The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (3 page)

She found herself praying: Please let the kitchen be up to date. It was hard to sell a house with old appliances. Please let there be a nice yard with good plantings. She didn't have time to grow a new lawn from seed. Let there be a modern bathroom, and please no 1950s pink tile and 1970s avocado green shag carpet like her last college rental. She didn't have money to pay for materials, so please let the house need only "minor cosmetic updates," as the real estate agent had told her when she'd handed over the key and the title to the house. Please let one thing go right, and let her get it sold quickly so she could pay down the massive debt hanging over her before her former boss's board of directors pushed forward with the lawsuit to recover their lost payroll.

The SUV in front of her finally pulled off the pavement onto the gravel shoulder. She pulled over behind it, and turned off the ignition.

The house, like the others, was invisible behind a high hedge, but the sign was posted: Cliff Front Home For Sale, with a phone number. Yes. Cliff side. That had to be a good sign.

This was it. This stupid house of Dennis's—of hers—had better be worth as much as the real estate agent had estimated.

Captain Ryan came back to the convertible. "Curb your wheels," he said calmly. She clenched her jaw in anger, but again said nothing to him. She was so flustered she couldn't even park correctly. She started up the car again and turned the wheels so if the emergency brake failed (a definite possibility with this old crate) the car wouldn't roll down the road into someone's perfect little hedge.

She felt herself flush with embarrassment, but he didn't seem to notice. He helped Oliver out of the car on the passenger side, easily lifting the boy out of the car and setting him on the pavement. Oliver looked up at him worshipfully. "You're strong."

She got out of the car before the big man got the idea to lift her out like a child, too, and grabbed her purse. He led the way down the path between the high hedges, holding Oliver's hand.

"My daddy bought the house for Camilla," Oliver was telling him. "Now we're going to sell it so we have money until he gets back."

"Back from where?" he asked.

Oliver shrugged. Good question, Captain Ryan.

At the bottom of the path they came to an imposing wooden gate—all iron hinges and dark-stained wood, about eight feet high. He checked the handle. Locked.

She forgot everything for a moment at the sight of the tall man in the sleek uniform standing before that medieval-looking gate. Some primal part of her wanted to go to the knight, ask him to take over and make everything okay again. She closed her eyes. That was the kind of thinking that had ruined her life—thinking some fairy-tale man would love her and care for her and not turn her life into a mess. She opened her eyes and he was just a cop holding her little boy's hand and waiting for her to unlock the gate.

She fished in her purse for the set of keys.

The path was narrow, so she had to brush past him to reach the gate. She ignored the sudden pound of her heart as she felt his body heat so close. Whoa. That rush of attraction wasn't something she'd expected. Sure, he had startling deep blue eyes and more muscles than he had a right to, but she wasn't in the mood for any man, especially not one who'd judged her a fool and didn't hide that opinion. She needed to turn off her hormones and get down to the business of salvaging what was left of her dignity. Now.

She unlocked the gate, then turned to face him. "Thank you for your help, Captain Ryan. I can handle it from here."

"I'd better see you inside safely."

She wondered at what point his obvious impression that she was incompetent would make her either lose her temper—or fall all over him in relief. But since she knew he was right about her, she just shrugged and went through the gate, Oliver and the man trailing behind her.

As soon as the house came into view she realized her prayers for a quick sale had not been answered.

She stopped in her tracks. It was a monstrosity. No. That wasn't the word. At least a monstrosity would have adequate square footage. This was... it was indescribable.

It was tiny—all of two and a half stories high and still probably smaller than her one-bedroom condo had been.

It had obviously been built without a blueprint. It was crooked. She didn't see a straight line anywhere in sight. The roofline was pitched at an angle that defied gravity, with one side climbing toward the sky at a steep slope, and the other side swooping down practically to the ground.

"The roof...," she muttered.

"Cat slide," Captain Ryan said. "That's what they call that steep, one-sided pitch," he explained to Oliver.

