My cell vibrates against my bum, where I’ve stored it in my pocket, and a quiver of guilt creeps in. I realized on my walk this morning that I should’ve been straight with Camille about this trip. She may act young and seemingly directionless, but she deserves to know that while we always have Missouri to fall back on, now that I’m finally here, well, I don’t want to leave.
Being here again after so much time away, immersed in the familiar smells and the warmth of the town of my birth, makes me want to pull out the yellow pages and find someone, somewhere, who remembers the Sweet family. Mother was vague about that prospect—too many years had passed, she said—but I suppose that a woman in love who is about to embark on the adventure of her life with a man as vigorous as Derrick might have other things on her mind.
Don’t go there. I open my phone. “Good morning, Camille.”
“Hey,” she says, her voice groggy. “I’m kinda hungry. You coming back soon?”
“I could.”
“Okay. Hurry, ’cuz I’m starved.”
I slide the phone into the pocket of my windbreaker. She went from hungry to starving awfully fast. She can eat six square meals a day and not gain an ounce. Definitely unfair.
After one last look at the water, I head back along the narrow boardwalk to the old inn we checked into last evening. Betty, the elderly clerk at the Bayside, as the lodge is known, couldn’t hand us the key fast enough. We should have been here by afternoon, but Camille had wanted to “star” watch in Malibu, then splurge in some of the shops and grab some Chai on the famed State Street in Santa Barbara. By the time we made it this far north, we had eaten our way through much of Southern California, and I for one had little energy left for anything but sleep. I awoke this morning, tucked into crisp sheets wearing nothing but my undies, proving once again that I’m doing all sorts of new things these days.
Camille stops me at the door of our room. “Yippee! You’re here. Let’s eat.” We walk back outside and around the corner to a small diner attached to the inn. Inside, the Red Abalone Grill gleams.
As I glance around for the hostess, Camille grabs my wrist, her eyes wide and dramatic. “Do you smell that or what! This place is my new best friend, Tara. C’mon, let’s find a seat.”
We slide into a padded booth, and a waitress with strawberry blonde spirals flits by carrying a coffee pot and a contented smile. She pauses just long enough to drop off two menus before sliding from table to table in our row, pouring coffee and refilling creamer bowls with stash from the front pocket of her apron.
Camille shuts her menu. “So I’ll have the large stack with the Texas scramble . . . and two crêpes with the silky cherry sauce.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, the crêpes aren’t on the menu, but I saw them on the board when we came in. Over there.”
She points at a white board situated above a counter that’s one part retro, one part country, and one part diner dive: Formica top with aluminum trim, oak-trimmed stools, and the customary red and yellow condiment bottles for accent. The eclectic décor hasn’t done a thing to dissuade customers, as nearly every stool is filled. A portly woman moves fast, like an overstuffed hummingbird, delivering meals and shouting orders to the cooking crew behind another taller counter.
Our waitress appears with pad in hand, and Camille’s ready. While she rattles off her man-sized order of carbs, I glance out the window in time to see a spray of surf ricochet off a collection of boulders. Some of the droplets land in spots on the flat dirt pad at the edge of the street and some on a jogger running by, who tries without success to dodge them. He’s about the same height and build as Trent and, for just a moment, I think I’m homesick.
A silence-shattering crash of dishware, followed by a string of words fit for cable TV startles us. Our waitress yelps, shoves her order pad into a pocket, and quickly excuses herself.
Camille grunts. “That didn’t sound good.”
I nod, distracted by the noise, and it’s then that I notice him. Has he been in here all along? Just as our waitress flies kitchenward, the man springs from his stool and in one leap lands behind the counter, his black T-shirt molded to his back and pulled taut between his shoulder blades. When he squats below the counter, a few wavy tufts of golden hair peek out over the top.
Camille leans across the table until I can smell the citrus fragrance of her shampoo. “Hot guy alert. Is he some kind of superhero, or what?”
