"The doctor? Why? Is Dad okay?"
My dad is a contractor. He built half the houses in Jetty Beach. Dad grew up in Orlando, and Mom calls him her city boy, but he loves small town life. He’s a hard-working man, his hands rough and calloused from years of swinging a hammer. Aside from the time our whole family got the flu when I was ten, I can’t remember my dad ever being sick.
"Oh, he's fine," Mom says. "He's had some shoulder pain lately so I finally convinced him to get it looked at. But we both know he'll skip the appointment if I don't go with him."
I smile. That is certainly true. "Okay, but seriously, Mom. This moratorium on coffee has got to stop, at least while I'm here."
Mom pulls out a barstool and sits, resting her elbows on the kitchen island. Dad remodeled the kitchen a few years ago, with beautiful white marble countertops and custom cabinets.
"How long do you think that will be, honey?"
I freeze. I've only been home for a few days. Has it been more? I glance over at the calendar hanging on the wall. What day is it?
"I don't know," I say, feeling defensive. "My life sort of got dumped in the toilet. Are you so anxious to get rid of me?"
"No, of course we don't want to get rid of you," Mom says. "We just want to make sure you have a plan."
I gaze at my laptop screen. She’s right. I need a plan. I love plans. Checklists, spreadsheets, timelines. I am literally passionate about that stuff. But for the first time in my life, I don’t have any of it.
"I..." I trail off, unsure of what to say. "Look, I just need a little time to figure things out. And I have a lot of work to do."
"I know you do," Mom says. She tilts her head and gives me her mom smile, the one that hasn’t changed since I was little. "Did you have a nice time with Melissa last night?"
And there she is. Judging me. I’m sure of it. "Yeah, it was fine."
"You feel okay?"
"I drank too much and now I have to answer emails from people who should know how to do their jobs but are inexplicably incompetent."
The silence stretches out and Mom just sits there. That means she has something to tell me.
"So..." she says.
I finish typing out a reply. "Yes?"
She doesn’t answer.
"Mom, what?"
"I have a suggestion," she says.
I already don’t like where this is going. "I'm listening."
"I was talking with Howard Nelson. He used to own the Sunset Gallery, over on Main Street."
"Used to own?" I ask.
"He retired last year," Mom says. "I told you about that."
I shrug. She probably did, but I don’t pay close attention when she tells me the local news of the day.
"In any case, Howard isn't able to run the art festival anymore," she says. "He's nearly eighty. They have a small committee, but no one has any real experience running an event. I thought, with your experience..."
"My experience?" I do work on a lot of events, but I’m certainly not responsible for running any of them. Not even close. Despite my recent promotion to Events Manager, my job is actually quite tedious. On paper, it looks great. Our firm works with a lot of big companies and non-profits. I get to rub elbows with wealthy businesspeople, and whenever I tell people what I do, it sounds impressive. But the actual day-to-day work isn’t very interesting.
"Sure, you're perfect for this," Mom says. "What do you think?"
I blink at her, my non-caffeinated brain having a tough time catching up. "Think about what?"
"About volunteering to run the art festival?"
"Run it?" I ask. "Mom, I don't even know how long I'll be in town. And despite the current state of my hair, I'm still working. I have a lot to do."
"I know, honey, but I thought this might give you something else to focus on," she says. "How much can you really get done just from your laptop anyway?"
She’s right, to a point. "When is this thing, anyway?"
"The meeting is at ten."
I sigh. "I'm sure the existing committee is fine. They know how to do things. I'd only be in the way."
Mom drums her nails on the countertop. "Well ... not really. Apparently they're having a hard time getting things going. In fact, that's why I told them you'd help. They're really desperate."
"You already told them..." I throw up my hands, rolling my eyes so hard I practically see the inside of my skull. "Seriously, Mom? I'm here, what, a few days, and I've already been volun-told?"
"Volun-told? That's not even a word."
"It is definitely a word."
