“Will Kinsey represent him?”
“Flynn? No way. She’s too busy with other things. Anyway, I heard Eastlyn tell Drea that Durke’s planning to reopen the bar under a new name and call it The Shipwreck. Isn’t that a cute name? I think it fits well with the new décor he’s working on. We could go over there tonight after the chopper lands and try to get a peek inside, see if the rumor’s true.”
Sydney looked skyward in frustration. “For one thing, Durke’s bar is a pipe dream. Flynn hasn’t even agreed to sell to him yet. Flynn’s trial isn’t until next spring. He’d have to agree to Durke buying the property while he’s in jail. And secondly, you’re pushing someone off on me again. Knock it off. Seriously. I’m beginning to feel like every man in town thinks I’m some desperate spinster who wants nothing more than to hook up for an evening of entertainment.”
“That’s ridiculous, I just want to see you happy.”
“I know you do. But I moved here specifically to get out from underneath the everyday pressures of working in a busy hospital ER. To put my past behind me just like you did. To experience the same small town atmosphere that you raved about. Despite what you may think, I didn’t come here to find a husband. To tell you the truth, I’ve given up on that idea.”
“But that’s what I don’t want you to do. I don’t want you to give up. You’ve always been my rock, the person I looked up to. Ever since Dad died suddenly, standing in front of his fifth grade science class, you were the one who suggested we save every dime we had for college. You knew, even then, that Mom would need help. You were the one who did things first, and did them well. You were my inspiration for success. You were the one I always wanted to emulate.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You would’ve been successful no matter what I did.”
“I don’t think so. Plus, I made really lousy decisions once I graduated. Not you, the minute you got your degree you went right into nursing and never looked back.”
“You think working in a huge hospital didn’t have its challenges without family around? Think again. It did. There were lots of times I really missed you and Mom. But Mom remarried, moved away to upstate New York, and you stumbled into Pelican Pointe and found Ethan. That left me alone and living clear across the country. Not to mention all the string of horrible choices I made with men, men who never really valued me enough. Almost every single one of them cheated on me at some point.”
“That’s because you kept hooking up with doctors with egos the size of Hawaii.”
“Although it’s true, don’t remind me. Never again will I ever date a doctor. Fortunately for me, here in Pelican Pointe, it’s not an issue.”
“Never say never. Doc’s retiring in a week and you’ll be working with the new guy. Let’s face it, you’ll be getting a new boss whether you want Dr. Blackwood or not.”
“Thanks for that cheery thought,” Sydney grumbled.
Hayden threw an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “No problem. What are sisters for? I don’t think I ever told you this but I’ve always envied your ability to do what you do.”
“You’re trying to butter me up for something.”
“Nope. Just tellin’ it like it is. Not everyone could stand working around all that blood.”
“It’s not like I have to roll around in the stuff. You seem to overlook one thing. While I might have a successful career, you’re a business owner. And when it comes to love you were the big winner, not me.”
Hayden took the time to send glowing looks at her hubby. Ethan had Nate sitting on his shoulders now, pointing toward the chopper finally making its way in for a landing.
She patted Syd’s knee. “I can’t believe I won the lottery there with Ethan.”
Sydney had seen that moony look plenty of times in other people. But she had to face facts. Love eluded her. It just wasn’t in the cards. And that was fine by her.
Quentin Blackwood’s two-year restless streak had brought him to the coast of Central California. Maybe it had been something akin to fate that his uncle on his mother’s side, Douglas Bradford, had left him a piece of property here in town, jumpstarting a call to action. It had been months in the making.
From the moment he learned Douglas had died at the age of seventy-four, he’d decided it was time to leave South Lake Tahoe to explore a few new possibilities.
He’d lived here now for a month. During that time, he still hadn’t gotten used to all of its nuances. He told himself he wasn’t standing out here on the boardwalk to gawk like the rest of the townspeople. He’d simply been doing his shopping, coming back from the store—Murphy’s had had a sale on peanut butter—when he’d spotted the swarm of onlookers and stopped to see what the fuss was all about.
