Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel

by JoAnn Ross

Once upon a time, while growing up in a small county on the far west coast of Ireland, Mary had dreamed of moving to America, where she’d become a rich and famous movie star, live in a mansion in Beverly Hills, and have a worldwide audience of fans who’d follow her every move.

  Despite having chosen an acting career that had thrust her into the public eye and onto the covers of tabloid magazines, Mary had always been an intensely private person. After surviving admittedly tempestuous teenage years, she’d emerged as what she liked to believe was a sensible, logical adult. A woman who was the polar opposite of the sexy Queen of the Selkies, a role she’d created by writing the screenplays that had garnered her wealth beyond her wildest dreams—along with a legion of fans who’d show up in droves at theaters for the opening of her movies and hold festivals where they’d enact favorite scenes and conduct workshops about selkie myths and culture.

  At the urging of the studio’s publicity department, Mary had attended several of these events, and as grateful as she was for these moviegoers who’d made her dream come true, she was bemused by the idea her stories, drawn from myths her late father loved to tell, could be taken by anyone as gospel truth.

  “I’m simply telling stories,” she’d insist to those who’d push her to admit otherwise. “They’re make-believe. Like leprechauns or fairies.”

  Of course, one problem with that explanation was her own father had believed in leprechauns and fairies. Fictional or not, her stories had stimulated the imaginations of millions who preferred to believe in an alternate reality.

  And lately she’d been feeling more and more trapped in a life of her own making.

  The sun was rising in the sky, burning off the fog, as she returned to the house and found her houseguests seated out on the deck.

  “Good morning!” Kate MacKenna waved as Mary approached.

  “Good morning to you.” Mary ran up the steps and gave the older woman a hug. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to be making you breakfast.”

  “Don’t bother your head about it. We’ve only just gotten up.” As Kate exchanged a look with her husband, a telltale flush rose in her cheeks.

  The idea that her older sister’s best friend had found such love with the American horse trainer after a miserable and abusive marriage brought Mary a rush of pleasure. Kate was one of the kindest, most nonjudgmental people Mary had ever met, which was why she’d been such a valuable sounding board during those young and foolish years when Mary’s entire happiness seemed to have revolved around whether she’d be popular with the village boys.

  Kate’s smile faded, just a bit, as she swept a gaze over Mary’s face. “You look a bit tired,” she said. “I hope we haven’t been a bother.”

  “Don’t talk foolishness. I love having you visit. I just had a restless night.”

  “More than a few of them, I’d be thinking,” Kate said, as her husband, Alec, went into the house, returning with a mug of coffee he handed to Mary. “Is something wrong?”

  Damn. There was no hiding anything from this woman. According to Mary’s sister Nora, ever since childhood Kate had been able to “see” things. Like when she was five and saw the black wreath on Mrs. Callahan’s door two months before the elderly woman dropped dead of a heart attack while weeding her cabbage patch.

  Or the time, when Nora and Kate were teenagers, that Kate saw little Kevin Noonan floating facedown in the surf seconds before a white-crested wave swept the wandering toddler off his feet—but soon enough to warn his mother.

  “Thank you,” she said to Alec as she cradled the mug in her hands, breathing in the fragrant steam. When she was home in Ireland, she tended to drink tea. But she’d developed the coffee-drinking habit while living in America. “There’s just a lot of stress involved with releasing a new film.”

  “I imagine it’s a bit like an upcoming race,” Alec said.

  “I would imagine,” Kate echoed. Then gave Mary an even longer, more pointed look. “Is that all it would be?”

  “I’ve been having dreams,” Mary admitted reluctantly.

  “Would those dreams be about a man?” Kate asked. “And would they be a stranger?”

  “Yes on both counts, but as for him being a stranger, that’s undoubtedly because I don’t personally know men worth dreaming about.”

  Before her warrior stranger had begun visiting her, Mary had experienced a particularly hot dream about Daniel Craig where she’d played a Bond Girl to his 007. Not that she was going to share that bit of information in front of Kate’s husband, who was pretty hot himself.

