Holly rockets past, her sneakers slapping the linoleum, a flowing knit scarf flapping behind her before she halts and spins back toward us. She flops down beside Camille, tosses her ponytail off her shoulder, and exhales. “Can I join you two ladies?” she asks after the fact.
“Pretty wild day for you,” I say.
“Yeah, you got that right. And it’ll only get worse, ’cuz when Auntie finds out what I’ve done with her diner, I might just have to find me another job.”
I start to chuckle, but quiet myself when no humor appears on her face. “I can’t imagine anyone getting upset about the way you’ve run this place. Camille and I have been here every day—”
“I noticed.”
Camille pipes up. “I don’t even look at the menu anymore. Just play eeny-meeny with your specials, and I think those pumpkin-bourbon muffins are my favorite. This place should be in a magazine.”
Holly exhales again. “Auntie’s old-school ’bout that. Says if people want to hear about us, they’ll listen to their friends. Problem is, most of those old battle-axes she cooks for want the same old thing: eggs with toast and some kind of meat.”
Both girls stare at me. “What? My eggs are poached, and I bet most of your customers order them scrambled.”
Holly glances off into nowhere. “Yeah, that and sunny-side-up. Every old one of ’em.”
Camille’s gaze meets mine. I open my mouth to speak when Josh strolls up to the counter. Before he takes a seat on a stool, he nods in my direction. I look away and clear my throat. “So, how’s your aunt’s recovery going?”
“Eh, she’s fine. She carried on so much that they thought she broke her hip, but she’s just sore. She’s home now and in bed, trying to get over the sciatica from the fall.”
Peg’s fall. That day will be forever etched in my mind as the event that sent one sure-footed and forgetful fireman careening over the counter. And into my mind. I try to concentrate on my eggs, but realize that Camille looks bummed.
“So she’ll be back soon?” my sister asks, no doubt foreseeing the loss of her beloved daily specials.
“Yeah. Don’t think I’m ungrateful. My aunt raised me. I’ve been hangin’ out in this diner since I was a tot, and lovin’ nearly every minute of it. I just . . . I just would like to try new dishes sometimes. Jorge and I have had too much fun this week.” She lowers her voice. “Don’t tell my aunt. Wouldn’t want her to think I’m glad for her pains—which I’m not.”
Camille slaps the table. “That’s it then! We’ll vouch for you. I’d die if I had to eat the same ol’, plain ol’ every day.” She darts me a stare. “And my sister starts her new job at the inn today, so she’ll tell every one of those guests to get their behinds into this grill, and ask for the specials!”
Holly’s face lights. “That’s right. I heard Nigel went and hired you on. I thought you girls were just tourists, and then the next thing I know you’re moving into town. Did you plan that? Oh, what am I saying, of course you planned it.”
I rub my cheek. “Actually, we were both born here. I always wanted to come back to Otter Bay, but this is the first chance we could find to really do it.” I don’t tell her about our father’s last wish, nor that I let my devotion to Trent, among other things, keep me from fulfilling it until now. “We planned for a long vacation with the hopes that—”
Camille rolls her eyes. “Don’t fib, Tara. She wanted to move here from the minute our mother’s new husband took Mom away to Europe. And I was bored, so I figured why not? Always wanted to meet surfers anyway.”
“Hah! You came to the right place then, girls. You do know they hang out right down the hill from here at surfer’s ridge . . .” Holly proceeds to give Camille detailed directions on how to get there, who she knows, and where the best viewing spot is for taking in both the waves and the guys who master them. I, on the other hand, poke at my eggs with the tines of my fork, willing my gaze to stay away from the counter.
Last night I logged on to Soaps Weekly Digest and caught up on a week’s worth of Eliza Carlton doings. If I were she, I wouldn’t be chained to this table, listening needlessly to Holly and Camille carry on about boys who spend more time in water than at work. I wouldn’t be convincing myself that poached eggs are mesmerizing enough to stare at for long lengths of time. I’d put my fork down, get up, and walk over to one handsome firefighter. I’d say hello and ask if the stool next to him was taken. And then I’d . . . I’d . . .
