Summer at Seaside Cove Read online

  “Feel free to hack one up on the Mets,” Jamie said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed.

  Her cell phone buzzed and she quickly pulled it from her pocket. When she saw the caller’s name, she was sorely tempted to hit ignore—as she’d done the last two times he’d called—but since he obviously wasn’t taking the hint, she might as well get this over with.

  “Hi, Patrick—”

  “Thank God you picked up.” Patrick Wheeler, the normally unflappable maitre d’ of Newman’s restaurant, sounded like he was about to cry. “Everything has gone to hell in a handbag here. The seafood delivery truck hasn’t come because the drivers are on strike, which could continue for God knows how long. Laurel pissed off both our beef and vegetable suppliers and they’re now refusing to deal with anyone other than you. Not one, not two, but three waiters and the new hostess have all called in sick—yeah, right, like they’re not out in the Hamptons and just don’t want to come back to the city during the worst heat wave in a decade. And don’t even get me started on Eduardo! He’s simply impossible. Why do we have such a diva chef? Plus—”

  “Patrick. Stop. Deep breath.”

  She heard him pull in a shuddering lungful of air. “Okay. I breathed. Look, I’m keeping things afloat here as best I can, but it’s like the Titanic after the iceberg—only a matter of time before we sink. You need to come back. Now.”

  “Patrick. I told you. I’m not coming back until the end of summer. Consider me temporarily resigned.”

  “You can’t temporarily resign. Newman’s belongs to your family.”

  “I’m not the only Newman.”

  “But you’re the only one capable of running the restaurant. God knows I love your mother, but a manager Maggie is not.”

  Jamie couldn’t argue with him on that point. Maggie Newman was a perfect hostess for the busy, upscale restaurant located in Manhattan’s theatre district. But she had no talent—or interest—in anything managerial or financial.

  “Nathan is perfectly capable of handling things,” she said, referring to her assistant manager.

  “Yes, but he’s off for the next two days.”

  “Then call him at home.”

  “I already left him two voice mails.”

  “Then you’ll need to speak with Laurel about these problems, Patrick.”

  Her voice caught on her half sister’s name, and the sense of betrayal that she’d fought so hard to swallow rose up and grabbed her by the throat.

  “Laurel is part of the problem. She’s great when it comes to schmoozing the patrons and getting her rich, fancy friends to frequent the restaurant, but she doesn’t have the rapport with the staff or suppliers that you do. I told you—she’s completely pissed off the beef and vegetable suppliers with her attitude.”

  “I know she can be difficult”—difficult, abrasive, snobby, and oh, yeah, a backstabbing Judas—“but you need to find a way to deal with her because for now the restaurant is out of my hands.”

  “Your father is turning over in his grave to hear you even whisper such a thing. You know that’s not what he wanted.”

  Jamie gritted her teeth. Her mother had already heaped a ton of guilt on her. The last thing she needed was more guilt—and pressure—from Patrick. Nor did she need any reminders of her dad.

  Even after three years, grief still wrenched her heart at the mention of him. The pain had dulled with time, but it still cut deep. And no, Tom Newman wouldn’t have wanted her to walk away—even temporarily—from the restaurant he’d founded thirty-five years ago and where she’d worked in one capacity or another since she was fourteen. Just one more burden for her to deal with. Which was why she’d had to get away.

  “Dad’s not here,” Jamie said quietly, “and I have to do what’s best for me.” For the first time in my life. “I’m sorry, Patrick, but I’m off the clock until the end of August. Call Nathan again. Call Laurel or my mother. But don’t call me.”

  “But, Jamie—”

  “I can’t help you. Good-bye, Patrick.” She ended the call, then pulled in a slow deep breath. Before she’d even fully exhaled, her phone rang again. The only name she wanted to see on her caller ID was Jack Crawford. Unfortunately that’s not what she saw. That’s what she got for turning the damn phone back on. She was once again sorely tempted to ignore the call, but she sucked it up and answered.

  “Hi, Mom.” She braced herself—Maggie Newman attracted drama like bees to honey, and this phone call no doubt would bring some form of commotion.

  “Jamie! Finally. I’ve been so worried, honey. I sent you half a dozen texts. Are you all right?”

  “Of course. I texted you when I landed.”

  “Yes, but that was ages ago. Are you in Seaside Cove yet?”

  “I just arrived.”

  “How’s the house?”

  “It’s”—her gaze darted around the bedroom and she winced—“perfect.” In her mind’s eye she pictured the decapitated flamingo. “Gorgeous. A veritable palace.”

  She looked upward, praying she wasn’t about to get sizzled by a lightning bolt for that whopper. But there was no way she could tell her mom the truth. One of Mom’s many, many arguments against Jamie leaving New York and going to Seaside Cove for the summer had been that any rental available on such short notice and for such a cheap price had to be a dump.

  Damn it, she hated it when Mother Knew Best. Granted, it didn’t happen often, but still. Galling. Especially in this case.

  “Oh, well I’m glad,” Mom said, not really sounding glad at all. “I was afraid it would be awful.”

  “Nope. It’s great. How are you doing?”

  Her mom hesitated. Uh-oh. A sure sign something was wrong. Which meant Drama Time. “I’m fine.” The cheerful tone would have led anyone other than Jamie to believe her words. “I just miss you.”

  “I’ve only been gone since this morning,” Jamie teased.

  “I know. But you’re so far away. And Newman’s simply isn’t the same without you.”

  “Mom—please. Don’t go there.”

  Jamie heard an unmistakable sniffle—the sound that meant Mom tears were on the way—and guilt smacked her. Her mom didn’t cry often, yet it seemed that over the past week, she’d shed an enormous amount of tears. Jamie’s heart squeezed, knowing her situation and decisions were the cause.

  “I understand why you left New York, honey,” her mom said. “Really I do. But I hate that you’ll be gone for such a long time. Who’s going to help me balance my checkbook and do that online bill-pay thing you set up for me? You know what a financial disaster I am.”

  “I e-mailed you step-by-step instructions. I also wrote down all your passwords to access your online bill-pay account and a list of which bills get paid automatically and the ones you need to pay by check each month. You’ll be fine. And if you can’t figure something out, I’m only a phone call away.”

  Jamie drew a deep breath, then continued gently, “But, Mom, you can’t call me every five minutes, okay? I need to … breathe.”

  Jamie could practically feel her mother’s sadness oozing through the phone, and it filled Jamie with a guilt she didn’t want to feel. “I know,” Mom said. “I just miss talking to you. You’re always so …”

  “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 l
ife 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.”