Secrets of Moonlight Cove: A Romance Anthology

by Jill Jaynes

Standard stuff? How many trees were felled for non-standard stuff! Something stronger than coffee would be required to mow through this stack of papers.

  “So review it. Initial and sign where marked. We’ll be official.” Harry pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and laid it on top.

  Her plan of returning to L.A. by the end of the week looked a bit hazy.

  “So JB. How’s the fish business?” Harry asked.

  “Mollusk, Harry. Abalone are mollusk. Not fish.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Sure. This area around Moonlight Cove is sort of an untouched jewel. Just between us, this stretch of coast is ripe for development.” He leaned forward and acted like he was whispering it to JB.

  “And you’re the man to do it?” JB asked.

  “It’s a new economy, my old friend. Got to change with the times, as the old saying goes.”

  “Part of this new economy,” JB said, “is balancing progress with heritage, or at least it is here in Moonlight Cove.”

  Harry let out a belly laugh and slapped the table. “Man. Oh! Man. I forgot how stuffy you can be. Better be careful or this new economy will pass you by.”

  JB shrugged. “Thank goodness people still need to eat. I won’t run out of business yet. I have to be going.”

  “So soon?” Patrice asked. She really wanted him to stay and maybe help her read through these papers and help her understand them.

  “Have to get back the farm.”

  “You know, if you are ever interested in selling, you’ve got a prime piece of coastal real estate there. What is it five acres? Ten?” Harry pulled out his business card and tossed it in front of JB.

  “I’ll keep that in mind, if it ever comes to that,” JB said, unfolding himself out of the booth and tucking five dollars under his coffee cup.

  “JB, you don’t have to do that. I’ll get it,” Patrice said, wishing he would stay.

  “I pay my debts. I honor my commitments, Patrice.”

  “Ha! Spoken like a true old salt of the sea, right?” Harry said, jabbing his finger in the air.

  “It was nice seeing you again, JB.” Patrice said, hoping he didn’t hear the longing in her voice.

  He paused. A grin played on his lips and he finally said, “I doubt it.”

  Harry laughed. Patrice watched JB walk out of the restaurant, waving a good-bye to Lily. The bell rang over the door and he was gone, absorbed in the morning sunshine. Harry’s business card was still on the table.

  “So,” Harry said, rubbing his hands together, “let’s talk about selling this house.”

  Patrice nodded, feeling numb, like another death had just occurred.

  * * *

  Parking his truck in front of Debra’s house, JB ran his hand across the stubble on his chin. He could just call. He didn’t need to do this in person. Not tonight. Practicing his apology over and over again was one thing, but apologizing to Patrice in person was another. He could just call. Just like he could have avoided going to Lily’s Pad this morning, after he had heard that Patrice was in town. What was he thinking confronting her like he did? Seriously? What good had come from it?

  Memories from their shared weekend ten years ago still resonated with him. She had imprinted on him like no other woman. Even her refusal of his impromptu marriage proposal didn’t deter his desire to reconnect with her.

  He grabbed his cell phone. He’d call Debra’s home number; Patrice was bound to pick up. But Aurora’s smiling face on the screen stopped him from making that call. “Fear,” he had told Aurora earlier in the week, “it’s what keeps us from doing the right thing.” Calling Patrice would be the chicken way out. He had to speak to her face-to-face.

  Grabbing the two shopping bags, he got out of his truck and pushed open the gate. The geraniums, their pungent scent mixed with the sea air, met him at the corner of the house where the kitchen light glowed in the window.

  He paused, glancing through the back door window. Patrice paced back and forth, speaking into her cell phone. The real estate documents were splayed across the kitchen table. JB’s heart skipped a beat. She was still beautiful—even under the glare of the kitchen light, dressed in an old sweatshirt, with her hair piled on top of her head, and obviously agitated by whomever she was speaking with. Watching her traverse back and forth, JB realized that Patrice moved him like no woman ever had before or since. Even Aurora’s mother, who he had loved, never took his breath away like Patrice.

