Summer at Seaside Cove

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “I think it’s the smartest thing you’ve ever done. Jamie, I’ve known you for twelve years, and in all that time you’ve always lived for other people. Your dad wanted you to work at Newman’s, so you did. Since he died, you’ve given your life to that place to keep his dream alive. Your mom leans on you like a broken-down barn door, and you let her. You’ve picked up the slack for Laurel more times than I can count, especially with Heather. How your sister ended up with such a great kid is a mystery. Actually, it’s not—it’s undoubtedly because Heather spends so much time with you. You’re always taking care of her—”

  “I don’t ‘take care’ of Heather—she’s fourteen. I enjoy being with her.”

  “And she’s very lucky that you do. You took a really brave, important step by leaving New York. Stop second-guessing yourself. The city, Newman’s, your mom, Laurel, Heather—none of them are going anywhere. They’ll still all be here at the end of the summer when you come home.”

  “This is why you’re such a great nurse,” Jamie said with a watery laugh. “You’re very good at fixing broken spirits.”

  “You’re not broken.”

  Jamie nodded. “You’re right. I’m not. Just a little bruised. Thanks for the pep talk, Coach.”

  “Anytime. Now enjoy the beach. And that seven-hundredmile buffer. And let me know what’s going on. Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Bye.”

  Jamie slipped the phone back in her pocket, closed her eyes, and drew in a lungful of sea-scented air. “Everything’s going to be okay.” Her whispered words floated away on the salty breeze. Surely if she said them enough, they’d become true.

  Recalling the main reason for her walk to the beach, she turned around. When she was once again in the soft, dry sand, she filled up the two plastic pails she’d brought, slipped on her sandals, then made her way back to Paradise Lost. She’d just made that doozy of a first step when a fat raindrop plopped on her arm. “The frog strangler cometh,” she said and gave herself a mental high five for her perfect timing.

  She entered the kitchen and set the pails of sand on the counter. The dead clam stink lingered, but at least it was no longer in the make-your-eyes-water stage. She rooted around in the lower cabinets and found a disposable foil roasting pan. It sported a few dents and the bottom was blackened from use, but it would do.

  After filling the roasting pan with sand, she set it out on the screened porch, then went in search of Cupcake. Her pet was still cleaning herself on the Mets bedspread, working on her fluffy tail. Jamie scooped her up and nuzzled her cheek into Cupcake’s soft fur. “You feeling better, baby?”

  Cupcake graced her with a halfhearted purr, cat-speak for she might someday forgive Jamie for the plethora of indignities she’d suffered this day, but only if she was lavished with pampering and treats.

  Jamie brought Cupcake to the screened porch and set her beside the roasting pan. “Here’s your potty.”

  Cupcake blinked at the makeshift litter box, then looked up at Jamie with an expression that so clearly screamed, WTF? Jamie had to laugh. “Hey, I’ve been told that things are very casual here at the beach, and believe me, my bathroom isn’t much better. It’s the best I can do on short notice.”

  Leaving Cupcake to check out her facilities in private, Jamie reentered the house and headed for the kitchen. She opened the fridge and found it empty, but at least the interior was cooling off. When she checked the freezer, she discovered it was also empty—except for a sealed bottle of vodka. Finally, something useful in this joint.

  Time to tackle the dead clam smell. Since she hadn’t packed air freshener, she dug out her toiletries bag, then liberally sprayed the entire cottage with her favorite after-shower body spray. She was still spritzing the kitchen when Cupcake sauntered in.

  “Everything come out okay?” Jamie asked. She crouched down, and after a few seconds of cat internal debating, Cupcake decided to bestow upon Jamie the honor of stroking her long white fur.

  “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

  Cupcake’s expression indicated that, yes, it really was that bad.

