Moonstone Beach

by Linda Seed

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, Kate woke to the sound of someone rummaging around in her kitchen, banging cabinet doors and sifting through the silverware drawer. Groggy, she looked at the clock. Six thirty-two. Pale sunlight filtered through the white linen curtains above the bed. She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but then she started to smell coffee, which made it impossible. Damn it.

  Squinty-eyed, she emerged from the bedroom to find Genevieve Porter pouring herself a mug of black coffee in Kate’s tiny kitchen.

  “You run out again?” She rubbed her eyes and yawned.

  “Yeah. I hope you don’t mind. You always have better coffee than I do, anyway.”

  “Mi casa es … something. It’s too early for foreign languages.” Kate took a thick ceramic mug from the cupboard above the coffee pot and poured herself a cup. She added cream and an obscene amount of sugar. That first sip tasted like sweet salvation.

  “Ah, God. I want to be mad at you for waking me up at six-something-ridiculous, but you made me coffee. So there’s that.”

  Genevieve, who rented the tiny downstairs apartment on the first floor of Kate’s house, owned the Porter Gallery, a small storefront on Main Street that offered fine art as well as the seascape watercolors and ceramic tchotchkes the tourists loved. She was five-foot-two, with fiery red, curly hair that put one in mind of Merida, the Disney princess from Brave. Gen and Kate were, in some ways, opposites. While Gen worked out every day without fail, Kate had a vast and impressive array of excuses to avoid the gym. Where Gen was completely at home in a sheath dress and three-inch heels, Kate—as her encounter with Zach had proved—could barely manage in anything but flats. Gen was kale and egg-white omelets; Kate was Froot Loops and Pop-Tarts. Somehow, the contrasts had allowed them to complement each other in a way that had cemented their friendship from the day they’d met.

  Gen was already dressed in spandex shorts and a pink, racer-back athletic top, running shoes on her feet, her mass of unruly hair coaxed into a more subdued ponytail. “Come for a run with me?” she said, batting her eyes at Kate over the rim of her cup.

  “You’ve got to be on crack.”

  “Well, no. But the runner’s high is pretty good.”

  “Get your happy, sunshiny, athletic self out of here before I beat you with a broom.”

  Gen cocked her head to the side, appraising Kate. “So that’s no, then?”

  “Shoo!”

  When Gen was gone, Kate took her coffee mug out onto the back deck and sighed as she plopped into an Adirondack chair. The house, though old, small, and in a state of mild disrepair, had one of the best views in Cambria. It sat halfway up a hill that rose above the shoreline, giving the back deck a 180-degree view of the Pacific Ocean. Morning was the best time to enjoy the view, with the sun rising gently in the east. In the afternoon, it would be glaring down on her, prompting her to reach for a sun hat, sunglasses, and, ideally, a large umbrella. Right now, though, it was perfect; in June, the air was cool but not cold even this early in the morning. She could relax in her plaid pajama pants and T-shirt without the need for a sweatshirt or a blanket to keep her comfortable.

  As she sipped the strong, sweet brew, she heard sea lions barking from where they perched on the rocks below. Seagulls soared overhead. And on the grassy patch one story below, just outside Gen’s back door, a doe grazed, its legs long and graceful. Kate kept quiet so she wouldn’t disturb it.

  This had to be paradise, and if it wasn’t, she couldn’t imagine anywhere better. Maybe if she’d been raised here, maybe if she’d grown up in this town on the Central California coast, gone to school here, rode her bicycle on the winding, hilly roads day after day, she might have become so familiar with its beauty that she’d have stopped seeing it. As it was, though, she was thankful every day to find herself here, despite the influx of tourists that disrupted the quiet every summer, despite the struggle of keeping the bookstore running, despite the little things that kept going wrong with the house—the roof that needed repair, the persistent ant problem, the plumbing that made a kind of singing noise when you turned on the water. All of that was insignificant compared with waking up to this.

  Kate had inherited the house—and the business—from her mother about five years before. Lydia Bennet had been a housewife for most of her adulthood, but when Kate’s father had left her for another woman ten years ago, when Kate was twenty-two, Lydia had taken it as a second chance at making a life of her own. She’d sold their house in Los Angeles, bought this place, and opened the bookstore. Lydia had hired Althea soon afterward.

  Because Kate had been busy attending UCLA and then launching her own career teaching college-level English, she’d never lived in Cambria until her mother had died of ovarian cancer. Kate had come up here to feel closer to her mother, to grieve, to heal. Then she’d fallen in love with the place and had never gotten around to leaving.

  She went inside for another cup of coffee and checked the clock. She didn’t want to be late to the shop again and risk the wrath of Althea. The shop didn’t open until ten a.m. on weekdays, but she’d agreed to come in early to meet with Althea to discuss their plans for the annual Cambria Art Walk.