She puts a hand on my back. "Howard Nelson will be absolutely crushed if the festival dies out. He feels so guilty for leaving it to others, but he can't keep pushing himself so hard. They need someone who knows what they're doing. Besides, this will get you out and about a little bit."
"Is that what this is about?" I ask. "Trying to get me out of your house?"
"It would be a start." There is humor in her voice and she gives me a little smile. "Honey, your dad and I are worried about you. I know this breakup with Jason is hard, and believe me, we're glad you came home."
I raise an eyebrow.
"I'm being serious, Nicole. There are few things harder on a mother than watching her child suffer. You'll understand that someday." She stands and touches her hand to my cheek. It’s soft and cool. "You're hurting, and that's to be expected. But staring at your laptop, and lying around watching movies with Melissa isn't going to help you get better. You need to get out a little bit. Maybe even go on a few dates."
"Dates?" I say, pulling back. "Really, Mom?"
"It doesn't have to be anything serious, honey," she says. "I bet Melissa would agree with me."
I sigh. She’s right, Melissa would agree. She's already been hinting at it. But who the hell would I date in this town?
Don't think about Ryan. Don't think about Ryan.
"Your face is flushing," Mom says.
"It's hot in here," I say. "And I need coffee."
"That's perfect," she says. "The planning meeting is at Old Town Cafe. Don't they have great coffee?"
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. My headache is getting worse. "Fine. I'll go. I'm not committing to anything, though. I'll just go talk to them and see what they need."
She pats my cheek. "Good girl. But, honey," she says, and wrinkles her nose, "make sure you shower first."
"I'm only doing this for the coffee," I say to her back as she walks away.
An art festival. I have no idea how to put together an art festival. There can’t be much to it, and the rest of the volunteers will know what to do. Maybe Mom is right. Maybe I do need something to take my mind off Jason.
And off Ryan, too.
5
RYAN
A litany of excuses runs through my head on the drive into town. Why did I let my mom talk me into this? I have no interest in helping organize an art festival. I don’t care if this is "my area." I wasn’t kidding when I told her I have a lot of work to do on the church. There really is a hole in the wall that needs patching, and a million other projects besides. Not to mention photo shoots. I have clients to take care of.
I know what my mom is doing. She has it in her head that I need to get out more. I know she worries—that's what moms do—but I try to assure her I’m doing fine. I don’t need her inventing ways to get me out of the house. I guess the good news is, she isn’t trying to set me up with women. Volunteering me for local events is bad enough.
The remodel is the most obvious excuse. That should work. I can tell them I’m swamped with renovations. I'll add a touch of altruism. It wouldn't be fair to the committee, since I don't have the time, and the workload would have to fall to others. It’s true, for the most part. I suppose I can make time. But I don’t particularly want to. I know my mom means well, but her meddling has a tendency to get me into trouble.
I park and walk into the cafe, the smell of fresh ground coffee wafting through the do
or. I’m a little early, so I figure I'll get some coffee and maybe breakfast. I glance around, looking to see if the other festival committee members have arrived yet, and stop in my tracks. Looking up at me, from behind a very large mug, is Nicole Prescott.
Of course she’s here. This is Jetty Beach. We practically step on each other when we walk out the door in this town.
Her eyes catch mine and her cheeks turn the slightest shade of pink. Her blond hair is nicely blown out, falling in soft waves to her shoulders, her makeup much neater than the night before. Either way, she looks beautiful. She bites her lip and gives me a small smile.
I walk over to her table. "Hey."
"Hey." She glances down at her coffee. I can tell she’s embarrassed. Fuck, she’s adorable.
Don't do it, Ryan. You're here for the art festival thing. Don't do it.
"Mind if I sit down?"
I did it.
"Sure, of course." Her cheeks color a little more and she brushes her hair back from her face. "Listen, last night—"
I take the seat across from her. "Don't worry about it. Believe me, I've been there."
"Not exactly my finest moment," she says. "I'm sorry you had to see me like that."
