Summer at Seaside Cove (4 page)

As if to answer her question, she heard an ominous rumble of thunder. “Perfect. Just freakin' perfect.”

She heaved her three overweight suitcases—jeez, had she packed anvils in them?—over the gaping hole caused by the two missing steps, up the stairs, and abandoned them in the kitchen. Grabbing the keys, she trotted down the steps again and crossed the carport to the storage closet door. At first the key didn't want to cooperate, then neither did the door. Sweaty, frustrated, and pretty much ready to scream, Jamie threw all her weight against the wooden panel. It burst open and only by grabbing the rusty knob did she manage not to fall on her face.

“ 'Cause busting my nose would have been the rotten cherry on this moldy piece of pie,” she muttered. She picked her way around a washer and dryer of dubious workability, then over a pile of faded plastic beach pails and deflated inner tubes to reach the circuit breaker panel. The rusted metal door—was everything rusty around here?—squeaked in protest when she opened it. She leaned closer and saw that all the light switches as well as those for the stove and fridge had been tripped. Obviously last night's storm, rather than an unpaid electric bill, was the culprit. She flipped them all to the on position, then closed the panel.

After locking the storage room door, she hiked up the stairs again. “All these damn stairs better result in buns of titanium,” she grumbled. She entered the kitchen, nearly gagging at the strong stink, and hit the light switch. The ancient fluorescent fixture in the ceiling hummed, sputtered, and blinked for several seconds, then flooded the room with harsh light that didn't do it any favors.

“Whoa, you are a lady best seen only in the dark,” she murmured, running a fingertip over the worn countertop. She halted when she came to the sink, which, the light now revealed, held the source of the horrible stink.

A mesh bag filled with clams.

Very
dead
clams.

Jamie closed her eyes. “My life sucks.”

A low growl of thunder sounded, making it official. Her life sucked and even the heavens agreed.

Doing her best to breathe through her mouth, she quickly searched the kitchen cabinets. The first one, in addition to assorted pots and pans, yielded three rusty cans of pork and beans that no doubt carried botulism. “Good to have on hand in case I feel the need to off myself,” she muttered. Or someone else. Like Nick Trent.

She continued searching, finding cutlery, glasses, dishes, a roll of paper towels that had clearly gotten wet at one point, a yellowed roll of masking tape, three candles and a box of matches—that only contained two matches—a map of North Carolina dated 1962 (probably the same year those pork and beans came into the house), a phone book from 1978, three sand-encrusted pennies, and in the last cabinet, a stash of plastic grocery bags bearing the face of a smiling pig and the words Piggly Wiggly.

“At last
something
is going right,” she said, pulling out a handful of bags. She tripled up three bags, shoved her hand inside, then used her free hand and her teeth to tie the handles at her wrist to fashion a makeshift glove. Grabbing a few more bags in which to put the clams and she moved to the sink and grabbed the mesh bag.

Oh. Dear. God.

Lifting the dripping bag released a whole new level of stench. Holding her breath, Jamie placed the mess inside several Piggly Wiggly bags and quickly turned on the faucet to rinse the sink. With her lungs starting to protest, she clutched the stinking bag of clams and hotfooted it across the kitchen, out the door, and down the stairs. She looked frantically about for the trash bin and nearly wept with relief when she found it on the far side of the house. She lifted the top, tossed in the offending bag and her makeshift glove, slammed down the lid, then sucked in a massive breath.

“Done,” she gasped.

Now it was time to see to Cupcake, which meant fashioning a temporary litter box. Which meant a quick trip to the beach for sand. After grabbing two of the beach pails from the storage room, she headed down the block and across the street, toward the narrow pathway marked by a sign that read Beach Access.

The sandy path led between two oceanfront homes, one named Starfish, the other bearing a plaque proclaiming Sunset Delight. The muted sounds of laughter and music greeted her, growing louder as she neared the rear of the houses. The scent of grilling meat filled her head and she pressed her hand to her stomach. God, did that smell good. And damn, she suddenly realized she was hungry. Good thing she'd packed some snacks, although a hamburger sounded like heaven, especially since for the past week, after her life had gone down the crapper, the bulk of her nutrition had come in the form of brownies, Doritos, her two favorite guys Ben and Jerry, and an absolute shitload of peanut M&M's. Was there an M&M rehab? Probably she needed to look into that.

