Final Sentence (5 page)

I preferred being called Jenna—my given name—and I didn’t mind Jen, but I hated Jenny. It sounded meek, and Desiree Divine knew it.

She posed in the doorway, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight, her white spaghetti-strap dress clinging to her body in a way that would make any man salivate. Wiggling her fingers over her head, her signature move after she was introduced on
Cooking with Desiree
, she said, “Who’s hungry?”

“I am,” I responded like a trained studio audience.

“Fab.” She grinned but her forehead didn’t shift. I wondered if someone our age would use Botox and resolved that, yes, Desiree would. She was a star. She wanted the world to see her as youthful and hip . . . forever. And thanks to the release of her latest cookbook,
Cookies, Cakes, Sweets, and More
:
A Desiree Divine Dessert Extravaganza
, she had appearances scheduled up the wazoo. She strutted toward me, spiky heels clicking on the parquet floor. “What a charming place.” She fondled the spines of books and swished her fire engine–red fingertips across the arty kitchen doodads. “I’m so impressed.” She stopped short of me and tilted her head to one side. “You look good.”

“Thanks.”

She waggled a finger. “Although I see you forgot to use sun block.”

Sun peeking through the clouds on my morning walk had given my pale skin a healthy glow. “Who knew I could get color at six A
.
M
.
?” I joked.

Desiree clucked her tongue with disapproval. One day during our freshman year, when I had wanted to take up ballroom dancing, I’d coated myself with bronzer. On her way to a Save the Seals rally, Desiree had caught me lathering up in the bathroom and snatched the tube out of my hand with the shouted warning that a suntan, no matter whether it was real or fake, aged a woman. She’d made me promise, cross my heart, that I would never
try
to get tan again.

I said, “I’ll be more careful.”

Her quasi-frown melted away and she hugged me. “I’m so glad you invited me here. This town is adorable. The little shops, the brick arcades, the hunky men.”

“What hunky men?”

“There’s one outside who has been ogling your shop for over an hour. I’ve been spying on him from inside my trailer.”

“Speaking of trailers, why do you need them? I booked you a room at the nicest hotel in town.”

“One is my office and my sister’s hangout. The other is for my stylist and masseur. But enough about me. Back to the hunk. Do you swear you haven’t seen him? Sailor’s hat, fisherman’s sweater, jeans that fit just right.” Desiree mimed cupping a nicely shaped rear end. “Bedroom eyes for days.”

Who could she have been talking about? I had taken a number of fresh air breaks on the boardwalk outside the shop. I hadn’t seen a soul.

“He’s there now.”

My gaze swept the boardwalk and parking lot. All I saw was a buff, blond dude in a white karate outfit climbing into one of the trailers.

Desiree followed my gaze. “Not him. He’s my masseur.”

Another guy with a Mohawk exited the same trailer and air-punched the masseur, who responded with a fake punch.

“Not him either,” Desiree said.

“The guy with the tackle box?” I gestured to a thickset man with full mustache, beard, and knit cap who was squeezing between a black minivan and truck. His right shoulder drooped and his right foot dragged. He climbed into the truck. The vehicle ground to a start.

“Lord, no.” She frittered her fingertips. “That guy looks like a creep. Mr. Hunk was—”

“Forget Mr. Hunk,” I said. “You’re here. Let’s talk about opening night.”

“I’d rather dish.” She offered a low, sultry cackle. “C’mon. Local gossip. Spill. Oh, and I want you to promise to go on a hike with all of us.”

“A hike?”

“You know how I love to stretch my legs.”

“Desiree?” Sabrina—darker, dourer, and five years younger than Desiree—jogged into the shop and screeched to a halt. Literally screeched. Her leather flats left scuff marks on the floor. I had met Desiree’s sister once before, the day Desiree had packed up and left for Europe. She hadn’t acted happy about the prospect. Come to think of it, she had worn all black that day, too.

“Good to see you, Jenna,” Sabrina said as she righted a gold choker so the V rested at the hollow of her throat. “Desiree, we need to talk.”

“Where’s my mocha latte?” Desiree said.

“We have a problem.” Sabrina patted the leather iPad in her hand.

