Rum Cake Cottage Read online

  Roxy started to correct her, but then just said, "thanks."

  The woman nestled the baby closer, and he sighed in his sleep. He was comfy in his blue-striped carrier, and his little sailor hat shaded his face from the brilliant sunshine. Roxy felt tears sting her eyes. Must be the brightness of the sun.

  "He's dressed for the occasion," the woman said. "I picked up cute outfits on Ebay the whole time I was pregnant. He'll probably outgrow them before he gets a chance to wear them all."

  Roxy nodded politely. "That must have been fun."

  "Oh, it was," she said. She kissed the top of the baby's head. "As soon as I found out we were having a boy, I started hunting for stuff for him. I went a little overboard, but I had a blast."

  Roxy looked down at her own black shoes, covered in sand.

  "Been waiting for a chance to put this one on him and he finally got big enough," the woman continued. She pulled back the edge of the fabric carrier and Roxy could see the little sailor suit that matched the hat. The baby was chubby and pink and perfect.

  Roxy looked away.

  "Perfect fall day on the California coast, isn't it?" the woman said.

  Roxy nodded. She had dreamed of this kind of day for so long. The women's prison in California's Central Valley was stale and dark, stifling hot in summer and icy cold in winter. An hour a day in the prison exercise yard had been heaven in comparison to being locked inside, and she'd taken advantage of it no matter how bad the weather. But the dusty yard with its sagging basketball hoops, weed-filled ground, and razor-wire perimeter was a world away from Pajaro Bay.

  She was half-tempted to take off her heavy shoes and sink her toes into the sand beneath her, but she didn't.

  "Oh, go ahead," the woman said.

  "Go ahead and what?"

  "Take off your shoes. I did." She nodded to her own pink toes, half-buried.

  Roxy went ahead and did it. She stuffed the shoes into her duffle, on top of the meager possessions it held. Then she dug her feet into the sand.

  When the cool sand touched her feet she shivered. It was visceral, this familiar sensation on the soles of her feet. It brought everything back to her. She'd walked on this sand hundreds of times before. And now she was here.

  A day like this one, with the sky a glorious blue, the sun warming the sand under their feet, and the breeze wafting the tang of ocean air gently toward them—it was a dream. A dream needing only one more wish fulfilled to make it perfect.

  She uncrumpled the flyer in her hand and looked at it.

  Official Kick-Off to Pajaro Bay's Christmas Season:

  The Cowabunga Kid and Canine Surfing Event.

  Hosted by Santa Claus.

  Saturday, Two PM to Whenever.

  Followed by beach picnic and pie-eating contest.

  The Cow, as the locals called it, had been an annual event as far back as she could remember. She'd won the pie-eating contest herself when she was ten, just edging out Xander O'Keeffe in a photo finish.

  Xander had been nearly half a pie ahead of her when his glasses fell off and he lost precious seconds trying to fish them out of the peach filling. There had been some argument that he had not eaten all the pie that clung to his spectacles, disqualifying him.

  The mayor, Kyle Madrigal's father, had settled the dispute by checking a parents' videotape while the crowd held its breath in anticipation. Finally the judge had decided that the video evidence showed Roxy had finished first. But Alexander hadn't cared; he'd been just as happy for her to get the ribbon as if he'd won it himself.

  Roxy looked down at her hands, with their rough skin and bitten-off nails. Xander had always been happy as long as she was.

  Down the beach a hundred yards from the crowd the driftwood campfires for the hot dog roasting were already going strong. The sharp smell of the smoke mingled with the sea air, and she was suddenly far away, with Xander whispering to her by a long-ago campfire at a different Cowabunga. They'd been older then—fourteen, fifteen maybe—and the friendship between them had a new tension to it, one born of an awareness that she was a girl and he was a boy.

  That tension had grown for a long time, until eventually there came the day they snuck off alone together. That had been the first time, the first of many, when they'd confirmed what they had always known: that they were soulmates, meant to be together forever in a dreamlike happily ever after.

