Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (5 page)

“Shelter Bay banned plastic shopping bags last year,” the mayor said. “Once people realized that something they might use for five minutes lasts five hundred years in the ocean, they voted overwhelmingly for businesses to stop using them.”

The man Mary assumed was the driver continued to stare at her. Hating that a stranger could prove so distracting, she forged on with the conversation. “It must be lovely to know you’ve made such a difference in the world. I assume we’ll be doing an interview?”

“Our local paper hardly has the power to influence the world,” he said, showing himself to have less of an ego than the professor. “Though I try to enlighten my little corner of it. And while I may have worked the political desk at the
Washington Post
before moving to the West Coast, I still enjoy entertainment news. And you, Ms. Joyce, are definitely the hottest celebrity ever to hit Shelter Bay.”

“Hell, she’s the only celebrity to ever hit Shelter Bay,” Bodhi said.

Mary wasn’t surprised the newsman had once worked at a larger paper. Not only had the stories she’d read been well sourced, but the content was exceptionally strong for such a small town, where news often tended to revolve around local gossip.

“Why would I be having the feeling that if you’d been editor of the
Beacon
back when my family visited Shelter Bay, my brother-in-law wouldn’t have slipped under your radar, Mr. Ryan?”

His grin was quick and appealing. “Once an investigative reporter, always an investigative reporter. But, since I’ve never approved of paparazzi tactics to get a story, I would’ve waited until you all left town to run the story.”

Mary smiled and wished that more reporters had such ethics. “I knew I liked you.”

“Well,” the mayor said abruptly, as an airport employee drove over a luggage cart with Mary’s suitcases, “I’m sure you’d like to get settled into your hotel room and decompress a bit from the trip before tonight’s events.”

Having seen the schedule, which began with a reception that night, then a parade the following day with her as grand marshal, and ended with her giving out the Golden Whale award for best festival film the final day, Mary knew that this would be no laid-back holiday like the first time she’d visited the town. Promoting a film for the studio releasing it was part of any actor’s job description. Having also written the screenplays, which had her even more invested in this new film’s success, she wasn’t about to complain.

Unsurprisingly, a line of spectators had formed outside the terminal. Given that her photo—or some badly Photoshopped version of it—was continually appearing on those tacky supermarket tabloids and online blogs, she’d reluctantly grown accustomed to being recognized everywhere she went.

Breaking away from the others, she went over to
the crowd and spent the next fifteen minutes signing autographs and posing for photos. This was one advantage the small-town airport had over larger ones. She’d learned the hard way that if she even paused for a moment in a larger-city airport, she’d soon be mobbed.

But this gave her the opportunity to thank some of the people who’d provided her with a very comfortable living. It also took her mind off that very rude driver.

“Would you mind holding my baby?” one woman asked, holding out an infant wrapped in a pink sweater and wearing a pink knit cap. “She’s named after you…Muirenn.”

Which was actually her character’s name, which translated to “born of the sea.” She’d begun receiving more and more mail that included photos of baby girls who’d been given the ancient Irish name solely because of her movies. While flattered that her work would touch someone enough to name a child after a fictional character she’d created, Mary also found it a little unsettling.

“She’s lovely.” Which was the truth, but understanding that all newborns are beautiful to their mothers, she would have said the same if the baby had looked like a hobbit.

Cradling the infant in her arms, she smiled for the woman’s camera. Then asked Bodhi to photograph her with the mother and child.

“I’m going to put this in her scrapbook,” the mother said. “When she gets a little older, I’ll tell Muirenn all about the day she was held by the queen of the selkies.”

Uncertain whether the woman was serious, Mary
merely smiled again, and, having reached the end of the line, continued on to the waiting SUV where she came face-to-face with the scowling male wearing the aviator shades. Who, unlike the other Oregonians she’d met so far, wasn’t proving the least bit welcoming.

Without a word of
hello
,
hi
, or
nice to meet you
, he began loading her bags into the back of the Suburban while the mayor shepherded everyone else into the SUV. Saving—oh joy—the passenger seat for Mary.

