Whisper Beach (11 page)

“I could sit here all day,” Gigi said with a sigh.

Van would be having more fun helping Dorie at the Blue Crab. She had a few suggestions that would improve efficiency, and what better time to institute them than when they were cleaning up, throwing out, and planning for the coming weekend?

“I think I'll go for a walk.”

“Looking for sea glass?” Gigi asked, looking out from half-lowered glasses.

“What?”

“Sea glass.”

“Why would I look for sea glass?” Why was the mention of sea glass ringing a distant recognition?

Gigi sat up; the glasses came all the way off. “Gee, Van. How could you forget? Suze, you remember, don't you?”

“Remember what?”

“That Van always used to collect sea glass and draw those tiny little scenes on them. Remember? You used to sell them in the hotel gift shop and at the Blue Crab and some other places. You can't have forgotten.”

But Van had. Now she remembered. Out early in the morning after a storm or a high wind, filling a burlap bag with flat pieces of smooth glass that had washed to shore. Cleaning them in the backyard tap, rubbing them to a polish, and then—

“Oh right,” Suze said. “I do remember. You did these miniature paintings on the surface. You were really good.”

“You all made fun of me.”

“Did not.”

“We didn't,” Gigi agreed. “They were beautiful.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Suze said, “Maybe just a little, but I still have one in my keepsake box.” She straightened up. “All literary people have keepsake boxes . . . and spinsters in Victorian novels,” she added.

“Ah,” Van said. “Good thing to know.”

“Do you still paint them?” Gigi asked.

Van grimaced. “Kinda hard to find sea glass on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.”

“You can find anything in Manhattan,” Suze countered.

“Right. I'll be back in a bit.” Van slipped on her beach cover-up and snagged her sandals and carried them toward the water. She wouldn't have sea glass if Tiffany's was giving it away. She had forgotten all about her secondary-income scheme. She'd spent the winters collecting the glass and hoarding it in a box in her closet, taking it out on weekends and school vacations and whenever she had spare time between school and work and dealing with her family.

She'd made a decent profit on the painted sea glass since the sea glass was free and she'd found some brushes in an old case once when her mother made her clean out the basement as punishment for staying out all night. She'd been fourteen at the time. Amazing she hadn't gotten into trouble sooner than she had.

As Van walked along the shoreline heading north toward the pier and the Blue Crab, she found herself searching the sand for a glimmer of color. But when she realized what she was doing, she jerked her gaze away from the sand and stared out to sea.

It had been a lucrative business, once she got the hang of condensing scenes into an inch- or two-inch-long surface. She was good at it, too. In demand. Sometimes so in demand that she had a hard time keeping herself in glass or finding the time to give to the intricate designs.

Then one day it came to an end, like all good things her father touched. She was in her room with her work spread out before her. A row of finished pieces was drying on the open windowsill. More painted ones were spread across the table. She was spraying them with a fixative that the guy at the art supply store had shown her.

She heard the front door slam and knew it was her father home
early from work or wherever he went during the day. She hurriedly closed the spray can, rolled it under the bed, opened the window, and tried to fan the fumes away.

It was futile. Her door banged open. Her father stood swaying in the doorway. “What's that smell?”

He roared the question, his face so full of rage that she was afraid he was going to kill her. She backed up until she was against the window, part of her wondering if she could get out and away before he caught her. But he stopped at the table, leaned over it, and nearly fell. He grabbed the edge to steady himself, then with a howl, he toppled the table. The glass pieces bounced to the floor; Van hurled herself through the open window and ran, the rage of that ungodly sound echoing after her.

Van didn't come home for two days. That was the first time she'd shown up at Dorie's door. It wasn't to be the last. When she finally went home a few days later, the glass was gone, the brushes, the paint, the finished paintings, all of it gone. The only thing he'd missed was the aerosol can of fixative that rolled under the bed. Van threw that away herself.

She never collected another piece of sea glass or painted anything again.

Van hiccuped as the memory of her father's wounded cry echoed in her mind. Strange. She'd forgotten the sea glass, but she would never forget the sound he made as he lunged for that table and those little pieces of glass.

She reached the pier and turned toward the street, climbed the steps to the boardwalk, where she rinsed off her feet and put her sandals on. Then, looking down the beach and seeing Gigi and Suze still stretched out on the sand, she turned right and walked across the pier to the Blue Crab.

She knew the front door would be locked since the restaurant wouldn't be open until the following weekend. She went around to the far side to the delivery door.

The kitchen faced Whisper Beach, and when Van looked down, she realized Gigi had been right; it was completely deserted. A couple of fishermen stood on the opposite side of the river, but that was all.

They could make it a public beach, but they couldn't make people come to it. It was like an invisible line had been marked in the sand. No trespassing.

I
T WAS GOING
to be a scorcher, Joe thought as he held the hose on Bill Cassidy's Starcraft. Bill had hardly been down to use the damn thing all summer, but he paid Joe to clean it once a week whether it needed it or not.

So here he was barefoot and shirtless, showing the young poacher, whose name turned out to be Owen, the tricks of scrubbing a boat. Joe hadn't expected to see the kid again, but he'd been sitting on the steps, ready to work, when Joe got up that morning.

He was a pretty good worker, except for the habit of turning the hose in the direction he was facing instead of keeping it aimed at what he was cleaning. Consequently, Joe was soaked from trying to give the boy instructions. He'd finally given up and sprayed him back. A short hose fight was waged before Joe reminded him he was on the clock.

