The Honeymoon Cottage (A Pajaro Bay Romance) (10 page)

Oliver looked like he was heading into another pout when Ryan said, "It might be gone by then. You probably should take some now."

Oliver grabbed a plate with a huge slice of chocolate cake. "Okay, Camilla?"

She nodded. She wasn't about to deprive Oliver of chocolate cake—especially if it brought him out of his pout.

"After all," Oliver said. "Daddy always says it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Does he?" Ryan said, perking up. "That's very wise. What else does he say?"

What was Ryan up to?

Oliver bit his lip and said nothing.

Ryan put a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "So, kid, when you used to eat at Olvera Street, did your dad take you there?"

Definitely not casual, and even Oliver could see it. He wiggled away from Ryan's hand and shrugged.

Camilla stepped in between them. She wasn't going to let this big cop bully her kid.

Camilla bent down to Oliver. "It's okay. You don't have to snitch on your dad. I understand."

"Whatever." He shrugged as if it meant nothing to him, but she noticed he stopped hunching his shoulders.

"Come on," said Marisol, and she ran off to sit at one of the tables.

Oliver turned to Camilla. "Can I eat with my friends?"

"Sure," she said, "but be sure to stay in the building."

He ran off to join them.

Wow. That hadn't taken long. She didn't know a soul in town—except Ryan. Oliver already had friends to eat dinner with. She felt conspicuous standing at the end of the food line with a big plate and no idea where to turn. It was like the first day at a new high school—everybody seemed to know everyone, and she was the odd one out.

"I wasn't going to interrogate him," Ryan said. He looked a bit sheepish, though, and she didn't believe him.

"It's fine," she said, realizing she sounded kind-of stiff. She couldn't help it. She hated that whole "cop thing," where they wouldn't let go of something and just leave people in peace.

"Why don't we sit over here," he said. Then Ryan put an arm around her shoulder and guided to one of the tables, and she felt all the eyes in the gym turn to her. She wasn't sure being "friends" with Captain Ryan was going to help her blend in.

Ryan set their plates on the table and pulled out the squeaky folding chair for Camilla. She sat down and set her purse on the floor.

Across from her sat a gorgeous woman with toffee-colored skin and a stunning mane of glossy streaked hair—another woman who was obviously no stranger to expensive salons.

Camilla self-consciously patted her messy curls and pulled her sweatshirt straight. She was sure the woman was looking down on her. She hated that.

"Camilla, Robin. Robin, Camilla," said Ryan. "I've gotta touch base with Joe. Be right back." He bent down toward her, almost as if he was going to kiss her goodbye, then straightened up and was gone. She let out her breath and turned to the woman seated across from her.

Robin stretched one hand across the table. "Nice to meet you, Camilla. I'm Robin Brenham of Robin's Nest."

They shook hands, Camilla noticing how her own now-ragged nails looked compared to Robin's perfectly gleaming red ones.

Camilla sighed. "I remember nail polish."

Robin laughed. "This is just because I have out-of-town clients coming in tomorrow. I've got to get the Nest ready."

"Robin's Nest?"

"The real estate office near Santos'. Anything you need, from a cottage to a mansion, all at post-recession prices." She took a bite of her enchilada. "End of sales pitch. So, you've come from the land of manicures and designer clothes?"

She nodded.

"Me, too."

Camilla smiled. "It seems a long way from here. Where are you from?"

"San Francisco. And you?"

"San Jose."

"So what brought you here?"

Camilla shrugged. She didn't want to go into it. "Long story. Why did you move here?"

"That's a long story, too. We'll have to do lunch and I can give you all the boring details."

Camilla wanted to say yes. It would be nice to have a friend. But she didn't think it was smart to start opening up to people in town, so she changed the subject. "You're in real estate? Then maybe you can explain to me why 'near Santos' Market,' or 'down Torres Alley' instead of just giving the address?"

"Because we don't really have street addresses here. The only time you use an address is when you're getting a package delivered. We don't have home mail delivery, so people just say the names of the places, 'Catslide Cottage'—that's Ryan's ex's place at the corner of Cliff and Principal, or they give the location, like "the place with the green door in Torres Alley.' It's easy once you get used to it. You'll get used to our quirks soon enough."

