Once in a Blue Moon (6 page)

She glanced over at Ollie, manning the café in back. His full name was Sebastian Oliveira, but everyone knew him as Ollie. He caught her eye and grinned as he sent a cloud of steam hissing from the fancy La Pavoni espresso machine he’d insisted would be the best investment she could make—which it had been, though she suspected the increase in business had more to do with Ollie himself. Since he’d taken over managing the café, its revenues had doubled.

Ollie was one of those people for whom every obstacle was a movable object and every problem a challenge to be met. Whenever a customer approached the counter with a long face, he’d joke until he had the person smiling and laughing. In cases of true suffering, Ollie would do his best to console the person with a kind word or gesture. It didn’t hurt, either, that he was cute in a goofy-kid-brother kind of way: tall and loose-limbed, with thick hair that shot straight up, like the bristles on a brush, and that no amount of gel could tame. She knew his parents well—his mother and Arlene had been great friends—and Ollie was a perfect mixture of both. He had his Irish mother’s dimples and wide, mobile mouth and his Portuguese father’s olive skin, black hair, and brown eyes—eyes that perennially forecast clear weather, however cloudy the actual skies might be. The thing that was pure Ollie, though, was his smile. If scientists could find a way of tapping into it, she thought, it would solve the energy crisis. There would be no further need for books like the one she was presently holding—
The Great Thaw: Global Warming and What the Future Will Look Like
.

She wandered over to have a word with him about tomorrow’s event, for which he’d need to have a good supply of coffee and baked goods. She was expecting a sizable turnout for Wall Street wunderkind-turned-author Randall Craig, whose first novel,
Blood Money
, was the buzz book of the moment. It had been quite a score landing an appearance from him. Luckily for her, he was a local author—he lived just up the coast, in San Francisco.

Before she could get a word in, Ollie observed, “You look beat, boss.” He smiled knowingly. “Don’t worry; I have just the cure.” From the glass display case alongside the marble counter, he withdrew a decadent-looking chocolate cake and slid a slice onto a plate. “It’s my newest creation—chocolate with coffee whipped cream. I named it Devil’s Slide.” As in the aptly named stretch of Highway 1 just north of Blue Moon Bay. His smile widened into a grin, showing the chip in one of his front teeth from when he’d run afoul of an iron gaff at age fourteen, the one disastrous summer he’d apprenticed on his dad’s boat.

“Mmm . . . hmmmnnhh,” she mumbled around the bite of cake he forked into her mouth. It was delicious. She didn’t know which was the biggest draw here—the books or Ollie’s baked goods. She only knew that when he moved on, once he’d saved enough money for his own business, he’d be impossible to replace. “Divine,” she pronounced when she could speak without spraying crumbs. “I’d eat the whole thing if it wouldn’t go straight to my hips.”

He heaved a sigh. “That’s what skinny women always say.” Women who watched their weight were the bane of his existence.

She laughed. “How do you think I
stay
skinny?” Admittedly it wasn’t just that she managed to refrain from sampling all but a sliver here and there of Ollie’s treats; luckily for her, she was built this way. Her boyfriend had once likened her to a Modigliani, all vertical and no horizontal, with her long lines and narrow features, her gray-green eyes that looked, he said, as if she were thinking deep thoughts even when she was doing nothing more intellectually demanding than going over a grocery list. He appreciated, too, that she wasn’t the least bit flashy, though his image of her could be a bit confining at times. The night before, when they’d been leaving for the restaurant, he’d paused as they’d passed under the porch light and used his thumb to rub away some of the blush she’d applied to her cheeks. “There. Better,” he’d said, smiling at his handiwork. Lindsay knew she should have felt flattered that he preferred her
au naturel
, but instead she was left feeling the way she supposed teenaged girls must when their parents disapproved of the way they were dressed or thought they were wearing too much makeup.

“What’s the latest from your lawyer?” Ollie inquired as he was returning the cake to the display case.

Lindsay dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Nothing, but if he phones, it’d better be good news. I’m afraid today’s quota for bad news is already filled.” She’d heard earlier in the day from one of her customers, a real estate agent named Helen Adair, that the county tax assessor had submitted a report favorable to the Heywood Group. Which didn’t bode well for her. Any more news along those lines and she would have to officially write this off as a crappy day.

Ollie straightened. “Okaaay. So I guess you don’t want to hear what happened with Randall Craig.”

“What about him?” she asked with trepidation.

