Sweet Waters (11 page)

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Authors: Julie Carobini

BOOK: Sweet Waters
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“Hm. It fits you.”
A hot blush fills my cheeks. “Um, you're smooth, aren't you?”
A laugh erupts from him, as if I've caught him by surprise. It reminds me of the other day at the inn when the sound of his voice dissipated the tension in the air. It's doing the same for me now. “Now why would you go and say something like that?”
I shrug. “Tell me about you, Josh . . .”
“Adams.”
“Okay, Josh Adams, the firefighter. Have you lived in Otter Bay a long time?”
He rubs a hand over his stubbly cheek, eyes guarded again. “We moved here from Los Angeles when I was a kid. I went to SLO—that's San Luis Obispo—for college, then decided to settle back here. It's a good town.”
I nod. “I see that.”
He searches my face, and I glance away. “What brought you here?”
Just how do I answer that, exactly? My life has always been about stability. Working hard, saving money, getting married, raising a family . . . But now? The longer I'm here, the more I sense the need to fill in the long-forgotten pieces of my family's past. Do I tell this to Josh, a near stranger? Certainly I can't tell him Mel's prediction—that I've come to run away from a broken heart.
I let out a soft breath. “My family lived here until I was six, and I've always wanted to come back and visit.”
“You're just passing through then.” He frowns.
I press my lips together into a smile and shrug. “Well, secretly, I've always wanted to move back. My father died a number of years ago, and this place reminds me of him. He loved water, and I always wondered why he let this town slip away from us. He never would say. Anyway, my mother remarried, and the company I worked for was sold so . . .”
“So you took the leap. That's courageous.”
Simple words, yet they touch me within. No one has ever called me courageous before. Headstrong, strong-willed, bossy . . . I've heard those monikers, but never anything as noteworthy as
courageous.
“Thank you for saying so,” I tell him, meaning it. “Although, you're a firefighter, and that's got to be one of the most courageous jobs out there.”
Josh's eyes, which look out to sea now, take on a dark cast again. He's quiet for several seconds—have I somehow said exactly the wrong thing? Wouldn't be the first time. He glances down to where one of his hands toys with a stone. “It can be, if it's done right.”
“Nigel says you're the best.”
He cocks his chin toward me and smiles, although his eyes still carry a certain sadness. “There aren't enough people like Nigel in the world, but I guess you know that, working for him, I mean.”
“Yes, I—”
A sharp ring tears into the peaceful morning. Josh looks to his side. “That's me.” He stands and reads a text on his phone. “My shift doesn't officially start until tomorrow, but when duty calls, it calls.” He snaps his phone back onto his belt, and pulls me up before I realize what's happening. “Got to run. Be careful out here . . .”
“I'll watch for the tide. No worries.”
He sends me a wave, and I watch him dash back to his truck.
I RIDE INTO WORK on a wave of mixed emotion. On the upside, we've found an affordable place to live near the beach—quite the feat—and Mel will be here soon. And, I can't deny, running into Joshua Adams, firefighter, hasn't put a damper on my time here one bit.
Still, questions remain about Peg's hostility toward my father, not to mention the cryptic memory that bored its way into my mind earlier today at the tide pool.
Betty's behind the desk when I arrive, her gray-haired head drooping to one side. When I approach, she bursts awake and calls out, “Checking in? . . . oh, good, it's you.”
It's good to be needed.
“Long day, Betty?”
She chortles. “I'll say, but oh my dear, having you here to get us organized has already been so helpful. Imagine, after only one day!” She removes her black vinyl purse from the coat rack, and pulls it gingerly over one shoulder. “You have a blessed night, dear. Don't work too hard.”
After handling a rush of check-ins in the late afternoon, a lull settles in and I spend some time reading through the piles of tourist brochures Nigel has available for guests. I'm studying one that gives directions and information about a nearby sanctuary for elephant seals when a hostile wind blows in through the front door.
Peg stands there in her grease-splattered apron, looking angry as a bull. “You didn't show for breakfast.”
All sorts of responses zip through my head. “I didn't realize we had an appointment.”
She stares in silence, and the admonishment to be kind to your elders pummels me with guilt. I sigh. “Hello, Peg. What can I do for you?”
“Where were you this morning? Because I had something to say.”
I measure my response. “Well, Camille and I moved into our rental this morning, and then she took off with Holly to visit the college.”
Color drains from her face. “Holly is with your . . . with Camille?”
“They should be back anytime now, but yes, they drove down together. I'm surprised Holly didn't mention it.”
“She's over eighteen. And what do you mean your rental? I thought you lived in this inn?”
I run a hand over my smoothed-back hair, figuratively pushing away the thought of telling her to mind her own business. “And now we've found a place more . . . permanent. It's lovely, even if it's not the house I once lived in.”
She harrumphs. “Oh, well that place—that place had to be condemned. It was derelict from all the neglect.”
I shrug, masking the pain. “Must have happened after we left.”
Peg's eyes relax, exhibiting a rare flash of compassion. “Let me make this easy for you, Tara.” She moves closer, her chin raised into the air, as if it makes her feel more brave. “Your father—you may not know or understand this now—but I will hand it to you straight. The man was one smooth character. He could cheat a man out of his lunch, then get the chump to buy him dinner.”
