Summers' Love, A Cute and Funny Cinderella Love Story (LPC Romantic Comedy Series) (6 page)

Stu was back in business.

Then, a few days later while watching an old episode of
Friends
(
The One With All The Rugby
), Stu received a call from his runny-nosed reader. Hitting the pause button on the remote, Stu asked if the reader really believed the story had potential?

“I’ll drop it off on my way home from the drug store,” his reader had replied.

Next morning Stu skimmed the manuscript. Impressed, he emailed the author and discovered, to his surprise, that the author wasn’t
interested
in fame and money, but only in “spreading God’s message of love, sin, and salvation through Jesus Christ”.

The proverbial light bulb went off over Stu’s expertly-styled hair. He replaced the author’s name with his, crafted a cover letter, and emailed the proposal to an editor’s assistant at Little Brown Pelican Publishing, a woman he’d dated twice. Three times, tops.

Two days later the assistant called him, gushing. He took her to dinner on the hopes that she’d do more than
gush
… she’d
push
the work through the proper channels. Sure enough, three months later, Stu received an email from the New York house offering him a modest advance and tons of encouragement. The acquisitions editor used terms like “blockbuster,” “fresh and riveting,” and “Hemmingway action with Fitzgerald-like prose.” Stu phoned the author and asked if she would release all rights and ownership to her novel for five hundred dollars.

The author, a church secretary living on the Outer Banks of North Carolina, replied that she would have to pray on it.

Next morning, Hattie May Rawls phoned Stu to say a thousand dollars seemed to be the amount the Lord had laid upon her heart. She also insisted that ten percent of any money Stu made go to the church where she worked. Stu did the math and decided he could live with giving the church and God ten percent of his cut.

The two struck a deal, signed a contract that assured Hattie May’s silence, and before he could say “Danielle
who
?” Stu Summers the literary agent became Stu Summers the future best-selling romance novelist.

Brimming with confidence, Stu traded his subway pass for a bright red sports car with low miles, leather seats, and a newly-minted VIN number. The Jag still had that new car smell when his first novel,
Puppy Lov
e, reached the top of the New York Times’ bestseller list. That same week Stu moved into a two-bedroom studio overlooking Central Park. Stu’s second novel,
Hound Dog Heart,
landed the church secretary two thousand dollars, the church twenty percent, and Stu a six-figure advance. Within months the race was on to see which movie studio would win the bidding war for his third blockbuster novel,
That Dog Won’t Hunt.

But now, as Stu pulled up to the tollbooth of the Ocracoke ferry, he felt a knot in his stomach. The spirit had departed from his ghostwriter. Even before the call from his editor, Stu had detected a disturbing trend in the church lady’s writing. Her characters lacked passion; her plots were predictably boring. Worst of all, she seemed convinced her latest manuscript,
Roll Over and Play Dead Space Rover
, a historical Western about a family of Amish zombies abducted by Martians, was her best work ever.

Stu thought it artistic suicide.

He powered down his window and gave the ferry attendant his reservation number. A few minutes later the ferry pulled away from Hatteras Island bound for Ocracoke. With a weariness brought on by years of posturing and pretending to be someone he was not, Stu exited his Jag and walked to the back of the vessel. As he looked toward the ferry landing, Stu caught sight of a woman stepping from a yellow convertible Miata parked in the overflow lane. He brushed bangs from his face with the back of his hand to get a better look. For a moment he thought she looked like ....

The vessel pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and Stu lost sight of the woman. He shrugged and, squinting into the sun, felt the wind cool his face. Life was good, if not great, and as soon as he got his holy ghostwriter back on track, it would be
Stu
pendous.

Chapter Six

Kate waited nearly an hour to board the M/V Croatoan. Two other ferries came and left with full loads before a “no show” finally allowed the attendant to wave her forward. It was a little after 8:00 p.m. before Kate reached Ocracoke Village. A short ways past the Pony Island Motel she turned onto a dirt lane shaded by sprawling oaks. The setting sun sent prisms of light through their branches.

Kate counted mailboxes until she came to a white picket fence and a simple wooden sign welcoming guests to
Summers’ Place – Where Dreams Begin
. She pulled into the driveway and waited while her car’s retractable roof snapped shut.

The home looked nothing like the one she’d seen on the poster in Page Me Books. Instead of a sprawling beach house facing the ocean, this cottage appeared quaint with its screened-in porch and silver-gray siding. A green pickup truck sat in the parking pad next to her Miata. Strapped to roof racks, a paint-splattered ladder.

Kate stepped from her car and followed the pebble walkway around to the side yard, but stopped abruptly at the sight of a pair of sun-browned feet poking from under an outdoor shower. A white beach towel had been draped over the wall. Next to the towel, a pair of grease-stained jeans and a blue worker’s shirt. A ball cap advertising Hank’s Hardware hung beside the door. The spray of water stopped. A hand snatched the towel from the wall and the door swung open. Out stepped a tall, elderly man with a cropped gray beard and (thank God) the towel wrapped around his waist.

When the man noticed Kate he clinched the towel tighter. “Can I hep ya?”

“I’m … ah … looking for Stu Summers.”

“Hang on a sec.”

Stepping back into the shower, the man pulled the door shut behind him. The shirt and pants were yanked from over the door.

“Don’t suppose it makes much sense showering and putting on the same filthy clothes,” he said, stepping back out. “But I just got done replacing the water heater and needed to make sure it worked right.” He closed the space between them and swatted at an insect before extending his hand. “Hank Rawls, property manager.”

Kate shook his hand. “Kate Winston.”

He cocked his head and bumped back the bill of his cap, looking at her curiously. “Charlie Winston’s little Katy? That little girl I used to see running ‘round the docks pestering people?”

