by Jill Jaynes
“Yes, she does, Ysabel.” He took Leonie’s hand. “She likes it a lot.”
Tears did not keep Leonie from smiling the biggest smile she had ever smiled.
--- # # # ---
Shauna Roberts is a graduate of the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers’ Workshop and a past winner of the Speculative Literature Foundation’s Older Writers’ Grant. She has had three novels published. Two are historical novels set in ancient Mesopotamia; Claimed by the Enemy won the 2014 National Readers Choice Award for Novel with Romantic Elements and the 2015 Romancing the Novel contest in the “Ancient/Medieval/Renaissance” category.
Her newest novel is the fantasy Ice Magic, Fire Magic, set in a sentient world in which men and women wield different types of magic.
She invites you to sign up for her newsletter at eepurl.com/Fr3Hf and to visit her website at www.ShaunaRoberts.com.
Second Time Around
by Janna Kay Roznos
Patrice stumbled over the uneven sidewalk. Maybe wearing her stiletto sandals wasn’t a good fashion choice this morning. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the early morning fog-filled air of Moonlight Cove.
She needed coffee.
Checking the time on her phone, she still had a good half-hour before her meeting with the real estate agent. Perfect. A light breakfast, couple cups of coffee, and then tackling the job of selling her dead sister’s house. Slipping her phone back into the back pocket of her jeans, she made her way to the Lily Pad.
Her reflection in the bistro’s front door stared back at her. With only four hours of sleep plus the three-hour drive from L.A. this morning, she looked like something her dead sister’s cat dragged in. This was going to be the longest week of her life. Better get it started. She yanked the door open and walked into the bistro.
The bell above the door rang and several patrons eyed her over.
“One? Breakfast?” The waitress asked, carrying two plates on her arm and a coffee pot in the other hand.
“Uh? Me? No? I mean. Yes. Yes. For breakfast, but I am expecting someone.”
“In the back.” She motioned with her head to the one empty booth.
Patrice slid across the naugahyde seat, ignoring the postcard-worthy scene of the Pacific Ocean, the boats bobbing in the harbor and the seagulls posing on the balustrade of the board walk. She checked her phone.
“Coffee?” The waitress set a mug and a menu on the table.
“Huh? Yes. Yes. Thank you.” The coffee smelled good. “Do you have cream?”
She gestured to end of the table. “So, you’re Debra’s sister from L.A.”
Patrice hesitated. Had she met this woman ten years ago during her one and only visit to Moonlight Cove? “Yes, I am or I was. I drove up this morning.”
“Long drive.”
It was and it was a drive Patrice was reluctant to do. She had ignored her sister in life. She couldn’t do that in death. The first sip of coffee seemed to revive her a bit. “Have to clean out Debra’s house and get it on the market.” Apparently, news of her arrival had traveled fast.
“We’ll miss Debra. She was a good friend. It happened so fast. One day she was fine and then the next…” Her voice cracked and she looked away for a moment before saying, “I’ll be right back to take your order.”
Patrice opened the menu. However, her sorrow engulfed her. Unable to focus on the array of breakfast combos, she set the menu aside. Debra’s death had happened fast. A late night voicemail—I’m being admitted to the hospital in San Luis Obispo, and then the hospital advocate—I’m sorry to inform you of the death of Debra Miller. It seemed surreal. Debra was only forty. She was healthy. She shouldn’t have died.
Wrapping her hands around the mug of coffee, Patrice hoped the hot liquid would burn away the sadness that seeped into her bones every time she thought about Debra. The coffee was good, but even it couldn’t scorch the guilt she felt for not being there for her sister.
“What can I get you?” The waitress said, pen in hand and notebook ready to take her order.
Patrice glanced at the menu again. She was hungry. But a whole week without the gym would play havoc with her waistline. “Toast would be fine. Just some dry wheat toast, please.”
“Okay. Coming right up.”
