Sato stopped working and stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?” That was not the response Sam expected.
“Come on, Cara and I are great together, you even said it. Best friends, right? You’ve seen us. So yeah, she’s single and I’m single, so I think it’s time we give it a shot.”
“Man, that’s a terrible idea. What happened to that Colorado girlfriend you always string along?”
“Who, Lizbet? We were never serious, and anyway, we broke up.” Sam had ended things with Lizbet in mid-April, or rather, she dumped him when she found out he turned down the Denver job.
Apparently, without his knowledge, she had already signed a lease on a two-bedroom apartment and started making arrangements to move them both there. She had been furious with him, and after a plate-throwing screaming tirade, she kicked him out of her condo. He was actually relieved when she initiated the abrupt ending. He had been planning to do it anyway, but he was terrible at that kind of conversation. He hated to hurt people’s feelings. Technically, he had never broken up with anyone. He just sort of disappeared on them. Eventually, they realized the relationship was over without him having to go through any difficult conversations and drama.
“I mean it, Sato. I’m serious about this.” Sam didn’t like the way Sato was looking at him, his face a mixture of skepticism and concern. “I really am. I’m planning on taking Cara somewhere romantic, maybe somewhere on the mainland if Paddy lets me borrow the inn’s van. There are some restaurants I wanted to try anyway.”
Sato just shook his head. “My advice, speaking as Cara’s friend, is to back off. Wait until the summer season starts and find someone else. You of all people know there are always plenty of available ladies.”
“I’m not interested in anyone else. I’m only interested in Cara.”
“That’s a bad idea. And if you decide to ignore me and ask her out anyway, I think you should wait, man.”
“Why? Do you know how long I’ve waited for her to be single? And I’m sure I had something to do with it. There’s always been something between us. I know she feels it, too. She has to.”
“Sammy, I strongly doubt you had anything to do with the engagement ending, unless you’re the one who killed her fiancé.”
“He was murdered?” Sam was both horrified and incredulous. He’d just assumed Cara was the one who’d called the whole thing off—hopefully because of what he had told her, hopefully because she knew she was with the wrong guy, and because she couldn’t marry someone else when she had such a deep connection with Sam. It never occurred to him that her single status could have been created by anything other than her choice.
“No. Well, I don’t think so. I was kind of joking. I don’t know the exact circumstances of his death. Cara wouldn’t say, and nobody at the funeral would talk about it either.”
“You went to his funeral?” Sam had a hard time processing this. Why hadn’t he heard about this? Why didn’t anybody tell him? He could have sent flowers or at least a card, or something. Cara must think he was the biggest asshole. No wonder she hadn’t sought him out at all since he’d been back.
“Of course I went. He lived in Chicago, remember? It was like a nine-hour drive, but we took the inn van. Paddy had to go, to support his niece, and a bunch of us islanders went too, for the same reason. Hell, Matteo even went, in spite of the panic attacks he gets every time he sets foot on the mainland. There were a lot of people, hundreds maybe. And I remember Phil’s parents asked Cara to eulogize him. She was crying too hard, so Amy said a few words instead, something about the cycle of life. And Cara was still wearing her engagement ring, but she doesn’t wear it now. So give her time. Give her a chance to heal and to mourn. I don’t think that’s the kind of thing someone gets over quickly, and it’s only been six months.”
They worked in silence for a time, setting the chairs and tables back in their usual locations and making sure they were all still in working order. Sam was thinking hard about Cara, and her fiancé’s death, and how all he wanted to do was find her and hug her and tell her how sorry he was, and how he’d be there for her.
Finally, Sato spoke again. “Just in case you’re still considering asking her out, you know the island hierarchy, right? Year-round locals run everything, and they protect their own. And Paddy’s one of their own. And so is Cara. You don’t want to mess around with her.”
“Cara doesn’t live here year-round.”