“J.T.’s going to be providing security,” Mayor Dennis said when the silent driver joined them.

“Security?” Surprised by this announcement, Mary glanced over at him. “I seriously doubt I’ll be needing any on this trip.”

The studio typically arranged for a security detail when any of their stars were going to be thrown into a huge, uncontrollable event, but this was a small, quiet town.

“The sheriff thought it would be a good idea,” the Sphinx finally spoke. “Since you seem to have a lot of…
enthusiastic
fans.”

From his momentary pause, she suspected he’d been close to using another, far less flattering description. “They may be enthusiastic. But as I’m sure you could tell, they’re not dangerous,” she argued.

“Maybe those weren’t,” he allowed. “But there’s no way of knowing about any others. Until it’s too late.”

“Well.” Fighting back a flare of annoyance, Mary folded her arms. “And won’t you be adding a festive air to these upcoming days?” Her voice dripped sarcasm.

“J.T. may be overstating the situation,” the mayor jumped in before the negative man could respond. “Kara Conway—that would be our sheriff—is merely taking precautions. J.T.’s here to allow you to get from venue to venue.”

“I’ve managed to walk on my own without assistance for several years.”

“Although I’ll agree that he might be overkill, there’s no denying that he could prove helpful with running your gauntlet of fans,” the theater professor allowed.

His tone suggested he had no more use for this J.T. person than she did. Which, perversely, almost had her changing her mind about the scowling male sitting next to her. Almost.

“They began arriving in town this morning,” Reece Ryan volunteered. “Though less than we’d expected because somehow the word erroneously got out on the Internet that your flight was landing in Portland. According to the airport security officer I spoke with, there’s a crowd waiting for you there.

“Others, for some unknown reason, also showed up at Eugene. Some apparently decided to skip trying to see you at the airport and came straight to Shelter Bay. Several have shown up at the tourist information office, asking where various locations from your movies can be found.”

“While several of the sites were inspired by ones both here and back home in Castlelough, the films were shot on the northern coast of California,” Mary said. “Which, in many ways, resembles this coast, which was why it was chosen.” In between breaks in the stands of fir trees spearing into the silvered sky, Mary could see the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

“It’s not surprising that facts got twisted,” she said. “I’ve discovered, since earning a bit of fame, that celebrity news is often like that old game we played as children. Where one starts a story and it continues until it no longer resembles the original statement.”

“Gossip.” Mayor Dennis nodded. “We always played it at Girl Scout camp on Rainbow Lake. But the lighthouse is definitely ours. You didn’t shoot that in California.”

“True. A second crew filmed some local color to edit in with the California scenes.”

“They’re good,” Ryan said. “No one ever noticed them.”

She smiled at that. “That’s because the photographer blended in with the tourists. You’d be surprised what people are shooting with DSLR cameras these days,” she said.

“What about the cave?” Bodhi asked.

“Those scenes were shot on a studio set,” Mary admitted. “Even if we had wanted to film in the actual cave, the lighting would’ve been tricky and we would have been up against time constraints trying to time the light with the tide. But it
is
one I remember from when we visited. My nephew, Rory, thought it was made of diamonds.”

“I remember thinking the same thing,” he said. “So do my kids.”

“Those fans at the airport seemed harmless,” the mayor said. “And the ones who’ve shown up in town so far are very friendly.”

“And enthusiastic,” the Sphinx repeated. Once again, he did not make it sound like an attribute.

And wasn’t he Mr. Sparkling Personality? Mary
turned toward him. “Are you a sheriff’s deputy?” He certainly didn’t have the look of a small-town policeman.

“No.”

“From a private security firm, then?”

“No.”

“J.T.’s recently separated from the Marines,” the mayor volunteered. “With multiple deployments under his belt, so you needn’t worry. He’s totally qualified to keep you safe.”

