Summer at Seaside Cove (19 page)

Dorothy's head swiveled back and she stared at Jamie with a comical slack-jawed expression. “How many Mojitos did you drink?”

Jamie laughed. “Only one. You told me you thought Nick was lonely. Why is it so difficult to believe that a man whose wife died seventeen years ago might also be lonely?”

Dorothy's brows collapsed in a frown and her jaw sawed back and forth several times. Finally she said, “I guess it's not completely farfetched.” Her gaze strayed into the living area, where Melvin sat by himself in the corner eating his cake while the other committee members congregated in small groups, laughing and talking.

“Looks like he might need another piece of cake,” Dorothy said. “We have plenty left.”

“And it shouldn't go to waste,” Jamie agreed.

She took a big bite of cake to hide her smile as Dorothy headed across the room bearing two plates of cake.

“
W
hat's that delicious smell?” asked Jamie's mom as she entered the living area from her bedroom and walked toward the kitchen.

Jamie immediately tensed.

In the two weeks since her mom had arrived at Paradise Lost, they hadn't seen very much of each other as Mom had spent most of her time in her room sleeping. When she was awake, she alternated between crying, barfing, and nibbling crackers—while crying. According to her doctor the barfing, while exhausting and unpleasant, was not abnormal, and Mom insisted a lot of the weeping sprang from rampant hormone upheavals rather than sadness. Still, Jamie knew her mom was distraught and confused, and it both saddened and worried her to see her normally vivacious, energetic, and smiling mother so wan and listless.

Yet, Jamie couldn't deny she'd also been avoiding her mom, so the fact that all she wanted to do was sleep was good. Because on the occasions they
had
talked, the conversation had always ended up with her mother once again asking, “What would you do?” or the similar but even worse, “What should I do?” or pressuring Jamie to return to New York sooner than she'd planned. Her mother had also complained about the changes to Newman's décor and menu Jamie wanted, insisting, as always, that everything at the restaurant remain the same as when Jamie's dad was alive. Jamie didn't want to upset her mother, especially now that she was pregnant, but those conversations made her want to run screaming from the room.

She prayed that this encounter wouldn't result in another blood-pressure-raising, stress-filled chat.

“Garlic bread, which is warming in the oven, and also fresh herbs for a pasta sauce I'm making up as I go,” Jamie said. She set aside the basil she'd been chopping and wiped her hands on her apron. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Mom said. She rested her hands on her still flat stomach and actually smiled. “Given the . . . eclectic furniture here, my bed is surprisingly comfortable.”

Jamie took her by the shoulders and nodded, relieved. “You look better. Rested.”

“I should hope so,” her mother said with a rueful chuckle. “I've done nothing but sleep the entire time I've been here.”

“Not true. You've also barfed and cried a lot.”

“Believe it or not, I haven't barfed since this morning. I haven't been as successful with the crying, but I'm trying. I don't know what I would have done without you, Jamie.”

“I haven't done anything except brew you endless cups of decaf and watch you sleep.”

“And barf and cry. But you're going to see me eat tonight because I'm starving.”

“Excellent. I was planning to make linguini and shrimp, but I can cook something else.”

“Don't you dare. That sounds like heaven. What can I do to help?”

“Feel like dicing some tomatoes?”

“Absolutely.”

The area was small, and since Jamie and her mom had stopped sharing a kitchen when Jamie moved into her own apartment four years ago, some butt bumping ensued.

Jamie pulled out a dented frying pan from one of the lower cabinets and sighed. “I wish I had my own cookware here. Did I tell you I got that set of All-Clad I've coveted forever?” she asked, hoping to keep the conversation from drifting to Newman's or pregnancy.

“No! Did you find it on sale?”

Jamie shook her head. “It was a gift. From Raymond. He gave it to me two days before I found out about him and Laurel. If I believed he possessed a conscience, I'd say the All-Clad was a guilt gift, but I think it just stemmed from him expecting perfectly cooked meals. If it wasn't the most magnificent set of pots and pans on the planet, I'd have thrown it in the trash.”

