The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (4 page)

It was a vision of something beyond this empty, echoing life. Something he had forgotten even existed.

And now these innocents walked into his life and tempted him to see goodness and forget the horrors that lurked just beneath the surface.

For the tiniest span of time, he had forgotten the grief, had forgotten Angie and little Sara. And now, remembering, he felt even worse.

He would keep his distance from the likes of Camilla Stewart. Knowing her could only cause more grief.

The ringing cell phone pulled him away from those thoughts. "Knight," he answered, expecting the department's answering service with a call about a lost cat or a loud party.

"Ryan?" His sister's voice sounded stressed.

"What's wrong, Leah? Are you okay?"

"That's what I was calling to ask you."

He muted the TV. "I'm fine. Do you need anything? You're not having any trouble with Pop, are you?"

He heard her sigh. "No more than usual. He keeps trying to leave the nursing home to go to the liquor store. Nothing new."

He stifled a curse. She shouldn't be stuck dealing with that crap from the old man. "You can just ignore it, you know. Those nurses are getting paid big money to deal with him."

"He's my father, Ryan." He noticed she didn't call him "their" father. She knew better than to drag him into it. He sent his money for the old man's care, and that was it. He didn't owe the S.O.B. any more. And neither did she.

"How are you doing, Ryan?"

She sounded really worried, so he gave her the standard line. "Fine, just fine. Everything's going great here."

"Don't give me that standard line, Ryan. You've been using it since you were six years old. It would help if you'd talk about it. Please talk to me."

He looked around at the dead cottage. "Life's just a blast here, Sis. Now stop worrying about me. I'm the big brother. I'm supposed to take care of you, not the other way around."

"Your friends here in Sacramento ask about you all the time. But you never talk about anyone down there in that little town."

He flashed to an image of Camilla and Oliver and the broken-down Stockdale cottage just up the hill from where he now sat. "Nothing to talk about," he said. "What are you expecting, Leah? That I'll go out partying every night?"

"But you're so—"

Alone, he knew she wanted to say. "I'm fine, sis. Hector's fixing up my Mustang, and when it's ready I'll be ready for my big trip."

"This isn't about that stupid car, Ryan!"

"It's not a stupid car. It's a '66 Mustang, Sis. I always wanted a car like that."

"When you were 16, sure. But I'm talking about your life here, not things. You remember how you used to be? You knew everyone in the neighborhood, were connected to everyone...."

"I'm not that person anymore." It was closer than he'd ever gotten to telling the truth. Which was, what exactly? That he had once been arrogant enough to think he could make a difference in people's lives? That he had thought his life had some meaning? That his own ego made him think he could do good when his mistakes cost people their lives? That caring about people just led to disaster?

"But, Ryan—"

"Hey, I've gotta go, Leah. I'll call you in a couple of days. You take care crossing the street now."

"Ryan, please—"

"Bye now, Sis." He hung up the phone. The last thing he needed right now was his baby sister ragging on him.

Leah would just spout a bunch of platitudes about how he needed to move on, forgive himself, and find happiness.

He looked at the photograph on the fireplace mantle: a smiling blonde California girl, all grown up into a confident woman. Smiling, that was Angie. Always smiling. And in the picture next to her, a young spitting image of her. Little Sara, forever ten years old.

He glared at the TV, where the cops were triumphantly handcuffing the bad guy without breaking a sweat.

Gone. In one stupid day. It had taken one day to go from "Daddy Ryan? Can we go get ice cream?" to telling Angie that he'd broken his promise to honor and protect his family.

One moment he'd been opening the door to the convenience store for little Sara, the next he'd glimpsed the drug-addled teenager pressing a gun to the sobbing clerk's temple.

It was too late to get Sara outside, so he'd pushed her behind him and pulled his own gun, telling the perp he was a cop and ordering him to put down his weapon.