Oliver stood, as wide-eyed as she herself must appear, trying to take it all in. "Yeah," he muttered. "A cat would slide right off, huh?"

"The Honeymoon Cottage was the first Stockdale," Captain Ryan said.

She didn't have time to ask him what the heck a "stockdale" was, because she was busy walking around the front of the cottage, trying to make sense of it.

The walls appeared to be made of stucco in a charming shade of cream-and-mildew, interspersed with huge, rough-hewn beams of what she imagined was ancient redwood. The beams appeared to be barely holding up the walls. Iron sconces framed the door.

And the door, a round-topped slab of redwood, obviously hand-carved by a carpenter who didn't own a level, stood proudly off-center in the front wall, flanked by not only the gargoyle-shaped sconces, but also by heavy-framed, diamond-paned windows that arched into unbelievable shapes never imagined by the folks at Home Depot.

"Oh, no," she muttered.

"Haven't you been to the Honeymoon Cottage before?" he asked.

"Stop calling it that!" she snapped. Honeymoon cottage—like it was some cozy little getaway for a newlywed couple. Divorce cottage, more like it. One look and the marriage broke up.

"The house then. You haven't seen the house."

"House? This isn't a house. It's—it's—" She was at a loss. A complete loss. All her plans for a quick sale and a getaway to a new life were shot in this one, first glimpse of—

"—It looks like it was built by a drunken leprechaun," she finally said.

Unexpectedly, the taciturn captain chuckled. "I think that's the best description of a Stockdale cottage I've ever heard."

He pushed open the door, which wasn't even locked. Why would it be? Who would want to break in? The iron hinges on the door gave way with a creak straight out of an old horror movie. He ushered them inside. "We might as well see the rest."

She went in.

It was a mess. The walls were as crooked inside as they had appeared from the outside, the diamond-pane windows were missing glass in several spots, and there was ample evidence that something—she prayed it wasn't raccoons—had taken up residence in the middle of the living room floor.

"I think it's neat," said Oliver. He ran over to the fireplace. "See all the different pictures!" He started tracing out patterns in the ceramic tiles framing the fireplace. "This one's a squirrel!"

Numb, Camilla followed him over to the fireplace. He was right. It was beautiful. Under the grime and slime, the fireplace was covered in handmade embossed tiles. There were trees and starfish and suns, all in rich browns and golds and greens—many greens, from pale moss to deep forest. More and more came to light with every sweep of Oliver's hands against the dirty surface.

It smelled of mold.

"This cottage is worth a lot of money," the man behind her said.

"Why?" she said sarcastically. "You get a lot of drunken leprechauns around here needing housing?"

"You don't know? It's a Stockdale. Built by Jefferson Stockdale. The architect."

"Using the term loosely," she muttered.

"The village is littered with them. People come from all over the place just to see them. Postcards, walking tours, they even filmed an old TV series here years ago. You know—about that old lady who solved mysteries."

"I don't think this place is on the tourist maps."

"Not now. But a little repair, a little spit and polish—"

She pulled at a loose tile on the hearth and it came off in a cascade of decayed grout and mouse droppings.

"—Okay, a lot of spit and polish. But this place is full of history. If you own it, you're sitting on a gold mine."

He was talking a lot. The silent captain had become very chatty all of a sudden.

"How do you know?"

He froze, as if he realized he was revealing too much, and then said, "Um, I know somebody who inherited one."

"How nice for them," she said. Then the words "gold mine" sunk in. "You think I can get a good price for it? The real estate agent told me it just needed a bit of fixing up."

He looked around the room. "Your real estate agent is an optimist. I imagine it'll take some money to hire the team of specialists...."

"I'm doing the work myself. Yes," she added at his skeptical look. "I have experience with—well, not with this sort of house, but with normal houses."

He looked down at her from his six-foot-two. "Really?"

"Yes, really. My father did construction." When he wasn't in jail. She looked him in the eye, glad she hadn't said that last part aloud. "I am capable of taking care of myself, Captain Knight."

"I don't doubt you," he said, but she didn't believe him.