  They had long whispered conversations about it: she would turn 18 and finally crawl out from under her grandmother's iron thumb, and he'd apprentice at his father's newspaper, eventually taking it over when his dad retired, and they'd get a tiny cottage of their own and have babies and be blissfully happy. Life would be perfect and carefree.

  The memory was so vivid she could feel his breath against her ear, and she had to focus hard on the flyer to bring herself back to the present.

  Why, why, why? the refrain echoed in her head. Another life she could have had, if only she had been able to stop herself from ruining it. Now it was all gone.

  Not all of it, though. She finally noticed what was right in front of her. The flyer she stared at was in bright, happy colors, with a photo smack in the center of a grinning little black-and-white dog balanced on the front of a pink stand-up paddle board, surrounded by frothy white surf.

  And on the back of the board stood a girl. A tiny little girl, slender and wiry and strong, with a grin as big as the dog's.

  Even in the still picture Roxy could see the restless energy in the kid, the excitement in her expression as she perched effortlessly atop the board. The girl had brilliant blue eyes, long golden hair in twin braids over her shoulders, and a tan that spoke of too many days at the beach without enough sunscreen. She wore a pink-flowered bikini like a second skin.

  Roxy caressed the caption under the picture with one finger: Local Youth Champion Ria O'Keeffe will be special guest at this children's surfing event.

  Local Youth Champion.

  Roxy rested her palm on the photograph. To be a champion youth SUP boarder was quite an achievement for a little girl who was only nine years, four months and thirteen days old.

  "You have a kid in the competition?" the woman next to her said, and Roxy jumped.

  Sitting with this overly friendly woman had been a mistake.

  The woman continued, undeterred. "This little guy'll be out there soon enough. Let me introduce Caleb Knight, master of all he surveys," she said, gazing adoringly at her son. "He's not surveying much at the moment, though." She grinned.

  Roxy felt a surge of resentment at the sight of the woman cradling her sleeping boy. How easy it looked. How natural. She wondered how it felt to touch his little cheek and feel his warm breath. To sense his heartbeat against her breast and know he was safe in her arms.

  "My older son is in the surf school group with our newest family member," the woman continued. "We adopted a Golden Retriever with attention-deficit disorder last month. They've got big ambitions, but we'll see what the waves let them do."

  She shifted the baby in the carrier. "My name is Camilla, by the way. Camilla Stewart-Knight. Of Stormy Knight Accounting, down Alvarado Alley."

  Alvarado Alley was near Santos' Market on Calle Principal, Roxy remembered. Right across from the newspaper office, unless it had moved.

  "I'd give you one of my business cards, but Caleb's sitting on my pockets."

  "I don't really need an accountant," she responded.

  "And you are?" Camilla prompted, ignoring Roxy's attempts to avoid the question.

  "Roxy," she answered. She couldn't get away with a fake name. It would be found out too soon. Someone was sure to recognize her.

  "It's okay to be new in town, Roxy. A little overwhelming at first, but you'll find the natives friendly."

  Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face, because Camilla added, "No, really. They won't bite."

  "You're new in town, too," Roxy said, trying change the subject.

  "I haven't been here too long."
She looked down at the sleeping baby. His eyes were closed, and his skin was pale as the cameo Roxy's grandmother used to wear to church every Sunday. The cameo was probably gone, like so much else.

  She resisted the urge to turn around, to see if she could spot Grandma's cottage up at the farthest end of Cliff Drive behind them.

  "I came here to escape," Camilla continued. She smiled at the baby. "Found my life, instead." She looked at her shrewdly. "You escaping from something, Roxy?"

  Roxy stared back, startled. Camilla Knight was too smart.

  "No. Looking for something," she answered. She turned her gaze back to the clusters of young surfers and barking dogs in the water. Looking for someone.

  Still no sign.

  Ria would be with Xander. She tried to spot him, thinking his distinctive features would be easier to find in the crowd.

  She looked for the scrawny, nerdy guy in glasses somewhere around. He was scared of the ocean, but he'd be wherever his daughter was. They had to be here. She knew exactly what Xander would look like, even all these years later. Her memories of the boy next door had never faded: gangly, shy, heavy glasses overwhelming his face, but bright as can be.

