Secrets of Moonlight Cove: A Romance Anthology

by Jill Jaynes

  “I can say ‘thanks’ for the compliment, right?”

  “Yes.” She ran her hand through her hair. “I really like your work. If I were still with the marketing firm, I’d ask to represent it.” She stared at him, awed by seeing talent in the flesh. “I owe you some money for pieces that have sold since Jake left.”

  “Jake?”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “That’s what my father asked me to call him. Can you believe it? A solemn, dignified gentleman who wears conservative suits, polishes his shoes every night, bows to his customers, and spends hours pruning his bonsai and doing calligraphy likes to go by ‘Jake.’”

  “I wonder what the story behind the nickname is.”

  “Yeah. Me too.” She looked away. “I’ll ask him about it if he ever comes home.”

  “If? Certainly he’ll come home. He’s a stand-up, responsible guy.”

  “Is he? I haven’t gotten a chance to find out.”

  “He just up and left? Doesn’t sound like him.” David’s brow wrinkled. “Did he leave the art show paperwork for me? Or any message?”

  “He didn’t even leave me an emergency number.”

  David rubbed his face. “Doesn’t sound like him,” he repeated. “I’m going to ask all my customers today whether they know where he went.”

  A tightness in her chest Leonie didn’t even know she had loosened slightly. “That would be great. Thank you. If your offer to help with the display shelves is still good, I’d be glad of your company. And to hear what you find out today. I close up at seven.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Chapter 5

  Gravel crunched outside. Once again, Leonie knew it was David before she saw him. She smoothed her t-shirt, darted to the door, and opened it.

  David, out of uniform and in jeans and a gray t-shirt, smiled broadly and came in. Puff meowed and rubbed against his leg. He handed Leonie a tall bag and knelt to scratch Puff’s head.

  Leonie breathed deeply of the scents, both sweet and savory, drifting from the bag. Her mouth watered. “These smell really good.”

  David grinned. “Dinner for two. From the Lily Pad.”

  “Oh my!” The Lily Pad had the best food in town. “On four hours notice? You have more talents than just art.”

  “One benefit of delivering packages is I know almost everyone in town. Sometimes people do me favors.”

  “I’ll say. Maybe I should apply to be a driver.” She made a muscle with her right arm. “Do you think I’m strong enough?”

  “You flew over the counter and caught the carton. If that were one of the tests, most of us would have flunked. So yeah, you’re strong enough.” He brought up his hand and rested his chin in it. “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re so strong, you don’t need my help. Maybe I should go down to the beach and eat both meals myself.”

  She propped both fists on her hips and leaned back against the counter. She looked at the bright, happy colors of the painting reproduced on his t-shirt. “Not so fast, Mister Wassily Kandinsky T-Shirt. You came dressed to impress, and as a UPS guy you know how awkward tall cartons are, no matter how strong you are. So I’ll put supper in the icebox, and you can help me with the display cases and tell me what you found out about Jake.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He walked over to the cartons. “I’m impressed you recognized Kandinsky’s work.” He picked up the box cutter. “Most people look at the shirt and don’t get any further than ‘Modern Art.’”

  “It helps that underneath the picture it says, ‘Van Gogh to Kandinsky Exhibit, Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 2014.’”

  David looked down at his shirt and chuckled. “Of all my art t-shirts, I had to pick one I got in a museum gift store. You must think I’m really clueless.”

  “Not at all.” In truth, Leonie was impressed he could laugh at himself, unlike most men she had known. “I’m glad you’re not one of those ‘artists’ who pay no attention to any work but their own. We’ll have plenty to talk about while we work. Most men who come in the shop and talk to me seem to have no interests except surfing.”

  “My multifaceted self is at your service.” He raised the box cutter. “Shall we?”

  “Please, do the honors.”

  He slit open the seams of both boxes, and together they pulled the cardboard away from the display cases.