  “You’ll feel better after a nice long nap. And don’t be thinking you’re going to collect that fifty bucks,” Jamie added, scratching between Cupcake’s ears. “I had to haul that dead clam ickiness down to the trash myself. But I refuse to be beaten. In fact, I’m thinking things might be looking up, Cupcake. The room smells more like vanilla sugar cookies than dead clam”—she drew a deep breath and her eyes crossed—“sort of—and the beach is fabulous. You’ve got food, water, and a place to do your business, there’s a bag of peanut M&M’s and a bottle of Diet Coke in my purse—not to mention a bottle of vodka in the freezer. And let us not forget that a beautiful seven hundred miles lie between us and New York. Yup, things are looking up.”

  A flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the house, followed immediately by a deafening boom of thunder that seemed to shake the house on its stilts. As was her habit during thunderstorms, Cupcake slunk off and bellied her way under the sofa.

  More lightning and thunder crackled, this time followed by the sound of rain. “Things could definitely be worse,” Jamie said to the tip of Cupcake’s twitching tail visible from beneath the sofa. “At least we have a roof over our heads. And a good thing, too. It’s really starting to come down hard.”

  Deciding to celebrate her small victory in style, she dug through her purse and pulled out the bag of peanut M&M’s. Just as she ripped it open, a wet drop plopped on the back of her hand. Before she could react, another plopped on her head. She looked up. A huge water stain marked the kitchen ceiling. The center of the stain contained a growing wet spot. Another drop hit her chin, followed by several more that bombed her nose and forehead. Well, damn. They might have a roof over their heads, but a friggin’ leaky roof it was. A howl of frustration rose in her throat, one she barely managed to swallow. Instead of screaming she closed her eyes, counted to ten, then slowly walked to the fridge—doing her damnedest to ignore the raindrops falling on her head. She pulled open the freezer section and slid out the bottle of vodka. Moving to the living area, she grabbed one of the folding chairs and positioned it so she could see the dark outline of Southern Comfort. Another raindrop landed on her head, but she was beyond caring. She sat, opened the vodka, took a delicate sip, then narrowed her eyes.

  And waited for Nick Trent to return.

  Chapter 3

  The sound of pounding penetrated Nick Trent’s comalike sleep. He pried open one eye and groaned when a shaft of sunlight stabbed his pupil. Damn. He’d forgotten to close the blinds again. How was anybody supposed to get any sleep around here? And who the hell was making all that racket?

  He closed his eye, but the pounding continued, along with the added annoyance of someone ringing his doorbell. Add to that the dog’s incessant barking, and it was a cocktail of headache-inducing cacophony loud enough to shake his brain inside his skull. He might have just slapped a pillow over his head, but damn it, now that he was awake—sort of—he’d at least have to quiet down the dog, who otherwise would bark nonstop until Christmas.

  With a growl of annoyance, he pushed himself into a sitting position and stared with sleep-bleary eyes at the bedside clock. Seven twenty-five? A.M.? Jesus. He’d only crawled into bed less than two hours ago. No wonder he felt as if a truck had hit him. He glanced down and squinted. He still wore his jeans from last night—unbuttoned and unzipped. His Polo shirt, socks, and Reeboks rested in an untidy heap on the floor near his bare feet.

  With an effort, he shoved himself to his feet, gave his fly a half hearted yank, and made his way toward the door, wincing at the pounding and ringing and barking. Christ. That was one of the disadvantages of living in such a small community—everyone knew each other and there didn’t seem to be any “you don’t knock on your neighbor’s door at the crack of dawn” boundaries. His last early-morning caller had been just a few days ago. Dorothy Ernst from across the street had wanted to know if she coul
d borrow some half-and-half for her coffee.

  Even though Dorothy had awakened him and the dog from a dead sleep—although with not nearly the noise that this morning’s visitor was using—his annoyance had evaporated at the sight of her, tiny in stature and big on smiles that showed off sparkling dentures and creased seven decades worth of wrinkles around her twinkling eyes. She’d reminded him of a sweet, chipper bird, peering at him over her bifocals, another pair resting on her poof of snowy white hair—’cause she always needed an extra pair—and he’d felt like a total heel telling her he didn’t have any half-and-half. The closest thing his fridge yielded was a quart of low-fat milk that had plopped in thick lumps into Dorothy’s cup while filling the kitchen with a foul, sour stench. She’d laughed and said, “Typical bachelor,” then left, her lime green rubber flip-flops thwapping against her heels. Later that afternoon Dorothy had stopped by again upon her return from the grocery store to give him a container of half-and-half—along with a chicken and rice casserole she’d baked.

