Summer at Seaside Cove (14 page)

“But that's a terrible thing to do to an animal,” Jamie said.

“Yes,” said Megan. “They don't all survive—either they starve before they can find food, or they're run over by cars.”

“Aside from the clipped ear, how can you tell if a cat is abandoned or feral?” Jamie asked.

“Feral cats avoid human interaction and are actually happier living outdoors in their own environment,” Dorothy explained. “Basically, they won't let you get near them. The abandoned cats are domesticated and will socialize with you. If you see any cats you think might be feral without clipped ears, let me know and we'll set a trap.”

“Thanks, I will. And I'll put out food and water as well.”

As the meal was all set out, they served themselves buffet style, then sat around the counter.

“To new neighbors and new friends,” Dorothy said, raising her coffee cup.

Everyone touched mug rims and concurred. Jamie tasted a bite of biscuit and gravy and groaned in appreciation. “Wow. That is delicious.” Next she tried the casserole, which was an incredible explosion of luscious flavors on her tongue. “Fabulous. Any recipes you ladies are willing to share would be greatly appreciated.”

“Always happy to share recipes,” Dorothy said. “I bet you have some good ones from that restaurant you work in.”

“I hear you're the manager,” added Megan.

Clearly Nick's gums had been flapping. Not that her job was a big secret. She just didn't want to think about it. “I am, and yes, I do have a few favorite recipes.”

“Anything with clams?” asked Grace. “If so, you need to make it for the Clam Festival. First prize is fifty dollars, which is, of course, nice, but the bragging rights for winning are priceless. It's a big deal around here.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Jamie observed Cupcake's ears perk up at the word
clam
. Before she could answer, Dorothy said, “Nick told me that Maria Rigoletti-Silverman—isn't she a pip?—filled you in on the Clam Festival.”

“Which is the other reason we're here,” piped up Megan. “Aside from welcoming you, of course.”

Jamie's fork froze halfway to her mouth. “Other reason?”

Dorothy smiled at her over the rim of her coffee mug. “Yes, dear. Grace, Megan, and I head up the Clam Committee. You can imagine our excitement when we learned an actual restaurant manager moved to the island. Especially since Walter Murphy is out of commission this year due to his hip-replacement surgery. Bless his heart.”

Hmmm . . . she wondered if Walter Bless-His-Heart Murphy's hip replacement was due to dipshit behavior rather than simply natural aging. Jamie looked up from her breakfast casserole and stilled. Uh-oh. The Clam Committee was looking at her with very expectant expressions.

“We could certainly use your expertise,” said Grace. “Walter has organized the entire festival for the past eight years, and while we have plenty of volunteers, without him here there isn't a whole lot of actual organizing going on.”

Jamie vividly remembered a student meeting when she was a junior in high school—she'd excused herself for a couple minutes to use the bathroom and when she came back she found out she'd been put in charge of the prom committee.

This felt suspiciously similar.

“What exactly is involved?” she asked cautiously.

“Just making sure the vendors all have the proper permits filled out,” said Megan.

“And coordinating the placement of the cooking and craft tents to make sure the foot traffic flows well,” added Grace.

“Just basically organizing the volunteers and delegating duties—making sure everybody does what they're supposed to do,” Dorothy said with an angelic smile. “Nick says you're real good at that.”

Jamie cocked a brow. “Did he happen to use the word
bossy?
”

“He might have,” Dorothy said with a dismissive wave, “but then my memory isn't what it used to be. If he did say bossy, I'm sure he meant it in the nicest way, seeing as how he's such a nice young man. He definitely said you were the right woman for the job.”

Nice young man my ass
. “I'm afraid I don't know anything about Clam Festivals—”

“Oh, it can't be much different than running a restaurant,” Megan said with an encouraging smile.

“Certainly no more difficult than that,” added Grace with an even more encouraging smile.

“It'll be as easy as clam pie,” Dorothy assured her.

Jamie wasn't sure what clam pie was, but it sounded like something that would give her a massive stomachache. And she knew damn well she was being played like a Stradivarius.

