Camille brightens. “For shopping?”
Holly nods. “Naturally.”
The girls say good-bye to Nigel, and file out. I linger a moment, and thank him for joining us. “You don’t mind us leaving you here alone, I hope.”
“Not at all, my dear. Enjoy every minute with your sisters.”
I turn to leave, and just as I reach the front door an inkling draws me to take one more look at my new friend and boss. He doesn’t notice me, though, because Peg stands over him, one crooked arm on her recently healed hip, her lips moving faster than one of those hammer-head rides at the county fair.
To dear Nigel’s credit, his face shows as placid as ever.
I’ve got to ask him to teach me how to do that.
SIMKA’S SHOP RESIDES IN a pink-stucco cottage off Main Street on Alabaster Lane. Unfortunately, and despite its eye-drawing color, it’s difficult to see because the road bends so that if you’re standing at one end and looking up, her shop’s tucked into the curve.
Inside, I immediately notice the smell. Oranges, cinnamon, and nutmeg permeate the place, as if we’d just walked into an out-of-the-oven winter pie. The second thing to stand out—and why I missed this I’ll never know—is color. Everywhere. Come to think of it, the colors remind me of an array of desserts of berry and citrus, pumpkin even. So maybe the whole aroma thing was not by accident.
“Hey, girl!” Holly waves at a woman whose deep-purple dress contrasts stunningly against her porcelain skin. “I brought you some fresh customers.”
“Hello, ladies. Welcome to Simka’s. How may I assist you today?”
Three index fingers turn my way. I twist my chin left, then right. “What? I don’t really need anything . . . I’m really just window shopping today. Camille’s the one who likes to shop.”
Holly puts both hands on my shoulders, and nudges me forward. “Tara needs some color. She has a date with Josh-u-a.” She draws out his name, her voice sounding both sultry and teasing.
Simka claps her hands together. “Oh how I love a mission! Let me see, let me see. Turn around now.”
I feel silly as I twirl.
Simka walks around me counterclockwise, one finger on her chin as all eyes in the room examine me like I’m an art project gone bad. “Why do you dress like a winter when you are clearly a summer?”
Camille rocks on her toes, obviously thrilled by the direction of this conversation. “Darn, I wish I had a pencil. I should take notes.”
Mel grabs a pad and pen from her purse and hands them to her. “Go crazy.” She turns to Simka. “Now I’ve always thought that with Tara’s fair coloring she should go with brighter colors. She always wears such—”she fingers my sleeve—“such blah clothing.”
“Ironically, if the palette she wears is too bright she will appear horribly dull.”
Mel laughs, and I glare at her.
Simka cuts back in. “I was referring to her skin tones. Tara needs colors to complement her beautiful but pale tones. Mellow, but not blah—like beige or ecru, which hardly anyone wears anymore anyway—and definitely not black.”
Both Mel and Simka run their gazes along the lines of my black pedal pushers, which until now I thought slimmed me down. Camille’s scribbling notes like I’m some sort of science experiment. She stops, rests the eraser end on her chin, then returns to her pencil scratching.
Simka roams the main showroom of the store gathering blouses, while the telltale sound of hanger metal chirps against display rods, then settles with a clink in her arms. Camille shadows her, and Holly trickles off to a scarf-laden room that probably once held a dining room set. Mel strolls around near me, her arms folded neatly.
She speaks quietly. “Funny. After your little announcement last night about going back, I’d never have guessed that you had a date set up with Mr. Wow. Maybe you’re not all that into him.”
I browse through a rack of camisoles too sheer for comfort. So much for the proper foundation Holly went on about. “Guess I’ve had a change of heart.”
“What’s he look like?”
I pause. “He’s strong. And tall. His hair’s usually messy, not like it’s uncombed, but like he’s just been out at the beach and only had time to give it a quick shake. Um, and he’s got eyes that I can’t explain exactly. Lots of color in them instead of just one. They’re flecked in fall colors, like a kaleidoscope.”
