The Summer Girls (9 page)

“Well, you do order the same thing every day.”

“Why change a good thing?” he replied, closing the menu and handing it to her.

“Do you want a beer with that?”

“Sweet tea,” they both said at the same time, and laughed.

“Coming right up.”

Looking over her shoulder, she smiled, then chuckled quietly, noting that Ashley had been right. His dreamy gaze was following her. He was indeed Mr. Predictable.

A short while later she carried the pub’s signature burger to the table. He looked up from his sheaf of papers and smiled too brightly when she approached. Not wanting to encourage him, she didn’t smile in return and placed the food down without ceremony.

“Sure you don’t want a beer?” she asked, all business. “We have Guinness on tap.”

“No, thanks. I don’t drink.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt awkward for pushing the beer if the guy was an alcoholic. “A refill then?” The ice clanked loudly in the pitcher as she poured his tea.

“Did I say something to offend you?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, shifting her weight. “Not at all. I’m just preoccupied.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you know someone looking for a stills photographer.”

“So, you’re a photographer?”

“Yes. But not like for portraits or weddings. Though I’d freelance those now, if you know anyone who’s looking. I work out of L.A. In the entertainment business.”

Understanding flickered in his eyes. He leaned back against his chair. “So you take all those publicity shots we see in magazines and online?”

“No,” she replied slowly, realizing she’d have to explain for the thousandth time what a stills photographer did. “I do anything to do with photos for marketing a film. I shoot episodes, backdrops, behind the scenes—whatever, to promote the show. It’s complicated,” she said, cutting the conversation off. She was reminded to check her messages to see if any of her contacts might’ve come through with a job possibility. “I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Oh. Right,” he said in a rush, realizing he was taking up her time.

She swirled away, stopping at tables to refill glasses, take orders, bring food in the dance of waitresses. Half an hour later he was still sitting at his table reading. Carson stopped back to check on him.

“Refill on that sweet tea?” Southerners always rolled the two words together so it sounded like
sweetie.

He looked up from his papers and smiled. “I’m good,” he replied in his easy drawl. “Just a check.”

She was about to turn and fetch it, but, thinking of her tip, paused to say, “Sorry I had to run off like that before.”

“I’m sorry I kept you from your job.”

He really did have a nice smile, she thought. When his lips slid halfway up in that sweet teasing grin, his dark brown eyes sparked with what she knew was flirtation.

“What’s your name, anyway?” she asked him. It seemed wrong to think of him as
Mr. Predictable
.

His grin widened to reveal white teeth. “It’s Blake. Blake Legare.”

Recognition clicked. “Are you one of the Legares from Johns Island?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“No kidding? Do you know Ethan Legare?”

“Which one? We’re a big family and there are a few Ethans.”

“The one who works at the aquarium. Married to Toy, who’s in charge of the sea turtle hospital.”

“Sure do. That Ethan’s my first cousin.”

“Really?” She’d forgotten how living in Charleston was like living in a small town. Mamaw had always impressed upon her the importance of dressing well and speaking politely, because there were no strangers in Charleston. “Ethan and I used to surf together back in the day. I haven’t seen him for . . . well, years.”

“I don’t figure he’s got much time for surfing nowadays, what with two kids.”

“Ethan has two children?” She chuckled, remembering the skinny kid who was as fearless on the water as she had been. “That’s hard to believe.”

“It happens,” he drawled.

“What about you?” she asked him. “Are you married with kids in tow?”

“Me?” he asked, amused at the idea. “God, no. I mean—” He faltered, seeing her shocked reaction at the emphasis. “Not that I’m against marriage or anything, it’s just, well . . . No. I’m not.”

He was blushing slightly and Carson thought it was mildly beguiling.

“Do you surf?” she asked Blake, steering them into a different topic.

“Used to in high school. Don’t anymore.”

That was typical of a lot of men who grew up along the coast. Most boys she knew tried surfing at least once, but few really took up the sport.
Too bad,
she thought.

Blake added, “I’ve taken to kiting.”

Carson’s mind did a U-turn. “As in kiteboarding?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I like it better. I go out whenever I get a free moment and some good wind.”

Carson looked at his long, lanky body, seeing him in a new light. He wasn’t muscle-bound, which was never a look she found sexy. But in his dark brown T-shirt she could see that his muscles were hard and sinewy, typical for swimmers.
Who knew?
she thought with renewed interest. Mr. Predictable wasn’t so predictable after all.

Condensation dripped from the iced tea pitcher down her arm. It was getting heavier by the minute. She boldly put the pitcher down, then dried her hands on her apron.

“I’ve always wanted to learn to kiteboard,” she said, warming to the topic. “But I don’t see a lot of girls out there doing it. I know they do, of course, but it looks like it takes a lot of upper-body strength to handle the kite.”

“Not especially. The arms are used for control of the kite, but you’re connected to the kite by a line that’s attached to a harness you wear like a belt. There’s a lot of core strength involved. A lot of girls are giving it a try. If you surf, you shouldn’t have any trouble.” He paused, then said, “I could give you a lesson . . .”

There it was. The invitation, as she’d expected. And yet, not at all what she’d expected. Going to the beach to learn how to kiteboard wouldn’t really be a date—no drinks, no candles, no awkward small talk. It was a lesson, outdoors, in
the daylight. If she didn’t like him, they’d say good-bye and that would be it.

She smiled. “That’d be great. Where do you kite?”

“Around Station Twenty-Eight.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen the kites out there. Okay, maybe I can—”

Her response was interrupted by someone shouting out her name.

“Caaaaaaarson Muir! Is that really you?”

She turned her head and followed the voice to the door to see a broad-shouldered, deeply tanned man with shaggy blond hair and wearing a raggedy blue polo shirt and khaki shorts. He held out his arms and stampeded her way to lift her clear off the ground.

