Sea Glass Cottage (2 page)

Three years earlier

Denver, Colorado

T
he morning broke gray and dreary with the sky spitting down at her in disapproval. After spending the night in the middle of nowhere, miserable and cold, Marisa Lattimer had to admit her plan had come completely undone. She wasn’t sure how it had fallen off the rails so quickly.

A short twenty-four hours earlier she’d set in motion what she’d thought was a brilliant escape plan. But this wasn’t like the movies. In
Sleeping With the Enemy
, Julia Roberts’ character’s blueprint to fake her own death to get away from her controlling husband had gone off without a hitch. Marisa was learning the hard way that reality was a lot different.

She hadn’t counted on slick roads last night or wrecking the car. Sliding off into the ditch and breaking an axle hadn’t been part of the grand plan. Maybe she should’ve waited until spring. The only problem with that strategy was that she was fed up with waiting for her chance to escape, fed up with taking the verbal battery and humiliation dished out on a daily basis. That’s why she wasn’t about to give up now.

Instead of panicking, Marisa realized the car accident might actually work in her favor. If she could ever find her way back to the highway, she could maintain the course of action, maybe hitch a ride. That way, she’d still be able to cross the Canadian border. She’d be on foot in rugged terrain but it could be done. Once she reached Alberta she’d make contact with Shelby Bullock. Shelby had promised to help her lose herself in the new country, start life over again with a new identity, and provide a safe shelter until everything settled down.

On that air of hope, Marisa raised her head and peeked over the ridge where she’d spent the night, taking note of her surroundings. It seemed the prairie grass went on for miles in either direction, broken up only by thickets of Juneberry along the ravine. A wind whipped up causing the branches to crackle and dance with raindrops. The swath of tall bear grass bent in the chilly breeze. Even the songbirds seemed too cold to sing this morning. She knew Montana just before Thanksgiving, could be an unforgiving place this time of year. It had to be at least twenty degrees, colder when she stuck her head up out of the gulley to look around.

Decked out in winter garb, a coat, a ski cap, a pair of gloves and a scarf, the clothing didn’t keep her from shivering in her tracks.

Glancing up at the ominous clouds overhead, she huddled from the frosty bite of the wind. Plunked down between two banks of a narrow riverbed, she fought the urge to cry. Any other time, she might have. On any other given day, the circumstances might’ve broken her spirit. But not today. Today, she had to be strong. She had to get moving. It wasn’t a good idea to stay in one place for too long. The way her luck had gone, by this time, someone probably had found the car by now.

Forced to regroup, she had to think fast. The last road sign she remembered on the highway—before she’d smashed Garth’s BMW—had indicated she was near Lewis and Clark National Forest. She recalled passing through a heavily wooded area before the car had careened into the ditch, which meant she most likely still had a good two hundred miles left to go before crossing into Canada.

Of course, that was a rough estimate on her part. It felt like she’d walked a good five miles after the wreck. But in the dark she hadn’t been sure of the direction. Only when she’d spotted an oncoming car’s headlights barreling straight toward her had she taken off into the desolate stretch of landscape. She remembered falling in some kind of hole and having to crawl out. During it all, she’d somehow gotten turned around.

And this morning, without any sunlight, she had a difficult time getting her bearings. The fact that she’d hit her head in the crash, didn’t help matters any.

She looked at her watch. It was a little after eight. By this time Garth would’ve contacted the cops back in Denver and reported her missing.

Let Garth go crazy on them for a change, she decided as she set off toward the next ridgeline that she hoped like hell led northward. If only she’d thought to pack a compass with her. Sad to say, after all her careful planning, she’d left with nothing but the clothes on her back and a knapsack filled with a few essentials. It was the only thing she’d been able to squirrel away over the past six months without Garth missing specific items and catching on.

Because the lonely grassland beckoned to her right and the rolling hills to her left, she decided to head away from the safety of the ravine and look for a road, maybe circle back to a service station or quick mart so she could pick up some supplies.

As she maneuvered through creeping juniper and sedge, past Douglas fir and cedar, the cold raindrops turned to icy flakes. But she refused to allow a little sleet to dampen her resolve and give up. She’d reach the border or die trying. It was just that simple. She’d never go back to her abusive way of life with Garth. Never. Not even if she had to hide for weeks in the wild, live off the land, and wait for the right opportunity to cross over into Canada. She wouldn’t go back.

After several hours of trudging though, she’d ambled farther into bushes and scrub without seeing any sign of life. Hungry, she sat down on a rock, rested her head back on a fragrant pine. Shrugging off her rucksack, she dug into its contents and came up with the only food she’d brought with her—several fruit grain bars. She’d have to eat sparingly and make them last. She pulled out the bottle of water she’d been hoarding since last night, half gone now, and took a few precious sips.

