California Dreaming: Four Contemporary Romances

by Casey Dawes

  Was his life going to turn to be out any different from theirs in spite of his physical ability?

  He increased his pace, wet sand flying behind him.

  The salt-laden air filled his lungs, cleansing them further from the stale smells of hospitals and rehab facilities.

  He watched a seagull lift in flight, soaring against the wind in takeoff. Hunter longed to have that ultimate freedom, but running was as close as he was going to get.

  It would have to do.

  A few surfers off in the distance caught his eye. Unfortunately, he’d never be able to do that again. He’d been learning to surf in junior high school. Only in Santa Cruz could you get gym credits for surfing.

  At least he was in laid-back Santa Cruz. He’d dreamed of the beach town ever since his father had yanked the family out of the city when Hunter was fourteen. He’d never forgiven his father for the change.

  A sudden movement made him shy. Hunter’s adrenalin surged and he automatically reached for a weapon, before his therapy kicked in. He forced himself to examine his surroundings. Tiny clusters of snowy plovers played tag with the waves, a pelican dove beak-first into the waves, and a pair of dolphins crested the waves.

  His breathing slowed and he eased his pace. His muscles ached and he tired more easily than he had before the injury. The doctors had told him his physical abilities would improve over time.

  That’s how he tried to think of it — a simple injury. Just an accident that had cost more than he’d ever wanted to give.

  Right.

  Sweating, he reached the parking lot. Even in mid-January, the California coast could generate some heat. Today was the second in a string of perfect days the weatherman promised.

  Perfect except that Hunter had to figure out how to live. His mother wanted him to come home so she could baby him. The VA wanted him to go to job training.

  All Hunter wanted to do was get back to construction work. But construction work was hard enough to find if you had all your limbs. Hiring bosses took one look at him and shook their heads.

  So much for supporting veterans.

  Hunter toweled off, glanced at his watch, and got into the car. Just enough time to change before he went to see Joe. If Joe didn’t have something for him to do, Hunter would be stuck behind a desk for the rest of his life.

  He needed a job of some kind to get back to the living — and maybe go out on a date.

  He smiled as he pulled onto the highway, the image of a pixie-faced, chestnut haired girl clear in his mind.

  God he had it bad.

  • • •

  Hunter pulled up in front of the tiny bungalow a few blocks from Pleasure Point.

  The gate squeaked as he opened it and a pink plastic tricycle barricaded the middle of the sidewalk. He grinned as he walked through the obstacle course. Joe’s one-track mind had never had room for straightening up. His wife Mary wasn’t much better. Concentrating on her kids’ happiness was more important, she’d always claimed.

  He knocked on the peeling gray door and a preteen girl in purple pajamas immediately opened it.

  His best friend’s daughter launched herself at him.

  “Hunter!” she yelled.

  He hugged her small body close and set her down on the floor. She ran toward the back of the house yelling, “Hunter’s here! Hunter’s here!”

  Mary entered the room, dish towel in her hand. “He’s around back.”

  “Still dealing with the surfing bug?”

  Mary shrugged and smiled. “It came with the man. I’d rather he be out there building surfboards than in the bar.”

  Or in the Middle East.

  She didn’t have to say it. Joe had survived a tour of duty before Mary had convinced him the family needed him more than the military.

  “Cup of coffee?” Mary asked.

  “Got a pot on?” When she nodded, he said, “Sure,” and followed her to the bright yellow kitchen in the back of the house.

  “Were you able to get the house?” Mary asked.

  “No, someone bought it a few hours before I got there. She says she’s going to make it an inn.”

  “She?” Mary handed him a chipped cup of brew.

  Hunter smiled. “Yeah. Cute little shrimp of a girl who looks like she’s ready for anything.”

  Mary laughed. “Took more than a passing interest in her, did you?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “Apparently.”

  “So are you going to ask her out?”

  “Naw. She doesn’t need someone like me.”

  Mary glared at him. “You know I won’t allow you to talk like that. You’re still the same guy I’ve known since seventh grade. A little worse for wear, true, but it only adds to your charm.”

  He shook his head. “If I ever decide to try online dating, I’ll be sure to have you write my profile.” He gestured with the cup of coffee. “Thanks. I’ve got some things to check out with Joe — topics that don’t include my love life.”

  Mary gestured to the back kitchen door. “You know where to go.”

  Hunter went outside to the shop housed in what used to be the garage.

  When Hunter walked in, Joe looked up from sanding a surfboard. “How’s it going?” he asked. “How’d you deal with your folks last weekend?”

  Hunter sighed and leaned against a workbench.

  “That bad, huh?” Joe said.

  “Yeah. Dad hasn’t changed. He didn’t think much of me before I went to war. Now he can barely look at me. Mom wants me to sit at home and ‘rest’ all the time.”

  Joe nodded and kept sanding. “It’s tough for civilians to get it. Even though it’s good to be home, I miss the guys.”

  “Yeah. Know what you mean.”

