She met his eyes. Her throat closed, her mouth dry. Discomfort rippled through her.
"Give me your number." He delivered his request as a quiet but steady command, his brows, she noted, like arrows.
"No," she whispered. She stood, dropped several bills on the table, and fled. As Sophia made her way out of the restaurant and onto the promenade, she spied a trash can. She ripped the page with the cursory drawing from her sketchbook, wadded it in one hand, and pitched it into the can.
Her chin set, Sophia marched down the sidewalk, past street musicians and families—moms, dads, children—licking ice cream. She'd lost track of where she was, of how far she'd walked from the spot where she had promised to meet Wade. Had much time passed? Had she even sipped her coffee?
A lump formed in her throat. Sunshine shone all around, but somehow, a rain-bloated, metaphorical cloud had blown in. She slowed. Taunts from her past mushroomed in her mind no matter how hard she worked to tamp them down. Words flung at her from her spoiled little sister. Why now? Had she not put Gia's behavior behind her? Or had she ever really dealt with it at all?
A tear of her own dripped off her chin and landed on her hand. She sniffled, suddenly awakened. When the song ended, she reached into her purse and pulled a wad of cash from her wallet. Without a glance at the amount, she stepped forward and spilled it into the violinist's case.
She spun around and right into Wade's chest.
"Whoa." His voice was low, gentle. "That looked like a lot of money. Be careful about who you give to here."
Sophia looked up, comfortable in the safety of his arms. She swallowed. "She's not a beggar. I appreciate her art ... and her service."
His smile held a hint of surprise. "I understand." He breathed in, as if thinking. "Let's go now, shall we? Those tours await."
He let her go then, and they walked side by side, past the restaurant where she'd left her coffee untouched and the myriad tourists, until they reached his car, climbed inside, and headed east.
Christian sat beneath the beating sun long enough to shake the cobwebs of writer's block that had knit their way into his mind once again. While lounging on the beach near the inn, he'd seen her. She'd emerged from the sea, a goddess, her tail curved, seductive. He laughed aloud, certain mothers would steer their young away from him.
But he couldn't help himself. He'd seen and written her in his mind, and now, as he dusted the sand from his lap and followed the path back to the inn, he kept her memory alive.
Back in his room, he darted for his computer, which had waited patiently for inspiration to strike. He pulled up a chair, scratched his bristling beard, and began to type. He glanced out to sea more than once, especially when memories of Sophia's delicate neck attempted to edge out the novel that needed writing. Or when the angry voice of his agent—his ex-agent—attempted to overshadow his muse.
Sweat soaked through his pores. The story, like a song, poured from his fingers and onto the page, a shower of blood. His blood, his sweat, and on occasion, his tears. There was no holding back.
Hours later, he sat back, breathless. The words on the screen blurred, but a sense of adrenaline told him that what lived on those digital pages, even in their rawest form, were noteworthy. In some ways, after many months of wandering in the desert, he'd found a way to connect again with his readers—through the power of story.
He whispered a silent prayer of hope ... may he never lose his way again.
The shrill of his phone startled every nerve in his body. He stuffed back a swear word and glanced at the screen. Burns Golden. He had nothing to hide. He'd paid his dues, and though he would have preferred to keep his plans quiet, his overzealous cover designer had made that impossible.
She'd been thrilled to work with him (and he with her). Could he truly fault her for that? He pressed the green answer button.
"Burns."
"So this is how you treat the person most responsible for your long success."
His back stiffened. "Quite a surprise to hear from you. You know, after what you said in court on my ... behalf."
"Whatever I did or didn't say, you and I have a valid contract and you are violating it. You don't think I'm gonna let you get away with that, I hope."
"Last I heard, any contract we had was null and void. You did say that yourself, Burns. Wait. Let me pull up the exact quote." Christian's fingers flew across his keyboard. He scrolled until Burns's words, as reported in Monthly Words, the publishing industry's top magazine, popped onto the screen. "Yes, yes. Here it is: 'CJ Capra is out. Gone the way of mood rings and pet rocks. I assure you that you will never see my agency represent him—or his drivel—again.'"
