Moonshell Beach: A Shelter Bay Novel (6 page)

Since returning home, he’d found that the one thing that got him out of bed each day was having a routine. Okay, so maybe Kara didn’t consider running and drinking a responsible routine, but it had been working for him.

The only reason he’d agreed to babysit Mary Joyce—a job that had the potential for being far from routine—was that he hadn’t wanted to upset Kara,
who was not only a stand-up cop but a childhood friend and the woman his brother was going to marry. Which meant that she was going to be family. And family always backed up family.

He had made a commitment to her to take on the assignment and he needed to see it through. Although before coming home he’d been suffocating in duty to the point when there’d been times he could barely breathe, and had even wondered if a guy his age could actually have a heart attack, no way could he could turn his back on his responsibility now.

Then, if he’d needed any more proof that just when you thought things were really bad, they could get a whole lot worse, he’d woken up this morning with an all-too-familiar black cloud hovering over his head. And not the one that had begun drizzling rain along the coast, but the suffocating one that followed him around like his own personal damn albatross.

He’d wanted to go running, to clear the ghosts and his head, but after Kara claiming he was scaring the tourists, he decided to just put off any PT until the actress left town. It wasn’t as if all those hours spent pounding the pavement and sand had helped make his depression go away.

However, he knew from experience that he could still function if he had to, even when he found himself stuck in this dark place. So, since Marines didn’t hide beneath the covers just because life got a little tough, he’d dragged himself out of the bottomless void, downed about a gallon of coffee, and headed out to begin his day with the best of intentions.

He’d figured the others would be eager to talk
with a bona fide movie star, so it wouldn’t be as if anyone expected
him
to be chatty. He’d intended to be civil, though if given the choice between babysitting some spoiled, self-indulgent Hollywood sex symbol or having his spleen removed with a rusty chain saw, he’d have to say, “Start up the engine.”

But proving yet again that missions never turn out the way they’re originally planned, the moment Mary Joyce walked down the steps of that jet, J.T. had felt a faint, distant spark simmer. Making him think that maybe he wasn’t all-the-way dead after all.

And just when he was trying to figure out whether that was a good or bad thing, she’d glanced over at him while chatting up the delegation the town council had sent out to greet her. It wasn’t a sexy, come-and-get-me-big-boy look. Merely a quick appraisal that had hit his gut like a grenade blast.

Since every mission depended on solid intel, he’d spent the past two nights watching DVDs of her movies. Cole had been dead-on when he’d said that Mary Joyce was really, really hot. The fact that she spent a great deal of time naked hadn’t hurt, either.

But she wasn’t naked today. And while she wasn’t exactly dressed for a drizzly day on the coast, neither was she all dolled up like he’d expect a movie star to be. Those leopard-print high heels might be impractical, but it wasn’t as if she were going to be jogging on the beach in them, and he’d known enough women to realize that, for some unfathomable reason, they all seemed to go gaga over footwear. His own mother, who could never be considered high maintenance, had an entire wall of shelves in her closet just for shoes.

So, while Mary Joyce wasn’t decked out for the red carpet, damned if there wasn’t something about her—a sparkling force field—that had captured the attention of every person on the tarmac. Including the guy who almost drove the luggage truck into the side of a tied-down Cessna as he’d driven out to the jet to retrieve her suitcases.

Although the bio information he found on the Web site said that she currently lived in—where else?—Malibu, instead of sporting a California beach bunny tan, her oval face was as pale as the porcelain his mother would bring out for special dinners.

The ruler-straight black hair that fell below her shoulders was as shiny as obsidian. Her eyes were nearly the exact same blue as the neon light surrounding the Orcas Theater marquee. But much, much warmer when she smiled.

Someone at the airport must’ve tipped off the people in the terminal, because by the time she’d begun walking toward the SUV, a line of lookie-loos had gathered. He’d watched as she bestowed that dazzling smile on the bystanders and waved; then, instead of going straight to the SUV to escape, she’d broken away from the delegation to personally greet the crowd and sign autographs.