With your tousled hair and sparkling blue eyes? "Really, it was no big deal. All you did was drop your purse. Could have happened to anyone."
"Yeah, and almost fell on my face. But thanks again for your help."
"No problem," I say.
She takes a sip of her coffee. "So, how have you been?"
"Good," I say. "You know, working, renovating the old church, that sort of thing."
"Melissa said you live out there?"
"I do. It's a little unconventional, I guess. But the interior is perfect for my business."
Her eyebrows lift. "Your business? What do you do?"
"I'm a photographer."
"Are you?" she asks. "I'd love to see your work sometime."
"I'd love to show it to you."
Nicole chews on her bottom lip again. Man, I love it when she does that. It makes me want to nibble on it.
"Um..." She stammers a little. "Wow, so it's kind of crazy seeing you again. I almost didn't recognize you."
"I know, look at us. All grown up." I want to ask her about Jason, but don’t want to sound like a dick. Or like I’m hitting on her. "Are you back in town for a visit, or are you planning to stay a while?"
Her shoulders slump and she swallows hard. "It's just temporary. You remember Jason Baker? He and I were still dating, and, well ... we're not anymore."
Before I can think about what I’m doing, I put my hand on top of hers. It sends a little jolt of electricity through me. She twitches just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. "I'm sorry."
Her lips part. Our eyes meet and I feel frozen to the spot, my hand on hers, and things stirring down below.
"Oh, it's okay," she says. She slips her hand away, breaking the spell. "Bastard was cheating on me, so good riddance."
Damn, that pisses me off. It’s worse hearing it from her. "Fuck that guy." I try to backtrack by winking and giving her a little smile, so I won’t come across like a total asshole. But I mean it.
The corners of her mouth turn up. "Yeah, fuck that guy."
"Ryan! Nicole! You're both here already."
I look up to find Mrs. Johnson, her lined face lit up with a wide smile. She’s dressed in a peach cardigan and what my brother Cody would definitely call "mom jeans." A stick-on name tag hangs precariously from the fuzz of her sweater, Cheryl scrawled across it in blue sharpie. Is she wearing a name tag for this, or did she come from somewhere else?
"Hi, Mrs. Johnson," I say, slightly confused. I know Cheryl Johnson is on the festival committee, so she'll be expecting to see me, but what did she mean about Nicole being here already?
"Call me Cheryl," she says with a wave of her hand. She pulls up a chair and sits. "Good to see the both of you. Thank you so much for volunteering. I have to admit, this festival has turned into a bit of a disaster."
Nicole bites her lip again. "Mrs. Johnson—"
"Cheryl."
"Right, Cheryl. I'm not sure what my mother told you, but I'm not positive I can be of much help. I'm only in town temporarily. I'm sure it will be better for someone based here to see to most of the details."
Oh, shit. Nicole is supposed to help with this thing too?
"Nonsense," Cheryl says. "There's a lot to be done, but it isn't overwhelming. I think you'll be great."
"That's very nice of you to say, but I don't think I have time—"
"It's all right, dear," Cheryl says, interrupting. "All our committee members over the years have been volunteers. It's easy enough to work into your schedule. And we simply have to find a way to make this work. For Howard. For Jetty Beach. This event kicks off the busy season."
"Where's the rest of the committee?" I ask.
"Oh, we're the committee," Cheryl says, with a smile that crinkles the lines at the corners of her eyes.
"Just us?" I ask.
"Yep."
Nicole gapes at me, her full lips open.
Fuck.
"What happened to the rest of the committee?" I ask. There has to be a way out of this.
"Well, you know, over time people drop off," Cheryl says. "Joyce Merton died a few years ago, of course, and she was one of the original founders. Howard would help if he could, but his health isn't what it used to be. There were others, I suppose, but they've lost interest or moved away."
"So, you're saying the three of us are supposed to organize the entire festival?" Nicole asks, her voice going weak.
"Well, mostly the two of you, to be completely honest," Cheryl says. "My daughter and grandkids are in town this week, and we have a vacation planned, and..."