I shake my head, still aware of the growing commotion going on behind that counter. “Maybe someone’s really hurt back there.”
When I move to stand, Camille places a hand on mine. “C’mon, don’t, Tara. We’re on vacation. Let someone else help out for awhile.” She glances toward the kitchen where a group has gathered, their faces focused downward. “Looks like they’ve got plenty of help over there anyway. We’d just be in the way.”
I chew the inside of my lip. Camille still thinks we’re just visiting. Enjoying a long respite. This is not my intent, of course, and I do want her to take part in the decision to make Otter Bay our new home. Eventually. Anyway, until we decide this for certain together, she’s right, we are just on vacation. Still, what could it hurt to walk over and just make sure that whoever’s on that floor right now will be able to get back up?
“Be back in just a second, Cam.”
She blows out a stream of air. “All right, but while you’re over there, at least grab the coffee pot for me, ’kay?”
There, sprawled out behind the counter in her comfortable shoes, is the dear little old lady I’d seen bustling about earlier. Poor thing.
Superhero man’s face hovers over hers. “Stay still, Peg. The guys are on their way with the ambulance.”
She reaches upward, and I think she’s about to whisper that she’s in pain, or maybe cough out a thank-you. Instead, her voice surges from the chaos. “You tell those lamebrains not to track sand all over my restaurant. And Jorge? Jor-ge!”
Our waitress leans across the taller counter and calls to a stocky cook, who scurries toward the woman on the ground. “Yes, ma’am?”
“What are you waiting for? A tsunami? This isn’t the entertainment hour! Get those orders out—and don’t let Holly mess with my recipes!”
He salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Our waitress, whose tag announces she’s the Holly with a penchant for dabbling with recipes, dabs her eyes with a napkin.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask.
“Oh, would you? Here.” Holly hands me the coffee carafe, and I think I can hear Camille whooping it up from across the diner. “Would you refill customers’ cups?”
I blink and glance around. “You want me to . . . ?” I’ve never worked in a restaurant, or any other service-oriented business. Ever. Not that the idea hadn’t ever appealed to me. I’ve been told that like other little girls I once owned a plastic cash register and regularly borrowed cereal boxes and canned goods from my mother’s cupboards, all to supply the store set up in the living room on school-free days. Yet whenever I applied for a job, even as a teenager, management would point me toward a desk and phone, or an inventory sheet, or toward empty shelves that needed stocking. They told me I was reliable, hardworking, sturdy. Always wanted to question that last one, but figured it was a compliment so I never did say anything.
The waitress smiles at me, hope in her eyes, so I take the pot from her hand. “Sure, I can do that.”
She sniffles. “Thanks.”
I’m not even two steps along before finding a plain white mug thrust toward my face. “Oh, okay, here you are.” I pour and manage not to splash on the man’s hairy hand.
“You new here?” Several days of uneven gray stubble blanket the man’s face.
Is he kidding? I hesitate, and glance over my shoulder. “Did you see . . . ? Are you aware of what’s going on back . . . ?”
His tiny, colorless eyes have not left my face and it occurs to me that he’s single-minded. From behind him, among the booths, a han
d raises. I glance over at a rambunctious family of six squished around a table for four. The father of the group gives me a weary smile and raises his cup, and I move to give him the refill he so obviously needs.
“Whoa now”—the old man stops me again—“don’t be gone long now, you hear? You just keep that hot pot comin’ . . . along with that smile o’ yours.” He bares teeth that are yellow and uneven as a homemade haircut.
Oh, brother. It’s not that I can’t handle him or this pot of coffee in my hand, unfamiliar as the sensation may be. I’ve dealt with plenty of blustering customers in my job—in my old job—as the accounts receivable rep for Hudson’s Auto Parts back in Dexton. By the time I have to give them a call, their accounts are more than forty-five days past due and they’re in no mood to talk with me.
