by Karis Walsh
Table of Contents
Synopsis
Praise for Karis Walsh
By the Author
Prologue
Low Tide
Flotsam and Jetsam
Undertow
Spinnaker
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Karis Walsh Titles Available via Amazon
Books Available From Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
Over the course of a year at Cannon Beach, tourists and locals alike find solace and passion at the Sea Glass Inn.
Melinda Andrews and Pamela Whitford own the Sea Glass Inn at Cannon Beach on the Oregon Coast. After an oil spill threatens their shore, Mel and Pam join members of the community as they fight to heal the beach and its inhabitants while finding creative ways to keep businesses alive until the tourist trade recovers.
In these four novellas, Pam and Mel’s guests and neighbors find healing for themselves as well. From local residents, including a baker and a bookseller, to a visiting author and a Department of Fish and Wildlife Officer, these women come to the ocean in need of comfort, inspiration, and renewal. They not only discover these qualities at the inn, but they also find what they need most: love.
Praise for Karis Walsh
Blindsided
“A jaded television reporter and a guide dog trainer form an unlikely bond in Walsh’s delightful contemporary romance. Their slow-burn romance is a nuanced exploration of trust, desire, and negotiating boundaries, without a hint of schmaltz or pity. The sex scenes are sizzling hot, but it’s the slow burn that really allows Walsh to shine.”—Publishers Weekly
“Karis Walsh always comes up with charming Traditional Romances with interesting characters who have slightly unusual quirks.”—Curve Magazine
Sea Glass Inn
“Karis Walsh’s third book, excellently written and paced as always, takes us on a gentle but determined journey through two womens’ awakening…The story is well paced, with just enough tension to keep you turning the pages but without an overdramatic melodrama.”—Lesbian Reading Room
Improvisation
“Walsh tells this story in achingly beautiful words, phrases and paragraphs, building a tension that is bittersweet. The main characters are skillfully drawn, as is Jan’s dad, the distinctly loveable and wise Glen Carroll. As the two women interact, there is always an undercurrent of sensuality buzzing around the edges of the pages, even while they exchange sometimes snappy, sometimes comic dialogue. Improvisation is a true romantic tale, Walsh’s fourth book, and she’s evolving into a master romantic storyteller.”—Lambda Literary
Wingspan
“As with All Karis Walsh’s wonderful books the characters are the story. Multifaceted, layered and beautifully drawn, Ken and Bailey hold our attention from the start…The pace is gentle, the writing is beautifully crafted and the story a wonderful exploration of how childhood events can shape our lives. The challenge is to outgrow the childhood fears and find the freedom to start living.”—Lesbian Reading Room
Tales From Sea Glass Inn
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Tales From Sea Glass Inn
© 2016 By Karis Walsh. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-644-9
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: July 2016
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Stacia Seaman
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
Harmony
Worth the Risk
Sea Glass Inn
Improvisation
Mounting Danger
Wingspan
Blindsided
Mounting Evidence
Love on Tap
Tales from Sea Glass Inn
Prologue
The smell of cinnamon lured Pam Whitford out from under her soft burgundy comforter. She grabbed the pair of jeans and sweatshirt she’d draped over a chair near the bed and pulled them on before leaving the room she shared with Mel Andrews. She’d long since learned not to venture upstairs without being reasonably dressed since the people staying at the Sea Glass Inn could appear in the common areas at any time, day or evening. On one particularly embarrassing night, an older guest had turned on the kitchen light and discovered her sitting in a wash of moonlight at the breakfast table, finishing the leftover pizza from the fridge and wearing nothing more than a sports bra and underwear. He’d apologized and left the kitchen with an empty glass, one he had presumably been about to refill with water, and she had escaped into the downstairs suite with the pizza box. They’d both avoided eye contact during breakfast the next morning, and Pam had never again left her and Mel’s room without the minimum requirements for decency.
She took the steps two at a time and inhaled deeply as the scent of Mel’s baking grew stronger. Pam was a private person, happiest when she was alone in her art studio or snuggled with Mel. She should hate the intrusion of the inn’s constant stream of guests in her life, the need to be fully dressed before she entered her own kitchen, and the effort to make small talk with the strangers who shared meals with them. But she didn’t. Because of Mel. Pam came through the door and paused for a moment as she watched Mel rolling out a batch of dough on the counter. She felt like a goofy teenager with a crush every time she saw her partner and lover. Her heartbeat skewed off course and she couldn’t keep the silly grin off her face if she tried.
Mel had changed her life in unexpected ways. Loner Pam now met new people every week. She ate meals and took walks on the beach with them. If one of them stopped in the backyard to look through the studio’s large windows and watch her paint, she waved and smiled. Sometimes she kept working, and other times she actually invited the guests in and showed them around. The old Pam would have covered the windows with blackout curtains and hidden inside. Not the new Pam. She’d seen how willing Mel was to open her home and heart to complete strangers, and she’d personally experienced the healing effects of Mel’s warmth and love. Because of her, Pam was more open, too, and she’d made friends from all over the world. In turn, those friends, with their stories and secrets, gave her plenty of inspiration for her art.
