Authors: Julie Carobini
Sweet Waters (7 page)
Camille wrinkles her nose. “Boring.” She looks to me, wide-eyed. “But Tara loves that kind of stuff. Hey, why don't you two go together?”
A tightrope of silence tugs between us until I'm able to draw in a breath. “She's kidding. Leave the man alone. I'm sure he didn't come here to be recruited for anything.”
Camille ignores me but watches Josh. “So why are you here? Is this a hangout for firemen or something?” She cranes her neck in order to take a peek up the cliff. “Ya got anyone else up there with you?”
His cool expression falters but recovers. His gaze flicks off into the translucent horizon. “Don't come here all that much. It's just a place I know. I'm on my own today.”
The sparseness of his words tells me that he'd rather be alone in this tranquil spot than subject to Camille's flirtatious whim. Does he comes here often to shake off the day's grime, to refill after life has drained him? I can't blame him. And yet, as I take in the gentle crush of water against the rocks, something inside me hopes that his visit to this cove is rare.
I'd like to claim this place as my own.
Josh turns and gives us a succinct bow of his head. “Ladies.” With that, he takes the uneven stair-like ledges up the cliff, several at a time.
“Wait!” Camille calls out after him. “You haven't been at the Red Abalone Grill in a while. Will we see you over there sometime soon?”
He pauses, and I have to squint into the sun to make out the quizzical expression that forms on his face before eventually breaking into a slight grin, a sight that should annoy me further and yet, much to my surprise, thrills me.
I just realized that, until this moment, he had no idea who we were.
EVERY MORNING FOR THE past week, before Camille and I set out to rediscover this hamlet of our youth, we first stopped into the Red Abalone Grill for breakfast. And no morning was the same. For one thing, each table has now been topped with a narrow vase stuffed with fresh wildflowers of blue or lavender or yellowâand sometimes all three. For another, the once plain whiteboard has been replaced with an oak-framed chalk board that rests on an easel just outside the Grill's front doors. Holly's crêpes are listed on it, as are a plethora of new items not found on the menu, such as mango muffins, peach fritters, and my new favoriteâpeanut-butter smoothies. I've begun asking for this even when it's not listed.
Holly bustles around the place, her pouf curls pulled into a loose ponytail. While her aunt's been recovering from that nasty fall we all witnessed, the poor thing's been running the place herself. Well, she hasn't been completely alone. That's another thing that changes by day: the help. Apparently Holly has lots of friends, because each day a new coffee-pouring teen appears at our table to rattle off the specials, refill our mugs, and slip the bill under a plate. It's disconcerting not to be recognized when you've sat in the same spot for a week, and yet, sadly for me, not all that uncommon.
Holly rockets past, her sneakers slapping the linoleum, a flowing knit scarf flapping behind her before she halts and spins back toward us. She flops down beside Camille, tosses her ponytail off her shoulder, and exhales. “Can I join you two ladies?” she asks after the fact.
“Pretty wild day for you,” I say.
“Yeah, you got that right. And it'll only get worse, 'cuz when Auntie finds out what I've done with her diner, I might just have to find me another job.”
I start to chuckle, but quiet myself when no humor appears on her face. “I can't imagine anyone getting upset about the way you've run this place. Camille and I have been here every dayâ”
“I noticed.”
Camille pipes up. “I don't even look at the menu anymore. Just play eeny-meeny with your specials, and I think those pumpkin-bourbon muffins are my favorite. This place should be in a magazine.”
Holly exhales again. “Auntie's old-school 'bout that. Says if people want to hear about us, they'll listen to their friends. Problem is, most of those old battle-axes she cooks for want the same old thing: eggs with toast and some kind of meat.”
Both girls stare at me.
“What?
My eggs are poached, and I bet most of your customers order them scrambled.”
“What?
My eggs are poached, and I bet most of your customers order them scrambled.”
Holly glances off into nowhere. “Yeah, that and sunny-side-up. Every old one of 'em.”
Camille's gaze meets mine. I open my mouth to speak when Josh strolls up to the counter. Before he takes a seat on a stool, he nods in my direction. I look away and clear my throat. “So, how's your aunt's recovery going?”
