She nodded. Carousels and Ferris wheels were the stuff of sunshine and warm nights. Too bad she wouldn’t be in town long enough to enjoy them. She refocused on the route Bart was taking and memorized it. He made a left from Main onto Outlook Drive.
“The whole peninsula is six miles long and less than two miles across, so we’ll be at Sea View House in just a couple of minutes. Main Street divides the town. We have a beach side and a bay side. There’s always a breeze when you’re a finger in the ocean.”
“That’s why you have so many summer people every year,” Laura said. “The news is out. Pilgrim Cove is the place to be during the season.”
“For me, it’s the place to be every season,” said Bart. “Look ahead now. You’ll see the front and side of the house.”
Laura complied and felt herself grinning. Sea View House. Weathered wood, a big sloping roof, two stories with a third window above—maybe an attic—and a big brick chimney in the center. A white picket fence surrounded the front yard on Beach Street. “Wow! What a wonderful house. And only a vague memory to me. I didn’t know anyone living here when I was a kid.”
Bart pulled the car into the driveway. “It’s a saltbox, the kind built in the 1700s. John Adams, our second president, was born in a saltbox. And William Adams, a shirttail cousin of John, founded our town in 1690. A hundred years later his great-great grandchild, also named William, built this house. Of course, it’s been remodeled several times and now it’s been converted to two apartments. There’s a lot of history here, but for a later time.”
Laura nodded and got out of the car. “Let’s walk around the house first,” she said.
“You go. I’ll open her up,” replied Bart. “The sun is bright enough, but that ocean breeze is whipping big today.”
True, but Laura reveled in it as she followed the paved driveway to the back of the property, past a deep covered porch leading to a backyard bordered by a low cement wall at the sand line. Inserted into the cement wall were tall boards standing upright. Laura studied the strange arrangement and saw loose sand blowing against the boards. Sand that would otherwise be hitting the house. She smiled, appreciating the simplicity of some solutions.
And then she was on the beach, the powerful Atlantic in front of her, surging and ebbing as far as her eye could see. The heels of her boots hardly dented the hard-packed sand as she walked closer to the water. She could have stood for hours mesmerized by the rhythmic motion of the waves. She turned, eventually, to look back at Sea View House.
For the first time in too long, a frisson of excitement flowed through her. A sense of anticipation. Suddenly she knew exactly what she was going to do.
She hurried to the front door, ran down the center hallway and found Bart Quinn in the kitchen. “Where do I sign?”
CHAPTER TWO
A WEEK LATER, on the first of March, Laura drove her packed Honda down Main Street in Pilgrim Cove, turned right on Outlook Drive and headed toward Sea View House. The late-afternoon sun seemed pale but promising for the days ahead, and Laura felt the corners of her mouth start to turn up.
She had actually done it! Had arranged for her mail to be forwarded and her house in Boston to be checked by a service. She had staked out three months for herself—time to come to terms with her life and her losses. Alison had called it a retreat, and maybe it was. Laura saw it more as an opportunity to spend three months in a friendly place, on the beach at the water’s edge, with no schedule or deadlines. The only appointment she had was a breakfast date with Bart the next morning. The Realtor had insisted on welcoming her to town when she’d spoken to him earlier in the week.
She stopped at a red light, and glanced around the inside of her car to admire her packing skills. With her computer, her books, her clothes and her groceries, there wasn’t a spare inch left over. Norman Cohen had given her two scripts to study. They were in the car, too. She’d cautioned her agent, however, not to be too aggressive on her behalf yet. Her goal was to take life nice and easy for a while.
Fortunately, her cash reserves wouldn’t be as taxed as she’d feared. Bart Quinn had explained that the William Adams Trust Fund provided the bulk of the upkeep on the house. Laura’s responsibility was computed on a sliding scale based on recent income. Other factors included personal history and circumstances.
“Sometimes the Adams Trust Fund collects full rent on both apartments because money might not be the overriding issue,” Bart had explained. “The trust focuses on the whole person.”
