Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel

by JoAnn Ross

  “Don’t worry, Marine,” she murmured, as he gave her a boost up onto the ladder. “From what I could tell by Googling the map of the town, the route’s not that long. And I’ll do my movie-star best to keep the attention off you.”

  “It’s that obvious?” he asked as she settled down on the wooden platform.

  “That you’d rather be anywhere than here, with me?” The platform wasn’t as large as it looked. They were thigh to thigh. Which she wasn’t finding any hardship. “Yes, but I’m trying not to take it personally.”

  “It’s not you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Yes, he was clearly uncomfortable. “It’s just that, to hear my family tell it, I’ve sort of freaked people out since I got back.”

  “Oh?” Although he’d denied it, once again Mary wondered about PTSD.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking. I didn’t go around armed or screaming like a girl at loud noises.”

  “While I’m willing, for now, to overlook that sexist description, what did you do that freaked people out?”

  “I ran.”

  “Ran?” She glanced over at him. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Well, maybe I ran a lot.”

  “Define a lot.”

  “Is this really germane to our situation? I’m not running now, okay?”

  “Okay.” Although she could have pointed out that she hadn’t been with him 24-7, Mary decided, as the firemen climbed into the cab, that since this was neither the time nor the place, she’d table the discussion for now.

  Behind them came a group of older cars, among which was Sax, sitting behind the wheel of a tough-looking white car with orange hood stripes. A small, freckle-faced boy sat in the passenger seat, while a huge dog seemed to take up the entire backseat. Mary noticed that everyone who passed by seemed obligated to pat the huge head stuck out the rear window.

  “I like your brother’s car.”

  Although more modern, it reminded her of the movie American Graffiti. She’d been thirteen when she’d first seen it on television and even as she’d identified with the small-town setting, she’d envied the American teenagers’ freedom, which was very different from Castlelough’s stricter social mores.

  “It’s a ’ninety-seven anniversary Camaro that used to be a Mustang killer in drag races. Dad kept it in shape for Sax the entire time he was in the Navy. He said he didn’t want to see a classic car rust, but we all knew the reason was that he believed that as long as the car was waiting for my brother to come home, he’d make it home.”

  “That’s so sweet of your father.” She wondered if he’d realized he’d offered her another glimpse into his life.

  “I wouldn’t mention that at the wedding,” he suggested. “Being that Marines don’t usually consider sweet a compliment.”

  “I won’t. But it is.” Someone in a clown car shouted out to her. She smiled and waved. “I’m also wondering if perhaps you ought to make me a crib sheet.”

  “For what?”

  “For all the things I’m not supposed to bring up when I’m around your family.”

  She turned and waved in the other direction when a person dressed as a tortoise carrying an oversized clock without hands and wearing a sign reading SLOW DOWN! YOU’RE NOW ON SHELTER BAY TIME! shouted out that he loved her movies.

  “Point taken.”

  The engine started up. As it began to move along the waterfront, behind the color guard of veterans carrying the American flag and various flags of their services, the truck lurched, throwing her a bit off-balance. Which, in turn, had J.T. putting his arm around Mary’s waist to steady her. He kept it there as the truck lumbered down the first block, and when he finally removed it, she felt a twinge of loss.

  Although from the crowd at the starting point it appeared everyone in town must actually be in the parade, the sidewalks were still lined with people. Some had brought folding chairs, others sat on the curb, while still others stood, many fathers holding children on their shoulders.

  The mood was universally festive as fans, many of whom had come dressed as characters from her movies—her third movie was just about to come out and she was still amazed by the variations on the mermaid theme—waved and called out to her.

  The float behind her, which Mayor Dennis had told Mary had been built by volunteers, was pulled by a green John Deere tractor. Riding on the float, featuring huge posters of each of the films entered in the festival, were the ten contestants, along with members of the high school glee club, who were already belting out movie soundtrack songs. One, unsurprisingly, was “Under the Sea.” Librarians, wearing costumes made to look like book covers, walked alongside, handing out bookmarks printed with the titles of books that had been made into movies currently in circulation at the library.

  The local restaurants the floats passed along the way had set up booths in front of their stores, providing free food and drinks. The Sea Mist was giving out clam chowder, while the Crab Shack had petite crab cocktails in foam cups, the Grateful Bread was serving cinnamon rolls the size of Mary’s hand and cups of steaming coffee, Take the Cake had unsurprisingly opted for cupcakes, and although Sax was in the parade, his grandparents were manning the Bon Temps booth, handing out popcorn shrimp and Adèle’s famous Come-Back sauce.

  Although being in the parade prevented her from viewing it while the fire engine was moving, as soon as they pulled up into the parking lot of a green park atop a hill, she was able to watch the other participants as they arrived at the lot, where even more spectators were waiting.

  Along with the glee club, the high school marching band—decked out in their royal blue and white uniforms—played Sousa, while Native Americans from the Siletz reservation, in ceremonial regalia, danced to the beat of their drums, and people dressed like whales (the town mascot) stood atop another float, throwing out pieces of candy to the kids.

