15
Cl
aire Templeton’s car was parked in front of the small cottage, which had definitely known better days. The shake shingles, which he suspected had once been brown, had weathered to silver, one of the wooden steps to the front porch was split, and enough moss to grow mushrooms covered the cedar roof. Yet another adjustment the kid would’ve had to make. For someone who’d lived in the rarified atmosphere of Beverly Hills, this had to be a giant step down.
Then again, Dillon thought, as he stopped midway between the small house and the detached garage, where he heard some music playing, and looked out over the darkening sea view toward the skeletal remains of an old shipwreck glistening in the setting sun, maybe not.
Of course, thinking back on the way he’d stomped out and left with Aimee, scenery undoubtedly wasn’t the top thing on Matt Templeton’s mind.
He knocked on the wooden door on the side of the garage, but there was no answer.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
So, figuring that between the music and the noise of the fan that was blowing out the side of the building, she hadn’t heard him, he turned the knob and walked in.
And was immediately hit by a heat as hot as anything he’d ever experienced in the Iraqi sandbox. Over the fan motors and the music, which was a mix of Gregorian chants, drumming, woodwinds, and some lyrics that sounded Middle Eastern, a blazing fire roared from inside a steel box.
Suspense, tension, danger, fire!
Hot damn.
Could any woman be more perfect?
At first Claire Templeton seemed unaware of him as she pulled the five-foot-long rod out of the hole, slanting it so a bit of the molten glass, which was glowing a bright orange from the intense heat, fell into a bucket of water.
As it sizzled, she turned and saw him. And visibly tensed.
“Is Matt okay?”
“He’s fine,” he assured her. It might not be exactly accurate, but it seemed to release some tension from her shoulders even as she began twirling the rod again. “I just came to talk to you about his place on the team.”
“So he did try out?” She moved over to a flat surface, where she began rolling the oblong ball of glass.
“He did.” He raised his voice to be heard over the fan and the music, which was swelling again into something that sounded as if the monks had gone hip-hop. “And to save you from having to ask, he made varsity.”
“That’s such good news,” she said with a relieved smile. “And I really do want to hear all about it, but this is my third try at this today, and—”
“Go ahead. Unless having an audience distracts you.”
“I’ve given demonstrations before. And taught a few classes.” She was back to the glory hole, reheating the glass. “So I’m fine. But I’d appreciate you staying by the door so I don’t have to worry about dropping molten glass on you. And if you wouldn’t talk right now, that’d be helpful.”
“No problem.” He leaned against the door and folded his arms as she added more color to the glass.
She was wearing jeans, a long-sleeve L.A. Lakers T-shirt, and sneakers. Her hair had been pulled into a high ponytail through the back of a baseball cap, and her face, free of makeup, glistened from perspiration, which made sense because from her comment about a third try to pull off whatever she was trying to make, she’d been working in this hellish oven for a very long time.
When she put her lips to the end of the rod, blowing as casually as she might into a straw, the glob on the end of the rod expanded.
It was as if he’d turned invisible as she slipped back into what he recognized as a zone. Watching her carefully, which was certainly no hardship with the way those snug jeans hugged her ass, Dillon suspected that part of the reason her movements appeared so natural was that she was working from muscle memory. Something he was all too familiar with himself.
One of the reasons the Army’s basic training was so brutal was to make sure that when in a battle situation, troops didn’t have to stop and think to aim and shoot at the bad guys shooting at them. Their bodies took over and responded as trained.
Whatever she was working on kept getting larger, and as she turned it, the shape began to form.
It was when, after opening the center, she held what appeared to be a tall vase or bowl upside down and began twirling it, creating a wavy top, that he realized what the emerald core at the center of the sunset bright colors was.
“A green flash,” he said, forgetting he’d agreed to stay quiet.
She glanced over at him. “Very good. That’s exactly it.”