Still, these smiling women were hard to resist, as was the delicious artery-clogging breakfast they'd brought. At ten to seven in the morning. Something like that simply wasn't done in Manhattan, at least not unless you wanted to be tasered or have a restraining order slapped on you. Seaside Cove was like a foreign country where she didn't understand the laws or the language.

Yet she understood, and appreciated, a friendly gesture, especially one involving food. She'd wanted a place, an environment that wasn't familiar, that was outside her comfort zone, and for better or worse she'd gotten it. And she was good at organizing, delegating, and coordinating—her position at Newman's depended upon it, and she'd always been proud of the job she'd done there. So she might as well embrace the opportunity to try to fit into this community she'd be calling home for the next two months.
When in Rome . . .

“I'm happy to help out,” she said.

“Oh, wonderful!” exclaimed Dorothy. “The next clam meeting is at my house next week. Everyone brings an appetizer-type dish for inspiration and I'll be serving Mojitos because . . . well, who needs a reason for a Mojito?”

“Not me,” said Grace. “I've had a house full of rambunctious teenagers all week, so a night out with adults and Mojitos sounds like heaven.” She turned to Jamie. “I have twin sixteen-year-old sons. Who between them have about eight thousand friends who love to hang at our house.”

“
I
love to hang at your house,” said Megan with a laugh. “Grace's place has a pool,” she explained to Jamie. “
And
a finished terrace level.
And
a game room. It's like a resort over there.”

Grace snorted. “Resort—ha! After a week with the teenagers, it looks like a dump. Your kids are still small. You have no idea how much food a gang of teenage boys can consume. Or how much laundry they make.” She blew out a sigh. “When does school start again?”

“Not for another sixty-four days,” said Megan, popping a bit of biscuit into her mouth. “Not that I'm counting. And even though mine are only three and eight, believe me, they eat plenty and are geniuses at getting stains on their clothes that even NASA couldn't find a way to get out.”

“You'll be crying at the end of next summer, Grace, when those boys of yours go off to college,” said Dorothy. “I cried buckets when my kids flew the nest.”

Grace held up her hand. “Don't even mention it or I'll tear up. But in the meanwhile . . .” She looked at Jamie. “No kids?”

Jamie shook her head. “Nope. Just one niece. She's fourteen. I miss her a lot.”

“Wanna borrow a couple teenagers for a month? Or two?”

Jamie laughed. “Sure, send them over. I'll bake them some cookies.”

“If you do, they'll never leave,” Grace warned. Then she grinned. “So, yes—why don't you bake a big ol' batch of cookies!”

When the laughter subsided, Dorothy said, “Maria Rigoletti-Silverman says you're entering the Clam Queen contest, Jamie.”

Before Jamie could refute that, Megan piped in with, “That's great!”

“No, I'm not—”

“Fabulous,” cut in Grace. “We need some new blood in that contest.”

Dorothy frowned over the rims of her bifocals. “And we sure don't want that obnoxious Missy Calhoun's daughter to win. That girl's a skank.” She looked at Jamie. “And before you ask, yes, I know darn well what a skank is. Got three granddaughters who keep me up to date on all the lingo. Even got me a Facebook page. I may be seventy-two, but thanks to those granddaughters, I'm on the cutting edge of pop culture. You need to know anything about Brangelina or those reality TV housewives, I'm your source.”

Jamie couldn't help but smile. “Good to know. I'm on Facebook, too.”

Dorothy beamed at her. “Fantastic. Send me a friend request.”

“And go to the Clam Festival fan page—my sons set that up,” added Grace. “Last time I looked we had over seven hundred fans!”

“Will do,” said Jamie. “Now about the Clam Queen contest—not really my thing, I'm afraid. But I'll be sure to root for you ladies.”

“Oh, we can't enter,” said Megan. “It's for unmarried women only.”

“Who are under the age of forty,” added Dorothy, “otherwise I'd give you a run for your money.” She made a disgruntled sound. “Bunch of age discrimination if you ask me. Been trying to get that changed in the town bylaws ever since I moved here forty years ago, but no luck so far. Folks don't like change, especially to a contest that's been around for more than seventy years. And since that old coot Melvin Tibbs is in charge of the contest, nothing will ever change.”