Mel stares at me, her shoulders taut and her arms still tightly crossed. “You make him sound positively perfect. You’re really into him, then.”
I shrug, unable to hide the hint of a smile. “Nobody’s perfect, Mel. There’s just something special about him, and he’s easy to talk to so that’s a plus. Please don’t make more of this than it is, though, okay? I’m kind of nervous.”
She softens her stance, her arms now loosely folded. “You’ll do fine. Dating takes practice, and you just haven’t had much of that. Might as well practice on this guy.”
I stare after her. What’s that supposed to mean?
“Here we go!” Simka’s arms hold a mountain of clothing. “I’ve chosen a plethora of outfits in hues to complement your skin, Tara. Simply a plethora! Lavenders and yellows, crisp whites and powder blues. And do not underestimate pink. Dusty pink, especially, would look marvelous on you.”
“There! You see?” I lift up one pinkly manicured foot and wave it for the whole room to see.
Camille’s nodding and writing. “Score one for Tara. When you’re right you’re right, big sis.”
I’m ushered to a dressing room that’s nothing more than a couple of curtains hung from the vaulted ceiling. But inside there’s a narrow upholstered chair that oozes elegance and comfort, and calls to me for a respite, reminding me just how much I detest trying on clothes. Is there anything worse than being forced to examine your body as strangers watch your feet from beneath a swath of fabric?
I puff out a long breath, and remind myself this is all for a good cause: my date with Josh. Eliza Carlton never passes up the chance to go on a good power shop, so I rally, and dig into the pile finding denim. Unfortunately I don’t share the world’s enthusiasm for jeans. Oh, I love the way they look on other people, but me? They sag or hang or don’t button. And the process of trying them on could put an otherwise positive soul into a deep, dark depression.
Instead I opt for a knee-length dress in silk, its fabric sliding over me like it’s butter and I’m toast. Shoving the curtain aside, I step out in my bare feet.
Simka’s nodding, Holly’s cooing, Camille’s bouncing on her toes, and Mel, dear Mel, wears an actual smile.
“Well?”
“That sunflower yellow is divine on you, simply divine!” Simka’s clapping her hands, encircling me. “Those braided straps, that high waist . . . it’s you.”
“Oh, it’s super feminine, Tara,” Camille says. “I love it on you.”
Holly steps closer. “You would look so good in jeans with a pretty top, Tara. Try on the jeans and maybe that lavender one.”
She’s so hopeful to find me in denim that I can’t let her down. Back behind the curtain, I rehang the dress, silently giddy to find something that looks that good on me. Never would have chosen that for myself. Never, ever. Still skeptical, I tug on the jeans, surprised by how easily they wear. With a shrug, I slip the lavender blouse on over my head, thankful that it doesn’t get stuck somewhere between my elbows and my head. Been there before, and let’s just say, it wasn’t pretty.
“Okay”—I step into the room—“this wouldn’t be my choice but—”
“Tara has a butt!” Camille’s giggling and bouncing again, declaring to the whole shop (thankfully we’re the only ones in it at the moment) that, yes, I can claim ownership of at least one curve.
Even Mel appears surprised. “Tara’s got her groove on all right. And look at your legs—they’re so long and lean.”
“It’s a miracle!” Camille is almost dancing. “I hope they teach me how to do that in school.”
I hol
d up both palms. “Okay, all right already. You’ve had your fun, let’s move on, shall we?”
Holly and Simka laugh, their heads together as they watch us. “Now try the blue blouse with those denims, Tara. It’s less billowy than the lavender, and I want your sisters to see how spectacular you’ll look with a little more skin and a lot more cling!” She shimmies her chest when she says that, and I hope she didn’t hurt herself. “And here.” She hands me a skin-colored lacey bra with underwire and padded cups. “You’ll want to give the fabric something divine to cling to!”
I step back into the makeshift dressing area, a strange mixture of hope and trepidation filling my mind. While the girls continue to hoot and chatter from just beyond the thin curtain, I can’t help but wonder who has higher expectations for my date with Josh. Me . . . or them?