I step out from behind the desk, panic rising it my throat. “Stop it.”
“Get your deposit back. Or just cut your losses and go back home.”
“This
is
our home now.”
Peg grunts. “Trust me. It's better if you go, before you learn more about Robert Sweet than he ever wanted you to hear.”
Panic has turned to anger unleashed. “You're nuts! My father was an honorable man . . . a beloved man. Everyone who knows him will attest to it. So take your gossip and your advice, and get . . . out!” I grind my teeth, top row into bottom, yet I can't stay quiet. “My sister, Mel, will be here next week, and let me tell you, Peg, if you think
I'm
tough, you won't want to mess with her.”
Her eyes turn dull, like she's given up. “Then you give me no choice but to tell you the truth. Your father, God rest that man's soul, took nearly eight thousand dollars from me.”
“Take it back.”
Peg's eyes catch on something behind me, but she can't make an accusation like that, and then just turn away. My jaw tightens. “Take . . . back . . . what you said about my father.”
Nigel's soothing voice glides into the room. “Good evening, ladies.”
My hands begin to shake. This woman is nothing but a stranger—I've never even heard of her before. My fingers curl into a ball until nails dig into palms as I try to draw air back into my tightening lungs. The last thing I want, though, is for Nigel to hear Peg's accusation. Daddy's reputation cannot be sullied this way. Gathering myself together, I adjust my claw clip, its tines scraping against my scalp. I take a slow, even breath. “Hello, Nigel. Nearly a full house this evening, I see.”
Nigel's eyes carry a flicker of unease, his usually smooth face showing lines of concern. I let my eyes plead:
Don't. Don't ask me what's wrong.
“Then you've done a marvelous job caring for our guests. You were in no need of me to assist.” He nods at Peg. “Getting acquainted with my new desk host, I see.”
Peg wipes her hands on an apron that should've been thrown into the wash hours ago. “Just telling her all she needs to know. Got to get back to the diner now before Jorge starts making tamales again. I'll see you at breakfast, you know how I always keep your table cleared for you.” She makes eye contact with me again, but this time I see no hint of compassion.
Only the cold, stone glare of a desperate woman.
Chapter Eleven
Even before my feet hit the floorboards this morning, I attempt to dial Mom. She had promised to sign up for international calling, and all I can think of as that blasted recording starts again is, why did I not insist on handling that for her?
Camille's asleep, but I can't stay in bed another second. Instead, I'm thinking about my parents as I sit out on the deck, watching the churning ocean spit waves across the rocks, often engulfing them. The light of morning has done little to cheer me after last evening's confrontation with Peg.
My father took care of the financial records of various businesses in Dexton, his work always bringing in enough for us to have a decent life. If we needed money, we never knew it. And people absolutely loved him. He donated his time by volunteering to help so many charities set up their accounting systems that anything doubtful on his part . . . well, it's impossible to fathom!
The coffee mug keeps my hands warm. I'm grateful. Grateful that my father scrimped and saved and worked hard enough that I can be sitting here in this Adirondack chair, not overly worried about money. We're no trust-fund babies, not in the traditional sense, but he left the girls and me with enough to make this new start.
In the midst of sorrow, a fissure of hope startles me.
What was that little prayer Dad taught us when we were little, the one about Jesus being as close as our hearts?
He always said that when we felt sad, we should remember the prayer and how it meant we'd one day live forever. Hadn't thought of that in years.
With resolve, I drain my coffee cup, head back inside, and grab my purse from its hook. No way will Peg's accusation be allowed to stand.
The RAG bustles with early morning diners, something I'd not seen to this extent. Holly propels by, a pot of coffee in one hand and two mugs in the other. “Mornin', Tara. My, you're here early today.”
I slide into a two-person booth that appears to have been an afterthought in the planning of this place. Kitty-corner to my table, a young woman with perfectly angled hair the color of dark chocolate coos at a child perched in the high chair next to her. I steal glances at her while waiting for Holly to fill me up on more coffee.
So far, the royal pain in my you-know-what has failed to appear.
“Phwee. Camille and I had a good time yesterday.” Holly plunks down a mug in front of me and sloshes coffee into it, dropping two hazelnut creamers nearby. “My aunt's AWOL so far, though, so I can't stop and chat. Be back in a minute.”
As she swivels away, Nigel appears at my side. I smile at him. “Good morning, Nigel. Have you had breakfast? Please, join me.”
He leans on his cane. “My dear, I thank you, but I have had my fill for the morning. I need to stand for a moment now, to get my bearings.”
“Of course.” Josh, imposing in his head-to-toe blues, walks from the other end of the diner with another blue-
uniformed man.
Was he here when I arrived?
He doesn't notice me, but instead makes a beeline for the young mother feeding her baby. I watch as he bends down to tickle the child's chin, his wide smile producing deep creases in his cheek. Still bent over, he turns to say something to the woman, and she grins into his face. The other man stands just off to the side, his smile shy.
Josh seems to be the only one on an intimate footing with this woman.

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