Sea Glass Winter (3 page)

2

Al
though Claire Templeton’s career as a jewelry designer tended to have her working seven days a week, especially as the deadline for a new season’s launch approached, she’d always enjoyed Mondays.

Monday represented the start of a new week filled with possibilities. This Monday, however, sucked.

She’d been fighting a culinary battle for the last thirty minutes and was losing. Badly. After she’d stuffed the first two batches of pancakes down the garbage disposal, the third, charred black on the bottom, had set off the smoke detector, which was blaring loud enough to wake the dead in nearby Sea View Cemetery.

She’d turned off the gas burner and was carrying a wooden chair around a stack of moving boxes when her teenage son, Matt, appeared in the doorway.

He was wearing a pair of baggy surfer jam shorts, a rumpled black Last Dinosaurs band T-shirt that had fit him a mere three months before but now ended an inch above his waist, and a petulant expression.

So what else was new?

With his heavily lidded brown eyes, tousled, too-long dark hair hanging over a forehead tanned by the Southern California sun, and full lips, he could’ve stepped off the pages of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog.

During this past difficult year, he’d gone from golden-boy jock to wannabe bad-boy delinquent. Which was why Claire had left the only home she’d ever known and moved here to the small coastal town of Shelter Bay. She hoped that here he wouldn’t face as much daily temptation as Los Angeles had offered.

“My alarm didn’t go off,” he muttered, cutting her off before she could point out that he didn’t want to be late his first day in a new school.

Which she hadn’t been going to say.

Okay, admittedly she’d been thinking that, but to avoid another argument about personal responsibility today of all days, she held her tongue as he took the chair from her hands and moved it out of the way.

Physically taking after the father he’d never known, he’d topped her five foot five inches by the time he was twelve. Now, although he still wasn’t old enough to drive, he’d hit six-three, and if his oversized hands and feet were any indication, he still had a lot of growing to do.

“You could’ve just knocked on the bedroom door.” His beautiful lips curled in a sneer. “Setting off the smoke detector is definitely overkill.”

He reached up, took off the white plastic casing, and turned off the siren. Blessed silence. The only sound was the low roar of white-capped waves outside the cottage’s kitchen window. When she’d first made the decision to leave Los Angeles for this coastal town, Claire had had visions of the two of them taking long walks on the beach, healing after the rough year they’d both suffered through, catching up at the end of the day, growing close again. As they’d been for so many years.

“I didn’t set the alarm off on purpose.” Was that a tinge of defensiveness in her tone? Dammit, yes, it was. “I was making your grandmother’s chocolate chip pancakes.” Or at least
trying
to.

Claire opened a window to air out some of the smoke, which in turn let in damp sea air tinged with salt and fir from the trees surrounding the cottage on three sides. “For luck.”

Her mother, with whom she and Matt had lived since she’d first brought him home from the hospital, had always made chocolate chip pancakes for special occasions. Staring down at the gooey mess stuck to the bottom of the pan, she realized that like so many things Jackie Templeton had made look effortless, cooking her breakfast specialty was more difficult than it looked.

“That’s okay,” he said. Those were the first halfway positive words she’d heard from him since they’d left California. He took a box of Cheerios down from the cupboard. “It’s not as if I’m going to need luck.”

“You’re not going out for the team?”

“I might play.” Shoulders that looked too broad for his still lanky body shrugged in that blasé, uncaring way only a teenager could pull off. “Though I can’t see much point in playing for a Podunk program that hasn’t pulled off a winning season in nearly the entire time I’ve been alive.”

“Which is why they’ll be lucky to have you.”

Giving up on the pancakes, she ran the water into the sink and turned on the disposal, sending the rest of the batter, along with this latest charred effort, down the drain.

His only response was a grunt as he poured the milk into the bowl and sat at the table, which was set in front of the window that overlooked the ocean.

The cottage itself was much smaller than the house from which they’d moved, but the sea view—which included the skeleton of a shipwreck—was definitely worth the inflated price she’d paid for it. Of course, seeming determined not to like anything about his new home, when they’d first shown up a day ahead of the moving van, Matt had complained that it was too far from town.

