Grace held up her hand. “Don’t even mention it or I’ll tear up. But in the meanwhile …” She looked at Jamie. “No kids?”
Jamie shook her head. “Nope. Just one niece. She’s fourteen. I miss her a lot.”
“Wanna borrow a couple teenagers for a month? Or two?”
Jamie laughed. “Sure, send them over. I’ll bake them some cookies.”
“If you do, they’ll never leave,” Grace warned. Then she grinned. “So, yes—why don’t you bake a big ol’ batch of cookies!”
When the laughter subsided, Dorothy said, “Maria Rigoletti-Silverman says you’re entering the Clam Queen contest, Jamie.”
Before Jamie could refute that, Megan piped in with, “That’s great!”
“No, I’m not—”
“Fabulous,” cut in Grace. “We need some new blood in that contest.”
Dorothy frowned over the rims of her bifocals. “And we sure don’t want that obnoxious Missy Calhoun’s daughter to win. That girl’s a skank.” She looked at Jamie. “And before you ask, yes, I know darn well what a skank is. Got three granddaughters who keep me up to date on all the lingo. Even got me a Facebook page. I may be seventy-two, but thanks to those granddaughters, I’m on the cutting edge of pop culture. You need to know anything about Brangelina or those reality TV housewives, I’m your source.”
Jamie couldn’t help but smile. “Good to know. I’m on Facebook, too.”
Dorothy beamed at her. “Fantastic. Send me a friend request.”
“And go to the Clam Festival fan page—my sons set that up,” added Grace. “Last time I looked we had over seven hundred fans!”
“Will do,” said Jamie. “Now about the Clam Queen contest—not really my thing, I’m afraid. But I’ll be sure to root for you ladies.”
“Oh, we can’t enter,” said Megan. “It’s for unmarried women only.”
“Who are under the age of forty,” added Dorothy, “otherwise I’d give you a run for your money.” She made a disgruntled sound. “Bunch of age discrimination if you ask me. Been trying to get that changed in the town bylaws ever since I moved here forty years ago, but no luck so far. Folks don’t like change, especially to a contest that’s been around for more than seventy years. And since that old coot Melvin Tibbs is in charge of the contest, nothing will ever change.”
“I’ve heard of this Melvin but haven’t met him yet,” said Jamie.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Dorothy said. “He’s been away visiting his brother in Florida. Good riddance, I say.”
“Have you considered leaving the original contest as it is, but just adding additional categories? You could add a Senior Clam Queen or a Clam Empress—something where you have to be at least forty or fifty to enter.”
Dorothy, Megan, and Grace all stared at Jamie, then Grace laughed. “Now why didn’t we think of that? The committee could vote in something like that even without Melvin’s consent because the original contest would remain intact.”
“Exactly,” agreed Dorothy.
“Maybe there could be a Clam King for younger men and a Clam Emperor as well for gentlemen over forty,” Jamie continued, her mind whirling with ideas, especially as those ideas deflected the subject of her entering the contest. “A Mrs. Clam for married women. A Mr. Clam, too. Maybe even a Baby Clam for kids. There could be a fee to enter, which would raise revenue for the town, part of which could be specifically earmarked to help the island’s cat population. The added categories would attract more people to the festival—especially if there was a cash prize for winning.”
“I love that idea,” Grace said.
“My youngest is three and a total girly girl,” said Megan, her voice filled with enthusiasm. “She’d be all over a Baby Clam contest.”
“Always good to bring in new blood to keep things fresh, and it looks like we’ve got ourselves a real winner with this one,” Dorothy said, jerking her head in Jamie’s direction. “Wait until grumpy old Melvin hears these ideas. He won’t be able to say no.”
Jamie’s face warmed at the praise. “If you like, I can type up a draft of the idea and bring it to next week’s meeting.”
“Some chamber of commerce folks will be there, so that’s perfect,” said Dorothy. She raised her coffee mug. “Welcome to Seaside Cove, Jamie.”
“You’re already part of the family,” added Grace, and Megan nodded.
