Angelo dragged him to a small cluster of tables along Post Alley. They were the only ones outdoors, the morning was still cool and fresh though the day would be warm. Tourists were perched at tables inside. People were streaming by in suits and skirts in some frantic pattern they repeated every day, five days a week.
Some goddess, by the name of Jonas, set a double espresso, a huge cup of steaming, black coffee, and a gigantic muffin in front of him with a swish and a bat of the eyelids. He ignored the flirt and the muffin, scorched his mouth when he chugged the espresso, and felt much better for it.
“Okay.”
“He’s back, folks,” Angelo announced to no one in particular. “The man is back. Consciousness has returned.”
“Let’s not get carried away.”
“No, let’s. After you go out of your way to insult a beautiful woman who had the hots for you last night and, by the way, chasing away her terribly cute girlfriend who’d been eyeing me, I say let’s go wild.”
Russell searched around in his brain. A vague memory of long, dark hair swam through, but he couldn’t be sure who or what it was attached to. For some reason, his brain kept connecting it to a smack on the back of his head, but he couldn’t imagine making a stranger angry enough that she’d do that. Though lately, maybe he could.
“So,” Angelo sipped his café leche, “what is it with you and women now? They used to trail around behind you and melt into fluttery little puddles when you actually noticed one of them. Now, you’re toxic.”
His blood was toxic. It still hurt each time his heart tried to force some to circulate through his brain. He couldn’t seem to get the hang of Seattle women.
“Mr. Morgan,” Angelo held up half of his croissant like a microphone, “when did you decide to become a misogynist?” He aimed the pastry at Russell.
“Oh, I’ve always hated women. That’s why they can make me feel like such a shmuck.” Russell bit the end off the croissant. The act of chewing stung the side of his face right up into his temple. He sipped some coffee to soften it.
Angelo pulled his shortened breakfast back.
“Is that because you truly are a shmuck and they know it?” He took a bite himself and continued around a mouthful. “Honestly, what is it with you lately, buddy?”
“I wish I knew, Angelo. I wish…” He’d been idly watching the world go by on the street at the end of the alley.
People were moseying down the hill on their way to the market. Or hurrying up the steep slope with briefcase in one hand and a triple-shot latte in white, carry-out cups of immense size clutched in the other.
And there she was. He’d know her anywhere.
A long red-brown ponytail slapping one side to the other. Tight Lycra that followed every curve of her runner’s figure exactly as he’d imagined. Better.
She was glancing over her opposite shoulder, checking to cross the street. He saw nothing of her face, nothing but the swinging ponytail. An armband held a music player and thin wires trailed from arm to ears.
Two strides. Three. Then gone. Past the end of the alley.
He stared for a moment, trying to register her in this reality. She was his lighthouse lady and she was here in Seattle. No one else had hair quite like that. And her body: outdoorsy, athletic, and totally stunning.
“Hey!” Angelo grabbed for his coffee as Russell scrambled from the table and bolted to the end of the alley. He heard Angelo curse loudly but kept going.
No one. No sign of her.
He sprinted up the street, so steep they actually built lumps into the sidewalk for traction. He made it to First Avenue and nearly stumbled in front of a Metro bus.
Right. Left. Across the street.
Gone. Gone as if she’d never existed.
He stood for ten minutes, watching and waiting. Just in case she magically reappeared. She didn’t, of course.
Had he fallen for a ghost? Did she exist only in photographs of lighthouses and in Lycra among a crowd of suits?
The first he was aware of Angelo was a smack on the back of his head.
“You!” he turned. Of course. It hadn’t been the long, dark, stranger lady he’d insulted last night. It was Angelo who had smacked him.
Angelo pointed at his khakis. A long coffee stain ran down one leg.
“What’s wrong? Pee your pants again? Thought you outgrew that in high school.”