She reluctantly gave him points about their isolation. Considering how much it rained here on the coast, perhaps she should have looked for a place in town. A town he’d immediately dubbed “Hicksville by the Sea” as they drove past the welcome sign.

Claire strongly doubted that there was anything about Shelter Bay that could make him happy.
“Give the boy time,”
she could almost hear her mother saying.
“Kids are resilient
.
He’ll settle in.”

Claire could only hope that was true. Because after the year she’d been through, she was rapidly approaching the end of a very tattered rope.

He continued to sulk as he ate his cereal, then surprised her by putting his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Taking that as a positive sign, Claire didn’t mention his leaving the milk and sugar on the table.

“At least you arrived in time to make the team,” she said, attempting to put a positive spin on the conversation.

Tryouts for the basketball team were being held today. After driving through the night on the last leg of their journey from L.A. to Shelter Bay, she’d managed to arrive Saturday afternoon.

“Like making the team would be a problem.” His tone was thick with the derision that had become all too familiar of late. “I already got a call from some guy who heads up the boosters. He said everyone in town’s excited about me becoming a Dolphin. Which is a lame name. The Normans conquered England. Dolphins do stupid tricks for fish at Sea World.”

His Beverly Hills team had been the Normans, and Claire knew how proud he’d been to wear the black shirt with the orange-and-white
N
shield.

“I suspect the Miami Dolphins players might disagree with that description,” she said mildly as she put the milk in the ancient refrigerator, which would need to be replaced. “And dolphins just happen to be among the most intelligent mammals on the planet. . . . Why didn’t you tell me you’d gotten a call?”

They’d agreed when high school coaches started trying to recruit him back in middle school that he’d never talk to anyone about basketball prospects unless she was present for the discussion.

“You were at the grocery store. Then I forgot about it.”

Not wanting to call him a liar, she wiped off the counter with a sponge. “Well, in the future, try to remember, okay?”

He shot her a dark look, then stalked from the kitchen. A moment later Claire heard the bedroom door slam behind him.

Feeling as if she were walking on eggshells, she followed. But didn’t go in.

“It’s supposed to rain,” she said through the closed door.

“It’s rained all weekend,” he retorted. “And after seeing all the moss growing on the trees, if I worried about getting wet, I’d never go to school.”

From the way he’d been acting, he’d probably prefer dropping out. It was something that had worried her since the day he’d been caught with marijuana in his locker. She supposed the only problem with that idea in his mind was that, if he did leave school, he’d be stuck in the house all day with her.

Right now, apparently, riding his bike in the rain two miles across the bridge into town was preferable to that prospect.

“And having my mom drive me like some lame second grader would be majorly humiliating.”

“There’s always the school bus.” When the agent had first shown her the cottage, one of the pluses had been that the bus stopped at the corner, less than half a block away.

“Kill me now,” she heard him mutter. “I’m riding my bike.”

He was fifteen years old, on his way to becoming a man. So why did she feel the same way she had when, at six, he’d assured her he could cross the street by himself?

Rain began to pound like bullets on the cedar roof as the forecasted storm chose that moment to arrive. “I realize this may come as a disappointment,” she said, deciding that on this she was standing firm, “but I’m still your mother. And unless you want to take the bus, since I have to go into town anyway, I’m driving you.”

The bedroom door swung open. He was holding his school clothes in an untidy wad under his arm. So much for that nice crisp crease she’d ironed so he could make a good first impression.

“Why don’t I just throw myself off the damn cliff?” he suggested, his tone thick with scorn. “Problem solved.”

With that lovely suggestion ringing in her ears, he strode past her into the single bathroom they were forced to share and shut yet another door between them.

As she heard the shower, which needed repairing, sputter on, Claire pressed her fingers against her eyes until she saw little dots like snowflakes and assured herself, for the umpteenth time, that she’d made the right decision in moving them here to Shelter Bay.