It was a split-second he'd replayed a million times, that one moment when Ryan had looked into the kid's eyes and seen the shrewd, calculated decision, the kid realizing the child peeking out from behind Ryan was his weak spot, the perp's gun firing, not at him but at Sara, and then the gunman laughing—laughing!—as Ryan's aim had faltered, he'd turned to catch Sara and ignored the creep dashing out the door as his step-daughter crumpled lifelessly to the floor.

Sara had died because she was with him. And Angie had died inside that day, too. How could he explain that he'd blown it? That he'd made a mistake that cost her daughter her life?

He had tried to stay on the job this last year, tried to function in the way he used to. But it hadn't worked. People kept telling him he just needed time, he needed to get over Sara's death, the divorce. Get over feeling guilty. But nothing was working.

He couldn't do the job anymore. He couldn't be there when people needed him, not like he used to do. So it was best for him to leave before he made a mistake that cost someone else's life. Leave before it was too late.

Two more weeks.

Two more weeks of keeping the peace in this dinky little town. Nothing much ever happened here, so he couldn't screw anything up. He went to work. He came home. He did it again. Day after day. He didn't get involved. He didn't care. That was the way it had to be.

Two more weeks and it would be over.

~*~

Ryan felt the hard-packed sand beneath his thin running shoes. He pounded out the miles, ignoring the warmth of the morning sun beating down on his bare back, ignoring the sweat gathering between his shoulder blades. He ran faster, as if he could outrun the thoughts crowding his mind.

Why was she here? She was carrying secrets, she and the little boy who called her Camilla, not mom. His "daddy" was missing. His daddy was her fiancé—the creep who'd ripped her off. But she was taking care of the boy, the child of the man who'd gotten her arrested. That didn't make sense. And he tried to tell himself that was the only reason he wondered. He didn't like things that didn't add up. He needed to solve the riddle.

Though Camilla and Oliver had no business being together, they matched, the two lost waifs. The sadness in the child's eyes when he talked about his jerk of a "daddy." It matched some lostness deep inside the woman. They were alike, woman and child. Both strong, self-contained, but needing help they weren't prepared to ask for.

He passed an elderly couple doing tai chi on the beach. Their matching steel gray hair shone in the sunlight, and their matching workout clothes—blue today, green yesterday, no doubt red tomorrow—made them look almost like twins. They moved as one, in the slow forms of the ancient exercise, just as they did every morning when he passed them at this spot. He briefly wondered what it would be like to be part of a matched set, but knew it wasn't for him.

He resisted the urge to glance up at the steep cliff face that overlooked the beach. He was right below the Cliff Drive cottages now, and he would be able to see their back yards if he just looked up. He didn't look up.

There was no reason to believe she was up there. She had looked tired last night, and was probably still fast asleep on her first morning in town. When he got to work he would call the San Jose PD, ask for a copy of the report on the embezzlement case. He tried to tell himself it was just part of his job, but he knew it was a lie. He was just plain curious about her. He hated that. He hadn't been curious about anything for months, and he needed it to stay that way.

He ran faster.

~*~

Camilla sat at the kitchen table, enjoying the rich scent of the coffee wafting from the chipped ceramic mug in front of her.

From drinking Starbucks in a Cordova Computing staff cup to generic instant in an old mug she'd found in the cupboard. She should have kept the company mug. She heard they sold for quite a bit on Ebay. And she could use the money.

But it was hard to feel down with the sun shining in the windows and the fresh ocean air coming in the back door.

She looked fondly at the old gas stove hunkered in along one wall. 1930s, she guessed. She remembered one remodel her dad had worked on where the owners had remodeled their house in period style. Their stove had been a reproduction, but it looked a lot like this one.

The stove dominated the little kitchen, its chunky cream-enameled body still radiating leftover warmth from her morning cooking, adding to the cheeriness of the tiny space.

She'd carefully checked out the gas lines before starting the stove last night. Oliver had thought it was pretty funny seeing her on her hands and knees with a dish of soapy water, sponging down the line to check for tell-tale bubbling leaks. But she knew the rules. Never trust the electrical or gas in an old house. Check everything for safety. Her dad had given her some good advice over the years.

