by Sally John
“Noah made it.”
“That makes sense. He’s a chef, right?”
“Oh, now and then.” She winced. Beau’s civility always made her snarkiness fall flat on her own ears. “I mean, he is a chef, but he’s not actually working as a chef. You know, officially. As in a restaurant.”
“Lucky for us.” He winked and forked up some salad foothills. “Else we might not have this tasty dish here.”
She ate, making careful, deliberate movements, yet squirming on the inside. She’d never met anyone like this guy.
First of all, he was the largest man she knew, at least six foot five and two-hundred-and-then-some pounds without an ounce of flab on him. His shoulders were so broad that the first time she saw him standing in a doorway she wondered why he was wearing shoulder pads.
He was smart, no doubt about that. He could fix anything and even teach her about apps on her tablet.
That little iPad session had been a fluke. She’d been in the laundry room, waiting for the dryer to stop, working with her new device, fussing quietly at it. Evidently not quietly enough. He overheard her from the courtyard, popped inside, and explained the problem like nobody’s business.
Definitely a fluke.
Then there was his limited wardrobe. Not that she was into fashion, but he wore one outfit: blue jeans and a distressed-green denim work shirt. Above its left pocket was a small embroidered logo: a hammer in a deeper green shade, and, in red letters, Fix-It Jenner. Typically, he wore a matching cap that he would tuck inside his back pocket when, like now, he was indoors. The logo green matched his eyes, the red hinted at the reddish-blond shade of his short wavy hair.
It was, however, his Southern genteel mannerisms that got to her. It was like being tickled by a feather under her nose. Whenever he was near, she itched and twitched and behaved like an absolute oaf.
Naturally, she avoided him whenever possible.
“So.” She took a stab at conversation, speaking to her plate. “I hear you’ll be spending more time at the Casa.”
He swallowed. “That’s partially true. Between you and me and the fly on the wall, those chores Miss Olivia used to do by herself won’t take me near the amount of time they took her.”
Sam bristled. How dare he make light of Liv’s needs. “She’s very thorough. Details matter to her. It’s why the Casa is always in tip-top shape. Everything works and the courtyard looks impeccable. All the time.” She felt his eyes on her and turned to meet his gaze. “I’m just saying…”
“That if I cheat Miss Olivia, you’ll nail my hide to a tree.” He smiled and his eyes twinkled.
They actually twinkled. Like when sunlight hit a raindrop shimmying on a wide leaf of the tropical tree outside her front door.
“Well, yes. Generally speaking, that’s what I’d do.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss Samantha. Doing business with Miss Olivia is exactly the same thing as sitting with my Granny Mibs on her front porch, drinking lemonade. It’s sheer delight. Even if it weren’t, I would never disrespect either one of those ladies.”
“Please don’t call me that.”
“Whoops.” He grimaced in an exaggerated way. “I apologize. Sometimes I forget it’s the twenty-first century and women don’t care for that sort of old-fashioned talk. I don’t mean anything by it. Not that I’m saying your head isn’t pretty. Because it is. And it’s just the right size, not too small.”
Good grief. Pretty little head? That line had sailed right past her. “I was talking about the ‘Miss’ part.”
“The ‘Miss’ part?” He smiled crookedly. “Well, I can’t promise anything about that. Granny Mibs practically yanked my ear off every time I addressed a lady incorrectly. She made one of those—what do you call it?—indelible impressions. I’ll do my best, though, to not give offense. Would ‘ma’am’ suit you better?”
Sam blinked a few times and focused on twirling her fork in the casserole. “ ‘Sam’ suits me better.”
“All right, then! ‘Miss Sam’ it is. You know, Miss Olivia always refers to you as Samantha. That’s where I picked it up. I appreciate your clarifying things. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to talk to Miss Jasmyn.” He looked at her, as if waiting for her permission to leave.
“Uh, sure.”
“Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He made his way slowly across the room, slapping high fives with one of the Templeton grandkids, raising a thumb toward Noah, and complimenting Piper on her latest hairdo, which resembled spikes on a light brown porcupine.
