by Casey Dawes
While the tender pockets boiled, she poured a second cup of coffee, still ignoring the disaster around her. At the ding of the timer, she pulled out a few raviolis and shaved parmesan cheese over them.
She sat down with her bowl and began to eat.
The back door slammed open. “What the hell happened here?” Sarah’s voice shrieked.
“I made ravioli. Have some. They’re delicious.”
Chapter 23
Elizabeth stepped off the plane in Genoa the day after Christmas. As she navigated the hallways and lines of Italian customs, she kept repeating her mantra, “Heart and hands, heart and hands.”
In the days since the ravioli explosion in her kitchen, she’d looked at her life with new eyes. She realized she’d spent most it making up for a mistake she’d made as a teenager. Letting go of her self-imposed disappointment was going to be difficult, but she was determined to do it.
The coach, Carol, had helped her sort through a lot of her thinking. A week before Christmas, Carol had proudly announced that Elizabeth was done. Lara had never sued her. And, right before she got on the plane, the bank had called her to let her know her loan had been approved.
It was going to be a banner year.
The only thing causing her worry was Sarah who appeared to be tired all the time.
She pushed aside her concern and smiled when she saw Marcos standing on the other side of the custom’s gate, a bouquet of red roses in his hands. His eyes lit up when he spotted her. But when he turned to say something to the young woman next to him, Elizabeth’s steps faltered.
Marcos snaked through the crowd, the woman close behind him. When he reached Elizabeth, he pulled her into his arms and crushed his mouth on hers.
Heart and hands.
Elizabeth sent her nagging worry to the back of her mind and slipped into the kiss. Her tongue caressed his, absorbing the smokiness of coffee and lust. He increased his pressure and she drifted into a place where no one else existed.
A cleared throat interrupted their passion.
“Buone Natale!” Marcos said as he disengaged from her embrace. “This is my daughter, Gina.”
The young woman held out her hand. “Buone Natale, Elizabeth. My father has talked so much about you that I feel I already know you.” She turned to her father. “Give her the flowers, take her bags, and let’s go. You know Nana will be unhappy if we are late for lunch.”
The power of Nanas.
Marcos laughed and did as he’d been told.
Elizabeth smiled as he took her hand and led her out of the airport. It was going to be a beautiful Christmas holiday.
About the Author
Before I moved to Montana, I spent 16 years on the Central California Coast. My husband and I met there, discovered we liked wine-tasting and proceeded to write two books on the subject. Once we completed the first of these projects without any blood-letting, we figured it was safe to get married — at a winery, of course.
We also liked to take day trips in the region. In a small gift shop, tucked up a hill in Sausalito, I discovered The Lost Ravioli Recipes of Hoboken. Being a New Jersey native, the book intrigued me. So does the idea of making ravioli, but I haven’t ventured into that sphere of cooking yet. Should you want to take the plunge, the author of the book, Laura Schenone, has many informative YouTube videos.
Finally, if you’re curious about the fictional town of Costanoa, be sure to stop by my website (www.stories-about-love.com), to discover the real restaurants, shops and locations behind the California Romance Series.
I look forward to bringing you back to Costanoa again with my next book.
California Homecoming
Casey Dawes, author of California Sunset & California Wine
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Casey Dawes
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6980-0
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6980-7
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6981-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6981-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
To the men and women of our armed forces and first responders.
Thank you for all you sacrifice for us.
To the real-life Daisy, our neighbor’s golden retriever, who always greets us with enthusiasm.
Map © 2012 Pam B. Morris
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Brendon Freitas, former chief in prosthetic and sensory aids service at the Veteran’s Health Administration in Montana, who answered all my questions about what happens when an injured soldier comes home from war. Brendon Frietas also introduced me to the Fisher House Foundation (http://www.fisherhouse.org/), a group that helps recovering veterans and their families adjust to new realities.
Thanks to Skander Spies of Energetechs, Missoula, Montana for providing an amusing glimpse of how a romantic hero might put up sheetrock.
As always, thank you to my writing support team — Clare, Pam, Rachel, and Danica — and the beloved hero of my own life, Ken. He gives me the love I deserve and need every day of our lives together.
Chapter 1
Sarah Ladina turned the key and pushed open the oak door, her pulse quickening in anticipation. Stale smells of forgotten perfumes and long ago dinners wafted from the entrance hall. She crossed the threshold, shut the door behind her, and leaned against it.
Mine. This soon-to-be-inn is all mine.
She rubbed her hand on her stomach. Ours.