  It was time to change the subject. “You must be really excited, with Lady of the Lake’s win yesterday.”

  The Thoroughbred, sired by Legends Lake out of Irish Dancer, was the reason for Kate and Alec’s visit. They’d brought her from the couple’s Kentucky farm for the American Oaks Invitational Stakes at Hollywood Park.

  “I hoped she’d do well, but winning by so many lengths was definitely the icing on the cake,” Kate said. She exchanged another look with Alec, who, on cue, stood up. “Well, if you ladies will excuse me, I have some calls to make,” he said.

  “What was that about?” Mary asked as he went back into the house.

  “Oh, you know how it is.” Kate brushed away the question with a graceful wave of her hand. “The stud business never rests.”

  “That may be. But why do I get the feeling you wanted to talk to me alone?”

  “You’ve always been a clever girl, Mary, darling.” Kate’s lips curved. “And you can resist all you want, but I still believe you’ve inherited a bit of the sight, yourself. Undoubtedly from your father.”

  Kate had told her more than once over the years that her father had been known to experience a few visions. Having witnessed that such a gift could also be a curse, Mary had steadfastly closed her mind to the possibility.

  “The only thing I inherited from Da was my storytelling. As for his visions, as much as I loved him, I can’t overlook the fact that he was more than a little fond of his pints and Jameson’s.”

  “Well, there was that,” Kate agreed with a faint smile. Then got right down to brass tacks. “I had a dream of my own last week,” she said. “About Eleanor.”

  “Mam?” Mary had been nine years old when she’d lost her mother. There were times she couldn’t decide whether some of her memories were true or merely stories others had told that she’d grasped onto so tightly she’d come to believe she remembered them. “Does that happen often?”

  “Not since your sister married. In truth, the last time I dreamed of her was right before Quinn Gallagher arrived in Castlelough.”

  Not only was Quinn now Mary’s brother-in-law, the bestselling horror novelist was also the person who’d gotten Mary interested in both acting and writing. He’d also, on one memorable night, talked her out of giving away her virginity to a boy who would never have appreciated what such an act would have meant to her.

  “It was much the same as last time,” Kate revealed. “She told me to tell you she’s sending you a man.”

  Although she’d never intentionally hurt the other woman’s feelings, Mary couldn’t help laughing. “Are you suggesting my mother’s in heaven, pulling strings on my life? Because if she is, could you ask her to please cause a flood or tsunami that’ll wash those tabloid cretins who call themselves reporters off the face of the earth without harming anyone else?”

  “They’ll get their comeuppance,” Kate said mildly. “In this life or the next. And aren’t you reacting with the same skepticism Nora had when I brought it up with her thirteen years ago? And look how wonderfully her life’s turned out.”

  Her sister’s life admittedly could have served as inspiration for a romantic movie. But having been there to witness the beginning of her and Quinn’s relationship, Mary knew that the road to their well-deserved happily-ever-after hadn’t been all that smooth.

  “I best be getting ready to go to the track.” Kate stood up and kissed Mary’s cheek. “Just keep an open mind,�
�� she advised. “And you never know when magical things might happen.”

  Perhaps to some people, Mary thought as she looked out over the deck railing to where the glistening sea foam was washing onto the sand. But despite making a living writing fantasy, Mary didn’t believe in magic. Nor the banshees her father had once sworn he’d tangled with and escaped, nor glittering green sea creatures, nor even selkies.

  Her feet were set firmly in the concrete of reality. Which was precisely where she intended to keep them.

  3

  Mary had just gotten out of the shower when her bedroom phone rang. Seeing it was one of the myriad publicity people the studio had assigned to her upcoming movie, she switched into work mode and picked up.

  “Hi,” she said. “What’s up?”

  “I have a proposition for you,” the young woman said. “But you don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to.”

  That got Mary’s attention. She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been made to feel pressured to do yet more publicity. “What is it?”

