Beholden (Carmel Cove, Book 1)
Published by Dr. Rebecca Sharp
Copyright © 2018 Dr. Rebecca Sharp
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, or recording, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design:
Najla Qamber, Qamber Designs and Media
Formatting:
Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design
Editing:
Ellie McLove, My Brother’s Editor
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit www.drrebeccasharp.com
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Welcome to Carmel Cove
Preview of Bespoken
Acknowledgments
Other Works by Dr. Rebecca Sharp
About the Author
To everyone who has lost someone,
Though the morning light conceals the stars,
it doesn’t stop them from shining.
They watch over our brightest days just as
they guide us through our darkest nights.
They’re always with us even when we can’t see them.
To everyone searching for a path through grief,
Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.
One day at a time.
And to Larry,
I love and miss you.
This series is for you.
Laurel
Fifteen Years Old
“You okay, Ishkey?” My grandfather’s voice, roughened from smoking for almost forty years, rang out from the kitchen. He hadn’t smoked in a long time. Not since I was born. But it still had a scratchiness to it like the worn top of a dining room table, sturdy but weathered.
My dad says I was the one who got him to quit—that when my dad handed me to my pap for the first time, it came with a wordless accusation: it was his choice to smoke and risk dying before I had the chance to grow up.
Rumor had it he quit cold-turkey the next day.
Knowing my pap… knowing Larry Ocean, I believed that rumor.
For as long as I could remember, he’d always called me Ishkey. I had no idea where the name came from or what the name meant; it certainly sounded nothing like Laurel.
“Yeah.” My sore throat croaked out just loud enough to provoke another coughing fit.
Ducking my mouth into the crook of my elbow, I let out a few nasty coughs that sounded like they took a part of my lung with them.
I blamed Jane for this.
She showed up to school last week, sick, and coughed right into the open—no elbow, no hands, no nothing, like the posters plastered all down the hall about flu season didn’t matter. Next thing I knew, my throat went from scratchy to feeling like any food was made of pure fire as it burned all the way down to my stomach.
I was supposed to have a sleepover with my cousin, Jules, tonight but when I started coughing yesterday, my mom said no. And when I woke up with my right eye all red and gross from bursting blood vessels, my dad decided school today was a no-go too. Instead, he dropped me off at my grandparent’s house on his way into town to our family’s coffee shop, Ocean Roasters.
Picking up The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe from where I’d dropped it in my lap in order to cough, I thumbed through the pages trying to find where I’d left off. I’d already read the book last year and done a book report on it, but I loved The Chronicles of Narnia and my well-read copy had come with me earlier as a comfort.
“Let’s go, Ishkey,” he said gruffly, motioning to me with one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. “Outside.”
I looked up at him with a blank stare from my perfectly warm and comfortable pile of blankets and fantasy book that I really didn’t want to leave.
“Don’t make me tell you again,” he scolded with not even a hint of real anger, pushing his reader glasses up onto his full head of hair—an accomplishment for a man in his seventies.
I knew my mane of hair came from the Ocean side of my family, but its red tint? That came from my mom’s Irish roots along with my unable-to-tan pale skin. It made me stick out like a sore thumb against the rich brown locks and sun-kissed complexion of the very Italian Oceans; Jules had inherited those genes and I was kind of envious, especially since we lived in California where pale wasn’t popular.
My pap whistled and the short, shrill sound pulled me back from my rambling thoughts. “C’mon, Ishkey, before your grammy is done making the salads and dinner.”
I let out a small moan at the reminder. I loved my grammy’s salads. I’d watched her make them a hundred times—a simple mix of red wine vinegar and oil and spices—but still, no attempt at home on my own ever came out as good. And dinner… my pap had made his famous spaghetti and meatballs with his magic red sauce. There was nothing in this world that I loved more than this meal… and that magic sauce.
I shoved my sock-covered feet into my sandals and followed him outside.
It was fall, but up in Northern California, in Carmel Cove where we lived, it was actually pretty warm during this time of year. Unfortunately, even warm air made me chilly since I was sick.
“Over here, let’s go,” my pap insisted, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we walked on grass-covered ground that was still spongy from the rain last night.
Our shadows began to blend in with the darkness as the outside lights of the house faded. The sliver of the moon out tonight played hide-and-seek behind a few scattered clouds, slacking on any substantial illumination. Thankfully, we’d walked this path so many times that we could find our way to the edge of their property even in the dusky darkness.
