A Beach Wish Page 2

  A nice Jacuzzi tub, room service, and glass—or two—of white wine sounded really good.

  “You really should ask before you make these decisions,” she told the disembodied, now quiet, voice in her dashboard. “This is taking forever.”

  She eased the SUV ahead.

  She was barely going ten miles an hour. Slow enough to see what appeared to be an abandoned shed by the side of the—and she used the term loosely—road.

  She did see a light up ahead. One single light that didn’t seem to be near the road, but off in the distance, as it winked in and out from behind the trees.

  “Does this look right to you, Mom? I hope this isn’t the product of some crazy Google search gone wrong. ‘Top Ten Best Places to Spread Your Ashes,’ and you didn’t notice the post was from 2002.”

  Strange shapes appeared in and out of the darkness. Old wooden buildings? Houses? It was impossible to tell what they’d been originally. But they were definitely no longer in use. For a staggering nanosecond Zoe feared this might be the spa. And the website was just a ploy to lure unsuspecting young women into the clutches of—

  The SUV hit a hole, and Zoe squeaked in true too-dumb-to-live heroine mode. She puffed her cheeks and blew out air.

  “Please be going someplace. Someplace civilized.”

  But her GPS had grown dark; the voice, silent.

  Heart hammering, she eased the car out of the pothole. Was it too late to turn around? Go home? Just admit to her brothers that they’d been right all along? Forsake her mother’s last wishes?

  She couldn’t do it.

  The road curved slightly and then widened onto a ghost town of shadowy debris that maybe had been buildings a long time and several storms ago. Then the one light in the woods winked out completely and didn’t come back on. She was surrounded by total darkness and encroaching mist.

  “That’s it. I’m turning around.” At least there was a road back there. There had to be a better way to the inn. She came to a stop, looked over her shoulder to start the turn.

  An apparition stepped out of the shadows behind her, unearthly tall with long white hair and a flowing robe. And by his side was an animal, a beast, not a dog or anything else from this world. His familiar. He raised his hand.

  “Or not.” Zoe floored the accelerator. The SUV shot forward, bouncing down the non-road like a cartoon car in the night. For better or worse, there was no going back now.

  Chapter 2

  Ten minutes—hours, eons—later, the SUV bumped onto pavement. Pavement, glorious pavement. Up ahead were lights, lots of lights, a whole town of them. And though it was late, places were open, and people strolled along the sidewalk. Music wafted out of bars. Ahead, the sign for Solana Inn and Spa rose from the lawn of a several-storied white clapboard inn, complete with turret that according to the website overlooked the sea.

  “You have reached your destination.”

  “Great. Now you get chatty.” Zoe pulled into the circular drive and stopped beneath the porte cochere, where wide steps led up to a porch bathed in light from hanging frosted globes.

  Now, this was more like it. She unbuckled the urn from the seat belt and slipped it into a carryall, grabbed her purse, and turned over her keys to a strapping young man with a low ponytail wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt with the hotel’s name embroidered across the pocket.

  “Welcome to Solana. May I help you with your luggage?”

  “Just the computer case and bag in the back. Leave the other,” she said, indicating the guitar case. She handed him two dollars, and clutching the carryall tightly against her side, she climbed the steps to the entrance.

  The lobby was everything she’d pictured. Bright, clean, minimal, and pristine without appearing antiseptic or New Age. Music sounded from a doorway that led to the bar. And the band sounded pretty good. Always a plus.

  The receptionist looked up from the screen of a sleek computer. She was young, a little younger than Zoe, late teens, early twenties and wholesome-looking. Her light blond hair was pulled back in a high ponytail, but the polo shirt and khakis of the outside staff had morphed into a flowing off-white gauze blouse and harem pants.

  “Welcome to Solana.”

  Zoe smiled and handed over her credit card and driver’s license.

  “Ah, Ms. Bascombe. We were beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

  “I was delayed a bit. Must have taken a wrong turn. Tell me the only way into town is not down a rutted road through a ghost town.”

