by Jill Jaynes
This novella is her first published work.
You can find her at www.NicobarPress.com.
Lily’s Pad
by Kathleen Rowland
Chapter One
Most everything in Creed Taylor’s life came easily. Women? Anyone he’d wanted, but he saved his animal urges for Scarlett. Lately, those urges presented a problem. Was now the time to cut her loose?
After deployment, the former Army Ranger gripped a cane. Scarlett couldn’t look at his busted up knee, but he’d be damned if he let it hold him back. His woman was slipping, but he’d never lost a man. After the gunshot wound, he was off the ground, didn’t run, didn’t hide, and kept fighting. Now he limped, but humble didn’t work for the new second grade teacher in town.
His heart swelled with pride over his newest award. On a sticky note, the principal, Mrs. Dovely, wrote, “Congratulations for the most well-attended parent conference.”
A hot, gusty wind howled through coastal live oaks. Echoes of the closeness he and Scarlett once shared competed with free-floating anxiety. His rational brain took over as he shed his jacket and folded it over his arm, burdened with a longing to end things. They’d attended premarital conferencing. On paper their personalities interlaced with perfection, but who lives on paper? Not him.
This summer he’d made a habit of breakfasting at Lily’s Pad. His retired army canine veered toward the beach bistro along the boardwalk next to Port Drive. As expected, the filming of the reality TV show, Bikini Babes, took over the staged beach next to it. Beyond the sea wall, sailboats cut across blue waters. The scene was fucking perfect.
His longtime girl, Scarlett Royale, splashed from the shore. She stood out in her red swimsuit and waved but not at him. The glare of sunlight glanced off cameras and the sheen of her glossy black hair as it bounced over her tan shoulders. He squinted at the woman who’d versed him in beachwear selections, mixed, matched, and sanctioned for a PG audience. With other goddesses in tow, she strutted in a halter top and mid-rise bottom. Wasn’t his heart supposed to thump?
Sweat prickled on his forehead, and he wiped off ambivalence. It wasn’t her competitive streak that caused his desire to wane. It matched his, but her unchecked obsession for stardom ate at him.
Like most reality TV stars required to fund their own publicity, Scarlett rose to producers’ expectations. She modeled along the Main Street and appeared in every possible side event. He admired hard work, but the egotist’s do-anything commitment was dark and cunning. Yesterday she destroyed a colleague who designed her swimwear in watercolor tones. Scarlett wore red. Like a spider, she climbed along a steep-angled web. In front of the producer, she shredded and dangled the woman. Today a new designer took her place.
His Belgian shepherd heeled alongside him, touching his good left leg. He bent to stroke his dog’s fur. “Good dog, Fritz.” Heeling was a difficult skill to master, but intense repetition perfected an army canine’s tasks. His own repetition to support Scarlett’s happiness bucked against him.
With Fritz’s affected leg in a partially bent position, it was easy to see his ACL was acting up. Creed slowed the pace, but knowing this about his dog, relief loosened the concern rising in his chest.
Fritz barked a greeting and shuffled toward Scarlett.
Scarlett raced for his shepherd. “What’s wrong, buddy?” She surveyed the area and then spotted Creed coming from behind a bottlebrush hedge.
“You know Fritz is okay.” He watched her, but she stood her ground as stiff and tough as anyone guarding a reality TV empire.
“Maybe not.” The reality faker yanked her long hair into a ponytail, threw on a crocheted tunic, and loaded Fritz into the passenger seat of her red Boxster convertible. “You’ll shut your big mouth now?” Scarlett focused over his head.
Behind him, Creed heard a familiar voice and turned.
The director, Dan White, powered up his most stern expression. “Hold on there, Scarlett,” he said in that clipped almost rude tone of his, the one that turned a request into an order.
“Film me, Dan.” The brunette groped into her beach bag for keys. The tendons in her graceful neck stood out. She cared, and when she did, his heart warmed, but genuine situations came once in a blue moon.
“Good stunt if your love interest were into it.” White gave her a curt this-isn’t-working nod. “We can’t have negative. Cut.”
Out she came, bootie first.
