On the Rocks (A Turtle Island Novel) (18 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

A
ding
sounded in the distance as Ginger entered the bookstore during her lunch hour the next day, and Cookie Phillips called out from upstairs, “Be right with you.”

Cookie had been manager of the store for the last two years.

“No hurry,” Ginger called back. “It’s only me.”

She breathed in the smell of the books. Lunchtime visits were a normal thing. She loved this store as much as she loved reading, and though plenty of people had tried to get her to go digital, so far she’d refused. There was something about holding a book in her hand.

Plus, she’d borrowed her mom’s Kindle one day, and it had gotten lost at sea.

So she stuck with print. They were easier to replace.

She moved between two crammed aisles and ran her fingertip along the tops of the spines, silently thanking her dad for his love of reading. He was the one who’d gotten her started. She used to go out fishing with him most weekends, and he always had a book with him. When Ginger was old enough to read, her dad started bringing her to this very bookstore.

“Whew.” Cookie blew out a breath as she hurried down the narrow set of stairs. Her wispy blonde hair danced with her movements. “A kid got a little too rambunctious up there earlier. Took out one of my shelves.”

She quit talking as the doorbell sounded again, and both women turned to watch Mrs. Rylander enter the shop. Mrs. Rylander had passed eighty last year, always had a perm of tight white curls, and shared a love of green rubber boots with Ginger. She wasn’t sporting the boots today, though, instead wearing royal-blue tennis shoes that matched the T-shirt hanging three inches below her narrow hips.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Mrs. Rylander announced. The thin skin around her mouth pursed as she pointed a finger in Ginger’s direction.

Ginger touched her chest. “Me? What in the world for?”

“I need someone on my side, that’s what for. That Kayla Morgan and your mom are out to run me out of my new position at the senior center, and I won’t have it.”

Ah. Her mom’s wedding. Mrs. Rylander was the rental contact at the senior center.

“I’m sure that’s not their intent, Mrs. Rylander.” Ginger slid out from between the two shelves and went over to the other woman. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, and I’ll talk to my mom tonight. I’m sure it’s simply a misunderstanding.”

Wise, but faded, blue eyes squinted in Ginger’s direction, then the woman gave a nod.

“I’ll get us all some tea and cookies,” Cookie offered. “Lunchtime dessert.” She disappeared into the back of the store before either Ginger or Mrs. R. could comment, and Ginger edged the older woman to a seat near the register.

“Now, tell me what’s going on,” Ginger urged.

“I told them sunrise was the best time for the wedding.” Mrs. R. crossed her arms over her chest and somehow managed to purse her lips even tighter. “Everyone knows that patio looks out over the ocean. But neither of them will listen to me. Why in hell’s bells would someone want to get married on that patio when the sun is setting behind the building?”

She made an excellent point.

“Mom specifically requested sunset?” Ginger hedged around the issue. She knew her mom planned the wedding for early afternoon. They’d all be in the reception area before the sun went down.

“Well, she didn’t want sunrise.” Mrs. R. turned her head the other way. “Nor did she like any of my other suggestions,” she grumbled.

And that, Ginger suspected, was the real issue. “What kind of suggestions?”

Mrs. Rylander adjusted the thin scarf tied at her neck, her fingers remaining at the silk. “The colors,” she snipped out. “That Kayla keeps pushing her toward gold and silver, but I keep telling her, gold and silver won’t look good with your mama’s hair. All that blonde. She needs something stronger.” Mrs. Rylander peeked Ginger’s way, brushing her eyes over Ginger’s red tresses. “A nice bright pink, perhaps.”

Ginger held in her cringe.
That
color would not look good with Ginger’s hair. And honestly, gold and silver would look good as the backsplash for her mother. There was nothing wrong with the color scheme.

“How about gold and cream?” Ginger tossed out. She’d actually overheard her mother discussing the color change with Kayla the day before. Gold and cream nicely complemented the green Ginger would be wearing, as well as the lace sheath her mother planned to have on. Apparently the change in plans hadn’t made its way back to the senior center.

The tightness around Mrs. R.’s lips eased. “Cream is nice,” she conceded. She was looking away from Ginger once again. “I married my Henry in cream.”

Her Henry had been gone for six years, but never had Ginger seen a woman who’d loved her husband more.
“And I’m sure you were beautiful in that color.”

Mrs. R. sniffed. “Of course I was.”

Cookie showed up loaded down with tea and snacks, but before she could pass out the first cup, the chime of a new customer sounded yet again. Ginger’s back was to the door, but she saw Cookie’s movements halt. Mrs. Rylander leaned to the side and peeked around Ginger.

And the hair on the back of Ginger’s neck stood up.

“Well, hell’s bells,” Mrs. Rylander murmured. “I’d heard he was back in town.”

It was Carter. Ginger didn’t have to be told. She could tell by the heat touching her backside.

“He grew up nice,” Mrs. R. continued under her breath. “He’s as fine as my Henry.”

Ginger slowly turned, and as her gaze locked on Carter’s, behind her Cookie mumbled something about the tea not being hot enough before slipping from the room. Cookie was nothing if not shy.

The warmth in the hazel depths across the room seemed to indicate that Carter had found what he was looking for. “You’re a hard lady to pin down today.”

He’d left a note for her that morning, asking her to meet him at the pier for sunrise. The note had also stated that he had something he wanted to talk to her about.

“I had to be at work early,” she explained. She hadn’t been brave enough to go to the pier. Mostly because she’d feared talking about “something” would lead to more thoughts of them doing “something.” And she’d thought about that way too much in the last two days.

“Not working now?” he asked. His gaze briefly shifted to the woman at her side.

