Christmas on the Coast Read online

  “You didn’t have to cook,” he said as she carried two plates to the table. “I’m here to work.”

  “And heaven forbid we’d have any pleasure in the process,” she said, and then her face heated again.

  Their eyes caught and she knew he’d noticed the word pleasure and taken it where she hadn’t meant it to go.

  Consciously, at least.

  Was it warm in here, or was it just her? She needed to get her focus off Paul, no matter how handsome he was, no matter how appealing his stern protectiveness.

  “I didn’t forget your treat, you good boy,” she said, looking at Sarge as she set the plates down. She turned and pulled out a large, bone-shaped biscuit from the canister on the counter. “Can you shake hands?” she asked, and he held up a paw, eyes on the treat, then took it delicately from her fingertips.

  Finally, there was nothing else to do but to sit down at the table.

  Paul did, too, but he didn’t pick up his fork. “I’m concerned about last night,” he said. “I don’t want you spending time with that woman. Imogene.”

  She laughed at his tone. “Oh, Dad. You never let me have any fun.”

  “I mean it.” He didn’t smile. “I’m serious. It’s not safe.”

  She took a bite of coffee cake and lifted a shoulder. “Even if you’re right, so what? I of all people can take risks.” She hadn’t meant to say that; it had just popped out.

  “What do you mean by that?” He still hadn’t picked up his fork, but was studying her, head tilted to one side.

  “Because I’ve had cancer twice! Do you know how likely a recurrence is?”

  His eyebrows drew down and together. “No. How likely is it?”

  She shrugged. “Just...it’s more likely that I’ll end up with it than most people.” She’d talked with her doctor about the odds, had read all the statistics, and the upshot was that it was all individual.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. You’re fine taking risks because you might possibly get cancer again? What kind of sense does that make?”

  She couldn’t answer that. There was no answer, not a logical one, anyway. “I just had a test that showed something my doctor wants to keep tabs on. So I can’t travel because of the risks.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry to hear that. What are the risks?”

  “Can we not talk about this?” She had no idea how they’d gotten onto this subject, and it was seriously bumming her out. “Eat your coffee cake.”

  He studied her face for a moment more and then nodded and took a bite. He closed his eyes as he chewed and swallowed. “Wow. I haven’t had anything this good in years.”

  That made her feel all warm inside, just how she shouldn’t be feeling, and she chided herself. There was no use getting happy about nurturing Paul. They didn’t have a romantic relationship and they wouldn’t. In addition to her odds of getting cancer again, she’d promised Wendy she wouldn’t tell Paul the truth about Davey. Keeping a secret like that nixed any chance of them getting together. Because breaking her promise and telling Paul the truth might very well destroy Davey’s life.

  Bad odds all around.

  He’d finished his coffee cake, and he pushed his plate away and sighed. “Thank you. You didn’t have to bake for me, but I have to admit I’m glad you did.”

  “You’re welcome. Want another piece?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask. I’d love one.”

  Again, that made her happier than it should have, and she scolded herself as she sliced another piece for him, then decided to bring the pan over.

  “Thanks,” he said. Then he met her eyes, held them. “Just because you have a chance of getting sick, that doesn’t mean you can take any risks you want to take.”

  She so didn’t want to discuss this. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “It is a big deal. Because people care about you. I care.”

  Whoa. That admission, the intensity with which he said it, took her breath away. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away from him.

  His eyes flickered down to her lips, a miniscule movement so quick she wasn’t sure she’d seen it.

  He sat back, looked away, cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said, “you have to be safe for your daughter.”

  “You’re right.” She stabbed at her coffee cake, then looked at him and forced a smile. “Don’t you even want to know what I found out, during my oh-so-risky night with Imogene?”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

  She pushed her plate away. “So she’s Mary’s stepdaughter. She feels guilty about something that happened in the past. And she needs money.”

  “No surprise there.” He frowned. “From how she looked last night, I’d say she needs the money for drugs.”

  “Yeah. I thought so, too.”

  “Which is why I want you to stop your so-called investigation of her. It’s not safe.”

  “It’s not safe for Mary,” Amber protested. “I hate to think of this woman trying to scam her. And I do get the impression that’s what she’s trying to do, from some hints she dropped last night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, and I’m not surprised, but that’s not your responsibility. Your brother-in-law’s aware of the situation and so am I. You leave it alone.” He leaned forward. “Promise me.”

  “Consider me warned,” she said, which wasn’t a promise. But it was all she was willing to say at this point.

  He studied her face for a moment, sighed and nodded. “Should we get to work?”

  So they did, discussing the parameters of the respite house for crime victims. “Should the counseling aspect be just the victims themselves? Or families of victims, too?”

  His lips tightened and then he cleared his throat. “Families will need it, too.”

  “I’ll talk to Mary about that.” She hesitated, and then her curiosity got the better of her. “That idea of crime victims and their families. Is it personal? Related to the shooting?”

  He looked away, then met her eyes and frowned. “Yeah. It is.”

  She propped her elbows on the table. “I’m a good listener.” She took a sip of coffee and tried not to seem overly interested, even though everything about this cryptic man did interest her.

