by Wendy Wax
“Kendra?” The voice belongs to Deanna Sanborne, a long-ago roommate and a best friend practically since the day I arrived in the Outer Banks. During the week I deliver muffins and cakes to her Dogwood Inn, a six-bedroom B and B in a beautifully restored Arts and Crafts home near the Manteo waterfront. I cook and serve breakfast there at least one Saturday a month, but I don’t typically arrive until seven thirty to begin serving at eight thirty. According to my bedside clock it’s only six A.M.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Sorry to bother you so early. I’m calling to ask if you could put a little extra pizzazz into this morning’s breakfast.”
“How much pizzazzier are we talking?” I’m sitting up now and swinging my legs over the side of the bed and trying to kick-start my brain so that I can remember what I have on hand.
“Pizzazzy enough to impress a hotel industry VIP whose management company puts out the definitive guide to upscale B and Bs and who’s started buying strategically placed properties up and down the Eastern Seaboard. I only found out late last night who he is.”
“Ummm, sure.” I don’t bother asking her if she hopes to sell or anything else, because as I get out of bed and head for the kitchen with the phone tucked under my chin I’m considering and rejecting menu ideas. “What do you have on hand?”
I hear the sound of her refrigerator opening as I reach the kitchen and open my own. “Two dozen eggs, orange juice and milk, some cheddar and spinach. Oh, and a bunch of red grapes.” There’s more background noise. “And I’ve got a couple of bottles of champagne here so I thought we might offer mimosas as well.”
“Sounds good. How many for breakfast? Or are we just sending something fabulous up on a tray?”
“I’ve got seven here besides him and I don’t want to be too obvious, so I’d like to serve everyone in the dining room like we normally do.”
“No problem. I’ve got sausage and fresh fruit and I can stop for potatoes and onions and any other basics I’ll need.” I set things on the counter then locate my recipe box. “I’ve gotta have at least a couple dozen assorted muffins and breakfast breads in the freezer that I keep for emergencies. What time are we aiming for?”
“We’ll stick with eight thirty. I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“No worries.” I stumble toward the bathroom. “As long as there’s coffee waiting and you’re willing to assist, we’re good.”
“Great. Thanks so much.” The relief in her voice tells me just how important this is to her.
“All right. Be there as fast I can.”
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and twist my hair into a knot at my neck. Then I pull on the jeans lying on my bedroom chair, slip my arms through a long-sleeved T-shirt that’s soft and roomy enough to cook in and has the grease splatters to prove it, then shove my bare feet into a pair of mules.
In the kitchen I thumb through my favorite recipes and finally pull one for eggs Florentine—the dish itself is simple but can be presented elegantly. I pull everything in my refrigerator and freezer that might come in handy and stuff them into the go bag that I always keep at the ready. Then I make a quick list of the things I’ll need to stop for.
It’s early and the season hasn’t started yet so both the Beach Road and Highway 158 that parallels it are quiet. So is the Washington Baum Bridge that takes me to Roanoke Island. Even with my stop at the grocery store I’m at the Dogwood by seven fifteen. I pull into the grassy area between the Dogwood and Deanna’s house as quietly as I can then almost tiptoe up the porch steps and in through the kitchen door.
“Bless you.” Dee hands me a cup of freshly brewed coffee and takes my bag from me. “I’m going to finish setting the tables. Let me know what else I can do.”
“Aye, aye.” Halfway through the cup of coffee, I’ve got the spinach sautéing in the pan and am cracking eggs into a big bowl. The frozen muffins are thawing on the counter next to a melon, a pineapple, several bananas, and a bunch of grapes. Confident that everything is in place I pop in my earbuds and tuck my iPhone into my pocket. I like to cook to music because it enhances my focus and helps me get in a rhythm. Sometimes it’s Joni Mitchell, other days it’s Bette Midler, or maybe even Bob Marley. Today I go with Lynyrd Skynyrd because I’m still trying to wake all the way up. Deanna walks in and out of the kitchen while I chop, mix, and sauté to “Sweet Home Alabama.”
