Final Sentence (4 page)

“I like it,” I said.

“Oh, good. I’m sorry about using canned tuna, but I think albacore is best from May to July and yellow-fin tuna from September to October. We’re sort of in between in August.”

My aunt gave the table a pat. “Good to know, so we don’t poison our guests.”

“Hoo-boy.” Katie’s sizable chest heaved with laughter, and her hangdog-shaped eyes sparkled with mischief. “That’s good, Vera. Poison.”

Someone knocked on the doorjamb. “Is she here, Vera?” A guy with exceptionally large forearms and a Grand Canyon cleft chin stopped in the arch of the door and surveyed the store. “Is Desiree here?”

“Not yet, Tito.” My aunt tapped my hand and whispered, “Tito Martinez is a local reporter.” He resembled a boxer—the dog variety. Broad face, broad shoulders, short legs. Energy twitched through him. “We want him on our good side.”

“I get an exclusive interview with Desiree Divine, right?” Tito beamed, his incisors razor-sharp. “You promised.”

Aunt Vera nodded. “Come to the store a half hour before opening.”

He flashed the thumbs-up sign and zeroed his gaze on me. “Heard you don’t cook.”

I glanced at my aunt.

“Small-town gossip,” she muttered. “Get used to it.”

“I’m on a learning curve,” I said to Tito.

“Good luck. It takes years of practice, and even practice doesn’t make perfect,” he said, a tic grabbing his upper lip in a snarl. As he strolled away, I swear I heard him yipping.

“So tell me about Desiree Divine.” Katie perched on a chair—one of the girls.

“She’s a bit over the top,” I said. “The woman everyone loves to hate.” I added quickly, “Not
hate
hate.
Love
hate. Think Giada de Laurentiis’s lusciousness and Ina Garten’s talent all rolled up into one willowy glamour girl, with a smattering of Martha Stewart’s uptightness, enough to make her interesting.”

“Jenna met her in college,” my aunt said.

“Desiree showed up to our dorm room that first day, dressed in white and looking like a goddess,” I said, the memory fresh. “She wasn’t haughty. She was simply perfect, with a radiant smile. Her windswept golden hair framed her face perfectly.” To give an impression, I shook my shoulder-length hair and flashed my pearly whites. Katie and my aunt laughed. “A dozen freshman guys crowded in the doorway, tongues hanging out.”

“Hoo-boy,” Katie said.

“And yet, from the first moment, Desiree and I bonded over dating, the drudgery of classes, and helicopter parents, though hers proved worse than mine. Her mother was quite shocked and vocally disappointed when Desiree quit school to become a chef.”

“Ah, a mother’s dreams. Too-ra-loo,” Aunt Vera said. Did I detect sadness in her tone? Hadn’t my grandmother supported my aunt’s dreams?

“Go on,” Katie said, looking as avid as a gossip magazine reader.

“Even though Desiree didn’t have her parents’ support, she flew to France and learned with the best,” I said. “Two years later, she returned to the States, where, thanks to the dazzling, world-renowned restaurateur Anton d’Stang, she became a sought-after chef at Chez Anton, d’Stang’s New York restaurant. During her stint there, she devised her own style and wrote numerous cookbooks. A year later, she left Chez Anton to star in her own TV show.”

The gold pocket watch pinned to Katie’s apron chimed. “Whew,” she said. “Time flies when we’re yakking. I’ve got to get back to my duties.” She needed to organize the café’s kitchen and interview sous chefs. She scrambled out of the chair and shuffled away. At the entry to the café, she pivoted. “Say, Jenna, perhaps we could catch up later. There’s a wine bar called Vines upstairs next to the arty movie theater.”

“I can’t. My dad’s dropping by today.”

“Oh, sure, another time.” Disappointment clouded her gaze.

“How about next Tuesday when the shop is closed?”

“Super.” Her eyes brightened.

Because we lived in a tourism-driven town, my aunt and I made the decision to close the shop and café on Sunday, around 6 P
.
M
.
, and one full day a week—Tuesday. When working in advertising, I had been a workaholic. Seven days a week, as many hours as required. I didn’t want to live that way in Crystal Cove.

As Katie walked off, Aunt Vera said, “That girl is good for gossip. She knows everyone at bookstores, shops, doctors’ clinics, you name it. You ever want to know anything about anybody, ask her.”