“My sister is a scheduling freak,” Desiree said.

Sabrina flinched but quickly tamped down whatever feathers her sister had ruffled. “We’ve got to handle the problem.”

“Sis, can’t you see I’m chatting with Jenna? I’m convincing her to join our hiking soiree. Go get me that coffee.”

“You’re booked for two different appearances next Monday,” Sabrina said, intent on her mission. “How did that happen? I know I didn’t do it, but I got an e-mail that says—”

“Repeat after me. O-o-o-om.” Desiree edged behind her sister, removed the iPad, and drew her sister’s arms over her head. “C’mon, Sabrina, o-o-o-om. Oxygenate your blood.”

Sabrina obviously worked out, but she didn’t seem to appreciate chanting.

“Make her do a stork pose,” the man with the Mohawk said as he entered the shop. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt and cutoff jeans, and he sported more tattoos than I had ever seen on one body. “C’mon, Sabrina, lift that knee.” He sidled to Desiree’s side and kissed her neck—more like sucked it—then he slung a bare arm around her shoulders. “The stork pose is good for cleansing chakras, isn’t it? Or is that the one that’s good for balance?” He scratched his bristly chin, a motion that made the sizable tiger tattoo on his muscular bicep writhe with delight. “Maybe it’s good for sex.”

Desiree slid from his grasp. “Cut it out.” She handed the iPad back to her sister. “Forget the coffee, Sis. Take a look around the adorable shop. Find your center.” She gave her sister a push at the small of her back.

Sabrina muttered, “Miscreant,” at Tattoo Guy and meandered toward the back of the store.

Desiree whirled on Tattoo Guy. “As for you—”

“She’s a piece of work,” he said.

“Don’t start.”

“I’m not the bad guy here.” He threw up his hands defensively. “I came in because I’m starving, babe.”

“And we’re going to eat, but first, I want to touch base with my friend, and you’re being rude.”

He looped a lock of her hair around his finger. “I like it when you’re feisty.”

Desiree smacked his hand away. “J.P., please.”

His face flamed with annoyance.

I swooped into the mix and thrust my hand at him. “Hi, I’m Jenna. Nice tats,” I lied. Why anyone would denigrate his body with needles and ink baffled me. On the other hand, I did appreciate art, and his artist had talent. “What’s with all the lines?” The tiger nestled in the middle of a maze with no exit.

“They’re jungle vines,” J.P. said.

“He has a Tarzan fixation,” Desiree teased.

“I do not. I’m from Florida. I wanted to honor my heritage. We’ve got Everglades and all sorts of wild creatures there.”

Was he including himself among the wildlife?
I am man, hear me roar.
“So what’s your connection with Desiree?” I asked, other than trying to suck the life out of her.

“I’m her lover.” He sniggered. “And her director. Double-whammy.”

I heard Sabrina snort.

Desiree shot her sister a withering glance. “Jenna, give J.P. and me a private moment, okay?”

I routed through the aisles to the back of the store and settled beside Sabrina, who was leafing through a cocktail book titled:
Name Your Poison
. “Sisters,” I said, knowing how they could irritate. “My sister says I have water skis for feet.” Like Desiree, I stood six inches taller than my sister, but in a wrestling match, she could take me.

“How do you do it?” Sabrina replaced the book and folded her arms across her chest, cradling the iPad like a protective breastplate.

“Deal with my sister?” I said. “Well, first—”

“No, how do you tolerate Desiree? Why would you want her within fifty miles of you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“She had an affair with your husband.”

My breath caught in my chest.

“C’mon, you can’t be that naive,” Sabrina said. “She hooked up with all your boyfriends.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” She fiddled with a gold earring stud. “Ask her.”

I cut a look toward the door, but Desiree was
gone.

Chapter 3

I
TORE ACROSS THE
parking lot and pounded on the door of the office Winnebago. “Desiree? Are you in there?” No answer. I ascended the stairs to the rightmost trailer and knocked.

The masseur opened the door. The flaps of his white karate gi hung open. He polished his glistening abs with his palm and eyed me lustfully. “What’s up, gorgeous?”

