Sandpiper Cove

by Irene Hannon

  His Kia was here—meaning Adam was home.

  Pulse spiking, Lexie mashed down the brakes on the squad car.

  Maybe she should back up to 101 and continue to town. She didn’t have to talk to Adam in person. Their business could be handled with a phone call.

  Except she’d tried that, and he hadn’t answered his cell.

  You could have left a message, Lexie.

  Yeah, yeah.

  But then she wouldn’t have had an excuse to drop by.

  Kneading her forehead, she blew out a breath and admitted the truth.

  She liked being around Adam Stone. However, that didn’t mean she had to let it go any further. After all, if you understood the inherent dangers in a situation like this—and she did—you could sidestep them.

  As long as she was here, and as long as she remained on alert, why not follow through with this in-person visit?

  Decision made, she depressed the gas pedal again, nosed in beside his car, and shut off the engine.

  In the sudden quiet, classical jazz drifted toward her from the shed, filling the woods with mellow notes and achingly tender riffs that took “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” to a whole new level.

  For half a minute, as the sun dipped low over the sheltered waters of Sandpiper Cove and the late-afternoon light filtered through the majestic fir and spruce trees, she sat unmoving. Adam might not live in the plushest accommodations, but he had a world-class setting—with a soundtrack to match.

  After one last, lingering sweep of the collage of sea views framed by tree boughs, she slid out from behind the wheel and left the safety of the cruiser behind.

  As she walked toward the shed, the volume of the music increased. No wonder he hadn’t heard the crunch of gravel from her car.

  At the open door of the outbuilding, she paused. Adam was angled away from her, rubbing a curved piece of wood with a cloth, the impressive muscles below the sleeves of his T-shirt bunching with each stroke. Clyde lay sleeping on a rug in the corner, chin on paws. On a workbench off to the side, a plate held dinner remnants—a crust of bread, a scattering of potato chip fragments, the browning core of an apple.

  All at once, Clyde lifted his head, sniffed, and scurried over to the door as fast as his bum leg allowed, tail wagging, tongue hanging out.

  Adam swung toward her, posture tautening.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She bent to scratch Clyde’s ear.

  He exhaled, the rigid line of his shoulders easing. “And I didn’t mean to overreact. I don’t get many unexpected visitors—and recent ones haven’t been friendly.”

  “I tried to call earlier, but your phone rolled to voicemail.”

  “I should have warned you about that when I gave you my number. Since I don’t make many calls, I just have a throwaway for emergencies. In the morning and evening, I check messages. I would have gotten yours later.”

  “I didn’t leave one. I knew I’d be ending the day with a patrol in this area and decided it would be simpler to stop by. I wanted to bring you up to speed on Brian.”

  “Let me turn down the volume.” He crossed to the bench and adjusted a switch on an inexpensive CD player.

  “I like your taste in music.” Even if it surprised her.

  As if he’d read her mind, one side of his mouth rose. His eyes, however, were resigned rather than amused. “It’s more cultured than the heavy metal a biker dude should prefer, right?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. Acid rock goes with the look. But I’ve learned to appreciate some of the finer things in life.” He tossed the rag he’d been using onto the workbench. “It’s kind of cluttered in here. Why don’t we talk outside?”

  She gave the space another scan, homing in on a Windsor-style rocking chair. The piece had a warm, rich patina in the late afternoon light spilling through the wide door, along with a graceful back and a polished seat embellished by a gentle hourglass curve on each side. It occupied the workbench in the center of the room and . . .

  Wait.

  Workbench?

  She took a rapid inventory. Lengths of raw wood, bottles of stain, tape measure, clamps, saws . . . and a bunch of equipment she didn’t recognize but that appeared to be suited to woodworking.

  The pieces fell into place.

  “You made that.” She gaped at the chair.

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow.” She moved closer to it. You didn’t have to be a furniture expert to recognize the quality workmanship that had gone into the crafting of the stunning rocker. “It’s gorgeous.”

  “You’re being generous—but it’s not a bad effort for a beginner.”

  “Beginner?” She transferred her attention to him. He was standing in the doorway, the dipping sun behind him leaving his face in shadows, masking his expression. “This is not a beginner effort. How did you learn to do this?”

  “Happenstance. I took a carpentry course in prison and found out I had some natural abilities. After BJ hired Luis, he showed me a bunch of woodworking stuff his father taught him in Cuba while he was growing up. The rest I learned from books—and practice. BJ gets me scrap lumber from the sawmill where she buys her wood. Any spare cash I accumulate goes into equipment.”

  “Your pieces are made from scrap lumber?” She examined the chair again.

  “Yeah. All of them have a few defects.”

  “I don’t see any in this chair.”

  “You would if you looked close enough—but most flaws can be smoothed out with a little effort. I’m able to salvage a lot of the leftovers the mill thinks are worthless.”

  “Well, speaking as someone who doesn’t have a creative bone in her body, I’m awed. You have a real talent for this. What do you do with the pieces you make?”

  “I’ve only finished a few. The rocking chair is one of a pair I made for BJ and Eric as a wedding gift.”

  “That’s some gift.”

