The Kiss on Castle Road (A Lavender Island Novel)

by Lauren Christopher

  Doris whipped out an impressively new phone from her oversized leopard purse and texted with both thumbs like some kind of teenager. “Done!” She threw the phone back into the cavernous purse. “Now, let me buy you this book. Marie, I’ll buy you one, too.”

  Doris whirled toward the counter and began marching forward with the two books tucked into the crook of her arm.

  “Doris, really, that’s not necessary,” Natalie called.

  “Nonsense! My treat. Now, you go do your shopping, and this book will be waiting for you up at the counter. Have a great day, dear.”

  She and Marie left the aisle in a swirl of Shalimar and Jean Nate.

  Natalie wandered up the sidewalk to the Casas del Sur, feeling as if she were heading into some kind of Hollywood movie gala. The luxury apartment building was high on a hill, at the very southeastern tip of Lavender Island, and boasted an incredible view of the ocean. A long red carpet led up a flagstone porte cochere, all ringed with palm trees. Inside was a three-story, metal-and-glass lobby.

  Natalie approached the glass-fronted reception desk. “I’m looking for”—she glanced at the paper Doris had handed her—“Mr. Stegner,” she told the receptionist.

  Once buzzed back, Natalie shook hands with Steve Stegner. He was middle-aged, rather plump, prematurely balding, with a host of gold-rimmed picture frames on his desk featuring a pretty wife and four blond, smiling, elementary-aged children.

  “Doris said you’d be perfect for this role,” he said, sitting back at his desk. “She seems to think you’d be great for the rescue center tours. Or the marina. Or Zumba. Or any of our activities. We do a lot of picnics on the beach, tide-pool visits, that kind of thing. Do you have any experience?”

  Having changed jobs at least three times a year for as long as she could remember, Natalie always knew the answer to this question.

  “I’m a fast learner, and eager to expand my experience into new fields.”

  Steve Stegner looked at her over the top of his glasses. Apparently, he could see a line of BS coming a mile away. “Well, Doris highly recommends you, so I’ll go with her gut. This is a part-time job, with mornings preferred. The seniors like doing their activities primarily before noon. What’s your availability?”

  “I’m available from eight thirty, after I drop my niece off at school, until two, when she gets out.”

  “Perfect.” He reached behind him and grabbed an application off his desk. “Fill this out, and we’ll get you started.”

  By eight that night, Natalie had a second job, a month-to-month phone plan, a phone in her hand after an hour-long negotiation with the eyes-on-her-breasts kid back at the phone store, and a DVD for how to Zumba. She tucked her purchases back into her tote bag in the pleather-lined booth of the Shore Thing bar and lifted the laminated menu between her and Paige.

  “You look like Donna Summer gone wrong,” Paige said.

  “You look like Richard Simmons gone wrong,” Natalie said.

  They both smiled through the dim lighting, casting giggling glances at each other over the tops of their menus. Paige wore a bright-yellow afro wig and Natalie’s was hot pink. The wigs were for 1970s Night, which Olivia had somehow talked Paige and Natalie into, right after she talked them into standing in for her and Jon on their dart league. Paige had capped her look off with blue-shaded John Lennon glasses sitting on the edge of her nose, and Natalie wore heart-shaped wire-rimmed ones with pink shades.

  “Your ass looks amazing in those bell-bottoms, though,” Paige said. “You should walk around the bar more. Besides, Olivia wanted you to meet Tag.” Paige looked over her shoulder. “I hope he’s coming tonight.”

  “I don’t want to be set up, Paige.”

  “Not a setup. Just a meet.”

  “No men. I’m just here to play darts. Let’s focus on the game.”

  “I’m sorry, by the way, for teasing you about your mancation. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’ve just never known you to be without a guy. Maybe I’m just jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Natalie laughed. “You definitely don’t need to be jealous of me.”

  “Well, we don’t need to do the bet.”

  “No, I’m good for the bet.”

  “It’s okay. It’s not right.”