  Weak sunlight sent rays through the kitchen window, illuminating motes of dust. She wanted him to go at his own pace, but it looked like he was stalling. And he seemed so troubled that she figured he needed to talk about it. “Were...were there kids killed?”

  He shook his head. “Thank God, no. Injured, though, pretty badly in a couple of cases. And there was a teacher...” He broke off.

  She waited, her stomach cramping because she was pretty sure she knew what he was about to say.

  He cleared his throat, a harsh sound. “She was an older teacher, and she was leading her class toward the gym when the gunman opened fire. She stood right at the door, ushering the students in, reassuring them, hurrying them.”

  Amber didn’t want to picture the scene, but she couldn’t help it. “Wow. That took some guts.”

  He nodded. Swallowed hard and looked out the window. “I’d called for backup and was getting some other kids into their classroom, and he...” He cleared his throat again. “He focused on her. Got angry. Angrier.”

  Amber closed her eyes and shook her head, then looked at him again. “She died?”

  “I was running toward him, yelling to distract him. Couldn’t get a good shot because of the other kids and teachers. I could have...” He slapped the heel of his hand on the table, jostling the plates and mugs. “I’ve relived it hundreds, thousands of times. Thought of ways I could have reacted differently, things I could have said or done...” Finally, he met her eyes. “No point in that, though. What’s done is done.”

  “Oh, Paul.” She looked at the muscle jumping in his chee
k, and her heart ached for him. The man was well and truly haunted.

  She wanted to be the person to comfort him. She wanted to make him forget his pain. He’d probably saved lives, many of them, but it was the one he couldn’t save that kept coming back to him, of course. She stood and slipped around the table to sit beside him, leaned her head against his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his brawnier one.

  They sat there like that as the pines moved in the wind outside the windows, as Sarge panted and flopped down, as the sound of music from the playlist on her phone pressed on, quietly, the hip-hop she’d been listening to.

  Finally, he stirred and flexed his arm, and she lifted her face and glanced up to find him looking at her. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?”

  She nodded. “Life stinks sometimes.”

  He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers, and the mood between them shifted from sympathy to something warmer. He reached out a hand and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  She closed her eyes. It felt so good to be touched in that gentle way.

  His hand stayed, cupping her cheek, and she sucked in a breath. He was going to kiss her, which was all kinds of wrong, but she didn’t think she could turn away.

  His phone buzzed, and the disappointment on his face was gratifying. “I’ve got to get that, in case it’s about Davey.”

  “Sure. Do it.” She pulled back and sucked in a big breath, trying to slow down the pounding of her heart.

  He picked up his phone and looked, then took the call. The school, he mouthed to her.

  He listened, his face getting stormier. “No, they’re not authorized to pick him up. Right. I’m the only one.”

  He listened more. “Let me talk to them,” he said.

  A moment later, he said: “Ferguson. Why are you at the school? We don’t have an agreement for you to see Davey today.”

  He listened, propping his forehead on his hand, staring down at the floor. “Davey needs to be in a routine, and he needs to be with me. We’ve discussed this.”

  He listened again. “No, I’m not giving verbal or any other kind of agreement. You need to check with me before seeing him.”

  Amber could hear sort of shrill voices in the background. Then Paul looked at the phone, turned it over. “They hung up.”

  “Davey’s grandparents?” she asked gently.

  He nodded. “They’ve got some notion they can barge in on his life and his routines whenever they want to. Even that they should have some custody rights. And it’s not happening.”

  “That was sneaky, showing up at the school.”

  He nodded, his face grim. “I’m worried about what they might do.”

  “Understandable.”

  Paul made a call to the school director and explained the situation. He listened for a few minutes and then ended the call. “Davey’s safe and occupied, and his grandparents left. She doesn’t think I should come in and bring him home.”

  “That’s probably smart,” Amber said. “Kids need routines.”

  “They do.” And as they got back to work, now with no trace of romance in the air between them, Amber focused on one thought: Davey had to stay with Paul, not his grandparents. Which meant she couldn’t upset the applecart by revealing the truth about Davey’s conception. And that was a roadblock for any thought of romance between them.

  * * *

  WEDNESDAY EVENING AS sunset turned the sky purple and pink and gold, Mary stood outside the lobby of the Chesapeake Motor Lodge, talking to Ria Martin, the motel’s owner. She’d known Ria for years, ever since she’d first moved to Pleasant Shores, because Ria was her employee Julie’s daughter. She’d become a good friend.

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this,” Mary said to Ria. “But you have to enforce the rules with her.”

  “I’m good at that, I have teenagers,” Ria said, her voice wry. “Don’t worry, Mary. Your stepdaughter is welcome here.”

  “Thank you.” Imogene, it turned out, had been sleeping on the beach and living out of her car, and she’d gotten a warning from the Pleasant Shores Police Department. So Mary had offered to meet her at Ria’s motel and get her a room for the week.

  If Mary were a better person, she’d have offered Imogene her guest room. But the thought of facing her stepdaughter every single day gave her hives.

  “I can’t believe it’s December.” Ria lifted her face to the gentle breeze. “Today’s been sweater weather. It can stay like this as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Me, too.” But Mary loved the changing seasons of the Chesapeake, its unpredictable weather, so different from LA.

