Chapter 1 Seraphina #2
My dad, Beau Sinclair, had been my best friend.
All my life. Until one day, when I came rushing into the house to tell him about another three-book deal from a publisher, and I found him in his favorite chair, a Dick Francis novel open on his chest. Sweet tea sweated on the table next to him.
He had a slight smile on his face—the same one he wore whenever he’d spoken about my mother.
As if she’d been the first thing he saw when he passed from this world to the hereafter. I prayed that was true.
As it always did when I thought of him, an ache like homesickness mixed with regret and longing swept through my body. Oh, Dad, I miss you so much.
But he didn’t answer. Still, I could sense him nearby, guiding me, keeping watch over Tyler.
He’d want me to be open to the idea of love.
In fact, I felt certain he was disappointed in my lack of courage when it came to romance.
It’s just that no man I’d ever met could measure up to my father.
Or the way he’d felt about my mother. Could anyone ever love me like that?
Anyway, I had a lot of love in my life, just not the romantic kind.
I should be thankful for what I did have, not wish for more.
An image of Hunter at Esme and Grady’s wedding flashed before my eyes.
I’d had a few glasses of wine and was dancing by myself, enjoying every moment.
I happened to glance over toward the bar to find Hunter staring at me.
He’d quickly averted his eyes, but I’d seen something in his expression that made me think—maybe he feels it too?
Never mind all that. I needed to get ready. Tyler was waiting.
After the shower, I blow-dried my hair. This was not a small undertaking.
Twenty minutes minimum, working in sections like my hairdresser had shown me.
Somehow, it never looked quite as good as when she did it.
When I finished my hair, I smoothed foundation over my fair skin, applied eye make-up and blush, plus a soft shade of pink lipstick.
I stood in my closet and considered my options with perhaps more attention than a casual Wednesday dinner with my son called for.
The cream cashmere and a pair of tapered black slacks might be good for a signing but seemed too much for a week night spent at our local pub.
Instead, I chose my favorite pair of blue jeans paired with a sage green blouse that Lila said brought out my eyes.
I added a pair of gold hoops for my ears and a stack of bangle bracelets for my wrist and I was ready.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. I looked okay. A little worn out. A little pale and shaky, but I probably needed to eat. I turned off the bathroom light and went downstairs.
Tyler was on the couch, showered, in a clean shirt, scrolling on his phone. He looked up when I came in and smiled. “Mom, you look great.”
“Thanks, honey. You all set?”
“Yep.” He stood, pocketed his phone and grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. “I’m starving.”
“I am too,” I said, and walked through the door he was holding. “I’m glad we’re going out.”
He followed me out into the April evening, where the garden smelled of spring. Renewal. Strangely enough, goosebumps traveled up my arms as I got into the car. For whatever reason, I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to change for Tyler and me. I had no idea why.
We parked in The Pelican lot and headed toward the entrance.
I loved everything about the place. The weathered cedar shake exterior and wraparound porch dotted with old rocking chairs and the carved wooden pelican perched atop the hand-painted sign.
Twinkle lights wrapped around the porch railing would soon glow bright in the dimming day.
Tyler held the door open for me.
The Pelican on a Wednesday evening in April was quiet.
No tourists yet. Just locals enjoying a bite and a drink with friends or family.
I never grew tired of the exposed brick, nautical maps, dark wood beams, and vintage instruments nailed to the walls.
Quintessential Northern California. A long mahogany bar anchored one side, scarred with stories and laughter, where locals sat shoulder-to-shoulder.
The lighting was low and golden, with old stained-glass pendant lamps above every mismatched table and chair.
It often occurred to me how far away my life in Willet Cove seemed from the one of my youth or early adulthood.
Mobile, Alabama, moved slower than anywhere on the West Coast. Perhaps it was the humid and heavy air that encouraged unhurried conversation.
People had perfect manners—all yes ma’am and no ma’am and thank you, sir.
The California coast was a different animal all together.
The air was sharper and cooler, rather than the warm brackish smell of Mobile Bay.
Residents of Willet Cove were less friendly, almost standoffish.
And no sweet tea anywhere. It had taken me time to find friends, but they were worth the wait.
I’d found my tribe of women on Tyler’s first day of kindergarten.
After that, my whole life fell into place.
Gillian, Lila, Esme and Delphine had become my sisters and their children my nieces and nephews.
I loved this town and life I’d found by accident.
Grieving and lost after my dad’s death, I’d decided to rent a cottage for the summer somewhere on the west coast. Change of scenery.
A chance to figure out what I wanted to do next.
I’d found a summer rental in a place called Willet Cove.
Why not, I’d told myself at the time. Tyler would enjoy the beach.