So why does my face feel as hot as a sizzling fry pan at the moment?
Camille appears at my elbow. “What are you doing?” she hisses in my ear. I smile and nod at an elderly man in a felt beret who’s playing solitaire in a corner booth. Camille skips along to keep up with me as I slosh coffee into waiting cups as if I’ve been doing this my entire life. “Just helping. Go sit until . . . oh look, the ambulance is here.”
Camille’s eyes perk as two boyish paramedics enter the restaurant. “Gotta go . . . help.”
Right.
Curiosity has placed its grip on me too, so I follow her toward the chaotic scene behind the counter. Besides, the coffee pot I’m carrying needs to be refilled. Before I can get there, though, a tug on the back of my blouse nearly pulls me over and when I spin around, the stainless steel pot smacks into the superhero who’d leaped over the counter to help the woman who had fallen.
I gasp.
He holds up both palms and releases a subtle “oomph.”
I find his eyes, and they seem to question me, traveling from my face, down to the carafe in my hand, and back up until they meet my eyes.
I force words from a mouth suddenly gone dry. “S-sorry. Didn’t mean to bump you.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something when we’re interrupted by an irritable voice—and another tug at the back of my shirt. “Wait your turn, slugger. I had her first.”
I break eye contact with superhero guy and turn to see the grizzled man with his yellow teeth giving me a disconcerting mixture of scowl and smirk.
“Excuse me, sir, but did you just grab my clothes?”
“Like that, did you?”
I grip the coffee pot tighter. Otherwise I might brain the guy with it. That’s when Eliza Carlton’s fully made-up face appears in my mind, along with her admonishment to do as she would do. Go ahead, unleash your inner kick butt girl . . . but do it with confidence. Instill healthy fear.
Easier said than carried out. Kicking butt is not my problem. I had the highest rate of paid bills over at Hudson’s. One call from me and most payments came in within a day, or most certainly within the week. But fear me? Highly unlikely. What is likely is that customers grew tired of me. I could hear it in their voices, or worse, see it on the faces of those unlucky souls whose bosses would rather send their gopher to drop off past-due payments than spring for a stamp.
My irascible customer dangles his mug from three fingers, and I realize that I’m the one who’s tired. Tired of men who tell me what to do, who believe that one call from them, or one summons—or one grab of my clothes—will have me spinning.
“Refill, gorgeous?” he growls.
Slowly, as if Eliza is my acting coach, I feel myself bend at the waist. I lean one elbow on the counter, rest my chin in my hand, and set the carafe down with the other. The man’s eyes are mere inches from mine. When a waft of his stale coffee-breath assaults my nose, I nearly lose character, but then quickly shake it off. “You know something, fella?”
His yellow smile broadens. “What’s that?”
“I wouldn’t lift a finger for you if I hadn’t a dime in my purse and you were the only customer left on this big ol’ earth.”
His icky smile fades, and in its place I see acquiescence. And a flash of respect.
I straighten, both stunned by my behavior and awed by the results of Eliza’s advice. When I turn around, resident superhero still stands behind me, only his head leans to one side, like I’m an algebraic equation he just can’t figure out. He sends me a lopsided smirk, one thick brow cocked upward, and that’s when something else that Eliza always says pops into my head:
Confidence rocks, baby.
Chapter Five
Camille’s tinkling laughter punctuates the din, and my sanity returns.
“What was that? What happened to my sane and, sorry to say this but, boring cousin?” She’s rocking forward and back, her hands in a praying position in front of her merry little lips. “This is huge.”
I twist toward her in an effort to make this a private conversation. “Shush. More coffee?”
Camille snorts just as Holly bustles over smoothing a cascade of curls, which promptly flop forward as she pulls her hand away. She rests both hands on narrow hips and says, “Well. Things’ll be a changin’ around here.” She raises her chin toward the superhero, whose eyesight is fixed out the window following the ambulance as it ambles out of the drive. “Thanks so much, Josh, for handlin’ her. Not sure what I would’ve done without you to soothe that woman’s nerves.”
