by Donna Fasano
Brad felt like he was in a thick fog. He nodded. “That place has been closed for the past six months, right? Maybe longer.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “There was talk about it at a City Council meeting back in the spring. I remember residents were asking what was going on, and the Council promised to look into it. No one’s said a word since that I know of.”
The deed to the property that Brad held in his hand was covered in fancy brown cardstock, latched together at the top with a heavy metal fastener.
“So who was this guy?” Jack asked. “And why would he name you in his will?” Before Brad could answer, Jack continued, “It says here he saw you on some documentary. What’s that all about?”
“It was years ago. The first summer I was hired,” Brad told him, squinting against the sunlight that seemed to suddenly grow brighter. “I was interviewed for a documentary about the history of the OC Beach Patrol. As the newest member of the team, they wanted to talk to me.”
“What were you… eighteen?”
“Seventeen,” Brad corrected. “I’d just earned my certification, and I was cocky as hell.”
The Ocean City Beach Patrol manned the lifeguard stands along the town’s ten mile stretch of beach. Brad hadn’t missed a single summer working as a guard in all these years.
“I took a lot of crap for that interview,” he murmured.
Jack didn’t respond, but curiosity tilted his head.
“The interviewer asked me what I wanted to do when I grew up,” Brad explained. “I was a kid. What the hell did I know at the time? I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. That I’d love to own a mini golf business.” Despite the irritating memory, he couldn’t help but bark out a single, low laugh. “Everybody on the patrol team called me Putt-Putt for months. I didn’t think I’d ever live that down.”
Both men were quiet for a few seconds while Jack took the opportunity to take a swig of water. “Ah, so it’s not the arcade that’s the important bit. It’s the golf course. This Harold Hopewell was making your dream come true, maybe?”
The observation made as much sense as any, Brad decided. He tugged his phone out of the band strapped around his upper arm and he connected to the internet with a few short swipes. A quick web search of Howard Hopewell caused him to let out a long, low whistle.
“Apparently, this guy was a billionaire,” he told Jack. “A venture capitalist, it says here, whatever the hell that is. Married. Wife died young. No kids. He never remarried. Hell, looks like the guy had more money than Bill Gates.”
Jack looked up from reading the letter. “According to this lawyer, you met Hopewell. You spent the day with him, in fact.”
“I did?” Brad looked up from the screen on his phone. “That has me stumped. Wait a minute, though.” He nodded. “Yeah. I vaguely remember spending the day with an old guy. But it was years ago. Years. At least ten. Maybe more. From what I remember, he was nice enough. Wanted to know all about my job. The saves I’d made.” Brad shook his head. “But he was just a normal person, you know? Not eccentric or anything. Nothing about him said billionaire, that’s for sure.” Brad looked off toward the bay. “I guess that was Hopewell? Had to be, right?”
Jack was busy guzzling more water.
“Listen, Jack,” Brad said, “don’t say anything about this to anyone, okay?”
“You got it,” Jack assured him. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
Setting his iPhone aside, Brad picked up the deed again and marveled at how his life was about to change.
“I wonder what Cathy will say,” he murmured automatically.
“What? You think Cathy Whitley is going to be impressed?” Jack guffawed. “Didn’t the two of you argue just last week because she said you shouldn’t be living in your parents’ house?”
That hadn’t been an argument, Brad thought. That had merely been a lively conversation. Or it had started out that way, at least. Cathy had a way of getting under his skin. In more ways than one. And he did the same to her. They were like oil and water far too often. But sometimes, they were like a perfectly seasoned salad dressing—an ideal blend of spicy and sweet in a flawless amalgamation. The thought made his mouth twist wryly.
Being a chef, she would thoroughly appreciate the analogy, he realized.
“She might have a point,” Jack said. “About you living here—”
“It’s not like they live here, Jack. Mom and Dad retired to Boca Raton two years ago,” Brad said. “And I pay them rent.”