We could have a summer without the cloying humidity.
Maybe I could remember how to breathe despite the crushing grief that wanted to pull me under as hard as any riptide.
I’d planned to just stay the summer, but, by the end of July, I knew this was where I wanted to live.
My dad had left me his house and a surprisingly robust inheritance for a man who’d taught school for thirty-five years.
The house in Mobile sold quickly. Between that and the money he’d left, I had enough to buy a rundown cottage on a stunning piece of land that overlooked the sea.
The heater hadn’t really worked and only one burner on the stove functioned, but it was by the sea.
The town quaint and sleepy, with excellent schools.
I’d known instinctually this was a place I could raise my boy without my father by my side and be okay.
If someone had told me this would be my life when I was twenty-two years old teaching freshman English in Mobile and dreaming about writing novels, I’d have thought they were delusional.
And yet here I was. Willet Cove, California.
A successful writing career. The most amazing boy in the world. Friends who were like family.
All those thoughts vanished, however, when I saw Hunter behind the bar.
Broad-shouldered, unhurried, his dark hair falling slightly forward as he looked down at whatever he was doing.
Worn flannel covered his muscular chest and arms, the sleeves pushed to the elbows.
There was something breathtakingly sexy about the man.
He looked up when we came in, and his eyes found me for a beat, and then he smiled in a way one might describe as a grimace. A second later, he came out from behind the bar with menus in hand.
“How’s it going?” Hunter asked. “You guys here to eat?”
“Yes, I have an athlete in great need of a hearty meal,” I said.
“How’s baseball going?” Hunter asked Tyler as we headed toward a booth.
“Good. We have our first game tomorrow,” Tyler said.
“That right?” Hunter asked, standing aside so we could slip into the booth.
“You could come sometime, if you wanted,” Tyler said, then flushed. “But you probably have better things to do.”
“Can’t think of anything,” Hunter said, setting menus on the table. “I’m not really a busy guy.”
“Why not?” I asked, before I could stop myself.
“I like it that way. Spent too many years in the rat race.”
“You mean Nashville?” Tyler asked.
“That’s right. The music business can be brutal.” Hunter glanced at the bar, then back at us. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes, we’re celebrating,” I said. “I’ll take a glass of whatever red you have open.”
“Root beer for me, please,” Tyler said.
“What are you celebrating?” Hunter asked.
“She finished a book today,” Tyler said, pride in his voice.
Hunter’s expression didn’t change, other than a slight raise of one eyebrow. “Congratulations. What were you working on?”
“It’s the fourth book in one of my contemporary series,” I said, leaving it at that. He wouldn’t know what I was talking about if I told him which one.
“Red River?” Hunter asked. “Is this Christine and Tim’s story?”
“How do you know about Red River?” It was my latest contemporary series set in Alabama. Small town. Five brothers. My sweet spot.
Hunter shrugged those massive shoulders. “I think I mentioned I read one of your books. But actually, I may have read more. Over the winter. Kept the cold out.”
“How many?” Tyler asked.
Hunter cleared his throat and mumbled under his breath, “All of them.”
Tyler made a sound that might have been a cough. “There are sixty.”
“I’m aware,” Hunter said.
“You must like them if you read all sixty,” Tyler said, tapping the table with his fingertips as if he’d just been proven right about something.
Hunter tugged at the collar of his flannel shirt. “They actually kind of inspire me. I haven’t written any songs since I’ve been here. Reading your Mom’s books makes me think I want to again.”
I stared at him. “They do?”
“A good country song tells a story about love or family or loss in three to four minutes that tugs at your heart, makes you smile or tear up. Maybe make you feel hopeful about the world, despite it being a hard place. Your books do the same thing, only with a heck of a lot more detail.”
“Thanks,” I said, suddenly very warm. Good thing I hadn’t worn the cashmere sweater.
“What made you decide to read one of her books in the first place?” Tyler asked.
Hunter hesitated, glancing again at the bar. “Curiosity, I guess. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. You have a way of drawing a reader in and not letting go. There are moments that take my breath away they’re so exquisite. The endings always make me cry.”
“Yep, that’s the magic,” Tyler said. “No one gives happy tears like my mom.”
“The new one will be out next month,” I said, when I trusted my voice. “I’ll get you a copy.”
“I’d like that,” he said. “Now, I should get those drinks.”
He hustled away, looking a little embarrassed.
It wasn’t often someone surprised me a good way.
Every time I had any interaction with him, he showed me a new side to him.
Hunter Sloan was an onion if there ever was one.
The question though—was he willing to peel them all away to show a woman who he truly was beneath the surface? I kind of doubted it.