Seaside Blessings Read online

  She pulled to a stop in front of the two-story, two-family unit she’d circled back to after driving past all three.

  Constructed of natural wood stained a golden/reddish color, it featured a cantilevered balcony across the whole second floor, above the front door. The wood of the railing matched the house, as did the stairway on the side that led to the balcony and a side entry on the upper level. A stone walk wound to the front door, which had flower boxes on either side. The property appeared to be in meticulous condition.

  And the price was right.

  She reread the notes she’d jotted at the Mercantile. The ad had said it was available for showing after six, and it was ten past. As long as she was here, why not drop in? That might be better than calling ahead. Seeing a place on the spur of the moment, in its unprimped state, often worked to a renter’s advantage, as she’d discovered over the past nine years.

  Tucking the slicker around her, she picked up her purse and slid out of the rental car. A fine mist hung in the air, and she hurried toward the front door, admiring the half circle of paned glass at the top and the long panels of art glass on each side. But the wind had picked up, and once under the balcony she wasted no time pressing the bell.

  If nothing else, a tour of the apartment would get her out of the chill. And if the landlord was as warm and welcoming as Genevieve had promised, perhaps she’d even be offered a comforting cup of tea.

  * * *

  Finger-combing his wet hair, Clint Nolan padded barefoot toward the front of the house as the doorbell gave a second, impatient peal. After spending the past hour fighting a stubborn tree root on the nature trail at The Point, he wanted food, not visitors. And he didn’t intend to devote a lot of time to this one. Dinner had already been delayed, thanks to the shower—a necessity after the muddy dousing the inn’s concierge had given him.

  His blood pressure inched up a notch. Talk about unpleasant encounters.

  Forcibly changing his scowl to the semblance of a smile, he unlocked the door, pulled it open—and froze.

  It was her.

  Miss Lipstick-Wielding Reckless Driver.

  And she didn’t look any too happy to see the ax-wielding victim of her splash attack, either.

  His smile morphed back to a scowl.

  At least she’d had the common sense to cover her out-of-place tropical-looking clothing with a practical yellow slicker.

  But she couldn’t change her appearance. Same vivid jade-colored eyes. Same shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair. Same lush lashes. Same classic oval face.

  Same uncanny—and unsettling—resemblance to Lisa.

  Several seconds of silence ticked by.

  When she didn’t seem inclined—or able—to take the initiative, he finally spoke. “Can I help you?” The question came out cool and clipped.

  “Um...” She fiddled with the strap of her purse, staring at his T-shirt.

  He glanced down, wondering which one he’d grabbed out of the drawer. Oh, yeah. The one with the skull and crossbones that said, “Jaz’s World-Famous Biker Bar.”

  His lips flexed. No wonder Miss High-End Concierge was staring. Biker bars would not be her thing.

  She cleared her throat. “I, uh, got your address from the rentals section of the Mercantile’s bulletin board. Genevieve at the Orchid recommended your place when I, uh, ate dinner there.”

  The glitch in her composure didn’t surprise him. Neither did the referral. Since he’d arrived in town almost three years ago, the sisters at the Orchid had been lamenting over his single state. Especially Genevieve.

  But the Orchid Café matchmaker was wasting her time in this case. The inn’s concierge wasn’t the woman for him. No way. No how.

  And the concierge herself seemed to agree. She looked as if she couldn’t wait to extract herself from this awkward situation and beat a hasty retreat.

  He’d make it easy for her.

  “I doubt you’d be interested. It’s on the rustic side.”

  A spark of indignation sprang to life in the depths of those green irises, and her chin lifted in a defiant tilt.

  Uh-oh. Wrong move.

  “Depends on what you mean by rustic. Are you telling me it doesn’t have indoor plumbing?”

  Cute.

  He folded his arms across his chest, giving her a few grudging points for the quick comeback. “It has a full bath and a compact kitchen. Very compact.”

  “How many bedrooms?”

  “Two. Plus living room and breakfast nook.”

  “It’s furnished, correct?”

  “With the basics.”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Okay. She’d called his bluff. This woman was no airhead, even if she did spend her days arranging cushy excursions and making dinner reservations for rich hotel guests. There was an undeniable spark of intelligence—and spunk—in her eyes. She might be uncomfortable around him, she might know he didn’t want her as a tenant, but she hadn’t liked the implication of his rustic comment one little bit and she was going to make him pay for it.

  Clint debated his options. He could tell her the place had already been rented and send her on her way—but she’d find out the truth eventually.

  Besides, he didn’t lie.

  Dinner would have to wait a few more minutes.

  “Fine.” He gestured to the stairs on the side of the house. “I’ll meet you up there.”

  He closed the door in her face.

  Hoping she’d leave.

  Knowing she wouldn’t.

  Thoroughly aggravated, he started toward the kitchen to retrieve the key. Halfway there, he stopped, planted his fists on his hips and frowned.

  Why was he so irritated, anyway?

  Yes, the woman had doused him on The Point. Yes, her inattentive driving had annoyed him. But she hadn’t sideswiped his car, and he’d been doused and muddied by nature plenty of times.