Burns hauled phlegm up his throat and spat it out. Christian could not see this, of course, but he knew from the scraping, hacking sound of it—and from the branded memory in his head, something he'd never been able to erase—that a wad of his curse-filled spit had landed somewhere next to the agent's own two shoes.
Christian stood and began to pace. He crossed an arm under the one that held his phone. "You oughta get that checked, Burns."
"I'll be the one to decide what gets checked!"
Christian pulled his phone away from his ear.
"I've got eyes everywhere, you miserable hack. Even if that stupid girl hadn't posted that cover I would've found you out. I can smell a skunk for miles and your stink has outed you. You think I'd let you get away with this?"
He didn't want to bite. He knew he shouldn't. But this had to end now. He was determined to put a stop to whatever claim Burns Golden thought he had on Christian's work.
"Whatever contractual agreement we had in the past is over now, Burns. Let it go."
"There's where you're wrong. I shopped that book you're writing and I'll tell you when it's over. Now. If you want to go around and write about broads in bikinis, you can. But mermaids are mine—do you hear me?"
Christian broke down, coarse laughter spilling out. "Do you hear yourself? I hardly think—"
"That's right. You hardly think. Why else would you throw a sucker punch at the one guy who could have hurled your sorry self into the stratosphere?"
Christian looked down at his bare feet. He swallowed back a retort. His mind had been primed and pumped by a day of writing and a million responses rose to the top, ready to spill out. Instead, he controlled his tongue.
Burns continued. "Let me tell you how this is going to work. You're going to connect me with your publisher. And he's going to be informed that I have a fifteen percent claim on all future books relative to the one that I spent my time and dollars on."
Christian cleared his throat.
"Understood?"
"That's impossible."
"Don't screw with me, Capra."
"It's impossible because that publisher you're talking about? He's me."
"What the—"
"I am publishing my own book." Christian shifted and drew in oxygen, grateful for the second wind that had recently come his way. "And as publisher, I reject your claim."
Silence. Then a roar that curdled Christian's already upside-down stomach.
"You are self-publishing your masterpiece?"
"It's called indie publishing, and yes. That is correct. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a book to finish."
More churlish laughter filled the line, followed by another gag-inducing spume of phlegm. "Nice try."
"I'm serious."
"No doubt, but it won't work. Anyone else and I'd laugh this off. Self-publishing is for losers—the whole industry knows it—but it's part of your master plan and I won't let you get away with it. You think you can hide your royalties from me? I'll have the court make you cough them up."
He'd given Burns enough of his time—too much, really. He couldn't fathom why. The man had been his undoing, had pulled the threadbare rug from underneath him when he desperately needed steady ground.
Not that Christian didn't have it coming. He raked a hand through his hair as he paced. No. He'
d let someone get to him, someone who had needled him for years, but he should've known better. He should have stayed on higher ground that night at the bar, but he'd let his emotions do the talking. Emotions plus a few too many beers.
Still, he had expected his long-time agent, gruff and ornery as he was, to support him. When he didn't, Christian paid an even larger price than that punch he threw had extracted.
"That's some twisted math you're doing, Burns. Not sure what you think gives you the right to stake a claim to a book that, until now, hasn't been written—"
"You know very well that you and I talked out this masterpiece of yours together. I counseled you. I gave you pointers from my vast experience. And how do you repay me? By taking what I've given from my own generous nature and keeping it all for yourself."
Voices in the hallway caught Christian's attention. He padded across the room and peered through the peephole just as Sophia and what's-his-name passed by. He glanced at the time—7 p.m. Made a day of it, apparently.
"You'd better give me your word about this, Capra, or you'll be hearing from my lawyer."
Yeah, yeah, lawyer, yada, yada, yada.
"Well?"