“I've heard of this Melvin but haven't met him yet,” said Jamie.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Dorothy said. “He's been away visiting his brother in Florida. Good riddance, I say.”

“Have you considered leaving the original contest as it is, but just adding additional categories? You could add a Senior Clam Queen or a Clam Empress—something where you have to be at least forty or fifty to enter.”

Dorothy, Megan, and Grace all stared at Jamie, then Grace laughed. “Now why didn't we think of that? The committee could vote in something like that even without Melvin's consent because the original contest would remain intact.”

“Exactly,” agreed Dorothy.

“Maybe there could be a Clam King for younger men and a Clam Emperor as well for gentlemen over forty,” Jamie continued, her mind whirling with ideas, especially as those ideas deflected the subject of her entering the contest. “A Mrs. Clam for married women. A Mr. Clam, too. Maybe even a Baby Clam for kids. There could be a fee to enter, which would raise revenue for the town, part of which could be specifically earmarked to help the island's cat population. The added categories would attract more people to the festival—especially if there was a cash prize for winning.”

“I love that idea,” Grace said.

“My youngest is three and a total girly girl,” said Megan, her voice filled with enthusiasm. “She'd be all over a Baby Clam contest.”

“Always good to bring in new blood to keep things fresh, and it looks like we've got ourselves a real winner with this one,” Dorothy said, jerking her head in Jamie's direction. “Wait until grumpy old Melvin hears these ideas. He won't be able to say no.”

Jamie's face warmed at the praise. “If you like, I can type up a draft of the idea and bring it to next week's meeting.”

“Some chamber of commerce folks will be there, so that's perfect,” said Dorothy. She raised her coffee mug. “Welcome to Seaside Cove, Jamie.”

“You're already part of the family,” added Grace, and Megan nodded.

A lump of emotion swelled in Jamie's throat. She'd wanted to get away from her old life, from everything familiar, but she hadn't anticipated making new friends. Hadn't expected such . . . acceptance. Especially from strangers. But it seemed there weren't any strangers in Seaside Cove. It felt odd. Unfamiliar.

But really good.

Once again they all clinked mugs. And a thin layer of the stress and sadness weighing her down was stripped away. There were still a lot more layers to go.

But it was start.

A
fter Dorothy, Grace, and Megan departed, Jamie set out a bowl of crunchies on the carport for the island cats. She'd yet to see any of them near the house, but she'd filled the bowl the last two mornings, and by evening it was empty.

Her gaze wandered to Southern Comfort, and as much as she didn't want to, she couldn't help but wonder where Nick had gone. And why he'd left so late last night. Was he really off on a bender as rumor had it? She supposed it was possible, but her gut told her there was some other explanation for his disappearances. She hadn't seen him drink anything other than water, nor had he smelled of alcohol. Not that that meant a whole lot, yet her instincts didn't buy the whole bender theory.

Could be his late-night departure involved something unsavory—like a married girlfriend. Or illegal. Or both. Could be . . . yet something told her no. Which pretty much annoyed her as she knew squat about him.
That's not really true,
her inner voice whispered.
You know he kept his word about fixing the steps and the roof. And he replaced the porch screens and cracked windows without you even asking. You know he's good to his dog. And that he has a great smile and a body that practically gave you whiplash.

Humph. All true—yet not really good reasons to stop viewing him with a suspicious eyeball. At any rate, where he went and why wasn't her business. She didn't care, and she had no intention of getting involved.

She was about to head back up the stairs when a white pickup truck pulled into the driveway next door at Gone Fishin'. The door opened and a tall, silver-haired man she judged to be in his late sixties sporting a military buzz-cut emerged. Ah—this must be her neighbor, the infamous Melvin Tibbs. He wore a pristine white Polo shirt tucked into khaki pants with a razor-sharp crease, and brown Top-Siders. His posture was ramrod straight and Jamie found herself pulling her shoulders back lest she be caught slouching. As if he sensed her presence, he looked toward Paradise Lost. When he saw her, a scowl overtook his already-grim countenance. Yikes. This was one grumpy-looking dude.