Newport Dreams: A Breakwater Bay Novella (10 page)

She closed out of the internet and opened her photo gallery.

Two hours later she had some definitive shots, ones she thought would appeal to the first studio on her list. She composed an e-mail, mentioned how their photos had drawn her in. Attached a few of her own. Asked for a job.

Six e-mails later, her eyes began to close and she caught herself making spelling mistakes. Six was a good start. She’d do more tomorrow.

And if no one answered, she would go in person, take her portfolio, keep her fingers crossed that they would give her a job.

No, not a job, a career.

Chapter 12

G
EORDIE DIDN’T TELL
anyone what she’d done, not her colleagues and not her parents. Days passed. She got two no-thank-yous, but mainly just no responses. That was the problem with e-mail, you never knew if they just weren’t interested, if the e-mail had gone to their spam folder, or if they were so busy they hadn’t gotten to it yet.

Each night she went home to check her e-mail and send out more. Each night she picked up the envelope, put it down again. She had to get off this treadmill, even if she had to go crawling back to her family later. At least she had a family to crawl back to.

She thought about Bruce, virtually alone in the world, who took the leap to go it alone. Doug, whose accident had taken away his profession; he’d created another one for himself, but it couldn’t have been easy. Meri and Carlyn loved their work, even though they had to pinch pennies all the time. Carlyn could make a lot more money doing something else, but she chose not to. And Meri? She had never thought of doing something else.

And Geordie wanted to be like that. She was like that. Maybe that’s why she’d never settled down: if something didn’t look feasible immediately, she panicked and tried something else.

Yeah, she had a short attention span, but not when she was photographing. Then she could work for hours without stopping. Could go back day after day. It was something she wanted to go back to day after day. And if she had to piece together several part-time jobs to do it, she would. She had saved the four hundred dollars to rent Carlyn’s extra room; she could live like everyone else.

What would she miss about her life? This apartment? She’d never felt at home here. It wasn’t home. And since she’d started work at the Gilbert House, she hadn’t even thought about going to a fancy restaurant, a trendy bar, or a quick trip to any resort. Didn’t miss them. She’d had fun at the local karaoke bar.

She took a breath.

It was time.

She walked over to the kitchen counter, opened the drawer. Picked up the envelope. Opened it, slid the check out. One thing about her dad, he was generous. She could take it to the bank, cash it, it would give her a little pad until she got established—just one more time.

And that’s what always got her in trouble, the just one more time. She took a breath, slowly tore the check across the center and again, and again, until little pieces rained into the wastepaper basket.

Then she sat down at her computer and opened her e-mail.

Dear Dad, Received your check. I really appreciate it as always, but I’ve decided not to cash it. It’s time I did things for myself. I’ll be sharing an apartment with a colleague until I can afford a place of my own. I love photography and I’ll figure out how to make a living doing it. I hope you’ll be happy with my decision. Love, Geordie.

She read it over. And pressed
SEND
.

There it was done. She went back to her job search.

Her phone rang. Surely her father couldn’t have read the e-mail already.

She picked it up.

“Ms. Holt?”

“Yes?”

“This is Roger Diffens of Diffens Photography. I’ve looked over your portfolio, and I wondered if you’d be interested in coming down to discuss doing some work for us . . .”

S
HE HUNG UP.
She had an in-person interview. He liked her work. Thought she might be a good fit. Could she come in the next day? She told him she could get there during lunch.

Diffens was one of her first-choice studios. She practically danced across the room to her line of photos. Chose a couple of portraits and carefully lifted them off their backing. Got out her portfolio and chose a few more. Then back to the computer, where she began to print several others.

She had no illusions about how easy or hard the life she’d chosen would be. But for the first time in her life, she was really ready to face it. And she owed a lot of that realization to her colleagues at Gilbert House.

A half hour passed and she was totally involved with organizing her portfolio.

Her phone rang.

This
would be her father.

Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

“Hey. It’s Bruce. I was thinking about coming down near you for a bite to eat. And thought maybe if you hadn’t eaten, you might want to come. I know a place that has dynamite burgers. If you’re not busy.”

“I’m busy, but I’d love to.”

“You sound different. Is everything okay?”

“Yep. In a nutshell, I tore up my allowance, e-mailed my father that I was giving up money and apartment and striking out on my own. I must be nuts. But then Roger Diffens, this really good photographer called and I have an interview with him tomorrow. Is that amazing, or what?”

