Final Sentence Page 3

  “Go on,” Katie said, looking as avid as a gossip magazine reader.

  “Even though Desiree didn’t have her parents’ support, she flew to France and learned with the best,” I said. “Two years later, she returned to the States, where, thanks to the dazzling, world-renowned restaurateur Anton d’Stang, she became a sought-after chef at Chez Anton, d’Stang’s New York restaurant. During her stint there, she devised her own style and wrote numerous cookbooks. A year later, she left Chez Anton to star in her own TV show.”

  The gold pocket watch pinned to Katie’s apron chimed. “Whew,” she said. “Time flies when we’re yakking. I’ve got to get back to my duties.” She needed to organize the café’s kitchen and interview sous chefs. She scrambled out of the chair and shuffled away. At the entry to the café, she pivoted. “Say, Jenna, perhaps we could catch up later. There’s a wine bar called Vines upstairs next to the arty movie theater.”

  “I can’t. My dad’s dropping by today.”

  “Oh, sure, another time.” Disappointment clouded her gaze.

  “How about next Tuesday when the shop is closed?”

  “Super.” Her eyes brightened.

  Because we lived in a tourism-driven town, my aunt and I made the decision to close the shop and café on Sunday, around 6 P.M., and one full day a week—Tuesday. When working in advertising, I had been a workaholic. Seven days a week, as many hours as required. I didn’t want to live that way in Crystal Cove.

  As Katie walked off, Aunt Vera said, “That girl is good for gossip. She knows everyone at bookstores, shops, doctors’ clinics, you name it. You ever want to know anything about anybody, ask her.”

  When my aunt and I finished all the displays, I said, “I’m going to pass out flyers.” I planned to use my mother’s old bicycle to buzz around town. Finding places to park my metallic blue VW bug, even though it was small, would be a challenge. And walking? Forget it. Crystal Cove, end-to-end, consisted of six miles of beach strand, which meant nearly four miles of brick-lined sidewalks and shops. I had stamina, but not that much stamina.

  “What flyers?” Aunt Vera said.

  “The ones with the coupon. If people buy one of our old cookbooks, we’ll give them ten percent off a new cookbook. Haven’t I shown them to you?” I fetched my briefcase from behind the sales counter and withdrew a sunset-toned flyer.

  Aunt Vera beamed. “You astound me with your advertising acumen.”

  What might astonish her more was the campaign I’d created for Firecracker Frijoles, with animated beans strapped to rockets. My nightmares were not nearly as colorful as my ad ideas.

  The front door flew open. Expecting to greet my father, who’d called and said he was on his way, I whirled around with a grin planted on my face.

  A thick woman with a beaky nose, silver hair, and the glower of a rhinoceros on the warpath marched into the store. “Vera Hart, who owns those Winnebagos?”

  I peeked out the picture window. Two orca-sized vehicles took up six spots in the parking lot.

  “I haven’t the slightest,” Aunt Vera said.

  “You’ve got to do something.” Brandishing a fist, the woman charged toward my aunt.

  I couldn’t believe she would actually hit my aunt because of Winnebagos, but I wasn’t taking chances. I cut her off near the sustainability cookbooks display, my dukes raised. I wasn’t made of steel, and I had never taken karate or rammed my fist into a punching bag, but I occasionally followed a series of kickboxing workouts on television, and I was taller than the woman by a head. My tank top rose above the low-slung waistband of my shorts, but I didn’t tug it down for fear of losing my intimidating demeanor.

  The woman jabbed her fist at my aunt. Being forced to direct her hand around me lessened the effect.

  “Now, Pepper, let’s be civil,” Aunt Vera said. Unflustered by the woman’s behavior, she swept past me to the front door, anchored it open with a brass doorstop, and took a deep breath. “Ah, much more inviting. A fresh cool breeze soothes the soul. Lovely.” She clutched the angry woman’s elbow in a friendly manner. “Pepper Pritchett, say hello to my niece, Jenna Hart. Jenna, dear, this is Pepper.”

  What a fitting name. The woman was spicier than three-alarm chili.

  “She owns the Beaders of Paradise, the store on the far corner of the mall,” my aunt added.

  Aha. That explained the detailed beading around the collar of her dress. I jutted out my hand to shake and said, “Jenna to my friends.”

