Lover's Lane (3 page)

3

THE LOWER HALF OF THE FRONT WINDOW OF POTTER A#1 Realty was covered with photographs and descriptions of summer rentals, from rooms to cottages to a few larger, secluded homes overlooking the cove.

Standing on the sidewalk out front, Carly spotted Tracy Potter seated inside at her massive desk. Carly waved through the window, opened the door, and walked in. A bell chimed as she crossed the threshold. Soothing New Age Muzak worked its magic as Carly waited while Tracy finished the call.

Wearing a headset and talking into the mouthpiece as she shuffled through a stack of listings, Tracy flashed Carly a wide, perfect smile.

Barely forty, Tracy Potter moved and spoke with efficiency and charm. The petite, quintessential California blonde wore a creamy two-piece linen suit. Her shining hair, drawn back off of her face with a black headband, was cut in a shoulder-length pageboy.

Carly would bet good money that Tracy hadn’t changed her hairstyle since high school, but it still worked. The woman had the electric aura of an old cheerleader, the kind of sunny disposition that never seemed to fade. The suit, the posture, the poise and deftness with which Tracy handled the caller on the other end of the line reminded Carly of everything she wasn’t and never had been.

Not that she was uncomfortable with who she had become. Her uniform was casual and suited her—a Plaza Diner T-shirt, jeans, and sweatshirts like the pale pink one she’d pulled on when she left work. She hadn’t cut her hair in years, nor did she wear much makeup.

When she was a freshman, her high school counselor told her that she had the grades and intelligence to be anything she wanted. All she had cared about back then was escaping the memories of her bleak childhood, even if it meant using marijuana and alcohol as a way out. Life hadn’t always been kind. At eleven, fate had thrust her into the foster care system, forced her to make some tough choices and stick by them.

She wasn’t the kind to look back at her life and ask, “What if?” Regret was just a waste of time.

Tracy ended the call, slipped off the headset, and set it on a desk covered in neat stacks of papers, rental flyers and notebooks, a glass vase filled with cobalt-blue marbles and lucky bamboo. She tipped back the seat of her ergonomic chair and stretched before she stood up.

“What a day! The phone hasn’t stopped ringing.”

“Sounds like it’ll be a good summer.” Carly tried to stuff an escaped hunk of her ponytail back into the gathered black scrunchie.

“I hope so. How
are
you, Carly?” Tracy came around the desk, greeting her as warmly as she would any important client. To their credit, both the Potters genuinely liked people. There wasn’t a phony bone in their bodies.

Glenn and Tracy Potter would have been well known in Twilight Cove even if their photographs weren’t plastered on complimentary memo pads and calendars in use all over town. As perfect as Ken and Barbie, they volunteered at Seaweed Week, the annual town festival in July, served on both the PTA board and the Chamber of Commerce. Glenn even coached the boys’ T-ball team.

“I’m great. How about you and Glenn?”

“
Wonderful.
What brings you by?”

If anything was wrong, Tracy would never admit it. So life always seemed to be
wonderful
for Glenn and Tracy Potter.

“Geoff needs me at the gallery for a while tonight. I was wondering if you’d drive Christopher home after practice and drop him off at Mrs. Schwartz’s?”

“How about if I feed him first?”

“I can ask Etta to warm something up for him.” Carly hated owing anyone favors, especially when she always feared she might not be around to pay them back.

Although she hated to do it, she’d had to leave Christopher in someone else’s care in order to work, but outside of Etta Schwartz, the elderly woman who had rented them a room in her mobile home when Carly first arrived in town, and occasionally the Potters, she never left Christopher with anyone else.

Tracy’s hand went up like a traffic cop’s. “It’s not an imposition, believe me. Matt would love having him over for dinner. We’re just having pizza anyway. I’m not cooking.”

Carly thought of all the times the Potters had invited Christopher on outings or to sleepovers, and she had turned them down. She simply wasn’t comfortable letting her boy out of her sight.

No matter how safe she and Christopher were now, no matter how carefully she had built a new life for them here in Twilight Cove, she never let go of the fear that he might be taken from her without warning. She’d learned early in life that people could be a part of your life one day and gone forever the next.