  And that was one of the huge advantages to living in such a small community.

  The banging and ringing and barking continued until he entered the kitchen. He whistled to his chocolate Lab, who immediately turned and continued to bark, letting him know that someone was at the door.

  Like with the pounding and ringing he hadn’t figured that out.

  “Godiva, sit,” Nick said, simultaneously giving her the signal to stop barking.

  Godiva’s butt hit the floor—for a nanosecond—then she hurled herself at Nick in a tail-wagging, tongue-lolling frenzy of doggie adoration. Clearly more time was needed on her obedience lessons, but he found it impossible to be annoyed at a creature that loved him so profoundly and unconditionally.

  “Good girl,” he said, scratching behind her dark brown ears while Godiva slathered his forearm with kisses. He tapped her rump and pointed to the floor. “Lay. Stay.”

  This time Godiva obeyed, stretching out onto her belly, but her body quivered with excitement, her tail sweeping across the kitchen floor while pitiful whines emitted from her throat.

  The banging and ringing had continued unabated, and with a growl of impatience, Nick yanked open the door. And stared. At an unfamiliar woman he judged to be in her midtwenties who sported a scowl he bet matched his own.

  “It’s about time you answered the door,” she said.

  His scowl deepened. He didn’t know who she was or what she was selling, but all that banging and now her attitude had definitely gotten him up on the wrong side of the bed. “I was asleep.”

  Her gaze skimmed over him and he could almost hear her cataloging as she went: bad case of bed head, bleary eyes, three-day stubble, no shirt, wrinkled jeans, missing shoes. He did notice that she lingered for several seconds on his unbuttoned Levi’s. When her gaze again met his, pink stained her cheeks. “Wow, you really were on a bender.”

  What the hell? “Really? Well, you don’t look so hot, either, whoever you are.” Actually, that wasn’t precisely true. In fact, she looked pretty damn good. Sure her honey-colored hair sported a finger-in-the-light-socket look, and her white tank top and tan pants that hit her midcalf looked as if she’d slept in them—something he could hardly throw stones at—but her eyes were gorgeous. They reminded him of caramel sprinkled with dark chocolate. Probably they’d be even prettier if they weren’t filled with an expression that made it clear she’d like to thump him upside his head.

  Even her thundercloud frown couldn’t hide the fact that she was pretty damn cute, any more than those wrinkly clothes masked the fact that she had more curves on her than a blackdiamond ski run. And those dimples flanking her full lips didn’t hurt, either. But in his present mood, he didn’t really give a damn how cute or curvy she might be.

  At least not much.

  He crossed his arms over his bare chest and glared at her. “I’ve been on a bender? Hey, black pot—kettle calling. You reek of vodka.” Okay, maybe reek was too strong a word—but he definitely smelled a trace of vodka—and he damn well knew what it smelled like. But he also caught a whiff of something kinda good, something sweet he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

  “That’s because I slept in a chair.”

  “Personally I find it pretty difficult to get good rest on a bar stool, but whatever floats your boat.”

  “Not a bar stool—a chair.” Her tone indicated she thought he was three years old, which did nothing to soothe his annoyance. “A folding chair. Next door. At Paradise Lost. And let me tell you, it is really, really lost.”

  “Ah—so you’re the renter.”

  “Yes. And you’re the owner. I thought this place was supposed to ooze Southern hospitality.”

  “I’m not from the South.”

  “I’m picking up on that.”

  “Good. You want hospitality? Here it is: Welcome to Seaside Cove. Now go away and come back at a more reasonable hour. Like noon.”