  And that stillness. That's what she always remembered about Xander. That still, calm presence that contrasted so much with her own nervous energy.

  How many times had they been in school, or playing at the beach—or in the principal's office (inevitably because of something she did that he confessed to in a vain attempt to save her), and she had reached for that warm little palm of his? That was the strongest memory of him—that hand, anchoring her, quieting the restlessness inside of her with his calm companionship.

  Where was he? Because wherever he was, their daughter would be. And for nine years, four months, and thirteen days, seeing her daughter had been all that had kept her alive. No hand to calm her, no one to care what happened to her in the dark place she'd gone to. Just the last image of Xander, glasses slipping down his nose as he bent his head over their newborn daughter and whispered something in her tiny shell of an ear.

  "That one's mine," Camilla said proudly as a little dark-haired boy waved from a group of kids. "Bet you can't guess Oliver's favorite color," she added. The boy was wearing an orange shorty wetsuit and carried an orange-and-white striped short board.

  Roxy wondered what Ria's favorite color was. Was it pink, like the swimsuit she wore in the picture? Or maybe lavender? Or maybe something completely different? Her own favorite had been fuchsia when she was a kid—not baby pink, but a wild, intensely deep pink that knocked your eyes out. Everything from her phone to her prom dress had been in that color, and somehow, somewhere, Xander had even found a deep fuchsia corsage to match her dress.

  Had Ria inherited a favorite color from her? Had she inherited anything at all?

  Still no sign of Ria among the sea of pink-clad girls and swaying boards, and still no Xander.

  Then she spotted a sheriff's officer, a tall guy in an immaculate uniform, making his way toward them through the crowd. He was looking directly at her, and his expression was intense.

  Her palms went clammy, and she rubbed them on her khakis. He hadn't been around ten years ago, but she'd rather leave before he asked questions anyway. She stood up to leave, but he got to her before she took a step.

  She started to stammer something, but he just leaned down to Camilla and gave her a quick kiss. Then he touched the baby's forehead with big hands that were surprisingly gentle. "Is he getting too much sun?"

  "No," Camilla answered with a laugh. "He's got his hat on, and I've got the California Baby sunscreen in the bag just in case he needs more during the day."

  She turned to Roxy. "Roxy, this is Ryan Knight, captain of the local sheriff's substation and Caleb's worrywart father. Ryan, this is Roxy—" she paused.

  Roxy took the outstretched hand Ryan was extending and shook it clumsily. "Roxy Drew," she said, waiting for the response.

  His eyes narrowed, just a bit. She had learned to judge people in the last ten years, and she knew the wheels were turning in his head.

  "Name's familiar," he finally said, with the trace of a smile. "But I can't place you."

  She shrugged.

  Suddenly the crowd cheered. Pajaro Bay's traditional Santa—well, traditional for Pajaro Bay—appeared on the lifeguard stand.

  Glad for the chance to change the subject, she said, rather unnecessarily, "Oh, it's the mayor."

  Roxy had some vague memory that Kyle Madrigal was the mayor, which made him the town's official Santa, but this guy was hunkier than she remembered Kyle being. Santa Claus wasn't particularly tall, but he had an easy, athletic grace about him, a languid quality to his movements that must have come from many hours of swimming, or surfing, or working out….

  Ooh. Her mind strayed as she watched him, and she was surprised at herself. She had carefully shut herself off from thoughts of men for years, knowing that dreaming of what she couldn't have would drive her crazy if she let it.

  But Mr. Mayor was fine. His tanned arms bulged as he gripped the railing and leaned over to speak to someone on the sand below, and she noticed the shadow of hair on his chest where the ridiculous reindeer shirt gapped open. His face was obscured by the Santa beard and wig, and he wore a pair of mirrored shades that reflected the blue of the sea and the gold of the sand as he moved.

  Wow. This guy was definitely ogle-worthy. A really hunky guy. It had been a long time since she'd felt that zing of attraction. She noticed she wasn't the only one who reacted to him. All the women in the crowd seemed to perk up, and there was some feminine cheering when he bent over to pick up a dropped piece of paper, showing off a nice pair of legs in cut-off jeans.