“The dude can’t make it,” he informed her. “He called a little while ago to let us know. You were busy, so I took the message. He said to tell you he feels terrible about it and that as soon as he has an opening in his schedule, he’ll stop by and apologize in person.”

“Great. Just what I need,” she said with a groan.

“Yeah, I know. Sucks, doesn’t it?” Ollie commiserated.

She frowned at him. “Why am I only just now hearing about this?”

“Well, as you can see, I’ve been kind of tied up,” he replied good-naturedly, gesturing toward the customers packed in at the tables.

Even with his brow furrowed in sympathy, Ollie wore the look of someone completely in his element. However busy or backed up, he never became stressed and was rarely in a glum mood. Nothing warmed his heart more than the sight of people contentedly nibbling on his baked goods or sipping one of his cappuccinos or latte mocha supremes. It was hard to believe this was the same kid who, for a time back in high school, had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Nowadays the son who’d been such a worry to his parents was the only one of five siblings who’d remained home to look out for them in their advancing years.

She patted his arm. “I’m not blaming you. I’m just disappointed is all.” She’d been counting on this event to bring in some much-needed revenue. She supposed the extra copies of
Blood Money
that she’d ordered—seventy-five in all, an astronomical number for a store this size—would sell eventually, but not in time to meet next week’s payroll.

On a personal level, she’d been looking forward to meeting the author.
Blood Money
had hit the
New York Times
best-seller list hot off the press, and it had remained there, in the top five, for eight weeks and counting. It wasn’t just a lot of hype, either. Months before publication she’d picked up the ARC—advance reader copy—intending only to skim the first chapter, and had found it impossible to put down. Normally she wasn’t a fan of thrillers—she left those for Miss Honi—but this one, set on Wall Street, rang true as only someone who knew that milieu inside and out could have written it. It was smart and insightful, with prose that soared as often as it punched. Clearly she wasn’t alone in her opinion. The movie rights had been optioned by Dreamworks, and there was talk of Matt Damon playing the lead. Which left Lindsay wondering now if all that success had gone to Randall Craig’s head. Maybe the reason he’d canceled was because he’d been offered a better gig.

“Anything I can do to help?” Ollie offered. “You know, like put up notices or something?”

“Thanks, but I’ve got it covered,” she told him, already mentally composing the e-mail she would send to everyone on her mailing list. “There is one thing you could do, though . . .”

He straightened, wearing an eager look. “Name it, boss.”

“Save me a piece of that cake. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

Leaving Ollie, she headed to the stockroom to unpack a shipment of books that had arrived that morning. The rest of the afternoon she was kept busy tracking inventory and stocking shelves, waiting on customers, and taking phone calls with reps. Along the way, she stopped to chat with several of her customers: Marie Gilroy, who was looking for a book to bring to her mother in the hospital, and Ana Fuentes, one of the book-club ladies with whom Lindsay had become friendly. Ana loved swapping recipes with Ollie, and today she’d brought in her recipe for seedless-grape chiffon pie, neatly printed on a five-by-six index card. There was also diminutive, doe-eyed Fiona Kennedy from the shop next door, which sold a wide selection of New Age remedies. Fiona pressed a small, purplish crystal into Lindsay’s palm, saying, “It’s supposed to calm the nerves,” no doubt in reference to Lindsay’s David-and-Goliath battle against the Heywood Group. Lindsay thanked her and tucked the crystal into a front pocket of her jeans, thinking,
Who knows? I might need it, if not to settle my nerves then as ammo for my slingshot.

She was distracted just then by the sight of a woman pushing her way in through the door. Thirtyish, wearing tight black jeans, high-heeled boots, and a red bolero jacket over a midriff-baring T-shirt the same shade as the pink streaks in her hair. Her ears were pierced in so many places, it was a wonder there was any flesh left to hold the multitude of earrings. A rose tattoo snaked up one side of her neck, and she had on so much makeup, it almost obscured the fact that she was pretty enough not to need it. In spite of her tough-girl look, she seemed a bit lost.

She paused just inside the doorway, glancing about uncertainly, prompting Lindsay to approach her and inquire, “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m looking for the owner,” she said in a voice at odds with her appearance—soft and somewhat tentative, with a girlish lilt to it. Lindsay noticed she had a slight overbite, which, along with her pouty lips and tousled hair, gave her a sex-kittenish look. Her skin was so pale that Lindsay could see the tracing of veins beneath. Her eyes were the color of a fresh bruise.

“That would be me.” Lindsay smiled and put her hand out. “Lindsay Bishop. What can I do for you?”

