Mariah Stewart Page 3

  The air on the bo­ar­d­walk felt do­se and hot, be­ing trap­ped, as it was, bet­we­en the bu­il­dings on one si­de and the sea on the ot­her. With the stag­nant land bre­eze ca­me nippy lit­tle gre­en-he­aded fli­es, and mo­re than one per­son strol­ling past was swat­ting at the back of a leg or the top of an arm. Two blocks down, Jody fo­und her­self he­ading in­to a de­li­ca­tes­sen just to es­ca­pe the fe­ro­city of the fli­es. She to­ok a se­at at the co­un­ter rat­her than wa­it for a tab­le, and tur­ned to­ward the do­or­way to watch the to­urists pass by.

  Whi­le wa­iting for her tur­key san­d­wich, she pic­ked up a copy of the lo­cal new­s­pa­per that so­me­one had left on the se­at next to her and skim­med thro­ugh it. Ad­ver­ti­se­ments for bat­hing su­its and res­ta­urants out­num­be­red the ads for lo­cal amu­se­ments, but not by much. Fas­ci­na­ted, Jody re­ali­zed that Oce­an Po­int now bo­as­ted not one, but two mo­vie com­p­le­xes that sho­wed ten films at a ti­me. Ye­ars ago, the­re had not be­en eno­ugh pe­op­le in town to fill one such the­ater.

  And piz­za par­lors! The­re we­re ads for a do­zen or mo­re.

  Wha­le and dol­p­hin cru­ises on the oce­an, a cru­ise aro­und the is­land, a cru­ise to Ca­pe May. Se­ems as if one co­uld cru­ise to just abo­ut an­y­p­la­ce.

  Ka­yaks, jet skis, wa­ve run­ners, sa­il­bo­ats, bic­y­c­les, in­li­ne ska­tes, sur­f­bo­ar­ds-all for rent at con­ve­ni­ent lo­ca­ti­ons along the bo­ar­d­walk.

  Fis­hing to­ur­na­ments, de­ep-sea char­ters, sa­il­bo­at ra­ces, sum­mer bas­ket­ball and ba­se­ball le­agu­es-both ma­le and fe­ma­le-bin­go ga­mes and bu­ses to the ca­si­nos in At­lan­tic City.

  Oyster bars and sa­lad bars, dock bars whe­re one co­uld sit and watch the ot­her pat­rons ar­ri­ve in the­ir bo­ats, all the whi­le enj­oying din­ner and cal­y­p­so mu­sic.

  Jody sho­ok her he­ad. What had hap­pe­ned to the pe­ace­ful lit­tle town she re­mem­be­red?

  She fi­nis­hed her san­d­wich (a lit­tle on the dry si­de, the bre­ad a com­mer­ci­al brand lo­aded with pre­ser­va­ti­ves to gi­ve it that soft and squ­ishy fe­el) and si­de or­der of so-so co­le slaw (too much ma­yon­na­ise, not eno­ugh oni­on) and frow­ned. You'd ne­ver get such fa­re at the Bis­hop's Inn, but then aga­in, this be­ing a bo­ar­d­walk de­li and the Bis­hop's Inn be­ing, well, the Bis­hop's Inn, per­haps, she re­min­ded her­self, com­pa­ri­sons we­re un­fa­ir. She fol­ded the pa­per and left it on the sto­ol whe­re she'd fo­und it, pa­id her check, and wal­ked back out on­to the bo­ar­d­walk. She'd ta­ke a walk, then may­be stretch out on one of tho­se lo­un­ge cha­irs ne­ar the po­ol for a whi­le, the be­ach be­ing too crow­ded. Be­si­des, she wan­ted to be aro­und when Na­ta­lie ar­ri­ved.

  Jody had in­ten­ded to con­fi­ne her walk to the bo­ards, but fin­ding her­self at the very end, de­ci­ded to ven­tu­re in­to town. She was an­xi­o­us to see so­me of her old ha­unts. She went stra­ight down Oce­an Bo­ule­vard to Tow­n­send, to the cor­ner whe­re the old drug­s­to­re on­ce sto­od. Hands on her hips, she sto­od on the si­de­walk out­si­de and wat­c­hed the ste­ady flow of to­urists as they floc­ked thro­ugh the elec­t­ro­nic do­ors of the block-con­s­t­ruc­ted dis­co­unt sto­re. She won­de­red if Car­ney's Ge­ne­ral Sto­re had fa­red any bet­ter. She he­aded down the stre­et to the first traf­fic light and aro­und the cor­ner. Won­der of won­ders, the old pla­ce still sto­od in­tact.