“Hey, man—” Jack lifted his hands, palms out “—I don’t need an explanation. I’m just saying… Cathy is…” He shrugged. “Cathy.” Then he winced. “Sorry, bro. Really. I know you’ve been chasing that woman for years. I’m just not so sure she’ll ever be up for getting caught.”
Jack was right. Cathy was Cathy. Honest-to-a-fault, hard-working, responsible, no-filter, say-it-like-it-is-even-if-it-hurts. And skittish as hell when it came to their relationship.
She was one of a kind. Thank God.
And that redhead drove him nuts.
When things between them were good, they were very good. But when they weren’t, life could be a nightmare.
Brad smoothed his thumb back and forth across the deed of the business he now owned. This unmitigated good fortune would certainly change his life. Maybe it would change Cathy’s life, too.
If he played his cards right, maybe…
His mind churned with possibilities.
Just… maybe.
Chapter One
Tears rolled down Cathy Whitley’s cheeks and she sniffed, even though she knew doing so would only make matters worse for her.
“What’s wrong over there, missy?”
The sarcastic question came from Lyle, one of Cathy’s long-time customers. The bewhiskered old cuss sat at the counter, his short, pudgy fingers laced around a heavy ceramic coffee mug. All he needed was an eye patch to be a dead ringer for a pirate.
“You look like you lost your best friend.”
Al, the “Frick” to Lyle’s “Frack,” voiced this observation. With his black-rimmed glasses, neatly trimmed beard, and normally polite manner, Al brought to mind a scholar on holiday—or a nutty professor, depending on his mood.
The men came in for breakfast each morning, and most days, they stayed through lunch. They found all manner of subjects to discuss, from politics and religion, to world events, real estate, music, movies, even the Hollywood insiders, but usually this was a topic of a last resort. Their debate sessions were, for the most part, entertaining; they were also multifarious, as she’d learned from her favorite learning tool, Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day. However, let the slightest lull slow their conversation and both men delighted in teasing Cathy, her wait staff, even other customers; anyone who seemed the slightest bit susceptible became their prey.
They meant no harm, Cathy knew that. They were just two oldsters whiling away their retirement years in the most entertaining way they could find. She didn’t let them bother her. Showing the least bit of insult or annoyance would only encourage a ramping up of the pestering commentary.
Al’s mention of losing a friend made her thoughts turn to Heather. Cathy couldn’t believe it had been nearly three months since her friend had talked to her. The longing that blew through Cathy was quickly shadowed by the hurt that pinched her heart. She chased the thought out of her mind as if it were a gaggle of noisy geese, too busy to dwell on it right now.
Cathy tossed Lyle and Al a bright smile, and then she focused her gaze back to her cutting board, making short work of mincing the onion before scooping up the pile and dropping it into the glass bowl. She stepped over to the sink, washed and dried her hands, and grabbed a paper napkin to blot her cheeks.
Before moving on to the next chore, she took a moment to glance out at the dining room. Every table was occupied, and the room was abuzz with the sounds of people enjoying breakfast; cutlery scraping against ceramic tableware, laughter, and the hum of a dozen dif
ferent private conversations filling the air.
The Sunshine Café was her pride and joy. She’d had to hire six extra people to wait tables this summer because of the wonderful swarm of tourists, and she’d hired two part-time short order cooks so she wouldn’t feel so overwhelmed. It was nice to know she could take a day off through the week if she wanted. Business was better than good, and she was damned relieved about that. Owning a restaurant, or any business in a tourist town for that matter, could be iffy from each season to the next. Cathy was grateful that this summer Ocean City was teeming with tourists; seaside visitors packed the place for breakfast and lunch, the two meals she served each day, and even the local residents continued to show up on a regular basis.
The front door opened, and she smiled a cheerful hello when Sara walked in.
“Morning,” Sara sang, waving to the staff and to Al and Lyle, as she waddled toward the counter, balancing a platter full of warm cinnamon buns.
