A Shore Thing Read online

  Seven a.m. When had he begun to sleep in so late?

  Gage smacked the alarm clock’s snooze button. It felt wrong to get up on a Sunday morning knowing full well he ought to be attending church rather than working. He hoped his friend Marc wouldn’t call under the guise of shooting the breeze when it was really a lame attempt to discover whether he had found a church yet in this little town.

  He had, but no time today. Gage had work to do. He lolled in bed a minute more, listening to the commotion coming from the living room, trying to picture the scene. Jeremiah liked to roll his dump truck across the Spanish tile hearth before school. Suz, Gage’s baby sister, would have the coffee brewing. Maybe there’d even be enough milk left for him to pour himself a bowl of granola to eat along with that coffee.

  He startled at the soft rap on the door. “Gage? Coffee’s on.”

  Gage pressed a weary hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. A slight smile raised the corners of his mouth at the sound of Suz’s voice wafting in from the hall. “Thanks. I’m on it.” He sat up in bed, determined to plant both feet on the floor in spite of the growing disquiet that had formed in his gut. He would not allow his anxiety to flourish, no matter what. If not for his own sake, then for the welfare of those he’d promised always to protect.

  Chapter Two

  Too old? First Natalia, and now . . . Squid. My eyes shut at the thought of him smiling at me so winsomely before delivering the deathblow to my daydream. Whoever said that fifty had become the new thirty had gotten it backwards. My face felt crimson, even though it had been hours since Squid made his proclamation about my advanced age to little Megan. How could I have been so stupid as to believe that Squid could have any feelings for me other than the kind of friendship that happened when two people worked together? We were cohorts, and nothing else.

  I had returned to the scene of the crime with only a stray dog as my companion. The negative tide had long gone. Only the dramatic peaks of darkened rock appeared above the tide line, and soon that would be gone too. I always came here when troubled, and besides, walking the path was one of the best ways to prep myself for the Sunday suppers that my sister Sheila hosted each week.

  By the number of lingerers found resting in contemplation on stumps of fallen trees or splayed atop blankets on the tall grass, others appreciated the solitude here too.

  Three men stood together near the ridge all holding notebooks in front of them. My muddled mind nearly missed their curious presence until one of them pitched a lit cigarette over the cliff.

  Startled, my chest reeled and anger sucked air out of my lungs. “What . . . What are you doing? Do you realize you just flicked your cigarette into a protected marine sanctuary?”

  Even to me, my voice sounded acerbic, but que sera sera. As if I were invisible, the men looked past me. So I repeated myself.

  One of them, the largest of the three, hunkering in stature, took a step toward me and I tightened my grip on Doggy’s leash. The man squinted, his smile pinched and mocking. “Guess someone’s not doing their job then.”

  My blood heated. I should have continued walking, but I was in no mood to back down from a fight. My mouth wouldn’t hear of it. “Otters are finally making a comeback, but because of people like you, they’re likely to choke and die off again.”

  Three looming men stood near the edge of one of the most pristine and undeveloped stretches of land here in Otter Bay and watched me, their expressions all too familiar. Patronizing. Insulting.

  Except for the one who wore flip-flops, jeans, and a button-down shirt. Instead of the ridicule I’d come to expect from certain people, the laid-back one watched me with a sort of curiosity. Don’t expect brownie points for that.

  As if taking my side, the ocean surged. All three men sidestepped the cliff’s precarious edge. Sea spray landed on the camera hanging around the neck of the bald man in the middle and he cursed.

  I cocked my head. “Hope none of your pictures were sullied by litter.”

  He shook his head and sauntered away from the pack, pointing his lens at the land, his back to the ocean and to me. The lumbering one continued to glare at me as I proceeded along the path worn into the earth by thousands of pairs of feet that came before to this magical place. More than the view captivated people here. It was also the call of the otters, sea lions, and whales that roamed along the shore, and the song of the birds—pelicans, cormorants, and murres—that migrated overhead on the Pacific Flyway. Even those children we brought from camp, the ones bemoaning their fast from everything electronic and cellular, got lost in the adventure when they arrived.