A lump of emotion swelled in Jamie’s throat. She’d wanted to get away from her old life, from everything familiar, but she hadn’t anticipated making new friends. Hadn’t expected such … acceptance. Especially from strangers. But it seemed there weren’t any strangers in Seaside Cove. It felt odd. Unfamiliar.
But really good.
Once again they all clinked mugs. And a thin layer of the stress and sadness weighing her down was stripped away. There were still a lot more layers to go.
But it was start.
Chapter 8
After Dorothy, Grace, and Megan departed, Jamie set out a bowl of crunchies on the carport for the island cats. She’d yet to see any of them near the house, but she’d filled the bowl the last two mornings, and by evening it was empty.
Her gaze wandered to Southern Comfort, and as much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t help but wonder where Nick had gone. And why he’d left so late last night. Was he really off on a bender as rumor had it? She supposed it was possible, but her gut told her there was some other explanation for his disappearances. She hadn’t seen him drink anything other than water, nor had he smelled of alcohol. Not that that meant a whole lot, yet her instincts didn’t buy the whole bender theory.
Could be his late-night departure involved something unsavory—like a married girlfriend. Or illegal. Or both. Could be … yet something told her no. Which pretty much annoyed her as she knew squat about him. That’s not really true, her inner voice whispered. You know he kept his word about fixing the steps and the roof. And he replaced the porch screens and cracked windows without you even asking. You know he’s good to his dog. And that he has a great smile and a body that practically gave you whiplash.
Humph. All true—yet not really good reasons to stop viewing him with a suspicious eyeball. At any rate, where he went and why wasn’t her business. She didn’t care, and she had no intention of getting involved.
She was about to head back up the stairs when a white pickup truck pulled into the driveway next door at Gone Fishin’. The door opened and a tall, silver-haired man she judged to be in his late sixties sporting a military buzz-cut emerged. Ah—this must be her neighbor, the infamous Melvin Tibbs. He wore a pristine white Polo shirt tucked into khaki pants with a razor-sharp crease, and brown Top-Siders. His posture was ramrod straight and Jamie found herself pulling her shoulders back lest she be caught slouching. As if he sensed her presence, he looked toward Paradise Lost. When he saw her, a scowl overtook his already-grim countenance. Yikes. This was one grumpy-looking dude.
Still, grumpy didn’t scare her. Shooting him her friendliest smile, she walked toward him. “Hi. You must be Mr. Tibbs. I’m—”
“Newman,” he cut in, his voice a brusque rasp. “Here for the summer. One of them New York types, I heard.”
Jamie wasn’t certain what a “New York type” was, but based on Melvin’s tone, it wasn’t good. Still, as she had no desire to make an enemy—unless it was absolutely necessary—she kept her smile in place. “Yes, I’m Jamie Newman, here for the summer, from New York.” Ha—take that, Grumpy. And just to prove she wasn’t ill-mannered, she added, “I was about to put on a fresh pot of coffee. Would you care to join me?”
His brows slammed together, turning his scowl downright ferocious. “Are you patronizing me, young lady?”
“Uh, no. I was inviting you to partake of a traditional breakfast beverage.”
“I take my breakfast beverage at oh five hundred hours. Lights out is at precisely twenty-one hundred hours. I’ll expect noise to be kept to a minimum after that.” He narrowed his dark eyes at the bag of cat food she st
ill held. “Another one of those bleeding-heart cat feeders, I see. Bah!”
Without another word he marched up the steps to his house.
Jamie blinked and resisted the urge to salute. “All righty then,” she muttered. So much for her first meeting with General Scrooge. Yet instead of annoying her, the encounter had piqued her curiosity as to why Melvin Tibbs had such a stick up his ass. And instilled in her a perverse desire to kill him with kindness, the same way she’d conquered Billy Holmes, her third-grade nemesis. She’d vanquished Billy with homemade chocolate chip cookies and bubble gum, eventually turning him from tormentor to buddy, and she didn’t doubt Melvin Tibbs was nothing more than a grown-up Billy. Heh, heh, heh, Melvin. You’ve met your match.