Christian looked out at the sea through his open window just in time to see the tip of a tail before it plunged beneath the surface. He frowned.
"I'm giving you three seconds to assure me that you're onboard with our partnership."
"One."
The tail had vanished. Had its appearance been a signal of some type?
"Two."
Christian exhaled. Am I losing my mind? The harsh scrape of Burns's breathing assaulted his ear, awakening him to the real threat posed by his former agent. "Don't bother counting any higher," he finally said.
"Ah, I see you've come to your senses, Capra."
"That I have. And what I need you to know is—you won't be getting a dime from this book, or any others that I write in the future. Don't bother calling again."
Christian tossed the phone onto the rumpled sheets of his bed and sank into his desk chair, his mind now void of any kind of creative thought.
Chapter 5
Meg held a top in front of her. “But does it really say 'resort'?"
Sophia tilted her head to one side, thinking. Her legs were crossed, her feet shod with sneakers. She hated to admit it—but Wade had been right. She woke up this morning with throbbing feet, not to mention a sunburn. Hence, the comfortable footwear today—and a generous slathering of Aloe vera gel.
"My honest opinion ...."
"Please," Meg said. "Be honest."
Sophia sighed. "Well, the fabric ... it's too heavy. If I were making it, I'd want it to be breathable in some way. Also ..."
"Yes?"
"The body is too hidden with this design. It is cut into a box shape. Perhaps it would be better as a grocery bag."
Meg collapsed onto the couch in her office, an errant tendril of dark brown hair landing in her eyes. She blew a breath upwards to dislodge it. "See?" she said, focusing again on Sophia. "This is why we NEED you!"
Sophia laughed. "Please stop. Your wardrobe is impeccable. I have every confidence that if I had not come here, you would have chosen the perfect pieces to add to the inn's resort wear line."
Meg sat up, still holding the thick felt. "Do you?" She held the sample in front of her. "Seriously, do you? I don't believe that for one second. Not for one second!" Tears shone in her eyes.
Sophia frowned. "It's just a hoodie."
Meg dropped her chin. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm so emotional these days. I've never been like this—not ever in my entire life." She looked Sophia square in the eyes. "Do you know how happy your brother is to have you here?"
"I think I do. I am happy too."
"Did I hear you went to LA with Wade? What the heck?" Meg pointed at her. "What was that all about? Not thinking of opening a hotel in LA or anything, I hope."
Sophia cringed. "Meghan."
Meg spiked the air with both palms. "Sorry. No, of course not. Maybe you and he are ... you know. A thing? Older men are the bomb, or so I've heard."
"Please, stop. No." Sophia sighed. "He invited me to accompany him to downtown LA to tour possible manufacturers for my dresses."
"Yeah? And did you find someone? Wait." She shrank back. "What does Wade know about that anyway?"
Heat rose in Sophia's cheeks. She'd wondered the same thing. He'd told her he was a consultant for many businesses, so she'd just assumed ...
Meg batted the air with her hand, shrugging off her own comment. "Never mind. How'd it go?"
"Pretty well. We toured two facilities and I believe I've found one to take over production and fulfillment of my designs should I decide that a change is necessary." She relaxed into the couch. "I'm relieved, Meg. I left so much up in the air when I left New York. I even toyed with leaving design behind."
"Oh! But you can't do that!"
"It was just something I considered. But now that I have found a manufacturer so close”—Sophia turned her palms over and over, as if weighing an invisible package—"I am encouraged."
"I'm glad! So ... you'll help me then with this resort wear?"
Sophia laughed, feeling it to her toes. "Of course, I will. But can we go to lunch now? I haven't eaten and I'm afraid that if I were to design on an empty stomach, the gift shop would be filled with T-shirts with images of steaks on them."
"Let's go!"
They took a table near the outer edge of the inn's restaurant where the views of the water could be seen in 180 degrees—from the harbor to the sea.