“I’m on my lunch break.” She grabbed a book off the counter and waved it in the air. “Picking up something to read later tonight.”

“Ah.” A twinkle lit his eyes. “Not expecting your date to go well, then?”

She blushed. If her date didn’t go well . . .

“I expect it to go great,” she replied primly.

“What date?” Mrs. Rylander asked.

Ginger ignored her.

Carter eyed Mrs. R. again, as if wishing the older woman away, before switching his attention back to Ginger. “I really did want to talk to you.”

“I’m—”

“And it’s not about
that
,” he stressed.

Mrs. Rylander made a low
hmmm
, before once again speaking up. “About
what
?”

Carter’s jaw twitched, and both of them ignored the other woman.

“Don’t avoid me, Ginger Root.” His voice always turned softer when he used the nickname. And it worked on Ginger every time. “I didn’t make that suggestion to—”

“Stop.” Ginger cut him off in midsentence. She glanced at Mrs. Rylander again, who gave her an innocent smile, but Ginger could see behind the batting of the woman’s eyes. She wasn’t the sweet little bystander she was going for. She’d probably already one-handed out a message on her cell phone to the senior center’s social-media page.

Ginger moved across the room and grabbed Carter by the elbow. “Outside,” she ordered.

“Don’t forget to pay for that book,” Mrs. R. called out behind her.

Looking down, Ginger realized she still held the paperback she’d grabbed from the stack beside the register. It was Jules Bradley’s latest. She set it on the nearest shelf, but Carter picked it back up. He held the door open, and motioned for Ginger to precede him out the door.

Once on the porch, she faced him, and her hands began to shake.

“I didn’t mean to make you nervous to be around me,” Carter said.

“I’m not nervous.”

He directed a look at her hands. She tucked them under her arms and ignored him, shifting her gaze to the quaint gingerbread shingles lining the front of the building, and chewing on her lip.

“Gin—”

“I’m not nervous,” she reiterated. “I’m”—she glanced back at him—“embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?”

“You’re my friend, Carter. We’ve always just been friends. Yet . . .” She motioned with her hands, swatting them at him. “You freaking kissed me senseless the other morning. Not to mention, suggested we do
more
. That isn’t me. It’s not what I’m used to.”

A smile covered Carter’s face.

“Are you laughing at me now?”

“Not at all.” His smile grew wider. “I kissed you senseless?”

She sighed.
“Stop.”

“I can’t help it, Red. You kissed me senseless, too.” He took a step toward her. “You know it would be good between us.”

She took two steps back. “And you said that wasn’t what you wanted to talk about.”

His heel came off the ground, as if he intended to continue pursuing her, and she turned to leave.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t go. I’ll behave. I swear. No more talk about kissing, or . . . other things.” She peeked back at him, uncertain whether to believe him or not, and he held up the Jules Bradley book in front of him. “
This
is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She remained where she was. “What about it?”

“You asked if I’ve read his books.” He swallowed, and suddenly
he
seemed nervous. “I . . . actually . . .
wrote
them.”

His words didn’t compute. “What?”

He held the book up to the side of his face and pointed at himself and then the book. “Me. Jules Bradley.” His finger motioned back and forth between the two once again. “We’re one and the same,” Carter finished.

“You’re . . .”

And then it sank in. Her jaw went slack. Her childhood buddy was Jules Bradley. He’d done it. He was an author, just like he’d always wanted to be.

And he was
Jules Bradley
.

The blood rushed from her head, and she reached out, grabbing the top of the half-empty clearance shelf that always sat on the porch. Carter came toward her.

“Did you just swoon?” he asked.

“No.” But that’s exactly what she’d done. And if she wasn’t turned on
by him before, she sure as heck was now. The crush was definitely back.

No words came to her. What could she possibly say, anyway? All she could do was stare.

Carter gave her a sheepish grin. “Are you mad?”

“Mad?” The word squeaked out through her constricted throat, and she shook her head, the motion seeming to be in slow motion. “Why would I possibly be mad? You did it, Carter. You accomplished your dream. I’m so happy for you.”

He looked flustered by her adoration. “I’ve achieved some stuff.”

“You’ve achieved it all.” She wanted to hug him. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I wasn’t writing when I first came home,” he explained. “That’s part of why my mom has been so worried about me. I sold the new book and the movie deal—”

Ginger covered her mouth with both hands. “So that’s true?”

“It’s true.” He chuckled lightly and reached for her. He laced their fingers together. “But then everything happened with Lisa, and the divorce, and . . .” He lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t write anymore. I hadn’t written in months, and the book is due in a few weeks.”

“And something has changed now? You’re writing again?” If he hadn’t told her about this before because he
wasn’t
writing . . .

“You,” he said. “And your house. The combination has gotten me writing again. Or maybe it’s the ocean air. I’ve missed that. Anyway, that’s what I’ve been doing out at your house early in the mornings. Writing. I sit up in that third-floor office, the doors open to the waves, and the words are finally coming.”

“Go over anytime,” she told him in a rush. She still couldn’t get over who he was. “It can be your office if you want. I don’t need it.”

He laughed at that, and she forced her look to shift from wide-eyed fangirl to happy friend. He was Jules Bradley, but he was also Carter. He was her friend. Who’d done what he’d set out to do.

Without warning, she pulled him to her. His arms wrapped around her, and he held her tight. Pride swelled inside her. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I wanted to when I first came home.” He looked down at her. “But then I saw that you read them, and . . .”

“And I gushed like a fangirl.”

His arms closed tight once again. “That means the world to me.” He spoke into her hair. “To know that you love my books.”

“Just keep writing them,” she said.

When he finally released her, she took a small step back, and that time she saw something else written across his face. Something that made her think of tonight’s date.