As she munched on the dry oats and blueberry combo, the snow came down harder, bigger, faster. Chilled, she closed her eyes, leaned back against the lace bark and soon fell fast asleep.

She woke trembling and covered in a layer of fresh snow. Blinking awake, she puffed out a heavy breath, not wanting to move but knowing she couldn’t stay where she was for too long. She swung her pack to her shoulder and stood up.

It was then she thought she heard a noise. A thwack, thwack, thwack echoed off the heavy air. Perhaps that sound was what had caused her to stir in the first place.

Doing her best to determine where the sound had originated, she turned in a circle, decided it was coming from beyond the patch of woods on the other side. She started walking in that direction.

As soon as she came out of the trees and reached the meadow, a dog began to bark and set up a din. Her eyes landed on the tail-wagging golden retriever about the same time she spotted its owner.

Not knowing what else to do, she waved at the forty-something man dressed to chop wood. Standing in front of a rustic cabin, he wore a gray puffer jacket over a dark brown sweater and blue jeans. She tried to ignore the ax he held mid-air in his fist in such a protective manner and the menacing scowl on his face.

“What are you doing out here?” the man asked, surprise written in his brown eyes.

“I got lost. I’d appreciate it if you could point me the way north from here.”

His brow furrowed. “Now? But it’s almost dark. Besides, there’s a storm brewing. Forecast says we’ll likely get five inches by morning, temp hovering around single digits.”

“I just need to find my way back to a road so I keep heading north. Is one nearby?”

He finally dropped the ax with a whack and left it wedged in the chopping block. “Did you have car trouble?”

“No.” Determined not to give anything away, she kept her face blank, tried to keep her hands from shaking.

“So you just appear out of the blue in my front yard headed for Canada, eh?”

“I’m just trying to get home, mister.” She stared at the doubt on his face, knew he wasn’t buying a word of her story.

The dog sauntered over, flopped on his back hoping she’d rub his belly. She took her eyes off the man long enough to oblige.

“Looks like you’ve captured Rusty’s heart.”

She looked up, saw him studying her. In the waning light, she weighed her options. Could she really rough it in a snowstorm? Deep in those misgivings, her own self-confidence beginning to falter, she wasn’t prepared at his offer.

“Okay, I’ll go get my truck keys. How about if I drive you across the border?”

“Just like that, no questions asked? You’d do that for a complete stranger?”

She saw him staring at the bruises on her face, some fresh from the accident, some yellowish ones leftover from two nights before when Garth had put them there. She held her breath waiting, wondering if there was any kindness left for people like her who had taken off to start life over.

She noted he answered her question in a determined, matter-of-fact voice. “Like I said, I’ll get you across the border during what will surely be an epic storm bearing down on both of us.”

“I don’t know what to say or how to thank you.”

“Survive. Live. Make a new life for yourself. Next time, try to remember the devil sometimes comes in pretty packages offering everything under the sun except the most important things of all, kindness and honesty. Try to keep in mind that old saying, if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is.”

Marisa swallowed hard and nodded. “Should I remember that about you? This sounds too good to be true.”

“I have no desire to hit a woman. In fact, a bully, male or female, makes me sick to my stomach. Do you want something to eat before we go? I could throw a couple of sandwiches together for the trip.”

Her stomach rumbled. “That would be great, but the sooner I get this over with, the better it will be before I lose my nerve.”

“You don’t want to do that. You can wait in the truck if you want while I go throw together some food for the road and grab my keys.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded. But as he turned to go, she caught the wave of embarrassment on his face. Even with that, she was taken aback by his next bold statement. “My mother took it from my father for years, never did anything about it, stayed when she should have left. We’re going to do something about that today, tonight.”

“Thank you,” Marisa stated again. “I’ll never forget what you’re doing for me.”

“Then one day return the favor. Be there for someone else. My mother could’ve used a friend when she needed it the most. But there was no one for her to turn to, no one who would help her leave.”

“Okay. Sure. Will we make Alberta by tonight?”

“Count on it.”

Present Day

Pelican Pointe, California

I
sabella Rialto felt like a bird in flight, wings spread, soaring high over ocean and beach. To her, freedom meant she would never take anything in life for granted again. She could make up her own mind about things, even if those things meant simple decisions. If she wanted to, she could stay up late at night and watch a movie of her own choosing, or watch re-runs of
Friends
until the wee hours of the morning if that struck her fancy. Or she could curl up with a good book or her Kindle in front of the fire and read until her eyes were blurry. She could do any of it without a hassle or an argument. She no longer had anyone standing over her, telling her what to do or when to do it.

It was true she’d once been beaten down—which made watching her newfound independence seem like a bud sprouting and then slowly opening so that the world might fully appreciate its beauty. Each day she blossomed fuller and stronger. That was Isabella. Somewhere during the last few months, spending time inside Sea Glass Cottage, she’d rediscovered her soul, its independent streaks, something she’d forgotten she possessed. Sad to say, it had been chomping at the bit to unleash itself after getting stymied for so long.