Despite herself Kate blushed. “That was a long time ago.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry ‘bout what happened to your pop. Was about the most honest man I ever knew. I still look out in the harbor sometimes and expect to see that old boat of his pulling up to the docks. What brings you back to Ocracoke? Hope it’s for more than a short visit.”

“I bought one of Mr. Summers’ novels. On a bookmark he wrote a note inviting me down for the weekend.” She took a swat at a mosquito.

“Dagnabbit, I wish you’d called first. Cottage is being worked on right now. There’s usually a number you can dial to make a reservation.”

“A reservation?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The property manager pointed to the bottom of the bookmark. “Mr. Summers puts ’em in most every book he signs. His way of advertising this place.”

Kate reexamined the bookmark. For the first time she noticed the “handwritten” note appeared to be printed. Well, that’s just great. She had driven all the way down to get those blasted books signed, and
his ‘meet me at Summers’ Place’
invite was nothing more than a marketing scam.

If only there was a hole to drop into. A brick to throw through one of the pristine windows.

A quiet place to lose her last meal.

“There should be a toll-free phone number on there someplace. Here, let me show you.” He pointed to the bottom of the bookmark. “Call that number, they can hook you up.”

A number … like her. Kate glanced around the yard at the flower garden, ivy-covered arbor, Adirondack chairs, and fire pit. “Not that I could ever afford it, but how much does this place rent for?”

“Twelve hundred.”

“A week?” Kate sighed. “I suppose that’s not
too
bad.”

“A night,” Rawls corrected her.

“A
night
?”

“And there is a one-week minimum.”

“That’s insane!”

“Stays rented most of the year. Even in the winter. ‘Course it ain’t the charm of the place that draws folks.” Hank leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I mean it’s nice and all, but women like yourself come here so they can say they spent the night in Stu Summers’ bed.” He leaned back and eyed her more closely. “Don’t suppose your pop would have ever expected you’d make enough to afford a vacation like this. If he was alive he’d be right proud of how you turned out.”

She doubted that. Her father hadn’t put up with fools and that’s exactly what she’d become—foolish. Okay. Add marketing pimp to Stu Summers’ list of undesirable qualities. She looked over her shoulder toward the lane. “Can you recommend a place in town where I can spend the night? Somewhere …
less
expensive?”

“Doubt you’ll have much luck on a Friday night. Weekends get pretty crazy ‘round here. ‘Course you know that already. The Pony Island Motel is packed to the gills. Lighthouse Inn, maybe, but they’re pretty pricy.”

“Pricier than twelve hundred a night?”

Rawls seemed unfazed by her sarcasm. “If you hurry you might make the Cedar Island ferry. Might be room in them motels in Beaufort and Morehead City. That’d be your best bet, this late.”

Rawls gathered his toolbox and started around the side of the house toward the parking pad. Kate followed. When they reached his truck, Rawls swung open the driver’s door and, with a look of sympathy, said, “Sorry you went to all the trouble, Katy. Like I mentioned earlier, if you’d …”

“Called first, I know.”

“Yes’m. Good seeing ya again.” With a broad smile he added, “Tell your brother he still owes me for an inner tube tire he put on credit.”

Kate waited until the pickup rolled away before walking back around the house and down to the dock. The sun, low on the horizon, had turned the Pamlico Sound to the color of copper. She took a deep breath and inhaled the smell of pine and salt air and expelled a long sigh.

Part of her was glad she’d come. Even though she had misunderstood the author’s invitation and stood no chance of getting the books signed, at least she was back on the island and that was something. She closed her eyes and brushed salt-laced sweat from her cheekbones.

“Banker’s Hours.” That’s what her father used to call the slow pace of life on the Outer Banks. A time for kicking back, shucking shoes, and letting life and salt water wash over you. She opened her eyes and stared out over the horizon. The thought of catching another ferry and driving to Beaufort left her depressed. But what other choice did she have? She couldn’t just crash on Stu Summers’ front porch.

A boathouse stood next to the creek at the water’s edge. Tied off at the end of the dock was a skiff. She walked out a short distance and turned toward the wide bay of water. The sun had begun to disappear behind thunderheads. She could smell rain coming. Looking across the wide savannah, she imagined what it would be like to live in a cottage like this, full time.

Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she looked toward the ferry landing. She could just make out a pair of flags flying atop white poles. No movement in the lines of traffic. Not that she expected to make the Cedar Island ferry. Not this late, and not without a reservation.

Not, not, not … Her father’s words came back to her. “Face it, Kitten. You were born into a family of ‘half-knots’. Hard workers destined for a hard life. But don’t never forget, when you feel like you’re at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on. Help’ll come. Always does.”

She hugged herself and told herself she was not going to cry. Not again.

Then, when she started to cry, she told herself it was because she was tired and her nerves were shot. But as the sun dropped behind dark, anvil clouds, she felt the regret of countless bad decisions pressing down upon her, and as she had nearly every day since she was twelve, Kate felt herself missing her father. He would know what to do; he’d always known what to do.

Lowering her chin to her chest she began to sob.

Chapter Seven

Hattie May Rawls’ Bible study met every week at 8am in the pastor’s study of the Fisher of Men and Marlin Community Church.
Every
Saturday, rain or shine, in tourist season and out. Come Saturday morning, couples, most of them in their mid-twenties, gulped coffee, gossiped and studied God’s Word. Stu knew this because whenever he drove down to check on the condition of his cottage, Hattie strongly urged him to attend her meetings.

Which was what she was doing now as they sat on a park bench across from the ferry docks. The sun, now low on the horizon, had turned the blue-gray water of Pamlico Sound to a coppery hue. Sea gulls soared above the public docks, squawking incessantly. In the slips, sailboat halyards slapped masts.