When my aunt and I finished all the displays, I said, “I’m going to pass out flyers.” I planned to use my mother’s old bicycle to buzz around town. Finding places to park my metallic blue VW bug, even though it was small, would be a challenge. And walking? Forget it. Crystal Cove, end-to-end, consisted of six miles of beach strand, which meant nearly four miles of brick-lined sidewalks and shops. I had stamina, but not that much stamina.

“What flyers?” Aunt Vera said.

“The ones with the coupon. If people buy one of our old cookbooks, we’ll give them ten percent off a new cookbook. Haven’t I shown them to you?” I fetched my briefcase from behind the sales counter and withdrew a sunset-toned flyer.

Aunt Vera beamed. “You astound me with your advertising acumen.”

What might astonish her more was the campaign I’d created for Firecracker Frijoles, with animated beans strapped to rockets. My nightmares were not nearly as colorful as my ad ideas.

The front door flew open. Expecting to greet my father, who’d called and said he was on his way, I whirled around with a grin planted on my face.

A thick woman with a beaky nose, silver hair, and the glower of a rhinoceros on the warpath marched into the store. “Vera Hart, who owns those Winnebagos?”

I peeked out the picture window. Two orca-sized vehicles took up six spots in the parking lot.

“I haven’t the slightest,” Aunt Vera said.

“You’ve got to do something.” Brandishing a fist, the woman charged toward my aunt.

I couldn’t believe she would actually hit my aunt because of Winnebagos, but I wasn’t taking chances. I cut her off near the sustainability cookbooks display, my dukes raised. I wasn’t made of steel, and I had never taken karate or rammed my fist into a punching bag, but I occasionally followed a series of kickboxing workouts on television, and I was taller than the woman by a head. My tank top rose above the low-slung waistband of my shorts, but I didn’t tug it down for fear of losing my intimidating demeanor.

The woman jabbed her fist at my aunt. Being forced to direct her hand around me lessened the effect.

“Now, Pepper, let’s be civil,” Aunt Vera said. Unflustered by the woman’s behavior, she swept past me to the front door, anchored it open with a brass doorstop, and took a deep breath. “Ah, much more inviting. A fresh cool breeze soothes the soul. Lovely.” She clutched the angry woman’s elbow in a friendly manner. “Pepper Pritchett, say hello to my niece, Jenna Hart. Jenna, dear, this is Pepper.”

What a fitting name. The woman was spicier than three-alarm chili.

“She owns the Beaders of Paradise, the store on the far corner of the mall,” my aunt added.

Aha. That explained the detailed beading around the collar of her dress. I jutted out my hand to shake and said, “Jenna to my friends.”

Pepper ignored my gesture. “Vera, have those trailers relocated, or I’ll tell Cinnamon to tow them.”

“Who’s Cinnamon?” I asked.

My aunt said, “The chief of Crystal Cove’s police department. Pepper’s daughter. Don’t you know Cinnamon? Hmm, maybe you don’t. She’s about five years older than you.” Aunt Vera eyed Pepper. “I doubt Cinnamon will relish the job of finding someone to tow the trailers. You know how she can be, don’t you?”

“Willful,” Pepper muttered.

Considering the mother’s temperament, I could only imagine how zesty Cinnamon Pritchett might be. Given their names, they should have opened a mother-daughter spice store.

“Don’t let Pepper steer you wrong,” my aunt advised me. “Cinnamon is a delight. She can sing like an angel, and she’s quite a good roller skater. You taught her to skate, didn’t you, Pepper?”

The woman grumbled.

“Pepper’s shop is one of the main attractions in Crystal Cove,” my aunt said. “She has the most unusual beads, and she is an excellent beading instructor.”

The other night when we drank wine on the porch, Aunt Vera told me about the changes to Crystal Cove. In addition to being a sport lovers’ haven—with a fish and bait shop at The Pier, a water ski and surf shop at the far end of the Fisherman’s Village, and a kayaking and canoeing store down the street—it was now a crafters’ haven, as well. The town featured a knitting, sewing, and embroidery store, as well as a chocolatier, a cupcake baker, and a gluten-free baker, all of which offered classes. Antique stores and clothing stores abounded, too. I remembered my father saying when I was young, “There’s something for everyone in Crystal Cove.”

As if on cue, my father—the spitting image of Cary Grant, early sixties—strutted into the shop. Invariably, because of his similarity to the movie star, people quoted the line: “Judy, Judy, Judy.” It hadn’t helped that my father’s name was Cary and my mother’s name was Judy, and it didn’t matter that Cary Grant had never uttered that line. A comedian had used it in a send-up skit, my father was quick to say. He took the gibing gracefully.

“How’s my Tootsie Pop?” He held out his arms to me.

