Keeping Cape Summer (A Pelican Pointe novel Book 11)
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LAST CHANCE HARBOR
SEA GLASS COTTAGE
LAVENDER BEACH
SANDCASTLES UNDER THE CHRISTMAS MOON
BENEATH WINTER SAND
KEEPING CAPE SUMMER
The Evil Secrets Trilogy
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ENDING EVIL Book Three
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HIS GARDEN OF BONES
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INDIGO FIRE
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INDIGO JUSTICE
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Keeping Cape Summer
A Pelican Pointe Novel
Published by Beachdevils Press
Copyright © 2018 Vickie McKeehan
All rights reserved.
Keeping Cape Summer
A Pelican Pointe Novel
Copyright © 2018 Vickie McKeehan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without written permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, locales, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, businesses or companies, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-10: 1719449430
ISBN-13: 978-1719449434
Published by Beachdevils Press
Printed in the USA
Titles Available at Amazon
Cover design by Vanessa Mendozzi
Pelican Pointe map designed by Jess Johnson
You can visit the author at:
www.vickiemckeehan.com
www.facebook.com/VickieMcKeehan
http://vickiemckeehan.wordpress.com/
www.twitter.com/VickieMcKeehan
For Charlcie.
1905 - 1983
“Everything good, everything magical happens
between the months of June and August.”
~ JENNY HAN
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
Pelican Pointe
Cast of Characters
Promise Cove - Book One
Hidden Moon Bay - Book Two
Dancing Tides - Book Three
Lighthouse Reef - Book Four
Starlight Dunes - Book Five
Last Chance Harbor - Book Six
Sea Glass Cottage - Book Seven
Lavender Beach - Book Eight
Sandcastles Under the Christmas Moon - Book Nine
Beneath Winter Sand – Book Ten
Keeping Cape Summer – Book Eleven
Keeping Cape Summer
By
VICKIE McKEEHAN
Prologue
Two years earlier
Cape Cod, Massachusetts
The summer Simon Bremmer met Amelia Langston he’d been two months out of the Army and feeling freedom for the first time in a dozen years. His days dodging rocket-propelled grenades or ground fire or seeking out serious threats from the other side had run their course. He was done going on alert in places like Baghdad or Badakhshan or Kyrgyzstan or any of the other stans and was ready to get on with his life.
As an Army Ranger he’d spent enough time in dusty desert outposts and in Afghanistan’s rugged provinces near the Pakistani border, that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to blow the better part of a day simply lounging around or sleeping late. He’d forgotten what it was like to have the time to do whatever he wanted. Even if all the downtime was making him slightly edgy, maybe even a little cabin-fever crazy.
Thanks to his mother and his aunt Lorraine, they’d let him transition and unwind at the family’s summer home on Nauset Beach. His period of adjustment, of reconnecting, meant enjoying everything the Outer Cape had to offer. Like beautiful, tanned, shapely females sunbathing in skimpy bikinis everywhere he looked.
So far, only one stood out from the rest. The one who always had a camera in her hand wherever she went. He’d seen her at the store, at the post office, and at several of the eateries in town. She was the one with rose-gold hair down to her waist, the one who took dozens of day trips around the Cape and always seemed more curious than the rest. The one who asked a million questions of the tour guides.
He knew because he’d decided to take in the Cape’s scenery for himself. They kept bumping into each other wherever he went.
For three days he’d explored all the tourist spots before getting up the nerve to approach her. At the end of the third day, the alluring female took care of any awkward introductions herself. In the crowd of vacationers, she’d simply turned her body toward his, locked eyes, and struck up a conversation. “Are you as confused about upper, lower, and outer Cape Cod as I am? I’ve got this map, but it doesn’t do much good.”
Simon grinned. Maybe now would be a good time to admit he wasn’t a typical tourist. “If you don’t know your way around, it can befuddle the brain, and would be a problem if I hadn’t spent every summer here as a kid since I was in diapers.”
“But I’ve seen you on almost all the tours I’ve been on, sightseeing just like me.”
“I haven’t been here for at least a dozen years or more. I wanted to reconnect. Who am I kidding? I wanted to meet you for the past week. I thought this would be the best way. The name’s Simon Bremmer.”
She held out a delicate hand, silver jewelry on each slim finger. “Amelia Langston. If you’re familiar with the area, then maybe you could be my personal tour guide.”
“That’ll work. I see you never go anywhere without your camera.” He recognized the brand of expensive Nikon draped around her neck. “What brings you to Cape Cod?”