Chapter Sixteen
Wind with an agenda greets the night, its gusts tossing the loose shutters over and over against our cottage’s outer walls. The racket unnerves me, rattling my already shaky emotions. It’s just a dinner date, and yet I’m drawn to this man whom I hardly know in a way that’s so very different from with Trent. Trent and I, well, we were compatible and comfortable, everything I’d always thought a good relationship should be. We’d come to expect certain things about each other, and those things—like Friday night dinners at the Dexton Café and Sunday afternoon bowling—were my weekly lifeline. Now as I think about the stirrings of anticipation over my date with Josh, I wonder if that old lifeline was actually a crutch.
I roll my shoulders and take another peek into the mirror. After much debate, the girls talked me into wearing the shapely and ubercomfortable denims I’d bought, despite the fact that I nearly fainted at the price. Suddenly it all became very clear: my bum never had a chance in bargain jeans. Although the girls rooted for the clingy blue halter, I opted instead for the sleeveless in lavender sateen. Hey, a girl’s got to know when to be decisive. That’s what Eliza always says. Besides, depending on how things go, that halter just may find its way out of my closet one day.
The bell rings and Mel answers the door. Josh’s tall frame fills the doorway as she backs up to let him in, and I step across the room, not quite used to the heels I borrowed from my younger sister. When Josh’s eyes light up, I’m won over—although truly, it would have taken much less than that.
“Hi. I’d like you to meet my sister, Mel.”
He offers her a hello, and she looks him over thoroughly. “You kids behave yourselves.”
He winks. “I’m not making any promises.” Both his mouth and eyes greet me with a smile. He leans close, as if intending to greet me with a kiss. My eyes flutter.
His voice is low, deep. “You look . . . you look incredible. Ready to go?”
I nod as he offers me his arm, and whisks me past the girls, down the steps, and quickly into his truck. In that brief moment, the wind undoes every bit of effort I’d given to my hair. The relaxed bun slides down the side of my head and hangs there in an unforgiving knot. As Josh slides into the driver’s seat, I work quickly to repair the damage.
He turns to me, his eyes watchful. Nerves have taken hold of my breath, and I can’t speak. “Here, let me help you.” With a quick and deft hand, he reaches past me, gently brushing my cheek with a warm touch. In one motion, he removes my clip, then carefully loosens the bound strands until they rest on my shoulders. The moment’s suspended, and Josh’s gaze travels over my face until he finds my eyes. “There.”
I lean against the seat, soaking in the newness of this sensation. Palm trees bow in the wind, and a swath of fuchsia jets across the evening sky. Josh’s voice folds into the silence.
“I haven’t seen you in over a week. Tell me what I’ve missed. Have you had a chance to tour the area much?”
“No, not really. Between my job at the inn and Mel’s arrival, there hasn’t been as much extra time as I’d thought. Oh, but I went to church on Sunday.”
He turns to me, his eyes finding mine before looking back to the road. “Coastal Christian?”
“Yes. Mikey introduced me to his mother and sister.”
Josh exhales. “His father wasn’t there?”
“No, he was sick, Mikey said.”
“Poor guy’s been battling an immune disorder. He’s been really sick lately.”
“He said it so nonchalantly. I had no idea his father was that ill.”
“It’s tough on the family, but they’re faithful.”
“That’s so good. He’s their husband and father, so of course they should stay faithful to him, no matter what.”
Josh rubs his chin with one hand, his other still securely on the steering wheel. He glances at me. “Loyalty has its place, but I just meant that they’re faithful to God, despite how bleak things have been for them.”
The truck slows as we turn into a parking lot just off the road that borders the sea. Josh’s comment about Mikey’s family stays with me, as we pull into a spot and he switches the engine off. Was Josh implying that going to church is a sure sign of someone’s faithfulness to God? Because if that were true, no one in the Sweet family would be considered faithful. I’ve never thought all that much about church or religion, but I’ve believed, ever since Daddy died, that he’s looking after all of us . . . from somewhere. I couldn’t stand to think otherwise.
