Love Lost & Found (Surfside Romance Book 2) Page 11

  Her cheeks flushed “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “Everywhere?” A dimple appeared that she hadn’t noticed before.

  A few nights ago, she’d logged onto Facebook and found Trudi Bittman, an old friend from Bellingham High. They’d been part of a small clique of girls that hung around gossiping at McDonald’s. She wrote: Do you remember a guy named Rob Porterfield. Did he go to BHS? I thought I saw him in Sedona.

  Sari had already searched for Rob Porterfield on social media, but he kept a low profile. His Facebook page simply indicated he was a wood carver from Sedona, originally from “near Seattle.” The photos showed his work as it evolved over the decades, but the link to Washington was the only piece of the puzzle that meant anything to her.

  A day passed before Trudi replied: Rob was a senior when we were freshmen; he was a jackass. Left town after getting a girl in trouble. Not the first time. Good riddance.

  Her comment upset Sari. It didn’t jibe with the Rob Porterfield she knew. Could Trudi have mixed him up with someone else? The only way to know was to reach out to Maggie Starr, her mother’s best friend in Bellingham, another nurse specializing in home births. If Maggie was still alive, she was the only person who might be able to unlock the mystery of his strangely secretive past.

  Like a detective peels away the layers and adds up the facts, Sari intended to tunnel down to their as yet unknown connection. She was absolutely convinced she hadn’t ended up in Sedona by accident. No, this was divine providence, the way Joe had walked into her life when she was a struggling single mom, married her, and made them a family.

  She placed two carvings on the counter. He rang up the sale and deducted twenty percent, winking seductively. She signed the receipt and wrote her phone number on the bottom. He placed it near the cash register.

  “Thanks pretty lady,” he said, his warm and callused hand sending hot tingles up her arm as their fingers touched.

  She felt his eyes burn her clothes to cinders as she walked to the front door.

  Outside in the bright sunlight, her white-blond hair glowed like a halo as she exhaled and collapsed on a bench. From deep in her purse she heard a familiar ring tone and fished it out. The local number seemed familiar. “Yes?”

  His deep throaty voice was in her ear as she swiveled around and spotted him in the doorway, his black T-shirt with the feather logo covered with tiny wood shavings, his pants bulging obscenely. Apparently he didn’t care if anyone saw his excitement.

  “Did I leave something in the shop?”

  “The scent of a woman with desires.”

  In the chilly dry air, she felt her cheeks redden.

  “I don’t meet a lot of women who have this effect on me.”

  She laughed uneasily. He wasn’t playing coy. “I think Tiffany at the bar had eyes for you the other night,” she joked.

  As the words tumbled out, the smile slid off his face.

  Jealousy is ugly.

  “I’ve known Tiffany since she was four,” he paused. “I dated her mother.”

  “Okay, it was rude of me. Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  “What do you want to know? Just ask.”

  And there it was. Hadn’t she just put that out to the universe? She wanted answers and he had offered to give them—without prompting, without begging, without deceit.

  Later, after salad for dinner and two glasses of wine, she stared through the windows at the pale creamy crescent moon hanging high above the purple-gray rocks. An owl hooted, then another. The phone rang again. The low vibrato of his voice sent tremors throughout her body. “Were you dreaming about me?”

  “I’m not in bed.”

  “You should be. And I should be next to you.”

  She blew out a puff of air. He was right, of course.

  “I’d like to see you. I need to hold you in my arms and taste every part of you. I want to make love to you, to be inside you.”

  “I’d like that too,” she replied. “But I need time.”

  “I’m moving too fast. My bad.”

  “And I’m moving too slow.”

  He coughed. “A bear is chasing me. You know how that is.”

  Actually, she didn’t.

  Later, as she lay alone in bed replaying their conversation, she tried to formulate the questions she needed to ask and what his responses might be. But as the glow of dawn cracked the horizon, she still had no answers.

  CHAPTER 31

  ZELDA KENDRICK had a new man in her life and he wasn’t old barnacle-encrusted Stu-rat Krakowski. Ruth Adelman had been discharged from the hospital after her pre-Christmas tumble and the old goat was once again mooching off her.