“I’m a travel photographer. I’ve already sold a few of my pictures to National Geographic. But I’m here mostly to document the lighthouses from the mainland to the tip of the Outer Cape. Oh, and I want to see all the historic houses in between, and the National Seashore. Then I want to see Woods Hole.”
“That’s a very aggressive agenda. With so much on your plate you’d benefit from a tour g
uide, certainly if you plan to be here for a while. Getting up close and personal with all the things to see and do will take a local.”
She ran a hand through her thick bronze tresses. “Good thing I have the entire summer then. We might have to work extra hard and not leave anything out.”
Simon may have been out of practice with females, but he caught the come-on, especially when it was accompanied by the look in her sultry green eyes. “Works for me. We could start tonight over dinner at the bistro on the main drag.”
She twirled her finger around a lock of hair, part of the waterfall he could get lost in. And after that day, he often did. Spending time with her made him forget the dozen years he’d spent alone on foreign soil, sleeping on rock or anywhere else he could catch forty winks.
From that moment on, they rarely spent any time apart. They didn’t want to. He took Amelia to all the places she wanted to see and more. He pointed out where the pilgrims landed before ever setting out for Plymouth. “Sorry to burst any historical bubble you’ve adhered to over the years, but it’s true. Pilgrims reached Eastham first, long before heading off anywhere else. It’s where they encountered the Nauset tribe.”
She looped her arm through his. “Now see? That’s why I need someone who knows the area. I’m lucky to have such a handsome guide.”
Simon felt just as fortunate.
They explored every lighthouse from P-town to Bourne. They walked the beach where a German U-boat had once attacked the US by shelling tugboats and barges and, inadvertently, cottages along the Orleans and Chatham shorelines. The year was 1918. The U-boat, number 156.
He showed off the Woods Hole Aquarium, spending an entire day marveling at things like blue lobster and a wolfish with teeth like a canine.
When they weren’t sightseeing on foot, they were biking around the spit of land like gawkers.
They perused art galleries and quirky antique shops. They went to wine tastings, enjoyed the local brewpubs, and dined on fresh crab. Wherever they ended up, Amelia’s ever-present camera documented the fun and the scenery.
He loved the fact that she didn’t want to sit in one spot and pour oil all over her body to soak up the sun. Not this stunner, who could put Aphrodite to shame.
After all the sightseeing, she had no problem lounging in bed until late in the morning, enjoying lazy brunches on the terrace with the sea air wafting over their meal. It was nothing compared to the bouts of lovemaking that might last all afternoon.
Simon found himself enthralled, caught up in the sex and the novelty. For a guy who hadn’t experienced much domesticity up close in his lifetime, Amelia was a breath of fresh air. She never made demands, didn’t seem to be high maintenance, and often seemed too good to be true. They discussed politics in a civil manner and didn’t fight or argue about much of anything.
Their time spent together was centered on sultry days and nights where they never left the house. During those times, it was sheer bliss to wake up with her next to him.
To a military man who’d done four tours overseas, Amelia heated his blood like no one ever had.
Until one morning near the end of August, as Labor weekend approached, he woke to find the space beside him empty. When he got up to search for her, she was nowhere in the house. Sometime during the early hours, she’d packed up what little she had and was gone. Just like that, it was over. No messy breakup. No emotional blowup over their differences---there didn’t seem to be any. No disappearing after an argument. She was simply…gone…and not in his life anymore.
It wasn’t until later that morning that he found an envelope on the front porch with his name on it, the briefest of notes inside. Written in beautiful script, the sentiment seemed short and sweet, summing up their brief time together perfectly: “I hope you understand that I have to get back to Boston and to my life there. Please don’t try to get in touch. We’re on different paths, Simon, and it will always be that way.”
Of course, he hadn’t been able to let it go and tried calling the only phone number she’d ever given him. It was no longer a working number.
Amelia Langston was gone.
And he didn’t even know how to find her.
One
Present Day
Pelican Pointe, California
Simon had adjusted to life as a civilian by shedding most everything that said military. He’d let his buzzcut grow to an acceptable length, somewhere between a crew cut and a messy windblown look. Over time, his brown mop of hair had turned a goldish color. Staying all day out in the sun could do that. He no longer wore camouflage and didn’t want to look at green or tan uniforms ever again if he could help it.
He never referred to time as O-something. Never. He’d served his country with dignity and honor but now it was time to drop all the Army lingo he’d picked up during his twelve-year stint and move on.