  That left only one explanation for his bad mood.

  Her resemblance to Lisa.

  And that was completely irrational. The new concierge wasn’t his ex-fiancée. She didn’t have a thing to do with all the bad memories he’d come out here to forget. Conclusion? His rudeness was out of line.

  Heaving a sigh, he continued to the kitchen, retrieved the keys from a hook, shoved his feet into a pair of deck shoes and exited through the back door. Okay. He’d be polite, answer her questions—and wait for her to leave. And she would leave. She was only putting him through these paces as a payback for his snotty remark.

  He found her waiting on the landing at the top of the steps. In silence, he fitted the key into the lock, pushed the door open and gestured her inside.

  After wiping her damp shoes on the mat inside the door, she did a slow circuit of the place, lingering by the sliding glass doors in the living room that led to the balcony and offered a glimpse of the sea in the distance. He stayed in the galley kitchen while she inspected the place, the open floor plan allowing him to keep her in sight until she disappeared down the hall. Sixty seconds later, he heard a toilet flush.

  She was checking out the indoor plumbing.

  A smile twitched at his lips, which he stifled at once.

  He was not going to be amused by her antics.

  When she reappeared, she crossed the living room and stopped a few feet away in the dinette area.

  “How long has this been vacant?” She regarded him across the stool-lined countertop that separated them.

  “Six weeks. The older couple who rented it had some health issues, so they moved into assisted living in Eureka. The furnishings are the things they left behind.”

  “And you live below?”

  “Yes.”

  She tightened her grip on her purse. “Since we’ve never been formally intr
oduced...” She closed the distance between them and extended her hand. “Kristen Andrews.”

  Left with no choice, he took her slender fingers in his, surprised by her firm grip. “Clint Nolan.”

  “Thanks for the tour. I’ll think about it and call you.” She sashayed toward the door.

  Flummoxed, he stared after her. What had happened to the “thanks but no thanks” he’d expected?

  Feeling as if he was losing control of the situation, he intercepted her at the door. “It’s not that easy. I’ll need to check your credit rating and your references.”

  She paused and angled toward him, close enough now for him to see the faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose. To catch a whiff of some subtle, no doubt expensive, scent. And to note the slight, condescending arch of her eyebrows. The cool, composed concierge was back.

  “If I decide I’m interested, I’ll pass your credit and character check with flying colors. Mr. Mattson himself will vouch for me. I’ve been in his employ for nine years. Good night, Mr. Nolan.”

  Turning, she exited onto the landing and disappeared down the steps.

  Clint stood unmoving for a couple of minutes, hand grasped around the edge of the door as he fought down a ridiculous flutter of panic. What was wrong with him, anyway? He didn’t have to rent to her. The final decision was his, not hers. If she even contacted him again.

  And that was a big if, despite her glib parting commentary. Given their rocky start, why would she want to live under the same roof with him? There were plenty of other places to rent, even if they weren’t as nice as his. He’d sweated blood renovating this place as he worked through his anger and grief. But the other properties were adequate.

  Feeling calmer, he exited onto the landing. At the intersection in the distance, he caught a glimpse of taillights through the trees. Then the midsize rental car pulled out and disappeared from his street.

  Just as he hoped its driver would disappear from his life.

  Chapter Two

  The jarring jangle of the windup alarm clock yanked Kristen out of a sound sleep in the early-morning dimness, and she groped for the instrument of torture on the nightstand.

  Her fingers encountered a smooth, cylindrical object. That would be...the vase containing a spray of silk orchids. She tried again. The instant she located the clock, she smashed down the button to shut off the offending noise.

  In the blessed silence that followed, Kristen sank back onto the pillow and pulled the covers up to her chin, giving her pulse a minute to return to normal after the rude reveille. Too bad the Orchid Motel didn’t provide luxuries like musical wake-up calls instead of old-fashioned alarm clocks. Inn at The Point guests would be coaxed out of their sound sleep much more gently.

  On the other hand, they wouldn’t snuggle under handmade quilts or find homemade cinnamon rolls in their room. Kristen eyed the half-consumed confection on the small table next to the easy chair by the window. She’d found it last night, along with a sweet note from Genevieve, when she’d returned from a full day interviewing applicants for the part-time assistant concierge positions and buying a new car in Eureka. The rest of the roll would make a more-than-satisfactory breakfast before she hit the road for the drive south to catch her return flight to Hawaii.

  Focused on the treat, she threw back the covers, swung her feet to the floor and padded over to the table. As she broke off a bite and popped it into her mouth, she moved aside the curtains with her free hand to see if by chance the rain and gray skies that had persisted during her visit had cleared.

  “What in the world...?”

  She stopped chewing and peered into the obfuscating grayness.

  Was that fog?

  Yes. A thick blanket of it. She couldn’t even see her car, and it was parked less than a dozen feet away.

  So how was she supposed to get to the airport?

  Tamping down her panic, she dispensed with her usual shower, threw on her clothes and tossed all her belongings into her suitcase to be sorted through later. After running a brush through her hair and applying the bare minimum of makeup, she stepped outside and felt her way along the wall toward the café. Hoping for...a miracle? Maybe. Given the nonexistent visibility, that was what it might take to get her to the airport in time for her plane.

