“Enjoy your rest,” she said.
“Thanks.” He turned to walk back to Southern Comfort, but after taking only two steps, he turned around. “I meant what I said.”
She raised her brows. “Specifically what? You said a lot of things.”
“Yeah. And meant all of them. But mostly that I think I might like you. A little.”
“And I meant all the stuff I said, too. But mostly that I think you’re annoying. And that there’ll be no more kissing.”
His lips twitched, damn him, as if he didn’t believe her. “Whatever you say, princess.”
With that he turned and walked around the hedge, Godiva trotting after him.
Jamie drew a deep breath. Thank God he was gone. She touched her fingers to her kiss-swollen lips.
Gone … but definitely, and unfortunately, not forgotten.
Chapter 10
The following morning, at precisely oh five hundred hours, Jamie began her Kill Melvin With Kindness campaign and climbed the stairs to Gone Fishin’ bearing a carafe of freshly brewed coffee and a platter of her favorite frosted sugar cookies. Jeez, it was dark—like the freakin’ middle of the night. Which it pretty much was. Who the heck ate breakfast at this time of day? Obviously people who had lights out at twenty-one hundred hours, which, thanks to Google, she’d discovered was nine P.M. Who the heck went to bed at nine o’clock? Obviously people who woke up at five A.M.
She was about to knock when the wooden door suddenly opened and Melvin glared at her through the screen door. “Newman. What do you want?”
Reminding herself that the emphasis was on kindness rather than kill, Jamie smiled. “Since I missed breakfast beverage time the day we met, I thought I’d stop by this morning with some coffee. I also baked some cookies.”
His gaze shot to the platter she held. She thought she detected a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it was so darn dark she couldn’t be certain. Then he looked at her with a fierce frown. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, young lady. Trying to butter me up over these newfangled ideas of yours regarding the Clam Queen contest before tonight’s meeting. Well, it won’t work. I’ve lived on this island longer than you’ve been alive and things are just fine as they are.”
Wow—word did travel fast. “I’m sure they are,” Jamie agreed. “So … I guess that means you’re not interested in a cup of coffee and these cookies I baked while looking over the revenue projections I worked up.” The printouts of which were conveniently in her shorts pocket. She lifted the platter of puffy, gorgeous, fragrant cookies so it was right beneath his nose.
His nostrils twitched, then his brows collapsed even farther. “I normally eat an egg-white omelet and Bran Buds for breakfast. Cookies aren’t a breakfast food.”
“I have to disagree with you, Mr. Tibbs. According to my grandfather, who is retired military, cookies are the best breakfast in the world.”
His eyes narrowed. “Retired military, you say? Must have been in the Air Force if he liked cookies for breakfast.”
“No, sir. Army. Infantry officer.”
Jamie caught a definite gleam of interest in his eyes before he masked it. He seemed to conduct a brief internal debate, then said brusquely, “No sense in cookies going to waste. Come in.”
Ah, the power of cookies.
Jamie stepped into Melvin’s kitchen and the first word that hit her was stark. If she hadn’t already pegged him as a military man, the sight of his home would have instantly done so. The interior was laid out exactly the same as Paradise Lost, but Melvin’s house was pristinely clean and neat and as austere as an army barracks. Bare beige walls, plain blue sofa and chair, TV, coffee table. The only decoration was an American flag displayed in a triangular wood and glass case, set on top of a narrow bookcase.
Jamie set the carafe and the plate of cookies on the counter. As Melvin took two mugs from a cabinet and poured the coffee, she wandered into the living area to look at the bookcase, which contained a variety of military thrillers and biographies of famous army generals. And a single framed photograph. Of a young Melvin wearing his dress military uniform and an attractive, smiling brunette on what was obviously their wedding day.
“Your wife?” Jamie asked, studying the photo.
“Yes.”
“She’s lovely.”
“Yes, she was.” He set a container of half-and-half on the counter. “Died seventeen years ago.”
Jamie turned back toward him and noted the muscle that ticked in his jaw. “The summer before we were married, she won the Clam Queen title.”
