Summer at Seaside Cove (15 page)

Still, grumpy didn't scare her. Shooting him her friendliest smile, she walked toward him. “Hi. You must be Mr. Tibbs. I'm—”

“Newman,” he cut in, his voice a brusque rasp. “Here for the summer. One of them New York types, I heard.”

Jamie wasn't certain what a “New York type” was, but based on Melvin's tone, it wasn't good. Still, as she had no desire to make an enemy—unless it was absolutely necessary—she kept her smile in place. “Yes, I'm Jamie Newman, here for the summer, from New York.” Ha—take that, Grumpy. And just to prove she wasn't ill-mannered, she added, “I was about to put on a fresh pot of coffee. Would you care to join me?”

His brows slammed together, turning his scowl downright ferocious. “Are you patronizing me, young lady?”

“Uh, no. I was inviting you to partake of a traditional breakfast beverage.”

“I take my breakfast beverage at oh five hundred hours. Lights out is at precisely twenty-one hundred hours. I'll expect noise to be kept to a minimum after that.” He narrowed his dark eyes at the bag of cat food she still held. “Another one of those bleeding-heart cat feeders, I see. Bah!”

Without another word he marched up the steps to his house.

Jamie blinked and resisted the urge to salute. “All righty then,” she muttered. So much for her first meeting with General Scrooge. Yet instead of annoying her, the encounter had piqued her curiosity as to why Melvin Tibbs had such a stick up his ass. And instilled in her a perverse desire to kill him with kindness, the same way she'd conquered Billy Holmes, her third-grade nemesis. She'd vanquished Billy with homemade chocolate chip cookies and bubble gum, eventually turning him from tormentor to buddy, and she didn't doubt Melvin Tibbs was nothing more than a grown-up Billy.
Heh, heh, heh, Melvin. You've met your match.

When she reentered the house, she booted up her laptop, then set up a spreadsheet that clearly laid out for the committee members a budget of revenue and expenses pertaining to the addition of more clam contests to the festival. By utilizing different what-if scenarios, she illustrated the bottom-line possibilities with various entry fees and number of entrants. When she looked at the numbers, her brows shot upward. By charging even a nominal fee, the town could earn a lot of money. Anticipation tingled through her. She couldn't wait to show this to the committee at next week's clam meeting.

She shook her head. Clam meeting. Good grief. If anyone had told her even two weeks ago that she'd be making spreadsheets for a clam committee and shopping at a Piggly Wiggly and chasing a zany, smelly dog around, she'd have laughed herself into a seizure. Two weeks ago no one could have convinced her that she'd ever take an eight-week vacation from Newman's and escape seven hundred miles away.

Betrayal, she'd discovered, the sort that cut right to the bone, could change a lot of things very quickly.

After putting the finishing touches on her spreadsheet, she began an Internet search for local car-rental agencies. Google had just spit up a page of listings when a car door slammed directly outside.

Was Nick home? Her heart bumped against her ribs and she frowned at the reaction. She didn't care if he was home. Not a bit. And she certainly wasn't going to look to see if he was. Heck, no. But seeing the sun shining reminded her that it was far too nice to remain indoors. Time to grab her bathing suit and go for a swim.

She abandoned her car-rental search and rose. Before she could step toward the bedroom, however, she heard footfalls on the wooden steps leading up to her kitchen door. She was half a dozen feet away from the door when a face appeared behind the screen.

“Jamie?” asked a familiar voice, accompanied by a knock.

Jamie's steps faltered and for the space of several seconds her every thought was reduced to a single word.

Shit.

“Helloooo? Jamie?”

She had to clear her throat to find her voice. “Mom?”

Maggie Newman pressed her nose to the screen door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Jamie. “You're here. You're really here.”

Jamie hurried across the kitchen. She opened the screen door and was immediately engulfed in a tight hug that filled her head with the delicate rose scent her mother always wore.