  The sa­me we­at­he­red brown shin­g­les out­si­de, the sa­me bell over the do­or in­si­de, the well-scuf­fed wo­oden flo­or un­der­fo­ot. The old For­mi­ca co­un­ter whe­re gro­ups of girls gat­he­red to sip so­das and gos­sip, the ne­at rows of pro­du­ce from lo­cal farms, the small sta­ti­onery de­par­t­ment, two ais­les of har­d­wa­re, a me­at co­un­ter, be­ach toys… oh, it was all so much as it had re­ma­ined in her me­mory that for a long mo­ment she tho­ught per­haps she was dre­aming.

  "Are you be­ing hel­ped?" A yo­ung man of abo­ut twenty as­ked.

  "Oh…" His vo­ice had stir­red her from her re­ve­rie. "I was lo­oking for…" she glan­ced aro­und for so­met­hing she might ne­ed, then, spying the long rack of pa­per­back bo­oks at the front of the sto­re, sa­id, "… so­met­hing to re­ad."

  "Right up front," he po­in­ted.

  "Thank you," she smi­led.

  Jody thum­bed thro­ugh this bo­ok and that, lo­oking for so­met­hing that wo­uld stri­ke her fancy, all the whi­le ple­ased and ama­zed that this lit­tle pi­ece of Oce­an Po­int had re­ma­ined in­tact whi­le so much el­se had chan­ged.

  "Who owns this sto­re now?" She as­ked as she pa­id for her se­lec­ti­on, the la­test ro­man­ce by a fa­vo­ri­te aut­hor.

  "The Car­ney fa­mily still owns the sto­re," the ple­asant yo­ung man rep­li­ed as he co­un­ted out her chan­ge.

  "Re­al­ly? Still?"

  "Yes. It's be­en in the fa­mily for over eighty ye­ars," the boy sa­id pro­udly.

  'Which mem­bers of the fa­mily are still he­re, if I might ask?"

  "My dad, Ste­ve-I'm Ste­ve, too-and my aunt Beth own it now."

  A sud­den ima­ge of Ste­ve Car­ney, at ni­ne­te­en the dre­am man of all the girls who we­re six­te­en that last ye­ar, in­va­ded Jody's me­mory. He'd be­en such a han­d­so­me thing, and wild, a re­al da­re­de­vil and a gre­at at­h­le­te. Ste­ve had be­en the only one who co­uld swim out to He­ron Is­land and back, no me­an fe­at.

  "Did you know my dad?" The yo­ung man was as­king.

  "Umm, sort of," she rep­li­ed, won­de­ring if day­d­re­ams co­un­ted. "We used to sum­mer he­re, a long ti­me ago. My fa­mily did, that is."

  "Ye­ah, lots of pe­op­le co­me back. They all stop in."

  "I was al­most sur­p­ri­sed to see that Car­ney's is still he­re. Ever­y­t­hing el­se se­ems to ha­ve chan­ged.'

  "We've had a lot of of­fers to sell, but my dad and my aunt aren't in­te­res­ted. My brot­her and I fi­gu­re that so­me­day we'll be run­ning it with a co­usin or two." Ste­ve Juni­or han­ded her the bag that held her pur­c­ha­se.

  "Then I'll ha­ve to ma­ke it a po­int to stop back in abo­ut twenty ye­ars and see how you're do­ing." Jody smi­led and tur­ned to­ward the do­or, won­de­ring what Beth lo­oked li­ke the­se days. She'd be­en a short, bubbly chat­ter­box when the­ir paths had last cros­sed.

  Once out­si­de, Jody de­ba­ted her op­ti­ons. She co­uld check out that new out­do­or mall of shops ne­ar the ma­ri­na. Or she co­uld walk over to the bay si­de and out on­to the old pi­ers and watch the fis­her­men, or she co­uld grab a to­wel and see if she co­uld find a va­cant spot on the be­ach. Or she co­uld he­ad back to the mo­tel and so­ak up a lit­tle sun on one of tho­se com­fy-lo­oking lo­un­ges by the po­ol.

  She tap­ped her fo­ot, de­ba­ting, but not for long. It was too hot to shop, too hot to walk to the bay, she re­aso­ned, and the be­ach had be­en overly crow­ded by no­on. She'd opt for the mo­tel po­ol. To­mor­row, she'd ven­tu­re out early with Na­ta­lie and Lin­d­sey and Mary An­ne and the ot­hers and sta­ke a cla­im for a pri­me sec­ti­on of be­ach whe­re they'd sun them­sel­ves on blan­kets. Right now she had a gre­at new bo­ok to re­ad, a brand-new bi­ki­ni to slip in­to, and eno­ugh of the af­ter­no­on left to enj­oy both whi­le she wa­ited for her fri­ends to ar­ri­ve.