The woman’s fingers trembled slightly in her grip, and her palm felt damp. She was staring at Lindsay as if she knew her from somewhere. “I’m not sure, actually. I guess it all depends.”

Lindsay wondered if it was a job she was after. That would explain the tentativeness. Didn’t she know you weren’t likely to get hired dressed like that, except maybe in a dive bar? “I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that,” she said, her smile stretching to cover her impatience.

The woman smiled in return—the hard, flat little smile of someone reluctant to commit to it wholeheartedly, perhaps for fear of appearing vulnerable. “You don’t recognize me, do you? No, I guess not.” A spark of disappointment flared in her eyes before settling into a more resigned expression.

Lindsay eyed her in confusion. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

The damp hand slipped like cool water from her grip even as those bruise-colored eyes remained fixed on her. “You could say that. Actually, that’s what I’m here to see you about. You see, the thing is—”

Before she could finish the sentence, she was interrupted by a cry of jubilation from the other end of the store. Both women, along with several customers, swung around at the sight of Miss Honi tottering toward them as fast as her high heels could carry her, her cheeks flushed and her bonnet of blond ringlets bouncing along with her breasts.

She threw her arms around the pink-haired woman, who was too startled to react. When at last Miss Honi drew back, it was to peer at her intently. “Lord have mercy, it
is
you,” she declared. “I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me at first, but here you are, real as can be.” She turned to Lindsay with the flushed cheeks and shining eyes of one in the throes of an almost religious rapture. “It’s like a miracle, ain’t it? Our very own Kerrie Ann.”

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

“I
KNOW YOU
. Y
OU’RE
. . .” Kerrie Ann stared at the old lady, frowning in concentration. Then it came to her in a lightning flash of recognition, and she realized she’d known it all along, the name tucked away like a stick of gum in her back pocket. This was the woman in her dream. “ . . . Miss Honi?”

The old lady beamed at her as if she had just given the correct answer to the million-dollar question on
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?
“I guess I ain’t changed so much you wouldn’t recognize your old pal.”

Kerrie Ann took in the blond ringlets, the bright-red lipstick, the plump but still shapely figure decked in bling. “Yeah, but . . . but how did you know it was
me
?” she sputtered. According to her records, she’d been only three years old when last seen by Miss Honi—a lifetime.

Tears were running down Miss Honi’s powdered cheeks, catching in their creases. One false eyelash had come partially unglued, and her mouth was stretched in a wide grin that wouldn’t stay put. “As if I could ever forget that face! You’re still my baby girl, ain’t you?”

“It’s been a long time.” She spoke cautiously, not used to being welcomed with such enthusiasm. “People change.”

Miss Honi brought a finger to the small scar on Kerrie Ann’s chin, just below her lower lip. “You got that climbing out a window when you were two,” she said. “Fell flat on your face and busted your chin wide open. Lord, you never seen so much blood. I just about fainted, but you barely let out a peep. I seen grown men make more of a fuss over a black eye. And you were just an itty-bitty thing.” She pulled a crumpled tissue from a sleeve of her blue velour top and used it to dab at her eyes.

Kerrie Ann had always wondered about that scar. Now she knew. She just wished the rest of those years weren’t a total blank. “I don’t remember that,” she said, frowning. “In fact, I don’t remember much of anything. Until a few weeks ago, I didn’t even know I had a sister.” She turned to the woman to whom she’d been talking when Miss Honi had descended on her like a blond, perfumed tornado. “So you’re Lindsay.”

Kerrie Ann took note of how pretty Lindsay was, in a fresh-faced, not-trying-too-hard kind of way, with her smooth olive skin, blunt-cut brown hair that fell to her shoulders, and intelligent gray-green eyes, which at the moment were wide with wonder. Dressed in jeans and a button-down shirt, a cashmere pullover in a pale, buttery shade of yellow draped over her shoulders with its sleeves tied loosely around her neck, she appeared trim and capable . . . and like no one to whom Kerrie Ann could possibly be related.

Lindsay seemed equally at a loss. When she finally stepped forward to hug Kerrie Ann, it wasn’t with the unbridled exuberance of Miss Honi’s embrace. At the same time, her delight seemed genuine when she cried, “I can hardly believe it. Do you know how long we’ve been looking for you? Years! I’d just about given up hope.”

“Seriously? You’ve been looking for me all this time?” In her experience, when someone tried to track you down, it wasn’t a good thing; usually it had to do with a bounced check or unpaid bill. Like the time she’d skipped out without paying her rent, and her landlord had sicced the cops on her. She found it hard to believe anyone would go to such lengths just to be with her and could only hope Lindsay would conclude that she was worth the effort.