  Her hand flew to her heart. Flames danced deep in the maple burl veneer. Dark “eyes” of minor spalting contributed to the optical illusion of depth. She stroked the wood and let out a sigh. It was as smoothly finished over the patterned wood as on the tight straight grain. It was worth the extravagant price.

  “Seeing wood that pretty makes me want to take up wood turning.” David bundled the cardboard together.

  “The cabinets look even better than they did online. They’ll show off the high-end pens well. Right now, they’re so close together, there’s no room for an information card or a list of options.”

  “Are you ready to attach the doors and put the shelves in, or do you want to caress the wood some more?”

  She raised her eyebrows and picked up a screwdriver.

  He went for the tissue-thin instruction sheet and a bag of screws. “We’re off to a good start. The instructions are in English!” He looked at the flimsy brown sheet again and turned it upside down. “Or at least something close to English.”

  “Together, I’m sure we’ll figure it out. But first, what about Jake?”

  David sighed. “I’ve dreaded telling you. No one I spoke to had any idea where he might have gone to.”

  She hung her head. Looks as if I’ll be going home next week after all. “Thanks for your efforts. I guess he’s not only ditched me but also all his friends.”

  “Don’t give up. I’m not. I still think something’s wrong. Or at the very least, there’s a good reason for his mysterious disappearance.”

  Chapter 6

  Forty-five minutes later, David wiped sweat from his forehead and announced, “We did a great job together! Should we put the pens in?”

  Leonie thought they had worked well together too, barely needing to talk because each had the same idea what to do next. Except for stocking the pens now. “I haven’t made up my mind how to organize them. I want to see different placements with my own eyes. It’s easy enough for me to play around with the pens between customers.”

  David’s stomach grumbled. He put his hand on his stomach. “Are you ready to eat? I worked up an appetite.”

  “Me too.” She motioned for him to follow her into the back.

  “Don’t make a fuss on my account,” he protested. “We can eat here at the counter.”

  Her nostrils flared. “What a horrifying idea. I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “Or we could sit on the floor here. Really, I don’t mind.”

  “I mind. I’m no Californian. I eat at a proper dining table with a tablecloth, thank you very much. I didn’t lug Mamère’s dining room furniture all the way here for nothing.” She jutted her chin, challenging him to contradict her again.

  He raised his hands in surrender. “If you want to pamper me, go ahead.” He grinned cockily. “I’ll take it as a sign of how much you like me.”

  “I’m sure you will.” The temperature in the room rose, and her face felt hot. She spun on her heels before he could notice and led him into the back.

  David walked slowly, peeking into the kitchen and bathrooms and studying the moldings. “This is so cool!”

  “As far as I can tell, the parlor and dining room were made into the showroom and everything else left alone.”

  “It’s so rare to see original 1920s tile and fixtures in the kitchen and bath. So many renovators tear that stuff out and put in fixtures that will be trendy for 10 minutes. You must feel lucky to live here.”

  “Except when I need an outlet for a modern appliance. I make toast in the showroom because otherwise I would need to unplug the icebox.” She gestured
him into a bedroom, which she had set up with Mamère’s furniture as a dining room. She followed him in and placed her hand affectionately on the finely woven white cotton tablecloth with its sheen from years of wear and starch. Jake had installed a small chandelier with rectangles of crystal over the table. As they walked in, it sparkled in the colors of the rainbow and flashed patterns of light on the plaster.

  “You look as stunned as I felt the first time someone in California invited me over for supper, and we ate on paper plates on our laps,” Leonie said.

  “‘Stunned’ is a good word. ‘Stupefied’ is even better.” He turned in circles several times as if he could not take in everything at once.

  It’s an ordinary dining room with the usual set of furniture. What’s the big deal? But it seemed a big deal to David. She crossed her arms over her chest and chewed the inside of her lip. She had committed some unintentional faux pas and worse yet, didn’t know what it was.

  “I’m way out of my league. My family always ate in the kitchen on Corelle ‘Indian Summer’ dinnerware. We had vinyl placemats with ocean scenes.” He cleared his throat. “It’s okay. I just didn’t realize you came from money.”