  “An enterprising dentist would follow them handing out toothbrushes with his name on them,” J.T. observed as he helped her down from the platform.

  Although she thought of herself as an independent woman, Mary couldn’t deny that the supportive hands on her waist felt quite nice.

  “Spoilsport.” She slapped him lightly on the arm. “This is turning out to be such grand fun, I’m not going to let you put a damper on it.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s going to be paying to have those kids’ cavities filled.”

  “No, but I can also tell when someone’s putting me on. Admit it, J.T. For a few minutes you were having a good time.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. But we haven’t made it through the pageant yet.”

  Taking hold of her arm, he swept her through the crowd toward the white Victorian bandstand where the committee was already waiting for her to take the seat of honor. If she’d known she’d be walking across grass, she wouldn’t have worn the heels that kept sinking into the wet turf.

  “Don’t you own any practical shoes?” he said as he put his arm around her and practically lifted her entirely off the ground. At least he hadn’t slung her over his shoulder and carried her up the steps.

  “Why should I?” she shot back, unable to decide whether she was embarrassed or annoyed. “When I have minions, such as you, to drag me to where I’m going.”

  “If you expect me to start picking out your clothes, like Leonard—”

  “Leon.”

  He blew out a frustrated breath. “Leon,” he said through set teeth. “If I’m going to be forced into minion duty, then you’d better develop a liking for cammies and combat boots.”

  She tossed her head like the diva she knew he’d been expecting when she’d arrived in town. “Army chic,” she drawled. “It just might catch on.” She glanced at the bandstand, which was now less than ten feet away. “They’re waiting.”

  “Last chance,” he said. “We can blow this pop stand, put you back on a plane, and you could be drinking bubbly on your deck in Malibu by sunset.”

&
nbsp; “And miss all the fun we’re going to have? Besides, no way am I going to miss your brother’s wedding. Though we do have to stop by the boutique on the way to the theater,” she reminded him as she began walking again. “And does Shelter Bay have a gift shop? Is Kara registered?”

  “This is a tourist town.” When her heels sank nearly to the soles of her lovely suede boots, he hoisted her out of the damp lawn again. “Every other store is a gift shop. And registered for what?”

  “For wedding gifts.”

  “How would I know?”

  “I take it that’s a negative.” She sighed. “Never mind. I’ll think of something while I’m learning about Shelter Bay’s founding.”

  “If you don’t go to sleep first,” J.T. muttered as they reached the steps.

  23

  Peter Fletcher stood in the shadow of a copse of trees, watching as Stephanie—he would not think of her as that fake name she’d taken on when she’d dared to run away from him—drove away with that hayseed farmer.

  He waited until the truck was out of sight. Then, using the same set of lockpicks that had gotten him out of that ankle monitor, he opened the door to the farmhouse.

  Instead of the one-of-a-kind imported Italian and French furnishings he’d paid a fortune for in their Denver home, this place had a random bunch of cheap, mismatched pieces, some obviously manufactured, others looking hand hewn. There was a woodstove against a brick wall, split logs stacked up next to it. As he imagined Stephanie lying on the rug in front of it, naked, while the hick farmer pounded into her, there was a throbbing behind his eyes, an intense, blinding pain that always came when he allowed the fury boiling in him to break its chains.

  Knowing that if he trashed the place like he wanted to, he’d only give himself away, he took several deep breaths, reining in his temper.

  Then continued wandering through the rooms, taking in the paperback books, the rental DVDs in their red and white envelopes, the beer and cheap wine in the refrigerator, which, like the living room furniture, didn’t match any of the other appliances. The wine was domestic. He unscrewed a bottle of chardonnay, took a sniff, and grimaced.

  There were four bedrooms. He went into the master, opened the closet, and saw a woman’s clothes hanging there next to the farmer’s. But they couldn’t be Stephanie’s. These were tacky, casual jeans and T-shirts—one actually a horrid bubble gum pink with cupcakes printed on it—that if she’d dared try to wear when she’d been with him, he’d have burned.

  If the clothes were hers, it was obvious his wife had lost her mind. How else to explain that she’d leave him, and the wealthy, privileged life he’d given her, to shack up in this dump for some guy who mucked around in the dirt all day and undoubtedly had pig shit on his boots?

  How had she managed to forget all her training? He’d taken away her romance novels because they weren’t just brain candy; they gave impressionable women false expectations of relationships between men and women.

  He’d skimmed through the colorful paperbacks she’d brought on their honeymoon and found that not only were the women dangerously independent; the men eventually turned out to be pushovers, even to the point of groveling for forgiveness when everyone knew that a strong husband was always in the right, so there was no need for apologies.

  He’d taught her to appreciate the theater. Along with the ballet, and the opera, where he’d enjoyed showing her off in her tasteful, designer gowns. The pride he felt when other men had openly envied the way she’d behaved with deference, unlike their mouthy, opinionated, ballbuster wives, was a better high than any drug.

  And now what was she doing for entertainment? Eating microwave popcorn and watching DVDs of romantic comedies?