  Chapter 3

  Jeremy Nob­le un­fol­ded him­self from his se­dan, stret­c­hed his legs, and in­ha­led de­eply. Ah, yes, the sea air, the so­und of the gulls, the pro­mi­se of so­me gre­at fis­hing, so­me gre­at me­als, so­me gre­at nights on the be­ach with the wo­man who­se me­mory had drawn him he­re. Who co­uld ask for mo­re?

  He smi­led to him­self as he swung his bags from the trunk of the Ma­xi­ma. He'd pac­ked lig
ht, thin­king he'd ne­ed lit­tle mo­re than ca­su­al clot­hes-per­haps a jac­ket for din­ner one nig­ht-and a few go­od bo­oks. And a he­althy ap­pe­ti­te. Ever sin­ce he'd ma­de the de­ci­si­on to bo­ok a ro­om at the inn, he'd be­en dre­aming of Jody's cre­am of she-crab so­up, her bro­iled sea tro­ut, her flan.

  Or had it be­en her fa­ce, her legs, her la­ugh?

  "J­eremy!" La­ura Bis­hop met him in the inn's spa­ci­o­us entry. "You're right on ti­me. We've just fi­nis­hed get­ting yo­ur ro­om re­ady."

  "Hel­lo, La­ura," he ac­cep­ted her hug and of­fe­red one in re­turn. "How are things?"

  "Very well, thank you. I'm so glad you de­ci­ded to ta­ke me up on my of­fer and spend yo­ur va­ca­ti­on with us."

  "Well, I re­al­ly did ne­ed to ta­ke so­me ti­me off. I co­uldn't think of an­y­p­la­ce I'd rat­her spend a we­ek."

  "The fis­hing's be­en gre­at this sum­mer, and the oce­an's be­en warm. The we­at­her's be­en per­fect, and they're pre­dic­ting mo­re of the sa­me for the next few days. You pic­ked the right we­ek." She wal­ked to the re­cep­ti­on desk. "Let me get so­me­one to ta­ke you up to yo­ur ro­om. I'd do it myself, but I'm a lit­tle busy right now."

  "The ro­om num­ber's on the key," he sa­id. "I can find my way."

  "Are you su­re you don't mind? I'm af­ra­id we're a lit­tle short-han­ded this we­ek, and we've had so­me unex­pec­ted re­ser­va­ti­ons for din­ner to­night."

  "I don't mind at all." Jeremy to­ok the key and smi­led, thin­king abo­ut to­night's din­ner, won­de­ring what might be on the me­nu.

  He was so­rely tem­p­ted to ask what was plan­ned for the eve­ning's fa­re, then de­ci­ded he'd rat­her be sur­p­ri­sed. An­y­t­hing that Jody was ma­king wo­uld be fo­od fit for a king. And af­ter din­ner, he'd ask her to sit with him on the front porch whe­re, over a glass of wi­ne, they co­uld pick up whe­re they'd left off we­eks ago. Then may­be to­mor­row night they co­uld walk on the be­ach, or dri­ve out to Pi­er­son's whe­re a blu­es band pla­yed we­ek­nights.

  Hum­ming hap­pily, Jeremy to­ok the car­pe­ted steps two at a ti­me, thin­king per­haps he'd ta­ke a walk on the be­ach or may­be a stroll aro­und town whi­le he awa­ited the din­ner ho­ur and the op­por­tu­nity to sa­vor the so­up and woo the chef.

  "Will you be di­ning alo­ne?" The yo­ung hos­tess as­ked when Jeremy wal­ked in­to the crow­ded di­ning ro­om that eve­ning promptly at se­ven.

  "Yes," he nod­ded.

  "Then per­haps you'd li­ke a se­at by the win­dow, whe­re you can watch the os­p­rey," she sug­ges­ted. "The­re's a fa­mily nes­ting the­re on top of the te­lep­ho­ne po­le. Three ba­bi­es," she sa­id as she led him to his tab­le.

  "Thank you." Jeremy to­ok the se­at next to the wall whe­re he co­uld watch both the os­p­rey and the ro­om. He fre­qu­ently di­ned alo­ne, and wat­c­hing ot­her di­ners hel­ped to pass the ti­me. Not that he was in a hurry to con­c­lu­de this me­al.

  "Hi," the perky wa­it­ress se­emed to pop up from thin air. "May I bring you a drink whi­le you lo­ok over the me­nu?"