At exactly 8:29 A.M. everything’s ready. The eggs Florentine, breakfast sausage, and roasted potatoes sit on a warming tray beside a cut glass bowl of fresh fruit ready to be plated. I place pitchers of juice, an open bottle of champagne, and champagne flutes on the sideboard in the dining room then carry a basket of warm muffins and flower-shaped pats of butter to both tables and smile at the guests who are making their way to their seats. I’m about to head back to the kitchen when Jake, wearing a pair of dress jeans and a white oxford button-down with the sleeves rolled up, walks into the dining room.
He hesitates briefly when he sees me, but he doesn’t look anywhere near as surprised to see me as I am to see him. I take a step back toward the kitchen as he takes a seat, but his eyes follow me as I back out of the room and past the butler’s pantry and half bath. I peek out from behind the kitchen doorframe and wish there were somewhere to hide. There are no doors between the living room/dining area and the galley kitchen.
“Dishy, isn’t he?” Dee asks from behind me.
“Who?” I try to sound nonchalant, but my heart is sprinting in alarm.
“Tall, dark, and good-looking,” she says. “His name’s Jake Warner. He’s the one I told you about. He owns Warner Holdings.” She goes out to pour and pass mimosas while I garnish and prepare plates then carry them out to the guests, careful not to look Jake in the eye. It takes everything I have not to turn and race back to my car.
I knew that he hadn’t left town right after he came to see me when Bree told me about the man who’d bought Lauren’s books, but I had assumed he was long gone by now. I promised him that I’d tell Lauren the truth and make the introduction and I will, but I think we were both too shaken at the time to negotiate an exact time frame. And I sure as hell haven’t thought out the details. All I know is that I need a chance to try to explain everything to her before they meet. I know I’ll have to do it while she and Spencer are here. But I’m so afraid. She’s had trouble dealing with an unexpected proposal. There’s no way I can introduce her to her up-till-now deceased father without sufficient warning. Somehow I’m going to have to make her understand that I kept him from her only for her own good. And, I tell myself yet again, for his.
Dee flits in and out while I try to look busy even though I’m cowering at the farthest end of the kitchen. I’m so shaken by Jake’s presence that I don’t even ask Dee whether she’s serious about selling. I prepare a fresh pot of coffee then make a round of the tables, refilling coffee cups then muffin baskets, smiling somewhat inanely without making eye contact. When people finally begin to leave the dining room, I do washup at double speed and begin shoving things in my bag like a burglar making a quick getaway.
“I heard Lauren is engaged to her playwright,” Deanna says on her way in with the empty champagne bottles. “You must be so excited.”
I don’t ask who told her. The Outer Banks may stretch for hundreds of miles but the number of full-time residents is small and people are connected in surprising ways. News travels fast. “Yes.” I hear Jake’s voice in conversation with someone out in the dining room, but I lower my voice anyway. “He surprised her by proposing on her birthday.”
“Wow. Are they going to get married here?” She’s known Lauren since she was a baby and is genuinely excited about the news.
At the moment all I want is to get out of here. “I don’t know. They’re planning a visit down. I’m hoping we’ll look at places while they’re here.” I grab my things and turn, intending to tiptoe out the kit
chen door. But when I glance over my shoulder I see Jake standing inside the kitchen. I can tell from his face that he’s overheard at least part of our conversation.
“Jake Warner,” Dee says, stepping toward him with a smile. “I’d like to introduce you to the person who cooked your breakfast. This is my good friend . . .”
“Kendra Jameson.”
“Why, yes.” She looks to me and I see the question in her eyes.
It’s Jake who answers. “Kendra and I go way back.”
“You do?” Puzzled, she glances between us trying to figure out why neither of us seems surprised to see the other. And why I hadn’t already mentioned knowing him.