  “Oh Lord. GPS, right?” The receptionist sighed. “We’ve been trying to get the state to put up a better sign and they did, only it’s worse.”

  “You mean it’s paved all the way here.”

  “Of course. But there are two turnoffs within a few yards of each other. You took the first one, right?”

  “Evidently.”

  “It happens. Most people turn around and go back to the main road.”

  Zoe wrinkled her nose. “I meant to but . . .” But I saw a ghost in the road and I freaked out and now I feel like a fool.

  The girl nodded but didn’t look up while she was plugging in Zoe’s information.

  “Zoe. Life,” the girl said, with what could only be called a wistful smile.

  “Bascombe,” Zoe said. “My last name is Bascombe.”

  The girl’s smile broadened. “No. I mean, Zoe is the ancient Greek word for ‘life.’ It’s a lucky name.”

  “Oh,” Zoe said. She looked for the girl’s name tag; it always paid to learn your contact’s name—plus she liked knowing people’s names. But nothing spoiled the pristine fabric of the gauze blouse.

  The receptionist handed her a plastic key card. “We have you in Sea Light.”

  Zoe choked back a laugh. That had so many meanings and plays on words, she didn’t even attempt a comment.

  “On the third floor. It has one of our best views. The elevator is down the hall to your left, next to the stairs. And if you’re hungry, the bar is open and the grill serves until eleven. We have both traditional fare as well as our spa specialties.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “I’ll have your luggage sent to your room. Would you like to leave your tote here and I’ll make sure it gets upstairs?”

  Zoe clutched the straps of the bag. “That’s okay. I’ll just keep it with me.”

  “Well, bon appétit, then.” The receptionist went back to her computer screen.

  Zoe headed straight for the bar. As she reached the doorway, the singer moaned, “Jenny, oh, Jenny.”

  Zoe stopped, slightly unnerved. She recovered quickly; it was just a coincidence. Still . . . “Hey, Mom, they’re playing your song,” she said to the tote bag. Maybe she was losing her mind. But really, ghosts, the Sea Light room, and a local folksinger with her mother’s name on his lips. It was too weird.

  The bar was crowded, the lighting dim except for the small raised stage in the far corner where a spotlight cast an uneven glow over the performers. Four of them—a guitar, a fiddle, a bass, and a piano. Three of the musicians were pretty young, but the guitarist was an older dude with a long ponytail.

  To the left of the stage was a large fireplace, now dark. At the back of the room, French doors opened onto a softly lit patio. Every table seemed to be occupied, as well as the couch and several easy chairs that made a comfortable niche in one corner. A long wooden bar ran across the opposite wall, where a muscular, bearded bartender served beers and cocktails with a grace that sat incongruously on his mountain-man appearance.

  The guitarist crooned on. He had a good voice. And a deep soul, thought Zoe, and stepped into the room.

  He looked up. “Jenny” cracked into a sharp note. His fingers froze and the guitar pick fell to the floor. He looked straight at Zoe. She took an involuntary step backward. The band played on without him.

  Then he disappeared behind the heads of the crowd. A moment later he stood, the pick retrieved, and joined in on the next verse, but his eyes were still on
the doorway.

  Zoe backed out of the room. In the lobby light, the spell was broken. But for a minute she’d felt . . .

  Too many hours on the road. Too much heartbreak. Strange visions in the dark. Her mother’s ashes resting close against her side.

  The singer had recovered and was singing his “lonely sad song,” followed by something about trembling leaves.

  Maybe she wasn’t that hungry, after all; maybe there was a fruit basket in her room. An apple would be fine, a granola bar.

  She cast a last longing look as a waitress passed by carrying a tray of burgers and onion rings. But the band had geared up for another song, and no way could she face that penetrating stare or the man’s gravelly, mournful voice.