She went to the front door, and held it open.

He still stood in the middle of the room, as if he wanted to say something more.

"Thank you for your help, Captain." She looked at him pointedly and he finally came over to where she stood. Again she felt that surge of adrenalin as he invaded her personal space. She had no room to step back, with the redwood door behind her and the tree of a man only a foot in front of her.

He stood there for another few seconds while she held her breath. Some insane part of her wanted to ask him to stay: Don't go. It's all too much for me. I want you to help. But luckily her mind was stronger than that idiotic thought. She stood silently and finally, finally, he stepped through the door and walked up the path to the street.

She watched him go. Finally, he was out of her life. But long after the gate creaked shut, and the SUV's engine roared to life, and the sound of the tires crunching on the gravel faded in the distance, she still stood there, her thumb rubbing over the gold embossed badge on the business card.

"What's for dinner?" Oliver's voice cut into her swirling thoughts. She realized her face was damp with evening fog, and the sun was almost completely gone. It would be dark soon, and she didn't even know if the place had working lights.

She turned to Oliver. "Macaroni and cheese for dinner. Assuming there's a stove. Let's find out." She held out her hand to him and they went to find the kitchen.

~*~

Chapter 2

On the way down from Cliff Drive Ryan checked in with his deputy.

"I'm done with that call."

"Mabel Rutherford?" The smile in Joe Serrano's voice came in clearly over the speaker.

"Yeah. It was nothing, of course. Stranded tourists out of gas. Got them to their house. Any other calls come in?"

He slowed down near the corner of Cliff Drive and Calle Principal.

"None."

"Then I'll sign out. You can take off, too. Tell the switchboard to forward calls to me overnight."

"Got it," Joe responded. After a pause, "you want to stop by for dinner? I'm grilling my famous California turkey burgers. Avocado and jack with a grilled poblano on top. Cold cerveza. Maria and Marisol would love to see you."

"No thanks, Joe. See you tomorrow." He hung up.

Ryan pulled to the curb right before Cliff deadended at Calle Principal and parked his car. He looked over at the house proudly perched at an angle on the corner, noticing the cat slide roof and lopsided windows as if for the first time. "Drunken leprechauns," he muttered, and felt himself smile. And then the smile faded. FOR SALE, the sign said, with the local real estate agent's smiling mug beneath it. Angie had loved her family's old vacation cottage at the beach. Now he couldn't stand the sight of it, a barren reminder of the life that had been lost in a split second. She had insisted he take it in the divorce. But he couldn't keep it. Once it was sold, it would sever the last tie between them. If only he could sever the memories that easily.

He went inside, and felt the silence surround him.

The house, as always, was so still. The mantle clock ticked softly, loudly echoing the emptiness. There was nothing alive here, except him. And he was barely alive.

He carefully took off his jacket, putting it over the back of one of the dinette chairs. He removed his holster and gun, setting them on the top of the refrigerator, out of sight but within easy reach, as always.

The feel of the gun in his hand still brought back the memories of the first days. In the first few terrible days after it happened, he had sat up alone far into the night, just wondering if it would be better to end it all. He was past that part, thank God. He knew that wasn't the answer. He had to face his guilt, find a way to live with it, and go on with what was left of his life.

He went into the living room and turned on the TV. Some random cop show was on, with pretty people in a shiny lab solving elaborate crimes in 45 minutes. He sat on the sofa and watched, not really paying much attention. His days were running together. Go to work, do the job, come home, lose himself in a TV show or a book until he finally got tired enough to sleep. Get up. Run on the beach. Go to work. Come home.

He knew it was unhealthy. He knew he had to break the cycle. So in two weeks it would be over. He would leave his job for the last time and take off on the cross-country trip he and Angie had planned before things fell apart. After that? Who knew, but it would give him the break he needed to start fresh somewhere new. All he needed was to make it through the next two weeks without any complications.

The last thing he needed was a woman wearing freckles and a halo, a little boy who loved trucks, a glimpse of goodness and honesty that was impossible for him to ever know again.