  No, Zelda’s red-hot lover had a rock-hard body with a six-pack as tight as a fitted sheet. His long, lean legs were strong enough to carry her up a flight of stairs—or into the bedroom like Rhett Butler. Best of all, he had a sense of humor. In fact, he was part of the comedy team known as Kendrick and Slade, or was it Slade and Kendrick? She couldn’t recall. But when he slid into her dreams he was everything she desired: warm and caring, passionate and gentle, never forcing her, although Zelda didn’t need any coercing. Her sex drive didn’t diminish when she turned sixty or even seventy. In fact, at eighty she had finally reached her peak, even if she was dry as an old bone. Now she mourned the old days when she could go to a nightclub in a miniskirt and pick up a dapper-Dan for a night of unbridled passion.

  The Uber driver, Travis Slade, wasn’t exactly her type, but octo-genarians couldn’t be choosy. Ruth was a perfect example. She’d settled for a toad that would never be anything more than a toad.

  Zelda awoke after midnight. She was hungry and Travis had slipped out to pick up a fare. Not wanting to listen to her stomach gurgle all night, and needing the strength to keep up with his erotic aerobics, she reached for her bathrobe. But it wasn’t on the hook inside the closet door.

  She had leftover meatballs and spaghetti from her dinner with Luke a few nights ago. But it gave her gas, and she couldn’t risk farting in front of her young stud. Scrambled eggs and toast were easier to digest and just as good. In her silky pink pajamas, she turned on the lights so she wouldn’t trip, took out an egg, milk, butter, and a slice of bread which she popped into the toaster. She opened the oven door to get her small fry pan, but it had vanished. Her robe was gone and now her pan. Yesterday her favorite pink lace panties had vanished and the day before it was her makeup bag.

  “I hope he’s not a klepto,” she said aloud. “That would be a shame.”

  Without the pan, she put the egg back in the Styrofoam container, buttered the toast, made hot tea, and turned on the TV. It Happened One Night, the classic black-and-white rom-com with Claudette Colbert and to-die-for Clark Gable was playing. She settled down on the couch wondering why men no longer wore Fedora hats. Back in the days before JFK, men wore them everywhere, even ball games. They all looked so dashing. Her attention was diverted by a car’s headlights sliding between her partially opened blinds. Not wanting to panic that her stalker was back and hoping it was Travis parking his SUV, she closed the wooden slats and waited for his knock. It was almost two in the morning.

  She felt suddenly dizzy and dropped back on the sofa. He knew the way to her apartment and into her heart. If Mr. Slade was so desirous of her, he’d climb the steps like any self-respecting man, and knock politely. She, of course, would ask, “Who’s there?”

  He’d reply, “Your boy toy.”

  “Which one?” she’d tease. A smile played across her lips, as if she could handle more than one. There were cobwebs between her thighs and nothing was lubricated except her ardent desire to be loved. Nobody was ever too old for that.

  “Do you want to take a spin on my gear shift?” he’d ask, and she’d swing the door wide open, falling into his strong arms. In the bedroom

  he’d gently peel off her hot pink silk pajamas and tug down her lacy granny panties before pleasuring her into a state of delirium.

 
But why was he stealing her things? Where were her makeup bag, photo album, and cane? He probably didn’t bring flowers because her vase had also vanished, as had her house keys and the car fob. The cherry red Hyundai sedan was parked downstairs with a flat tire. She hadn’t driven it since just before Alexa and Hannah Boswell moved in.

  Alexa reminded her of Claudette Colbert. So Luke would be the Clark Gable character. Except for the mustache and hair color, he was almost a dead ringer. Zelda hoped things worked out between them, but for the moment it looked unlikely. How could Alexa have traipsed off to Portland and gotten engaged so quickly? Maybe time was slipping away. Perhaps Alexa had gone for a few weeks, or even months—time had ceased to have meaning as day turned to night and back to day in an endless cycle. It wouldn’t last forever. But she hoped it wouldn’t stop anytime soon.

