Summer at Seaside Cove (3 page)

“Bossy?”

“I was going to say decisive. And smart. And practical. You always know how to make things right.”

Yeah, I'm a regular Ms. Caretaker Fix-it
. She could solve everyone else's problems but not her own. Could see the cracks and flaws in everyone else's relationships, but not her own.

“Well, as I said, I'm only a phone call away. I need to go, Mom, but we'll talk soon. Love you. Don't forget tomorrow is trash day.”

The instant the words left her mouth, Jamie cringed. She had to stop doing that. No wonder her mother depended on her so much—Jamie enabled her to do so. Her mom was smart—she'd figure it out.

The problem was that her mom had never
had
to figure out all the pesky little details that life involved, like remembering what day the trash was picked up, filing tax returns, and paying bills and making a household budget. Jamie's dad had taken care of all that, and upon his death, Jamie had stepped in. Maggie Newman had married young, gotten pregnant right away, and been a fabulous stay-at-home, never-miss-a-game/class-trip/school-outing mom who could whip up a batch of cookies at a moment's notice and whose artistic help always resulted in unusual and
tres
cool school projects.

But practical she was not. She could make her own curtains and decorate the hell out of a room, but had no idea how to pump her own gas, operate the lawn mower, or have the oil changed in her car.

Well, at the age of forty-six, she was going to learn.

Jamie's phone rang again and her lips pressed together in a grim line when Jack Crawford's name appeared on the caller ID.

“Brace yourself, Mr. Crawford. The Wrath of Newman is about to fall on you.”

She answered with a brisk, “Hello, Mr. Crawford. Thank you for returning my call so promptly.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Jamie?”

“There's been a mistake with my rental. The house you gave me the keys for is not the house I rented—the one pictured on your website.”

“There's no mistake,” came Jack Crawford's deep, slow—
reeeaaally
slow—Southern drawl. “You rented Paradise Lost.”

“No,” she said, with her usual outward calm. She'd learned long ago that even if she was raging inside, losing her cool accomplished exactly nothing. “I rented—and I'm quoting from your website—‘a fully furnished, cozy beach cottage only minutes from the ocean where you can relax, unwind, and breathe in the fresh ocean air.' ”

“And that's exactly what Paradise Lost is. Oh, she needs a little TLC, but you sure are lucky to have gotten her.”

“The house requires more than
some
TLC—an Extreme Makeover is needed. The point is, it's
not
the house you advertised on your website.”

“Well now, I'll admit those photos are a bit out of date,” Jack said with a chuckle, “but that's Paradise Lost all right.”

A
bit
out of date? Surely it broke about seven hundred laws to advertise with photos taken in, oh, 1972.

“I rented, and paid for, the house depicted on the website,” she said slowly and distinctly, “and that is what I expect to have.”

“And it is.”

“No, it's not. The condition of the house is completely unacceptable. There must be something else available.”

“There sure isn't. Every other house on the island—as well as every other beach in the area—has been booked for months. I sure am sorry Paradise Lost isn't all you wanted it to be, but there's no need for anything fancy here—life on the island is real casual. Different from what you're accustomed to, I reckon. Manhattan this is not.”

Jamie doubted truer words had ever been spoken in the entire history of mankind. She could actually feel steam seeping from her ears. “You're telling me there's nothing else?
Nothing?
”

“Not a thing,” he said cheerfully, as if that was fabulous news. “And even if there was—which there isn't—I can promise that you'd never find a last-minute, full-summer beach rental for the bargain price you're paying for Paradise Lost. Most houses here rent for a single week for what you're paying for the entire two months.”

Jamie closed her eyes. No other accommodations on the island. Her Manhattan apartment sublet for the summer. Good Lord, if she didn't have rotten luck, she'd have no luck at all. “So I'm stuck here.”

She hadn't realized she'd spoken out loud until Jack replied, “Best place in the world to be stuck, if you ask me.”