She’d been stunned at the unusual arrangement, and Bart had laughed. “Aye. It is unusual, but it’s part of what makes Sea View House and Pilgrim Cove special.” He’d become serious again as he revealed more. “No one in town but me and a few others know who’s paying what rent at Sea View House. Your privacy is protected.” His eyes had twinkled. “Any complaints?”
Complaints? Not a one! Luck was with her, and she hadn’t asked too many questions.
The traffic light changed, and she continued down Outlook Drive before turning left onto Beach Street. Sea View House sat on the corner, big, solid and welcoming. A blue van was parked in front of the old beauty. Laura pulled around the vehicle, glanced at the Parker Plumbing emblem, then turned into the driveway. She quickly shut the ignition, suddenly anxious to start unloading and begin her new life.
She hefted a bag of groceries from the car and checked the van as she walked to the front door. The vehicle was empty. She shrugged, turned the doorknob and let herself inside without having to use the key Bart Quinn had given her. She walked down the hall to the kitchen.
“Hey, Brian,” came a masculine voice from under the sink, “hand me the pipe wrench. The shutoff valve is leaking.”
Laura walked around a pair of large, tan work boots attached to long jean-clad legs, placed her groceries on the table and found the tool the man had asked for. “I’m not Brian, but here’s your wrench.”
“What the…? Ouch!”
Laura muffled her giggle with her hand. Or tried to.
“I know that voice,” said the unseen man as he started to maneuver himself up. “And the laugh. They’re unforgettable.”
“Then you listen to too many commercials,” replied Laura.
She watched the masculine body emerge and lever itself to a standing position. And then she looked up. And up. The face looked familiar. Dark wavy hair, eyes as black as coal with long lashes any woman would envy. Fifteen years evaporated as she stared at him.
“I remember you,” she finally said, feeling herself blush as recognition dawned. The memory of a single kiss a lifetime ago.
He grinned and his eyes twinkled. “I kissed you under the boardwalk the last night of summer vacation way back when. You were about sixteen, and it’s taken you all this while to come back. I must have messed up.”
“You’ve obviously managed to survive,” Laura replied dryly. “And how old were you?”
“Seventeen.” The man extended his hand. “Matt Parker,” he said, “and you’re Laura McCloud.”
She nodded and shook his hand. “Bart mentioned a Matthew and Sam Parker, but I’d forgotten about your plumbing business, so I wasn’t expecting you. But surely Bart Quinn told you I’d be here.”
“Not a word on your identity. Scout’s honor. But when I heard you speak, I was seventeen again.”
“Really?” she asked, wondering if he was as sincere as he sounded.
“You were ‘the girl with the voice.’ All the kids called you that,” Matt said.
“That’s crazy,” Laura replied in astonishment. “The voice? I don’t even sing!”
“Doesn’t matter. I have a good ear—my whole family does—and you have a memorable voice. Tone, pronunciation, clarity.” He offered his opinion as a casual statement of fact.
“Let’s change the subject,” Laura said, “Who’s Brian and what’s wrong with my pipes?”
Matt rolled his eyes and looked innocently at the ceiling. “Kitchen sink or vocal?”
&nb
sp; She had to laugh at his expression. “I give up. Help me out here. I’m moving in right now. Does this house have running water or not?”
“It will in a few minutes.” Matt Parker grabbed the wrench and got back on the floor, head under the sink. “Brian is my eleven-year-old son who’s supposed to be helping me. I’ve got two boys. And my dad lives with us, also. It’s a real bachelor household.”
“Oh.”
“My wife died four years ago.”
Subject closed. Laura could read vocal nuances, too. “I’m going to the car. I’ve got lots to unpack,” she said.
“Hang on a minute,” Matt said. “The valve’s tight now. No more leaking. I’ve already checked the two bathrooms, so you’re all set.” Matt spoke as he stood up again. “And I can help you unload your car as long as I’m here.”
Laura heard the front door open, and a young voice called out, “Hey, Dad, you need me?”
Footsteps pounded down the hall and suddenly a miniature, coltish version of Matt Parker appeared and stopped in his tracks. The boy looked at his dad, then at Laura, his dark eyes questioning, suspicion lurking. “Who’s she?”