She crossed the kitchen and stood directly behind Mel, wrapping her arms around Mel’s waist. She kissed the side of Mel’s neck and felt her insides melt when Mel leaned into her.
“Mmm.” Pam nuzzled the hollow between Mel’s neck and collarbone. The dough combined with Mel’s shampoo to make an intoxicating blend. “Cinnamon and vanilla and roses. I could eat you up.”
She opened her mouth wide and took a pretend chomp out of Mel’s neck. Mel laughed and ducked out of reach, holding her floury hands in front of her. “Let me finish these rolls first, and then you can nibble all you want.”
Pam braved the threat of a flour dusting and leaned forward for a kiss. Mel’s lips felt warm and soft against Pam’s. Despite
her protests, Mel was the one who slipped her tongue into Pam’s mouth and deepened the kiss into the kind that made Pam see stars when she shut her eyes. The contact from thigh to breast charged Pam’s nerve endings so much she thought it had to be visible. She must be glowing like a firefly. At the same time, Mel’s touch brought her a now-familiar sense of peace. The peace of being home.
Mel pulled away. Her throat was pink and her eyes looked hungry, but she pointed toward the back door. “Go paint or…something. Walk the dog, watch the sunrise. If you don’t, we’ll be trying to pass off frozen pizza as a gourmet breakfast and our reputation will plummet.”
Pam grinned. If it weren’t for hungry guests, she and Mel would be back in their bedroom already. Or maybe right here on the kitchen floor…
“Later,” Mel said, as if reading Pam’s mind.
“Most definitely.” Pam waggled her eyebrows and made Mel laugh. “Come on, Piper. We’ve been banished.”
Pam’s small brown-and-white spaniel jumped off her bed in the corner of the kitchen and trotted to the door, her entire back half wagging in anticipation of a morning seagull chase. Pam gave Mel one more quick kiss—heroically resisting the urge to press her against the kitchen counter—and went outside. She and Piper navigated the path through the backyard without needing more than the predawn glimmer. The summer air felt warm and damp against her skin, but Pam shivered with anticipation. She and Mel would have the entire afternoon together. They could wander through the town of Cannon Beach or explore a new trail in Ecola State Park. Or maybe just lock their bedroom door and stay inside all day.
Pam inhaled deeply and coughed the exhale. She wrinkled her nose at the putrid hint in the air. Had something washed ashore during the night? “Just a quick walk today, Piper,” she said, reaching down to scratch the dog between the ears. Pam would keep a close eye on her this morning, and then later, when the sun was up, she’d come out here alone and do whatever cleanup was needed on the beach. Their property only extended to the beach access cliff, but Pam considered all of Cannon Beach to be her responsibility as much as anyone else’s.
She hesitated at the top of the staircase leading to the beach and Piper scampered down, a few steps ahead of her. Pam couldn’t count how many mornings she’d begun this same way, with a walk on the beach. She’d never tire of it, even if she had a hundred lifetimes. She heard the relentless waves and felt each one crash and ebb inside her. The air reeked today, but normally the fresh taste of salt tingled in her nose and throat, and the familiar memory was enough to make the faint hint of something rotten fade into the background for a moment.
The beach was still bathed in darkness, and Pam could barely see more than an outline of Haystack Rock. The ocean glowed an iridescent black, except for the occasional whitecap peeking through the early-morning gloom. Pam shivered. She’d been on the beach in the deep dark of moonless nights before and she’d never felt anything but at home and welcome there. Why was today different?
She heard a faint whine and walked down a few steps before she saw Piper standing on the lowest stair. Her white fur stood in stark relief against the backdrop of glistening black sand, and Pam spun around and looked over her shoulder. A bright half-moon hung in the east, high enough to illuminate Piper. Pam turned around again and fought down a wave of nausea as she realized what she was seeing.
The beach was black. Not shadowed, not reflecting the night. Black.
“Piper, come.” The dog immediately followed her command and ran to Pam’s side, leaving smudged footprints on the wooden steps. Pam knelt when Piper reached her and picked up one of her paws. It was coated with a thick sludge, and when Pam held her trembling hand in front of her face, her mind finally registered what she had been seeing all along.
Oil.
Pam told Piper to stay and she walked the rest of the way to the beach by herself. Everything was covered in a thick coat of oil, as far as she could see in either direction along the beach. Even the sea in front of her. A thick rope of terror coiled around her heart as she fought for breath. The smell—what was it? Animals? Birds? How many were trapped out here? How would they ever clean this off the sand?
A flash of white—startling movement against the still shadows—caught her attention. The flailing motion broke her out of her frozen state and she ran up the steps, grabbing Piper on the way. She raced across the backyard with her dog clutched to her chest and slammed open the back door.