Her heart squeezed, and with that single gruffly spoken sentence, she realized that Melvin had adored his wife. And that the reason he so adamantly didn’t want the contest changed was because she’d once won it. Her gaze scanned his unadorned home. She also realized he was very, very lonely—and probably didn’t even realize it. Or, if he did, wasn’t about to admit it.
She offered him a smile. “Let’s have some cookies and talk.”
“I think that ornery old coot Melvin must be sick or something,” Dorothy whispered to Jamie. They stood in Dorothy’s kitchen, cutting thick slabs of the carrot cake Jamie had baked to serve at the conclusion of the clam meeting. “He didn’t say boo when you put forth your suggestion about adding additional categories to the Clam Contest and he actually voted in favor of them!”
“I’m not deaf, you know,” came Melvin’s gruff voice from directly behind Dorothy.
Dorothy whirled around and pressed a hand to her heart. “You scared the bejeesus out of me, Melvin Tibbs.”
“That’s what you get for gossiping about people behind their backs,” Melvin said with a glare.
Dorothy drew herself up and glared right back at him. “I wasn’t gossiping. I merely expressed surprise that you didn’t put up a stink about changing the Clam Queen contest.”
“That’s because we’re not changing it—we’re adding to it.” He nodded toward Jamie but kept his gaze on Dorothy. “Newman here put together a clear, concise report containing all the pertinent facts, including the financial advantages for Seaside Cove, of which there are many. I may be ornery but I’m not stupid.” He swiped up a plate of cake, grabbed a plastic spoon, then strode back into the living area much like a conquering hero onto a battlefield.
“Well, if that don’t beat all,” Dorothy said, staring after him. “That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard from that man.”
Jamie pressed her lips together to hide her smile. “Maybe you’ve misjudged him. Maybe he’s just … lonely.”
Dorothy’s head swiveled back and she stared at Jamie with a comical slack-jawed expression. “How many Mojitos did you drink?”
Jamie laughed. “Only one. You told me you thought Nick was lonely. Why is it so difficult to believe that a man whose wife died seventeen years ago might also be lonely?”
Dorothy’s brows collapsed in a frown and her jaw sawed back and forth several times. Finally she said, “I guess it’s not completely farfetched.” Her gaze strayed into the living area, where Melvin sat by himself in the corner eating his cake while the other committee members congregated in small groups, laughing and talking.
“Looks like he might need another piece of cake,” Dorothy said. “We have plenty left.”
“And it shouldn’t go to waste,” Jamie agreed.
She took a big bite of cake to hide her smile as Dorothy headed across the room bearing two plates of cake.
Chapter 11
“What’s that delicious smell?” asked Jamie’s mom as she entered the living area from her bedroom and walked toward the kitchen.
Jamie immediately tensed.
In the two weeks since her mom had arrived at Paradise Lost, they hadn’t seen very much of each other as Mom had spent most of her time in her room sleeping. When she was awake, she alternated between crying, barfing, and nibbling crackers—while crying. According to her doctor the barfing, while exhausting and unpleasant, was not abnormal, and Mom
insisted a lot of the weeping sprang from rampant hormone upheavals rather than sadness. Still, Jamie knew her mom was distraught and confused, and it both saddened and worried her to see her normally vivacious, energetic, and smiling mother so wan and listless.
Yet, Jamie couldn’t deny she’d also been avoiding her mom, so the fact that all she wanted to do was sleep was good. Because on the occasions they had talked, the conversation had always ended up with her mother once again asking, “What would you do?” or the similar but even worse, “What should I do?” or pressuring Jamie to return to New York sooner than she’d planned. Her mother had also complained about the changes to Newman’s décor and menu Jamie wanted, insisting, as always, that everything at the restaurant remain the same as when Jamie’s dad was alive. Jamie didn’t want to upset her mother, especially now that she was pregnant, but those conversations made her want to run screaming from the room.
She prayed that this encounter wouldn’t result in another blood-pressure-raising, stress-filled chat.