He wasn’t looking for thanks or accolades or recognition. He didn’t want to bring attention to himself. At this stage of his life, he pretty much wanted to blend into society and be left alone, to go about his life and do what he wanted with it.
The only reminders of his time spent in the military were his tattoos. He still sported the black and red Army Ranger band designating his unit, capped off with a skull and crossbones emblem. The other arm showed off a badass, fire-breathing black dragon. He didn’t try to hide them. He just didn’t shove his service in anybody’s face.
He’d ended up in this speck of a beach town because of connections. He’d stayed in touch with a few of his buddies over the years, namely Nick Harris and Cord Bennett. Both had moved to this place shortly after their Iraq experiences. Both had been messed up for reasons he now fully understood. He even knew Cord had once tried to end it all.
Simon never wanted to be that messed up for any reason.
That’s why he stayed busy. Three jobs tended to curtail any spare time left over where he could get into trouble or feel sorry for himself. A ten-hour day of hard physical labor kept him from dwelling on anything he’d seen in the war. Thankfully, he spent his days outside in the fresh air and not sitting in some claustrophobic office cubicle behind a desk pushing paper. Nick did that. And Cord did it to some extent as the town veterinarian. But office work wasn’t for him.
He’d rather help during planting season at Taggert Farms or spend time out on the water. He’d taken over the excursion business from Bree Dayton, ferrying tourists back and forth to a little strip of land known as Treasure Island.
If there were guests from the Bed and Breakfast who wanted to dive on an old shipwreck or fish from the deck of a forty-six-footer, Simon made it happen. If tourists wanted to take a three-hour sightseeing tour around Smuggler’s Bay, they knew who to call. If they wanted to learn how to dive, Simon taught them the basics of safety and provided them with all the gear.
Now that Bree Dayton had started a family, Tours by Bree had morphed into Simon’s own business he’d tagged Argonaut Tours. It was relatively successful enough and provided a satisfying way to earn a living, albeit seasonal. While summers were his bread and butter, when August came to an end, the hiking tours picked up. During fall, Simon could often be seen leading a group of guests along the cliffs, pointing out the best spots for snapping photos and making sure no one got lost, seeing to it that everyone made it back to home base alive and well.
Labor Day was usually the cutoff point. But this Tuesday in September, Simon had reservations to take out three fishermen who wanted to spend the day angling for lingcod, striped bass, rockfish, or albacore, if they could find it. The all-day event would net him seven hundred bucks. Not bad for a day’s work doing what he loved.
It was a little after sunrise when Simon made his way past the apple-green sign that designated the only B&B nearby, a place called Promise Cove. Owned and operated by Nick and his wife, Jordan, the Bed and Breakfast had been around since 2009 and was responsible for most of his bookings. Since he practically lived next door, it was an easy commute.
Every time he drove down the long driveway, Simon recalled the man who’d started out here along the coast, in this Victorian arts-and-crafts-style house.
In those early days of the Iraq War, his unit had crossed paths with the National Guard soldiers from California, led by Scott Phillips, a charismatic captain who possessed a gift for gab. Simon remembered a guy who bragged about his hometown relentlessly, all over the desert and back again. Their paths had crossed for the final time when Simon’s unit had moved in to back up a platoon of soldiers caught in a crossfire attack. Under fire and pinned down…
Simon blocked out the memory of the subsequent battle. As was his habit each time a scene like that popped into his head, he dismissed its power over him.
Instead of focusing on returning fire and desert engagements, Simon pulled up to the B&B on the Harley he rode and cut the engine. He kept his forty-six-foot cruiser, the Sea Dragon, moored off the jetty at Promise Cove instead of at the pier in town, because it was easier for guests to board directly from the B&B.
The trip down the long driveway through a copse of cypress trees always made his morning. The way the sun filtered down on the green stretch of lawn and the backdrop of the cliffs carving out the shoreline made him appreciate living here.
But it was opening the back door and stepping into Jordan’s kitchen that made it seem like he belonged. It was always chaos. Or what Simon viewed as chaos---a family’s rush to start their day. The scene came with a high-energy Jordan and an enterprising Nick setting out a buffet-style breakfast for guests and then serving pancakes to their own brood and doing whatever necessary to get them out the door for school. It meant simultaneously packing lunches for their two kids while taking care of the needs of up to eight demanding guests.
Simon wasn’t sure how they got it all done.