Jeremiah had gotten off lightly, all things considered; the Bartholds, bent on punishing Kerrie Ann, hadn’t pressed charges against him. He wasn’t so lucky where Kerrie Ann was concerned.
“It won’t happen again, I swear,” he’d pleaded, looking so repentant she’d felt a flicker of pity. Wasn’t it the same face she’d so often seen in the mirror after having sworn not to use again, then breaking that vow? But she’d remained firm. “I hope not, for your sake,” she’d told him. “But whatever you do, don’t do it for me. We’re done. And if I have any say in it, you’ll never see Bella again.”
Meanwhile, Lindsay was doing her best to forget Randall Craig. She hadn’t returned any of his phone calls and had deleted all his e-mails, unread. He was history as far as she was concerned. A regrettable chapter in her life from which she’d learned a valuable lesson: Never trust a stranger offering candy. In this case, the candy had been Randall himself. He’d sweetened her up by charming, then seducing her. He’d made her feel desirable and filled her with romantic hopes and dreams best left to the pages of Danielle Steel novels. Even if he hadn’t betrayed her, it would have run its course eventually, she told herself. Maybe not this soon, but soon enough—like a sugar crash.
In contrast, what she had with Grant was solid and real, if not always exciting. He had his faults, sure, but he’d never been less than honest and aboveboard, which was more than she could say about herself. She counted herself fortunate that he’d never suspected anything—even if that was only because he hadn’t been paying enough attention to notice. Better to be with someone like her boyfriend than with a charming trickster.
But no amount of rationalizing could change the fact that she missed Randall. She’d known him only a short while, but each moment had been like gold, to be hoarded and treasured in memory. She missed the sound of his voice over the phone. His infectious laugh and the stories he told that were like glittering threads shot through the otherwise muted tapestry of her life. Their spirited discussions about books they’d read, about which they didn’t always agree. The way he frequently sought her opinion and always listened when she needed to vent frustration or voice a concern.
What pained her most was knowing that in all likelihood, she’d never again know the kind of passion she had experienced with Randall. Just the one time was all it had taken to awaken her senses and give her a delicious new awareness of her body. It was as though he’d drawn an erotic map to all its hidden recesses and nerve endings, setting a course that, once embarked on, couldn’t be reversed. Making love with Grant, she’d often indulge in fantasies about Randall that left her burning with shame afterward. She told herself it was wrong, as well as unfair to Grant, but it was no good; she couldn’t seem to keep her mind from straying.
The one bright spot was that business had picked up at the book café. The latest installment in the Dragon Hunter series had proved hugely successful and had spurred sales of other titles as well. And with the rise in profits had come a renewed sense of optimism. Cautiously she began to think that the future might not be so bleak after all. With a little bit of luck, she just might be able to hang on until her case was settled without losing either her home or business.
Nonetheless, she was haunted by the very real possibility that it could go up in smoke. Which was likely if Lloyd Heywood got his way. Each time her gaze fell on the check that she hadn’t cashed or had the heart to tear up, she felt her stomach clench.
The day before they were due in court, Lindsay had lunch with her lawyer. They met at a small seafood place in Montara, where, over drinks and a shared appetizer of fried calamari, he explained tersely that there was a new wrinkle in the case. “I heard from Mike the other day.” Mike Hubbard, a former colleague of Dwight’s who now worked as a top-level aide to the governor, was his eyes and ears in Sacramento. “Apparently some new guy—fellow by the name of Curtis Brooks—just took over as head of the Lands Commission. Anyway, Mike has it from a reliable source that Brooks intends to rubberstamp this if the judge rules in the county’s favor tomorrow.”
Lindsay experienced a small jolt. “Can he do that?” She’d been told it was typically a long process—months, sometimes years if there was a backlash in the community.
“It may be unorthodox, but it’s not illegal. It does, however, suggest that this Brooks has some influential friends.”