He moves his gaze from the window. “Only did what I’m trained for. And you would have done fine without me. Peg’s like a mother to you.”
“Eh. I love her, you know, but she can be such a pill.”
He touches her shoulder. “I know, and I know.” He makes eye contact with me, his acknowledgment sending a startling quake through my belly. I’ve always been drawn to dark-haired men, religiously so, and my reaction to him and his golden locks startles me.
That rumble in my stomach slows but he doesn’t linger after nodding at Camille and me, saying, “Ladies,” before heading away.
Holly turns to us. “You girls were lifesavers too. I don’t even know you, but there you were. How about I have Jorge fix you a nice breakfast, on the house?”
“That’s not necessary,” I begin, but Camille grabs my elbow.
Holly smiles. “Go on now and sit down. I’ll be right over.”
Much of the diner has cleared out, all except for the few customers who have wandered in pleasantly unaware of the drama that recently unfolded. Thankfully, the letch at the counter hobbled out before I had the chance to do something even more rash. The beret-wearing gentleman still sits in a corner booth, and as our old table is now occupied, we slide into a spot next to him. He’s staring at a hand of cards spread before him.
Camille’s gaze follows Josh as he hops into his truck just outside our window. The corner of her mouth quirks. “I think I’m gonna like this place.”
“He’s too old for you.”
“But not for you, Tara.” She winks. “Although he’s kind of tortured . . . like an artist. Do you think he paints or something?”
“Such imagination.”
Our elderly neighbor cuts in. “A fireman.”
“Excuse me?”
“The man you were speaking of is a fireman. One of the bravest there is.”
Camille falls back against the padded booth. “Perfect! You, Miss Careful herself, with the likes of a super-hot fireman. They run into burning buildings, you know.”
I fix a scowl on my face, the same kind of expression my mother should have put on when Camille would drink straight from the jug of iced tea. I hated that it was somehow my job to deal with that. Anyway, it doesn’t work. Her cackling reminds me of Mel’s whenever Trent and I would arrive home from the bowling alley, flush with victory. I shake my head.
The man wears a contented smile and cups his coffee mug. “May I ask you something . . . Tara, is it?
Camille, whose back is to him, wiggles her eyebrows. I ignore her. “Of course, what can I do for you?”
“I have this hand here”—he points to the cards, tha
t until now I hadn’t paid close attention to, and I see that he’s midway through a game of solitaire—“and I’m perplexed about which move to make at this juncture.”
Camille and I exchange the briefest of glances before I slide out of the booth. “May I?”
He nods, and I sit across from him. The cards are, of course, upside down to me, but somehow this is not a problem.
“I have this spot open here.” He taps the table where a card is supposed to be. “I can move one of my kings there, but I have two available to me and it is not quite clear which one is better suited for that spot.”
He has a point. He’s involved in a basic game of Klondike, like Dad and I used to play when the weather became too cold to do anything but sit in front of the fire and entertain ourselves with cards. He should have seven piles of cards across, but he’s already down to six and needs to fill in a spot.
Camille pipes up. “Just play eeny-meeny to figure out which one to move.”
“You’ll have to excuse her”—I offer a slight shake of my head—“she hasn’t had her breakfast yet.”
My cousin snorts, but it comes out like a dainty breath. “Mom always plays it that way.”
The old gentleman’s eyes sparkle and he bows his head. “The name’s Nigel. Forgive my impropriety.”
“I’m Tara, and this is my sister, Camille.” No sense giving a thorough explanation of our relationship to a stranger.
“Your sister? Yes, yes. I see the resemblance. A pleasure to meet you both.”
“And you as well. As far as which choice to make, you could go either way, but if it were me, I’d move this king here.” I tap one of the cards.
Sweet Waters Page 3