# # #
“What is it with men?” Cassidy pulled the pin on the weight machine and shoved it back in ten pounds heavier. The weight machines were mostly vacant at the moment. That was one reason she and Jo worked out on Sunday mornings. Perrin, not a morning person at the best of times, wouldn’t be awake for hours. The rowing machines were moderately busy, the spinning cycles were the hottest new craze and there was actually a short line of men and women jogging in place waiting their turns.
Jo was huffing and puffing her way through her pecs workout. She did her raise-an-eyebrow thing to show she was listening.
“You’d never guess who’s taken to standing outside my condo every morning about the time I get back from my run.”
“Mel, huff, Gibson, puff?”
Cassidy sat on the bench, hooked her ankle behind the padded bar and swung her leg forward. It was heavier, but she didn’t feel any strain in the knee, just on every muscle around it. About right.
“Guess again. For real.”
“The man, huff, with two first names, puff?”
Cassidy started kicking her leg out.
“I don’t think that Jack James even noticed I broke up with him. No phone calls, no notes, nothing. No. It’s Mr. date-from-hell, Mr. showing-up-at-my-lighthouse-thank-you-very-much, Russell the-jerk Morgan.”
Jo let the arm pads slap back against the stops and the weights slammed home with a sharp clang. She leaned her head down between her knees for a moment to catch her breath.
“You must be kidding me?”
“I wish. He was just there one morning when I came running up the hill. Almost ran square into his back. He was like one of those children’s crossing guards, manning the corner, checking everyone who went by.”
“What did you do? And stop kicking that way. You are going to hurt yourself.”
Cassidy dropped the kick bar back under the bench and then her knee started to complain. If she’d hurt herself because of Russell, she’d… she’d… She didn’t know, but he’d regret it.
“I turned around faster than Picabo Street in the slalom and went in through the garage entrance.”
“Maybe it was just a coincidence.”
“Every day for a week?” Cassidy grabbed a towel and tossed it at Jo, the sweat was forming below her yellow terrycloth headband.
“What are you going to do? I could have a restraining order drawn up for you by nine a.m. tomorrow.”
“But he hasn’t done anything.”
Jo threw the towel back at Cassidy’s face.
“That doesn’t mean he won’t do so in the future.” Jo was using her implacable lawyer voice.
Cassidy considered it. But it wasn’t scary. It was just… weird.
“It’s not about me.”
“Oh, and how does Detective Knowles know that? Can her fine nose now scent a man’s true intentions?”
It wasn’t like Jo. She didn’t usually resort to sarcasm. Cassidy swung her leg over the bench so that she and Jo were sitting knee-to-knee on the machine’s two benches.
“It was like when we were out at the lighthouse. He was looking for something. Someone. He was harmless. He looked lost, and disappointed.” By week’s end, he had added sullen to that look.
“I still shiver when I think about the two of you being out there alone together.”
Cassidy didn’t. She remembered his smile as he knelt before her, stray bits of sand still stuck to his forehead. Holding his arm as they walked out to the point. The absolute safety and peace that had washed through her as his hands wrapped around hers the moment before he drove off like a ma
niac.
“No. I was fine. It was just weird.”
“Hi, Ms. Knowles.”
She looked up the dark muscular legs, bright blue gym shorts and matching tank top, and finally the powerful shoulders before she found Angelo’s face smiling down at her. A sheen of sweat covered his face and he dabbed at it with the ends of the towel hanging around his neck.
“You know better, it’s Cassidy to you.”
“Thank you, Cassidy. I didn’t want to stop your conversation, but I haven’t had a chance to say thanks for that wonderful review you gave me. Bookings are up.” He laughed with a flash of white teeth. “That’s an understatement. I was going to stop serving lunches, now I’m over half full. Dinners are booked out as often as not. It’s wonderful.”
“It was my pleasure, Angelo, every mouthful. And I think your success has to do with more than my review. I’ve seen your new ads, they’re great.” He’d taken the Tuscan Hearth concept and run it heavily in the tourist magazines. Several clips from her review had appeared in the most recent set.
“I got the best man on it. Russell is a-number-one.”
