Angel of the Morning

by Judith Arnold

  “I like Hayley,” Annie said. “She’s so pretty. And she lets me have ice-cream.”

  Gwen wasn’t going to lecture Annie—or, for that matter, Hayley—on nutrition. If the kid wanted ice-cream tonight, she could have ice-cream.

  She made quick work of cleaning out Annie’s lunch box and cooking a turkey burger and steamed carrots for her. Hayley showed up at a quarter past six, and Gwen bolted for the Lobster Shack, still dressed in the sweater set and slacks she’d worn all day at work. As she settled into the driver’s seat, she felt something crinkling in her pocket. She slid her hand in and felt the scrap of paper with Dylan’s phone number on it.

  She still had no idea just what she would say to Mike. All she knew, as dread tightened its hold on her, was that it wouldn’t go well.

  She arrived at the wharf-side restaurant before he did. In addition to its tasty food and low prices, the Lobster Shack was blessed with having not one scintilla of romantic atmosphere. The walls were rough-hewn plank paneling, the tables were topped with paper placemats, and the only nautical decoration was a clock shaped like a ship’s steering wheel hanging on one wall. Less than a minute after Gwen told the hostess she was waiting for her companion, Mike walked in.

  He looked good. He always did. He was a handsome guy, with a broad, square face and reddish-brown hair that was beginning to thin, although still plentiful enough that his comb-over camouflaged the thin spots. He had taken the time to change into a flannel shirt and jeans, not what he wore when he was selling Hondas at Wright Honda-BMW. But then, he hadn’t had to pick up a daughter and feed her dinner before coming to the Lobster Shack.

  The waitress seated them. Mike ordered fish and chips and a beer, Gwen a lobster roll and water. No wine. She needed her wits about her. Besides, the wines at the Lobster Shack were pretty bad: generic red, generic white, generic rose, which she suspected might just be equal parts of the red and white mixed together.

  While they waited for their food, Mike shared with her a convoluted anecdote having to do with floor mats and cup holders in a car he’d recently sold. Gwen did her best to nod and look interested. She tried to guess whether Mike’s decision to avoid mentioning their argument yesterday was a good or a bad thing.

  Finally their meals arrived. Gwen gazed down at the submarine roll sliced lengthwise and overflowing with shiny red and white chunks of lobster meat. The Lobster Shack made the best lobster rolls south of Maine, but she had no appetite.

  “I have to tell you something, Mike,” she said, picking at the lobster meat with her fork.

  He shrugged and took a hefty swig of beer. “I’m all ears.”

  “Dylan Scott? The actor you saw at my house Saturday?”

  Mike nodded.

  “He’s Annie’s father. She doesn’t know that yet, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her. I’ll tell her when I think the time is right. But it has to be done properly.”

  “He’s her father?” Mike bellowed.

  “Shh.”

  Mike scanned the room, but none of the other diners seemed particularly aware of his outburst. “He’s her father?” he said more quietly. “Her effing father?”

  “Yes.”

  Mike chewed on a French fry, and simultaneously ruminated on this news. “Some hell of a father he is. Where has he been all of Annie’s life?”

  “He didn’t know about her. There was...a communications breakdown.”

  “Oh. A communications breakdown.” Mike’s gaze narrowed on Gwen, but he didn’t stop eating. “So, how did that happen? How did you wind up having a kid with a movie star? You were—what? Some groupie or something? Do movie stars have groupies? I thought that was just rock stars.”

  “I wasn’t a groupie. It was...” She sighed. She honestly didn’t want to explain to Mike her history with Dylan. It had been hard enough explaining it to Diana, and Diana was her friend. And a woman. Mike was a guy. “He wasn’t a movie star when we...”

  “When you screwed. When you made a baby. She’s, what, six years old? He wasn’t a movie star then?”

  “She’s five. I knew him six years ago. And no, he wasn’t a movie star then. He was a struggling actor.”

  Mike ate for a while in silence, his jaw moving slowly, his eyes narrowed on her. How could she possibly eat when he was staring at her that way, so full of anger and resentment?

