Shore Lights

by Barbara Bretton

  He didn’t want to laugh, but that didn’t stop him. “She didn’t want to discuss family issues in front of a stranger.”

  Maddy made a face. “If she knew you were on her side, she would have.”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You were pretty rough on her.”

  Maddy looked away. “It was a lot easier when we had the entire continent between us.”

  “She’s probably thinking the same thing right about now.”

  “Listen,” she said as she started to inch the car down the icy driveway, “blood may be thicker than water, but it doesn’t mean every family is going to live happily ever after. Not even fairy tales can manage to pull that one off every time.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Listen,” he said, “forget I said anything. I don’t know jack about what’s going on between you and Rose. I should’ve kept my big mouth shut.”

  “Yes, you should have,” Maddy said. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Is that a shot?”

  “No,” Maddy said. “I mean it. I’m surrounded by family and every single one of them has her own agenda going. I needed a non-DiFalco perspective.”

  She eased out onto the street, keeping the Mustang in first until she had gained enough traction, then shifting smoothly up to second. She knew how to handle a clutch. He liked that in a woman.

  “You might find this surprising, but I’m not usually your mother’s greatest supporter.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. You two seemed to be forming a mutual-admiration society in there.”

  “We’re usually on opposite sides of every issue in town.”

  They rolled to a stop at the corner and slipped a few inches into the intersection.

  “Join the club. We’ve been on opposite sides since the day I was born.”

  “She loves you.”

  “She told you that?”

  “She didn’t have to. Anyone could see it.”

  Tears, ridiculous, inappropriate tears, welled up, and she turned her head. “I always said men were the true romantics.”

  Icy pellets pinged off the windshield and bounced across the hood of her aged Mustang. Main Street was a sheet of ice overlaid with enough fresh snow to make driving treacherous.

  “Pull over,” he said after they’d gone another fifty feet.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “You don’t need to be out in this. I’ll walk.”

  “No.”

  “Pull over.”

  “The hell I will. I said I’d drive you back to your car, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  She ignored him and kept her attention focused on the road ahead.

  “You know, there’s a lot of your mother in you,” he said when she slid to a stop a few feet away from where he’d left his car parked.

  She looked at him as she applied the parking brake. “Which is it? Stubborn? Pigheaded? Won’t take suggestions from anybody?”

  “Gutsy,” he said. “Independent.” And bright and funny and beautiful . . .

  Her breath caught for a split second, then released. “I try,” she said, then grinned at him. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She smelled faintly of perfume and shampoo, womanly smells that made him lean closer. Snow was quickly piling up on the windows as they idled there at the curb, shielding them in a world of their own. It was a heady combination: the storm outside; the warmth inside. If it had been any other woman but Maddy, he would have leaned across the console and kissed her goodbye and not thought twice about it. The moment demanded its due and he would have been happy to oblige. Instead he had to remind himself this wasn’t a date. He was interested in her samovar. She was interested in his interest.

  That was as far as it went, as far as he had any intention of letting it go. Probably further than she wanted it to go.

  Looking for a losing combination? Try O’Malley and DiFalco. A train wreck would have a better chance at a happy ending.

  “If I sit here any longer, you’ll need a tow truck to get back to the Candlelight,” he said, unsnapping his seat belt and reaching for the door handle. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “No problem. Thanks for the breakfast.”

  “Remember what I said about the teapot? If your kid doesn’t want it, I do.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  She leaned over to pick up her glove, and for an instant he considered bridging the distance between them and kissing her goodbye, but she was too quick or maybe he was too slow, and the moment, like all moments, vanished forever.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MADDY SAT PERFECTLY still while he trudged through the snow and ice to his car. She watched while he knocked snow off the windows with his hand and forearm, unlocked the door, then climbed into the truck. It took maybe two minutes tops, and in that span of time she relived the kiss-that-wasn’t at least fifty times.

  He had wanted to kiss her. She was as sure of that as she had ever been of anything in her life. When she leaned over to get the glove that had fallen off the dashboard, something had happened. Their eyes locked and he leaned closer and she held her breath and you could almost hear those great tectonic plates of destiny getting ready to slam together and set off an earthquake of monumental proportions.

  Or something like that.

  She held her breath. His eyes drifted to her mouth. Her mouth parted. His pupils dilated.

  And then he said, “See you,” and opened the door.

  Nothing like a slap of wind and snow to bring a girl back down to earth. The inside of the Mustang still hummed with disappointment.

  His parking lights switched on and the rear windshield wiper started slapping left then right, left then right, cutting through the relentless snow. He shimmied back a few inches, cut the wheel, then pulled forward and out. With a quick double-beep of his horn he disappeared into the storm.

  A metaphor for her life if ever there was one.

  She released the parking brake, shifted into first, and headed back to the Candlelight, where romance had its price, but satisfaction was guaranteed.

  THE LOEWENSTEINS AND the Armaghs had planned to spend their last afternoon at Caesar’s in Atlantic City, trying their hands at the slot machines. Rose had arranged for a limo, complete with bar and TV, to take the two couples up, but the second they saw the weather they begged off.