“Russell, as in Russell Morgan?” Why didn’t she know this about him? She’d spent a whole meal with the man and a couple hours more in his company out at Cape Flattery. He’d never mentioned a single word about his past, his family, or what he did for a living. That’s odd. Not a single word.
Angelo’s smile froze into a cautious look, then a reluctant nod. Suddenly aware of the dangers of mentioning his name in her presence. He’d couldn’t have missed the slash at Russell she’d put in the end of the review.
How could a man with so much skill, hide it so damn well. A useless bum, who drove a very fancy sports car, and was an advertising wizard.
There was something not right about him.
“He’s not the most forthcoming person.”
Angelo squinted his eyes for a moment. He opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it and closed it again.
She rested a hand on his arm. “He’s your friend, I understand. Topic closed.”
He took a deep breath and covered it with a gentle laugh that spoke volumes about the challenges of being Russell’s friend.
That’s when she caught Jo’s expression. She widened her eyes and nodded ever so slightly toward Angelo.
“Oh, where is my head? Angelo Parrano,” she turned to Jo. “I told you about his restaurant. Jo Thompson, best lawyer alive and best friend ever.”
Angelo bowed low keeping his hands on either end of his towel.
“You two must come to the restaurant. I will promise more civilized company and as wonderful a meal. I will tr—”
Cassidy held up a hand to cut him off. “No. No treats. We’ll bring a third and we’ll have a merry time of it.”
“Deal!” He stuck out his hand and she shook it. When Jo offered her hand, he bent over it with a bow. He’d have clicked his heels if he hadn’t been wearing sneakers. “It shall be an honor. And don’t worry about the reservations. Let me know when and there will always be a table for you.”
He turned and sauntered toward the locker rooms, his shorts clinging interestingly to his behind. Not as broad-shouldered as Russell. Nor as tall. But very nice. He pushed through the door and she turned to meet Jo’s eyes.
“I think he likes you.”
“No, you.”
Cassidy shrugged, “He likes the review I wrote of his restaurant, but it wasn’t my hand he bowed over. And he wasn’t really looking at me when he promised a table would always be waiting.”
Jo actually blushed. A most uncommon occurrence. “He was just being charming.” Sliding back on the bench, she continued her pec workout with renewed vigor.
Cassidy cleared her throat significantly, but Jo didn’t turn, though it looked as if more color rose in her cheeks.
She hooked her other leg on the kick bar and began her reps. Maybe tomorrow she’d go ask Russell who he was waiting for.
# # #
Russell sat in the cockpit and watched the marina come awake as he ate breakfast. Perry had been first up. Stopped by the boat to give Nutcase a good morning scritch before heading off without a word. Though the old man had been smiling at him like a crazy leprechaun. Whatever the joke was, he was keeping it to himself.
He spotted Dave and Betsy farther down the pier, sipping coffee in their own cockpit. They waved him over, but he was too lazily comfortable where he was so he casually waved back. The sun was reaching over the high bluff which made the west end of Ballard one of the best places to live in Seattle. The views from up there were incredible. But the lifestyle down here among the boats was the best.
The sun was splashing down on Shilshole Marina. Hundreds of masts etched their sharp lines against the sky, cutting it up into brilliant blue patches of heavenly steel. The constant companionship of the water’s soft lapping against the various hulls lulled him like a cradle.
He crumbled up the last bit of bacon, sprinkled it over the remaining forkful of eggs, the first meal on his new stove. He needed to share it with the rest of the crew. At his whistle, Nutcase hustled over from the bow and began wolfing it down. No, that was canine origin. Began, um, saber-toothing it down? Nutcase. The ultimate, fluffy, tangle-haired descendant of the saber-tooth tiger. That was a laugh.
Just like posting guard on that stupid street corner for a week. What had he been thinking? There were a million people in Seattle not counting transients, commuters, and tourists. And he was expecting to meet a specific one on a specific street corner. She hadn’t been at the last lighthouse, why would she be on the same street corner? She could have moved, given up, come at a different time, or gotten married. Or she could have been a mirage as Angelo kept insisting?