“Garlic bread, which is warming in the oven, and also fresh herbs for a pasta sauce I’m making up as I go,” Jamie said. She set aside the basil she’d been chopping and wiped her hands on her apron. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” Mom said. She rested her hands on her still flat stomach and actually smiled. “Given the … eclectic furniture here, my bed is surprisingly comfortable.”
Jamie took her by the shoulders and nodded, relieved. “You look better. Rested.”
“I should hope so,” her mother said with a rueful chuckle. “I’ve done nothing but sleep the entire time I’ve been here.”
“Not true. You’ve also barfed and cried a lot.”
“Believe it or not, I haven’t barfed since this morning. I haven’t been as successful with the crying, but I’m trying. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Jamie.”
“I haven’t done anything except brew you endless cups of decaf and watch you sleep.”
“And barf and cry. But you’re going to see me eat tonight because I’m starving.”
“Excellent. I was planning to make linguini and shrimp, but I can cook something else.”
“Don’t you dare. That sounds like heaven. What can I do to help?”
“Feel like dicing some tomatoes?”
“Absolutely.”
The area was small, and since Jamie and her mom had stopped sharing a kitchen when Jamie moved into her own apartment four years ago, some butt bumping ensued.
Jamie pulled out a dented frying pan from one of the lower cabinets and sighed. “I wish I had my own cookware here. Did I tell you I got that set of All-Clad I’ve coveted forever?” she asked, hoping to keep the conversation from drifting to Newman’s or pregnancy.
“No! Did you find it on sale?”
Jamie shook her head. “It was a gift. From Raymond. He gave it to me two days before I found out about him and Laurel. If I believed he possessed a conscience, I’d say the All-Clad was a guilt gift, but I think it just stemmed from him expecting perfectly cooked meals. If it wasn’t the most magnificent set of pots and pans on the planet, I’d have thrown it in the trash.”
“But hopefully not before hitting him in the head with it.” Mom set a plum tomato on her cutting board and whacked off the end with a single stroke of the knife. “Cheating asshole.”
A quick laugh escaped Jamie. Her mom might be drama-prone, but she was unfailingly loyal. “Well said. As for hitting him in the head—soooo tempting. But not only would I not want to dent those glorious pans, Raymond’s not worth going to jail over for assault and battery.”
“Honey, there’s not a jury in the world that would convict you. In fact, you’d probably be awarded a metal.”
“Well, he’s Laurel’s problem now.” The knife of betrayal stabbed her between the shoulders at the thought. “They deserve each other.”
“It just proves that money can’t buy the things that really matter. Like integrity.”
“Or loyalty,” Jamie said, setting out another cutting board to mince the shallots and garlic she’d peeled before her mom came into the kitchen.
Mom attacked another tomato with the precision of a surgeon. “Raymond may travel in the same wealthy circles as Laurel, but neither of them know the true value of friendship or family or decency.”
“And neither of them can cook worth a damn,” Jamie added.
“Because they have cooks who do it for them. Where’s the fun in that?”
“Beats me,” said Jamie. “I can’t imagine always letting someone else prepare my meals. How are the tomatoes coming?”
“I’m finished. What else do we need?”
“Lime zest.”
“I’m on it. What’s in this sauce you’re making?” Mom asked, plucking a plump lime from the bowl on the counter.
“It started as a basic scampi, but I’m using lime instead of lemon, then adding those gorgeous tomatoes you chopped—which are from my new friend Megan’s garden by the way—and a load of fresh herbs I found on my trek to the supermarket this morning. Who knew the Piggly Wiggly would carry such a great assortment of herbs?”
“The shrimp are beautiful,” Mom said, looking them over where Jamie had set them on paper towels to dry after she’d peeled and cleaned them. “Did you get those at the Piggly Wiggly, too?”
“No. Believe it or not, I bought them from a man on the side of the road. Dorothy Ernst—she’s the lady on the Clam Committee who lives across the street—told me about him. His name is Captain Pete and he goes shrimping six days a week. Then he sets up his little stand on the side of the road and sells his catch from his cooler. When he’s sold out, he goes home. Dorothy and most everyone else at the meeting have been buying from Captain Pete for years and they swear his shrimp are the most delicious they’ve ever eaten.”