“Eh, she's fine. She carried on so much that they thought she broke her hip, but she's just sore. She's home now and in bed, trying to get over the sciatica from the fall.”
Peg's fall. That day will be forever etched in my mind as
the
event that sent one sure-footed and forgetful fireman careening over the counter.
And into my mind.
I try to concentrate on my eggs, but realize that Camille looks bummed.
the
event that sent one sure-footed and forgetful fireman careening over the counter.
And into my mind.
I try to concentrate on my eggs, but realize that Camille looks bummed.
“So she'll be back soon?” my sister asks, no doubt foreseeing the loss of her beloved daily specials.
“Yeah. Don't think I'm ungrateful. My aunt raised me. I've been hangin' out in this diner since I was a tot, and lovin' nearly every minute of it. I just . . . I just would like to try new dishes sometimes. Jorge and I have had too much fun this week.” She lowers her voice. “Don't tell my aunt. Wouldn't want her to think I'm glad for her painsâwhich I'm not.”
Camille slaps the table. “That's it then! We'll vouch for you. I'd die if I had to eat the same ol', plain ol' every day.” She darts me a stare. “And my sister starts her new job at the inn today, so she'll tell every one of those guests to get their behinds into this grill, and ask for the specials!”
Holly's face lights. “That's right. I heard Nigel went and hired you on. I thought you girls were just tourists, and then the next thing I know you're moving into town. Did you plan that? Oh, what am I saying,
of course
you planned it.”
of course
you planned it.”
I rub my cheek. “Actually, we were both born here. I always wanted to come back to Otter Bay, but this is the first chance we could find to really do it.” I don't tell her about our father's last wish, nor that I let my devotion to Trent, among other things, keep me from fulfilling it until now. “We planned for a long vacation with the hopes thatâ”
Camille rolls her eyes. “Don't fib, Tara. She wanted to move here from the minute our mother's new husband took Mom away to Europe. And I was bored, so I figured why not? Always wanted to meet surfers anyway.”
“Hah! You came to the right place then, girls. You do know they hang out right down the hill from here at surfer's ridge . . .” Holly proceeds to give Camille detailed directions on how to get there, who she knows, and where the best viewing spot is for taking in both the waves and the guys who master them. I, on the other hand, poke at my eggs with the tines of my fork, willing my gaze to stay away from the counter.
Last night I logged on to
Soaps Weekly Digest
and caught up on a week's worth of Eliza Carlton doings. If I were she, I wouldn't be chained to this table, listening needlessly to Holly and Camille carry on about boys who spend more time in water than at work. I wouldn't be convincing myself that poached eggs are mesmerizing enough to stare at for long lengths of time. I'd put my fork down, get up, and walk over to one handsome firefighter. I'd say hello and ask if the stool next to him was taken. And then I'd . . . I'd . . .
Soaps Weekly Digest
and caught up on a week's worth of Eliza Carlton doings. If I were she, I wouldn't be chained to this table, listening needlessly to Holly and Camille carry on about boys who spend more time in water than at work. I wouldn't be convincing myself that poached eggs are mesmerizing enough to stare at for long lengths of time. I'd put my fork down, get up, and walk over to one handsome firefighter. I'd say hello and ask if the stool next to him was taken. And then I'd . . . I'd . . .
Hm. I just can't put myself into Eliza's “come hither” stilettos.
Both girls stare at me. “What? The eggs again?”
Camille snorts. “You had the stupidest grin on your face, Tara.” She wags her head, then looks to Holly. “She's not been the same since we got here, I swear it.”
“Please.” Even without turning my head, I notice Josh dart out of the diner, like he was headed to a fire.
Holly raises her chin, her smile wide, but her laughter turns choked and garbled. Abruptly she rises from her seat in the booth and bangs her hip on the table, which jostles enough to send the bud vase tumbling over and its liquid contents spilling down through the seam in the center.
A powerful voice cuts through the diner's din.
“Hol
-ly!”
“Hol
-ly!”
