Blackberry Cove

by Roxanne Snopek

  “I like it. Kids are fun. I think it’s so cool, Sage and Haylee raising babies together, even though they’re mother and daughter. Mattie and Sal are so good together, too. Watch.” She planted Matthew on his diapered bottom and handed a soft airplane-shaped toy to Sal. The family dynamics were complicated in the Hansen clan. But then again, what family wasn’t complicated?

  Sal lifted the toy above her head.

  “Zoom, zoom,” she said in her little piping voice.

  She zoomed the toy past Matthew’s head. The little boy giggled until he started hiccuping.

  It was so sweet, Abby couldn’t help but smile.

  “Okay. Well, Daphne said to tell you she’s making lemon meringue pie tonight. Don’t be late.”

  Quinn checked her phone. “Sage is ten minutes out, so tell Daffy I’ll be there soon to set the tables.”

  Abby walked back to the lodge, wondering how she’d missed this about her sister. Quinn looked like she enjoyed hanging with the babies a lot more than she did cleaning rooms or helping in the garden. Perhaps her worries were unfounded. Maybe Quinn wasn’t restless. Maybe she wasn’t revisiting things in the past and dredging up old memories that were better left alone.

  Maybe she just needed to do something different for a change.

  * * *

  Jon lowered himself into the molded plastic chair in the editorial office of the Sunset Bay Chronicle, the publication that had printed his piece about the ranch, waiting for an interview.

  The piece on Arondi still kept him awake at night, with Abby’s cryptic comments fueling his fire, but without a break, he was stuck. In the meantime, he needed work. This would do as well as any.

  He squirmed, feeling the rivets in his jeans digging into his butt. It was as if some designer had decided that the aesthetically repulsive chemical orange color wasn’t enough, these ubiquitous chairs also had to provide crippling discomfort.

  Ambrose Elliott, editorial director, managing editor, and chief reporter of the Sunset Bay Chronicle, lumbered back into his office, dropped into his swivel chair, and poked his finger onto the clipboard that sat among the clutter like a talisman against technological advancement, full of ink jottings that only he could read.

  “So you want to string for me,” he said, looking over the tops of his glasses at Jon.

  “If you’re interested.” Jon scrunched his cheeks, hoping it looked like a smile. “Since I’m here, anyway.”

  The Sanctuary Ranch piece had come out before Elliott had heard the scuttlebutt about Jon. He now wore the expression of someone who’d just discovered that the used car his grandmother had given him was actually a vintage Mustang fastback.

  And that she’d had it painted pink.

  “I might be able to throw something your way,” he said.

  “Happy to contribute. It’s a good paper.”

  Elliott wrote almost everything himself. This was his chance to get reliable content for a killer deal. Jon waited.

  “As you know,” the editor said finally, “we live and die by advertising. These days, since everyone reads on their phones, it’s more die than live but we’re still hanging in there. Advertisers rely on readers, and even if people don’t read the way they used to, they still go out to eat.”

  Here it comes, thought Jon.

  “Our annual restaurant round-up edition is coming up. I need a list of the best restaurants along the 101, your experience, comments from the owners, photos. I’ve collected a few dozen already but we need another twenty or so before the deadline. Fast food, slow food, food trucks, truck stops. Eateries, diners, coffee shops, everything from upscale trendy cuisine to local hole-in-the wall treasures. It’s on the magazine’s dime, so the more the better. Any questions?”

  “Seems straightforward.” Jon tried to look enthusiastic. “Restaurants along the coast highway. Got it.”

  “Think you can stick to that?”

  Jon knew what he was asking. “No looking for a deeper story, no delving into anyone’s secret past, no making this something it isn’t. I got it.”

  This little publication, with its town council meetings and rezoning proposals and full-page ads for hardware store sales, was the best he could get now, thanks to Whitey Irving.

  “It’ll be fun.” He gave Elliott his best, and most grateful, smile.