The highly elusive pulse of dazzling green, lasting only a few seconds, occasionally appeared on the ocean’s horizon, at the very top of a setting sun, just as it was about to sink into the water. Although he’d been living in Shelter Bay several months, he’d been lucky enough to see it only once. But damned if she hadn’t captured it perfectly.
“My mother, who illustrated children’s books, once did the drawings for a book of Scottish myths. One legend said that a green flash will magically banish all pains of the heart for any lucky enough to see it,” she said.
“Now, there’s a thought.” Remembering this morning’s tears, Dillon wondered what pains Claire Templeton’s heart might be harboring. “Maybe you can use it as a marketing incentive. Buy a vase; banish a heartache. . . .
“Anyway, I really like those bubbles. They look as if they’re sea foam rising up from the bottom of the sea.”
“Thanks. My goal is usually to keep bubbles out of my glass, but I decided to play with soda ash on this one to accentuate the idea of liquidity. As you probably know, soda ash is actually the common name for sodium carbonate.”
“Na
2
CO
3
,” he said. Though he admittedly hadn’t given it any prior thought, he would have assumed that jewelry making and glassblowing had more to do with creative arts than science. He’d been way off the mark with that one.
“Exactly. No one knows exactly when the first glass was made, but we do know that the Egyptians were making glass containers from soda ash as early as 3500 BC. If I place it on a piece of glass, then put a new hot layer over it, a chemical reaction occurs that causes it to release a gas. Which creates those bubbles.”
Dillon was already attracted to Claire Templeton. But in the past ten minutes that attraction had just spiked.
“Not only does she play with fire and danger; the lady knows her chemistry. I don’t suppose you’d agree to marrying me and having my children?”
“I’m sorry,” she said mildly as she broke the bowl off the rod and put it in another oven, where, he guessed, it would cool. “But I’m afraid my schedule is all booked up.”
“Damn. I was afraid you were going to say that.” He’d have to work on getting around that ice wall she was capable of putting up. Fortunately, EOD had taught him patience. “But it’s still a stunning piece.”
When he’d seen Claire Templeton earlier today, tears swimming in her eyes, she’d seemed almost fragile. Looking at the emotion she’d poured into this glowing piece of hot glass, he realized she was anything but.
“Thanks. I don’t usually go for such bright colors.” She pulled off the gloves and hat, then wiped the perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. “But it just felt right today.”
“Your muse must’ve been feeling fiery.” That idea had him wondering what inner fires might be simmering inside a woman capable of infusing so much emotion into a piece of glass. And wouldn’t he love to be the guy to tap them?
“I’ve been feeling like a volcano about to erupt for months. I suppose that bowl is the result.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Which is TMI. And I’m drenched.”
“Not surprising since it’s like Dante’s inferno in here. How hot is that oven, anyway?”
“Twenty-four hundred degrees. Which is what it takes to turn sand into glass, glass into a liquid, then back into a solid again . . .
“What time is it?”
“About quarter to seven.”
“That late?”
“I guess you lose track of time when you’re working.”
“When I’m in the zone,” she admitted, confirming his earlier thought. “When were tryouts over?”
“Five thirty, give or take a bit.”
“Matt texted me and told me he had a ride home. So I guess he’s out celebrating with his teammates. I know it risks sounding like a helicopter mother to admit I’m a little worried he didn’t let me know his plans—”
“He’s not with the team.” Which was something they were going to have to discuss. “He got a ride home with a girl.”
“A girl? She must be older.”
“A bit. But she’s still a sophomore. She’s a great kid. Honor roll, lots of extracurricular activities, and she’s in science club. I’m the adviser.”
“Well.” She didn’t look exactly thrilled at the prospect of Matt’s having hooked up with a girl on the first day.
“They’re both in my class,” he volunteered. “They worked together on a lab project and I didn’t get any of those kind of boy-girl vibes going on. She’s one of the hospitality volunteers who introduce new kids their first day. She lives out here somewhere, so she’s probably just giving him a tour of town on the way home.”