When she reached the rear of the houses, she saw that each had a party in progress. Both yards, as well as the huge wraparound decks, were filled with kids and adults. Starfish's yard had a built-in pool, where a raucous game of water volleyball was taking place. At least a dozen adults and several kids smiled and waved at her, greetings she returned. Shouts of “Mom—watch this!” and “Throw the Frisbee here, Grandpa!” tugged her lips into a wistful smile. A lump of emotion lodged in her throat as memories of childhood summer days spent with her mom and dad and Laurel flashed through her mind.

An image of her handsome, smiling father rose behind Jamie's eyes, and for several seconds it felt as if her chest caved in. In spite of the three years since the heart attack had ripped him away, there were times, like now, seeing a dad swinging his little girl up in his arms, the child squealing with delight, when the pain simply seized her, stealing her breath.

She forced her gaze from the father-daughter pair and continued. The pathway turned from sandy path to weathered boardwalk as she approached the rise of vegetation-covered dunes that she knew from the Internet site provided a natural barrier between the ocean side of the island and the marsh side. The sounds of the parties faded, replaced by the low swooshing hum of the ocean. She came over the rise and caught her breath at the endless stretch of dark blue water.

“Wow. Just . . . wow,” she whispered.
This
is why she'd come here. For the peace and soul-healing serenity she'd always felt when looking at the ocean. It was the first place she'd gone after her father's funeral—just a one-day escape to Long Island—but staring at the endless stretch of water, listening to waves crashing, had somehow helped her, soothed her.

She hadn't been to the ocean since that day. Life and work had consumed her time, gotten in the way of allowing her the solitude her soul sometimes craved. When she'd decided to get away from New York, to recharge her badly depleted spirit and reevaluate her life, there hadn't been any question of where she'd go. The beach. Thus began her Internet search for a summer rental—not easy to come by in late June, and damn near impossible since price was a factor. Anywhere on Long Island or the Jersey Shore had been financially out of the question. She'd finally, after hours of Internet searching, happened upon Seaside Cove.

Based on the bargain price, she'd suspected the accommodations might be a
little
rustic, but the deal had been too good to pass up. She was desperate to leave New York, and on a budget, beggars couldn't be choosers. Besides, how bad could any accommodations at the beach be?

As she'd found out, pretty bad.

No doubt about it, Paradise Lost definitely wasn't all she'd hoped for, but as she stared out at the long strands of waves breaking with gentle crashes, the white foamed water rushing up the wet sand trying to dampen the feet of a group of sandpipers that were much too quick, a sense of calm suffused her. She walked down the half dozen steps leading to the beach and slipped off her sandals. She groaned with delight at the sensation of her toes sinking into the soft, white sand, still warm from a day of sunshine. As she headed toward the water, she drank in the azure sky streaked with the first mauve ribbons of what promised to be a spectacular sunset.

Several dozen people still lingered, sitting in sand chairs, tossing balls to kids and dogs. A trio of youngsters built a sand castle, while a couple walked hand in hand toward the pier that jutted into the surf a half mile down the beach.

Jamie took a few minutes to stick her feet in the water and grinned. Just enough chill to make it refreshing. She couldn't wait to hit the waves tomorrow.

Her cell phone buzzed and with a sigh she pulled it out and looked at the caller ID. Her trepidation immediately faded when she read Kate Moore. Hearing from her best friend was always welcome.

“How's it going?” Jamie asked, twisting her feet to bury her toes in the cool, wet sand.

“Exactly what I called you to find out. How's the beach?”

“The beach is . . . perfect. Everything else, not so much.”

“Uh-oh. Have Maggie and Patrick been calling you?”

Jamie huffed out a humorless laugh. “What are you, clairvoyant?”