  Well, there wasn't anything wrong with looking. He was a gorgeous guy, at least from the neck down. From the neck up, who could tell what sins were hidden under that beard and shades, but the rest of him—well, she had no complaints.

  She stopped staring at the guy, frustrated with herself. She wasn't here to drool over some random town hunk, she was trying to find Alexander O'Keeffe.

  And still no sign of him. He should be with the kids, near Ria, and when she spotted him, she'd spot her daughter, too.

  Santa straightened up, picked up a microphone and spoke:

  "Ho! Ho! Ho! Welcome to Pajaro Bay's first holiday gathering of the season."

  The crowd cheered.

  "To be followed by many more chances for Santa Claus to make a fool of himself before the year is out."

  Another cheer.

  Roxy turned her attention away from him as he made a bunch of announcements about the rules of the surfing contest, and the safety precautions.

  "The groms and pups working in teams should take to the water now." A horn blew, and some of the kids headed out to the shoreline.

  The crowd all stood up and hollered. Groms were the kids under ten, so Ria would be in this group.

  The little kids, with a lot of help from the adults, waded into the shallow water. The little ones wouldn't be going much more than waist deep, even though this particular part of the shore was called Baby Beach for a reason. It had always been a calmer, safer section of the coastline, with a mellow beach break and long, easy waves.

  She spotted the dog first: a lively little black and white dog with a smushed-in nose just like in the picture. The girl holding the leash couldn't be Ria, could it? She wasn't a baby, but an athletic girl with a confident air about her. She wore her hot pink wetsuit like a second skin. The tears sprang to Roxy's eyes, and she wiped them away angrily. She never cried. Never.

  More kids reached the water, and there was a lot of jostling as children, surfboards and dogs all somehow got into the ocean together. A couple of kids almost immediately lost their balance when a ripple came past, but there were a lot of adults there to grab them and set them back on their feet.

  "Okay, guys, give them all a big cheer and let's see 'em go for it!" Santa said, and the crowd clapped and shouted.

&
nbsp; She saw only Ria, though. Xander should be right beside her, like some of the other parents were. That was his job, wasn't it, to guard their kid and keep her safe?

  But Ria just expertly swung the little dog up onto the end of the board and then waded out into the deeper water, holding the board steady while the dog stood on top. They were going away from the others, and Roxy's heart started pounding as she looked toward the waves, judging where they would break near her baby.

  "She knows what she's doing," she said to herself.

  "Ria O'Keeffe?" said Camilla, noticing where Roxy was staring. "You bet she does. So where's your kid?"

  She was saved from answering when Camilla's husband shouted—

  "Look out!"

  "It's okay," Camilla said soothingly to him. "It was just a little wave. He didn't fall." They were totally focused on their little boy and his big dog.

  Roxy tuned them out, all her attention honed in on that fragile young body on the bright pink board. Ria had climbed atop the board, and was paddling out. She was much farther out than the other kids, away from all the parents. Some rational part of Roxy's brain reminded her that she herself had been through those waves and they hadn't been big or scary when she'd swum there. And as an experienced paddler, Ria would want to be away from the jumble of beginners crowding the shoreline. But it didn't matter. Those waves looked too big from here.

  How could she have thought Ria a big girl? She was tiny out there in that unforgiving surf. Where was Xander? Why did he let her do this?

  Then suddenly Ria was up on the board. The crowd cheered as they spotted her, agile as a dolphin, perfectly carving the wave. She made it look easy, even keeping the board so steady through her turns that the little dog was actually wagging its tail as she rode the wave all the way to the shore, ending in a perfect stop on the sand.

  Roxy finally took a breath, but then Ria was immediately back out again, repeating the process—wade out until the water carried the board, then jump on and paddle to the breakline, then stand and catch a wave at the perfect spot and surf in.

  "Look at that little ripper go!" Santa shouted on her third time in. "Not that I'm biased or anything, but I think that kid's not too shabby."