Lindsay nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “You’re not an easy person to find.”

“I’ve moved around a lot,” Kerrie Ann acknowledged with a shrug.

“You said you didn’t know you had a sister. How did you find out about me?”

“Through my . . . a friend.” Kerrie Ann caught herself before she could reveal that it had been her lawyer. Now wasn’t the time to lay all that on her sister. She would have to play her cards right. “He helped me get a copy of my old records. You were listed as the next of kin. So I Googled you, and now here I am.”

“Thank God for the Internet,” said Lindsay with a teary laugh.

Kerrie Ann glanced about the shop, at the books lining the blond-wood bookshelves and attractively displayed on the islands. On the walls hung framed illustrations and posters. Mismatched easy chairs were tucked here and there, all of them occupied by customers. In the children’s section, the shelves and benches were scaled to kid-size, and an Elmo-blue plush rug covered the floor, where several young children were busily paging through picture books or playing with toys from the basket in one corner. The aroma of coffee drifted from the back.

“Nice place you got here,” she commented.

Lindsay smiled. “Thanks. It’ll never make me rich, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Kerrie Ann slowly shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m related to someone who owns a bookstore. I didn’t even pass high school English. Shit, I couldn’t tell you the last book I read cover to cover.”

Lindsay looked slightly taken aback, and Kerrie Ann made a mental note to watch what she said from now on. Her sister was clearly more educated and . . . well, more of everything she wasn’t. She felt a momentary urge to flee. Then Lindsay’s hand closed gently about her wrist. “Let’s head back to my office,” she suggested. “We’ll have more privacy there.”

Kerrie Ann bit back her apprehension and forced a smile. Following Lindsay as she wound her way through the warren of bookshelves, she prayed her sister would be as welcoming once she learned the real purpose of this visit.

“How about some coffee?” offered Miss Honi, an arm tucked through hers. “You ain’t lived till you’ve tried Ollie’s. That’s him over there.” She pointed out a tall, lanky kid with a thatch of spiky black hair doing the barista thing in back. The café’s marble counter and display case filled with baked goods stood next to a small seating area packed with tables and chairs. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” She tugged on Kerrie Ann’s arm, calling to Lindsay, “Hold up a sec. She ain’t met the whole gang yet!”

The kid was finishing up with a customer when they descended on him. “Hey, Ollie. You’ll never guess what the cat dragged in.” Miss Honi nudged Kerrie Ann forward, beaming as proudly as a parent showing off her child.

He stared at her, transfixed, before breaking into a lopsided grin. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I think I’m in love.”

He looked to be in his mid-twenties, only a few years younger than she, though from a distance she’d mistaken him for a college kid with his black-and-navy pinstriped suit vest over a vintage black Metallica T-shirt, jeans shredded at the knees, and a pair of bright orange Converse sneakers. Kerrie Ann decided he was cute if you went for the opposite of the darkly brooding, day-old-stubble type. Ollie was more boy band than heavy metal.

“Hey,” she greeted him, smiling as she put out her hand.

His handshake was as enthusiastic as his manner. “Don’t tell me. I’ve got it. Didn’t you open for Maroon Five at the Cow Palace last summer? No, wait, you’re that actress who’s on the cover of this month’s
Cosmo
.” He was the perfect combination of sincere and full of shit. She was charmed in spite of herself.

Lindsay laughed and shook her head. “Ollie, meet my sister.”

He dropped the act, his eyes growing wide. “Your sister? The famous Kerrie Ann? No way.”

“So you know all about me, huh?” Kerrie Ann was secretly pleased to have been the subject of such rampant speculation.

“Are you kidding? It’s been like the search for Bigfoot. Not that I’m implying . . .” Ollie reddened. “I mean, you’re
gorgeous
. What I meant was, we were starting to think it was just a wild-goose chase. And here you are. In the flesh.” The color in his cheeks deepened while he made a valiant attempt not to ogle the flesh in question. “Wow. This is
huge
.”

“Nice to meet you, Ollie.” Kerrie Ann finally managed to extract her hand from his grip. “I hear you make a mean cup of coffee.”

He gathered his wits. “You heard right. So what’ll it be?” He gestured toward the menu on the wall behind him.

“Just regular coffee. Black, no sugar.”

He pointed at the display case. “How about something to go with it? Cake, cookies, muffins—what’s your pleasure?”

She shook her head. “Nothing for me.”

“Please, you’re breaking my heart.” He pulled a mock grimace, clapping a hand to his chest in dramatic fashion.