  The rasping sandpaper soothed the silence.

  Time to ask.

  “Joe, doing nothing is driving me nuts. I need a job. Do you have anything?”

  Joe’s motions were steady and rhythmic. “We’re not really busy, Hunter. A couple of roofs while the rains hold off. Maybe some indoor work — sheetrock, that kind of thing. Not much for a man of your talent.”

  “I’ll lay sheetrock, Joe, I don’t care. Just give me something.” Hunter tried to keep the desperation out of his voice.

  Joe finished up and picked up a rag to wipe his hands.

  “Okay,” Joe said. “I do have something you can do. Sheetrock job on the west side of Santa Cruz.” He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to Hunter. “Tell Chris Joe sent you.”

  Hunter grinned and held out his hand. “Thanks, bro.”

  Now all he had to do was find a more permanent place to live. Maybe it was time to tackle the woman at the inn again. The roach motel that was his temporary quarters wasn’t going to satisfy him long term.

  But first things first.

  By noon the next day Hunter was covered in sheetrock dust. He flexed sore muscles, grateful for the pain of making a living, instead of the pain of rehab. Chris, his new boss, seemed nice enough. After a few hours watching Hunter work the sheetrock, Chris had left him alone to go to another job location.

  It suited Hunter just fine until the monotony of the task took over and he began to think too much.

  Staying in a motel, even a cheap one, wasn’t going to do for the long run. He had some savings and a disability check that would last a little while longer, as long as VA benefits weren’t drastically cut by Congress. But making ends meet was never going to allow him to build the life he wanted on the tiny strip of land between the mountains and the sea.

  He fit the 4 × 8 sheet snug next to the last one he’d placed on the studs, picked up the loaded screw gun and drove in the first screw.

  He’d bet his last poker chip Sarah wasn’t married. But th
ere was something going on with her. He’d seen it in her face. Why did she have to be the one to get his house?

  He forced his mind back on the work and soon drifted to an automated state of mind — get sheetrock, screw it in, get sheetrock, screw it in …

  An hour later, he took a break and chugged a bottle of water from the cooler stocked for workers, staring idly through the kitchen window at the curve of the bay in the distance. He wondered what kind of cabinets Joe had in mind for the high-end kitchen.

  What had happened to the cabinets Hunter had made before he left for Iraq? He’d started a set of freestanding cherry wood cabinets from slabs he’d found buried in the back of an old lumberyard. His parents’ basement had provided a refuge and the wood had come alive in his hands. For the first time since his family had left Costanoa, he’d felt peaceful.

  Until that final argument with his father, the one that had driven him to enlist.

  Much as he didn’t want to, he was going to have to go to Sausalito for the weekend and see if he could find those cabinets. Were they as good as he remembered them? Could he build a business of his own making cabinets and freestanding furniture? Something to explore with Joe.

  Hunter picked up another sheet of drywall and slid it into the next opening.

  In spite of the cool of the day, he sweated from the intense work, the moisture driving dust into the pores of his skin.

  Should he find an apartment? The West Side was overrun with college students, but maybe he could find an apartment further south, although the places he’d checked out a few weeks ago were well beyond his budget. Ironically, the same economic collapse that had destroyed the housing market had driven rental prices up. Perhaps all he could afford was a room in an old house.

  He smiled.

  Sarah had said she was creating an inn. Why couldn’t he be her first guest? She probably needed handyman help. Maybe they could strike a deal.

  With a grin and a whistle Hunter walked back to the pile of for another piece of sheetrock.

  • • •

  Saturday Hunter dressed in a clean T-shirt and jeans and approached his old home for the second time. The cool morning and a hint of clouds over the mountains forecast the light rain that was expected by the afternoon.

  Hunter studied the old house before knocking.

  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

  How could he live in his childhood home and recreate the life he wanted if it was owned by someone else? Worse yet, once guests began to arrive, he’d be sharing the place with strangers.

  Still, he had to live somewhere. This was as good a place as any. Besides this inn came with the prettiest innkeeper.

  He knocked.

  A bellow from inside let him know someone was on the way. He grinned in anticipation, unconsciously straightening his shoulders.

  A few seconds later, the door was thrust open and Sarah and her dog stood in the doorway. Once she recognized him, Sarah’s welcoming smile turned into a glare. Her appearance turned downright hostile when he began to laugh.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, tamping down his humor. “It’s just you have a grease streak from here to here.” He gestured from his forehead to his chin.

  “Plumbing.” She glowered.

  “I could help with that.”

  “No thanks. What do you want?”

  “You know, for a prospective innkeeper, you’re not very friendly. Especially, to someone who wants a room. I really could be quite useful. Plumbing, electricity, the works.” He revealed his most engaging smile, the one that had worked on countless girls in his teenage years.

  “I need to take care of those things myself. I can’t afford to pay anyone. I like being self-sufficient.” She stared at him. “And the inn isn’t open, remember?”

