Sweet Waters

by Julie Carobini

  “I see.” With slow, deliberate momentum, Nigel sits upright and pushes himself back from the table. He watches me, his eyes gently creased at the corners. Except for those slight folds, his face is smooth as a baby’s. “So you think that would be the better choice? The safer one?”

  Camille laughs. “Yeah, that’s Tara. We can always rely on her to take the safe way.”

  I laugh like I’ve been slapped on the back. Hard. “Well, you could move the other king, but if there’s no usable card beneath it, you’ll be stuck. Whereas if you take the king from this smaller stack,” I rest my hand across the cards, “then you’ll have a better chance of keeping this game going.”

  Nigel chuckles. “I believe you,” as he moves his king. I begin to slide from the booth when he stops me with a show of his palm. “I wonder if you two will join me. I would like to—”

  Holly appears with plates of crêpes, eggs for me, a Texas scramble for Camille, and bacon for both of us. “Here you go, ladies. Fresh from the kitchen. I’ll just put these at Nigel’s table.” Camille slides into the booth next to me. “I hope you like it, ’cuz Jorge was pretty rushed back there. He wanted to make you some of his Belgian waffles, too, but I told him, ‘Jorge, those girls are skinny like rails! There’s no place for them to put all that food!’ But if I’m wrong, you just go on and tell me and I’ll have him whip some up for you.”

  Camille stops our waitress before she goes. “Did you make that on a hairpin lace loom?”

  Holly touches the fabric tied around her waist. “Sure did. You like it? It’s really just a scarf, but I’m usin’ it like a belt. Tryin’ to dress things up around here.”

  Camille’s eyes light up. “I love it.”

  Holly turns to go. “Well, too bad you girls are just passin’ through or I’d show you how to make one for yourself.”

  As Holly heads for the kitchen, I reach for the salt. “You were going to say something, Nigel?”

  His gaze follows Holly, as if still contemplating her use of a scarf for a belt. He snaps out of his trance. “It was nothing important.”

  Camille digs in, and an all-too familiar uneasiness settles over me that I just can’t process. What in the world am I doing here? Wasn’t it just yesterday that Camille and I rolled into this familiar old town? And now here we sit, having a free breakfast with a stranger. I suppress a twitter. This very situation reminds me of the time that Eliza Carlton’s Harley broke down in the sultry desert. She managed to find a kindly shopkeeper who offered her an iced coffee and a soft place to lay her head.

  Of course, the drink had been drugged and she soon found herself groggy and locked in the shop’s pantry. She might have died there had she not concocted a way to jimmy the lock with a rusty can opener.

  Nigel stirs his tea. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Tara.”

  I blink twice.

  “I’d like to hire you.”

  Camille’s fork stops.

  I mentally erase my daydream. Of all the things this gentle, beret-wearing man might say to me, offering employment never came to mind. And despite the touch of unease I’d experienced only moments ago, the idea of finding a nice quiet job here in my birth town sends a wave of calm right through me. I shrug off the sensation, though, because Camille and I’ve been in this tiny coastal town less than twenty-four hours. How would it look, my setting down roots? We should at least give the extended vacation idea a try.

  Then again, maybe Nigel runs an Internet business and needs someone to work behind a computer. I can do that from anywhere.

  He folds his hands on the table in front of him like a polite young man asking for a favor. “An employee of mine is about to go out on maternity leave, and I believe you would quite competently handle her job at my inn.”

  His declaration hits me like a splash of sea water. “Your inn? I’ve never met anyone who owns an inn before.”

  He nods. “It has been in my mother’s family for many years. I am the last, I’m afraid. My sister Judy operated it until just a few years ago when she took ill and passed on. I returned to Otter Bay after many years away to become the proprietor. I can only hope to continue running it for many years to come.”

  “No children, then?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Where is your inn, Nigel?

  “It’s the one you and your sister are staying in—The Bayside.”

  “Really? It’s lovely.” And cheap.

  “It’s old.”

  I laugh lightly. “Well, it’s weathered, and there’s something poetic about that.”