"Ryan's ex?"

Robin's smiled vanished. "Ah. You noticed that. He'll tell you when he's ready, I'm sure. Nothing stays a secret for long in this town. You'll get hooked into the grapevine."

"I'm just here temporarily. I'm fixing up a place to sell."

Robin's eyes lit up. "Ooh, potential customer? Wanna borrow my nail polish? Or would that be considered a bribe?"

Camilla smiled. As hard as she was trying to keep her distance, it was impossible not to like Robin. She looked like any high-powered executive from Camilla's old life, but the warmth in her eyes took away any sense of intimidation. "I already have the place listed," she explained, "but my agent thought doing some improvements would give me a better chance at top dollar."

"Good idea. Putting in a little sweat equity can pay off big-time. Who's your agent?"

She told her.

Robin shrugged. "She's not local—but that's okay. There's enough business to go around." She grinned again. "So, my incoming clients are looking for something ocean view, low maintenance for weekends and summers. Where's your place?"

"It's 43 Cliff Drive. It's uh—-I don't know if you'd call it a low-maintenance kind of place—"

Ryan sat down next to Camilla in time to catch the last of the conversation. "It's the Honeymoon Cottage next to Miss Zelda's, Robin." He grinned mischievously. "Or, as it's been called, the Drunken Leprechaun House."

"Great name. You should put that in the advertising. Wait—you're the one selling the Honeymoon Cottage?"

"I guess. Is that what it's called?"

"Yeah. Wow. That's the very first Stockdale. Miss Zelda will give you the info. I'm dying to get inside that one. I bet I could get it sold for you in days. I'll tell my clients. I'm already taking them to the Turret Cottage and Ryan's place, but yours has so much more history behind it."

"It might not be quite ready for visitors yet, right, Camilla? She hasn't even had a chance to talk to Miss Zelda."

Camilla nodded again. This was all going so fast. Sell it in days? She hadn't even had a chance to finish fixing all the windows.

Who was she kidding? She wasn't thinking about windows. She was thinking about leaving town before getting to know the guy sitting next to her. She hadn't even known he was divorced. They hadn't taken Oliver to the amusement park yet.

"I—I'm not quite ready to show the place yet. But I'll let you know when it's ready. And who's Miss Zelda, and why do I need to talk to her before I sell the place?"

"Oh, you are new here," said Robin. "Ryan'll get you up to speed." She stood up. "But if you want any good gossip—or just a cup of genuine espresso—give me a ring." She handed Camilla a business card. "I mean it. Coffee, soon?"

It did feel like the first day in a new school, and one of the popular kids had asked her to play. She grinned at Robin. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Now, I've got to make an appearance at the grown-up's table. I see the Madrigals are holding court." With another friendly smile, she walked away.

Camilla looked over her shoulder to see what she was talking about. At the far end of the gym, one table was crowded with people sitting shoulder to shoulder. At the head of the table, a pair of tall, noble-looking people sat—a young man and a teenage girl, obviously related, both with dark, curly hair and the aristocratic bone structure of Spanish conquistadors.

"Descendants of Pajaro Bay's founders," Ryan whispered in her ear. "He's the mayor and she's the homecoming queen." Wow. She so didn't care. His warm breath against her neck made her completely uninterested in whether he'd said they were the town's founders or a pair of guinea pigs. She just wanted to him to say something else.

Without moving, she whispered, "So who's Miss Zelda?"

"Zelda Potter. Former movie star, head of the Historical Preservation Committee, and your next-door neighbor. You can't remodel a Stockdale cottage without the Committee's approval."

He nodded toward another table, where several well-preserved ladies chattered and picked over their plates of beans and rice. One of them, her white hair only partially concealed by a vibrant orange hat, nodded back at them.

Next to her sat the junk shop woman. She didn't smile or nod, but she seemed exceedingly interested in the fact that Ryan and Camilla were sitting so close together. Camilla scooted away from Ryan and bent her head over her plate.

They ate in silence for a while. Camilla was trying to make sense of all the names and intertwined relationships in this town. Coming here to dinner with Ryan had been a big mistake. She'd bet everyone in town would know her name and where she lived before the morning. Not the way to keep a low profile. But if all they learned was where she lived, she'd be okay.