“Too bad,” White said. “View is nice.”
Fritz bounded out and resumed his heeling position against Creed’s leg.
“Come on, boy. Let’s go.” He fisted his free hand and continued on his way.
A second grader stood by an ice cream truck and flashed an easy grin. “Hi, Mr. Taylor!”
“How ya doin’ there, Stuart?” Even while teaching, he used a laid back tone. “Nice fishing pole.” Grateful for the distraction, his hand relaxed from its battering position. They chatted about casting lines from the jetty. “Got a bucket of live bait?”
“Sure do.” There the kid was, ice cream dripping over the cone, heading for the shore. He’d never met a finer bunch of anglers than the kids in his class.
Creed scanned the town sprawling from the shore up the rugged cliffs. Moonlight Cove, founded in 1888, carried legends and secrets. Mr. Valentine was a mysterious summer visitor from out of town. Most residents were permanent. Moonlight Cove, built with bricks and U-shaped archways, was remote and only accessible by boat and two roads. There wasn’t a single high-rise, nightclub, shopping mall, or Starbucks in sight. Townfolk preferred coffee at the Honey Bee. Down-home described his destination, Lily’s Pad, except today the place was packed with Bikini Babes fans of all ages.
He made his way to the only empty table, propped his cane against an empty chair and sat with Fritz at his feet. The pet-friendly outdoor area drew him for the food, welcoming ambiance, and in the recent past, nearness to Scarlett. Now saddled with less desire, he tipped up his water bottle and swallowed back a dilemma.
His mind raced, jumping from one idea to another, never settling on one. There was no kind way to tell her. The earth hadn’t moved. Not even a wiggle. She wasn’t wrong, he wasn’t right, but they were wrong for each other.
“See that? The Bikini Babes are artists!” A teenage girl squealed.
Posing as artists was more like it. Dan White had purchased paintings from college art students. At the moment the babes were setting up easels on the grassy area between the boardwalk and the ocean. He glanced at his watch. Nine o’clock was opening time for their art sale on reality TV.
Behind him, the noise in a nearby throng kicked up an octave. Coming from a different direction, a towering, androgynous person with spiky white hair rushed toward him. “Aren’t you the new teacher in town?”
“Yes, I am. Hello. Creed Taylor.” He’d never rock Scarlett’s publicity boat. “And you are?”
“Marcella. Is there an engagement ring?”
He cupped his hand and whispered, “I bought one.” He injected enthusiasm which didn’t come naturally.
“You must be thrilled.” Marcella deadpanned and winked with one of her big blue eyes.
“Thrilled to death.” He gripped his water bottle until the plastic crinkled and water drenched his hand. “Who are you?”
“I work for Mr. Valentine. He actively observes.” Marcella stood with elbows akimbo, tipped her head back, and laughed. Was he the butt of a joke?
“Is he a love guru?” Creed asked.
Marcella turned her back and disappeared into the crowd which leaped to attention when Scarlett took the microphone.
“Here’s my rowboat painting,” she cooed. “I signed it.” She brushed her hand to where her initials stood out in red. The crowd applauded, and then another starlet took her place.
Fans dragged metal chairs across the stone patio. As more people clambered to face the set, screeching was worse than nails on a blackboard. With the relentless clicking of digital cameras, th
e excitement and anticipation grew bigger by the second.
Scarlett was the reason he’d taken the teaching job in Moonlight Cove. She wasn’t just a passing blip on the radar. They’d grown up next door. She was the daughter his parents never had and served as an anchor for both sets of parents. Once, after a breakup, they wanted nothing to do with him. Without Scarlett around, their parents were aimless islands. They became angry and confused.
Their mothers wanted to announce their engagement. Naturally it would be filmed on the show, and he was to show up at the doorway with a dozen red roses. He recalled the words of the stage manager. You’re handsome, sexy. He, the perfect prop, faced the guilt trap from hell. What had he gotten himself into? How could their families survive? Two very good questions that he couldn’t answer right now.
His dog stirred and gave him a long-suffering look.