  They heard Imogene’s car before they saw it spewing dark fumes as it sputtered to a stop in front of them. “This is it?” Imogene asked as she climbed out and looked at the motel, her lip curling just a little. “It’s kind of...old.”

  Older than your car? Mary wanted to say it, but didn’t.

  After all, Imogene wasn’t wrong. The motel had been a part of the community for more than fifty years, and hadn’t ever had a decor update that Mary had heard about.

  “Around here, we call it retro,” Mary said. “Imogene, I’d like for you to meet Ria Martin. She’s the owner and manager, and she’s found a room for you to stay in for the week.”

  Imogene raised an eyebrow and opened her mouth, but Ria smiled and held out a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Imogene. The Lodge is a pretty humble place, but we keep it clean and everyone is friendly. And anyone who’s a friend of Mary’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Imogene muttered as she shook Ria’s hand. Even she, apparently, couldn’t withstand Ria’s friendliness.

  Ria winked at Mary. “Come on,” she said to Imogene. “I’ll show you the room and you can get settled.”

  “Thank you for doing this on short notice,” Mary said as they followed Ria to a room near the office. Ria opened the door with a key on a classic motel tag, bright blue plastic, imprinted with the motel’s name.

  Inside, wood-paneled walls, an aqua carpet and accent chairs upholstered in gold vinyl brought the 1960s to life again, with colorful abstract wall art adding a hippie vibe. “Wow,” Mary said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of these rooms before.”

  “We thought we might update the decor,” Ria said, “but our guests seem to love the Elvis-era feel, so for now, we’re keeping it this way.”

  “Are you now.” Imogene plunked a suitcase down and looked around, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes,” Ria said, still smiling. “The great thing about this room is the view of the Chesapeake.” She opened the curtains to reveal the bay. “We get the most gorgeous sunsets in the world here.”

  “Real pretty,” Imogene said reluctantly, and then her expression turned thoughtful. “Who knows, I might just stay awhile.”

  A weight descended onto Mary’s shoulders with her words. She was definitely going to have to manage Imogene’s expectations about how long she was willing to pay for her room.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled. Stop in at the office if you need anything.” Ria patted Mary’s arm on the way out, and then Mary and Imogene were alone together.

  “I can help you carry in the rest of your things,” Mary offered.

  “It’s not like I have much, but thanks.” Imogene led the way to her beater car and handed Mary another banged-up suitcase, then pulled a couple of grocery bags out of the front seat.

  As they trudged back to the room, Mary thought of Imogene’s father. He’d been a successful engineer, frighteningly smart, with the kindest heart she’d ever known. He’d doted on Imogene, even when she’d made fun of his heavyset build and lack of hair. He’d thought her beautiful and had been sure she’d grow up to be a success at whatever she did.

  How it would have hurt him to see what she’d become. For Ben’s sake, she wanted
to put in at least some effort to help Imogene.

  Mary sat while Imogene shoved clothes haphazardly into drawers. “Tell me how you’ve been doing and what your plans are.”

  “That depends on you.” Imogene scowled as she carried a makeup case into the bathroom.

  Mary drew in a breath and let it out slowly, seeking calm. “Look,” she said, “I’ll pay for your room for a week, but you need a plan to get back on your feet.”

  Imogene came back out and plopped down on the bed. “I have no money. I can’t make a plan.”

  “You inherited the same amount I did,” Mary said gently. “You must have invested some of it. I know your father’s friend Barry advised you about that.”

  “That guy.” Imogene snorted. “All he wanted to do was make sure I didn’t get one cent ahead of my twenty-first birthday, and then to dole it out in tiny bits afterward.”

  “Not many people would call that amount of money tiny,” Mary said. “And your father had it distributed in stages because he cared for you.”

  “He would have changed it if he’d known your ex was going to murder him.”

  Imogene’s words stabbed Mary right in the gut. Ben’s car, with Mary’s beautiful, perfect daughter in a car seat inside, had been run off the road right in front of their house, but by the time she and Imogene had reached it, the person who’d done it had been gone—leaving Mary’s life devastated in a way that could never heal.

  It had been labeled a hit-and-run, and no perpetrator had ever been caught, but Mary had known who was behind it. And Ben’s ex-wife, who’d been furious she hadn’t been included in the will, had researched Mary’s background and figured it out. She’d gone to the police and put pressure on Mary to implicate her first husband.

  Which was fine. Mary had been so broken by what had happened to Ben and her daughter that she’d fully cooperated with the police, even knowing her first husband’s mob connections could send a snitch to an early grave.

  But he’d been too skillful, and there had been no trail to follow, no evidence to find.

  Of course, Imogene’s mother had told Imogene about the whole situation, had whipped her up into a frenzy of hatred against Mary. News had leaked out in the neighborhood, too, and Mary’s friends hadn’t been able to look her in the eye. It hadn’t been Mary who’d driven the car, but she’d still been blamed: for marrying Ben and thus getting him involved in her problems, for letting her first husband know her location, for having been fool enough to marry her first husband at all. She’d moved away within six months.