When she reentered the house, she booted up her laptop, then set up a spreadsheet that clearly laid out for the committee members a budget of revenue and expenses pertaining to the addition of more clam contests to the festival. By utilizing different what-if scenarios, she illustrated the bottom-line possibilities with various entry fees and number of entrants. When she looked at the numbers, her brows shot upward. By charging even a nominal fee, the town could earn a lot of money. Anticipation tingled through her. She couldn’t wait to show this to the committee at next week’s clam meeting.
She shook her head. Clam meeting. Good grief. If anyone had told her even two weeks ago that she’d be making spreadsheets for a clam committee and shopping at a Piggly Wiggly and chasing a zany, smelly dog around, she’d have laughed herself into a seizure. Two weeks ago no one could have convinced her that she’d ever take an eight-week vacation from Newman’s and escape seven hundred miles away.
Betrayal, she’d discovered, the sort that cut right to the bone, could change a lot of things very quickly.
After putting the finishing touches on her spreadsheet, she began an Internet search for local car-rental agencies. Google had just spit up a page of listings when a car door slammed directly outside.
Was Nick home? Her heart bumped against her ribs and she frowned at the reaction. She didn’t care if he was home. Not a bit. And she certainly wasn’t going to look to see if he was. Heck, no. But seeing the sun shining reminded her that it was far too nice to remain indoors. Time to grab her bathing suit and go for a swim.
She abandoned her car-rental search and rose. Before she could step toward the bedroom, however, she heard footfalls on the wooden steps leading up to her kitchen door. She was half a dozen feet away from the door when a face appeared behind the screen.
“Jamie?” asked a familiar voice, accompanied by a knock.
Jamie’s steps faltered and for the space of several seconds her every thought was reduced to a single word.
Shit.
“Helloooo? Jamie?”
She had to clear her throat to find her voice. “Mom?”
Maggie Newman pressed her nose to the screen door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Jamie. “You’re here. You’re really here.”
Jamie hurried across the kitchen. She opened the screen door and was immediately engulfed in a tight hug that filled her head with the delicate rose scent her mother always wore.
“I’m so glad I found you,” her mother said, leaning back, but still holding her by the shoulders. “When I saw the rundown condition of the house and that decapitated flamingo, I thought I had the wrong address, but here you are.” Her gaze shifted to take in the interior and her jaw dropped. “I thought you said the place was a palace.”
“It’s … rustic.”
“It’s …” Her mom’s gaze took in the mail carton/plywood coffee table. “Yikes.”
“It isn’t fancy, but it’s clean.”
Mom looked at the Formica countertop and wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure? ’Cause it looks like it could use a good scrubbing.”
“I’m sure. Mom, what are you doing here?”
Mom squeezed her hands and gave her a tired smile. “I missed you. New York isn’t the same without my girl.”
“That’s sweet—and I miss you, too. But you could have called.”
Mom shook her head. “I needed to see you. Talk to you in person.” She set her purse on the counter, pressed her hands to her lower back, and stretched. “I’m sore from all that driving.”
Jamie stared. “You drove here?”
Mom winced and stretched again. “I did.”
“But … but you hate driving long distances.”
“And this is why—my whole body aches from sitting for so long.”
A sense of dread filled Jamie. Whatever her mom needed to say had to indeed be important for her to drive all the way to Seaside Cove. She scanned her mother from head to foot, taking in her Habitat for Humanity T-shirt, denim cutoffs, and flip-flops. Her shoulder-length light brown curls, which she’d passed along in the gene pool to Jamie, were pulled back in a haphazard pony tail. She wore no make-up, but she rarely did, normally only giving her lashes a swipe of mascara and her mouth a dash of lip balm—a habit also passed along to Jamie. At forty-six, Maggie Newman looked at least ten years younger—which Jamie fervently hoped would be passed along as well.
When her gaze finally settled on her mother’s, Jamie’s stomach knotted with concern. “Have you been crying, Mom?”
Mom’s eyes immediately filled. “No.”
Oh, God. Here came the drama.