At the mention of my nickname—a sobriquet my father hadn’t called me since I was twelve—the months, guilt, and anguish melted away. I hurried to him and drew strength from his bear hug. As we stood there, I felt something furry brush against my bare calves.

I bolted from my father’s embrace and peered down. A striped kitten tilted its head up and mewed. His tail swished into a question mark. “Yours?” I asked my father.

“Nope.”

“Mrs. Pritchett?” I said.

“I hate cats.”

Well, I didn’t. I adored them, and this one appeared lost. I scooped him into my arms—it was a he—and nuzzled my nose against his. His purr reminded me of a motorboat revving up. “What’s your name, fella?” He wasn’t wearing a collar.

“The trailers, Vera,” Pepper Pritchett said. “My beaders prefer to park in front of the store, and I have a class starting in an hour.”

“I’m sure someone will move the Winnebagos soon,” my aunt said.

I wasn’t so sure. If I ventured a guess, I would bet the trailers as well as the spanking white Mercedes next to them belonged to none other than Desiree Divine, but I kept my mouth shut. When Desiree was ready to make an appearance, she would, and any amount of ordering from Pepper Pritchett or my aunt wouldn’t make her budge.

Aunt Vera escorted Pepper to the exit. “Now if you don’t mind, we need you to leave. We’re finishing preparations for our grand opening tomorrow.”

“The shop will fail,” Pepper said. “Just as before.”

Aunt Vera skewered Pepper with a look, which caused me to wonder whether Pepper had something to do with why my aunt had never opened the shop decades ago. Had she mounted an anticookbook campaign? I needed to know the dirt, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

At the door, Pepper regarded the kitten in my arms. “Disgusting creatures.”

I wished I had a masterful magic mirror like the one I had created for the Pretty Princess Doll campaign. The mirror would ricochet hateful words from Pretty’s enemies back at them.

“That’ll be all, thank you.” Aunt Vera pushed Pepper out of the shop and smiled at me. “Put the kitten on the ground, honey. Let him walk around. You’ll see by his pace what to name him.”

“Name him?” I said. “I’m not keeping him.”

“Nonsense,” my father said. “If a kitten without a collar walks into your life, you have to keep him. Timing is everything.”

I gaped. My father was advising me to keep the cat? As a girl, I wanted a cat, but my mother was allergic, so my father adamantly refused. As an adult working twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I didn’t feel right about having a pet. They needed attention and fresh air. On the other hand, this kitty had the cutest face. Big green eyes. A winsome mouth. And his outrageous purr stole my heart.

I said, “What if he belongs to someone in the Winnebagos?” Specifically Desiree. I hadn’t dared to date any of the guys she went out with in college; I wouldn’t adopt her cat.

My aunt
tsk
ed. “The very idea of letting a kitten loose in a parking lot is beyond my ken.”

“Whoever let him run doesn’t deserve him,” Dad said.

I set the kitten on the floor. He pawed my yellow-painted toenails. I wiggled my big toe. He hunkered backward. I twitched the toe again. He did a cha-cha and bounded up to his hind legs. He twirled in the air, landing on his backside on top of my feet, then quickly flopped to his tummy and to a sit. I scooped him up again. “Okay, you’ve wowed me. You’re as rambunctious as Tigger in
Winnie the Pooh
.”

Aunt Vera clapped her hands. “Tigger, love it. We have a mascot.”

I held up a finger. “Only if nobody claims him.”

“Fine, we’ll post signs,” my aunt said.

My father slung an arm around my back. “What can I do to help?”

“Dad, I want to apologize.”

“Water over the falls, sweetheart. We can’t live in the past. Heartbreak affects each of us differently.”

I gaped a second time. My aunt said my father had mellowed, but I hadn’t expected a total overhaul.

“Now”—he brushed his hands together—“I’m here. Use me.”

“Um, we’re done, I think.”

“I’m too late?”

“Come to think of it”—I scanned the store for a project—“I could use your handyman skills at the cash register.” I scooped up the kitten—Tigger—set him into a vacant book box, and scratched his head. “You stay here until I figure out what to do with you, fella. Aunt Vera, do you have something we can put water in for the kitty?”

“Sure do.” She sashayed to the back of the store, humming the popular Disney song, “The Wonderful Thing about Tiggers.”

I guided my father to the sales counter. “The drawer sticks. I have WD-40 in the stockroom.”

“On it.” He ambled away as the front door swung open a third time.

“Yoo-hoo, Jenny,” a woman called out.