“I'm so glad I found you,” her mother said, leaning back, but still holding her by the shoulders. “When I saw the rundown condition of the house and that decapitated flamingo, I thought I had the wrong address, but here you are.” Her gaze shifted to take in the interior and her jaw dropped. “I thought you said the place was a palace.”

“It's . . . rustic.”

“It's . . .” Her mom's gaze took in the mail carton/plywood coffee table. “Yikes.”

“It isn't fancy, but it's clean.”

Mom looked at the Formica countertop and wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure? 'Cause it looks like it could use a good scrubbing.”

“I'm sure. Mom, what are you doing here?”

Mom squeezed her hands and gave her a tired smile. “I missed you. New York isn't the same without my girl.”

“That's sweet—and I miss you, too. But you could have called.”

Mom shook her head. “I needed to see you. Talk to you in person.” She set her purse on the counter, pressed her hands to her lower back, and stretched. “I'm sore from all that driving.”

Jamie stared. “You
drove
here?”

Mom winced and stretched again. “I did.”

“But . . . but you hate driving long distances.”

“And this is why—my whole body aches from sitting for so long.”

A sense of dread filled Jamie. Whatever her mom needed to say had to indeed be important for her to drive all the way to Seaside Cove. She scanned her mother from head to foot, taking in her Habitat for Humanity T-shirt, denim cutoffs, and flip-flops. Her shoulder-length light brown curls, which she'd passed along in the gene pool to Jamie, were pulled back in a haphazard pony tail. She wore no make-up, but she rarely did, normally only giving her lashes a swipe of mascara and her mouth a dash of lip balm—a habit also passed along to Jamie. At forty-six, Maggie Newman looked at least ten years younger—which Jamie fervently hoped would be passed along as well.

When her gaze finally settled on her mother's, Jamie's stomach knotted with concern. “Have you been crying, Mom?”

Mom's eyes immediately filled. “No.”

Oh, God. Here came the drama.

“Yes, you have.” Jamie took her hand and led her to the sofa. “Come. Sit. Can I get you anything? Juice, water, coffee?”

“No, thanks.”

Once they were seated, Jamie asked, “Is this about the bill-pay stuff? Because if it is—”

“It's not.” Mom dug in her purse and pulled out a wad of wrinkled tissues. “There's no easy way to say this, so I'm just going to say it.” She looked at Jamie through watery eyes, drew a deep breath, then whispered, “I'm pregnant.”

Jamie stared. Then blinked. Twice. She'd anticipated some sort of drama, but not anything remotely like this. She opened her mouth to speak, only to discover her jaw had already dropped. She forced out the only word she could manage. “Huh?”

Two fat teardrops dribbled down her mother's cheeks. “I'm pregnant. I just found out a few days ago.”

“I . . . Wow.” A dozen questions buzzed through Jamie's head as she studied her mom's distressed expression. “I don't know what to say, Mom. I didn't even know you were dating anyone.” Which in itself was a huge shock—her mother was normally guilty of over-sharing. Jamie had never before known her to keep secrets.

Her mother's face turned crimson. “I've been seeing someone for a few months.”

“You haven't mentioned him.”

“I know. I wanted to, but . . .”

When her voice trailed off, Jamie asked, “Did you think I'd be upset?” Her mother merely shrugged and Jamie gently squeezed her hands. “Mom, it's been three years since Daddy died. I know you've been lonely.” She raised their joined hands and pressed a kiss to the backs of her mother's fingers. “You're young and vibrant and loving and I would never begrudge you finding someone else. More than anything, I want your happiness. Surely you know that.”

More tears left silvery tracks on her mom's cheeks. “Thanks, honey. But . . .” She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. “Good God, I'm
forty-six
years old. How did this happen?”

“Well, unless a test tube was involved, I'm guessing it happened the old-fashioned way.” Jamie shook her head. “I can't believe I'm saying this to my
mother
, but weren't you using protection?”

“Of course—except for that one time.
One time!
But for God's sake, I honestly didn't think it would be a big deal. Do you know the odds of a forty-six-year-old woman getting pregnant? And by a one-time lack of a condom?”