“Yes.” I swallow and search for something that will resemble a smile. “We knew each other growing up in Richmond.”
Dee is watching my face closely. She’s a good friend, but I’ve never even hinted at the truth about Lauren’s father. I hope like hell that Jake’s not going to blurt anything out.
“Our families were good friends.” He’s staring at me and although his tone is matter-of-fact, I can see the question—make that the suspicion—in his eyes. Although I promised him that I’d tell Lauren the truth, I wasn’t necessarily planning to do it immediately. And I certainly didn’t expect him to hang around waiting to meet her. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but did I hear you say that your daughter’s coming to town?”
“Yes,” I bite out, though I’m pretty sure I’m still smiling. “I didn’t realize you were still in town.”
We stare at each other. One dark eyebrow sketches upward. He’s seized the upper hand and he knows it.
“How long do you plan to be here?”
Dee is watching us, her eyes moving back and forth, as if we’re a match at Wimbledon.
“I have to be in South Carolina and Georgia most of the week, but I’ve decided to keep my room here to use as a base. Ms. Sanborne does a great job. The Dogwood’s a fine property.”
“Oh, please call me Dee.” She smiles with pleasure.
I’m having trouble holding on to my smile. And my thoughts. I need time and space to figure out how to explain things to Lauren. And then I need to sit down with her while she and Spencer are here. Once she and I have hashed this out then the three of us could get together and . . . This is where the scenario falls apart. On the one hand I want . . . I have to believe that Lauren will understand that I was trying to protect her. On the other . . . I force myself to meet his eyes. Is a good outcome for all three of us even possible?
“I’ll be back Sunday,” Jake continues.
“Oh well. I . . .” I glance down at the bag I’m clutching to my chest as if it were a shield.
Although he’s already given me his cell number, Jake steps forward and hands me a business card. “This has all my contact information. I look forward to meeting her.” His voice is polite but steely. Then he nods and turns to go back to the dining room, and I realize that he’s issued a command not a request.
Ten
Lauren
New York City
The closer our trip home gets, the more nervous I become and the crazier I get. I just can’t seem to focus on anything, including the book I’m writing. Which is not good because every day I don’t meet my page count I feel that much more out of whack. Writing a novel isn’t like cramming for a final exam—you can’t just sit down the night before it’s due and bang out a hundred thousand–plus words, though I do know a few writers who’ve tried.
For me, writing a minimum number of pages every day is critical. It’s like exercising a muscle. As anyone who’s joined a gym in January only to stop going in February knows, the more days you don’t exercise the harder it is to start again.
Addressing the page on a daily basis also helps you burrow all the way into your characters’ heads, which is key. A book that can’t be put down doesn’t come from a mind that is leaping from thought to thought like a frog across lily pads. It comes from tunneling deep inside your characters’ heads and staying there—or at least knowing how to find your way back in each day when you sit down to work.
Today is Monday, April first. We leave for North Carolina in four days and at the moment I’m leaping lily pads at the speed of sound. I’ve been sitting in front of my computer for almost an hour now without actually touching the keyboard when my phone rings. Normally my phone stays off until I’ve finished the day’s pages, but there’s nothing normal about me, or my life, right now. The number belongs to my editor, Melissa Sanchez, which gives me a semi-legitimate reason to pick up.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt.”
“No, not at all. I was just taking a break.” A long one. I stand and move toward the window to stare down at the people striding up the sidewalk.
“I have some exciting news,” she says, diving right in.
“Okay. Exciting’s good.” At least a certain percentage of the time.
“Sales and marketing have come up with the most wonderful idea.” Melissa pauses. “We want to publish a fifteenth-anniversary edition of Sandcastle Sunrise!”
I have no idea what I was expecting but it wasn’t this.
“Genius, right?” She sounds genuinely excited, but I can also hear how hard she’s selling it. “We think this is the perfect time to remind everyone who you are and how beloved your books have been. And what better way than with the book that started it all?”