Lindsay had thought herself immune to panic at this point, but a little alarm bell went off inside her head nonetheless. “Heywood,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Most likely.” Her lawyer frowned and sipped his drink.
“So what do we do?”
He frowned. “Legally our hands are tied. But it would help if we had some political juice of our own.” Dwight nibbled on a piece of calamari, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger. “All we’d need is the backing of one or two legislators.”
“How would we go about getting that?”
“By lighting a fire under them.” Becoming suddenly animated, he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “What’s the one thing guaranteed to get an elected official motivated? Pressure from voters. We just have to make voters aware of what’s going on.”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.” There had been articles in the local press. There was also the piece Randall had planned to write, though that had most likely been scrapped by now. She felt a fresh stab at the memory of that ghastly day.
“Yes, but I’m talking mass scale. Major city newspapers, TV news, talk radio. Generate enough publicity and suddenly you’re a cause célèbre. You’re in People magazine. You’re on Oprah. Everyone loves a story about the little guy going up against the corporate baddies who’re out to screw him … or in this case, her. The public will eat it up. Then there won’t be any sliding this through; it’d be too much of a political hot potato.” His brown eyes, which matched the conservative brown suit he wore, flickered with excitement.
Listening to him speak, she nodded slowly, taking it in. It seemed pretty far-fetched. What were the chances of this becoming a cause célèbre? She’d promoted enough author events to know how hard it was just to get people to come to a book signing. This would be like that, only on a much larger scale. And in the unlikely event that she pulled it off—what then? The thought of being thrust into the public eye filled her with dread. Also, wouldn’t it defeat the purpose? The whole point was to be able to enjoy the peace and serenity of her surroundings, which she could hardly do if she were running around the country appearing on TV and speaking to reporters.
“I don’t know, Dwight,” she said, shaking her head. “Somehow I can’t see myself on Oprah.”
Some of the fire went out of his eyes. “Let’s just play it by ear, okay?” he said. “Who knows; maybe it’ll go our way tomorrow.” He didn’t sound too hopeful.
Lindsay managed to hold it together for the rest of the meal. It wasn’t until the drive home that she let loose some of her frustration. “Damn it!” she cried, bringing the heel of her hand down on the steering wheel hard enough to bruise it. Why her? Why not some other desirable piece of property where a resort could be built? And for that son of a bitch, Lloyd Heywood, to sink so low as to enlist his own son to seduce her into accepting his offer … Her eyes filled with helpless tears. It was one of those rare cloudless days, the sky the deep crystalline blue of late summer and the ocean glittering with a billion star points of reflected light, but she couldn’t enjoy it. Over the course of lunch, the fledgling optimism of the past few weeks had given way to despair. All she could see was bleakness ahead.
At the first red light, she jammed a CD into the player, and “Hotel California” came pouring from the speakers. She cranked up the volume, losing herself in its familiar rhythms. For her mother, it had been opera and classical music and for her father, jazz and rhythm and blues, but for her, rocking out to the Eagles … or the Grateful Dead … or Led Zeppelin was what helped clear her head. She sang along, closing her mind ag
ainst the clouds gathering on her inner horizon.
Thank God she didn’t have to face this alone. She didn’t know what she would do without Miss Honi and Kerrie Ann. Lindsay’s expectations had been so low during those first rocky weeks with her sister that it had been nothing short of a revelation to watch her blossom over time and become someone she could lean on, as opposed to someone who is always in need. Kerrie Ann worked hard and these days kept a low profile, though her “toned-down” look was still over the top at times. She pitched in around the house and even remembered to pick up after herself most of the time. In studying for her GED, she’d also developed an interest in reading—she’d recently discovered the Judy Blume books, which she couldn’t believe she’d missed growing up. And despite her recent setback, she hadn’t knuckled under. She’d faced the wrath of the Bartholds, the censure of Bella’s caseworker, and the scolding from her own lawyer with an even-temperedness that had amazed Lindsay, given her sister’s tendency to fly off the handle. She took full responsibility for allowing Bella to go off with Jeremiah, making no excuses. In short, she’d gone from acting like a bratty teenager to behaving like a grown-up.
