Seaside Reunion (9 page)

“Of course. Along with most of the residents, from what I’ve been hearing.”

The mayor sighed. “I just hope we can fit everybody in the town hall. We haven’t had this much interest in a building issue since Jaz wanted to open his biker bar in the abandoned gas station on the other side of town. You weren’t here then, were you?”

“No. But Dad kept me in the loop.”

“A lot of people were against it. But look how well that turned out.”

Lindsey clamped her lips together and busied herself at the cash drawer. The mayor
would
bring that up. The so-called biker bar, far from being the den of iniquity many residents had feared, was a family-friendly spot that served burgers and held dart tournaments for charity. And Jaz, his ever-present cheery smile neutralizing his scary tattoos, had become a model citizen of Starfish Bay.

“The Point is different, Susan.”

The woman slung her purse over her shoulder and hefted her shopping bag. “I don’t disagree with you. I love The Point, too. I also love this town. But we’re facing some tough fiscal decisions, as the council well knows. No one wants Mattson Properties to destroy a natural resource, but if we cut them off without a hearing, aren’t we being negligent in our civic duty? Not to mention unfair?”

There was only one answer to the question her dad had also raised, and Lindsey refused to voice it. “It’s a moot point now, anyway. The special meeting is scheduled. They’ll get their hearing.” She looked over the woman’s shoulder. “Hi, Hank. Did you find everything you need?”

“I did.” The spry Starfish Bay octogenarian edged out the mayor, who got the hint and moved aside. “Hello, Susan. Talking about the meeting, I see. Well, Molly and I will be there, too.”

“The more, the merrier.” With one last sigh, the mayor exited.

By the time Lindsey waited on Hank and got an earful about why the development was a bad idea, then listened to Dennis Simms’s wife talk about what a boon the development would be for their fishing camp, the stirrings of a headache were beginning to pulse in her temples.

After setting aside a cookie for Nate, she dampened a sponge in the back room, then checked out the coffee nook. Sure enough, the two tables vacated a little earlier by the teen crowd were littered with cookie crumbs and empty soda cans.

Once she’d straightened up their mess, she balanced the cans in the crook of her arm and surveyed Nate’s table. It was free of clutter except for his open laptop, but a shriveled leaf on the golden pothos she’d carted back from Sacramento three years ago caught her attention.

As she leaned over to snag it, her elbow caught the edge of his screen, pushing it back. Juggling the cans in her arm, she readjusted it, glancing at the document that replaced the screen saver.

Two words jumped out at her.

The Point.

Intrigued, she scanned the text.

It wouldn’t mean much to anyone else, this little patch of headland on the northern California coast. It looks like hundreds of other headlands, more scenic than some, not as scenic as most. Passing motorists might not even notice it as they zip by on Highway 101, their focus instead on the quaint town of Starfish Bay.

Yet The Point, as it’s known to residents, is a touchstone for many. A place that helps define their town—and their hearts. An anchor in the turbulent sea of life. A repository of memories, exerting a pull strong enough to call home a prodigal son.

But this tiny piece of real estate is threatened, along with the small chapel atop it that has offered solace and hope for decades. And if they disappear, there will…

“That’s a private document.”

At Nate’s chilly tone, Lindsey jerked away from the computer screen. The soda cans slipped from her grasp and clattered to the floor.

As she bent to gather them up, heat flooded her cheeks. She’d been so engrossed in his words she’d missed the warning jingle of the bell over the door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop. The reference to The Point caught my eye.”

Instead of responding, Nate brushed past her and snapped the computer shut. When she stood, cans once again tucked into the crook of her arm, he’d slid it into its case and taken out his car keys. The taut line of his lips wasn’t promising, but it couldn’t hurt to try one more apology.

“Nate, I’m sorry.”

“How much did you read?”

“Just a couple of paragraphs.”

His fingers clenched on the handle of the case, and his blue eyes were cold as a Nordic glacier. “Where’s the next closest spot with Wi-Fi?”

Her stomach twisted. “Crescent City.”

She thought about apologizing again, but she’d already made two attempts. No reason to think he’d soften on a third try. And she couldn’t fault him for being irritated at her for trespassing into private territory.

He started toward the exit, and she trailed after him. “Will you be back to help with Jarrod?”

Hand on the door, he angled toward her. “I always honor my commitments.”

Somehow, that didn’t surprise her. “Do you still want your cookie?”

“No.” He turned his back on her and pushed through to the outside, flinging his final words over his shoulder. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

The door banged shut behind him, the bell overhead sounding far too cheery as it announced his departure.

For a few seconds, Lindsey remained where she was. Then she trudged over to the counter, deposited the cans in the recycle bin, and watched through the window as he spun out of the parking lot in a churn of gravel.

Man, she’d really hit a nerve.

She climbed onto the stool, set her elbow on the counter and propped her chin in her hand. If he’d been working on an article for the
Tribune
about the war, she doubted he’d have reacted as strongly to her faux pas. But what she’d read had sounded more like a journal.

Cringing, she thought about how she’d feel if anyone read the diary she’d kept after Mark’s death, at a grief counselor’s suggestion. Not pleased, that’s for sure. Those gut-wrenching thoughts had been torn from deep in her psyche. She wouldn’t want her father to read them, let alone a virtual stranger. If Nate’s piece contained even a smidgen of that soul-baring angst, it was no wonder he’d been so upset.

Yet her regret was tempered by a sudden rush of warmth for the man who’d mere days ago reacted with such cynicism to her vow to fight for The Point. Though he’d professed indifference, it seemed he was as unhappy about the potential loss as she was.

