Chapter Two
Nick’s Monday morning routine was to rise around six and head over to the Community Center to work out in the gym. Free membership was a perk of his job, and during his time in detention, he’d discovered that vigorous physical exercise kept his brain functioning as well as his body. After his workout, he’d shower and walk down the street to Riley’s for breakfast. Rita, his favorite waitress there, always topped off his travel mug with coffee before he left.
From Riley’s, he’d stroll down to the concrete and stone sea wall constructed along the edge of the beach, designed to keep the ocean’s waves from sweeping across Atlantic Avenue, damaging the cars and buildings and leaving behind a residue of sand, shells, and seaweed. The abutment had served its purpose for more than fifty years, failing only a few times when huge nor’easters had roared up the New England coast.
Nick liked standing by the retaining wall, leaning his arms on the thick concrete ledge and surveying the beach below. Beyond it stretched the eastern horizon, a seam separating the blue-gray Atlantic from the dawn-pink sky. It didn’t surprise him that ancient navigators, gazing west from the shores of Europe, believed the earth was flat. How could it not be, when the horizon was so straight?
They were wrong, of course.
The folks who believed the Faulk Street Tavern’s jukebox had some sort of supernatural power were wrong, too.
Just because that damned David Bowie song was still humming through his head, a two-day ear worm that refused to wiggle its way out of his skull, didn’t mean anything except that the music he’d listened to all day yesterday—head-banging heavy metal, whiny C&W tunes about runaway dogs and bitchy women, or maybe runaway women and bitchy dogs, and finally a ninety-minute megadose of Pearl Jam—had failed to eradicate the Bowie song from Nick’s brain. He didn’t even like the song. All that stammering. The melodramatic melody. The sobbing quality of Bowie’s voice. Nick had vague memories of his parents listening to David Bowie years ago, and memories of his parents were something he’d just as soon avoid.
The coffee from Riley’s was helping, though. The coffee and the blustery March wind gusting off the water were doing more to clear that god-awful tune from his head than all the music he’d blasted yesterday. Above the water, a pair of gulls flew circles around each other in an airborne dance. Beyond the jetty to the south, the silhouette of a fishing boat, cables and masts vivid against the pale morning sky, headed out toward that flat horizon. “Don’t fall over the edge,” Nick murmured, as if the boat could hear him. As if there was an edge to fall over.
In the distance to his north, he spotted a jogger running along the beach, heading toward where he stood. As the figure drew nearer, he could see she was a woman, gliding across the sand at the high-tide line. Running on dry sand could strain a person’s ankles and calves, but along the tide line the sand was damp and solid, supporting a jogger’s footfalls. Still, the wind was stiff and the air chilly, so the jogger had her challenges. She wore black running pants that clung to her long, slim legs, and a radioactive-orange jacket. She’d be visible in that thing even if she ran at midnight. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
Tawny hair, sunlight turning the strands gold. A sharp, angular face. Way-too-big hazel eyes.
Once again, he couldn’t look away. There was no jukebox out here, no David Bowie song, so he knew none of Gus’s idiotic superstitions were at play. Yet he was transfixed by the woman as she jogged closer. Captivated. Unable to keep from staring at her.
His gaze tracked her as she sprinted past him, running parallel to the retaining wall. Street level was about five feet above the beach, so she’d have to look up to see him. But her face remained forward, her eyes aimed at the sand ahead of her as if she could visualize an actual path instead of just a stretch of beach.
She continued south toward the jetty, and he decided she looked almost as good from the rear as from the front. Those stretchy black running pants did wonders for her ass.
The sun caught the diamond on her left hand.
So she was taken. He understood that. No law said a guy couldn’t look. And admire. And maybe enjoy a pleasant if frustrating twinge of lust.
Even if she weren’t wearing an engagement ring, he’d never have anything to do with her. She wasn’t his type. Too patrician. He could tell she was from a different universe, not just by her obviously expensive jewelry but by her bearing, her polish, the way she could jog the length of the beach without popping a bead of sweat. Sure, the air was cold, but Nick could work out in an industrial freezer and still wind up drenched in perspiration. Rich people had more refined sweat glands, he figured.