There had been a change in her sister’s attitude toward Ollie as well. She no longer batted her eyes at him only to leave him trailing in her wake like a lovesick puppy. Now they went on actual dates. Usually nothing more than grabbing a bite to eat after work or renting a DVD that they would watch over at her house. But, though Kerrie Ann continued to insist that they were just friends, Lindsay had seen the way they looked at each other. Regardless, she no longer worried that Kerrie Ann would either corrupt Ollie or crush him under her heel. It wasn’t just that her sister had reformed; Ollie had proved himself to be more of a man than she’d given him credit for. If not for his quick thinking and brave actions, the scary episode with Bella might have ended tragically. If he could handle something like that, she didn’t doubt he could take care of himself where Kerrie Ann was concerned.
Lindsay was calmer by the time she arrived back at work. She’d dried her tears and put her worries on the back burner. She had no time for dwelling on dire thoughts, with calls to make and customers to attend to, a meeting with her web designer, and flyers to send out for the book event they were hosting the following weekend.
She walked in the door and a voice fluted, “Lindsay!” She looked up to find Darla Humphrey bustling over. Darla, a retired schoolteacher with an inexplicable appetite for horror novels—the scarier the better—was one of her best customers and also among her most loyal supporters. She’d even started a petition to save Lindsay’s land. Right now, though, it wasn’t a petition she was holding but a magazine, folded open. “Oh, I’m glad I caught you. Do you know about this?” Darla thrust the magazine into Lindsay’s hands.
It was the magazine section from the coming Sunday’s Chronicle. Darla explained that her nephew, who worked at the paper, sent her an advance copy each week. In it was the article that had Darla so excited. The title and byline jumped out at Lindsay: “PARADISE INTERRUPTED, written and photographed by Randall Craig.” The accompanying photo was the view of the ocean from her front yard.
Her heart bumped up into her throat as she scanned the opening lines.
This is Steinbeck country. Thirty miles or so south of San Francisco, along Highway 1, between the rocky fist of Devil’s Slide and gentle reach of the Monterey Peninsula, lies a stretch of coastline so unspoiled, you have the sense, driving down it, that you’re in the Northern California of Tortilla Flat. Development has largely been a dream deferred or a threat unrealized, depending on one’s point of view. Vast tracks of farmland still dominate, and the million-dollar ocean views are primarily left to passing motorists and the migrant workers tending those fields to enjoy. The California Coastal Commission ensure that most of it remains unspoiled. But there are unincorporated areas which fall outside the commission’s purview. Such as the town of Blue Moon Bay, which has recently become the focal point in an ongoing war between the self-proclaimed prophets of progress and those who worship a more ancient god. At the center of it all stands the unlikely five-foot-six heroine who has become the David in this battle against Goliath.…
Lindsay slowly lowered the magazine and stared out the window, lost in thought. She remained that way for several long moments until Darla began to prattle. “Amazing, isn’t it? Just the boost we needed. Keep reading; it gets better. I swear it almost seems like the man knows you. I don’t mean just to interview you, but like you two were really close. But that’s the mark of a good writer, I suppose, making it all seem so … well, personal.”
Lindsay brought her gaze back to Darla. “May I borrow this? I’d like to take it home with me. I’m sure Miss Honi and my sister would love to read it, too.”
“Keep it if you like. I can always get another copy,” Darla replied, waving a plump arm expansively.
Lindsay took note of the faintly disappointed look she wore—clearly Darla had expected a more enthusiastic response—and gave Darla’s hand a squeeze. “Thanks. What matters most, though, is that I have your support. I hope you know how much that means to me.”