Was Beau Jenner for real?
Who knew? Who cared?
Sam sat alone. Again. Or still. Whatever. She doubted anyone else would pick up on any empty seat alert.
Of course not. It was next to Sam, the snob.
She watched Beau sit down in the empty seat beside Jasmyn. She watched their easy exchange, words flowing freely back and forth, punctuated by grins and laughter.
Oh, well. She had work to do.
Thirty-One
“Keagan, I am not getting out of this vehicle.” Liv, seated in the passenger seat of her minivan, crossed her arms. The movement made her chest hurt. The doctor had said it was her imagination. Still, it was there. She felt it. She uncrossed her arms. “I’m not budging.”
Keagan chuckled from the driver’s seat. “You know I can outwait you.” He turned off the engine and with that went the heater.
She wanted to protest, but she couldn’t summon the energy to do so. Besides, he was right. He could outwait her. Although she wore socks with her slip-on Birkenstock sandals and a jacket, the van was already chilly.
They were parked down at the beach, in a lot nearly empty at this late hour, and faced the night ocean. The inky water mirrored the sky, both full of shimmering pinpricks as if stars had been tossed high and low on two canvases. Far to the right, gentle waves swelled beneath the pier, their whitecaps briefly aglow in light cast from the vapor lamps high above them.
“Liv, you’re not old and you’re not dying.”
“I am old and, for your information, we’re all dying.”
“You get my drift. You always say age is a state of mind. And yours has been focused on that one foot you’ve stuck inside the grave.”
“What do you expect? I had a heart attack.”
Keagan chuckled again. “I had a heart attack. You might want to reconsider that mantra. It’s getting redundant.”
The man went for days speaking no more than a dozen words. What was up with the Mr. Magpie routine? “If I get out of the car, will you stop talking?”
“Only one way to find out.” He hopped from the car, hurried around to her door, and opened it.
She let him help her down. The sand-covered pavement crunched under her sandals. She inhaled damp, cool autumn air that carried smoky scents from campfires burning in a handful of rings on the beach.
She sighed. “Look at those stars.”
“Hmm. Let’s walk.” He drew her arm through his and led her to the lane marked for pedestrians on the Strand. Its curb paralleled the beach. They turned south, away from the pier.
She suspected he chose the direction on purpose. He knew her first choice was always to walk the pier. Tonight, though, the thought of going up and down its ramp felt beyond her ability. Evidently he did not plan to push her physical limitations.
Just her mental ones.
They walked in silence—blessed silence—at a snail’s pace. It wasn’t their first nighttime stroll. Years before, soon after his arrival at the Casa, Keagan had spotted her around ten p.m., halfway out on the nineteen-hundred-foot-long pier.
She never again walked the pier late at night by herself. With that peculiar sense of his, he intuited whenever she was ready to go and he showed up, quiet and watchful, either keeping his distance or joining her.
She thought it totally unnecessary. Seaside Village was a safe community, and she could take pretty good care of herself. Her height and listen-u
p voice commanded attention when she wanted them to.
One time years ago she was in the alley performing her macho routine for three teenage boys who were up to no good. She did not have proof they were up to no good, but one carried a can of spray paint in his back pocket. When she asked them about it, they sassed her. Never one to be afraid to stand her ground or call the police, she was prepared to do both, but the need evaporated.
Out of nowhere Keagan appeared beside her. He spoke in a dead calm voice. “You’ll be moving along now, boys. You won’t be returning.”
Without a word or backward glance, they scurried off.
Those boys never returned. Not a trace of graffiti ever appeared on her wall or the gate or the light pole or the dumpster. The neighbors’ properties remained clean.
Those events cemented Keagan’s role at the Casa. Liv hadn’t asked for it, but she didn’t mind. He wasn’t obnoxious about it, and honestly, who wouldn’t want an angel nearby? Or, as Inez called him, a knight? A little Clint Eastwood never hurt either.