Clearly Jack had never traveled. Anywhere. She drew a long, slow breath. “While remaining in this house for the next two months is not an option, it appears I have little choice but to spend the night. Which means there are two problems that need to be remedied
immediately
. First, there's no power.”

“Oh, that's too bad. Paradise Lost has a new owner—Nick Trent bought the place only a few months ago. Could be he didn't pay the electric bill. And you'll need to take that up with him since Paradise Lost isn't actually a Seaside Cove Rentals property. I just let Nick list it on our website as a personal favor.”

Un. Freaking. Believable. That probably broke about seven hundred rental laws as well.

“How do I get in touch with this Nick Trent?”

“Shouldn't be too hard as he lives right next door to Paradise Lost. Name of his place is Southern Comfort. Pretty fittin' name.”

“Because we're in the South?”

“No, because . . . Well, I don't like to talk out of turn, but when you live in a community with only ninety full-time residents, there are no secrets to be had, so you'll find out quick enough. Southern Comfort is fittin' 'cause it's a brand of whiskey and since Nick Trent took up residence on the island three months ago, he's been known to disappear for days at a time. Word is he goes off on benders. Either that or he's a hit man. Or a CIA agent. Ha, ha, ha. Just funnin' with ya. Nice enough guy, friendly to everybody, but he don't talk much about himself. One of those Men of Mystery types. Nobody's seen him for the past couple days. Most likely drunk as a skunk.”

Jamie closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
This day has to end. This day has to end . . .

“If you look out your kitchen window, you can see Southern Comfort. If his truck is in the carport, that means he's home.”

Jamie pressed her nose to the kitchen screen and looked across the weed-choked, untrimmed hedges that separated Paradise Lost from Southern Comfort. No truck, and not a single light glowed from any of the windows. Maybe Nick On-a-Bender/Hopefully-Not-a-Hit-Man/Maybe-a-CIA-Agent Trent had forgotten to pay the electric bill there as well.

“It doesn't look like he's home,” Jamie reported.

“Could be he's at the Shrimp Festival over at Breezes Beach. It's a huge event around these parts—folks come from all over to attend. And it's especially big this year because it's the
Centennial
Shrimp Festival. In fact, I'll be heading that way as soon as we get off the phone.

“ 'Course the Shrimp Festival can't hold a candle to Seaside Cove's annual Clam Festival at the end of August,” he continued in that unhurried drawl that in spite of its leisurely pace somehow didn't allow her to get a word in edgewise. “It is a sight to behold—a parade through town, arts and crafts, music at the pier, bonfires on the beach, and the best food you've ever tasted. My wife, Cecelia, makes a hot clam dip that could charm the scales off a fish. You have any good clam recipes, Miss Jamie?”

“Not really. About the power—”

“Oh, right. Could be it got knocked out by the storm that blew through last night. Have you checked the circuit breakers?”

“No.”

“Bless your heart. You should do that. Do you know what a breaker panel box looks like? My Cecelia wouldn't know one if it jumped up and bit her in the butt. Bless her heart.”

Hmmm . . . didn't sound like having one's heart blessed was necessarily a good thing. In fact, it pretty much sounded like it was interchangeable with “you're a dipshit.” “Yes, I know what a panel box looks like. Where is it?”

“In the storage closet in the carport. The same key that unlocked the house opens the door.”

“I'll check it. The other immediate problem is the smell in the house.”

“Smell? Now that's just impossible. While Paradise Lost may be a bit run-down and worn, I can promise you it's clean. The Happy Housekeeping service was there just a few days ago and they're top notch.”

“Well, the Happy Housekeepers must have missed something because the entire place stinks like fish.”

Jack chuckled. “Well, you
are
at the beach, Miss Jamie. I reckon it smells like car exhaust in New York City, but not around here. Around here stuff smells fishy.”

“Fishy is one thing.
Dead
fishy is quite another.”

“Aw, it's probably just a forgotten clam. Seagulls drop clams on the roofs all the time to crack them open. Or could be something one of the island cats dragged onto the carport.”

“Island cats?”