“Not off the top of my head, but obviously, you didn't beat the odds.”

A humorless sound blew past her mom's lips. “Obviously.” She slipped her hands from Jamie's and dragged her fingers under her wet eyes. “God, I'm still in shock. At first I thought the reason I'd missed my periods was because menopause had kicked in. It wasn't until I started barfing my brains out every morning and my boobs swelled up and hurt like hell that I even thought of any other possibility.”

Jamie wasn't sure which mental image was worse—her mother having wild monkey sex without a condom, or tossing her cookies with swollen boobs.
Thanks for those visuals, Mom. I'm now officially scarred for life.
“What are you going to do?”

“I . . . I just don't know. I've always been a go-with-the-flow sort of person, and as you know, practicality has never been my strong suit, but this . . . this has really thrown me. There's no way to be nonchalant about it, and I've had to force myself to think very seriously and consider all the ramifications as my decisions will not only affect me for the rest of my life, but the life of a child as well.”

“Have you seen your doctor?”

“Yes. She explained that there are risks at my age, and extra precautions are needed, but many of the risks can be managed effectively. She prescribed prenatal vitamins and recommended testing to diagnose or rule out chromosomal abnormalities. She said that since I'm in excellent health, if the prenatal testing rules out chromosomal defects, the baby probably would be at no greater risk of birth defects than if I were younger.”

She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, then continued, “On the surface, having a baby is wonderful and exciting and fun, but the hard reality is that the thought of raising a child on my own, at my age, is terrifying. And exhausting. God, Jamie, I'd be
sixty-four
at the high school graduation! Nearly seventy by college graduation. That's sobering, to say the least.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “Yet the thought of ending the pregnancy is even more terrifying.”

“Mom . . . you clearly haven't wanted to talk about the baby's father, but I have to ask—what about him? Why would you be raising the child on your own? What does he have to say about all this?”

When her mother hesitated, Jamie asked, “Does he know?”

She nodded, then a sob escaped her. “Yes.”

Jamie's heart squeezed in sympathy as understanding dawned. “He's upset about the pregnancy and has left you to deal with it on your own.” Bastard. She didn't know who he was, but he'd just taken over the top spot on her shit list. And the bottom spot as well. And he was all the shits in between.

Mom shook her head. “No, although he was definitely surprised. And he didn't leave me. I left him.”

Jamie frowned. “Why?”

Her mother rose and paced the length of the room. “Because there are . . . problems.”

Jamie forced herself to remain silent, to wait for an explanation, which was a shock in and of itself as Maggie Newman was normally a veritable chatterbox. She tried to recall an instance where she'd had to drag information from her mom, and came up blank.

Finally her mother said, “There are reasons why I haven't mentioned him.”

“I figured as much. Do you want to talk about them?”

“I do. It's just . . . embarrassing.”

“Is he married? Is that the problem?”

Mom's eyes widened with horror. “Of course not! How could you even ask me such a thing? I would never sleep with a married man. Unless, you know, I was married to him. No, the problem with Alex is . . . well, we weren't exactly dating. We were just . . . friends with benefits.”

Jamie forced herself not to wince. God, she hoped her mother wouldn't suddenly revert back to character and embark on a bunch of over-sharing. Not that she begrudged her mother a sex life—not at all—but she seriously did not want to hear any details. Just the words “friends with benefits” coming from one's mother should be filed under Too Much Information. She could only pray her mom's next sentence wouldn't include the phrase “booty call.”

Still, as this was clearly a crisis, she'd have to suck it up—just as she'd always done. After clearing her throat, she said, “I see. So you just have a sexual relationship with him.”

“
Had
. A week ago I told him I didn't think we should see each other any longer. Three days later I found out I was pregnant.” She paused in her pacing and faced Jamie. “I wanted to talk to you about it, but not over the phone. I was debating if I should come here or not, but then things came to a head yesterday and I had to get away. Had to see you. Talk to you.”

“What happened yesterday?”