  “What’s not right?”

  Paige suddenly seemed to find the menu unduly interesting.

  A slow heat moved up Natalie’s face. “You’re thinking it’s not right that you take my three hundred and fifty dollars, aren’t you?”

  “I know you don’t have much money right now.”

  “I’m not going to lose!” Natalie sat back in the booth. Wow. Her sisters really had no faith in her.

  “Of course. But we don’t have to—”

  “Paige, stop! This is nonsense. I wouldn’t have made the bet if I didn’t think I would either win it or be good for it. The bet’s on. End of discussion.”

  Paige shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “Now let’s talk darts. Or you can help me with this phone. What is this thing?”

  Paige took the phone out of Natalie’s hand to see what she was pointing at.

  Although Paige could be critical of Natalie’s dating decisions, she never criticized her intelligence, which Natalie always appreciated. As smart as Paige was, she always made Natalie feel smart, too, and called her the “brains of the family.” They all seemed disappointed that she’d never extended her education like Paige and Olivia had. But Natalie had wanted to get on with her life—not spend another four long years learning about it.

  “Here are your gimlets, extra lime,” the waitress said.

  “Thanks, Cynthia,” Paige said. “Are Cody and Tom playing tonight?”

  “No, I think they had business on the mainland they both had to attend to.”

  “Cool.” Paige sipped her drink. “Olivia said they’re our toughest competition.” She grinned at Natalie over the rims of her blue-shaded glasses.

  “So do you want your usual?” Cynthia asked.

  “Yep. Double everything, though. My sister eats a lot.” Paige tucked the menu back into the holder.

  Several of Olivia’s friends seemed to know they’d be there and came over to their table to introduce themselves and say hello. Tag wasn’t one of them, much to Natalie’s relief. She knew Olivia was trying to set her up with friends to lure her out here—trying to show off how awesome Lavender Island was and get Natalie immersed in her community and lifestyle. And maybe lure Paige out here, too. But Natalie didn’t want to be lured. She didn’t want to settle down. Especially not on an island—she didn’t like the idea of everyone knowing everyone else’s business. It all sounded so suffocating.

  When the last friend left, Paige leaned over the table. “Tell me about this new job.”

  While Natalie explained it, their appetizers came, and they both dove in as Natalie finished her story about all the famous people who apparently lived at Casas del Sur. When Steve Stegner had given her the tour, he’d told her that four previous Rose Parade chairmen lived there, a former Los Angeles Rams owner, a trumpeter from Les Brown and His Band of Renown, the woman who’d invented the No Lines girdle in 1960, and two former state senators.

  “How fun,” Paige said. “Sounds like it could be a great opportunity for you.”

  “I’m not looking for ‘opportunity.’ I’m just looking to make a little money while I’m here.”

  Paige’s eyebrow lifted.

  Clearly Paige wanted to say something about that, but Natalie avoided asking and sipped her cocktail instead. The 1970s jukebox in the corner fired up—Joe Jackson’s “Is She Really Going Out with Him?”—and Paige’s silence lengthened. Finally, Natalie couldn’t stand it any longer. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did you want to say?”

  “Nothing.”

/>   “Yes, you did. Tell me.”

  Paige gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’m just thinking that maybe that’s what you’re missing. You’re missing the opportunities that are floating in front of you. You’re so focused on avoiding boredom and staying in motion that you’re missing some wonderful possibilities that could pan out if you just threw some energy behind them.”

  “I don’t want a lecture, Paige.”

  “You wanted me to tell you!”

  They both shook their heads and sipped their drinks at the same time. It was their long-standing argument. Paige the workaholic and Natalie, who avoided sticking around.

  After a few seconds of sulking, they both smiled at each other, which was their way: quick to snap, but quick to forgive. Paige leaned forward and ducked her head conspiratorially. “Speaking of opportunity, I wonder if that’s the rest of the dart league.”

