Summer at Seaside Cove (2 page)

“Don't give me that look. Believe me, it's no better out here.”

Cupcake answered with a pissed-off hiss.

“I know exactly how you feel.” In fact, pissed off didn't begin to describe her mood as anger and frustration burst through the wall she'd so carefully erected around her emotions since her life had fallen into a sinkhole a week ago.

With a muttered curse she sat on one of her three overweight suitcases that had cost an arm, leg, and part of a kidney to check in at the airport and pulled her cell phone from her pocket. Ignoring the flash that announced three missed calls, two voice mails, and seven text messages, she scrolled through her contacts until she found Jack Crawford. Right now the Realtor, from whom she'd picked up the keys to Paradise Lost less than ten minutes ago when the cab had stopped at his office, was number one on her hit list. Jack Crawford had
seemed
like a nice man—fatherly and oozing Southern hospitality—but clearly he was insane, not to mention severely mistaken, if he thought he could pawn off this dump on her.

After two rings, Jack's cheery voice came through on his voice mail stating he wasn't available but would return “y'all's call as soon as possible.”

“Mr. Crawford, this is Jamie Newman,” she said through her clenched teeth. “I picked up a key at your office a few minutes ago. I need to speak with you immediately as there's been a mistake with my rental. Please call me as soon as you receive this message.”

She ended the call and heaved out a disgruntled breath as she glared at the house. The absolute last thing she wanted to do was go inside, but given that she had no idea how long she'd have to wait for Jack Crawford to return her call and the bottle of water she'd sucked down during the hour-long cab ride from the airport had made its way to her bladder, she was going to have to brave it. Not to mention that Cupcake could use a few minutes of freedom.

Pulling in a resolute breath, she grabbed the carrier, then picked her way up the crushed-shell pathway—a construction material that should have come with a warning label, as she discovered when a piece of shell found its way inside one of her flat-heeled sandals.

“Youch!” She shook her foot to dislodge the sharp shell and tried to recall if her tetanus shot was up to date. “Clearly I should have worn Nikes,” she mumbled. “And a hazmat suit.”

She cut across the cracked cement of the carport, praying with each step the house wouldn't collapse on top of her, then stared at the steep wooden stairs leading up to the door. The two bottom treads were missing. Not even broken—just completely gone. Like giant termites had come and hauled them away.

“Perfect. Really adds to the ambiance. Hold on, Cupcake. This first step is gonna be a doozy.”

Jamie hauled herself and Cupcake onto the third step, then carefully climbed up, testing each tread before putting her full weight on it. Holding the screen door open with her elbow, she inserted the key in the lock, then pushed the heavy, wooden inner storm door inward. And was immediately enveloped in a noxious cloud of hot air that reeked of something fishy. Something
dead
and fishy.

“Holy Stink Almighty!” Jamie said, wrinkling her nose. Breathing through her mouth, she shouldered her way in and rolled her eyes at Cupcake, whose quivering nose was pressed against the carrier.

“Yeah, sure, that's
your
favorite smell but Eau de Old Man and the Sea doesn't make my top-ten fragrances. There's fifty bucks in it if you find whatever that stink is and drag it outside.”

Leaving the storm door open so she wasn't asphyxiated by the stink fumes, she unlocked the carrier. Cupcake shot out so fast Jamie was shocked she didn't leave a vapor trail behind her. Knowing her pet was simultaneously pouting over her confinement and scouting out potential hairball hacking locations, Jamie looked around the shadowed interior, which was—no shocker—as shabby as the outside.

She stood in a small, dingy kitchen complete with a linoleum floor that peeled up in the corners and a chipped Formica countertop. The appliances—which she noted with horror didn't include a dishwasher—screamed circa 1958. Beyond the kitchen was the living area, furnished with a dirt-colored sofa, two folding chairs, a cracked-leather beanbag chair, and a coffee table made out of two plastic crates emblazoned with the United States Postal Service logo topped with a piece of swaybacked, splinter-ridden plywood. A pair of doors, both ajar, one on each side of the living area, led, Jamie presumed, to bedrooms, and hopefully a bathroom.