  Mrs. Loewenstein was devastated by the turn of events. She had heard that Caesar and Cleo regularly paraded through the casino and posed for photos with day-trippers and high rollers, and she had had her heart set on pictures of herself in Caesar’s arms.

  “We coulda gone anyway,” Mr. Loewenstein said. “So what if it’s snowing. We’d be in a big safe car. What’s gonna happen?”

  “Half those limo drivers drive with their eyes closed,” Mr. Armagh said. “They work around the clock, most of them. Asleep on their feet. Better you should stay put in weather like this.”

  “Amen to that,” said Mrs. Armagh. “I broke my right hip last year in that big snowstorm. I’m not breaking my left hip for nobody.”

  Mrs. Loewenstein sighed deeply, then turned to Rose and Lucy, who were standing in the archway to the public living room.

  “We have something wonderful planned for lunch,” Rose said in her cheeriest innkeeper’s voice. “Lucy and I are going to light a fire in both of the fireplaces for you. We have some of our fabulous special-blend hot cocoa in the carafes on the table to keep you warm.” Help! she silently pleaded with her sister. Magic tricks! Puppet shows! Anything!

  “There’s a selection of great movies in the basket over there by the bookshelf,” Lucy said with her usual display of grace under fire. “And we have CDs of your favorite music, a chessboard all set up for you, and if you’ll look on the bottom bookshelf, you’ll find an assortment of popular board games. Please help yourselves.”

  The two
sisters barely made it into the kitchen before they collapsed in belly laughs that they muffled by pressing dishtowels to their faces.

  Lucy sank into one of the chairs. “Twenty-four more hours,” she said longingly. “Then you can say goodbye to innkeeping for six glorious weeks.”

  “I never thought I’d say this, but I need a break.” Rose poured them each some hot chocolate and sat down next to her sister. “How on earth are we going to keep them occupied? Anything short of a Lucky Seven machine and a seafood buffet is going to be a disappointment.”

  “Tough toenails,” Lucy said, making Rose laugh again. “That’s why they stayed here instead of the Hilton, isn’t it? They wanted to live in a real home, and that’s what they got.”

  “I think Mr. Loewenstein will get huffy if I offer them tomato soup and grilled-cheese sandwiches for lunch,” Rose said. “I wasn’t planning on this.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, Rosie.” Lucy stood up and smoothed her skirt over her plump hips. “You have eggs. You have cream. You have Swiss cheese and Gruyère. I’ll whip up a quiche in nothing flat if you’ll make your famous salad with walnut dressing. If we add some of Maddy’s homemade cookies for dessert, they should all be happy as fat little clams.”

  There was no time to debate the menu. They tied on their aprons and got to work.

  IT TOOK MADDY fifteen minutes to drive four blocks. She had forgotten what winter in New Jersey was like and her snow-driving skills were sorely lacking. By the time she slid into position next to the Loewensteins’ monster car, beads of sweat were trickling down her forehead and into her eyes. She had fought the good fight, but it looked as if she just might end up having to buy a vehicle with four-wheel drive.

  She half-walked, half-slid her way to the back steps, then clung to the railing for support as she negotiated her way into the kitchen.

  “Uh-oh,” said Lucy, taking in Maddy’s ice-encrusted hair and jacket. “How bad is it out there?”

  “Gruesome,” Maddy said, slipping out of her wet coat and hanging it in the mudroom to dry. “You could practice for the Olympic speed-skating team on Main Street.”

  Rose had her back to Maddy. She was painstakingly rinsing greens at one of the kitchen sinks, dipping them into a bowl of clear water, lifting them up, then dipping them back in again until every last grain of sand was washed away. Then she rinsed them under running water, popped them into her bright red salad spinner, and spun them until they were bone dry. At home Maddy usually gave her iceberg a quick pass under the faucet, then mopped it dry with a handful of paper towels. It was clear her technique needed some improvement.

  “Mom,” she said, approaching Rose. “I want to say something.”

  “Can it wait?” Rose didn’t turn around to look at her. “The Loewensteins and the Armaghs canceled out on their day trip to Caesar’s. We have to put together lunch for them.”

  Maddy reached for an apron and tied it around her waist. “Just point me in the right direction,” she said to her mother.

  Rose opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again.

  Maddy looked at her. “That was quite a straight line I handed you just now, wasn’t it?”

  Rose tore dry lettuce leaves into bite-sized pieces, then tossed them into the glass salad bowl. “I thought I showed admirable restraint.”

  “You did,” Maddy said. She drew in a deep breath. “I wish I’d showed a little before.”

  Rose’s right eyebrow arched just enough for a daughter to notice, but she said nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” Maddy said. She cleared her throat and drew in another, shakier gulp of air. “I overreacted. I don’t know why and I’m not making excuses.” She placed a tentative hand on her mother’s delicate shoulder. “But I am sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.” Rose neatly tore another stack of lettuce leaves into bite-sized pieces. “I need the tomatoes from the windowsill and some of that wonderful basil.” She added the pieces to the bowl. “Can you chiffonade?”

  “No, but if you hum a few bars . . .”

  Rose sighed, but there was affection in the sound. “Always the wiseguy. Lucy, show your niece how to chiffonade. I think she’s old enough.”