Ah. Apparently Holly's Aunt Peg, who's standing in the doorway waving a cane in the air, feels just fine.
Chapter Seven
I didn't have much time to stick around this morning and watch drama unfold over at the RAGâthat's the acronym the locals use for the Red Abalone Grill, though if you asked me, something a little more pleasing-sounding, like The Grill or The Red Abalone, might have drawn more business. But then, no one asked me.
I left Camille at breakfast and dashed off to dress for my afternoon of learning how to run the front desk of Nigel's quaint, though slightly worn, inn. After living in one of the inn's cheapest roomsâa viewless studio bordering the back parking lotâits flaws have become more apparent than I'd like to admit. This same thought might also apply to my relationship with Trent, but that too was something I'd prefer not to own up to at the moment.
I smooth back my hair, making sure the bun looks straight, and glance at the mirror. “What are you doing here, Tara May Sweet?” I ask myself for the umpteenth time before settling myself with a drawn-out breath and slipping out the door. Although our room hasn't many amenities, my stroll across the parking lot has plenty with its view of the vast blue sea. I take another quick peek, then enter the inn's lobbyâand my new life.
“There you are!”
Tina, the uberpregnant front-desk clerk, the one I'm here to temporarily replace, stops me with her sharpness. I open my mouth, but she continues, eyes affixed just beyond my left shoulder. “Forget what you had on your agenda today, Mary. We need you here.”
An egg-shaped woman, her snug housekeeping uniform damp and soiled, pushes past me with a groan. I take one look into her bag-laden eyes and fear that the housekeeper just may go AWOL today. I'd seen her bustling in and out of here throughout the week, but other than an occasional request for extra soap, we had yet to formally meet. The stout woman stops. Her cheek twitches, and her eyes narrow, but she keeps her glare on Tina's face.
Tina rubs her stomach and glowers at Mary. I start to speak just as Tina turns to me. “This town is full of loafers!”
A vision of slip-on shoes lined up in tidy rows pops into my head. “Can I help out with something?”
Tina's lower lip quivers. When she starts to speak, her eyes well up and she sniffles twice.
Wasn't she just angry?
If I didn't know better, it appeared she'd be sobbing in seconds. “I know that it's your granddaughter's birthday today, Mary, butâ”
Wasn't she just angry?
If I didn't know better, it appeared she'd be sobbing in seconds. “I know that it's your granddaughter's birthday today, Mary, butâ”
“It's my
daughter's
birthday today! And I have already been here since dawn.”
daughter's
birthday today! And I have already been here since dawn.”
“But Alicia quit yesterday, and we still need more clean rooms today, and there is no one else. No one.”
Mary jerks her head in my direction. “How 'bout her?”
“Me?” I press a hand to my chest. “I'm just here to work at the front desk. Nigel hired me to take over for Tina.”
Mary harrumphs. “Oh, you must think you are too good to clean bedrooms.” She starts to remove her apron.
The threatening force behind Tina's tears wins out, and she begins to cry. “So Nigel hired you to âtake over' for me, huh? What's wrong with everybody? People have babies all the time . . . it's not like I'm . . . I'm
disabled
or something!”
disabled
or something!”
My eyes could not widen another inch, especially as I watch her yank her coat from the hat rack in the corner and wrestle it over her body. “Let Nigel know I'm taking my leave early.”
I move after her, following her to the door like a scorned woman. “When? When will you start your leave?”
“Today!”
Mary fiddles with the apron in her hands, a grim set to her mouth. She drops it into a laundry cart behind the counter. “I'm so sorry, but I have to go.”
Other books
The Air War by Adrian Tchaikovsky
Young Lions Roar by Andrew Mackay
Fallen Angels 06 - Immortal by JR Ward
A Busted Afternoon by Pepper Espinoza
Gray Ghost (The Bill Dix Detective Series Book 1) by Swinney, C.L.
Robot Blues by Margaret Weis, Don Perrin
Fallen Angels by Alice Duncan
Cry in the Night by Colleen Coble
JM01 - Black Maps by Peter Spiegelman
Dreams Bigger Than the Night by Levitt, Paul M.