  Natalie turned to see the most recent crowd pushing through the bar doors, then sucked in her breath a little when she saw Dr. Nerd himself. Arriving with another pretty blonde.

  Elliott made his way across the terracotta tiles of the Shore Thing bar, to the scent of hearty beer and the loud strains of Joe Jackson on the jukebox, hesitantly guiding Lynne at the small of her back. She’d told him right away—when he’d met her on the sidewalk—that she didn’t like to be touched, so he moved his hand away as soon as he remembered and glanced through the dim lighting.

  He frowned at the strange sea of tie-dye and adjusted his glasses, which he’d worn tonight instead of the contacts, despite Nell’s warning. Those contacts were killing him. Lynne would just have to deal.

  They shuffled past a white-leisure-suited John Travolta look-alike and a woman dressed as Elvis in the Aloha from Hawaii special, and Elliott frowned again, desperately searching for a table. He was still confused about why Lynne had wanted to come here. When Nell had told him the date was set up for the Shore Thing, he’d tried to change that plan. The Shore Thing was fun and all—he’d been there exactly twice, both times with Jim for a quick after-work beer—but it was a bar, not a restaurant, and he’d thought first dates should probably happen in a restaurant, right? Nell had argued that first dates were wherever the woman wanted. Elliott had just shrugged and said, “Let’s get it over with then.”

  “There’s a booth over here,” he said to Lynne, resisting the urge to guide her again.

  Lynne was aggressively pretty, with carefully lined red lips and heavily black-lashed eyes. She looked a bit too pretty, actually, and he had a moment of disbelief that Nell thought she was right for him. Plus, she seemed a little too much into primping. She’d already checked her purse mirror three times, and they weren’t even at their booth yet.

  She looked around before she slid in, then frowned at the sticky tabletop, lifting her elbows off the brown table and tucking them into the sides of her sundress. Her dress was attractive—it gave him a nice glimpse of her shoulders; a pretty, tanned collarbone; and even a tiny bit of cleavage where her top began to dip. He waited for the little surge of lust that normally accompanied such a view, but for some reason it wasn’t happening here. Maybe he just needed more time. Maybe if he got to know her first . . .

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go to Figaro’s?” he shouted.

  “No, that’s okay,” she said.

  He looked around at the crazily dressed patrons. “You think it’s sixties night or something?”

  “Seventies,” she said.

  Of course. He reassessed some of the costumes. “Maybe we should have dressed up.”

  “It might have helped,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and pulled her phone out of her purse, scrolling through a few messages. It struck Elliott as rude, but he decided not to say anything. Maybe it was an emergency or something.

  He scanned the menu and let her finish her messaging, then tried to engage her on what sort of appetizers she might like. She delicately picked up a laminated menu from the chrome salt-and-pepper holder.

  He ordered a beer, and she ordered water, and he asked her a ton of questions about herself, but she gave him only brief answers, her eyes still darting around the bar.

  “Can you take off your glasses?” she suddenly asked.

  Elliott blinked back his surprise. “Take them off?”

  She nodded.

  “Why?”

  “Nell said you had pretty eyes.” She threw a little smile into that line that looked vaguely flirtatious.

  Elliott quickly removed his glasses and laid them on the table. He could barely see her now. But he thought she might still be smiling.

  “You do have pretty eyes,” she said. Or at least that’s what he thought she said. With both his hearing and vision impaired now, he suddenly felt flustered and wasn’t sure where to look next.

  “I’m going to run to the little girl’s room,” she announced. He thought she was holding up a finger.

  “Do you want me to order for you?” He squinted at the menu.

  “No, I’ll be right back.” She slid out of the booth before he could say anything else, dragging her huge purse behind her.

  A disco song lit up the jukebox—Gloria Gaynor, he identified—and the bartender grabbed a microphone and announced round one of a dart tournament.

  Elliott turned in his seat. He’d always liked darts. He shoved his glasses back on and watched the teams assemble. Eventually, he switched to the other side of the booth so he could have a better view.