  When he first met her that night when she’d been waiting tables in the dining room at the El Tovar lodge at the Grand Canyon, he’d instantly been attracted to her shyness and lack of sophistication. Unlike the women he usually dated—rich girls who were spoiled bitches and needed to have everything their way—the little rancher’s daughter had been like a lovely bit of clay, just waiting for the right man to come along and properly mold her.

  Which he’d done. It hadn’t been at all difficult. All it had taken was some pretty words and she’d gone back with him to his room. He would have preferred a virgin, but since everything else about her was perfect, he’d been willing to overlook that flaw.

  She’d totally surrendered to him, letting him do things to her she could never have imagined. It hadn’t been the first time he’d had rough sex, but usually the women from his own world he played with knew the game, enjoyed it, but only as recreation and an escape from the more stultifying social circle they all existed in.

  For those times when he didn’t have an available partner, well, that was why call girls existed. But what had excited him at twenty had begun to pale over the years, becoming boring and predictable.

  He’d been growing more and more frustrated, causing his attorney to write more and more checks to pay girls who hadn’t lived up to their billing and had threatened him with exposure. Which was when, after writing a mid-six-figure check for an overpriced hospital bill, his father had told him if he didn’t settle down with a proper wife within the year, he’d be cut off. Without a penny.

  He’d been planning to travel to South America in search of a suitable candidate. Or, better yet, Asia or Indonesia, where women knew their proper place, when, after a rafting trip down the Colorado with friends, he’d walked into the lodge’s dining room and there she was.

  He’d tested her—not too harshly, but enough to get a sense of her limits. Then he’d pushed her further.

  And still, instead of running away like a scared rabbit, the next morning she’d agreed to stay. And just like that, he’d owned her.

  Until suddenly, out of the blue, she’d taken off, foolishly believing she could escape him. He’d once been behind a truck with a bumper sticker reading: If you truly love someone, let them free. Then hunt them down and kill them. The memory had him smiling.

  Once he got her back home where she belonged, he’d give his wayward wife one last chance to behave. And if she didn’t…

  There was always the final option.

  24

  Kara needed a dress. Although she knew it was foolish, part of her, since she’d eloped the first time she’d gotten married, wanted a fairy-tale gown. But, having to plan a wedding in three days, and needing to stay in Shelter Bay in case there were any problems with the film festival, she was never going to have time to drive to Portland, or even Eugene, to check out a bridal shop.

  So, with Charity and Maddy along for moral support, she entered the Dancing Deer Two with hopes of finding two halfway suitable dresses—one for herself and one for her mother, who’d left all her nonessential clothing behind when she’d taken off to save the world.

  “After all,” she told them, “it’s not about the dress.”

  “I think we can both agree with that,” Charity said dryly.

  “Amen,” Maddy agreed.

  Since Charity had been a runaway bride, and Maddy’s first marriage to that French chef had crashed and burned, Kara figured they knew what they were talking about.

  But still…

  As it turned out, she wasn’t the only one who had a weakness for wedding gowns.

  “We have some lovely dresses,” Doris, one of the elderly twins who owned the shop, said as she led them to the rack in the back of the store that featured a limited supply of formal wear, mostly, she told them, purchased for proms. Which wasn’t exactly what Kara had in mind.

  Though it did have her thinking back to that night of her own prom. She’d found out that day that she was pregnant, and when Sax had arrived to take her to the prom, as Jared had asked him to do, she’d already cried herself a river.

  And, although she’d tried to beg out of going, Sax had informed her that neither of them had a choice. “Jared told me to make sure you have a good time,” he’d said. “Which is what we’re
going to do.” He’d grinned that sexy bad-boy grin that had caused nearly every girl in the school to have a crush on him. Even though Kara had been madly in love with Jared, she’d been able to appreciate its effect. “Even if it kills us, I figure it’s the least we can do for a guy who’s off serving his country.”

  As he had always been able to do, he’d made her smile. Just a bit. And instead of commenting on her red-rimmed eyes, he’d assured her that she “looked a picture” in the lavender tulle vintage fifties dress she’d found at a local resale shop.

  Later that night, when she’d confessed she was carrying Jared’s child and burst into tears again, he’d taken her to the private spot on the beach, where they’d all hung out together, and, rattled at being stuck with a sobbing female, in a desperate attempt to make her feel better had impulsively kissed her.

  Despite the kiss momentarily spiraling dangerously out of control, Kara had known that even if she’d begged him, he wouldn’t have taken it any further. Because the man she’d been given a second chance with was not only even hotter than he’d been at eighteen; he was, hands down, the most honorable individual she’d ever known.

  These dresses may not have been lavender tulle with three layers of starched petticoats, but they definitely screamed prom!

  “Maybe a lovely cream suit,” Doris suggested. The more restrained of the elderly twin sisters, it was more than apparent she agreed that the sequined and taffeta gowns were all wrong for an intimate late-afternoon ceremony and reception held at Lavender Hill Farm.

  “Sister,” Dottie said, “I suddenly had the most scintillating idea!”

  They exchanged a look and in that brief glance, Kara could tell they were reading each other’s minds in that sometimes spooky twin connection they had.