  Camille quirks a brow. Her lips are coated with shiny syrup. Silently I beg her not to open her crêpe-filled mouth, but I’ve little hope that my soundless warning will reach her. Old habits are the hardest to break.

  “What are you talking about, Tara?”

  I glance at my cousin. Is she ready to hear about some of my long-held, hidden desires? Am I ready to let them out of their box? I exhale.

  “I’ve always been drawn to the idea of staying along the coast in a time-worn inn that holds a secret past, you know that.” At least, I think she knows that. I laugh at the daft look on Camille’s face, and it feels good to let my emotions ride high. It’s been a long time. “Not that the Bayside has any secrets, mind you. But the idea of it feels very romantic and otherworldly. So many people have come and stayed and gone again, and you have to wonder what some of their stories might have been. What kind of baggage did they come with, that disappeared with the waves? Does that make sense? Do you know what I mean?”

  Camille sets down her fork. “What I think is that you needed this vacation more than we all thought.”

  My face heats and I avoid Nigel’s stare. “What do you mean, ‘more than we all thought’? Who’s we?”

  She shrugs. “Mel and me. And Trent.”

  I stand. “Trent? You’ve been talking to him behind . . . behind my back? Why would you do that?”

  Her eyes widen, and her gaze escapes toward the window. “He says he broke up with you for your own good. He says he really cares about you, but that you needed some, um, shaking up.” Camille’s eyes come back to mine. “I told him I thought that was mean—if that helps any. Don’t be mad, Tare-tare.”

  A thick ball of emotion lodges in my throat, and even Camille’s term of endearment for me won’t dissolve it. “I can’t believe my family betrayed me. You all did, talking with him. He’s been promising me a ring for how many years now? I believed in him and . . .” I glance over at Nigel, and drop down again next to Camille. “I’m so sorry to be talking about this in front of you, Nigel. So much for secrets. My sister and I will finish this conversation later, but I do want to thank you for your offer of employment. I’m flattered.”

  He nods again. “Well then, I hope you will consider it.”

  “Well, no, I’m sorry, but that won’t be possible. We’re just on vacation.” I say the word through gritted teeth, because this is hardly the respite I’d planned. What else have my sisters said about me? And do I really want to know? “Besides, I’ve never done the books for an inn.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t planned to ask you to work with my accounting.”

  “No? Of course not. How could you have known what kind of work I’m qualified for? I suppose perhaps you wanted me to clean rooms then, but I’ve no exper—”

  Camille squeaks. “A maid?”

  I turn to growl at her. “It’s honest work. And I put a high price on honesty.”

  “Ladies.” We both look at Nigel. “Tara, I think you’d be a welcome addition to my front desk staff. I watched you serving the customers here just a half hour ago, and you have a marvelous way with people.”

  He stuns me with his gracious assessment. I’ve been in the background longer than the backup singers on American Idol. Like them, I’ve known that this was my place, and I’ve held that knowledge as my own badge of honor. There’s nothing wrong with working behind the scenes. Somebody has to do it, or else those at the fron
t will suffer, and then the entire production will fall apart. Not that working the front desk of an inn is any great triumph. I’ve just never had anyone pluck me out of a crowd and put me in a spot where customers could see me first. Doesn’t he know the danger in that?

  He continues. “I noticed that your reservation was open-ended, causing me to wonder if perhaps you and your sister might be in town for an extended time. I do hope you will reconsider.”

  I open my mouth to end this conversation, when Camille reaches for my hand. “Take the job.” Something fierce forms in her expression, as if any resistance from me will be pushed back. She suddenly looks very much the adult she is becoming.

  This, however, won’t keep me from trying. “Oh, Camille, I’m not in the market for a new job.” Yet.

  Her brows arch. “I know you think I’m flighty, but I’m not stupid, Tara. I know how much you want to stay here.”

  “You mean how much you and Mel and Trent think I need to stay here.”