“Mel. The beach. Oil.” She spoke between gasps. When had she started crying? “A bird. I need to save it.”
Mel swiveled away from the pan of cinnamon rolls and stared at her with an expression as horrified as the one Pam felt must be on her own face. A long moment passed as if Mel was processing the information and the bedraggled and oily state of Pam and Piper, but then she snapped into action.
“The dog crate is in our closet downstairs,” Mel said. She took Piper from Pam and cradled her against her white shirt with one arm while she reached for the phone with the other. “Take some of the towels from the bathroom.”
Pam heard the distinctive beeps of Mel dialing 9-1-1 as she flew down the stairs. By the time she had wrestled the rarely used crate out of the back of the closet, stuffed a few towels in it, and run back upstairs, Mel had hung up the phone. Pam paused and looked at Mel hopefully. It couldn’t be as bad as she’d first thought. A barrel of oil, and no more, had crashed ashore in the night, just below the inn. The damage was limited.
Mel shook her head silently in answer to Pam’s unspoken hope, and rested her cheek against Piper’s head. Tears rolled down and onto the dog’s fur.
“What’s wrong?” Jack, one of their guests, stood in the kitchen doorway still wearing his robe. His partner Trevor was behind him, in jeans but barefoot. “Did something happen?”
“An oil spill,” Mel said in a choked voice. “The beach is covered for miles.”
“What can we do?” Trevor asked, resting his hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“Can you help me empty out some cardboard boxes in the garage?” Mel asked. “They’ve already opened the convention center as a refuge. We can take birds and animals there, but we’ll need…”
Pam left Mel and the guests to gather more boxes and she retraced her steps to the beach. She waded through the oily sand that threatened to suck her light sneakers right off her feet, staring into the darkness for some sign of the bird she’d seen. The entire beach was still, too still, and she nearly stepped on the seagull before it feebly lurched to its feet and fell over again.
Pam knelt in the muck and opened the door to the crate. She gathered the struggling bird as gently as she could, folding its wings and nestling it on a pile of towels before she closed it in. She stood up and lifted the heavy burden while thick globs of oil plopped off the crate’s bottom and the knees of her pants. The smell of Mel and the kitchen, the warmth of the inn and the promise of an afternoon of idleness, and the rejuvenating joy of a morning walk on the beach receded from her world like they’d been sucked down a drain. The sun was beginning to reveal the shore’s secrets now, and Pam saw flashes of movement here and there as creatures struggled to move, to survive.
She had one bird, and Mel was collecting boxes for more. But how would they ever save them all? Would her world ever heal from this?
Low Tide
Jenny Colbert pushed a loose strand of unwashed hair behind her ear and squinted against the harsh fluorescent lights as she counted the makeshift animal pens filling the vast convention hall. She had arrived at Cannon Beach two days ago, refreshed after a two-week stay in Puerto Vallarta and clean after a long shower in her temporary Los Angeles apartment. She hadn’t showered, eaten, or stopped to catch her breath since.
A woman holding a clipboard came over to her. She was wearing cutoff jeans that showed her slender, athletic calves and an inside-out faded yellow T-shirt. She looked as weary and grubby as Jenny felt. Jenny forced her tired mind—usually quick to remember details—to recall her name. Pam? Yes.
Pamela Whitford. An artist of some sort, and one of the owners of the Sea Glass Inn where Jenny would be staying while she was here. Not that she’d be spending much time in her room there, away from this convention-center-turned-wildlife-hospital.
“Hey, Jenny,” Pam said. Her shaky voice and red eyes were proof she’d been crying not long ago. She cleared her throat and blinked a few times before continuing with a more composed tone. “The entrance hall is almost filled with the donations we’ve been getting all night. Home Depot has sent three truckloads of plywood, trash bags, and plastic tubs for the washroom. The local paper brought stacks of old newsprint, and they published the list of items we need, so people have been stopping by with things like blankets and gloves. Workers from the PetSmart in Tillamook are having a drive to collect crates and dog runs, and they’ll start bringing what they’ve got so far to us tomorrow morning. My friend Tia has set up a phone line, and we’re getting calls from people all over the Northwest who want to volunteer.”
Jenny watched Pam tick off each item on her clipboard as she shared the information. Jenny had been doing this work long enough—traveling to cities after disasters and helping the animals and birds involved—that she could easily spot the few key people she’d need as cornerstones on her team. Pam and Melinda Andrews had been immediate choices, and Jenny’s instincts had been spot-on. The two hadn’t paused since Jenny had walked into their damaged town and started directing the rescue efforts. Mel—Pam’s partner and owner of the Sea Glass Inn—was in charge of the main room where the birds would live until they were able to return to the beaches. Pam was in charge of what Jenny thought of as the infrastructure. Crates and pens, workers, tables and chairs. All the equipment they’d be using over the next few weeks. She was organized and persuasive, relentless in her desperate desire to take care of her home after the disastrous oil spill. She’d already plowed through Jenny’s hastily written list of necessities.