  I breathed in the clean air, and attempted to shake off the annoyance that crept up my back when I noticed that burning ash being tossed into the water. Tension still gripped my shoulders. With my mind focused on the horizon, I pulled Doggy along and failed to notice the tripod laying in my path—until tripping over it. I hung onto the leash and avoided falling by landing hard against the rough surface of a pine tree, both my right elbow and my dignity shredded. Laughter spiked the air a short distance away. Closer to me, a scraping sound chewed the earth as someone dragged the tripod off the path.

  The man with the flip-flops and quizzical smile stepped toward me and his eyes homed in on mine. “Don’t move.”

  My breathing caught for a moment, but then I ignored him and pushed myself away from the tree trunk using my other arm. Droplets of dark red blood oozed from the wound on my elbow and I winced, the breeze against my raw skin gave me a sickening chill.

  “Here. Let me help.” The man continued to stay by my side, his arm outstretched as if I needed steadying. His buddies were less than chivalrous, their snickers still alive.

  “No. Thank you. You have done enough damage for one day.” I glanced at the length of metal I tripped over, and then back at him. Doggy began to whimper. “That looks like survey equipment.”

  He shoved both hands into his pockets and nodded his head once. “It is.”

  “Well, why? This land isn’t being developed.”

  He stood silent, the corner of his mouth turned upward. The furrow above his brow told me how wrong I was.

  My hands found a place to steady themselves on my hips. I ignored the shooting pain in my elbow and shook my head. “Tell me you’re kidding.”

  He shrugged. “It’s not my call. Listen, you need to get that wound cleaned up. I’ve got a first aid kit in my truck.” He pointed up the hill. “If you’ll wait here I’ll run up and—”

  My head snapped side to side. “The Kitteridges own this property. They’d never sell it, and certainly not to someone who would put up houses on it—”

  “Condos. Mixed-use, actually.”

  “Mixed-use? As in offices and residences? Here?”

  He nodded but made no eye contact. “Largest development this county has ever seen.”

  His pronouncement hit me harder than my fall. June and Timothy Kitteridge opened up this property years ago as a thank-you to the community of Otter Bay. After their popular gallery, Kitt’s on Display, burned to the ground, and the county’s trail of red tape delayed the rebuilding of their store, the citizens of the town took it upon themselves to pitch in once the murky waters of bureaucracy had cleared.

  I glanced toward the sea where a gull dipped against a cloudy sky. The Kitteridges closed their store last year, saying they were looking forward to retirement and spending more time with their only daughter, Chloe, who had moved to another state. I had ignored the rumors that told a sadder tale. The Kitteridges were broke and had no choice but to board up Kitt’s for good.

  A harsh voice barked from behind. “Dude. We’re gonna finish up here and go get burgers. You can call the office for your survey. It’s a doozy, so it might be awhile.”

  Heavy boots crunched against dirt as the other men left the area. I focused on the man in charge and cocked my chin. “It’s not your call, huh?”

  He held up two palms. “I’m just the architect. The survey will help in
the design process, once the sale actually goes through, that is.” His face looked as grim as I felt.

  “It hasn’t closed yet?”

  He shook his head and then offered me his hand. “Gage, by the way. Gage Mitchell.”

  He had two first names. I read somewhere that people with two first names were suspect, but then again, what about Patrick Henry and John Adams? Or Benjamin Franklin? A sigh slipped away from me. “I’m just so surprised . . . and so sad.” I glanced again at the swell of ocean water so teeming with unseen life, and then back to Gage. “I’m Callie, and you might as well know, you’ll be hearing my name a lot in the coming days.”

  He smiled at me again. “Really? And why is that?”

  I answered his smile with a frown. “Because I think I’ve just found a new cause.”

  GAGE

  SO MUCH FOR THE ‘friendly, small-town atmosphere’ he’d read within the folds of Otter Bay’s tourist brochure. I’ve seen friendlier women at a boxing match. He shook his head at the air, picturing the now-meaningless words splashed across a shiny page in a jaunty, coral-colored font.

