Authors: Julie Carobini
Sweet Waters (10 page)
Her nostrils flare, but she swallows before speaking. “You're Robert's child.”
Her proclamation causes me to take a step backward. I recover, a lift in my heart. “Yes. Yes, we are Robert's daughters. That's my sister, Camille, over there with me. You knew our father?”
Peg flicks a look over at Camille, who's still talking with Holly. “Your . . . sister.”
“Well, really, she's my cousin. Her father was my mother's brother, Grant. Maybe you knew him too? He diedâ”
“In a motorcycle crash. That man was trouble.”
Her bluntness deflates me. “Please don't say anything negative to Camille about her father. It would really hurt her. She's been with us since she was a baby, so she's always been like a sister to me.”
The lines around Peg's mouth soften and, for just a moment, I believe I'm about to see someone other than the huffy diner Nazi. Holly rushes past, calling out an order of Belgian waffles to the cook before picking up two plates from under the heat lamps. She winks at me as she darts past, and I smile. Unfortunately Peg glares at me now and my newly formed smile fades.
“What are you doing here?”
I shrug. “I've always wanted to come back home, and finally the time was right. My father passed away, and Mom remarried and left the country. This was our father's wish . . . for us to come back to Otter Bay.”
“Robert's dead?”
It's been years, and yet the coarse delivery of her words stings. When I don't answer right away, Peg takes a towel from a bucket and begins to wipe down the counter in sloppy, agitated circles.
“Yes, my father died six years ago. Did you know him well?”
She shrugs one shoulder, concentrating on the counter beneath her hand. “I knew him. And Marilee too. You say she's out of the country now?”
“On a long honeymoon.” It still seems unbelievable. “She and her husband are spending a year touring Europe, so I figured this would be the perfect time to come home to Otter Bay.”
She stops. “Home?”
“At least for a while. That's why I agreed to take a temporary position at the inn . . . so I could see if this move should be permanent.”
Peg sucks in a breath and tosses the wet rag under the counter. “I see.” She stares off toward our table, where Camille fidgets with her food. “Your food's getting cold over there.”
I nod. “Yes, right. Can I just ask you though . . . did you know our parents well?”
Peg's eyes study me before she answers. “As I remember it, your mother was a beautiful woman, but your fatherâ” her lips thin even more, if that's possible.
“That man was no friend of mine.”
“AND THAT'S REALLY ALL she said?”
Camille continues to question me as we walk the three long blocks to view the rental house she spotted yesterday. Peg's pronouncement about our father knocked the sea air from me and I've been down ever since. Thankfully I'm not due back to work at the inn until tomorrow morning.
“When I asked her to explain, she blustered something about having to get back to work, so I limped back to the table.”
“I think we should just forget about her, Tara,” Camille says, a pout in her voice. “She's obviously deranged, and if it weren't for Hollyâand Jorge's cookingâI'd never even want to go back there.”
“I guess. Besides, if we rent this cottage, we can start making our own meals anyway.” I kick a pebble with the toe of my flip-flop. “Just can't imagine how anyone could dislike our father. It irks me.”
“There it is.”
We've turned onto Fogcatcher Lane, where single-story beach bungalows line up, each with a small porch for storing sand buckets and surfboards. Most of the redwoods and pines that would normally thrive around here have been cut down, probably to provide views to the water. The cottages, painted the muted colors of the seaâblues and greens and sandy graysâlook so well maintained you'd think we were strolling through a Hollywood movie set. All except for one forlorn house, its windows covered by clean plywood, sitting across the street and just two houses past the one we've come to see. Black soot lies in uneven spots across its front and down its side.
We walk up to the sad place in silence. Camille speaks first. “Wonder whatever happened here.”
“I don't know. Look. Weeds are growing up the sides, so the fire must've happened awhile ago. Wonder when this place will be fixed up.”
Camille sighs. “Yeah, kind of depressing to live near it.”
A purple VW Beetle cruises down the street and pulls into the driveway of the rental cottage. The driver, a tall woman with short, sandy-colored hair and a quick step, climbs out and swirls herself around, her gaze switching from the available property to us and then to the paper in her hand. She looks over at us again and calls out, “How-dy! If you're looking for the rental unit, then I'm your gal.”
We glance at each other, before making our way toward her. Camille's eyes can't hide her giddiness.
The woman holds out her hand. “Cheryl Draughon here, retired teacher turned realtor at your service. Which one of you ladies is Tara?” She shakes my outstretched hand. “Then you must be Camille,” she says, turning to my cousin. “Well. So you gals are new in town then. Come in, come in . . . let me show you around.” She slips the key into the lock, then turns to us. “I think you're going to love-love-love it here!”
Any worry over the burned-out house up the street dissipates the second we slip off our flip-flops and pad around the small cottage, with its marred wooden floors and beadboard-covered walls. From the front picture window there's an ocean view over the rooftops, and that's almost enough to get me to sign on the dotted line right now.
“Oh my stars, would you look at this! Come see, gals.”
We wander to the kitchen, where French doors open to a wide patio. Our realtor sits in a generous Adirondack chair, one of three situated beneath the overhead sun, its beam illuminating her like a celebrity. “Because it's on the side, this view is better than that one out front. I could sit here all day with a cup of tea and a square of chocolate and just watch the bunnies in the garden and that glorious ocean down the street.”