  As soon as Zoe reached her room, she took the urn out of the carryall and placed it on the dresser, a sleek dark wood and brass-handled affair. The urn’s smooth curved surface, the delicate green glaze, fit right in with the décor.

  She bit back a somewhat hysterical laugh. “If I’d thought ahead, I’d have brought a doily to put under you.”

  A fruit basket was sitting on the table. She found the mini fridge demurely hidden in the wardrobe, sighed with relief when she saw there were indeed mini bottles of—she took one out and looked at the label—organic Chardonnay.

  She unscrewed the top and poured the contents into one of the two wineglasses that shared a tray with two water tumblers. These were just the sort of amenities she looked for when choosing accommodations for her VIPs. Of course she didn’t have to do that anymore. She no longer had VIPs.

  She took a sip of wine. Full bodied, yet smooth.

  She walked over to the drapes and drew them aside, revealing glass doors that opened onto a small balcony. “Cool.” She slid them open and stepped outside to a light breeze and a clear, star-studded sky. Below her, a lawn was surrounded by shadowed shrubs and flowers. Tiny pagoda-shaped lamps picked out a brick path that led into the landscape. She could smell the sea, hear waves in the distance punctuated by a gentle echo of the band that was still playing in the bar.

  She yawned and gulped down half the wine in her glass, then walked back inside. She briefly considered leaving the doors open to take advantage of the crisp ocean air and decided against it. She was from Long Island, after all. No telling what or who might climb in during the night. Psychopaths? Ghosts from her past—or her present?

  She closed the doors and the drapes, downed the rest of her wine, and turned to face her mother. “Why are we here? We should have talked about this before—all of us. Together. Maybe I should have waited. The boys were all against it, even Chris. They’re pretty angry.

  “Why just me? Chris would have come, even though he’s terribly hurt. They all are. You don’t want friends and family to see you off? It doesn’t make sense.

  “What am I supposed to do? Why didn’t you leave better instructions? You’re the mistress of clarity, the organizer of organizations, the devil in everyone’s details. Why were you so sloppy at the end?”

  She raised her glass, realized it was empty. Marched over to the mini fridge and pulled out another little bottle. She wasn’t much of a drinker and she was already feeling the effects of the first glass; at least tonight she might sleep. Maybe if she had tried drinking before bed the past few days, she wouldn’t be in this state.

  Of course she would be. She turned on the urn. “What am I going to do now that you’re gone? You were my safety net, my refuge, you were always there for me. Always, even when I could see that it was inconvenient, that if you had been someone else and not my mother, you would have been annoyed that I bothered you. Why did you let me rely on you so much all these years?

  “Why did you wait until you were gone to rely on me?

  “Who were you?” Zoe stared at the urn, swaying slightly from the wine or possibly the image of her mother hiding inside waiting to be summoned. One good rub and she would appear like that old sitcom genie that popped out of a golden lamp. Though her mother wouldn’t be caught dead in flowing chiffon with her navel showing. Of course her mother wouldn’t have flaunted convention and refuse to be buried in the family plot—and yet she had.

  Well, tomorrow Zoe would do her duty, find this Wind Chime Beach and spread the ashes. She’d go home and hope that someday her brothers would forgive her for fulfilling her mother’s wishes instead of theirs.

  She started to open another bottle of wine, opted for a granola bar from the basket instead. She sat on the bed, opened the package, and took a bite; she chewed while she texted the only brother still speaking to her. Arrived at hotel. Safe for now.

  She took another bite.

  Her phone pinged. K.

  “K.” Just one letter. The granola bar turned to gravel, and she spit it in the trash. She didn’t bother to unpack but pulled a nightshirt out of her suitcase and took it into the bathroom to change. A stupid time for modesty; there was no one there but her.

  She brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. She tried not to look at the urn sitting so alone on the dresser.

  “I’ve got you, babe,” she whispered.

  And tomorrow, she would have to let her go.