3

From th
e outside, with its white siding and pots of yellow mums, the Grateful Bread restaurant fit in with the other cheerful coastal buildings lining the street that faced the town’s seawall. The only giveaway that it might not be exactly your typical small-town breakfast gathering place was its name on the oval sign, which was the same color as the bright green roof.

Inside, it was an obvious homage to the sixties band, with its obligatory peace sign, multicolored dancing-bear poster, and
DEAD HEAD WAY
and
SHAKEDOWN STREET
signs on the walls.

The boosters had claimed the coveted booth in back, which had been created from a cut-in-half VW bus painted in psychedelic colors. On the hood, a rainbow arched over a field of wheat, in the middle of which was a picture of a woven basket of various breads.

Although the restaurant wasn’t that large, it took Dillon nearly five minutes to get from the door to the bus booth, as seemingly everyone in the place wanted to talk about the team and this year’s season. He didn’t need mind-reading powers to know that nearly everyone who cared about basketball was counting on him to be a miracle coach. Because he’d kept hearing the same question over and over again since he’d first arrived in town a few months ago.

“So, Coach,” the conversation would go, “what do you think of our chances this year?”

And although he’d try to couch his answer, attempting not to be a wet blanket while also not wanting to raise expectations, invariably the next question would be, “So, you think we’ll make state?”

And then, since the chances of turning the program around enough to go to the state tournament was along the lines of an asteroid landing in the center of Evergreen Park, he’d be forced to fall back on every cliché known to sports: “It’s a new season. We’ll be starting with a clean slate.”

Or, “As long as we play all eight minutes of each of the four quarters, I’m expecting the best from our players. . . .

“They’re a great bunch of kids,” he assured Jimmy Ray Lovell, the owner/cook, who’d called out to him from the open window of the kitchen behind the counter. “We’ve got ourselves a great foundation, and I’m confident about our nucleus.” Given his other job as a physics teacher, Dillon sometimes couldn’t resist tossing in a little science terminology.

Before driving over here, Dillon had Googled Matthew Templeton, and the kid did appear to have the props to play high-level basketball. Considering Beverly Hills High wasn’t exactly a powerhouse in California hoops, Templeton had, from the articles Dillon had read, provided most of the scoring.

Which could be a problem, since there was a lot more to a game than mere scoring. Although he knew there were a lot of sports fans, probably many right here in Shelter Bay, who thought it was all about winning, the way Dillon looked at it, there was something immensely pure about high school basketball, before all the agents, big bucks, television, and gambling problems began chipping away at the game’s soul.

The kids he was looking forward to coaching were right at the age when they were beginning to make decisions about their lives. There were always temptations, always things to lead them off course. All the time he’d been growing up, there’d been divorced parents, drugs, and the discovery that a few minutes of fumbling around in the backseat of a car could earn serious consequences it was hard to foresee when you’re a hormone-driven teenager.

But things seemed to have gotten darker during the time he’d been out of the country and away from any organized game.

Part of the deal with Troops to Teachers was that he’d go to a rural or problem school in need of teachers. Which was fine with him, because unlike coaches who entered the gym every day with the glitter of championship confetti in their sights, after spending so many years watching some of the worst deeds humanity could dish up, Dillon wanted to make a difference in lives.

One problem he was facing was that a team that lost a lot expected to lose. He’d seen it happen in war. If a unit started taking a lot of losses, they began to consider themselves jinxed. Or unlucky. And when that happened, they lost their edge, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Which was why he also needed to impress on his players, who’d never known the heady feeling of winning, that they weren’t in it alone. That if one of them started to slide, the rest stepped up, not just on the court, but in life, and gave their troubled teammate a hand up. In order to turn the Shelter Bay program around, they’d all have to be dedicated to the cause, rather than counting on any single individual with exceptional talent.

He finally reached the bus and sat down on a chair covered in a subtle moss green fabric, rather than the expected tie-dye. Before he could look around to signal the waitress, who owned the restaurant with her husband, she was at his table, pouring coffee into a thick white mug.

“So,” Vanessa Lovell began, which had Dillon bracing himself for the inevitable question about the basketball team, “are you having the usual?”