"I want to talk to you about the sale of Sea Castle," Sophia broached.
"Did he tell you about the bite we got?"
Sophia's eyes widened. "Already?"
"Just happened." Meg's eyes flashed, then softened. "You know that Jackson will share every bit of the company's details, right? He is very driven. Can be quite headstrong—you've probably noticed this already."
Sophia laughed lightly. "It's true. I have."
"He doesn't mean to shut you out ... if that's what you're thinking."
"I didn't think that at all. I am just so sad about all my sister has caused."
Meg reached a hand forward, laying it on Sophia's. "We've been over this, but it is worth saying again. You are not at fault, my sweet Sophia. You were a victim. You are not to blame. I can tell you, wholeheartedly, that Jackson does not blame you."
"But he blames himself. Yes?"
Meg continued to stare at her, sadness permeating her smile. "Unfortunately, he does. He still does. There is nothing that I've been able to say to help him through that."
"Except 'I do.'"
Meg's smile relaxed. Her eyes sparkled, tears unshed. "Well, I guess that helped. A little." She caught eyes with Sophia. "Marrying your brother has been the smartest thing I've ever done. Your father—dear William—he would have been so proud. I wish he were here."
Sophia's voice dropped to a whisper. "I do, too."
Meg pulled her hand back slowly and mustered a smile. "I think we both better eat something soon."
Sophia nodded and shut her menu. "I don't know about you, but I'm having the largest burger the chef can create."
Meg gasped.
"Don't judge."
An hour later, Sophia strode along the path that curved its way around the inn. The chef had taken her up on her request for a burger—calling it the William's Special—and now she regretted it. Well, half regretted it. Every bite of that burger was delicious, but now all she could think about was working it off so that she could fit into the clothes she had brought with her.
"Whoa, there. Why so fast?"
She hadn't noticed Christian parked on the bench alongside the path, and she could not imagine why. From the moment she'd met her brother's friend, he'd alternately rattled her nerves or soothed them. She slowed. "Hi there."
"Still got some of the New Yorker in you, I see." He squinted up at her, one arm lolling carelessly on
the back of the bench. With a flicker of his gaze, he took in the tennies beneath her skirt. "From what I recall, athletic shoes are high fashion in the City."
"And you don't approve."
He assessed her with a tilt of his bearded chin. "They suit you."
"Hmm."
"I bet you could design a line of them with sequins or something equally as sparkly."
"Did you say 'sparkly'?"
"If that's what you heard."
She smiled, glanced out to the horizon, then back at him. "My non-sparkly sneakers and I are going on a walk, if you would care to join us."
His smile dimmed and Sophia's heart dropped. Had she put him on the spot with her invitation? Did he think she wanted more from him than mere companionship on an afternoon walk? Surely he knew that she understood his time at the inn would be only a blip until another adventure called out to him.
"Sorry," she said, adding a nod toward his iPad. "I see that you're busy. I'll—"
"You aren't getting rid of me that easily." He stood and tucked the iPad under his arm. "I'm goin’."
"Okay, but you need to keep up with me."
He raised both brows. "Is that right?"
"Mm-hm." A soft breeze alighted on her skin as they walked, goose bumps rising on her arms. She picked up the pace, searching for something to fill the silence. "How's the writing coming?"
"I've had a productive couple of days."
"So that's good, then."
"My characters have been behaving themselves, so yes, I'd say so."
"And today? Are you taking a break?"
He paused. "Just allowing some things to percolate. If that makes any sense."
"I think so. I find it fascinating, what you do."
"Which part? The agonizing over writer's block or the gnashing of teeth when I realize that what I've written isn't fit for wrapping fish?"
"Hmm. The second part."
He laughed. "You're honest."
"I truly am fascinated by your process. I think it's because I have never felt as comfortable with words as I do with needle and thread. They were my constant companions when I was growing up." Her chest tightened. Why had she told him that? "So," she asked, "what made you start writing?"
Windswept Page 5
