by Porter, Jane
She’d have so much more free time. She’d need to fill that time. Adopting a child would be a good thing.
Would the rest of the family agree?
What would Tommy and Cass think? Would Cass mind?
Of course she’d mind. Cass wanted to be a mom, too.
At seven, Kit gave up trying to sleep and headed down the house’s steep staircase to the small kitchen to make coffee.
Plopping down on the sole kitchen stool, she waited for the coffee to brew. Her head hurt and the worried, uneasy feeling lingered.
She shouldn’t have had the rest of the second margarita, much less the first half of the third. She wasn’t much of a drinker and should have known her limits, but after talking about Meg and Jack, then Mom and Dad, she had gotten a little too serious, and Polly had made it her personal mission to make her laugh. And she had. So Kit had drunk what was placed in front of her and was regretting it this morning.
Liquor never solved anything and sometimes just made everything worse.
Coffee in hand, she grabbed her long fuzzy sweater the color of Irish oats from the hook by the front door and stepped outside to the cottage’s front porch. The morning was cool and misty and she pulled her sweater closer as she leaned on the white-painted railing and stared off across the street to the beach, where the dark green surf crashed on pale, damp sand.
Not all the beach cottages on Esplanade had an amazing view of the bay, but theirs did, and this morning the fog clung to the craggy bluffs and evergreens. Capitola lay ten miles south of Santa Cruz, and in the summer tourists and beach bunnies swarmed the town, but as it was mid-January, the motels, streets, and stores were nearly deserted except for the odd coffeehouse and surf shop.
Some people hated the low gray soupy fog but Kit liked it. She’d always found it romantic. Mysterious. The fog made her think of Byron and Venice in winter and love. Foggy days made her want to curl up with a book. But then, she curled up with a book any chance she could. She loved books. Loved reading. Loved it so much she’d studied English literature at St. Mary’s and then had gone on to teach it.
She’d imagined that as an English teacher she’d be sharing her passion for great literature—opening doors to the world, lighting a fire in young people’s minds. She’d pictured her students with rapt expressions as she read aloud from Hamlet or recited her favorite William Butler Yeats poem, “An Irish Airman Foresees His Death.” It was naive of her. She should have known better. She didn’t. Probably because she lived in her head more often than in the real world.
But seventeen years of teaching had set her straight. Most students preferred Facebook, online chats, texting—oh, and losing their virginity—to reading great literature.
Smiling ruefully, Kit smoothed a thick strand of auburn hair behind her ear and listened to the wind snap the flags flying across the street at the beach park. It was a rather wild morning. Gray, foggy, breezy, and the fog made her hair wild, turning loose waves into fat curls. Years ago she’d given up trying to straighten her hair at the beach. It didn’t work. Inevitably it proved to be a waste of time.
A half hour later the cottage door opened and Polly joined Kit on the small wooden porch. “You got up early,” Polly said.
“It felt like The Princess and the Pea last night. Couldn’t get comfortable.”
“I slept like a baby,” Polly said, lifting her slim arms over her head, stretching the fleece sweatshirt she wore over her thin aqua-blue running shirt. She was dressed for a run, in nylon shorts and white-and-neon-yellow running shoes. “Feel great.”
Kit made a face at her. “I hate you. You know that?”
“I do. That’s why I’m here with you.” Polly scooped her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. She glanced up at the sky as she put her foot on the railing to stretch her hamstring. “The fog will burn off, won’t it? I’m craving some sun.”
“It will. By ten or eleven, the sky will be blue.” Kit momentarily wished for Polly’s legs. As well as Polly’s butt. And stomach. And face. No, not Polly’s face. Kit liked her own face. But the body, she’d definitely swap. “Since you had a comfy bed, and slept like a baby, why are you up early?”
Polly switched legs and tugged on her toes to flex her hamstrings further. “I got a text from Jean-Marc…the guy we met last night.”
“The French model?”
“He only models part-time. The rest of the time he’s a salesman in suiting at the men’s Macy’s in San Francisco.”
Kit gurgled with laughter. Polly was not easily impressed. “And what did he want?”
“He was hoping I’d meet him for breakfast at Zelda’s.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. I’d rather just hang out with you.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“Oh, I did, I do, a little bit. I think. Or maybe it was the margaritas talking…hard to say. But I don’t think he was exactly the brightest lightbulb, was he?”
“Last night I don’t think that’s what you were interested in.”
Polly laughed and peeled off her sweatshirt before adjusting the mini iPod already attached to her sleek biceps. “Want to join me for a run?”
Kit glanced toward the tranquil beach, which seemed far more appealing than a vigorous run. “How far are you going?”
“Not far. Three. Maybe four miles.”
Kit shuddered. She used to try to keep up with Polly, had even entered 5Ks with her last summer, but she had hated it, and she continued to run now only because it kept her butt from taking over the rest of her teacher’s chair. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just go for a walk around the village.”
“I thought you wanted to start training for some 5Ks again.”
“Changed my mind. So go. Get.” Kit made a shooing motion, gesturing for Polly to scram. “Good-bye.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. You’re exhausting me with all your stretching.”