I try not to notice that she’s using the past tense, but as bad as losing part of my audience seemed, the idea that another part of that audience has “forgotten” who I am feels even worse.
“And we thought we’d release it immediately before your wedding. Your engagement’s been all over the entertainment news and your sales have had a serious uptick. Even the anthology’s moving. It will give your fans something special and introduce your first big book to a whole new batch of readers.”
It doesn’t happen often, but I am actually speechless at the impact of our engagement on my book sales.
“Publicity is already fielding requests for you and Spencer to appear together on the morning shows. People magazine is talking about giving you two the cover.” She takes a breath, possibly the first one since I picked up the phone. “When is the wedding?”
“We haven’t picked a date yet.”
“Well, we’ll need time to redo the cover, design the new edition, and do serious marketing and publicity outreach. June of next year would be perfect.”
I remain silent. I’m relieved my numbers are improving, but I hate the idea of using our wedding, which should be a personal and intimate life event, as a sales and marketing tool, and I’m not sure whether I’m more afraid Spencer will feel the same way I do or that he won’t. It’s not as if we’ve ever talked about what kind of wedding we’d have. Or have some date that’s so special to us we’d want to get married on it.
Clearly we’re going to have to start figuring out the details. But right now all I care about is making sure Spencer and my mother hit it off and surviving any encounters with Bree. I also need to find out why my mother was so adamant that we come there. So far I’ve imagined worst-case scenarios that include bankruptcy and a brain tumor—and I’ve made it through only the first two letters of the alphabet.
“Obviously you’ll need to talk to Chris Wolfe about the anniversary edition,” I finally say, turning my back on the window. “Spencer and I are going to visit my mother, and I’m sure we’ll reach some decisions about the wedding while we’re there.”
“Of course.” Melissa’s tone turns apologetic. “I’m sorry. I know I’m a little ahead of myself. It’s just that everyone’s thrilled about your engagement—congratulations again! When do you head down?”
“Friday morning.”
“Perfect. Danielle asked if you could stop by that cute little bookstore while you’re there,” she says, referring to my publicity person at Trove.
“Wasn’t the owner a friend of yours?”
“Yes.” This time her use of the past tense allows me to answer in the affirmative. Brianna was my best friend in the world. Once.
“She asked if you could get some photos of you in the store and also on the real beach where most of Sandcastle Sunrise is set.”
“Um-hmmm.” I drop down on the office sofa and try to slow the thoughts spinning in my head.
“She wanted me to find out if you know any photographers down there or if we should send someone. That way we’d have all the photos we need and someone who could send things back daily for posting to social media.”
“I’m sure we can take the photos,” I say as I debate whether I need to put my head between my knees to stop the room from whirling. “But I need to go now. I want to get my pages done for the day and then I’m going to meet Spencer for an early dinner before we go to the theater.”
“Oh, that’s great. Be sure to ask him what he thinks of . . .” Her voice fades until it’s no more than an indistinct buzzing in my brain.
I hang up. Then I just sit there staring at the wall as I picture Bree’s face when I show up in her store with news about the anniversary edition of the book she thinks I stole from her. Today may be April Fools’ Day but this is no joke.
* * *
Bree
Manteo
This morning I wake up on the daybed in my office to the patter of rain on the roof and the smell of bacon and hash browns frying. The gurgle of coffee brewing is accompanied by its lovely scent and faint whiffs of cinnamon and bacon.
Clay has been known to fry up fresh-caught fish or throw the occasional burger or steak on the grill, and Lily did, in fact, bring home groceries the other day, but putting meals on the table has always been my job. So when I follow these heavenly smells down to the kitchen I’m not surprised to find Kendra pulling a fresh batch of apple cinnamon muffins out of the oven while Clay wolfs down the massive breakfast she’s just served them and Lily nibbles on a piece of bacon.