“Amazing. That’s really great.”

“Yeah. Kind of scary.”

“You’ll be okay. Might be tough at first, but if it’s important, it will be worth the effort.”

“I know. I have a good feeling about this. A different feeling. A really scared but happy feeling.” She smiled.
A really happy feeling.
“I’m just putting some photos together, but I’m starving.”

“A half hour okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Uh, it’s nothing fancy. See you then.” He hung up.

Amazing. A job interview and a . . . a date? She automatically went to her closet and started looking through her clothes. Stopped. Looked down at her jeans—not her best, and kind of beat up from work. Kind of perfect for her new life.

She did wash her face and put on makeup. No reason to go totally overboard.

When the intercom buzzed she was ready.

Bruce stood at the door, still dressed in his work clothes, a champagne bottle in his hand. A fairly good champagne, too.

“What’s that for?”

“We’re celebrating.” He held up the bottle. “Not as good as the one you have in the fridge but pretty nice.”

It was, and he shouldn’t have spent the money on her . . . on them?

He poured the champagne and handed her a glass. “Congratulations on your new career, your new job, your new . . .”

“Attitude.”

They touched glasses. Took a sip.

“This is pretty good,” she said.

He grinned. “Well, drink up. From here on out it’s going to be beer on tap.”

Beer on tap.
Hmm. It sounded like a pretty good way to go.

Want more?

See what happens next in Shelley Noble’s stunning novel

Breakwater Bay

Prologue

A
LDEN WASN’T SUPPOSED
to take the dinghy out today. That’s the last thing his dad said when he left for work that morning. “Don’t go on the water. There’s a bad storm brewing.”

He’d only meant to be out long enough to catch something for dinner, but the storm had come in too fast. Now the water boiled black around him. Already he could hardly tell the difference between the black clouds overhead and the black rocks of the breakwater. Knives of rain slashed at his eyes and slapped his windbreaker against his skin. The shore looked so far away. He knew where the tide would pull him before he got there.

He was scared. His dad would kill him if he wrecked the dinghy. A huge wave crashed over the boat, throwing him to the floor. One oar was snatched from his hand and he barely managed to grab it before it slipped from the lock. And he forgot all about what punishment he would get and prayed he could stay alive to receive it.

He threw himself onto the bench and started rowing as hard as he could.

And then he saw her. A dark form. Standing on the rocks. At first he thought she must be a witch conjured from the storm. He tried to wipe his eyes on his sleeve, but he couldn’t let go of the oars.

She waved her hands and began to scramble down the rocks. And then she slipped and disappeared.

He stopped trying to save himself and let the breakwater draw the boat in. He knew just when to stick out the oar to keep from crashing. Held on with all his strength. The dinghy crunched as it hit, and he flung the rope over the spike his dad had hammered into the rock years before.

He couldn’t see her now. He clambered from the boat, slipped on the rocks. Called out, but the wind snatched his voice away.

And suddenly there she was, lying not three feet away. Motionless.

He crawled over the slimy rocks, grabbing at whatever would keep him from sliding back into the sea, and knelt beside her; shook her. “Lady? Lady, you gotta get up.”

She didn’t move.

“Lady. Please. You gotta get up.” He pulled on her arm, but she only turned over. She wasn’t a lady. She was just a girl. Wearing jeans. Not that much older than him.

He grabbed under her shoulders and tried to drag her toward the boat. She was heavy, heavier than she looked, and she wouldn’t help.

And he just kept thinking,
Please don’t be dead.

Then she moved. Her eyes opened, and they were wide and scared. She grabbed hold of him, nearly knocking him over, but together they crawled to where the dinghy bucked like a bronco in the waves.

He didn’t know how he got her into the boat, or how he rowed to shore, or pushed the dinghy to safety on the rocky beach. He was so cold he couldn’t feel his fingers or his feet. And she’d closed her eyes again. This time he didn’t try to wake her; he ran, not home, but across the dunes to Calder Farm. Burst into their kitchen and fell to his knees.

“The beach. Help her.” And everything went black.

When he awoke he was lying in a bed, covered in heavy quilts.

“Go back to sleep. Everything’s all right.”

Gran Calder.

“Is she dead?”