She made it a point to tell him how precious he was to her and how she wanted to be with him more than anyone in the whole world.

Words she had longed to hear as a child.

Despite her fears, she knew that she couldn’t keep Chris tied to her forever. Carly took a deep breath, looked at the clear blue sky outside the wide front window and the familiar landmarks outside—Plaza Park, the shops and stores lining Cabrillo Road.

Twilight had been their home for three years now. Christopher was happy here. She had finally done what she had set out to do, slipped into quiet anonymity in a safe haven, a place where she was free to raise her son as best she could.

“Carly? How about it? Can Chris stay for pizza?”

Carly turned to Tracy and nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll tell Etta that you’ll drop him by sometime after dinner.”

“That’s great!” Tracy clapped her hands. As if cued, her pageboy bounced and her megawatt smile intensified. If she’d leapt into the air and executed perfect splits in the middle of the office, it wouldn’t have shocked Carly a bit.

“I owe you one.” Carly smiled. It was impossible to resist Tracy’s charm.

“Payback is hell. . . .” Tracy laughed, cut off when the phone started ringing. She waved good-bye as she slipped on the headset. “Potter A#1 Realty, Tracy Potter speaking. How may I help you?”

Carly stepped outside, reassured that Christopher would be well taken care of and that he’d be waiting next door at Etta’s when she finished at the gallery.

She closed the door, instantly reimmersed in the sound of passing cars and music from a steel drum that floated across from the park where a young man with Rastafarian dread-locks hammered out a reggae beat.

Without warning, she shivered and slowed down. Her gaze was drawn across the street where she caught sight of a man sitting alone at a table in front of Sweetie’s Bakery, the only customer taking advantage of the warm spring sunlight spilling over the sidewalk.

Broad shouldered, with hair that glistened blue-black in a stray shaft of sunlight, he wore jeans and a scuffed leather jacket and sat hunkered down over a map spread across the small table. The corners of the map fluttered in the breeze as he clutched a tall paper coffee cup in one hand.

She didn’t recognize him as local. Just then, as if he sensed her stare, he suddenly glanced up. Their eyes met— or maybe not—she couldn’t tell from this distance. The usual warning bells that she still experienced at the sight of any interested stranger went off in her head, but this time she couldn’t look away and couldn’t move on.

He dwarfed the café chair he was seated on. His shoulders were broad, encased in softly worn brown leather.

She watched him for what seemed like an eternity but in reality was only a heartbeat until the man turned his attention back to the map and broke the spell. She watched as he used the cup to anchor one side and then press out the creases with his other hand.

When it appeared he wasn’t paying attention to her, her suspicion slowly settled back into the shadowed corner of her heart that it never completely left.

Maybe he hadn’t really noticed her at all. Maybe he had just paused to look up, his thoughts elsewhere. Whatever. He was preoccupied with the map again.

There was absolutely nothing to worry about.

She started down the street, breathing easier with every step, convinced there was nothing suspicious about a handsome stranger looking her way.

After all, she was a woman. Men looked at women constantly. They were genetically incapable of
not
looking.

Headed for Christopher’s school two blocks away, an old habit born of self-preservation made her pause and look back before she finally turned the corner.

The dark-haired stranger was still at the table sipping coffee, but now he was intently watching Ben, the homeless wino who fed the gulls and pigeons in the park.

4

IF A CAR HAD JUMPED THE CURB AND MADE A DRIVE-THRU out of Sweetie’s Bakery, Jake wouldn’t have taken any harder a hit than he had when he suddenly realized the woman he was searching for was standing right across the street.

At least he
thought
it was her, but since he’d never actually seen Caroline Graham in the flesh, he couldn’t be absolutely sure.

Trying to handle a cup of scalding coffee banded with a flimsy corrugated protector, he had stepped out of the small coffee shop with its bright blue awnings and café tables and decided to sit and people watch, to take in the rhythm of the town before he checked into the B and B.

He’d just sat down when he saw her step out of the real estate office across the street. Astounded, he recovered quickly enough to pretend to be absorbed in the Chamber of Commerce map he’d picked up at the gallery.