  She rustles her curls with a quick shake of her head. “None of ’em think you need more than a vacation. Trent’ll be the most surprised, because he even figured you’d come running back after seeing that there really wasn’t anything all that special here.” She glances out the window to watch as the two paramedics who came in earlier—one with a particularly deep tan—stroll in, probably on break. Camille glances back at me with a curvy smile. “I don’t agree with them.”

  Had I not been so self-absorbed, I might have smiled back at my flirty cousin, but all I could think of was that Trent expected me to come home a changed woman. As if planning my life around his for the past five years hadn’t convinced him that he should love me as I am.

  I straighten my shoulders and meet Nigel’s gaze. “When would you need me to start?”

  Chapter Six

  Nigel very kindly allowed me a week to kick around Otter Bay before I’d need to report for my new part-time duties as front-desk clerk for his inn. In that time, we picked up an old red Mustang cheap, solely because Camille campaigned for something cute and colorful—in this case, apple red—and a far cry from the four-door gray Nissan I sold to our former neighbor’s mother before moving out here. What I’ve noticed most about our new ride is the way it boisterously announces our presence even before we reach our destination.

  Also this week we found plenty of time to wet our toes in our new, old hometown. Camille and I wandered along the foot-worn paths that led to cliffs so battered by waves that natural stairways have been created in the rock. I missed Mel more than I let on to Camille, but I knew how much she’d hate all this frolicking in the great outdoors.

  Until today. Today we came upon a cove protected by overhanging rock and shallow tides, and so brimming with vibrant purple urchins and golden sea stars that goose bumps alighted across my skin. I have the unmistakable sense that I’ve been here before. And if so, then Mel has surely been here too.

  I check my watch. Her first interview is in an hour. The sure sound of a door slamming pulls my attention to the top of the cliff, and I glance up. Will the deserted spot I covet soon be invaded? No one appears, although it is tough to tell from beneath the bill of my baseball cap. All this sun is a new phenomenon, so I’ve been careful all week to shield my light skin from its assault.

  Camille has removed her flip-flops, and now wades in a tide pool one rock formation over from me where rolling waves lap. I try, again, to remember this place, but all I can conjure are vague images, as if the pictures in my mind are veiled by sheens of running water. The briny smell of the ocean fills my senses, and I allow my eyes to flop shut in an effort to pull memories from my subconscious.

  “The tide’s rolling in, ladies.”

  My eyes jerk open, and I tip my head up just as a man lands not two feet from me in the thick sand. So much for using the nature-made stairs. From beneath my cap I can see that he appears to be ready for a hike in the nearby redwood forest with his battered hiking boots, scarred denims, and long-sleeved tee. His eyes crinkle as he narrows them, staring out after Camille. “Can she swim?”

  There’s a familiar smoothness to his voice. It’s the firefighter who hopped the counter at the Red Abalone Grill last week to rescue the fallen owner.

  “Y-yes, of course.” Why am I stammering? “We all learned how when we were very young.”

  He doesn’t look at me but stands with arms crossed and feet apart, much like a security guard might if he was, say, protecting the stage door for one Eliza Carlton. I almost expect him to turn his head to one side and whisper into a mic.

  “It’s a good thing,” he says. “Although this isn’t the kiddie pool at the Y. That water may look calm, but it can be unforgiving. You might want to tell . . .”

  “My sister.”

  “You might want to caution your sister about the tides. They can be dangerous if you’re not used to them.”

  Do we look like country bumpkins? “She’s good. I know, because I taught her myself.”

  He’s unimpressed, still standing there like he’s keeping watch. The only thing missing is a pair of red lifeguard trunks. His presence has set my relaxed beach walk on edge and resentment settles in my back, its rigid tension crawling up my spine. Trent always seemed to know what was best for me too.

  “Watch for algae that spreads over the rocks. Green, slippery stuff. She wouldn’t be the first young woman to need stitches after a fall off the rocks.”

  “Mm-hm. Okay, thanks, but she’ll be fine.” You can go now. “When we lived in Missouri, we swam in the Lake of the Ozarks often. More miles of shoreline at the lake than the entire state of California—and I’m not kidding.”

  “And does the lake have swells like that?” He flicks his well-defined chin upward and out toward an east-facing wave that’s gaining height and speed as it moves toward us.