Cobwebs huddled in the high corners of the paneled entry and a screw sticking from the staircase newel told of a missing cap. Layers of dust added texture to the floor.
The work was also going to be all hers.
Her shoulders sank. What had she been thinking?
“If you want a job done right, do it yourself.” Other people aren’t dependable.
A bark from outside made her drop her bag of cleaning supplies, snacks, and tools on the floor. Cautiously, she opened the door.
A golden retriever sat on the porch, staring up at her, dark eyes pleading entry. The dog barked again, stood, nosed the door open, and walked in. He … or she … made a beeline for the front sitting room, circled, and laid down.
Great. A dog who thinks it owns the place.
Keeping a wide berth, she walked toward the dog. “Shoo,” she said. “Go home.”
The dog looked up at her, rolled over, and beat its tail against the floor.
Definitely a girl dog.
“Go! Ge
t out of here!” Sarah raised her voice. She did not need anything else to take care of.
The dog whined and thumped her tail harder.
Tires crunched the driveway gravel.
Sarah groaned, stomped to the door, and opened it wide.
The dog got off the floor, followed her, and sat down crowded close to her leg.
The heat of the retriever’s strong body against Sarah’s leg gave her courage, ready to face whoever was coming to call. Maybe I do need a dog. A single woman — correction: a single pregnant woman — might be at risk living alone.
She glared at the newcomer’s car, a black Jeep polished to a gleaming shine.
A tall man with broad shoulders emerged from the Jeep. His dark hair was clipped short and he stood with the rigid carriage of a soldier, an odd contrast to the banana slug T-shirt and shorts he wore. His right leg ended in a prosthetic below the knee.
How sad.
“Hello,” he said, his deep voice easily carrying across the distance between them. “Nice dog,” he added and walked toward her.
A rumble from the dog’s throat made her put her hand on its head. The soldier wasn’t a threat.
Yet.
The man reached out his hand. Automatically, she took it. “I’m Hunter Evans.”
Her cold hand was engulfed by his strong warmth.
“I’m Sarah.” She withdrew her hand. “What can I do for you?”
“I understand you just bought this place.”
She nodded. “Today.”
“Will you sell it to me?”
She almost laughed out loud. Is he serious? “No.” She stepped back to close the door. The dog stood.
Hunter didn’t move. “I’d really like to buy it.”
“It’s not for sale any more. I bought it.”
His green eyes glittered with determination. “I know, but you haven’t had time to get attached to it yet. I’ll give you ten percent more than you paid.”
Now she was getting irritated. Why couldn’t he accept “no” to meant “no” and move on? Typical male. “Why do you want it so badly?”
His lips went to a thin line. “My family used to own this house. I spent some of my best years here. After spending some time in the war … ” He gestured to his leg. “I was hoping to return to happier times.”
Her irritation fled. “I’m sorry, I really am, but no.” She wouldn’t give up her baby’s future for anyone, even a vet. “I wish you well, but this house is not for sale. I’m going to make it into an inn.”
“Interesting.” He took a piece of paper from his pocket and scribbled on it. “In case you change your mind.” He handed her the paper.
He gave her a mock salute, climbed into the Jeep, and drove off.
Sarah patted the dog, anticipation and regret tingling her nerves. Even with a bum leg, Hunter Evans exuded testosterone. He was the kind of man who could take the place of Rhett Butler, swooping up a reluctant Scarlett, and ascending the stairs to bed.
She shivered at the imagined touch of Hunter’s arms around her.
Stop that. He’s probably nothing like Rhett Butler.
She regarded the dog. “C’mon you.”
Shutting the door, she picked up her purse and supplies and headed off to the kitchen, the dog’s nails clicking on the floor behind her.
One thing she knew for sure. Hunter Evans was a damn good-looking man.
Too bad she’d sworn off the species.
Once they reached the kitchen, the dog wagged its tail, sat down, and peered up at her expectantly.
“What am I going to do with you?” Sarah asked. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed. “Hi, Mom.”
“How are you doing?” Elizabeth asked. “Is everything okay?”
Her mother was going to drive her crazy. Ever since Sarah had told Elizabeth she was pregnant, her mother had pinged between being furious that Sarah was throwing her life away and worrying about Sarah miscarrying like Elizabeth had done so many times.
“I’m fine. Healthy. Mom, stop worrying.”
“Um. Sure. Fine. Stop worrying about my unmarried pregnant daughter who just sank all her money into a rundown house. Sure. Okay. Whatever you want. Dinner should be ready around seven. I’ll see you then.” Her mother hung up the phone.