  "All I ne­ed to know is the fish of the day," he grin­ned.

  "Red snap­per," she rep­li­ed.

  "That ma­kes it easy eno­ugh. I'll start with the she-crab so­up, and go on to the snap­per."

  "Ah, you've be­en he­re be­fo­re." The wa­it­ress nod­ded kno­wingly. "Ever­yo­ne co­mes back for the crab so­up. Now, can I in­te­rest you in a glass of wi­ne to go with that?"

  "Ab­so­lu­tely."

  "I’ll be right back with it."

  Whi­le he wa­ited, Jeremy amu­sed him­self by stud­ying the tab­le man­ners of a ram­bun­c­ti­o­us three-ye­ar-old se­ve­ral tab­les away. His wi­ne ar­ri­ved at just abo­ut the sa­me ti­me that the har­ri­ed mot­her de­ci­ded that her fel­low di­ners wo­uld enj­oy the­ir me­als mo­re if she and her son to­ok the­irs on the porch. She smi­led an apo­logy at the wa­it­ress as she left the ro­om. Jeremy idly won­de­red whe­re the hus­band/fat­her might be. He'd ne­ver be­en eit­her, but he co­uldn't ima­gi­ne sen­ding his wi­fe and son off to a lo­vely old inn on a be­a­uti­ful, ro­man­tic stretch of co­ast wit­ho­ut him along to sha­re the ho­li­day with them.

  The wa­it­ress ap­pe­ared with a small whi­te bowl of cre­amy li­qu­id of the pa­lest yel­low. Jeremy dip­ped a spo­on in, ra­ised it to his lips, and tas­ted he­aven. He sig­hed with con­ten­t­ment, eating slowly, ma­king the most of the ex­pe­ri­en­ce. He si­mi­larly sig­hed his way thro­ugh his en­t­ree and his des­sert. He ac­cep­ted a se­cond cup of cof­fee, which he car­ri­ed with him in­to the kit­c­hen to pay ho­ma­ge to the co­ok, the an­ti­ci­pa­ti­on of se­e­ing her aga­in flic­ke­ring in­si­de him li­ke fi­ref­li­es. With luck, she'd be free la­ter in the eve­ning. He wan­ted to walk with her on the be­ach, watch the oce­an bre­eze rus­t­le her ha­ir…

  "J­eremy," La­ura cal­led from be­hind the long sta­in­less ste­el co­un­ter, "how was yo­ur din­ner?"

  "Won­der­ful." He en­t­hu­sed, his eyes dar­ting this way and that, scan­ning the ro­om for its cus­to­mary oc­cu­pant. "Fa­bu­lo­us. I just stop­ped back to thank the chef."

  "You're wel­co­me. I'm glad you enj­oyed." La­ura smi­led and went back to se­aso­ning the fish she had just pla­ced in the ba­king dish.

  It to­ok a mi­nu­te for Jeremy's bra­in to pro­cess this in­for­ma­ti­on.

  La­ura. In the kit­c­hen. Pre­pa­ring a din­ner. And Jody was… whe­re?

  "J­ody…?" He as­ked.

  "Oh, Jody's not he­re." La­ura wa­ved a hand and bits of dill flew he­re and the­re.

  "Not he­re?" Jeremy frow­ned.

  Jody not he­re? But the so­up… the per­fectly se­aso­ned fish __

  "She's on va­ca­ti­on. Than­k­ful­ly, she ma­de up se­ve­ral bat­c­hes of she-crab so­up and fro­ze them to ti­de us over till she got back, and she left me with jars of her spe­ci­al se­aso­ning al­re­ady mi­xed for the fish. I ho­pe I don't run out be­fo­re she gets back." La­ura ra­ised her he­ad, and saw the lo­ok of di­sap­po­in­t­ment on Jeremy's fa­ce.

  It was cle­ar that he'd be­en ho­ping to do mo­re than gi­ve com­p­li­ments to the chef abo­ut her fish.

  La­ura smi­led to her­self. Of co­ur­se. It wo­uld ha­ve be­en Jody that bro­ught Jeremy back to the inn. She'd tho­ught she d sen­sed so­met­hing run­ning bet­we­en them the last ti­me he had be­en the­re. La­ura brus­hed off her hands, slid the fish in­to the bro­iler, and mo­ti­oned for him to fol­low her to the old rol­ltop desk at the back of the kit­c­hen.