On second thought, maybe she had asked for it. She’d complained enough about the Syd-shaped hole in her life, that male presence that complemented her role as a single female apartment manager. Voilà. Sean Keagan showed up on her doorstep one spring day.
Angel or not, he had earned the right to speak things she did not want to hear.
The stars flickered, above and below. Waves kissed the beach. Quiet beauty danced around her and eventually, slowly, it seeped inside.
She let go of his arm. She’d show him who had one foot in the grave. “Okay. Do you want to hear my side of the story?”
“Only if it might help.”
“I’m scared, Sean.” She seldom called him by his first name. He tolerated it from her, although she had the impression it carried sad memories for him. Still, at times like now, she desperately needed a son-type intimate more than an angel or a knight.
They walked several steps in silence.
Finally he said, “Of course you’re scared. You experienced a lot of pain and a brush with death.”
Silence built between them.
“Is there more?”
“No.” She fidgeted. “Yes. What it’s really about is losing control. About depending on others for the simple basics of preparing food and cleaning my home and walking across the courtyard and pulling my weeds. It’s about feeling like God is so far away. So very, very far away.”
He touched her elbow, steered her around, and they headed back toward the parking lot.
“Well,” he said, “what can I say? Life is difficult.”
“Yeah, and it stinks too.”
He laughed. “At times.”
Liv did not. “That’s all you have for me?”
“Yes, Mama Liv, that’s all either one of us has. Life is difficult and at times it stinks.”
Thirty-Two
Jasmyn sat on a retaining wall. Below her feet lay mounds of boulders that protected a section of shoreline beneath the pier. The tide was low, leaving a stretch of beach and exposing barnacle-covered pilings. A steady stream of joggers and walkers paraded past her. Out in the water, surfers paddled toward the horizon, rode waves, were tossed off their board, and then started the process all over.
Filling in for Liv as a manager was coming easy for her. Even organizing last night’s potluck—nowhere near her forte—had been a breeze. Of course, she knew how to serve people in a restaurant, but she had never ever entertained at home in her entire life. Having Quinn over for tuna-and-noodle casserole did not count.
But she wanted to express family support for Liv. She posed the WWLD question to herself. What she had seen Liv do was gather the residents together. The day Jasmyn first arrived, the annual Labor Day picnic was in progress, and Liv had been absolutely radiant. It was easy to see how much she adored her Casa family, how much it meant to have them all together.
And so Jasmyn decided to go way outside her comfort zone. Everyone had jumped on board at her suggestion, offering food and drink, promising to help set up and clean up. They obviously thought the world of Liv.
Reflecting on the evening, Jasmyn saw that the only downside was that the guest of honor had not exactly rallied for the occasion. There was no radiance or adoration coming from her. In fact, she’d even gone home early. Apparently, Jasmyn’s efforts fell short of what Liv expected or wanted.
Maybe she wasn’t cut out for managing an apartment complex. Not that it mattered. She would be leaving before too long.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Jasmyn jumped at the low voice in her ear and turned, coming almost nose to nose with Keagan.
He sat down, swung his legs over the wall, and faced the ocean. His profile revealed its usual deadpan expression.
She suspected he felt at least smidgens of emotion. After all, he had reached out for help from her, a stranger, because of his concern for Liv. He had even come to the potluck, a rare thing, according to Piper, for Liv’s sake. And he had gone to the trouble of tracking down her luggage and retrieving it from his police friend, a kind gesture toward her.
But that set jaw of his and the dark sunglasses still threw her for a loop. She wasn’t sure how to respond to him. Angel and knight talk were out of her realm.
If he were a customer at her table in the Flying Pig, she’d figure him for a drifter and a loner. He’d order the daily special—hold the sauce—and leave at least twenty percent. They would not make small talk because he would have his sunglasses off and he’d be looking at her with those intense peacock-blue eyes—more unnerving than the sunglasses—and her natural flow of small talk would dry up on the spot.