Was he now hallucinating the perfect woman? It halfway wouldn’t surprise him. And with his rotten imagination she probably had a voice like a troll and would despise him on sight.
It was all so stupid. He couldn’t get the lady of the lights out of his head any more than he could eradicate Cassidy Knowles.
Out at Cape Flattery it had been hard to keep his eyes off her. She looked like every sea captain’s wife as she stood and scanned the horizon. Every incredibly beautiful, sea captain’s wife. Why did she have to be so stiff and stuck up?
For a while he’d worried that by some cosmic joke, she’d been his lighthouse companion. But when they’d reached the parking lot, she drove a very unexpected BMW roadster, more high-end New York nonsense. It was also a car that had not been one of the three he’d photographed in the Slip Point lighthouse parking lot.
He couldn’t find the Lady of the Lights and he couldn’t not find Cassidy. This was really getting ridiculous.
Nutcase crawled onto his lap to clean herself. This was late May, that meant Perry had given him the kitten five months ago. Almost half a year together. Born Thanksgiving Day according to Perry. The day that had changed his life.
But was it for the better? That was the thing he couldn’t be sure of.
He’d barely spoken to his parents since then. He could feel their shame even if they never said it. Every conversation was beyond awkward. He could just imagine the dinner parties. “We had such hopes for the boy.” “We had no idea you could do so little with such an expensive education.” “We did our best not to spoil him, but what are you going to do. He grew up with money.”
He had grown up with money, and he’d earned every cent he spent since the day he’d graduated from college. Busted his ass every summer of college, too, to pay for his room and board the rest of the year. They’d paid tuition and books, but he hadn’t let his parents’ pay for anything else.
He wasn’t spoiled, he just wanted what he wanted.
And that was half Cassidy Knowles and half his Lady of the Lights.
Stupid pipe dream.
He settled lower on the bench and pulled his cap down over his eyes. Nutcase curled up on his stomach for a nap.
Maybe while
he was sleeping, one would come out of his dreams into reality, and the other one would just go away.
# # #
He wasn’t there the next morning, no longer stationed at her street corner. Seattle information didn’t have a listing for Russell Morgan. Cassidy didn’t want to talk to him on the phone anyway. Wasn’t really sure she wanted to talk to him at all. Definitely not enough to call Angelo for his phone number. It would be unfair to put him in the middle anyway.
There were a lot of Russell Morgan’s on Google, thirty-five thousand hits. There was an American painter, a 1930s jazz trombonist, a UK drum teacher, a millionaire’s son on someone’s most-eligible bachelors list, a Santa Barbara algebra teacher, and finally an advertising photographer. Russell Morgan Studios in New York, but the link was broken, the website gone. She tried the phone number and got a Chinese dry cleaners.
She did find some credits to a car ad. When she opened it up, there was Jo’s car against a mottled steel background. It looked fast and sexy. The inevitable cool dashboard shots, also had a single red rose across the seat, just like the rose he’d given her at Angelo’s, now safely pressed in her favorite North Italian cookbook. Even if it was from a jerk, she couldn’t stop herself from keeping it. It had been a long time since anyone had given her a rose.
He also had shots of watches, suits, her own boots on someone’s very long legs. Maybe Melanie’s. It took her awhile to notice the pattern, no faces. An Armani ad with a very sexy woman in a man’s suit, with clearly nothing else on, but the hat was pulled low, the model looking down toward her hands ready to pull apart the lapels. All that showed was her neck and a hint of the cascading blonde hair behind.
Every ad was a gut punch. Each offered high emotional impact, sex, status, comfort, class. He had an amazing eye, as acute in composition as Perrin’s in fashion.
There it was.
Some connection had been working its way through her consciousness, reaching for the light, and it had finally made it to the surface.
She was dialing Angelo before she had a chance to second guess herself. He was surprised, but willing enough once she promised it wasn’t to gut him and string him out on a line as fish bait. Whatever Angelo might imply, he was a staunch friend.
Where Dreams Are Born (Angelo's Hearth) Page 16