  He made to close the door, but she slapped her palm against the wooden panel and wedged her curvy self in the opening. “I’m afraid not. We need to discuss this right now. After we’ve done so, believe me, I’ll be more than happy to go away and leave you alone.” She looked past him. “Is your dog friendly?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at Godiva, who was inching her way on her belly toward them, tail still swishing, tongue still lolling, her soft brown eyes filled with curiosity about this new person she was clearly dying to sniff. If Nick had been feeling friendly, he would have assured her that the only thing she had to fear from Godiva was getting licked to death.

  Since he was feeling particularly unfriendly, he said, “She’s unpredictable.” Right—you never knew if you’d get a Godiva kiss on your arm or your leg or your neck. “Especially when she hasn’t had her breakfast. So you’d better make this quick.”

  The door-pounding, bell-ringing renter didn’t look completely convinced that Godiva might pose a threat, no doubt because Godiva’s hopeful eyes and wagging tail and happy little whines practically screamed, I love you! Who are you? I love you! If I don’t lick you and smell you, I’ll just die! You’re my new best friend! Did I mention that I love you?

  She cleared her throat, then returned her attention to Nick. “The fact that you’re the owner—that’s why I’m here. To discuss the deplorable condition of your rental property.”

  An invisible lightbulb went off over Nick’s head as understanding seeped into his sluggish brain. Obviously Princess Vodka here wasn’t down with the rustic conditions. He should have known the renter would be someone who didn’t understand what “as is” meant. “There’s nothing deplorable about Paradise Lost. You didn’t have to sleep in a chair—there are beds you know.”

  “Uh-huh. But none that look overly comfortable.”

  “Maybe not, but they’re better than sleeping on a folding chair.”

  “Even after spending the night on a folding chair, I’m not necessarily convinced of that. Besides, I was looking out the window, waiting for you to come home.”

  Oh, great. She was not only a door-pounding, bell-ringing whiner, but a stalker as well. “I take it the accommodations aren’t to your liking.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. Those two missing bottom steps are a broken leg waiting to happen. Are you looking for a lawsuit?”

  His gaze dropped to her legs, which looked long and curvy and definitely not broken. “Of course not—”

  “And then there’s the leaky roof. Water plopped on my head all night. No matter where I moved that folding chair, the damn drip seemed to follow. I’m lucky the ceiling didn’t cave in on me. The furniture looks like something you picked up on the side of the road, the entire place doesn’t look like it’s been painted since the turn of the century, there’s no dishwasher or air conditioner, and some idiot left a bag of clams in the sink.”

  Clams … Nick’s memory kicked in. He’d stopped at Paradise Lost three days ago on his way home from his most successful clamming expedition yet and se
t down his catch while he’d fixed the dripping bathroom faucet. He’d put them in the fridge … hadn’t he? Damn—had he left them in the sink? He’d couldn’t recall, and he’d completely forgotten about them until just now. But thinking about the fridge suddenly reminded him about the bottle he’d left in the freezer—

  “You drank my vodka,” he accused, his voice filled with righteous indignation.

  She looked at him as if he’d grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead. “Right after I tossed your clams. Believe me, I needed a drink.”

  “You threw away my clams?” Jesus. She really was the renter from hell. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  For several seconds she didn’t speak—just sawed her jaw back and forth as if she was chewing glass. Then she drew a deep breath, which she released very slowly, scenting the air between them with a trace of vodka and … peanuts? … and said through gritted teeth, “Because they were dead. And they stunk bad enough to make my eyes water.” Each sentence grew in volume and added another layer of color to her cheeks. “And they were dripping that foul stench everywhere. It was disgusting. And in spite of wrapping my hands in three Piggly Wiggly bags, I may never get the smell off me.”

  Wow. No doubt about it, this was one pissed-off woman. She looked like Vesuvius about to blow. In fact, there might even be steam wisping from her ears. Normally he was smart enough to step away from any female with murder in her eyes, but he wasn’t feeling particularly brilliant this morning. Especially toward a woman who was a clam murderer.

  “Look, whatever your name is—”