“But hopefully not before hitting him in the head with it.” Mom set a plum tomato on her cutting board and whacked off the end with a single stroke of the knife. “Cheating asshole.”

A quick laugh escaped Jamie. Her mom might be drama-prone, but she was unfailingly loyal. “Well said. As for hitting him in the head—
soooo
tempting. But not only would I not want to dent those glorious pans, Raymond's not worth going to jail over for assault and battery.”

“Honey, there's not a jury in the world that would convict you. In fact, you'd probably be awarded a metal.”

“Well, he's Laurel's problem now.” The knife of betrayal stabbed her between the shoulders at the thought. “They deserve each other.”

“It just proves that money can't buy the things that really matter. Like integrity.”

“Or loyalty,” Jamie said, setting out another cutting board to mince the shallots and garlic she'd peeled before her mom came into the kitchen.

Mom attacked another tomato with the precision of a surgeon. “Raymond may travel in the same wealthy circles as Laurel, but neither of them know the true value of friendship or family or decency.”

“And neither of them can cook worth a damn,” Jamie added.

“Because they have cooks who do it for them. Where's the fun in that?”

“Beats me,” said Jamie. “I can't imagine always letting someone else prepare my meals. How are the tomatoes coming?”

“I'm finished. What else do we need?”

“Lime zest.”

“I'm on it. What's in this sauce you're making?” Mom asked, plucking a plump lime from the bowl on the counter.

“It started as a basic scampi, but I'm using lime instead of lemon, then adding those gorgeous tomatoes you chopped—which are from my new friend Megan's garden by the way—and a load of fresh herbs I found on my trek to the supermarket this morning. Who knew the Piggly Wiggly would carry such a great assortment of herbs?”

“The shrimp are beautiful,” Mom said, looking them over where Jamie had set them on paper towels to dry after she'd peeled and cleaned them. “Did you get those at the Piggly Wiggly, too?”

“No. Believe it or not, I bought them from a man on the side of the road. Dorothy Ernst—she's the lady on the Clam Committee who lives across the street—told me about him. His name is Captain Pete and he goes shrimping six days a week. Then he sets up his little stand on the side of the road and sells his catch from his cooler. When he's sold out, he goes home. Dorothy and most everyone else at the meeting have been buying from Captain Pete for years and they swear his shrimp are the most delicious they've ever eaten.”

Mom shook her head. “Shrimp from a cooler on the side of the road. We're not in Manhattan anymore.”

“No kidding,” Jamie said, rinsing the bunches of flat-leaf parsley, watercress, chives, and mint leaves she planned to use for her sauce. “The fact that the words ‘clam committee' have become part of my everyday vocabulary and that I'm
on
that committee continues to surprise me. As does the fact that they liked my ideas for expanding the Clam Queen contest—and guess what—I'm now in charge of implementing those ideas. Me and my big mouth.”

“You don't want to do it?”

Jamie frowned. “It's not that, not really. It's just being on a committee, involving myself with the activities and local residents, making new friends—actually
wanting
to fit in—I wasn't expecting any of that. I came here thinking I'd spend my time mostly alone.”
Hint, hint, Mom.
“Walking the beach, reading, regrouping. Making decisions about myself and my future. It hasn't quite worked out that way. But I guess I should have known to expect the unexpected the instant I saw that decapitated flamingo in the front yard.”

Her mom heaved a sigh, then turned and leaned her back against the counter. “I haven't spoken to Alex in the last four days.”

Great. And here came the drama again.

“He's called and left messages and texted every day,” Mom continued, “but I've avoided answering.”

“You can't do that forever.”

“I know. But I simply haven't been up to more of that last conversation. He pressured me to come home so we could talk things out in person, I said I wasn't ready to return to New York, lather, rinse, repeat. He doesn't understand that I need time and space to decide what I want, what's best for everyone involved. Nothing was resolved and he wasn't happy when we ended the conversation.”