He didn’t think it was the spectacular sunset over the water that drew people outside on a beautiful night like tonight. Although it did make for a pretty picture over the wetlands, his wetlands. He’d have to get used to saying that. For a guy who’d grown up a stone’s throw from Squaw Valley, the beach provided another panoramic photo op each day.
Quentin watched as adults angled their heads toward the night sky, waiting, watching. The kids, on the other hand, played tag on the mall of grass or ran after a ball or a Frisbee with a totally different agenda than the grownups—giving their all in pursuit of a good time before the sun went down and they got hauled off to bed.
The chief of police, Brent Cody—who lived across the street with his wife and kid—tried to shepherd the youngsters a safe distance away from the landing site, making sure the throng stayed back at a secure distance.
It was as if the entire town had left their suppers to make a big deal out of a helicopter coming in for a landing. Nowhere else could such a simple event cause a turnout like this, Quentin mused.
Maybe that’s why he took a few extra minutes to stand on the dock and take it all in. Holding his sacks of groceries, he looked around at the crowd. He could sense their optimism, feel the vibration of their feet on the wooden pier. It made him cringe a little thinking about how the weight might be too much for the wharf to handle.
He shook off that kind of paranoia, shook off the fear. He’d become a nervous ninny about a lot of things since his ordeal. Of course the pier could hold any number of people, hold its weight in spades. Instead of worrying, he focused on how small towns could always find a reason to celebrate something.
Tonight, it was one of the locals bringing in a vintage, Bell-made Sioux H-13 chopper. This one was painted a royal blue on its sleek underbelly with a swath of white on its tail. It carried the city logo on both doors like a proud eagle in flight.
Quentin heard the rhythmic wop wop wop of the rotors before he actually spotted the helicopter. For him, a memory flashed and flickered, taking him back briefly to another time and place. But it didn’t stay long enough in his mind to keep him standing in the same spot. Someone else would have to watch Eastlyn Parker bring the whirlybird in and set it down on the new concrete landing pad. He had stuff to do.
Besides, his bags were getting heavy. He supposed he should’ve taken the car, but it was such a nice night for a stroll to the store that he’d opted to walk into town instead. These days, he preferred it.
While everyone else around him raised their arms, waving and clapping, roaring in approval, he continued his path around the wharf to the old cannery he’d taken a shine to.
But not without some serious persuasion. For that, he’d gotten a powerful pitch from the local attorney.
Kinsey Donnelly had told him over the phone that the property he’d inherited was in sad shape, but sad didn’t nearly describe the old packing house. For decades the place had been used to can sardines, right up to the start of World War II in fact. But when the war raged on, the business fell on hard times and was eventually shut down in 1946.
Vacant and abandoned, it hadn’t taken long for the salt water to begin a slow rot of the wood. The wind and weather took their turn at eating away the floor and pilings. Year
by year, it fell more and more into disrepair until its present state was more of an eyesore on the community.
“Don’t let the looks fool you,” Kinsey had said. “It has good bones to it.” The tall, caramel-colored brunette had gone on to point out that if done right, it’d make a great loft with a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean. The land would only climb in value. And if improved upon, it would be a good investment for anyone.
She’d continued her sales pitch, explaining in detail the fine print of the will. “Plus, your uncle left it to you, free and clear, except for the yearly taxes. Mr. Bradford’s fondest wish was that the property remain forever in the family. I know because I helped him draw up his will and that was what troubled him the most—the fact his nearest kin would want to get rid of it right away without a thought to keeping it.”
“There’s not much cause for me to keep a rundown cannery. I’m not rolling in money,” Quentin had told her.
