A Shore Thing (25 page)

Maybe
ignore
wasn’t quite the word for Squid’s non-acknowledgment of me. He wasn’t rude or surly. He didn’t look me up and down, then purposely snub me (as far as I noticed). But the playfulness we often shared—the teasing winks and eye rolls, the private guffaws over a camper’s dance moves—were all missing. If he needed me to do something, say, make sure the sound guy knew which songs were on the night’s play list, he’d ask. Only his communication with me had turned sparse and robotic.

I wasn’t sure if this had something to do with my surprise upending of his quiet moment this morning with Peyton, or if mentioning that he’d seen the newspaper on Monday was his way of letting me know that, as my boss, he was not amused.

The man was a mystery.

But today was a new day. The sun, and a nest of chattering wild finches near my open window, woke me early. Being up here, even though it was just a short drive from home, isolated me from the daily news and hometown gossip. I rolled my shoulders, luxuriating in the gentle pull of taut muscles as they stretched and relaxed.

Luz approached me. “Whee. Beautiful here today, isn’t it?”

I let out a sigh. “Sure is.”

The kids had assembled on the lawn at the base of the hill, the counselors corralling them with megaphones and toughness that was merely an act. The campers knew that.

Luz touched the cuff of my shoulder. “It’s quiet in the office. You should go and watch the game today.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Go on. It’s fun.”

As assistant camp director you’d think I would have more time with the kids as a whole, but I didn’t. So watching more of the camp theme unfold during this sunny morning drew me like a butterfly to wild lupine. Besides, after a week like this one, I needed the distraction.

The rock wall had been erected two years ago near a hilly area so that kids could cheer on their friends from the sidelines. This year, though, the hill had been layered with a ton of sand. Instead of kids sitting on the hill to watch their friends, they lined up at the bottom, with their eyes on climbing their way to the top through nearly knee-deep sand. Squid said he got the idea for this activity after driving along Pacific Coast Highway near Malibu and spotting a similar sand hill that drew kids to its challenge.

I curled up on the lawn amid one of the groups waiting for their turn. Those at the front of the rock climbing wall strapped on helmets and pads and waited for instructions. At the base of the sand hill, counselors had to keep calling boys back down, telling them to wait for the whistle.

Squid’s voice boomed through his megaphone. “Hello, my friends! Everyone will have the chance to climb both the rock hill.” He pointed toward the towering setup. “And the sand hill.”

The kids cheered.

“Settle down, settle down.” The campers squealed and hollered but Squid would not budge. Little girls pointed and whispered, their ponytails swishing in each other’s faces as they assessed each activity. Several boys had to be reminded to sit. Squid held up the sign of respect and, slowly, the voices quieted.

He put the megaphone up to his mouth. “Now. I want you to think about a couple of things when you’re doing your climbs. First, ask yourself, ‘which one of these climbs is easier?’”

Shouts came from the peanut gallery.

“The sand, of course!”

“No way, the rock wall’s much harder!”

Squid waited for the kids to quiet. He raised the sign of respect. “And which one of these hills do you think is stronger? Don’t answer that now. Just think about it.”

The girl next to me grabbed her friend’s arm. “I think that was a trick question.”

Her friend’s eyes widened. “You do?”

The girl nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Adults are always asking stuff that’s too easy.”

Her friend nodded in agreement, her eyes and mouth stuck open.

I bit back a smile, although, really, the girl’s proclamation carried some truth. Sometimes the answers to our questions seem so simple, yet it was not always the easy way that worked best. It would have been easier for me to say yes to Justin’s desires for our business. Once while I watered a braided ficus tree inside a bank branch, a woman asked me a question. When I didn’t respond right away—I hadn’t actually realized that her question was directed to me—she jabbed an arched finger in my face and said, “What? No hablas Ingles?” Even after all this time, her condescending tone still flattened my smile.

It would have been easier to walk away from that kind of treatment, to give away ownership rights to the business, hire staff to handle the daily service to clients and marry Justin. Easier but not necessarily the right thing to do. After turning down that investor’s offer, it didn’t take much for Justin’s eye to be drawn to the next tempting scenario. Only this one had long and shapely legs and the hip action to match. Not to mention a wealthy father.

If I had married Justin, who’s to say he would not have strayed eventually anyway?

Squid raised the whistle to his mouth and blew, charging up the campers in the audience and those at the start of each hill. On my knees now, I clapped and shouted my support for the climbers along with the rest of the campers, my voice becoming one of the chorus. I’m not sure why I let my eyes wander from the frenetic activity at that moment, but when I did, Squid’s gaze locked with mine and he sent me a wink. A deliberate, happy-eyed wink.

Not long ago a look like that from Squid would have turned my legs to boiled noodles. I would have interpreted it one way, when clearly, that wasn’t how he meant it at all. My mind switched to Gage’s kiss, that surprising, sultry, shocking kiss, and all at once I lost my balance and collapsed backward, landing on my backside in the dirt. Could I be wrong again?

I glanced back at Squid. This time all that moved within me was the sense that, although he may have read the paper, it did not appear that my boss was holding my indiscretion against me.

GAGE

GAGE NEEDED TO GET out more. Although this convenient office with its close proximity to town had caught his eye the moment he first drove into Otter Bay, he’d begun to tire of the arduous days spent splitting his time between the complicated design in front of him and staring at that dreary wall beyond his window.

Although he awoke to sunshine this fine Saturday, duty called and he had slid behind his desk with only a cup of coffee and one of Holly’s muffins for company.

He wondered what Callie was up to today.