  He cocked his head. “You wouldn’t have to pay me. Just rent me a room — my old one will do — and allow me to use the kitchen. It would be a win-win.”

  “I hate that expression.”

  He laughed. “So do I. It’s so rarely true. Except in this case, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He was finally rewarded with a smile and his hopes began to rise. “Then?”

  She shook her head. “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy. And handy.” She blushed. “In the best sense of the word.” Her cheeks turned pinker. “But I’m really not ready for anyone to move in yet.” Her dark brown eyes were steady. “And even when I do open the inn, I don’t think you could afford to live here full-time. I’m trying to make a destination property — I don’t know if you know what that is, but it’s going to be pricey.”

  Hunter’s spirits fell. It always comes down to money, doesn’t it? A commodity he wasn’t likely to have in abundance any time soon. A veteran’s home loan would have enabled him to get the house with a reasonable payment, but loans for day to day living expenses weren’t available and Santa Cruz was expensive.

  He was lucky he hadn’t been able to get the house. It was time to give up on his dream and move on.

  “Okay.” He turned to go.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah said quietly.

  Yeah.

  Chapter 4

  Sarah shut the door on Hunter’s retreating back, her throat closing around her remorse. She was no better than the people trying to cut veteran’s benefits.

  She put her hand on her stomach. But what if he was crazy? She had a baby to protect. There were too many stories about vets becoming violent when stressed.

  He probably sleeps with a gun under his pillow.

  No. She’d made the right decision.

  Then why did she feel so terrible?

  Pushing the scene aside as she tucked her hair behind her ear, she climbed the stairs to her project. Plumbing was turning out to be a lot harder than Sarah anticipated. Replacing a washer should have been a simple task.

  When she got to the bathroom, she wiped the ever-present tears from her eyes and stared at herself in the mirror. Her dark brown eyes were watery, olive skin streaked with the grease Hunter had mentioned, and her chestnut hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in a month. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.

  I can’t wait for this stage of pregnancy to be over.

  Maybe I can’t do it on my own.

  The image of Hunter’s strong back returned. Having someone reliable to lean on would be a welcome change.

  She squared her shoulders, lifted her head, and picked up the home handyman book she’d gotten at Ocean Reads.

  “Turn the water off under the sink.”

  She’d done that part. Must have been where the grease came from.

  “Remove the cap from the top of the faucet.” Easy.

  “Unscrew the handle.” That’s where she ran into trouble. No matter how hard she’d tried, the screw wouldn’t budge.

  Maybe if she hit it …

  She took her wrench, smacked the top of the faucet, and tried again with the screwdriver.

  Nothing.

  Back to the wrench.

  She hit the faucet again. And again. Finally, she pounded it for a full minute before tossing the wrench in the sink.

  This time when she turned the screw she was rewarded with a creaking twist.

  She spun the screwdriver. The screw popped out.

  Water sprayed everywhere.

  “Shit!” Sarah yelled at the faucet, grabbed the wrench, and crawled back under the sink. She smacked the shut-off valve on the pipe and gave it another turn. Gradually the water from the faucet slowed to a stop.

  Brutality seems to be the only method that works with rusted metal objects.

  She flung the wrench back in the sink and stomped downstairs. At this rate she’d never be open by spring.

  Sitting with a cup of coffee
and pad of paper, she drummed on the table as she thought about ways to speed up the process. This was supposed to be Rick’s job. Wasn’t plumbing, along with taking out the garbage, in the man’s job description? Her father had always made these kinds of problems disappear.

  But her father had also started sleeping with a mistress when Sarah was only three.

  So there you had it. Men were unreliable.

  For her baby’s sake she’d better learn to fix the damn plumbing herself.

  As she finished the coffee, she glanced through a plumbing catalog she’d picked up. An etched glass vessel sink was alluring. Would it fit with a Victorian bed and breakfast? The sleek fixtures were even more tantalizing. Not a speck of rust.

  Unfortunately, her first guests were going to have to live with an authentic, less-than-perfect bathroom. Ah, well. It went along with the less-than-perfect innkeeper.

  She dragged herself from the chair and trudged back up the stairs.

  She’d changed the washer and finished cleaning up when the phone rang. “Sarah’s Inn,” she answered, trying out her business name for the first time.

  “That’s a great name!” Mandy exclaimed.

  “Thanks!” The woman was persistent. But at least she’s female.

  “Hey, I’ve been doing the research on what you need to get your kitchen up to code. I have some great ideas to make the additional fixtures easy to install and maintain, as well as being reasonably priced. I can’t — ”

  “Wait! What additional fixtures?”

  “You need a few different drains.”

  Drains. Drains meant plumbing. Sarah groaned and sat down on the upstairs landing.

  “Oh, it’s not that bad.” Mandy laughed. “I think we can get a handyman to help us do it.”

  “That’d be great, except I’m the handyman … woman.”

  Mandy laughed again. “We may need to find you an assistant for this job. One that knows what he, or she, is doing.”