  “I’m sure they’ll get a lot of presents more valuable than mine.”

  “Some guests may spend more cash on their gifts—but money isn’t the only measure of value.” She stroked a hand down the satin finish on the curved rocker. “Have you ever thought about selling your work?”

  “It’s just a hobby.”

  “You might be able to build it into more than that. Quality handcrafted goods command high prices. If Tracy can sell her Harbor Point cranberry nut cake all over the country for top dollar, there’s no reason you couldn’t do the same with your furniture.”

  “I already have a job.”

  “But you make furniture anyway on the side.”

  “For my soul, not for money. Working with wood gives me . . . I don’t know. Joy, I guess. And a feeling of freedom. Creating beauty out of discards, turning rejects and scraps into something functional, it’s . . .” His voice rasped, and he pivoted away. “Sorry. You didn’t come out here to discuss furniture. Let’s find a comfortable place to sit and you can tell me about Brian.”

  He disappeared out the door.

  Lexie waited a few moments. He needed a chance to regain his composure—and she needed to try and assimilate all the disconnects he kept throwing at her. The raw emotion on his face and in his voice as he’d attempted to express what woodworking meant to him did not fit the image of a hardened ex-con that his physical appearance and usual taciturn manner projected to the world.

  This was a man of great passion, who felt deeply. His heart might be tattered and his soul wounded from all the dark experiences in his life, but deep inside an ember of his better nature had continued to glimmer, waiting to be coaxed back to life.

  Here in Hope Harbor, it seemed that ember was finding its spark.

  What other surprises did this man hold?

  Still pondering that, she emerged from the shed. Adam was waiting in the shadows, watching Clyde chase a squirrel.

  “Would you like to go into the cabin while we talk?” He motioned toward the rustic structure.

&nbs
p; That made sense. The table where they’d shared pizza would be an appropriate place for a business discussion. She should take his suggestion.

  Instead, she looked through the trees toward the water and heard different words tumble out of her mouth. “Is there anywhere to sit on the beach?”

  He appeared to be as surprised by the question as she was.

  “Some rocks. They’re not that comfortable.”

  He was giving her an out.

  She should take it.

  “Works for me.”

  What in creation . . . ?

  That wasn’t what she’d intended to say.

  “You might get your uniform dirty.”

  “It’s been up close and personal with a lot worse than dirt and sand. Unless you’d rather stay up here?” Maybe he’d save her from herself.

  No such luck.

  “The cove is one of my favorite spots. I like to end my day down there with a cup of coffee while the sun sets. Clyde and I have the place to ourselves unless Casper stops by.”

  “Casper?”

  “A silver-white harbor seal that used to hang out near BJ’s house. She named him. Lately he’s been showing up here on the rocks offshore.” He rubbed his palms down his jeans. “It’s too early for my sunset ritual . . . but I’d be happy to brew a pot of coffee if you’d like a cup while we talk.”

  The urge to accept was strong—but she’d already crossed a line by suggesting they hold their meeting down by the water. Sharing convivial cups of coffee on a secluded beach might be pushing it too far.

  “Scratch that.” Adam shoved his fingers in his back pockets and gave her a grin that seemed forced. “It’s dinnertime, and I remember what you said about your mom’s reaction to delayed meals.”

  The man had obviously picked up her hesitation.

  “I was exaggerating a little.” Quit stalling, Lexie. Take the out he’s offered. “Mom knows I often have to work late. If I’m running behind, she puts a plate in the oven for me.”

  “For real?” He shook his head. “It must be nice to have people in your life who care that much.”

  Though his tone was conversational, the subtle yet unmistakable note of longing deep-sixed her lingering qualms about holding their meeting on the water. “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

  He did a double take—but recovered quickly.

  “Great.” He indicated a narrow path that led through the woods. “That will take you to the beach. I’ll bring the coffee down as soon as it’s ready—but I don’t have any cream. Is milk okay?”

  He’d noticed how she’d doctored her java on Friday?

  A tingle of pleasure rippled through her.

  “Milk is fine.”

  “Go ahead and find a spot. There’s not a bad seat in the house.” He snapped his fingers, and Clyde scampered over. “Beach, boy?”

  The dog’s ears perked up.

  “Hang on a sec.” Adam disappeared into the shed again, returning a few seconds later with a rubber ball. “Clyde loves retrieving this. I’ve been holding off since he got hurt, but a few short throws would make him happy.”

  She took the ball, her fingers brushing his during the handoff.

  Mercy!

  It was tingle city all over again.

  She backed off a few paces. “I’ll, uh, see you down there. Come on, Clyde.”

  Before the fresh doubts that were crashing over her like waves on a stormy Oregon day could undercut her decision, Lexie strode away, Clyde prancing at her feet.

  Maybe she’d live to regret this lapse in prudence.

  Maybe she was playing with fire.

  Maybe this was a mistake that would come back to bite her.

  But when she emerged onto the generous crescent of sand where the sheltered blue-green waves lapped gently at the shore, being here felt right.

  And for this moment, she was going to take Charley’s advice, listen to the inner voice urging her to stay—and trust it hadn’t led her astray.

  What in heaven’s name were you thinking, Stone?