  She laughed. “Hardly. We were dirt poor until I got a job at a marketing firm.”

  “Yet you trust me with your nice stuff already. I’m honored.”

  She cocked her head. “In Louisiana, we do things civilized. Jake says the Japanese are the same way.”

  David’s face reddened. “Mom was sure if she put out anything nice, I would damage or break it. She picked ‘Indian Summer’ because it was one of the few Corelle patterns without a glossy white center for me to scratch up with the silverware.” He glanced down at Leonie’s cutlery. “I mean flatware.”

  Leonie winced. She looked down and let her hair fall around her face, embarrassed on his behalf and unable to meet his eyes until she had absorbed his revelation.

  “Leonie?”

  Her fists tightened, and she banged one on the table. How could his parents have treated him so badly?

  “Why are you mad at me?” He took a step toward the door. “Never mind. I’ll leave.”

  “David, no! You didn’t do anything. It’s your mother. Parents shouldn’t treat their children like that.” Her voice was rising. She stopped and took a few breaths. “She got her comeuppance, though, when you became an artist and made intricate things with precise tool work. I’m glad. I’m sorry, but I’m glad you showed her up.”

  At last she could look up.

  She gasped. His hunched shoulders and puppy-dog eyes stabbed her to the core. His mother had not reformed her ways. She still undermined him. Not my dog; not my fight. “Would you like a glass of sweet tea? Or a beer?”

  David’s body relaxed. “Yeah, sure. A beer would be perfect for this hot night.”

  Leonie rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll fetch you your beer and then serve up the food.”

  She grabbed an Abita Amber from the icebox and popped the cap. She grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard and carried them in.

  David had not sat down. Instead, he studied a long silk scroll hanging on the wall. Pasted on the nubby pink silk was a sheet of handmade paper with many lines of calligraphy. As she watched him, he traced the first line with his finger without touching it and then the second line. Slowly he smiled.

  She hated to break his reverie, but her curiosity got the better of her. “Is that my father’s work?”

  “Yes. He was going to exhibit some new pieces at the show I mentioned.” He turned toward her. “The chandelier makes the drops of condensation sparkle. What a shame to smear them, but it has to be done.” He took the bottle and held it to his forehead. “Ahhh! This is almost as refreshing as drinking it.”

  “Who would have thought we would get so warm on such a chilly evening?”

  “Chilly?” He shook his head. “This is warm for coastal California.” He still sweated from their labor.

  She grimaced. “I hate to think what winter evenings will be like here. I haven’t gotten used to the chilly summers yet.” She left again for the kitchen, where she took the food out of Lily’s containers and put it on dinner plates. She set them on the dinner table and returned for a third and last time with a tray on which she’d put cloth napkins, more glasses, and a pitcher of ice tea.

  David whistled. “I should have worn a dressier t-shirt.”

  Leonie laughed. “You look fine.” She winked. There was no harm in building him up a bit to counter his parents’ contempt. “Mighty fine.”

  He shivered and stuck his hands in his pockets. Then he pulled them back out. “Don’t flatter me too much. I might break into song about how I’m too sexy for this tablecloth.”

  Leonie chuckled. “I’d rather hear about your art.”

  David grinned. The tension in the room disappeared like clothes flying off a clothesline during a tropical storm. He pulled out her chair for her. As she sat, his hand brushed against her hair, then her shoulder. Did he do that on purpose? She hoped so. It felt good.

  “Thanks for bringing food,” she said. “It looks amazing.”

  “Yeah!” He stared at his plate with big eyes. “All I asked Lily was to throw together a simple box dinner.”

  “She went far beyond that.” The plates before them held sandwiches of turkey breast and fresh tomatoes on wheat bread, black-bean salad, and Persian cucumber halves with a spiced yogurt dip. Leonie had set the two crème brûlées in tiny fluted ceramic dishes piled with fresh raspberries toward the middle of the table for dessert. Saliva turned her voice sultry. “I’m in awe.”