Cupcake chose that moment to make her presence known with a series of loud meows and Jamie could have kissed her pet for the timely interruption. “That means, ‘Which one of you wenches whom I allow to live in my home and pamper me is going to serve my evening meal?' ” Jamie explained.

Jamie scooped a can of wild salmon primavera with garden veggies into Cupcake's bowl and her mother asked, “What do you need me to do next?”

“The water's boiling, so if you'd add the pasta, I'll sauté the shallots and garlic.”

They set about their tasks, and within mere seconds, a mouth-watering fragrance rose from the pan.

“That smells soooo good,” said her mother.

“Whoever thought up the combo of garlic and olive oil is a genius,” Jamie agreed. She added the shrimp to the sizzling pan, and said, “It was perfect timing that I arrived at Captain Pete's roadside stand when I did. He was nearly sold out, and three more cars pulled in after me.”

Mom grinned. “You're a lucky woman.”

“Given how beautiful these shrimp are, we're both lucky.”

The shrimp cooked quickly, and once they were done Jamie slid them into a bowl and covered it to keep them warm. She was about to add another shot of olive oil and a pat of butter to the pan to make the sauce when a knock sounded on the kitchen door. She turned and stilled. Nick stood on the landing.

Nick—who she hadn't spoken to since their kiss twelve (not that she was counting) days ago. And there was her mother, eyes aglow with curiosity.

And she'd just called herself lucky.

Apparently not so much.

Jamie stood nailed in place in front of the stove, bottle of olive oil gripped in one hand, frying pan in the other, while her avid eyeballs drank in the sight of Nick through the screen door. Rumpled hair, bedroom eyes, three-day stubble. And let's not forget those lips that had all but kissed her into a lust-filled coma.

Although she had not spoken to him since that night, she'd known he'd once again mysteriously disappeared the morning after their kiss and then returned home from wherever he went four days ago because of all the hammering and saw buzzing going on at Southern Comfort. Not that she'd paid much attention. Heck no. She was ignoring him. Of course, it was pretty irritating to be ignoring someone who first wasn't home, and then never left his house. Naturally the fact that he was irritating didn't surprise her in the least. In fact, she'd hardly thought of him—except for those errant few (hundred) times. And even then it had been due only to all the construction-type racket going on over there. Definitely not because he'd blown her socks off with his kiss.

Oh, suuuuure,
her inner voice sneered.
Jeez, it's a good thing you're not Pinocchio, otherwise your nose would reach from here to friggin' Europe. You know damn well that if Nick Trent had kissed you for even three more seconds, he would have blown off a lot more than your socks.

Yeah. Like her panties.

She vaguely noted her mom looking in her direction. “I'll get that,” Mom said. She walked to the door and smiled. “Hi. May I help you?”

“Hi. I'm Nick Trent. From next door. Is Jamie around?”

“She's right here. I'm Maggie Newman—Jamie's mother.” She opened the screen door and held it with her hip.

“Nice to meet you, Maggie. I'd shake your hand but I'm covered in sawdust.”

Mom smiled. “No problem. I'm covered in bits of basil.”

“I was just wondering—oh, hey, there you are,” he said, catching sight of Jamie, standing like a statue near the stove, olive oil and pan in hand. His lips twitched. “You look ready to cook the heck out of something.” He sniffed the air and his eyes widened slightly. “Whoa. I take that back. It smells like you've already cooked the heck out of it—and did a great job.”

Pulling herself from the stupor she'd fallen into at the sight of him—an effort because she was
so
ignoring him—she set down the oil and pan, then approached the door. “Hi, Nick,” she said, all polite-I'm-ignoring-you coolness. “What can I do for you?”

Heat flared in his eyes. He muttered something that sounded like “Where do I start?” and Jamie's pulse took off like a horse slapped on the ass. “Do you have any cat food you could spare? Godiva sucked down the last of mine and there's a cat hiding under the bushes near my carport. I think it might be that same one you saw the other night. She looks hungry.”