  “That’s the attitude I’m looking for.” Elliott’s expression softened. “I was idealistic once, too. But reality pays the mortgage, kid. Fact is, you blew it with Diversion. You had a sweet plum of a job and you had to go all Joseph Pulitzer on their asses before you had the chops to back it. Your heart was in the right place but you pissed off the wrong people. Actually you pissed off all the people. And for what?”

  For the truth, Jon wanted to say.

  For the kind of story that kept him thinking into the wee hours, digging, digging, asking the next question and the next, knowing that he was on the brink of something monumental, something that would create change, real change. Important change.

  He’d gotten a glimpse behind the heavy dark curtain of the film industry, and the scared, broke, desperate actors willing to do anything for a break and learning too late that the price of a soul wasn’t nearly enough for the fame they sought. Jon had names, dates, details, broken hearts, crushed dreams, and most of all, the man who thought he was untouchable.

  But none of the people he’d talked to wanted to throw the first stone. If only he’d waited.

  “I like you, kid. So just write the stuff I ask for, okay?” Elliott leaned back, causing his chair to make an ominous creaking sound. “We’re not making history, we’re not winning any awards here, but it keeps us fed.”

  Jon had gotten into this business to make the world a better place, to tell the stories for those who could not speak for themselves. To seek the truth beneath all the dross and shine a spotlight on it, with words.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “101 Eats. You got it.”

  “And there’s your title.” The desk phone rang and Elliott reached for it. “Bring a friend, and try not to look like a reporter, okay?”

  Jon left the office. Restaurant reviews were hardly his thing. But they did provide him with a perfect opportunity.

  * * *

  The neon sign blinked like a lazy eye above the doorway of their lunch destination. The awning had streaks of rust and mold running through it. A sign in the window proclaimed their chili-cheese fries THE BEST IN THE WORLD.

  “This is a contender?” Abby said. “I don’t think I brought enough hand sanitizer.”

  “Do I know how to treat a lady or what?” Jon pulled the door open, making the bells above it jingle. “I’ve heard the chili fries actually are pretty good. After everything you’ve done for me and my dad, it’s the least I can do.”

  A round-faced man in a stained white apron greeted them with open arms and a huge smile. “Welcome to Mario’s Grill. I am Mario. Please, have a seat wherever you like. Julia will be by with menus for you right away. Julia!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  They chose a booth next to the window. The dark wood table was clean and red leather upholstered seats surprisingly comfortable. Their server, a young woman with long dark hair, had a striking resemblance to the proprietor. Jon ordered the chili-cheese fries, a beer, and a share plate of the house special appetizers. Abby ordered a taco salad and a bottle of water.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Jon.”

  “You’re doing me the favor.” Jon leaned back and pulled out his notepad. “If this was a date, I’d pick a better spot.”

  “But it’s not, so I can’t complain. Is that it?”

  He grinned. “Smart and pretty. It’s a devastating combination.”

  She shouldn’t be here like this, pretending everything was fine. But Roman had practically pushed her out the door. He’d lost weight in the past month, she thought. He still steadfastly refused to tell Jon anything more. Not while he still felt good, he insisted. This was their time to be together. Once Jon
knew, everything would change.

  Julia appeared with their drinks and the share plate. As soon as she left, Abby leaned forward, pointing to a half-dozen items on the platter. “Bacon-wrapped dill pickles?”

  “Yup,” he said, putting one on her plate. “You have to try them to believe them.”

  She stabbed it with her fork and moved it to his plate. “How about you try them and I’ll take your word for it?”

  “Why, Abby Warren,” Jon said. “Where’s your spirit of adventure?”

  “I left it at the ranch. Where people eat normal food.”

  A calculating look entered his eye. “I dare you.”

  “Oh yeah?” She sat back and crossed her arms. “What’s in it for me?”

  Heat sizzled between them. When had she last enjoyed flirting with a man? She ought to know better, she ought to keep things simple, but she hadn’t laughed like this in a long time. Life bubbled in her cells when she was with him and she didn’t want it to end.