  Zelda made a note to ask Luke if he was the one who’d proposed. Maybe it was his engagement ring, not some lumberjack’s, as Hannah said. The whole situation was too confusing. She picked up Travis Slade’s business card from the coffee table and wondered if it was too late or too early to call for a ride on his joy stick.

  And where was her missing lipstick?

  CHAPTER 32

  IT WAS quiet in Boswellville for the moment as Alexa lay in bed. Her life felt like liquid in a container sloshing around every time she moved. She was shape-shifting. Nothing made sense anymore. Before leaving she thought she knew a lot. Now she realized she knew nothing. Since her trip to Portland her life had become so complicated. As an author, she could edit and rewrite the plot of her novel. Unfortunately, that didn’t work with reality.

  Luke, who had relocated to Florida a few weeks ago, was still upset about the sapphire ring and was ghosting her. At the moment, it meant any hope for rekindling their romance appeared remote at best.

  So she’d kissed a guy. Katy Perry kissed a girl and Lady Gaga kissed Bradley Cooper. What was the big deal and why couldn’t he forget the past and move on? Lying in bed, she wrote a long email on her phone explaining how an old classmate had gifted her with a small token of his friendship.

  I was delirious when you came to see me. I’m NOT engaged. I care for you deeply. I want to get back to the old us. PS: I was burning up with fever. Please, let’s talk about it.

  She hit SEND and dozed fitfully through the night.

  Saturday morning dribbled in, cool and rainy with overcast skies. The beach was out, but the mall was a viable alternative for the two testy teens—or a movie, if they could agree on one—which seemed unlikely. Alexa pictured an all-out popcorn war. And now, thanks to Mrs. Parry who used Andrew Jacksons for toilet paper, her paycheck had to be stretched three ways. She kicked herself for not asking for an expense allowance.

  Hannah remained adamant about their guest not sleeping on the extra twin bed in her room, or sharing any part of her closet or dresser. For the time being, Gretel was parked on the couch in the living room, controlling the thermostat, which she’d cranked down to eighteen Celsius, about sixty-four frickin’ freezing degrees.

  Alexa was up and in the kitchen, bundled in a sweater, sweats, and thick socks brewing a pot of coffee when Gretel appeared pale as a ghost with a comforter wrapped around her naked self. “Do you have pickled herring?” she asked, bony shoulder blades jutting out at a peculiar angle.

  “Sorry, I don’t. We’ll go to Publix and get some later today.”

  “Pumpernickel bread?”

  “We’ll get that too.”

  “Sardines?”

  “Why don’t you make a shopping list?”

  “Lort.”

  Gretel slumped back to the couch, pulled out her cell phone, and began texting with nimble fingers as Hannah appeared in her kitty nightgown and a sweater, her hair a frizz of ringlets. She poured Kix cereal into a bowl, splashing milk, some of it landing in the bowl and some on the counter. She made a half-hearted effort to clean the mess and then scooted to the living room sitting next to Gretel, MTV blasting on high. Alexa picked up the remote, and muted the volume. “Let’s go to the mall.”

  “No,” said Hannah, slurping her breakfast.

  “You love the mall.”

  “I don’t want to be seen with her.” She picked up the remote and pumped the volume up as Gretel marched into the bathroom, the quilt falling away from her dimpled backside.

  “I see London, I see France, please put on some underpants,” Hannah chanted.

  “I’ll buy you a nightgown,” Alexa offered.

  “I like sleeping naked. I’m going to join a nudist colony.”

  Mother and daughter exchanged glances.

  Hannah shook her head. “This is weirder than Portland.”

  Despite their protests, Alexa took them to Town Center Mall and bought lunch at the food court. The teens agreed to a compromise on the remote, alternating control one hour at a time. They shook hands. And with the truce in place, Alexa felt confident this unlikely friendship might work. They just had to all remain flexible until the semester was over and Gretel went back to Europe.

  She pulled out her Chase Visa and charged a silky nightgown for Gretel and a beach cover-up for Hannah. A slew of text messages rolled in steadily from Rick, asking if she was okay and saying how much he missed her. Her replies were curt, sometimes just an emoji. The euphoria of the holiday trip had subsided as her reality with Gretel settled in. There was no point playing coy games when she needed to rebuild her broken bond with Luke and keep the teenagers from killing each other, as if she could.