  If only… he pushed those thoughts aside. She was a friend. That’s all he could ask for. Honestly, right now in his life that’s all he could handle. She was here for just the week. Only a week. She deserved more than just a phone call.

  He knocked on the kitchen door.

  She looked over and JB held his breath for a brief instant—what if she ignored him? But she didn’t. She unlocked the door, still speaking into her phone.

  “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. Text me if you hear anything and I mean anything—okay? Thanks.” She tapped her phone off, leaning against the doorjamb, crossing her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again, after this morning.”

  “Yeah. I know.” He dropped he eyes. He was still embarrassed by his behavior this morning. “May I come in?”

  “JB, I’m busy. It’s late. I have all of that real estate mumbo jumbo to read through and sign and I’m—”

  “I brought dinner.” He held up the two shopping bags. “And a bottle of central California wine, which I think you’ll like.”

  Her stomach growled in response, but she didn’t budge from her stance.

  “Patrice you need to eat. I know you. You probably think the toast from this morning and a couple cups of coffee was enough.” He hoped she didn’t hear the desperation in his voice.

  She rolled her eyes and then stepped aside. “I suppose so. And since you’re already here.”

  “Best invitation I’ve had all day.” Setting the shopping bags on the kitchen counter, JB stepped back just as a grey and white tabby cat jumped up and strolled over to him. “Hey Dante, how you doing old boy?” The cat responded with a deep, vocal meow and head bumped JB’s hand for some affection.

  “Dante? That’s the cat’s name?” Patrice asked, glancing at her cell phone before setting it down.

  “Yeah. Debra said it was from a book or something.” JB continued to pet the cat, being rewarded with a deep satisfying purr.

  “Epic poem,” Patrice mumbled. Her expression clouded as if she had turned inward, withdrawing from the moment. “It was one of Debra’s favorites. Dante’s Inferno.” Her voice cracked and she carelessly wiped the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her eyes.

  “I’ll feed him,” JB said, “so we can eat in peace.”

  “No. No. I can do that.” She opened the pantry door, staring at the contents before pulling out a bag of dry cat food. Dante leaped from the kitchen counter, weaving in and out of Patrice’s legs as she filled his empty food bowl. Patrice, wearing a faded Moonlight Cove sweatshirt and a pair of sweat pants, reminded JB why he was so attracted to her. She seemed to mold and fit into any situation. With her face clean of make-up and her hair piled atop her head, she was still comfortable and confident.

  “So what’s the occasion?” Patrice asked, closing the pantry door.

  “Thought you might be hungry,” He slowly took the containers of food from the shopping bag, hoping she hadn’t noticed him staring at her. “And I wanted to—”

  “You got dressed up to bring me dinner?”

  He glanced down at what he was wearing. “No. I came from work.”

  “You dress like that for work? You wear wing tips to farm abalone?”

  He chuckled, fidgeting with his tie. “No. Teaching. I teach a night class at the community college. Aquatic and Marine Biology.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Is that so odd?”

  “What? No. No, not at all.”

  Had he embarrassed her? Maybe she was more vulnerable than he remembered.
>
  “It’s just that when I knew you before, just had the farm and well, this morning you looked like you were dressed from the farm and…”

  “A lot has changed since we knew each other, Patrice. I’m not the same man I was then.”

  And neither was she, he realized, as she watched him; there was an edge to her that wasn’t there ten years ago. If he touched her, would her skin still feel as intoxicating as he remembered, or would she be prickly and tart, as she seemed right now in front of him? He pulled out the chair. “Why don’t you sit down? I’ll get it ready.”

  She hesitated, and then threw her hands in the air, as if she had lost some argument and plopped down, her shoulders slumped. Folding up the real estate documents, she pushed the bundle away to the far side of the table, tossing her reading glasses on top of the stack. JB wondered if she was just running on reserves. She couldn’t keep this pace forever, although knowing Patrice, as he once did, she would certainly try.

  “Plates?”