Polly laughed and wiggled her fingers before skipping down the front steps and taking off across the lawn.
Kit watched her for a moment, a smile playing at her lips. Polly Powers was awesome. Truly the best friend she had outside of her sisters.
Grabbing her cup, Kit entered the house, left the empty mug in the kitchen, and headed upstairs to change, retrieve her camera, and head back out. She had always enjoyed photography but had gotten more serious about it this past fall after finding a living social deal for an Oakland Walking Tour class from Katrina Davis Photography. She loved the class so much she signed up for several more nature photography classes, and with each one became more adept at using her camera, loving how one could frame or change the world through a camera’s lens.
With her camera slung around her neck, Kit walked along the misty beach, looking for that which was intriguing or unusual. For angles, textures, colors. Perspectives.
Sea foam bubbling on sand. The break of a wave. Weathered wood.
Founded back in the 1870s, Capitola was originally just a summer camp filled with makeshift tents. Later stables and a wooden stage had been added for dancing. Eventually the tents were replaced with cabins and the dance floor became a dance hall. For Bay Area residents, Capitola-by-the-Sea was a camp rather than a place, a spot where folks craving sun and sea could be close to nature and have some fun while they were at it. Once summer ended, camp closed until the following June.
Kit snapped away as she moved from the beach up onto Stockton toward Capitola Avenue and back down, making a loop, happier than she’d been all morning.
Whenever something caught her eye, she lifted her camera, focused, zoomed in or out, and snapped.
Pausing, she focused on the rusted curve of a blue bicycle fender, a red cotton dress on a mannequin in a storefront window, an older woman in a pink fuzzy sweater walking two little dogs wearing matching sweaters.
Coming to Capitola was always bittersweet. Familiar. Layered with memories. First swim
in the ocean. First kiss. First break she’d attempted surfing. First time she’d had sex.
Kit cringed as she crossed the street and stepped onto the opposite curb. She didn’t want to remember that one. So bad. Totally humiliating. He hadn’t even liked her. Just wanted to do it to say he’d nailed one of the Brennan sisters.
And then brother Tommy heard the rumor and went after Joe Di Sosa and beat the hell out of him.
The Brennan sisters still got nailed but no one bragged about it afterward.
Crouching on the curb, Kit raised her camera to capture the burnt-orange bike parked in front of Bluewater Steakhouse, the big bike’s huge ape hangers reflected in the restaurant’s frosted glass window as fog swirled around the body and wheels.
Working swiftly, she snapped another half-dozen shots. First of the front tire, and then a close-up of the stark handlebars, and then another of the dark brown leather seat with its image of a sexy half-naked woman wrapped in the embrace of one scary snake.
She was still snapping the intricate leatherwork when a faded-denim-clad leg swung over the seat, hiding it.
Kit jerked her head up and lowered the camera just in time to get a glimpse of long black hair, bronze skin, dark eyes, and the slash of a high cheekbone before a black helmet came down, obscuring his face.
Impulsively she raised the camera, snapped another photo even as he turned his head and looked directly at her.
Gorgeous, she thought somewhere in the back of her brain. Dangerous, she thought in a more logical part. He looked like trouble. Tough. Hard. Physical.
Sexual.
And then he started his bike. It sputtered once, twice, before roaring to life, low, rough, loud.
God, her mother would hate the biker, the bike, the noise. Kit bit into her bottom lip even as the bike lurched forward and then did a quick spin, turning in the middle of the quiet street to come straight at her.
She stumbled backward, thinking the rider had lost control, but then he stopped the bike mere inches from her ankle and tugged off his helmet.
“You took a picture of me,” he said, looking into her eyes, his voice nearly as deep as the engine’s growl.
She opened her mouth and then shut it.
“Why?” he demanded.
Her brows tugged, and her shoulders twisted. “I liked your bike. Thought it’d make an interesting picture.”
His dark eyes narrowed and his head tilted, glossy black hair sliding over prominent cheekbones. “You a cop?”
She nearly laughed. “No.”
“What do you do, then?”
“I’m a teacher.”
“And what do you teach?”
“High school English.”
He sat back on his seat and placed the helmet between his thighs. “Then why are you taking pictures?”
“It’s a hobby. Gives me something to do when I’m not grading papers.”
He looked at her a long moment, expression shuttered and impossible to read. “How do I know you’re really a teacher?”
“Why would I lie?”
“People do all the time.”
“Well, not me. I’m a Catholic schoolteacher,” she said, emphasizing Catholic. “I have to be moral. It’s my job.”
He seemed to fight a smile. “You took a vow of morality to teach English?”
She wondered about his background. He looked part Greek, or perhaps it was Armenian or possibly Native American. He was very dark, and hard, and altogether too intimidating. “No. But what kind of example would I set if I went through life lying, stealing, and cheating?”
“I didn’t know women like you still existed.”
“The world is full of good women,” she said crisply.
“I haven’t met any.”
“Then you’re hanging around with the wrong crowd.”
“You don’t like me.”
“I don’t know you.”
“But you’re still forming opinions. Making judgments. You know you are.”