  “I don’t know,” Lucy said, feigning doubt. “I was forty before I even thought about attempting chiffonade.”

  “Very funny,” Maddy said. “I watch the Food Network, too. I can learn.”

  “Come here,” said Rose, pushing aside the lettuce. “Your aunt is busy. I’ll show you.”

  ROSE’S DAUGHTER HAD many skills, but her knife work was not among them.

  “No, no, honey,” Rose said, placing her hand atop Maddy’s. “You angle the tip like this and use it to pivot.”

  Maddy rolled her eyes. “Why does it look so easy when you do it?”

  “Because I’ve been doing it for years. You need a little practice, that’s all.”

  “I need a stunt double is what I need.”

  Rose laughed out loud. “You know, you’re going to be wonderful with Jim Kennedy.”

  “You think?” She sounded doubtful.

  “Do you really believe I would have suggested you if I didn’t know you’d do yourself proud?”

  “So when you said you suggested ‘us’ earlier, you weren’t telling the whole truth.”

  “I didn’t think I needed to, but your reaction was so—”

  “Crazed?”

  “I was going to say ‘emotional.’” She smiled and to her blessed relief her daughter actually smiled back. “I’m not perfect by a long shot, but when it comes to what’s best for my business, I won’t take a backseat to anyone. That interview is going to be a turning point for the Candlelight. Just you wait and see.”

  And maybe, if we’re very lucky, it might be a turning point for us as well.

  “WHERE THE HELL have you been?” Claire demanded as soon as Aidan stepped into the yeasty warmth of O’Malley’s. “And why the hell didn’t you have your cell phone on?”

  Damn.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the cold dead body of his Motorola. “Out of juice,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “Irene fell,” she said. “I tried to call and tell you so I could save you the trip back here in the snow, but—”

  “Fell? What are you talking about?”

  “The nurse said she must have been trying to climb over the bed rails and she took a header. They need your permission to ship her over to Good Sam for X rays.”

  “Is she okay?”

  Claire’s face hardened. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t ask. The old bag is still alive. That’s all I know.”

  “Claire—”

  She raised her hand. “Don’t start. Just get your ass back here as fast as you can. I’m not in the mood for Tommy today.”

  He was out the door and on his way to Shore Haven before she finished the sentence. There was nothing grandmotherly about Irene. Not in the storybook sense of cookies fresh from the oven served by an apple-cheeked woman in a gingham dress. But she was his blood, the only remaining link to his parents and Grandpa Michael. When she died the stories would die with her before he had even had a chance to hear them.

  Since when do you give a shit about family stories, O’Malley? You’ve never been big on nostalgia.

  Hell, he’d spent most of his life trying to forget.

  Irene O’Malley wasn’t a storyteller. The idea of his grandmother sitting down and weaving spellbinding tales about her early life was enough to make him laugh. Grandpa Michael died before Aidan was born, and most of the clues to O’Malley family history died with him. All anyone knew about Irene was that she had been sick and down on her luck when she met Michael at a seaside village in northern Italy. Michael was an Irish seaman who went wherever the seas beckoned, and Irene—well, there you had him. His father told him that he thought Irene had been a lady’s maid to an English noblewoman summering on the Mediterranean. Claire said that Billy told her that Irene had been orphaned as a young child and that she
had gone from pillar to post in search of a roof over her head and food in her belly. Irene had been in her early fifties when Michael died, still young enough to build a new life for herself, but she never remarried. “It’s so romantic,” Kelly had said, sounding much like her mother Sandy before her. “A true forever kind of love.”

  Yeah. Right.

  He was with Claire on this. Irene wasn’t a forever kind of woman. She might live forever, that seemed like a real possibility, but he had never sensed that she had a deep attachment to anything but life itself.

  And even that was only an educated guess.

  What O’Malleys did best was keep secrets. Every damn one of them lived behind a shield of smoke and mirrors designed to keep other O’Malleys away. The fact that it also kept the rest of the world away was a bonus. He had tried to break that chain of solitude with Kelly. How well he’d succeeded was anyone’s guess, but nobody could say it was for lack of trying.

  He and Billy used to lie awake nights when they were very little and listen to their parents fight. They couldn’t understand the meaning behind the ugly words, but the anger came through loud and clear, and the sound of it still lingered in his ears.

  And always there was Irene on the sidelines, watching her family splinter apart the same way she would watch an old movie whose outcome had been determined a long time ago.

  It was done. Finished. Why the hell was he wasting time thinking about any of it? Grandpa Michael was long gone. His parents. His wife.

  Billy.

  Every time, after every loss, he’d struggled to pull himself back up to the surface, and each time it got a little harder, took a little longer. Nobody ever tells you the truth about loss. You don’t only lose someone you love, you lose a part of yourself as well. Your heart. Your humanity. Maybe even your soul.

  It was the samovar, he thought as he skimmed across the icy roads. It had triggered something deep inside his memory banks, something that pulled him closer while staying just out of reach. And then bumping into that student and seeing the photos of Irene and Michael and his father and the original O’Malley in its heyday. A series of coincidences, nothing more than that, but potent just the same.