“No, but she did for a couple of years as a child. And her grandparents once owned the inn, and everybody remembers her mom. She’s a Whispering Pines daughter. Summer employees rank higher than tourists, and people always like you—possibly because of the barbeque sauce you make on the Fourth. But we all know you, Sam. And, no offense, you’re kind of a dog.”
“What? No, I’m not!” Sam was astonished. That was not how he thought of himself, not at all. At least, not anymore.
“You are. Remember the first summer you were here? Weren’t you living in the hostel in town but never actually sleeping there? And everybody knows the story of you and the night clerk at the hotel. Oh, and what about those two waitresses who actually got in a fight over you? I’m sure there were some others, too. You made a reputation for yourself on a small island full of people who love gossip and don’t have anything else to talk about the rest of the year.”
“That is all exaggerated, and that was only one summer,” Sam protested. “I’m different now. You know that. You and I shared a room for two summers, and not once did I bring anyone home. Hell, last summer I didn’t even think about hooking up with anyone.”
That last bit was a tiny lie. He had spent far too many nights thinking about who he wanted to hook up with, if she wasn’t wearing that damn engagement ring on her finger. Maybe he had made an unfortunate first impression when he arrived on the island, but he’d worked hard to change his image, and he had thought he succeeded. Apparently, the island’s collective memory for gossip was longer than he had imagined.
“We’re not allowed to bring people back to the staff house,” Sato corrected, “so that’s not really evidence of anything but your ability to follow rules. And don’t lie to me about last summer—everyone saw you and Amy making out at the bar.”
“No, we didn’t. I kissed her on the cheek, one time, and only because a guy was harassing her. I was just pretending to be her boyfriend to make him go away. That’s all. I can’t help it if the local gossips blew everything out of proportion.” Amy had shown up at The Digs to pick up a cart load of aggressive drunken guests who seemed to think that she came to party with them. Sam didn’t regret stepping in, even if apparently all of the witnesses misunderstood the situation.
“Still, everybody thinks of you as that guy. And don’t say it’s the same with Matteo. His track record with tourists is more forgivable because he’s a local. Plus, everyone knows he makes half of it up. So in him it’s just, you know, how he is, whereas in you it’s a moral failing. But the point is, if you were actually interested in Cara, you would need to do a lot of proving yourself to everybody else.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Sam argued, frustrated by the utter unfairness of everything Sato said. “Cara can make her own decisions. When she’s ready to date again, I’m just going to ask her out and not worry what people in the village have to say about it.”
“Except then you are the dog they all think you are, taking advantage of a vulnerable local girl whose fiancé just died. Then you’re a predator. Do you want everyone in town warning her off you and banding together to destroy your relationship?”
“What is this, a cheesy eighties movie? You don’t seem to believe me, but I really do like her. I like like her. I’d even go so far as to say I’m in love with her. I meant what I said—I came back this summer for her. I’ve known for a long time that she and I belong together. In fact, that’s the real reason I didn’t make it to your wedding.” He was getting frustrated. He had never told anyone—other than Cara herself—how he felt about her, a
nd that had gone just as badly.
“My wedding took place a couple of months after Phil’s death, and Cara was there. If you liked her as much as you claim, you could’ve made a move then.” Sato held up one hand. “Not that I would have advised it then either. I’m just pointing out some flaws in your logic.”
“I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I never read your invitation.” Sam explained how he’d thought it was for Cara’s wedding. “That’s why I sent your wedding gift so late … because I didn’t know it came from you. Hell, if I hadn’t seen a blog post from Amy about Cara being single, I would be in Denver right now.”
Sato shook his head, unconvinced. “I guess that’s why you didn’t send her any condolences when Phil died? Did you somehow miss all those emails? And Amy said she contacted you directly, and you didn’t call her back. We all thought you were being kind of a cheap jerk when you didn’t contribute to the flowers we sent.”
“I didn’t know about any of that,” Sam insisted. “If I knew, I would have done something. But I never got any emails . . . oh wait. Fuck.” He knew what happened.