When she’d held a baby wrapped in a pink blanket, and not only smiled for the woman’s camera but asked the newspaper guy to take a photo of her with both the mother and daughter, J.T. had decided that if she hadn’t chosen to be a movie star, she might have made a good politician.

During the drive up the coast road to Shelter Bay, he could tell that she was puzzled by his attitude. And growing frustrated. Hell, he wasn’t exactly
thrilled with it himself. He might not be the same fun-loving guy who’d left Shelter Bay so many years ago for adventure, but he wasn’t by nature rude. Until now.

“Oh, except for so many of the windows being painted, it’s just the way I remembered it,” she murmured as he drove past the shops on Harborview Drive. Which, as the name suggested, provided an expansive view of the harbor, marina, and bridge. A sailboat was skimming across the blue water, reminding J.T. that there was a time, in what now seemed like another life, when he’d enjoyed sailing.

“The paintings were created by art students at Shelter Bay High School,” Colleen Dennis chirped up from the backseat, proving that although she might be in her late sixties, there was nothing wrong with her hearing. “You’ll be announcing the winner of the competition tomorrow after the parade.

“As for Shelter Bay seemingly being stuck in a time capsule, that’s one of the things those of us lucky enough to live here love about our town,” the mayor said.

“Castlelough’s much the same way. Many towns experienced unprecedented growth during the Celtic Tiger boom, mostly from houses built by wealthy Dubliners or Englishmen wanting a country holiday home. But being off the beaten track as Castlelough is made it less attractive for developers. Plus, many of the residents, including my brother and sister, are active in the preservation movement.”

“Another reason we’re the perfect sister cities,” the mayor said. “Our people have a great deal in common. At every annual town hall, our citizens vote to keep fast-food restaurants and the big-box
stores out of town. It’s not that we have anything against them, per se. Good heavens, I’ve been known to enjoy a Big Mac from time to time. But we’d lose our uniqueness, and if we became just another town, we could also lose our tourists. Who’ve been the lifeblood of Shelter Bay since it was founded back in the eighteen hundreds.”

J.T. braced himself for a telling of the town’s admittedly colorful history, which, he decided, would at least keep him from having to join in any lame conversation.

Fortunately, he was saved by the bell. Or, more accurately, by Bodhi, who pointed out the theater they were passing.

“Oh, that’s so beautiful!” She actually clapped her hands. Which J.T. considered overkill, but hey, it wasn’t
his
name up there in lights. “I love the neon around the marquee.”

“The neon’s a recent addition,” Bodhi said with obvious pride. “Though it’s merely replicating what was there originally. The Orcas is a grand historic theater. When it was built in 1935, the governor called it the finest cinema house in the Pacific Northwest, and I don’t think you’d have found many who’d have disagreed.”

“Your former governor was obviously a man of good taste,” Mary said. “The detail is amazing. After our Independence, there were a few Art Deco buildings built, though many have since, unfortunately, gone into disrepair. Out in the west, we were too poor and lacked the population for the type of grand buildings Dublin is known for. But I’ve always admired the style.”

“The frieze across the top depicts the town’s history,”
Bodhi pointed out. “First you’ve got the Native Americans, then the fishermen and sailors, then next the timbermen who came to cut down the trees as the town grew, and, finally, of course, the train that changed everything.”

“A train?”

Here it came, J.T. thought fatalistically. The story he’d heard so many times growing up he figured he could recite it by heart. Which he’d once had to, when he’d been narrator of his third grade’s play performed at the Pioneer Days celebration.

“Oh, don’t tell her yet,” the mayor jumped in. “The children at the creative arts summer camp have been working on a skit that depicts the entire event.”

J.T. figured it was the same play. And wow, wasn’t that going to be fun? If it had been anyone but Kara who’d stuck him with this duty, he’d go AWOL right now.

“The skit’s going to be part of tomorrow’s events,” Colleen Dennis continued. “After the art competition awards. I can’t tell you how honored they all are to perform it for such a famous actress.”

“That’s lovely they’d be going to so much trouble, but I didn’t start writing screenplays to become famous. I felt a need to express myself, and, well”—she shrugged—“events escalated from there.”

“That’s why you’re such a perfect role model. I do hope you’ll tell them all about when you were a child. It’s always so helpful when children can identify with a role model.”