“No, just your BFF. Tell me what's going on. You sound tired.”

“I am.” With the water washing over her feet, Jamie filled Kate in on her adventures thus far since arriving at Paradise Lost, concluding with, “So for now all I can do is wait until this Nick Trent gets home from his latest bender, and when he does, believe me, he's going to get an earful.”

“Wow . . . I don't know whether to laugh or cry for you. I can just picture you with that bag of dead clams.” Kate chuckled, then coughed to disguise the sound. “Laughing with you, kiddo, not at you.”

“Uh-huh. Except I'm not laughing.”

“You will—eventually.”

“Maybe. But it's not funny now. Especially when faced with deciding whether or not to stay in the very non-paradisey Paradise Lost for the next two months.” Jamie sighed. “With my apartment sublet, I don't really have much choice. At least not one that wouldn't break my budget.”

“If you come back to New York, you know you're welcome to stay with Ben and me.”

Jamie's heart cinched with love and gratitude. “That's very sweet and generous, and just like you, but you're a newlywed and need a houseguest for two months like you need a hole in your head.” Her gaze settled on a pair of seagulls swooping toward the water, then soaring upward, wings spread, hovering in the breeze against a backdrop of the brilliant sky. “And even though Paradise Lost is a disaster, the beach is really great.”

“Not that I'm backpedaling on my invite—which remains open,” Kate said, “but the beach is also seven hundred miles away from New York—which, crappy house or not, is a huge point in its favor.”

“True.” Jamie blew out a sigh. “I don't want to even think about going back to the city. Not yet.” A searing pain that felt like a knife plunging into her back hit Jamie between her shoulder blades. Tears pushed behind her eyes and she furiously blinked them back. Damn it, she refused to cry any more.

“I don't blame you,” Kate said quietly. “And I know I've already told you this, but it bears repeating—especially since I hear those tears in your voice. I'm really proud of you, Jamie, for taking this time for yourself, especially given all the pressure your mom and everyone else at Newman's put on you to stay. You weren't just in a rut, you were in a veritable abyss. And now you're climbing out. You stuck to your guns, drew a line in the sand, and made a change. One that I think will be really good for you, even though it's difficult right now.”

“Thanks. I needed that.” Jamie pulled her feet from the sand and began walking slowly toward the pier. “And that's what this whole trip to Seaside Cove is all about—climbing out of that deep hole. Renewing, recharging, regrouping. Figuring out what
I
want. In a place where nothing's familiar. Where I don't know anyone, and no one knows me or about the humiliating crapfest my life had become. And best of all, where I'm not responsible for anyone other than myself. No demands, no stress, no pressure. Ha. When's the last time
that
happened?”

“Junior high maybe?” Kate suggested.

“That's about right. Paradise Lost is looking better and better.”

“Exactly. The house might stink—”

“—literally,” broke in Jamie with a grimace.

“But you don't have the stress of working every day with Laurel. Getting away from that toxic situation and relationship is the best gift you could possibly give yourself.”

Jamie's throat tightened. “I know . . . but that doesn't mean Laurel's betrayal still doesn't hurt. And majorly piss me off. For cryin' out loud, rule number one of the Girl Code clearly states that ex-boyfriends are off limits—therefore, it should be obvious that
current
boyfriends are
really
off limits.
Especially
to one's own sister!”

“Absolutely,” Kate agreed. “Bee-yotch should be beaten with her damn designer shoes.”

“Then there's the other side of that extremely tarnished coin—not only did Raymond cheat on me with my sister, but with my
older
sister. Seriously, how many women get dumped for an
older
woman? And not just a month or two older, but
eight years
! Talk about insult to injury.” Oh, yeah, she'd definitely reached a new low rung on the self-esteem ladder there.

“Just goes to show you what a shithead he is,” Kate said. “She and Raymond deserve each other.”

Jamie knew it. Yet the mention of Raymond's name still pissed her off, although at this point she wasn't certain if she was more angry at him for cheating on her, or at herself for so badly misjudging his character.