"What's up?" Ryan finally asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you've gone silent. That's usually my thing."

She laughed out loud. "You know you're like that?"

"Sure. My—" he paused. "My ex-wife used to call me the clam when I'd get like that. Sorry."

"Is that why she's your ex?"

"No." He stared down at his plate for a minute.

She leaned over and whispered. "You're doing it."

He looked up, smiled. "Yes, I am. I'm not ready to talk about it yet. Is that better?"

"Why, yes. It is. Almost like a grown-up."

He put his arm around her, then quickly withdrew it. "That's probably not the best thing to do while everyone's watching us like hawks."

"So why are they watching? Or is that part of what you aren't ready to talk about?"

"It is."

"So, let's talk about something else. Um, tell me why people sit at the tables they do."

"Okay," he said, relaxing his shoulders and leaning in closer. "I think you're ready for the truth. In a small town like this there are serious issues that divide people."

"Politics? Religion?"

He shook his head. "Clam chowder."

She laughed out loud.

"You think I'm joking."

"You're not?"

He whispered, "See Mama Thu? The petite lady on the left?" At the next table sat a lovely Asian woman with her graying hair in braids. She was enveloped in flowing layers of tie-dye.

"Yup," she whispered back.

"She owns the French-Vietnamese café in Torres Alley. Her organic clam chowder is made with tiny new potatoes, a delicate broth, and a hint of organic cream—"

"—from cheerful free-range cows."

"You've got the picture. It's served to you in a little hole-in-the-wall place overlooking the sea, where they have white lace curtains on the windows. Every bowl of chowder comes garnished with a sprig of parsley, and they offer free refills on organic herbal tea—"

"—from cheerful free-range herbs."

"Exactly." He nodded toward another table. "Now, see this dude?" A beefy guy in faded overalls lorded over another table, wearing his fisherman's cap like a badge of honor.

"Let me guess—his chowder isn't served with a sprig of parsley."

"Mel's Fish Shack is down on the wharf, where the view is of the fishing boats unloading, and the sea lions bark so loudly outside the windows you can't hear yourself think. Mel's chowder is made with a pound of russet potatoes per serving, and so much heavy cream your arteries start clogging at the sight of the bowl—which, by the way, is not only bigger than a dinner plate, but come to the table with a hunk of butter melting on top and a platter of clam fritters and deep-fried onion rings on the side."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Careful, Miss," he drawled. "Them's fightin' words in this town."

"Well, then I think I'll have to try both before deciding."

"That might be arranged," he whispered, and then suddenly they both pulled away. That was unmistakably an invitation. And they both didn't want that. Right?

"Having fun?"

Camilla cringed at that unmistakable voice.

"Hello, Mrs. Rutherford," Ryan said cheerily. It sounded so unlike him Camilla realized what he was doing—it was the same overly polite tone he'd had the first time she'd heard him talk to the junk shop woman. Now she saw it was how he covered his annoyance when dealing with jerks. She stifled a chuckle.

But Mrs. Rutherford had apparently never figured Ryan out—or just didn't care. She smiled viciously at Camilla. "I don't know what you have to smile about, young lady. But I see you're making some important friends. That's fortunate for you." She sat down at the table uninvited and looked Camilla over with that same malicious grin.

"Did you need something, Ma'am?" Ryan asked, again in that oh-so patient tone.

She ignored him, and kept staring at Camilla. "I know where I've seen you before."

Camilla felt her stomach drop like the floor gave way beneath her. "I have no idea what you're talking about." She looked away, and saw that the entire contingent of preservation committee ladies were avidly watching this exchange.

"Of course you do. I subscribe to the out-of-town edition of the San Jose Mercury."

Oh, crap.

"You're the woman who stole the payroll from that computer company," she said, loud enough for the nearest few hundred people to hear. "So why aren't you in jail?"

~*~

Camilla looked around the table. Everyone was staring at her. Everyone in the whole high school gym was staring.

Robin came up quietly and sat down across from her again.

Camilla saw the question in Robin's eyes, and realized she was about to lose a potential friend—or any chance of finding a friend in this town.