She patted the quilt by his shoulder. “No, no. You saved her life. You were very brave.”

His lip began to tremble. He couldn’t stop it.

Then somebody screamed and she hurried out of the room. He pulled the covers over his head so he wouldn’t hear, but he couldn’t breathe. Another scream, worse than before. What were they doing to her?

He slid out from the covers but he wasn’t wearing anything. Someone had taken his clothes. He pulled the quilt from the bed, wrapped it around himself and dragged it out into the hallway.

Only one light was on, but a door was ajar at the end of the hall. He crept toward it, trailing the quilt behind him.

The girl screamed again. Then stopped.

He stopped, too, frightened even more by that sudden silence.

Then a new, smaller cry filled the air.

Chapter 1

M
ERI
H
OLLIS DROPPED
the paint chip into a manila envelope and rolled from her back to sit upright on the scaffolding.

She stretched her legs along the rough wood and cracked her neck. It had been a long day, first standing, then sitting, then lying on her back. Every muscle protested as she leaned forward to touch her toes, but she knew better than to start the descent before her circulation was going again.

While she waited, she labeled the newest sample, added it to the file box and placed it in a bucket, which she lowered thirty feet to the floor. She flipped off her head lamp, pulled it from her head, and took a last look at her little corner of the world, which in the dim light looked just as sooty and faded as it had twenty hours, two hundred paint samples and several gallons of vinegar and water ago.

It had been slow going. The meticulous cleaning of paint layers was never fast, even on a flat ceiling, but when you added plaster ornamentation, extreme care was needed. But she had finally reached enough of the original ceiling that she was sure it had been painted in the mid eighteen hundreds.

It was exciting. Especially if what she suspected turned out to be true.

She’d discovered the first fleck of gold that afternoon. Surely there would be more. But further study would have to wait until Monday. She was calling it a day.

She stored her tools and slowly lowered one foot to the first rung of the pipe ladder that would take her to the ground floor. Work had stopped in the grand foyer a half hour ago, but she’d been determined to finish that one test section today.

She reached the bottom on creaky ankles and knees. Grabbed hold of the ladder and stretched her calves and thighs. Then she picked up her file box and tools and carried them to the workroom.

Carlyn Anderson looked up from where she was logging in data from the day’s work. “You’re the last one.”

Meri deposited her file on the table and arched her back. “Now I know how Michelangelo felt. Only he ended up with the Sistine Chapel and I got a sooty ceiling in a minor mansion with two hundred-plus chips from twenty layers of ancient paint in various hues of ick.”

“Yeah, but just imagine what it will look like when it’s back in its original state.”

“Actually I got a glimpse of it today. If I’m not mistaken, there’s gold in them thar hills.”

“Gilt?”

“Maybe. It might be a composite. In the state the ceiling’s in, it’s impossible to tell without the microscope.” Meri pulled a stool over to the table and sat down. “Why the hell would anyone paint over a decorative ceiling from the nineteenth century?”

“The same reason they painted over the Owen Jones wallpaper with psychedelic orange.”

“Oh well, someone’s bad taste is our job security,” Meri said. “Is there someone left who can take this over to the lab tonight?” She handed Carlyn the manila envelope of samples.

“I will, but you owe me, since you’ve blown off karaoke tomorrow night. And it’s Sixties Night.” Carlyn went through several doo-wop moves they’d been practicing on their lunch hour.

“Sorry, but I promised Gran I’d come out for my birthday dinner tonight. I’m not looking forward to a forty-minute ride but I couldn’t say no. And tomorrow I’m having my birthday dinner with Peter.” She yawned.

“You don’t sound too excited.”

“Well, I did turn thirty today somewhere between layer four—baby-poop brown—and layer three—seventies-kitchen green.”

“You’re in your prime.”

“I’m slipping into middle age and instead of getting a proposal, Peter decides to go back to law school.” Meri slid off the stool.

“Maybe he’ll propose before then. Maybe tomorrow night.”

“Maybe, but I’m not holding my breath. Don’t listen to me. I’m just tired. I’ve got a great job, great friends, a family who loves me and . . .” Meri grinned at Carlyn. “Karaoke. Now, I’d better get going if I want to get a shower in before I hit the road.”

“Well, happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, Doug wants to see you in his office before you go.”