Darla flushed to the roots of her dyed blond hair. “Oh, well … I’m sure I only did what anyone would have,” she replied, clearly flustered by the praise. “We’re all rooting for you. Where would we be without you? Without this place?” She glanced around her, misty-eyed. “Stores like this are a dying breed.” Oblivious to the look of discomfort elicited by her words, she gave Lindsay’s arm a reassuring pat before heading back to the horror section.
Lindsay retreated to her office, where she could finish reading the article in private. Tears were rolling down her cheeks by the time she turned the last page. She didn’t see how the man who’d written this piece could possibly be the same one who’d knifed her in the back. Struggling to make sense of it, she dropped her head into her hands. When she looked up, Kerrie Ann was standing at the desk.
“I brought you your mail.” Her sister paused as she dropped the batch of letters on the desk, her eyes on Lindsay. “Hey, are you okay? You look like you’ve been crying.”
“I’m fine.” Lindsay spoke more brusquely than she’d intended.
“What? I’m the only one around here who gets to be a train wreck?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” Kerrie Ann gave a sanguine shrug and scooted her backside onto the desk, where she sat perched as if at a tailgate party. “But hey, at least I know my life’s a mess.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not such a mess anymore,” Lindsay observed with a wry glance at the relatively conservative outfit her sister had on—long skirt, knee-high black boots (a pair of Lindsay’s), and a jeans jacket over a plain light blue camisole. “You don’t even look like the same person. Four months ago, you wouldn’t have been caught dead in that outfit.”
“That’s supposed to be a compliment?”
“Yes. Proof that you don’t need tight clothes and gobs of makeup to show how pretty you are.”
Kerrie Ann gave a snort, but she looked pleased. “Tell that to Miss Honi.”
“That’s different. Miss Honi’s an entity unto herself.”
“There you go again, throwing big words around. Oh, don’t look at me like that; I know what it means. I read, too, you know.” Kerrie Ann was only teasing, but Lindsay didn’t miss the pride in her voice.
“All I meant was, you look great,” she said.
Kerrie Ann flashed her a smile that quickly gave way to a more sober expression. “Yeah, well, looks aren’t everything. I still have to prove to the judge that I’m not as hopeless as everyone thinks.”
“I don’t think you’re hopeless.”
“That’s different. You’re family.”
Lindsay warmed at her use of the word “family.” “Why not ask Ollie’s opinion, then?” she suggested, hoping to feel her out a bit on the subject of Ollie, about which Kerrie Ann had been uncharacteristic
ally closemouthed.
“I don’t have to. You know Ollie; he never shuts up.” Kerrie Ann’s tone was light, but there was no mistaking the blush that crept into her cheeks. As if seeking a distraction, she seized upon the magazine folded open on the desk. “Hey, this must be the article Mrs. Humphrey was telling me about. Cool. I can’t believe your boyfriend wrote it.”
Lindsay was quick to correct her. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Whatever.” Kerrie Ann eyed her thoughtfully before continuing, “Doesn’t it make you wonder if maybe you were a little hard on him?” She brandished the article bearing Randall’s byline. “I mean, he’s obviously knocking himself out to get back into your good graces. How can you ignore that?”
“Easily.” Lindsay moved to snatch the magazine from her sister’s hand, but Kerrie Ann, grinning, held it out of reach. After several more attempts, Lindsay surrendered with good grace and plopped into the chair at her desk. “Look,” she said, “I appreciate that he’s trying to help, but it’s too late—as far as he’s concerned, anyway. I don’t see how I could ever trust him again.”
“It’s not like he cheated on you,” Kerrie Ann reasoned.
“In some ways, it’s worse. He kept something from me that would’ve changed everything if I’d known.”
“Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell you.” Kerrie Ann slid off the desk, dropping the magazine into Lindsay’s lap. “Honestly, Linds, for a smart person you can be really dense sometimes. The guy’s obviously crazy about you, and people in love do all kinds of dumb things. It kinda goes with the territory, you know? Don’t tell me you’ve never done anything stupid in the name of love.”
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