I was nothing near gorgeous. I had been lucky enough to get the Hart ski-jump nose and smile, but unlucky enough to get the Hart broad shoulders and what my sister called
guy
hips. Desiree was the stunning one, and I wanted to see her. “Desiree. Where is she?”

“My name’s Mackenzie Baxter, thanks for asking.” He slung his thumbs under the waistband of his loosely tied pants. “What’s your name?”

“Jenna Hart. Where is she?”

“Not here. What’s the prob, Jenna Hart? If looks could kill.”

I didn’t like his laidback manner, though it was probably a good trait for a masseur. He didn’t rush. He took his time. “She was with J.P.,” I said. “Have you seen him?”

Something flashed in Mackenzie’s eyes. Either he wasn’t fond of J.P. or he didn’t appreciate Desiree hanging out with the guy.

“Did you try Desiree’s cell phone?” A woman the size of an Olympic shot-putter with purple spiked hair tramped from the rear of the Winnebago and, while filing her nails, peered over Mackenzie’s shoulder. “Hiya. I’m Gigi.”

“I know you,” I said. “You work at the Permanent Wave Salon and Spa.” I had driven past the place the day I arrived in town. Gigi worked at a premium stylist spot, right by the front window. Everyone that passed by could see her wizardry.

“Yeah. That’s me, all right. I’m also Desiree’s hairstylist this week.”

“She didn’t bring someone from L.A.?”

“Her regular got sick.” Gigi wore a ton of jewelry, including a combination of bracelets and watches, and at least a dozen earring studs in each ear.
Ouch
. “OTOH,” she said in shorthand I could decipher:
On the other hand
, “I’ll bet you can’t reach Desiree by phone. She won’t answer if she’s, you know . . .” She pumped her hips in a lascivious way.

Mackenzie lasered her with a glare.

“So-o-orry.” Gigi dragged out the word, but I could tell she wasn’t sorry. Not in the least.

“If Desiree returns,” I said, “please tell her I need to see her.”

“You and the world.” Mackenzie shut the door in my face. Nice guy.

As I headed down the stairs, I spied Pepper Pritchett glowering at me from in front of Beaders of Paradise. I ignored her.

For the next hour, I scoured the town. I raced along the brick sidewalks, past barrels of bougainvillea, ignoring tourists. J.P. had said he was starved. Maybe Desiree and he went to catch a bite to eat. There were over fifty places to dine or snack in Crystal Cove. I stopped in Latte Luck Café, The Pelican Brief Diner, Taste of Heaven Ice Cream Parlor, and myriad other places. At each I introduced myself and handed out a flyer for the opening of The Cookbook Nook. Why not kill two birds with one stone? I didn’t find Desiree and J.P. in any of them. I called the Crystal Cove Inn, but Desiree hadn’t checked in yet.

Irritated nearly to insanity, I sped back to the shop to rekindle my relationship with my father only to find that he and my aunt had left, whereabouts unknown. Katie had split for the day, as well, so I grabbed Tigger and headed home.

On the way, I stopped at the grocery store. Taking my aunt’s advice, I decided to cook. The first day in the shop, I had landed upon a recipe for guacamole in
Bobby Flay’s Mesa Grill Cookbook: Explosive Flavors from the Southwestern Kitchen
. I wasn’t nearly ready to tackle all the other items in the hot, spicy, and delectable tome, but I memorized the few ingredients in the guacamole. How hard could mashing together a few items be? I purchased local avocados, jalapeño peppers, limes, red onions, cumin, and fresh cilantro. Aunt Vera had stocked the cottage’s kitchen with basic spices, as well as pots and pans. Afterward, I went to Bubbles Pet Store and Spa and purchased kitty items, including a pricey air-conditioned cat cage so Tigger could join me on the beach without overheating and a darling kitty bowl that said:
Kittens are from Heaven
. Yes, I intended to spoil him.

Tigger took to his new environment like a champ, bounding and exploring with merry abandon. I did, too. After mashing, dicing, and squeezing—all things I could do rather well, given my annoyed state—I mixed up the concoction and tasted. I added an extra dash of salt and felt smugly satisfied. I had made my first
meal
in my new place.