Meri winced. “We can guess he’s not giving me a raise?”

“No but he should kiss your butt for the extra hours you’re putting in gratis.”

Meri yawned. “I’d rather have a raise.”

“I’ll walk you down.”

Meri picked up her coat and bag from her locker and the two of them headed back to the kitchen, also known as Doug’s office, to see what the project manager could possibly want on a Friday night.

The door swung inward, but the kitchen was dark.

“Are you sure he’s still here?” Meri asked, groping for the light switch.

The lights came on. “Surprise!”

Beside her, Carlyn guffawed. “I can’t believe you didn’t know what was going on.”

Meri laughed. “You guys.”

Carlyn pushed her into the center of the room where at least twelve architectural restoration workers stood around the kitchen table and a large sheet cake with a huge number of candles.

Doug Paxton came over to give Meri a hug. He was a big, brawny guy who had been relegated to ground work after falling through the floor of an abandoned house and breaking both legs and a hip five years before. He’d grown a little soft around the middle but he still exuded power and good taste. And he knew his way around a restoration better than anybody she knew.

“Happy birthday. Now come blow out your candles.”

Someone had lit the candles during the hug and the cake was ablaze.

“I may need help,” Meri said. “And these better not be trick candles.” Though she didn’t really know what to wish for. She had everything she wanted, a good job, great friends, a loving family, everything else except a fiancé. She was in no hurry, even if she
was
thirty. So she wished that life would stay good and that things would eventually work out for Peter and her and that the project would find the funding it would need for a complete restoration.

“What are you waiting for? Hurry up. The candles are about to gut.”

Meri took a deep breath, motioned to everybody to help and the candles were extinguished. Cake was cut, seltzer was brought out, since Doug didn’t allow any alcohol on a site, and a good time was had by all, for nearly a half an hour until Meri made her apologies and headed for her apartment, a shower and a long drive out to the farm.

T
RAFFIC WAS HEAVY
as Meri drove north out of Newport. Gran lived about a fifteen-minute stone’s throw across the bay. But to drive there she had to go up to Portsmouth, across the bridge, then south again. So she hunkered down to endure the cars, the dark, and the rain.

It must have been raining all day, not that she’d noticed, because the streets and sidewalks were slick and puddles had formed in the uneven asphalt. She never did notice things when she was deep into a project. She had great powers of concentration and could spend hours lost in the zone.

Even as a child, Meri would look up from reading, or weeding, or just lying in the sea grass thinking, to find her three brothers standing over her. “We’ve been calling you for hours,” they’d complain. “Dinner’s ready.” And they’d drag her to her feet and race her across the dunes to the house they shared with Gran. When Meri was fifteen her father was granted a research position at Yale and the family moved to New Haven, only seeing Gran on long weekends and holidays.

Meri sighed. Thirty must be the age when you started reminiscing about life. She was definitely feeling nostalgic tonight. Maybe it was because her future was suddenly looking a little hazy. Though she had to admit, Peter’s change of plans hadn’t thrown her into depths of despair. After her initial shock and dismay, her first thought was she would have more time to concentrate on her work without feeling guilty about neglecting him.

Obviously, neither of them was ready for total commitment. This would give them some time to really figure things out.

As she crossed the bridge at Tiverton, the drizzle became a deluge, and her little hatchback was buffeted by gusts of wind that didn’t let up until she turned south again toward Calder Farm. She could see the house across the dunes long before she got there. Every window was lit and the clapboard and stone farmhouse shone like a lighthouse out of the dark. Way to the left of it, Alden Corrigan’s monstrous old house appeared as an ominous shadow.

Meri smiled. Looks could be deceiving. Alden’s house was merely untended. It had seen its share of unhappiness like most of the old houses in the area, but it had also had its share of good times.

Meri turned into the car path and bumped slowly toward the house. Most of the menagerie of animals that found their way to the farm had probably taken shelter in the barn at the first sign of rain. Still Meri peered through the dark for moving forms and gleaming eyes until she came to a stop at the front of the house.

A silver Mercedes was parked outside. Meri grabbed her overnight bag from the backseat, ducked into the rain and dashed toward the kitchen door, which opened just as she got there, casting a bright spotlight on her as she rushed inside.

“Hi, Gran.” Meri kissed her cheek and shrugged out of her dripping jacket. “What smells so good?”