“Probably there's a frat boy somewhere who would think this is very chic,” Jamie grumbled. “No doubt the bathroom has all the elegance of a Porta Potty.”

She crossed the living area and opened the nearest door. As she suspected, it led to a bedroom. She hit the light switch.

Nothing.

“Perfect.” Probably whoever owned this dump forgot to pay the electric bill. Although that could be a blessing as the room definitely benefited from a lack of illumination. There was no headboard or bedspread on the bed, and the dresser was missing three of its four knobs. Clearly a garage-sale find. No blinds or curtains covered the windows, but given how dirty the glass was, privacy probably wasn't an issue.

She stuck her head in the tiny adjoining bathroom and groaned. Porta Potty with a shower. It had looked way larger in the Internet photo. The Internet photo had also featured a shower curtain. Now there was merely a liner of dubious cleanliness that drooped off the curtain rod, as half the hooks were missing.

Her jaw clenched. How could anyone possibly think they could get away with renting something like this? And so grossly misrepresenting it on the Internet? It was fraud! By God, when Jack Crawford called her back, he was going to have to offer her the damn Taj Mahal of Seaside Cove to make up for this snafu.

Because the pressure on her bladder had reached emergency proportions, she made quick use of the facilities. When she finished, she explored the rest of the house. The door on the opposite side of the main living area yielded an identical bedroom/tiny bathroom/no light situation. The only difference was this bed did have a bedspread—depicting the New York Mets logo. Figures. She was a Yankees fan. Cupcake had taken up residence on the bedspread and currently had her hind leg hoisted in the air to clean her lady bits. She spared Jamie a single glare, then resumed her cleansing ritual.

“Feel free to hack one up on the Mets,” Jamie said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

Her cell phone buzzed and she quickly pulled it from her pocket. When she saw the caller's name, she was sorely tempted to hit ignore—as she'd done the last two times he'd called—but since he obviously wasn't taking the hint, she might as well get this over with.

“Hi, Patrick—”

“Thank God you picked up.” Patrick Wheeler, the normally unflappable maitre d' of Newman's restaurant, sounded like he was about to cry. “Everything has gone to hell in a handbag here. The seafood delivery truck hasn't come because the drivers are on strike, which could continue for God knows how long. Laurel pissed off both our beef and vegetable suppliers and they're now refusing to deal with anyone other than you. Not one, not two, but
three
waiters
and
the new hostess have all called in sick—yeah, right, like they're not out in the Hamptons and just don't want to come back to the city during the worst heat wave in a decade. And don't even get me started on Eduardo! He's simply impossible. Why do we have such a diva chef? Plus—”

“Patrick. Stop. Deep breath.”

She heard him pull in a shuddering lungful of air. “Okay. I breathed. Look, I'm keeping things afloat here as best I can, but it's like the Titanic after the iceberg—only a matter of time before we sink. You need to come back. Now.”

“Patrick. I told you. I'm not coming back until the end of summer. Consider me temporarily resigned.”

“You can't temporarily resign. Newman's belongs to your family.”

“I'm not the only Newman.”

“But you're the only one capable of running the restaurant. God knows I love your mother, but a manager Maggie is not.”

Jamie couldn't argue with him on that point. Maggie Newman was a perfect hostess for the busy, upscale restaurant located in Manhattan's theatre district. But she had no talent—or interest—in anything managerial or financial.

“Nathan is perfectly capable of handling things,” she said, referring to her assistant manager.

“Yes, but he's off for the next two days.”

“Then call him at home.”

“I already left him two voice mails.”

“Then you'll need to speak with Laurel about these problems, Patrick.”

Her voice caught on her half sister's name, and the sense of betrayal that she'd fought so hard to swallow rose up and grabbed her by the throat.

“Laurel is part of the problem. She's great when it comes to schmoozing the patrons and getting her rich, fancy friends to frequent the restaurant, but she doesn't have the rapport with the staff or suppliers that you do. I told you—she's completely pissed off the beef and vegetable suppliers with her attitude.”