Last fall, on a night when he felt particularly sorry for himself, he set up an email filter redirecting any message containing Phil or Phillip and Cara straight to the trash. Drunk and maudlin, he wanted to avoid hearing about the wedding . . . and when he sobered up he hadn’t bothered to change the settings. In fact, he hadn’t thought much about it until Renee Phillips at work complained that he missed her Valentine’s Day party and he discovered the rerouted invite in the trash. By then it would have been too late.
“You’re right, Sato. I am a jerk.”
Chapter Nine
Whispering Pines, July 2011
Sam has never been in love before. He’s dated, of course, and he’s had more than his fair share of hook-ups, but he’s never actually loved anyone. He’s not sure it’s in his nature. Sure, he’ll commit to a woman as long as the sex is frequent and she doesn’t ask too much from him emotionally, but the only times he’s said ‘I love you’ were heat-of-the-moment responses to similar declarations, and were instantly regretted. That’s why he can’t quite classify the feeling he has sometimes around Cara.
She’s his boss and his housemate and she has a boyfriend, three characteristics which mean he should feel nothing for her whatsoever.
But he is about six weeks in to his second summer on Whispering Pines Island, and it seems like there is something shifting inside of him. He doesn’t ever think about his life outside the island. It’s like all of his past has disappeared and he is nothing more than the person he is here, the man who looks into gold-flecked eyes every morning and feels content.
Today something is off, though. Something has cracked his perfect peace: Cara is missing. Five days a week, he is in charge of breakfast for the inn’s guests, and those same five days Cara opens the reception desk. And on each of those days, they follow the same routine: Sam wakes, takes a fast shower, and makes coffee. Some of this effort is for his roommate, Sato, who on three of these days is up early and grabs his coffee as he heads down to the village bakery to pick up fresh bread and pastries for the guests. The rest of the pot is for Cara. Sometimes he also cooks her pancakes or scrambled eggs, or if he is in a particularly fancy mood, a frittata. No matter what it is, she says thank you and blinks her beautiful sleepy eyes at him while they eat together.
This morning everything is all wrong. Cara’s coffee is on the table, but it is her cousin Amy who comes stumbling bleary-eyed out from the door to the women’s bedroom.
“Well, you’re the wrong person,” Sam says in surprise.
“Aren’t you a charmer in the morning?” Amy collapses into a chair. “How do y’all get up so early? Hey, whose coffee is this?”
“That’s Cara’s,” he tells her, looking back at the now-closed bedroom door. Where is she? Already his mood begins to sour.
“Oh, good, then I’ll drink it.” She picks up the mug and also picks up on the expression on his face. “What? Cara has a terrible cold. She’s not leaving our room today. Paddy said I have to take the morning shift because he doesn’t get out of bed before nine.” She takes a sip and makes a face. “Yuck! Sammy, that is not coffee! That’s just sweet milk that was walked past a coffeepot. Gross. Is there any real coffee?”
“That’s how Cara likes it,” he informs her a bit defensively. He wouldn’t drink that crap either, but Cara always smiles and tells him it’s perfect.
“I know, she has no taste. But you’re a professional, you should know better. How do you take your coffee?” Amy is looking around as if for another cup, perhaps hoping she can cajole him into giving her his. Then she has the nerve to get up and try to start another pot without even asking.
He doesn’t like to be too possessive, but this is kind of his kitchen. She should let him do it. “Coffee destroys taste buds and stains teeth,” he says. “It’s destructive. But I’ll make you some and I’ll even make you eggs, if you sit down and stop touching stuff in my kitchen.”
“I don’t think you know much about taste buds,” she says, but she does retreat back to the table. “They regenerate, you dummy.”
“I think you don’t understand the importance of a chef maintaining a clean palate,” he mutters under his breath.
Why is he in such a bad mood? Usually, this is the best time of the day. Usually, he sits and relaxes and doesn’t feel this tightness in his mind, this tenseness in his muscles. The whole interaction with Amy has put him off-balance, and he can’t figure out why. They’re friends; they hang out often enough. But this is a bad morning. Something is wrong, and he just can’t get his head on straight.