  Despite the dismal weather, a few Saturday-morning diners had braved the elements and were enjoying their morning meal in the café when Kristen pushed through the door.

  “My, you’re up bright and early for a weekend.” Genevieve picked up a menu and gave her a smile that was far sunnier than the weather. “We’re making pecan waffles, if you’re in the mood for a hearty breakfast.”

  Kristen crossed to the counter. “Not today, thanks. Just coffee, to go. And I need to settle my bill. I’ve got a plane to catch—if I can get out of here in this fog.”

  “No worries.” The woman set the menu aside and pulled the bulging reservation book from beneath the counter. “It’ll lift in less than an hour.”

  Kristen gave the fog a dubious perusal over her shoulder. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve lived here a fair number of years. You learn to read the weather. Morning fog doesn’t usually linger past nine. Afternoon fog...that’s a different story. It can last all night, and it plays havoc with the commuters.” Genevieve tallied up the bill and ran the credit card Kristen offered her, handing over the slip for a signature. “Did you decide on a place to live?”

  Until ten minutes ago, Kristen would have said yes. After spending an afternoon with a real estate agent in Eureka, she’d more or less settled on a pleasant condo. It might not be as nice—or convenient—as Clint’s place, but it was a whole lot more neutral.

  Now, thanks to the fog, her resolve wavered.

  “I’m still mulling over my options.” She slipped the credit card back into her wallet and slung the strap of the purse over her shoulder. “But I’m leaning toward one of the places I visited.”

  Genevieve poured her coffee into a to-go cup, pressed on a plastic lid and handed it over. “In town?”

  “No. Eureka.”

  “Clint’s place didn’t pass muster?”

  She transferred her weight from one foot to the other and took a sip of the caffeine-laced brew. “It was very nice.”

  “I thought you’d like it. And you couldn’t find a better landlord. He’s handy with tools, so you’d never have to worry about maintenance issues. Not that you’re likely to have any. He refurbished that place top to bottom after he moved here three years ago. I know the Clarks—his previous tenants—hated to leave. Clint often picked up prescriptions for them, or came here to get them take-out dinners after Ella’s health started to fail.”

  Kristen caught her lower lip between her teeth. Were they talking about the same guy?

  Maybe.

  When she’d mentioned her unsettling encounter with him to Mark Stephens, the inn’s general manager had also sung his praises. He’d told her Clint had done a lot of the grunt work for the Save the Point campaign that Lindsey at the Mercantile had organized to try to block development of the headland. And it seemed her ax-toting stranger had not only found a firm to develop an interpretive trail through the buffer zone between 101 and the resort—which Mattson had set aside as a public nature preserve—but had taken on a lot of the trail-clearing work himself on his days off.

  Kristen took another look out the window. In light of the fickle fog, living five versus fifty minutes from work held a lot of appeal. “I haven’t ruled out his place.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The door opened to admit more customers, and once more Genevieve picked up some menus. “When will you be back to stay?”

  “Two weeks. I have to wrap up some transition details in Hawaii before Inn at The Point opens.”

  “Well, you have a safe trip home. Are y
ou sure you don’t have time for breakfast?”

  “No. Besides, I’m still working on that fabulous cinnamon roll you left me last night. Thank you for that. It was a nice surprise after a very long day.”

  The café owner patted her hand en route to welcome the new diners. “A pleasure, my dear. Starfish Bay people take care of their friends.”

  As the woman bustled off toward the dining room, a young couple in tow, Kristen crossed the small foyer and exited into the fog. Was it a bit less dense now—or was that only wishful thinking? She squinted. No, she could see the outline of her car in the distance. Genevieve had been right. The pea soup was dissipating.

  And perhaps she was right about Clint’s apartment, too. It was convenient, and the man did sound like an excellent landlord. Plus, it wasn’t as if she had to socialize with him. Surely they could be civil to each other if they happened to meet in the driveway on occasion.

  Besides, much to her surprise, she found herself wanting to be part of this tiny community. Clint aside, everyone else she’d met had done their best to make her feel welcome. Lindsey and her father in the Mercantile. Genevieve and Lillian. Janice, who owned the art gallery. And even though she’d taken care of herself for a long time, the notion of people taking care of their friends appealed to her, too.

  Fitting the key into the door of her room, she made up her mind.

  If the place was still available, and if Clint was willing to rent to her—a far bigger if—she was going to live in Starfish Bay.

  * * *

  Clint flipped a second pancake with one hand and sipped his coffee with the other, a smile tugging at his lips. A lazy Saturday morning was one of life’s nicest pleasures. And during the off-season, he had most of them to himself. Maybe after breakfast he’d stroll down to Agate Beach and...

  The sudden ring of his cell phone interrupted the pleasant strains of Vivaldi that filled his kitchen, and he picked it up from the counter, scanning the unfamiliar area code. Could be a phone solicitor. If so, he’d dispense with the annoyance quickly and get back to important stuff—like breakfast.