  I pry my lips apart. “Camille! Tide’s coming in!”

  She swishes her face in my direction and in a flash, her expression changes from annoyance to open delight. Apparently she’s noticed who has joined us on the sand. I only wish I could express the same emotion about Josh’s looming presence. We watch her stepping gingerly across the uneven surface, and I try to say something to break the silence. However, the annoying sensation of butterflies careening inside my stomach forces me to keep my mouth closed, lest one escape in the form of an awkward moment.

  Camille hops down from the rock in front of us, her bare legs encrusted with wet sand. “Hey there, Mr. Fireman,” she says, casual as a long time friend. “Thank you for saving my life.”

  Oh, Camille.

  A dark shadow flows over Josh’s face, his smile thin and strained. “Enjoy your day, ladies.” He turns to go, but Camille stops him.

  “Leaving so soon?” She gives me a smile filled with innocence, though I know better. “My sister and I could really use a tour guide. We’ve seen just about all we could of this dinky town on our own. Isn’t that right, Tare-Tare?”

  He takes up his security guard stance again. “Have you been up to the castle yet?”

  He’s talking about the famed Hearst Castle, built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst. My only brush with the tourist attraction is the tattered stack of cards my father and I once played with. Cards that have stayed cold, on my dresser back in Missouri, since his death.

  Camille wrinkles her nose. “Boring.” She looks to me, wide-eyed. “But Tara loves that kind of stuff. Hey, why don’t you two go together?”

  A tightrope of silence tugs between us until I’m able to draw in a breath. “She’s kidding. Leave the man alone. I’m sure he didn’t come here to be recruited for anything.”

  Camille ignores me but watches Josh. “So why are you here? Is this a hangout for firemen or something?” She cranes her neck in order to take a peek up the cliff. “Ya got anyone else up there with you?”

  His cool expression falters but recovers. His gaze flicks off into the translucent horizon. “Don’t come here all that much. It’s just a place
I know. I’m on my own today.”

  The sparseness of his words tells me that he’d rather be alone in this tranquil spot than subject to Camille’s flirtatious whim. Does he comes here often to shake off the day’s grime, to refill after life has drained him? I can’t blame him. And yet, as I take in the gentle crush of water against the rocks, something inside me hopes that his visit to this cove is rare.

  I’d like to claim this place as my own.

  Josh turns and gives us a succinct bow of his head. “Ladies.” With that, he takes the uneven stair-like ledges up the cliff, several at a time.

  “Wait!” Camille calls out after him. “You haven’t been at the Red Abalone Grill in a while. Will we see you over there sometime soon?”

  He pauses, and I have to squint into the sun to make out the quizzical expression that forms on his face before eventually breaking into a slight grin, a sight that should annoy me further and yet, much to my surprise, thrills me.

  I just realized that, until this moment, he had no idea who we were.

  EVERY MORNING FOR THE past week, before Camille and I set out to rediscover this hamlet of our youth, we first stopped into the Red Abalone Grill for breakfast. And no morning was the same. For one thing, each table has now been topped with a narrow vase stuffed with fresh wildflowers of blue or lavender or yellow—and sometimes all three. For another, the once plain whiteboard has been replaced with an oak-framed chalk board that rests on an easel just outside the Grill’s front doors. Holly’s crêpes are listed on it, as are a plethora of new items not found on the menu, such as mango muffins, peach fritters, and my new favorite—peanut-butter smoothies. I’ve begun asking for this even when it’s not listed.

  Holly bustles around the place, her pouf curls pulled into a loose ponytail. While her aunt’s been recovering from that nasty fall we all witnessed, the poor thing’s been running the place herself. Well, she hasn’t been completely alone. That’s another thing that changes by day: the help. Apparently Holly has lots of friends, because each day a new coffee-pouring teen appears at our table to rattle off the specials, refill our mugs, and slip the bill under a plate. It’s disconcerting not to be recognized when you’ve sat in the same spot for a week, and yet, sadly for me, not all that uncommon.