Kinsey had patted him on the arm with the patience of Mother Teresa. “Maybe this is what you need right now. I should warn you. Doc Prescott’s phoned me twice already making sure he meets with you while you’re in town. He plans to woo you during your visit. If that’s not enough, rumor has it that his wife will throw in a signing bonus just to get you to take over Doc’s practice.”
Quentin had let out a sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know. Belle Prescott’s texted me four times since I drove into town.”
“See, where else would you get such a warm welcome?”
“I know, but I’ve always lived in the Lake Tahoe area. That place is my home.”
A determined Kinsey fired back in challenge. “Come on, Dr. Blackwood, where’s your sense of adventure, your creativity?”
“I must’ve left it back on the 101.”
He recalled Kinsey’s laugh had come from deep in the throat. “What happened to setting your sights on a brand-new career? This town could use a doctor like you.”
He remembered flexing the fingers on his left hand. He knew since the shooting he’d never again be the trauma surgeon he’d once been. Maybe that’s why the deciding factor hadn’t been the rumored signing bonus but rather getting his first look at the property. He’d stood in front of the ramshackle packing house and taken in the surrounding view. Something had pulled inside him as he’d realized its potential, and not just a monetary gain in some distant future transaction.
Undeterred by an obstinate male, Kinsey had saved her best nugget for last. She’d looked at the doctor and said with as much sincerity as she could, “You could always sell it to the city. But if you did that it would likely sit here another decade and rot without any TLC at all. As the former mayor here, Mr. Bradford adored this town. If you give us half a chance, I honestly think you’ll come to love it and the people as much as he did.”
Quentin had taken one look at the outstretched hand she’d offered in hopes of sealing the deal and hadn’t hesitated. Because the truth was, he needed a change. If it meant clearing out of his beloved condo in South Lake Tahoe, then so be it. Maybe it was time to make a new beginning. A change of scenery might get his adrenaline going again. He’d put his hand in Kinsey’s and the two had locked in the deal. “You ever thought of going into real estate?”
“Nah, I’m the town’s only lawyer. Just like after Doc retires, you’ll be the only doctor here. It’s a big responsibility.”
At the joke, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure he was ready to take on that kind of weight. Plus, there was another problem. “There’s just one other thing that bothers me. I don’t much like the idea of leaving my grandmother to fend for herself back in Tahoma. In fact, the idea of it nags at me. She’s getting on in years.”
“No worries. Fix the place up and bring her down here to live.”
“Already brought that up to her. She nixed the notion of moving. For now, anyway.”
Kinsey had tilted her head. “You don’t strike me as a man who’d give up that easily. Keep working on her. You move here and she’ll likely miss her grandson enough to pack up a U-Haul and relocate. You’ll see.”
So with those words of wisdom, he and the savvy lawyer had headed to her office to complete a stack of paperwork. Afterward, she’d handed him the keys to a rundown piece of property no one else wanted. “There are plenty of carpenters in town who’d be more than happy to help you with the revamp. You should give them a call.”
He’d taken her advice and hired a trio of them—Ryder McLachlan, Troy Dayton, and Zach Dennison—owners of a boatbuilding business in town, who took turns moonlighting as contractors on the side. After checking out their references, these guys seemed to be the go-to team in town who had refurbishing down to a fine art.
Now, after just four weeks, he was knee-deep in making the place livable. Getting here had been like starting from the ground up. Living conditions had been so deplorable inside that he’d had to pitch a tent twenty yards from the beach just to sleep. He didn’t mind the hardship of camping out. Sitting on his butt around a campfire, he’d put up with the view. As far as the eye could see, the lapping waters of Smuggler’s Bay sent their gentle waves to shore in a rhythmic beat that never grew tiresome. Above his head sat a craggy stone bluff where the lighthouse sent out its beam across the rippling waters of the Pacific. He didn’t mind its intermittent flashes of warning. To him, the lighthouse represented a hope that things could change for the better.