  “You eat that dill pickle,” Jon said slowly, keeping his gaze on hers, “and I’ll . . . I’ll let you in on a secret.”

  For a harrowing second she thought he’d figured out about Roman. Then she realized that he wouldn’t be teasing her with it, if that were the case.

  He was teasing.

  And she liked it.

  The air thickened.

  “Oh yeah? What secret?”

  “If I told you now, you’d be robbed of the pleasure of culinary experimentation.”

  He held the pickle toward her on the end of his fork. She leaned forward, took a bite, then sat back, chewed, and swallowed.

  “Huh,” she said after a moment. “It’s actually not bad.”

  She took his fork from him and ate the rest of the appetizer, the way she would a corn dog.

  He watched, his eyes warm with amusement. “Not exactly the sound byte Ambrose Elliott is looking for, but I’m happy to be part of expanding your comfort zone.”

  “So what’s this big secret?” She hoped she’d achieved the right casual tone.

  He chose a stuffed mushroom, popped it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

  Julia brought the rest of their order right then and for a few minutes, they busied themselves with that.

  Then, in a hushed tone, he said, “I’m still working on the Arondi story.”

  “What?” She hadn’t expected that. “I thought you’d hit a dead end. And well . . . That no one wanted it.”

  Excitement gleamed in his eyes. “Yes, to both. But a contact of mine sent me a police report. It’s the lead I’ve been looking for, Abby. There’s an unidentified witness, a Person X. If I can find this person, she might be able to convince the victim to go public. Once I’ve got that, it’s done. Arondi is toast. I’ll be about to name my price.”

  Her appetite disappeared. She chased a cherry tomato around her taco bowl, hoping Jon wouldn’t notice her hand shaking.

  He was too close for comfort.

  She forced a smile. “That’s great, Jon.”

  Jon looked at her salad. “You don’t like your food?”

  “It’s fine.”

  The old Abby would have left it at that. She’d have kept her distance. But Jon triggered an unexpected desire to let him inside the barriers she’d built. She wanted to trust him. She wanted him to know that there were reasons she kept herself and her past private, reasons she and Quinn had arrived and stayed in this place as they had.

  “I admire how you look after your dad,” she told him, changing the subject. She couldn’t talk about Arondi, but she couldn’t shut Jon out completely.

  He observed her for a few moments without responding. Then he sighed.

  “Who else is going to do it? My mom remarried as soon as the divorce was finalized, has the life she always wanted—a new husband, a couple of kids, a life that doesn’t include Hollywood scandals and lawsuits and medical bills.”

  “I’m not the only one with a past, then.”

  “Everyone has a past, Abby.” His gaze softened. “How bad can it be?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  He reached across the table and touched her chin with the knuckle of his index finger, ever so lightly.

  Wouldn’t it be lovely if he really did want to know the real her? For a moment, she allowed herself to hope. He was a good guy, one of the few, rare, stand-up men she’d come across. He looked after his dad, a champion for the underdog, young, strong, handsome. Wouldn’t it be lovely to share her burdens for once in her life? To have someone else by her side, someone she could trust?

  She wanted to see the light of caring glow deeper in his eyes, instead of the hurt and betrayal she knew was coming.

  She knew the risk. But the wanting, once begun, wouldn’t stop.

  “What did I say, Abby?” Jon asked. “Is it about the story? You said I should pursue it.”

  Yeah, but that was before she thought he could actually connect the dots.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  Quinn’s secret was safe. But each day that went on, Roman’s secret weighed more heavily on her. She wanted to tell Jon, argued with herself that she owed it to him to reveal the truth.

  “That sounds like an invitation.” Jon put a twice-baked potato skin onto her plate. He arranged a few other items beside it, speaking without looking at her. “Do you want me to guess?”

  The levity was gone from his voice.

  “Not really,” she said. “It’s nothing. I’m not that interesting, Jon.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He ran his eyes over her face. “You’ve had a lot more to deal with, haven’t you, Abby? You’re a natural caregiver.”