Over eight months pregnant, Sara Carson ran the sweet shop next to Cathy’s café. The women had been friends for many years. In fact, they attended grade school together. Along with Heather Phillips, the owner of the Lonely Loon B&B upstairs, the women had been called everything from the three little piglets to a three ring circus. Cathy’s favorite times had been when they’d gone out together to get three sheets to the wind. But Heather’s anger at Cathy continued to hold fast, even after all these weeks. Again, Cathy shoved the miserable thought from her mind because she knew, unfortunately, she was fully responsible for every ounce of ire Heather leveled on her.
The rich, buttery aroma of the buns made Cathy’s mouth water. “Gosh, they smell good, Sara, and they look scrumptious.” She moved to the counter, lifted the top off the large, domed glass serving dish, and began stacking the buns on the pedestal plate.
“Sorry I’m late,” Sara said. “I didn’t sleep well last night. Contractions woke me up several times.”
Startled, Cathy went still. “Contractions? But it’s too soon, isn’t it?”
Sara shook her head. “We’re all good. It’s normal. Doctor Jacobs called them Braxton Hicks contractions. My body’s just getting ready for the main event.”
Relieved at the news, Cathy grinned when she thought about the soon-to-arrive bundle of joy. She couldn’t wait to be an auntie.
“I’ll take one of those buns,” Al called.
“Me, too,” Lyle said. “Put it on Al’s bill. He owes me one.”
Cathy continued to fill the pedestal plate. “Just hold your horses, gentlemen. I’ll be right there.”
“Listen,” Sara said, “I need to run. I’ve got to get Heather’s order up to her. Her guests are going to want breakfast.”
The mention of Heather caused Cathy’s mouth to purse and she cut her gaze toward the floor, staring at the toes of her shoes as she tried to swallow away her reaction. Emotion burned her eye sockets just as sharply as the onions had done just moments before. What the hell was wrong with her? She’d become fairly practiced at tamping down the misery she felt over the situation. Why was this causing her such grief today?
Heaving a sigh, she looked at Sara.
“Oh, honey,” Sara whispered, touching Cathy’s shoulder, “I’m sorry.”
“Does she ever mention me?”
Sara’s silent, pained expression said it all.
“Cathy, why won’t you let me talk to her?” Sara asked.
“Absolutely not.” Cathy left two buns on Sara’s platter and replaced the dome on the glass pedestal dish. “She has to get over this on her own. I don’t want you to push her.”
“Okay. I won’t.” Sara reached around and rubbed at the small of her back. “I don’t know that it’ll help how you’re feeling, but she really has been overwhelmed. In a good way, of course. The Loon is full, and Daniel’s been busy writing, so Heather’s taking care of Mia.”
Over the winter, Daniel Atwell had stayed at The Loon, and he and Heather had become a couple. Daniel and his gorgeous, dark-eyed, five-year-old daughter Mia had moved to Ocean City back in the spring.
With a new man in her life, a new little family to get to know, Heather must be absolutely elated. Sadness tinged the smile that curled the corners of Cathy’s mouth. She felt completely delighted for Heather; she only longed for the opportunity to be involved in her friend’s newfound happiness.
“You know,” Cathy murmured, “I don’t want you pushing her, but there’s no reason why I can’t push her… right?” She reached into her back pocket for her phone before she lost her nerve.
Sara blinked. “What are you going to do?”
“What else? I’m pulling on my smartass pants. Heather’s seen me wear them plenty of times before.”
Orneriness skittered through her and she almost chuckled as she began the text message.
Cathy: We never know what tomorrow will bring.
Cathy: A tsunami. A massive earthquake.
Cathy: An invasion of zombies.
Cathy: You should forgive me before the world ends.
When Cathy’s gaze met Sara’s, her friend was grinning.
“Classic Cathy.” Sara fairly sang the words.
“Damn right. If I can’t wait her out, I’ll wear her ass down.”
Sara chuckled. “Go, you. Now, I really should run.”
“Now that, missy, would be a sight to behold.”
Sara’s lips curled cheerfully. “Classic Cathy really is making a comeback. Great! I’ve missed her.”
So had Cathy. Playing the passive one had never been her style and she had no idea why she’d let this go on for so long. Having reached out to Heather, her mood lightened considerably.