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “It was a shock to me, too, his showing up in town unexpectedly. And he saw Annie, and...” She detected no softening in Mike’s expression. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  He crumpled his napkin into a ball, slugged down the rest of his beer, and stood. “I have to think,” he muttered. “This is too much.” With that, he stalked out of the restaurant.

  Gwen had planned to pay for their meal, but Mike’s abrupt departure, before she could even make the offer, irked her. She gazed at her lobster roll for a long, helpless minute, then signaled the waitress and asked her to wrap it to go. Once she’d settled the bill, she left the Lobster Shack.

  The air was cool and damp, heavy with the salty scent of the ocean. The wharf’s planks were damp, too, and slightly slippery. She picked way carefully to the asphalt of the parking lot, climbed into her car, and tossed her sandwich onto the passenger seat. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper with Dylan’s phone number on it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  He was in his hotel room, nursing a glass of scotch, when his cell phone rang. His room service dinner sat untouched under an aluminum lid. He couldn’t even remember what he’d ordered.

  He’d been waiting all afternoon for the familiar chime of his phone, but the only time it had rung, the caller had been Andrea, informing him that she’d set up an appointment for a walk-through of the house with an inspector.

  Fine. Great. The house would get inspected.

  Had he been too pushy with Gwen? Too presumptuous? Did she not want him in Annie’s life? How could they possibly coexist in Brogan’s Point if Gwen intended to keep him from his daughter?

  And from herself?

  Shit. If he’d gotten the part in The Angel, he might have stayed in Los Angeles. If he hadn’t come to Brogan’s Point, he never would have known about Annie. If he hadn’t seen the house for sale, if he hadn’t made a bid on it, if he hadn’t walked into the Faulk Street Tavern and heard that song play, and seen Gwen... If, if, if.

  But his phone was ringing now, too late for Andrea to be announcing some other important development in the bureaucratic process of purchasing a house. He set down his glass, reached for the phone, and glanced at the screen. No name, just a number. “Hello,” he said.

  “Dylan? It’s Gwen.”

  His day got marginally brighter—even though the sun had set long ago and the moon was obliterated by clouds and mist. “Hi,” he said, trying not to sound too excited.

  “You said you wanted to talk,” she reminded him.

  “In person.” Maybe he was being presumptuous again, but screw it. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see her face when he told her he’d signed a contract to buy a house in Brogan’s Point. He wanted to gauge her reaction. He wanted to figure out a way to make this work. “Can I come over?”

  “I’m not home,” she told him. He recalled her saying she wasn’t available for dinner that night. Was she on a date right now, phoning him in front of her boyfriend? That would be pretty rude.

  “Then come here. I’m at the Ocean Bluff Inn.”

  She laughed, although she didn’t sound amused. “I’m not coming to your room.”

  He remembered what had happened the last time she’d come to his hotel room. God, he’d like to have that happen again. But clearly it wasn’t going to happen tonight. “How about the Faulk Street Tavern? Will you meet me there?”

  “Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “I’ll see you.” Just saying those three words made his day brighten even more—brighten enough for him to believe the sun was glaring through the window,
burning right through the walls, even though it was well past seven o’clock.

  He was going to see Gwen. He was going to tell her. Please, make this be okay.

  ***

  Monday was usually a pretty slow night at the tavern—which meant the place was about half full when Gus spotted the movie guy entering. He was alone, just as he’d been a couple of days ago, and she waited for him to cross the room and plant himself on one of the empty stools at the bar. Margie Carerra looked as if she hoped the stool he’d plant himself on was the one next to hers. She had a few years on him, but she was pretty enough, and she stayed in good shape. She nearly always came to the tavern alone. It was her habit to nurse a Cosmo and survey the room, scouting for prospects.

  She definitely perked up when the movie guy walked in. “Am I crazy, or is that Dylan Scott?” she murmured to Gus.

  Gus shot a glance his way before resuming the task of refilling a row of bowls with bar snacks. He looked scruffy, just as he had the other day, not like a clean-cut, well-scrubbed, All-American hero prepared to conquer alien foes throughout the universe. Like the last time he’d been in, he wore a pair of comfortably broken-in jeans and a rumpled leather jacket. His hair was a lush mop of brown that glistened from the raindrops trapped in the waves.