  Pepper ignored my gesture. “Vera, have those trailers relocated, or I’ll tell Cinnamon to tow them.”

  “Who’s Cinnamon?” I asked.

  My aunt said, “The chief of Crystal Cove’s police department. Pepper’s daughter. Don’t you know Cinnamon? Hmm, maybe you don’t. She’s about five years older than you.” Aunt Vera eyed Pepper. “I doubt Cinnamon will relish the job of finding someone to tow the trailers. You know how she can be, don’t you?”

  “Willful,” Pepper muttered.

  Considering the mother’s temperament, I could only imagine how zesty Cinnamon Pritchett might be. Given their names, they should have opened a mother-daughter spice store.

  “Don’t let Pepper steer you wrong,” my aunt advised me. “Cinnamon is a delight. She can sing like an angel, and she’s quite a good roller skater. You taught her to skate, didn’t you, Pepper?”

  The woman grumbled.

  “Pepper’s shop is one of the main attractions in Crystal Cove,” my aunt said. “She has the most unusual beads, and she is an excellent beading instructor.”

  The other night when we drank wine on the porch, Aunt Vera told me about the changes to Crystal Cove. In addition to being a sport lovers’ haven—with a fish and bait shop at The Pier, a water ski and surf shop at the far end of the Fisherman’s Village, and a kayaking and canoeing store down the street—it was now a crafters’ haven, as well. The town featured a knitting, sewing, and embroidery store, as well as a chocolatier, a cupcake baker, and a gluten-free baker, all of which offered classes. Antique stores and clothing stores abounded, too. I remembered my father saying when I was young, “There’s something for everyone in Crystal Cove.”

  As if on cue, my father—the spitting image of Cary Grant, early sixties—strutted into the shop. Invariably, because of his similarity to the movie star, people quoted the line: “Judy, Judy, Judy.” It hadn’t helped that my father’s name was Cary and my mother’s name was Judy, and it didn’t matter that Cary Grant had never uttered that line. A comedian had used it in a send-up skit, my father was quick to say. He took the gibing gracefully.

  “How’s my Tootsie Pop?” He held out his arms to me.

  At the mention of my nickname—a sobriquet my father hadn’t called me since I was twelve—the months, guilt, and anguish melted away. I hurried to him and drew strength from his bear hug. As we stood there, I felt something furry brush against my bare calves.

  I bolted from my father’s embrace and peered down. A striped kitten tilted its head up and mewed. His tail swished into a question mark. “Yours?” I asked my father.

  “Nope.”

  “Mrs. Pritchett?” I said.

  “I hate cats.”

  Well, I didn’t. I adored them, and this one appeared lost. I scooped him into my arms—it was a he—and nuzzled my nose against his. His purr reminded me of a motorboat revving up. “What’s your name, fella?” He wasn’t wearing a collar.

  “The trailers, Vera,” Pepper Pritchett said. “My beaders prefer to park in front of the store, and I have a class starting in an hour.”

  “I’m sure someone will move the Winnebagos soon,” my aunt said.

  I wasn’t so sure. If I ventured a guess, I would bet the trailers as well as the spanking white Mercedes next to them belonged to none other than Desiree Divine, but I kept my mouth shut. When Desiree was ready to make an appearance, she would, and any amount of ordering from Pepper Pritchett or my aunt wouldn’t make her budge.

  Aunt Vera escorted Pepper
to the exit. “Now if you don’t mind, we need you to leave. We’re finishing preparations for our grand opening tomorrow.”

  “The shop will fail,” Pepper said. “Just as before.”

  Aunt Vera skewered Pepper with a look, which caused me to wonder whether Pepper had something to do with why my aunt had never opened the shop decades ago. Had she mounted an anticookbook campaign? I needed to know the dirt, but now wasn’t the time to ask.

  At the door, Pepper regarded the kitten in my arms. “Disgusting creatures.”

  I wished I had a masterful magic mirror like the one I had created for the Pretty Princess Doll campaign. The mirror would ricochet hateful words from Pretty’s enemies back at them.

  “That’ll be all, thank you.” Aunt Vera pushed Pepper out of the shop and smiled at me. “Put the kitten on the ground, honey. Let him walk around. You’ll see by his pace what to name him.”

  “Name him?” I said. “I’m not keeping him.”