  “I think they are in that cabinet.” She pointed and he found the plates, cutlery, and two wine glasses.

  “If I remember right, you like red wine.” He uncorked the bottle, pouring her a glass.

  A faint smile played on her lips. “I do. I was thinking earlier about how good a glass of wine would taste.” She took a sip. “This is good. Very good. So can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t you have to feed your daughter dinner?”

  He paused as he dished up their meal. “She’s with the sitter when I’m teaching.” He set down two plates of food and joined her at the table.

  Patrice picked up her fork and took a bite. “Mmm. Delicious.”

  JB steepled his hands over his plate. “Patrice,” he said. “I owe you an apology.”

  She laid down her fork and stared at him. “For what?”

  “For being a jerk this morning at Lily’s. I said some things I shouldn’t have. Seeing you just… well, I’m sorry and I’m embarrassed by my behavior. I wasn’t much of a friend to you.”

  “And dinner?”

  He smiled. “I thought you would be hungry.”

  She didn’t respond, but just stared at him. She blinked. Her eyes filled with tears. He hadn’t wanted to upset her. That surely wasn’t his intention. He laid his hand over hers. “I’m sorry about Debra. I’m—”

  Her tears rolled down her face, and sitting back in her chair, she pulled her hand from his. “I’m okay. Debra’s death is a shock to us all. Thank you. This means a lot.”

  “I hope we can still be friends.” He held out his hand.

  “Of course.” Laying her hand in his, a bloom of heat spread up his arm. He gazed at her tear-stained face, wondering what she was feeling right now. Her eyes were wide and he squeezed her hand, wanting to reassure her. She pulled her hand away, tucking it under the table, and cleared her throat.

  “So, what is this?”

  “One of Lily’s specialties. Abalone Marsala.”

  Patrice took another bite. “This is your abalone? What you grow?”

  He nodded. “Raise. I raise abalone.”

  “Whatever. This is really good. No, this is better than good.” She punctuated the air with her fork.

  A tentative meow came from the floor, and Dante launched himself onto the table. “None for you, old man,” JB gathered up the cat and placed him back on the floor.

  “Sorry Dante, I’m not sharing mine,” Patrice said, as the cat continued to meow. He finally stalked off into the other room.

  “So how did you know it was Debra’s cat, and not some random cat hanging out in the garden?”

  “The bowl on the floor says cat, so I assumed that this is the cat. Besides, he was howling at the kitchen door when I got here this morning, so he must be Debra’s. I do find it odd that she would even have a cat.”

  “Why? She wasn’t an animal lover?”

  “Debra was allergic.” Patrice tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “When she lived in L.A. she went to an allergist and an acupuncturist. She was especially allergic to cats.”

  “Maybe she left all that when she moved up here. Stranger things have occurred.”

  Patrice rolled her eyes at him. “You don’t really believe that do you?”

  He shrugged. “Moonlight Cove has a way of affecting people. Remember what we did when you were here?”

  Patrice’s face turned bright red. Instantly JB knew he misspoke. “Patrice I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay. I probably deserved it.” She took another swallow of wine, and JB refilled her glass. “Oh, no more for me.” She held her hand up for him stop. “I’ve got paperwork to review and sign.” She popped another mouthful of abalone into her mouth. “I had to call Harry three times today regarding this stuff.” Pointing to the stack of documents shoved to the end of the table, she rolled her eyes. Little red tags, denoting required signatures, stuck out of the document like sticky tongues mocking anyone who tried to understand or comprehend their legalese.

  “I wish I could help,” he said, “but legal documents aren’t really my thing.”

  “Yeah, mine either. I’m more of a would-a-stiletto-or-a-mule-look-better sort of person.”

  “Not sure what that is, but I’ll take your word for it. It would take me weeks to read through all of that,” JB said.

  “Yeah, well I don’t have weeks—just a week.”

  He swallowed the last of his abalone. The deliciousness of his dinner had changed, because in seven days, she’d be gone, again. “Was Harry able to answer your questions?”