  Gage watched Callie take the hill as she’d probably done hundreds of times before, confidently and purposefully, like a doe might leap in and around forested land. She was no docile member of the deer family, though. He could tell by the way she snapped at the three strangers who had dared to finish their work in her presence, two of whom nearly doubled her in size.

  Until last night when he’d lain awake fretting over the enormity of this endeavor, everything else about this project screamed “God is control.” He’d acquired this job mere hours after watching his career implode, the developer wore deep pockets and stayed out of the limelight, and Gage had finally overcome the fear of launching a dream business, in a new location.

  So why did his stomach churn after this chance meeting with the town grump?

  He swiveled his gaze out toward the equally tumultuous sea, just beyond the rocky cliff. A fissure of doubt unsettled him. Not over his abilities as an architect—he knew he had the skills and the passion to create what his client desired. And he also believed that the community would be proud of the finished project, a sprawling and sustainable mixed-use development. Eventually.

  Maybe it wasn’t what she said, but the expression on her face as she questioned him. Her eyes had narrowed just so, even as her brows knit closer to one another and her lips parted, the corners weighted down. She looked wounded. His actions had somehow wounded the prettiest if not angriest woman in town.

  That shouldn’t have bothered him much, but unfortunately, it did.

  Chapter Three

  I left Gage Mitchell behind to ponder my seriousness about fighting his new job, and stepped up what was supposed to have been a leisurely stroll to my sister’s home. My legs moved faster, my elbow stiffer and more pain-filled with each stride. Surely even my high-strung older sister would understand when I told everyone—the whole family’s having supper together—that the Kitteridge property was in peril.

  Something brushed against my leg, and I skittered sideways before whipping a look down to find the dog with round, sorrowful eyes, and a long, skinny body staring up at me. Our eyes connected and, quite dutifully, he sat. Oh my. I knelt and gave him my hand to sniff which he did with little emotion. With a roll of my wrist, I petted him on the noggin. “Almost forgot about you, my friend.”

  Those eyes implored me with questions, but I was at a loss. I swept a look around while on my knees, massaging his body, unable to spy anyone searching for a lost dog. “Where’s your family, kiddo?” I stroked his naked neck, exposing the area where a collar usually sat and the fur had worn off. He lowered himself until flat on the ground. The sun had long moved past its mid-day point, and my sister’s chastising voice grew louder inside my head.

  With reluctance, I gave the doggy one last pet and stood. “Sorry, pal. I’m late, and my sister will surely give me an earful about that. She’s probably right . . . sometimes I do get distracted, but I have good reason. I really do.” I peeked around again. “See, my sister is busy with her husband and her kids—Brenna and Blake; you’d love them. Anyway, she doesn’t understand that when a passion burns inside me, I can’t turn it off. Know what I mean?” He pitched his head to one side, making me laugh. “Okay, maybe not. We’d better go.”

  I broke into a jog with Doggy at my side along the winding path up a hill that led to Sheila’s rambling ranch-style home in the pines. For as long as I could remember my family had never taken my causes—or me for that matter—seriously. I usually chalked it up to being the baby of the family, but I knew there was more to it than that. I had tasted success with Oasis Designs, yet, in their minds, my stubbornness made me walk away from everything I’d built.

  Didn’t they understand the real reason I took Justin’s offer to buy me out?

  I neared the top, my breathing jagged, my face overheated, when my stray friend raced me toward the peak. His tongue hung from his mouth, rubbery and pink like a warm strip of taffy. I stopped and bit my lip. How would Sheila react if I brought him along? As I stood there, debating how a four-legged date might disrupt our family gathering, my new friend hoisted himself on his hind legs, looking much like a miniature kangaroo. He sniffed my aching elbow and gave it a swift lick. How gross. And precious.

  With my good arm, I placed a fist on my hip. “Okay, my new friend, you’re invited. Just be on your best behavior.” His tail wagged in agreement and we headed up the hill, Sheila’s picture-perfect home framed in the clearing.