“Yes, ma'am. There're several colonies of feral cats on the island. Real good at keepin' down the mouse population.”

“Who takes care of them? Who feeds them?”

“They take care of themselves, but they're monitored by a group of colony caretakers. Dorothy Ernst—she lives right across the street from Paradise Lost in Beach Music—heads up the Cat Colony Committee—she can tell you all about it. They trap any new ferals to the area and bring them to Doc Weston on the mainland, who gives them their shots and spays and ear-tips 'em for identification purposes for free. Then they're released back here at the beach. You'll see them wandering around like they own the place. As for feedin' them, well, just about everybody on the island leaves out food for them. Believe me, they never go hungry.

“But about the smell,” he continued, “you'll need to take that up with Nick as well. Lucky for you, Milton's General Store and Bait Shop on the corner sells air freshener. They've got one called Blueberry Muffin that'll make the place smell like you've been baking all day. We use it in the rental homes all the time.”

Yeah, lucky for me. 'Cause dead clam blueberry muffin is my favorite smell.
“I'm afraid that's not good enough—”

“ 'Course, Milton's is closed up for the next two days, so you'll need to head to the Piggly Wiggly 'bout ten miles down Route 4 for any supplies between now and then.”

“Excuse me?”

“Luther Milton, the general store's owner, is recuperating from gall bladder surgery and closed the store for a few days. But don't you fret, Miss Jamie, Nick'll be back soon. Paradise Lost may not be fancy, but I predict you're gonna fall in love with the place. It's sure to grow on you.”

Yeah. Like mold on cheese. Before she could state that opinion, Jack said, “Try the circuit breaker—that's most likely the problem. If not, there's sure to be emergency candles and a flashlight in the house. No need to worry about airconditioning—far as I know Paradise Lost doesn't have any. So just do what the locals do—open the windows and enjoy the ocean breezes. That'll air the place out and take care of your fish smell problem, too.”

Had he just said no air-conditioning? Holy Freakin' Heat Wave. She was going to die here. In the dead clam inferno. “But—”

“Oh, and just in case you were planning a walk on the beach, don't go too far. Another frog strangler like the one last night is fixin' to blow through in the next little bit.”

“Frog strangler?”

Jack chuckled. “A sudden, heavy rain—comes down so fast the frogs can't escape.”

Jamie didn't particularly fancy herself a girly girl, but
yuck.
An image of hundreds of poor, struggling frogs being strangled by a wall of rainwater flashed through her mind. Damn it, who thought up that crappy expression? She'd probably have nightmares. “Uh, thanks for the warning.”

“My pleasure. Oh, and a word to the wise—you might want to steer clear of your neighbor on the other side, Melvin Tibbs.”

“Why? Is he an ax murderer?” Which would be just her luck.

“No. At least not that I know of. Ha, ha, ha. But he's as ornery and grumpy as they come.”

Swell. But grumpy Melvin wasn't going to be a problem because she wouldn't be staying more than one night.

“Oops, the wife is callin',” said Jack. “I gotta get a move on. Welcome to Seaside Cove, Miss Jamie. There's no other place like it in the world.”

Uh-huh. She didn't doubt that for a New York minute.

A
fter ending the call with Jack, Jamie slipped her phone back in her pocket, drew a deep breath, then headed toward the door. Since she was stuck in Casa Stinko for the night, there was a lot to do, and she made a mental list as she carefully maneuvered her way down the rickety stairs. Drag up the rest of her luggage she'd left on the driveway before the frog strangler (ewww!) hit. Check the circuit breakers—although she apparently didn't need to rush to do so because if that wasn't the problem, then she was apparently shit out of luck.

What else? Oh, yeah. Find emergency candles and flashlight. Locate source of fishy stench—not something she was looking forward to. Dispose of source of fishy scent—again, not looking forward to. Set up food, water, and a makeshift litter box for Cupcake since the general store was closed due to gall bladder surgery. Good thing there was lots of beach sand around here. Good Lord. Could this get any worse?