  Patrice shook her head, refolding her napkin. “I was more confused after I got off the phone with him than I was before I called.”

  “Why did you hire him? There are real estate agents here in Moonlight Cove”

  “I don’t know. Harry contacted me first. Sent me an email, then this handwritten letter. When I agreed to let him have the listing, he sent me a dozen yellow roses as a thank you. I was so busy with work, I just didn’t have time to look for anyone else. And besides, he said he could get top dollar for this house.” Patrice polished off the last of her wine.

  “And the money is that important?”

  She nodded, her eyes downcast. “I know it sounds mercenary, but my business isn’t doing so well. I’ve lost several clients—good ones, too. Not only did they pay, but they paid on time. The industry has changed so much. Anyone with a smart phone and a few well-placed ‘selfies’ on social media can call themselves a stylist nowadays. Nobody wants a designer look anymore. Nobody cares who they’re wearing, either. Everyone just wants to wear what’s in or what’s hot. The more shocking the fashion, the more free publicity. Going viral is a good thing. I can’t compete with that.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Isn’t that the same thing?”

  He heard the defiance in her tone. Was there more going on here than just the death of her sister? If her whole industry was evolving faster than she could keep up, what would happen to her? He had seen this within the commercial fishing industry; the coast is overfished and then industry collapses, leaving behind unemployment and bitterness. He swallowed the rest of his wine. Tonight was not the time for a discussion of sustainable economics. “So, what will you do with Debra’s stuff?”

  “Not sure yet. I contacted the local thrift shop. You know, I couldn’t figure out why she would fill every room in this huge house, until I found this in her office.” Patrice grabbed an oversized notebook off the side counter.

  “Did you know she was planning to turn this place into a B&B? I found her business plan.” She opened the notebook, flipping through the pages. “It seems that was her intent when moving here in the first place.”

  “You didn’t know that?”

  She looked up at him. “No. She never told me. Did you know?”

  He shook his head. He had considered Debra a friend. However, maybe they were more like just casual acq
uaintances.

  “Everything is here: business plan, hospitality procedures, advertising, applications for credit, a brochure mock-up, notes on a website design. She has recipes for breakfast. Abalone-style eggs benedict, her signature dish.”

  “Now it sort of makes sense why she would have bought this three story Victorian House. It would make the perfect B&B.”

  “Yeah. Wouldn’t it? This was her reason for moving here.” Patrice sat back, the remnants of her dinner abandoned. She ran her hand across the page of Debra’s dream, encapsulated in a three-ring binder.

  “She never told you why she left?”

  Patrice stared at the notebook, shaking her head. “No. Never. We argued when she moved, and when I came up to visit her that one time. You know, I accused her of being irresponsible. I thought she would make partner at that accounting firm. She told me she hated being a CPA, and that there was more to life than crunching other peoples’ numbers. I didn’t understand what she meant. I should have listened to her. I should have called more often. I should have…” Patrice closed the notebook and tossed it onto the empty chair, her tears swallowing her words. JB placed his hand on her arm, unable to voice any words of comfort. Patrice leaned into him. JB pulled her into his arms as her body shook with sobs.

  “Why? Why?” She lamented. “She was my baby sister.”

  Holding her tightly, JB wanted to absorb her pain and sorrow, except he couldn’t. It was her pain and hers alone. He rocked back and forth ever so slightly, murmuring into her hair.

  “I never thought she’d die.” Patrice wailed through her sobs. “She was my baby sister.”

  “I know. I know. No one did.” Her body softened in his embrace. He tucked her head under his chin, still rocking back and forth, rubbing her back in small circles until her tears were spent.

  Patrice disengaged herself from his embrace and sat up, pushing her hair back, taking in big gulps of air. JB pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away a few errant tears still clinging to her red cheeks.

  Enclosing her hand over his, Patrice took the handkerchief he offered. “This,” she held it up, “and the wing tips. JB, you’re full of surprises.”

  He laughed; hoping the wave of sadness had passed.