Hm. I just can’t put myself into Eliza’s “come hither” stilettos.
Both girls stare at me. “What? The eggs again?”
Camille snorts. “You had the stupidest grin on your face, Tara.” She wags her head, then looks to Holly. “She’s not been the same since we got here, I swear it.”
“Please.” Even without turning my head, I notice Josh dart out of the diner, like he was headed to a fire.
Holly raises her chin, her smile wide, but her laughter turns choked and garbled. Abruptly she rises from her seat in the booth and bangs her hip on the table, which jostles enough to send the bud vase tumbling over and its liquid contents spilling down through the seam in the center.
A powerful voice cuts through the diner’s din. “Hol-ly!”
Ah. Apparently Holly’s Aunt Peg, who’s standing in the doorway waving a cane in the air, feels just fine.
Chapter Seven
I didn’t have much time to stick around this morning and watch drama unfold over at the RAG—that’s the acronym the locals use for the Red Abalone Grill, though if you asked me, something a little more pleasing-sounding, like The Grill or The Red Abalone, might have drawn more business. But then, no one asked me.
I left Camille at breakfast and dashed off to dress for my afternoon of learning how to run the front desk of Nigel’s quaint, though slightly worn, inn. After living in one of the inn’s cheapest rooms—a viewless studio bordering the back parking lot—its flaws have become more apparent than I’d like to admit. This same thought might also apply to my relationship with Trent, but that too was something I’d prefer not to own up to at the moment.
I smooth back my hair, making sure the bun looks straight, and glance at the mirror. “What are you doing here, Tara May Sweet?” I ask myself for the umpteenth time before settling myself with a drawn-out breath and slipping out the door. Although our room hasn’t many amenities, my stroll across the parking lot has plenty with its view of the vast blue sea. I take another quick peek, then enter the inn’s lobby—and my new life.
“There you are!”
Tina, the uberpregnant front-desk clerk, the one I’m here to temporarily replace, stops me with her sharpness. I open my mouth, but she continues, eyes affixed just beyond my left shoulder. “Forget what you had on your agenda today, Mary. We need you here.”
An egg-shaped woman, her snug housekeeping uniform damp and soiled, pushes past me with a groan. I take one look into her bag-laden eyes and fear that the housekeeper just may go AWOL today. I’d seen her bustling in and out of here throughout the week, but other than an occasional request for extra soap, we had yet to formally meet. The stout woman stops. Her cheek twitches, and her eyes narrow, but she keeps her glare on Tina’s face.
Tina rubs her stomach and glowers at Mary. I start to speak just as Tina turns to me. “This town is full of loafers!”
A vision of slip-on shoes lined up in tidy rows pops into my head. “Can I help out with something?”
Tina’s lower lip quivers. When she starts to speak, her eyes well up and she sniffles twice. Wasn’t she just angry? If I didn’t know better, it appeared she’d be sobbing in seconds. “I know that it’s your granddaughter’s birthday today, Mary, but—”
“It’s my daughter’s birthday today! And I have already been here since dawn.”
“But Alicia quit yesterday, and we still need more clean rooms today, and there is no one else. No one.”
Mary jerks her head in my direction. “How ’bout her?”
“Me?” I
press a hand to my chest. “I’m just here to work at the front desk. Nigel hired me to take over for Tina.”
Mary harrumphs. “Oh, you must think you are too good to clean bedrooms.” She starts to remove her apron.
The threatening force behind Tina’s tears wins out, and she begins to cry. “So Nigel hired you to ‘take over’ for me, huh? What’s wrong with everybody? People have babies all the time . . . it’s not like I’m . . . I’m disabled or something!”
My eyes could not widen another inch, especially as I watch her yank her coat from the hat rack in the corner and wrestle it over her body. “Let Nigel know I’m taking my leave early.”
I move after her, following her to the door like a scorned woman. “When? When will you start your leave?”
“Today!”