  The Art Walk name was misleading; the event had started out, many years ago, as a way for the town to highlight the many local artists who showed their work in Cambria’s galleries. Tourists and locals were encouraged to go from gallery to gallery on a warm summer evening, taking in culture and sampling hors d’oeuvres and local wines. Over the years, the event had expanded as more and more local businesses had wanted in on the action. Now, it was more of an open house that ran all up and down Main Street on one night each July. No longer was it limited to art galleries. These days, pretty much everybody—the boutiques, the coffee houses, the souvenir shops, the restaurants, and, of course, the bookstore—offered something special to visitors on the night of the Art Walk. The events and attractions included everything from live music to ceramics demonstrations to food and craft booths set up on the sidewalks. Last year, the toy store down the street had hosted a juggling show that had been a favorite among families with children.

  Althea insisted that Swept Away’s usual offering—a book reading and signing, with free coffee and cookies—was the correct, and most dignified, way to go. After all, what else would a bookstore do but a reading? It made sense, Kate had to admit, but she couldn’t help cringing when she remembered what had happened last year. The local author they’d brought in had been so epically boring, so inept a public speaker, that people had started walking out during the reading. To avoid embarrassing the author—a genuinely nice person and a very talented writer—Kate and Althea had rushed around on the street, finding their friends and using bribes, guilt, and quid-pro-quo promises to fill the modest number of folding chairs they’d set out in the shop. Their efforts had ultimately failed, and the author had slinked away with a crushed ego, pathetic sales, and a bakery box full of leftover cookies that had been purchased for a crowd that hadn’t come.

  This year, Kate wanted to do something different, something exciting. Unfortunately, she had no idea what it might be. She thought about it as she crunched on a bowl of Frosted Flakes at her kitchen table. She was halfway through the bowl when Gen, sweaty and breathless, poked her head in the front door.

  “You should have come, Kate. It’s awesome out here.”

  “Yeah. But why waste all that awesomeness with … you know, panting and sweating.”

  Gen looked at Kate’s breakfast and scrunched up her nose. “You really need to do something about your nutrition.”

  “Hey,” Kate said, changing the subject. “What’s the gallery going to do for Art Walk?”

  Gen came in and plopped down across from Kate at the table. “Don’t know yet. We’ve got a pretty good show lined up—a local abstract expressionist I’m really excited about—but we need something … else. Something more.”

  Kate sighed. “I’m having that same problem. Althea wa
nts boring. I don’t want to do boring. We tried that last year.”

  “Ugh,” Gen said. “I remember. The pain is still fresh.” Her expression brightened suddenly. “Speaking of pain, I hear you ate the floor over at Jitters yesterday in front of Mr. Beautiful.” She wiggled her eyebrows.

  Kate grimaced. “Word travels fast.”

  “It does. I also heard that he invited you to have a coffee with him.”

  Kate got up to take her cereal bowl to the sink. “Did you also hear that he’s like a lovesick puppy over his ex-wife?”

  Gen slumped a little in her chair. “I heard that. Are you sure, though? I mean, maybe you misinterpreted things.”

  “He showed me her picture and cried.”

  Gen opened her mouth to say something, closed it, and looked at Kate. “I have literally no way to spin that to make it sound okay.”

  Kate waved an arm dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. I could never be with a guy that good-looking anyway. I’d constantly feel all sad and frumpy in comparison.”

  Gen looked at her with sympathy. “You’re not sad and frumpy.”

  “No. I don’t think I am. But I would feel that way if I were dating a male supermodel. I’d look like me, like the Kate you’re used to seeing, but I’d feel like that elf from Harry Potter. What’s his name?”

  “Dobby,” Gen supplied.

  “Right. I’d feel like Dobby.”

  “Yeah. I get it.” Gen sighed. “I could probably manage it, myself.”

  Kate grinned. “Hey, go for it. Next time we have a red alert, you can be the one to go sprawling all over the floor, see what happens.”

  “I’ll have some knee and elbow pads ready, just in case.” Gen frowned. “Wait. That sounds kinky.”

  “It really does.”

  Kate looked at the clock, said, “Oh, crap,” shooed Gen out, and hurried in to get showered and ready for work. She considered her wardrobe options, wistfully looked at her single pair of high-heeled shoes, remembered the humiliation of the day before, and chose flats instead.

  “Althea, we can’t just do a book signing. Last year was awful. Do I have to remind you what it was like having to practically abduct people from the street and force them into the shop? I was doing favors for months to pay people back.”

  Kate and Althea were sitting in the leather club chairs positioned in one corner of the store to give customers somewhere comfortable to read. The seating area was between the biographies and the military histories, just to the left of the diet books. It was an hour before opening, and Kate was holding a yellow legal pad on her lap, pen poised, ready to take notes should they come up with any brilliant ideas for the Art Walk. Which they hadn’t yet.

  “Yes, but book signings are what bookstores do,” Althea insisted, not unreasonably. “We just need to get a better author this time.”

  “That’s where we went wrong,” Kate mused. “Todd Lansing is a good author. He’s just not a good speaker. Which we didn’t know.”

  “Well, we do now.” Althea shook her head sadly at the memory.

  “I’ll say.”

  The legal pad was still blank, its long, yellow pages mocking her.

  They both turned at the rap on the front door. Kate peeked through the glass and saw Rose Watkins standing there with a square white plate in her hand. Kate opened the door, and Rose rushed in, already talking.