Josh opens his door and holds it there while leaning toward me. “I’ll come around and get you.” As he makes a dash through the barreling wind for my side of the truck, I resolve to push aside anything that would dampen an otherwise enchanting evening.
Once inside Moonstones, I fluff my hair while we wait to be seated. Josh watches me, his gaze taking in my newly relaxed hairstyle. I haven’t worn my hair down in public in . . . well, I can’t recall the last time. Josh’s hand finds the small of my back as we follow the hostess to a row of booths on a raised platform for better views of the ocean. She seats us in the one farthest from the open walkway, and I make a mental note to thank her on the way out.
“Ah. Finally.” Josh rests against the seat back.
Despite the setting sun, we’re close enough to see whitecaps on the water. “What a beautiful view. You picked the perfect place—thank you.”
Josh takes a quick glance at the stunning sea and wrinkles his nose before turning his attention back to me. “It’s all right.”
“All right? It’s amazing! More beautiful than I imagined, and certainly more than I ever remembered.”
His wide grin gives him away.
“You’re teasing.”
He leans forward, leaning on crossed arms. When he looks up again at me, those eyes dancing, I think I might just melt into the booth. “So, tell me. What do you remember about Otter Bay, Miss Sweet?”
A busboy serves us water, and I take a sip, along with a cool breath. “So much, yet so little really. I remember my dad taking me to the tide pools, and my mom standing on the cliff—probably corralling Mel.” My laughter is light. “I’d hoped to find our old house, but it’s long gone. It looks like someone razed it, bought the lot next door, then built a mansion across both properties. Progress, I guess. But I still remember the feel of the street—that’s one of the reasons I was so excited by the location of our rental. We lived over on Pelican Place, and it’s got a similar incline to the one on Fogcatcher.”
“No family out here?”
I shake my head.
“Or old friends?”
I begin to shake my head again, but slow myself when I remember Burton, and unfortunately, Peg. Our waiter appears, ready to recite the heady list of specials of the night. “May I get you started with something from the bar?”
Josh gestures to me. “I’m happy with water for now. Thank you.”
Josh orders himself a Coke, and after our waiter leaves, it’s my turn for questions, and I opt to shift subjects. “Do you like fighting fires?”
“No one’s ever really asked me about it that way. People usually either treat me like a saint—or a pyromani
ac.” One corner of his mouth quirks when he smiles. “I’m kidding, but to answer your question, it’s a rush—facing fires head on. I don’t like the fact that danger happens, but I wouldn’t be doing this kind of work if I didn’t love it. Besides”—he gives me a teasing wink—“the uniform works for me.”
A picture forces its way into my mind. He’s bare-chested except for those thick-strapped fireman suspenders, grinning and camera-ready like he’s Mr. August. I laugh nervously. “I’d have to agree.”
“I like a woman who’s not afraid to be honest.”
“Are you ready to order?” Our waiter reappears, serves Josh his soda, and listens to our orders without writing down a thing, just like on Quartz Point. Who knew that in real life, waiters memorize orders? I’m beginning to think I’ve lived a sheltered life.
Menus gone, I lean forward. “I met Beth at your church last week.”
Josh glances away, ultimately making eye contact with his water glass, his mouth suddenly grim.
When he doesn’t respond, I continue. “It’s okay. Holly told me about the fire at Beth’s house and how you . . . saved her. I’ve never met a true hero before.”
Josh looks up. “I’m not a hero. I just followed my instincts, and thankfully, she got out.”
“Holly says you were the only one around, and if you hadn’t dashed into that house then . . . oh, the thought terrifies me. That baby could’ve lost his mother, but you—”I shake my head—“you changed the course.”
“I just did my job. Nothing heroic about it, just excellent timing. You’re right, though, that it could’ve been more tragic. Terribly. Not something any of us likes to think about.”
I straighten. “Sorry . . . I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories.”
His lips curl into a smile. “Getting back to you, there’s got to be someone around who lived here back when your family did. One of these days you’ll run into them, although chances are you’ve changed some.”
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