Creed ruffled fur behind Fritz’s ears. Hearing footsteps shuffle up behind him, he turned to see Lily.
He marveled at the owner, friendly but never personal. Hustling and bustling, she dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt advertising the bistro. Scarlett wouldn’t be caught dead in her wardrobe. “Good morning, Lily.”
A faint smile played at the corners of her lips.
His dog bumped into his cane.
She grabbed it and placed it flat on the ledge of a lily pond. In her other hand she cradled a huge pickle jar. “This lid is super tight. Open this?”
He took the gallon jar, braced it against his chest, and gave it a hard twist.
“You’re my handiest customer.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waited in anticipation to hear her rattle off breakfast specialties.
“Care for a tomato tart? It’s made with organic egg whites, heirloom tomatoes, Fontina cheese, chopped—”
“—yes, I remember. Bring two.”
“Sure, big guy.” Lily stepped away to get coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice, and the double order. Fritz relaxed and spread out under the table.
Creed’s phone pinged with a message from “Mrs. Taylor,” the title Scarlett gave herself when she’d messed with his phone months before. He read her text. “Dan White says the diamond you gave me is too small for the camera.”
She’s giving it back, breaking free. His blood boiled with the insult but then cooled down. What better time to end things? He sent her a smiley face with a text message of okay.
Ping. Mrs. Taylor again. “Do not misunderstand. I’m buying my own ring. For the show.”
He cursed under his breath, punched in her number to talk rather than text. He wanted to tell her to hock his diamond for the bigger one.
“Hi, this is Scarlett.” Her voicemail picked up after four rings. Lily returned.
“Where’s your son? It’s Saturday.” He expected to see Max playing around the pond and feeding the koi.
Her eyes narrowed into a squint. “Max is, was, my foster son. His mother picked him up yesterday.” Her upper lip wobbled.
“I’m sorry.”
“I dreaded this day. I knew it would come sometime.”
“You knew what would come?”
“His mother was released from prison. I’m glad for that, but—”
“—it’s rough on you.” He recalled seeing her volunteer in Max’s third grade classroom. “When school starts up, how about helping out in mine?” Creed hoped his offer didn’t extend her brooding. Better and healthier to look toward tomorrow. “If you want to, let me know.”
“I’d like that.” Lily turned toward her pond.
“Don’t swan dive. Your pond is shallow.”
“Good depth for a broken neck.” She bent toward a yellowing lily pad. “The plants get crowded.” She yanked out the pad with spent flowers and pressed her face into them. “Their smell is subtle, sweet.” She wiped tears with the pads and then dropped them into an aluminum recycling can.
He glanced up at the wall where her blue kayak hung on a rack. “Going out today?”
“Not today.” She nodded toward volleyball nets. “Big tournament this afternoon. Business will be brisk.”
“You know the tricks to attract customers.” Creed observed other restaurants begging for activity. The Lily Pad wasn’t the only place with a good location.
“Believe me, I work hard at marketing.” Her long eyelashes flanked hazel eyes. She was one of those lucky women who didn’t require makeup.
“Yeah? What’s your method?”
“I email every coach within a twenty-mile radius and attach my menu. I give them a discount.” The marketing guru weaved her fingers through her brown hair.
“What food is their favorite?”
“Hands down, it’s fish tacos, melon of all kinds, and gallons of lemonade.”
“Hydration is everything. Look, you’re busy. I don’t want to keep you.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “Oh, and I didn’t forget about your class’s field trip on Monday.”
“Thanks.”
She looked into his eyes. “What are you up to, Creed?”
“Heading to a reunion. Army Rangers.” He couldn’t tear his gaze from her. Scarlett hadn’t affected him this way in a long time.
“Here in Moonlight Cove?” Her hazel eyes sparkled with gold, and he saw the possibility that she found something worthy in him.
“Yup, Vinnie’s,” he said. “It reopened after reconstruction. Actually, we prefer seedy bars.”
“Vinnie’s is less ratty now.” Lily picked up Max’s Hot Wheels truck, dropped it into her apron pocket, and smiled as best she could. “I peeked into Vinnie’s. Upscale nautical.” She shifted her gaze around the area, checked for customers’ hand signals, and then back to him. “At your Fort Benning shithole, what went on?”