“Damn, it really is you!” he exclaimed as he set her down, grinning from ear to ear.

Carson pushed her hair from her face, laughing, flustered by both the welcome and his staggeringly beautiful blue eyes.

“Hey, Dev!” she replied breathlessly. “Well, aren’t you a blast from the past!”

Devlin Cassell had been a summer crush when she was in her teens. He had dated Dora for a summer, but there had been one hot and heavy kissing session between them on the beach one lazy summer evening after Dora had left for college and that’s where it had ended.

“When did you get back?” he asked her, his eyes devouring her.

“A few weeks ago.”

“You staying with Mamaw?”

“No, I’m renting a villa at Wild Dunes.”

His eyes widened. “Really?”

“Would I be working here if I was? Of course I’m at Mamaw’s.”

“Good ol’ Mamaw. There’s no one like her. How is she? What’s she up to? She still hosting those big parties?”

“No big soirées these days. But the family’s celebrating her birthday this weekend. She’s eighty years old.”

“No kidding.” Devlin shook his head as though in disbelief. “I’ll bet she doesn’t look a day over sixty.”

Carson laughed. “Mamaw always said you could charm the skin off a snake.”

He laughed at that, murmuring, “Yep, that sounds about right.”

She enjoyed the cadence of a Southern man’s chatter and realized how much she’d missed it.

“You remember Brady and Zack?” Devlin asked, stepping back and extending his arm toward his two friends, both of similar age and attire. They’d removed their baseball caps, revealing sunburned faces and salt-dried hair. She didn’t know the men but smiled, lifting her hand in a casual wave. “Come on, pretty girl, walk with me,” Devlin said, putting his hand on the small of her back and guiding her to the bar. “I’m so dry my throat feels like a desert.”

He smelled like he’d been drinking for hours.

“I’m working,” she told him.

“And I’m a paying customer.” Devlin reached the bar and slid onto a bar stool. “How’re you doing, Brian?” he called out. “Got a Guinness for me?”

“With your name on it,” Brian replied. Devlin was a regular and welcome in the pub.

“And one for the lady.”

The other two men called out their beer orders and slid onto nearby stools. Carson caught Brian’s eye and lifted her brows in a nonverbal request for permission to speak to her friend. Brian discreetly nodded, then turned to work the tap.

“So, Carson,” Devlin said, turning his head and searching Carson’s face. “You are still the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. How long are you here for?”

Carson shrugged and sidestepped the compliment. “I don’t know. Till it’s time to leave, I suppose.”

“No man waitin’ on you? No ring on the finger?”

Carson shook her head. “God forbid,” she replied, then realized she’d offered the same answer as Blake Legare.

Devlin’s eyes gleamed. “I always thought you were one fish no one was going to catch.”

“What about you?”

Devlin screwed up his face. “Caught and set free. Divorced last year.”

Brian delivered the beers to the men and moved on, though she knew he wouldn’t miss a word.

“Yeah, it was tough,” Devlin admitted, then took a long sip. “But I got my Leigh Ann out of the deal, so I guess it was worth it.”

“You have a child, too? I’m having a hard enough time picturing you married, much less a father.”

He shook his head ruefully. “So did my wife, apparently. In all fairness, it was my fault. I screwed up.” His face fell and he picked up his glass for a long drink.

So he cheated, she figured. Too bad, but not entirely a
surprise. Devlin wasn’t a playboy, but he was a perpetual boy who liked to play. When they’d been young, he’d been popular with everyone. He was the guy with the available boat, the surfboard to share, the cold beer—the guy who always knew which beach house on Capers Island would be empty for the weekend. Most of her friends from that time still lived in the area but had settled down into jobs, marriage, children. Even Devlin had given it a shot.

She’d heard that Devlin was an extremely successful real estate maven on the islands. But seeing him here at midday, obviously just back from a fishing trip with his buddies, confirmed her suspicion that as a husband and father, he clearly hadn’t been able to set aside his toys and freedom in order to step up and be responsible.

It was, she supposed, predictable.

At the word, she glanced back at Blake’s table. Her heart sank to see it was empty. She stepped away from Devlin to walk to the table. There was no message scribbled on a piece of paper, no card with a phone number. Only a twenty-dollar bill that lay tucked under his plate.

Carson reached down to collect the money. It was a generous tip, but she still couldn’t help but feel shortchanged.

H
arper’s first good news of the day came when the pilot announced that they’d caught a tailwind and that they’d made the trip from New York to Charleston ahead of schedule. But as she put away her iPad, she suddenly wished for that extra twenty minutes to wrap up her work.

She turned and looked out the window of the Delta jet as it broke through the clouds and began its approach to the Charleston airport. The descent sparked mixed emotions. From her vantage point, she could see the signature landscape of the lowcountry stretched out along the Atlantic Ocean. Long, winding creeks snaked their way through thousands of acres of green wetlands, looking like they’d come straight from a Mary Edna Fraser batik. It was a seductive landscape, undulating and lush. Even sensuous. It was no wonder the lowcountry was home to so many acclaimed authors, she thought to herself. The landscape was an inspiration.

Unfortunately, her father had never joined their ranks.
Poor Daddy,
she thought. Despite his dreams, he’d lacked both the discipline and the talent. Harper felt neither love nor scorn for her biological father. She’d hardly known him. Her mother had never discussed him or acknowledged their marriage, other than to give his daughter his name, and hyphenated at that. There wasn’t one photograph of him in their apartment. When Harper was old enough to ask questions, Georgiana told her only child that she’d married Parker Muir for his charm, wit, and potential. She’d divorced him because she’d discovered she’d been wrong. With an editor’s cruel succinctness, she summed it up: “Parker Muir could talk about writing better than he could write.”