Gran took her coat. “Your favorite, as if you didn’t know. Now come inside.”

Meri stepped into the kitchen, shaking the rain off. A man got up from the table. He was tall with hair combed back from a high forehead, and smile lines creasing his eyes and mouth.

“Dad!” Meri said. She dropped her case and purse and gave him a wet hug. “I can’t believe you’re here. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? Is that a new car?”

He laughed and pushed her gently to arm’s length, then planted a kiss on her forehead. “I wasn’t sure I could get away. Happy birthday.”

Gran gave her a pat. “Go wash up and we’ll eat.”

Meri hurried to the powder room, followed by several cats that appeared from nowhere for the sole purpose of trying to trip her up on her way down the hall.

Daniel Hollis had married Meri’s mother when Meri was three; three sons came at regular intervals after that and every spare space was put to use as the Hollis family grew.

Now Gran lived mostly downstairs. She was still young—only seventy-five or so, she told everyone—but since she lived alone they’d all made her promise not to go up and down the stairs, a promise that she promptly broke. As she explained when Meri caught her vacuuming the bedroom carpets, “I can’t live comfortably knowing all that dust is gathering above my head.”

When Meri returned to the kitchen, there were bowls of steaming cioppino set at three places, and the aroma of the rich seafood stew filled the air. They’d just sat down, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in, Alden,” Gran called from the table. “That man could smell cioppino from the next county.”

The door opened and “that man,” a tall, ridiculously thin, broodingly handsome forty-two-year-old man ducked in the low door and stood dripping on the flagstone floor.

“Get yourself a bowl and sit down,” Gran said.

“Thanks, but I can’t stay. I just came to say happy birthday.”

Gran gave him a look that Meri didn’t understand and Alden chose to ignore. He walked over to Meri and before she could even stand, he dropped a flat giftwrapped package on the table. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. Can’t you stay? I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“I know, but I have a bunch of work to get finished and I’m way behind. You staying for the weekend?”

“Just till tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll see you before you leave.”

“At least wait until I open your present.”

She pulled at the string that was tied around the package; the bow released and with it the paper.

“I couldn’t find the tape,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised?” She lifted out a piece of cardboard where a pen and ink drawing had been mounted. It was a girl, her hair curling down her back, sitting on the rocks gazing out to sea. The rocks of the breakwater on the beach between the two houses. It looked like her.

“It’s beautiful, Alden. Thank you. Is it Ondine?” she asked, teasing him. Taciturn and reclusive, he was best known for his illustrations of children’s books.

“Good God, no.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised at his reaction. “Who then?”

“Just someone sitting on the rocks.”

“Ah. Well, I love it. Thank you. I’m going to have it framed and put it on my living-room wall in Newport.”

“I’d better be going, your dinner is getting cold.”

“You’re sure you don’t want—”

“Can’t,” Alden said. “But happy birthday. Dan. Gran.”

Gran shook her finger at him. But he was gone.

“Well, that was weird,” Meri said.

His leaving seemed to cast a pall over the room.

“Let’s eat,” Gran said.

Meri dug in, but she noticed that Gran merely picked at her food. Dan seemed to have lost his appetite, too. Meri didn’t understand. The stew was heavenly, but their lack of enthusiasm was catching and she pushed her bowl away before it was empty.

“Delicious,” she said with a satisfied sigh, though it was a little forced.

The atmosphere had definitely taken a plunge since Alden’s visit. She wanted to know why. “Is something happening with Alden? Why didn’t he stay for dinner?”

“Oh you know Alden,” Gran said and began clearing the table.

She
did
know Alden. They’d grown up together, sort of. He was already a teenager when she was born and by the time she was old enough to pester him and follow him around, he was in high school.

Gran refused help with the dishes and Meri and her father traded work stories until Gran returned with a homemade carrot raisin cake and one big candle. “I always keep a box of birthday candles,” Gran explained. “But I guess they melted in last summer’s heat wave. So you only get one.”

“That’s fine,” Meri told her. “It will make up for the forest of candles on the cake at work.”

They ate cake and Gran pulled a festively wrapped package from the shopping bag she’d placed by the side of her chair.

Meri opened it slowly and neatly, a trait that she was born with and was a big plus in her chosen profession, but sometimes made her brothers scream, “Just tear off the paper.”