Over his shoulder to the northeast, he had the view of his own tiny peninsula, a green outcrop filled with beach grass, a flurry of red poppies, and a smattering of wild strawberries. All three had taken root in the sandy soil. Maybe he could, too.
On his first night here while scouting for firewood, he’d combed the beaches, found more sand dollars than he knew what to do with, and bits of sea glass for the taking.
For the first time in a long time, he’d been excited about something, involved in something other than the disappointment about his career and the pain from his long recovery process.
When his arm began to throb and go numb as it often did after carrying a heavy load, he started to move down the boardwalk. Some days the aching nerve made him feel a lot older than his thirty-seven years. Tonight, was one of those times.
He crossed through the shallow water, then up the steps to the wooden bridge the carpenters had repaired with planks made from sturdy California bay laurel. Walking the trestle that connected the beach to the cannery, he stopped once to admire the craftsmanship under his feet. His crew had known how to construct a sturdy walkway that would last another fifty years or more.
The weight of the bags got him moving again. At the front door, the smell of new lumber carried him inside even before he hit the lights.
Plodding across the poplar flooring, courtesy of Zach Dennison, he’d gratefully toast the fact that all three capable men had finished installing the new roof. Thanks to Ryder McLachlan he had brand-new wiring and painted walls at opposite ends of the wide-open layout. Troy Dayton had given him arched bookshelves to store his massive collection of books along with two finished front and back walls that would soon hold a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows.
The plate glass was due in Monday and Quentin intended to be at Tucker Ferguson’s Hardware Store first thing to pick up his order and then let the trio of experts do their thing.
The place was still little more than a hollow shell, but at least he no longer had to sleep outside. And as of that morning, he had running water and indoor plumbing, which meant he could take a long, hot shower before crawling into his sleeping bag tonight.
He turned on his music by hitting a button on an old boombox he used to hold his collection of classical CDs. Vivaldi soared out of the little speaker.
After stacking his groceries on the part of the bookshelves nearest what would eventually become his kitchen, he turned to put the perishables—butter, milk, and creamer for his coffee—in the stainless steel refrigerator delivered just that morning. The crew had had a helluva tou
gh time muscling the thing across the water, but he realized now it had been well worth the trouble.
The empty fridge meant he’d have to make another trip to Murphy’s and buy more food.
Instead of writing his supply list, he got sidetracked by the view. Moonlight trailed in through the open spaces. He could drag his sleeping bag over to this spot and still take advantage of the lush wetland setting.
When his cell phone rang, he glanced at the readout and cracked a grin. He slid the bar to answer the call and stated flatly, “Jack, if you plan to tell me you’re retiring before next Friday, you should know I’m still in vacation mode.”
“Don’t hand me that,” Jack Prescott drawled. “You’ve got another week before I hand you the reins and that’s it. So you best get out of vacation mode real quick and start thinking about the business of getting back into the routine of everyday doctoring.”
“Doctoring I can do. I think. Tonight I’m more concerned with being able to stitch people up with my left hand that tremors occasionally than I am about the business end of it. What if I can’t do it? What if I’m not ready?”
“Nonsense. You’re a skilled surgeon.”
“Was,” Quentin corrected. “Even you have to admit I’ll never be what I was. As long as I have trouble with one of my hands…”
“Maybe. But like I told you before, you’re still a damn fine doctor, which translates to a fine primary care physician. The town desperately needs that kind of man.”
“Why don’t you mention that a couple of hundred times in the next week to your nurse? The blonde keeps giving me major attitude, maybe even doubts my abilities. That’ll be a problem right off.”
“Did Sydney say something to you?”
“She didn’t have to. I don’t think she likes me very much. Not a great way to begin my career here.”
“She’s from the big city and knows more about emergency medicine and procedures than anyone within two hundred miles of here. Sydney Reed knows her stuff and doesn’t hesitate to take charge when the situation warrants it. You’re lucky to get her.”
Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon Page 3