Mary fiddles with the apron in her hands, a grim set to her mouth. She drops it into a laundry cart behind the counter. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”
“No, wait!” Too late. She shakes her head and slips through the doorway. When she hesitates in the parking lot, and swivels in my direction, I think that maybe she has changed her mind about leaving. But then she says, “You will do just fine, dear,” and resumes her quick step to her car.
I continue to watch her go, my mind not quite accepting this sudden change in my plans. Threadlike clouds stretch out over the parking lot and appear to stop at the edge of the inn’s property, threatening to suffocate me. Would it be too unbecoming if I were to quit even before I started? Instinctively, I know the answer to that, so I slink behind the front desk. My first day as a clerk at the Bayside has officially begun.
And I don’t have a clue what to do next.
THE REGISTRATION CARDS HAVE been alphabetized, and keys to ready rooms attached. My attempts to reach Camille have failed, and I’ve accepted my fate, knowing she most probably is surfer watching for most of the afternoon. Thankfully, though, I’d seen Eliza Carlton do this over and over when her first husband, Charles, died and left her that tattered Bed & Breakfast in the Sierras to run. She had to deal with frozen pipes, wayward wolves, and unwelcome guests. So surely, I’d decided, I could handle a few hours alone in Nigel’s inn.
Check-in time is still two hours off, and so I wait, thankful for the nearly constant cries from overflying gulls. They can be a nuisance, and yet their sound stands as a reminder of the nearby sand and swells. Between the birds and the waves, my mind falls into a relaxing lull, a surprise considering the circumstances.
The squeal of tires across the asphalt lot, followed by two door slams, pulls me out of my daze. I slide a hand over my ear to touch my upswept hair when Josh and a scrawny teenager with big eyes step into the lobby, each carrying a bucket of tools.
Josh stares at me.
I stare back.
He sets his bucket down, and extends his hand. “I’m Josh, and this is Mikey.”
I say hello, all the while taking in the green of his eyes and thickness of his brows. The lower half of his angular face wears an even layer of stubble, and yet it does nothing to hide the long, smooth dimples that sink into his cheeks even without a smile.
He drops his hand to his side, but still eyes me. “We haven’t formally met until now. I didn’t realize you were working here.”
“Well, that’s . . . it’s kind of a long story. I just started today.”
“Today? Oh so, is Tina around? Mikey and I are here to redo the wiring in a couple of the rooms.”
I thought you were a fireman. “Hm, no, no Tina here today.”
He picks up the bucket. “That’s okay, we can find Mary to show us what needs to be done.”
“Well, not exactly. Mary’s gone too. And it’s Betty’s day off so I’m on my own today.”
Josh’s forehead creases. “You don’t happen to know which rooms need the work done, I suppose? We’re part of a volunteer crew from our church, but unfortunately, I’m only around today to do this.”
Ah, a good Samaritan. I think that maybe our parents took us to church when we were young. All I remember is a lot of singing and Play-Doh and seeing the hem of my mother’s skirt up close as she talked with other ladies while I ate sticky doughnuts. Funny how the simplest thing can spark a memory.
Behind the desk again, I begin rifling through the registration cards, losing a couple of keys in the process. Instead of a modern locking card system, dear Nigel’s inn still lives in the 80s. The hotel keys bounce across the desk, making a metallic racket that draws even more attention to my novice status. I start to shake my head, and in my peripheral notice Mikey shift uncomfortably next to Josh. My fingers catch on a note.
“Here it is! Room 4 has an outlet on the west wall that doesn’t work, and the bathroom outlet in room 6 needs a GF . . . hm.”
Josh looks over at Mikey. “Needs a GFCI socket.” He looks back to me. “Thanks. I’ll need to get the keys from you and then we’ll take care of it.”
I find the keys and hand them to him, our fingers touching in the exchange. His hand lingers over mine for a beat, and then he turns to leave. I begin fiddling with the key drawer when he stops, and turns back to me. “By the way, did you and your sister ever tour the castle?”
“No, actually, we haven’t made it that far away yet. We had . . . well, we spent our time exploring Otter Bay instead.”