“Brian Parker! Where are your manners? You know better. Now apologize to Ms. McCloud.” Matt’s voice was firm and low.
The boy looked quickly at Laura. She could see the fear behind the suspicion. She watched him step closer and slightly in front of his father as though protecting him. His fear touched her heart. Poor kid.
“Hey, Matt,” said Laura. “Thanks for fixing the sink. I can handle the unpacking. In fact, I’d prefer to do it alone, a little at a time.” She turned to Brian and held out her hand. “Nice meeting you, Brian. You can take your dad home now.”
Brian shook her hand, then looked hopefully at Matt, but Matt didn’t move. The child turned back to Laura. “Sorry. Glad to meet you.”
Laura smiled at him. The kid knew how to be polite. She’d urge them to leave for all their sakes. “Thanks again. See you around.”
She stepped toward the hallway.
“Wait a second,” said Matt.
Laura paused and watched him walk toward her.
“I love my kids,” Matt said, “but they’re not in charge.”
“Oh?” she replied with a laugh. “Don’t you believe in family democracy? One person, one vote?”
His eyes twinkled. “With two boys under twelve? I don’t think so.”
“I don’t blame you. My own niece and nephew run me ragged. Although I have to admit I love every minute of it.”
“Laura.” Matt sounded hesitant, but continued, “Are you involved with anyone right now? Because if you’re not, I’d like to see you again—with no kids around.”
She paused a moment. She wasn’t ready for complications, and the Parker family—father and sons—might present many. “Thanks for the invitation, Matt, but men and relationships aren’t really in my plans right now. I’m on a working vacation. You know, deadlines and stuff.”
He nodded, his complexion turning ruddy. “Maybe my kid has the right idea.” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Here’s my business card. If you ever need anything—plumbing services or otherwise—just pick up the phone. No strings attached for old friends. In fact, I’ll check on you in a day or two.”
“Thanks for the offer, but that won’t be necessary,” she said calmly. “I’m sure I’ll be able to manage.”
She saw his eyes narrow, his expression harden. He’d gotten her message.
He nodded, then turned to his son. “Come on, Brian. We’re finished here.”
She watched father and son walk away, her eyes on Matt’s broad back. Regret filled her. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him, had just needed to set her own boundaries. She wasn’t the type for a one-night stand, and anything else involved too much emotional risk for all parties. Not even Bart Quinn was aware of her medical history and no one in Pilgrim Cove would ever know about it; there was no reason to share it.
But still, she’d hated the look on Matt’s face when he left.
THE NEXT MORNING, Laura awoke early, earlier than she’d planned. She shrugged off the lingering image of Matt Parker and focused on her breakfast date with Bart at The Diner on the Dunes, located off Main Street, nowhere near to any dunes. She glanced at her clock radio sitting on the night table and jumped out of bed. Her feet were protected from the cold plank floor by a large oval rag rug. The multicolored rug added a warmth and vibrancy to the wood-beamed master bedroom as did the tufted colonial quilt and curtains on the double hung windows.
Laura looked around the room, feeling better than she had for a long time. As Bart had mentioned, Sea View House had two separate apartments. The entire first-floor apartment, known as The Captain’s Quarters, was hers, and the colonial decor throughout was as pleasing to her eye as the decor in this room. Or perhaps it was the peaceful silence, or the strong, solid structure of the house itself that imbued her with a calmness she hadn’t experienced in a long time—not since her mom’s diagnosis and then her own. Could the stress she always carried with her have dissipated so quickly?
She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, using the relaxation techniques she’d learned in recent years. She closed her eyes. In several breaths, the image of the sea filled her, the waves coming into shore and retreating, over and over again. When she opened her eyes, her sense of calm had gotten stronger and she began to laugh at herself. She didn’t have to imagine the ocean anymore. It was right outside her back door!