But he had to laugh. It was the most fun he'd had since he'd offered to help Grandy out during his hospital stay. He and Grandy were friends, and Grandy was going through treatments for some
serious cancer. Joe had Renzo to look after the vines, but Grandy had no one, so Joe had been living at the marina for the last month and a half until Grandy could come home.

This way, Joe could help out a friend, make a little extra money, and try to figure out what to do about his personal life now that he had a new business in the making.

So far he hadn't gotten far with the latter. At least not until Van Moran came back to town. And that had sort of worked out too. He went weeks without coming into Whisper Beach, and yet here he was when Van returned to town.

Crazy that someone you haven't seen in years could give you that same whoosh of breath that left you feeling wrung out and, at the same time, hyped like crazy.

She, on the other hand, had been totally cool.
How are you? Good to see you.
Hell, he thought he deserved a little better than that, even if they had sort of broken up before she left.

He'd finally convinced himself that her leaving had nothing to do with him, but that had made him feel even worse, because if she couldn't come to him for help, what kind of relationship did they have anyway? So mostly he just stopped thinking about her. And that had been working out okay for him. He'd thought.

Until Saturday. He really wanted to talk to her. Just talk. Like old acquaintances. This would probably be his only chance. She was way out of his league now; she wouldn't be back anytime soon. She might already be gone.

“Hey, Owen, think you can finish up rinsing her off without me?”

Owen nodded.

“After that you can go on home, but Owen . . .”

Owen turned and sprayed him with the hose.

“Sorry.”

Joe shook his head. “Do not go out clamming again, okay? That policeman is out for blood. In fact, I would tell the others to be very careful, maybe move upriver for a while. Capisce?”

Owen nodded.

“I mean it. Don't make me a liar. You work here until further notice.”

Owen saluted. Joe didn't really know what to make of the boy; he didn't say much, even less when Joe had asked him about his family.

Joe went inside, jumped in and out of the shower, and threw on jeans and a clean T-shirt. Then he rummaged around for a decently clean pair of running shoes and shoved his bare feet in before he turned over the Closed sign and headed for his truck. He paused only long enough to tell Owen he'd locked up and he'd see him in the morning, then drove toward the beach.

The same car was still parked in Dorie's driveway. It might be Van's. He pulled onto the lawn next to it and ran up the porch steps to ring the bell.

Waited. No answer.

Dorie would be at the Crab doing her regular postweekend cleaning. If Van was gone, at least Dorie could tell him where she was.

Yeah, joker, and what are you going to do, drive after her? And then what?

And then he was going to ask her why the hell she'd left without bothering to explain to her family and friends why, or at least to let them know she was okay. That was his story, and he was not going to look more closely than that at his motive for finding her.

He thought he deserved at least that. She was evidently talking to Suze, and Dorie and Gigi, probably others, why not him? Yeah, he at least deserved something more than
Fine, how are you?

He ran back to the truck, drove to the Crab. There wasn't one damn parking place. A car pulled out of a space going the other way. He checked his rearview then made a U-turn into the space. Yanked his keys out of the ignition and headed for the restaurant.

He went straight around to the kitchen.

Was he acting kind of crazy? Probably. Did he really care? Not really.

He could imagine Dorie's face when he asked her whether Van was still here. She'd be smug as all get-out. She'd tried to get him to go to Manhattan for years until she'd finally given up.

But no way was he going to follow some girl years later like a lovesick hound. Of course Van wasn't some girl; she was Van.

He stopped at the door. Below him, Whisper Beach lay empty. Not one solitary soul walking or lying out or anything. They should call it Ghost Beach instead of Whisper Beach.

He could hear the banging of pots and pans, someone giving orders. He huffed out a breath and opened the wooden screen door.

The kitchen was a warren of activity; workers were carrying stacks of dishes; pans and boxes were being dragged out of the storage area, and the dishwasher was going full blast. Dorie stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips watching the activity.

But the voice Joe heard giving orders belonged to Van.

And he smiled.

She was standing on a stool, barefoot, wearing a soft, white see-through thing over a very tiny bikini.

She looked good.

Dorie noticed him and came to stand by him.

“She's still here,” he said.

“Well, obviously. Is that why
you're
here?”

Joe thought about making up some story, but what was the point? “Yeah. I wanted to talk to her for real before she took off again.”

“Good, but do not interrupt. She walked in off the beach, suggested several ways to improve the kitchen's efficiency, and is in the process of doing it. The woman's amazing. They should make a reality show of what she does.”

“They should.” Joe had read her website, and the articles in the magazines, but it wasn't until now, watching her in action, that he began to understand. And though he might not have the right, he was proud of her.

She'd always liked things to run smoothly, because her home life was always in chaos. So she'd taken that need and made a career to fit. Just like her to do something like that.

“If I were you,” Dorie said, breaking into his thoughts. “I would wipe that goofy grin off my face before she thinks you're having randy thoughts about her.”

“Was I smiling?”

“Yup.”

“I just wanted to talk to her. See how she's doing.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, that's a start,” Van said, totally unaware of Joe and Dorie watching her. “See how much shelf space you freed up by that one change?”

She was thin and fit and supple, things Joe had been too gobsmacked to have noticed yesterday. But he noticed them now, and he prayed she would turn around as ardently as he hoped she wouldn't.