  “There’s this small town in Oregon that’s supposedly a sister city to the town you grew up in.”

  “Shelter Bay.” Mary recognized the name immediately. Hadn’t it shown up on signs at both ends of Castlelough when she’d been in high school? She’d also once spent a lovely holiday there with her family after her sister had married.

  “That’s it. According to the letter—an actual letter, on town council stationery, not an e-mail—I received, they’re throwing their first film festival.”

  There was a slight pause. “They asked if you’d make an appearance, since the festival is featuring your movies. Being a seaside town, it fits in with your selkie stories, and being that you’re a former citizen of their sister city, of course they thought of you. Unfortunately, the letter got misdirected by the mail room, and after spending the past two months wending its way through the studio, it finally landed on my desk.”

  Another pause. “Of course I called and told the mayor I doubted you’d be able to make it on such short notice—it’s next week—but—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?” The voice on the other end of the phone sounded as surprised by Mary’s answer as Mary herself was. Not only was she a realist; she was also not the least bit impulsive.

  “I never say anything I don’t mean.” And she definitely hadn’t meant to say that.

  “Oh. Okay. So…” She could practically hear the wheels spinning in the publicity woman’s head. “Let me get back with them and work on transportation and where you’ll be staying. I didn’t bother to look the place up online before I called, because I was so sure you’d say no, but I got the impression you won’t be booked into a suite at the Shelter Bay Four Seasons or Ritz-Carlton.”

  “It’ll be a challenge, but I believe I can handle that sacrifice,” Mary said dryly.

  “You’re such a trouper! I’ll call the mayor, get more details, and get right back to you.”

  Left listening to dead air, Mary hung up. Then cast a glance upward. “Good try, Mam. But if you did have anything to be doing with this, you’ve got your wires crossed. Because I’m definitely not in the market for a husband.”

  Ever since Siren Song had achieved blockbuster success, she’d devoted so much time to her career, she had no time for men. Let alone a romantic relationship, which, from the few she’d attempted, had required her to do most of the heavy lifting and eventually ended, not with a bang, but with a whimper. Which had left Mary wondering if she even knew what it felt like to be deeply, madly, truly in love. Oh, she could write about love and passion, but she was beginning to suspect that she simply didn’t possess a romantic gene.

  Which wouldn’t be the end of the world. She did, after all, have good friends like Kate and Alec, work she loved, and although living in Los Angeles would no longer be her first choice, she’d adapted.

  Life might not be perfect. But whose was?

  Unlike seemingly many of her fans, Mary fully understood that life really wasn’t anything like the movies.

  4

  Shelter Bay, Oregon

  It wasn’t the same. J.T. wondered why he even thought it could be. Shelter Bay hadn’t changed. But he had.

  Giving up on sleep, he crawled out of the rack at dawn and ran out of town to the coast, boots pounding the empty streets, across the bridge, and along the hard-packed sand at the ocean’s edge. He didn’t run for physical fitness, or to achieve any elusive runner’s high. The truth was, he was out in the morning fog, as he’d been every day since returning home six weeks ago, trying to wipe out the memories that ran like an unending video loop in his head. Even as he feared they’d always be with him, J.T. continued to run.

  And run.

  And run.

  Arriving back in town, he passed the blue and white welcome sign announcing that the sleepy Oregon coastal town he once couldn’t wait to escape was not only the Pacific Northwest’s whale-watching capital, but home to Navy Cross recipient Sax Douchett.

  Knowing how his former SEAL brother hated that hero tag, J.T. suspected that Sax cringed every time he was forced to drive past the sign.

  Another sign was yet more proof that while J.T. may have changed during the dozen-plus years he’d been away, not much else had. The Rotary Club continued to meet on Tuesdays at the Sea Mist restaurant, the historical society on the first Thursday of every month at the museum, and summer concerts were still held on Sunday afternoons at Evergreen Park.