  He cleared his throat. “No big deal. I was glad to help you out, and she was glad to help me out.”

  Leonie poured herself a glass of tea, picked up her sandwich, and leaned toward him, her eyes mischievous. “So do you actually like art, or do you just get the t-shirts?”

  He grinned at her banter and responded in kind. “Just shirts. My friends know when they go to a museum or gallery opening, they should bring me back a t-shirt. Sometimes, though, they try to be funny. I have a box under my bed full of t-shirts that say, ‘My friend went to such-and-such and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.’”

  “Touché.” A grin flitted across her face. “Seriously, I do want to hear about your art.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not just being polite. I’ve drooled over your works since I got here.”

  He blushed and ducked his head in embarrassment. “Where should I start?”

  “How about where you want your art to go?”

  His smile grew even bigger, and his eyes glowed. “I’d love to be like your dad and have a little shop where I sold things close to my heart. Not pens, of course, but my own art and perhaps friends’ art.”

  “I met a photographer at the Honey Bee and commissioned some postcards and prints. They’ve been good sellers for the store and bring people in. Some then buy other things.”

  He nodded like crazy. “Yeah, I did notice the postcards. That’s similar to what I had in mind. Good pieces of art enhance each other.”

  She leaned toward him, eager to hear more. “Do you create anything besides enamelwork?”

  “Not much anymore. Some of my musician friends had to try many instruments before they found their soul-mate instrument or instruments, and like them, I had to try many media. I’ve settled on cloisonné and other enamelwork, although I still do some stained glass.”

  “Isn’t it funny? All the light outside one takes for granted, but go in a building, and the light defines it.”

  “Exactly! We’re on the same wavelength.” He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “That’s why I started making stained glass and why I can’t stop.”

  “No reason to when it gives you joy. Where else do you sell your work?”

  David’s smile became forced, almost a grimace. She had touched a nerve without meaning to. With that expression, he could pose for a sculptor of gargoyles.

&n
bsp; “I make the craft show circuit on the West Coast every year. People gush over my pieces but…” He trailed off.

  “But you don’t sell much at craft shows? And you’re not in any other stores?”

  “Right.” He hunched over his plate and forked bean salad into his mouth.

  Jake probably invited him to put some enamelwork here in the shop rather than David asking to do so. “It’s a common problem of artists, not knowing where to sell their works. I encountered it all the time when I worked in marketing.” She spoke matter-of-factly to reduce his embarrassment. “I met many people with art, writing, and music degrees who weren’t taught anything about business in their majors. It’s no wonder artists often don’t know how to profit from their art.”

  He ate several more forkfuls of bean salad and then slowly looked up at her. “You said that so nicely. My parents would berate me for hours if I admitted to them what I just told you.”

  She leaned against the chair back and stared at his face for hints he was making a bad joke, but saw none. She opened and shut her mouth several times, changing her mind about what to say. So much she wanted to criticize his parents. But it would not be polite. She struggled to think of something helpful and supportive.

  “If artistic talent and business sense always went together, I would not have had any clients. With advice and guidance, artists can learn business sense and increase their skill. Talent by itself is almost never enough.”

  The tightness left his shoulders, and he straightened up. He pulled a crust off the edge of sandwich and nibbled it while apparently thinking. “I should have talked to the other artists at the craft shows about making money instead of making art, huh?”

  “It might not have helped. In my experience, most people at such shows aren’t making a living from their art. And that’s what you want to do, right?”

  “Yes! No question.” He swallowed the rest of his crust. “Delivering packages pays the rents for my studio and my attic room at Mrs. Millhouse’s, but it’s not my passion. I’ll do whatever it takes to succeed as an artist. Once I find out what that is.” David’s speech was rough, loud, rushed. It grated on her ears like out-of-tune bells. The tips of his ears reddened.