  My sister welcomed me, if you could call it that, at the door. “You’re late again.” The rooster on her apron glared at me, and Sheila stared over my shoulder. “What is that?”

  “Oh, Sheila, you’re never going to believe—”

  She turned her back on me. “With you, sure I would. Don’t bring that thing in, and hurry up, we’ve already started eating.” I watched her sidle away.

  In one quick bend, I scooped up the doggy—really must find him a name—slipped along the side of the house and opened up the back gate to a long and wide expanse of manicured lawn. “Here you go, mister. Behave and maybe I’ll bring you some quiche or something.” He gazed at me with wondrous eyes. “Okay, some red meat. I’ll find you some. Promise.”

  I slipped in through the slider door. “Auntie Callie, you’re here!” My six-year-old niece Brenna rolled from her chair and into my arms. We laughed in unison, her hug sending us both onto Sheila’s pomegranate-colored Oriental rug, the one she ordered from the Front Door catalog at half price.

  She buried her chubby face into my hair, and I breathed her in. “How’s my girl?”

  “Ggrrreat!”

  Sheila’s agitated voice cut through our giggles. “Brenna, get off that floor. Go wash your hands again now.”

  Brenna scampered off and Sheila passed by with a platter of fish. She muttered into my ear. “You should know better.”

  I rose, smiled, shrugged, and glanced at the rest of the family. “Hey, everybody.”

  A spattering of hellos filled the air like an out of sync choir. My mother smooched my cheek and my father raised his glass in my direction. My brother Jim gave me a straight-mouthed smile, much like the one he might give my never-present nephew Kirk when he asked for the car keys one too many times, and his wife Nancy tossed me a parade wave, before glancing away.

  Greta, my brother Bobby’s wife, gestured to me with graceful fingers, while her other hand lay quite motherly across her burgeoning belly. As the second course made its way around the table, Bobby rose to greet me. Laughter lit his eyes as he found my ear. “Can’t wait to hear what you’re up to now.”

  I stuck out my tongue, surreptitiously of course, the way I learned to do when we were kids. With just seventeen months between us, we learned to say much without many words.

  “Pass the potatoes, please.” Blake, my five-year-old nephew was seated next to me. He giggled. I laughed back. “What?”

  He ra
ised his chin, showing me his shiny white teeth and impish smile. “That’s a tongue twister—pass the potatoes please!”

  Sheila corrected him with her eyes. “Close your mouth when you’re eating, Blakey.”

  Greta bumped me with her shoulder. “Tell me something to keep my mind off all these contractions I’m having.”

  I sucked in a breath and turned to face her. My eyes roamed from her belly to her eyes. “You’re having contractions already?”

  Greta giggled. “Don’t worry. Little Higglebottom or Mollysue still has time to play in there.”

  She had been teasing us with name ideas for months. I laughed and released a sigh of relief.

  Sheila grunted from her spot at the one end of the table. “They’re Braxton-Hicks—just some false labor pains—not the real thing.”

  I relaxed my shoulders, but swung my gaze back to Greta. “They sound serious to me.”

  Sheila passed a bowl of beans to her husband, Vince, before addressing me again. “Of course they do, Callie. Lots of serious things get your attention—always have. We all know how much you love your causes.”

  Vince guffawed. Jim nodded while taking in another bite of fish.

  I set down my fork. “Did I miss something? I thought we were talking about Greta.”

  Greta touched my arm as Sheila shrugged. “I had asked you to tell me what you were up to these days.”

  I hesitated before picking up my fork and glancing around. “Same old thing. Working at the camp on weekends, and keeping busy on projects the rest of the time.” I continued to hold my fork in midair, an empty sensation growing in my gut. “Did you all hear that the Kitteridge property is being developed?”

  My mother clutched her heart. “Heavens, no! They would never!”

  My father grunted something unintelligible.

  I shook my head. “Well, somebody’s trying to.” I looked to Bobby. “Do you know anything about it?”