Elizabeth had flipped from worried to furious with the speed of a NASCAR racer.
Sighing, Sarah redialed.
“Mom, can you listen? I need some advice.”
“Oh. Okay.” Elizabeth’s voice brightened.
“It’s just … well … there’s this dog. It came in the door and won’t leave. Any idea who I should call?”
“SPCA. They’ll come get him, I think. Do you have the number?”
“They won’t kill her or anything, will they?”
“Well, I don’t know, Sarah. They try to place all their animals, but if an animal is there too long … ”
The silence lingered. Sarah looked down at the dog who regarded her steadily as if she knew her fate was being discussed.
Who could have abandoned such a beautiful animal?
“I’ll have to think about it,” Sarah said. “I’ll be home in time for dinner. See you then. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.”
Sarah hung up the phone. “C’mon you,” she said. “Let’s explore.”
She poured through the bag she’d brought with her. Unsure what she’d find upstairs in dark corners, she grabbed a flashlight. Time to find out what work lay ahead of her.
Even though the day had been unmarred by winter rain, the January light was fading. Sarah flicked on the light switch and a solitary bulb turned on. Shadows lingered in the corners — the Victorians had been cheap with their fixtures.
The dog thumped her tail, got up, and trailed Sarah up the stairs and into the main upstairs hallway. This time flipping a switch produced no light. Sarah turned on the flashlight, halfway expecting to see a mouse scurry along the baseboard.
Nothing but layers of dust and cobwebs.
She breathed out. Good cleaners and elbow grease would take care of those problems. Hard work would keep her from remembering the ugly scene with Rick when she’d told him about the baby — their baby.
The five upstairs bedrooms were passable. Once the inn was making money, she could redo the wallpaper and get rid of the bordello-like flocking on the walls. But for now, she could tell prospective guests they were having a true Victorian experience.
She chuckled. Good thing she’d started with hotel marketing classes at Davis.
A flash of melancholy washed over her, but she pushed it aside. There were things to do.
The last bedroom was the only one with a closet carved from the space. She’d have to find wardrobes for the other rooms. Peering into the small nook, she realized she’d need to get some kind of light fixture installed.
Her flashlight beam caught on a box tucked back on a shelf. Curious. The rest of the house had been empty.
Using the tips of her fingers she nudged the box to see how heavy it was.
She wasn’t going to be able to get it down without a stepstool.
The twinge in her side caught her unaware and she bent double, her breath leaving her as if someone had punched her in the gut.
As quickly as the pain had come, it passed.
Had she imagined it?
No.
She pushed back the tears. Keep thinking positive thoughts and everything will be okay.
Won’t it?
The dog pawed at Sarah’s foot, as if she knew something was wrong.
Sarah smiled weakly at the animal. “Maybe I should keep you,” she said, still short of breath. “But you need to behave or it’s off to the pound with you,” sh
e said, knowing it was a step she’d never take. “And you’re going to need a name.” She glanced at the bedroom wallpaper. Rose didn’t seem right.
“I think I’ll call you Daisy,” she said and patted the dog on the head.
Daisy’s tail thumped.
“Time to call it a day.” Sarah started back down the hall. “Let’s go face the music.”
• • •
After he left his former home, Hunter drove aimlessly south on Highway One.
Future inn. Ugh.
The thought of the future innkeeper made him smile. Her wiry toughness was covered by a soft petite frame, luminescent eyes, and gleaming chestnut hair. Boy, would he like to wrap his hands in that hair and find out what kissing her would be like.
Eucalyptus trees whipping by the side of the road made him glance at the speedometer. Immediately, he eased off the gas. He wasn’t in the desert anymore; he actually had to obey the laws instead of enforcing them with the military might of the U.S. Marines.
He had no right to be attracted to another woman. He still hadn’t completed his penance for getting Lauren killed. No matter what the shrink said, Hunter knew his inattention was to blame for her death.
He pushed away all thoughts of women — past and present.
The day gleamed in a way his soul never would again. He should focus on the natural beauty of the bay. Ignoring the camouflaged paintball store at the curve of the road by the Bennet Slough, he concentrated on the egrets and herons stalking the wetlands.
His stomach grumbled. Moss Landing, the small town up ahead, was a good place to stop for something to eat and figure out his next moves. He needed a job and a place to live.
As he turned off the highway by The Whole Enchilada, he caught a glimpse of otters in the cove and pulled over to watch. The flop of their webbed feet as they rolled and dove in the water whispered boyhood memories of carefree afternoons on the Santa Cruz shores.