For most people, the edge of one property meant the beginning of someone else’s. Not my grandparents’. At the edge of their land began the sea—right after a huge drop off a rock-face cliff along the Big Sur coastline. I wasn’t allowed to go outside alone until I was almost twelve because my mom was afraid I’d get too close to the cliff.
“What are we doing here, Pap?” I grumbled when we came to a stop a safe several feet short of the edge. Here, without the house or trees to block the ocean breeze, I was starting to feel the real chill from the wind. I huddled in closer to his
side and his hand instinctively squeezed on my shoulder as he sighed.
“Just breathe. Nice and deep,” he instructed, and I rolled my eyes into the darkness.
My pap was convinced the sea air could heal anything. I told my dad it was like the grandfather from My Big Fat Greek Wedding who thought that Windex was a cure-all.
At least my pap wasn’t spraying Windex down my throat. Although, at this point, I doubted it could make it any worse.
“I don’t think this works. It’s just salty air,” I grumbled in protest. “It’s not going to fix my sore throat; it could make it worse.”
“That’s the thing about healing, Laurel,” he clipped, taking a sip of his coffee. “Sometimes, to get better, you have to risk getting worse.”
There was no point in arguing. My pap had a thing about this town right down to the air in it.
“I want to tell you something, Ishkey,” he began as he squeezed me to him. “Now, I don’t care what your father says, but I want you to know if you don’t want to take over the coffee shop, you don’t have to.”
I shifted uncomfortably on my feet, pressing one then the other onto the soft, grassy earth and listened to the soft hush of the waves below, wishing they could answer him instead of me. I knew why he was saying this.
Last weekend, I’d been at Roasters studying for my biology test when Mrs. Grace, one of the tellers at Cove Bank, stopped in for her afternoon coffee. She asked if I liked science, and considering how much I struggled to keep the flowers my dad always got me and my mom for Valentine’s Day alive, let alone understand how photosynthesis worked, I answered with a firm no.
With a smile, she then informed me that I must be happy to not have to worry about science since I’d be the owner of Ocean Roasters one day. I think she mentioned something about being the fifth Ocean to do so after that, but I couldn’t really remember. I just stared at her with bugged eyes; I was already freaking out about a test and then she’d gone and brought up what I was supposed to do with my life—like my future was as clear and outlined as Dorothy’s yellow brick road.
Of course, everyone assumed I’d be next in line to take over Ocean Roasters; it had been in the family for four generations. In my opinion, the second generation had a choice whether they wanted to continue the legacy, the third, only a questionable escape, and the fourth, an unadvisable abdication, but the fifth?
I shuddered.
Excommunication would have been less shocking than if I decided to walk away from the family business. It was the center of town and the center of the community—basically the center of the world for everyone in Carmel. My great-grandfather from his dad, my pap after him, and now, my dad and mom handled most of the work even though my pap was still there almost every day. He wasn’t ready to give up roasting the beans quite yet—or talking to the patrons.
“I don’t know what I want to do yet. I haven’t thought about it,” I mumbled, my voice falling off over the edge of the cliff to be swallowed up by the waves.
Okay, that was kind of a lie.
I had thought about it after that day and all the times Jules wouldn’t shut up about how she wanted to go to nursing school and then kept trying to make me say I’d go with her if I couldn’t decide. We were only in ninth grade. We couldn’t even drive yet, I wanted to scream at her.
How was I supposed to know what I wanted to do for the rest of my life?
“Well, I just want you to know that no one here will be mad or upset if you decide you want to do something different with your life, you hear? No one. Or they can answer to me,” he said gruffly with that tone he took whenever anyone gave him a problem.
“So, you wouldn’t be upset even just a little bit?” I clarified hesitantly, looking up at him in the dim light coming from the house several yards away.
“Doesn’t matter what I’d be, Laurel,” he grunted sternly. “Only matters who you want to be. Most important thing in life is to be you, not who everyone else wants you to be.”
“But I’m an Ocean,” I offered hoarsely, only a small cough escaping this time. “Roasters is our legacy.”
I guess if I stopped to think about it, I did assume that running the coffee shop is what I would end up doing. Maybe that’s why I didn’t stop to think about it. It’s not that I didn’t love Roasters or my family or this town. I loved them more than anything. But it was also my life and I wanted to do something that I loved with it… I just wasn’t sure that thing was Roasters.
I shivered when his arm dropped so he could turn me to face him. Even in the darkness, I could see the steely, stubborn glint in his eyes as he made sure he had my full attention before speaking.
“Who told you that?”
I tried to swallow over the sore lump in my throat but it wasn’t happening. “I… uhh… No one. I just… it just is.” I didn’t know how to answer because I felt like I was somehow in trouble.