“I don’t dare, with you comparing me to Bigfoot,” she teased.

His blush spread to the roots of his spiky hair. “I didn’t mean—”

Kerrie Ann laughed. “I know. And trust me, if I wasn’t still full from lunch, I could eat everything in that case.” Like most recovering addicts, she had an incurable sweet tooth. “Another time, okay?”

Ollie pumped coffee from a thermos on the counter into a tall cup and snapped on a lid. His gaze met Kerrie Ann’s as he handed it to her. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“You girls go on ahead,” said Miss Honi, shooing Kerrie Ann and Lindsay along. “I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

Kerrie Ann could see that Miss Honi was trying to give her and Lindsay some time alone, and she felt touched by the gesture. “Thanks for the coffee,” she said to Ollie as she turned to go. She felt his eyes on her as she and Lindsay headed off.

The office was little more than a cubbyhole tucked in back behind the history section, with just enough room for a computer desk, a couple of chairs, and a bookcase crammed with what Lindsay informed her were advance reading copies of books yet to be released. Kerrie Ann lowered herself into the chair by the door, placing her cup on the floor. She blew out a breath. “Wow. Pretty weird, huh? This whole sister thing.” She hadn’t felt this nervous even during job interviews.

“It’ll definitely take some getting used to,” Lindsay agreed.

Kerrie Ann cocked her head, studying her sister. “You’re not what I was expecting.” For some reason she’d imagined Lindsay a soccer mom living with her family in the ’burbs and driving a minivan. But she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which meant she was either divorced or single, and there were no photos of children on her desk.

Lindsay smiled, settling into her chair. “You’re not how I pictured you, either. I didn’t notice the resemblance at first, but now I don’t see how I could’ve missed it. You look like our mother.”

Kerrie Ann eyed her dubiously. “Is that a good thing?”

Lindsay was quick to reassure her: “She was pretty, like you.”

“What was she like?”

Lindsay’s brow furrowed, as if she were trying to think of something that was complimentary. “Well, she could be fun when she wanted to be. Though, to be honest, that wasn’t too often. The fact is, she wasn’t around much. Most of the time, I was on my own. That is, until you came along.” She added in a matter-of-fact tone, “Did you know we have different dads? I never met mine, and I’m not sure Crystal even knew who yours is. She was sixteen when she got pregnant with me. Her boyfriend at the time, my father, dumped her when he found out. Her parents weren’t too happy about it, either. So she ran away from home. That’s how she ended up in Reno.”

“You wouldn’t happen to have a photo of her?” Kerrie Ann asked out of curiosity.

Lindsay shook her head. “Only the one on her driver’s license. They sent it to me along with the rest of her things after she died.” She reached for her purse on the desk, extracting a laminated card from an inner pocket, which she handed to Kerrie Ann without comment: a Nevada driver’s license with an unflattering photo of a woman about her age, with bleached-blond hair worn in a ’70s shag and hard eyes that didn’t go with her soft, almost child-like mouth. Kerrie Ann stared at it for a long moment, then silently handed it back. She felt no emotion whatsoever—the woman was a stranger to her. “She was a stripper,” Lindsay went on. “Miss Honi was, too, a million years ago. Though in her day, they were called exotic dancers.”

Kerrie Ann wasn’t surprised to learn that their mother had been a stripper. In her case, the apple hadn’t fallen far from the tree. She’d never used her body to get money, but she’d done a lot of other things she wasn’t proud of. “All I know is that she died in prison,” she said.

Lindsay gave a slow nod. “I was fifteen at the time. My parents asked if I wanted some sort of memorial service, but I told them no. I didn’t want to have to fake being sad. Besides, I couldn’t think of anyone to invite.”

“Your parents sound nice.” Kerrie Ann retrieved her coffee cup and pried off the lid, inhaling the fragrant steam before taking a careful sip.

Lindsay nodded, her expression softening. “I wish you could have met them.” Kerrie Ann gave her a questioning look, and she added softly, “They passed away—my mom eight years ago and my dad a few years before that.”

“Oh.” Kerrie Ann didn’t know what to say. Should she offer her sympathies at this late a date?

“They were older,” Lindsay explained. “They’d tried for years and years to have a child of their own, but Arlene kept miscarrying. By the time they decided to adopt, they were both in their fifties.” She smiled at Kerrie Ann, adding, “I know what you’re thinking. Most couples want a cute, cuddly baby, right? But they were looking for an older child, around the age their own children would have been. That’s the kind of people they were.”