Mikey nudges Josh with his shoulder and starts to head down the hall. Josh hesitates before offering me a nod, his eyes warming me to my toes. “You should try to fit it in when you can. I might have some other ideas for you, if you need some.” He glances down the hall. “Better get going before Mikey tears into the wrong wall.”
I watch him go, mindful that I haven’t looked at a man like this since early on with Trent. Probably not even then. Alone again with nothing but the hammer of my heart and a disheveled mess of registration cards, I think about Josh and how often we’ve run into each other in the past week. He caught my attention that first time at the diner—who wouldn’t notice him with his effortless leap over the counter to rescue Peg? Not to mention that tangle of golden hair and rugged day-old beard. That day he eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and what might have been suspicion. After he showed up at the beach and doled out all that unasked-for advice, I started to wonder if any suspicion might be better aimed at him. But now he’s here today, doing another good deed, and causing me to think about things I never thought I’d be considering any time soon.
Dreamy thoughts.
Romantic notions.
Unrealistic expectations.
Trent is the only man I’ve loved for five years. Even when he criticized me for my less-than-sophisticated looks—my lack of makeup and fine jewelry and haute couture—eventually he’d scoop me into his arms and profess his forever love for plain old me.
Sometimes I still can’t believe he walked away. After all the promises, and the talks about our future, everything I’d made myself believe—that even ugly ducklings could live happily ever after—turned out to be an aberration in the end.
Yet something about that fireman in room 4 has revived a spark of hope among the ashes. The thought so catches me that I don’t notice Nigel shuffling into the lobby until he stands directly in front of his own counter.
“I see you have made yourself quite comfortable, and this is how it should be.”
“Nigel! Hello—I’m so glad to see you! I called your room but missed you.” I fill him in on all that’s transpired since I arrived, and he just smiles as if this were any other day.
“Thank you for a job well done, Tara. Somehow I knew that you could handle whatever might come your way. However, since you have no hotel experience per se, allow me to join you behind the desk where I will teach you our system.”
Relief fills my chest, and I let out a held breath. “I’m so glad you’re here, Nigel.”
He nods then, his beret staying securely on his head. Nigel’s eyes are some of the kindest I’ve ever looked into, and a pang of sadness fills me as I realize how often I thoug
ht the same of my father’s.
Our first guest of the afternoon arrives windblown, with lines etching the skin around her eyes. And yet she wears a telltale peaceful expression, the same kind I felt spread across my own face when I drove into Otter Bay for the first time in many years. The dramatic coastline and soft dunes will do that for a person. Of course, for me there’s something more.
She takes the key to her room from me. “I just left the job from you-know-where, and boy, this feels like paradise. I may never want to leave!”
Who could know how she feels better than I?
After Nigel and I work side by side for over an hour, I notice him leaning more than ever on his cane. I smile at him. “Phew. Nothing like learning on your feet. Why don’t you take a rest now. You’ve taught me enough that I think I can handle things for a little while.”
“You can handle more than you know.” So saying, he hobbles toward one of the floral couches in the lobby. He’s barely had time to rest, when in walks trouble.
“Nigel Thornton! How could you let Holly desecrate my restaurant in this way!”
Holly’s Aunt Peg may have been out of commission for a week, but if it’s true what they say—that body parts strengthen after being broken and healed—she’s become one powerful lady. Her nostrils flare as air flows in and out of them, and she stands over poor Nigel, wagging a rigid finger at him. If it weren’t so demeaning, I’d drop to my knees and pretend to look for a lost contact lens.
Unfortunately, in my haste my toes kick up against the trash bin. Distracted by the noise, Peg looks upward and sniffs the air like a dog. She spins toward me, that finger still stuck straight out in front of her. “You’re new here.”
Nigel jabs his cane into the floor and pulls himself up to lean on it. “Peg, I’d like you to meet my new desk clerk, Tara. She’ll be working in Tina’s place, and perhaps even longer, if I can convince her of it.” A satisfied smile rests on his face.
Sweet Waters Page 5