“I wasn’t worried to begin with,” she said. Hearing that he was a military man brought that erotic dream crashing back. Surely it was only a coincidence that she’d end up with a former Marine providing security? And speaking of safety, who was going to protect her from him? “Unlike some of the other genres, my movies don’t bring out the serious crazies.”

“Just people who think they’re seals,” he muttered.

“Would you happen to have to have a last name, J.T.?” She was pleased her voice remained calm, without revealing the temper he’d sparked. “Or do you go by just one? Like Bono. Or Sting?” She racked her brain. Damn. Most of the ones who came immediately to mind were women. “Or Mr. T?”

“
Mr. T
happens to be two words.”

“And isn’t
J.T.
two letters?” Ha! Score a point for her side.

“Got me there.” He shrugged shoulders as broad as ax handles. And kept his shaded eyes on the road. “It’s Douchett.”

“Is your family French?” Although growing up in the west had made her fluent in Irish, Castlelough
had enough French tourists that she’d picked up some of that language, which had proved useful in Cannes.

“Cajun.”

He wasn’t a sparkling conversationalist. Then again, Mary reminded herself, the sheriff hadn’t assigned him to this one-man security detail to keep her entertained.

She may have learned to control her temper, but her Irish stubborn streak went all the way to the bone. Which was why, although she’d never considered herself a glutton for punishment, because she could feel the mayor in the backseat desperate for things to go well, Mary found herself trying yet again to draw the man out.

“I first tasted Cajun food in New Orleans on a fund-raising visit after Katrina. Although it’s much spicier than the plain Irish fare I grew up with, I fell in love with it at my first taste of gumbo.”

“The Douchetts have owned one of the most popular restaurants on the mid-Oregon coast for two generations,” Colleen Dennis volunteered, in an increasingly desperate attempt to fill in the silence that settled over them when the frustratingly closemouthed Marine didn’t respond to Mary’s statement. “Which was why we decided to hold the private reception tonight at Bon Temps.”

The city council, taking advantage of their position, had scheduled a cocktail and buffet party for the evening, giving them all an opportunity to spend personal time with her. Apparently, along with the contestants who’d entered films, local business owners and other citizens actively involved in the community had been invited.

Remembering the buzz in Castlelough when the movie people had arrived from Hollywood, Mary couldn’t blame them for being excited.

“Good times,” she translated the restaurant’s French name. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Merely a polite white one. Having spent the last two days and this morning doing press interviews, which involved sitting in a room answering the same questions from entertainment reporters writing for newspapers around the world, she’d just wanted to escape to some desert island, without TV, cell phones, or the Internet.

Then again, desert islands weren’t exactly known for their crawfish jambalaya or shrimp gumbo. Just the idea, after all those cheese and salad trays the hotel caterers kept sending up, had her mouth watering. She supposed a spicy Cajun meal would be an upside to having to play movie star for a few hours.

They were passing a sign declaring Shelter Bay to be the home of Navy Cross winner Sax Douchett. “I assume that’s a relative?” Mary asked her silent driver/bodyguard.

“My brother.” Another sign announced the town to be the sister city of Castlelough. He slanted her a look. “Though he’d probably appreciate it if you didn’t mention that Navy Cross when you meet him.”

Well, wasn’t that more words than the frustratingly silent man had managed to string together thus far? Mary, who understood the complexities of families all too well, found it interesting that it was the mention of his brother that had him opening up just that little bit.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said mildly.

Going back into silent mode, he didn’t respond. But he did nod. Slightly. Which, Mary thought, was at least acknowledgment that she’d spoken. Which, while progress of a sort, also had her thinking that it was going to be a very long five days.

J.T. could feel the annoyance from the others in the back of the Suburban and sensed that the mayor was second-guessing Kara’s idea of assigning him guard-dog duty.

He knew he was behaving badly. Maureen Douchett had taught her three sons better manners. But the truth was that he’d spent so many months mostly listening to the families he’d been assigned to take care of, and being careful to try to always say the right thing, even when he knew there really wasn’t anything he could ever say that would make the pain go away, he’d totally lost the knack of having a normal conversation that didn’t revolve around death.