“I know she can be difficult”—
difficult, abrasive, snobby, and oh, yeah, a backstabbing Judas
—“but you need to find a way to deal with her because for now the restaurant is out of my hands.”

“Your father is turning over in his grave to hear you even whisper such a thing. You know that's not what he wanted.”

Jamie gritted her teeth. Her mother had already heaped a ton of guilt on her. The last thing she needed was more guilt—and pressure—from Patrick. Nor did she need any reminders of her dad.

Even after three years, grief still wrenched her heart at the mention of him. The pain had dulled with time, but it still cut deep. And no, Tom Newman wouldn't have wanted her to walk away—even temporarily—from the restaurant he'd founded thirty-five years ago and where she'd worked in one capacity or another since she was fourteen. Just one more burden for her to deal with. Which was why she'd had to get away.

“Dad's not here,” Jamie said quietly, “and I have to do what's best for me.”
For the first time in my life.
“I'm sorry, Patrick, but I'm off the clock until the end of August. Call Nathan again. Call Laurel or my mother. But don't call me.”

“But, Jamie—”

“I can't help you. Good-bye, Patrick.” She ended the call, then pulled in a slow deep breath. Before she'd even fully exhaled, her phone rang again. The only name she wanted to see on her caller ID was Jack Crawford. Unfortunately that's not what she saw. That's what she got for turning the damn phone back on. She was once again sorely tempted to ignore the call, but she sucked it up and answered.

“Hi, Mom.” She braced herself—Maggie Newman attracted drama like bees to honey, and this phone call no doubt would bring some form of commotion.

“Jamie! Finally. I've been so worried, honey. I sent you half a dozen texts. Are you all right?”

“Of course. I texted you when I landed.”

“Yes, but that was ages ago. Are you in Seaside Cove yet?”

“I just arrived.”

“How's the house?”

“It's”—her gaze darted around the bedroom and she winced—“perfect.” In her mind's eye she pictured the decapitated flamingo. “Gorgeous. A veritable palace.”

She looked upward, praying she wasn't about to get sizzled by a lightning bolt for that whopper. But there was no way she could tell her mom the truth. One of Mom's many, many arguments against Jamie leaving New York and going to Seaside Cove for the summer had been that any rental available on such short notice and for such a cheap price had to be a dump.

Damn it, she
hated
it when Mother Knew Best. Granted, it didn't happen often, but still. Galling. Especially in this case.

“Oh, well I'm glad,” Mom said, not really sounding glad at all. “I was afraid it would be awful.”

“Nope. It's great. How are you doing?”

Her mom hesitated. Uh-oh. A sure sign something was wrong. Which meant Drama Time. “I'm fine.” The cheerful tone would have led anyone other than Jamie to believe her words. “I just miss you.”

“I've only been gone since this morning,” Jamie teased.

“I know. But you're so far away. And Newman's simply isn't the same without you.”

“Mom—please. Don't go there.”

Jamie heard an unmistakable sniffle—the sound that meant Mom tears were on the way—and guilt smacked her. Her mom didn't cry often, yet it seemed that over the past week, she'd shed an enormous amount of tears. Jamie's heart squeezed, knowing her situation and decisions were the cause.

“I understand why you left New York, honey,” her mom said. “Really I do. But I hate that you'll be gone for such a long time. Who's going to help me balance my checkbook and do that online bill-pay thing you set up for me? You know what a financial disaster I am.”

“I e-mailed you step-by-step instructions. I also wrote down all your passwords to access your online bill-pay account and a list of which bills get paid automatically and the ones you need to pay by check each month. You'll be fine. And if you can't figure something out, I'm only a phone call away.”

Jamie drew a deep breath, then continued gently, “But, Mom, you can't call me every five minutes, okay? I need to . . . breathe.”

Jamie could practically feel her mother's sadness oozing through the phone, and it filled Jamie with a guilt she didn't want to feel. “I know,” Mom said. “I just miss talking to you. You're always so . . .”