She knew a few of the more curious in town were still wondering about her, whispering, talking. But it was only a matter of time before they came around. At least that’s what her friends, Logan Donnelly and his wife, Kinsey, had said. She wanted to believe them. Since her arrival in town the closest thing she had to a job was babysitting the couple’s twins, Liam and Leah. Not only did the job give her something to do, it also gave her a glimpse into what she’d missed married to a bully. Children. And after spending a few hours with other people’s babies she’d determined that kids were a lot of work. It took patience and devotion and most of all a generous amount of love. All vital things the bully had lacked.

But Henry was in her past. The divorced Isabella Rialto could look forward to the future again, to waking up in the mornings to possibilities. She’d take that any day over being told what to do and when to do it.

From the front door of the keeper’s cottage, she had a view to die for. The address where she got her mail, officially read 14 Lighthouse Lane.

Standing in the doorway, she looked out over the glistening water and the plush carpet of velvety grass that led to the cliff. Logan, her landlord, had added a porch that ran the length of the house. She liked to sit outside in the evenings and stare out over the bay and the ocean beyond.

To her right she gazed at the step-stone pathway Logan had carved out that led to the massive lighthouse, the lighthouse that kept her feeling safe and secure, especially during the long nights she spent here with herself for company.

The cottage she rented from Logan had been around since 1935. It had undergone major renovations—from a one-thousand-square-foot WPA work project under Franklin Roosevelt—it had doubled in size with a modern design throughout. It had brand-new electrical wiring, new windows, new doors, and a new roof. Cherry hardwood floors had replaced the old, worn-out planks.

Despite all the improvements, she knew from the rumors floating among the townspeople that during the remodeling the workers had found a body in a walled-up space in what used to be the kitchen. When she’d asked Logan about it, he’d admitted that at one time a serial killer had used the grounds and the surrounding woods to conceal victims. Even though Logan had downplayed the dangerous element, Isabella had known for years about the disappearance of his sister, Megan. She’d been sad to learn the young girl’s fate.

Besides her father, Javier Rialto, Isabella had been one of the few close friends Logan had confided in about Megan’s disappearance. The fact that Isabella now lived in close proximity to where the remains had turned up was cause for alarm. She’d be lying to deny that it didn’t bother her at times, especially during a bad Pacific storm when the wind swirled and whistled between the keeper’s cottage and the lighthouse.

On those spooky nights she tried to focus on why she’d made the journey here. Logan’s loyalty to her father had been one reason. But once she’d made the decision to leave Henry, Logan had supported every step she’d taken to cut ties with the man. Logan’s friendship went a long way to making her feel like she could accomplish that goal.

With Javier’s passing, Logan had stepped up to fill her father’s shoes, to encourage, to support, to be there. For the last three years the two friends had become more like family, not by blood, but because they’d shared mutual heartache. Logan had lost his sister. Isabella had lost her father. They had a history that brought them closer, like a bond between siblings that couldn’t be broken.

Logan had been the one to suggest that moving to the West Coast might be the very thing she needed for a new beginning. That’s one reason she’d picked up the threads of her life to try out the place Logan couldn’t seem to shut up about. After all, she no longer had ties to keep her back East in New York. Without her father there, she had no reason to keep up the estate in Oyster Bay or keep ties to any other business dealings.

So if there was a problem living in Sea Glass Cottage, if it made her feel uneasy at times at three in the morning, Isabella knew Logan and Kinsey were a simple phone call away if she needed them.

Not only that, there was something comforting in knowing Logan had finally found the love of his life, someone kind and wonderful, someone like Kinsey who seemed to be the missing piece he needed in his life. It made her feel better knowing other people had a chance at happiness, at finding a soul mate.

Even if she did feel somewhat isolated living in the keeper’s cottage, she also felt at home here, more so than any other place she’d ever lived. No doubt the cottage had a past with spirits that roamed through the grounds day or night.

If only the spook factor ended at the edge of the woods. She’d seen a man she knew wasn’t real. The town had named Phillips Park after him. Scott Phillips had a habit of walking the land, broad daylight or dark of night, it made no difference. Scott was like a sentry guarding his domain. She didn’t resent the intrusion. In fact, she’d accepted his presence with a knowledge that few could understand. There was nothing to fear in a ghost that seemed more protective than menacing. It was others—those who were flesh and blood—she needed to be on guard against. 

Which is why after months of living here, Isabella was still settling in. She’d made the move without a car. She hadn’t yet decided to buy one. Even without four wheels she managed to get around town just fine without one. So far she’d been able to get where she wanted to go by riding the bicycle she’d bought used from Paul Bonner. Paul had tacked up a note on the bulletin board at Murphy’s Market. She’d been the first one, or maybe the only one, who’d been willing to plunk down seventy-five bucks for it.