“OJ, two eggs over easy, and your husband’s famous sweet potato hash,” he confirmed, resisting jumping up and kissing her right on those pretty pink lips for not saying a word about basketball.

“Jimmy always gets embarrassed when people call it that,” she said, coloring prettily with obvious wifely pride.

“He was on Chef Maddy’s new cooking show,” Ken Curtis, who was sitting across from Dillon, pointed out. “Which means people all over the country watched him cook. I’d say that makes him pretty damn famous. “

“And even if it wasn’t famous, it’d still be the best hash I’ve ever eaten,” Dillon said. Which was true.

Her blush deepened as she cast a quick glance over at her husband, who was busy swirling an omelet in a cast-iron pan with a skill that made it look easy. Having tried it at home after watching the show, and ending up dropping the semicooked eggs onto the floor, Dillon knew it wasn’t.

Which was why, when he wanted something more than boxed cereal and toast, he ate breakfast here. After observing the owners on more than one occasion, he’d realized that if he ever met a woman who made him feel the way Vanessa Lovell obviously felt about Jimmy Ray, and Jimmy Ray about her, he might actually consider settling down.

He’d never had any desire to get married or even live with anyone while he’d been in the Army. Having one of the most dangerous jobs in the military wasn’t all that conducive to long-term relationships. Dillon figured there was a reason a lot of guys he’d worked with over the years had insisted EOD was an acronym for “Everyone’s divorced.”

“So,” Curtis began the discussion without preamble, “what are you planning to do about the phenom?”

Dillon didn’t believe in stereotyping. Both sports and war had taught him that appearances could often be deceiving. But he couldn’t help thinking that a player with wealth and press coverage most teenage athletes could only dream of could well upset the cohesiveness Dillon was planning to create.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about the new student, Ken,” he responded. “At this point I don’t even know that he intends to try out.”

“Well, of course he will,” one of the two women at the table said.

Colleen Dennis was currently mayor of Shelter Bay, and from what he’d witnessed, she was a dynamo who probably could have been successful as mayor of Portland, or perhaps even in the statehouse as governor, if she’d had higher political ambitions.

“If he continues the promise he’s already shown, he could be one of the highest-recruited players in the country. Which means he’d have a golden ticket to any school of his choice. Why wouldn’t he want to play?” she asked.

“I certainly don’t want to disparage my own program,” Dillon said carefully, mindful that everyone in the place had stopped eating to hear his response to the mayor’s question. “But when was the last time a recruiter was in town?”

“Two years ago,” Curtis said. “A guy from Cal State Northridge.”

“That doesn’t count,” another man at the table, Jake, who owned the Crab Shack, countered. “His rental car broke down on his way up the coast to Astoria. He was checking out their center and got stuck here overnight.”

The booster club was Ken Curtis’ realm. Accustomed to being supreme ruler for life and obviously not happy about being questioned, he thrust out his chest, causing the red-and-black wool logger shirt to strain at the seams. “He was still here long enough for me to meet with him at the Whale Song for a discussion about our players.”

“You staked out his room,” Jake said, “and practically jumped on him the minute he got off the elevator. He couldn’t get into his room fast enough, and you’re just lucky he didn’t dial 911 and have the sheriff send a deputy over to haul your ass out of the inn.”

“I don’t remember seeing you there,” Curtis shot back, “so how would you know what happened? Not that I’m saying you’re right.”

“One of my line cooks was working as a room service waiter at the Whale Song back then. When Coach here moved to town, my guy told me about your trying to bribe him to take the dinner tray in yourself. You should know that there aren’t any secrets in this town.”

Before Ken could respond, Vanessa arrived at the table with their orders.

Dillon smiled up at her, supremely grateful to her for forcing a time-out.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he said. “I know it’s going to be a good day when you bring me breakfast.” He glanced over at Jimmy Ray, who’d moved on from twirling the omelet to chopping something with blinding speed. “Why don’t you leave that husband of yours and run away with me?”

“You are so bad, Coach Slater.” She dimpled prettily, obviously pleased with the compliment. Especially since none of the other people at the table had paid her any attention as she’d set their orders in front of them, refilled their coffee mugs, then left the table to circle the room with the coffee carafe.