Scrolling through her emails, Patrice tried to concentrate on the work she had left behind in L.A. But the remorse she felt about her strained relationship with Debra kept interrupting her thoughts. Her search through her emails proved fruitless. Laying her phone aside she ran her hands through her hair. Her celebrity client, the one she dressed for every major award show still hadn’t responded. Sitting back in the booth, she stared at the boats in the marina, drumming her fingers on the table. If she lost this account… new clients wouldn’t want to sign with her. Of all the weeks to be out of Los Angeles. Award season was just ramping up. She couldn’t dress, polish and promote via text messages—she needed to be in L.A. She read the real estate agent’s email again, hoping the promise of a quick, lucrative sale was true.
The ring of the bistro bell rang through the din of the morning breakfast crowd. Patrice leaned over to see who had arrived.
She gasped.
Not the real estate agent, but someone she wanted to avoid while in Moonlight Cove. Jackson Barrell.
Hunkering down in the booth, Patrice hoped he didn’t see her. He strolled in, greeting several patrons with a handshake or a pat on the back. He was just as she remembered him. No, that wasn’t true. He was even better. His tan complexion radiated his good health and she could almost taste the tang of his skin. His t-shirt, stretched across his broad chest, and his jeans molded to his every muscle. A fleeting memory of being held in his arms, his body molding to hers seared through her thoughts. The tingling sensation of his calloused hands caressing her skin made her shift uncomfortably in the booth. A moist heat simmered within her. She wiped her finger across the screen of her phone looking for anything to distract her thoughts.
“May I join you?”
Patrice hesitated, not wanting to acknowledge him, but also wanting to speak to him. His intense gaze raked over her. She swallowed, wondering what to say to the man she had left ten years ago. He didn’t wait for her response, sliding into the booth on the other side of the table.
“Good.”
“JB.” The waitress appeared with Patrice’s toast and another mug. “Wasn’t expecting you this morning. The usual?”
“No. Just coffee this morning, Lily. Thanks.” He flashed her a smile as she filled his coffee cup.
She nodded, her speculative gaze traveling from JB to Patrice and then back to JB before walking away.
“Heard you were in town,” he said, cupping the mug of coffee in his hands.
“Yeah.” Her voice sounded small in her head. “You, and apparently everyone else.” Patrice picked up an unappetizing piece of dry toast.
“You look great, Patrice. You look better than I remember. Been awhile, hasn’t it?”
Warmth crept into her cheeks. She stared into his eyes. “Yes, it has.”
“How’s L.A.? Still loving it? Business been good?”
Noisy, crowded, and congested is how she would describe her West Hollywood neighborhood. Her business was shrinking and she had no clue how to reverse the trend; she hoped the money from the sale of Debra’s house would tide her over for a while. “It’s great,” she lied. “My apartment is in this old art deco building. Rent controlled, too.”
He nodded, splaying his hands flat on the table. A warm jolt spread through her. Would his caresses still be as heady today as they were ten years ago?
“You were missed at the memorial service.”
With the toast half way to her mouth, Patrice paused. Memorial service? She vaguely recalled an email about it. “Yeah. Well. I couldn’t take time from work.” The toast tasted like sawdust in her mouth. She gulped a mouthful of coffee to wash it down.
“Even for your own sister? The whole town showed up
to remember Debra.”
“The whole town? What did they do roll up the sidewalks for the day?” Patrice glanced at her phone—still nothing.
He shrugged. “Almost. Schools stayed open, I don’t think the police station closed, but just about everyone else who knew Debra came.”
That would have been a lot of people who knew Debra and had come to say their good-byes. “Sounds nice. I’m glad. Sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Work?”
“Yeah, it’s my busiest season. Debra would have understood.”
“No. Is that work?” He pointed to her phone.
“What? Oh. Yeah. One of my clients. One of my famous clients. I’m dressing her for the Emmys.”
He nodded and sipped his coffee. Patrice scrolled though her emails. Nothing.
