dylan, the guy who lived in that sprawling old Victorian overlooking the ocean on the north end of town. The guy who roared around town in a bright yellow Porsche Carrera and vanished for a months at a time when he was filming on location, and visited sick kids in hospitals every chance he got—usually clad in his Captain Steele costume—and occasionally appeared in some gossip column with a gorgeous actress hanging off his arm.
All right, so he wouldn’t exactly blend in. But maybe in time, people would think of him as someone other than Captain Steele.
Right now, Captain Steele was exactly how the clerk was thinking of him. She was promptly joined by a younger, prettier woman in a white apron. They babbled about the Galaxy Force movies, and the older woman recalled when Dylan had come to town years ago to film that low-budget indie, an event that occurred at a time the younger woman wasn’t living in Brogan’s Point. “I would have made a fool of myself if Captain Steele had been in my little town,” the younger woman said. “I love those movies. They’re like popcorn!”
“Junk food,” Dylan joked.
“Healthy junk food.” She grinned. “But not as healthy as my date nut bars.”
He didn’t point out that Captain Steele was in her little town now and she wasn’t really making a fool of herself. Nor did he mention that when he’d last been in Brogan’s Point, the first Galaxy Force movie was still more than a month from its release date, and at the time, no one had known what a blockbuster it would turn out to be. He’d been a hard-working unknown actor then, like all the other actors in Sea Glass, trying to create something artistic and worthwhile.
No point in going into all that. He politely posed for a selfie with the two women and then departed.
Outside, he strolled down the street, munching on the bar—which tasted so good, he decided he must have been hungry, after all. By the time he’d reached the corner, he’d devoured the entire thing—and he knew why he had driven to this block. There, just across the street, was the Attic.
Six years ago, when he’d last been in Brogan’s Point, pretty much everyone involved in Sea Glass had visited the Attic at least once. Its merchandise was eclectic—knickknacks, art objects, vintage apparel, accessories, stuff that looked antique but wasn’t. There were snow globes, real globes, chess sets with pieces that resembled the British Redcoats and the Colonists during the Revolutionary War. There were boxes of notecards featuring paintings of the ocean. There were long, narrow implements the shop’s owner had identified as clam shovels, for digging clams out of the sand. There were hair ornaments and tooled belts, candles and kerosene lamps, coffee mugs and collectable teaspoons, a complete mishmash of merchandise, all of which seemed to define the culture of a seaside New England town.
“It’s called the Attic,” the pretty young saleswoman had explained when he’d come to the store with the director and the production designer in search of items to dress the film’s set and accessorize the actors, “because it’s filled with the kinds of things you’d find in someone’s attic. If you don’t find what you like today, come back tomorrow. Our inventory changes every day.”
The saleswoman had been Gwen.
He wondered if she still worked there. He wondered why he’d driven to this street, to the store where he’d first met her. Some strange instinct? Some compulsion to see her again?
He reminded himself that what had happened six years ago had been a blink of time, and that when he’d seen Gwen last night, she’d been with a man. She was probably married.
Still, saying hello to her shouldn’t cause any problems. Besides, he might find something he wanted to buy in the store. If the displays in its front windows were anything to go by, it still offered an intriguing variety of items for sale. Once he owned a house here in town, he’d get one of those Revolutionary War chess sets for the den.
He surveyed the displays in the windows while he sipped his coffee. When his cup was empty, he entered the store.<
br />
It looked larger than he remembered. It was larger, having expanded to occupy the adjacent store. Business must be good.
A few other customers roamed around the store. Shelves and tables stood at interesting angles, forcing shoppers to meander rather than simply march up one aisle and down another. A nook in the back corner was filled with children’s books. A sloping rack displayed an assortment of dresses that might have been in style during the Roaring Twenties. A shelf along one wall held decorative boxes, their lids inlaid with stained-wood mosaics, depicting images of the sea. An umbrella stand was filled with wooden walking sticks, their handles carved into animal faces: a hawk, a panther, a spaniel with floppy ears.
The attic in the Dylan’s childhood home had contained some boxes filled with tax records, some clear plastic cases containing old blankets that smelled of camphor, and cartons of discarded pots and pans that his mother had saved for when Dylan and his two sisters set up their own homes. By the time Dylan and his sisters were adults, moving out into the world, they’d preferred to buy their own pots and pans. For all he knew, those cartons of cookware were still collecting dust in his parents’ attic.
If the house he’d grown up in had had an attic like this store, he probably would have never gone outside to play. He would have spent all his free hours upstairs under the eaves, exploring.
A clerk wandered over to him. “Can I help you find something?” she asked.
“No, I’m just browsing,” he said, then hesitated. “Does Gwen still work here?”
“Gwen? Sure, she’s in the back. I’ll go get her.”
Dylan wasn’t sure he was ready to see Gwen yet. No one had given him a script to memorize, so he didn’t know what he would say once they were face to face. But the clerk was being much too helpful, bounding through the store before he could stop her and vanishing through a door near the children’s books.
Angel of the Morning Page 2