What did I say wrong?
“Roasters is not our legacy. It’s our business, not our legacy,” he explained firmly, waiting for my weak nod before he continued. “You know how Mrs. Covington comes in every morning and stays for an hour while she drinks her small coffee with one sugar and a dash of cream and chats with your grammy?” I nodded, unsurprised that he remembered her exact order. “That’s because she’s home with those four kids all day and for that hour, your Gram reminds her she’s a good mom and that she’s doing a good job at raising those kids even when it doesn’t feel like it.”
I stared at him because I didn’t know what to say. Four kids was a lot of kids. Was that his point?
“And you know how your mom always sets aside two apple fritters for Sister Margaret every Sunday afternoon even though she only ever comes in asking for one? That’s because Sister Margaret’s young niece, Brandy, has cancer and your mom knows those fritters are her favorite and will brighten Brandy’s day when Sister Margaret brings her one.”
My chest tightened. I’d gone to elementary school with Brandy before she got sick.
“And Josie? She stops over every morning not just to bring over the day’s specials from their bakery, but because she likes to hear my stories from when her dad and I were in the service together; he didn’t make it back home with the rest of us so those stories and my old photos are all she’s got left to know him.” His voice somehow got harder yet shakier each time he spoke. Even the ocean breeze picked up around us, like it was stirred by all the emotion in his words.
Somewhere in my mind I knew about all these things. I mean, I’d heard them all. I’d heard the conversations between my gram and Mrs. Covington; I’d even see her break down and cry a few times because she was so overwhelmed. I knew about Sister Margaret’s niece; I’d been the one to share my apple fritter with her and it was the first time she had one—but I didn’t think my pap knew that. And yeah, I’d seen my pap look through the same old photographs from the war with Josie, and I remembered wondering who would want to look at the same pictures over and over again? Now, I was glad I’d held back from making a comment.
Now, I connected all the dots. Each moment like an individual star in the sky but it wasn’t until now that I could see the picture that formed once they were connected into a constellation of compassion.
“Every single person who walks into our business isn’t coming just for their daily coffee, Laurel. They’re coming because they know we care about them and their lives. They know one of us will be there as a friend to laugh with, an ear to listen without judgment, or a shoulder to cry on,” he pressed on firmly.
My pap didn’t cry, but for the first time in my whole life, I thought I saw him getting close to it.
He let out a long shaky breath, pulling me hard against his chest as he finished with, “That’s our legacy, Laurel… being there for the people in this town, being there for someone in need. Our legacy is about loving people, plain and simple, because it’s the most noble thing you can do in this world—love one another, especially someone who’s struggling. And there
are a million and one good ways to go about helping people in this world, so don’t think your legacy has to be tied to brewin’ a cup of coffee, understand, Ishkey?”
I nodded against his chest, breathing in the faint smell of fresh-cut grass that clung to his shirt.
“Larry!” We both turned at my grandmother’s voice coming from the front door to the house. “Dinner’s ready!”
“You understand?” he asked again, fully prepared to ignore her until I answered him.
I nodded again quickly. “Yeah. I understand.”
I knew this was one of those moments I’d never forget. It wasn’t a big moment either—just a few minutes spent standing out in the darkness, breathing in the ocean air. Still, I just felt it somewhere deep inside that this was something that was going to change me.
My mind flicked back over probably hundreds of similar scenes I’d witnessed at Roasters with my parents and grandparents and the people of our hometown, only now I saw them all the way he described them—and I couldn’t unsee it; I couldn’t undo the constellation.
“Good,” he said with relief and turned us back toward the house. “And remember, Laurel, love is a two-way street. The only way to really be there for someone else is by knowing that at some point, you’re gonna need someone to lean on, too. Love without vulnerability is only frivolity.”
Love without vulnerability is only frivolity.
My brain traipsed over the phrase several times, imprinting it into my memory because it felt like one of those things that should be there.
“Love without vulnerability is only frivolity. Got it…” I murmured softly and felt the scale inside my heart that weighed my future begin to tip just a hair.
Hearing him talk made my decision about more than just choosing to brew coffee; it made me want to be a part of that something more—not because I was expected to, but because I wanted to be a part of something that could go so unnoticed and yet be so profound.
It was like a butterfly effect. One kind word. One kind action. A world of difference.
“We’re coming, we’re coming,” my pap announced as he held open the door for me, the smell of spaghetti and meatballs immediately drowning my senses.
Beholden: A Small-Town Standalone Romance (Carmel Cove Book 1) Page 1