  As the aroma of brewing coffee filled the cabin, Adam extracted the two mismatched mugs from the kitchen cabinet and weighed them in his hands.

  Telling Lexie Graham about his evening ritual—and incorporating her into it—had been flat-out dumb. He should have let her conduct her business and leave instead of trying to find ways to extend her visit.

  But whatever impulse had spawned his ill-advised invitation, he was stuck now. She was waiting for him.

  Which led to two questions.

  Why had she accepted his offer of coffee . . . and why had she suggested holding their meeting on the beach in the first place?

  He pulled out the carton of milk, mulling over the conundrum.

  Came up blank.

  There was no reason for her to spend any more time than necessary with an ex-con. She’d no doubt put in a long, busy day, and there was a hot meal waiting for her at home . . . along with a son who would be eager to see her.

  The coffeemaker sputtered, and he moved toward it.

  Whatever her motivation, he wasn’t likely to figure it out in the next few minutes. The best plan would be to tread with caution . . . let her take the lead . . . and do nothing to further detain her the minute she indicated she was ready to leave.

  Armed with that plan, he poured their coffee and followed the familiar path to the beach.

  Emerging from the woods less than a minute later, he spotted her off to the right. She was sitting on the sand, her back against a large rock, legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed, Clyde’s head in her lap as she stroked his fur.

  As he approached, his steps silent on the sand, the two of them were the picture of contentment. Except for the uniform, Lexie could be any young woman who’d stopped to admire the view while out for a walk on the beach with her dog.

  And it was a great view.

  Better than ever tonight, thanks to her presence.

  He shortened his stride, engraving the scene on his mind—but slow as he walked, the distance between them disappeared too fast.

  Only after he lowered himself beside her and held out her coffee did she glance toward him.

  “Thanks.” She wrapped her fingers around the mug. “You have a beautiful spot here.” Sipping the brew, she gazed out over the tranquil water, toward the shimmering golden orb hovering over the horizon. “It’s so peaceful.”

  “Yeah, it is.” He rested his back against the boulder too, keeping a respectable distance between them. “Whenever I’m down here, all my worries fall away. In the sunset and the water and the expanse of sky and clouds, I can feel God’s presence. Sometimes even more than in church—though I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t share that with Reverend Baker.”

  “An easy promise to make. I don’t see him much.”

  “I noticed you don’t attend services with your mom and Matt.” He positioned his comment as a statement rather than a question. If she didn’t want to talk about her faith, he wasn’t going to push. But he was curious. She’d obviously been raised in a Christian home and had no objections to her son attending church with her mother. There had to be a reason she stayed away.

  Silent seconds ticked by, one after another, until he was certain she was going to ignore his remark.

  Then she surprised him.

  “I stopped going to church after my husband died.” Her inflection was matter-of-fact, but a tiny thread of hostility and anger wove through it.

  “Why?”

  The question slipped out before he could stop it . . . and it didn’t go over well. Although she continued to stroke Clyde, he could feel her subtle withdrawal.

  “Look . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. Forget I asked.”

  She pulled out a pair of sunglasses and slid them over her nose. “I just don’t talk much about that subject. It’s not a pretty story.”

  “I can appreciate not wanting to dwell on ugliness.” He spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. “In my
case, though, that leaves only a very small window of time to talk about. Unlike you, I didn’t have a great childhood. The best part of my life didn’t start until I went to prison.”

  “You mean until you were released from prison?”

  “No. While I was in prison. One of the guys convinced me to join the Bible study Reverend Baker led every week, and that changed my life.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  “I agree. But it was the message, not the messenger, that made the difference.”

  “Mmm.”

  At her noncommittal reply, he took a slug of his coffee. If he stepped outside his comfort level and opened up a little, might she reciprocate—if not tonight, one day soon?

  It was worth a gamble.

  Gripping his mug, he focused on the dark depths of the coffee. “The message was a tough sell at first, though.”

  “I imagine you had plenty of reasons to resist.”

  “Yeah, I did. My life had been a train wreck for as long as I could remember. God was invisible all those years while my dad was drinking and knocking me around and taking every opportunity to tell me I was a worthless piece of . . .”—he cleared his throat—“trash.”

  “Didn’t your mother intervene . . . or wasn’t she around?” Dismay underscored her gentle question.

  “She was there.” He swallowed past the hint of bitterness that curdled on his tongue. “But she just disappeared whenever the punching and kicking started. So I ran away when I was sixteen. Kids that age aren’t equipped for street life, no matter how tough they think they are. I hooked up with the wrong people, did what I had to do to survive . . . and everything went downhill from there.”

  Shifting toward him, she removed her glasses. The warmth and compassion in her eyes seeped straight into his heart. “I’m sorry, Adam. I can’t begin to imagine how hard it must have been to grow up in that kind of environment.”

  His fingers tightened again on his mug.

  She’d called him Adam.

  Since he was sixteen, no one other than Charley had ever called him anything but Stone. He’d never asked the taco-making artist to use his first name, but it had sounded right coming from him . . . and it sounded right coming from Lexie too.

  “Don’t try. You don’t want to go there. I’m glad you had it better than I did.”