“To be honest,” Mary said, “I wasn’t one of those children who knew what I wanted to do when I was young. My life’s been more a series of fortunate
events that put me on the path to get to where I am today.”

“Then you must tell them about that. Because it’s always good for them to realize that it’s also okay to be a late bloomer.”

Even J.T., who’d never claim to be bucking for any Miss Manners etiquette award, knew that wasn’t exactly a compliment.

He shot a sideways glance toward Mary Joyce at the same time she looked over at him. The humor sparkling in her eyes suggested that not only was she not offended, but she didn’t take herself all that seriously in the first place. Which was not at all what he’d been expecting.

As if she could read his mind, her lips curved and her challenging smile seemed to say,
Surprised, Douchett?

Maybe,
he thought.
But the jury’s still out.

“Since you’re such a fan of Art Deco, wait until you see the inside,” Bodhi said, breaking into the silent conversation taking place in the front seats. “The original theater didn’t have a concession stand. Back then patrons purchased refreshments from rolling carts in the lobby. So we added two permanent stands built in the same style as the outside of the building. We have a special souvenir program from opening night in a glass case in the lobby. And framed photos in the lobby showing the restoration after the town nearly lost it in the nineteen eighties.”

“A former administration felt we needed a parking lot for the tourists,” Mayor Dennis said scornfully. “Fortunately more intelligent heads prevailed, we were able to get the Orcas put on the historical register, and with all the local businesspeople and citizens
pitching in—the high school clubs even had car washes and younger children sent in pennies—we achieved the funding to restore it to its former glory.”

“We Irish love our historic buildings. Even those crumbling away in the fields.” Mary twisted in her seat to talk directly to the theater owner. “How many seats does the Orcas hold?”

“The original building had nine hundred and forty-five seats. Now, because we’ve expanded the stage and added an orchestra pit for live performances, it can accommodate six hundred and fifty, along with ten wheelchairs. Of course, although we’re not taking advance reservations for the entry films, we sold out all your films in the first thirty minutes.”

“Well, that’s encouraging. I’d feel terrible if you changed your schedule on my account and no one showed up!”

“Oh, that would never happen,” the mayor chirped.

“I know multiplexes are all the rage right now, but intimate theaters like the Orcas are where I first fell in love with the movies,” Bodhi said. “It’s also where I copped my first feel while necking with Betty Ann Palmer in the back row of the balcony during
Night of the Living Dead
.”

Mary laughed at that. It was a warm, seductively smoky laugh that slipped beneath J.T.’s skin and had him tightening his fingers on the steering wheel. It was also, he remembered, the same one her selkie character had used to charm the scientist as she’d made love with him on the beach.

“And isn’t that an age-old teenage boy’s ploy?” There was more of a lilt of Ireland in her voice when
she was amused. “Taking a girl to a horror movie to get her poor frightened self to practically climb into your lap?”

“Hey.” Bodhi laughed back. “When you’re fourteen, whatever works.”

“A guy’s gotta go with whatever works however old he is,” Reece said. “Isn’t that right, J.T.?”

Less than thrilled to be dragged into the conversation, J.T. shrugged. “Works for me.” No way was he going to admit that he’d done his own share of romantic fumblings in that balcony.

“Of course, J.T. wouldn’t know about having to resort to ploys,” the mayor said. “Not only is he handsome as homemade sin—those Marine dress blues don’t hurt a man’s chances.”

The headache J.T. had woken up with this morning returned as maniacs began pounding at his temples with jackhammers. “I’m a former Marine,” he said firmly, having no intention of ever wearing those blues again.

“My late husband always said there’s no such thing as a former Marine,” the mayor, who appeared to have never met a silence she didn’t feel the need to fill, said.

J.T. privately agreed with that one, but he damn well had no intention of expanding this conversation into his time in the corps. First of all, given that the actress lived in Hollywood, she was probably one of those wine and cheese liberals who, unless they thought there was an audience for war movies, had never seemed real fond of the military men and women who allowed them to sleep safe and secure on their gazillion-thread Egyptian cotton sheets every night.