He reassigned that thought to somewhere in his mind’s recesses, but strings of curiosity dangled in front of him, willing to be pulled, threatening to unravel him. She worked for a camp—that he knew. She also fearlessly spoke her mind and radiated beauty doing it. Callie had so much going for her that he wondered if something else kept her from realizing it. There was so much he didn’t know about her, so much he wanted to learn. Gage battled the urge to call her, wanting, if nothing else, to hear the smooth purr of her voice in his ears.

As if in a trance, Gage picked up the receiver, only to slam it down when the dial tone jarred the air, breaking into his meanderings.

The wind he created fluttered papers across his desk. Why would he consider calling a woman who had let him know she wasn’t interested? He’d probably stunned her with that kiss. Maybe if she’d known it was coming, she would have darted for the first break in those trees.
Smooth, Gage, real smooth.

His eyes noted the hot orange card Redmond left with him. “Call her,” his client had commanded. Gage twisted his lips and sighed. Somehow thinking of Callie and his design for the Kitteridge property all at once did little except remind him of the searing divide that—no matter how this played out—would always be between them.

He turned his thoughts to the number on the card, reading the name aloud, something he always did to make sure that he had the pronunciation correct. “Amelia Rosa Carr.” Even her name had an artist’s hum to it.

He dialed, his eyes flitting impatiently about the room as he waited for someone to pick up.

“Hello.”

The bubbly pitch of her voice threw him. “Hello. I’m . . . calling for Amelia Rosa Carr.”

“You’ve reached her.”

Really? He figured the person attached to the youthful voice would excuse herself and fetch her mother. “This is Gage Mitchell calling. I’m looking for the artist who will be doing the rendering of the Kitteridge property for Redmond Dane.”

“Like I said—you’ve reached her.” Her singsong voice kept him off-guard. “I’m about to go to yoga, Mr. Mitchell, but I could stop by your office afterward to pick up a copy of the DD. Would that work for you?”

He straightened. Young or not, the woman knew her stuff. “That’ll work. And call me Gage. Do you know where I’m located?”

“Sure do, Gage. My yoga class is a block from there. See you.”

Over the next hour Gage cleaned up as many stray notes as possible and copied the design documents for Amelia. He also left messages for the structural engineer on the project as well as the contractor, Gus, who’d been chomping to get started for the past month—even though escrow had yet to close. Gage planned to spend the next forty-eight hours working on the next phase of the project and wanted to be sure all the players would be ready to consult with him Monday morning.

A woman with a brisk step and carrying a rolled up mat appeared in his office. He gave her a blank glance.

“Gage Mitchell?”

Perky . . . yoga mat . . . casual wear . . . “Amelia?” He stood and offered her his hand. “Come in. Have a seat.” He pulled out her chair then moved to the side of his desk where he had laid the DD set for the artist to see. His ears had not betrayed him. Amelia was about Suz’s age, with long, straight hair the color of wheat parted in the middle. She folded herself softly into the chair like a dancer and eased into it, her ballet slippers crossed at the ankles.

She peered at him, then at the pages on his desk. “I want you to know, Gage, that I will take good care of your baby.”

He felt his mouth crook as he glanced at her. “Come again?”

“Your baby.” She gestured at the DDs. “Trust me. As an artist, I understand how much of yourself you have put into this project. Art is always a personal investment whether we are talking about paintings on canvas or buildings along the coast.” She blinked at him, as if waiting for him to comment, then must have decided he had not understood her meaning. “My interpretation of your design must not veer from your intent. I take that very seriously.”

He considered her words. “Thanks.” First Suz had impressed him with her creative spirit, and now Amelia was making a promise that sounded lyrical to this architect’s ears. He wondered if he should take up art collecting.

Amelia leaned back. “I have a proposition for you.”

Funny how she was doing all the talking.

She blinked her eyes again. Or maybe that was batting the eyelashes. Yes, she was definitely batting. “Let’s discuss the rendering over dinner tomorrow night. Say Chez Rafe at six o’clock?”

Now it was his turn to blink. Marc would have a field day with this. Was the sunny artist about the age of his baby sister asking him out? His eyes flickered over her face and then back to his comprehensive drawings. Maybe she really did just want to discuss the rendering of multiple buildings and surroundings that she had exactly one week to complete. Possible. Then again, maybe Redmond had put her up to it. Was his client using her to keep an eye on him?

Mighty paranoid of you, Mitchell.

Then again, he had to eat. And what was it he’d been saying about needing to get out more? “Sure. Bring along your sketch pad.”

She laughed, the sound reminding him of Cindy Lou Who talking to “Santy” Claus in
The Grinch.

Chapter Twenty-seven

The weekend had exceeded my expectations. Not only had I gotten the chance to interact more with campers, including s’more snacking at the fireside chat and this morning’s worship-a-thon during chapel, but the reverberations from my brush with Eliot “investigative reporter” Hawl had no effect on anyone here at camp. Maybe no one other than Squid even noticed the picture.

Tidal Wave bounded through the cafeteria door where I restocked the game cabinet. I tensed, knowing how much he loved to sing out at the end of a successful weekend. He spotted me, halted, swept out a thick, hairy arm, and let loose in his best operatic baritone. “Cal-lie-e-e! Oh-o-oh, Cal-al-lie-e-e!”

“Pfsst.”

He splayed wide fingers across his chest, his monstrous voice filling the dining hall. “What? You no like my singing?”

I jerked my face into a “lightbulb moment” expression. “Is that what you were doing?”

He grabbed a just-washed frying pan from the counter. “That’s it.” He raised it over his head and started for me.

A squeal escaped from me as I darted for the side door.

“You dare to ridicule my pipes!”

I pushed on the open bar, but the door was locked. Tidal Wave continued to bear down on me, pan held high, ridiculous scowl zigzagging across his face.

Another squeal flew from my lungs as I pushed two chairs out of the way and lunged behind a corner table.