  “Nonsense,” my father said. “If a kitten without a collar walks into your life, you have to keep him. Timing is everything.”

  I gaped. My father was advising me to keep the cat? As a girl, I wanted a cat, but my mother was allergic, so my father adamantly refused. As an adult working twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I didn’t feel right about having a pet. They needed attention and fresh air. On the other hand, this kitty had the cutest face. Big green eyes. A winsome mouth. And his outrageous purr stole my heart.

  I said, “What if he belongs to someone in the Winnebagos?” Specifically Desiree. I hadn’t dared to date any of the guys she went out with in college; I wouldn’t adopt her cat.

  My aunt tsked. “The very idea of letting a kitten loose in a parking lot is beyond my ken.”

  “Whoever let him run doesn’t deserve him,” Dad said.

  I set the kitten on the floor. He pawed my yellow-painted toenails. I wiggled my big toe. He hunkered backward. I twitched the toe again. He did a cha-cha and bounded up to his hind legs. He twirled in the air, landing on his backside on top of my feet, then quickly flopped to his tummy and to a sit. I scooped him up again. “Okay, you’ve wowed me. You’re as rambunctious as Tigger in Winnie the Pooh.”

  Aunt Vera clapped her hands. “Tigger, love it. We have a mascot.”

  I held up a finger. “Only if nobody claims him.”

  “Fine, we’ll post signs,” my aunt said.

  My father slung an arm around my back. “What can I do to help?”

  “Dad, I want to apologize.”

  “Water over the falls, sweetheart. We can’t live in the past. Heartbreak affects each of us differently.”

  I gaped a second time. My aunt said my father had mellowed, but I hadn’t expected a total overhaul.

  “Now”—he brushed his hands together—“I’m here. Use me.”

  “Um, we’re done, I think.”

  “I’m too late?”

  “Come to think of it”—I scanned the store for a project—“I could use your handyman skills at the cash register.” I scooped up the kitten—Tigger—set him into a vacant book box, and scratched his head. “You stay here until I figure out what to do with you, fella. Aunt Vera, do you have something we can put water in for the kitty?”

  “Sure do.” She sashayed to the back of the store, humming the popular Disney song, “The Wonderful Thing about Tiggers.”

  I guided my father to the sales counter. “The drawer sticks. I have WD-40 in the stockroom.”

  “On it.” He ambled away as the front door swung open a third time.

  “Yoo-hoo, Jenny,” a woman called out.

  I preferred being called Jenna—my given name—and I didn’t mind Jen, but I hated Jenny. It sounded meek, and Desiree Divine knew it.

  She posed in the doorway, bathed in the golden glow of late afternoon sunlight, her white spaghetti-strap dress clinging to her body in a way that would make any man salivate. Wiggling her fingers over her head, her signature move after she was introduced on Cooking with Desiree, she said, “Who’s hungry?”

  “I am,” I responded like a trained studio audience.

  “Fab.” She grinned but her forehead didn’t shift. I wondered if someone our age would use Botox and resolved that, yes, Desiree would. She was a star. She wanted the world to see her as youthful and hip . . . forever. And thanks to the release of her latest cookbook, Cookies, Cakes, Sweets, and More: A Desiree Divine Dessert Extravaganza, she had appearances scheduled up the wazoo. She strutted toward me, spiky heels clicking on the parquet floor. “What a charming place.” She fondled the spines of books and swished her fire engine–red fingertips across the arty kitchen doodads. “I’m so impressed.” She stopped short of me and tilted her head to one side. “You look good.”

  “Thanks.”

  She waggled a finger. “Although I see you forgot to use sun block.”

  Sun peeking through the clouds on my morning walk had given my pale skin a healthy glow. “Who knew I could get color at six A.M.?” I joked.

  Desiree clucked her tongue with disapproval. One day during our freshman year, when I had wanted to take up ballroom dancing, I’d coated myself with bronzer. On her way to a Save the Seals rally, Desiree had caught me lathering up in the bathroom and snatched the tube out of my hand with the shouted warning that a suntan, no matter whether it was real or fake, aged a woman. She’d made me promise, cross my heart, that I would never try to get tan again.

  I said, “I’ll be more careful.”

  Her quasi-frown melted away and she hugged me. “I’m so glad you invited me here. This town is adorable. The little shops, the brick arcades, the hunky men.”