  “You’ve got to try these. You too, Althea. Tell me what you think, and don’t hold back. If these are crap, I’ve got to know now. Only six weeks until Art Walk! I’m doing a wine and small plate pairing, and these are supposed to go with the merlot, but jeez, I’m not sure. They might go better with a pinot noir, but Jackson says, no, go with the merlot. Here. Eat, eat!”

  Rose thrust the plate at them. The manager of De-Vine, the shop two doors down that offered wine tasting along with gourmet food items and various wine-related novelties, Rose was an unusual fit for the small-town atmosphere of Cambria. With her chin-length, purple hair, her nose and eyebrow piercings, and the rose tattoo that just peeked out above the neckline of her black T-shirt, she’d have been more at home in L.A. or New York City. The owner at De-Vine, an elderly woman who favored pink Lacoste polo shirts and pastel pleated slacks, had balked at first when Rose had applied for the job. But when she’d realized how much Rose really did know about wine—that Rose could tell the difference between a Napa cabernet sauvignon and one from Bordeaux simply by aroma—she’d decided that Rose’s unconventional appearance was worth getting used to.

  Kate peered at the plate and saw two ovals of bruschetta topped with a thin slice of Italian sausage and fennel. She reached out for one, and Rose yanked the plate back.

  “Wait! Don’t eat that! Just … wait!” She put the plate on a side table and ran out the door and down the street toward the wine shop. Less than two minutes later she was back with two wine glasses in her hand, each bearing an ounce of deep red liquid.

  She backed through the door because each hand held a glass, then spun and faced Kate and Althea. “The wine! You’ve got to have it with the wine, obviously, or how will you know if Jackson is right about the pairing? Now, I’m not going to tell you which wine is which. Just try the wine and the app together.” She stopped, presumably for air.

  Kate took a bite of bruschetta, followed by a sip from one of the glasses. Then, at Rose’s insistence, she took another bite, then a sip from the other glass.

  Rose looked at her expectantly. “Well? Which one do you like better?”

  Kate wasn’t sure she liked either one better than the other—they were both delicious—so she pointed at the glass on the right. “That one.” Rose pumped a fist in the air in triumph.

  “Okay. Althea, it’s your turn.”

  Althea pursed her lips. “I’m sorry, dear. I don’t take wine.” She said it in the same tone one might say, I don’t shoot heroin.

  Althea reached out for the remaining piece of bruschetta, but Rose slapped her hand away. “You can’t have it if you’re not going to try it with the wine. Sorry.”

  She picked up the plate and the two wine glasses and headed back out the door. “Thanks, Kate!”

  Kate took a deep breath, locked the front door behind Rose, picked up her legal pad again, and turned to Althea, ready to regroup and resume brainstorming ideas for the Art Walk. She had just managed to utter the words, “So, which authors … ” when Jackson Graham tried to barrel his way through the door of the bookstore, found it locked, and pounded on the glass.

  Althea opened the door, and Jackson charged in with Rose close behind him. His face was red, and the white apron he wore around his waist was lightly smeared with some kind of sauce. “Who’s the idiot who wanted to pair the bruschetta with the pinot noir?”

  Kate opened her mouth to speak, closed it, and then said, eloquently, “Uh … ” She was rendered speechless by her conflicting emotions. On one hand, she was intimidated by his obvious anger and disdain. On the other, she was immobilized by how absolutely steaming-hot sexy he was when he was mad. Which was most of the time.

  “I guess … well … I suppose I’m the idiot,” she said, raising her hand as though she were in second grade, waiting for the teacher to call on her but knowing she hadn’t done her homework.

  “She’s not an idiot. She’s right,” Rose said.

  He took one step back. “Oh.” He ran a hand through his wavy, chestnut hair. “Well, look, I didn’t mean … but, really. The pinot ?”

  Jackson was head chef at Neptune, Cambria’s most upscale restaurant. Apparently, he was helping Rose create a tasting menu for the Art Walk event. Kate had known Jackson since he’d moved to town three years before—known him in a wave to each other on the street, give my regards to your aunt kind of way. She might have gotten to know him better, but she was so often flustered by the man’s tempest-like moods. The way he was looking at her now was hard to interpret. Was he personally offended by her choice of wine, or was he suffering from an annoying rash?

&
nbsp; “I don’t know anything about food and wine, except … you know, I eat. And sometimes drink. Rose told me to pick one, so I picked one.”

  He planted his hands on his hips. “Well, you picked the wrong one.”

  She smiled at him sweetly. “Well, Rose seemed to think I chose correctly, and she is the prodigy.”

  “I am,” Rose said helpfully.

  He pointed a finger at Kate. “Just because she knows wine doesn’t mean she … Why the hell am I arguing about this with you?” He stomped out of the store. Kate could practically see the steam rising from his ears. Rose winked at Kate and followed him.

  “Well, he was certainly worked up,” Kate told Althea after he’d left.

  “Temperamental,” Althea observed, her lips pressed into a judgmental line. “But the man is a genius with seafood and field greens.”