Just outside the realty office, she paused and looked directly at him. Though he couldn’t exactly see into her eyes, he sensed a quick assessment in her stare before she turned and walked off.

Someone who hadn’t spent hours memorizing her features might not have recognized her. The one and only photo he had of her was taken almost six years ago. Naturally, she had changed. Now she was calling herself Carly Nolan.

Gone was the close cropped, bleached spiked hair, the line of studs that ringed her earlobe, the heavy liner around her eyes—but the loveliness and promise had blossomed. More than just a hint of what was to be, her natural beauty was now more than apparent.

He almost forgot to breathe when the onshore breeze whipped her long hair across her eyes and teased the ragged, sun-bleached ponytail hanging past her shoulders.

Denim jeans, an oversized, faded pink sweatshirt and Nike running shoes completed her outfit. The hem of an aqua T-shirt hung below the hem of her sweatshirt.

Though she had changed, he was willing to bet the farm that the woman he was watching was definitely Caroline Graham.

When she turned away, his initial impulse had been to follow at a discreet distance, but lack of cover and fear of panicking her kept him glued to his seat.

This was her town, her home. Unless she suspected something, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Jake turned to the map again, kept his eyes lowered and stole surreptitious glances as she continued down the block. He watched her break stride at the corner, knew she was going to stop and look back—exactly what he’d have done in her place.

He sipped his coffee and gazed toward the park as if he had nothing better to do that sunny spring afternoon but enjoy the sound of the waves, the steel-drum reggae music and the warm sun shining down.

He polished off the last thick, dark swill of coffee at the bottom of the cup, not sure if his adrenaline was pumping from too much caffeine or seeing her in the flesh.

He half expected her to step into Cove Gallery as she walked by, but she merely stopped to wave. Noting the time, he scanned the map and assumed that if she
was
Caroline, she might be headed for the grammar school three blocks away.

Jake stood up, deciding to pay a visit to Potter A#1 Realty across the street. Under the guise of being just another tourist interested in a summer rental, he just might find out what Caroline/Carly had been doing there.

He tossed the empty cup into a trash can near the bakery door. The homey, heady scent of cinnamon buns floating on a salt-tinged breeze trailed him across the street.

He stopped to scan two dozen color photos of the rooms and homes available as summer rentals that were evenly spaced and taped inside the window of the real estate office. As soon as he opened the door, a trim blonde with the well-scrubbed look of a Disneyland tour guide and
way
too much perkiness for his taste hurried over to usher him in.

“Hi! I’m Tracy Potter. How can I help you?”

Turn down the wattage.
He quickly reminded himself she was only trying to earn a buck and remembered his manners.

“My name’s Jake Montgomery. I’m up from the L.A. area and interested in a summer rental.”

“Then you’ve definitely come to the right place. We have the most listings in town.”

Since he hadn’t seen any other real estate office on the street he figured Potter A#1 had the
only
listings in town, but he didn’t call that to her attention.

“What exactly are you looking for?” She wandered behind her desk, picked up a thick three-ringed binder then swiveled her computer monitor in his direction. “I’ve got a few listings on-line that are still available, and I can give you printed flyers on everything we have open for this summer. Will you be staying a few weeks or a couple of months? I should warn you that this late in the spring, everything’s pretty well booked.”

He wasn’t looking for anything but a connection between the Realtor and Caroline and even wondered if Caroline might be planning to move.

“I’m flexible.” He settled into a chair in front of Tracy Potter’s wide, well-organized desk.

Flexible. As if. He could just hear his partner, Kat, hooting in his ear. He hadn’t been on a real vacation since he’d graduated from college and stopped going on the annual yacht club billfishing tourney to Baja with his granddad. His ex, Marla, had given up nagging about getting out of town after a few years. The amount of time he devoted to his profession had been just one more strike against him in the marriage game.

“Great. I’ll pull up the listings we have left. My husband, Glenn, will be happy to take you around to see them tomorrow morning.” She glanced at her Rolex. “I’m afraid I’ll be closing up in a few minutes. Our son’s T-ball practice is this afternoon.”