  “What hunky men?”

  “There’s one outside who has been ogling your shop for over an hour. I’ve been spying on him from inside my trailer.”

  “Speaking of trailers, why do you need them? I booked you a room at the nicest hotel in town.”

  “One is my office and my sister’s hangout. The other is for my stylist and masseur. But enough about me. Back to the hunk. Do you swear you haven’t seen him? Sailor’s hat, fisherman’s sweater, jeans that fit just right.” Desiree mimed cupping a nicely shaped rear end. “Bedroom eyes for days.”

  Who could she have been talking about? I had taken a number of fresh air breaks on the boardwalk outside the shop. I hadn’t seen a soul.

  “He’s there now.”

  My gaze swept the boardwalk and parking lot. All I saw was a buff, blond dude in a white karate outfit climbing into one of the trailers.

  Desiree followed my gaze. “Not him. He’s my masseur.”

  Another guy with a Mohawk exited the same trailer and air-punched the masseur, who responded with a fake punch.

  “Not him either,” Desiree said.

  “The guy with the tackle box?” I gestured to a thickset man with full mustache, beard, and knit cap who was squeezing between a black minivan and truck. His right shoulder drooped and his right foot dragged. He climbed into the truck. The vehicle ground to a start.

  “Lord, no.” She frittered her fingertips. “That guy looks like a creep. Mr. Hunk was—”

  “Forget Mr. Hunk,” I said. “You’re here. Let’s talk about opening night.”

  “I’d rather dish.” She offered a low, sultry cackle. “C’mon. Local gossip. Spill. Oh, and I want you to promise to go on a hike with all of us.”

  “A hike?”

  “You know how I love to stretch my legs.”

  “Desiree?” Sabrina—darker, dourer, and five years younger than Desiree—jogged into the shop and screeched to a halt. Literally screeched. Her leather flats left scuff marks on the floor. I had met Desiree’s sister once before, the day Desiree had packed up and left for Europe. She hadn’t acted happy about the prospect. Come to think of it, she had worn all black that day, too.

  “Good to see you, Jenna,” Sabrina said as she righted a gold choker so the V rested at the hollow of her throat. “Desiree, we need to talk.”

  “Whe
re’s my mocha latte?” Desiree said.

  “We have a problem.” Sabrina patted the leather iPad in her hand.

  “My sister is a scheduling freak,” Desiree said.

  Sabrina flinched but quickly tamped down whatever feathers her sister had ruffled. “We’ve got to handle the problem.”

  “Sis, can’t you see I’m chatting with Jenna? I’m convincing her to join our hiking soiree. Go get me that coffee.”

  “You’re booked for two different appearances next Monday,” Sabrina said, intent on her mission. “How did that happen? I know I didn’t do it, but I got an e-mail that says—”

  “Repeat after me. O-o-o-om.” Desiree edged behind her sister, removed the iPad, and drew her sister’s arms over her head. “C’mon, Sabrina, o-o-o-om. Oxygenate your blood.”

  Sabrina obviously worked out, but she didn’t seem to appreciate chanting.

  “Make her do a stork pose,” the man with the Mohawk said as he entered the shop. He wore a sleeveless black T-shirt and cutoff jeans, and he sported more tattoos than I had ever seen on one body. “C’mon, Sabrina, lift that knee.” He sidled to Desiree’s side and kissed her neck—more like sucked it—then he slung a bare arm around her shoulders. “The stork pose is good for cleansing chakras, isn’t it? Or is that the one that’s good for balance?” He scratched his bristly chin, a motion that made the sizable tiger tattoo on his muscular bicep writhe with delight. “Maybe it’s good for sex.”

  Desiree slid from his grasp. “Cut it out.” She handed the iPad back to her sister. “Forget the coffee, Sis. Take a look around the adorable shop. Find your center.” She gave her sister a push at the small of her back.

  Sabrina muttered, “Miscreant,” at Tattoo Guy and meandered toward the back of the store.

  Desiree whirled on Tattoo Guy. “As for you—”

  “She’s a piece of work,” he said.

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m not the bad guy here.” He threw up his hands defensively. “I came in because I’m starving, babe.”

  “And we’re going to eat, but first, I want to touch base with my friend, and you’re being rude.”