Whenever she headed into town, like today, she could walk the bright red bike down the steep, paved hill before jumping on to level ground. It was a lot easier that way, especially since she’d been out of practice for so long. Not since she’d been ten had she gone everywhere she wanted to go on two wheels.

As she pedaled her cruiser down Ocean Street to the grocery store, she looked around the little town. Lately she’d noticed there were days it seemed like she’d gone back in time. The old shops along Main Street looked ancient. But there was new life on the horizon. Like herself, she could see the town rising, coming out of years of despair.

Since her arrival the town had already made significant changes. The old elementary school had reopened and was now a state-of-the-art educational center for grades kindergarten through sixth grade. Brent Cody, the town cop, had a new police station. A little hobby shop had opened its doors, along with a boatyard. This summer the town had turned a wasted, weeded lot into a park where families could picnic and kids could run wild for a couple of hours.

On top of all that, businesses had changed hands. Tucker Ferguson had taken over the reins of the hardware store from his father. There were rumblings that someone had bought the building at the corner of Main and Pacific. Plans were in the works for a pizza joint. Isabella hoped it would come to pass. There were nights she craved the taste of a New York-style Italian pie.

Which is one reason it hadn’t taken long for her to realize the little town had a rhythm to it. After spending years catering to her abusive ex-husband’s every whim, after moving from one coast to the other, she desperately wanted to fit in here, to become a part of the town’s ebb and flow.

Deep in those thoughts and distracted, she’d just turned the corner from Ocean Street onto Crescent when she looked up to see a 1982 tan Range Rover barreling its way into her path. She didn’t have time to react other than to dive for the curb to get out of its way. Avoiding the careless driver, she tumbled off her bike and into the street in a heap.

Harrison Thane Delacourt
turned the steering wheel just in time to miss the idiot woman riding a bicycle without a care in the world down the middle of the damned road. But just barely. He almost nicked the fender on the front of her strawberry red bicycle.

Slamming on the brakes, he pulled to a stop, nearly skidding up on the curb. Rattled, he threw open the door and darted over to see if the woman was injured.

He glanced at the female sprawled on the pavement. Irresponsible woman wasn’t even wearing a safety helmet on her stupid head. But his mood tempered somewhat the minute he looked into her soulful green eyes. Her full, pouty mouth caught his attention and had him settling on the striking face and its olive complexion. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through all that silky golden brown hair of hers that had tumbled out of its clip in the fall. Instead he barked, “Are you okay? What the hell were you doing riding down the middle of the street?”

Any other time, Isabella might have retreated at the tone. But not today. If not now, when? Today was for showing the world she’d regained her moxie, her spunk, her courage. She’d start with this overgrown jerk that sported a mass of blond hair tied back in a thick ponytail along with a pair of sharp, indigo blue eyes.

Adjusting her anger so she could get out the words the way she once had in the past, she sucked in a breath. “If you hadn’t been such an idiot
and
if you’d been paying more attention in the first place, you’d know the speed limit in town isn’t anywhere near the fifty miles an hour you were doing. For God’s sakes, this is a neighborhood with kids not the damn freeway. Watch where you’re going next time, will you?”

“Me? I wasn’t the one pedaling down the middle of Crescent with my head in the clouds without a mind to vehicles that weigh several thousand pounds.”

When she started to get up he reached out to help her to her feet. “Are you sure you’re okay? Did you hit your head?” He automatically took her chin, checked her eyes for glassiness. “Concussions can be tricky and hard to detect.”

A little unsteady on her feet, she slapped away his hand, challenged his assessment, even though he towered over her by at least a foot. “I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine. Just so you know, around here we aren’t in the habit of running over people, especially those we consider neighbors, which is pretty much everyone.”

“And I wouldn’t have come anywhere near you if you’d been riding closer to the curb with traffic instead of what you were doing—coming right at me. Have you ever heard of staying as far to the right as possible, unless you’re making a turn, which in this case you clearly were not doing.” He glanced up and down the street. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re in the middle of the block here. Need I remind you, bicyclists are subject to the same rules of the road as vehicles?”

Fed up with his self-righteous attitude and refusing to admit she’d been daydreaming, she snapped out, “Oh, pipe down. I’m not going to sue you or anything like that if that’s what you’re so worried about, although I should.”

“Sue me? Of all the brazen…”

“I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, blew out a pent-up breath. “As long as you have no injuries, I’ll let you get on with whatever it is you were doing.” He turned to go and then stopped, faced her again. “A little advice though. Stay out from in front of cars. In the future, try to pay closer attention to your surroundings. And for chrissakes, if you plan on riding that thing, buy a helmet for your hard head.”