“I suppose that makes sense.” But she still looked a little distracted. From the kid’s attitude when he’d been informed about coming off the bench, Dillon suspected the past year hadn’t been easy on either of them.
“While I suspect you didn’t drive all the way out here to tell me in person that my son made the team, I really do need a shower. Would you mind coming in while I freshen up first? I could offer you a glass of wine.”
Although he was more of a beer guy, Dillon wasn’t in any hurry to leave. Besides, he really did need to talk to her about the kid.
“Is that an invitation?”
She lifted her chin, looking anything but fragile as her eyes shot him a warning. “For wine. Nothing more.”
“Works for me,” Dillon said.
1
6
He was standing at the window, looking out at the darkened sea, when Claire returned to the combination kitchen / living room after what may have been her fastest shower ever. Part of her was sure he wasn’t the kind of man to burst into the tiny bathroom while she was naked, but that hadn’t stopped her from locking the door.
Which wasn’t being paranoid. Just reasonably cautious. As any woman should be with a strange man in her house.
“It gets dark so fast this far north,” she murmured as she came to stand beside him. The beam from the lighthouse on the cliff jutting out into the sea flashed on the wreck below, which, along with the veils of fog drifting in, gave it the look of a ghost ship.
“True enough. But come next summer the long days will make up for it.”
He turned his head and looked down at her, a smile beginning to form on his lips.
And then it happened.
Their eyes met. And held.
As she drew in a breath, Claire’s mind was wiped as clear as one of those glass facets on Shelter Bay’s lighthouse.
She had no idea how long they stood there, her looking up at Dillon Slater, him looking down at her. Finally, as the rotating beam flashed across the ship yet again, she managed to break eye contact.
“You came here to talk about Matt?”
“Yeah.” He dragged his hand through his hair, looking as disoriented as she felt. “I think we’ve got a problem.”
Since this was the second time in a single day she’d felt that vivid awareness around him, Claire was beginning to figure that out for herself. She also couldn’t help noticing that he’d used
we
. Something she wasn’t accustomed to with any of his previous coaches. Not that Matt had ever proven a problem. Until this past year.
“Oh?”
“Let me pour you some of your own wine. Which, by the way, is very good.”
“Thank you. It’s from a Willamette Valley vineyard. . . . Am I going to need alcohol for this conversation?”
“It couldn’t hurt.”
He walked through the maze of boxes over to the counter and poured the pinot noir into one of the glasses she’d picked up, along with two cartfuls of other household necessities, at a Costco in Newport before she’d reached Shelter Bay. Her mother’s extensive collection of Waterford hadn’t fit into the far more casual lifestyle she’d planned. Nor had all the sets of china and sterling and formal furniture. Fortunately for them, the owner had been willing to sell the cottage furnished, and although most of the pieces would have to be replaced, at least they weren’t relegated to sitting on the floor and sleeping in sleeping bags.
“That bad?” She sank down onto the tattered sofa she’d covered with a muslin slipcover for now.
Please, don’t let him have already gotten kicked off the team.
“At some places, it wouldn’t be, no. But, like I told you, I really need these kids to be thinking as a unit.”
Their fingers brushed when he handed her the glass.
“Matt was a total team player at BHHS.” When the sudden thought of those fingers on her body caused her blood to warm, Claire took a long swallow of the ruby-hued wine and wished she’d taken a colder shower.
“He was the
star
of the team. Big difference.” He sat down in the chair on the other side of the heavy plank coffee table she’d already decided to paint a distressed white to lighten it up. “He made this Dolphin team, but not as a starter. I had him coming off the bench.”
“That makes sense.” Relief flooded over her, washing away that unexpected and decidedly unwanted stab of sexual awareness. “After all, he doesn’t know this team’s plays yet. This will give him time to learn.”
Claire was thinking how reasonable it sounded, when something else he’d said struck home. “You said
had
.” As in past tense?
“Yeah. Your son didn’t seem to agree with us about the plan.”
She took another sip as her mind whirled with Matt’s possible reactions. None of them at all encouraging.