T-ball.
Jake had spent plenty of stolen time sitting on hard park bleachers watching his sister Julie’s kids when they played T-ball to know it was for the younger set. Five-and six-year-olds, as far as he could remember.

Kids Caroline Graham’s son’s age.

“I understand.” Jake stood up, checked to make sure the town map was still hanging half out of his pocket, giving him the look of a tourist. “I’m staying at Rose Cottage. Have your husband leave a message, and I’ll be ready.”

Jake checked into the B and B one street off of the main drag, a comfortable white clapboard cottage surrounded by an English-style garden trimmed with lattice and flooded with roses that his sister would have oohed and ahhed over.

Colin Reynolds, owner and host, greeted him. The silver-haired retiree in a black cable-knit sweater was handsome enough to model for
Modern Maturity
.

Reynolds cheerfully informed him that wine and cheese would be served from five to seven in the living room, so all the guests could meet and chat.

Jake’s second-floor corner room had a distant view of the beach, if you stood on your toes and pressed your cheek against the wall. There was enough cabbage rose wallpaper and matching fabric to make his head spin. The spindly legged Victorian furniture scattered around didn’t look strong or comfortable enough to suit him, but he figured he wasn’t going to waste much time away from L.A. lolling around indoors.

He quickly showered, changed into a pair of slacks and a casual black sweater. Then, to avoid making small talk at happy hour in the living room, he used the time and his cell phone to call Kat at the office.

There was night and day difference between Kat Vargas and Tracy Potter’s phone manners. Kat was clipped and efficient, a no-nonsense, take no prisoners private investigator, five-four in her stocking feet. Born in Hawaii of Hawaiian, Portuguese, and Anglo ancestry, Kat made part of her college tuition dancing the hula and hip-busting Tahitian numbers in a Polynesian review.

In her spare time, Kat had earned a red belt in tae kwon do.

Bright and determined, Kat had convinced him to take her on as his apprentice for the two years experience she needed to qualify for the licensing exam. She’d quickly impressed him with her intuitive investigative skills, so much so that when she passed her test, he asked her to become a partner in his quickly expanding business.

When he lowered himself to the edge of the bed, it melted beneath his weight. A circus of floral pastel pillows threatened to smother him as he tentatively leaned back and tried to stretch out as he listened.

“Your mom called,” Kat informed him. “When I told her where you were, she said she forgot that you told her you were leaving. She didn’t really need anything, just wanted to say hi.”

He could hear Kat rustling through notes on the other end of the line, imagined her in the back office in his two-bedroom condo. He reached for the pen and scratch pad next to the phone on the nightstand, glanced down at the B and B logo. More roses. He jotted the word
Mom
.

Kat moved on. “I got a good lead on the Anderson case today. Haeger and Olson called. They want us to do a background check on a list of candidates they’re considering for upper-level positions.”

“Great.”

“Terry McMahon called. He needs a search and serve on someone in twelve hours. I told him to bite me. He said he might be able to get an extension until Friday, so I told him okay.”

“Good.”

There was a pause on the end of the line before Kat asked, “So, did you find her?”

“What?”

“You did, didn’t you?”

By profession he was a fairly good liar, but Kat’s lie detector radar was always on full alert. He didn’t want her or anyone else to know he’d found Caroline Graham until he was sure of it himself.

“Sheesh, Jake. If you did, this would put us on the map, you know. This could be
big
. This could be
People
magazine big if we did a press release. Small time investigative firm beats out the big dogs. Wow. You still plan to come back by Monday noon?”

He hesitated a second too long. “Not sure yet.”

“Give me a break. You found her, and you’re not telling
me
? I’m the one who gave you that gallery article.”

“I never said I found her. I may need to hang around until I have something more concrete than a hunch to go on. I’ll let you know if and when I’m sure.”

“Fine, and if anything important breaks here, I
will
hesitate to call.”

“Very funny.”

“Is that all?”

“Don’t get your panties in a wad, Vargas. When I’m ready to talk, you’ll be the first to hear.”