  Although the calendar might say summer, a cool, misty rain blowing in from the Pacific had followed him, dampening his hair and brown T-shirt as he ran along Harborview Drive.

  Again, everything looked nearly the same as it had when he’d left town in search of adventure. It was high tourist season, and although it was still early and wet, people were out in full force, crowding the sidewalks as they shopped in quaint little galleries and souvenir shops, stood shoulder to shoulder at the seawall taking photos of the sea lions lounging on the docks, and watching with binoculars for the resident whales that made Shelter Bay their home.

  A fat orange cat lounged in the window of Tidal Wave Books next to a stack of Gabriel St. James’ new photo book. The former jarhead (not that there was really any such thing as a former Marine) was J.T.’s brother Cole’s best friend. While in Shelter Bay for Cole’s wedding—which J.T., who’d been in Afghanistan at the time, had missed—St. James had fallen in love with a local veterinarian and stayed.

  When he went inside to buy a copy, the friendly bookstore owner chattered away to him as she rang up the sale, but although he could see her lips moving, J.T. couldn’t hear a word she said over the roaring, like surf, in his ears as another memory flashed through his mind.

  When a pregnant wife had asked to spend the night before her husband’s funeral next to the flag-draped casket, J.T. had sneaked her into the funeral home. Not wanting her to have to sleep on the hard tile floor, he’d gone to Target for an air mattress, a pillow, and sheets. Until he’d stood in the aisle, he’d never realized sheets came in so many damn colors. Since women liked flowers, he’d grabbed the ones with roses, which she’d seemed to appreciate.

  Marine notification officers stayed with families for as long as they needed, which meant visiting her at the hospital after she’d given birth. While showing off the baby boy who’d never know his father, she’d confessed that her husband sometimes visited her at night and they’d make love.

  The summer he’d turned ten, his family had taken a vacation road trip that had included a visit to Little Bighorn National Monument. Having felt the lingering warrior spirits, J.T. wasn’t about to discount the young widow’s story of ghostly visits. In fact, as he accepted the white bag with the blue wave and store name on it, he wondered if perhaps he was turning into a ghost himself. If the bookstore owner reached out to touch, would her hand go right through him?

  Since that memory made him thirsty, on the way back to Bon Temps, his brother
Sax’s Cajun restaurant, where he’d been staying in the office, J.T. dropped into the VFW hall. The heads of various game animals still hung on knotty pine walls, while a snarling grizzly continued to stand over a jukebox that offered up mostly country.

  While Trace Adkins’ rumbling baritone sang about a solider who’d died and met up with his grandfather, who was also buried at Arlington National Cemetery, J.T. put the bag on the floor covered in peanut shells and took a stool. “I’ll have a Bud.”

  The bartender, who’d shot the bear during R & R after participating in Operation Just Cause in Panama, lifted a brow. “Little early, isn’t it?”

  “Since when did Navy frogmen become the beer police?”

  “Just saying.” The former SEAL twisted off the cap and put the bottle on an ancient bar that had been carved with initials and symbols of various units going back to World War II.

  “Well, don’t.”

  The icy cold beer went down smooth and took the edge off the hangover that had continued to linger during his run. After polishing it off, he tossed some bills on the counter, picked up the book, and left. He did not say good-bye. Neither did the SEAL.

  Maybe he’d turned as invisible as he felt.

  Or maybe not.

  “Where the hell have you been?” his brother Sax demanded when J.T. walked in the door at Bon Temps and found both his brothers waiting for him.

  He tossed the bag onto a table. “And that’s any of your business, why?”

  “Because you’re our baby brother,” Cole, the eldest, said.

  “I haven’t been a baby for a helluva long time. And where I go and what I do isn’t any of your damn business.” He went behind the bar and pulled a bottle of Full Sail pale ale out of the cooler.

  “That’s what you think.” Sax snatched the bottle away before he could open it. “Everyone’s been walking on eggshells around you, waiting for you to settle back in. But it’s been six weeks of you drinking up my profits, and you’re still spooking everyone in town—”