“Yes, you have.” Jamie took her hand and led her to the sofa. “Come. Sit. Can I get you anything? Juice, water, coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
Once they were seated, Jamie asked, “Is this about the bill-pay stuff? Because if it is—”
“It’s not.” Mom dug in her purse and pulled out a wad of wrinkled tissues. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.” She looked at Jamie through watery eyes, drew a deep breath, then whispered, “I’m pregnant.”
Jamie stared. Then blinked. Twice. She’d anticipated some sort of drama, but not anything remotely like this. She opened her mouth to speak, only to discover her jaw had already dropped. She forced out the only word she could manage. “Huh?”
Two fat teardrops dribbled down her mother’s cheeks. “I’m pregnant. I just found out a few days ago.”
“I … Wow.” A dozen questions buzzed through Jamie’s head as she studied her mom’s distressed expression. “I don’t know what to say, Mom. I didn’t even know you were dating anyone.” Which in itself was a huge shock—her mother was normally guilty of over-sharing. Jamie had never before known her to keep secrets.
Her mother’s face turned crimson. “I’ve been seeing someone for a few months.”
“You haven’t mentioned him.”
“I know. I wanted to, but …”
When her voice trailed off, Jamie asked, “Did you think I’d be upset?” Her mother merely shrugged and Jamie gently squeezed her hands. “Mom, it’s been three years since Daddy died. I know you’ve been lonely.” She raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the backs of her mother’s fingers. “You’re young and vibrant and loving and I would never begrudge you finding someone else. More than anything, I want your happiness. Surely you know that.”
More tears left silvery tracks on her mom’s cheeks. “Thanks, honey. But …” She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. “Good God, I’m forty-six years old. How did this happen?”
“Well, unless a test tube was involved, I’m guessing it happened the old-fashioned way.” Jamie shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this to my mother, but weren’t you using protection?”
“Of course—except for that one time. One time! But for God’s sake, I honestly didn’t think it would be a big deal. Do you know the odds of a forty-six-year-old woman getting pregnant? And by a one-time lack of a condom?”
“Not off the top of my head, but obviously, you didn’t beat the odds.”
A humorless sound blew past her mom’s lips. “Obviously.” She slipped her hands from Jamie’s and dragged her fingers under her wet eyes. “God, I’m still in shock. At
first I thought the reason I’d missed my periods was because menopause had kicked in. It wasn’t until I started barfing my brains out every morning and my boobs swelled up and hurt like hell that I even thought of any other possibility.”
Jamie wasn’t sure which mental image was worse—her mother having wild monkey sex without a condom, or tossing her cookies with swollen boobs. Thanks for those visuals, Mom. I’m now officially scarred for life. “What are you going to do?”
“I … I just don’t know. I’ve always been a go-with-the-flow sort of person, and as you know, practicality has never been my strong suit, but this … this has really thrown me. There’s no way to be nonchalant about it, and I’ve had to force myself to think very seriously and consider all the ramifications as my decisions will not only affect me for the rest of my life, but the life of a child as well.”
“Have you seen your doctor?”
“Yes. She explained that there are risks at my age, and extra precautions are needed, but many of the risks can be managed effectively. She prescribed prenatal vitamins and recommended testing to diagnose or rule out chromosomal abnormalities. She said that since I’m in excellent health, if the prenatal testing rules out chromosomal defects, the baby probably would be at no greater risk of birth defects than if I were younger.”
She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, then continued, “On the surface, having a baby is wonderful and exciting and fun, but the hard reality is that the thought of raising a child on my own, at my age, is terrifying. And exhausting. God, Jamie, I’d be sixty-four at the high school graduation! Nearly seventy by college graduation. That’s sobering, to say the least.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “Yet the thought of ending the pregnancy is even more terrifying.”
“Mom … you clearly haven’t wanted to talk about the baby’s father, but I have to ask—what about him? Why would you be raising the child on your own? What does he have to say about all this?”
When her mother hesitated, Jamie asked, “Does he know?”
She nodded, then a sob escaped her. “Yes.”
Summer at Seaside Cove Page 11