  A hot-pink-wigged woman in bell-bottoms on the dart team captured his attention, and he found himself leaning forward at the table, staring at her stance as she practiced her aim. She had good form. And a good form. His eyes made a quick assessment of her shapely behind as she leaned over a bar stool and laughed lyrically at something one of the other players said. He didn’t stare at women often—his granddad had taught him to be respectful—but this one held his attention. Her joyful laugh, her confident movement, the way she didn’t seem flattered by the fact that every guy in the bar was checking her out—he found himself peering much too long over the top of his menu. Damn, he didn’t know what was happening to him here on Lavender Island. He was on a date, for God’s sake. With someone Nell thought was in his league.

  Stay focused, man . . .

  He tore his eyes away and scanned the menu again while he tried to think of what else to talk to Lynne about.

  A buzz on the booth seat caught his attention, and he glanced down to his left. It was Lynne’s phone. It must have fallen out of her purse. He didn’t mean to zero in on the screen, but the message flashed clear and blue: Hey, sorry he’s a loser. I’ll call you in five and you can make your excuses.

  Elliott blinked at the display a few times. He read it again. Then another time. Then, as realization slowly dawned, he moved back to his side of the booth and removed his glasses with a sense of defeat.

  When Lynne returned, she gave him a placating smile, then saw her phone.

  “Here it is! I thought I lost this.”

  She slid back into her seat to the sound of Rick Dees singing “Disco Duck” on the jukebox. She started to throw her phone into her purse when it buzzed in her hand.

  “Hello? . . . Oh no.” She glanced up at Elliott and gave an Oscar-worthy performance—complete with hand over her mouth.

  He pretended to study the menu.

  “I’m so sorry—that was work. It seems there’s a late thing I have to go in for.” She stood abruptly, dragging her bag up over the table, and knocked his glasses to the floor. They skidded to a halt right behind a huge crowd at the bar.

  He swung forward to pick them up, and she bent at the same time. The crowd at the bar moved back just an inch until the terrible sound of crunching glass somehow drifted through the disco-duck quacks.

  “I’m so sorr
y, Elliott!” She gave him a ridiculously exaggerated look of disappointment.

  He always had a hard time acting and couldn’t even come up with an appropriate expression of surprise. He simply nodded and collected the broken pieces of glass in his hand. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “No! No, that’s okay. You stay. The calamari is good here. I’ll catch you soon, okay? I’m so sorry about your glasses.” She was already on her way toward the door.

  He shuffled to the bar to enjoy the last of his beer and pay for it. He’d just sit for a minute, listen to this next song by Earth, Wind & Fire, and then find his way home and tackle some gene sequencing. At least the sea lions needed him.

  As he waited for the bartender to come by—studying his glasses to see if he could find a quick fix, trying to concentrate on how he’d expand his notes on the sequencing—his mind kept drifting to what he’d done wrong. He wasn’t cut out for dating. That was the bottom line. He wasn’t cut out for marriage either, truth be told. He couldn’t imagine giving all his attention to someone else when there was so much work to do. He should call Nell and just cancel this ridiculousness. These dates were excruciating for all parties involved.

  A figure to his left crowded him, and out of his peripheral vision, he caught sight of the hot-pink wig. It was the sexy woman in the bell-bottoms. She leaned over the bar, directly at his elbow, and asked for a gimlet. His body reacted to her before his brain could. He felt the heat from her polyester blouse, smelled a spicy scent from some kind of exotic perfume. His heart began pounding. He tried not to look directly at her and scooted away—why torture himself with reacting to gorgeous women when he couldn’t even make a date last? But she turned toward him ever so slightly and closed the gap between them just as he was trying to elongate it.

  “Whoever your matchmaker is, she’s doing a terrible job,” she said, her voice drifting toward his ear during a brief instrumental from Earth, Wind & Fire.

  He turned his head over his beer and—in disbelief—met the feisty brown eyes behind pink heart glasses that had been part of his dreams just last night.