Kit’s cheeks grew hot. “I’ve met men like you back when they were just boys in my classroom,” she said, trying to sound flippant but failing. “You go through life breaking hearts and causing trouble.”
He smiled slowly, almost lazily, and the long dense lashes fringing his eyes lowered as he looked her up and down. “Left your wedding ring at home?”
“Not married.”
“Divorced?”
“Never married.”
“Too busy teaching the sacraments?”
“Too busy teaching hoodlums to read.”
He smiled again, knowing she was referring to him. “Where do you teach?”
“Memorial High.”
“The one in Oakland?”
She nodded, pulled a tendril of hair from her mouth, and pushed it behind her ear. “I’ve taught there for years.”
“So you don’t need the photos for anything.”
“No.”
“Can I see them?”
It wasn’t a question, she thought. He expected her to hand over the camera. He was that confident, that controlled, that strong of a guy. “Are you going to delete them?”
“Depends.”
She looked up into his eyes. He was serious. And dangerous. She avoided men like him. Knew that there was no room in her life for rebels. Or trouble. Silently she handed him her camera, which had turned off while they talked, and he turned it on without fumbling and then pressed the review button and clicked through the photos she’d taken.
The first one was a close-up of him on the bike, all long hair, intense dark eyes, and chiseled cheekbones. The second was a shot of his torso and denim-clad thighs against the orange of the bike. The third was the bike seat. The fourth, more bike, and then more bike. And more bike. And then a lone daffodil against a white picket fence and all the rest of the pictures she’d taken since leaving the cottage for her walk.
“You’re good,” he said flatly, no emotion in his voice and yet there was something hard enough, deep enough that made her look up at his face, that made her want to take her camera back and shoot him here, like this, up close.
Rough. Edgy. Callous. Her gaze fell to her camera in his hands. His hands were scarred. She could imagine him fighting.
“Can I have my camera back?” she asked quietly.
“What’s your name?” he said, handing it to her.
“Kit.”
The corner of his mouth lifted. “Short for Kit Kat bar?”
She almost laughed. Instead, she rolled her eyes. “No. Katherine.”
“Katherine what?”
“Katherine Elizabeth.”
“Good Catholic name.”
“I come from a good Catholic family.”
“What’s your last name?”
“Brennan.”
“Irish, of course. Which means your dad’s a cop. Am I right?”
Her eyebrows arched. He wasn’t far off. “Running from the law, are you?”
He shrugged. “Don’t need trouble.”
So he was like some of those tough kids she’d taught—boys who were too bright, too curious, too wild for their own good.
Boys who ended up lying and stealing and cheating.
Boys who ended up in jail or running from the law.
“What do you do?” she asked.
“This and that.”
Which could mean gangs and drugs, or just that he was a drifter without anyone or anything to tie him down. “I was right. I have taught kids like you.” From the corner of her eye she caught a flash of blue. It was Polly, and she was heading toward them, her long blond ponytail bouncing. “My mom’s brothers are police officers. My dad’s a fireman.”
“I’ve spent time in jail.”
Of course he had. She took an uneasy step away. “I better go.”
“Smart girl.” He turned the key in the ignition and his bike roared to life.
As Polly approached he set off, bike and man hurtling dangerously down the street. Polly turned her head and wat
ched him shoot pass and then pulled the iPod’s buds out of her ears. “Who was that?” she asked, looking at Kit.
Kit watched the bike disappear from view. “I don’t know.”
Six
Back at the cottage, Polly headed upstairs to shower while Kit took a seat in one of the old rattan chairs in the living room, intent on recording grades from last Tuesday’s vocab quiz into her laptop. Instead, her eye fell on her camera lying on the coffee table next to the stack of faded National Geographic magazines no one ever read.
Kit flashed to her walk, and her encounter with the motorcycle guy. The whole thing had been surreal. He certainly wasn’t like the men she normally met. Wasn’t building himself up, trying to make himself sound good. If anything, he’d done the opposite. Told her he was trouble. Said he was bad news.
Too bad more men didn’t come with warnings.
Kit smiled, imagining warnings on men’s profiles at Love.com.
Handsome, charming, passive-aggressive doctor.
Fun, sports-loving, narcissistic family man.
Successful, fit, explosive business executive.
Wouldn’t happen. Most people buried their faults, denied their weaknesses. The biker had done the exact opposite. And it intrigued her. Not that she should be interested, or intrigued, by a guy like him. Kit had encountered her fair share of predators and weirdos in her time and she didn’t need another weirdo shadowing her now.
But that didn’t stop her from reaching for her camera and reviewing the photos she’d taken, examining each shot as objectively as possible, lingering on the shots of the orange bike, and then stopping on the two of the biker.
He was even better-looking in the photos than she’d remembered. Broad shoulders, big chest, neat hips, thick biceps beneath the cotton thermal shirt he wore under the leather vest. No, she definitely had never dated a guy like this. Nor been attracted to a guy like this. Now Brianna had. But then Brianna liked trouble and in high school she’d made it a point to only see guys Dad would detest. Kit had been the opposite. She’d only dated boys who were nice. Boys Dad approved of.