She had to be a tourist. He knew most of Brogan’s Point’s residents, even the wealthy ones who lived in the sprawling mansions on the north side of town, past the Ocean Bluff Inn. Those rich folks were the people he often hit up for donations to subsidize the youth programs he ran. He’d give talks, write proposals, sit through excruciating teas and cocktail parties where funds were being raised. He didn’t hate affluent people, or even resent them. He did his best not to gag on the Prosecco or the sherry they served, and he tried not to make a mess with the finger sandwiches, which never seemed to be the right size for his fingers. He was grateful to those rich citizens. But he knew they weren’t his people.
The beautiful jogger wasn’t his people, either. She was just a wealthy woman passing through town, one of those iconoclasts who vacationed in Brogan’s Point during the off season. Maybe she preferred beaches when they weren’t mobbed with riffraff—the public beaches here in town were usually jam-packed from Memorial Day through Labor Day. Or maybe she spent those prime summer beach months someplace nicer—Nantucket, or Kennebunkport. Or the Riviera.
She reached the jetty and halted, hands on hips. He could see the rise and fall of her shoulders as she panted. After a minute, she lifted one hand to her head and pushed back her hair. Then she turned.
And saw him.
The only music he heard was the caws and mews of the sea gulls swooping down toward the jetty, no doubt looking for some unlucky clams to smash against the rocks and devour. But just like two nights ago at the Faulk Street Tavern, the woman stared at him and he felt…punched in the gut today. Not stabbed, punched.
He took a sip of coffee to keep from doubling over and grunting like someone on the wrong end of a fist. The coffee was still blessedly hot. Thank God for insulated travel mugs.
Her gaze pinning him like a laser sight on a rifle, she sauntered up the beach’s slope to the retaining wall. Her feet sank into the powdery white sand above the high tide line, but that didn’t slow her down. He saw now why she’d tried to smooth her hair. Multiple strands had escaped from the elastic, and the wind off the water had tangled them into a silky mess.
She halted just a few feet below where he stood. He contemplated leaping down from the retaining wall to join her on the beach. But then he’d have to walk all the way to the jetty to get back up to the street. It would be easier to reach down and haul her up the wall. She was so slim, she couldn’t weigh much.
“That coffee smells amazing,” she said.
Definitely not what he’d been expecting her to say. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he was surprised she could smell the coffee from a distance, with the travel mug’s lid screwed on tight and the briny fragrance of the ocean heavy in the air. “It is amazing,” he said.
“Where did you get it?”
“Riley’s, just up the street. Best coffee in Brogan’s Point. Maybe in the world.” Why were they talking about coffee? Then again, why not? Discussing coffee with her seemed natural, easy, like something they might do every morning. “I’ll buy you a cup,” he said.
“Oh, I…” She gazed around, then patted the zippered pockets of her glow-in-the-dark jacket. A faint laugh escaped her. “I don’t have any money with me.”
“You don’t need money. I just said I’ll buy you a cup.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
His gaze snagged on the huge diamond sparkling on her left ring finger. Then he shrugged. “Riley’s coffee is always a good idea. Give me your hands.” He set his mug down on the sidewalk adjacent to the retaining wall, then braced himself and reached down to her.
She eyed the wall dubiously, and then his hands. Her shoulders rose and fell again, another deep breath, and she lifted her arms.
He was right; she didn’t weigh that much. She bent her legs and used the treaded soles of her running shoes against the stones, half walking up the vertical surface as he lifted her. As soon as her hips reached the ledge, she twisted and sat on it, then swung her legs over.
He took a step back, giving her space. Standing, she dusted off her cute little bottom with her palms and shot him a wary glance. “I should probably go back to the inn.”
“You’re staying at Ocean Bluff?”
She nodded. “They have coffee there.”
“Not as good as Riley’s.”
She bit her lip and averted her eyes, indecision radiating from her. “I really shouldn’t.”
He could have said something to reassure her. He could have introduced himself, provided references, assured her she would be safe with him. He could have lied and told her he was noble of spirit and pure of soul.
Instead, some crazy impulse seized him and he sang, so softly no one but she could possibly hear, “Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes.”