“Fights. One night my cousin, Finn Donahue, insulted some Hells Angels. We got the crap kicked out of us.”
She glanced at his knee. “That’s not when—”
“—my knee? No.” He placed a hand over it. “This baby was gunned.”
“Tell me. Do you miss combat?” Her question required conscious thought.
“I miss the ability, and—”
“—that cane is a damn good jabber. Right between the legs.” She stretched a hand over the table, and ran fingers up the ketchup bottle.
He smiled with appreciation for her rowdy humor.
“Somewhere along the way,” she said, “you chose to be a teacher.”
“It’s the best job in the world. Doesn’t feel like work. Everything I value is in that classroom, in my backpack, and right here.” He gave his dog a gentle nudge with his foot.
“You’re a minimalist.” She glanced to the east, past the church, at the gated Coastline Condos. “Didn’t you buy one of those?”
“Had to, sort of. The school district prefers teachers to be permanent.” Buying the model home meant not thinking about furnishings. “Fritz has a small yard.”
“Bet he has a doggy-door.” Lily turned and sashayed her hips. “Call me Foxy.”
He chuckled. Once, long ago, his attraction to Scarlett was as potent and pervasive as a sand storm. Regret seeped through his brain and left him with a throbbing headache. At that moment it hit him. The last time they kissed, he’d put his heart and soul into it. The kiss left him feeling nothing.
Lily dropped off his food and pressed her face close enough to reveal freckles across her nose. “Sorry, I have to scurry.” She stepped away, but then turned back and smiled.
He whiffed the basil on top of the tomato tart and took a bite. Damn good.
Music drifted from the set. The cheerful beat of Jake Owen’s song, Beachin’, evoked a dancing ruckus. He blinked to clear his vision. Looking out at Scarlett made his chest hurt from wishing he wanted the woman who gazed into her own eyes and eluded his. Fake eyelashes required her full attention. He took a shuddery breath and bit down on his lip. On hold. The story of his life.
* * *
Creed dropped Fritz off at home. He backed his car out of the driveway a
nd looked through the rear-view. Fritz smashed his furry face against the front window.
Moments later, on the corner of Port Drive and Main, he stood outside Vinnie Cappelli’s Bar and Grill. He leaned on his cane for a moment and faced the endless blue surf. Rough waves tossed against the shore and dragged back gritty sand. He took a deep breath of the salty air before stepping inside.
The establishment lacked its usual musty scent. He inhaled a whisper of fresh paint and gazed around the transformed surroundings.
Reclaimed decor came from maritime origins. He ran his hand along ship parts and booths covered with old sails with the Elliott-Pattison logo. Chair barstools were upholstered in U.S. Navy blankets. He walked on the thick oak flooring. The former rattrap was now vintage-cool.
His cell phone chimed with a text message from Mrs. Taylor. “Are you getting cold feet?”
He typed, “No.” He didn’t have cold feet. He was frozen all the way through. Today he’d explain.
Behind him, two male voices shouted in anger, one tenor and one baritone.
Creed angled sideways. The raspy baritone belonged to Vinnie.
“I hate this contract. Know what you are? A true idiot.” The owner spoke to a man on his left.
Dick Sloan. There was no question about his identity. Creed hadn’t seen him for a decade. Dick graduated from Cerritos High School in his and Scarlett’s class. After selling non-existent carnival rides, his pinball capers landed him in the slammer. Today, his Boglioli blazer was the con artist’s attempt to appear prosperous.
What the hell was he up to now? Creed anchored himself behind a mast and listened to their bickering.
Dick shrugged. “Who are you calling an idiot? Read the small print.”
Vinnie paused for a long moment and then walked away. Not saying anything confirmed what Creed hadn’t been able to bring himself to believe. Vinnie had taken out a loan, and his place was about to be stolen from him.
Rage tumbled through Creed in a continuous stream, vibrating through his lungs. He worked to keep his breathing even before facing Dick. “Well, shit, man. Long time, no see.”