“He walked out,” the coach revealed. “I’m not sure he intends to come back. To the team,” he clarified, not wanting her to think he’d taken off to hitchhike back to California or some other dumb kid stunt.
She stared out at the well of blackness looming outside the window. The fog was wrapping around the house, clinging to the window, making her all too aware that her son wasn’t at home, where he belonged.
“Was he angry?”
“He sure as hell wasn’t happy. . . . Look, I drove out here to talk to him, but it’s probably just as well he isn’t here right now. Hopefully he’s blowing off steam, and it gives us a chance to discuss what to do.”
Before she could ask if he had any thoughts about that, because she was rapidly running out of ideas, she heard a strange sound coming from the refrigerator.
“Oh, my God.” Although the white fridge was on its last legs, this wasn’t the rattle she’d been hearing all weekend. “My clams are crying!” It was an odd sort of sighing, sobbing sound, as if they were calling for help to escape.
He visibly perked up at that. “You have fresh clams?”
“I bought them at Farraday’s this afternoon. Mrs. Farraday gave me instructions on how to steam them, but she never mentioned that I’d have to deal with the guilt of murdering them.”
Despite the seriousness of their earlier topic, he laughed.
“Maybe
you
find it funny.” She folded her arms across the front of her sweatshirt. “But you’re not on the verge of becoming a clam assassin.”
“They have no idea they’re not still buried back in the mud and sand,” he assured her.
“How do you know? I mean, it’s not as if anyone can interview them on refrigerator death row to find out what they’re thinking.”
“They don’t think.”
“Then why are they making all that noise? They were quiet in the car.”
“They have siphons they stick out of their shell when they’re under the tide, which is how they breathe, eat, and expel carbon dioxide and waste. Then the water recedes, and they squirt out their extra water and close their shells. That’s all that’s happening now.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m a science teacher,” he reminded her. “I may be teaching physics at the moment, but I took a lot of biology in college.”
There was another loud series of clicking noises that had her imagining opening the refrigerator door and coming face-to-face with a giant clam like in some black-and-white horror movie.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
What on earth
was
she going to do? She probably couldn’t just take them back down to the ocean once they’d been dug up, could she? But when she’d bought them at the fish market, it hadn’t really sunk in that she was going to have to steam them alive. The idea was enough to put her off shellfish for the rest of her life.
“Well, it’s probably not up there with killing a spider, but I could do it for you.”
“You cook?”
“That would be an exaggeration. But Sax Douchett—he runs Bon Temps—”
“I’ve eaten there. The food’s delicious.”
“You’re not going to get any argument from me. His grandmother’s Come-Back sauce is flat-out addictive. . . . Anyway, I was over at his house one night this past summer and he boiled up a mess of clams and crabs. It’s not that hard.”
Maybe not for him. But as much as she hated the idea of being a cold-blooded shellfish murderer, throwing the poor clams out in the garbage wouldn’t solve her problem, either.
“Well, then,” she said, making her decision, “could I invite you to dinner? You can talk to Matt as soon as he gets home. I also have crab cakes and a sourdough rosemary garlic bread.”
He grinned. “You’ve got yourself a clam executioner.”
“Did you have to put it that way?”
“Sorry.” But his eyes were laughing at her. As the strange clicking and sighing continued to come from the refrigerator, Claire realized that while he was undoubtedly right about clams not having the capability to think, they certainly did manage to shift the mood for a few brief moments.
Unfortunately, there was still a serious issue to settle.
“Would you be willing to give Matt a second chance?” Claire couldn’t remember ever begging for anything in her life. Not even when the father of her unborn child had informed her that her pregnancy was her problem. But she’d be willing to beg for her son and a chance for a new start in Shelter Bay.
“Sure. As long as he apologizes and accepts that he doesn’t get to call the plays. Both literally and figuratively.”
“He needs this,” she said. “The team. The discipline daily practice will bring to his life.”
“You know that. And I know that.” He polished off his wine. “Let’s hope he knows it.”