“It was at the lighthouse. You know, you see it first when you drive up Highway 101.”
Patrice looked up. “What?”
“It was Debra’s favorite spot.”
She sat back in the booth. Dumbstruck, she had no idea Debra had a favorite spot. Suddenly she realized, once again, how much she really didn’t know her sister. They were virtual strangers, other than they shared the same last name.
“Yeah,” JB continued. “Everyone reminisced about her. She was a great asset to the town. A good friend to everyone.”
“Even you?” Patrice voice was small.
“She was a good friend. I’ll miss seeing her around. She was too young to die. Way too young.”
Patrice pushed the toast away, and gulped in a few shallow breaths. She was moved that Debra was so well liked. She wanted to ask what people said, but didn’t. Couldn’t JB just leave her alone and go sit with someone else? Did he have any idea that she too missed her baby sister?
“It would have been nice if you had been there, Patrice. You should have kept in touch with Debra all these years. You know she missed you. She was your sister.”
Patrice stared at him. Was he serious? What did he know about her? Or her sister, for that matter? “Debra knew I thought about her. We just—”
“Did she?” He motioned to her phone next to her plate. “Did you ever call her? She was your family, Patrice. You ignored her. Now she’s gone.”
She recoiled; his words were a slap in the face. She surely didn’t need him, an old lover, to point out what she already knew for herself: she had ignored her baby sister. She should have called. She should have visited. She should have made the effort to keep in touch. But she hadn’t, and now with Debra’s death, she couldn’t.
“JB, I appreciate your thoughts,” Patrice steadied her voice, trying to control her anger “but what happened between me and Debra was—”
“The only thing that happened between you and your sister was that you were too busy to care. Too busy in your own life to think about anyone else.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tapped her finger on the table pressing home her point. “You may think you know all about Debra and me, but you don’t. You really don’t.” Patrice swallowed the last of her coffee. Where was that waitress? She needed a second cup of coffee.
“Looking for a way to escape the truth?”
“What? No. I’m not leaving.”
“This time?”
“I was looking for the waitress. I could use some more coffee.” She held up her empty mug, but she knew what he was referring to—she left ten years ago. She had driven out of town and never looked back. It wasn’t just Debra she ignored. It was him, too.
JB let out a long breath and looked past her. His expression was unreadable.
She had forgotten how he could make her become unglued; he had ten years ago when they had first met, fallen into bed together, thinking that was just a weekend tryst. Something to pass the time, but it been more than that. He had touched her in a way that no one ever had before, and no one had since.
“You know,” Patrice said, breaking the silence. “I wasn’t expecting to see you. I am selling Debra’s house. Are you interested?” She dabbed her napkin to the corner of her mouth, trying to sound somewhat nonchalant as if their history shouldn’t affect them now.
“No.”
“Know anyone who is?”
“You know, it’s a small town, Patrice. We were bound to run into each other.” He stretched one arm across the back of the booth. Patrice had a flashing sensation of how it felt to tuck herself up against his body.
“I take it you eat here a lot.” Patrice surreptitiously glanced at her phone, again. Where was the real estate agent?
“I sell abalone to Lily who owns this bistro. It’s one of her signature dishes.”
Patrice nodded, carelessly tapping her fingers on the table. The conversation had dried up between them. Ten years was a big divide filled with unanswered questions and hurt feelings that bubbled just below the surface. They were two strangers who just happened to be at the same booth together.
“Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Patrice pushed her empty cup, eager for another jolt of caffeine.
“So I hear,” the waitress said, “Aurora won big at the county fair. Good for her.”
JB saluted her with his now full mug of coffee, “Yeah. Thank goodness she got Alana’s brains, and not mine?”
“You got lucky there, JB.”
Patrice forced herself not to choke on her mouthful of coffee. Aurora? Alana? He had a family? She glanced at his left hand. It was empty—no wedding ring; but a lot had changed in the last ten years.