Mom shook her head. “Shrimp from a cooler on the side of the road. We’re not in Manhattan anymore.”
“No kidding,” Jamie said, rinsing the bunches of flat-leaf parsley, watercress, chives, and mint leaves she planned to use for her sauce. “The fact that the words ‘clam committee’ have become part of my everyday vocabulary and that I’m on that committee continues to surprise me. As does the fact that they liked my ideas for expanding the Clam Queen contest—and guess what—I’m now in charge of implementing those ideas. Me and my big mouth.”
“You don’t want to do it?”
Jamie frowned. “It’s not that, not really. It’s just being on a committee, involving myself with the activities and local residents, making new friends—actually wanting to fit in—I wasn’t expecting any of that. I came here thinking I’d spend my time mostly alone.” Hint, hint, Mom. “Walking the beach, reading, regrouping. Making decisions about myself and my future. It hasn’t quite worked out that way. But I guess I should have known to expect the unexpected the instant I saw that decapitated flamingo in the front yard.”
Her mom heaved a sigh, then turned and leaned her back against the counter. “I haven’t spoken to Alex in the last four days.”
Great. And here came the drama again.
“He’s called and left messages and texted every day,” Mom continued, “but I’ve avoided answering.”
“You can’t do that forever.”
“I know. But I simply haven’t been up to more of that last conversation. He pressured me to come home so we could talk things out in person, I said I wasn’t ready to return to New York, lather, rinse, repeat. He doesn’t understand that I need time and space to decide what I want, what’s best for everyone involved. Nothing was resolved and he wasn’t happy when we ended the conversation.”
Cupcake chose that moment to make her presence known with a series of loud meows and Jamie could have kissed her pet for the timely interruption. “That means, ‘Which one of you wenches whom I allow to live in my home and pamper me is going to serve my evening meal?’ ” Jamie explained.
Jamie scooped a can of wild salmon primavera with garden veggies into C
upcake’s bowl and her mother asked, “What do you need me to do next?”
“The water’s boiling, so if you’d add the pasta, I’ll sauté the shallots and garlic.”
They set about their tasks, and within mere seconds, a mouth-watering fragrance rose from the pan.
“That smells soooo good,” said her mother.
“Whoever thought up the combo of garlic and olive oil is a genius,” Jamie agreed. She added the shrimp to the sizzling pan, and said, “It was perfect timing that I arrived at Captain Pete’s roadside stand when I did. He was nearly sold out, and three more cars pulled in after me.”
Mom grinned. “You’re a lucky woman.”
“Given how beautiful these shrimp are, we’re both lucky.”
The shrimp cooked quickly, and once they were done Jamie slid them into a bowl and covered it to keep them warm. She was about to add another shot of olive oil and a pat of butter to the pan to make the sauce when a knock sounded on the kitchen door. She turned and stilled. Nick stood on the landing.
Nick—who she hadn’t spoken to since their kiss twelve (not that she was counting) days ago. And there was her mother, eyes aglow with curiosity.
And she’d just called herself lucky.
Apparently not so much.
Jamie stood nailed in place in front of the stove, bottle of olive oil gripped in one hand, frying pan in the other, while her avid eyeballs drank in the sight of Nick through the screen door. Rumpled hair, bedroom eyes, three-day stubble. And let’s not forget those lips that had all but kissed her into a lust-filled coma.
Although she had not spoken to him since that night, she’d known he’d once again mysteriously disappeared the morning after their kiss and then returned home from wherever he went four days ago because of all the hammering and saw buzzing going on at Southern Comfort. Not that she’d paid much attention. Heck no. She was ignoring him. Of course, it was pretty irritating to be ignoring someone who first wasn’t home, and then never left his house. Naturally the fact that he was irritating didn’t surprise her in the least. In fact, she’d hardly thought of him—except for those errant few (hundred) times. And even then it had been due only to all the construction-type racket going on over there. Definitely not because he’d blown her socks off with his kiss.
Summer at Seaside Cove Page 14