She went to that door now, opened it and stepped onto the porch. She promptly shivered. But the morning sun was rising over the horizon, its rays stretching across the waves, across the sand to Sea View House and to Laura. The chilled air smelled of the sea. Salty, distinctive. Good. Clean. So unlike the city air she breathed every day at home.
She brought her hand to her cheek and pinched it. “I am really here,” she whispered. “I made a good decision.” Then she ran inside to get dressed. The day was too precious to waste. The sooner she had breakfast with Bart, the sooner she could return to her haven.
LAURA HAD NO TROUBLE finding The Diner on the Dunes, on Dunes Boulevard just east of Main Street. Exactly where it had been years ago. Bigger than she remembered. A one-story clapboard affair, still painted white, its nautical motif included a row of porthole-like windows near the roofline.
She pulled into the parking lot, which already held a dozen cars, opened her door and smelled the aroma of fresh coffee. Her stomach grumbled. Another change. Her appetite had returned. She slammed the door behind her and approached the entryway. Above the door frame was a bold red-and-white wooden sign proclaiming Home Of The ROMEOs. Who were the ROMEOs? Maybe the owners lived behind the place? Laura shrugged. She’d find out soon enough.
She stepped inside. The interior seemed more spacious than the diner of her childhood. The furnishings had been changed, and the lighting. The place was brighter. Booths lined two walls with a counter along the third, but there were also several tables in the center of the floor. She had no time for further observations before she heard her named being called. She turned and saw a thatch of white hair and a big smile. Bart waved her over to the large round corner booth in the back of the restaurant.
He wasn’t alone. Laura counted seven men in addition to Bart as she walked to the table. All his contemporaries, she guessed.
“Good morning, Laura McCloud.” Bart beamed at her before turning to his friends. “This is Bridget and Connor’s daughter. The McClouds who used to vacation here.”
And then the men all spoke at once. Smiles and nods and a chorus of welcome.
“Your dad and I spent a morning or two fishing off the pier,” said one.
“We stood side by side in the park, pushing our little girls in the swings,” said another. “My daughter is all grown-up now, just like you.”
Laura felt a lump in her throat as the unexpected remembrances slammed her in the gut. She studied the men slowly. Sure, her dad would have been their age by now.
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“I’m so glad to meet you,” she said. And she would be glad after she got used to the idea that her sanctuary in Pilgrim Cove wouldn’t be so private after all.
“Let’s introduce you properly to the ROMEOs,” said Bart.
“The ROMEOs?” echoed Laura, remembering the words over the diner’s doorway.
Bart nodded at the Reserved sign in the middle of the table. The word ROMEOs was printed clearly on it. And below that…Laura laughed. A big full laugh.
“Retired Old Men Eating Out? R-O-M-E-O. That’s what you call yourselves?” She looked around the table. Not a dull eye among them. “But you’re not old!” she protested.
“The smart girl speaks the truth,” said Bart with a twinkle. “We’re still young enough to take care of this town.”
“And you’re not retired,” Laura pointed out again as she slipped into a seat.
“Some of us are and the rest of us keep cockeyed schedules,” explained another one, shaking her hand. “I’m Joe Cavelli and I still help out at our garage which my son runs now. My son, Charlie, is married to one of Bart’s daughters, so that makes me and Bart—’ He turned to the man next to him. “Hey, Lou, what’s that word you use to describe me and Bart?”
“Mach-a-tunim. You and Bart are machatunim.” The man who used to swing his daughter in the park turned to Laura. “It’s Yiddish. There’s no English equivalent to describe the relationship between the parents of married children.” He extended his hand. “I’m Lou Goodman, retired librarian. Pleased to know you, Laura.”
She shook his hand, and one by one, the remaining men introduced themselves: Ralph Bigelow, retired from the local utility company and now doing electric repairs for Bart’s properties; Rick “Chief” O’Brien, retired from the Pilgrim Cove Police Department, but still keeping watch on the town he loved; Mike Lyons, retired environmental engineer, now studying sea-coast habitat as an avocation; and Max “Doc” Rosen, retired Boston physician now living in Pilgrim Cove all year round instead of summers only.
House on the Beach Page 2