  It was after one when Eve Gordon peeked into the silent lobby of the Solana. Seeing it empty, she stepped inside. She always made a point to mingle with her guests, but not when she was dressed in a pair of stained, wet baggy jeans and an overlarge T-shirt. Being the proprietor of an upscale inn and spa didn’t mean you didn’t have to sometimes get down and get dirty.

  She’d spent the past hour and a half uninstalling a plastic bag from the laundry pipes. How or why it got there still eluded her.

  She smiled, tired but satisfied now that the bag had been successfully extricated without having to call a plumber. The lobby lights had been dimmed, leaving just enough light for late-returning guests to see their way across the lobby to the elevators. There was no one behind the reception desk, so their last guest must have arrived for the night. Eve fought the urge to check the registration list. Mel wouldn’t leave her post early, even though Eve knew she was not happy about having to work a double shift.

  Well, that was family for you. Noelle had been called out of town for a job interview. Out of town. It’s what she’d always planned for her girls. Make a good home for them and give them the means to fly on their own. Harmony had flown to California and stayed. She had a good job and a growing family. Noelle had yet to settle, but she had her sights on New York, Boston, Chicago. Only Mel showed all the signs of sticking around—and for all the wrong reasons.

  There was still work light in the bar, though the patrons and band would have departed an hour or so ago. She wandered inside. Mike McGill was standing behind the bar doing a final inventory for the night.

  He looked up, nodded, and poured her a glass of Chardonnay. She perched on a barstool in front of him.

  “Get the pipe cleared?”

  Eve savored the crisp white wine. “Yes, a plastic bag. Go figure. Good crowd tonight?”

  “Pretty good, but . . .”

  Eve put down her glass. “But?”

  “I’m not sure, but Lee was . . . Something happened during the last set. He just kind of looked out the door and stopped playing altogether. I was afraid he might be having a mini stroke or something.”

  “Is he okay?”

  Mike frowned, rubbed a spot on the bar with a white cloth. “He seemed okay after that. But he had two bourbons when the set was over.”

  Eve shook her head. “He hardly ever drinks.” Anymore.

  “I know, but he closed the place down. I didn’t want him driving home in his condition. So I put him to bed on the couch in the office. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course. Thanks, Mike. I’ll go check on him.”

  “I don’t imagine he’ll wake up before morning, but I took the keys to his truck.” He reached beneath the bar and dropped a ring of keys on the bar in front of Eve.

  She scooped them up and put them in her jeans pocket. “Thank
s. I wonder what could have set him off.”

  Mike’s large hand closed over hers and gave it a squeeze. “How many years have you been trying to figure out what makes your father tick?”

  “Too many.”

  “So you probably won’t figure it out tonight. Go, get some sleep. I’ll close up. You have eleven folks signed up for the new session of Body Bliss first thing tomorrow. Though several of them were having a great time at the bar tonight so . . .” Mike wiggled his hand in the air.

  Eve yawned. “Kira will whip them into blissful shape.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Eve finished her wine and pushed the glass over to Mike. “Thanks,” she said on another yawn. “See you tomorrow.”

  He raised his hand in farewell and went back to his inventory.

  Eve headed across the lobby. She intended to call it a night, but as she passed the reception desk, she couldn’t stop herself. She went behind the desk and into the office. Lying as if dead on the leather couch against the back wall, her father, Lee Gordon, once lead guitarist and singer of Night Chill, looked like any one of the old men who lived in town. What are you dreaming, Dad? Of glory? Of fame? Of just getting through tomorrow?

  She lifted the edge of the cotton quilt that Mike had draped over him. Tucked it beneath his shoulder, not that he would notice. She kissed his cheek, sunken from years of hard living and scruffy from not shaving. A look that had driven his fans wild in his younger years. But tonight, with his mouth slightly open in sleep, it just made him look unkempt.

  “Night, Dad,” she whispered, and tiptoed out. She let herself out the side door and walked down the short path to the cottage where she lived with Mel, and Noelle when she was in town. The porch light was on. Either Mel was inside asleep or had been and gone.