  “That’s him,” Gus confirmed. “But don’t get your hopes up. Last time he was here, I think the jukebox got him.”

  Margie sighed. “Why doesn’t that damned jukebox ever work for me?” she asked. “I could use some magic in my life.”

  Gus shrugged. “Sometimes a person has to make her own magic.”

  “I wouldn’t mind making magic with him.” Margie motioned toward the actor with her chin.

  “Keep coming,” Gus told her. “Keep sticking quarters into the jukebox. One of these days...” She shrugged. “You never know.” She didn’t bother to add that a song from the jukebox wasn’t necessary for a person to find true love. Look at her and Ed Nolan. They’d just sort of stumbled onto each other, a middle-aged widow who owned a bar and a middle-aged widower who dealt with his grief by visiting that bar a bit too often. The irony was that Gus, who owned the bar, had to convince Ed to cut down on his drinking. Not good for business, but good for his health, and his soul.

  The entrance door swung open, but Gus held out no hope that the new arrival was Ed. He’d phoned her earlier to tell her he was having dinner with his daughter, Maeve. Ever since Maeve had returned to town a month ago, she and Ed had been rebuilding their relationship, one brick at a time. Or maybe one cookie at a time. Maeve had opened that cookie bakery on Seaview Avenue. The girl could win anyone’s heart with her cookies—although she seemed to have won the only heart she cared about. From what Ed had told Gus, and what Gus could see for herself, Quinn Connor was totally smitten with Maeve. Who would have thought the hot-shot high school hero and the shy baker would hit it off?

  They’d gotten a little nudge from the jukebox, Gus recalled. And the woman entering the bar, Gwen Parker, who ran that store with the eclectic merchandise just a block up Seaview Avenue from Maeve’s cookie shop... Last time Gwen had been inside the tavern, she and the actor had heard a song, too. Gus tried to recall what it was, but drew a blank. She did remember, though, that for the duration of a song, Gwen had ignored the guy she was with and stared at the movie guy. He’d stared at her, too.

  Maybe the jukebox had nothing to do with it. He was mighty fine looking, even when he was unbarbered and unshaven. Any heterosexual woman would stare at him. Margie was certainly doing her share of staring right now.

  All the staring in the world wouldn’t help her. The movie guy smiled at Gwen’s entrance and took a few steps toward her. They didn’t hug in greeting, or shake hands, or touch in any way. Instead, they walked to one of the empty booths and sat facing each other. Gus was tempted to take their order herself, but she had tasks to attend to behind the bar. She signaled to one of the waitresses, who nodded, grabbed a refilled bowl of bar mix, and headed for their table.

  Marge sighed, slid off her stool, and rummaged in her purse. She pulled out a quarter and grinned. “I guess I’ve got nothing to lose,” she said.

  “Except twenty-five cents.” Gus waved in the direction of the jukebox. “Go ahead. Try your luck.”

  ***

  Dylan waited until the waitress had taken their order—a glass of chardonnay for Gwen, a Glenlivet neat for him—before he gave Gwen his full attention. Like him, she was damp from the rain, but she used a napkin to dry her face. She looked wary, her eyes not quite meeting his.

  “How was your date?” he asked.

  “Who said I had a date?” She carefully plucked several peanuts from the bowl of munchies on the table between them, tossed them into her mouth, chewed, swallowed.

  “I assumed, since you weren’t free for dinner.” He scooped up a handful of pretzels, nuts, and cheese puffs from the bowl and thought about his uneaten dinner, back in his room at the Ocean Bluff Inn. “Are you free now? Where’s Annie?”

  “She’s home with a babysitter.” Gwen continued to watch him, her face giving nothing away.

  “Well.” His eyes remained on her as he nibbled the snacks in his hand. “I’ve bought a house.”

  “Here? In Brogan’s Point?”