  “I didn’t have much choice.” She wrinkled her nose. “That didn’t sound right. I love my sister. I didn’t resent having to look after her.”

  Jon lifted his glass. “Cheers to you, then. Most teenagers would have hated having a bratty kid sister cramping their style.”

  Okay, yeah, she felt that from time to time. She’d wanted to do things, join clubs, go out with friends.

  “There was no time or money for me to do the usual teenage things. That was hardly Quinn’s fault.”

  That was Rebecca’s fault. She clamped her lips shut.

  “Abby,” Jon said. “How old were you when you lost your mother?”

  She toyed with the food on her plate. Then she looked up and met his gaze straight on. “Almost eighteen. And before you start feeling sorry for me, we managed just fine. It took a little juggling, a little creative budgeting but I already knew how to get by on a shoestring. I put on my big girl panties and did what I had to.”

  Jon lifted an eyebrow. “But we have a system in place to help families like yours.”

  “We had a child advocate. She had so many cases worse than ours. She was happy to rubber-stamp us.”

  “And no one else stepped in? What about Quinn’s teachers?”

  The last move had meant she and Quinn had to start over in a new school district too, and not a better one. And it was senior year, the worst time to be the new kid. Unless you were in elementary school and crippled with anxiety, like Quinn.

  But she shrugged the memories away. “We had good teachers, but if they got involved in every student’s life, they’d never get through the curriculum. Drugs, gangs, weapons, teen pregnancy, suicides. They had enough to deal with already. Quinn and I weren’t on their radar.”

  Jon shook his head. “That’s just sad.”

  She saw wheels turning in his head, and it made her mad. “I’m not a victim, Jon. Neither of us are victims. We triumphed, okay? It could have been worse.”

  She turned away before revealing more. It was so easy to talk to him. It had been a long time since anyone other than Olivia and Haylee had peered into the murky past that had brought her and Quinn to Sanctuary Ranch. They’d done background checks to be certain that neither of them represented a risk to the well-being of the ranch or ranch guests. Abby had been h
onest about everything, how she’d kept body and soul together in those early years after Rebecca had disappeared. Quinn’s drinking and especially her bouts with depression had been a concern but ultimately, they’d been welcomed, by everyone. No pity, no judgment, no censure. Just acceptance.

  “You don’t think being with foster parents would have been better?”

  “I was almost eighteen. We’d probably have been put into a halfway house with kids who all had worse problems than us and fewer coping skills. They’d have taken one look at Quinn and seen a target. Foster kids learn early that the only way to survive is to be tougher than those around you. Ask Jamie. She knows. But that’s not why I made sure no one knew about us.” A tendon in her neck jumped and she tucked her chin, hoping Jon hadn’t noticed. She never talked about this stuff but there was something about him that inspired confidence.

  “You didn’t want to be separated.”

  She looked up, startled, and felt a flush rise in her cheeks. “Maybe it was selfish. Maybe Quinn would have been better off with a good family. She didn’t have much of a childhood. I’ve had so many jobs.” She was exhausted, thinking about them. “I always told myself it was worth it because we stayed together. But Quinn spent a lot of time alone, watching TV with the door locked.”

  Second-guessing her choices now would only end in madness. Sure, she’d made mistakes. They’d been kids. But she’d done the best she could.

  “The system failed you.”

  “The system works just fine in some cases. Maybe it would have worked for us. I’ll never know. But on the whole, we were lucky, Jon. We didn’t end up on the streets. We’re not victims. Okay?”

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong. I admire you. You shouldered way more responsibility than you should have and you did a great job.” He hesitated, as if knowing he was stepping through a minefield. “But what I’m most amazed with is your attitude. You could be jaded and hardened and bitter but you’re not. Sure, you have worries. We all do. But underneath that, you’re generous and kind with a deep sense of optimism and hope. Of faith in the future.”

  She couldn’t look away. His words were like magic, weaving a tapestry around her, of what her life might be, rather than what it actually was.