Nodding toward the platter with the two buns on it, Cathy said, “I’ll wash this up for you, Sara, and bring it over later.”
“Thanks.” Sara turned on her heel, waggling her fingers in the air. “Chat later.”
“Have a good one!” Cathy called after her. The urge to whistle a perky tune curled in her belly as she transferred the cinnamon buns to small dessert plates. It felt satisfying to finally do something proactive about her situation with Heather. Cathy slid the buns in front of Al and Lyle. “Here you go, gentlemen. Enjoy these on the house,” she told them. Then she grabbed the coffee pot to refresh their cups. The men gawked at her in silence.
Narrowing her gaze at them, she asked, “Do you want the buns or not?”
Her tone snapped them out of their stupor.
“What’s the matter with you, Lyle?” Al blustered as he snatched up his napkin. “Eat your bun.”
“Thanks, Cathy.” Lyle picked up his fork and tucked in.
A server brought her an order ticket and slid it across the counter. “Two orders of eggs Benedict, one dressed, one naked. One short stack of blueberry pancakes with a side of bacon. And a BLT, extra crispy.”
“Got it.” Cathy picked up the slip of paper. Why anyone would want to eat eggs Benedict without the hollandaise sauce was beyond her, but she’d give the customer what they ordered.
“Hey!”
Cathy glanced up as Brad breezed through the door like visiting royalty, bringing with him a gust of salt-tinged summer air.
“People of the Sunshine Café! Good morning to you!”
Al, Lyle, and a couple other locals shouted out a greeting. Brad’s arrival even had the tourists smiling.
Dressed in red swim trunks and a t-shirt—the official uniform of the OC Beach Patrol—Brad stood six-foot tall without an ounce of fat on his sleek swimmer’s physique. Blond, blue-eyed, sun-bronzed, and as gorgeous as a tropical sunset, he was the epitome of the seaside lifeguard. The kind of man every woman dreamed would save her if she ever got in over her head.
The server who’d just turned in the breakfast order exhaled audibly, her cute, unguarded expression going all soft with possibility.
“Sheri,” Cathy said, giving the seventeen-year-old’s forearm a light tap with her index finger, “do you have customers waiting for coffee? Juice?
Water?”
“Oh, yeah.” Sheri’s eyes went round. “Sorry, Cathy,” she murmured as she hurried off toward the drink station.
Cathy moved to the kitchen, poured pancake batter on the hot griddle, popped bread into the toaster, and put eggs into a saucepan to poach.
Brad had that effect on females everywhere he went.
Many years ago when she’d attended high school, she’d dated him off and on. Cathy had hated how some girls had acted around him—gushing like geysers, chattering like chimps, simpering like simpletons. Bradley Henderson had her female school mates twisting themselves inside out and had laid waste to more BFFs than Cathy could count.
The assessment wasn’t entirely fair to Brad, Cathy knew. What normal teen-aged male wouldn’t play the field when he had a meadow-full of wildflowers waiting and eager to be plucked?
What she hated most was the memory of having acted like an idiot over him herself every time he’d found a new “steady” to wear his class ring. Oh, she hadn’t gushed or chattered or simpered. That had never been her way. But she’d suffered her share of jealousy and teen angst back then, that was as certain as it was regrettable.
Since those innocent days though, she’d learned the hard lesson—no man was worth that kind of anxiety.
After she flipped the pancakes, she grabbed four warm plates, and set them on her work area. Then she fished the eggs from the poaching liquid.
Life had led Cathy to places outside Ocean City during her twenties, and while no one would ever call her six-year foray into marriage fortunate or lucky, she had returned to her home town five years ago a different person. More mature, more focused, determined to be self-sufficient. She couldn’t thank Todd, her ex, for much, but he had forced her to realize she didn’t need a man to feel whole. She could take care of herself. It had taken some time, but at the ripe old age of thirty-five, Cathy understood she was fine on her own.
Having broken free of that dark stage of her life, she’d run back to her family and friends seeking the fresh air of freedom, the care-free life of sun and sand, and gorgeous, easy-going Brad had seemed just the man to offer her that.