Well, the stove had been safe, surprisingly. And they had eaten a cozy dinner of mac and cheese and instant coffee and hot cocoa. Maybe the rest of the house would turn out to be okay, too.

Actually, she had to admit the kitchen was more than okay—it was adorable. She'd given it a pretty good scrubbing last night, and underneath the grime, it was not bad at all.

The Honeymoon Cottage. On a sunny spring day the name fit a bit better than it had last night.

The old hardwood cabinets had once been painted a cream that matched the stove. The paint was worn, but with the soft color, and the faded little hearts someone had stenciled on the doors in a pale blue that matched the stove's trim, it was clear the cottage had once been loved.

She could picture children tumbling indoors after playing on the beach, and a mother out of a commercial hold a tray of cookies for them.

She shook her head. It was out of a commercial. People didn't really live like that.

She took another sip of the bitter coffee. She'd forgotten to buy sugar. She hated black coffee. But even that was okay today. Things were looking up. They were going to make it through this.

She ignored the little pang of longing that the old-fashioned kitchen brought out in her. She'd never lived in a house like this—a house with a history, and a sense that it could really be a home, not just a place to sleep.

She stopped daydreaming and looked around objectively. The cottage was a far cry from her upscale condo in the city, but it had a certain appeal that should attract a buyer looking for nostalgia. If she really cleaned it up, and did all the little repairs, it might just sell to someone dumb enough to want charm over practicality.

She'd find a scrap of blue fabric at one of the used clothing stores in town and make a little curtain for the kitchen window. That would appeal to someone gullible enough to like that kind of thing. Not her. She wouldn't like that at all.

The blue trim on the stove was more aqua than true blue, she decided. Darker than the glimpse of ocean out the window, but not as deep a blue as Captain Ryan's eyes.

Enough of that. But even as she scolded herself she had to smile. She was feeling so much better after a good sleep that even the thought of the overbearing cop couldn't dampen her spirits.

Oddly, crashing in a sleeping bag on the floor of this tiny cottage had given her the best night's sleep she'd had in weeks. Outside the diamond-pane windows, the sea had whispered all night, and the fog had cocooned Oliver and her from the outside world. All had felt warm and cozy inside. She'd finally gotten the deep restful sleep she had so desperately needed. It was as if the cottage was holding them safe in its arms. Nice feeling, even if it was merely a result of exhaustion and stress.

Now the fog had burned off, the sun was shining, and she could face what was to come.

And the first thing to come was getting Oliver back in school ASAP.

"Oliver? Where are you, hon?"

"Come look, Camilla!"

His voice came from the back yard.

She got up and went to the heavy dutch door that was half-open to the ocean air. The morning breeze was repeatedly banging the top half of the door against the outside wall. The bottom was still latched closed by its iron handle.

"What is it, Oliver? You should be getting ready for school."

"Come see!" he said.

"We don't have time for this. We've got to get you to school by nine."

"Come look, Camilla," he shouted gleefully from outside.

She opened the door and went out.

He was standing in the back yard—a sweep of overgrown grass leading to the cliff. A riot of rhododendrons and stubby, twisted pines hid the houses to either side of them. Behind her was the little cottage, and in front of her at the cliff's edge was a low stone wall.

"Don't lean on that wall, Oliver! It might not be stable."

He stopped leaning. "But come see!"

She did.

The silky sand of the bayshore lay a hundred feet below the cliff where they stood—from this angle it appeared they were standing above a golden crescent curving outward on both sides below them.

A working wharf was off to the right in the distance, fishing boats bustling. The seagulls swarmed around the boats in clouds of gray and white, small as flies from this far away. The sea glistened out to the horizon, shining beneath the clear blue morning sky. In the middle of the bay, a tiny island could be seen, frothy waves crashing on its rocks, the tower of a lighthouse rising up high.

Closer, she watched a small, black, duck-like bird circle toward the cliff in a soaring dance, bright white patches flickering on its wings as it came in for a landing somewhere on the cliff face. She leaned forward on the crumbling stone wall that defined the cliff edge, but couldn't see where the bird had landed.