“Back to the topic at hand,” Dillon said, “my point was that although the tryouts are important, I’ve already got an idea what I’m going to be doing with the team. I’m not sure this new kid would fit into the plan.”

He held up a finger when both Curtis and the mayor opened their mouths to question that statement.

“Besides, there’s also the fact that he’s only fifteen.”

“Fifteen and a half,” Tony Genarro, owner of Genarro’s funeral home, looked up from his triple stack of blueberry pancakes to clarify.

“He’s still a sophomore. Which means, if he does come out for the team, he belongs on JV.”

“Surely you wouldn’t relegate a talent like that to the junior varsity team!” The mayor was obviously shocked by that idea.

“That’s where freshmen and sophomores tend to play.” Dillon shrugged and scooped up a bite of the sweet potato hash, which damned well deserved its fame. “Varsity’s for upperclassmen.”

“Typically,” Jake agreed, suggesting that while he and Ken Curtis might not see eye to eye on everything, on this they agreed. “But I watched some of the clips on YouTube. The kid reminds me of Isiah Thomas, back in the day.”

“Thomas played both sides of the ball.” When your depth was as shallow as Shelter Bay’s team’s was, you needed players who could handle both offense and defense.

“The kid steals like he started picking pockets in his playpen,” Curtis said.

“And shoots like Larry Bird,” Jake added.

“Pure swish. Nothin’ but net,” Tony chimed in.

Since he was the new guy, bringing hope all wrapped up in a shiny ribbon to Shelter Bay, most of the previous meetings had gone Dillon’s way. He’d been optimistic without getting all crazy about the team’s prospects, and they’d come up with ways to get the community involved, because, as he’d pointed out, looking at last season’s attendance records, it was going to be hard to motivate the players when there were only a few dozen spectators showing up to watch them play.

But now they’d seen a different, brighter future in the six-foot-three-inch-tall sophomore from Tinseltown. And it was going to take all his persuasive powers to get them back on the program.

“From what I could tell, watching his videos online, the kid never passes.”

“He didn’t need to,” Curtis pointed out. “Because he could make all the plays by himself.”

Dillon put down his fork, leaned back, and folded his arms. “You’ve just made my point. If you want me to turn the team around—”

“That’s why the school board hired you,” the mayor pointed out.

“Actually,” the other woman at the table finally spoke up, “we hired you for your impressive academic credentials and your leadership qualities.”

Ginger Wells was the principal of Shelter Bay High School. She was smart, enthusiastic, and, although he figured her to be in her mid-forties, still pretty damn hot. If she hadn’t been his boss—and married to her college sweetheart—he would’ve invited her out to dinner at the Sea Mist his first week in town.

“I appreciate the confidence,” Dillon said.

“I’ll be honest,” Her Honor said. “I don’t know anything about sports. Nor do I care. But I
do
care about what’s best for this town. And if this boy is even half as good as Ken keeps telling me—”

“He is,” both Jake and Ken said in unison, proving yet again that they both wanted to see Matthew Templeton in a Dolphins blue-and-white varsity uniform for the first game of the season.

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves,” Dillon said, trying to stand up to the booster steamroller yet again. “We don’t even know if the kid intends to try out.”

“He told me he was,” Ken said.

Alarm bells went off like the civil defense siren the town tested once a month. “When was that?”

Dillon knew Ken claimed to bleed Dolphin blue, but he sure as hell hoped that he hadn’t actually called Beverly Hills and offered the kid—or his mom—something to move to Oregon. Because recruiting kids from other schools was not only wrong; it had been declared illegal by the Supreme Court after schools in Tennessee got tired of a private academy poaching their best players.

“Saturday. When they first hit town.”

“Not before that?”

“Hell no! That’d be illegal.”

“As long as we’re all on the same page,” Dillon said, relieved. Until another thought occurred to him. “I don’t suppose Marcy just happened to sell the kid’s mother her house.” Ken’s wife was one of the most successful real estate agents on the Oregon coast.