  "The­re's a pi­ece or pa­per un­der the rig­ht-hand ed­ge of the desk blot­ter that has the pho­ne num­ber on it if you want to call her," she told him. "Wo­uld you mind get­ting it yo­ur­self? My hands are co­ve­red with herbs."

  No, he re­ali­zed, he did not want to call her. Tal­king wo­uld not be eno­ugh. He wan­ted to see her, wan­ted to be with her.

  La­ura pe­ered over his sho­ul­der as he lif­ted the small slip of pa­per, then sa­id, "Yes, that's it. The Sea Vi­ew Mo­tel in Oce­an Po­int, New Jer­sey."

  Jeremy's in­si­des twis­ted and clen­c­hed as if struck by a for­ce­ful blow, and his chest con­s­t­ric­ted tightly. One big hand re­ac­hed for the ed­ge of the desk and clut­c­hed it for sup­port. The fog that fil­led his mind clog­ged his sen­ses, and for a mo­ment he co­uld ne­it­her see nor he­ar nor fe­el.

  Oce­an Po­int, New Jer­sey.

  "J­ody will be the­re thro­ugh next Sa­tur­day," La­ura con­ti­nu­ed. "You may not be fa­mi­li­ar with Oce­an Po­int-I hadn't he­ard of it, eit­her-but Jody sa­id it's a small town on one of tho­se lit­tle is­lands off the co­ast. She used to spend sum­mers the­re when she was a child. So­me of her old fri­ends from high scho­ol we­re ha�
�ving a sort of re­uni­on the­re over the we­ekend, and she's me­eting up with them. She re­al­ly did ne­ed a va­ca­ti­on, and this se­emed li­ke a fun idea. You know, get­ting to­get­her with old fri­ends, lo­oking back on yo­ur te­en ye­ars. I think her gir­l­f­ri­ends we­re sta­ying just for the we­ekend, but Jody is sta­ying thro­ugh the we­ek."

  Only Jeremy's eyes mo­ved, fol­lo­wing La­ura as she re­tur­ned to her task.

  Jeremy knew all abo­ut lo­oking back. He had spent much of his adult li­fe lo­oking back on his own te­en ye­ars, wis­hing he co­uld re­ach back in ti­me and chan­ge things.

  Oce­an Po­int, New Jer­sey.

  Jeremy stu­di­ed the slip of pa­per, com­mit­ted the ad­dress to me­mory, and af­ter than­king La­ura, left the kit­c­hen thro­ugh the back do­or. His legs still slightly wobbly, he pa­used un­der the wis­te­ria ar­bor, then fol­lo­wed the brick path that led aro­und the si­de of the ho­use to the front walk. As if in a tran­ce, he cros­sed the stre­et and sto­od atop the steps that led down to the be­ach, lis­te­ning to the crash of the surf. He fol­lo­wed the so­und and tri­ed to sort thro­ugh his op­ti­ons.

  He co­uld, of co­ur­se, wa­it he­re un­til Jody ca­me back.

  Or he co­uld le­ave and go back ho­me, work out the we­ek, and res­c­he­du­le his va­ca­ti­on for the fol­lo­wing we­ek, then co­me back to the inn when she re­tur­ned. Equ­al­ly easy. Equ­al­ly pa­in-free.

  Jeremy's fin­gers clo­sed over a lar­ge clam­s­hell, and he flung it to­ward the sea. Of all pla­ces for her to ha­ve go­ne!

  Oce­an Po­int, New Jer­sey.

  His mo­uth had go­ne dry, his lips par­c­hed. Jeremy sat down on the sand. He'd sworn he'd ne­ver go back. And in all the­se ye­ars, he had not. It was all too vi­vid in his mind's eye, the co­lors and sights and smells of that night whe­re, in a mat­ter of a few bri­ef ho­urs, Jeremy's en­ti­re world had be­en tos­sed up­si­de down.

  He squ­e­ezed his eyes clo­sed to shut it out, but on­ce it star­ted, the who­le thing pla­yed thro­ugh. The ar­gu­ment with his step­fat­her over ta­king the car. Le­aving ho­me that night with his co­usin T.J. He­ading for the bo­ar­d­walk in Oce­an Po­int. Wal­king the bo­ards and flir­ting with the pretty girls. Ha­ving one of tho­se girls flirt back. Ta­king her hand and he­ading off for the amu­se­ment pi­er, whe­re they ro­de the rol­ler co­as­ter un­til the­ir thro­ats we­re raw from scre­aming. Sit­ting on the be­ach wat­c­hing the fi­re­works. Slip­ping off alo­ne to a de­ser­ted stretch of be­ach whe­re the eager yo­ung lady had ta­ught him a thing or two.