Sure enough, as if on cue, a bunny scurries across the scrubby grass and hides behind an overgrown bush. Camille steps onto the deck behind me, her eyes riveted on the view. “Tara, this is perfect. And there's even an extra bedroom back there.”
Cheryl pipes in. “And it's furnished too.”
I sit next to Cheryl, reveling in the surprising comfort that hard wood offers. I breathe in the salt air, attempting to calm my racing heart. “How long of a lease do the owners expect?”
“We're looking at a year, although I might be able to sweet-talk them into something shorter, if you're not sure of your plans.”
I release that breath. Things are moving fastâfaster than I'm able to process. Dreaming about doing something is one thing. Actually putting money and effort behind it can be daunting. What if Mom and Derrick come back from Europe early? Or if Camille hates it here, or we miss Mel too much? And what if the rest of the town turns out to be curmudgeons, like Peg?
Cheryl sits there, just nodding her head. “That's right. You take your time. This is a big decision for you gals.”
Camille's popping up and down on her toes, a fallback to her high school ways. “Come on, Tara. Just this once, let's do something crazy. This place is perfect for us.”
I laugh. “You don't think flying out here in the first place classifies as crazy?” My cell buzzes, and I excuse myself to take it inside. Most people would just slide it open and take the call right there, but I've been in enough lines at the grocery store where I've overheard things that strangers should never learn. So, out of respect, I take the call in the living room.
“Tara? It's me, Mel.” I listen to my sister while watching a V-shaped formation of pelicans flying out toward the sea. Like our realtor, who sits enchanted out on that wooden deck, I too can see myself sitting in that spot, sipping coffee and watching waves engulf the rocks. I finish my conversation with Mel, and head back to see Cheryl and Camille who, though they've only just met, chatting like old friends. They stop when I rush through the doors.
“We'll take the house,” I say, unable to stop the singsong in my voice. “Mel will be here next week!”
Chapter Ten
The tide lays flat, at its lowest level since Camille and I have been here. That hasn't been all that long, of course, still it's comforting to see these waters again and all that lies beneath their refuge. I'm wearing water shoes today so I can climb across exposed rock and hunt for a peek at what lives in its many crevices.
Camille and I got up this morning, put our suitcases in the car, and drove into the village for stale pastry and strong coffee. Afterward, we picked up our new house key from Cheryl, then moved in to our rental cottage. All we have left to do is give Anne a call, and she'll ship just a few things we'll need from storage. Just like that.
It's Holly's day off (another reason to skip the diner today), so she and Camille drove into the next town over to check on that fashion-design program at the college. And since Betty's on duty at the inn this morning, I'm free to explore these tide pools until late afternoon.
On my haunches, I dangle my fingers into a swirl of water containing several shell-packed sea anemones as the ocean's spray dances across my face. Gulls cry in the distance. A familiar tangle of waves and air fills my senses, and my mind steps back in time. Daddy's sad, and Mother's been crying again. We sit, Daddy and I, our legs dangling over the edge of a precipice, the waters rolling rhythmically beneath our feet, each wave climbing higher than the last. I'm tossing tiny spiral shells into the sea, trying to make them skip like Daddy does, only they sink on impact each and every time.
Unlike most days, Daddy's not happy. He's just staring into the water, wide-eyed and distressed, mumbling something. I strain to recall it. “She lied,” he's saying. “If only she hadn't lied.”
I yank my hand out of the water, the suddenly vivid memory stunning me. A noise from behind causes me to spin and I nearly lose my footing. A man's voice calls to me, and I hear his steps bouncing across the rocks.
“Did you get stung?”
I squint up in the sun to see Josh towering over me. He bends down and takes my hand. “Did something sting your hand?”
I pull it away, still reeling from the memory of my father and me, my mind fuzzy. “Not at all. I'm fine.”
Josh's crinkled eyes inspect me. “I was watching and saw you jerk your hand out of the water. Figured something tried to take a bite out of you.”
I want to be annoyed by his presumption. I half expect him to act like Trent and begin reciting deadly facts about the dangers of sea water, showing off how much more he thinks he knows than I do. Instead, though, he reaches for my hand again, a gentle
May I?
in his eyes, and his protectiveness has a calming effect.
May I?
in his eyes, and his protectiveness has a calming effect.
I'm quite sorry I pulled my hand from his so quickly. “No. IâI was just thinking of something, and the move was completely involuntary.” I roll back onto my rump, and hug my knees with my hands. Eliza would know the right things to do and say at this moment, how to dazzle and delight, but all I can do is tighten the grip on my legs and hope Josh says something soon.
He settles back tooâright into a puddleâthen rolls back onto his feet. “Ahh!”
I cover my mouth with one hand. “Cold?”
Eliza would be proud.
Eliza would be proud.
He grunts, his face twisted into a mock grimace. “I meant to do that.”
It feels good to laugh, and he's wearing a smile tooâalthough maybe a bit restrainedâthe fresh stubble on his face shining golden in the sun. “So. All I know about you is your first name.”
“Sweet. My name is Tara Sweet.”
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