  And she still needed a hook for her novel. Last year she hadn’t entered. This year losing was not an option.

  Back at home, she sat down at computer wracking her brain and came up empty. More than anything, she needed an inspiration. A muse. A title. Anything.

  On Sunday they went to the beach where Hannah jumped into a volleyball game with Doc and her school pals. Gretel lay on the towel like a slice of raw bacon, refusing to wear sunscreen. She kept everyone up that night complaining about her blistered, raw skin.

  Monday morning Alexa drove to work feeling liberated. She’d been let out of the cage. The girls had to hack it alone. If she came home to blood splatter, she’d deal with it. At least Gretel had a shelf in the fridge stocked with pricey Danish delicacies. The one-hour remote decree was set in stone and they had her blessing to swim in the pool, providing they both used sunscreen. Before leaving Alexa said to Gretel, “In America we wear bathing suits. This is not a nudist colony so keep your top and bottom on. Understand?”

  Gretel rolled her eyes.

  “I mean it, no nøgen. Forsta?”

  She breezed into work, buzzed Helen Parry, and pushed through the double doors to the executive office. As usual, her attire was flawless: a blue man-tailored shirt with starched collar, stunning pearl necklace with diamond-encrusted charm, navy pencil skirt and matching pumps. It would have been rude to ask, but Alexa was fairly certain her wristwatch was a Rolex or Philippe Patek. Helen held out a green folder.

  “The first five pages of my new book. I’m so excited.”

  “That was fast.”

  “It seemed to fall out of me.”

  “Great, I’ll take a look.”

  “It’s the introduction, I hope that’s okay.”

  “Perfect.”

  They stood for an awkward moment. Alexa had receipts from Publix and Macy’s in her sweaty palm. Mrs. Parry sat down and adjusted her cuffs, looking up expectantly with clear gray eyes as Alexa placed the receipts face up on the desk.

  “I’m happy to say Gretel is settling in,” she said, omitting the facts that she was burned to a crisp, sleeping on the couch, and living out of her duffel bag. “When I agreed to let her stay, I didn’t realize how much it would cost. She only eats imported foods and they’re quite expensive. Plus, I had to buy her some underwear and a nightgown. She walks around naked and it’s upsetting Hannah.”

  Helen’s hands were clasped on the desk, her face a mask as the joy and spontaneity slid away. �
��She’s not shy about her body.”

  “It’s only about sixty dollars, but it adds up quickly.”

  “You should easily be able to feed that slip of a girl on your salary. It’s actually quite generous, all things considered.”

  Alexa was stunned. And what did she mean all things considered? She’d pictured Helen reaching into her purse and extracting three twenties, perhaps rounding it out to an even hundred. With the extravagant house, shiny Bentley, and maid in a starched uniform, plus a few closets filled with designer duds, what was the hang-up?

  “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, sliding the receipts into her desk drawer and closing it gently.

  CHAPTER 33

  RETURNING TO her work space in a fog of bewilderment, Alexa flipped open the green folder and stared at five typed double-spaced pages. The writing was surprisingly eloquent. It was obvious Helen was intimately acquainted with the subject matter. Lana approached like a stealth bomber and snatched a page from the pile.

  Alexa whirled around studying her green plaid work shirt and had a sudden flashback to Portland. That was nearly the identical shirt Rick had worn during their hike. Lana peered over the paper, narrowing her eyes. “I hope you’re not freelancing on company time.”

  “Hey! Give that back.”

  Helen’s name appeared on the bottom of the page. Without answering, Lana marched into her aunt’s office. With the door slightly ajar, the sound of their escalating argument slid into the main office. Heads popped up like prairie dogs.

  “Are you writing a book?” asked Lana. “Who put that idea in your head?”

  “None of your business,” Helen retorted coolly.

  “Do you have Bryan’s permission?”

  “I don’t need his permission. Anybody can write a book.”

  “Don’t expect us to publish it.”

  “As far as I know Mr. Frost makes all those decisions.”

  “He’d never let his secretary write a book.”