Then he would rev up his motorcycle, and within sixty seconds Valley Oaks would be a speck in his rearview mirror.
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“The potluck.” He glanced at her and shrugged. “About Liv. It was a good party.”
She stared at him, speechless.
“She didn’t respond well. That’s not your fault.”
“Did I look like I was worried?”
“A little.”
“I guess my timing was off. She wasn’t ready to be cheered up.”
“Liv is…how shall I put it? Independent to a fault sometimes. It’s hard for fiercely independent people to have heart attacks and depend on others to cheer them up.”
Jasmyn sighed. “Should I not even try?”
“Only if you resent her for it.”
She looked at him. “Oh! I would never do that.”
Beneath his sunglasses, his nose twitched and then his lips moved, quick as a flutter.
“Don’t laugh. Really, I wouldn’t.”
He turned toward her. “I know you wouldn’t, not on purpose. I wasn’t laughing at you.” He paused, as if he had something else to say, but the moment passed and he faced the ocean again.
Jasmyn studied his profile. He had a nice nose, slender and not overly long. He could have done with a shave. His hair hadn’t seemed to grow one iota since they’d met almost two months ago. Maybe he shaved his head more often than his jaw. As usual, he wore athletic shoes, blue jeans, and a dark T-shirt—navy today—with faded lettering across the front, Seaside Village Gym, the name of the place he co-owned.
Why was she so silly about him? He wasn’t scary. A little different maybe, a little odd, but thoughtful nonetheless.
His nose twitched again.
“So what are you laughing at?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. At last he replied, “Your naïveté. Sorry. It’s refreshing. Bottom line, Jasmyn Albright, you’re doing a good job. Believe in yourself.”
Naïveté? Refreshing? Good job? Believe in herself? Well…she had nothing to say.
They sat in silence. And after a while, the silence became comfortable.
Thirty-Three
From the passenger seat in Sam’s car, Jasmyn watched the scenery zip by along the two-lane highway. Except for distant mountains, it was cu
riously similar to Illinois country: wide open, full of trees, rolling hills, cows and horses, little traffic.
She was so excited about her first visit to the desert that she could hardly sit still or stop jabbering about every tree they passed. “Sorry. I’m a little bouncy.”
Sam glanced over, the scenery reflected in her sunglasses. “A little? That ‘what would Liv do’ business is nowhere in sight.”
Jasmyn thought she heard teasing in her friend’s tone, but she should probably give up trying to read Samantha Whitley. The only thing she understood for sure was that Sam most often resembled the big Jeep they rode in: dark, moody, and full of attitude, her interior concealed by tinted windows.
“You mean Liv wouldn’t be excited about going to the desert with you?”
“She wouldn’t be going in the first place.” Sam scrunched her lips together and muttered under her breath, “Probably because I wouldn’t invite her.”
Jasmyn didn’t bother to ask why. Sam was the most private person she had ever met. Jasmyn doubted she would invite anyone except maybe Chad. She hadn’t exactly asked Jasmyn. “See, there’s the difference between Liv and me. I didn’t wait for an invitation. I barged my way in.” She raised her voice to a falsetto. “ ‘Sam! For real? You’re going to the desert? I’ve never, ever been to a desert!’ Hint, hint.”
Sam smiled at her, a full-on, un-Sam-like smile. “No problem, as long as you don’t need me to play tour guide. Besides, you needed a day off. You’ve been playing Liv for two weeks straight. Which, by the way, you do really well.”
“I’m not so sure. I could keep the courtyard and laundry room clean in my sleep. The ‘mama’ part totally escapes me.”
“You throw a pretty mean potluck, though. Very Mama Liv style.”
Jasmyn felt her face blush. “I was so far outside my comfort zone.”
“Really? You seemed like a natural, being all social butterflyish.”
She laughed. “I guess it’s similar to waitressing. But at the restaurant I’m only responsible for putting food on the table, not asking people to come to my place and then making sure they’re comfortable. That’s what Liv does so well. That’s her ‘mama’ persona.”