  “A sprawling old Victorian in the northern end of town. I got word today that my bid was accepted. I’ve signed a contract. It’s a beautiful house. It needs some updates, but it overlooks the ocean. It’s got an incredible view.”

  Gwen shook her head. “I know you said you were thinking of doing this, but—it’s so fast. You only just got here, and... Is this because of Annie?”

  “I came to Brogan’s Point because I needed a change. Running into you, and then learning about Annie—I had no idea. I didn’t plan that. For all I knew, you could have moved away years ago.” Her expression darkened slightly. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if they’d promised to stay in touch after that one night. “What happened six years ago—as far as I knew, that was nothing more than a happy memory. We both knew going in that it was a one-night thing. So no, I didn’t follow up and find out if you were still living here six years later. That wasn’t why I came.”

  Gwen remained silent as the waitress appeared with their drinks, and she shifted her attention to the pale liquid in her glass for a long moment. “It wasn’t like me. That night, I mean. I never had a one-night stand before then. Or since.”

  “Because the one-night stand you had with me was so awful?”

  Her eyes flashed with apology and—did he dare to hope?—amusement. “No. It was nice.”

  “It was awesome. On a ten point scale, it was a twenty.”

  She allowed herself a bashful smile. “Okay, it was very nice. But that’s not who I am. I don’t do things like that.”

  “You did things like that once.”

  “Because...” She lapsed into thought, sipping some wine. Dylan noticed that her fingernails were cut short and unpolished. As a single mother with a demanding career, he supposed she didn’t have time for manicures. Once he was settled in Brogan’s Point, he could make indulgences like manicures possible for her. He could take Annie for an afternoon or an evening so Gwen could spend time at a salon, without having to hire a sitter first.

  “That night,” she said, drawing his attention from her hands to her face, “I was just trying to forget a nasty break-up. I had wound up in Brogan’s Point because that was where my college boyfriend found work. He was a math major, and he’d done student teaching as an undergrad. The high school here had lost a math teacher unexpectedly—some sort of family crisis, I don’t remember. Anyway, they hired him, and while he taught, he studied for his master’s degree at UMass Boston. Between his job and his schoolwork, he wasn’t around much. I got a job at the Attic, and we found an apartment, and after a while, we started talking about marriage. But then...” She took another sip of wine. “He became involved with a classmate at UMass. When he finished his master’s degree, he told me he was
leaving me for her.”

  “He’s nuts,” Dylan said, partly because Gwen looked so vulnerable to him and partly because he believed it. As far as he could tell, Gwen was fantastic. How could anyone treat her like that?

  “It was painful. I’d moved here for him and built my life around him, and suddenly he decided he didn’t want to be with me anymore.”

  “What an asshole,” Dylan said.

  Another bashful smile flickered across her face. “Anyway, it was just a few weeks after he moved out that I met you. I was feeling like such a failure, like the kind of woman a guy would leave for someone else—and then you were so attentive, and you actually seemed to think I wasn’t some pathetic reject—”

  “Gwen. You are not a reject. And you’re not pathetic.” He reached across the table and gathered one of her hands in his. Her fingers were chilly. He hoped the warmth of his hand would spread to hers. “You were the coolest woman in the bar that night. You were gorgeous, and you had a dynamite smile, and you were friendly. You wanted to spend time with me. I thought I was the luckiest guy in the world.”

  “Equally lucky because I wasn’t making any demands,” she noted. “No strings. No ties. Just some fun sex. What guy can resist that?”

  “I can.” Her fingers did warm up. He felt them fluttering against his palm, and the sensation turned him on. “I do all the time. My manager is right—lots of women want to bang a movie star just for the hell of it. That kind of thing doesn’t interest me.”

  “It interested you that night.”

  “You didn’t want to bang a movie star. I wasn’t a movie star then.” He grinned. “I was a struggling actor working for union minimum on a no-budget flick. And you... You were earthy and funny and sexy. And you wanted me.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I did,” she admitted.

  “It was good,” he reminded her.

  She met his gaze. Along with bashfulness, he saw other wistfulness. Nostalgia. Yearning.

  At least he hoped it was yearning. “We could have a night like that again.”