“So Patrice, how long are you here for?” JB asked as the waitress left.
“Just a week, I hope. Award season is starting up; it’s the busiest time for me. I need to be back in L.A.”
“Tough business being a shopper for famous people?”
“Stylist. I style clients for red-carpet events, personal appearances, and editorial photo shoots, I try to show them off in their best light. You’d be surprised to know that some of these actors think getting dressed up is putting on a clean t-shirt and long pants.” She shook her head in disgust.
JB grinned. “Working with all those famous people sounds exciting. I bet you’re good at it.”
Patrice felt the pride of realizing his implication that he was proud of what she did. “I’ve been in the business for a long time. I know what colors photograph best, what styles work on what body types—when a client is praised for her appearance and it goes viral, of course, it all seems worth it.” She sipped her coffee, looking at him. A yearning inside that she thought had gone dormant, was slowly and methodically coming to life as she glanced at JB over her coffee. She really needed to squelch yearning. She could easily slip back into bed with him, and that would complicate anything and everything. She didn’t need that right now in her life.
“So,” she cleared her throat. “I take it you have a family now?”
He grinned and leaned forward holding her with his gaze. “I knew you were itching to ask me that!”
Patrice pulled a face. Only one weekend, ten years ago and he seemed to know her better than anyone else she had met since.
“Aurora. My daughter. She’s seven. Beautiful—father’s privilege! Smart, creative, too.”
“And… your wife?”
JB’s demeanor changed. He looked down at his hands and then at Patrice. The open expression he had worn was now closed off.
“Only me and Aurora.”
Was it pain or sorrow she heard in the tone of his voice? She wanted to reach out and grasp his hand in hers to assure him that whatever happened, it all would be okay. She just knew instinctively that he had to be a good father. There was a lot between them—ten years’ worth of living that couldn’t really be bridged with a quick squeeze of his hand.
“Hey! Patrice Miller, right?” A middle-aged man, in a rumpled Hawaiian shirt lumbered up to the table.
The real estate agent? “Yes. Yes, I am. You must be—”
“Harry Hamrock. Prestige Realty.” He offered her his han
d. “Great to meet you in the flesh, so to speak!” He chortled at his own joke, pushing his bulk into the booth.
Patrice slid over, making herself as small as she could. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I just got the details of the will and need to get this house situation resolved as quickly as possible.”
“No problem. Glad I could make it. Phew. Traffic on Highway 101 was a bust. How was it coming up from L.A.? Bet it was crazy. L.A. drivers are cracked, right?”
“No. No, the traffic wasn’t bad at all,” she responded, but he wasn’t listening as he clawed through his oversized briefcase, pulling out a fistful of papers and depositing them in front of her.
“These here are the papers mentioned in my email. You need to—”
JB’s low laugh, rumbled from the other side of the table, interrupted Harry’s instructions.
“By God! JB. JB Barrell. Didn’t see you there!”
“Harry. It’s been awhile.” JB took Harry’s offered handshake.
“Hey! You interested in this Victorian that Patrice is selling? It’s really sweet. Good investment property. Previous owner took excellent care of it and was in the restoration process.”
JB shook his head. “No. Not interested.”
“You two know each other?” Patrice interrupted, looking from one man to the other. Of all the real estate agents she could have contacted, she hired the one that JB knew.
“We’ve met.” JB said over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Met? Oh come on. Class of ‘96. Us two.” Harry made a wide gesture with his arms.
“High school?” Patrice asked.
“Yep,” JB responded. “But it was a long time ago. I thought you only did business in Santa Barbara?”
“Oh! I travel up and down the central coast. Go where the opportunities are. Especially for prospects like this one. Top dollar for this sweet Victorian,” Harry tapped his finger on top of the documents and grinned at Patrice.
Patrice eyed the stack. “What is all this?”
“Boiler plate stuff. The usual contractual language when selling. Nothing to worry about. Standard stuff.”