After the breakfast service, and still feeling off-balance, he heads into the restaurant kitchen and starts preparing soup. Cara has a cold, so he starts with chicken noodle. Then he remembers that Cara is from the Southwest and likes spicy foods, so he makes a tortilla soup with green chilies as well. Then he thinks that maybe her throat hurts, so he also makes a corn chowder. It’s sweeter and might be more soothing than the others.
Hannah wanders into the kitchen in search of food while he is finishing up. “What’s with all the soup? You catering something?” she asks as she helps herself to leftover breakfast pastries.
“It’s for Cara. She has a cold,” he explains.
Hannah starts to laugh. “Dude, you made her four pots of soup? You do know she has a boyfriend, right?”
“Three. The flavor on the tomato soup isn’t quite right. And it’s not too much. I didn’t know what kind she wanted, and the leftovers will keep. Soup freezes. And yes, I know she has a boyfriend.” His response is a bit defensive. It’s not like he’s doing it because he wants to sleep with her. He’s just being nice. That’s what he does here—he takes care of people’s culinary needs.
That’s not to say he hasn’t thought about what it might be like to sleep with Cara. He’s thought that about all the women he works with; it’s his nature, he can’t help it.
Hannah would be loud, he’s sure of that. And Amy, he knows she’s bouncy. She’d probably always want to be on top. And Cara . . . well, he has had many ideas about her. She always seems so calm and professional, but there’s a wickedness in her; he’s seen it in her eyes. Oh, and she likes to be in charge. He’s watched the way she handles temp staff during inn events. That must carry over into the bedroom, and he likes that. He likes a woman who takes control, who can tell him exactly what she wants him to do. Tell me what you want, he would whisper, and she would. She’d give specific instructions.
And he’s good at following instructions. He’d try whatever she asks, and when they were done, she would lie against him, and he would breathe in the smells of sweat and sex and strawberry shampoo, and maybe she would kiss the bite marks on his shoulder (he thought maybe—hopefully—she’d be a biter), and then they would doze off. Later, he’d make her breakfast, or lunch, or dinner, and she’d sit across from him, and maybe she’d have put on nothing but one
of his T-shirts, and he would reach across the table to feed her bites of food and . . .
He realizes he is fantasizing and Hannah is staring at him, amused.
He puts the three best soups into thermoses and takes a tray up to the staff house. It’s his first time actually entering the women’s bedroom, and he carefully backs through the door because of all he’s carrying. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, but then he finally sees Cara, lying on a bed looking miserable. “I hope you’ve come to kill me,” she croaks in a hoarse voice, and he laughs.
“I’ve come to make you better,” he replies, and she smiles, and immediately the bad mood of the morning dissipates and all is right in the world again. He describes her options and is not surprised when she chooses the tortilla soup first.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she tells him as she struggles to a sitting position. She looks wretched. Her nose is red and she sounds like she can’t breathe very well. There is a wastebasket full of used tissues next to the bed. Poor Cara.
“I wanted to do it,” he assures her as he sets up the bowl of soup on the lap tray. “You need to get your strength up.” He looks for a place to set the extra thermoses and notices an enormous bouquet of flowers on a dresser.
“From Phil,” she says, but he would have guessed that.
“That’s a lot of pollen. Soup is better than flowers when you’re sick.” Sam then realizes what he’s doing. He’s trying to show that he’s better than her boyfriend. What he really wants to do is climb into the bed next to her and gently sponge off her face, stroke her hair, feed her soup, and let her drift off to sleep in his arms . . . oh. That’s it.
It turns out, he does know what it’s like to be in love.
Worse, he knows what it’s like to be in love with someone he can’t have.
Chapter Ten
Whispering Pines, May 2013
That Last Summer (Whispering Pines Island Book 1) Page 5