Cheryl Johnson's list of reasons she can’t help with the festival fades from my hearing. I stare at Nicole. Her skin has gone ashen and her forehead is tight. She looks so stressed. I want to touch her again—wrap her in my arms and feel her body melt against mine. Explore that soft mouth with my tongue. Touch those—
"Ryan?"
"I'm sorry, what was that?" My face warms and I blink at Cheryl.
"So, you're all set then? To help Nicole run the festival?" Cheryl says.
I hesitate, my gaze darting to Nicole. Her big, blue eyes plead with me. I don’t want to be involved, and as tempting as she is, I don’t think spending a lot of time with Nicole is a good idea. I’m still trying to pick up the pieces of my own life, and she just got out of a very long-term relationship. It’s a recipe for absolute disaster.
Nicole mouths Please, and bites that lower lip again.
Yep. I'm screwed.
"Sure," I hear my voice say. It’s a little bit like an out-of-body experience. "I'll help."
Nicole visibly relaxes, and reaches across the table to touch my hand. There’s that jolt of electricity again. Judging by the look in her eyes, she feels it too.
"Thank you," she says.
"This will be great!" Cheryl stands, her chair scraping across the floor. "Thank you both so much. I'll bring in my little box of festival goodies, and the two of you can get started."
I let out a breath and sit back in my chair. What did I just get myself into? More to the point, what did my mother just get me into? I need to have to have a little chat with her later.
Nevertheless, I can’t help grinning at Nicole. "I guess this calls for more coffee."
6
NICOLE
T he Sunset Art Gallery has seen better days. I pull my car into the empty parking lot and gaze at the whitewashed building. It does have a beachy sort of charm, but the peeling paint on the siding and the faded trim speak of neglect. Howard Nelson opened the gallery during a time when Jetty Beach was nothing more than a tiny town with a handful of residents. Local lore claims that the first visitors to Jetty Beach came because of Howard's art gallery, and it ushered in a new era for the fledgling community. Despite the way locals tended to gripe
about tourists, particularly their inability to drive, tourism is Jetty Beach's primary industry. Without the seasonal influx of visitors, the town would quickly fade away.
The sky is a dingy gray, threatening rain, and the wind whips at the tattered windsocks hanging on the eaves outside the gallery door. I’m early, so I check my phone while I wait in the car. No new emails. That is an absolute miracle. I spent half the previous day on the phone and the other half answering a never-ending stream of emails and texts from people in the office. That didn’t leave me any time to look at the box of paperwork Cheryl handed off to me. I still haven’t wrapped my head around what needs to be done to get the art festival off the ground. Hopefully Ryan has more ideas than I do.
Ryan. Just the thought of him makes my heart beat a little faster. Which is, of course, ridiculous. I came back to the beach to get myself together, not hook up with some guy. I roll my eyes. As if Ryan is just some guy. When he sat with me and listened to Cheryl Johnson drop the bombshell about the disarray of the upcoming festival, I could tell he wanted to bolt. He looked like a deer trying to escape a predator.
But he stayed. The relief I felt when he agreed to help was massive. I can’t believe they dropped this huge event in my lap. It isn’t like I’m sitting around doing nothing. I have a job, and a life. Well, I have a job at least. The life part is debatable.
Bing. I really need to change my ringtone. I’m starting to hate that bing sound. It usually means something annoying to deal with. This one is simple enough, and I tap out a quick reply. Yes, the guest list is in the file. I uploaded it two weeks ago.
Ryan pulls up next to me and we both step out into the wind. Cheryl gave me a key, so I dash to the front door and unlock it. We duck inside.
"The weather is definitely not on our side today," Ryan says. He’s wearing another perfectly fitting pair of jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt.
"No, it isn't," I say. "I haven't been to this event in years. Is it supposed to be outdoors?"
"Yeah, it starts here, and then there will be a line of canopies from here to the main plaza, all with artists displaying their work."
Behind His Eyes Page 3