Too bad she couldn’t persuade him to use his obvious literary talents to help save it.

But as she gazed out the window, where the dust was at last settling after his hasty departure, she figured that was about as likely as Lillian convincing Genevieve to embrace the computer age.

Once again, he’d blown it.

Nate deposited his laptop on the bed in his room at the Orchid and raked his fingers through his hair. Last week he’d walked out of the Mercantile when Lindsey had probed a little too deep about why he put himself in the line of fire on the battlefield, asking questions that made him uncomfortable. Questions he’d never dwelt on—or answered—for himself.

Today he’d repeated that performance.

So much for hoping to reconnect with his childhood friend. At this point, she probably thought he was a first-class jerk.

Then again, didn’t he have a right to be angry about her intrusion into his personal material? The piece on The Point had been meant for his eyes only. And it had served its purpose. Putting his feelings about the place into words had been cathartic. Had helped him begin to understand what had driven him to return here after all these years.

He shouldn’t have left it on his screen when he’d gone out to take the call from his editor, though. If he hadn’t, Lindsey would never have read it.

And what exactly had she read?

He sat on the bed, booted up his computer again and scrolled to the section that had been on display before he’d shut his computer at the Mercantile and stormed out.

A quick skim was reassuring. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The part where he talked about the vague yearning that had driven him back to this touchstone from his childhood, where he confessed that he’d held onto a vision of The Point—and Starfish Bay Chapel—during those first lonely weeks in foster care, and while he’d watched soldiers die around him in Afghanistan, came later.

Meaning he’d overreacted. She hadn’t seen anything too revealing.

Too bad.

Nate frowned. What was that little echo of regret all about? And why did he feel a vague sense of disappointment?

Suddenly restless, he rose and crossed the room. He couldn’t see The Point from his window. But it was comforting to know it was there, beyond the trees—along with the chapel and the bench where he’d spent so many happy hours. Material objects that linked him to the ephemeral—memories, joy, hopes, friendship.

Lindsey understood that. The Point was a touchstone for her, too.

And she was also a touchstone for him. A connection to a short sojourn in his life when hopes were high and all was right with the world. An idyllic time never since repeated.

Could that account for his surge of disappointment moments ago? He’d thought he’d come cross country to see The Point, had hoped the journey would help him get a handle on the issues that had been festering in his subconscious for years. But he’d known as soon as he’d laid eyes on Lindsey that she was a key to his journey, too. That reconnecting with her was important. Necessary.

Yet he’d been putting up roadblocks with her every step of the way. Fighting off every foray she made into his personal life. Backing away or reacting with anger when she got too close, like today.

And he knew why.

Propping a shoulder against the window frame, Nate inhaled a long, slow breath. He’d told Jarrod in their first conversation that he’d sometimes been scared in Afghanistan. Yet sharing his past with Lindsey—and taking a hard look at it himself—would require even more courage than facing bullets on the battlefield.

Because truth be told, the enemy within frightened him more.

“That’s exactly the kind of information I need, Jarrod. And you’ve culled through and highlighted the most pertinent sections. Excellent work.”

Passing the coffee nook with the special-order shovel she’d retrieved from the back room for a customer, Lindsey checked on the duo seated behind Nate’s computer. Jarrod was beaming under the man’s praise, and as Nate looked toward her, he smiled.

That was a positive sign. She hadn’t exchanged more than a few words with him when he’d arrived for Jarrod’s lesson, but he seemed friendlier today. He must have gotten over yesterday’s hissy fit.

She continued to the counter and propped the shovel against the edge. “Here you go, Sam.” She rang up the purchase, thanked the man for his business, and settled down to work on some notes for the town council meeting.

Except her mind was more on the man sitting a few yards away than on the plight of The Point.

After their rocky parting yesterday, she’d spent an hour on the internet, pulling up stories with Nate’s byline from the
Tribune
archives. Hoping they’d offer her a little more insight into the man whose presence continued to unsettle her. And she hadn’t felt in the least guilty reading those articles. They were public record, after all.

She’d learned a lot, too. Not just about his considerable skill with words, but about the man. His stories were an intriguing mix of contradictory emotions, and many had an underlying theme of courage in the face of desperation and despair. The profiles he’d done of troops under fire revealed soldiers who were often searching for meaning in their missions, yet who served with valor despite their doubts and fear.

Based on the brief snippet she’d read in his piece on The Point, the search for meaning was a recurring theme in both his professional and personal work.

Which led her to wonder if that was the reason for his journey to Starfish Bay. Was he on a quest, searching for meaning in his own life?

The bell over the door jingled, and she dropped the pen she’d been tapping against the blank sheet of paper.

Cindy entered, glanced toward the coffee nook, and joined her at the counter.

“The other day I was late. Today, I’m too early.” The woman blew out a breath and massaged her forehead. “I can’t seem to get my timing right anymore.”

At the glint of moisture in Cindy’s eyes, Lindsey’s heart contracted. “Hey, trust me. Things will get better. Bit by bit, day by day. It’s just really hard in the beginning.” And even after three years, in the lonely hours of the night, though she left that unsaid.

“That’s what I keep telling myself. At least I’m beginning to adjust to the nine-to-five world again. And I’m lucky Ruth agreed to watch Jarrod during the summer and shuttle him here for his sessions with you. She’s been a godsend.”

“No arguments there. I don’t know how she does it, with four children of her own, but she always finds time to help those in need. She was there for me after I moved back, too. She invited me and Dad to dinner every couple of weeks and encouraged me to run for the town council. Plus, she stopped in here every few days to chat.”